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0mg-bird · 2 days ago

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Something Positive- S. Reid

Spencer Reid x Fem Agent Reader

Summary: 99 negative things and 1 positive. How will it ever turn out okay?

Warnings: season 7, mentions of pregnancy, pregnancy fear, nausea, mention of miscarriage talks, Spencer being scared and probably says the wrong things 😭 anyway, fluffy, but also depressing themes. I haven’t finished proofreading, oops lol idc.

You’re supposed to know your body and every little change it makes because, well, it’s your body.

So blame this all on your brain that often skips over the small things that it should really pay attention to. You could have suspected this earlier if you would’ve just slowed down for two seconds, but what difference would it make if you came to the conclusion earlier?

Absolutely none.

The test in your hand would still be positive and you would still have the feeling you do now.

A mixture of fear and devastation.

Spencer isn’t in the apartment you just moved into a month ago, he’s at Rossi’s with the rest of the team like you’re supposed to be. But you played the flu card and forced him to go without you. Then you forced yourself to the corner store and bought two pregnancy tests, a back up for good measure. It isn’t needed, the two lines are almost bold as they stare at you. The dates of the calendar back it up, as well as the queasiness about you.

You’re pregnant.

You. You are pregnant.

That can’t be.

You throw away the test, all the evidence goes into the trash and you try to calm your racing heart. You wash your hands and your face, though tears just keep falling no matter what.

This really wasn’t supposed to happen, it shouldn’t be happening. You’re traveling so often for cases, and there’s so much going on with the team. Emily just came back from the dead, literally, that’s already too much to deal with, you don’t need to add anymore stress to the team. You’re no help if you’re pregnant.

Spencer won’t be any help either if his main concern is you.

Staring at your reflection, you suddenly don’t feel real. You rub your eyes and push your hair back, overwhelmed with so many feelings, you can’t distinguish one from the other.

You do know one feeling from the rest.

The urge to bolt.

Blame the hormones, but you quickly leave the bathroom and slip into a pair of shoes, then grab for your coat and keys, and just like that, you’re gone.

Wandering aimlessly, you suck the evening air into your lungs as you walk the streets, past shops and people with different lives. You’re lost in thought, no better than a zombie as you continue to wipe your eyes.

It took you and Spencer long enough to even get together, you just finished placing your things in his apartment, there’s no room for a crib. He has far too many books, he’d have to sacrifice even more space for things a baby needs. The both of you work odd hours and sleep in bad motel rooms and fly all over the country and get shot at. You aren’t an expert but that doesn’t seem healthy.

There is no room for a baby in your life. Period.

The team has only experienced pregnancy with JJ and-

JJ.

Your friend who would know exactly what to do and how to help, the friend you have given the cold shoulder to ever since you found out that she let you mourn Emily, your best friend, for weeks and weeks. She let you cry and talk about how hard things have been for and Spencer, especially Spencer, and she didn’t say a single thing that she knew Emily was okay.

You have a feeling of bitterness now to join your emotion smoothie.

Up ahead, you see a tired mother trying to pull her crying toddler out of a drugstore. Her hair is tied up, she’s tugging at the child, giving up on arguing with him.

You turn around and decide home is actually where you need to be so you don’t vomit up your nerves in public.

When Spencer comes home, you’re sitting at the bottom of the tub, cheek to your knees as the spray of the shower hits you from above. You hear him take off his shoes and coat and walk to the bedroom, more than likely changing. He’s definitely tired.

He knocks on the bathroom door, checking on you.

“Hey, you feeling alright, angel?”

You sigh. He’s so perfect, arguably the best thing that’s ever happened in your life, and you’re going to ruin him with this news.

“I’ll be out in a second.” You call back, smoothing your hands over your hair, then look at the rings on your fingers.

Sliding one from your right hand to your left, you decide your ring finger just is going to stay bare.

“They missed you tonight, Emily said that you call her first if you need anything.” Spencer says as you rub lotion into your skin while sitting on the edge of the bed.

You hum.

“I think she’s just overcompensating, but she means well.” He claims, pulling the covers back.

You can’t tell him tonight, it’s not the right time. Instead you’ll just get some sleep, laying on your side, facing the window. As Spencer lays behind you, you push away his hand that splays on your stomach.

He goes a little stiff with confusion, but holds your hip without question, then whispers he loves you, like he does every night.

You live out a routine for the next following days to come. You wake up tired, you tell Spencer that you never get over the flu easily and that’s why you have the urge to throw up at any given second. When you’re tired of laying on the couch, you go back to work where everyone shares a look at how moody you can be.

“Is everything…okay?”

You look up from the evidence photos to find Hotch.

Most of the team is out all over the town you just got in, trying to solve the disappearance of three young girls.

Hotch suggested you stay at the police station with him for a while, giving Spencer some air after you snapped at him for no apparent reason.

“Everything’s fine.” You say, looking back down at the crime scene pictures.

“Is everything alright with you and Reid?” He pushes.

“Yes, we’re fine. I just hate it when he hovers, drives me crazy.” You huff, not giving him your attention.

Hotch had always been a sort of father to you. Almost like how Gideon was a mentor to Spencer, Hotch tried his hardest not to act like it but he was always very protective of you. No one could really blame him, he helped you through many things over the years, and along the way he became your family. So it makes sense that he’s questioning you now with a furrowed brow.

“I want you to know that if something is going on and you felt like you were alone…you aren’t. The whole team would move mountains for you.” He says in a very fatherly tone, a tone that has always seemed to affect you but never in the way it does now.

You quickly blink away tears and nod. “I just don’t feel well, but I’ll be okay.”

It’s quiet for a moment, and as Hotch looks you over, he proves how good of a profiler he really is. Slowly, he sits at the table and takes the papers from your hand, which is probably good, you’ve been staring at them for too long. Your eyes lift up to him.

“Does Reid know?”

Three words, and you want to flee.

“No.” You say hoarsely.

He nods in understanding. “This isn’t something you can do alone, but I understand if you need some time away to figure things out.”

You wrap your arms around your stomach, something you’ve been doing subconsciously. “This is my job.” You say.

“And it’s really stressful, so if you need some downtime, I’m glad to give it to you.”

Nodding, you understand. “Don’t tell anyone.” You ask of him, knowing he’d never betray you like that.

For two moments, you have a sense of peace.

And then Spencer and Morgan return, causing you to slip a mask back on and pretend you’re fine.

By some miracle, you get through the case and get home without any problems. Spencer on the other hand is convinced that you’re going through a mental break.

“Still tired?” He asks gently, at the end of the week, sitting on the bed and rubbing your leg as you bury yourself in the comforter.

You wordlessly nod, then try to sort out your thoughts.

“Baby?” He calls softly, a name he hardly ever calls you. “I think we should take you to a doctor.”

“Why?” You croak.

You know why. Spencer thinks you’re depressed, which you can’t really blame him, you’ve been laying in bed most of the day, turning your nose up at the idea of food, knowing it will all just make you feel sick. Your boyfriend is a great profiler, he notices your odd behavior these past couple days but he still can’t figure out why.

“I’m…I think they can tell you what’s wrong with you- not that anything is wrong with you but…there’s something wrong, isn’t there?”

Bless him and his softness he unconditionally shows you, but you just don’t have it in you to match his tenderness.

“I’m fine.” You state, tone not meaning it.

Before he can deny it and rub your leg again, you sit up too quickly and flee him, foolishly thinking he’ll stay put. Spencer is a golden retriever, though, so he follows loyally, only for the bathroom door to be slammed in his face.

“I’m concerned about you, okay?” He calls, voice muffled through the wood. “And I get scared when you just brush it off, brush me off.”

You stand at the sink, head drooped. The tears start slow, they fall into the basin. What was wrong with you? You have a man as good as Spencer and you’re ruining everything.

You fall into a dangerous storm of negative thoughts, all aimed at you like it’s target practice. The tears fall much quicker now, hot and sticky, your hand presses to your mouth to keep the sobs away.

Spencer hears you squeak, and immediately opens the door you should have locked.

You turn to face him, dropping the hand to your stomach.

His features twist into something of sadness and utter concern, he’s standing in front of you in just two steps.

“What is it?” He questions, holding your face in his hands, thumbs wiping at your tears. “What’s wrong, pretty girl?”

You can’t. You have to say it but you can’t.

A breath shutters through you and you shake your head. “Spence.”

“I’m right here, it’s alright.” He promises, so adamant that he can help.

“I…”

“Just breathe-”

“I’m pregnant.”

You’ve never seen him stop talking so fast. His mouth hangs open for a moment, then it closes.

All the years you’ve known Spencer, he’s never been at a loss for words. He’s trying so hard to just say something and he can’t. Maybe it’s the fear in your eyes that has him drawing a blank, maybe it’s the fact that he’s come up with ninety nine possibilities and this is the one he didn’t imagine.

“Okay.” He says after a heavy silence. “Okay, that’s, well it’s definitely something.”

Your tears don’t stop, in fact they might just fall heavier now.

He’s mad- no, he’s upset. He doesn’t want this and now everything is ruined. Your fears are coming true.

You pull his hands from his face, then brush past him.

He calls your name. “Wait, I don’t mean it like that. I just didn’t think about this, I haven’t planned for this yet.”

You pull one of his sweatshirts on and slide into your sneakers, not bothering with the laces before you slip from the apartment with a sense of deja vu, vanishing just like that.

- - - -

You’re not even sure how you got here, you’re sure you look like a wreck, but it’s too late to turn back now.

The door opens and JJ’s face morphs into confusion.

“Hey, Jay.” You try to smile, but when she opens the door wider and pulls you inside so quickly, it’s hard to maintain a composure.

You ramble, she lets you. For ten straight minutes you go on and on about everything, because you’ve had all of these thoughts bottled up and now you resemble something of a ship sinking beneath the waves. You apologize, you’re so sorrowful and tell her how wrong you are for saying all the hurtful things you said to her. She sits beside you on her couch while Will is upstairs with Henry. At some point she starts crying too because that’s what best friends do when their other half is saying she doesn’t know what to do. By the end of the confession and rant, you physically can’t cry anymore and your nose is red, face splotchy, and you just look at her, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Slowly, she takes your hand and says your name, grounding you.

“No one is going to say this to you so I will.” She says. “You’re not a monster for being scared.”

Your lungs exhale and she continues.

“But all of these concerns are just anxiety, they aren’t real. You can still do your job, the team won’t hate you, you are capable of doing this, life isn’t going to fall apart.”

She’s so sure, you’re practically forced to believe her.

“Spencer.” You mumble, watching as she takes a breath and nods like she knows.

“Reid is…Reid has the highest IQ and still doesn’t know the right thing to say. But this is news you sprung on him and he’s never had to deal with this sort of thing. He’s scared too.” She reminds, a little more honest with her words now that you’ve calmed down.

Just as you open your mouth to say something, her phone rings from its spot on the coffee table.

She squeezes your knee and grabs for it.

“It’s Spencer.” She says before answering it.

You can’t hear exactly all the words he says, but based off JJ’s reaction, he’s clearly panicked.

“Spencer- hey, slow down. It’s okay. No, she’s here with me. She’s fine.”

You feel guilty, so incredibly guilty. You left your cell in the apartment, not bothering to bring it with you, and the idea of Spencer freaking out because he has no way of reaching you, has your stomach churning.

Or maybe it’s the fact you’re starving.

Canons of your self destruction fire off at yourself, you’re sitting with your head hung as JJ talks him down. This wasn’t her job, this was yours. He’s your partner.

What are you doing?

As she hangs up, she gives you look, knowing you’re already heading for the door.

“Be easy on him, okay?” She says, squeezing your shoulder. “It’s gonna be alright.”

What a simple thing for her to say and a not so simple thing to do.

You go home, trying to rehearse conversations in your head. Surely, you look odd on the subway, whispering to yourself, trying to anticipate what Spencer will say. A few people shuffle off at a stop, and the seat across from you opens up. A woman takes it, she has a baby wrapped in a sling, it’s napping with its head on her bust and when she pulls the cover back, you can see it’s perfect round head. She gently strokes its fuzzy, brown hair and hushes it softly when it stirs.

Maybe life wouldn’t be so bad if that were you, feeling your child’s warmth.

When you get to the front door of your apartment, you take in one final breath and decide you can face the music.

You open the door, kick off your shoes and are immediately feel the rug getting yanked out from under you.

“You can’t just storm out!” Spencer says rather loudly, giving the reaction you didn’t want. “And leaving your phone here? Giving me no way to reach you? I called everyone!”

He’s angry.

“I was with JJ.” You say softly.

“Well, I know that now.” He huffs.

Shrugging off your coat, you gently approach.

“I’m sorry I worried you, please don’t shout.”

At your meek tone, Spencer immediately softens, scorning himself for being abrasive. He runs his hand over his face, rubbing his eyes, trying to get himself back in check.

“I’m sorry. Can- can we just sit down and talk about this, please?” He asks, moving to sit on the worn couch.

After a second, you follow.

He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He wants to reach out and touch you, but given the way you seem to shrink into yourself, he just rubs his knees over and over again.

“How long have you known?” He asks, though he has some estimates.

You slowly breathe out. “A couple weeks.”

His lungs burn. A couple weeks?

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Your fingernails dig into your palms. “I was scared…I’m still scared.” And all that work to avoid his eye, you finally meet that puppy dog look of his and immediately break down.

You just can’t seem to stop crying. Why are you crying all the time?

“I’m so scared, Spencer, I’m so scared.” You shudder out, and those hands he awkwardly kept to himself are now pulling you to him, cradling your head to his chest and putting your legs in his lap.

“Hey, I know, I know. And I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did, I made it worse, I’m sorry.” He whispers into your hair before moving his lips to your forehead. “I was surprised is all.”

“You aren’t mad at me?” You tremble, gripping his shirt. Never in your life have you been this clingy, and if the circumstances were different, you’d be embarrassed by this child like behavior. Spencer doesn’t mind it at all, he’s holding you like he’s the glue keeping you together.

“I’m not mad. I’m a little sad you didn’t tell me sooner, but I’m not mad. Why would I be mad at you?”

With his fingers in your hair, you take a few quick breaths. “I ruined everything.” You say as a cry.

He hates those words that just came out of your mouth.

Spencer shifts, pulling back to look at your face, red and tear streaked.

“Hey.” He coos. “You haven’t ruined anything, sweetheart, don’t even think that.”

Sniffling and wiping your eyes, you shake your head. “My career is over, the team is going to be inconvenienced, and you- you’re never going to be able to do your job the same. All the work you’ve done, it’s just ruined, I’ve done this to you.”

He cups your damp cheek. “Stop, stop. Listen to me, can you do that?”

You shut your mouth and nod.

“Good.” He says. “Now, you haven’t done anything wrong. It takes two to tango, yeah? The team is going to be elated, Penelope is going to throw this biggest party ever. We worked it out when JJ had Henry, we can do it again.”

There’s a way he can say all these things and it just makes sense in your mind. You nod along, this makes him smile.

“And as for me..” He tucks hair behind your ear. “I would give up all my degrees, I’d throw away all the progress and work I’ve done if it meant the only thing I had in my life was you and a baby that’s my own.”

You love him. You’ve never loved him more than you do now, in this moment, starving and crying and so scared. That’s why you lean forward and press your trembling lips to his, trying to steal the oxygen from his lungs.

Spencer is willing to breathe into your open mouth, even if it meant he’s have no part of himself left that was just his. In his mind, he doesn’t want Spencer to be Spencer, he wants your imprint in every part of himself so he’s no longer just him.

He kisses your hairline and then places your back in that space between his collar bone and jaw, it’s carved only for you anyway.

“Tell me everything that scares you.” He instructs, finger circling your bent knee.

You can’t say ‘everything’, so you say what you can form into words.

“It’s so soon, we haven’t talked about this yet.” You start.

“It’s a little early, but we have a home and a stable income and I love you and I want this if you want this.” He says so simply, as if he’s bandaging a paper cut.

“I don’t know what I’m doing, I could be really bad at it.” You state.

“We’ll figure it out together, I don’t know what to do either, but no one really does. But there is no way you will be a bad mom. That’s my professional opinion.”

You laugh lightly, he grins and subtly squeezes you.

“But what if it all goes bad? What if I can’t make it healthy, what if I…what if I lose it? Spencer, I don’t think I could live with myself if I was the reason you don’t get a living, breathing baby.” It hurts your chest to even say.

Spencer gently shushes you. “We won’t let that happen. We’ll make sure you’re healthy and doing everything you can to prevent that.”

You let that ease you into silence, then you wipe your eyes once more because you can’t stop crying.

“We’re not married.”

Did you say that out loud?

You must have because Spencer hums, not startled, but he mulls it over in his head.

“Does that matter to you?” He asks, genuinely curious. And you don’t know how to answer because you didn’t think it did.

But you said it, it’s been on your mind…so yeah, it might matter.

“Yeah, I guess…I don’t know.” You sigh, nudging your nose against his neck.

Spencer considers it, then hums like he does when he understands something. “Then we’ll get married.”

It’s the way he says it, so easy, makes you shake your head. “No, I don’t want you to marry me just because I’m pregnant now. Besides, planning a whole wedding is stressful.”

“That’s not why I said it, lovely. Yeah, we’re having this conversation because you’re pregnant but I want to marry you because it means something to me too. I don’t want to do life with anybody else besides you.” He states, dropping his chin to the top of your head, keeping you close to his pulse. “And a big wedding isn’t our style anyway. We can go to the courthouse right now if it’s what you want. Tomorrow you’ll have your name changed- or keep it, if that’s what you want.”

How perfect, how wonderful he is, and how lucky you are to be doing this with him.

Breathing in his scent once again, you nod. “I want to have the same last name as our baby. Oh god, our baby. That’s the strangest thing I’ve ever said.” You gently laugh.

“I like hearing it, though.” He says, a boyish smile, though he’s never been more of a man than in this moment.

You didn’t think your day would end like this, and perhaps this decision isn’t properly thought out, but the two of you want this.

You make it to the courthouse house just as they’re about to close, with the flashes of your credentials, they make a few exceptions. You don’t have rings, that part will get figured out later, and you there’s no grand catering, just Chinese food on the living room floor. It’s all perfect though, because you’re married and so in love with him and he’s giving you the last egg roll.

“You know, I didn’t think it was possible to be so hungry and nauseous at the same time.” You say, slurping up a noodle, washing it down with a Coke.

“You know, the fetal placenta produces a hormone called human chorionic gonadotropin that’s rapidly increasing, and if the mother is more sensitive to it, then they’re more nauseous.” Spencer states factually, proud that his knowledge applies to this.

“How do I cure it, Doctor?” You ask, a fond smile on your face.

“Don’t skip meals, like you have been doing. No more of that. We’re going to have to call your doctor tomorrow, and start prenatal vitamins. You know, if we push the dresser into the closet and shift the brown bookshelf over a few feet, that will free up space for a crib. You’ll want a side sleeper bassinet though, it slides right next to the bed so you don’t have to get out of bed as often.”

Having a baby with Doctor Spencer Reid was like having the next nine months planned out for you. As he rambles on with all the things that will need to be done, you laugh and lean over, kissing him to get him to pause.

“What was that for?” He asks, kissing you once more.

“I love you, that’s all.” I smile.

Tracing your jawline with his finger, he grins right back at you. “I love you too.”

After a moment, you speak again. “Am I a doctor now?” You ask.

“What? No.” He shakes his head.

“I’m technically Mrs. Doctor Reid.”

“Angel.” He laughs.

“That’s Doctor Angel to you.”

#spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid hurt/comfort #spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid comfort #criminal minds fanfiction

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artdcnaldson · 2 days ago

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not to be too insane but… thinking about art shooting blanks because he’s cum so many times…. maybe you’re trying something new with him for the first time and he’s liking it a little toooooo much….

This is one of my favorite things and it isn't even funny....

Even something sooo simple, like you're just using a little bullet wand on his tip while you jerk him off and play w his pretty, full balls :( It's so simple, but he can't fucking take it.

Your mouth on his neck, sucking slow, sweet kisses as you press the vibrator just below his tip, so it buzzes on the lowest setting against his frenulum. Your soft hands stroking featherlight over his balls then up to trace over the veins on his shaft. He twitches in your hand, panting and whining as you just play with him. Your legs are thrown over his, his back to your chest, so he feels trapped against you.

"Feels good?" You murmur, lips grazing his earlobe.

He nods, exhales shakily. "Uh-huh." It's the best he can do.

You wait until he's well and truly desperate— when he's dripping pre and moaning all soft and pretty. He barely manages a few slow, tight strokes before he's shooting thick ropes all over his tummy.

And he doesn't want it to stop. He cries out and squirms, but when you try to pull the vibe away, he just grabs onto your wrist to stop you. "Keep going," he moans, head lolling back against your shoulder. "Feels good. Feels so good. Please don't stop, baby."

And, god, you relish in it. You love when he's so lost in it— when all of his brain power is tuned in to the sole purpose of feeling pleasure. Mind turned off, but his body acts on pure instinct. Hips canting, bucking into your cum-slick fist.

So you turn the vibrator up, just two settings, and he cries out pathetically as you tease the vibrator around the tip of his cock, flushed a ruddy red of overstimulation. Really, he's flushed all over— from the tips of his ears down his chest, his pretty bitten lips and his cheeks. Pretty.

It doesn't take long for him to cum again, this time so hard that he trembles from the force of it. His release dribbles down the vibe, coating your fist messily.

"Do you have another one for me?" You murmur in his ear, and he whines.

It turns out, he has two left in him, each load smaller than the last. His cock is an angry red, the base of him is sticky with a mess of cum in various stages of drying. His abs flex, fluttering as you turn the vibe to its highest setting and cup his balls in your hand, massaging as you mouth at his throat. You feel them draw up tight, as his moans grow more desperate and his cock pulses with what should be an orgasm, but nothing comes out.

He whines, squirming as he gasps out a pathetic stop, stop, and you finally relent.

He's a total mess. Breathing like he's run a marathon— glistening with a thin sheen of sweat. He laughs as you kiss his jaw, again and again. "You're insane," you whisper affectionately.

"I need a nap." And he barely manages to roll onto his tummy and nuzzle against your chest before he's dozing off.

#puppy!art #kinda #it counts okay #Art Donaldson x reader #Art Donaldson smut

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ts-janus-rp-blog · 3 days ago

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"You don't?" Remus asked, then he went silent as emile explained. Yeah, that sounds about right... Everything he was saying is right, and he knows it, even though he would rather not admit it out loud if possible. "You'll...wait for me...? You'll... I... That doesn't sound fair to you at all and..."

Remus suddenly trailed off then he chuckled softly. "You know... I don't deserve you. I've done so many shitty things in my life Ive been expecting karma to come whipping me in the ass any day now. But it hasn't with you yet." Then his chuckles died down as he scooted closer to emile so he could lay his head on his arm. "I... I love you too, Ems... A lot... Like... More than anyone else in the entire world, a lot... I've never meant it before whenever I would say that to people, but I mean it now. I love you with all my heart and always have... I... Though I do kinda feel like this is going a bit fast, don't you? Like... You're still not over your ex and I'm...well, messed up in my own way..."

He sucked in a breath, "I'm not saying we shouldn't do this but maybe...we should like...take this really slow? Like super slow? Like uh...snails pace slow? Um...what do you think? If you wanna pick it up we can! I just uh... Um..." Remus lowered his head, "Fuck, I'm so not good at this talky shit..."

Patton knocked desperately at the strangers door, praying someone, anyone was home. His heart beat as fast and loud as the rain thundering against the sidewalk. He was sure he was being followed, they were going to catch him. They were going to drag him back. He wasn't sure if whoever lived here might be worse, but he was willing to risk it at this point. Anything to escape.

{@moralpuppylover2}

Janus didn't know who would be at the door. It was late, but his master won't surely be home at this time. He normally doesn't get home until the sun starts to come up.

So, as the dog hybrid walked up to the door and opened it, he wondered who it could be. And if he should open it at all... Who knows, he may get in trouble with his master for opening the door. But, his curiosity was getting the better of him-

He stopped when he saw the soaking wet cat standing at the doorway. He could tell that this cat needed help almost immediately. Well, if his poor state of clothes were anything to go by. His eyes flickered up and down the sidewalk before he grabbed pattons arm and pulled him inside.

"are you alright?" Janus nervously asked as he grabbed a towel from the mud room. "Well, that's a stupid question, of course you're not alright! Are you...running away from your owners?" As Janus walked, the collar around his neck would jingle loudly. And even though it was cold outside and even in the house, he only had a pair of boxers on. Because of that, Patton would be able to see the numerous large scars that covered his body...and the countless amounts of fresh bruises.

@moralpuppylover2

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mysteryshoptls · 2 days ago

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SR Riddle Rosehearts - Nightmare Suit Vignette

"Absolutely against the rules!"

[Halloween Town – Alleyway]

Riddle: We lost so much time because of that unexpected mishap. We should finish up the Halloween preparations as quickly as possible.

Jamil: Right. We should begin by checking out how the rest of the town is doing.

Riddle: I agree. While Halloween Town was mired in all that confusion, some other issues may have cropped up.

[Halloween Town – Town Hall]

Riddle: Jamil, take a look at that. The candy that we prepared ahead of time seems to have decreased in number since we last looked…

Jamil: You're right. There should have been overflowing mounds of candy in three baskets. But now, I only see one.

Riddle: Someone may have unintentionally moved it, or some ill-advised malcontent may have stolen it…

Jamil: ――Hm? I feel like I just saw something move out of the corner of my eye…

Riddle: THERE! YOU WON'T ESCAPE ME!!

[chair slams against door]

???: Waah! What's with this chair!?

???: Why'd it just appear in front of us out of nowhere?

Jamil: I see, you used your magic to move the chair to block the exit. Good thinking.

Shock: We can't leave 'cause this chair's in the way!

Shock: It's all 'cause you two were so slow in carrying the candy. You blockheads!

Barrel: I'm not the blockhead, he is.

Lock: She's talking about you!

Riddle: Oh, it's you guys… The troublemaker trio.

Lock/Shock/Barrel: URK!!!

Jamil: There's candy spilling out from the bag they're dragging. They're for sure our culprits.

Riddle: Good thing we captured them before they made off with the candy. There's no place for you three to run now.

Shock: You're so mean, cutting us off from the exit when we're trying to leave!

Riddle: Mean? You seem to be mistaking me for yourselves.

Riddle: No single person can claim all the candy for themselves. It is an unforgivable act to steal it.

Riddle: And just after causing all that chaos in town… Have the three of you not reflected on your actions at all?

Lock: C'mon, we ran around so much earlier that we're so hungry, though.

Shock: Plus, this is the first time we've seen candy like the ones you guys made, and it look suuuper yummy.

Barrel: There's no way we can wait until Halloween to eat 'em.

Lock/Shock/Barrel: [chomp, chomp] … See, it's sooo good.

Riddle: Wha… How dare you add to your crimes by eating the candy mid-testimony! Absolutely barbaric!

Jamil: They keep doing whatever they want, as if they're not to blame for any of the problems we faced in town earlier… Honestly, I can't help but be a little impressed.

Riddle: If we just leave them be, they may cause another problem sooner or later, so if I'd rather it be off with their heads…

Lock: Huh? Off with whose head?

Barrel: Probably Jack's. 'Cause he can take off his head, can't he?

Shock: Sounds awesome! I thought this guy was just a nagging bore, but he can say some fun stuff, too!

Lock/Shock/Barrel: Let's go! Let's go right now! Let's go take off Jack's head!

Riddle: Silence!! You three misunderstand me. When I say "off with their head," I am not speaking literally.

Lock: Eh, really?

Shock: Boooring, I thought it was gonna be something fun.

Riddle: Sigh… I feel a headache coming along just being around you three.

Jamil: Not only do they not show any signs of remorse, they immediately leap at the chance to start something new… They are completely out of our control.

Riddle: However, if we were to leave these children to their own devices, they may interfere with the Halloween preparations again.

Riddle: If that's the case… Jamil, the two of us should keep an eye on these three.

Riddle: And as the Housewarden of Heartslabyul, I shall ingrain into the children proper discipline!

Jamil: It's fine and dandy that you're raring to go, but you didn't need to drag me into this without asking…

Riddle: Did you say something just now, Jamil?

Jamil: …No, nothing at all.

Riddle: Well, then… Ahem! See here, you three. Listen to me well.

Riddle: From here on out, you will not run around as you please, but will accompany us. Understand?

Lock: Ehhhh! Why'd we have to be with you guys?

Riddle: That is because you all keep breaking the rules.

Riddle: In essence, this is the result of all your mischief. …Now, how do you respond?

Shock: I don't really get it, but whatever! We were bored, anyway, so we can stick with you for a tiiiny bit.

Riddle: Good! Then first, return all the candy you stole back onto the table. As soon as that's done, we'll go survey how the rest of the town is doing.

[Halloween Town – Gate]

Riddle: The first stop is the gate to confirm the state of their decorations… And already it seems that we've found the bats they have decorating it with are crooked.

Riddle: As of this moment, they are at about 160° from the ground. However, they should be kept at 180° parallel to the ground.

Jamil: You really have an eye for the smallest detail. I don't know if I should say it's too much, or what…

Riddle: I will not permit any carelessness that could ruin the perfect Halloween. Besides, adjusting the angle is easily fixed with a quick spell…

Lock: Huh? You want to fix the crooked decorations on the gate?

Shock: Then we can fix it for you… With this ball!

Shock: Hyah!

[throws ball]

Riddle: Ack!? That almost hit me! Why would you ever think to fix something like that by hitting it with a ball!?

Barrel: 'Cause we can't reach the decorations ourselves.

Jamil: Then, you should use a stool or a ladder…

Lock: We thought it'd be faster if we used a ball.

Riddle: Hmm… It seems it will be more difficult than I thought to teach these kids proper discipline.

Riddle: Listen up, you three. You shouldn't throw a ball towards where other people are.

Lock/Shock/Barrel: WHY???

Riddle: Because if it hits someone, it could injure them. It's dangerous.

Shock: But balls are for throwing, though?

Riddle: ...I see, so that's the hang up. If that's the case, we may need to begin with re-learning the definition of a ball.

Riddle: I shall start your lesson with what a ball is, and it's origins. There are many theories as to where it was originated, but at first…

Jamil: YOU'RE STARTING THE LESSON FROM THERE!?

Riddle: …And that is why you should not throw balls. Did you understand all that?

Lock/Shock/Barrel: Yup, totally!

Jamil: Liars, none of you were listening at all!

Riddle: Whether they understood the lesson or not will be apparent with how they conduct themselves from now on.

Riddle: We've finished with confirming the decoration progress. Next, we'll look in on the music…

[scamper, scamper]

Jamil: Big problem, Riddle! Those three are already gone!

Riddle: What!? We only took our eyes off of them for a second… We need to hurry and find them!

Shock: MOVE OUTTA THE WAY! YOU'RE STANDIN' IN THE WAY!!

Jamil: Hm? I hear their voices from behind… WAAH!!

[thud]

Riddle: A bathtub with legs just crashed into Jamil!? Are you alright, Jamil? Any injuries?

Jamil: …I'm fine, it's nothing.

Lock: Seeee, this all happened 'cause you're just standing there all spaced out.

Barrel: Lame-o～

Jamil: Krgh! It's obviously their fault, but they have the nerve to speak like that.

Riddle: What do you three think you're doing, now!?

Shock: What do you mean, what we're thinkin'? We were tired of walking, so we brought something to make it easier to move around.

Lock/Barrel: Yeah, it's our favorite ride!

Riddle: That may be so, but you should take care not to bump into anyone.

Shock: That's why we shouted to move out the way.

Lock: Or are you sayin' Jamil owns this road?

Barrel: You sayin' we're not allowed to use this road or somethin'?

Riddle: Well, no…

Lock/Shock/Barrel: THEN EVERYTHING'S FINE!!

Riddle: EVERYTHING IS NOT FINE!!!

Jamil: Those three don't feel any remorse at all, huh… They're so blatant that it's actually refreshing to deal with.

Riddle: Similar to the ball incident earlier, any actions that may bring harm to anyone else is absolutely against the rules!

Riddle: Furthermore, a bathtub is not something to ride in and use as a mode of transportation.

Shock: Eh, but a bathtub is totally something to ride in.

Lock/Barrel: Yeah, it's our ride!

Riddle: …What? How exactly are bathtubs utilized in this town?

Shock: So, you see, basically…

Riddle: Mhm… Mhm… I see.

Riddle: Which all goes to say that this town approves of bathtubs as transportation?

Shock: Right-o, Riddle. If it wasn't, we totally wouldn't ride in it.

Riddle: I see… My apologies, I was in the wrong on my understanding of bathtubs here. I take it back, you may ride it!!

Jamil: THEY CAN!?!?

Lock/Shock/Barrel: YAY!!!

Lock: Seee, you totally get it.

Riddle: However, you are to ride it with care so as to not injure others. And you are to apologize to Jamil.

Lock/Shock/Barrel: 'Kaaaay. Soooorry, Jamil.

Riddle: Good apology, you three.

Lock: Right, right? We did good!

Jamil: He's just letting them off with that half-done apology…? They don't look like they're sorry at all!!

Shock: Riddle! I totally thought you were just gonna yap at us non-stop, but you're actually a good guy who totally gets us.

Shock: We like you! Join our crew and play with us!

Barrel: Here, we'll even let you in our bathtub, our treat.

Riddle: Eh? No, I'll pass on―

Shock: Let's go, you two! Push Riddle into the bathtub!

Lock/Shock/Barrel: HEAAAAAVE… HO!!!

Riddle: Waaah!!!

Lock/Shock/Barrel: Nyahahahehehe! He's in, he's in! Riddle's riding in the bathtub!

Jamil: Hey, Riddle! You alright!?

Riddle: …Yes, although that shocked me slightly, I am fine.

Riddle: Actually, this bathtub isn't that uncomfortable, either.

Shock: Well, yeah, this bathtub's our pride and joy!

Riddle: I see… From my brief time with you three, I see that you have your own rules you abide by.

Riddle: I suppose I was a little too strict on you. For me to teach you all discipline, I would first need to know more about this town.

Requested by @farfalla049.

#twisted wonderland #twst #riddle rosehearts #jamil viper #lock shock and barrel #twst riddle #twst jamil #twst translation #twst halloween #twst lost in the book with nightmare before christmas #mention: jack skellington

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haleswallows · 1 day ago

Text

coming at you live, with a news series.... Promises, Promises

Part 1: Cross My Heart (Hope to Die) Fandom: DC x DP Crossover Pairing: Dead Tired (Danny Fenton/Tim Drake) Rating: Teen

Teaser:

"Are you really doing the 'FBI, this is our case now' shtick? What are you, a cop?"

Phantom makes a retching sound. "Sorry, reflex. Any sort of implication I'm government adjacent, can't help it."

"You know being Justice League makes you government adjacent," Red Robin helpfully points out. He weighs a net-launcher in his hand. "If not affiliated with the UN, the League works with the organization often to be called an ally."

"Not me," Phantom says with cheer, pushing a narrow cylinder towards him. "That's essentially a light saber, by the way. Nah, they keep me pretty far from the UN shit. I'm not built for it. I'm there to hit things real hard and share tech."

A light saber? Hell yeah. Tim grabs it and wonders if he can keep it.

"Can I keep it?" he blurts out, because why not?

Shrugging, Phantom says, "Sure, I have like five more. This one is green, but I think I can change the color. Red would match your like —," he waves expansively at Red Robin, "Vibes and aesthetic. Very cool branding, by the way. The cape is dope."

Huh. Tim didn't expect the compliment. He chooses to ignore it, mostly because he just doesn't know what to say in response. 'Thanks, I like your cyber-gothic vibes too'?

"Green's fine, I always wanted to be a Jedi." A red light saber would infinitely more on brand, but Tim would never consider being a Sith. Wait, absolutes. Shit.

It fits perfectly next to his bo staff on his bandoleer. Which, sick and feels like a divine happenstance, as if Red Robin was meant to have the energy blade. He helps Phantom reload the bag, though the ghost keeps the thermos out before pushing the entire duffle back inside his chest.

God, that's even weirder up close. Tim examines Phantom's torso, mind spinning through possibilities on how it works.

"Alright," Phantom's voice breaks his concentration, Red Robin snapping to attention. A truly feral grin spreads across Phantom's face as he lifts into the air, hair swirling and catching the last dredges of sunlight. "Let's go ghost hunting."

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

They're wrapping up in one of Tim's more 'civilian' passing safe-houses. Mostly because it was the closest, and Phantom said something about 'ley lines' and 'easier to open a portal'. Cool, whatever. Tim wanted to burn this safe-house soon anyway.

Tim, as always, gets himself into trouble. Chronic Thinking Too Much Disease, they really ought to make a cure for it. He reflects, paused in the middle of writing the report and watching Phantom eat Cheerios right out of the box. Phantom perches on the counter, looking like he belongs there, shoveling cereal into his mouth with the relic sitting innocently at his hip.

When the fuck did Tim get Cheerios?

There's no denying it. Tim likes working with Phantom. The guy is good in a fight, doesn't rely on his powers too much, and kept up with Tim. Not just physically, but intellectually. And he's shockingly earnest when he isn't being a trash-talking little shit.

So. Tim gets an idea.

"Hey," he says before he's even thoroughly thought it out, "we should date."

Phantom pauses, gloved hand suspended in the middle of shoving another handful of cereal into his mouth, wide eyed and gaping. Attractive.

"Huh?" he says eloquently.

"Not for real," Tim scrambles to explain. "I mean fake dating. Just hang around some, be a bit performative, nothing out of masks. We can say we're taking things slow and break up amicably. Nightwing keeps trying to set me up with a date. This will get him off my case."

"Oooooh." Phantom resumes inhaling cereal. Why a ghost needs to eat, Tim would like to know, but it's probably rude to ask. Slowly chewing, Phantom seriously thinks it over. "You know, the council has been bugging me, too. About dating. This could work out for both of us."

Council? Tim would like to know why a council is interested in Phantom dating. So he asks.

Phantom sighs explosively. Finally, he sets the Cheerios down. "OK, so like, this is need to know basis only. I haven't even disclosed it to the League. And like, Nightwing only knows because he's my friend and the Observants crashed one of our missions and outed me. Hard to lie about why a floating eyeball showed up to demand I actually show up to the next council meeting, instead of blowing them all off again to play heroes with my living friend."

Pulling a face, Phantom waves an arm in an arc over his head. A crown appears, spinning and shooting off beams of light like an Aurora Borealis.

Tim doesn't gape, because Red Robin doesn't gape. But, you know, that's unexpected.

"I'm the Ghost King. It's a whole thing, no I am not taking questions on it at this time. Well, technically, I'm the Prince of the Infinite Realms because I'm too young to take the throne. So, there's a council and a regent. Whatever, not important!"

Phantom claps, getting himself back on track. "What that means is there's a council and Observants that are really interested in my personal shit. Including who I date. But like, I'm enjoying my brat girl summer and being single right now, not that they care."

Tim blinks. Then blinks again, slotting the new information in place alongside everything he knows about Phantom. That's... something.

"That sounds annoying," Tim says, instead of one of the approximately 23 questions in his head that are quickly spawning more by the second. "Fake dating would solve both of our problems."

Because Tim is a professional, they make a contract.

Phantom watches with great interest as Tim bustles around the apartment, setting up shop at the kitchen table. He doesn't think he's ever actually sat at this table. Mostly, he's used this apartment to sleep, a crash-out spot that has a nicer bed and isn't as sparse as the other Bat-affiliated safe houses.

As soon as Tim sits, stretching out his wrists, Phantom kicks off from the counter to hover around Tim's shoulders. The box of Cheerios balances precariously on the ghost's stomach. Tim eyes it briefly. Then sets to it.

"So, uh," Phantom starts, arms folded behind his head. "How casual is 'casual'?" Under the weight of Tim's judging eyebrows, Phantom defends himself. "I'm just asking! Like, how far are we both willing to go to sell it? Are we exclusive? Facebook official?"

"Facebook official," Tim echoes, typing. "Christ, is anyone Facebook official? Do ghosts have Facebook?"

"I don't know, I could get one. If, like, you think it'd help." Absurd, this entire thing is absurd. But they're here and committed to the bit. Or committing to the bit. There's 'selling it', and then there's…. whatever Phantom is saying. Facebook, what year is it?

"Red Robin doesn't have a Facebook, and I refuse to make one." Tim barely manages to keep from sounding snide.

"I won't mog on you referring to yourself in the person, even though I'm really tempted." How gracious. "Alright, so just. Seeing each other, feeling it out, not seeing other people."

#dc x dp crossover #dc x dp fic #dc x dp #dead tired #Danny Fenton/Tim Drake #Pretend/Fake Relationship #Promises Promises #my writing #aaaand another hand panting from me

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magicalrocketships · 2 days ago

Note

You talked in the author's note about having more thoughts on Max's sexuality in Breaking every rule for you. I'd love to hear more about that, if you want to? 🤍

Oh, thank you for asking!! I did a whole disassociation thing after I posted the last chapter and I was like "it's very important to reply to comments and asks about this fic which meant a lot to me to write and to receive" and then I simultaneously thought orrrrr, alternatively, you can keep putting that off because you won't be able to properly tell people how much all the comments and asks meant. Anyway, that's a perfectly sensible series of thoughts to have, which brings me to this ask.

So, Max in Breaking Every Rule For You. This is half brain-dump, half director's cut of Max's POV. Either way, I accidentally wrote 3000 words about my beloved, feral Max. Sorry? Not sorry. I'll always want to talk about him 🧡🧡

He has literally no conception of this (and neither does Daniel), but he's very much on the asexual spectrum. He's demisexual, which is a word he's never heard and wouldn't know to use even if he had.

He continues to tell the truth about his experience of life, but Daniel doesn't know enough to understand what Max is accidentally telling him, and Max doesn't know that his experience isn't universal. So! This fic is basically Max experiencing sexual attraction for the first time.

OBVIOUSLY this does not excuse Max behaving monstrously to Zoe and being hopelessly cruel to Daniel. He is, however, experiencing a lot of stuff for the first time and he didn't know! That he could feel like this! He is horny about someone else for the first time in his life! He'd be feral anyway, and he and Daniel stay completely feral after the fic's done and long into the future, feral and horny and all over each other, but there's this whole extra layer to it that's just Max being like... you can feel like this about another person? You can want someone THIS MUCH? You can want to fuck and come and kiss and touch another human being? Everybody in the world isn't lying about wanting it?

So on the one hand you've got Daniel's much more linear experience of oh, fuck, I've been bisexual all along, and the person who's opened my eyes about it is Max, what does this mean for my life and am I allowed to have something with Max for the longer term? In contrast to Max being so fucking thirsty to experience all of these things he's wanting for the first time, and barely understanding what it is he's wanting and the impact on the lives of the people around him who love him. He's so fucking needy and he barely understands the reasoning behind that, but that's partly why he keeps bringing Daniel back and reminding him of everything he's promised, everything Max is dying to experience but hasn't yet.

Even like, right back at the beginning when Max wants pictures of Daniel, it's because he's literally never felt attraction to another person. He's never looked at someone's body and wanted to touch it (or, in Max's case, to come all over him over and and over again and make him fucking filthy and his and have him show Max how he touches himself and how he looks soft and hard and horny and everything in between).

And all the things he wants to do to Daniel, he's never done to anyone else because he was horny about it. Everything he's done is because he thought he should, because he thought everyone was faking it when they said they were horny for touching other people. He can't slow himself down. He wants all of it. And then he'll do things like just warm Daniel's dick because he didn't know it felt good, and it feels so good.

On the other hand, Max has a fixed conception of love and relationships and they are work. They are a job. He has had girlfriends because he was supposed to have girlfriends and he's literally not figured out he's gay because he's not been close to a man long enough for attraction to develop, and with Max it takes a lonnnnng time, he's known Daniel for years and it's only been in the past few months it's started to change how he feels about him, ever since Daniel said he was going to leave and Max realised he not only wanted him to stay, he wanted him. And he doesn't want what he has with Daniel (something good) to crossover into relationship (something bad, something that's work, something that's always been a to-do list item) because then it will be bad. Max is getting every single thing he wants for the very first time in his life, of course he wants to keep things exactly how they are and ringfence this space in his life where Daniel is and he's getting everything he wants. The downside is that it's horribly cruel, but he doesn't entirely understand that, because he doesn't entirely understand either how he feels or how Daniel feels, and because he thinks that what he experiences is the universal, which is that relationships and love are bad and work.

I kind of love that Max at the beginning isn't a great kisser - Max kisses like he jerks off, fierce and unimaginative. A race to the finish line. One day Daniel will make him slow it down. And part of that is literally because he's never enjoyed it before. He's never kissed anyone he wanted to have kiss him back.

But also, Max loves to jerk off. He loves to jerk off. Masturbation is the one thing he's always loved to do, because he's never been low on sexual desire, just attraction. He's jerked off thinking about Daniel before, too. Even before being really attracted to him. It's sort of why he wants Daniel in his bed, not because it's where he shares with Zoe when she's in Monaco, but because it's where Max jerks off, which is the one hugely positive sexual thing he's ever had in his life. Yeah, there's also some kind of "having a girlfriend is boring and work and I'm beating the system by having a better time in the space where that boring work happens" but Max isn't pre-meditiatively cruel in this. His cruelty is a by-product.

Also: Max doesn't know that things can be better than what he has.

He's barely managed to get his shirt off before Max is launching himself at him, making some Max-like attempt at human touch by cupping Daniel's face in his hands and pressing their mouths together. It's not romantic. It's not anything, other than fast, and maybe a little furious.

"You talked about kissing me," Max says, pulling away just enough that Daniel can feel the heat of his breath against his mouth. He's still cupping Daniel's face, and Daniel wants to cover Max's hands with his own and keep him there, make him stay still, make time slow down for them just this fucking once. "You said you thought about it. Kissing me. I've never kissed anyone like that, Daniel. I want it."

Max is telling Daniel the truth but Daniel doesn't pick up on it. Max hasn't ever kissed anyone like this before. And he wants it.

Daniel spends a lot of time thinking about Zoe. Max doesn't think about her at all. He buys Daniel gifts because he's wild about him, because he needs to, like, put some of what he's feeling out into the world but he just— doesn't know how to do it. He's overflowing with it.

"Think all the time about kissing you," Max tells him, still kneeling over him, leaning in so that he can mouth at Daniel's neck, kiss him so that Daniel will have a fucking love bite he'll have to cover with concealer if he wants to leave the house. Daniel doesn't stop him. Max can mark him up any way he wants. Daniel will take any scrap he can get. People shouldn't live off scraps, but Daniel will take anything Max throws at him. He'll judge himself later. "You have a good mouth, Daniel, I think about it so much." He kisses Daniel's jaw, along the line of it, over his stubble and up to his ear. It is not foreplay. It is just Max, taking what he wants. Daniel giving it because he wants the whole fucking lot of it and to drown in it afterwards. Better drown than starve. Max kisses his cheek, the corner of his mouth. Once, twice. The side of his nose. Is this Max, trying to be gentle with him? Trying to give something he normally only takes?

And then Daniel changes things, he tries to break up with Max and Max goes insane with it. For Max, Daniel really is ruining things. He is being a stupid motherfucker. This really is just sex because Max doesn't know how to understand what he's feeling. And he doesn't want to feel! Feeling is bad. He keeps trying to make the feelings stop. Of course Max just keeps trying to take things back to the space where things were working, because he wants it so much. Of course he's jealous, because he's fucking feral and a mess and he has no idea how to feel things like a real boy, because he never fucking has, and how he feels about Daniel is really fucking easy if only he knew how to identify or name any of the feelings he's feeling.

So yeah: Max is heartbroken for the first time in his life, but he also just doesn't understand it. His chest hurts. He wants Daniel back in the space where it was all working. Daniel isn't the stupid motherfucker, Max is, for not managing to keep it so that Daniel would still kiss him and want him and touch him and text him, and Max is for not being able to stop himself from feeling stuff he doesn't understand. And then Zoe goes, and he doesn't feel anything. Not really. The only thing he's thinking about is Daniel. And then you get Max's entirely pragmatic, ruthless side, whereby he just makes sure Daniel is safe. He pays whatever he needs to pay to make sure Zoe is satisfied. He tells her the truth about not feeling about her the way he feels about Daniel. He doesn't mean to be cruel. It's a by-product again. It still is hopelessly cruel. He still only wants Daniel. He's the stupid motherfucker, not Daniel.

And all the time, Max thinking he can get Daniel back to what they had before if only he keep trying. He knows Daniel wants him back. And he thinks he's getting it. He thinks he's getting Daniel back. It's want like he's never wanted. He thinks he's managed it, and then Daniel just— shuts him down. And Max just… breaks. It takes him by surprise as much as it takes Daniel when he sees Max crying, like he's crying and he didn't mean to start but he also can't stop. He loves him. That's what this is.

"You are not listening," Max says, wiping his tears on his shoulder. "All of this time I am trying and I am trying not to want you and not to feel things but it did not work and I do and I did and I feel it in here and it won't stop." He presses the side of his fist to his chest, like Max is referring to his own fucking heart, which he can't be, because Max is Max, and Max doesn't feel anything, and he doesn't fucking feel anything for Daniel. "It is not fair that you won't listen. Always I am asking how do I make it stop, because you are just supposed to be sex, you are dick and that is for the dark and instead you are always just here, in my head and you have made me go mad thinking about you. Everything I do is very insane and it is all about you and my girlfriend left me and I do not care because she is not you and you tell me that you miss me too but now you are saying no when I want you more than I want anything and it is not okay."

It's the first time in his life he's ever been in love, and he's trying to make sense of it because he couldn't stop loving Daniel if he tried, but here's Daniel telling him he doesn't, and that he's stopped, and that is just— so far outside of Max's understanding. It's not fair and it's not okay and he doesn't know how Daniel could stop loving him if love is what he feels back for Daniel.

And then he stays. He tells Daniel that no one kisses him like Daniel does. He says: "Nobody touches me like you do," Max says, which is probably a lie since Zoe loved him and wanted him and probably would have touched Max any way he wanted if he'd only told her. "Nobody, Daniel, nobody makes me feel like you do."

Daniel makes a soft, unholy noise in the back of his throat.

"It's true," Max says, urgently. "It is true."

Daniel doesn't realise how true. That no one has ever made Max feel or want like this. That this is the first time he's ever been attracted to someone.

And for Max it's so clearly worlds apart from him and Zoe. They're not comparable.

"She was my girlfriend," Max says. "But I didn't love her like I love you."

For a moment, Daniel's brain judders to a halt. It's felt like he's been on a constant spin cycle since last night, but for a moment, everything's still. "Yeah?"

"With you it is very different," Max says. "Everything is very different."

He keeps stroking the inside of Daniel's wrist. Daniel can't think of anything to say. He just watches Max touch him.

"Of course I kissed her, Daniel. She was my girlfriend. I did all the things you're supposed to do with your girlfriend. You cannot be tearing yourself up into knots about her when she is gone and you are here."

And

"I thought about your dick a lot. I thought I would like to see it. I jerked off and used my fingers and thought about you jerking off. I thought if I was going to suck a dick then it would be nice if it was yours."

"You had a girlfriend."

"Yes. I had everything I was supposed to want. Red Bull and Zoe and one day I will have my World Championship. But not you because you are a stupid motherfucker and you left me."

And Max loves jerking off. It's his favourite thing.

But like, Max finally gets what he didn't know he wanted, which is more than just having sex at regular and irregular intervals, he gets a boyfriend, someone he can actually love and want to be with and it's all turning his conception of relationships and love upside down and he has to re-evaluate how that fits into his life, because relationships have been a boring part of work before, and now they're not, so he just has to… figure that shit out.

This conversation where Daniel asks Max if he's gay:

"Max," he says softly, after a minute. "Max, do you like girls?"

Max shifts on the pillow. He rolls his eyes. "Of course I do, Daniel, do not ask stupid questions. They are 50% of the population."

"I'm not—" Daniel searches Max's face. He wants to find something there that Max isn't showing him, some measure of understanding, of common ground beyond the fact that they're fucking and in love. "Do you like dating them?"

"I am dating you," Max says, as if he's talking to someone who barely understands English.

"Yes, but. Before. Did you like having sex with girls?"

"Zoe was my girlfriend. Of course I liked having sex with her."

This isn't Max just obfuscating. He hasn't defined himself as gay. He is, but he didn't necessarily— need to know it or define himself as such? It just wasn't important to him. He didn't really want to have sex with anyone so not wanting to have sex with girls less than him not wanting to have sex with guys he wasn't attracted to didn't matter so much? And now there's Daniel so it's even less of an issue because it turns out he can ferally cheat on Zoe for months and still not intend to ever be with anyone who isn't Daniel.

Honestly it's more of a journey than Daniel will ever know to get Max to this:

"I will do better," Max says, when there's nothing else coming, and Daniel's about to step out into the road. "I will learn, Daniel. To be a good boyfriend."

It's not something he ever even considered before, and now not only does he want to, he's going to work on it too.

Max smiles at him. He still fingers Daniel, because Max likes to multi-task and do it efficiently, but he lets his gaze rest on Daniel's. He looks happy. He looks so, so happy. "It has never been like this," he says, and Daniel doesn't say because you've been having sex with girls and you don't like them. He'll believe it's just about him. That Max feels like this about him and him alone.

Max telling the ultimate truth - it never has been like this, not a single element of it. Not kissing, not sex, not loving somebody else. Daniel doesn't entirely hear it, but then why would he? Even Max doesn't realise how much of a truth it is.

"I always thought people were lying about kissing," Max says, without moving or looking at him or anything. "It was so boring. Everyone had to be lying. Nobody could like it unless they liked boring things."

What the fuck.

"So boring," Max says. He still doesn't move or look at him "Sex was boring too. I didn't know why anybody went out of their way when they could just jerk off. Masturbating was so much better than sex, Daniel."

Christ. Daniel's fingers twitch in Max's. "Did you ever think that was because you didn't like girls? And you kept having sex with them?"

"Eh," Max says, and shrugs. "I kissed boys too. Two of them. It was still boring."

Daniel's never thought sex was boring. He's liked it pretty much every time he's had it. He's been kissing girls since he was 14 and could make them laugh enough to kiss him over bags of crisps after school. He thinks about the two boys Max has kissed. What he did with them. When it was. Who it was. If he really thought it was awful. "Do you still think it's boring?"

Max shifts at that, twisting so he can look up at Daniel with the most insulted, don't be fucking stupid look on his face. "I have just licked my come out of your ass, Daniel. I want to have sex with you all the time. All of the things I jerked off thinking about doing I want to do with you. I want to kiss you forever."

Anyway. TL;DR, Max is demisexual and is new to sexual attraction and wouldn't be able to label himself as that if somebody paid him.

#breaking every rule for you #director's cut #kind of??#waffling on about fic #anyway!!!! I will talk about this forever

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crooked-wasteland · 1 day ago

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I'm not going to post the whole thing because it just trails off into irrelevance and I'm not here to platform strawman arguments, so here's the relevant part:

This is what we call perspective taking. Because if you notice, no one is talking about Limbus but rather clowning on how the fans are clutching their pearls over the fact that Alex Brightman signed a piece of paper and it hurt Medrano's feelings, so this somehow must be some nefarious action and Brightman, a grown man, is now a victim of some kind. It's hilarious.

That isn't to say I don't have opinions on Limbus. Bringing a printout of their video thumbnail and having that in specific get signed with the text "I made this" being, frankly, weird. That's weird. That's really weird.

But everyone in this scenario is equally weird. Fans are weird for infantilizing a grown man. Limbus is weird for their actions. And Medrano is weird for thinking she's friends with her employees.

Alex Brightman is a grown, adult man who has many years of experience with handling fans and requests that make him uncomfortable. He has always been reasonably vocal about things not sitting right with him for whatever reason, including something as banal as "This could be used against my character potentially". He has always been generally selective and conscientious of the repercussions of such things.

I don't like how it appears Limbus used this in some way to try and co-opt Brightman's allegiances. Whether that was not the intention, or maybe it was. It seems weird to post that so publicly as well. Implying that, yes, Limbus did do this as a way of manipulating a storyline.

At the same time, people saying Brightman was coerced into signing it is hilarious and the narrative around Medrano and her employees being "friends" is frankly demented. You cannot be friends with your boss, truly, until money is not a factor in the relationship. The fact that Medrano is friends with all her important employees, and yet whenever someone stopped being her employee she also was no longer friends with them is something that is going to come up.

If all your friendships are tied to who you are paying, you don't have friends. In some ways I feel bad for her in how she obviously thinks she can pay people to be her friend. And in a way this shows her that calling anyone who you are paying a "friend" is not mentally good for really anyone. She'll find out who her real friends are when she no longer signs their paychecks.

But you should maybe slow down and really look at what's being said by people. No one here has actually said that Alex Brightman agrees with Limbus. All we said was that if such an action made him uncomfortable, he has shown previously that he is willing to speak up about that and even refuse.

The overall consensus is the reality that this man does not give any care to whatever dumpster fire the fandom is currently fanning. He's doing his job. It's not personal.

#vivziepop critical #helluva boss critical #helluva boss criticism #hazbin hotel critical #vivziepop criticism #I'm not going to play flase equivalencies #but more reading comprehension would be appreciated

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aggieharkness · 3 days ago

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I haven't slept yet today so sorry about the time and if my datalogy is wrong. I have to say that today I read your story about Lilia with the reader who was overloading herself and this showed me how I have this self-destructive behavior more present in me than I would like or what would be healthy to be honest, and because I don't have or let anything stop me as I continue to tire myself physically and psychologically, I end up in this loop of knowing that I should slow down and not being able to slow down without feeling guilty. I feel like every day I'm trying to fill a glass of water that's overflowing, and because I think it's all because I can't be good enough, I try to fill the glass even more. Honestly, I don't know what came over me to want to share this with you, I even apologize for that, but I think it came because deep down I think I might end up reaching the same level as the reader, and for the first time I worried about this habit that I have. Above all I must say that I really liked the story, really a lot and know that I can't wait to get to the next ones, and thank you for real.

First off all, as soon as you read this or even before you do so, go to sleep. Lilia says it and I'm saying it, you need rest dear. Second of all, don't apologise for needing to vent, everyone needs to say the things that they keep deep in their chests and I'm honoured to have read your words. I understand you perfectly, I know how it feels to not be able to stop due to guilt, to push through when you are about to collapse but know that stopping, sitting down and simply breathing won't make the world fall apart. It will keep on spinning, yes, but you can make life wait for a moment, as much time as you need. This society has taught us to never stop working or studying and that is just wrong. Dear, leave the glass on the counter and let it rot, you need to rest so that you can give it your best the next day and if people don't let you, walk away. It's hard, I know, but like Lilia said you need to say no and take a step back. I'm also really glad that you liked the story and I hope that it's brought you so level of comfort and grounding and if you ever need to talk, know that even though I don't know you, I'm here, Lilia’s here, always.

Now go to sleep or I'll find your address and tuck you in myself! 😉😊

#lilia calderu #lilia x reader #patti lupone #patti lupone x reader #avis amberg #avis amberg x reader #agatha all along

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likeorpheus · 4 hours ago

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The prospect of Francis not being proactive was also difficult for them in a time like this. And so when Cee states the strange thing, the purposeful thing, about not "making something" right now strikes a chord with them. When things were horrible for them, they tried to be active even if it was privately. But things were horrible for everyone. And they had a prominent feeling that with Claire's grief right now (and her impulsive actions), that Cee not being a steady shoulder would make things collapse further. It made sense.

That's all they ever thought about with Abra. Could they really care about themselves right now? When she barely slept? When she got ill? When she was forced to contend with her outside forces?

Francis freezes momentarily, the joint halfway to their lips, at the mention of Gio. Their shoulders stiffen before they recover, drawing a slow drag as if the smoke could buy them time. It doesn’t. They peer at Alo who probably knew the gist already.

Setting the joint gently in the ashtray, they lean forward, forearms braced against the edge of the table. Their face betrays the stress of the situation, though their fingers tap a quiet rhythm on the woodgrain.

“Yeah,” they answer, voice low but steady. “I’ve been… checking in.” Their gaze flickers away, landing on the mismatched furniture around the room, before snapping back to Cee. “That place in the Garden District is quiet most of the time, but Simone mentioned that the old woman she’s been house-sitting for is due back from her pilgrimage soon.”

The words sit heavy between them. Francis shifts in their chair, their discomfort showing in the way their jaw tightens.

“That means she’ll have to find somewhere else.” Their voice dips, an edge of frustration bleeding through despite their best efforts to keep it neutral. “I’ve been keeping an eye on her, stopping by whenever I can. But…” They trail off, their lips pressing into a thin line.

The image of Gio alone in that creaking old house rises unbidden in their mind, her quiet despair etched into every corner. The nights she’d wake up drenched in sweat, breath hitching, haunted by whatever horrors played out behind her closed eyes—it wasn’t something Francis could forget. Not that they’d ever admit how much it gnawed at them.

“She’s not sleeping,” they say finally, their tone softening. “And when she does, it’s bad dreams. Every time.” They shake their head, looking down at their hands. “I don’t know what she’ll do when she has to leave. Hell, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

The admission hangs in the air, raw and unguarded in a way Francis rarely allowed themselves to be. They reach for the joint again, inhaling deeply before exhaling slowly, watching the smoke curl upward. Alo had coughed hysterically. They take that as a good sign but before passing the joint back to him, Francis offers it to Cee.

“Maybe…” They hesitate, the weight of their next words pressing down on them like a stone. “Maybe she doesn’t have to leave. I’ve been thinking about—about offering her a place. With me.” Their voice is quieter now, almost drowned out by the faint clatter of Cee’s movements at the stove. “She shouldn’t have to do all this alone. None of us should.”

They glance at Alo, who’s still rubbing at his face, and then back to Cee. “I don’t know if she’d go for it. But I think I have to ask.”

The sound of the shower shutting off punctuates the moment, and Francis’s head turns sharply toward the hallway, tension rippling through their posture. They force themselves to relax, taking another drag as if it might help before giving up the joint completely.

They had all come to grow used to living in a certain way. Back at the cabin in Northern California, it was Gio and Vicente who dominated the kitchen during daytime hours — they cooked the three essential meals and then some, always laughing over ground chile and doughy masa. They cooked enough for a small army, Gio and Vicente. Every morning, and every afternoon — and Cee seldom ate with the others, but Vicente always saved her a plate. Even if it made Gio sigh or shake her head in dismissal.

They were all getting used to living in vastly different ways.

So much change — it was enough to make your hands shake, to set your back teeth on edge. It wouldn't have been so unlike her to fumble the ball completely. She kept wondering to herself: Was Claire surprised when she saw that I actually found a place? Did she half-expect me to piss the money she gave me away? Did I expect me to do that? So much change was alarming for a thing like her. Unreliable, unstable and constantly dropping the ball — but here she was, fixing French toast for unprompted guests. Francis and her never got along well. It was her own fault — standoffish as she was, and she never did well playing nice with others. She was a twat, in the not-so-distant past.

And she doesn't expect them to like her. But she won't turn them away for it. What would the reason be behind that? Vicente was dead. And her thoughts are hinged on Claire — standing beneath the spray of shower water, or maybe sitting with her knees drawn to her chest at the foot of the tub. Her mind is crowded, anxious with thoughts of running water — long black hair, her lover's distant gaze. Preoccupied. That would have been an understatement. Maybe because she's thinking about Claire all the while. And her hands are still shaking. And her stomach is growing teeth. And she just keeps making French toast even though Vicente used to cook breakfast.

Cee fishes a couple dishes from the drying rack for Francis, and Alo. It's a set — grey geese delicately drawn along the edges, thorny vine and iris. She listens to Francis with those same vines knotted around her chest.

❛ — I normally wouldn't, either. But —... worries me, thinkin' about not making something right now... ❛ Cee mumbles, melting stick of butter in hand — deft fingers working a butter knife, cutting a square. It sizzles on the pan. She wasn't entirely sure if her words would make sense to Francis. Broad hand grips at the pan's handle, shaking teflon-coated cookware until the melting butter spreads. She works hastily. Twin slices of bread are dipped in egg wash until dripping, splat — on the pan.

Alo's haughty gaze is disturbed by the Highmore's inquisition. He's as quiet as a goddamn pantomine, not looking anywhere but out the window. His boyish face betrays some immediate confusion. But he does take the joint, dumbly. It's drawn to his lips and the short drag makes him cough hard in his chest.

He shakily hands the joint back to Francis, ears burning.

Cee cocks her head at the sound, looking over her shoulder to get a good look at something strange: Alo smoking weed. He doesn't seem the type. What would Kerry say to that, she wonders. She squints, apprehensive for a moment — though she's quick to shrug it off. He was evidently going through some kind of crisis. Two plates are procured, set in front of Alo and Francis — French toast glistening with syrup, melting whipped cream.

❛ A job, though? Maybe. I dunno. It's difficult when you don't feel drawn to any one thing, y'know? ❛ She rubs her hands together anxiously, pale eyes darting toward the joint in Francis's possession. She thinks to ask. But then she thinks she hears the shower turn off and swivels her head at once, listening close.

Alo's rubbing at his flushing face. She hears the sound of the shower, and sighs.

❛ ... Not to mention I haven't really been looking these past few days. ❛ And she wasn't rightly sure when she would start up again. Her eyes flash toward Francis, anxious.

❛ — Have you ... have you heard from Gio, by chance? ❛

#prose.#livingst0ned.#𝖕𝖗𝖎𝖛𝖆𝖙𝖊 𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖘𝖊.

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lunar-wandering · 2 years ago

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alright, i'll do it.

I'll go off the deep end over the argument scene

First and foremost: they're kinda both in the wrong, obviously. But also kinda both in the right?

Macaque, is in the right for being upset that Wukong didn't listen to him, that Wukong drove himself to this point, etc etc. He, even, is not the one to start this argument, and instead approached peacefully, and attempted to leave when he was getting irritated. It was Wukong that pushed him over the edge into blowing up at him.

He even leaves afterwards, which, actually, is technically the right course of action. In a healthy relationship (platonic or romantic) it'd be best to give both parties time to cool off, and then return and discuss the issues calmly to find a solution.

The main problem is; they don't do this. Macaque doesn't come back, and Wukong doesn't cool off.

On the other hand, Wukong is in the right for being mad, mad that Macaque isn't working to free him (cause, from his position, it sure seems like he isn't), and is instead 'wasting time'. Mad that Macaque would dare to say he was dragged into a mess when he isn't the one trapped under a mountain. (On some level, mad at himself, likely, for letting all this happen).

He, of course, doesn't have the choice to leave, so instead he's left.

The core issue here, as is usual with most relationships shown in media; is their lack of communication. Wukong didn't truly listen to Macaque, and Macaque was too upset to understand Wukong's side of the issue.

...And they let this fester.

Of course, this isn't the end of the falling apart between them. No, there's more to this, the show makes this adamantly clear with MK trying to get Macaque to tell him "what happened between them".

Things continued after this, this was just the barest tipping point.

So. Macaque (probably) didn't come back.

We don't know why. We don't know if it was his choice, based on hearing Wukong yell that he "never wants to see your face again", or if it wasn't his choice, if something else happened.

So Wukong is left alone.

It is shown, in Journey to the West, that Wukong is prone to anger.

Quite usually, this is his response to most situations that upset him (followed later by crying), anger and destruction is usually his first response.

Whether viewed under an "autistic Wukong" lense or a "traumatized Wukong" lense, this makes perfect sense.

It's even shown in the show, if you look at the early pieces of flashback art that show bits of the Journey, you can see that Wukong looks pissed in most of them, and that he slowly starts to look happier as the images go on, as, in the story, he worked on this issue, and got better, less angry, less prone to immediately resort to violence.

(Notably, as far as I remember, the tipping point for when he slowly starts becoming less violent literally is the Macaque Chapter. Interesting, huh?)

Wukong, likely, logically knows that there was nothing Macaque could do to free him. Emotionally, though?

He's going to be upset the next time he sees him. And when he's upset, he's prone to anger.

Macaque, on the other hand, is going to see Wukong, with the Journey to the West group, slowly becoming a better person, old parts of him returning, creating someone new. Wukong... changed for these people, he listens to them.

But not for him. Wukong didn't change for him, and he never listened to him.

So. They meet again. We're not sure how. We don't know if that whole thing of Macaque pretending to be Wukong and attacking the JTTW gang is still actually a thing in Monkie Kid. It's possible he might do it out of jealousy, but we're not sure if it happens.

Maybe Macaque came to Wukong for help. Maybe Wukong, still mad about being left behind, refused. (I consider this possible based on the the way the special shows Macaque when MK says that "Monkey King would try to save us if one of us was trapped" + his reaction to MK saying he'd never abandon his friend in s3ep10. It's possible he's regretting not trying harder to free Wukong, but...)

We don't know.

What we do know is, they fought, and Wukong, in the end, successfully killed Macaque.

A Key thing this show hasn't brought up though is... how.

Shadow Play, vaguely, implies that it might've been via his Kaiju Form.

Notably, we are now at the point where Wukong, who, once again notably, has the most memorable Kaiju Form within the story of Journey To The West, is the only one of the three monkeys in this show who hasn't used their Kaiju Form.

We've been told, quite a few times, actually, that Wukong is holding back.

He held back against Nezha. He held back in episode 9, in the fight against Macaque. Even when he was possessed he wasn't using his full power- we're outright told that Wukong was fighting her control the whole time- he couldn't do that while also going at full power.

We've never seen Wukong go all out in the show.

...Why?

Why would the most powerful character, of all time, not use that power to defeat world-ending threats? Why would he choose to not pull out all the stops?

...

("You can't just ignore your power because you're afraid of it.")

Why else, would he not be using his full power, if it wasn't what killed his best friend?

#Monkie Kid #LMK S4 Special Spoilers #LMK S4 English Special Spoilers #LMK Spoilers #Monkie Kid Spoilers #(holds up sword) if i see ANYONE. bashing EITHER of them on this post. you're getting a one way ticket to stab zone.#they're both flawed characters and they're both WORKING ON IT. don't judge them on their past actions #judge them on how they are NOW. they're both reconciling #they're SLOWLY reconciling.#that's GOOD. that's what they SHOULD be doing. taking things slow.#they definitely need to have a full heart to heart talk when they're ready #but what they have rn in canon is definitely a good starting point

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crossbackpoke-check · 3 months ago

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youtube

yOu'Re gOiNg fOr a LiTeR? | "Habs react to Quebec Maple facts", 10.22.24

#guys this is not becoming a regular thing this is just the mental illinois breaking through but ALSO I SAW THIS AND SCREAMEDDDDD #they did this For Me. those are all my guys. like yes yes we know about xhekovský but that’s my adopted austrian son david reinbacher!!!#that’s my baby goalie carey price time travel cowboy son cayden primeau!!!! and i just LOVE that they were like #‘yeah so one of them is gonna be a bitch in both pairs. & yeah we’re gonna make them lose.’ & i am HERE for it. you know the media day vid #where they asked all of them who was brat on the team and like 75% said slaf which we all KNEW? yes. correct. even more evidence godddd #also empathize so much with him because i hate feeling stupid & he is notably like. a very smart guy w/good awareness of broader society #and sorry to get like this on a silly little post i’m about to fanfiction-ify before i have xhekovský hours but so much of this goes back #to the xenophobia in the nhl and how we treat players (not only that. people in north am/west tbh) whose first language is not english #and degrade/discredit them and their intelligence by virtue of their multilingualism and how we even think about multilingualism as a whole #e.g. the sense that certain languages are perceived as more ‘valuable’ capital/the support that SHOULD be there for language learning simpl #is not from what i can tell in the nhl so even if you wanted to foster an environment of intercultural competency they’re doing nothing to #support it. the stories!! of so many guys! reliant solely upon their teammates for basic necessities! WHERE is your language acquisition #programming. sorry the linguistics language and culture attempted to jump out there & i am not conveying what i want to say at ALL. anyway #juraj's slow descent into madness as u can SEE him visibly getting more & more over it & done is my roman empire. like he's having fun #at first he's laughing 'what is this whiskey?' & i AM thinking that toothy little grin at arber with the jerkoff hand motion about the mapl #syrup only taking a few minutes to come (out) was a dig. lord knows arber deserved it with his shorts pulled all the way up like GOD the me #you put here to wear slutty little 3" shorts live in cold CANADA and have to cover up their thigh tattoos. what a travesty. and the amount #of THIGH in this video i- biting. arber's hairy legs slaf's manspreading more as he gets frustrated & arber teases him i. and DAVID????#on a completely different note cayden with his face covered is giving me INTENSE brainworms i have the most unhinged storylines for him #AND THE BRYNDZOVE HALUSKYYYY everything past 2:00 is gold. david's tired sighs. slaf hating it here. arber having the time of his life #'taste' 'that's not an advantage' DAVID kill him. 'maple syrup specialist... normal guy 🤷' slaf you are the WORST loser and ily for it #arber defending his wife w/his life... juraj's the smartest guy in the room & arber's on his leash about it. it goes both ways (to be cont)#juraj slafkovský #arber xhekaj #david reinbacher #cayden primeau #montreal canadiens #i'm xhekovský posting leave me alone i'm also *****

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sabraeal · 11 months ago

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The Man of Progress, Chapter 3

[Read on AO3]

If there is one thing Viktor has learned wrangling with these crystals these past two years, it’s that Talis’s forges can cast a blast door as sturdy as will still take a hinge, but they still can’t make steel thick enough to keep Jayce’s voice from cutting through.

“He’s not going to go for it.” The man might well be standing in the same room for all the door does to stifle it; a pillow might do a better job. To make matters worse, his voice is pitched lower still, trying to locate a whisper and instead finding the precise frequency that turns solid metal into a screen door. “You can ask him if you want, but I don’t know what good it’ll do you.”

The Councilor’s reply is muffled; her cultured tones may be able to quell a querulous council room, but it cannot defy the very laws of physics. Little more than the highest curves of her conversation curl through the gap between steel and concrete, but Viktor doesn’t need to hear the content to know exactly what’s happening in that showroom. Their patron has a plan, and as much as Jayce might dig in, a broad-shouldered barrier between her and their work, Councilor Medarda hasn’t ascended to Piltover’s loftiest heights to be stopped by mere flesh and bone and spirited protest. No, she’ll bully herself right past him, and if six feet of muscle-bound engineer can’t stop her, eighteen inches of steel won’t be much of an impediment either.

The door swings open with a squeal, stopping only just short of the dent Jayce made the first time he opened it. She approaches at an unhurried pace, not so much a sashay but a stride, confidence radiating from every subtle clack of her golden heels. They echo up the walls, gathering in the the ceiling’s vault like the prelude to a storm, inexorable, unavoidable—

And here. “Viktor. Good Morning.”

He sighs, contemplating the pliers in his grip. There had been boys who would gather at the shore when the clouds turned heavy out to sea, who used to dig into the sand when thunder pealed over the waves, waiting for the lightning to scrape across the sky. They’d stand in the water up to their knees, watching the skies churn even as their own darkened, swearing they could feel sparks when it hit. That there was a thrum that came in with the tide— better than Shimmer, one of them had boasted, long before any of them had been lost to it— one that made them powerful, invincible, like the enforcers in their armor—

At least, until one of them was struck. Wandered too far, or maybe too close, and was swept away before any of them could see if there was enough of him left unburnt to breathe.

Jayce’s scuffled steps struggle over the threshold, stumbling to catch her heels, and he might as well be knee deep in the water, wading out to see the storm. There are just some boys, it seems, that long to be burned. “Councilor, wait…”

Viktor, for his part, keeps his feet on terra firma. The sand’s no place for a man with barely a leg to stand on. He’d learned that well enough watching the other children scuttle across the rocks as he tinkered with his boat. Playing the same games as them only ended in bruised pride and scuffed knees.

So he only dares to glance at her in reflection, through the warped mirror that chrome creates. At least there she looks something closer to human than sublime. “Councilor.” He sits back on his heels, squinting into the clockwork clutter. Makes no move to turn toward her— she’ll get what she wants by the time she sweeps out of this lab, but he’ll be damned if he lets her have it ten steps through the door. “To what do we owe this pleasure.”

Jayce strains a breath through his smile, all his dire warnings about teeth and hands that feed caught between his own. But even the warped reflection can’t manufacture the lift of the Councilor’s eyebrow on its own, or how her mouth moves to mirror its curve. “Am I not allowed to check in on my investment?”

She circles behind him; a slow, measured saunter marked by the clack of her heels on the concrete. And by the accordion pull of her reflection, languidly stretching across the metal’s peaks before pooling in its valleys, a flicker of the real before the reinstatement of the absurd. And yet there’s no mistaking where that sharp gaze lingers— not on the machine, but on his back, carving a line between his shoulders from attention alone.

“We’re the best minds the Academy has to offer, Councilor, do give us some credit.” The pliers clench around a cog, wrenching it to where its teeth mesh with the ones beside it. “I think we’ve learned by now that we couldn’t hold you back, even if we tried.”

His name hisses out from behind Jayce’s perfect smile— oh, this afternoon’s going to be a litany of hands, food, and would it kill you to be nice for once?— but the Councilor only lingers behind his shoulder, mouth stretched so wide across the metal that a millimeter more would turn her all to teeth. “What a…flattering assessment.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be,” he lies. “I’m simply acknowledging the reality of the situation. No matter how unpleasant.”

Jayce practically chokes on his own forced laugh. “He— he doesn’t mean that. We enjoy every moment you choose to spend down here.”

“Not that we have much of a choice,” Viktor adds, setting aside pliers for a wrench. “Since I doubt there’s a man alive that could keep you from where you mean to go.”

One perfect brow twitches. “Some have tried.”

And failed, she doesn’t say. Doesn’t need to with the way her chin lifts, conquest etched in every line. He nearly likes her better for it— after all, if a storm is meant to sink ships, it should take pride in each one scuttled in its wake.

At least, he might, if he wasn’t already watching one founder. “Councilor, Viktor’s just, er,” —making Jayce sweat bullets, from the look of it— “joking. He’s a real kidder.”

Viktor’s head swivels on its axis, quick enough to make his neck ache. It’s worth it to spear his partner with a scowl where he stands, letting the angle of its furrow heavily imply, what the hell are you doing?

Jayce’s hands splay helplessly in a shrug, eyebrows hiked so high there’s barely any forehead left before his hairline. What are you doing?

“A kidder.” The Councilor is unconvinced, arms folded under her chest like a guillotine’s blade. “Really.”

It’s not a question. But at a bulge of his partner’s eyes, Viktor cobbles together an answer. “That’s me,” he blurts out, ignoring the coughing jag coming from behind her shoulder. “A jokester. A real…funny guy.”

The inviting pout she wears tightens to a close-lipped purse, eyes narrowing the way doors might before they slam shut. “I would never have guessed.”

“Oh, yeah, he’s a laugh riot.” Jayce steps up beside her, grin so wide Viktor’s gut goes cold. “You should ask to see his Heimerdinger impression.”

The Councilor glances back— incredulous, of course, though too politique to show it in anything more than a squint of the eyes— and Viktor lets his brow pinch behind her, displeasure seeping out of every pore. His early years at the Academy had made for a veritable world tour of puerile pranks; a lame boy from the Undercity made the perfect target for callow youths, missing the sort of bullying they had been able to wreak at all the best private institutions Piltover could offer. He had become a connoisseur of the uncomfortable, an epicurean of embarrassment— and with a glare, he lets his partner know he has not forgotten a single one.

Jayce sends a worried glance toward the coffee pot. Ha. A single trick he’d been subject to would make that man beg for bodily fluids in his cup.

“I’ll take your word for it.” She turns back, frowning at his placid expression. “Though I do wonder what inspired him to humor this morning.”

“I thought I would keep the mood light,” he tells her, already angling himself towards his cogs. “You know, since you two seem so serious after conspiring in the showroom.”

Jayce nearly chokes. “You heard that?”

“You weren’t exactly subtle. So go on”—he spares the Councilor a weary look— “what is it I’m not going to like?”

“The Distinguished Innovators Competition,” she informs him, shameless, as if his eavesdropping had been part of the plan all along. Knowing the way Jayce’s voice could carry, it might well have been. “I was just discussing it with Mr Talis. He didn’t think you’d be a fan.”

“Distinguished Innovation?” Two relatively benign concepts. “What’s not to like?”

“She wants us to enter it.” That earns the golden boy a glare from the Councilor. Apparently throwing her beneath the carriage had not been part of her plans.

“Oh.” He glances between them, disinterested. “He’s right.”

“What I was saying,” she begins, sharp enough to tug his attention away from cogs and chrome. “Was that it would be a good opportunity to show that Hextech is a real, viable resource, not just another pipe dream of two Academy engineers.”

“Oh?” He blinks, sitting back on his heels. “I didn’t realize pipe dreams regularly blow out windows in the government building. How difficult that must be for you, Councilor.”

She grunts softly; a palpable hit. That’s one point to him. “I’m not talking about a proof of concept. If you can show these people a concrete demonstration of just one crystal’s power, the interest it would generate in Hextech’s future…it would be enormous.”

“We have enough interest.” He shakes his head, turning it back towards the table. “The last thing we need are more investors wandering around here, cackling over their winning horses.”

Jayce shifts, leaning so close to the Councilor their reflections blur together, one big puddle of patron and patronized on stilted legs. “I told you.”

Her hand lifts, a soft curl that quiets him quicker than a shout. With a turn of her head— a tilt of her chin, really— she manages to say without speaking, I’ll handle this. Or maybe, I’ll handle him— a mistake, on her part. Viktor has learned to keep his head down, to toe the line these top-siders are so partial to, but he’s Undercity, through and through. Ungovernable, as her colleagues are so fond of saying.

A fact Jayce knows all too well. But although he may snort, may toss his head like one of those metal steeds strapped to their track, he still turns, tromping his way right across the floor. Throws his hands up for good measure, with a shake of his head to give it a resigned flavor. It’s a lost cause, he doesn’t say, because the slam of the door says it loud enough behind him.

It's still ringing in his ears when her hand presses flat to the table; a warm earthen brown stark against the cold gray of metal and stone. Comically small next to the gauntlet’s size, like a child’s pressed against their father’s. Something startlingly real compared to plates and pistons. The rest of her follows after, the curve of her hip resting against the hard corners of the counter.

“I’m not recommending you participate for bragging rights, you know.” The Councilor’s voice is lower now, less strident; not made for an audience but to fill the inches between them. Intimate, almost. Enough to make his shoulders itch just beneath his nape. “If you place in the competition, you’ll have all the clans bidding to sponsor you. Enough money to fund you for a year, at the least.”

Tempting. But then, what she offers always is. “What’s the matter, Councilor? Purse feeling a little tight?”

Something huffs out of her, not a laugh but a kissing cousin, one not so sweet but infinitely more interesting. “It would take more than a lab like this one to beggar Medarda’s coffers. But needless to say, you are hardly our only investment.”

Just the biggest risk. Or at least, the most entertaining one, by how often her itinerary takes her past the workshop. “Even so. We’re more than adequately funded through the next three years, let alone one.”

“Oh?” One brow lifts. “For all your projects?”

Her gaze rests pointedly past him, on a tarp haphazardly tossed over a machine, dust collecting in the valley tented between its arches. An ungainly shape, sequestered to the most solitary corner of their workshop, abandoned yet refusing to be forgotten.

“It’s part of the process,” he murmurs, faint even to his own ears. “Innovation requires experimentation. And some are…less promising than others.”

She shifts, close enough to startle him, to make him stare straight up into the shine of her eyes. “Albus Ferros has outbid every clan for the winning innovator seven years out of the last ten. He may not have been sold by Cassandra Kiramman’s little sales pitch last year, but if you show him that you can outshine your competition…well, you may think my pockets run deep, but Clan Ferros…”

She hardly needs to tell him. Ferros may not sponsor many Academy graduates, but the ones they did— their portraits all hung in its hallowed halls, its proudest successes: men who changed the world.

And lined their pockets doing it. Though that mattered more to the students that walked those halls, rather than the trustees who commissioned the portraits.

“It’s also a good opportunity for you.” Gold glimmers as her shoulder lifts, following her movements less like metal and more like a second skin. “At least, to be known as more than Jayce’s assistant.”

Ah, that’s the problem with letting the Councilor linger around here, watching the process. As much as she learns about her investment, she also learns about them, and it leads to— to this. To this way her words wedge beneath his skin, caught like a metal sliver beneath his nail.

“I’d rather people that close to the top not know me by name. It’s bad for the neck,” he explains, rubbing at his. “You see, I like how mine is attached to my shoulders. I’d prefer to keep it that way.”

The Councilor doesn’t frown, but her arms cross, cheeks stretching sharp over the architecture of her face. “What, so you think they’ll string you up for being clever? Insolence? Magecraft?”

“They did once,” he mumbles into his machinery. The Undercity doesn’t teach history to its children— at least, not anything past the debts the Chem-Barons collect when a person is fool enough to deal with them— but he’d seen the frescoes on the government buildings walls, the paintings hung in Heimerdinger’s office. “What’s to say they won’t find a taste for it again? Some of them could use a hobby.”

Her eyes narrow, honing all that carefully maintained beauty to a fox-like point. “Don’t tell me you’re intimidated by my colleagues.”

“I’m not intimidated.” He rolls his wrist absently, wrench still in hand. “I’m cautious.”

She sniffs, all incredulity. “I must admit, I’m not seeing the difference.”

“You wouldn’t,” he mutters— a mistake. She’s too close for it to be lost in metal and machinery, an aside gone astray. No, the Councilor hears every word, spine stiffening with the affront only the privileged can afford. “Councilor, when you look at me— what is it you see?”

Viktor does her the favor of leaning back, of turning toward her so that she can take all of him in. He half-considers reaching for his crutch, of maybe even getting to his feet and taking a step toward her, so that she could see the way his shoulder dips as he walks, the grotesquerie of his movement—

“A genius.”

That’s it; no hesitation, no pity. A simple assessment without the fixed point of her gaze ever straying.

“Councilor…” he coughs, surprised. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

Her mouth threatens to smirk. “No, it won’t.”

“No,” he agrees, oddly amused, “it won’t. You’ll call me a genius today because you’re pleased with my progress, but when I disappoint, well…then I’ll be—”

“A pain in my ass?” she offers with a quickness that implies practice. She shifts, spine falling into its usual coy curve. “A downright bastard.”

A laugh barks out of him before he can leash it. “To say the least. To your honored colleagues, I might be an Academy engineer today, one of the best and brightest balls of gas the professor has ever condensed into a star, but tomorrow…” His mouth rumples around the sour taste in his mouth. “Tomorrow I could just be another piece of Undercity trash. A rat from the sewers who slipped under the door.”

He leans toward her, one arm braced on the table, conspiracy curving his smile. “I’m sure you know how it is, Councilor— the higher you climb, the further you have to fall. Academy Engineer might not seem like a lot to you, but to me, well” —his shoulder lifts, lazy as he sits back— “I have much deeper depths to plunge.”

He expects her to huff, to protest, maybe even to laugh— that’s what Jayce has always done, shaking his head at every refused invitation as if he were a child pushing away a full plate. But instead the Councilor simply stares at him, her smooth brow marred by a furrow. Utterly still, not even a twitch to give her away as something flesh and blood.

Ah, now he’s done it. Made things awkward. “Jayce is better at dealing with those people anyway,” he tells her, a pleasing patch over an unpleasant truth. “He even looks like one of them.”

Because he is. For as far as he is from the Council’s heights, he’s still a clansman, albeit a minor one. Not something he enjoys being reminded of, especially not when he’s being stuffed inside one of those monkey suits, going off to ape his betters.

“Ah.” The Councilor hums, her chin taking its usual superior lift. “So that’s it. You think that next to Talis, they’ll find you—?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” At least, he’s not trying to. But the words come out at all angles, the way his shoulders do when he walks, and the only way to stop them is to snap his teeth around them like a steel trap. “I don’t care what those people think of me. I know who I am.”

“An easy thing to say.” Her heels clack, achingly slow as she steps towards him, so close that the hair raises along his arm. “A harder thing to live. Especially when you aren’t the one drawing the line in the sand.”

He risks a glare at her, but she only smirks, amused.

“If the only face they see with Hextech is Talis, then they’ll assume that Talis is all there is to Hextech.” Her hand may rest on the wrought wrist of the gauntlet, but her gaze swings wide, settling on the ungainly mess in the corner. “And it will only ever be his vision that sees the light of day.”

Viktor’s jaw clenches, hard enough it aches. “Our ideas are implemented equally. It is just the nature of the work that not all of them bear fruit.”

The Councilor hums, fingers brushing across smooth metal as she removes them. His own wrist flexes in some strange sympathy. “If you say so.”

She stands then, fabric flowing after her like a wake. “Think about it, at least. The Distinguished Innovators Competition, I mean.”

On a lesser mortal, that skirt of hers would tangle, would trip her up as she sashayed across the floor. But instead it moves like a part of her, her walk all hips and suggestion.

One that turns into a question when she stops, one foot lifted hesitantly.

“For what it’s worth…” she tosses over her shoulder, gaze not quite meeting his. “Even if you didn’t win” — not likely, her tone says— “I think you would at least cause quite a stir…”

“Sorry about all that.” Jayce scratches at the back of his head, bashful, the way naughty dogs were. “I didn’t want to put you on the spot like that. But you know how Mel is.”

Viktor grunts, one brow hiked. Funny, it’s all Councilor this and Councilor that when she’s swanning around the showroom, deigning to grace them with her esteemed presence, but once the woman’s out of earshot—

Mel. Ha. By the flush slapped across Jayce’s neck, it’ll take a few more years yet before he tries it to her face. A couple more of those fancy parties, one or two awards under his belt. Get more than a few stiff drinks in him, and Jayce might try it even sooner— clothing optional.

With a snap the wrench tumbles out of his hand, clattering across the table as something small and metal pings against the concrete. Viktor blinks. Ah, well…that’s never happened before.

A hand comes down heavy on his shoulder, a perfect lantern jaw hanging itself over it. “Woah, you okay there, buddy? Lose your grip or something?”

“The opposite.” His hand uncurls— aching, still— to show where a small spike of metal juts out from the plating. “The bolt sheared right off.”

“Huh.” Jayce looms closer, squinting at the jagged edge. “Well, would you look at that. I’ll have to talk to the professor about it— it’s fine if it’s one or two, but if it keeps happening, someone’s going to need to talk to the supplier about quality control.”

“Right.” Viktor flexes his fingers, oddly light-headed. “Quality control.”

It’s a clean fingernail that prods at the wreckage, not a speck of grease trapped in its bed; Jayce must have scrubbed before the Councilor came in the door, saving her the indignity of touching anything real. The broken shank doesn’t give so much as a wiggle, not even when a thumb joins the finger, bearing down before it tries to twist and tug.

“Man, that’s in there good.” He steps back, slapping a pair of pliers across Viktor’s palm. “At least it’s one of the small ones. Not a lot of metal, not a lot of room for mistakes. Probably just flawed from the start.”

Viktor grunts, fitting the nose hard against the shank. Flawed from the start. That’s one way of putting it.

“If we were to do this…this Distinguished Innovators thing,” he says, uncertain, twisting until threads peek up from the gap. “I’m not saying we are, but…what would we present?”

It’s easier to talk about this with Jayce behind him; that way he doesn’t have to see when his jaw drops. “If we…?”

“Hypothetically,” Viktor reminds him, but it’s too late; he can hear the excited pace to his steps, like a dog that has caught a glimpse of its leash.

“Of course, of course.” It may sound like an agreement, but Viktor knows all too well: it’s a clearing of the slate, a tabula rasa of thought. He can protest all he likes, but to Jayce, a maybe is as good as a yes. “We’re coming along pretty well on the gauntlets, aren’t we? With a couple more weeks on them, we might have something that could really wow people.”

Viktor takes in the visible bolts tucked between chrome plates, the barely hand-like appendages jammed onto the end of its wrists. When he looks back up, catching Jayce with the corner of his glance, he hardly needs to say, bit of an anemic showing.

“W-well, I mean, we won’t just have the presentation,” Jayce stammers out, scrubbing a hand through the thick mass of his hair. “We’ll have floor space too. We could probably show off most of what we’re working on. Let people get a real glimpse of everything Hextech could do.”

“Everything?” Viktor asks, tone utterly even.

“Ah, well” —Jayce glances to where the tarp sits, wrought metal peeking out beneath its hem, before his eyes skitter away— “Sure. Why not?”

His words might convince him, if only a note of it was sincere. “Because you’re afraid of it.”

“I’m not— I’m not afraid.” An assertion that might stand if he didn’t flinch while making it. “They’re just not…er…”

Safe. That’s what Jayce means to say. It’s not safe. It thrums in the air between them, like the moment before lightning strikes, so charged— so contentious that all his hair stands on end.

“…I just don’t think they show off Hextech to its best advantage,” Jayce says instead, mincing through his words like he was barefoot and each one was a shard of glass. It’s careful, politic, and it sounds more like that woman than it does his partner. “You know what I mean, don’t you?”

“They are a proof of concept.” It’s the same disagreement they’ve had a dozen times— no, two dozen. None of the sting is left in it, all his arguments so worn that his brow settles into its furrow like a cog does in its groove. “A demonstration of the power that could be wielded by the crystals if we could be refined past their raw state. Something beyond the household applications we’ve tried, which—”

“Which isn’t what Hextech is about,” Jayce says, loud enough that its echo rings throughout the lab, buzzing in his ears. “I appreciate the work you’re doing on it, really, I do. Even if it’s not the direction we chose to take, it belongs at the show. But if we’re going to present something…”

He hefts the gauntlet onto his arm, visibly straining under its bulk. “It’s got to be something people know how to use. Only academics appreciate the abstract.”

Viktor can’t argue with that. But that hardly means he doesn’t have a quibble or two. “You can barely lift that.”

“That’ll just make it all the more impressive,” he grunts, teeth more grit than grin. “When we fire this thing up and I’m swinging it around like I was born with it.”

They’re still weeks away from that, from getting the crystal to do anything but spit and sizzle as it sits in its bezel, but even so— he can picture it. The way Jayce will swing his arm, gesticulating with the cogent verve these merchants clans breed into their children; the halting way the fingers will fold into a fist, unnatural and yet more human than any machine could manage. And the bare blue glow of the Hextech beneath it all, casting a new set of shadows across its onlookers.

“All right,” he relents. “As long as the arches are displayed too.”

“They will be.” Jayce claps him on the shoulder, as good as a promise. “We’re in this together, aren’t we, partner?”

The Councilor wastes no time in submitting their paperwork; within a day she has a form couriered to them, every field filled in her meticulous cursive save for their abstract . It’s blatant enough that even Jayce grimaces, tugging at his collar as he asks, “You don’t think she, uh…?”

“I think,” Viktor says, plucking the sheet from his hand. “That she was not willing to entertain second thoughts.”

“Ah…” Jayce rubs a hand over his neck, concern finally filtering through common sense. “Right. When was this thing supposed to be again?”

“Six months.” At least one of them knows to read the fine print. “It’s part of the lead up to Progress Day.”

“Right, right.” Jayce sucks in a breath deep enough to broaden his shoulders, hands coming to sit at his hips. “Well, that’s plenty of time.”

Viktor turns, arching a dubious brow. “Is it?”

“Hell yes.” His hand drops, giving a gauntlet a proud pat. “We’ll have these babies done with weeks to spare.”

Viktor tries not to find something ominous in their dull clank. “If you say so…”

What had seemed a spacious six months quickly becomes a cramped two weeks of all-nighters and mounting anxiety. They had fallen for the siren song of Piltover’s spring; thinking that their projects would bloom in the passing weeks with all the steadiness and ease as the city transitioned through its seasons. Oh, how easily they had forgotten what even the first year engineers knew all too well: progress was never linear. Two steps forward often led to ten step back, and by the time the competition loomed on the horizon, well—

“Just a little more,” Jayce promises, a pair of over-glorified tin snips in his hand, trying to notch the last few gears. His hands tremble, gripping tighter as the steam carriage rocks beneath them, groaning with each sharp turn they take. “Couple more clips and we’ll be done, I promise.”

Viktor groans, head wedged between the cabin’s wall and his elbow, struggling to keep the bile at bay. The carriage must be on a mission to find every pothole between Midtown and the Academy, engine rattling as it hurtles over the cobbled streets. “I’m going to throw up.”

“You’ll be fine.” That might assure him, if any of that confidence came from an actual lack of concern, rather than force of will. Jayce does spare him a glance, one that turns quickly toward a grimace. “When was the last time you slept, by the way? Or ate?”

Cogs jostle as the driver goads the gears faster, setting the acid sloshing in his stomach. The faces of the other passengers are pale, some even screwing their eyes shut, as if that might save them from a flying gear. Viktor tries the same, wondering if it might stop the roll of his stomach, but oh, ah…that’s worse. So much worse.

“Viktor!” A hand bands around his shoulder, as much a steel vise as this brace he wears, and his eyes jolt open, meeting Jayce’s open concern. “Seriously. You look like you need a sandwich.”

Just the thought of it puts acid in his mouth.

“I think if we win this thing,” he manages, swallowing back bile. “Heimerdinger needs to clear out a lab.”

Jayce huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. “Sure thing, buddy. It’s the least he can do for his most promising protégés, right? Be nice to get a little recognition around here.”

He lets his head lean back, settling against the seat. “I’ll just take never having to get in one of these hellish conveyances as long as I live.”

If it could have been left just at that, the carriage would have been at worst an inconvenience; a mode of transportation Viktor would require copious cajoling to consider again. But instead the whole carriage hitches, weightless for a moment before it pitches from one side then to the other. Other passengers are nearly flung from their seats, held in only by the strength of their own grip, but their gears— they fly off Jayce’s lap, skittering across the carriage floor, lost beneath a confusion of boots and skirts.

With all the subtlety of a burst pipe, the whole thing lurches to a stop, engine spewing steam into the cabin, and Viktor—

He can’t take it.

To say he struggles with the door would be an overstatement; he merely jiggles it until the latch prises loose, managing two shuddering steps across the cobbles before he pitches to his knees and loses what little breakfast he forced into his belly in the gutter.

“Viktor!” Jayce springs out after him, hand clasping his shoulder. “Are you all—? Oh, hell. The whole baggage compartment…”

With a queasy glance over his shoulder, he sees it: the metal compartment tucked beneath peeled open like a can of sardines. Bags are strewn across the street, too haphazard for the other carriages to miss, crumpling beneath the wheels of those who can’t bring themselves to stop.

“I want to go home,” he groans, sitting back on his heels. “Can we do that?”

There’s no humor in Jayce’s laugh, just simple bravado. The simple refusal to be cowed by whatever fate can throw at them. Viktor might even feel fond, if he had room for anything but the nausea. “We’ve come too far now. The convention hall is only two blocks away. Just let me find our case, and we can hoof it.”

Viktor glares up at him. “Don’t tell me you expect me to walk.”

“Come on.” He claps him on the back this time, nearly bowling him over. “I think a little fresh air is just what we need.”

Viktor arrives at the convention hall with all the dignity of a collapsed soufflé: drenched in sweat, covered in stains of ignominious origin, and worst of all, limping.

“Really?” Jayce croaks, shouldering him up the steps. Not that his weight is the problem— soaking wet, Viktor would struggle to tip the scale to eight stone— but with both him and the gauntlets’ case, even his partner’s knees start to buckle. “That’s what’s got you? You walk with a cane.”

“A cane is dignified,” Viktor informs him loftily. As much as one can when the only way air can enter and leave through his lungs is a wheeze. “This is” —pathetic— “a trainwreck.”

Complete with a peanut gallery to rubberneck. Each head swivels as they pass, curiosity and pity mingling in most of their onlookers, but others— others sneer with disgust, or worse, forget to smother their smirks. They should have told us there’d be a freak show, one man in a white waist mutters just a hair too loud, I would have brought peanuts.

Viktor heaves himself away, brace clanking under the sudden shift in weight. “I can do it myself.”

One arm still hovers behind his back, as heavy as if it held him still, and Jayce raises a brow. “You sure? You look like you’re going to fly apart like that boiler—”

“Don’t.” Bile gags him at the thought. “Just— my crutch.”

“It’s seen better days,” Jayce warns, and ah, it’d never sat straight to begin with, but there is distinctly more twist to it now, as he hands it over. “Really, Viktor, if you need help, I’m happy to—”

“I’ll manage.” Annoyance sharpens the words to a point, one his partner hardly deserves aimed at him. He shakes his head, fitting the support beneath his shoulder. “Our table is only around the corner. If I can’t make it that far, then maybe I should have gone home.”

“As long as you’re sure. It’s not like I can’t handle it. Heck” —Jayce grins, flexing one of his ridiculous arms hard enough his shirtsleeve strains over his bicep— “I could probably carry two of you without even breaking a sweat.”

Viktor’s mouth twitches. “Rub it in, why don’t you.”

“Hey, it’s not rubbing it in if it’s true. Just because I’m the buffest guy in this whole Academy doesn’t make me any less of an engin— ah, here.” Jayce doesn’t so much set the case down as heave it onto its side as gently as its weight allows. “We made it.”

Their projects haphazardly litter the floor, dropped wherever the university’s teamsters saw fit to leave them. Despite all of their hours of last minute fussing, peeling years off their lives until chrome was polished and shined to gleaming, it would take time to get them showroom ready again. With a hundred other academic hopefuls’ dreams to cart from every corner of the city, the workmen had handled every project with equal care— that is to say, none at all. It’s time they don’t have, half of it lost between the carriage catastrophe and the convention hall.

It’s enough crunch to make his stomach churn, acid washing over his tongue with all the familiarity of an old friend. But if there’s no time for a spit and shine, there’s even less time for panic; with a steeling breath, Viktor bends his mind to what it’s best at: numbers. He tallies up every last tweak and polish, the number coming out just shy of impossible. Improbable, maybe, but he’d seen projects more hopeless.

That is, until Jayce pops the latches on the case, proving that the carriage’s mishap caused more casualties than the contents of his stomach.

“The gauntlets…” Its case might sit open at his knees, but there’s nothing glove-shaped inside, just a thousand piece puzzle made out of the most delicate machinery human hands had ever made. “They’re…it’s ruined. All of it. I can’t…we can’t…”

Viktor sways on his feet, not so much crouching beside him as falling into a squat. “You put them together, didn’t you? You can do it again. I’m sure someone around here has some solder—?”

“These took me over a year to put together, schematic to prototype.” Devastation turns his voice thready, same as it had been in that council chamber, years ago. As it had been when he stood on that ruined ledge of his apartment, unable to watch as his foot took a step into free fall. “There’s no way I can build it all again in” — he glances at the clock overhead— “oh, god, a half hour? That’s all we have?”

“Huh.” Viktor grips his crutch, settling into his squat. “So that carriage ride was the longest in my life.”

It’s not much, but it’s enough to get a huff out of him, even if there’s no humor in it. “We have to withdraw.”

Jayce levers himself to his feet, scrubbing a hand over the stubble that’s already started to pebble the planes of his jaw— really, what do they feed them in Clan Talis?— leaving Viktor to stare up at him, acid churning in his gut. “What do you mean?”

His hands splay, fingers spiking out toward the case. “We don’t have anything to present! It’s all ruined, every single part of it. And we can’t…”

He shakes his head, shoulders slumping as he turns, putting his back to it. To all of it. To him. After Viktor already walked half the city to be here, shaved days off his life to meet a deadline just short of impossible to have the chance of winning this ridiculous competition.

“We can’t just give up.” Viktor can hardly believe he is the one saying it. “It’s a blow, I’ll admit, but it’s hardly the only thing we have. Our other prototypes are here, in working order, I assume. We can just—”

“But we can’t present any of them,” Jayce snaps, looming over where he squats. “The gauntlets were the thing we put all our time into. We can’t even guarantee any of these will turn on, let alone perform.”

Viktor’s grip tightens on his crutch, chin tilting up to meet his partner’s desperate glare. “There’s at least one.”

Jayce blinks, but confusion quickly clears to fear. “No. No way.”

“I could get them up and running in fifteen minutes,” he reminds him, creaking his way to standing. “All you would have to do is look good. And stand where I tell you.”

“Uh-uh. Not happening.” His hands wave between them, as if somehow Viktor might manage to physically force him to use the thing. “’Stand where you tell me?’ Viktor, I appreciate that you’ve done the work, but that thing isn’t safe.”

“It’s completely safe,” he insists, “so long as you listen to me.”

Jayce stares at him. “Are you kidding me?”

“You wanted to show something big, didn’t you? Something they’ve never seen before.” He sweeps a hand toward where the arches sit, impressive even covered. “And this fits the bill, doesn’t it?”

“I meant something that would represent Hextech. Something that would be helpful. Not…” Dangerous. Jayce sighs, hand raking through the mass of his hair. “Hextech isn’t supposed to be…be…”

“Who knows what it’s supposed to be, Jayce.” It’s not easy to approach him— every step aches, even with the aid of his crutch— but Viktor does, not stopping until dark eyes peer up from that hung head, more scolded dog than agonized academic. “It’s the arcane. We’ve been working on this for two years, and we’ve hardly scratched the surface. There’s so much we don’t know…that we’ll never know if we stop here.”

“Yeah? And maybe we’re not supposed to.” His head wrenches away, a scowl furrowing the stern lines of his face. “You ever think of that?”

Viktor stoops, mouth pulled thin. Enough was enough. “You didn’t sign every page of your notes to give up whenever things got a little too hard, did you?”

Jayce glares at him. “It’s not just…hard. It’s impossible. Suicidal.”

“So?” Viktor steps back, shrugging his shoulders. “What’s progress but a laugh in the face of death?”

“Of course you would say something like that,” Jayce grumbles, arms folding forbiddingly across his chest. “You’re proud of blowing out that window.”

“It was a promising result. Nothing a little calibration couldn’t fix.” He casts Jayce a long look from the corner of his eyes. “Besides, I bet a man like Albus Ferros needs a little danger to impress him.”

A laugh saws out of the vault of Jayce’s chest. “Well, he’s certainly not known for being safe, that’s for sure.” His head shakes. “Fine. You got me. Let’s do it.”

Viktor blinks. “Really?”

“Yeah, really.” Jayce gets to his feet, brushing the dust off him. “And hey, who knows. Maybe if this stunt of yours does impress Lord Ferros, we can try things your way. Think big. Outside the toolbox.”

He coughs, shaking his head. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Well, well.” The Councilor sweeps down the auditorium aisle no different from if it was a grand stair, lingering on every step as if there were more than empty seats to provide her adulation. The addition of the professor, however, does detract from the dignity of it, hopping down happily with that poro hot on his heels. “The prodigal engineers arrive. Fashionably late, I see.”

Jayce’s wrench rattles the tray as he turns, arms stretched as wide as his smile. A showman if there ever was one. “That’s why you like us, don’t you? We have style.”

“I’d like you more if you showed up earlier than the eleventh hour,” the Councilor sniffs, skirting around his outstretched hands to circle around the podium. “But I’ll take what I can get.”

Heimerdinger hops up to the stage, peeking his head through each portal, whiskers bristling bushier with every step. “This isn’t the project I thought you would be presenting today,” he says, a note of distress threading through his hum, “What happened to your…er…what did you call them? Alter garments?”

“Atlas gauntlets,” Jayce corrects, tugging at his collar. “They had, ah…technical difficulties in transit.”

The Councilor arches a brow. “And what does that mean?”

Viktor grins into the guts of the machine. “They broke.”

“Oh, ah!” Heimerdinger’s shaggy brows hike up his forehead. “Well, there’s no helping it then. If only you boys had let me bring it over earlier, we might have been able to avoid such an unfortunate setback with your research!”

“There were still some last minute tweaks we wanted to make,” Jayce informs him, broad smile slapping spackle over the holes in that argument. Sounds better than, we hadn’t finished it, at least. “We thought we might sneak in a few more man hours if we finished it in the— ah, I mean, before the carriage arrived.”

“Ah, I should have known.” The professor puffs up proudly, even as he shakes a finger at them. “I hope all this has taught you boys a valuable lesson. Just like any artist, an engineer needs to learn when a project is best left done!”

It’s the sort of fatherly chiding that always set Viktor’s teeth on edge, but Jayce simply chuckles, huge shoulders heaving in a bashful shrug.

“Of course, sir. But I think we’ve got something here that’s just as exciting as what we had planned.” A broad hand pats an arch with the same sort of blustering pride as a lord with his new steam carriage, boasting about how fast it crawls through the streets. “Viktor’s design, actually. One he’s been working on since, er…”

“You blew a hole in the side of the government building?” The Councilor offers, the hem of her skirt sweeping so close to chrome Viktor’s atoms practically vibrate in sympathy. “So what does this do, exactly?”

Jayce flounders. Make real big sparks isn’t exactly what this room wants to hear. Neither is, we don’t quite know. “Ah…”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to wait and see.” Viktor hands never pause in their work, but he spares her a glance from the corner of his eyes. “Patience is a virtue, isn’t it, Councilor?”

The stare she turns on him might be unimpressed, but a smile flirts with the edge of her mouth, tempting a wayward corner to curve. “It is. My least favorite, I must admit.”

He smothers his smirk to a twitch. “I think a person of your caliber can live with a little delayed gratification.”

“I can.” One finger reaches out to trace up a wrought curve, skin barely brushing the metal. “As long as I leave satisfied.”

A strange static crackles along his skin, his assurances stuck in the scoured pit of his throat— a nervous response, perhaps; a reaction to seeing his invention so thoroughly inspected. An engineer’s instinct—

One Jayce must share, since he barks out, “Don’t touch that!”

The Councilor’s fingers flinch away, hovering uncertainly above an arch. She glances over her shoulder, first at him— still speechless, though for different reasons now— then at where Jayce stands, wide-eyed.

“It’s, uh…” Dangerous, that’s what he’s trying to say— it’s written in the furrow of his brow, in the glaring whites of his eyes. This is no prim protest, but pearl-clutching alarm. And for some reason, glances toward him for support. “…Delicate?”

Viktor scowls up from where he’s crouched. Between the two, he’d rather frightening than fragile. At least one doesn’t call into question his credentials.

“Oh.” The Councilor’s laugh bubbles over his shoulder, rolling up from deep in her chest. It does nothing to help the static. “It’s hardly my first time. But I promise I’ll be gentle.”

Jayce grimaces. “Viktor…?”

“What? I’ve told you. It’s perfectly safe,” he scoffs, turning back to where a panel sits open, gears and wires exposed. “Not going to blow up just from being turned on, that’s for sure. This time, at least.”

The Councilor’s hand drops down to her side with a sigh. “Please do not explode the exhibition hall.”

“Not to worry, Councilor Medarda,” Heimerdinger hums brightly, circling the stage. “If I’m correct in my understanding of how this particular machine is engineered— and I’m sure I am— there’s simply no chance of it exploding.”

“Well." Her arms cross over the narrow nip of her waist, as casual as she is unconvinced. “That’s a load off my mind.”

“Oh, yes.” For all the professor’s previous reservations, he’s quite chipper as he adds, “With a design like this, the only risk is of implosion.”

There’s a slight pause before she turns to Jayce with an artfully rumpled brow. There even seems to be actual concern— for the lecture hall, most like. “Please tell me he’s joking.”

His partner smiles weakly. “Kind of?”

The Councilor sighs, pinching at her brow. “If you would do me the favor,” —her heels clack as she takes the steps up to the doors— “keep the property damage minimal, please.”

Viktor sits back on his heels. “No promises.”

“That,” she sighs, “is exactly what I was afraid of.”

It’s only when Viktor has nearly finished his last round of calibrations— and finally put the final chalk ‘X’ on the stage floor— that Jayce blurts out, “I can’t do this.”

He blinks up from his crouch, chalk still pinched between his fingers. “Of course you can. All you have to do is stand around and look good. You already do that all the time, I’m not sure why you think it will be hard to—”

“No, I mean…we shouldn’t.” The back of his hand rubs at his forehead leaving a smear of grease behind. “This…this can’t actually be safe. What if it hit someone? What if it hits me?”

“It won’t hit you,” Viktor assures him. “As long as you don’t move from your mark, at least.”

“Urgh, I knew it,” Jayce moans, clapping his hands over his face. “This is a mistake. Someone is going to get, uh…”

“Teleported, theoretically.” He lifts a shoulder, unconcerned. “If my math is right. If it works at all.”

“Great, not only do we not know what this thing will do if it hits someone” —his hand swings out, jabbing at the arches— “we don’t even know if it’ll work.”

“It will work just fine.” Viktor grips his crutch, hauling himself to his feet. “I’ve done it dozens of times in the lab. As long as I haven’t dropped a decimal or forgotten to carry a one, there shouldn’t be anything to—”

“And what if you have, huh?” Jayce snaps, a dog at the end of his leash. “You were just sick all over Grand Avenue this morning. Just how good is your math right now.”

Better than yours, he doesn’t say— even if it’s true. The last thing he needs now is to be pulling transcripts when they need every second to prepare. “You’re really not going to stand in the cage?”

Broad shoulders square, and ah, Viktor knows that stubborn set to Jayce’s jaw, that firm line of his mouth. “No. I’m not.”

“Fine.” He sighs, fitting the crutch beneath his shoulder. “If that’s how you feel about it.”

He gets two steps across the stage before Jayce asks, “What are you doing?”

“Recalibrating,” he grunts, crouching down. “I’m shorter than you, which means I can get closer to the cage without worrying about getting my hair singed. It’ll look more impressive.”

“That’s…” Jayce scrubs a hand over his face. “When I said I wasn’t going to do it, I didn’t mean you should.”

“Well, someone’s got to.” He traces another ‘X’, reaching out to smother the last. “And if it’s not going to be you, then—”

“It shouldn’t be either of us!”

“What?” Viktor cocks his head, curious. “You think the Councilor will do it?”

“What? No! Hell, Viktor…” He groans, clawing through the thick tangle of his hair. “I think we should shut the whole thing down.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s dangerous! You could get yourself killed— or worse!”

“Teleported?” He sits back on his heels, forearms balanced across his knees. “I’ve already told you I’ve done the work: it’s safe.” He hesitates, the floor suddenly unsteady beneath him. “Don’t you trust me?”

“Viktor, I— of course I do!” His hands catch on his hips, breath heaving. “You’re my partner. I’d trust you with my life.”

Funny thing to say when he’s the one quibbling about which set of shoes are going to stand on a chalk mark. “But you won’t trust me with mine?”

“That’s not what I’m”—Jayce grits his teeth, an annoyed grunt straining through them— “that’s not what this is about!”

Viktor cocks his head, agitated. “Then what is it about?”

There’s a pause-- too long, too heavy not to be something-- before Jayce sighs, shaking his head. “You know what? Fine. Go stand in the cage.” He leans over, plucking the wrench out of Viktor’s grasp. “But I’m the one finishing up these calibrations.”

“What?” His nose wrinkles, stopping just short of a sneer. “You think a little light vomiting is going to keep me from remembering where the decimal place goes?”

“No.” Jayce shakes his head, mouth slanting into a smirk. “I do think you need to change though. You smell like a gutter. Looks like you just rolled out of one too.”

Viktor glances down, taking in the grease and sweat and faint stains of something that still smells vaguely of sick.

“Ah,” he hums, smoothing a hand down his front. “Fair enough.”

It’s impossible to find a spare set of clothes his size, Viktor would know— he’s the one who painstakingly takes in his trousers until they stop falling off his hips, who changes the fit of his shirtsleeves so that the stiff corsetry of his brace makes a seamless line with his chest. What Jayce does manage to dig up is a set of women’s trousers— he won’t ask how— with a shirt to match. The hips are far too wide, and the chest refuses to sit flat, but it’s nothing a few safety pins and a jacket can’t cover.

Even still, when he hobbles out in front of that crowd, crutch twisting his frame as he makes his mark, he feels less like a lecturer in front of his peers, and more like a child playing dress up in his mother’s frock. By the looks the gallery gives him, half-curiosity and half-disgust, the reality cannot be far off.

Viktor doesn’t make a habit of attending symposiums— and even less the kind that draw crowds like this— but he’s seen Jayce put on a show before, striding out onto the stage with all the confidence of a born actor. This is the part where the crowd is supposed to hush, awed by the cut of his jaw, or the way his shoulders fill out a jacket. But for him there’s not even a pause, not even a lull he could elbow into. Hell, he’s pretty sure it gets louder, speculation suddenly running rampant as the room realizes another man has taken Jayce Talis’s place. That somehow the sideshow has taken over for the ringmaster.

“Welcome.” His accent bites into the word all wrong, all elbows and knees instead of Jayce’s sure stride, and the murmur only grows, rising like the noise might swallow him whole. It was a mistake to come out here; they’re all expecting a man to rise from the stage perfectly formed, like a god emerging from sea foam, and instead—

Instead they have him.

Presenting isn’t that hard, Jayce had told him as the lecture hall filled. Just pick someone, anyone. Make eye contact. Then it’s not some big show— you’re just talking. Anyone can talk.

Easy thing to say when someone’s walking around looking like him. With a suit one size too large and a face that looks like it’ll faint the next time someone breathes a little too hard in his direction, Viktor isn’t exactly spoiled for choice when it comes to attentive onlookers. At least in this crowd.

He scans the seats, eyes darting from one face to the next, trying to find someone— anyone, really— to hold to. This is why he’d done so well as an assistant all those years; he faded so well into the wallpaper, no one thought to hesitate in front of him, to wonder if Heimerdinger’s dour shadow might remember the promises they made, or the offhand remarks they let slip. But now there’s not one set of eyes that will—

There. It’s the Councilor, half turned in her seat, her conversation partner rambling on, undaunted by her lack of interest. Their eyes meet, that strange static building beneath his skin, and when her brows rise, there’s a question in it— no, a challenge.

“Welcome.” It’s louder this time, breaking through the loudest crust of conversation. “Ladies, gentlemen. Fellow academics.”

Her whole body swivels in its seat, facing him, one hand raised to stem her partner’s words to silence. Her head tilts. Well, it says, curious. You have my attention. What are you going to do with it?

His mouth twitches. Wouldn’t you like to know? “I am sure many of you here have heard of Hextech. That one day we will harness the arcane— the same force that allowed mages to build empires and make miracles— and put it in the hands of ordinary people, just like you, or me.”

This is where Jayce might pace the stage, weaving through the arches like the first step in a magic trick. But Viktor only steps back between them, placing his feet firmly over the smudged cross.

“A pipe dream, some of you might call it. Impossible. Destined to be a pale imitation of the power they wield. But today” — Jayce said to smile here, to be friendly, but Viktor takes one glance at the Councilor's raised brows and it’s a smirk that unfurls instead— “you’ll see the true power of Hextech.”

He lifts his arm, the cue to start flipping switches, to turn a trick to reality, and—

There’s nothing. Not a single spark. Such absence of something that Viktor can’t help but wonder if Jayce has changed his mind, if he’s decided that this is too much of a risk after all. If his second thoughts have brought him back to handy tools and tight boxes, leaving him out here to flounder.

And then, the lights flicker. A flash of dimness that sets a murmur through the crowd. Another chases its heels, longer this time, and in the darkness—

There, the first arc of arcane, stretching from the side of one arch to another. A larger one next, a bolt from top to bottom. Three, just after, bleeding into each other until there’s a pane of glowing blue, so thin he can see through it a moment before it collapses. But then there’s another, and another, larger pieces of a rippled window, staying for seconds before flashing to nothing until—

Until a pane stretches down every arch, roiling like waves against the rocks, a glowing cage that nearly lifts himself off his feet.

“There you have it,” he manages, barely holding back a gleeful laugh. “Man-made arcane.”

He stops fighting his weightlessness, crutch dropping as he floats up from his mark, watching his audience like a fish does from his bowl. Their face fall agape, hands pressed to bosoms and men half crawled out of their seats, torn between awe and fear, and—

Well, there’s one way to make sure it’s wonder that wins the day.

“As you can see…” He reaches out, fingers just barely skimming the surface of the arcane—

Only to find himself on the other side of the arch, gently lowering to the stage. “Even surrounded, I am perfectly safe. Anyone could stand in my place and never fear injury!”

There’s more murmuring now, a din threatening to rise to a fevered pitch. There’s more to the little speech Jayce drilled into him, but there’s no hope of making them listen, not when doubt and fascination already struggle to hold their attention.

None of it ends up being necessary, however. Not when a clear voice calls out “Do you take volunteers?”

Viktor looks up into the Councilor’s self-assured smirk, the glow of the arcane turning the gold flecks on her skin to stars, and reaches out his hand.

There’s more than enough back-clapping and congratulations to last Viktor a lifetime when he steps off the stage, feeling too heavy under his own weight. Former classmates— ones who had so easily let their eyes drift over him when he stood in Heimerdinger’s shadow— crawl out from the woodwork, crowding him before he can get a word in edgewise.

“Hey, hey! Give me some room to get to the man of the hour,” Jayce laughs, elbowing a few engineers aside. “You can ask him for the whole spiel when we’re on the exhibition floor.”

“Don’t make promises I don’t plan to keep,” Viktor grumbles, wincing under the hand that clamps onto his shoulder, too tight.

“Speaking of promises,” Jayce says, smile stretched thin as they mount the stairs to the door. “I don’t think we talked about that little stunt you pulled up there.”

Ah, well. “Inspiration of the moment.”

“Inspiration of the…? Are you kidding me?” He groans, scraping a hand over his stubble. “What if you had gotten split in two? Or shattered into a thousand pieces? What then?”

“I ran the calculations,” Viktor informs him primly. “That didn’t seem likely.”

“Likely.” He shakes his head. “What am I going to do with you, huh?”

"Listen, may--"

“Excuse me.”

A man stands at the top of the aisle, frock coat squared at the shoulders, capped by what seems to be actual gold epaulets, toothed like actual gears. But for all the attention his coat demands, the man beneath it is rather nondescript— save for the mustache, perhaps, and the spectacles set above it.

“I hate to interrupt,” he says, not the least bit contrite. “But I was wondering if you lads might have a moment.”

Jayce blinks. “Ah, we were just heading back to the exhibition hall—”

“Of course, of course. It’s only…I saw your presentation.” The man takes a single step down, and in the light, the rune of Clan Ferros shines. “And I find myself quite…interested in the future of Hextech.”

#melvik #arcane #arcane league of legends #The Man of Progress #my fic #1000 followers #friends let me tell you i was not sure if this thing would be out on time #the first 3K went so slow i thought i would tear my hear out #and i was terrified because oh god this is supposed to be 7K I can't do 7K like this....#well good news the next 7K went REAL WELL #and now this is 10K #and has thrown my writing schedule into disarray because GOD i have had to edit this TWICE #and it takes HOURS. HOURS to edit this much #but like worth it. can't wait to write these idiots again #in fact going off to write my notes for ch 4 so i don't forget what stuff i was planning on doing 🤣#thankfully everything for the next few weeks should go a LOT faster

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