ArchivedLogs:Hot Under the Collar
| Hot Under the Collar | |
|---|---|
Warning: KISSY-KISSIES | |
| Dramatis Personae | 2013-07-02 Yes I know the title is terrible I CAN'T STOP MYSELF |
| Location
<XS> Workshop | |
A large barn-like building situated at the far end of the gardens from the mansion proper, this makerspace functions as a classroom for many of the more hands-on classes. An expanse of workshop space, it is subdivided into smaller segments for the different types of activities: Woodshop, Welding shop, Machine shop, Electronics, Bike shop, Screen Printing and Photography, Fabric Arts, and the Rapid Prototyping Lab with a trio of 3D printers. The space comes complete with a large host of tools available for use, although many of the more dangerous require prior clearance from administration to use -- students with appropriate clearance to use them can gain access to locked equipment with their student IDs. From sanders to MIG/TIG welders to soldering stations to industrial sewing machines to its own darkroom, though, this space is well equipped for teaching students how to /make/.
Having two legs in a cast is pretty sucky, but one of the benefits it carries is giving you an excuse to spend a /lot/ of time sitting down. Peter's spent pretty much all of that time in the school workshop -- pouring over notes, messing with the 3D printer, prototyping all manner of gadgets, and fumbling around with the variety of fabrics the school makes available. When Shane arrives in the workshop, he'll find Peter sitting on a stool near the fabric section of the shop -- the boy's left eye squeezed narrow, right eye popped open, a sliver of his pink tongue peeking out from the side of his mouth -- in the process of inserting a long plastic tube into what looks like a grey plastic box. The box already has about twenty clear plastic tubes sticking out of it; at this point, it looks something like a spaghetti monster. There's other pieces of fabric laid out on the table in front of Peter -- a thick spool of dark red fabric; something that /looks/ like it might be the beginning of a scarlet chest-piece -- and a funny looking mask (that looks like a cross between a luchador and a fireman). Peter's clad in his blue collared shirt, sleeves rolled up to expose his chitinous blue-black arms; the last few buttons are undone, and the shirt is half-tucked in, half-tucked out. His hair is -- well, it looks like he hasn't washed it today (or yesterday, maybe). He's got on a pair of loose fitting blue-jeans under that, and his ankle-casts under *that*; the crutches are propped up on the table beside him. "What the fuck is an alchimeter," comes Shane's greeting as he arrives at the workshop. He's got both his backpack and his violin case, so it's likely he just came from /some/ variety of practice. He is not dressed in typical finery -- /hasn't/ been, really, for the duration of summer term so far. Just black cargo shorts and a plain white tank top, bare feet quiet against the floor as he heads over to the prototyping lab. He drops his backpack onto an empty stool, sits his violin on the table. "That doesn't /look/ like gold." His finger swats lazily at one of the tubes. Then swats lazily at a stray lock of flyaway Peterhair. "It's what you use to make super-sweet gear," Peter informs Shane, not looking up from his work -- even when Shane swats at one of the plastic tubes. Even when Shane swats at his hair! He finally does look up, but only when that tube is sliding into place with a telltale *CLICK*; then he's grinning widely, bright white teeth on metallic dark-blue: "S'what I call the 3D printer," he explains, jerking a thumb back at the machine. He soon adds: "/Homestuck/. Jeez you get on /me/ for not knowing Frith from Watership Down -- I read it, by the way, holy /crap/ bunnies are hardcore -- uh," Peter pauses, glancing down at the device he's working on, then back up to Shane, and: "This isn't the thing that I was going to show--" A hint of violet. "--well I guess it's. Maybe /one/ of the things -- /this/ isn't done yet. But the other thing is." And now Peter's arm is slinging down to his backpack, on the floor, the other hand gripping the table to keep himself balanced as he drops low and starts rummaging for something. "The fuck is a homestuck?" Shane reaches for the tube that Peter just inserted, when it clicks into place; he wiggles at it curiously, inspecting the strange box. "That book is fucking awesome, I would get a badass Bigwig tattoo if tattoos could even stay on me. -- dude that is kind of sad when are you done being a cripple?" He stoops to lift the backpack higher up, when Peter braces himself to reach for it. "You should get a badass Stark Industries wheelchair. I bet if you asked Tony could make you a fucking hoverthrone." "S'really, really long story on the internet," Peter /explains/, although when Shane reaches for the box and tubing -- and starts wiggling! -- Peter releases the table long enough to send a little swat at Shane's wrist. It is! Not a /hard/ swat, but definitely a 'don't mess with that' sort of swat. Said swat is coupled with Peter producing what looks to be a small white box from his schoolbag; it's one of those cheap little jewelry gift boxes you can buy from a dollar store. "Don't mess with that, I haven't -- even /tested/ the thing yet," he says, even as he holds the box up toward Shane; his violet color is darkening to indigo, and spilling from his face to his throat. "/Here/," he says, a little more insistently, just -- /shoving/ the box at Shane. TAKEIT. "Look if it isn't supposed to be messed with, why do you have it sitting here looking all freaky mysterious?" Shane does drop his hand with the swatting, though, resting it on Peter's thigh instead. "What /is/ it?" He gives the same curious what-is-it kind of look to the box. And takes it! But doesn't open it, instead lifting his hand to run his finger up the side Peter's neck. "You're turning purple, dude, /tell/ me it's a cock ring." "OhmyGod," Peter says, in response to Shane's guess; his hands proceed to slap into his own face. SMACK. He's now a very dark shade of purple. "It is /not/," Peter insists, "that. And my ankles'll probably be healed up in another week, the doctor said," he adds, even though Shane asked that question about fifteen seconds ago. Despite the flushing and face-palming, when Peter's hands descend, he's grinning; he bristles a little under Shane's finger and hand. "I've been messing with a lot of fabrics? To get this stuff right. I had a lot of, um, fabric left over. And--/open/ it," Peter commands! Reaching forward with a hand to steady himself with Shane's shoulder. "Eloise could probably make that like seven minutes instead of seven days." Shane grins brigt and toothy when Peter's purple darkens. He leans in to press a light kiss to Peter's purply cheek. "Jeez ok yessir so /pushy/," he says with more than a little amusement. "But you still haven't told me what's that weirdass thing you're /making/." He pries the top of the box open to peer inside. "Yeah, I keep meaning to maybe talk to her about it, but I mean, it seems so -- rude? But, anyway, this has been a chance to just -- /work/ on stuff, so I..." The words fade off as Shane leans forward to kiss Peter's cheek; if it were possible for Peter to get any darker, he /would/, but at this point... Inside of the box is a dark red strip of fabric with buckle -- a collar! Except it's a bit wider than you'd expect a normal collar to be, and the material itself -- a dense weave -- is a bit more /tougher/ than you'd expect something merely decorative to be. There's also two unusual 'pads' attached to either side of its interior -- like flaps. Peter visibly swallows when Shane exposes it; a second later, and he's nattering away about it: "It's stuff I've been using for -- um. It's fitted for your size, but we might have to tighten it -- I don't know if the flaps are gonna fit right, too, but I can adjust those -- it's, um. For your gills, for when you sleep, and... I'm gonna make one for Sebastian, too, but. I wanted to -- make sure it /fits/ and everything first, so... I think Micah'll be working on the bits for your flank-gills." Shane reaches into the box, drawing out the fabric laid flat across his webbed fingers. He lifts it, turning his attention away from Peter's blushing to inspect it carefully. "Wow," he says eventually, his gills flapping open. Then closed. Then open. "You really did it." He turns his hand over, a quick flick of motion that wraps the strap against the backs of his fingers. "It's a good colour." His grin flashes again. "I'd totally let Micah collar me too but he's not into it." The grin fades soon, though, his smile smaller but warmer as well. "Thanks." He hesitates a moment, then holds the strip of fabric out to Peter in offering. And turns, tipping his chin to bare his neck, the back of it facing Peter's stool. Peter almost chokes at the mention of Micah; he manages to hold it together long enough to grin in response to Shane's thanks, though -- and when Shane holds it out to him, his chin tilted back -- Peter's still struggling /not/ to flush, and still failing spectacularly. He takes the strip gingerly; there's a slight scuffing of metal against floor as he shifts the stool forward, and -- very slowly, very hesitantly, Peter reaches forward -- slipping the strip of red underneath Shane's jaw. Peter takes a moment to make sure the small pads are on top of Shane's gills; they're looped onto the collar, so their position can be adjusted -- sliding them around until they settle into place. Then, he leans forward a bit closer, breath rustling across Shane's shoulder and throat as he buckles it in the back, and... "...it's a thermoregulator. The mysterious-looking thing," Peter tells him, a little breathlessly. "You wear it under your clothes, and it regulates your skin temperature -- keeps you cool or warm. People use them when they can't rely on sweat." "Wait really?" There's curiosity in Shane's tone all over again. He doesn't turn around, though he does glance towards the device. "That's sort of badass, dude, summer can be fucking unbearable. S'the chitin been fucking that up for you, too?" His grin fades entirely as Peter buckles the collar into place. He leans back almost unconsciously when Peter's breath ghosts against his skin, a faint shiver rippling through his shoulders. He lifts a hand, fingers touching lightly against the cloth, and his next, "thank you," is quieter still. "Yeah," Peter responds, voice soft and apprehensive. "If it works really well, I'm gonna try to make -- a portable version? But I started because I don't really sweat, and I know it's just gonna get worse under the armor -- um. I'm making body armor," he adds, and there's almost a laugh there, gentle and nervous. But when Shane shivers and touches the cloth, the laughter is gone; a finger tugs at the back of the collar, as if to test its tightness -- or pull Shane back a little more into that lean. Peter's hand drifts to Shane's hip. "Try flaring your gills," Peter says, and now the agitation in his voice is gone; his tone is firm and steady. "Will the armour make you invincible?" There's an amusement in Shane's voice, but it fades to something far more serious when he continues: "-- Because good. Don't fucking die or I'll break your legs /again/ so you can't go superheroing into danger. -- That's /really/ cool, though. How does it work? The regulator thing." His words fade, too, into another shiver when that tug comes at his collar. He shifts into it, this time resting his head lightly back against Peter's shoulder. His hand drops from the collar, resting atop Peter's at his hip. His gills shift, when Peter tells him to, pressing out against the flaps. They don't flare very /far/, wiggling open just a little bit against the cloth and then settling back down. "It'll stop bullets," Peter says, followed by: "--and tazers. If I'm dead," he adds, amused, "I don't think broken legs would /matter/." He waits, at the flare of gills; the hand at the back of Shane's neck shifts, then -- carefully feeding a bit more of the fabric through the buckle before snapping it back down -- tightening the collar's grip around Shane's throat, along with the pads against his gills. Peter's shoulder lifts up against Shane's head; the hand at his hip squeezes. "...cold water flows through the tubes, soaking up the heat from your skin. They then carry the heat away, into a unit that releases the heat and recools the water. The suit keeps track of your temperature, adjusting the cycle appropriately -- if it gets too hot, the water'll boil, so you need to vent out the steam -- you can use it to keep /warm/, too. Firemen use them sometimes. And, uh, NASA. And..." The hand at Shane's hip pulls him just a /smidge/ closer to Peter, now; the fingers at the back of the collar give another tug -- he can't fit his finger into the space between it and Shane's throat, anymore. "Try it again," Peter murmurs, close to Shane's ear. "OK, Mr. Pedantic, but I would bring you back from the fucking grave /just/ to break your legs. Better just to not die in the first place cuz resurrection's a bitch. I'll just come /with/ you when you're running around being a jackass and make sure you don't jackass to /death/. How do you wear it?" Insult segues straight back into curiosity; Shane reaches his free hand towards the box but then stops and drops his hand to his side again almost sheepishly. His other hand curls a little bit tighter against Peter's. "I mean it looks kind of -- boxy? Where does it go?" His gills flex; this time they don't /open/, just shift in a futile press of muscle that goes nowhere before relaxing. His eyes close, a slow swallow rolling down his throat. "Woah." His voice is soft again, now. "Right there's -- maybe perfect." "You /would/ bring me back. Just to yell at me." Peter does not seem to mind the insult; the fingers at Shane's hip just give another squeeze, followed by: "The tubes get wound between two layers of fabric. Kind of woven together? The box goes on your hip -- or back -- or chest. Um. For the modular one, was gonna make it -- like, part of a small backpack you wear? It probably /does/ look kind of silly," Peter admits, grinning. When Shane tries to flex his gills -- and fails -- Peter mmnfs, and /pulls/ Shane back, his spine suddenly up against Peter's chest. "...Micah mentioned. Could use kinesio tape to close the gills, too -- if you didn't want to..." Whatever Peter is about to say next gets interrupted by the sudden presence of teeth nudging just under Shane's ear, where the jaw's corner begins. "Yeah well, it can /look/ like whatever just -- wasn't sure /how/ it'd fit on --" This time, Shane's words cut off in a sudden sharper catch of breath. He lands up against Peter, tipping his head slightly to one side to give those teeth more room. His hand slips up, fingers tracing against the back of Peter's hand, then running up along his arm to eventually curl around his shoulder and behind his neck. There's a smile pulling at his lips and probably this is /usually/ the time for him to say something terribly inappropriate but instead his fingers just knead gently at the back of Peter's neck. "I love you," he says, instead. "Hnh," Peter responds, breath suddenly heavy against the side of Shane's throat; the hand at his hip shifts -- palm sliding forward, across Shane's stomach, fingers curling with /possessiveness/ over his belly. His other hand darts around Shane's torso, his palm over his chest. Drawing Shane back even closer, to his lap -- teeth scraping over the space Shane offers them. At the words 'I love you', he makes a sound -- almost a growl-whine -- and just /bites/, brief and forceful. A moment later, and Peter releases a hitched breath, before responding in turn, with a whisper: "Love you too." Squeezebitegrope. | |
