#Smooth Roof Project

[tecturalconstruction]

When planning a roof and exterior paint project, a structured approach is essential for success. First and foremost, hire a trusted roofing contractor in Newtown, Connecticut. A professional contractor will thoroughly inspect your roof, identify any issues, and carry out necessary repairs. Addressing these repairs before beginning the painting process is crucial to ensure that the roof is structurally sound and ready for a fresh coat of paint.

[fixomnia-scribble]

WOW.

Scientists found an amazingly well-preserved village from 3,000 years ago

Text below, in case article access dries up:

LONDON — A half-eaten bowl of porridge complete with wooden spoon, communal rubbish bins, and a decorative necklace made with amber and glass beads are just a handful of the extraordinarily well-preserved remnants of a late Bronze Age hamlet unearthed in eastern England that’s been dubbed “Britain’s Pompeii” and a “time capsule” into village life almost 3,000 years ago.

The findings from the site, excavated in 2015 to 2016, are now the subject of two reports, complete with previously unseen photos, published this week by University of Cambridge archaeologists, who said they cast light onto the “cosy domesticity” of ancient settlement life.

“It might be the best prehistoric settlement that we’ve found in Britain,” Mark Knight, the excavation director and a co-author of the reports, said in an interviewThursday. “We took the roofs off and inside was pretty much the contents,” he said. “It’s so comprehensive and so coherent.”

The reason for the rare preservation: disaster.

The settlement, thought to have originally consisted of several large roundhouses made of wood and constructed on stilts above a slow-moving river, was engulfed by a fire less than a year after being built.

During the blaze, the buildings and much of their contents collapsed into a muddy river below that “cushioned the scorched remains where they fell,” the university said of the findings. This combination of charring from the fire and waterlogging led to “exceptional preservation,” the researchers found.

“Because of the nature of the settlement, that it was burned down and its abandonment unplanned, everything was captured,” Knight added.

“As we excavated it, there was that feeling that we were picking over someone else’s tragedy,” he said of the eerie site in the swampy fenland of East Anglia. “I don’t think we could smell the fire but the amount of ash around us — it felt close.”

Researchers said they eventually unearthed four large wooden roundhouses and an entranceway structure, but the original settlement was probably “twice as big.”

The site at Must Farm dates to about 850 B.C., eight centuries before Romans came to Britain. Archaeologists have been shocked at “just how clear the picture is” of late Bronze Age life based on the level of detail uncovered, Knight said.

The findings also showed that the communities lived “a way of life that was more sophisticated than we could have imagined,” Duncan Wilson, head of Historic England, the public body responsible for preserving England’s historic environment, said in a statement.

The findings unearthed include a stack of spears, possibly for hunting or defense; a decorative necklace “with beads from as far away as Denmark and Iran”; clothes of fine flax linen; and a female adult skull rendered smooth, “perhaps a memento of a lost loved one,” the research found.

The inhabitants’ diet was also rich and varied, including boar, pike and bream, along with wheat and barley.

A pottery bowl with the finger marks of its maker in the clay was also unearthed, researchers said, still containing its final meal — “a wheat-grain porridge mixed with animal fats” — with a wooden spatula resting inside the bowl.

“It appears the occupants saved their meat juices to use as toppings for porridge,” project archaeologist Chris Wakefield said in the university’s news release. “Chemical analyses of the bowls and jars showed traces of honey along with ruminant meats such as deer, suggesting these ingredients were combined to create a form of prehistoric honey-glazed venison,” he added.

Skulls of dogs — probably kept as pets and to help with hunting — were also uncovered, and the dogs’ fossilized feces showed they fed on scraps from their owners’ meals, the research found.

The buildings, some connected by walkways, may have had up to 60 people living there all together, Knight said, along with animals.

Although no intact sets of human remains were found at the site, indicating that the inhabitants probably fled the fire safely, several sheep bones were found burned indoors. “Skeletal remains showed the lambs were three to six months old, suggesting the settlement was destroyed sometime in late summer or early autumn,” according to the university’s news release.

Ceramic and wooden vessels including tiny cups, bowls and large storage jars were also found. Some pots were even designed to nest, stacked inside one another, Knight said — evidence of an interest in aesthetics as well as practicality.

A lot of similar items were found replicated in each home, Knight added, painting the picture of completely independent homesteads for each family unit rather than distinct buildings for shared tasks — much like we live today.

Household inventories often included metal tools, loom weights, sickles for crop harvesting, axes and even handheld razors for cutting hair.

The roundhouses — one of which had almost 50 square meters (nearly 540 square feet) of floor space — had hearths and insulated straw and clay roofs. Some featured activity zones for cooking, sleeping and working akin to modern-day rooms.

The Must Farm settlement has produced the largest collection of everyday Bronze Age artifacts ever discovered in the United Kingdom, according to Historic England, which partly funded the 1.1 million pound ($1.4 million) excavation project.

The public body labeled the site a “time capsule,” including almost 200 wooden artifacts, over 150 fiber and textile items, 128 pottery vessels and more than 90 pieces of metalwork. Some items will go on display at the nearby Peterborough Museum next month.

Archaeologists never found a “smoking gun” cause for the fire, Knight said. Instead, they suspect it was either an attack from “outside forces,” which may explain why the inhabitants never returned to collect their possessions from the debris, or an accidental blaze that spread rapidly across the tightly nestled homes.

“Probably all that was left was the people and what they were wearing; everything else was left behind,” Knight said of the fire.

But the preservation has left a window for people to look back through in the future. “You could almost see and smell their world,” he said.

“The only thing that was missing was the inhabitants,” Knight added. “And yet … I think they were there — you certainly got glimpses.”

[reasonsforhope]

"Amsterdam’s roofs have just been converted into a giant sponge that will make the city more climate resilient.

The Dutch have always been famous for their ability to control water, born out of the necessity of their homeland, much of which is below sea level.

Now, their expert water management skills are transforming the city skyline in the capital city of Amsterdam from one of terracotta tile, concrete, and shingles into green grass and brown earth.

It’s part of a new climate-resiliency trend in architecture and civic planning known as the ‘sponge city concept,’ in which a garden of water-loving plants, mosses, and soil absorbs excess rainwater before feeding it into the building for use in flushing toilets or watering plants on the ground.

If heavy rains are predicted, a smart valve system empties the stored rainwater into the municipal storm drains and sewers in advance of the weather, allowing the roof to soak up water and reduce flooding in the city.

In this way, the rooftops of buildings can be wrung out and filled up just like a sponge.

In Amsterdam, 45,000 square meters, or 11 acres of flat metropolitan rooftops have already been fitted with these systems, and the contracting firms behind the technology say they make sense in dry climates like Spain just as much as in wet climates like Amsterdam...

A 4-year project of different firms and organizations called Resilio, the resilient network for smart climate adaptive rooftops, rolled out thousands of square meters of sponge city technology into new buildings. As with many climate technologies, the costs are high upfront but tend to result in savings from several expenditures like water utilities and water damage, over a long-enough time horizon...

All together, Amsterdam’s sponge capacity is over 120,000 gallons.

“We think the concept is applicable to many urban areas around the world,” Kasper Spaan from Waternet, Amsterdam’s public water management organization, told Wired Magazine. “In the south of Europe–Italy and Spain–where there are really drought-stressed areas, there’s new attention for rainwater catchment.”

Indeed the sponge city concept comes into a different shade when installed in drought-prone regions. Waters absorbed by rooftops during heavy rains can be used for municipal purposes to reduce pressure on underground aquifers or rivers, or be sweated out under the Sun’s rays which cools the interior of the building naturally.

Additionally, if solar panels were added on top of the rooftop garden, the evaporation would keep the panels cooler, which has been shown in other projects to improve their energy generation.

“Our philosophy in the end is not that on every roof, everything is possible,” says Spaan, “but that on every roof, something is possible.”

Matt Simon, reporting on the Resilio project for Wired, said succinctly that perhaps science fiction authors have missed the mark when it came to envisioning the city of the future, and that rather than being a glittering metropolis of glass, metal, and marble as smooth as a pannacotta, it will look an awful lot more like an enormous sculpture garden."

-via Good News Network, May 15, 2024

[cameronsbabydoll]

Can you make a fic of dealer!Rafe and Cook!Reader (not this type of Kook)but a type of Cook that can make Rafe favorite drugs…reader is super smart like knows how to make anytype of drug but she needs a dealer to sell her product……..

chemical lust ۶ৎ

dealer!rafe cameron x cook!reader

warnings: drugs, illegal activity, all fictional

wc: 570 — a/n: this is such a cool concept bby!

the garage doesn’t look like much from the outside. that’s the point.

you don’t want it to.

the rusted tin roof, the faded “CLOSED” sign dangling crooked on the door, the smell of oil and burnt metal — it all does a good job of keeping people away. people, but not him.

you hear the car pull up. the engine’s too nice for this part of town. expensive. showy. loud in a way that makes your fingers itch for the silence of your lab.

then the door slams, just as arrogant as you pictured. he doesn’t knock. just walks in like he owns the place, like he owns you.

“you rafe?” you ask, not even looking up from your burner. you’re mid-pour, and your hands are steady, precise — unlike his loud, booted steps behind you.

“that depends,” he says, voice smooth and cocky. “you the chemist?”

you smirk, eyes still on the clear liquid shifting in the beaker. “didn’t expect your new plug to be a girl, did you?”

“i didn’t expect her to sound like she’s already sick of me.”

“i am,” you reply simply. “now shut up. this part’s delicate.”

it goes quiet. not silent — you still hear him moving behind you, taking in the setup, the gear, the controlled chaos you live in. most guys would’ve made a joke by now. not him. not yet.

when you finally turn around, you size him up. tall. tan. sunglasses pushed back into his hair. sharp jaw and even sharper eyes, the kind that watch everything. a guy used to getting his way.

“sit,” you say, motioning to the metal stool across the table.

he does, slowly, eyes scanning the space like he's still trying to figure you out. "so what is this, exactly? your little science project?"

you slide the sealed container across the table toward him. “this is your product. 98% purity. clean. stable. better than anything your little beach boys have touched.”

he opens it, lifts the container to his nose. his pupils dilate. his tongue runs across the edge of his teeth. “no way you made this here.”

“i made it in my head first,” you say. “then here. don’t underestimate me just because i don’t run around with a glock and a gold chain.”

he leans back, eyes locked on yours. “and what do you want from me?”

“i don’t sell. i cook. i need someone with connections, someone with muscle. you in? it’s 60/40, i cook, you move. don’t ask questions, and don’t fuck it up.”

there’s a beat of silence. you see the smirk before it fully forms.

“and if i want more than that?”

you raise a brow. “then you can take your dick and your attitude and find some other genius willing to make you millions.”

he laughs, low and warm, but there’s something hungry underneath it. you don’t like that. you don’t like him. but you need him. for now.

“so that’s how it is,” he says, drumming his fingers on the table. “no flirting. no touching. no fun?”

you lean in just slightly, voice cold. “you want a cook, not a girlfriend. and i want a dealer, not a babysitter. you don’t touch my setup, and you don’t touch me.”

that seems to amuse him more than it should. “sure, sweetheart,” he says, pushing the container back to you. “but let’s see how long that rule lasts.”

[revelboo]

I do not have a pupper but I do have a peeb :3

Cats are good, too!

Silk

Tarantulas

• Stretching lazily, in his new and much bigger nest of webbing, the thing’s more like a huge hammock of silk than anything else. Head lifting, it takes you a moment to find your big, alien spider boyfriend. Staring at him hanging upside down from the heavily webbed roof of his nest, but it’s his hands and extra limbs you focus on. Watching him seem to weave silken strands together into something. Another blanket? You have no idea how some of his web is so sticky that if you brush against it, you end up immediately stuck until he rescues you and some of it is just soft as velvet and not sticky at all.

• Head tilting when he feels the faint vibrations of your movements, he passes his project to an extra limb and hides it behind his back. And your eyes narrow before you’re holding out a hand in demand. “Is that for me?” You ask with a grin and he vents softly. Knows how you are and that you’re not going to let it go until you get to see what he’s doing. No patience whatsoever.

• “It’s not finished,” he growls, moving upside down on the ceiling on his extra limbs while never looking away from you. And sometimes, like now, his spideryness makes a shiver run up your spine, but you’re mostly over it after being around him all the time. Standing to make the nest bounce slightly, you try to grab him and he scurries out of reach.

• Backing himself into a corner, his mandibles flex as you frown up at him. “Please? Pretty please with sugar and sprinkles and energon on top?” And he’s venting as he reluctantly lowers himself to join you. Wanted to finish it before you saw it. But you’re smiling, hands out expectantly and he reaches out a clawed servo to brush your hair from your face. Can’t deny you anything and you know it.

• Head tipping, he drapes the bundle of silk over your arms. It’s softer than anything he’s made so far as you try to figure out what it is and it clicks. It’s a loose, simple garment made of his silk and he’s fidgeting his servos, suddenly unable to look at you. “You get cold easily, so I thought you might like a covering,” he mutters looking embarrassed as you slide it over your head, the garment hanging to mid thigh. He’s so freaking adorable when he’s flustered. Smoothing a hand over it, you gasp when he hooks his extra limbs against you and drags you into his frame. “I like you wearing my silk,” he growls and he’s no longer flustered as heat spills through you in answer.

[lovebugism]

Smut request idea: Eddie worshipping reader's tits, who is insecure about their small size (lol totally not projecting 😅)

ty for requesting :D — eddie 'heart eyes' munson sees your boobs for the first time (cw for nudity, but no real smut, 18+ mdni, 1.1k)

bug's one year celebration ♡

On a rainy, post-show night, in the back of Eddie Munson’s van, you decide to be brave.

Buzzing with alcohol, adrenaline, and adoration — a wild concoction rushing like fire through your veins — you take your shirt off for the very first time in front of him. Mostly because your sweater was getting itchy, so you’re not entirely sure how brave that makes you. But your skin burns still, empty like a blank sky, yearning for a warmer touch to fall over you like stars.

In the simplest, most human way, you need Eddie to touch you like you need to breathe air. 

So, when you tugged the fuzzy sweater up and over your head, you hadn’t thought much about doing it. You were too full of need, too unthinking. Head clouded with longing until you developed something short of tunnel vision for the boy underneath you.

It wasn’t that big a deal, right? Isn’t this what girlfriends do with boyfriends?

Eddie’s silence is not reassuring. It feels more like a knife lodged in the very center of your sternum.

You lay the sweater beside you and cross your arms slowly over yourself. Equal parts to hide what you’d just revealed to him and to shield your bleeding, stinging heart.

Eddie’s face twists, pained features swirling like a hurt puppy. “Wait— What are you doing?” he asks in an unabashed whine. His less-than-subtle pout deepens as his chocolate-button eyes flit up to yours.

You keep curling in on yourself, but from where you straddle his thighs, he’s impossible to run away from. “Why aren’t you saying anything?” you wonder in a tiny voice, distantly fearful of the answer. 

You don’t have the kind of chest people put on magazines. Maybe you should’ve just kept the shirt on.

Eddie’s ringed fingers smooth around your bare waist. He realizes he’s holding you there for the very first time without any fabric covering you. His chest starts to sparkle. His thumbs rub gently at your ribcage, just below the arms still concealing yourself.

“‘Cause I’m too busy enjoying the view, honey,” he answers with a plush pink and crooked smile. His words are slightly slurred, weighed down by fatigue and desire. “How am I supposed to think when I’m looking at you, huh?”

You make a faint, grumbly noise, features scrunching in disdain at his compliment.

He smiles wider and curls his fingers around the wrists you hold over yourself. There is little force behind his touch, no eagerness to tug your hands away. Instead he just holds you, in a distinctly quiet embrace, telling you silently that you can let your guard down whenever you’re ready.

“So you don’t think they’re weird?”

He answers with an immediate scoff. “No, I don’t think they’re weird— I think they’re beautiful! I think every part of you is beautiful.”

You grow less and less tense in his hold. Your hands start to slip. You let them. 

Bare again in front of him, the boyish glimmer in Eddie’s dark eyes returns. 

The wild cadence of rain on the rusted tin roof resembles the rapid patter of his pounding heart as he ogles at you. And, with his back propped against the driver’s seat, he has the most perfect view of you.

The pale hands along your ribcage slowly start to rise. His warm touch leaves sparkling goosebumps in its wake. He doesn’t stop until his thumbs are settled neatly beneath your breasts.

“I mean— I always knew they’d be pretty, you know?” he mumbles, getting lost in you all over again. You don’t know if he’s talking to you, or if he even knows he’s rambling. “‘Cause when you’d let me feel you up, you know, over the shirt— I always imagined what you’d look like under it…”

He trails off then, forgets how to make words when his thumb rubs over your soft nipple. The gentle stimulation makes it stiffen beneath his touch. Eddie smiles to himself, all boyishly giddy.

“…But I couldn’t’ve, in my wildest imagination, expected this.”

Your chest warms with his affection. You scoff about it, anyway. “You’re such a boy,” you laugh.

“It’s not my fault you’re so pretty…” 

Still cupping your chest, Eddie leans down to kiss you there. A chaste, open-mouthed peck to your pebbled nipple. His heart swells when he hears you moan above him — your nose buried in the strands of his wild hair, fingers playing with the curls at the nape of his neck. 

Eddie licks his rosy lips when he pulls back from you. 

“See? You’re gonna kill me one day, doll— I swear,” he teases in a joking tone, but means every bit of it. He loves you so much it makes his chest ache. You’ll give him a goddamn heart attack one day if he’s not careful. “Can’t believe you’ve been hiding from me this whole time…”

You’re not sure either, now. 

“I was just scared that… I don’t know,” you stammer, clammy hands fidgetting with his intentionally tattered Corroded Coffin t-shirt. You’d helped him cut rips into the white fabric before the show. You distract yourself with the pink lipstick smudge you’d pressed along the neck of it, rubbing hopelessly at a stain that’ll never come off. 

“I was scared that you’d think I was less pretty or something. I don’t know.”

“No,” Eddie recoils immediately, face twisting in abhorrence of the thought. He shakes his wild head at you. “No way. That’s not possible. I think you’re fucking— perfect. And I think that…”

His eyes fall to your chest again. He loses the rest of his words.

A smile blossoms on your face. You don’t think you’ve ever felt prettier than you do right now.

“You think that what?” you tease, hands rising again to twist in his deep brown curls.

Eddie’s button eyes flit back up to you. His ringed hands lift to cup your breasts in his wide palms. They fit just perfect in his hands — like he was made to hold you there. The width of his beam rivals your own. 

“That I just found Corroded Coffin’s next album cover,” he answers.

The sound of your laughter fills the van. Sunshine compared to the rolling rain outside.

“No. No way. That’s not happening,” you refuse, still smiling, as Eddie leans into you again.

You wrap your arms around his neck when he puts his mouth on you. He buries his own laughter against the plush of your breast — along with so many little kisses. 

He doesn’t mind your light-hearted rejection. The only thing Eddie likes more than showing you off is keeping you totally to himself.

[aionishoh]

realized I haven't posted anything so take this:

Male!Yandere x former yandere! reader (Highschool setting)

originally written in a they/their, so im sorry if i missed a spot

There he were. Absolutely doing nothing but catching your attention. he blended in perfectly in the crowd but your mind made them the only thing you see. It was almost funny how you could miss such a thing.

It started with a simple pass by. You walking in a direction, and them walking in the opposite way. You didn't really pay attention to them and assumed it was a normal stranger. Completely unknown.

But it was when you saw him again. You realized how nice he looked. You began to notice his fashion sense. Shirt always a bit ruffled, bag swung lazily, hair clean but a little disheveled.

Then, on the third meeting. It was more of a fate. "Ah! You again. We have met, have we not?" He asked, looking at you with a sense of rememberance.

Did i mention you accidentally bumped into them during your second meeting? Hopefully i did.

"Ah! Uhm, yes. We did meet."

He introduced themselves, and you got welcomed into a side you didn't expect. Infatuation.

It turns out, he often frequented the places you went to. Along with sharing the same classroom. But, you went ahead and got a bit greedy.

"Hey, do you mind if i could borrow some notes?"

"Oh, sure."

You memorized his handwriting. Noticing how it was consistent and messy at the same time. The notes scattered but placed into relevant areas. You noted the way he wrote their o's and a's.

"Can i borrow a pen?"

"I don't really have the pens you use. But yeah, here."

You noted the way he held their pen. The way he looked when writing down. The way he magically made their handwriting look smooth with ease. You noted the pen he always uses.

Then, it started getting more personal.

A camera.

In a modern world, who would need cameras when its already built in with phones? But, you couldn't deny the thought made you giddy.

As days passed, you made a little home where you can devote yourself to him. A shrine.

All the pictures hung up were him. All in various locations, all unknowingly taken. You were fully convinced you should be in a mental asylum but a little memorabilia wouldn't hurt a person.

In the shrine itself, was a couple of few things that belonged to him. A few strands of hair, a toilet paper that was used to dry his hands. A handkerchief that he thought fell off a roof but was miraculously landed in your everyday spot.

It was perfect. All that needed was a candle to light up your world full of him.

You walked past the cafe where you had the same order as him, your bag behind you and filled with materials needed for a group project with him.

A couple of few steps, you arrived at his house.

"Oh hey, welcome to my humble abode."

"Very humbling indeed,"

You placed your bag down, sitting on the couch, admiring his home before getting reminded of her "excuse". "Ooh, sounds really bad but can i use your bathroom?"

"Yep, its just down the hall. Mind if i take the materials out of your bag?"

"Not at all!"

With much haste, you went to his room after three tries and one of them finding the actual bathroom. The room seemed to be his taste, which led you to knowing it was his in the first place.

With a hum, you quietly snooped around. Finding personal belongings, such as their watch, diary, wallets. But then you reached the closet.

A voice in your head said take a small piece of clothing, but you knew better. Although you were creepy, taking pictures and knowing things about him. You knew this was a line that you shouldn't cross.

You carefully returned the things back to the way they were before heading back to the living room.

"You sure took a while."

"Spent most of the time trying to find it."

While doing this simple project with him. You realized your actions was almost concerning. I mean sure, you looked like those creepy guys from Wattpad, but this was borderline concerning.

As soon as you two finished the project, you went to your once safe shrine and removed the pictures from the wall. Taking one last look at each one before tearing them up.

This was bad. And all because of a crush. You werent even aware that your infatuation turned into an obsession. An addiction.

You threw the keepsakes and gizmos into the trash. Removing every hint of your previous crush.

You mentally set a line. If you were gonna have a crush, it wouldn't have to end with you taking photos of them and praying to them like a God.

It would be normal. A normal crush where you admire them and where you confess to them during Valentines day.

This is the end for your obsessed self.

The next day was a bit of a awkward situation. Usually you were talking to him about random yaps, making sure you would be remembered but you didn't need to anymore.

"Heya Y/N, ready for the presentation?"

"Hm? Oh sure! I already got what i need to say memorized."

During these times, you would usually scooch much closer to him as possible without being too obvious. But now, you just did as you normally did.

The project got graded well, and that was your last interaction with him for now. Atleast thats what you thought.

As days bled into weeks, he noticed how you weren't as clingy anymore. He noticed how you would usually wait for him after school but now he's the one waiting.

Only for you to be walking with someone else on the way home.

He began to pay attention on how you didn't have that same glint in your eyes whenever you looked at him. His eyes noticing how you seemed more calmer near him instead of you fidgeting.

Soon, he heard wind from your friends that you found a new crush.

It wasn't that he didn't know you had a crush on him, oh, no. Absolutely not.

He knew you looked into his room during the group project day. He had a camera set up in the corner and watched you shovel through his stuff. Watching you open his closet and only to pause.

Why? He had perfectly set up everything that day. The way to the bathroom had an easier shortcut, but he led you to the longer way where you can find his room. He purposefully left the door unlocked and his belongings out.

He neatly placed his most favorite clothes out front where you could easily take them. But in the end, you didn't take anything. Even placing back where the items belonged.

He always pretended like he didn't see you scuttling around whenever hes out. He always made sure he looked good in every photos you tooked. He knew that he was your Sun and it inflated his ego.

But why the change of crush?

He noticed that you aren't that clingy with your crush. You didn't take strange photos anymore. You didnt take any stray hair than fell from their head.

You were disinterested in him.

Merely seeing him as a old crush, and one you quickly got over of so quickly.

After all these times of pretending to be dumb, you let him go?

After all this time he spent trying to remember the things you talked about to him?

Impossible.

The new guy didn't even look closely to him. In fact, he was the complete opposite of him.

He hated how you weren't there to be his number one fan. He despised the way you seemed more far away than usual. He hated how you would only give him a wave or a nod when you pass by him in hallways, and not running up to him with a cheeky smile.

Well, might as well buy a camera and some thumbtacks. He's gonna need it for his shrine.

Oh, did i mention hes more crazier than you?

[hivemuthur]

Tightrope - Ch.3.

viktorxfemale!reader explicit!, frenemies/academic rivals to lovers, modern university AU. This is part of a request for @pxszels

Ch.1. | Ch.2.

word count: 6,2K

tag: #tightrope

summary: You and Viktor are tethering the line between friendship and rivalry, Jayce being one amongst the few common factors you both acknowledge (of course more is there but for the smart people you are, you tend to be very stupid about things). Oh, and you have to do a project together.

author's note: @rennethen thank you for beta reading! This has a teeny-tiny bit of angst, just for the good measure.

also the artist behind art is here!

Cross-posted on AO3

—

In the next couple of days, you learn a new, deeper meaning of the word unbearable. The universe works against you in the most scrumptious ways, making sure you and Viktor never get a second alone. Worse, it cripples your brain into missing the opportunities that do arise.

“Guys, I am dying. You wanna grab something to eat together?” Jayce offers, stretching and patting his belly, riding that peaceful tide of you and Viktor being on your best behaviour the whole week.

“God, yes,” you say, barely audible. But you hear it—the dry click of Viktor’s tongue against the roof of his mouth. And then you see it—the eye roll, the wince, meant only for himself as he hunches further over the workbench. Eyes closed, he looks like he’s bracing himself, and after a few very long seconds, his expression smooths into something closer to fake contentment. When he turns to Jayce, he sighs, “Why not.”

“Yay, quality family time,” Sky quips with mock enthusiasm—not from exasperation, but exhaustion. She and Jayce have hit a few bumps in their project that Viktor has gladly helped with. Overall, things started looking better three days ago, when Sky absentmindedly threw out, “Oh, how glad I am that you guys gave up on your bickering so miracles like this can happen now.”

A knowing look exchanged between you and Viktor earned you a pair of raised eyebrows from Jayce. Yet he didn’t pry, perhaps worried that pressing too hard would shatter whatever illusion you’ve created for him and Sky to feel comfortable in the workshop.

Illusion or not, the thing remains unaddressed. You share lunches in the cafeteria, where you catch Viktor staring at your hands while you do your crosswords. You could swear he’s in physical pain each time Joe picks you up for a walk or a study date. When Joe invites you to a game while dropping you off at the lab, Viktor’s hand wavers on the blackboard, and the chalk he’s holding gives a bone-chilling whine. In class, you are civil—nodding, backing each other up. You almost miss the thrill.

You work next to each other, passing tools and notes, and every time Viktor’s touch ghosts your fingers, a jolt runs up and down your spine, momentarily turning your brain off. And you have no idea if offloading some tension was the missing ingredient in your strange dynamic, but somehow, the edges of your interactions have smoothed—so much so that, currently, the calm waters begin to look disturbingly suspicious to you.

The first time it happens, you let it pass. “Very well, let’s try it,” Viktor replies to your utterly stupid idea.

You had suggested using a secondary, low-power capacitor array to stabilise fluctuations in the main circuit, arguing that it might smooth out the inconsistencies in energy output without requiring a full recalibration.

But the moment Viktor inclines his head—agreeing—your own logic catches up with you.

“Wait…” You frown, staring at the board. “On second thought, it probably won’t work because the capacitance mismatch would create a delay in discharge, which could—” You grimace. “Yeah. Let’s go with yours.”

Viktor nods, completely unfazed. “As you wish.”

But the scientist that you are, you do not let it pass entirely, do you? You try again. And again. Making your ideas intentionally just a little bit ridiculous. It’s subtle enough that Jayce and Sky don’t catch on, but you know for sure that Viktor—a man who absolutely revels in any opportunity to put you back in your place—would notice.

Until one day, you completely outdo yourself. “We could try harnessing residual static charge from fabric friction,” you suggest, dead serious.

Viktor slowly turns to you, blinking. “Fabric friction.”

“Yes,” you continue, undeterred. “Imagine if we line the internal casing with silk and rely on movement to generate small, supplementary charges. It would be incredibly efficient.”

Jayce, bless his soul, hums in thought while packing up his bag, ready to leave. “You know, there are studies on triboelectric—” He shrugs and holds the door open for Sky. “You could do some research there,” is all he says before waving you both goodbye.

“Well, what do you think?” you probe Viktor, who is visibly fighting a demon inside of him. Possibly a couple—one that wants to swat you across the head for suggesting something so idiotic, that’s for sure. One that feels, for whatever reason, that he should agree with you once more. And the one that wants to bend you over the workbench and fuck this idiocy out of you.

“We could… look into it, I suppose,” he says through gritted teeth.

And once your suspicion is confirmed, something crestfallen crosses your face. “Could we now,” you say, avoiding his gaze. “How very kind of you.”

A realisation forms in Viktor’s expression, and he looks almost relieved. “Thank God, I was worried I fucked your brains out. In literal sense,” he smirks and your breath catches, the thing being addressed so bluntly for the first time.

“I will give you one chance to explain yourself,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest, not letting the heat between your legs to distract you from getting your justice.

Viktor exhales sharply, rubbing his temple as if warding off an impending headache. “Explain myself? Why don’t you explain to me the source of all those ridiculous ideas that, I might add, set us back at least a week?”

You scoff. “Well, why do you fucking endorse them?”

“I’m… trying to be nice to you,” he admits, but the words land awkwardly, like they’re foreign to him.

Your arms tighten across your chest, nails digging into your sleeves. “Why can’t you just be nice to me without buttering me up?”

Viktor’s jaw tenses, his fingers twitching where they rest on the handle of his cane, and he twists it into the floor. “I want to. I’m just not very good at it.”

You let out a sharp, humourless laugh. “Oh really? Is there truly nothing nice you have to say to me outside of lies, Viktor?”

“That’s not—” He falters, his eyes darting away.

“That’s not what?” you demand, stepping closer. “Are you this desperate to get your dick wet that you have to lie to my face?”

For the first time, something shifts in his expression—his usual sharp defences giving way to something quieter, almost wounded. His gaze flickers down for a fraction of a second before he speaks your name, a soft plea, his eyebrows scrunching in worry. “Have you thought that maybe not everything is about you?”

Your stomach twists, but you don’t let it show. “Forgive me, Viktor, but I fail to see how you buttering me up is somehow not about me.”

He exhales, fingers come to pinch at the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “We’ve already agreed that I think you are smart. Or brilliant, even—”

“I don’t remember us ever agreeing on that.”

He hesitates, but continues, as if you are not being the biggest pain the ass he’s ever had. “…So I was hoping you would notice it could be about me not feeling… secure enough around you.”

Your breath catches, but you recover quickly. “Why wouldn’t you feel secure around me?”

Viktor presses his lips together, his gaze flicking somewhere past your shoulder before returning to you. “Well.” He offers a small smile.

“Other than accidental electrocution, please,” you say, rolling your eyes.

Viktor huffs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Eh, well, I would say that is a good enough reason.” He tries for a laugh, but when you remain unimpressed, expression flat and expectant, he relents with a sigh. “Alright, alright. You don’t really see me as anything else but annoying, do you?”

Your lips part slightly, caught off guard. “That’s… not true…”

His gaze sharpens, watching you closely. “Do you regret kissing me?”

Your jaw clenches. “We’ve done more than kissing.”

“Do you regret kissing me and then doing more than kissing?”

You falter for a beat. “You… you kissed me back. Don’t blame this on me.”

“Blame?” Viktor lets out a dry chuckle. “I am far from complaining. But if it’s a competition, you kissed me first.”

“You shoved your fingers in my mouth.”

“You let me.” His voice is smooth, unwavering, answers coming faster than you can challenge him back. Your breath catches in your throat. You’re both teetering on the edge of something—anger, desire, frustration—blurred and indistinct.

“So…” you start hesitantly, voice quieter now. “We agree that this was a misunderstanding, then?” No idea why this pops into your head, of all things. Also, no idea why you lap at it like a dog and then present it to Viktor, all slimy and bitten, expecting the opposite of what comes next.

He stills. “W-what?”

“Well,” you swallow, trying to steady yourself, “clearly having a… fling is harmful to our work ethics.”

For the first time, Viktor doesn’t have a sharp remark ready. His lips part slightly, but no words come. When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet. “Oh. I see.”

And it’s the sadness in his face, the way his eyes drop just for a second before he masks it, that twists your gut.

Desperate for anything to break the moment, you twist the knife instead. “I would expect more from you than reducing me to another stupid girl who needs to be stroked on the head.”

His jaw tightens. “A mistake, it seems,” he mutters, his voice low, restrained. “One that I am not able to fix now.” And the triumph is bitter on your tongue, achieved by kicking someone who is already fallen. As you can’t take it back you just stand there, staring at him.

A tense silence stretches between you before Viktor exhales sharply, stepping back toward the workbench. He gestures at the scattered notes and tools, his tone clipped but controlled.

“Let’s pick this up—” he swallows, shaking his head slightly. “Later. Let’s pick this up later, if you would be so kind.”

You nearly groan. Nearly. Nearly walk up to him and shake him by the shoulders. Nearly cup his face and shove your tongue into his throat, ruin his hair again and pull the shirt out of his pants to snake your hands beyond the waistband. Nearly. Instead, you still yourself and say only, “As you wish,” before picking up your back and leaving.

***

The cry you give yourself after fleeing the lab is possibly one of the ugliest this planet has ever witnessed. By the time you are done, you can barely see—your eyes swollen and aching, your nose clogged irreversibly, or so it feels, and your cheeks pulsing in rhythm with your frantic heart.

How it has gone so badly, you don’t know. Or rather, you do, but you don’t want to admit it to yourself. You have your right in this, of course—being in STEM is hard enough as it is, and it becomes infinitely harder when you’re a woman. So the blow of being patronized by someone almost closest to you burns right through your chest.

Which, of course, doesn’t mean Viktor deserves all the artillery you’ve aimed in his direction. The image of his face—sad, defeated, utterly betrayed—refuses to leave your mind, and you scowl as another round of sobs wracks through you, muffled into your pillow.

For the next three days, the only thing that greets you in the lab is a bullet-point list in Viktor’s precise, slanted handwriting:

Adjust calibration on the generator. (Values listed.)

Double-check insulation before running tests.

Run equations on conductivity using corrected parameters. (Underlined twice, just in case you miss it.)

Report findings in the log.

No sign of him. No stray coffee cups, no muttered commentary, no sharp remarks that you’ve started to crave like an addict craves their next hit. Just instructions, cold and impersonal, waiting for you each morning like a list of chores.

You aren’t stupid. He’s been coming in at night, working under the cover of darkness just to avoid you.

In class, he doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t acknowledge your presence, doesn’t flinch when you speak, doesn’t even seem to register that you exist. The only sign that anything is amiss is the deep exhaustion in the tight lines of his face and the way he favours his good leg more than usual.

The first chance you get, you try to corner him. After class, when the students file out, you seize the opportunity and step into his path. “Viktor—”

He doesn’t slow down. Instead, he shifts toward Jayce as if he’s bracing against the tide, latching onto him like a lifeboat. “Jayce, there is something I must discuss with you,” he says, completely ignoring you.

Jayce hesitates, clearly caught in the crossfire, then shrugs helplessly. “Uh, sure, man.” He throws you an apologetic glance as Viktor all but drags him away.

“Traitor,” you mutter under your breath, crossing your arms as you watch them leave.

A few more times, you attempt to siren-call Viktor into sparing you a second of his attention—staring at him intensely during lunch breaks and lectures, willing him to just look at you. You consider passing him a note, but it would probably only add to the already negative value of your deemed immature behaviour. You even text him, once. No response.

Finally, exhausted and out of ideas, you decide it’s time for a brief reprieve.

It comes in the shape of a rugby player with a big smile on his face and a hand that pats your back as soon as he sees the sodden look dragging down your features.

Your name follows, formed as a question, and all you can do is offer a half-smile and a sigh.

“Seriously, what is it?” Joe probes, poking at your ribs playfully. “Is it the project?”

“Uh, I guess you could say that. We don’t need to talk about it,” you say, swatting his hand away and trying your best to produce a convincing smile. But somehow, Joe sees right through it, his curiosity refusing to let the subject drop.

“Is it your scary friend?” he asks—more statement than question. “The one that keeps you on a short leash and gets impossible every time you’re late?”

“Joe,” you plead, tugging at his sleeve as the two of you stroll through the university campus gardens. You kick a stray rock in front of you, shoulders hanging sullenly, unable to even look at him. The thought of Viktor hating you has stuck to you like a piece of chewed gum in some misfortunate soul’s hair.

“Come on, you can tell me. I know a thing or two about guys, you know.” Joe bumps his shoulder against yours.

You shoot him a half-hearted glare but don’t pull away. “Satan, leave me alone.”

He chuckles, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, as you wish.”

You hesitate, the words crawling up your throat before they finally spill out. “Uh. We… kissed?”

Joe nods slowly, considering this with an unreadable expression. “Okay.”

His nonchalance throws you off. You blink at him, feeling as though you’ve missed a step in a conversation that should have been more dramatic. He catches the look on your face and bursts into laughter.

“I’m fine with that,” he says, grinning. “I said I wanted to be friends, and I meant it.”

“Okay… well, we kissed and, uh—” You shift uncomfortably, rubbing your arm. “And more, but not the way you think. And then he was… too nice to me.”

Joe deadpans, voice flat as he stares at you. “Outrageous.”

You groan, shoving his arm. “Oh, shut up, it’s not the way you think again!”

He just laughs, effortlessly dodging your half-hearted swat. “Well, why don’t you explain it to me like I’m the halfwit that you think me to be, then?”

You huff but finally surrender, relenting to his insistent curiosity. You lay it all out—carefully skirting around the more intimate details but being extensively thorough about Viktor’s behaviour afterward. Joe listens attentively, nodding along almost too ardently, as if he’s pretending this is a particularly complex puzzle.

Just as you’re about to groan and declare that you’re never telling him anything again, he shrugs and says, “Seems easy enough to me. He likes you.”

You whine his name, dragging out the syllable in protest. “Joe.”

“What?” He grins, unbothered.

“Well, what should I do if he keeps avoiding me?”

Joe taps his chin in exaggerated thought before offering, “Dump tackle?”

You groan as he bursts out laughing, swatting away your desperate weak punches with ease. “Fine, fine! Do you know where he lives?”

You shoot him a dubious look. “That’s a bit desperate, isn’t it?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Are you not desperate?”

“Joe, I am never desperate.”

He snorts, completely unimpressed. “You seem pretty desperate to me.”

Could it really be that you were growing a little bit desperate? Once the anger has simmered down, the vision of Viktor’s expression when he said, Let’s pick this up later, is all that remains. His sunken chest, his head bowed low.

You hold onto that image as you walk through the dorm corridors in the evening, telling yourself it’s only for the sake of a basic, decent apology. You repeat it like a mantra while hesitating at his door, debating how to knock. You’re still lost in your mind when the decision is taken out of your hands—the door swings open, and you’re suddenly face to face with Viktor.

His startled expression is the first thing you register. Your name tumbles from his lips, unguarded, as if he wasn’t expecting to see you standing there. “Why are you here?”

“I, uh…” You fidget, shifting on your feet. “Can I come in?”

He hesitates, considering you for an agonizingly long moment. Then, with a sigh, he steps aside. It’s not an invitation, not really—more like an exasperated surrender. But you take it, nonetheless, slipping past him into the room.

You glance around, taking in the organized chaos of his space. Books and notes stacked in precarious piles, bordering on neatness but arranged by a logic known only to Viktor. You smile faintly at the familiarity—you do the same.

On his desk sits an assortment of unfinished food—a half-eaten sandwich, the remains of a banana, the last bite of a protein bar resting on a plate with what looks like a massacred cake, most likely courtesy of Jayce Talis. His cane rests hooked over a drawer handle. You take a slow, uncertain stroll toward the desk, tapping your fingers against its surface before turning back to him. He still lingers by the door, guarded.

“I don’t have much time,” he says abruptly, glancing at the clock.

“Right. Your night shift at the lab begins soon, I presume?” You huff, leaning against the surface, arms hanging limply at your sides. You do your best to look remorseful without overdoing it.

“What can I say? I do not wish to endanger your work ethic further.”

“Viktor.” Your voice softens. “Will you at least hear me out?”

He exhales sharply. “Go on then.” Waves a hand at you, an awful dismissive gesture.

You swallow, rubbing at the back of your neck. “I… I was mean to you. I treated you horribly, and it wasn’t fair.” The words come out unevenly, hesitant. “I got frustrated, and I—I should have handled it better.” All the rest remains trapped. In your brain, in your chest, somewhere in your vocal chords that refuse to release the words from the prison of thought: I hope that you like me. I hope you want more than just to get your dick wet.

Viktor watches you, expression unreadable, but he nods. Thinks for a moment longer and the silence almost has you crushed.

“Thank you. I accept,” he says finally and limps towards the desk, stopping just a step away from you. “For what it’s worth, I also apologize—for making you feel like your brain is worth less than your other… merits.”

His words also come out quiet. They also seem clipped, but you might just be dreaming. For some reason, his acceptance is underwhelming. It’s almost too easy to get this forgiveness and the following apology out of him. “I… might have overreacted a bit,” you say stiffly, waiting for his reaction.

“Hm.” A noncommittal sound.

“Does this mean we can get back to finishing this project together?” And the other project as well? It itches your tongue, yet you don’t dare say it. No space for begging, you tell yourself.

“I suppose. Yes.”

“Okay.” You nod, unsure what else to say. “Well, don’t let me keep you.” A surrender. Bitter and hollow on both sides, as no romantic outburst follows. Completely different to what you’ve dared to imagine, and you scold yourself for being such a girl.

Nothing else comes from him, and you prepare to leave, but then—Viktor leans past you, reaching for something on the desk. His cheek lingers beside yours, warm, and his breath ghosts over your skin as he murmurs, “You have something on your face.”

“What—” Your question cuts off as his thumb swipes across your lip. Instead of wiping something away, he smears the cream from the desecrated cake on your mouth, and the touch is so gentle it has your breath trapped in your throat.

The speed with which you conform to playing along is almost embarrassing. Your fingers ghost over a spot nowhere near your lips. “Here?” you ask, sounding genuinely confused, breathy and pathetic, stupid girl mode overrides all the genius of your mind.

Viktor shakes his head, his gaze hooded, heavy. He’s so close that his nose brushes against yours, another warm hand comes to rest in the crook of your neck. “No.” Voice a low murmur. “Would you like some help?”

“Please,” you breathe, shamelessly.

Viktor hums, eyes dark, and lifts his hand again, his thumb brushing over your lip in another slow, deliberate stroke. But instead of cleaning the cream away, he only smears it further, dragging it to the corner of your mouth and your eyes flutter shut.

His head tilts, mouth quirks at the mistake. “Oh, would you look at that?” he mutters, gaze flicking to yours. “My method is proving useless.”

Your breath shudders out in response. “Change the method then.”

For a moment, nothing happens. He just stands there, close enough that the warmth of him presses into your skin, close enough that you can see the way his pupils have swallowed the gold of his irises. Then, slowly—so unbearably slowly—he leans in.

His lips part, and before you can brace yourself, his tongue flicks out, warm and wet, dragging over the cream at the corner of your mouth.

You still, even though all you want to do is lean in and push your mouth against his. His hand, now cupping your jaw, tightens, fingertips pressing into your skin. He lingers, lips hovering just above yours, exhaling softly into your mouth.

Heat pools between your legs at impossible speed and you feel the urge to cross them. His hair tickles your cheek, breath mingles with yours, each inhale you take filled with him.

You let out a shaky chuckle, nervous and giddy, and Viktor’s lips barely, barely brush against yours, not quite a kiss, but just as devastating. Your chest rises sharply, pressing into his, and you don’t miss the way he sways infinitesimally closer, as if drawn in against his will.

“Better?” he asks, voice low, a whisper against your lips. A hopeful one, inviting and needy.

You swallow hard. “I don’t know.” Your voice is just as quiet, nearly lost in the space between you. “Maybe you should try again.”

“It seems I myself am in need of aid,” he says quietly, his thumb already pressing against your lips. A ghost of a memory, as you part them, close your eyes, and hum, licking the sweet cream off—but you don’t stop once it’s gone.

Both your hands wrap around his wrist as you press against the heel of his palm, taking his fingers in, one by one, sucking on them obscenely. And Viktor—oh, he tries to hold on, but his hips buck into yours as he lets out a pretty, small moan, committing to memory the shape of your lips devouring his hand.

Heat coils low in his stomach too, lances across him, as your tongue flicks over each knuckle, your mouth hot and slick around him. The pressure of your lips, the slow drag of them down to where his fingers become a palm before you slide up to the tips—unbearable. He can feel the back of your throat. The base of your tongue, soft and wet. Warm to the point of his pulse pounding in his temples, in his ears, in the tips of his fingers where they disappear between your lips, and he realises he’s gripping your jaw too tightly, afraid that if he lets go, he might shake apart entirely.

Abruptly, he pulls his hand away, only to seal his mouth over yours. Fingers are exchanged for his tongue, his grip on your jaw tightens despite him, and teeth clack against each other in haste. He nudges your legs apart with his knee, puts his foot on a stack of books beneath the desk and presses you down onto his thigh.

“Use me,” he rasps into your mouth, swatting your hand away when you try to palm him through his trousers. “No. I want to see you come first.”

His fingers clasp around your hips, guiding you as you rock against him. The fabric of your skirt rides up with every movement, baring more of your legs, the rough press of his trousers a sandpaper against the delicate skin of your inner thighs. He is solid and hot beneath you, watching as your eyes grow heavy-lidded, your breath quickening, his smile turning wicked when you fist his shirt—a plea, though you don’t even know what you’re begging for. The friction is dizzying, the pressure relentless, and Viktor keeps studying you with dark, hooded eyes, drinking in every quiver, every gasp falling from your lips.

He kisses you violently, lips brutal, his tongue hard and wanting, retreating only when you moan into his mouth. He pulls back just enough to watch your chin tremble, to let the broken sounds fall freely between you, before crashing back in to swallow them. His hands slip under your skirt, fingertips searing where they dig into the swell of your hips, urging you to move faster, harder.

"You are making such a mess of me," he breathes, voice wrecked, and you can feel it—how thick and rigid he’s grown beneath his trousers. The thought of how much precum must have pooled into his underwear makes your mouth water. His thigh is soaked with you, the evidence of your pleasure smeared across the fabric, and when you slide back and forth, letting him catch a glimpse of it, he moans roughly. His teeth come to your bottom lip, then down to your jaw, your throat, marking you between kisses—each more desperate than the last, each less of a kiss and more just the press of his wet mouth against your skin. "Look at you," he rasps, eyes fevered as he tilts your chin up, forcing your eyes to meet. "Come for me, just like this."

And you hope, hope, hope, this want is backed up with something else than just blood draining of his body, pumping between his legs. You hope it’s for you, not just for anyone, when he rasps into your mouth and holds you close.

You shift forward, pressing your thigh against his hard, aching cock, and the sharp hitch in Viktor’s breath is almost enough to send you over the edge. His grip tightens at your hips, fingers digging into your flesh as if he’s holding himself back from rutting into you.

Wrapping your arms around his neck, you bury your face against the damp skin just beneath his ear, your panting breaths mixing with his. The friction crests into an unbearable shattering, and when you come, it’s with a choked, desperate, “Fuck, Viktor—”

His name leaves you in a broken gasp, and it ruins him. A slow, sweet smile curves his lips, his hands are nothing but gentle as they slide up your back, gathering you closer against him. “That’s it,” he murmurs, voice like velvet, warm and syrupy, coaxing the aftershocks from your trembling body. “You did so well for me.”

One arm wraps firmly around your waist, holding you steady as he noses along the side of your face, breath fanning over your wet skin. “Such a pretty mess,” he croons, lips brushing over your temple, your cheek and jaw. “You look so pretty when you come. So harmless.”

It’s possibly the prettiest thing Viktor has seen, your face undone with bliss, so different to all those times when he’s seen you pissed with him or rolling your eyes at something he’s said in class. He likes those faces, too, yet the way your eyes roll when you fuck yourself on him definitely dethrone all the other versions.

He rocks you against himself lazily, your damp knickers dragging over his thigh as your body trembles in the aftermath. “I like it when you say my name like this,” he purrs, pressing a lingering kiss just beneath your ear. “Say it again for me.”

“Viktor,” you breathe, kissing his mouth sloppily. “Viktor,” comes softer when your legs weaken, and your hands find his. “Viktor,” when you drape his arms around yourself and guide him toward the bed. Finally, “Viktor,” when you sit him down, kneel at his feet, and undo his belt.

You tug at his trousers, and he—awestruck—leans back on his arms, lifting his hips for you.

And what reveals itself is more than you could have hoped for—a wet stain marking his underwear, the fabric nearly see-through, revealing the shape of his head beneath. You press a kiss to the tip through the damp cotton, and Viktor shudders, groaning as his fingers slide into your hair.

Like a delicate gift, you unwrap him from the clinging fabric, peeling it away to disclose him in the warm glow of the bedroom lamps, his cock throbbing and pink at the tip, leaking for you. With pretty hair circling it at the base, and a prominent vein running along the underside, waiting for your tongue to trace its path. You’ve missed so much in the dark confines of the storage room.

“Hm, Viktor,” you hum, inhaling his scent and trailing soft kisses along his length. “Is it a yes, then?”

“Huh?” His lower lip hangs heavy, no coherent thought managing to push through the haze fogging his mind. He strokes your warm cheek with his thumb, gazing at you so longingly it nearly renders you dumb.

“To gagging,” you say sweetly. His breath stutters and this time it’s his eyes rolling back as he groans and bucks forward, cock brushing against the curve of your nose.

“Yes,” Viktor breathes, nodding vigorously. “Yes,” he says again, sliding his tip across your tongue. “Oh God, yes,” he groans as he pushes into your mouth, and once more, you hum in approval, hands tightening around his sharp hips.

His breath stutters as you take him deeper, inch by inch, your lips stretching around his girth. His hand trembles where it cups your cheek, thumb stroking reverent circles against your flushed skin.

“Ah—ah, you take me so well,” he murmurs, voice dazed, head lulling on his shoulders. Hand slips lower and fingers brush along the column of your throat. When he presses, just lightly, he can feel himself inside you—his own hardness encased in the heat of your mouth, the thought alone enough to send his head tipping back with a low, wrecked moan.

You hollow your cheeks, drawing him in deeper, until he’s nudging against something that makes your lashes flutter and your eyes well with tears. The sensation makes him groan, long and low, his grip on your throat tightening. “Fuck, just like that,” he breathes, his accent curling thick around the words. He watches you through half-lidded eyes, the soft sounds you make sending another shudder through him. “My sweet, brilliant girl.”

This has you clenching on nothing as you moan against him, strangled and loud and Viktor’s body jolts, curling toward yours. His hips shift, making his cock press into you until your nose brushes against his base. “Look at you,” he rasps, voice unsteady, reverent. His palm presses more firmly against your throat, feeling the way you take him, the way you let him fall apart. “So beautiful like this—taking all of me—”

His words break into a curse when you swallow around him, the sound raw and desperate, and when he looks down to find you watching him, his eyes are glassy, and he’s nearly done for.

Was this all that you needed to feel like this? To be seen as a whole, both brilliant and pretty? Was this praise worth more because it’s coming from him? You don’t know, but something within you unravels as Viktor writhes and pants above you, his hand cradling your throat, another stroking your hair with admiration as he repeats how lovely you are. How good, how sweet. Nobody calls you sweet, ever. Oh, how nice it feels to be a girl stroked on the head by him after all.

It’s the honesty of his touch that nearly breaks you, when you can no longer be sure if the streaks of tears glistening on your cheeks are caused purely by the gag reflex. It’s the eyes that look at you reverently, and his mouth hanging open for you, his body exposed in ways you have never seen before. And he is so beautiful like this. So different from the man who lashes at your throat during endless debates over capacity and utility of designs. Yet it’s almost as if one couldn’t exist without the other. Tethering that tightrope together.

You let him slide in and out of your mouth, as you save all the sounds he makes in the bank of your brain, especially the one that announces him reaching his peak before the warmth of his cum coats the inside of your throat.

Viktor comes with a broken moan of your name, fingers tighten in your hair, and he shudders when his cock retreats from your mouth with a quiet pop. He immediately pulls you onto his lap and nuzzles into your neck, his arms hooking around you tightly.

“Is everything about you genius?” he hums in a deep breath, blissfully spent.

“If it were, I would’ve worked this out sooner,” you reply, dragging your finger down his chest.

“How are you?” he asks, cupping your cheeks and brushing his nose with his. A silent thank you, spoken in the language of warm skin.

“Would you avoid me for eternity if I didn’t come over?” you ask in a small voice, wincing at how expectant it sounds.

“I don’t think I’d be able to,” Viktor chuckles. “I was already breaking, to be honest,” he adds, smiling sheepishly. “I’m glad you came. So, so very glad.” A sigh, another earnest sound. He rolls you both to the side and kisses your neck. “I promise to be sweet to you from now on.”

“No,” you shake your head in his embrace. “No, I want you sincere, Viktor. Tell me when I’m fucking up. Promise me.”

And the look he gives you is where you land after your fall—slow, gentle, and firm. A space for your imminent fuck-up, welcoming and free of scolding, full of room to fix and learn. “I promise. And I would like the same of you.”

You nod and kiss him for it. The tightrope snaps gently—not under pressure, but cut precisely where you want it, another person holding it so it doesn’t slip out of your grip. Viktor holding you, as if he wants all of you. As if he’s wanted you for the longest time. You land in each other’s arms and a solid ground is beneath your feet.

He pulls you closer, his arms encircling you like a protective shield. The weight of his body presses into yours, steadying you both in a moment. You breathe in deeply, the air between you filled with a new kind of warmth. His thumb brushes your cheek, gently wiping away the remnants of your tears.

“Thank you,” he whispers, voice thick with intent, as if he's thanking you for something more than just tonight.

You nod, resting your head against his chest, the steady beat of his heart a soft reassurance. "No more half-truths," you murmur, a promise just as real as his.

For the first time, you feel truly seen—not just for the things you’ve done, but for who you are. And in that, you find something more precious than you expected.

[loganlermanstanaccount]

Rigor Mortis (part 11)

College roommate!Miguel O'Hara x reader

(AO3 Mirror) (Wattpad) Series Masterlist, Main Masterlist,

Part 10, Part 12

summary: You and Miguel spend the day together. You get a surprise visit.

warnings: mentions of death, mentions of microaggressions and racism in the workplace (projecting bc my ass is tired)

a/n: uhhhhh. heyyy.... so i took a cute little break 👉 👈

Join my taglists here

wc: 7.2k

Oh! and I finally made the series' playlists (very open to requests) <3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

cracks in clay, poured over

Cold. The slow drip of an IV seems to echo in that little room. 

She feels cold; the kind that drapes over her like a second skin - slimy, slick, and it makes him shiver. Pale; her hands barely have enough strength to curl around his anymore. His little girl, and he watches as she takes shuddering breaths. In, out. In, out. The shaky rise and fall of her chest and it’s all he can do to watch, hunched over metal railing with a certain kind of dedication. His eyes creak. His back groans. 

There’s an emptiness to hospital hallways, he thinks. That thought comes with traitorous relief - balled up like chewed gum at the pit of his stomach. He wants her to rest; to take a breath that isn’t heavy with the weight of living. Even in a tangle of wires and tubes, and the steady metronome of a heart monitor to punctuate a mess of thoughts, she still looks like his. When he blinks, he sees her: rosy cheeks and chubby fingers entwined with his. He curls into them now, with rough palms softened by love - which he will dirty just to keep her safe. 

Gabriella is a force of nature. A supernova: bright, bright light at the corner of someone else’s universe - but certainly the centre of his. And when she smiles; oh God, when she smiles; he sees his mama, he sees Gabi… and sometimes, he sees himself.

It’s not a case of roaring thunder in place of quiet sky. A flash-bang in the night felt more like a whimper: hushed tones in a doctor’s office that came with a wringing of hands. And dread - settling amongst the room like a lead balloon - that was what he remembers the most. It's a feeling he'll never quite forget. The doctor; a genteel, younger man with more worry lines than Miguel himself, he had thought. Gabriella was prone to poking at the folds beneath his brow, at the sides of his mouth that curled around the very same nose he had passed on to her; smoothing them out like lines in the sand. 

Like pockmarks and furrows in sand washed away by the sea. El Mar - but Gabriella had trouble rolling her Rs. She would get there, he had always thought. He would not brandish a wooden spoon or chancla as his mama was prone to do. He would be different. Better - provide her with the space to make the mistakes he never could. If it meant a lifetime of forehead kisses and boiled candy stuck to the roof of her mouth, he wouldn’t mind.

The sea. Maybe he should take her to the beach - a proper one, not the murky waters he had grown up with. Her hand is too pale, and Miguel can already hear his mama complain; fussing over his little girl. Has Gabriella been eating properly? Has he? She would pinch his cheeks and squirm, hissing at their sallowess. Too much like your father, Conchata would say. 

He's decided. Yes, that's just what they need. White sand stretching out as far as the eye can see - azure and turquoise and deep, deep blue. 

He blinks. Miguel, ever perceptive, swipes it away from your skin. A sliver of bare flesh against his, your arm across the couch as you lay across the pillows. He woke up to this, to you; a fleeting nap that takes you both to a bright midday. Tangled up in blankets, a mess of his limbs and yours; and yet, you still feel…

Cold.

You stir. Like a lamb woken from fresh grass, he watches as you stretch; shaking away gentle sleep. At least Miguel has the sense to look away, to pretend as if he hasn't been staring at the gentle rise and fall of your chest, nor the stray hair that peeks out from the nape of your neck. He traces it with his thumb, with a tenderness that makes his head hot and heart heavy. A warm blush spreads across his face as you huff, blowing air that makes his curls jump. Despite himself, Miguel smiles, feeling the warmth. It's lop-sided, gentle where his face is sharp and he allows himself to soften - if only for a little bit.

“You okay?” You croak, voice still heavy with sleep.

He smiles, daring to curl his fingers around yours. 

“M'better now.” It's barely a whisper, and so he clears his throat. “You still seem tired, sweetheart.”

When your face scrunches up into that adorable pout, he laughs the kind of laugh that echoes throughout his whole body; deep and sonorous.

“What’s so funny?” You're whining, but your face cracks into a small smile. And like the sun peeking out from the horizon, he feels its warmth spreading from his side; onto everything your light has touched.

“Nothin’” 

His breath hitches as you come closer, placing your head on his chest.

“You're a fat fucking liar.” 

Yep, he thinks. And you don't even know the half of it. 

There's something about domestic bliss that twists his heart into knots. Most of it is you, of course, neatly pressing him out and spreading him on wooden pegs like fresh laundry. A life together, like this…? 

Fuck. Maybe he hasn't had enough sleep.

Miguel hums, quietly turning your palm in his, tracing its lines like a lovelorn sap. He likes your hands, for some reason. They are smaller than his, gentle in their curve and crackle, fitting exceptionally well in his own.

He frowns. 

“I think I'm happy.” 

…and then he's biting his lip like he's said something he shouldn't. What should be an off-hand comment, swept away by the tide, makes you sit up abruptly.

“You think?” There's no malice in your voice, just confusion.

“It just feels…” He can't even look you in the eye, deciding to inspect your hands instead. 

“Different?”

You finish his sentences now, great. Miguel feels like a walking cliche; all butterflies and shaky hands and cotton in his mouth. 

In an attempt to sound indifferent, he hums. If you can see through his paper-mache facade, you don't show it.

“Different.” He rolls it around on his tongue, wanting to know its taste. If it fits, how it fits, and where you come into the equation. Different. Good different? It's a tentative thought, creeping into the back of his mind like a thief in the night. Whilst he wouldn't usually entertain it - as it was a dangerous thought, the kind that leads to others, thoughts of skipping through meadows with his hand in yours, or picnics on the beach, or–

“You think that might be because you had a full 8 hours of sleep?” You snort, stretching out. More thigh peeks out from under the covers.

His throat goes dry. Focus, Miggy. Yes, he wouldn't usually entertain it, but it felt far too good to think about the both of you, together, under different circumstances. 

He would've met you at an overpriced coffee shop on his way to work. Or maybe he would catch your eye on the subway, and you would flash him a smile too beautiful to ignore in return. One to keep, like the expectant one you give him now.

You're waiting, he realises. Waiting for him to say something; something that gets stuck in his throat. He hopes not to spill his guts like this: a tangle of maybes and might'ves. The reality is less exciting. It comes out wrong - flat and pathetic and lifeless.

“7 and a half.” He says, shaky. Sleep, right? You said something about sleep? “The other day, I had 7 and a half.” 

Miguel forces down the person-sized lump in his throat. You are stunning; sleep-rimmed and tangled up between his legs and that worn blanket.

Maybe we could've been more.

~~~

He’s an idiot, you think.

“And what good did that do you?” You retort, still sharp despite a blossoming headache at your temples. 

“And what good did that… you're the last person to talk.”

For all his degrees, his accolades, his middle-school-science-fair-certificates; he could barely manage to take care of himself. It worried you in a way you were sure was common decency, like the pang of sympathy one would regard a puppy too tired to keep its head up. 

“You look like shit, Mig.” And he did. In that frustratingly perfect way he was prone to, of course: rugged and ragged and handsome; messy, but without a hair in place. An oxymoron. A paradox. A fool with 2 degrees pending. A loveable idiot - certified, absolutely.

“You look like shit–”

You put your hands over your eyes like glasses, like a child on the playground. “Only one of has eyebags the size of Mars–”

“ –and only one of us has a hangover the size of Mars,”

“I do not.”

“The 3 tequila shots you took last night say otherwise.”

You descend into a heap of giggles, unable to refute his claims. Goddammit, does he have a point. You hate him for it; his smug tone, wagging a knobbly finger in your face; but you know there's no malice. What might've been turned into an argument oh-so long ago, stays childish and playful and maybe even a little… fun? There is a shine in his eyes that you have so dearly missed, and a hint of a smile you know he is barely clamping down on. It brings a warmth to your chest far greater than any alcoholic buzz - tequila shots or otherwise - ever could.

Wait. How did he know you had—

“Took you long enough.” 

He's chuckling, reaching over for his phone discarded on the rickety coffee table. With a couple quick swipes you're greeted with a plethora of drunk messages sent by Lyla; the majority of which are unintelligible. He hands the phone over, seemingly more interested in satiating his appetite as he heads for the kitchen, leaving you ample time to scroll through. You recognise one or two videos from Lyla's private story, and sure enough, there you are - knocking back shots offered to you like it was your job. Watching it back makes you wince. You were so sure of yourself last night, chock-full of liquid courage, it almost seemed like water in those dainty glasses. There’s more, as you scroll up: including candids of you at the club, some you don't quite remember posing for, others with Lyla's slim arm draped around your shoulders like they belong there.

Unsurprisingly, most of them are of Lyla; drunken selfies sent with a string of messages you were barely able to make out. It all makes you wonder just how well Miguel knows his friend, able to respond accordingly to her nonsense string of characters and emojis. Considering it had taken you this long to be barely conversational in Miguel-ese, Lyla would prove to be something else entirely. 

There's a peek of something as you scan through last night's messages. You don't mean to pry, but one thing leads to another, and you get stuck on a conversation that occurred not too long ago.

[Sent: 15:32]

Are you guys still on for tonight?

[Received: 15:32]

👍👍

[Sent: 15:3]

Okay, cool. I won't be home to drop her off, though. Is that okay?

[Sent: 15:32]

👍👍

“I messaged her this morning,” You start, making space for him on the sofa. “No response. Do you think I should give Lyla a call?”

“Don’t take it personally, sweetheart. Sometimes she falls off the face of the earth and then you find out she’s in Indonesia with a cocktail by the beach.”

You must make a face, because Miguel comes closer. It’s tender, and much more intimate than it should feel; and all you can do is short circuit as he brings his hand to your cheek.

His thumb rest at the cleft of your chin, gently moving your face to look him in the eye.

“I’ll give her a call, if you like.” He presses a gentle kiss to your furrowed brow, and you can barely breathe. “You’re much too pretty to worry. I’ll sort it out.”

When he pulls away, all you can manage is a weak nod. All that pomp and self-rightousness that filled you not even 5 minutes ago dissipates like a limp balloon with just a flash of his smile. 

“You hungry?” He asks.

“Starving.” You say with a grin.

~~~

You hear his voice first, the mellow timbre and its slight twang rumble through the walls. Your door is open in the hope that Miguel will saunter in and… and do something resembling earlier on in the day. Considering the time, it was little more than delusion - you can count on one hand the amount of times you’ve seen Miguel up past 11pm. Whether it was work, or studying, or a popcorn movie on the couch, he could never make it through the night. More and more, you’ve found him passed out on the couch, one arm slung lazily over it’s back - but that was another matter.

Now, your door isn’t too open - you wouldn’t want to seem desperate - but wide enough that you can catch whispers of his conversation. Miguel seems to speak in more grunts and huffs; and you can almost see his scrunched brow and crooked grimace. The other voice is tinny, but clearly male - spouting garbled, frantic words that you can’t quite catch. It’s odd; whilst you were no stranger to late nights, your roommate started fighting sleep at 7pm sharp - so what exactly was going on?

You creep towards the door, snaking your head around its edge. There he is; down the hall and shadowed by the doorway with his phone flat on the dining table, perched on its lip with nothing but a plaid pair of pants on. He looks bedworn and exhausted, sure - but gorgeous in the kind of way only oils on canvas can capture. With his hand scratching at light stubble, you watch as he takes a deep sigh.

“It’s– Pete, it’s–”

More jumbled words from the phone.

“I know, man.” He pauses, hesitant. “Are you… have you guys tried Lyla?”

He says the words like they’re bitter, acrid on the way out, eventually producing a deep frown as he listens. The image sticks with you, for some reason: hunched over, shoulders slack like a ragdoll, and picking at the loose black-and-red threads. There's a flash of something you can taste - like blood  after a sucker punch - and he flattens, roughly swallowing as he rubs his temples. There’s an ache, there - and it wasn’t just a migraine from all that salty junk. His eyes are sallow, without the lustre you had grown so accustomed to. Where did he go? Your Miguel, saccharine and sickly-sweet? 

A trick of the light, you decide; just the morning sun. 

You are too lost in your own thoughts - vivid ones, of takeout noodles and orange chicken - that you barely notice him move. Almost a second too late, it registers, and you scramble to your bed in a flurry of limbs, managing to close the door just in time. You hear heavy footsteps, and there’s a knock at the door. 

“Come in!”

Miguel pops his head through the door, shirking away from the bright light.

“Jesus, you need all these lights on?”

You roll your eyes. Laptop on, a desk lamp, a standing lamp, etc etc. Warm lights, made even cosier by pillows and plush bedding. The very same bedding he fucked you in the first time, and the next, and the next. Clearly, he couldn’t recognise ambience if it whacked him in the face.

“Did you want something?”

When once he would’ve been taken aback by your gall (and you too, you suppose, as Miguel had never been the most tactful), he simply purses his lips.

“I… I'm babysitting for Peter.”

“May's coming over?” You visibly perk up, and it makes him smile.

“I wish you got this excited when I come home. Yeah, she is.” He’s still picking at the loose fibres of his pants. “I'll try to get her to bed as soon as possible, but she's a little hurricane, so be wary of the noise.”

“It’s pretty late, Mig. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah; something came up and their usual sitter isn't available. It's the least I can do.” He gives you a weak smile

“Okay. Thanks for the heads up.” 

Despite this, he lingers for a bit, clearly antsy. “With traffic, I’m not sure when they’ll get here. Pete lives just across the way, but...” 

“But?”

“I’ll probably have to stay up for a bit.”

“I can keep you company.”

“No, no, I can’t ask you to do that--”

“Alright, alright!” You throw your hands up, huffing dramatically. “Mig, there’s no need to beg. Give me five minutes.”

He gives you a weary smile, before turning to leave. But he pauses at the doorway, and as if in a trance - tightening grip, clenched jaw - 

“You look nice.” He says, low and slow.

“Thanks.” You manage to squeeze out. Ever so slightly, you squeeze your thighs together too, for good measure.

With one last look he drags that heavy gaze away from you, giving your room a once over. 

“...now I know why the light bill’s so fucking high.”

~~~

The doorbell rings when the two of you have settled in - head on his broad chest and something on the TV. Whilst you don't know how you ended up here, you do know how it ends; he puts a boring documentary on, you proceed to fight sleep before hands wander, the room gets a little heavier, and…

The doorbell, right. He shuffles out of your grip, gently placing your head on the sofa. You feign a yawn as you shift, watching the wide expanse of his back as he answers the door. Unfortunately, he's put a shirt on, but you are still mesmerised by the way that baggy t-shirt clings this way and that. You sigh at the sight - it’s much too late for unabashed yearning - burying your cheek into the pillows.

The door opens. You manage to spot a flash of red peeking over your roommate.

“God, we are so sorry. We don't know what's gonna happen to my Dad and–”

Miguel brings a hand up to stop her. She is clearly exhausted, eyes-red rimmed like she's been crying; with a tight hand around the strap of a sling bag. It's full to bursting, likely haphazardly prepared - stuffed with diapers, snacks, toys and God knows what else. She scratches at the nape of her neck, pulling at choppy hair scraped into a bun. With her bangs pinned back, you can't help but think she looks less like the character she plays on TV and more like a person - experiencing the kind of grief made less glamorous by makeup and bright lights. 

“It's okay, Em.” 

Em. You can't see his face, but you can see MJ's; and you notice the way she softens at the nickname. 

“I haven't heard that one since college. Thank you, Miguel.” She gives him a watery smile.. “I've got some food for her in the bag, extra milk, those peanut cups she likes, my personal and my work phone number, my mom's phone number in case you can't reach me or Pete, diapers, wipes – hypoallergenic, she can be a bit sensitive – a-and we are trying self-soothing with her stuffy because she can get antsy before bed.”

Her eyes are a little bloodshot, but she manages to hand off the bag, before turning to talk to a little mop of red that peeks out from behind her. May's chubby fingers are clamped tight around her leg, but with some gentle coaxing, the little girl steps into your apartment.

“Hi, May.” Miguel smiles, one you imagine is dazzling kryptonite from her favourite uncle, and she puts her small hand in his.

“Bye, honey. Be good for your Uncle.” MJ gives her daughter a gentle hug, brushing back her hair for a kiss. Little chubby fingers try to do the same, and it's a display that makes your heart melt.

“Stay safe, MJ. Say hi to Peter for me?” You call out over the lip of the couch.

“Of course, sweetheart.” She flashes you a smile, and you are windswept by its candour. 

Once she leaves, May is uncharacteristically quiet. She seats herself on the sofa, little legs dangling, unable to reach the floor. Miguel slides off her backpack and jacket - brightly coloured plastic adorned with a kid's TV show - with an ease and gentleness you didn't quite know he was capable of. There's something to be said about a man of his stature - tall and hulking, with hands that could easily palm a basketball - using those very same hands to carefully unbutton the loops on May's jacket. Despite her muted panic; the gradual kind, the kind that wells up like the tide before a storm and comes with a wobbly lip and balled up fists; his voice stays calm and soothing in the walls of your little apartment. It is well-practiced and unfazed, exceedingly gentle in his approach. He'd make a good dad, you think. 

She's restless. You both try your best, coaxing her to eat mushy peas and applesauce, with little to no success. May clearly isn’t pleased - scrunching up her face with disgust.

“I feel you, kid.” You sigh, plopping the dinner spoon into the green mixture. “Not the most appealing.”

“But it’s good for her!” Mig yells from the kitchen, digging around for something in the cupboards.

She makes a face, looking to you for some comfort. All you do is shrug, tugging at your collar in an exaggerated manner. She almost smiles, and so you make your eyes go wide - pulling a peal of laughter from the little girl. It is contagious, and makes you beam from ear to ear.

“That doesn’t sound like dinner.” Miguel breezes past with something in his hand.

“I think they serve prisoner’s better food. Or food that looks less grey, anyways.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass.” He hisses, seating himself on the other side of the little girl. In his hands are a cute little bowl - pink plastic and toddler sized. It comes with a spoon that fits in Mayday’s palms just-right, and he scoops up some of the mixture the bowl. 

You’re a little confused. “Where did you fi-”

“She’s a big girl.” He says simply, facing her and mimes taking a spoonful. You watch as her eyes get a little rounder, shining and intelligent. You can almost hear the gears moving in her tiny little head. “She can feed herself. Can’t you, May?

“Mig, I don’t know if that would work.”

And like a curious little dove, her head cocks this way and that, with a deep frown on her face. Pudgy fingers wrap around the neck of the spoon, and clumsily, she brings it to her lips. It falls with a clatter, and mushy peas splatter everywhere. 

There’s an I told you so on the tip of your tongue, but he tries again; cooing at the little girl, encouraging her to take the spoon once more. He’s gentle, but doesn’t talk down to her - and like she can understand every word, her eyes shine with recognition. Now, you’re not the best with kids - a baby cousin or two notwithstanding - but its hard to believe he hasn’t babysat before. Miguel O’Hara; lab tech, masters student, and clearly, world class Uncle. You’ve got a million and one questions, but you are unable to do anything but watch - all the while, gears turning.

She gets increasingly frustrated. In an adorable, gap-toothed way, but the toddler can’t seem to get a good grip. You watch as the spoon falls: clatter, hollow clang, conk; and every time, Miguel picks it up, wipes it off, and encourages her to try again. 

Clatter.

“One more time, sweetheart,”

Clang. 

“You were so close! You want to try again for me?”

Thunk. You've got an idea.

“She’s not going to eat, Mig.” 

He looks up. You’re handing him her jacket, and pulling on a long-discarded sweater. 

“Let’s go for a walk.”

~~~

It fills you with a certain amount of delight to say something that surprises Miguel.

“I know a place.” You say, somewhat smug.

“What do you mean, you know a place?”

You shrug. After a couple of quick phone calls, you did, in fact, know the perfect place for a late night wander.

“The park on 10th?”

“Nope.”

“If it’s The Rec Centre on Chelsea Ave, it’s closed. I grew up with the guy who runs it, and–”

“Nope.”

“Where are you taking us? May, she’s going to kidnap us and sell our organs on the Black Market.” She’s got her little palm in his, and gives you a look that says ‘Him first’.

“Don’t want your organs. You’re Mexican and lactose intolerant; can’t imagine the damage you’ve done to your gut.” You stop them, crouching down to speak to May directly. “Do you like animals?”

Her face shines with recognition. She nods profusely. Miguel seems somewhat horrified, but it just looks cute, to you.

“That doesn’t reassure me, sweetheart.”

“I know.” You give Miguel a dazzling smile. Somewhat smug turns into very smug, very quickly. “We’ll take the subway!”

~~~ 

The Nueva York Research and Conservation Centre is quite the gem, Miguel quickly realises. It's the kind of thing that predates him, and even his oldest neighbours; immigrants that came to Nueva York in the 60s and 70s. He remembers a handful of school trips in elementary and middle school - traipsing around the old building with a clipboard and stubby pencil in hand. Even when he was a kid, the centre had paled in comparison to the Zoo up in Central; that was shiny and modern, with actual lions (plural) and giraffes. Of course, his school couldn't afford the accompanying exorbitant fees, so they settled for the converted municipal building and grounds; housing less exciting animals.

But he still remembered the first time he had walked through those double doors, and past the little ticket office after being handed the paper stub. 

He liked that there weren't any cages. At the time, there was thin plexiglass separating the people from the animals, but they had space to roam, and were never the flashy sort - meerkats were the highlight of one trip, and an alligator snapping turtle the next. The centre was temperature controlled and meticulously maintained despite the clear understaffing; he always enjoyed the trek on cobbled path, and the insect building and reptile room never failed to disappoint. 

There were always researchers hanging about there. Not in white lab coats and clicky pens like he had once thought; but sturdy trousers and frazzled smiles. They were kind, and easy going; always happy to talk to the little boy in clothes two sizes too big. 

Maybe May was too young to understand, but he felt it immediately. That rush of excitement as you lead them on a long forgotten path, and pull out a key that unlocked those very same double doors. Nostalgia, perhaps, bubbles up from his fingertips.

“Hey, Ernie.” You nod towards a night watchman, perched at the reception desk. With his head buried in a magazine, you are satisfied with a nondescript grunt. Security clearly hasn't changed. 

May gives a little wave, and Miguel can't help but coo. She's squirming, feeding off of his clear excitement and dragging him towards you with a surprising amount of force.

You lead them to the outside park. The Centre is dark, for a while, and after some rattling, and the careful click of a few switches; Miguel feels like a kid.

The lights are on, illuminating an acre or two of land, and he is transported to being 6 and then 7 and then 11 - clipboard and pencil in hand.

May is agape, eyes wide at nothing but fenceposts and plexiglass. The enclosures are empty with the majority of the animals asleep; yet she is fascinated with the landscape, so much so that she paws at Miguel to hoist her up. She's on his shoulders before you can orient yourself.

He hears you laugh first. Bright, gorgeous laughter like morning rain on a warm day. You laugh and clap with wonder, and pinch the little girl's cheek good naturedly. She returns it with her own, pointing at ‘funny trees’, their green tongues lapping at the bright light.

“We'll need to be quick.” You finally say, leading them once again. He catches a sliver of neck, pretty and supple as you turn your head towards them. Fuck. 

“How do you have access to this place?”

“I know a guy.”

“Not a chance.” A guy, sure. It sounds like bullshit, but he can feel the confidence radiating off of you. It makes him wonder… is this another ex? Someone who works here, no doubt, but with so much pull you can walk straight through after closing hours?

“We'll meet ‘em, in a bit.” You trail off towards a plaque, reading out the inscription. “The Giant Armadillo, Priodontes maximus, is a giant insectivore – that means eats insects, May – characterised by its hinged bands and pale head. Found in much of South America, this – oh, look!”

Miguel follows your line of site, to some movement within the enclosure. Between large, grassy mounds, sure enough he spots the pale snout of the animal. May squeals with laughter, pointing toward the movement.

You put a finger to your lips, and ease her out of his grip. You get closer, whispering excitedly in response to the little girl's babbling. He doesn't follow, hands buried deep in the pockets of a brown leather jacket. 

We'll meet him. He plays it over and over and over in his head, letting it rattle and clank before sinking to the pit of his stomach. It tastes familiar: heavy and bitter. He's thinking of a man from a nicer background; kind, maybe, and softer. Walks around in suits and shiny shoes; who owns shit, who doesn't rent. Someone with softer hands than his own. 

“Mig?” 

Your hand is on his cheek. He’s pulled out of that haze, and straight into the warmth of your eyes. 

“Y-Yeah.” He croaks.

“You okay?” Your brow is scrunched up adorably, little Mayday hanging off of your arm. He can't make you worried.

“Just fine, sweetheart.”

“Well, come on then. I’d like you to meet someone.”

You pull him towards the Reptile Room; a brick and mortar building with the metallic sheen of a lizard on its face. You pull out more keys, sifting through a whole jumble. Before he can stop himself, he's staring at you; intense and stormy. That sinking feeling deepens. You look up, and give him a smile. Like emerging above troubled water, he takes a deep breath and feels a little lighter.

“Liv?” The door is open in no time. You're calling out into empty space, boots click-clacking on tile. These lights are on, but dim, matching the hot and humid air of the building. “Liv!”

Miguel pulls at his collar, following you deeper inside. A service door; amidst enclosures of leafy green, pebbles, sand, and more; leads to a modest lab. Amongst vials labelled ominously and rows of benches that smell like disinfectant, lies a nest of hair crudely tied back.

Liv pops out from behind a clunky monitor, beaming from ear to ear. They're older, with a sharp jaw and soft features framed by wrinkles and smile lines. 

“Doctor Olivia Octavius,” You smile, “Meet Miguel.”

Hand outstretched, Liv clears a path of pens and junk to reach his hand. It’s firm, he notices; with inked scribbles on the underside and a stack of bracelets at their wrist. They look familiar, but he can't quite place the name.

“How do you two know each other?” It spills out like May's mushy peas, and he hopes his sweaty palms aren't too noticeable.

“She used to work here - night shift.” Liv adjusts octagonal glasses, jewellery clinking.

“I was only a janitor, Mig.”

“The best damn janitor around. And good company during late nights.”

You get a playful nudge in the side for your trouble, and the two of you share a knowing look. 

“And who's this?” Liv crouches, attention turning to May who is engrossed by a tangle of colourful wires. 

“Her name's May.” He grunts.

“Your….” Doctor Octavius looks between you both, choosing their words carefully. “Daughter?”

“No, no.” You laugh - a little too much, for his liking. “We're babysitting - Liv, he's just my roommate.”

Miguel winces. Twice. He chooses to ignore the raised eyebrow and pursed lips, lest it blossom into any awkwardness.

A beat passes. “Does May like lizards?” 

She nods enthusiastically, hissing like un vibora. She’s almost there, he thinks, and Miguel can't help but smile.

“We've got some speckled lizards in tank 3 and 4 - donations from our freshwater contacts in Panama. You want to show her around?”

“Sure, but what about–”

“You guys head off, I've got some paperwork to finish off. 10 minutes? If she's gentle she can touch one or two.”

Satisfied, you nod, looking at him expectantly. Your eyes shine just like May's, and like his once upon a time, with a childlike wonder that makes his heart ache. You look happy. God. He'd do anything to keep you smiling like that.

But he's tired. Finally, the night has caught up with him, and he just doesn't have the energy anymore. 

“I'll stay.” He says gently. “Need to sit down for a bit anyways.”

He must imagine it, but for a second, you falter. Big, round eyes that shimmer in the harsh lab lights; and for a millisecond, he sees it dull. It’s gone in just a moment. And then you give him a warm smile, with a touch on his arm that seems to linger. The two of you beam, and you bound off with the kind of vigour he hasn't felt in years.

The click-clack of keys fills the room. He takes the opportunity to look around, noticing plaques upon plaques in the little corner of the lab. PhD. Masters. Accreditation from organisations with long, winding names. Doctor. Bioengineering. A foray into experimental physics. Pictures of her shaking hands with flashy names - and he recognises one with wide eyes.

“That's Marcus Kirby.” They barely look up.

“I… I know.”

“I worked with him before he headed up Alchemax, and well before the position was passed onto his son.” There's a hiss, and Miguel hears the violent rattle of the keyboard come to a stop. “I remember when he was still a kid, actually.”

He hesitates. “I watched one of your talks in Prague…. the one on metaphy–”

“Metaphysical dimorphism? Or was it the metagenesis of the perpetual plane? I can never remember these things.”

“Something like that.” He grunts.

“You were there? Should've asked for an autograph. Wouldn't be worth much, though.” A little snort catches him off guard, but he shakes his head.

“I was 17 - so, no.”

“Ouch.”

Ouch, indeed. He had loaned that particular talk from the library, a tape played over and over until Gabi had thrown a spoon at his head for the crime of astrophysics at breakfast.

“Do you still work with them?”

“Oh, I've been back there a couple of times; despite the complaints otherwise, mind you; their conference centre is world-class –” They stop themselves. “You meant–”

“I meant Alchemax.”

They snort. “We went our separate ways.” 

Why? He can't help but wonder; considering the equipment and brilliant minds the company has access to. Especially someone with the tenure and experience of Doctor Octavius - he could only dream of that kind of influence. Imagine the good he could do, the lives he could change…

Wonder turns to indignation, which turns to unfair assumptions; he looks around at the dingy workspace and curls up his nose. Disgust. From a well-respected, world-renowned bio-astrophysicist to this. Without the rose-tinted goggles of his youth, Miguel can't help but feel the walls closing in - a future career flashing before his eyes. From a dim rent-controlled apartment to an equally dingy desk in the corner of nowhere. He can't have done all of this for nowhere.

Doctor Octavius squints. The click-clack of keys stops. The air leaves the room, leaving only a cold chill.

“What exactly do you do?”

“Genetics and Bio-engineering department.” He puffs out his chest, but is unable to hide a slight shake to his voice. “I'm a lab assistant at Alchemax.”

Liv gives him a blank expression.

“So you're young.”

“I guess.”

“Unexperienced. You've barely taken your first steps into this world. I bet you still have dreams of saving the world. What are you working on, a cure for cancer?”

His jaw shifts.

“A joke.” They smile stiffly. “Research isn't like that. It's stuffy and bureaucratic and painfully capitalist. Everything requires a thousand yards of red tape until it doesn't; until they ask you to fudge numbers for the sake of shareholder value. Until they axe vital projects that affect the bottom line.” 

They step closer, boots thudding on cheap linoleum.

“It’s hard, to get them to see you. It's even harder when they've already made their mind up. I gave 12 years of my life to that place and you'd be wise to quit whilst you're ahead. Whilst you're young.”

Their eyes are empty. A quiet, cold rage swirling for the last 10, 15 years. He recognises it, of course he does; it's the very same rage that sits at the pit of his stomach - with the dense heat of a white dwarf. In that way, he thinks, he's collapsing in on himself; one that precedes an abcess into the very same perpetual plane Doctor Octavius built their career on. 

“Alchemax is doing things no one could've predicted 10 years ago - our genetics trials are world-class -” He starts a spiel he is well versed with – but it sounds hollow even under these dim lights. 

“Is that what Marcus is going with these days? Plasticky and insincere?”

“I–We are saving the world.”

He's met with a withering look; that echoes the indignant sighs from teachers of his youth.

He remembers small squares of paper, handed out to kids in the Reptile house. Brightly coloured facts pasted along its route; detailing the kind of research undertaken at the conservation centre. For a 7 year old Miguel, he was wholly absorbed with the worksheets - three words at the top of a blank table. Hypothesis. Observation. Analysis.

Hypothesis.

“If this a personal gripe–” 

“Of-fucking-course it's personal.” It was spat out, with more emotion he thought they were capable of. A pause. “Did you know Marcus Kirby commissioned the research for near-unlimited nuclear energy? Did you know we actually built it?”

“You're–” His throat is dry. “You continue to make claims without evidentiary basis. 

Observation.

A slight bobbing of an Adam's apple. The tightening of the invisible string that slowly winds their shoulders back.

“We could have powered hundreds of thousands – millions of homes. For much cheaper and cleaner than what we have now; clogged up by fingers sticky with oil money, most likely. And the proprietary technology is collecting dust, somewhere in that fucking building. Knowing Marcus, he's using it as a paperweight.”

And his head is a blur. Miguel isn't stupid; he sees Alchemax for what it is. A business, at the end of the day. He thought childlike naivete was a distant bygone but for some reason, he's shaken.

Can he believe what he hears? Is it just personal pettiness at the root of all this venom? Sure, he doesn't get invited to after work drinks. Sure, he isn't involved in the office gossip; in signing birthday cards and impromptu lunches out. Sure, just once, he'd like to get more than lab reports and risk assessments dumped on his station. He even finds himself missing stilted small talk; picking his fingernails as his coworkers talk around him, like he isn't even there. No man is an island in his field of work. For every discovery and pseudo-cure-for-cancer there are hundreds of lab techs doing the grunt work. So he knuckles down and does the only thing he knows how to do. He keeps his head down; because he already has a job to do, he doesn't need to be liked.

Analysis.

He sees it now, clear as day. A coffee cup gripped too tightly, a flash of fear when he clears his throat. Little comments, and then big ones: 

Drug tests at your stage are mandatory, O'Hara. 

Ronnie’s been working here a long time. There's no need to be aggressive, O'Hara. 

We want you front and centre in this picture, O'Hara, but don't forget to take out the trash on your way out.  

But what he has always attributed to the status quo, to his prickly personality, to his distinct lack of charm and unwillingness to be loved - could it be something else? When they look at him, who do they see? Is it O'Hara, the underpaid, awkward intern - or Miguel, brutish and brash and scary?

A great crash and in its crescendo is Doctor Octavius, hand outstretched, half bitten fingernails and papercuts all the same. He's different, he knows that. He's intimidating and gruff with a slight propensity for violence. But he's saving the world! He’s making a difference, one meagre test tube at a time.

And then there’s that voice again, hoarse and buried deep deep down at the pit of his stomach. With all that they've asked him to do… what does he have to show for it?

You come to mind. Kind eyes and an even kinder smile. The way you look at him, the way you touch him - like he's delicate, like he's capable of breaking. He thinks of soft nights spent in your arms and between even softer sheets… and not once have you shirked away or asked him to flatten. Acceptance; whole-hearted and unconditional; tastes much too sweet between your thighs.

“Mig!” He hears a squeal from out and down the corridor. Footsteps on the linoleum are followed by a pitter-patter, before you and May arrive at the door giggling uncontrollably. 

“You okay, sweetheart?” He softens like butter under a hot knife, because of course he does. It’s you.

“Come look, come look!”

He throws a glance to Liv, their white hot grip on the desk relaxing. They tuck a strand of loose hair back and sit down, shuffling through papers like nothing had happened. The tension dissipates - that was your doing, he thinks.

“It's a… Mig, God, there's a tank with an oc…”

“Cephalopod, actually.” Doctor Octavius smiles, picking up a battered coffee mug to lead the way. “You would not believe the hoops I had to jump through to get her here, but isn't she a beauty…”

He trails behind, flashing you and May a shaky smile. The frazzled scientist is knee deep in another story - betrayal, heartbreak, a tentacled hero, and more. But when Liv looks back, for a moment, he sees it: the very same look he had given unapologetically just a few minutes ago.

Pity.

_

_

_

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[1oftherottenones]

Hiyyaaheyhey can i request hyugo x gn reader? Idk any good plots .. mayb hyugo meeting reader for the first time like in the game when u see him on the roof? But instead u team up with him for the project? Idk if that's a good plot enough sorry

💙Hyugo Sugimoto x Reader💙

Reader pronouns: Unspecified

Pairing: Hyugo Sugimoto x GN!Reader

Plot: After a good crying session, this random student decides to threaten your life with a pocket knife! But now he wants to work on a school project with you...? What's up with him?

Word count: 2.1k

Extra: I'm sorry this is so ass. It's more of a warm up for me. It's not as romantic as I wanted it to be, so sorry :( I still hope you enjoy!

Your eyes burned from the amount of times you've rubbed them. God... You felt so dramatic for all that crying... It wasn't even necessarily a big deal, it just felt like one thing after the other and it was finally all crashing down on you.

You rubbed your eyes with your wrist one last time before standing up and taking a small breather. You'd been sitting on the roof to get away from everyone, to get away from life. Just sitting in front of the roof entrance and crying as much as you needed... It felt pathetic but at the same time a little relieving.

You let out a soft sigh, turning to leave and get to your next class. But you paused when you heard the sound of someone's voice around the corner of the roof.

Was someone up here the whole time?? Well that's even more embarrassing... Curiously, you peak around the corner and see a young man who was probably a year or two below you. He had perfectly smooth and pale skin, along with dyed light blue hair that was the color of the sky.

Maybe he was an art student...

He was talking over the phone in a hushed tone. But you couldn't make out the words, it actually seemed like he was speaking a completely different language. A foreign exchange student, perhaps? You've never seen him on campus before but he was wearing a typical uniform.

You then turn away and decided you no longer had any interest in him. Sure, you were nosey, but you couldn't even tell what he was saying.

But as you were about to walk out the door, you felt a strong hand grab your shoulder.

Before you could turn around to meet their gaze, you felt something cold and sharp against your throat, causing you to let out a noise of surprise mixed with fear.

"Who are you?" The man behind you asked in a surprisingly deep and cold tone, the same guy who was just speaking over the phone. "Speak." He then demanded.

You felt your heart quicken and your palms get sweaty. You couldn't even bring yourself to say anything, you were frozen.

"...Not talking, huh? You have the right to remain silent... But in this case I seriously recommend otherwise." His tone was the same cold and deep tone as before. This time his threat was added with the small knife edging into your skin, drawing a tick of blood.

You quickly try and use your elbow to hit him in the gut and catch him off guard, but he seemed to be a few steps ahead of you.

He grabbed your elbow that you desperately tried to jab into him and twisted your whole arm behind your back,

"Ow ow—!" You squeak out, finally you felt like you were out of moves, you give in and spout your name and class you're in out to him. You were unable to hide the panic in your tone.

"Hm?" He suddenly let go of you and you stumble forward, quickly turning on your heel to face him. You were ready to start throwing punches but you were surprised to see ... He wasn't even looking at you!! How rude. He glanced to the ground, tapping his chin in thought, "You're in class 4-B." He repeated. His expression was now soft and almost sweet looking. A drastic change.

You took the chance while he was distracted and pathetically threw a punch his way, but he easily caught your fist with his palm and looked back up at you. You let out a small noise of frustration as he caught your fist so casually.

His expression seemed far less intimidating but you still felt a shiver down your spine as he quickly grabbed your fist and looked you right in the eyes.

"You have such great timing!" He smiled, his smile bright enough to blind you ... This guy seriously had some issues. Threatening you with a knife just to act all happy-go-lucky!?

"...What?" You mutter, your own expression twisting into deep confusion.

"You see... My friend totally ditched me as a partner for my next class ... There's a partner project and since he left me for someone else, I'm kinda stuck on my own." He laughed before continuing, "Anyway, I really need to pass this class! But I can't do the project alone. But we're in the same class! Do you mind helping me out?" He requested with a grin and his hands resting on his hips.

You look him in the eyes with a look of absolute confusion mixed with horror... Who does this guy think he is!? Now he's asking you for favors?! And he didn't even apologize for trying to kill you just now!

"Woah woah! Hold on! You just tried to kill me and now you want my help? You haven't even introduced yourself!" You quickly spouted out, taking a couple steps back as if you were expecting him to attack again.

The man looks at you with a mindless look and just blinked before his face lit up, as if he only just understood your concern. He took a few steps closer to you as you stepped back, no regard for personal space. It would've probably flustered you if he didn't just threaten you.

"Oh! I'm Hyugo Sugimoto! I'm a year above you but I'm retaking a class you have since I missed so many days." He laughed as if failing a class was any laughing matter...! Wait he's a year above you?? His build and face totally suggest otherwise!

"Uhm... Okay... So why the hell did you attack me..??" You then ask, rubbing your arm awkwardly, obviously uncomfortable with this Hyugo guy.

"Oh, this?" He held the pocket knife up with his hand before closing it and pocketing it, "Self defense. The security here isn't all that reliable... Sorry about that!" He explained, still smiling.

You supposed that kind of made sense... But it's not like you were posing any kind of threat or something...

"It's... Fine..." You say, wishing he would take a few steps away from you. "But I don't think I can help you with the project." You said bluntly.

You could help him. But why would you!? Sure he apologized but you had a bad feeling about this guy! Despite his energetic and pretty face.

His expression shifted to look a little more disappointed, he then suddenly grabbed one of your hands with both of his, causing you to flinch a little.

He then, without warning, dropped to his knees,

"Please help me with this! I promise I'll make it up to you! I'm sorry about that whole knife thing, I thought you were spying on me, but I was wrong! I really need your help! Everyone else already has a partner and I always see you by yourself so I was just hoping we could work together! I really need to pass this class! Please please please please please please—"

"Okay okay!!" You yell out, cutting him off. Your face was bright red from embarrassment. Seriously? Getting on his hands and knees and begging to help him!? That was dramatic... "I'll help you... Just get up." You huff.

He immediately popped up to his feet with a grin, still holding onto your hand, "Thanks. I knew you'd help." He winked before you jerked your hand away from him. His hands just proved how soft his skin looked. They were cold but in a calming kind of way.

He gave you a small pat on the shoulder and leaned in, softly whispering in your ear, "Wipe away your tears. Crying doesn't suit people like you." He said with a small, more genuine, smile.

How did he know you were crying just now? Before you could ask any further questions, he was already walking down the stairs to the class you two supposedly shared... How have you never noticed him before? Well... It's not like you could think of a single person in your class. You clearly needed to pay better attention to the people around you.

--------

Hyugo and you made it to your art class, and just like Hyugo said, today was the last day to pick partners for the project.

You sigh, not even wanting to get up and meet with your new partner... 'Luckily' for you, he seemed to already take the courtesy to go up to you instead.

Hyugo stood in front of your desk, putting his hands on the table in front of you, "Let's get started on this project!" He said enthusiastically with his usual smile.

You found it hard to believe this was the same guy that threatened you on the roof...

"Yeah... Let's." You mutter as he takes a seat next to you. The both of you pull out the supplies you may need for this art project and set them down on the table.

"So we need two pieces... What should we do?" You ask, deciding to get his opinion first.

"Hmmm..." He tapped his chin and thought for a moment, "Oh! Let's do portraits. You draw me, I draw you, yeah?" He suggested.

That wasn't a horrible idea ... You figured it would be simple enough but possibly fun.

"You know, you really have the face for it too. I can totally imagine seeing your pretty face in art museums or something."

That was ... Oddly really flattering. "Oh... Thanks." You say, your face turning a little red. "I could say the same for you," you respond. It wasn't really a lie. He was definitely very pretty. You were jealous of how perfect his face was and how wonderfully flowy and soft looking his long hair was.

"Aw, shucks. You're sweet. I knew you were the right person to ask." His tone was a little teasing but still harmless.

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, "We should get started." You quickly change the subject, "We can get some quick sketches down of each other for today at least and we can focus more on detail the following days." You say, taking some initiative and deciding you'd draw him first.

"Sure," he agrees, nodding his head. He shifts in his seat as he sees you decide to draw first. He moves in a more flattering angle for the sake of the drawing and holds still.

After a few minutes of you looking between him and the sketch you were working on, you sigh.

This guy talks... A lot... Which was not only distracting, but also causing Hyugo to unintentionally move his head too much.

"Could you please just—" you start before cutting yourself off with a huff.

"Hm?" He tilted his head in confusion at your sudden words.

You gently reach your hands out and grab his face, repositioning his head to be in the correct angle, "Now don't move."

He seemed a little surprised but then smiled, "Ya know, if you wanted to touch me you could've just asked." He said with a teasing tone and laugh.

"Don't ... Say it like that..." You mutter, your face turning red for a third time today from the same guy.

Hyugo squinted his eyes a little, "What? Why?" He asked cluelessly, but you were willing to bet he was just playing dumb. He knew exactly what he was saying...

"Shh. Stop talking too." You shushed him, looking back down at your sketch pad.

He only huffed in response, clearly not happy about you shushing him.

But he was silent for the rest of the time.

Finally you finished the sketch, enough at least to where it wouldn't matter if he started moving again. You gave him the signal that he was good and he immediately leaned over to look at what you drew.

His eyes quickly lit up with sparkles, "Woah! This is seriously good!" He said, seemingly very impressed. "You should let me keep it after it's graded." He said, his gaze going from the sketchbook to your face; only now are you realizing how close his face is to your own... Again, this guy has no sense of personal space!

"What? You want to keep a portrait of yourself? Talk about ego." You said, mostly just joking though and poking back at him since he'd been poking fun at you this whole time.

But instead of getting an amusing reaction out of him, he still seemed totally serious about keeping it, "But you made it. And your art is clearly amazing. I'd like to keep it."

Your smile faded and you felt your heart beat a little faster, but not in the way it did at the roof. It was more... Flustering.

"I mean... Okay... Sure... Only if you let me keep the one you make of me." You bargain, the smile slowly returning to your face.

He grinned, "You've got yourself a deal." He agreed with a wink.

Gosh... His smile, his eyes, that wink... It almost made you forget about your quarrel on the rooftop!

At least you had a much better feeling about doing this project with Hyugo...

[idkdudethisisntpermanent]

Over the Limit - pt.iii

jenna ortega x female reader

part i | part ii | part iii | part iv | part v | part vi

summary: As Jenna becomes more entwined in your life, you find yourself pulled deeper into the high-stakes world of racing—looks like you've got yourself your first race.

word count: 8.4k

————

The garage is usually alive with the hum of engines, the clank of tools, and the scattered voices of the crew. Everyone has their own rhythm here, groups within the crew naturally falling into place as they work on separate projects. But today is different. As soon as you walk in, you notice the shift.

The crew is huddled around Anton who has his phone out, their laughter cutting through the usual noise. You can't see what's on the screen from where you stand, but whatever it is, it's got everyone's attention. Curiosity pulls you in closer, your brow furrowing.

As you approach, Anton's voice carries over the group, smooth and teasing. "And here she is, looking all serious and focused... but wait for it..."

The guys chuckle, and you stop in your tracks, confused. You can't quite make out what's on the screen yet, but the way they're talking—it feels weirdly intimate. You shake your head, taking a few more steps forward, trying to get a look.

Anton continues, now with a mocking tenderness. "Right there! Look at that—I believe that's what we call young love, folks."

The laughter rises again, and something clicks. A sinking feeling erupts in your stomach. Heart racing, you push through the crowd until you finally see the screen. Your heart skips.

It's you. And her. Jenna.

There it is—your encounter in the garage yesterday. The split-second moment when you locked eyes with her, the subtle smirk she flashed your way. The way your hand wrapped over hers as she was holding the wrench. It all plays out on the surveillance screen, frozen in time, but somehow magnified, more intimate than you even remember.

Shit.

"Awh, my little Y/n's all grown up," Anton coos, not missing a beat as he notices you standing there now. His voice is laced with smugness. "Didn't know you had it in you."

You clench your jaw, "Shut up, Anton."

"Oh, come on! It's cute," one of the guys calls out, nudging you as if this whole situation isn't embarrassing. "A girl like that?" another crew member hollers with a whistle. "She's no Brimstoner, that's for sure. Where'd you find her, Y/n?"

As you look around you notice that everyone is looking at you with curiosity. You let out a breath. It seems like no one was able to recognize Jenna from the race. No one knows she's from Summer Valley—that she's a Viper.

"It's not what it looks like," you mumble, trying to sound indifferent.

Anton lets out a low laugh. "Sure it's not. Admit it, you've got yourself a girl now."

The teasing hits deeper than it should, and you feel your heart pounding. They're all grinning, eating this up, but for you, it's just a reminder—you still haven't texted her. Despite knowing your answer, you weren't sure when it was appropriate to text her, it's only been about 12 hours since you dropped the girl off at her home. And you were dreading seeing her again.

"Alright, alright, enough about Y/n's mystery girl. Everyone, get back to work!" Anton says, half-joking but with a playful edge. "I need a word with my cousin."

The rest of the crew grumbles as they scatter, returning to their tasks. Anton slings an arm around your shoulder, guiding you over to the car you'd stolen the night before.

"Market value on this baby is through the roof," he says, his fingers trailing along the sleek metal. "You probably won't need to work for a while after this score."

"Yeah," you reply, your mind already preparing for the real reason Anton pulled you aside.

"So... who's the girl?"

Who is she? The question lingers, heavier than you'd like to admit. What could you even tell him when you didn't fully know yourself?

"She's just someone I met at a pub a while back," you lie smoothly.

Anton clutches his chest dramatically. "You're hitting up pubs without me now? I thought we did everything together!"

"It was after one of my sales," you say, rolling your eyes. "I needed to unwind, grabbed a drink, and met her. Simple as that."

He raises an eyebrow, grinning knowingly. "I've never seen a Brimstoner that looked like that."

"She's not from Brimstone," you say quickly, the words tumbling out. "She's from... Ridgewater."

"Ridgewater, huh?" Anton mutters, as if that explains everything. "So, she your girlfriend?"

The question catches you off guard, heat creeping up your neck and flooding your cheeks. You'd been battling that blush since you stepped into the garage, memories of the night before playing on a loop in your mind. Everything about her made your pulse quicken. The thought of being her girlfriend... it sent a jolt of excitement through you, one you weren't quite ready to face. It was too early to sort out your feelings, but you couldn't deny she was stunning, and the pull between you both was undeniable. The lingering glances, the teasing banter, the subtle touches—there was a chemistry brewing between you two that you couldn't ignore.

"We're just... talking," you reply, though a small part of you wonders why you didn't just say she was a friend. Too late now.

"Anyway, what did you want to talk about?" you ask, eager to change the subject.

"It's actually about your girl's ends," Anton begins, leaning in. "I've got some friends from Ridgewater in town, and they're looking for a friendly race with our club."

You raise a brow, not quite sure why this involved you.

"I, uh, might've mentioned your name for a race against one of their drivers," he admits, mumbling the last part under his breath.

"Anton, what the hell?!" you snap.

"Come on! It's just for fun—one race, no big deal. No stakes. You don't even have to wear a Sinner jacket."

You close your eyes for a moment, trying to keep calm, but you still end up rambling. "Anton, you know how I feel about this stuff. I... I still don't even know what I want. I've never raced before. I'm going to suck."

"You could lose by an hour, and I wouldn't care," he says with a shrug. "I just want you to give it a shot, Y/n. Like I said, no stakes—just a little friendly racing."

You sigh, unsure but softening. "I'll think about it."

Anton nods, clearly taking your indecision as progress. A week ago, you would've shot him down without a second thought. "Race is in a week today, 7 p.m., same spot as last time," he says, already walking off with a wave.

He stops just before he reaches the other end of the garage, turning back with a grin. "Oh, and invite your girl! Bet she'll find it hot!"

And just like that, your cheeks burn again.

You blame your inexperience with girls for how easily your cheeks betray you. It's just embarrassment, that's all. Now, you're apparently faking a relationship and have a race tomorrow. Perfect.

Needing to clear your head, you turn toward your workbench, ready to lose yourself in modifications to the car you'd stolen. But the moment you pick up the wrench, an involuntary smile stretches across your face.

"Oh, you've got it bad," a familiar voice chuckles behind you.

You groan, not again. Bracing yourself for another round of teasing, you turn around only to feel a sense of relief wash over you. It's just Hunter.

Hunter always seemed out of place among the crew. He was too pure to be mixed up in Brimstone—too decent. But everyone had their reasons for being here.

"You're lucky no one recognized her," he whispers, stepping up beside you.

"W-what?" you stammer, caught off guard.

"I was right next to you at the Vipers' race, remember?"

Your eyes widen, your heart rate kicking up a notch as you realize he knew who—or rather what Jenna was. Although you trust Hunter, it only takes one slip for the crew to find out about your association with a Viper.

"Relax, my lips are sealed," he says with a reassuring smile. "You were practically making heart eyes at her the whole race though—hard not to notice."

"I was not watching her like that!" you protest, maybe too quickly.

"Uh-huh, and I'm not gay. Come on, Y/n/n, let's not lie."

You drop the wrench and face him, unsure of why he was so accepting of this. "You don't think it's weird that she's a Viper? We're supposed to be, like... sworn enemies!"

Hunter smirks. "Please. That's half the thrill, isn't it? And since when have you ever avoided doing something just because it's 'not allowed'?"

You both glance at the car you stole and burst into laughter.

"We're not dating," you start. "I wouldn't even say we're friends. Last night was the first time I saw her again since the race, and that's what you saw on the camera footage." You find yourself admitting more than you planned to, trusting the older guy more than you expected.

"Do you want to date her?" Hunter asks, raising an eyebrow.

"No!" You blurt out, way too fast.

Hunter just narrows his eyes, giving you that look. "I thought we agreed no more lying."

You fumble for words. "I-I mean, I don't even know her! I've known her for what, four hours? Sure, she's beautiful—okay, really beautiful—but that doesn't mean I'm thinking about a relationship." You pause, trying to gather your thoughts. "Besides, I've got a lot going on right now. You know that."

"You and your excuses," Hunter sighs. "When are you going to start living for yourself? I care about you like a little sister, and you need to take chances before you regret it. If you keep waiting for the 'perfect time,' you'll just end up with a bunch of what-ifs. If you don't know what you want, how will you ever find out if you don't try?"

This is the third person to lecture you about your life choices and philosophy in the span of two weeks. Anton, Jenna, and now Hunter. Clearly you were doing something wrong if more than one person has called you out on it.

"Alright, I want to—I want to get to know her," you finally manage to say. "I should probably text her, right?"

"She gave you her number?" Hunter asks, raising an eyebrow.

You nod. "Yeah, last night. But it's only been 12 hours, I don't want to seem desperate."

"Oh my god, text her, you idiot!"

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you pull out your phone, search for Jenna's name, but you couldn't find her number. You go to your recently added numbers and smile at the name she saved herself as: Your Favourite Viper. You send her a text.

"What'd you say?" Hunter asks leaning closer taking a look at your screen.

"Hey? You fucking just said 'hey'?" He looks at you incredulously. "I thought lesbians were supposed to move fast. At this rate you'll maybe get a hug in a couple years."

Before you can fire back, your phone lights up, showing an incoming call.

"Holy shit," you mutter, eyes darting to Hunter in panic.

"Answer it! Oh my god, see what she wants!" he whispers urgently, practically vibrating with excitement.

You stare as her name flashes across the screen with shaky hands. It was just another call. Just another girl. Why are you so nervous?

You take a breath and answer. "Hello?"

"Hey Greaser! You busy right now?"

Even though the phone isn't on speaker, Hunter's glued to your side, frantically shaking his head and mouthing, No! Say no! His exaggerated hand gestures make you laugh.

You laugh at how insane he looks. "No, I'm free. What's up?"

"Great. Meet me at Birch and 49th."

"Why? What's happeni—"

Before you could finish your sentence you're caught off by a beep, indicating the call ended. "Anddd she hung up," you sigh.

"I like her," Hunter grins. "She's got moxie."

"Where even is Birch and 49th?" you ask, frowning.

"Hold on, I got you." He pulls out his phone, tapping around for a moment. "That's weird. It's a shopping mall in Summer Valley."

"A mall?" you echo, confused. "Is she taking me shopping. What the fuck?"

The older guy laughs and shrugs. "No one told you to go after a girl from Summer Valley."

"I'm not going after anything."

"Sure you're not," he teases, smirking. "Yet, you're still heading to this mall. Sounds like you're going after her."

You flip him off with a grin as you walk away.

"Keep me posted, Greaser!" he calls out, teasing.

You shake your head, already feeling the nerves returning. If you're really going to meet Jenna, you need to pull it together.

You decide it's best to meet Jenna with some leverage—maybe some news on Percy.

You spot Anton deep in conversation with Madison, just like the day of the race against the Vipers.

"Yo, Ant! I'm heading out!" you call, interrupting them without a second thought. You weren't in the mood for formalities.

Both of them turn, startled by your sudden presence. There's something off about them—stressed, maybe? Anton looks angry, but whatever flash of frustration you thought you saw vanishes quickly. "Oh, hey. Where you headed?" he asks, casual but guarded.

"Just heading to the Valley to look for some parts," you lie smoothly, keeping your story close to the truth. No need to risk getting caught if someone actually sees you at the mall.

Anton nods, signaling the end of the conversation, but you're not done yet. You clear your throat. "Actually, speaking of Summer Valley, what's the deal with that Percy guy?"

Anton's brow furrows, and Madison gives you a curious look. "I saw him at the race," you explain with a shrug, trying to play it off casually. "He just gave off a bad vibe, like he was up to no good or something."

The tension between them is palpable, but neither of them dives into it. Anton brushes it off, saying, "He's just a dumbass."

At the same time, Madison leans in with, "What'd you see?"

You turn to Madison, sensing she might let something slip. "He was talking to someone. It looked... heated?"

"Georgie," she whispers under her breath, barely loud enough for you to catch. But you do.

Before you can ask more, Anton steps in, commanding the conversation, clearly trying to shift focus. "Look, Y/n, he's bad news. I don't know what those Vipers get up to in their little after-school club, but I don't want you getting involved, okay? Vipers are trouble. Stay clear of them."

"Yeah, don't worry," you reassure him, hiding the fact that you're about to meet up with one very soon.

Suddenly Hunter's words echo in your head again: If you don't know what you want, how will you ever find out if you don't try? He was right. And now, you figure the best way to shift the conversation is by dropping a bombshell of your own.

"I'll do the race," you say, throwing out the unexpected decision.

Anton's eyes widen in surprise, and you can tell that you've just given him the perfect distraction from Percy and the Vipers.

————

As you start your drive, you can't help but notice the streets are teeming with more drugged-up souls than usual. Young, old—it didn't seem to matter; the drug epidemic in Brimstone spared no one. A familiar ache settles in your chest as you watch people you once called neighbors and classmates wander aimlessly, trapped in their addiction. It was an all-too-common escape in this town—a place where ambition had no room to grow, where dreams were crushed before they even started. The further you get out of Brimstone, the fewer of them you see, like the weight of the city's decay is gradually lifting.

You pull into the bustling parking lot of the mall, the engine's rumble fading as you find a spot near the back. It's just past 6 p.m., and the place is alive with activity. Cars are circling for spaces, people weave in and out of stores, and teenagers being obnoxious. You check your phone—Birch and 49th, just like Jenna said.

Your eyes scan the area for any sign of her, but there's no sight of Jenna. You cut the engine, but the adrenaline from knowing you're about to see her again hums under your skin.

The evening air is cool as you step out, leaning against the side of your car, trying not to seem too anxious. You check your phone again—no new messages, no calls. Maybe you should text her and let her know you're here.

Before you can even unlock your phone, the sound of soft footsteps approaching catches your attention. Instinctively, you straighten up, your eyes tracing the sleek black loafers in front of you. Slowly, you lift your gaze, and there she is—Jenna. That same confident smirk that's been etched into your mind since the last time you saw her.

She's wearing a flowy brown skirt paired with a black cashmere sweater, looking almost... harmless?

"You done checking me out?" she teases.

Your eyes snap up to meet hers. Despite her bold words, you catch the faint blush colouring her cheeks, and you can't help but hope it's because of you, not the cool evening breeze.

"Yeah, I am," you shoot back with a smirk, holding her gaze confidently.

She rolls her eyes, but smiles whilst doing so. "Alright Casanova, come on," she starts walking away from you, and you follow with no hesitation.

"Wait we're actually going to the mall?" You ask confused, as she leads you both to one of the entrances.

"Yes? Why else would I call you here. Tonight, I'm taking you shopping."

You didn't actually think she called you to go shopping.  You were only joking when you said that to Hunter.  Yet here you are.

You blink at her, caught completely off guard. "Shopping?"

"Yeah," she laughs, walking into the mall. "Come on, you'll need to keep up."

You follow her lead, trying to figure out how shopping was part of her plan to one-up Percy. A race? Sure. A late-night coffee run? Maybe. But shopping? This was a curveball.

"You're taking me shopping?" you ask again, almost incredulous.

"Yeah," she repeats with a teasing look. "You need a better jacket. That one's not cutting it."

You glance down at your worn-out jacket. It's not exactly new, but it's comfortable. "What's wrong with my jacket?"

"Nothing," she shrugs, her eyes flicking over you, clearly enjoying this. "But I want to see you in something that fits my vibe.  Something that makes you look like you're not from Brimstone."

Her words catch you off guard, and for a moment, you're unsure how to respond.  The idea of her buying you something feels... strange.  It wasn't like you needed new clothes—especially not from some fancy Summer Valley mall.  Your jacket was fine, and if it wasn't, you'd handle it.  But the fact that she wants to spend money on you?  It makes your stomach twist.  You couldn't help but wonder if she saw you as some kind of charity case—a girl from Brimstone who couldn't afford to keep up with her polished lifestyle.

You didn't want to be a project for her, someone she could mold to fit her world.  The thought makes you feel a bit defensive, but you swallow it down, not wanting to ruin the moment.  You glance at her again, her playful expression making it harder to argue.  Maybe this wasn't a charity thing.  Maybe she just liked you.

Still, it felt...weird.

You roll your eyes but can't help the smirk tugging at your lips. "So, what, you're my personal stylist now?"

She grins. "Maybe."

The two of you wander through the mall. The overhead lights cast a soft glow, reflecting off the shop windows as Jenna leads you into one of the higher-end clothing stores you'd probably never step foot in on your own.

She immediately heads toward the jacket section, flipping through racks like she's done this a million times.  You hang back, watching her with a mix of amusement and curiosity. There's something weirdly endearing about how serious she is about this.

Jenna pulls out a black leather jacket, holding it up and inspecting it. "This," she says confidently, turning to you. "Try it on."

You raise an eyebrow but take the jacket from her. As soon as you slip it on, you feel the weight of the leather, the way it fits snugly across your shoulders. It's different—definitely edgier than anything you'd pick out for yourself.  It resembled the Sinner's jacket only in that it's a black leather jacket, but something about it was entirely different—it was more you.

Jenna steps back, appraising you with a smirk that makes your stomach flip. "Now that," she says, her voice a little lower, "is hot."

You glance at yourself in the mirror, feeling a little out of place but... liking it.  You catch Jenna's eyes in the reflection, and for a second, the air between you feels charged, like there's something unsaid hanging between the two of you.

"Alright," you say, clearing your throat, trying to shake off the intensity of the moment. "I guess it's not bad."

"Not bad?" she teases, stepping closer to you. "You look like a Viper that got dipped in ink."

"Is that your plan?" you ask, raising an eyebrow. "Turn me into one of you?"

"Maybe," she replies, her voice light but her eyes lingering on yours a moment too long. "One step at a time, Greaser."

You laugh, shaking your head, and take off the jacket. "Okay, your turn."

Jenna raises an eyebrow. "My turn?"

"Yeah," you say, grinning now.  "If I'm trying on stuff for you, you're doing the same for me."

You have the money to spend, you just don't spend it on clothes, so one high-end purchase wasn't going to be the end of the world for you.

Jenna looks like she's about to protest, but then she shrugs, her lips curving into a playful smile.  "Alright, let's see what you've got."

You head toward a rack of clothes, picking out something you think would suit her but also give her a taste of her own medicine—something just slightly outside her usual vibe.

You hand her a dark red bomber jacket.  "Try this."

Jenna eyes the jacket before smirking at you. "I see what you're doing."

"Just trying to give you a taste of your own advice," you say, crossing your arms.

She rolls her eyes but takes the jacket anyway, slipping it on.  And of course, she pulls it off effortlessly. The red complements her dark hair and pale skin perfectly, and for a moment, you're speechless.

"Well?" she asks, spinning around with a grin. "How do I look?"

"Like you could kick someone's ass and look good doing it," you say without missing a beat.

Jenna laughs, and it's the kind of genuine, carefree sound that makes your chest tighten a little.  The two of you continue bantering, trying on ridiculous combinations of clothes, mixing high-end with completely impractical.

By the time you leave the store, both of you are laughing, arms full of shopping bags—most of which Jenna insisted on buying.

As you step back out into the quiet night and you drop off your bags in your respective cars, she turns to you, her playful smirk softening into something more genuine.

"That was fun," she says, nudging your shoulder.

You smile back, feeling lighter than you've felt in a while. "Yeah, I guess it was."

Jenna looks at you closely, searching your face, as if trying to read whether you're on the same page as her—whether you've enjoyed this evening as much as she has, and if you're not ready to call it a night just yet.

"Want to get ice cream?" she asks suddenly, her voice casual but her eyes giving her away.  There's a hint of something more in the offer, like she hopes this isn't the end.

You can't help but smile at the unexpected suggestion.

"Why not?" you say with a grin. "This one's on me."

With that, the two of you run back into the mall, a sense of urgency and excitement as you try to beat the closing time. Laughter echoes between you as you race toward the ice cream shop, determined to grab your scoops.

————

"So how exactly does shopping fit into your plan?" you ask, taking a bite of your ice cream.

The two of you ended up sitting on the edge of the now quiet parking lot, legs dangling over the curb as you chatted.  Finally, you decide to address the question that's been nagging at you all evening.

"Plan?" Jenna echoes, pausing mid-bite as she swallows her ice cream.

"Yeah, the whole thing with Percy—finding out his secrets?" you explain, slightly confused as to why you even need to clarify.

"Wait, so you're helping me?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, yeah? Isn't that why you asked me out?" you reply, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"You didn't text me back saying yes. How was I supposed to know?"

You give her a look. "...Then why'd you invite me out?" you ask, still confused.

"Because I could," she says casually, like it's no big deal. "You said you weren't busy."

You blink at her, still trying to piece it together. "So, you just... invited me out for no reason?"

Jenna tilts her head, giving you a playful smile. "Do I need a reason?"

You open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. The girl sitting next to you is a complete enigma.  First, she ropes you into some covert mission to gather dirt on Percy, and now she's taking you shopping and out for ice cream like it's a casual hangout.

"Well... I guess not," you mumble, feeling a little off-balance.

Jenna takes another bite of her ice cream, her gaze drifting up to the fading evening sky. "Maybe I just wanted to spend time with you.  Ever think of that?"

Your heart skips a beat at her words, but before you can react, she nudges you with her elbow, breaking the tension.  "Plus, I figured if I was going to enlist your help with the whole 'Percy situation,' I might as well reap all the benefits."

You frown, puzzled. "Like what?"

She shrugs, smirking at you. "Like seeing you in that jacket. You look good, by the way."

You can't help but laugh at that, shaking your head.  "So this was all an elaborate ploy to dress me up?"

Jenna grins. "Maybe."

You shake your head with a blush, a soft chuckle escaping you. "You'll see me in it again next week."

Jenna raises an eyebrow, intrigued. "What's happening next week?"

"I'm racing."

Her eyes widen in surprise. "Wait, seriously? You've joined the Sinners now? And you're just casually dropping that on me?"

You wave your hand dismissively. "Not exactly. It's just an exhibition race.  A week today at 7.  Same place as where we met actually. I figured it's a good chance to see if it's for me, you know?  No commitments yet."

Jenna nods thoughtfully, her expression shifting from shock to approval. "Well, it's about time you took the wheel—literally and figuratively." She smirks. "One step closer to sorting out all your issues, huh?"

"Mhmm, so you coming?"

Jenna looks taken aback by your serious tone. "How would that work? What would your crew think?"

With a sigh, you finally reveal, "They think you're my girlfriend."

She nearly chokes on her ice cream. "What?"

"They saw footage of us last night in the garage and, well... yeah. Thankfully, they didn't recognize you. I told them you're from Ridgewater."

"Ridgewater?" She scrunches her nose in disgust. "Ugh, even I can't stand those snobs."

"You're literally in the same tax bracket," you fire back, amused.

"We're way more tolerable," she insists, clearly offended. "But seriously, how could you let us get caught on camera? Don't you know there are cameras in your club's garage?"

"It's not my club. And yeah, I know, but no one ever checks them. I have no idea why Anton did that day."

Jenna sighs, the sound dripping with annoyance. The noise hits you hard, like a voice inside your head that reminds you that this doesn't mean anything, she hates being seen with you and all she cares about is risking your alliance. It stings, leaving you wondering if she's only hanging around because she needs something from you.

Wanting to shift the mood, you bring up what you overheard earlier. "Is there a Georgie in your club?"

Her eyes narrow with curiosity. "Yeah, there is. Why?"

You explain the interaction with Anton and Madison, how Madison had whispered Georgie's name when you mentioned seeing Percy having a heated conversation at the race. "I have a feeling he could help with your plan."

Jenna hums thoughtfully. "I'll get Emma to work on him," she says, already tapping away on her phone.

"Emma?" you ask.

"Yeah, she's a friend in the club. One of the few nice ones. Georgie's got a thing for her, so she'll probably be able to squeeze some info out of him."

You nod, piecing it together. That must've been the girl you saw her talking to at the race. Still, the earlier sting lingers in your chest. It bothers you more than you'd like to admit that Jenna might only see you as a means to an end.

The mood feels heavier now, so you stand up. "It's getting late. I should head back."

Jenna pauses, clearly wanting to say something more. A part of her seemed to regret driving herself here. If she hadn't, maybe this night could've stretched out longer, and you could've dropped her home like you did the previous night. But she nods, keeping her thoughts to herself. "Yeah. I guess you should."

————

The week flew by in a blur, and before you knew it, race day was here. Your first race.

You and Jenna had been texting off and on all week—mostly about the frustrating lack of progress with Percy, but there'd been some banter too, the kind that was just toeing the line between playful and flirty. At least, you hoped it was flirting.

Your nerves buzzed as you pulled up to the track, the sun starting to dip behind the skyline. The place was already alive with revving engines and the thick smell of burning rubber.

Unlike the Viper race a few weeks back, there wasn't any strict segregation going on. Sure, the Ridgewater crew—the Ravens—hung out on one side, and the Sinners were mostly on the other, but people were still mixing. Talking. No tension, no invisible lines drawn in the sand.

Stepping out of your car, the weight of the moment finally started to hit you. Anton and the crew were scattered around, but your mind kept drifting. You were thinking about the race, sure, but also about her. You hadn't seen Jenna since the mall, and even though she texted you "Good luck" this morning, the thought of her showing up was stuck in your head.

And yeah, you were buzzing to see if she'd actually come.

Hunter appeared at your side, breaking your thoughts with a friendly clap on the back. "Ready for this?" he asked, wearing that usual cocky grin of his.

You took a deep breath and nodded. "Yeah. I think I am."

"Good," he said with a laugh. "Because everyone's waiting to see what you're made of." He gave you a little shove, then wandered off to catch up with the others.

With one more deep breath, you walked over to where Anton and the rest of the crew were hanging out. The adrenaline was kicking in, but so was that nagging thought in the back of your mind—Would Jenna show up?

"Sweet jacket Y/n, looks like you finally splurged on yourself huh?" Anton laughs, pulling you into a bear hug.

You grin, knowing full well the jacket wasn't your doing but Jenna's. The rest of the crew were hyping you up, throwing questions your way about the race—how you were feeling, if you were ready—typical racer small talk. You played along, but your mind kept drifting.

The group started to thin out as people dispersed, and your eyes wandered over to the pillars near the edge of the lot, the spot where you first met Jenna. It was hidden, quiet—your secret spot. Was she here?

You started walking toward it, curiosity pulling you closer. That's when you saw them—four Ravens, the Ridgewater crew in their signature blue, standing around in a tight circle, talking to someone you couldn't see clearly at first. But as you got closer, the fifth person came into view.

She did come after all.

Your heart skipped a beat, that giddy excitement rising up. But that feeling was quickly replaced by something else. Her expression wasn't one of excitement or amusement. No, she looked uncomfortable. You could see it in her stiff posture, the way she subtly shifted as the Ravens talked around her.

You step closer, the voices of the Ravens becoming clearer as you approach. One of them, a tall guy with bleach-blond hair, was leaning in a little too close to Jenna, his smirk all too familiar.

"Come on, sweetheart, why don't you ditch the pillars and hang with us tonight? We're a lot more fun," he drawls, eyeing her in a way that made your blood boil.

Jenna's eyes narrow, her body language practically screaming discomfort, though she keeps her cool. "Yeah, I'm not interested," she says flatly, crossing her arms over her chest.

Blondie chuckles, not getting the hint—or choosing to ignore it. "I don't see any affiliation on you," he retorts, motioning to her lack of a jacket. "You're no Raven, not a Sinner either. You're a free agent, sweetheart. Why stick around?"

That's when you decide you've heard enough.

Stepping into the circle, you make your presence known. "She's with me."

The guy looks at you with an unimpressed raise of his brow, but before he can say anything, you shrug off your jacket—the one Jenna had bought for you—and drape it over her shoulders. "She's mine," you say, locking eyes with him, daring him to push it further.

Jenna's cheeks flush a soft pink, her eyes darting to yours, clearly taken aback by your sudden boldness. She instinctively grips the jacket tighter around her, a small smile tugging at her lips despite the situation.

Blondie snorts, glancing at his buddies before looking back at you. "Alright, alright, no need to get possessive. We were just talking." He raises his hands defensively, but the look in his eyes says he's not completely backing down. Still, they start to shift away, slowly retreating as the tension fades.

Once they're out of earshot, you turn to Jenna, your expression softening. "You okay?"

She nods, her lips curving into a grin. "Nice save," she says, still clutching the jacket. "I didn't know you were the possessive type."

You chuckle, feeling the adrenaline from the confrontation fade. "Just making sure they knew the deal."

"Yeah, well, I could've handled it." She smiles, but there's a twinkle in her eye. "But...thanks for the jacket." Her blush deepens, and you can't help but feel a little victorious seeing her like that again.

"Anytime," you reply, feeling the weight of the moment settle in. The race may be on your mind, but right now, it's her that's making your heart race.

You glance over your shoulder to check if anyone can see you, but Anton is deep in conversation with what looks like the leader of the Ravens, drawing all the attention his way. Typical Anton.

"I didn't think you'd show up," you admit, turning your gaze back to Jenna, noticing how your jacket swallows her frame, the sleeves hanging past her hands. Somehow, it looks perfect on her.

"How could I miss your first race?" she teases, her lips curling into a smirk. "You could walk out of this a full-fledged Sinner if you end up loving it."

That thought hadn't really crossed your mind before. What if you did enjoy racing? Were you really going to add "racer" to your list of titles? And if you hated it—what then? Would you leave Brimstone behind for good? Your mind starts spinning with all the possibilities, but you stop yourself before the spiral goes too deep. "Do you think I'm doing the right thing?"

Jenna tilts her head thoughtfully. "You said this race had nothing on the line right? Just a friendly race?"

You nod, though a flicker of doubt lingers.

"Then yeah," she says, her voice firm. "I think it's fair for you to give it a shot. Figure out what you want." Her eyes meet yours, steady and reassuring. "Sometimes, you don't know until you try."

Her words calm the storm in your mind, and for the first time tonight, the weight of your choices feels a little lighter.

"I'm totally making fun of you if you lose though," she adds, giving you a playful wink.

You chuckle, shaking your head. "Of course you will," you reply, trying to play it cool, though her teasing still makes your heart skip a beat.

She smirks, leaning back against the pillar with a casual confidence that somehow makes you feel even more jittery. "Just trying to keep you grounded, you know. Can't let you get a big head if you win."

"Like I need help with that," you shoot back with a grin.

For a moment, the banter eases your nerves. But then the reality of the race looming ahead creeps back in, and you glance over to where your car is parked, engines revving in the distance. The scene is alive with anticipation, and you can feel the electricity in the air, building up to something big.

"Seriously though," Jenna adds, her tone softening, "I think you'll do great. You've got the skill, the focus. Just don't overthink it, okay?"

Her words hit deeper than you expected, and you feel a warmth spreading through your chest. "Thanks," you murmur. "I'll try not to."

She gives you a small nod, her eyes lingering on yours for a moment longer before flicking to the track behind you. "Go show them what you've got," she says, her voice soft but full of that undeniable spark.

You take one last look at her before stepping back, the jacket still draped around her, fitting like she was always meant to wear it.

She must've thought that look meant you wanted the jacket back, because she started to shrug it off.

"—no, keep it on," you quickly interrupt. "I can't have anyone else bothering you, especially when I won't be there to stop them."

————

Anton stood next to you outside the car, arms crossed, his usual smirk tempered by something more serious. The roar of engines filled the air around you, and the crowd was buzzing with energy as the race time drew near.

"You ready?" he asked, eyeing the car, then looking back at you with raised eyebrows.

"As I'll ever be," you replied, your fingers itching at your side. You tried to shake off the nerves, but it was easier said than done.

Anton clapped you on the shoulder, a rare look of pride on his face. "Remember, this isn't just about winning. You gotta feel it, the rush, the adrenaline. If you're not in the zone, it's game over."

You nodded, knowing he was right. Winning is not the end goal—it was the feeling, the test, to see if this whole world was something you were cut out for. You glanced around, spotting familiar faces from the crew and a few more you didn't recognize. The Sinners, the Ravens, and everyone else, all here to watch and see what you'd do.

"I know," you said, trying to sound more confident than you felt. "Just got to stay focused."

Anton gave you a once-over, then grinned. "You're already ahead of the game. You've got your crew, and your girl showed up to watch. Not a bad start, huh?"

You chuckled, though a part of you still didn't fully understand what you were doing here—or what you were trying to prove. But you couldn't deny the thrill of the moment.

"Speaking of which, how's she doing?" Anton asked, leaning in closer. "Saw you two getting cozy earlier."

"Don't start with that," you muttered, shaking your head.

He laughed, stepping back. "Just saying, keep your head in the game. Show them what you've got."

The loudspeaker crackled to life, announcing the final call for drivers to get to the line. Anton gave you one last pat on the back. "Oh—and Y/n? Step on it. Don't stay in your limit."

You watched him walk off with those final words. It was time.

As you slipped into the driver's seat, adjusting your gloves and gripping the wheel, you glanced out the window toward the starting line. The pit of nerves in your stomach twisted a bit tighter when you spotted the racer pulling up next to you. Of course, it had to be him—the blondie from earlier, the one who had been hitting on Jenna.

He threw you a cocky smirk as he revved his engine, clearly more than ready to leave you in the dust. You couldn't help but roll your eyes at the sight of him. Typical. He looked the part—flawless car, arrogant attitude, and an ego that seemed to fill the entire track.

Here he was, thinking he'd outshine you, thinking he had this in the bag. The thought sent a new wave of adrenaline through your veins, change of plans—winning is the end goal. It was personal now.

Settling into the driver's seat, you gripped the wheel tightly. Anton's last words echoed in your mind: "Step on it.  Don't stay in your limit." But the speed he wants? You'd never gone that fast, and you weren't sure you wanted to.

Your heart hammered in your chest as you glanced at the blond in the car next to you. He was smirking like he already had this in the bag. It The memory of him hitting on Jenna made your grip tighten even more. Then your eyes shifted to where Jenna stood, wrapped in your jacket. She met your gaze for a second, and you had to look away. God, what was I thinking? You cringed internally, remembering how you had jumped in like some hero and blurted out, "she's mine." What were you doing? This wasn't you.

The signal blared. Instinct took over, and you slammed your foot on the gas. The car roared to life beneath you, and you shot forward. The world around you blurred as the race began, the adrenaline pumping through your veins. Blondie took the early lead, just as you expected. He was gunning it, probably trying to hit that 200 mark like Anton said.

You weren't even close. And you still weren't half way into the race. The speedometer was climbing fast, but the memory of your father's crash came rushing back. 200km/h—that was the speed he'd hit before everything went wrong. Your heart raced faster at the thought. No way am I hitting that. I can't. But you didn't need to. You weren't trying to match raw speed; you had something better—control, technique, and years of dodging the cops under your belt.

The first stretch was relatively straightforward, and you stayed just behind Blondie, pacing yourself. He was fast, sure, but he was reckless. You could see it in the way he took the turns, wide and messy, eating up his speed. You kept to the inside, handling each corner with precision, hugging the pavement like you were born to do this. Blondie kept glancing in his rearview, probably wondering why you weren't trying harder to catch him. He didn't get it. He didn't know you didn't need to reach that ridiculous speed to win.

The track began to curve—the finish line in sight, and you knew this was your moment. There was a sharp turn ahead, one that Blondie was approaching too aggressively. You could already see it. He wasn't going to slow down enough, and when he hit the curve, he'd either lose control or slide wide, giving you the opening you needed.

Now, you thought, pulling back just slightly as you hit the turn. You feathered the brakes, hugging the inside of the corner while Blondie flew into it way too fast. Just as you expected, his car swerved wide, giving you the perfect opportunity. You floored it, slingshotting around him with precision. He was still fighting to regain control when you shot past him.

Your heart raced, the finish line right there for the taking. The engine growled beneath you as you pushed forward, ignoring the urge to check the speedometer. It didn't matter now. You were in control, and that was all that counted. The crowd blurred into the background as the finish line rushed toward you.

You crossed first.

The roar of the crowd engulfed you like a tidal wave. Cheers erupted from every corner, your name ringing in your ears like a victory anthem. "Y/N! Y/N!" they chanted, and the excitement surged through you, igniting every nerve ending. You felt invincible, a high unlike anything you had ever experienced. The adrenaline coursed through your veins.

In that moment, you understood why people chased this feeling. It was intoxicating, addictive even, and a part of you hated that you were reveling in it. The thrill of victory mingled with the elation of having just pushed your limits. But then your eyes found her in the crowd—Jenna. She stood there, a radiant smile lighting up her face, and all at once, the adrenaline surged anew.

It was a reckless desire that ignited within you, overwhelming and raw. You wanted to kiss her, right there in front of everyone, to pull her close and celebrate your victory together. The image flickered in your mind, vivid and enticing, and suddenly, all you could think about was her. You remembered reading an article once about bank robbers who, after cracking the vault, had sex right in front of the safe due to the adrenaline. A story you once thought stupid, in that moment, it made sense. The adrenaline, the thrill of accomplishing something audacious, the heat of the moment—it was all a cocktail of desire that was too intoxicating to resist.

But as your heart raced for both the victory and for her, a small part of your mind pushed back. You couldn't deny it any longer; you wanted Jenna. You wanted her bad. And you didn't care if the crew found out who she was or if they learned she wasn't from Ridgewater. You didn't care if your alliance crumbled under the weight of it all. But as quickly as the thought ignited, a flicker of caution settled in. I can't jeopardize it for her, she's in trouble.

The cheer of the crowd faded momentarily as you wrestled with your feelings. Was this thrill rooted in the race itself, or was it because she was watching you? The two sensations intertwined, leaving you breathless. You wanted to close that distance between you—you at the finish line her at the pillars.

You leaned against your car, grinning widely as you took in the moment, the reality of what you'd just accomplished. The rush of adrenaline, the celebration of the crowd, and the promise of what was to come. With Jenna smiling back at you, you knew you were fucked. You thought with this race now over some of your questions would be answered, but now you are left with more.

————

The celebration continued long into the night, the energy of victory electrifying the air around you. The next hour unfolded in a blur of races, laughter, and clinking beer bottles. Your heart was still racing from the earlier adrenaline, but now it was fueled by the heady mix of joy and the shared exhilaration of the crowd.

As you mingled and celebrated, your eyes continuously searched for Jenna, hoping to catch a glimpse of her amidst the people. But luck was not on your side; you couldn't spot her anywhere. It was only once everyone started leaving, and you were getting ready to leave, did you spot the girl.

"Mind giving me a ride home?" she asked, knowing you won't say no.

And so there you both were, on the highway to Summer Valley. "I knew you would win," she broke the silence. "How did you like it?"

"It was...nice." you answer, eyes straight on the road. After finally admitting to yourself your growing attraction to Jenna, you found it hard to look her way; the adrenaline was still coursing through you, making your thoughts a tangled mess.

"Nice? All you're going to give me is nice?" she fires back with sass.

You laugh, "I'm just confused. I don't know if I enjoyed racing, or the attention that came from winning."

The attention that came from you.

Jenna tilted her head, studying you with a curious expression. "Come on, don't play coy with me. You know you loved it. That rush, the speed, the crowd cheering your name—it's addictive. You can't deny that."

You sighed, running a hand through your hair as you kept your eyes on the road. "Yeah, I guess it is. But it's more than just that. It's everything that came with it. The energy, the victory...and yo—." You cut yourself off before you regret your words.

Her brow furrowed slightly, "And what?"

You bit your lip, debating whether to dive into your feelings now or keep it light. But decided to can the idea as a whole. "Nothing, anyways was your friend able to make Georgie or whatever spill?" You ask trying to change the subject.

Jenna seemed upset about the change in topic, but didn't press it any further. "Actually yeah. He didn't give much context, but Percy's meeting someone tomorrow, and we are going to spy on that meeting," she smiles proudly.

"Sounds like a plan. Do we know anything about who he's meeting or what it's for?"

"Georgie just said something about Ghost Smoke. I don't know what that is—a new racing crew maybe? That name mean anything to you?"

"Ghost Smoke?" You parrot, making sure you heard her right. She nods her head.

From what you knew, Ghost Smoke was the latest drug that was being pushed out onto the streets. The one that's been causing the latest drug epidemic in Brimstone. If what you're thinking is true—then Percy is not someone that should be fucked with. You consider telling the girl in your passenger seat about what you know, but decide to keep quiet. Not tonight.

Before you knew it, you found yourself on the brown-eyed girl's street. You instinctively slowed down, stopping about twelve houses away—probably out of habit—but she didn't seem to mind. As she turned to you, her intense gaze pierced through the dim light, leaving you wondering what she was thinking. Was she going to lean in for another kiss on the cheek? Just as that thought flickered in your mind, it was swept away by the sound of her opening the car door.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Greaser," she said, her voice playful yet filled with a hint of mystery, before walking down the road, still wrapped in your jacket.

You remained parked in the shadows of the dimly lit street, your thoughts racing as wildly as your heart had during the race. That uneasy feeling nagged at you, refusing to fade. You had thought Jenna was the answer to your questions, a beacon guiding you through the chaos, but she also seemed to be the source of many new ones. Just what was this girl pulling you into, and why couldn't you bring yourself to walk away?

next chapter

[antrylis]

✨Kamino’s citadel challenge !✨

I am…very excited about this one. I’ve had this vision for a long time, and I’m so happy it’s ended up looking like that.

Now, there are a lot of things I’ll go into details along close ups under the cut; the only thing I’ll mention above is that I’m very grateful for TCW’s episode guides’ artworks, without which this would have been quite a hassle.

Okay ! Before diving into all the details and things, here is a view from above, to really display how big it is. Dimension-wise, the plank I built it on is around 110*70cm.

Now of course, the first detail which is noticeable is the floor, because, well, it’s everywhere.

This was probably the most challenging part of the build, because making a grid out of Lego is tough. Most of it is rows and rows of dark square, light lines, separated by 1*n tiles. It was the easiest way to get this pattern with as if it were just tiles; because this is one of the objectives I had here : most of this MOC is smooth, except for a few zones (usually voluntarily).

The fact I used this technic means that the floor in most place isn’t very stable, but it actually holds up pretty well because of some hidden connection points with the foundations underneath, which are mostly hidden under the cover blocks.

Here for instance, I’m using modified 1*2 bricks with a Technic hole : it hold the cover block, and it also attaches the floor to the foundation.

Of course, another problem I ran into were slopes. Much harder to get a smooth effect with the technic I’ve used, so it’s a bit wonky and unstable. Also, most them are not aligned properly, which is visible in the picture above (and some area have some really big misalignments because of a few problems I probably won’t bore anyone reading this with).

Now, since they’re also here, I can deal with the cover blocks. These were, among the details, the hardest to figure out, to get a good size while keeping some texture. Eventually I came up with this design, which, ironically enough, uses the same technic the floor uses, in a different orientation.

Another detail : the miradors :

This is one of the first elements I had in place, because I needed them to get a good sense of scale (and was made better by an existing concept art of a tower alone). Most of it does not have anything noteworthy, except for one illegal technic I used (can you spot it ?)

The pillar holding the roof of the mirador is using a technic I had in my toolbox for a long time, but had never had the occasion to use : if you take two 'brick' bricks and attach them perpendicularly on a snot brick, the small space separating the lines of 'bricks' align to let a 1*n tile in. It’s somewhat reliable (for an illegal technic) and an easy way to get octogonal shapes.

Now, before looking at the Citadel itself, let’s turn around for a minute.

This point of view obviously isn’t the intended one, but it’s still worth noting, if only for some composition.

Notice that the wall here is quite small (smaller than the miradors, even), and light gray; it’s in contrast with the towering dark gray wall on the other side, behind the citadel, which technically should give at least some impressions even to the people who never saw TCW.

Anyway, it’s also on this view that we can see most of my slope struggles, including the central one, which is the biggest I had to do.

And I can’t not mention the most important element :

What would be the challenge without a squad of clones to take it on ? These clones (4 privates and a sergent) are ready to fight ! Well. Kinda. I wish I could have actual cadets, but they are not part of the Lego universe (and the floor was enough of a fee, I can’t afford to get customs figures too). I wish I had the Dominos though. I have TBB Echo, and I plan to get my hands on Fives at some point, but they wouldn’t fit here, sadly, so instead I used some movie accurate clones (because all the others are used for a project I still haven’t posted..maybe later…)

Notably, I at some point tried to get the elevator to work - needless to say it was a disaster (it’s too close to the plate underneath to make something working).

Now, without further ado. The citadel.

I’m very proud of it. I got the proportions just right (I actually made some measurements to make sure of it), and there is just enough texture to not make it bland while leaving it as artificial. This alone took roughly 8-10h (which were all spent during an accidental all nighter, whoops), but it was worth it. It’s completely empty inside, and, in fact, the wall behind it isn’t full as well, anything behind the citadel is opened. The spikes are simple 1*3 angle plates illegally connected, and the walls’ small details were made with a bunch of modified 1*2 plates, there isn’t anything really special in it.

The only really complicated zone was the middle tower, because I had to put all the cannons while keeping it clean and smooth, and including the vertical lime lines. It was a fun challenge. And I included the 'flag' At the top, too, just a red transparent cone on a stick (there’s no need for more), which peeks above the gray wall (for composition and because of a lack of pieces).

Anyway, such a long project deserves one behind the scene photo :

Yes, my desk is messy (and include my mandatory tea cup).

On the left, you can see my remaining floor tiles, which have not been used yet; and just under the citadel, you might notice the foundations visible; it’s a checker of 2*2 tiles which gives my floor a good base to be fixed on. There are also some slopes which haven’t been placed yet (in front of the background miradors), and at this steps, there were no cover blocks or walls yet.

As far as my tools go, you might notice brick separators scattered all around my work environment (I never have enough of those), as well as a tablet in the bottom right hand corner (which i use to check and measure concept arts), and in the middle, the red triangle is an official (albeit old) Lego measurement tool which counts in stud, Lego bar holes and axe length.

Also visible, finally, is the bottom of the foundations, which are stacks of 1*2 bricks (each of the three floor layer is separated by a height of 3 bricks), which means that looking directly under it can lead to watching the dark basement of my build (which isn’t aesthetic…).

Anyway, if you read until here, thanks, I guess ? I still have a few TCW related stuff (a small one next week, some other in the foreseeable feature), so feel free to stick around and maybe leave a note, if you feel like it ? That’s it, bye !

[bettyfrommars]

Build it and He will Come

a nightmare!Eddie x afab!Reader story

Note: You do not have to be familiar with the Nightmare Factory series to enjoy this. The timeline is non-linear and often very silly. At this point in the tale, Eddie and Reader have only met in dreams.

Word Count: 2.2k

No warnings, but my blog is for 18+ only

Notes: I could've very well made this a standalone story without putting it in with the Nightmare Factory, but I've missed thinking about those two so much I decided to make it work. I wrote this in August of last year and only recently found it in my WIPs. Decided not to be too fussy about editing and such because then I won't post it for another seven months.

@somnambulic-thing constructed a stunning tiny replica of Eddie's trailer, and then I got very inspired and wrote this for them. Somna, thank you for sharing your process with me, daydreaming with me, loving me, and everything else we do together with oceans between us.

It's complicated because Somna also works at the Nightmare Factory, and you can read that blurb here. But let's just forget about that for a moment.

---------

You’d spent weeks working on the miniature version of the trailer from your dreams, right down to the corrugated roof carved from cardboard and dry grass ordered from a specialty shop; every little detail was important.  You painted the inside walls black, imagining that’s what he would do if he lived alone.  Structurally, the overhang went on second to last, and then it was time to construct the front steps. Foamboard cut to exact specifications, and then frosted with a special putty that would need a couple hours to dry.

Nag Champa incense produced a smoky veil through the room to slip like a whisper between thin white curtains, escaping secrets into the night.  You had the television on, but only as background noise, and also to drown out the nextdoor neighbor who always played their music a bit too loud that time of day.  

It was late when you sat back to take in what you’d accomplished thus far.  You stared at the miniature door opening next to where a bedroom would be, imagining a gremlin boy with long hair on the edge of his bed, practicing his guitar.  You didn’t know why that image popped into your head, but you could see him so clearly; somehow had vivid memories of how his warm skin smelled just below his ear.  

How could they be memories? Perhaps an alien implanted them in your brain while you slept.  

There was no furniture inside of the structure yet.  The first piece you’d work on tomorrow would be the sofa out on the deck where you imagined him lounging to have a smoke and chat with the trailer park cats. 

“Goodnight,” you whispered to your empty apartment, clicking off the desk lamp.  

The next morning, you put your glasses on and shuffled to the kitchen to make some tea, absently wondering why your apartment smelled like nicotine.  You didn’t smoke, so it had to be coming from out on the street or the neighbors.  Staring with weary, glazed eyes at the corner of the counter while the water boiled, your mood brightened when you remembered the project waiting for you at your desk.

While bouncing a tea bag in a mug of hot water, you went over to stand and admire how far the trailer model had progressed.  The windows were next, and the air conditioning unit in his bedroom window, as well as…

“The fuck?” you gasped, frowning at the model, setting the mug down on some newspaper near the trailer so fast that some of the liquid sloshed down the side.

Somehow, there were marks in the dried putty of the steps.  You were certain the surface had been smooth when you went to bed, but now you’d have to redo the finish.

You pulled the magnifying lamp over and sat down with a grunt, snatching up the steps to take a closer look.  What could’ve possibly…

Wait

With the piece in question under magnification, you ran a thumb over the marks.

Why did they look like sole impressions from the bottom of tiny shoes?

In the process of trying to convince yourself that they’d been made by a bug of some sort, some investigating told you that the octagon tread and the brand name Reebok were there in a crystal-clear impression.

And why were the footprints coming out of the trailer?

Going rigid, you put the steps down and used the tip of one finger to slide them away from you.

Your gaze flicked to the stained deck made of wood stir sticks, settling on a white bit of something there.

It had to be a piece of plaster or foam board, but just as  you prepared to flick it away with your finger, something about it caught your eye.

Plucking tweezers from your craft tools, you denounced that it was…

…a half smoked cigarette? Filter and all?

You held it up to your nose, inhaling the sharp tang of nicotine.

It must’ve fallen from something else you’d been working on, or maybe you were so tired last night, you didn’t remember making it as a joke. The trailer you’d been seeing in your dreams might’ve had some cigarette stubs scattered around, you nodded your head, agreeing with yourself.  

Later that evening, next to the couch on the deck, you set an obsidian miniature ashtray, and then stared at it unblinking as if it were a trap for a feral raccoon that you wanted as a pet.  Sporting bandaids on two fingers from various X-Acto knife cuts, you’d been so absorbed in finishing up some of the window details you’d forgotten to eat.  

“Who does this home belong to?” You touching the steps to make sure they were dry this time before you snapped off the mag light.  

The trailer in question haunted your dreams; you knew every dent and bit of chipped paint by heart.  You’d mentioned it to your therapist so many times that eventually they suggested you work through the imagery by creating something tangible.  

“Why this particular trailer though?” You whispered, eyebrows clenched as you took one last look at the empty ashtray before shutting everything off for the night. 

Rising out of the sea of unconsciousness, it wasn’t long before you kicked your legs out from under the covers the next day with childlike anticipation.  It was a slow walk to the craft table though, sucking at your bottom lip and checking around the room with astute caution as if your craft project had somehow summoned masked marauders. 

The steps were free from any fresh footprints, but the porch door to the trailer opened a crack and there was…

“It can’t be…” a chill spiked the hairs on your arms.

Taking a sharp intake of breath and then holding it there, you eyeballed the ashtray that now had something inside it.

Your hands were shaking, and you feared you might knock the whole thing down if you reached in to grab it with your fingers.  Scrambling for the tweezers with a hitch in your breath, you got a hold of the miniscule piece and set it under the magnifier, vibrating as you went.  

One…two…three cigarette butts smoked down to the filter.  

But then there was a fourth one that appeared to have been barely just lit and was still smoldering.

You stepped back, eyes dry, jaw slack, trying to register what you were seeing.  It was the closest to what you imagined an out of body experience felt like.

Attention moving to the door left ajar, you managed to form the words with a trembling voice: “Is anyone in there?”

Wow, now you really did feel dumb. Who did you even think you were talking to? A mouse? A ghost? Some tiny person small enough to fit into the model? This wasn’t The Secret of Nimh.  

Just then, the door in question shut all the way, being pulled somehow from the inside.  

And that was when you screamed.

It flew open again and there he was:

A tiny person no taller than an inch, wearing ripped jeans and a denim vest over a leather jacket stood in the doorway to your model.  You took your glasses off, thinking it was an insect or some dark, floating spot in your vision.

He yelped at the same time you did, jumping back with a dramatic hop.

“Shit you scared me!” He huffed, bending at the knees to put his hands on his thighs and catch his breath.  “I didn’t know you’d be so big.”

“Excuse me?” Your hip bumped into the edge of the countertop letting you know you could back up no further, eyes glued to him in horrific awe.  “Where did you come from? How is this happening? Why are you—?”

“Look, Monkey. It’s me,” he put his hands up in surrender.

You fumbled blindly in the nearby drawer, clattering for a knife, but only came up with a fork, which was just as well, brandishing it like a weapon.  

“Whoa, easy now,” he halted, chuckling nervously. 

You considered the possibility of a brain tumor. 

He sank down on the top step to sit with one knee up in a way that disarmed you, and you slowly lowered the fork to your side, checking around to make sure you weren’t being filmed for some hidden camera show.  You made your way back to the table, squinting to get a better look at his face.  

Realization dawned, and the piece of silverware went clattering to the floor.

“Wait…Eddie?”

“In the flesh,” he tucked his chin to look himself over. “Just not very much of it.”

My Eddie.

Pulling up a chair, you scooted closer, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.  “How are you here? I thought you weren’t real. I mean, I thought I made you up?”

The visions, the dreams, all of those stories you wrote about a metalhead from the 80’s who also happened to be a charming dork. Although you did not know him, you also knew him to the depths of your soul. Beyond time and space, somewhere in the ether of the unknown, that is where you held each other.

“Oh sweetheart, I’m real,” his grin faded into a scowl of confusion. “But I think my wish got lost in translation.”

“Your wish?”

“Yeah, so,” he was playing with one of his rings, avoiding eye contact. “There’s a Wishing Well where I come from, and it kinda has…powers.”

“Powers.” You repeated it flatly, trying to wrap your head around it.

He began to pace, and you realized he could easily sit on the tip of your finger.  

“It’s not your typical water well with coins and shit, this one only accepts gifts.  You have to give it something that is very special to you and only then is your wish considered. I just got my confirmation letter in the mail a few days ago, but I guess my ask wasn’t specific enough.”

Your gaze wandered from him to the length of the trailer, mirroring his bewilderment.  “I’ve been to this place, haven’t I? We sat on that porch together once.”

“Yep, several times,” he nodded, shuffling his foot.  “I brought you home to meet my Uncle Wayne, the one who got me a job at the factory.  Also depends on what you consider real life.”

Mugs...so many coffee mugs...

“The Nightmare Factory.” You whispered it, all the while thinking to yourself that it didn’t make any sense. You could only catch the tail end of that memory before it slinked and faded into the nothingness like most dreams do.  

After a long silence he spoke through grit teeth.  “The next Wishing Well employee I meet is getting chopped in the throat.”

“Is there a way to…” your eyes darted to different utensils as if a pencil or some glue could help the situation. “...to undo the wish or get it adjusted somehow?”

He tilted his head to blink lovingly at you but said nothing.

“I’m sure we can think of something,” you were suddenly feeling upbeat. “Maybe we could, I don’t know, contact the Wishing Well people and see if—”

“I only have 24 hours,” he interrupted softly, thumbs sliding into his belt loops.  “24 hours and then I have to go back.”

“Oh,” your shoulders slumped. 

“Yeah it sucks,” he huffed, ending with a raspberry of a laugh.  

After a while, he was in your hand, sitting cross-legged in your palm as you talked. 

And then he was in the front pocket of your shirt and on your shoulder.  You chopped up grapes for him, he urinated in your sink.  

He wrapped himself around your pencil like it was a lamp post and went along for the ride while you worked on a drawing. 

“I need to start lifting weights,” he snorted, sliding down to swing off your pinky and onto the table. “My upper body strength sucks.”

Careful not to sit on him, you made a special spot on the ledge of the couch while you watched a movie.

“This one goes to 11,” you both said simultaneously during a mutual favorite called This is Spinal Tap.

You kept yourself awake for as long as you could during those last few hours, drinking caffeine, nodding off in the chair by the model.

He walked over from the trailer and tapped your finger in the way he did when he wanted you to lift him up.  Keeping your hand still, he climbed up onto your knuckle and tried to steady himself as it began to rise, windmilling his arms.  

At eye level he whispered, “closer,” with a curl of his hand, and he didn't say stop until he was near enough to kiss the tip of your nose.

“I think it’s time for you to get some sleep,” he took a wide stance, bracing when you moved him further out again.  

“I don’t want to,” you were actually pouting then, knowing that when you woke up he wouldn’t be there anymore.  

Actually, you didn’t really know anything.  How did any of this work, anyhow? Would he really just vanish into the ether after a certain time period? The whole thing made your brain itch and feel fuzzy.  

The only thing you knew for sure was that you didn’t want to lose him. The circumstances of him being no bigger than a thimble was not ideal, but you’d take what you could get.  

“I’ll rest in the crook of your neck, how about that?”

“What if I accidentally roll over and smother you?”

“That’s a chance I’m willing to take, sweetheart.”

[rubywithecat]

hey! you are not writing for aot boys anymore??? :(( i used to wait for your hc they were the best!! if you are still writing for them, can you make aot boys and when their s/o makes them laugh?? (specially the jaegers brother huhhuhu)

Hihi! Omg im so glad that u like my hcs and thanks a lottt for loving them. It means a lot to me <3 T-T

And yess I’ll still write about AoT and I was even rewatching it during these days coincidently Loll

~AoT boys when their s/o makes them laugh~

-Eren-

U were humming ur fav song when he came into the kitchen. “What’s for dinner?” He asked as he hugged u from behind and kissed u. “It’s ur fav ramen, Eren” U answered, kissing him back. “My brother Zeke is also joining dinner tonight is that ok?” He asked as he helped you. “It’s fine I made a lot” u answered.

“Here are the servings. Zeke, help urself any drink u like it’s in refrigerator” u said as u joined the dinner table and he nodded. “What’s for dessert, love?” Eren asked taking a bite of his food. U looked at him and then smirked. “Well the dessert ur getting is me” U teased and winked at him. Zeke almost threw up his food and Eren got so shy that his cheek became red but he couldn’t help himself smiling so hard about it, then he coughed in embarrassment.

He dragged u to the kitchen counter and passionately kissed u. “Right in front of my brother?” He said. “Yeah? I did make u laugh right?” U said innocently. “U r going to regret it, love” He smirked.

-Reiner-

It’s rainy season and at Marley camp, u and other warriors have to train despite the heavy rain. U put on the raincoat and walked to training session with ur friends. “The rain isn’t stopping since the morning” Annie complained. “But I like rain” Berthold replied. “But not the heavy rain, Berthold. It makes us harder for outdoor practice” U said.

Reiner was already there and he was waiting for you guys under roof, arm crossed and standing position. “How’s ur way of coming here?” He teased as u removed ur raincoat. U sided eyed him and sarcastically said “It’s so good that I’m so wet right now” u said without thinking other meaning and the realized it and quickly yelled. “No no that’s not what I meant!” U look so cute for him being all shy. Reiner busted out in laughter. “Hey Reiner u dirty mind!!” U yelled. “Uh? I’m not the one who said I’m wet” he teased again which makes u blush even more.

-Porco-

Everybody partying hard after tough mission and u are at 2 shots now. “Let’s play truth or dare” Reiner suggested and others cheered him up. “Whatever” Porco said, annoyed as he smoked his cigarette. “Come on Porco! It’s gonna be fun!” U persuaded him. “Please” U gave him cute eyes and he finally agreed.

“Truth or dare?” Pieck asked u. “I’m going with dare” u said confidently. “Well, I dare u to say a cheesy pickup line to Galliard” she said, setting u up. It would be so embarrassing normally but ur vodka shots make u over confident. U grabbed Porco shirt’s collar and whispered into his ears. “Hey Mr.Jaw titan, don’t look down on me cuz i would look so good underneath you”. He smiled and then laughed so hard. “What did she say?” Zeke asked loudly. “Shut the fck up I’m not telling u” Porco replied.

The next day, u couldn’t even look at Porco face cuz of embarrassment. He would laugh about it and find it cute. “Hey how did u sleep last night huh?” He asked. “Fine I guess” u said awkwardly. He suddenly pinned u to the wall and u thought he was gonna kiss u but he just looked at u closely and smirked. “Mr Jaw titan was a smooth line” he teased.

-Zeke-

He was having a hard day but still make time for the date. He agreed to go look sunset with u even tho he has stress about his work on unfinished project, he pretended like it’s nth and doesn’t wanna make u feel like a burden to him cuz ur not.

“Zeke look at there” u pointed to somewhere and when he tilted his head, u sneaked a kiss on cheek suddenly. He was surprised but he smiled at u and u can tell it makes his day a lot better. “U little sneak” he said as he grabbed ur neck and kissed passionately back. “U could have said so if u want it” he smirked and u giggled. “I can make ur stress is away, trust me?” U teased him, bitting ur lips.

-Levi-

U made a bet with Connie and Sasha that they owe u a drink if u could make ur captain laugh. At first, u tried with all the humors but he got all serious and as a result, u got punished by having to clean the window.

It’s nearly night time and u were still cleaning the windows. “I think he’s being so heartless” u told to Sasha as u wiped the window with anger. “Well, U shouldn’t have accepted the challenge” Sasha said, helping u. “Yeah I’m regretting that now Sasha” U sighed and suddenly yelled as u saw Levi behind u as u turned to get water. “Captain! Didn’t see u there hahaha” u said awkwardly. “Who were u telling that is heatless?” “We were talking about….umm… Jean” U looked at Sasha, asking for help. “Yeah yeah Jean was… acting so mean…” she played along. “R u sure? I thought that kid was talking about me” he asked her and looking suspiciously at u. U smiled confidently but dying inside. “Why would I say such thing to our handsome and hot captain?” U said dramatically, looking at him with puppy eyes. He looked at u back for a sec and he can’t help but let out a little laugh. “Stop messing with me kid” he replied. U can even see him blush.

-Erwin-

It was a formal meeting and u had to follow Erwin as his personal assistant. U had to wear heels and formal tight dress which is really uncomfortable for u.

After meeting, u thought everyone left so, u took off ur heels and swore. “Fck that hurts! How did those women stayed all fine with these fcking shoes!” U were talking to urself. Then u looked aside and saw Erwin was there. “Ah— im so sorry sir! Since when did u come back?” U apologized immediately. “Don’t wear it if it’s uncomfortable for u” He gave u a new pair of shoes. “I brought this for u” he said as he helped u wear the slippers. “Sir u don’t have to! Thank u so much!” U said as he finished. U stood up “Omg this is so amazing! Ur the best Captain!” U said and it made him laugh. “I’m glad u like that” he replied.

[kekaki-cupcakes]

Hiii

Please can you do connor stoll x reader "you know I like u, right? I mean, I know that you know. And you know that I know that you know... so what are we doing that for?"

hiii I'm so sorry this has taken like half a year lol but I hope you like it! it's mixed in with two other peoples requests for Connor [gn, and child of Athena] <3 <3 <3

strawberries After Midnight [ft. Chappel Roan]

Connor Stoll x child of Athena

»»————-　★　————-««

“Hey,” you said, looking up from the clay sculpture in front of you.

“Hey!” Connor said cheerily. You watched his hands carefully as he sat down in the chair in front of you. He spun around in it, went too far, and had to push himself back around to face you. 

He didn’t grab anything and slip it down the sleeves of his brown and cream bomber jacket, so you went back to cutting away slivers of clay around the base of your block. Wet clay got stuck underneath your fingernails. 

You smoothed out the bumps at the bottom, where the legs would be. “Aren’t you supposed to be strawberry picking, or something?”

“Maybe,” Connor sniffed, and kept watching you. His shoes were duct taped together, and someone had drawn smiley faces on them. 

Someone at the back of the arts and crafts shed threw their project at the wall, where it shattered. You ducked a flying pipecleaner and went back to work. Sun shone through the big open wall that looked out over the whole camp, where you could see teenagers hauling boxes of produce around and Will Solace sleeping in a wheelbarrow of straw. 

The Pegasi had been let out of their paddocks, not that fences did much [you still didn’t understand who’d even had the bright idea of putting them up], and they grazed on the long grass. 

You weren’t quite sure what exactly you were making out of the sculpture, but the Aphrodite boy at the front of the room watching dance moms with a satellite phone said that was something called the artistic process. 

You scraped some of the clay from beneath your fingernails when you felt Connor’s eyes still on you, and paused. “Can I help you?”

“Am I being annoying?” He asked with a smirk, resting his head on his arms.  

“Depends on if you brought strawberries,” you said. 

He picked up a little paper basket a naeid had probably woven, filled with the bright red sweet-smelling berries. Then he set the fruit on your clay covered table. It was harvest day, or more accurately, harvest week. You’d done your fair share of berry picking and crate carrying for the day, so you got til dinner off. Connor didn’t. He was supposed to be working. You decided not to dob. 

It’s not your fault. He just had the cutest gap between his teeth when he grinned. Not that you were looking near his mouth, or anything like that. 

You waved your hands around widely, grey water flicking every which way, and started to wipe them down on your pants so you could eat.  

Then Connor held a strawberry to your lips. 

»»————-　★　————-««

“Remember to drink some water.”

“Uh hu.”

You squinted at your sister for a long moment. Annabeth didn’t look up from her messy desk. She hadn’t moved in about three hours, hunched over her laptop while she rebuilt and planned out the Ares cabin in sims, since it’d been hit by one two many grenades and lost its internal supports. 

Or at least that’s what she’d called them before she tied her braids up behind her head with her singular grey one and disappeared into the world of adjustable door frames and roof beams. 

You watched her reach for her mini model and knock over a cup of cold noodles.

“Okay,” you said, folding your arms. “Grover just ate all your chapsticks, by the way.”

“Yeah, in five minutes.”

“Aliens totally built the pyramids.”

“Just send Clarisse to beat ‘em up,” Annabeth said, clicking away at her keyboard. All of the keys were covered in stickers from different people. You didn’t understand how she even knew what she was clicking.

You waited for the water in the bathroom tap to run cold, and then filled up Malcom’s strawberry patterned stanley cup. You set it in front of her, grabbed your uneaten chapstick, and your favorite pair of shoes. The night was young, as they say, and you didn’t know how long you’d be on your feet for.

That translated to: Cabin 12 was throwing an end of harvest week party in their cabin that would most definitely end in glittery bodily fluids, yet another blow up animal on someone’s roof, and a terribly planned camp store break in. 

You couldn’t wait. 

“I’m gonna go stare sadly at cute boys and eat hubba-bubba grape flavored cupcakes,” you called out as you left, following the bright colorful lights. Everyone had to pack inside the cabin until the feral harpy night watch distraction was set off. 

Usually that just meant the giant delivery of bird seed and unidentifiable flesh had been opened.  

“...Just kiss him already.”

“I knew you could hear me!”  

Annabeth just mumbled something about bomb proof piping. You left her to it. The grass crunched under your feet, and you walked backwards, slowly, to see the orange and pink streaked summer sky filled with white clouds and the occasional seagull.  

It looked like something out of a melancholy movie about boardwalk thrift stores and putting good friends over bad family. If that made sense. 

The music grew a little louder, as you weaved around the Hephestus cabin, and then the layered marble fountain that was currently housing a small family of goldfish in the basin. 

Hold on, hold on, fuck that

Fuck that shit

Hold on, I got to start this motherfuckin' record over again

The Dionysus cabin was like a little white cottage with a wraparound porch and red trim. Perfectly sweet. Crushed vanilla coke cans scattered the doormat when you crept inside. Leopard print duvets were strung up over the windows, the fluffy red rug in the center of the giant dancefloor was already sticky, and you were certain there hadn’t been this many giant speakers last time. 

Never the less, they blasted out a song that the jostling crowd was already booing too. You raised an eyebrow at the campers. Not a spec of orange was in site, only oversized band t-shirts and spaghetti straps. When there was a chance to wear something other than cargo and neon, it was taken wholeheartedly. 

You looked down at your Valentina-approved outfit. It was speckled in LED lighting, but you liked it. 

“Turn this motherfuckin’ record off!” Travis yelled, his hands cupping his mouth. He bumped into you, then realised it was you, and swung a lanky arm over your shoulder. “Yo!”

“...Yo?” you said, narrowing your eyes when an entire beach ball was tossed over the two of you. 

Travis grinned. He leaned in like he had a massive secret. “Okay, you can’t tell anyone I told you this, especially not you, but Connors got the fattest crush on you, kay?”

You stared at him. 

“Like, what’s that thin’ Drew was explaining at dinner? Heart eyes? His eyes turn, like, uh… massive hearts. So yeah. Don’t tell. Pinkie promise?” He held out his thumb eagerly. You gave him a fistbump and tried not to pass out. 

Travis patted your shoulder triumphantly, and was lost in the sweaty crowd.

You stood there for a moment. 

Psst, I see dead people

Aggressive cheers arose. 

You could totally handle this situation. You could totally pretend you weren’t about to dissolve into a strawberry scented puddle of goo when Connor eventually found his way to you through the clouds of smoke like he promised he would. 

You could totally pretend you didn’t know that he liked you and not just grab onto his very muscular arm and stammer your way through a stupid speech you probably picked up from over hearing dance mums. 

You were totally handling this situation as well as you could handle the thought of Connor being in a five foot radius right now with his adorable tooth gap and very soft jacket you totally weren’t wondering about if it would fit you. 

Maybe if you just hid from him. 

Then you very carefully laid out plans to have fun, possibly get a stick and poke in the bathtub from Will Solace, drink out of date off brand soft drink, then lay on a broken couch outside and watch the sunrise while listening to an overplayed pop song, wouldn’t be ruined by a cute boy.

The beach ball made a return. You ducked it, and weaved past some kid pretending he could do magic tricks. 

“Hey,” Lou ellen giggled. Her wildly curly hair was caught in her earrings. 

“Hi,” you said.

She smelt like something that was definitely the reason there was a general [but probably too low] age limit on these sorts of things. 

“How are you? I feel like I havent seen you in ages, if you could like randomly magically transform into any animal of your choosing that fits into a totally irrelevant category in my spellbook what would you pick?” 

You shook your head slowly, and looked for a victim to pass her onto. “Don’t you think Clovis would look great as a tiny sheep?”

Her eyes widened. “Oh my god, yes!” 

The party continued around you in slow motion and colorful flashing lights. You talked to a few more slightly deranged teenagers and helped Butch pull a pegasus out of the fridge. Whoever was in control of the music had very good taste. The bottoms of your shoes were sticky, and made a little sound every time you walked.

Time passed. A lot of that time was spent hiding from Connor. You spotted him a couple of times and consequently crawled into the empty fridge. One of those times he was holding a pained and grinning Travis by the ear while stomping on his toes, red in the face. 

After that, you proceeded to hurry into the bathroom and lock the door [someone had written ‘Rodrick Rules’ in black marker on it] behind you. 

Will was sitting in the bathtub, cowboy hat pulled low, and a stalk of wheat in his mouth. 

“Wanna stick’n’poke?” 

“No thanks,” you huffed, sinking into the dry tub next to him and pressing your head against the cold tile wall. It helped your stress and flashy lights induced headache. “Do you do lobotomies? Or extract hearts?”

There were about a million candles burning on the bathroom sink, the wax stuck straight to the marble. It made the little room smell like a garden made of lollies. You glared at the roof. 

“Is this about your serious case of heart eyes?” Will asked. You could see his smirk under his stupid hat.

You snatched the open can of sour peach soda from him and took a sip. There were no bubbles left. It tasted like really good soap. “I do not have heart eyes, I have perfectly normal shaped eyes.”

“...Not when Connor’s feeding you strawberries.” 

“What do I do?” you grumbled, toeing the pink bathroom tiles with your sticky shoe. 

“You go up to him, and you ask if you can kiss him, duh,” Will said, drawing skulls on the wall with a snapped pen. He paused. “Actually maybe don’t do that on the dance floor. Drag him outside first.”

You sculled his drink. It made you feel sick. 

»»————-　★　————-««

“Cause everything good happens after midnight,” You sang to yourself quietly, between hiccups. 

The speakers were so loud you could hear them from outside. The stars above you spun around in circles when you tilted your head. They stretched out to the horizon, over the ocean you could see in the distance. You knew the constellations, One of your little brothers had them painted on the roof of his bunk bed, but they weren’t coming back to you now. It was chillier now. You put your hands underneath your butt. 

Maybe if the legless couch you were sprawled across had come with a blanket. “I'm feeling kinda freaky, maybe it's the moonlight.”

“I kinda wanna kiss your boyfriend if you don’t mind.”

You spun around, as well as you could while you were squashed in the corner, pressed against cushions that smelt like wine stains and dust. Then you turned back around. “...I love a little uh huh.” Connor put his hands on the back of the couch, either side of your head. You kept your eyes on the stars. “Let’s watch the sunrise.”

There was silence for a little bit, something that didn’t usually happen when the son of Hermes was around. 

You couldn’t help the smile that spread across your face as Connor lent over the couch, til he was nearly upside down in front of you. “I found Travis.”

“Right.”

“So you know that I like you now. I mean, I know that you know. And you know that I know that you know now... so uh… what are we doing that for?”

Connor grinned at you hesitantly. It turned to a smirk when he spotted your face. You tried not to stare at his pretty lips and silly little tooth gap, distracting yourself with his freckles instead. He had a lot of them. 

You chewed on your thumb nail, and then moved over, making room for him. He flopped down next to you, sinking in the cushions. Your heart was pounding as fast as the beat playing in the cabin behind.

“I kinda wanna kiss you… if you don’t mind?” You said quietly. 

Connor laughed. He reached out to hold your very hot and flustered face, but you’d already lent in and pressed your lips to his. He was warm and soft and you could feel glitter on his big jacket when you held onto his arms. 

You both pulled back, matching smiles and sparkling eyes. Connor didn’t let go of you. “I would’ve brought you strawberries sooner if i knew that was gonna happen.”

“Shut up,” you muttered, and pulled him further down into the couch.  

'Cause everything good happens after

»»————-　★　————-««

A perfectly sober Travis Stoll got a stick’n’poke of the Mona Lisa with a mustache from Will in the bathtub. 

»»————-　★　————-««

[gildedphoenix]

When Stars Collide

AO3 Link:

Chapter 1 -

“B, I understand that you want to get to the bottom of this, but I’m beginning to think that you’re upset! This is a great change!” Nightwing stood with Bruce at the edge of the building overlooking the city.

Bruce was not upset, he was concerned. He did not like when things in his city changed without reason. He especially didn’t like when things in his city changed magically. The hustle and bustle of Gotham continued on the streets below. That hadn’t changed. But the sky overhead was clear. It had been for a weeks now. Bruce found it unsettling. A Gothamite at heart, he was used to the overcast days and cloudy nights. Sure, Gotham had clear nights once in a while, but this was the 17th clear night this month. It happened slowly. The smog thinning. The constant cloud cover abating. The moon was now visible to some degree almost every night. Shining down its reflected light in its various phases. And nothing else seemed to be affected. The rainfall hadn’t changed. The winds didn’t blow differently. The harbor wasn’t suddenly cleaned of filth. It was just clearer. And it didn’t make sense. He didn’t trust it.

The plants were certainly benefiting from better light quality, which did lead Bruce to suspect that Poison Ivy had something to do with the changes. But she was just as surprised as he was. She asked him to let her know who did it so she could send them a fruit basket! After clearing Poison Ivy of fault, Bruce was forced to reach out to the Justice League’s Dark division. Constantine had answered his call and arranged a meeting for tonight. He should be arriving shortly, having given Batman this exact rooftop as the easiest place to portal to, given the number of “curses and magical fuckery” that lay over the city. 

Bruce wanted to take offence to that but he knew the city had its problems both mundane and magical. So he stood waiting. Brooding. Nightwing insisted on coming as backup though they both knew it was to help smooth communication between the two otherwise ornery men. 

Nightwing and Batman both felt a shift in the air and turned to see John stepping out of a portal, which spiraled out of existence after his feet were firmly on the gravel roof. 

“Batman.” Constantine said in greeting. “And the biggest Robin. What a pleasure…” he deadpanned as he lit his cigarette. He took a long drag and looked around and then up at the clear skies. “Oh, that is….something. I see why you called.”

“This started about a month ago.” Nightwing supplied after a beat of silence. “Not that the better air quality isn’t nice, but it’s definitely not natural. We were hoping you could help us find the cause.”

“Yeeeeeah, probably for the best. I’m not the best at scrying magic, I think Raven holds that title, but whatever is causing all of that-” he gestured vaguely to the entire sky, “-should be bloody obvious to anyone who cares to look.” 

John pulled a map of Gotham from one of his coat’s many pockets and laid it on some nearby ductwork before pulling a pendulum from another pocket. Releasing it over the map, it swung wildly for several seconds before freezing. For a moment John thought it had found its mark, and rather quickly at that, but the chain was not taut. It had simply stopped midswing at the top of its arc, hovering somewhere over the harbor and pointing to absolutely nothing. 

“Strange…” he looked to the Bats to see what they might make of it but they were also frozen. “Oh, bugger.”

“Hello, John Constantine”