TW : I intentionally wrote a 'clichés' character to respond to Rodrick's character cliché.
₊˚⊹♡₊ to love without losing oneself, to stay without breaking ₊♡⊹˚₊
⋅˚₊‧ ୨ Born in Toulouse, Éléanore grew up in large houses where silence often weighed heavier than words. An environment shaped by unspoken rules, constant expectations, and an elegance that was almost compulsory. From a young age, she understood what was expected of her and just as early, she learned where to draw her own line.
Light ginger hair, freckled skin, tall and poised without ever being rigid, she carries a quiet, almost discreet presence. Her gray-blue eyes observe more than they judge. Her smile is rare, but always sincere.
Raised within a strict, codified, sometimes suffocating framework, Éléanore learned the rules so she would know exactly which ones were worth breaking. Watched, corrected, restrained, never weak for all that. She learned to survive in silence, to wear masks when necessary, and to protect that inner fire which nothing has ever truly extinguished.
₊˚⊹♡₊ The United States were not an escape. They were a breath. ₊♡⊹˚₊
Fiercely loyal, Éléanore does not toy with feelings. When she loves, she stays. When she chooses, she commits. She rejects gratuitous humiliation, imposed shame, and social hypocrisy. She prefers an uncomfortable truth to a fabricated peace, and respects rules only when they make sense.
Her nobility is not a matter of titles or wealth. It is a way of being: not crushing others, not diminishing herself, standing upright even when everything is unsteady.
Rodrick is her first real love. Not a convenience, not a game. With him, she does not try to fix or save. She loves what he already is. She anchors him without confining him, supports him without controlling him. For her, love is a refuge, never a cage.
Éléanore is not explosive. She absorbs, observes, waits. But when she grows angry, it is never pointless or theatrical. Her anger is rare, precise, and irreversible.
｡ ﾟ ꒰ঌ ✦໒꒱ ༘*.ﾟ
‧₊˚ catholic by tradition, spiritual without rigidity.
‧₊˚ passionate about history, tea (matcha), and rock by affection.
‧₊˚ ambiverted, introspective, adaptable.
‧₊˚ studious by choice, disciplined without submission.
₊˚⊹♡₊ Éléanore, a young woman who learned that remaining true to oneself is sometimes the most rebellious act of all. ₊♡⊹˚₊
“you cannot ship these two fictional characters because—” actually I can because they are not real people. they are just toys I play with. you cannot apply real-world morality to fiction or how strangers play with their imaginary toys in their imaginary sandboxes.
you can, however, curate your own internet experience by minding your own business, muting/blocking/scrolling past what upsets you but does not hurt anyone in real life in any way, shape or form.
Request: Yes / No May I please request Jasper Jordan with Smut prompt #5 Please Anon
Requests are open but ONLY from this list! <3 Have a nice day/night
Jasper Jordan x Fem!Reader
Word count: 2511
Warnings: SMUT!!
Prompt(s): “I’m not going to rush this. I want to take my time with you.”
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(Not my photo, credit to whoever made it!)
The Ark’s artificial sun panels had dimmed to their nighttime simulation, casting the vast agricultural facility in deep blues and long shadows. The air, always thick with the scent of damp soil and chlorophyll, felt heavier, more private. I was supposed to be inventorying seed stocks. Jasper was supposed to be checking irrigation lines. But for the last twenty minutes, the only inventory being taken was the way his gaze kept finding me across the rows of hydroponic lettuce, the only irrigation the slow, hot pulse of blood in my own veins.
I just straightened up from a low shelf, a datapad in hand, when I found him leaning against the doorframe of the supply alcove, his frame blocking most of the pale light from the main corridor. His usual easy grin was gone, replaced by something more intense, more focused. It was a look I’ve seen in flashes before.
“Find everything you need?” He asked, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in the quiet room.
My mouth went dry. “Just about.”
He pushed off the frame and took a few steps into the room, the space shrinking with every one.
“Good, ‘cause I think I’m missing something.”
He was close enough now that I could smell the clean, metallic scent of the Ark on his clothes, underscored by something uniquely Jasper. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic rhythm that drowned out the distant hum of the air recyclers.
“What’s that?” I managed, my own voice barely a whisper.
“You.”
The word wasn’t playful. It was a statement. A claim. It hung between us, solid and real. Before I could form a thought, his hands were on me- one curving around the back of my neck, the other splaying across your lower back, pulling me flush against him. The hard planes of his chest met mine, and I gasped at the contact, and the immediate, thrilling evidence of his arousal pressing insistently against my stomach. His mouth descended on mine, not with tentative exploration, but with a hungry certainty that stole my breath. It was a kiss that spoke of stolen moments and pent-up desire, his tongue sweeping past my lips to taste me, to claim the warm, wet interior of my mouth. I kissed him back with equal fervor, my hands scrambling to find purchase on the firm muscles of his shoulders, then tunneling into the soft hair at the nape of his neck. A low groan vibrated from his chest into mine. When he finally broke the kiss, we were both panting, sharing the same charged air. His forehead rested against mine, his eyes dark and blazing.
“I’ve been thinking about this.” He breathed, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin behind my ears.
“About you. About how you look when you’re concentrating. About the sound of your laugh. It’s been driving me crazy.”
He didn’t wait for a reply. His mouth trailed fire down the column of my throat, nipping and sucking at the frantic pulse there. My head fell back with a soft cry, offering him more. His hands slid down my back, over the curve of my ass, and he lifted me effortlessly, turning and setting me on the edge of a sturdy worktable cleared of its usual trays. I wrap my legs around his hips, pulling him closer, grinding myself against the hard ridge in his pants. A sharp, delicious friction shot through me. I hissed, his hands gripping my thighs.
“Easy.” He murmured, but his voice was strained.
“I’m not going to rush this. I want to take my time with you.”
The promise in those words, the sheer force of it, made me shudder. His hands went to the fastening of my uniform tunic. There was a deliberate slowness to his movements that was its own kind of torture. One clasp released. Then Another. The cool, recycled air kissed my heated skin as he parted the fabric, pushing it off my shoulders. His gaze dropped to my breasts, still confined in a simple bra.
“Beautiful.” He said, the word reverent. He didn’t fumble. He simply reached behind me, found the clasp, and released it. The garment fell away. His breath caught. He just looked for a long, aching moment, his eyes drinking in the sight of my bare chest, the peaks hardening under his gaze. Then he leaned in, closing the distance with agonizing leisure, and took one taut nipple into his mouth.
The sensation was electric. The wet heat of his mouth, the skillful swirl of his tongue, the gentle suction that pulled a thread of pure need straight from my breasts to the aching core between my legs. I whimpered, my fingers clutching at his hair. He lavished attention on one breast, then the other, his free hand coming up to cradle and knead the soft weight he wasn’t tasting. Every nerve ending was screaming, singing.
His mouth left my breast with a soft, wet sound and began a slow burning trail down my stomach. He kissed every inch, his tongue dipping into my navel, making me jump. His hands hooked into the waistband of my pants and underwear. He looked up at me, his eyes asking a silent question.
“Yes!” I begged, the word torn from me. “Jasper, yes!”
He peeled the fabric down my legs, letting it pool on the floor. I was completely exposed to him, to the cool air and his searing gaze. He knelt between my spread thighs, his hands running up the sensitive skin of my inner legs, pushing them wider apart.
“So perfect.” He murmured, his voice thick. He didn’t dive in. He just… looked. The intimacy of it was more overwhelming than any touch. I felt myself flutter under his stare, felt the dampness gathering.
Then he leaned forward, and his first touch wasn’t with his tongue, but with his breath. A warm exhale against my most sensitive flesh. I cried out, my hips lifting off the table. He chuckled, a dark, delicious sound, and finally, finally, closed the distance. His tongue was flat and hot, a long, slow, devastating stroke from my entrance all the way up to my clit. I shouted, the sound echoing in the cavernous room. He did it again. And again. Establishing a rhythm that was maddeningly languid, utterly thorough. He wasn’t just tasting you, he was learning me. Mapping every fold, every secret, responsive spot.
When he focused on my clit, it was with the same deliberate patience. Soft, circling flicks. Gentle suction. The buildup was excruciating, a coil of pleasure winding tighter and tighter with every pass of his tongue. My thighs trembled around his head. Pleaded nonsense fell from my lips. He just hummed against me, the vibration shooting another bolt of lightning through my system. He slid one hand up my body, his fingers finding my nipple again, pinching and rolling it in time with the flicks of his tongue. The dual sensation pushed me to the edge. The orgasm built not as a wave, but as a slow, inevitable pressure, expanding from my core.
“Jasper… I’m… I can’t…”
He increased the pressure just slightly, his tongue moving faster, his fingers twisting my nipple. It was the final nudge. The climax broke over me not in a crash, but in a deep, rolling sudder that seemed to have no end. It pulled a long, ragged moan from my throat as my back arched off the table. He stayed with me, his mouth gentle now, soothing, drinking every last tremor as I spasmed against his tongue, my hands fisted in his hair.
As the last pulses faded, leaving me boneless and gasping, he rose up over me. His own uniform was open now, his chest heaving. His eyes were wild with want, his cock hard and freed, straining toward me. He kissed me again, and I could taste myself on his lips, a musky, intimate flavor that made me moan into his mouth. He positioned himself at my entrance, the broad head of him nudging against my soaked, sensitive flesh. He paused, his forehead against mine, his whole body trembling with the effort of his control.
“Told you.” He breathed, his voice ragged with need. “Not rushing.”
His control was a tangible thing, a corded tension in the thick muscle of his arms braced on either side of my head, in the tremble of his thighs pressed against mine. The blunt, silken head of him pressed against me, a promise that stretched me exquisitely even before he moved.
“Look at me.” He rasped.
My eyes, which had fluttered shut with the sheer anticipation, snapped open to meet his. The playful glint was gone, burned away by a scorching brown intensity. In his gaze, I saw the same lonely void of the Ark’s metal halls, the same desperate need for connection that echoed in my own soul. He wasn’t just seeking release, he was seeking proof. Proof of feeling, proof of heat, proof that in this cold, recycled world, something could be real and consuming.
Holding my stare, he pushed forward.
Oh…
It wasn’t a thrust. It was a conquest. An impossibly slow, devastatingly deep invasion that filled me completely, stretching me in a way that bordered on pain before it melted into a pleasure so profound it stole the air from my lungs. I felt every thick, veined inch of him sinking into me, a perfect, hot fit that made me see stars at the edges of my vision. A ragged groan tore from his throat, mingling with my own choked cry. He stopped, fully sheathed, his hips flush against mine. The feeling of being so utterly filled, so claimed, was dizzying.
“Fuck…” He breathed, the word a shattered prayer. His forehead dropped to mine against, his breath hot and ragged on my lips.
“You feel… unbelievable.”
He stayed there, buried to the hilt, for what felt like an eternity. Letting me adjust, letting himself savor the tight, wet clutch of my body. I could feel the frantic pulse of his cock inside me, the way his stomach muscles jumped under my splayed hands. The worktable was hard and unyielding beneath my back, a stark contrast to the living, moving heat of him above me. Then he began to move.
True to his word, there was no rush. He withdrew with the same agonizing slowness, a slick, dragging friction that made my inner muscles clench around him instinctively, trying to keep him in. The sensation pulled a sharp, broken gasp from me.
He hissed through his teeth. “Do that again.”
I did, tightening around him as he pushed back in, this stroke a fraction deeper, a fraction more deliberate. It was a rhythm of exquisite torture. Withdraw. A slow, slick slide out until just the tip remained, teasing my entrance. Pause. A breathless, trembling moment of anticipation where I could feel my own wetness and his heat. Return. A deep, rolling push that seated him fully, that nudged something deep inside me that made my toes curl. My hips rose to meet his, a weak, instinctive rock that begged for more. A sheen of sweat broke out across his collarbones, catching the dim blue light.
“That’s it.” He encouraged, his voice gravelly. “Take me. All of me.”
His pace remained slow, but the power behind each stroke was undeniable. Each deep drive brushed a spot inside me that sent shimmering sparks through my veins. our breaths became synced- a sharp inhale as he filled me, a trembling exhale as he withdrew. The sounds were obscene in the quiet room. The wet, rhythmic slap of skin, his low grunts, my helpless whimpers and sighs.
One of his hands left the table, sliding down my body. His thumb found my clit, swollen and oversensitive from his mouth. He didn’t rub, just rested the pad against it, the pressure perfect, connecting the deep, internal friction with the sharp, bright point of pleasure. It was too much and not enough.
“Jasper…” I pleaded, my voice unrecognizable. “Please…”
“Please what?” He growled, his rhythm never faltering. His eyes bore into mine, demanding honesty.
“Faster. Harder. Please.”
A while triumphant smile touched his lips. He held the reins, and I just begged him to let them go. He surged forward, his body covering mine completely. The slow, deep rolls became powerful, driving thrusts. The table creaked in protest. He hooked my leg over his arm, opening me wider, changing the angle so each piston of his hips hit that perfect, blinding spot with unerring accuracy.
The coiled tension in my belly, which had never fully unwound from my first climax, snapped back tight with a vengeance. It built faster this time, richer, deeper, fed by the fullness of him, the possessive grip of his hands, the raw need in his face. My nails dug into the hard muscles of his back. My cries grew louder, less coherent. I was chanting his name, a broken litany against his sweat-slick shoulder. He was losing his own control. His thrusts became erratic, deeper, harder. His breathing was a harsh rasp in my ear.
“Cum with me.” He demanded, his voice raw. “Look at me and cum.”
His command, the sheer dominance of it, was the final key. The world shattered. My climax exploded from that deep, internal point, a detonation of pure, white-hot pleasure that radiated out of my fingertips, my toes, the roots of my hair. My back arched violently off the table, a silent scream on my lips as I convulsed around him, milking him in relentless, rhythmic pulses.
Feeling me cum, feeling my tight channel clamp and spasm around him, broke his last restraint. With a guttural roar that seemed to shake the very walls, he drove into me one last, crushing time and stilled. I felt the hot, sudden flood of his release deeeo inside me, the throbbing pulse of his cock as he emptied himself, his whole body shuddering with the force of it.
For long moments, there was only the sound of ragged breathing and the distant hum of the Ark. He collapsed forward, catching his weight on his elbows at the last second, his face buried in the curve of my neck. His skin was fever-hot against mine. Inside me, he was still hard, still twitching with the last aftershocks.
Slowly, the world seeped back in. The cool air on my sweat-damp skin. The hard edge of the table digging into my back. The heavy, musky scent of sex that now layered over the smell of plants and damp earth. And the weight of him- the glorious, anchoring, real weight of him.
He finally shifted, withdrawing from me with a soft, wet sound that made me flinch with sensitivity. But he didn’t go far. He stayed between my thighs, his head resting on my stomach, his arms wrapped loosely around my hips. His breath fanned across my skin.
“See?” He mumbled, his voice muffled and utterly spent. “Told you I’d take my time.
summary: Rodrick could never forget the first girl he ever loved and, now that she's returned, he's thrown back into the depths of it all.
pairing: rodrick heffley x fem!reader
word count: 2.1k
author's note: this is my first fanfiction and my first ever post onto this tumblr account, how scary! I hope to write this concept as a series if I have enough time between exams.
warnings: nothing too crazy, mentions of Rodrick looking at the reader's boobs lol
Rodrick is still awake. How could he sleep after his Mom so casually dropped such world-altering information?
Susan Heffley is washing the dishes as Rodrick eats his late dinner.
‘I’ve already told your brothers and, even though you’re going out tomorrow, I still thought I’d let you know. You remember my best friend from college, her family, who moved out to New York about five years ago?’
How could he ever forget. It was the worst day of his life when you moved away.
‘Sure, Mom.’ Rodrick keeps his eyes on his plate, hoping not to betray how his heart sped up at just the implication of you.
‘Well, they’re moving back to Plainview. Something to do with the economy.’
‘What?’
‘Things are expensive Rodrick, you’ll realise that once your dad and I stop financing all of your hobbies.’
‘They’re moving back?’ Rodrick manages out.
His whole body feels like it’s on fire in a way he hasn’t felt since you placed your lips to his cheek in a goodbye kiss, your tears mixed with his.
The suffocating energy he tries to supress feels just as strong as it did when he was 13, as though the adoration he had for you was dormant dragon, now awake and searing through him.
‘Yes, Rodrick, and they’re all coming over for dinner tomorrow. You’re under no obligation to attend, I’ve already told them you’re busy.’
The one time his mom actually lets him off the hook.
‘No, um, I can stay. For dinner. The concert will definitely suck, so I’ll stay home. Here.’
Löded Diper’s rival band were set to perform in Plainview’s Town Hall and so, naturally, Rodrick and his band were planning to sabotage the gig. Rodrick has the stink-bombs under his bed and everything, but he’d rather choke on one of them than miss out on seeing you.
He found it difficult to think nice things about most people. His brothers are weird, his bandmates can be so lazy, his parents are too anxious, and his teachers are insane. But every time he thought of you, all of the best words he knew were conjured up.
Beautiful. Kind. Radiant, like the sun. He didn’t know many great words, and in this way his mind betrayed him. Every time he tries to write a song, it’s always accidentally about you, and he can never seem to find words good enough.
He wonders what you look like now. You were beautiful before, but with your luck, or his, he’s sure you’re out-of-his-league-hot now.
‘– and then you make sure you help me set the table, too, and then we – Rodrick, are you even listening?’
Rodrick is snapped out of his thoughts of you by his mother’s exasperated sigh.
‘Yes mom, I’ll help you with the table.’
Susan shakes her head in disbelief and scrubs a plate with a particular vigour.
Now he’s here, in his room, and he can’t get you off his mind. He repeats your name over and over again into the darkness of his pillow, just the syllables of it have a power over him. When he finally does fall asleep, he dreams of you and him and the kiss you gave him where your tears were each other’s.
Rodrick wakes up at 4 pm. An early start for him on a Saturday, but it’s well worth it – he gets to see you. Rodrick emerges from the hot fog and steam of the bathroom in his towel to see his dumb little brother Greg running through the hallway.
‘What are you doing, dweeb?’
Greg startles to a stop in front of Rodrick.
‘What are you doing home? Mom said you were going out today.’
‘Change of plans.’
Greg scrunches his face up in confusion.
‘Why are you showering on a Saturday?’
‘Move out of my way, turd.’
Rodrick shoves his way past, heading to his room. Greg smiles knowingly.
‘Does it have anything to do with dinner tonight?’
Rodrick stops walking. He turns to face Greg.
‘Shut up bird brain, you don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Oh, but Greg does know what he’s talking about, all too well. Greg hums in reply and watches as Rodrick walks away.
Greg remembers the time he caught Rodrick crying and kissing a picture of you from the year book after you left. He got his head shoved in the toilet Rodrick caught him laughing, but it was totally worth it – super hilarious.
Greg stands in the hallway remembering how great it was every time you came around. Rodrick was always on his best behaviour, and Greg could get away with anything.
One time you visited, Greg had accidentally microwaved Rodrick’s favourite CD after Manny put bacon inside of the CD sleeve and the music inside of two slices of bread. Greg was prepared to die when you and Rodrick entered the kitchen to investigate the weird burning smell.
Greg remembers how Rodrick squinted his eyes, the way he does when he’s about to seriously mess Greg up, until something he couldn’t have predicted happened. You laughed. The laughter caught both of them off guard, particularly Greg, but the sound knocked the anger out from under Rodrick.
He loved your laugh, he heard it like it was sounding from his own heart. It was better than any music on that dumb CD. Rodrick began to laugh too, looking to you with adoration as you doubled over.
At that point, Greg was really freaked out. He considered that maybe the fumes from the melted CD had made his brother go crazy. But, he went with it. He nervously laughed as he slipped past the two of you, out of the kitchen, still hearing your voices laughing together even as he got further away.
If Rodrick is still that crazy about you, Greg was going to have some fun. He has the opportunity, tonight, to get Rodrick back for years of torment.
Rodrick watches the street in front of the house, his fingers drumming nervously against his chest. He has on his best shirt, the only that doesn’t have any holes in it, his favourite jeans, and a whole lot of men’s body spray from the mall.
He thinks he might collapse when he sees the family SUV pull up into the driveway. The very same car he watched drive away with fractures of his heart was now back. Here. Now.
If he wasn’t already at risk of passing out when he saw the car, he definitely is once he catches just a glimpse of the top of your beautiful head leaving the car. The doorbell rings.
Susan answers the door with Manny, Greg, and her husband at her side. She smiles widely.
‘Oh, it is just so great to see you again!’
You watch as the mothers embrace halfway through the door and the fathers awkwardly smile at each other. Your mother steps back, speaking to Mrs Heffley with the whole house behind her..
God, how had nothing changed?
You can still see the dent in the wall from when you fell down at ten years old, playing some stupid game with Rodrick. He had been so kind to you as you cried and cried. He had then sat inside with you for the rest of the day, even when kids from the neighbourhood came round inviting him to play.
You’re sure you must have fallen in love with him then, before you even knew you were falling.
‘Manny has gotten so big! Oh, and you Greg, you’re even more handsome than the last time I saw you!’
Your mother sure knows how to sweet talk. Greg blushes and puts his head down.
‘Now, that makes two kids so, unless you sent him off to Military School, where is Rodrick?’
Just hearing someone say his name out loud makes your heart jump. For too long, Rodrick has only existed in your dreams and wandering thoughts, but soon he’ll be real again. Here. Now.
As though summoned by your wishful thoughts, you can hear leather-booted footsteps rapidly descending the stairs. Susan turns to the staircase, hidden behind the askew door.
‘There he is. Rodrick, I thought I told you to wait downstairs?’
Your family starts making their way inside. Placing gifts of chocolates and flowers down in the entry way. You stay firmly planted on the welcome mat. Obscured by that door in front of you is Rodrick, and you don’t know whether you’re ready for him to be real again.
‘Sorry, mom, I was getting ready. Can you get off my back?’
He sounds out of breath, but you can tell he’s trying to fight it. You laugh as you push the door fully open.
‘Hey Rodrick.’
The confidence with which you say his name falters at the final syllable when you see his face. His beautiful face that you have to angle your head up to fully take in.
He’d always had such kind eyes, and though this was still true, they had something behind them now, a fire, which heated you up from the inside out.
Rodrick couldn’t remember how to speak or what words are. How can he when you’re stood in front of him with your face and your hair and you look so different but so the same? There’s things about you that weren’t there the last time he saw you.
Your hair is longer and somehow your smile is wider and you’ve gotten taller and you also have boobs now and even though he tries not to notice he can’t help but go slightly slack-jaw at the sight of you. Definitely way out his league, light-years away.
‘Hey. Hi. What’s up – what’s going on with you? And stuff?’ Is all he manages out before awkwardly crossing his arms, his face reddening.
Rodrick’s nervousness gives you a new confidence, though admittedly you are distracted by how his biceps stretch the black sleeves of his small band tee. You try to look him in the eyes, but it’s just as difficult not to be distracted now by his unfair beauty.
‘I’m really good.’ You let out a small laugh as he nods overenthusiastically in reply.
God, he loves that sound. It’s better than he remembered it. He feels his heart beat in the same musical pattern of your laughter.
Susan pauses her distant conversation with your mother, walking back into the entryway and whispering to her son.
‘Rodrick, invite her inside! You can’t let her stand out in the cold.’
Rodrick doesn’t even hear his mother speak. He just stands there, trying not to stare at you for too long whilst being unable to look away.
‘I’m so sorry, sweetheart, he has no manners.’
Mrs Heffley ushers you inside as a timer dings in the kitchen.
‘Make yourself at home.’
Susan runs off to attend to whatever is in the oven as you now stand at an unbearably close distance to Rodrick. You turn to face him and he looks over every inch of your face. You bring a hand up to your face as a show of faux shyness.
‘What? Do I look different?’
You smirk as he nods slowly, swallowing. You realise you’re going to have to coax full sentences out of Rodrick, he is flatteringly dumbfounded. Still, you promise yourself you won’t let it get to your head. He’s an 18 year old boy and you’ve found that you sometimes have that effect on people. Still, you hope it’s different with Rodrick.
‘Is that painted on?’ You bring your hands to touch the words spelled out on his shirt.
He feels his skin vibrate at the contact. You keep your fingers on the shirt for too long. He can’t manage to move his mouth to respond to you.
‘Löded Diper?’ You read out.
He thinks it’s the best the two words have ever sounded.
‘It’s my band.’
‘You still play the drums?’ You smile.
‘Yeah.’
You were the one who got him his first pair of drumsticks after you noticed his nervous tic of tapping his fingers rhythmically during the quiet parts of Sunday Mass.
‘I’m glad.’
‘I really missed –’
‘Dinner’s ready!’
You look to the kitchen door and Rodrick just keeps on looking at you, unwaveringly, until you turn back to him. This time, when you look at him, it sends a chill down your spine. There is something so honest and pleading in his gaze that it startles you. You never been looked at in the way he’s seeing you. Here. Now.
‘We should probably go eat. I missed your dad’s cooking when I was in New York.’
Now it’s Rodrick’s turn to laugh. Your heart beats in a strange rhythm, taken by the beauty of his smile.
‘I know that’s not true. My dad’s cooking is awful.’
You laugh in response and begin to walk in the direction of the food. Rodrick follows you until you pause, turning back to look at him.
⋆ ˚｡⋆୨ Rodrick takes part in a rock bands competition with the Löded Diper and wins first place, Éléanore intends to congratulate him. ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆
The noise hits her before she can properly take in the scene.
A wall of sound, dense, almost physical. The bass rolls through her chest, vibrating deep into her ribs, while the distorted guitars tear through the air in a constant roar. The venue is packed, hot, saturated with overlapping smells, metal from the barriers, sweat, spilled beer, cables overheated by the stage lights. The lights burst in harsh flashes, slicing the silhouettes into restless fragments.
Éléanore takes a step forward, then another, threading her way through without really forcing it. Beside her, Vivienne grabs her sleeve.
“We’re good here,” she shouts over the music. “Perfect,” Éléanore answers, even though Vivienne probably doesn’t hear her.
Her eyes are already locked on the stage. She searches for him instinctively and finds him almost at once.
Rodrick is there, behind his drum kit, caught in an overly bright white light that clings to his hair and makes the sweat on the back of his neck glisten. He adjusts his position, taps lightly on a tom to test the sound. His shoulders sit a little too high, a clear sign of tension. She recognises it instantly.
“That’s him,” she murmurs, more to herself than to Vivienne.
The music cuts out for a second. An electric silence ripples through the room, immediately swallowed by shouts, applause, eager whistles. Rodrick lifts his head briefly. His gaze sweeps over the crowd, quick, almost nervous.
Then he sees her.
Éléanore feels the exact moment it happens. The micro-pause. The barely perceptible drop of his shoulders. Tension shifting into focus. He doesn’t quite smile, but something in his eyes changes.
“He saw you,” Vivienne says with a small grin. “I know,” Éléanore replies softly.
A little further back, she spots a group that stands out sharply from the rest of the crowd. Susan Heffley is there, upright and attentive, hands clasped in front of her as if she were attending an important recital. Frank is already filming, far too seriously. Greg, arms crossed, watches the stage with an air of deliberate detachment.
“Is that… his family?” Vivienne asks, intrigued. “Yes,” Éléanore breathes. “The full Heffley experience.”
On stage, the first note hits.
Rodrick isn’t perfect. A transition catches slightly, a rhythm is recovered at the last second. But he plays with everything he has. His body moves with every strike, every vibration. The drums resonate beneath his arms like an extension of himself. He is fully alive.
With every chorus, his gaze drifts back to her. Not for long. Not long enough to be noticed. But long enough for her to feel it a constant, reassuring presence. Her phone vibrates in her hand.
Rodrick: You okay down there?
She smiles, typing without taking her eyes off the stage.
Éléanore: More than okay.
A second later, almost without thinking, she adds:
Éléanore: Je t’aime. (I love you).
Beside her, Susan catches sight of the screen over her shoulder. She blinks, surprised then smiles softly. Her hand comes to rest against her chest. She says nothing. But Frank lowers the camera just a little.
“Did she just…” Greg starts. “Greg,” Susan cuts in, still smiling. “Okay. I said nothing.”
On stage, Rodrick reads the message between two beats. He nearly misses a count. Catches it instantly. But his smile this time is impossible to hide.
He plays harder. Free. In the noise, in the too-bright lights and the moving crowd, Éléanore feels something simple and solid take root inside her.
Pride. Love. And that quiet certainty: whatever he does on stage, whatever he messes up or pulls off, he is already exactly where he belongs.
And so is she. The final song ends in an explosion of sound.
The cymbal is still vibrating when Rodrick lifts his arms, breath short, skin damp under the spotlights. The room erupts, applause, shouts, whistles, a compact, joyful, almost deafening noise. He blinks, trying to find his way back into his own body. His chest rises too fast, his hands trembling slightly as he sets his drumsticks down.
He leaves the stage without really looking at the crowd, carried more by adrenaline than by his legs. In the corridor leading to the dressing rooms, the air is cooler, heavy with the smell of damp concrete, cables, spilled fizzy drinks. He leans back against the wall, closes his eyes for a second.
“That wasn’t great,” he mutters, more to convince himself than because he truly believes it. “Rodrick…” one of the guys starts. “No, seriously. I messed up the transition in the second song.”
He wipes his hands on his jeans. They’re clammy. His heart is still pounding too hard. Then the host’s voice suddenly comes through the speakers muffled, but perfectly audible even backstage.
“And now… the results,” the competition host announces. Rodrick straightens despite himself. His neck tenses. He feels the sweat cooling along his back.
“Third place…” Another name. Distant applause. “Second place…” Another band. Joshua’s, Vivienne’s boyfriend.
Rodrick breathes in. Slowly. He nods, already bracing himself for the disappointment. “See?” he murmurs. “Told you.”
Then the voice returns, louder, brighter. “And the winner… AND the audience award… goes to… LÖDED DIPER!”
Their band’s name detonates through the venue. The world freezes for a split second.
“Wait… what?” one of them blurts out. “Oh my God…” says another. And then Rodrick… “WE WON?”
The dressing room explodes. Shouting, laughter, arms wrapping around each other, someone nearly knocks over a chair. Rodrick stays frozen, eyes wide, as if the information still refuses to settle properly in his brain.“Rodrick!” Someone shakes him by the shoulders. “Dude, we actually did it!”
In the hall, it’s joyful chaos. Frank films without a tremor, the camera stubbornly fixed on the stage. Susan brings a hand to her mouth. Her eyes shine dangerously. She claps harder than necessary, her heart swelling with a pride she no longer even tries to hide.
“That’s my son,” she murmurs, her voice a little too full. Greg sighs, but a smile lingers despite himself. “Okay. Fine. That was… impressive.”
Rodrick hasn’t quite come back to his senses yet when the dressing room door bursts open. “Rodrick!” Éléanore.
She crosses the room without hesitation, the scent of the crowd and the night air still clinging to her jacket. He barely has time to speak before she’s in front of him, her hands on his face, her smile far too big to contain.
“You won,” she breathes. “I… yeah. I think?” he answers.
She laughs… a clear, bright laugh, and kisses him. Not for long. Not hard. Quick, almost trembling kisses brushing his lips, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. Butterfly kisses, charged with restrained electricity.
“I’m so proud of you,” she murmurs against him. Rodrick turns red to the tips of his ears. He laughs nervously, runs a hand through his hair.“Stop looking at me like that,” he mutters. “Never.”
Susan watches the scene from a distance. She doesn’t quite smile. Her expression is softer than that. Deeper. She looks at them the way one looks at something obvious that has finally revealed itself.
They really found each other, she thinks simply.
Later, they all gather in front of a makeshift backdrop for photos. Flashes. Laughter. Someone shouts, “One more!” A second photo is requested, less serious this time.
Rodrick barely hesitates before slipping an arm around Éléanore… then lifting her clean off the ground.
“Rodrick!” Éléanore yelps in surprise. “Too late.”
She laughs, startled, her hands clutching his shoulders. He smiles back, proud, unapologetic, his heart still in pieces but strangely steady.
The flash crackles. In that frozen image, everything is there: the public victory, the collective euphoria… and, at the centre of it all, something more intimate, more quiet. Their victory.
The groups eventually begin to disperse, naturally. Congratulations turn into quick hugs, into vaguely tipsy promises of “we’ll catch up” and “we’ll celebrate properly soon.” The technicians are already dismantling part of the equipment. The clink of microphone stands, the soft scrape of cables being coiled, the metallic scent of a stage still warm linger in the air.
Rodrick feels the pressure drop all at once… and something else slips into its place. Frank grabs his shoulder before he has time to disappear. “Hey, Rodrick.”
“Yeah?” His father isn’t smiling the way he usually does. It’s shorter. More serious. He glances towards Éléanore, a little further away, talking with Vivienne. “You did good tonight,” he says first. Then, more quietly: “Protect yourself.”
Rodrick takes half a second to understand. Then he goes bright red. Violently. “Dad…”
“That’s all,” Frank cuts in, already stepping back, as if he’d never said anything at all. Rodrick stays rooted to the spot, the back of his neck burning, his brain short-circuiting. He drags a hand over his face. “Oh my God.”
When they finally climb into the van, the atmosphere is calmer. Not silent. Just… different. Charged in another way.
Éléanore settles into the front passenger seat. She slips off her jacket and lays it across her lap. Their friend climbs into the back, already busy recounting the evening to someone on the phone, voice low but excited.
Rodrick starts the engine. It hums softly. The road stretches ahead, slick under the streetlights. He doesn’t take the most direct route.
A tiny detour. Almost imperceptible. One extra street. A set of lights he didn’t actually need to stop at. Éléanore notices immediately. She says nothing. She simply turns her head towards him, one eyebrow lifting slightly. The corner of her mouth curves slowly, as if she’s just understood something very precise.
“You’re not going straight home,” she murmurs, just loud enough for him to hear. Rodrick keeps his eyes on the road. His jaw tightens. “Just… figured I’d drive a bit,” he replies, falsely casual.
The silence that follows is different from the ones before. Denser. Warmer. It hums softly between them, in time with the engine, the indicator, their overly conscious breathing. Éléanore crosses her legs. The fabric of her skirt rustles faintly.
The sound is tiny. But Rodrick hears it. He swallows. “Okay,” she says at last, with a calm that isn’t really calm at all. “I see you.”
He finally dares to glance at her. Just for a second. Long enough to meet her bright eyes, to catch that slow, patient smile. Not rushed. But absolutely certain.
Anticipation settles there, between two red lights, between two breaths. And Rodrick knows, without a single word needing to be said yet, that the evening isn’t really over.
Rodrick eventually pulls up outside their friend’s house. The engine keeps running for a few seconds, as if hesitating to switch off, then silence settles back in, broken only by the distant clicking of a streetlamp and the steady sound of their breathing.
“That was insane,” their friend says, unbuckling his seatbelt. “Seriously. You guys absolutely killed it tonight.”
“Yeah,” Rodrick replies with a smile that’s still a little dazed. “Didn’t see that coming.”
“No one did,” he adds as he opens the door. He throws one last look inside the van, towards Éléanore. “Take care, yeah?”
“Always,” Rodrick answers too quickly. The door shuts. Footsteps on gravel. A quick wave. Then nothing. Rodrick drives off again.
The road stretches ahead, narrower now, lined with dark trees whose leaves whisper softly in the evening breeze. The air is cooler. The smell of still-warm asphalt mingles with damp grass. “Okay,” Éléanore says after a few seconds. “So… lil’ victory party. What’s the plan?”
“I was thinking,” he begins, a little too focused on the road, “something chill. No pressure. Music, drinks…” He trails off. Because he feels her.
At first, barely anything. The light weight of her hand resting on his thigh, just above his knee. Then the slow, almost innocent movement of her fingers sliding a little higher.
Rodrick lets out a short laugh. Nervous. Happy. “Wow,” he breathes. “You… you definitely got the message.”
She doesn’t look at him straight away. Her hand keeps up that calm, confident motion. When she finally turns her head towards him, her smile is soft. Knowing. “You weren’t exactly subtle,” she murmurs.
He shakes his head, amused, biting his lower lip without even realising it. His heart is still racing but this time, it has nothing to do with the stage. “Maybe we…” He inhales. “Maybe we don't go home just yet?”
No hesitation. “Okay,” she replies simply.
That single word shoots through him like a quiet jolt. He drives on a little longer. The van glides through nearly empty streets, headlights carving up pieces of the night. Every red light seems to last longer. Every second stretches.
Rodrick feels the excitement tightening his shoulders. He grips the steering wheel a little harder, then finally turns into a small, secluded car park, almost hidden behind a line of trees. He parks. Switches off the engine.
Now, the silence is complete. “Stay there thirty seconds,” he says as he unbuckles. “Thirty?” she repeats, amused. “Trust me.”
He gets out, closes the door gently, walks around the van. Gravel crunches under his feet. He opens the passenger door and holds out his hand, exaggeratedly serious.
“Venez, madame,” (“come, madam”) he says in French, with a grin he can’t quite suppress.
Éléanore blushes. Properly. She places her hand in his warm, familiar and steps down. “Such a gentleman,” she murmurs.
Their fingers remain intertwined without either of them really thinking about it. Hand in hand, they walk around the van, the night air sliding over their skin, heavy with the scent of leaves, earth, and warm metal.
The back of the van awaits them. Quiet. Secluded. And the tension, now, is no longer just a promise. It’s there palpable, vibrating… ready to tip gently into something more intimate.
Rodrick opens the back door of the van. The hinges creak softly, a rough sound that is immediately swallowed by the night’s silence. A rush of warmer air escapes from inside, mixed with familiar smells: worn fabric, metal, a trace of cold tobacco that has settled in over time, and that indefinable scent of roads travelled and nights spent there, between gigs.
“After you,” he murmurs. Éléanore climbs inside without hesitation, slipping in easily. The floor vibrates slightly under her weight. Rodrick follows straight after and pulls the door shut behind them. The dull thud of it closing feels like a gentle guillotine: the outside world disappears.
The back of the van is bathed in a warm half-darkness, lit only by an orange glow filtering through the tinted windows. The old blanket is there, spread carelessly across the floor, crumpled, worn with age. It smells of cotton, dust, and something warmer, more alive, oddly comforting despite its obvious lack of freshness.
Rodrick doesn’t give her time to say a word. He sits down, pulls her towards him, and kisses her.
It isn’t a shy kiss. It’s charged with the entire night’s energy, with the noise still trapped in his chest, with adrenaline that hasn’t yet faded. His mouth finds hers with an urgent, unapologetic hunger, as if he’s been holding this back for hours.
Éléanore responds instantly. Their lips search, meet, part. Their tongues brush, then tangle in an instinctive movement… slow at first, then more assured. Rodrick feels the heat rise, spreading through his shoulders, his neck, his stomach. His breathing shortens, louder now in the confined space.
“Ellie…” he breathes against her lips without quite realising it.
His hands slide along her back, feeling the fabric of her jacket, then the skin beneath as he starts to help her out of it. His movements are a little rushed, not clumsy but charged with that bright impatience that makes him smile despite himself. The temperature climbs quickly. Too quickly.
Rodrick tugs his t-shirt over his head, pulls it off a bit too energetically, tosses it aside without aiming. The cooler air of the van slips over his overheated skin and makes him shiver. Éléanore does the same, her movements slower, more controlled, as if she’s savouring every second.
They’re soon stripped down to the essentials. The contrast is striking: the simple black of his boxers, the grey lace of her set, delicate, almost unreal in the low light.
Rodrick looks at her for a second too long. “You’re…” He trails off, shakes his head. “Wow.”
She smiles, amused, and before he can recover, she pushes him gently but firmly. He tips backwards, surprised, a short laugh escaping him as his back meets the blanket. “Hey…!”
She joins him immediately, easing him fully onto his back. The fabric rasps lightly against his skin, warm, familiar. She leans over him, her shadow sliding across his chest, her eyes bright in the dim light.
Rodrick swallows. His heart is pounding. Too fast. But this time, he doesn’t try to slow it down.
Lying on the rough blanket, he feels every fibre against his heated skin, the residual warmth of the night still humming through his muscles. The air in the van is thick, heavy with worn fabric, warm metal, and their already too-close breaths. The silence isn’t empty, it pulses softly around them.
He lifts his head slightly, a slow, mischievous smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“You? On top?” he murmurs, his voice low, unhurried. His hands slide gently over Éléanore’s hips, warm skin beneath his fingers. “That’s… a first,” he adds, a small, unapologetic smirk tugging at his lips.
She lets out a short, almost mocking laugh and, instead of answering straight away, she starts to move. Slowly at first. Just enough to test the waters. Her hips trace a smooth, controlled motion that sends a sudden wave of heat flooding through the drummer’s entire body.
Rodrick lets out a shaky breath. His head tips back against the floor of the van, as if the ceiling has suddenly moved too far away. “Oh…”. She tilts her head slightly, eyes bright. “Wasn’t it you,” she continues softly, “who spent the entire week implying I should take the lead?”
He swallows. Hard. “I… yeah,” he admits, a nervous laugh caught in his throat.
Without really thinking about it, his hips begin to respond to hers. The movement is clumsy, a little too eager, but honest. His hands, cautious at first, grow more confident. They shift from slow caresses to firmer pressure, guiding her, anchoring her against him.
Éléanore’s reaction is immediate when she realises what she’s stirred. She startles slightly, a small surprised sound slipping from her lips as her hands fly to Rodrick’s bare chest, as if to steady herself.
“R-Rodrick?! Already?” Her voice wavers between surprise and amusement, her breathing a little less steady than before.
He laughs (properly this time) cheeks burning, eyes shining with a mix of pride and unabashed embarrassment. “Hey,” he says, lifting his shoulders slightly, utterly unable to hide his smile. “Not my fault if you drive me crazy, Ellie.”
The silence settles again, heavier than before. The van is still motionless, cut off from the world. And in that warm half-darkness, between their mingled breaths and bodies acutely aware of each other, the night keeps drifting gently towards something more intimate, unhurried, but with no turning back.
Colour slowly blooms across her cheeks, visible even in the dim light of the van. Éléanore holds his gaze for a second longer, a mischievous spark glinting in her eyes, before leaning down towards him. She doesn’t answer with words.
Her lips find his, softly at first, almost teasing. A slow kiss, pressed just firmly enough to stoke the heat without rushing it. Rodrick sighs against her mouth… a low, nearly surprised sound and his hands lift instinctively to her hips, hesitant but already certain of their place.
“Ellie…” he murmurs without quite realising it.
She smiles against his lips, then drifts lower, brushing light kisses along his jaw, into the hollow of his neck. She lingers there just long enough to make him shiver, to gently unravel his breathing. The scent of her skin, mingling with the old blanket and the warm metal of the van, becomes almost dizzying.
Rodrick lets his head fall back, eyes closed, a quiet, nervous, happy laugh escaping him. “You’re killing me…”
“It’s a reward,” she whispers into his ear, her voice low, playful. “You’ve earned it, dear leader~”
Her fingers skim across his chest, tracing light paths, exploring without hurry. Every touch is measured, intentional, as though she’s savouring this slow build just as much as he is, the tension that doesn’t yet ask to be resolved.
The van is silent. Too silent. Cut off from the rest of the world. All that can be heard are their mingled breaths, the soft rustle of the blanket shifting beneath them, the too-rapid beat of his heart, a rhythm he’s sure she can feel beneath her fingers.
“Look at me,” she whispers gently. He obeys at once.
Their eyes lock, heavy with everything left unsaid. The euphoria of the victory. The pride. The desire. That calm certainty that they are exactly where they’re meant to be. Rodrick smiles slowly, sincerely.
The van remains silent. Too silent. Cut off from the rest of the world, as if it has slipped out of the ordinary night to become something else entirely… a narrow, shifting bubble, saturated with warmth.
The air grows heavier, denser. It smells of the old fabric of the blanket, metal still warm from the day, their mingled scent already no longer what it was just minutes ago. The windows begin to fog slowly, as though the outside world is retreating on its own, refusing to witness what is unfolding inside.
Rodrick feels everything. Too much. The frantic rhythm of his heart. Éléanore’s closeness, so near that every breath seems shared. The way the van responds to the slightest movement, creaking softly, rocking just a little, as if it is breathing with them.
“Ellie…” he lets slip, his voice already rougher than he would have expected.
She answers without words, her forehead resting against his, her hands anchoring themselves in his back as if to make sure he is really there. Her breathing breaks at times, small sounds escaping her without restraint, and each murmur of his name sends another shiver through him.
Rodrick loses all sense of time. He no longer knows how long they have been moving like this. Only that everything intensifies, that restraint frays, that their gestures grow less careful, more instinctive, carried by the euphoria of the victory, by an overfull love, by a shared hunger they no longer try to hide.
At some point, he couldn’t say when, Rodrick draws a breath, slows just enough to find his footing again. His movements change. More attentive. More deliberate. As if he wants to feel everything, to memorise it all. He leans into her, his face disappearing into the hollow of her neck, along her skin, leaving behind burning shivers, marks she feels more than she sees.
She arches slightly, her fingers curling into him, leaving traces on his skin that he will wear without shame. Proof. Trembling sighs slip from her lips, his name repeated like an anchor, like an undeniable truth.
“Rodrick…” He answers with a breath, a muffled laugh, lost, completely overwhelmed, and perfectly happy.
They forget the car park. They forget the time. They even forget, for a moment, that there is a world beyond these walls of metal and misted glass. There is only the rhythm. The heat. Their breaths blending until they become one.
And when everything finally breaks loose, not in noise, but in that inner surge, bright and uncontrollable, they stay there, still, unable to pull away straight away, as though moving might break the spell.
The van grows still again. But them… they are not quite the same anymore. The night outside can wait a little longer.
They collapse against one another, without really deciding who ends up where. The van is still warm, the air heavy, saturated with heat and mingled scents, the old fabric of the blanket, sweat dried too quickly, metal that has kept the memory of the day. Their breathing is still uneven, loud in the reclaimed silence, punctuated by small, trembling exhales before it finally begins to settle.
Rodrick closes his eyes for a moment. His heart is still beating too fast, but it’s no longer urgency. It’s the aftermath, that strange feeling of having given everything and still being there, intact.
Éléanore moves first. Slowly. As if each movement has to be relearned. She shifts closer, slips an arm around him, draws him against her without force. Her body is warm, real, reassuring. She buries her face in the hollow of his neck, presses a kiss there, then another, lighter, almost absent-minded. A simple gesture. Comforting.
“Hey…” he murmurs, his voice still rough but gentle. “Ellie…”
She doesn’t answer straight away. She only tightens her hold, her cheek against his, their foreheads nearly touching. He feels her breathing slow, grow steadier. The van is still there now. Completely. As if it is finally respecting their need for quiet.
“I love you, Rodrick,” she breathes after a few seconds. Not loudly. Not to mark the moment. Just because it needs to be said.
He smiles at once, without even opening his eyes. A tired, happy, genuine smile. He slips an arm around her in return, holding her close with an almost tender care, as if he wants to shield her from everything that exists outside this moment.
“Love you too, Ellie,” he replies simply. There is nothing more to add. No grand declarations. No promises to make.
Just their breathing gradually falling into sync, the silence soft again, and that calm certainty settling between them: whatever happens next, they have this place. Together.
Éléanore blushes slightly, as though the words have found a sensitive spot just beneath her skin. She lifts her face towards him and kisses him, gently, without urgency. A quiet, settled kiss that doesn’t need to do more to say everything it holds. Rodrick smiles against her lips before letting her draw closer again, their foreheads touching for a moment, their breaths mingling once more.
The van is still silent around them. The air is heavier now, filled with residual warmth and that familiar scent of old fabric, warm metal, and the advancing night. Outside, the world continues to exist, they know that but here, everything feels suspended. Sounds are distant, muffled, as though they’ve been deliberately left beyond the walls.
They take their time. Truly. They cuddle without counting, shift against one another, find the most comfortable position without even thinking about it. Éléanore idly traces circles along his arm, her fingers warm and soothing. Rodrick runs a hand through her hair, slowly, with that attentive care that is so like him, as if he wants to memorise the sensation. The blanket rustles softly beneath their movements, and sometimes one of them laughs under their breath, for no reason at all just because the tension has gone and the joy is still there.
“We’re going to ache everywhere tomorrow,” he murmurs with a tired smile. “Worth it,” she replies without hesitation, her nose against his shoulder.
He nods, unable to argue.
Time passes without them really measuring it. The evening stretches on, peaceful. Rodrick watches the shadows drift slowly across the van’s walls and feels Éléanore’s breathing grow more regular against him. His heart, finally, beats calmly. Steady. Where it belongs.
And in this silence that has grown soft again, a thought settles in him, clear, obvious, almost serene: tonight, it isn’t just a competition he’s won. It’s not only a trophy, or applause, or even pride on a stage.
It’s this certainty. The knowledge that he’s found the person he can picture himself with, without fear, without urgency. The girl with whom he imagines time passing. Growing older. Building something.
He tightens his embrace around her gently, as if sealing the thought without saying it aloud. Éléanore shifts a little closer, perfectly at home against him. Whatever comes next, they have this place. And tonight, that is more than enough.
Teenage Dirtbag || R.H. || Retail and Vehicle Maintenance
Masterlist
Chapter 7
༶•┈┈ ⛧ ┈ ♛ ┈ ⛧ ┈┈•༶
You hadn't stepped foot into the comic shop since you were in middle school when Cory's dad invited you to the grand opening.
Business seemed to be a little slow today with the few customers roaming around and the unusually clean state of it all.
Hardly two seconds in, you already lost Rowley to the Unicorn Mania aisle in the games section of the store and Greg to God knows where, silently wishing you had tied balloons to these kids.
With Manny in a stroller, you push him over to the counter where Cory was seated with a video game magazine in hand, dressed in the shop's uniform.
The same uniform he voiced his hatred for for years. He wasn't allowed any accessories either. The only personal touch he could add was the red sleeved shirt he wore under the pale blue button up and pale yellow vest.
"So when you guys said I totally got this..." You start.
Cory looks up and rolls his eyes, taking off his headphones and tossing them onto the counter haphazardly. "Look, it's a pain in the ass to get anywhere without Ozzy's car. So I'm doing my part now too"
A girl comes out from the back and scoffs while working the cashier. It's Cory's twin sister, Cecelia, dressed similarly but with purple sleeves instead of red.
There was a box of records in her hands, organising them on the shelf behind Cory.
"That is a bold ass lie. Our dad's making him work 'cus he broke the stereo playing air guitar." She speaks, her voice much more monotone and more of a vocal fry than Cory's.
Cory looked displeased, grumbling a quick, "Fuck off, Cece."
"Haven't seen you here much." Cece brings a Madonna vinyl to the cashier, ringing up a customer, but it was clear she was talking to you.
"I usually just play video games at your guys' house. Don't really need to buy 'em. Much more convenient, no?" You shrug.
"Oh, yeah. It's so much more convenient to have you in our house all the time, playing our games and eating our food instead of supporting our business, Y/N," Cece deadpans and shoves the register shut, moving back to organise the records behind Cory.
“She hates me,” You feign hurt.
"She loves you." Cory glances at her then to you with an eyeroll.
"Flattering. So, where's Twisted Wizard?" You slap your hand against the countertop.
Cory almost glares at you with a raised eyebrow. "So your plan to get money is to... spend money... on a video game?"
You nod with a smile, “And ice cream.”
He sighed. "We have the game but we're only allowed to put it on shelves starting next Tuesday."
You nod and turn around in time to catch Greg looking through some comics. "Ahuh... Hey, Greg! How would you feel to be the first kid in Plainview to own the new Twisted Wizard sequel?"
"No way! Really? You're the best, Y/N!"
You turn back with a raised eyebrow as if to say, “Am I not the best?” to Cory who was already giving you a deadpan look.
"You wanna break that poor little boy's heart?”
"I hate you.”
"Not as much as you hate Löded Diper. Go on, fetch."
Cory looked annoyed as shit, though was already shoving the magazine under the counter. "You're so lucky I'm into your petty shit,” He grumbled, pushing off the counter and slumping on over to the back door.
“Thank you!”
Manny seemed preoccupied with his little blanket, the only sound in the room along with the distant voices of the kids you were watching over and the soft pop song playing from Cory's headphones on the countertop.
Your eyes drifted to the neon green carton to the side of the cashier with GHASTLY GOO SOUR BLAST in disgusting green font printed on the front… But the ghoul-shaped sour pop rocks lollipops were tempting…
Maybe you'll come back someday and get those for a prank.
“I heard you got beef with Rodrick Heffley,” Cece, who had finished stacking the records, moves to the computer on the other end of the counter, punching in numbers.
“Oh, yeah… Wait, did Cory tell you that or-”
“You think people at school would care if Rodrick Heffley of all people had drama?” Cece deadpanned.
“I guess that's fair. I didn't even know him before he started this whole mess,”
“Oh, he started it?” She raised an eyebrow. You nod, causing her to tilt her head, clearly trying to figure you out with her stare. “So why are you retaliating big time?”
You shrugged. “It's funny.”
There's about a minute of silence between you as Cece stares you down before she shrugs herself and goes back to work. “Guess he deserves it for being a moron who can't even spell his own name.”
You chuckle, surprised by how blunt that was. “Wow, you're evil.”
“Am I wrong?”
You don't get a chance to respond when Cory pushes through the backdoor, holding the sealed purple cartridge case. "If my dad finds out about this, he's going to kill me,” he says, holding it out to you.
"Yeah, yeah." As you reach for the game, Cory grips it tighter, looking you dead in the eyes. "I mean it. This kid better not brag about this game to his friends."
You sigh, waving him off and yanking the game out of his grasp. "Relax, Cory, I'm not gonna let you get murdered by your own father."
"If he does, don't let Ozzy anywhere near my ATLs or I will haunt your ass,” Cory pats the counter, flipping through his notepad.
You nod, slipping the game into the pocket at the back of Manny's stroller "Yeah, yeah. I’ll make sure Penny gets them even though I've repeatedly told you to just give them to her yourself.”
Cory scoffs as if you had just said the most outrageous thing in the world. "Hell no. She'll think I'm some creep for knowing what her favourite band is."
“I think it's even creepier when a boy you barely know has your name in his will under ‘All Time Low Records.’”
“For once, I agree with Y/N. You're pathetic,” Cece finally finishes up punching stuff into the computer and storms off into the back.
“Yeah? Well the men you like always turn out to be gay!” Cory called out.
“Not all of them!”
“She has it out for Frankie,” Cory turned to you to clarify as if you needed or even wanted context to that insult.
But that does genuinely surprise you. “I'm like 96% sure Frankie is also not into girls.”
“Oh. I am too, and it's so much funnier that she doesn't know that." Cory scoffed, flipping through a log book he grabbed from under the counter.
"You're both evil…"
"Right back at ya." He finally stops at a page and taps at a bit of scribble. "62.30"
You’re baffled. “62?!”
“30,” Cory nodded.
It takes you a second to process that, pulling out your wallet and pulling out the money. “Jesus Christ. This game better be worth the month's worth of lunches I'm about to skip.”
As Cory does the change manually without the help of the register, you stuff your wallet back into your pocket, suddenly hyper aware that you were near broke.
You put your fingers to your lips and whistle toward the aisles. “Let's go!”
Rowley and Greg come running over, holding the prop gun blasters from the Supreme Intergalactica display. “Did you get it?”
“Yep.”
“Awesome!” They put the guns down on top of a random stack of boxes nearby.
You grab the handles of the stroller and push Manny out the door with the boys in tow. “Bye, Cory.”
“Yeah cool- Wait, don't forget practice on Fridaaaayy-...”
But the door already shuts behind you.
“I am so gonna kill her.”
¸¸♬·¯·♩¸¸♪·¯·♫¸¸¸♬·¯·♩¸¸♪·¯·♫¸¸
"Rodrick is so gonna kill you," Greg giggles as he stuffs his face with ice cream.
Rowley and Manny were in the back, checking out the stuff you had just bought for them.
"He's already trying to, what's one more reason?" You tease, nudging Greg with your elbow before indulging in your own cone of soft serve.
You were currently parked down the road, blasting whatever mixtape was in the stereo with the AC on high, enjoying highly drippy ice cream with a ticking time bomb in a diaper in the backseat.
Everything Rodrick would hate to have in his van.
The keys of which you yoinked from his nightstand while he was out cold thanks to Greg's tip that Rodrick wouldn't wake up for shit.
“So why do you hate Rodrick? I mean besides obvious reasons.” Greg asks.
“He fucked up my friend's car,” You answer instinctively, instantly cringing at that.
“Woah.”
“Sorry.”
“No, that was badass.”
“Hey-”
“You started it.”
“Five dollars to not tell your mom this conversation happened.” You point at his face with your cone in a lighthearted threat kind of way.
Greg let out a chuckle. “Deal.”
“Deal.”
“So how did he do it?” He asked.
“Slashed the tires and spray painted the windshield. It was rough to scrub the paint off, but the real issue is how much it'll cost to get those wheels replaced.”
“You should make him pay.”
“Oh, we are. By putting me in this job so I'm around him almost all the time… And he hates that.”
Greg laughed. “I can totally help you. I'm kind of an expert in annoying my older brother.”
“Oh, yeah?” You bite the cone, accidentally letting the ice cream drip onto the leather seat between your thighs. “Oops,” You say with zero remorse in your tone.
“Yeah!” He giggles. “Actually, there is something I could use your help with.”
“Hit me.”
“Well… He sort of made me…” He trailed off, voice growing quieter when he continued. “Pee… on him.”
What…?
“No fucking way…” A smile starts to form on your face.
The lack of response from the boy makes you realise he’s not joking.
You choked, ice cream splattering on the steering wheel, coughing from the sudden laughter that escaped you.
“Y/N” He whined. “Please, don’t laugh!”
You shake your head, struggling to wipe off the clear humour on your face. “I’m not- I’m not laughing, I swear…” You manage to drop the smile for a moment before bursting into laughter.
“I'm serious! He said he was gonna kill me then trapped me in my room until I couldn't hold it in anymore!”
“So you peed on him?!” You have never smiled so hard at anything before.
“No! Not on purpose!”
“What did you even do?”
“I- I was in his room-”
“But only to show me Rodrick's middle school year book!” Rowley cut in, peeking through from between our seats.
You try to hold off the giggles, the boy next to you reeling in his seat in embarrassment.
“Come on, Y/N…”
“Fine, okay, okay.” You say through giggles. “I'll do something about it.”
Greg, still embarrassed, seemed somewhat relieved.
“Hey, Y/N?” Rowley chimes in again. “Was middle school ever hard for you?”
“Why? Was your first week really that bad?” You ask, voice softening from the previous teasing tone.
Greg snapped his head toward Rowley as if warning him. “It was great!”
Rowley only glanced at Greg then turned back to you. “We ate lunch behind the garbage cans all week.”
You wince. “Oh yeah, I remember back when me and my friend Frankie were in our first day of fifth grade and sat behind the vending machine in the corner.”
“No way!” Greg seemed pleased by that. You think he’s starting to see you as less of an evil babysitter and more of a cool one which was great for the plan.
“Yes way. We skipped lunch time altogether and snuck snacks into my locker to eat between periods for the next three weeks until we met our other two friends and got to sit at an actual table.”
“So what can we do to get off the floor?” Rowley asked.
“Oh… Well, I never really joined any, but you could always try clubs and after school activities. Stuff like that.” you shrug. “If you’re part of something like the school paper or marching band, it’s almost a guarantee to get a spot at their respective lunch tables… Y’know, if they think you’re cool like that.”
“After school activities, huh…?”
Something about the way Greg said that worried you.
Rodrick swears his heart actually falls down to his ass when he sees his diary (Yes, his diary..) in your hands. After he made the effort to look flawlessly cool in front of you, you somehow found his diary of all things??
He had just asked you to take his chemistry textbook (which he surprisingly had..) out of his bag when he went to go get something.
No, no, that wasn't even the worse part. Sure it looked stupid coming from him, but he could handle that. He could call it his..Death Archive or something cool like that. Whatever, it didn't matter because you were already reading what was inside!
...Which was all about you.
Depending on how you take it, you were either going to think he was a creepy ass stalker or just..a lame loser who gets all giddy like an elementary schoolboy. And neither of them were good options to him.
The both of you freeze and stare at each other when Rodrick enters the room. You scramble to toss the diary aside and act casual, like you weren't just reading about how head over heels he was about you.
"That...That isn't mine."
"It literally had your name on it."
Fuck, he knew he should've stayed anonymous for safety and cooler reasons. He braced himself for you to humiliate and tease him, face looking like he was about to face a deathly drop on a roller coaster.
"Didn't know you liked the way I smiled and laughed that much.."
Rodrick snaps out of his mind, looking at how you didn't seem to mind much oddly enough. You actually looked...flustered?
"But you called me dorky like..a hundred times though."
"Y...Yeah, uh..I did." He mustered up all the courage in his guts and that's all he could say?! "...You gonna make fun of me now or what?"
You pause for a second to look at him, before letting out a laugh. Not a condescending one though like he expected, a genuine one that had no malice in it.
"No! Not at all—I'm just glad to know that you actually care.."
And yeah. Maybe he doesn't show it often, maybe he really never has, but that doesn't mean he doesn't feel it.
a/n: rushed, also like its been yrs since ive read the books and idk if ive watched the movies but hes cute so this is probably inaccurate
How to Write a Character’s Breaking Point (+Sensory Details Cheat Sheet)
1. Strip Away Their Last Defense
A breakdown only lands if the character has nothing left to protect themselves with. Take away the coping mechanism they’ve relied on — their pride, their control, their relationships, their denial, or their hope.
The breakdown isn’t caused by pain. It’s caused by the loss of what kept them standing in that pain.
2. Make the Trigger Small but Devastating
The moment that breaks them should often be quiet, personal, and specific, not just the biggest explosion.
A single line of dialogue, a realization, or a tiny betrayal can hurt more than the obvious disaster.
3. Let Them Resist the Fall
Don’t drop them instantly into collapse. Let them try to hold it together first. That resistance creates tension and makes the fall feel earned and painful.
4. Show the Internal Shatter Before the External One
Start with the internal fracture — the belief that dies, the truth they can’t ignore, the hope that finally gives out — then let the external breakdown follow.
5. Let the Breakdown Change Them
A real breaking point permanently alters the character. After this moment, they don’t return to who they were before — even if they heal.
✦ Sensory Cheat Sheet for Writing Breakdowns
Use 2–3 of these at most so the scene stays sharp and not overloaded.
Physical Sensations
Chest feels tight, hollow, or painfully heavy
Hands shaking, numb, or clenched too hard
Throat burning, closing, or unable to form words
Sudden weakness in knees or limbs
Feeling too hot or too cold all at once
Emotional Sensations
Sudden exhaustion rather than loud sadness
A sense of “what’s the point anymore?”
Feeling disconnected from their body or surroundings
A sharp wave of shame, guilt, or self-loathing
Emotional numbness replacing intensity
Mental Experience
Thoughts looping uncontrollably
A single devastating realization repeating in their mind
Trouble focusing on anything except the pain
Feeling like time has slowed or stopped
A sense of being very small, trapped, or exposed
Behavioral Tells
Going silent instead of crying
Laughing at the wrong moment
Snapping at someone who doesn’t deserve it
Making a reckless or self-destructive choice
Withdrawing completely from others
Environmental Mirroring (Optional but powerful)
A room that feels too quiet, too loud, or too small
Harsh lighting or deep shadows
Weather that contrasts their emotion (sunny during despair, storm during numbness)
A comforting object that now feels meaningless
✦ Final Tip
A breakdown isn’t about how dramatic the moment is — it’s about how personally devastating it is for that specific character. The more tailored the pain is to their fears, flaws, and desires, the harder it hits the reader.
