#even the characters i like just never fucking show up

[eempyreall]

Heyy! i hope you’re doing good! i have a request for a hybrid lion mikey or any tokyo revengers character you would like with a hamster hybrid! reader! like predator and prey type of thing, Have a nice day!

Thank you for the request! Hope you enjoy this!

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♪ 𝐶𝑎𝑡 𝐺𝑖𝑟𝑙𝑠 𝐴𝑟𝑒 𝑅𝑢𝑖𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑀𝑦 𝐿𝑖𝑓𝑒! 𝑏𝑦 𝐶𝑂𝑅𝑃𝑆𝐸 ♪

༺ Plaything ༻

Oneshot ~ Hybrid Mikey x Hamster Hybrid Female Reader

Summary ~ You were found, almost unconscious, by a dumpster and brought home to another hybrid.

Featuring ~ Sano Manjiro and Owner Baji Keisuke. Mentioned Matsuno Chifuyu and Hanemiya Kazutora

Extra Notes ~ This is the fandom version of this story. If you want to read the non fandom that provides original characters, press this link.

This story should only be posted under eempyreall on my tumblr. Report if you see it posted under anyone else but me.

l apologize if I get any Japanese etiquette or culture wrong, I literally have to research the culture for some of my fandom stories so if anything is wrong, please excuse my ignorance.

Warning ~

You and the characters are 21+. Although I picture the reader as a black cis-gendered female, physical appearance will not be described at all.

Content within this story may not be realistic or factual.

I do not condone any of the behavior displayed within the story.

There may be dark content such as: gore, violence, triggering topics, graphic scenes, vulgar language, explicit content, sexual content, non consensual and/or dubious consensual content, etc.

That being said, this story is for 18+ only.

Baji never thought twice about bringing strays home. It was just in his nature—especially when he found them injured or near death. Although he was more of a cat person, he couldn’t deny the heaviness in his heart when he found you—shivering, dirty, and barely breathing next to a dumpster in an alleyway. The fur on your ears was matted, and your eyes were barely open.

Once Baji bent down, you bared your teeth as your tail flicked with agitation, immediately sitting upright as you shoved your back against the grimy wall.

He found it interesting that a hamster hybrid like you could have so much willpower and energy to defend yourself. Instead of sending you to one of the sanctuaries that cared for hybrid monsters before sending them off to scientists, he decided to nurse you back to health.

Of course, he had his close friends, Chifuyu and Kazutora, help aid in his quest to clean you up and get you on your feet.

When you were finally well, you showed your gratitude to all of them before Baji took you home.

But you weren’t expecting another hybrid to live with him. It wasn’t a problem until you realized that the hybrid was a cat hybrid.

The moment Baji brought you through the door, Mikey’s dark eyes locked onto you. His tail swayed lazily, ears perking with interest. He’d always been a predator at heart, but it wasn’t hunger in his gaze—it was a sick sort of amusement.

Despite Mikey being spoiled with many toys, you were his favorite by far. No matter how much you hissed, spat, cursed, or tried to run, Mikey always caught you. His tactics were frustratingly unpredictable—sometimes he'd chase you, claws grazing your back and drawing blood as he pounced.

Other times, he'd creep up behind you, silent, as if he were stalking prey, before snatching your tail and dragging you across the floor like a doll.

It was even more fun for him when you tried to hide.

“Found you,” he'd hum, pinning you down by stepping on your tail.

Your ears would flatten as you tugged at your tail, trying your best to ignore the pain. “Let me go, you fucking asshole!”

He'd tilt his head in response, blonde tips touching his shoulder as he crouched to your level, grabbing the back of your head before pulling you close. He'd rub his cheek against yours while purring, marking you with his scent.

“I can do whatever I want,” he'd boast with a wide smile.

Sometimes, he'd sniff you with a look of irritation. “You reek of Baji,” he'd complain before dragging his tongue over the skin of your neck until you were covered in his scent, causing you to shudder in the process.

“Mikey, she's not a chew toy. You can't just bite her like that,” Baji said, arms crossed as he gave Mikey an unamused gaze.

Painful marks and bruises covered the skin of your neck, collarbone, arms, and even thighs. Unfortunately, when you tried to bite Mikey back, he'd only shudder before pulling you closer, egging you on to bite him again.

“You're so fucking weird, Mikey,” you'd say as he pinned you while rubbing his face against your concealed breasts.

He'd moan as your claws pierced his shoulders while you tried to push him off of you. You'd gasp at the red hue forming on his face before his head dipped into the crook of your neck.

“Mikey! Get off!”

You'd freeze as his claws gripped your jaw and moved your face to the side.

“Quit struggling. You're mine whether you like it or not,” he'd say, the warmth of his breath tickling your ear before he extracted his fangs and bit into the skin of your neck.

The pain would cause you to scream and cry before the palm of his hand covered your mouth.

“Figured you might like someone around who isn't a damn cat,” Baji said as he introduced the male hamster hybrid he had, ironically, found dumped in the same spot as you.

The male stood with his arms crossed and an unreadable expression as you mimicked his stance.

Having another hamster around should have been a relief. You figured that Mikey would be distracted tormenting the new guy since he should get bored of you.

It wasn't until that night, when Mikey woke up from his nap, that you and Baji heard screams, squeals, and squelching before the apartment went silent.

Your jaw dropped when you found a bloody Mikey licking the crimson off his hand as he sat beside the corpse of the new hybrid.

His ribcage was split open, bones exposed as crimson, entrails, and flesh covered the area.The smell was the most sickening part, as well as Mikey's calm expression.

“Goddamn it, Mikey,” Baji growled as his fingers reached his temple.

“Not my fault, Baji. You're the one who brought her a mate~,” he responded with a heavy-lidded gaze.

You couldn't focus on the conversation as you felt bile rise in your throat. You almost forgot that Mikey was a predator and not just some little shit who bothered you consistently.

While Baji had Kazutora and Chifuyu help him clean the remains, Mikey held you closely, his warmth covering your back as you both lay beneath the covers of your bed.

Once again, after a shower, he was in a deep slumber, leaving you alone with your thoughts about the events that had happened before. You had forgotten how serious of a situation this was and that Mikey could kill you at any instant. You came to terms with the fact that you might just have to accept being Mikey’s toy.

[temporarywelcome]

Hospital Visit - Spencer Reid

REQUESTED!

The Request: Your smooth criminal series is actually perfect!!!! Ahh I love the way you write both of them and their dynamics with the team. Obsessed 💕 Request: Kleptomaniac!Reader twists her ankle or like gets hurt due to practices during a dance and ends up at the hospital and worried spencer comes and sees her stealing little equipments again and her trying to leave because she doesnt want to miss her dance. (I really didn't know how to frame what I was thinking but honestly i think whatever you write will be amazing) -anonymous

CW: swearing, a bit suggestive towards the end. Technically part of my "Smooth Criminal" series though you don't need to read the other parts to understand!

AN: I'm half Dominican so yes I can poke fun of Dominican people 🙄 lmao this character I created for this is loosely based off of my grandpa-. Also totally forgot the "her trying to leave" part so I might make a seperate fic with that, mb...

_____

Words: 2k

Spencer Reid wasn’t one to leave work early. 

When there was not a case and the Behavorial Analysis Unit was busy at the office, Spencer never left early. For him, that is ridiculous. Other members of the team like Hotch and JJ would have their moments where they would have to dash out of the building with barely any warning, due to little emergencies with their children. It barley happened, but when it did, it was understandable. 

Spencer, on the other hand, did not have children to worry about. He never had a reason to leave work. 

Until his phone rang. 

Flipping it open, his brows furrowed when he noticed who it was. His girlfriend. Her calling him in the middle of work never raised any alarm. She probably just brought him some lunch again, which she did a few days ago. Or some drama happened in a show she was watching and she just had to let it out. Probably something silly like that. 

But, wait! She had said she was going to be at the studio early today to get in some extra practice before rehearsal. So why would she be calling him instead of practicing?

“Hello?” he placed the phone to his ear. 

The voice on the other end answered in panic, “Hello? Is this Spencer?”

That was not his girlfriend. Instead, it was a man with a heavy accent, the genius deduced Dominican. What the fuck was she doing with this guy? 

“Yes, I’m Spencer, as the contact ID says,” Spencer replied curtly, feeling a hint of jealousy brewing within him, “Who is this?”

“I am Flavio!” the man replied confiently, “Flavio Herrera de León! I-”

“-Why are you calling me from my girlfriend’s phone?” Spencer interrupted in annoyance, “Where is she?”

“Oh!” the man laughed awkwardly, “On the floor! I will be taking her to a hospital now!”

Now Spencer was shooting up to his feet, gathering his things as he spoke, “Hospital?! Why do you need to take her to the hospital? Why is she on the floor?!”

“Very bad injury,” said Flavio, “I worry for her,”

Very bad injury?!

“What do you mean by that?!” Spencer mouthed to Hotch a quick ‘I gotta go’, not waiting for an answer as he sped towards the door, “How bad-”

“-Must take her to hospital. Blood everywhere. Bye bye!” And with that, fucking Flavio hung up the phone, leaving Spencer in an even worst panic. Blood everywhere? What the hell was Y/N doing?

Knowing her, it could have been anything. Every possible thought went through his head, every possibility. She was zoned out and got hit by a car. She tried to befriend a dog that wasn’t very friendly. She fell down a flight of stairs. 

She stressed him the fuck out. 

After breaking at least twelve traffic laws, Spencer found himself at the ER, pushing past people to get to the receptionist. “Y/N L/N,”

Not looking up at him from her computer, the woman replied with: “Relation to the patient?��� 

Ugh. “FBI. Let me see her,” he waved his badge at her. He knew this was unprofessional and an abuse of power, but this was his girlfriend. The girl he was planning to marry someday. Who he was convinced stupidly got herself into this medical emergency. 

Abuse of power be damned. 

He was led through the ER to her room, bursting in. He was expecting tubes and machines connected to her unconscious form, maybe a cast or two. He was expecting to be completely traumatized by the sight before him.

Not his girlfriend shoving surgical gloves into her pockets. 

Her head snapped into his direction, eyes wide, but when it hit that it was Spencer and not a doctor, she sighed, body relaxing. “Shit, Spence, why didn’t you just kick the door down while you’re at it?” she said sarcastically. 

He did not find her amusing. She didn’t even know if her words registered to him. “What happened?!” he felt like he repeated that quite often today. He cupped her jaw, turning her head in all different directions while looking for any wounds, “That guy said there was blood everywhere! Where are you hurt?!” his eyes went from her face to the rest of her body. 

“He’s so dramatic,” Y/N groaned, “There was blood everywhere because I had gotten a bloody nose from hitting the floor.” She grabbed his hands that were now on her shoulders, bringing them to her cheeks. Her eyes closed and lips curled into a smile, nuzzling into him. “No broken nose,”

“Then why the hell are you in the hospital?” 

“Sprained ankle. Doctor said I won’t be able to dance for about three weeks,” Her eyes opened, meeting his, and all his anger and anxiety vanished. She was okay. She was safe. Not mauled by a dog or hit by a car. 

Safe. 

“Next time you get an injury like this, please call me yourself,” Spencer sighed in relief, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead, “Your friend scared me to death,” 

“My friend is super dramatic,” she giggled, already sensing his dislike towards Flavio, “He thought I broke my foot and my nose,” 

“Of course he’s dramatic. Birds of a feather flock together,” Spencer tried to joke, hands now resting on her waist, “You know… You never told me you were practicing with this friend. I thought you were practicing alone,” 

“Didn’t think I had to specify,” Yeah, he was so jealous, it was so obvious to her. 

“You should, so in the case you get kidnapped, I would have somewhere to start-”

“Spence!” she gasped, playfully hitting his shoulder, “Not only is that really anxiety-enducing, but I know for a fact that’s not why you wanted to know.” Y/N smirked, leaning closer to him, “He has a wife, Spence.”

“And? People cheat all the time. About twenty percent of married men cheat on their spouses-”

“How little do you trust me though?” she huffed. 

“It’s him I don’t trust,” Spencer corrected himself, “I trust you. Of course, I trust you,” As he spoke, he removed the surgical gloves from her pockets, “Even when you steal all of my things and I have to buy replacements because you lost them after, I still trust you. It’s just…” he trailed off, throwing the now contaminated gloves into the trash bin. 

“Just what?” As he distracted himself with the gloves, she reached out and grabbed a handful of q-tips from the table next to the examining bed she sat on, now putting those into her pockets. 

Spencer turned to face her again, “It’s just that, with this job, I see so many horrible things happen to women. And the thought of something happening to my woman scares me,” His arms went around her again, “Every time I get a case file and see a woman’s body, it occurs to me how easily it could be you,” 

“...damn,” she cleared her throat, looking down, “Gee, now Imma be scared to go outside,” 

“No you’re not,” his hands slipped into her pockets, taking out the q-tips. Spencer always noticed everything. “You’re going to continue being you and I’m going to continue worrying about you every time we’re apart. I do wish you would be more careful. I know right now you were with this guy for work-related reasons and you had to, but at least tell me?”

“Mhm,” she nodded softly. He went to throw out the q-tips, and while he did so, she began shoving gauze into her pockets next. 

“Put the gauze back,” he said firmly, not even looking at her as he disposed of the material. 

“I can’t help it,” a huff left her lips as she tossed the box (yes, she attempted to steal the whole box) back onto the counter. 

“Tell me why you need a whole box of gauze, dear,” Spencer always spoke like that when addressing her kleptomania. Why do you need this object you are stealing? And they both would know she didn’t need it, and she would keep repeating that in her head until the urge (hopefully) went away. 

“I don’t need a whole box of gauze,” she stated the obvious, taking a deep breath, “I don’t need a whole box of gauze,”

“You don’t need a whole box of gauze,” Spencer confirmed, taking her hands like he always did when she was getting her urges, “Or q-tips. Or surgical gloves. What do you possibly need to examine with those, hm?” he said the last part lightly, nuzzling her nose with his. 

A smirk formed on her face as she spoke, “You?” 

“Me? And how would you do that?” 

“Can examine the part of you I love most….” she trailed off, in thought, “Wait, that’s hard. That was supposed to be me saying your dick however is that really what I love most? ‘Cause, like, look at you,” 

She always knew how to make his cheeks burn red. “What else do you love then?” 

“Oooh, where do I begin?” she threw her arms up in the air dramatically, “Okay, let me start with your facial features…”

____

By the time she was cleared by a doctor and allowed to leave the room, Spencer had a good hickey or two (four actually) on his neck and a giddy expression on his face. Once in the waiting room, a man shot up seeing Y/N, Spencer immediately assuming Flavio. 

“Ah, mi flor,” he exclaimed, examining her all over, “Nothing is broken! How good!”

“Yep, all good,” Y/N replied, “Flavio, meet my boyfriend, Spencer. Spencer, meet Flavio, one of my dance partners for my current show,” 

Spencer and Flavio shook hands, Y/N giggling softly at the look Spencer was giving him. Oh, she knew damn well Spencer was profiling the fuck out of him. To most people, Spencer looked like he had a blank expression on his face, but Y/N knew him better. There was something about Flavio that Spencer did not like. She wasn’t sure if it was the simple fact this was a man who spends alone time with his woman, or something else entirely. 

“It is so nice to meet you, Spencer!” Flavio shook his hand cheerfully, “I have heard many good things about you!” 

“Oh, really?” that made Spencer cheer up slightly, “I’m glad to hear that,” he draped an arm around Y/N’s waist. Spencer didn’t look like the type, but he was incredibly possessive, which was fine, because Y/N was possessive as fuck over him. Spencer precieved everything friendly said to her as flirting, though, when someone actually flirted with him he wouldn’t catch it. It was cute, but also frustrating, because then the only way to get these people to leave him alone is a threat or two coming from her. 

Flavio opened his mouth to speak, but paused when his phone rang. He flipped it open, seeing the caller ID. “Ah, I must take this. My girlfriend is calling,”

Y/N’s brows furrowed, “I thought you were married?”

“Yes yes, I am,” the dancer shrugged, “My wife is here. My girlfriend is in la Republica Dominicana,” And with that, he was off, babbling into the phone. 

“I told you,” Spencer rolled his eyes, glaring at Flavio’s retreating form in disgust, “Twenty percent,” 

“You best not be part of that twenty percent in the future or I’ll end up being an unsub your team has to catch,” Y/N threatened lightly, pinching his side. 

“Hey!” he gasped, “What makes you think- wait,” hard stop, “Does that mean you see yourself marrying me someday?”

She smirked, beginning to walk (limp) towards the exit, “Hmmmm, maybe?” 

“Wait! Wait, you can’t just drop that and wobble away from me!” He followed after her, a huge shit-eating grin forming on his lips.

[butch4butchlovr]

It's a little annoying how in conversations critiquing how arcane treated Vi, no one brings up her butch identity. Like, yes, everything that happened to Vi would still be bad if she wasn't butch, but to me, it's even worse due to the fact that she was made to be a very butch character.

1. They took away everything that made Vi butch.

Her love for her family and her community, her morals. Vi was seen as butch not just because of her clothes but because of how loving and protective she was for those around her. She wanted to be there for her city, and she told Ekko that herself in s1 when he took her to the firelight tree. Yet in season two, they took her family away from her yet again, purposely acted like Ekko and Vi's relationship did not exist, and had her become a class traitor because these writers didn't give a flying fuck about her character or what the identity of 'butch' meant. Hell, we barely see Vi struggle with becoming a cop in the first place.

(a bit of a side tangent)

Plus, why should Vi care that Jinx bombed the council anyway? Because it resulted in the death of Caitlyn’s mom? The very person who, along with many others, were fine with putting someone like her in either the fissures where she could work to death for their profit, or negligent enough that someone can throw her in a dangerous prison with no trial, throw away the key, and not give a damn? Why was this not touched on? (I know why) This should've been conflicting for both Vi AND Caitlyn since they both know that topside is corrupt.

There's no reason for Vi to give up her morals like this, even if she sees Jinx as dangerous. The only reason why Jinx exists is due to the council's negligence and Silco's grooming. Vi, of all people, should've understood the nuances of Jinx's attack due to the constant violence and oppression the council and enforcers enacted on the undercity and herself.

2. Vi has the traumas that many butches and studs have gone through.

The police brutality, the need to protect others and not feeling strong enough to do so at times, the constant pressure of needing to be strong (mostly due to being the eldest daughter). So many of us clung to Vi due to those reasons, including myself. Heck, lesbian history shows how much butch lesbians were brutalized by cops, yet Arcane didn't take these traumas seriously, especially the police brutality that Vi was subjected to.

Not once do we see Vi struggle with her experiences from prison. These people beat her every other day for seven years, just for her to come out of prison with no semblance of ptsd? Then, they had Vi get hit by her cop girlfriend with a gun and never touched on it again. What was the point of having Vi go to prison and purposely mention that she was beaten to an inch of her life MULTIPLE TIMES, just to have her be hit by the very cop that these people want her to have a romantic relationship with? It really does seem like they wanted to use both prison and butchness as some cool aesthetic instead of actually treating it as the delicate topic that it is.

3. Reaffirming people's lack of care towards butches as people

People already don't take our traumas seriously as butches, a lot of the audience didn't take Vi's traumas in s1 seriously BECAUSE she's butch. Yet the writers reinforced the same harmful rhetoric of dehumanizing butches, sexualizing us, and romantizing our pain.

Each time Vi was close to mental breakdown or had a mental breakdown, it was not taken seriously. Vi almost breaks down to Caitlyn and begs her not to change. What happens? Caitlyn kisses her. When Vi is stuck in a prison cell again and starts to break down and punch the walls, what happens? Caitlyn comes in and cue sex scene. (That's supposedly supposed to reclaim trauma btw)

The WHOLE ENTIRE pitfighter montage was a thirst trap. Here is a butch who is having a severe mental breakdown about the things she had just experienced and the only thing we get of it is shots of Vi self harming (alcoholism, pitfighting), shots objectifying her, and her hallucinations.

We don't get any commentary on how this affects Vi. We could assume it's harmful just like her prison trauma was, but we don't see glimpses of it at all afterwards. Vi literally stops drinking after the montage and we don't see how it affects her. People keep preaching about show don't tell, but when it comes to shows and movies in general you need a balance between both showing AND telling. We see this with how they handled Jinx's mental health in s1, even in bits of Caitlyn’s arc in s2, yet we never see an ounce of this treatment towards Vi.

And certain fans don't help either. They'll defend Vi being hit, defend the lack of exploration on her trauma, and defend the very sex scene that ignores literally everything Vi has gone through during the show. Hell, they get angry at the mere thought of Vi receiving an apology. I mean, what else can I expect from a fandom who thinks Vi can't read and expect Caitlyn to teach her, or wanted Vi to be a virgin so Caitlyn can teach her about sex, or expects Vi to be so unhygienic that Caitlyn needs to teach her how to wash her own ass. (Do y'all see a pattern?)

The treatment of Vi in s2 by the writers is butchphobic. The way people defend how Vi was handled is butchphobic. Defending abuse towards Vi, saying that it didn't harm her that much or that she's been through worse, is butchphobic. Saying that she got a happy ending in a city that hates her and her community, with a woman who has harmed her and showed prejudice against her and her people, is butchphobic.

(And yes, Caitlyn’s line about Vi's blood is prejudiced, it is not just about her being related to Jinx. Mentioning that someone's blood is tainted has been evidence of countless prejudiced ideals towards minorities, ESPECIALLY the lower class.)

The way Vi is treated overall by the writers and by certain caitvi stans is butchphobic and misogynistic and I wished this was mentioned more when talking about it.

[plznomonkeys]

Full disclosure, only started the originals and finished Season 1, so I may be behind in some things.

I literally imagined how much more interesting The Originals would've been if Hayley and the baby were never even in the story to begin with.

Arguably the whole Hope being a tribrid thing is utter bs and I hate the writers for making this a story. If Hayley showed up pregnant and was just a character in the wolf pack, I think it would've had a more interesting storyline than it being Klaus' baby.

I also think it would've been far more interesting if there was some sort of connections between factions like the werewolves and the witches that didn't stem from romance. The one thing I appreciate on the show, is how siblings interact with each other. Even if they hate each other, they still stand together against a common foe. And I think something between the werewolves and the witches, siblings perhaps? Idk. But something like Jackson having a connection to the witches would make the werewolves have purpose and bring in a whole other dynamic to the show. Hut they wanted Elijah to fall for Hayley who- imma be so real- they're not each other's fucking type and it's clear as day. Daniel is an excellent actor, but it's so clearly no chemistry and Phoebe really drops the ball.

I like the originals more than TVD, but holy hell some of it is just set to fail from the start.

Ten Reasons Why Hayley Marshall is the Most Problematic Female Lead on Television

So it’s no secret that The Originals is a bit of a fixer-upper show with a lot of potential. It’s clear that a lot of tweaks and adjustments need to be made before it can really fulfill all of the fantastic promise it has, but I really think that there’s one aspect of the show that can’t be improved. Hayley Marshall. Hayley as a character has so many problems on so many different dimensions that I truly believe she can’t be salvaged, and I honestly think that TO would be better off with having no female lead at all than having Hayley as their female lead. There are a lot of different reasons I think that Hayley can’t be saved, but these are, to me, the most overwhelming reasons why she can’t (and shouldn’t) redeemed.

1. She has zero character development. This is, to me, by far the most ludicrous aspect of Hayley as a character. She has existed within the TVD universe for 25 episodes and she’s been the lead of TO for 17, and yet she has had no meaningful character development. Her character has made no logical progress (and I’m sorry, but making her a magical princess and abruptly giving her leadership skills that canonically conflict with her entire story arc on TVD doesn’t count as progress) and even her backstory has had no development. I mean, Josh has had at least double the development that Hayley has (not to mention consistency) and he’s essentially a supporting character to a supporting character. Honestly my only guess as to why Hayley has remained completely stagnant and undeveloped is because after her awful initial reception the writers are afraid to make any wrong moves, but making no moves clearly won’t win her any fans either. And you’d think this would go without saying, but watching a lead character with no meaningful characterization is painfully dull.

2. She’s absurdly misogynistic. TVD has always had some serious misogyny issues, but Hayley is essentially the apex of all of these issues (and then some). Hayley is written from a misogynistic perspective, exists within a misogynistic narrative, is treated misogynistically within the narrative, and she herself has a very misogynistic perspective. For almost the entire duration of TO Hayley has been subjugated by everyone she comes into contact with. She has been physically, emotionally, and psychologically abused by almost everyone, and Klaus most severely. Now, her relationship with Klaus is the most profoundly disturbing, because she has never really waivered in her absolute hatred towards him and yet she behaves in a way that makes it seem like his treatment of her is acceptable. Klaus has quite literally terrorized her for almost their entire relationship, he has never given her any reason to trust him or even give him a chance, he has literally made her fear for her life, and yet she can’t even be bothered to do anything about it. Why? Because, despite being the lead, Hayley is treated as completely disposable within the narrative. She isn’t even as important as a person that doesn’t exist yet. And her behavior completely endorses this perspective.

3. She only exists as a romantic object in all of her relationships on TO. As of now Hayley really only has two significant relationships in TO, her relationship with Jackson and her relationship with Elijah. That’s bizarre enough when you’re talking about the lead female character, but it’s even weirder that these two relationships are purely romantic. And while that alone is a problem, it’s at least a surmountable problem. But the reason these two relationships completely and utterly fail is because Hayley is not only not treated as an equal in these two relationships, she’s not even treated as a person. Elijah romanticizes Hayley because he sees her as a means of redemption for his family, but he has consistently casually disregarded her wishes and even her physical safety in order to maintain his fantasy version of her. Jackson clearly also has a fantasy version of Hayley, it’s unclear whether or not this fantasy tends more towards an imaginary perfect wife or towards a means of acquiring power, but it’s clear that his view of Hayley has almost nothing to do with who she is as a person. And his complete indifference to everything that could screw with his endgame, including the fact that Hayley is pregnant with another man’s child, is a little scary.

4. She’s completely objectified by every other character in TO. One of the most interesting and disturbing things about Hayley’s place in the TO narrative is that even to the characters that don’t view her as solely a romantic object she’s still an object. Every other character views her as merely the vessel for the hybrid baby. And seriously, to think that there is a female character on mainstream television who is completely and utterly objectified is so insane it almost defies belief.

5. Phoebe Tonkin. To be completely honest, I could write an entire meta on Phoebe Tonkin’s lack of acting skill alone. The skill level discrepancy between Phoebe and every other cast member is so distinct it’s actually distracting, and she’s clearly incapable of handling the material she’s given.

6. She’s a hot mess of nonsensical stereotypes (and pretty much nothing else). I feel like I could endlessly list the stereotypes that Hayley seems to fit into, but what I think is so ridiculous about her character is how many contradictory stereotypes she fits. She’s the sultry vixen, but the virginal mother. She’s the trailer park punk, but she’s the princess. She’s the conniving backstabber, but she’s the benevolent warrior. She’s the black sheep of the family, but she’s the leader of the pack. She’s the damsel in distress, but she’s the badass fighter. She’s the murderous villain, but she’s the helpless victim. There’s no rhyme or reason for any of these “characterizations” other than the writers constantly changing Hayley’s “personality” to fit whatever scene they have in mind. And I’m sorry, but throwing personalities at a character like they’re confetti and waiting to see what appeals to the audience and works within the storyline is incredibly bad, lazy writing. And it’s really not asking too much that the female lead in a show develop beyond a bad stereotype and become an actual character, but the writers don’t seem to be capable or willing to meet even that low standard when it comes to Hayley.

7. She sends a lot of dangerous messages to the audience. Now, I certainly don’t think it’s the responsibility of a TV writer, especially a writer for a supernatural show, to create good role models for their audience. However I do think they should be cognizant about writing bad role models, or at least how they portray their bad role models within the narrative. I think that Hayley represents a lot of really problematic concepts, and since she’s clearly the heroine of the story the entire storyline is a tacit endorsement of these dangerous messages. I mean, her value is consistently placed beneath the value of her unborn child. She accepts physical abuse from former romantic interests. She accepts her subjugation by people who literally want to kill her. She treats a character who has emotionally abused her as a romantic hero. And these plot points are the foundation of her character. I don’t think I could detail every problematic message Hayley sends to the audience (of primarily young women), but the fact that the storylines of her character are completely dependent on these particular problems is profoundly disturbing.

8. She’s faux-empowered. I’ve already touched on a lot of the ways that Hayley is problematically misogynistic, but I think the way Hayley’s lack of power is dealt with is fascinatingly one-note. She’s completely disenfranchised by everyone around her? Well let’s give her a random fight scene! Let’s have her yell at Elijah! Let her sign the supernatural peace treaty! Interestingly, Hayley fighting and murdering some of the witches didn’t actually serve to empower her against them at all, although that scene was clearly meant to show her as powerful. And her intervention on the supernatural convention as well as her participation in the treaty ratification were also clearly meant to show her power and importance, but they’re both completely misleading. In the first instance it is Elijah who truly holds all the power over the negotiations, he just allows her to have a voice, and in the second instance it’s Jackson who has all the real power with the werewolves, Hayley’s power and influence over them is completely symbolic. Hayley has moments where she’s clearly meant to be perceived as powerful, but she still has no ownership over that power. The writers clearly either don’t understand or don’t care about the distinction between appearing to be powerful and truly being empowered, but I think it’s crucially important to have a female lead character who is at least empowered in some aspect of her life. And I think it’s even more crucially important that the writers acknowledge that empowerment is an ownership of power that can’t be taken away by someone else, that a character doesn’t necessarily need to be physically powerful or have power over others to be an empowered character. Agency isn’t only for the strong.

9. She was completely retconned, completely unnecessarily. I think this is one of the weirdest parts of Hayley’s “development” throughout TVD and TO. Firstly I find it to be so weird for the sheer fact that I can’t think of any other character that’s been retconned, ever. Because retconning a character is always completely unnecessary, characters are (and should be) malleable and dynamic, if a character’s development is failing then all that needs to be done is new, different developments, or if they really don’t work they can just be written out. Unfortunately the writers put Hayley in a position where she can’t be completely written out without ending the main storyline in the show, but that doesn’t mean that she she has to be constantly rewritten to fit the plot or make her more “appealing” to the audience. And even if they wanted to reboot her character from TVD (which you’ll never convince me was necessary) her characterization should at least be consistent within the TO universe. But it isn’t, she has even been retconned within the narrative of TO. That’s a serious problem.

10. She adds nothing to the overall narrative on TO, but her existence damages a lot of the potential that TO has. It’s strange, Hayley is obviously meant to be tied into almost every plot in the show, but if she were to be written out of the show tomorrow the writers would have to change almost nothing about the narrative. She doesn’t contribute to any of the storylines she’s involved in because she’s still basically a blank canvas. However, her continued presence in the narrative hinders a lot of the potential progress of the show. Her first and most important storyline, the baby which her entire character centers around, has been dragging down the entire series from the start. She adds nothing to her secondary werewolf storyline, and I think the werewolf storyline would actually be a lot more interesting if Hayley wasn’t the character at the helm of it. I mean, not only did she enter TO with an extremely thin connection to the Mikaelsons, she came to New Orleans with no connections to anything whatsoever. She has no meaningful history with any characters, so there’s no dramatic tension in any of her interactions with them. It would have made a lot more narrative sense to have a werewolf with some prior experiences with the other supernatural beings of New Orleans, but the writers missed a huge opportunity to develop a real character because they needed to make Hayley a “necessary” part of the story instead of just a walking womb. And that is, to me, the crux of the issue when it comes to Hayley. When a character adds nothing to the plot, only hinders it and detracts from it, then they really don’t belong in the narrative. Hayley has done nothing to enhance any storylines since her inception on TVD, and her influence on TO has only further damaged a lot of potentially saveable storylines. This is ultimately the reason why I think Hayley needs to be written out of the show. She has had 17 episodes to become an integral part of the narrative, but she’s only served to hinder the show from developing in the way it can (and the way it probably should). I get that they want to make her character work, but at some point you need cut your losses and move on, and I think we’re way past that point with Hayley.

[mamayura]

You know what I would respect as Cerise's motivation to get the Miraculous of Ladybug and Chat Noir?

If this girl is actually out here just fucking HATING herself. She can pretend to be whoever's she wants and try her best to make herself believe that she's the greatest ever, but deep down she feels like she could never actually LIKE herself if she can't wish for being someone else entirely.

I would respect it if that were the reason why Cerise currently may be out here playing more of a massive in scale long-game to change the world to her liking instead of actually trying to get the Miraculous, but in the end, she'd still need the wish for the last step of her plan.

First, change the world to whatever she wants as preparation and pay back and then use the wish to do the one thing she thinks she could never manage otherwise: changing herself so she doesn't hate herself anymore. Cause she most likely wouldn't even know how else to go about that. What self-loathing person does?

Knowing this show's writing, I wouldn't be surprised if her wish in the London special was something like "being someone Adrien can, will, and HAS fallen in love with for real" and that obviously would have ended the current timeline to create a new one instead (since, you know, Thomas Astruc is constantly bragging about how consistent the character's characterizations are, so I guess Cerise's crush on Adrien will stay too)

Right now I'm just really into the idea that Cerise's wish is actually incredibly tragic and that she's so awful because she has basically entirely given up on herself and is putting all her cards on the world and life she will have once she's done with all this.

[sturniololuvz]

Can you do a really angsty sister fic but with a cute ending but it’s very angsty

yesss! here ya go!

“Unnoticed”

Sturniolos x sister

Warnings : none rlly.

Y/N had always been the odd one out.

She knew her brothers loved her—of course, they did. But love and attention weren’t the same things, and lately, it felt like she had been completely erased from their world.

Chris, Matt, and Nick had each other. They always had. Three inseparable pieces of the same puzzle. And Y/N? She was just the extra. The fourth wheel in a group that never needed one.

At first, she tried to brush it off. They were busy, that was all. Filming, traveling, editing, working on their brand. She told herself it wasn’t personal.

But then the missed dinners started.

Then the unanswered texts.

Then the times she walked into a room only for them to leave moments later, too wrapped up in their own lives to notice her standing there, screaming on the inside.

She stopped trying.

If she didn’t reach out, would they?

If she didn’t show up, would they even notice?

Days turned into weeks, and it became painfully clear that the answer was no.

The final straw came on a night that should have been normal. She had been in her room for hours, curled up in bed, feeling the weight of her own insignificance pressing down on her chest. She wasn’t crying—she was past that.

Then she heard them downstairs, laughing. Loud, carefree, completely oblivious.

She checked her phone. Not a single message from any of them.

They were all together.

And she wasn’t even a thought in their heads.

Something inside her snapped.

She grabbed her jacket and slipped out the front door without bothering to text them. It wasn’t like they’d care.

It was cold. The wind stung her skin, but she barely felt it. Her legs carried her forward, away from the house, away from the suffocating loneliness that had settled in her bones.

She ended up at an empty park, sitting on the swings, her hands gripping the rusted chains as she stared blankly ahead.

She wanted to disappear.

Not in a dramatic way—she didn’t want to die or anything. She just wanted to stop existing in this way. Half-there. Half-seen. Half-loved.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, but she ignored it. Probably just some random notification.

But then it buzzed again. And again.

Frowning, she pulled it out.

Chris: Where are you?

Matt: Y/N, answer the phone.

Nick: Are you okay? Where’d you go?

A bitter laugh bubbled up in her throat. Now they noticed? Now they cared?

She stuffed the phone back in her pocket, ignoring the way her hands trembled.

Minutes passed. Maybe hours.

Then—footsteps. Rushed, frantic. And suddenly, all three of them were there, panting, their faces pale with worry.

Chris was the first to speak. “What the hell, Y/N?” His voice was sharp, but his eyes were soft. Scared. “You just left without saying anything!”

Y/N stared at them, expression blank. “You would’ve noticed eventually.”

Matt flinched. “Of course we would have—”

“Would you?” she interrupted, her voice cracking. “Because I don’t think you would’ve. I don’t think you would’ve even realized if I stayed in my room for days, or if I stopped coming home at all.”

Silence.

Nick took a shaky breath. “Y/N… that’s not true.”

“Yes, it is,” she whispered, feeling the lump in her throat grow. “I’m invisible to you guys. I’m just there—some extra piece that doesn’t fit. And you don’t even see me.”

Chris stepped forward, guilt written all over his face. “Y/N, we—”

She shook her head. “I used to be your sister. Now I’m just a background character in your lives.” Her voice broke on the last word, and she hated herself for it.

Matt looked like he wanted to argue, but he couldn’t. Because she was right.

And they all knew it.

Nick ran a hand over his face, looking like he was about to cry. “I’m so sorry,” he murmured. “We never meant to make you feel like this. We just—” He exhaled shakily. “We fucked up.”

Chris swallowed hard, his hands balling into fists. “You’re not invisible to us, Y/N.” His voice was thick with emotion. “You’re our sister. Our baby sister. And we love you more than anything. We just… we got so caught up in everything else that we didn’t realize we were pushing you away.”

Y/N wiped at her eyes, shaking her head. “I don’t need some guilt-driven apology.”

Matt stepped closer, his voice gentle. “We’re not just apologizing. We’re fixing this. Because you’re right—we haven’t been there for you. And that’s not okay.”

Nick nodded. “We miss you, Y/N. And we’re not letting this happen again.”

Chris hesitated for only a second before pulling her into a crushing hug, burying his face in her hair.

And for the first time in forever, she felt seen.

Matt and Nick wrapped their arms around them too, holding her tightly, as if afraid she’d slip away if they let go.

She sniffled. “You guys are so annoying.”

Chris chuckled, his voice muffled. “Yeah, but we’re your annoying brothers.”

A small, watery smile tugged at her lips. Maybe—just maybe—she wasn’t so invisible after all.

[spinji]

to me Bakugo always seemed like one of those genius kids that were constantly praised for this one thing he excelled at(his quirk) that he didn't really have anything else besides that. It gave him an inferiority complex. And when he went to ua, it's like when those gifted kids go go to a school where they're are tons of lifted kids just like him all starting at same place. He realizes he's not the best anymore. In fact he starts to fall a little behind(which is normal) and that hits him hard because who else is he if he's not the best.

With no exaggeration that is exactly it.

That is the entire basis for his early character development before it becomes even more ridiculously intertwined with Izuku. His entire beef with Todoroki comes from feeling upstaged by him and then never getting an opportunity to properly one-up him because Shoto pulled his punch at the sports festival. It's why he was so SO fucking upset at the award ceremony even though he got first place.

And the thing is; he keeps losing these personal goals for himself time and again until the exact moment he stops treating his classmates as people to compete against rather than people to collaborate with. You take away all the Izuku-specific issues and his struggle with the death of his ego and trying to ward of imposter syndrome is extremely relatable, especially if you were one of those high performing kids who now cringes at how much they used to flaunt their own skills or intelligence.

Personally, I think Izuku has the other end of the gifted child problems spectrum. He wasn't openly praised to the point of swelling his ego but he's clearly very smart. I like to think he was a very independent worker when he was young which only made him not learn how to ask for help when things are difficult.

It's not a point of pride, he just genuinely doesn't consider outside help as a factor because he hasn't needed it yet (he did and his grades suffered a bit as a result and maybe that got tied up in his self esteem a little but hey he's still passing). It's a bit of personal projection but I think the contradiction between the emphasis on his intelligence from a character perspective and how actually middling/inconsistent his grades are when you actually look at what the narrative says makes sense in that context.

Whenever they show him studying he always looks like he's struggling to some degree, his expression very tense and hunched over his desk for hours to make sure he understands what he's doing. He was smart enough to guesstimate his entrance exam score but his estimate was that he barely passed. That one innocuous scene of him very confidently answering a math question wrong. Combine that with the fact that learning to ask for support in other areas is a major part of his character growth and idk the vibe just really fits.

[tvckerwash]

hmmm I agree it could've been a way to show ambessa's cunning side, but having her be the mastermind behind the attack at all honestly feels...somewhat disingenuous to her character the more I've thought about it. ambessa's thing in season one is that she never lies about her motivations, and is in piltover because she genuinely wants to advise jayce and mel in a time of war—the problem is that she's so blatantly self serving and only doing so for her own goals that it makes it difficult for us as the audience to trust her or her word in any capacity.

for example, is ambessa wrong when she tells jayce that the council is the problem? the mind hiding behind the body or whatever it was she said? in my opinion, no. we've seen that the council was consistently an issue, and jayce himself had been growing more and more frustrated with them over the course of the season, among other things.

I want to be clear though that I'm operating along the lines of "what story beats can be cut or changed to make season two more consistent with season one" over "how can we make the existing plot of season two make more sense while still hitting all of the same beats", as while I think act one is salvageable with changes, acts two and three? nah those gotta go—but that is just my opinion as a guy on tumblr dot com. 

renni's attack on the memorial service would still happen, but instead of it being directly initiated by ambessa it could be because renni was pissed the other barons decided to work with the dude that killed her son (as lbr the only reason ambessa was such a central figure to the plot of season two, alongside mel and the black rose, is so riot could make them champions and sell a book). ambessa would then still use the attack to try and weasel her way into a position of authority in piltover’s government, but there'd be more focus on her battle of wits against mel.

if the chembarons aren't removed from power, then caitlyn would have no need to launch a strike team to take them out and dismantle shimmer since they’d already be doing it, and therefore she would have no need to use the gray. like I don’t think I need to explain why having “the good guys” in the eyes of the writers use chemical weapons is bad and needed to be handled with a level of care the they clearly were not capable of, especially when the only other characters we’ve seen use it as a weapon were silco and jinx respectively. 

IF they wanted to keep the gray, I would’ve kept it as an environmental pollutant and connected it to the forgotten dying firelight tree plotline instead of using it for shipping drama, and they could even still keep said plotline connected to hextech! 

Jayce could have seen how strong, cool and collected Caitlyn was during that attack. Let her save him at some point. I think she could have convinced him to make her Sheriff after that. Plus, Jayce folds like a house of cards any time someone he loves asks him for anything lmao.

one of the things I truly despise about season two is how people have been gaslighted into thinking jayce has no backbone and is incapable of being assertive and putting his foot down when that is not the case at all. go rewatch every interaction he has with marcus and every council meeting he's in after he becomes a councilor.

jayce already knows how capable cait is too, but whether or not she’s capable doesn’t change the fact that he cares about keeping her (and piltover!!!! he's the security guy!!!!) safe above all else. she’d end up as the sheriff eventually, I’m just not convinced it's a position that she’d be given by jayce. I could see mel or ambessa being the ones to suggest it and jayce being outvoted on it though, just swap the fucked up chest thumping dictator scene with an incredibly tense council vote.

I also think jayce being too occupied with viktor as an excuse for anything is...ehhhhhhhh because season one was constantly showing us that jayce took his position as councilor and the responsibilities that came with it very seriously to the point that he was pretty much never at the lab anymore.

anyway I don't think vi needed to break up with cait the way it happened tbh, especially because it was so obviously done for drama and nothing else. this is maybe a hot take but imo caitvi has always been the weakest relationship in the show as it functions entirely off of tropes and ship bait instead of being organically developed. they do not feel like two characters who have any real chemistry together—they feel like dolls having their faces smashed together.

any split between them should've probably revolved around vi's struggles with trying to find a new identity for herself and her remaining loyalty to jinx as her sister (and how it represents her relationship to zaun)—it's important to remember that vi is more ideologically aligned with silco than she is with vander in season one, and getting past her desire to save jinx and the "all enforcers are just asshole criminals in fancy uniforms" was going to take some character development.

the easiest and most tragic answer is to prove silco right—jinx has changed too much for vi. we've already seen her be incredibly distressed over witnessing the brutal violence jinx inflicted on the firelights in episode six of season one for example, so don't give jinx a redemption arc (because she really didn't need one, let her be a bad guy) and make vi see that her mayhem needs to be stopped because people are getting hurt. don't give her a badge immediately either, have her work alongside them like she did with jayce during the shimmer raid, and let vi be the one who decides to put it on of her own accord, not because caitlyn asked her to do so.

The thing that bugs me most about Caitlyn's arc is how obviously she was forced into the position Jayce had been set up to fill.

Jayce was the de facto head of the council that Sheriff Marcus (keep that in mind) reported directly to for city security.

He was the Golden Boy, Man of Progress, beloved by everyone in Piltover for the invention of Hextech! Charismatic! Handsome!

They didn't NEED martial law. After Jayce emerged unscathed from the terrorist attack, most of the council dead, Piltover would have been falling over itself to give him sole authority regardless of him wanting to quit the council right before the attack.

And Jayce should have been beside himself with rage! Jinx turned his invention, his dream, into a weapon that nearly killed him and the two people he loves most! Mel and Viktor, at the same time! She ruined his peace deal! (And killed Silco, but for some reason Cait and Vi never tell anyone about that)

But nope. He's just sad, and tries to talk Caitlyn down from wanting to kill Jinx.... Like wtf!! Where did his passion go?? His recklessness? Caitlyn got it all.

Let's say he's still reeling after killing the kid in his shimmer raid and fearing the consequences of violent intervention. Fine. But then there is the attack at the memorial. Now it's bigger than Jinx, and his entire city is threatened.

Picture the end of episode 1, with the council gathering in the basement after the memorial attack and it is JAYCE marching in to announce the strike team, with Caitlyn and Vi beside him, with their shiny Hextech weapons.

They didn't need to give Caitlyn political power. She could have become Sheriff under Jayce! She would have had nearly the EXACT same scenes. She doesn't get a single moment where she acts like a political leader in Act 2 anyway!

We never see her do anything the sheriff wouldn't do, which tells me this was a late change to cram all the remaining story into one season, to every character's detriment. If Caitlyn had just been following Jayce's orders until running into Vi, her flip would not have felt so jarring.

She loves Jayce as an older brother, she's grieving her mother, she and Jayce could have BOTH been manipulated by Ambessa. Let Caitlyn be at the forefront of all the awful shit she's ORDERED to do, instead of ordering it HERSELF.

By giving her ultimate authority instead, the few clipped scenes of her redemption, her "I know" and letting Jinx go free are nowhere near enough to get the audience back on her side. As evidenced by how many people hated her arc this season.

[thebisexualwreckoning]

Look, i dislike grace as much as the next louis de pointe du lac lover but I do think that a lot of the hate she receives is underserved. Y'all seem to think she was the villainous woman using louis and his fucked up sense of duty towards his family in order to live lavishly and then throwing him aside when he isn't useful anymore or because he reveals himself to be a 'homosexual'.

Like, idk what show we were all watching, but grace has never shown herself to be a homophobe. She's always staunchly supported Louis and whatever fun she makes of loustat's relationship ('is that a new kind of white' etc etc) is just teasing in a way that is obviously familiar to both of them, a kind of sibling bond. She even very cordially asks him to bring lestat over for dinner! She recognises his relationship with lestat, if not in words so much but at least in her actions.

Even after louis' is turning she does not turn him away when he attempts to reach like mama du lac. Louis turns up 'half a season' later, completely abandoning his family to seemingly get together with a white boy immediately after their brother (because yes, paul was not just louis' brother but grace's as well) committed suicide on her wedding day. she doesn't even judge his obvious supernatural changes and says 'he looks good', which we can also assume is reference to him being with lestat!!!

(I also find it funny how people don't extend the same amount of grace they do to any of the other characters to the character literally named Grace but that's neither here nor there.)

even when he turns up at her house after not being their for the twins birth, she invites him and leaves her kid in his care, showing that she obviously trusts him. she only got mad when he actively put her baby's life in danger by leaving the kid crying on the floor, something i feel she's very much in the right to feel like - because ya know, her kid could have DIED? babies are very fragile creatures, she dont know louis did it so he would not 'eat the baby', all she know is that her big brother endangered the life of her child.

and then he shows up at their mama's funeral looking like he don't even care along with lestat, who broke their family apart along with a young girl he claims is his daughter? that wasnt homophobia that was her being afraid for claudia because, remembering the baby on the floor scene, louis does not have the best track record with children and she still knows next to nothing about lestat but she does know (living in jim crow era south) that a white man is in no way equipped to deal with the problems of a young black girl.

I dont really have nothing to say about the coffin because that was kinda a bitch move but she obviously knows there something wrong with louis given he hadnt aged in like a decade or sommin now and she was probably protecting him from people figuring out he ldpdl in the future and lynching him for not only being black but the 'devil' or something.

anyway leave my girl grace alone she aint done nothing to deserve your shit

[raccoonconnoisseur]

My theory about a potential Helena pregnancy subplot in Severance S2, why I don’t think she would have planned it, and what it could mean for the characters:

Okay so a lot of people are theorising that Helena could be pregnant after the tent scene in S2E4 and that her entire reason for going down to the severed floor was to get pregnant because she’s an only child and single and she’ll be expected to produce the next Eagan heir.

With the theme of pregnancy throughout the show and all of the baby imagery in the title sequence I think she could be pregnant but I feel like if she is it wasn’t intentional. Here’s why:

It’s obviously entirely possible for somebody to get pregnant after having sex just once but the chances of it happening is pretty small (from what I could find online it appears to be about a 25% chance each month if you’re having REGULAR unprotected sex around the time of ovulation - thank you Huggies website - so it’s even lower if it happens just once). Lumon and the Eagans are meticulous - there’s no way they would send her off to sleep with somebody in the woods just once and cross their fingers she would end up pregnant (it would also just kind of be lazy writing/way too convenient)- they would have a whole ass operation going so it would happen regularly until she conceives.

I think they sent Helena down instead of Helly not because she wanted a baby but just because they couldn’t trust Helly R - they knew she’d tell MDR the truth and it could spoil everything. She already hated herself and tried to end her life before she knew she was an Eagan and it would only triple that hatred now she knows who she really is. On top of that MDR had been working fine before she joined, then within a couple of weeks of her arrival, the team is going rogue trying to do the OTC? She was too dangerous to let back down there - they knew Mark would demand Helly back but Helly is feisty and will not budge from her goals of fucking shit up.

So Helena was to go down to the severed floor instead and impersonate Helly (which would also allow her to spy on them and what they’re up to while still tricking them into thinking they had more freedom - remember one of the first things she does is point out the missing cameras). But then she found out about Mark and Helly with the security footage and Helena - who has been raised in a cult-like corporate hellscape, who was manipulated and moulded from birth to be the perfect future heir and was never allowed to be herself - was genuinely jealous/intrigued because this version of her who she doesn’t even see as a real person, who just existed for a publicity stunt, has built more genuine relationships in just a few short weeks than Helena has in 30 years. She went down as a mole and genuinely came out preferring who she was down there. I think she was genuine when she told mark in the tent that she didn’t like who she was on the outside - it was a rare moment of her letting the act down he just didn’t know it.

So how does this link back to pregnancy and babies? Well as mentioned, the title sequence is full of babies and baby imagery. We see a baby Kier emerging from the snow at Mark’s feet at the end of the title sequence (emerging from the snow where it was maybe conceived?) Baby Kier - a baby Eagan. While I don’t think it was intentional on Helena’s part, I think she could end up pregnant and it could be a massive turning point for both Helly and Helena.

We know Mark and Helena meet up again outside (the diner scene in the trailer). Now he’s reintegrated he knows who she is both inside and out. So their outies (or outie Helena and reintegrated Mark I guess) must end up having some kind of character arc. I’m wondering if he’ll confront her about why she pretended to be Helly and ends up getting dragged into the whole situation now he knows a child is on the line. Half of him still wants Gemma (who I think it truly dead but that’s a matter for another time) but the other half of him genuinely wants Helly and - because of the way reintegration messes with your time perception as Petey explained back in S1) they are equally as strong feelings.

So for the even more out-there, very unlikely way I could potentially see this going: I’m wondering if it’s possible Helena deciding she doesn’t want her child to be exposed to the same cult-ish, toxic upbringing she experienced - wanting her child to be given a good life, the chance to be their own person and not just a pawn for a corporate entity - and so she chooses to help the innies out and expose the company in a parallel to how Helly R did at the end of S1 - this time it really is Helena speaking. In a way (although she was still a terrible person and did some really awful things) she finally does something good and proves she isn’t just a one-note evil stereotype. Then I could see her potentially deciding to either reintegrate (I think less likely) or permanently sever herself (more likely) because she prefers the person she is when severed than in the real world - essentially killing Helena Eagan and the Eagan lineage for good and instead giving the innie - who she didn’t even see as a real person at first - a life she could never have.

[deluluass]

It's all over now, baby blue (3/12)

Ushijima Wakatoshi/Female Reader/Oikawa Tooru

Multi-chapter sequel to "Red, like Blood. Blue, like Love."

General Warnings:  rape/noncon; nsfw; depictions of post traumatic stress disorder; a lot of negative self-talk (reader pov) Chapter warnings: internalized misogyny (reader pov); recreational drug use (by other characters); sexual content

“Do… you have a soulmate���?”

It was an inane question. You knew that, even before you uttered it. Ask the lady that called soulmates bullshit if she had a soulmate, why don’t you? However, as of this very moment, this woman was no longer just the same one that Hana Misaki had to impress; the one with the important title that went on for forever. 

To you, she was now the one to whom you’d committed every single social blunder that featured in your worst nightmares against– stuttering, throwing up, cursing, etcetera. You checked your pants to make sure that they’re still dry. You sighed.

Thank all that is merciful that you haven’t done that yet. 

Chief of everything, humiliation and stupidity included, was the current reality that she was now that woman whom you’re sharing a makeshift seat with, your thighs sharing warmth and shoulders leaning against each other– the only thing keeping the other’s unbearable weight from crashing. 

“Me? A soulmate?” she muttered. 

“A soulmate, yeah.”

“Nope.” The woman turned to you, smiled, before pointing to her eyes. “What would be the point anyway? These old things up here could never be trusted with blues. And other colors.”

Your heart seized. She was still amused, like she was waiting for you to laugh. You didn’t.

“I’m- I’m sorry–” Your hand, in want of other things to do, reached for hers. “That was so insensitive– I mean– I shouldn’t have just assumed that you’re–”

Her smile stretched, eyes becoming more luminous, until all of her teeth showed. This close you could see a chipped front tooth. At the confusion that must have spilled across your face, the woman threw her head back, and then laughter—the kind exhumed from the belly, bounced across the parking lot.

“God forgive me, kid,” she chortled, wiping away tears. “You’re just so easy— look at your face— I’m so sorry—”

You closed your eyes. A deep breath. Patience incarnate.

“Was that a joke?” you sought clarity.

“Yes.”

“Was that a fucking joke?”

“Yes!” she yelped, with a gasp that quickly devolved into sucked in guffaws.

You faced her, your knees knocking together. “Well, it wasn’t funny…!”

“Holy shit, kid! Live a little!” A light slap on your shoulder. “I swear, children these days would get their panties twisted about every fucking thing—”

“That was really not funny! There are people who live with color blindness or- or deficiency and their lives have been very difficult for—”

“Oh my God! Spare me, okay! Stop whining—”

“I’m not whining! Some cultures even go as far as to treat them like outcasts! It’s really not that hard not to make light of their struggles and not to be- to be- a- a dick about it!”

The woman sighed, reigning in her laughter (struggling to, you marked with a frown), then patted the back of your hand. “Alright, alright, let’s cool it?”

You grumbled.

“If it helps your… delicate—“

You rolled your eyes.

“—sensibilities,” she continued, “My cousin from my dad’s side couldn’t tell red and- what was it- green- to save his life.”

“It’s always a cousin,” you scoffed.

“No, it’s true…!” the woman exclaimed, sitting up. She clasped her hands over her knee and pulled it over the other. “Of course, this was back then, you know, people were a lot meaner—”

“More ignorant, you mean.”

“Sure was. There was the usual stuff. Some name calling. Teachers being a cunt. I knew. I grew up with the guy. Got held back when we were eight. Then, when we were fifteen, there was some kid in school who had a retired colonel for a dad— so that made him believe he was hot shit, pulled a prank on dear old cousin. After a game of baseball, while they were changing out of their uniforms, I guess he must’ve grabbed his arm or something. Then, you know… Everyone in that room saw it, but nobody said anything. ‘We’re soulmates,’ the kid told him. He must’ve thought it was funny, ‘cause they were both boys and my cousin was that kid. And then— “

Laughing, she resumed, “The funniest thing happened. Do you know what my cousin said?”

You shook your head.

“Cow dung, he said. Ever the country boy, my cousin. Y’see, he never had any trouble telling blues. Purples were a different story, but not blues. But nobody ever believed him. And red, to him, looked like—”

“Cow dung,” you snickered.

“Cow dung.”

“And then what happened?”

“He punched that little fucker. Got detention, but life was fine. Went as usual. He left when he was twenty. The country, I mean. But it wasn’t just leaving that made him realize…. Growing old made him realize too….” 

She looked at you, still smiling, but softer and less like she’s pulling a prank.

“He had his soul glow, contrary to all the assholes who said otherwise. He was— lemme see, about twenty-seven? He got married, too. But not to the same man. Different one. I asked him once, at a family function, why him? You know, not the other one. I even asked him if it was hard, making that choice. He looked at me like I was crazy. And then he said, ‘But it’s common sense! You choose the one who won’t put a pillow over your head when you snore!’ She shook her head. “I don’t know a funnier guy.”

There was a lady bug climbing up your leg. A beautiful, fragile thing; one that could fly off at any moment. You didn’t dare move.

With a gentle nudge, the woman then whispered, like she was consoling you, wiping what’s left of your tears despite having barely raised a hand:

“People live, don’t they, kid?”

Splinters came out of the shower head. It ran down your back as you pressed your head against the wall, sloughing off all debris and muck from this morning’s service. You reached for the knob and turned it higher.

A thousand frozen knives cut through every pore, every wart, every bit of tiny pimple that grew out of the sweat and follicles and dirt. 

Any moment now and even your bones would disintegrate and create a whirl pool around the drain.

The bar of soap in your hand diffused into the wet towel as you scrubbed them together. Bar of soap wrapped in towel—like baguette wrapping around fat blocks of ham. Squeeze between two hands and perhaps it would also be good enough to eat. The soap was just as pink as the ham fresh from the walk-in, too.

That’d been what you served the last customer in your shift. His hair was the same color as the imitation mahogany tables. They were actually made of plastic, just varnished to look like genuine wood. Anyway, his hair blended in too well with those tables that you even had the idea of slamming the tray over it.

You didn’t do that, of course. You went to his table and showed him the menu as usual. And when he’d smiled tightly and told you what he’d wanted, you even expected him to tell you, “Thanks, kitten.”

Weird.

His eyes weren’t as brown.

Suds and bubbles dribbled from your torso down to your toes. It slid off your chest, circulating around your breasts, and sinking into the crevices between the folds of your stomach as you scrubbed, slinking the towel around your neck, then pulling both ends together, its junction like a stone against the middle of your throat. You pulled to the point of drowning.

The pressure only eased when you let go, bleary eyed and lashes sopping, and began scouring between your legs. Your fingers clawed at the towel as you used it to get around the fatty thighs, like vultures orbiting above carrion. Each digit was wrinkly and as warm as a corpse’s. They brushed and stabbed and pierced through. You muffled a scream, and then it felt like falling off into a ravine.

Your belly was a cold, hollow pit. You parted your thighs and it salivated like a sick bitch that needed to be put down. You scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed at each pit and crack.

Bits of scabs flaked off where your thighs pulled inward, making way for new ones.

Your skin split open. The soap soaked through. It stung. Maybe it disinfected everything it touched and bleached your bones along the way.   

Good.

The shower floor looked like you’d knocked over cranberry juice all over it. Fifty percent fresh fruit, fifty percent sugar. Beloved by the senior regulars.

That’s how you knew, then, that you were clean.

You got off the shower and promptly stormed through your closet. The nicest thing you owned was something from five years ago. Misaki-san told you they had their own make-up people, but you walked into a job interview once with nothing but a lip balm and was then shown the door.

Settling for the wrap-around dress, you sat on your bed and pulled out your work lipstick and blush.

Make-up looked nice on other women, but you looked at the mirror and, with that dress on, saw someone who habitually got on her knees for attention instead.

You pulled out wet wipes from your tote and scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed.

The sun was just beginning to set in the horizon, cranberry juice spilling all over the neighborhood, when you finally left your apartment. Your face was bare and the insides of your thighs bit into each other.

And you felt right, going on your way, because you knew then that you were clean.

It took you half a month to sign the contract. It took Wakatoshi a day.

When you finally got together in one room, his legal counsel on one side and yours, provided by the company, on the other, all that you had asked for was to make it clear— in bold, legible print— that you “will not be required to attend or make an appearance at any game involving, or of the interest of Ushijima Wakatoshi and other affiliated organizations, for public viewing or otherwise.”

Much talk went on for another week, or so Misaki-san had informed him. The contract was only granted your signature when that condition had been included in it.

Practice went on as usual. The Schweiden Adlers won a couple more games at the tail end of the season. Misaki-san had told him then, quite randomly, that you worked for a popular family restaurant, and that perhaps you would not mind a message or two, but it wasn’t anywhere within Wakatoshi’s inclination either to disrupt the day-to-day living of a person who had a far more demanding job than he did.

Neither one of you heard from the other, nor seen hide nor hair. Not until today.

“Excited?” Brandon’s voice popped in his ear. “You lovebirds haven’t seen each other in a while. Don’t get emotional. ‘Kay, big guy?”

His manager patted his chest before he went away.

From inside the café, he saw you descend out of the large van where you, according to Misaki-san, had gone to have your make-up and wardrobe fixed. They changed you out of the dress you came in with to another that stopped an inch above your knees.

The afternoon sun traced a blinding outline around you as you walked in. Your entrance disturbed the chimes above the door— tiny bells tied to ruby strings giggled lightly.

You greeted the staff with a soft ‘hello’, and your lips glittered as you gave Wakatoshi a faint, cautious smile.

The place was something out of a fairy tale book. The ones with boards for pages and watercolor illustrations of cottages hidden in forests. It was tucked somewhere along a cobbled path miles away from the main road.

Barely anyone walked by.

Misaki-san had only known about it because she was acquainted with its owner, or at least familiar enough to ask about the well-being of her sister without much preamble or niceties.  You hadn’t even been aware that a place like this existed in the city. One look and one might think that it’s one of those spots that drove up the price of the buildings within its vicinity. If not that then the product of it.

But, no. Its quaint novelty did not conceal anything calculated. It just was.   

The stones that made up its roof was overgrown with moss. Its chimney was in the same state. The brick walls showed signs of wear and tear. And being in it was like staying for far too long inside a dream, or a memory that you knew at the very back of your brain had never existed.

You were seated by the window. Purple wisterias flowed along the café’s gutter and cascaded against the glass like waterfalls. Everything about this place conveyed that it was, among other things, an heirloom, passed down with an unapologetically haphazard sort of care typically found among large families. There wasn’t a corner not occupied by black and white portraits, or colored ones taken in water and amusement parks, and bookshelves with mangas and novels that had creased spines. A place that had seen one too many daughters for it to be mistaken as some pastiche of a café designed to be a selfie studio— exactly how your group treated it at the very moment.

In front of you, Ushijima was being directed by the photographer, while the owner herself set a glass of matcha latte beside the cheese cake platter. With that, the tableaux of sweet coziness were complete.

“Then— cover your face with the phone— not too close—"

They didn’t have any problems making you do that pose. You’ve seen it countless times among the young couples at the restaurant. One holds the phone over their face, taking a picture of their sweetheart. The other mimics it, taking a picture of their sweetheart. Their cameras are pointed towards each other, so when they finally share it for everyone to see, it would have been as if they’d said, “I’ve been found. How about you?”

Ushijima, however, must not have gotten the memo for the past…six years. He seemed to not understand that the phone had to be far enough to create an illusion that it’s blocking his entire face, but that he also had to position his body in a way that made the whole thing look like he wasn’t trying at all, and not like some old man struggling to decipher what’s on his screen.

The goal today was to tease: post images that whispered coquettishly, rather than ones that proclaimed with its whole chest. 

“I think ‘soft launching’ is what people call it these days,” Misaki-san said.

The photographer, with silent permission, took Ushijima’s wrist— the one with the phone, one last time to communicate to him exactly where his hands should be, like a store manager posing a tall, overly tall, and flawless mannequin. Then, he draped his elbow over the edge of the table, as he was instructed to splay his long, muscular legs a tad. “Right! You got it, Ushiwaka! Hold that for me, please!” the photographer remarked.

You couldn’t help but wonder, as you watched him, if it was possible that Ushijima Wakatoshi was as much of a stranger to… dating, as you were. What you knew, you learned via osmosis. How much did he know? His breadth of knowledge seemed like a narrow one.

That conjecture, however, was immediately chucked away.

I mean. Just look at the guy.

With just a simple, brown-ish gray long-sleeved polo shirt hanging slackly over his broad frame, the buttons on top come undone, along with loose-fitting jeans, and his hair parted cleanly, artlessly in the middle— he was lethal enough to stop a busy street; or an oncoming traffic to a screeching halt.

You know. It was happening now.

People went on their merry way when it was you doing that. You were merely another beating flesh doing its job by the side, but with him, the mundane act of putting a phone over one’s face seemed more like a once in a decade astronomical event.

Everyone in the café had to drop whatever they were doing just to…see. Even when some of them had the view of the phone blocking his face.

It couldn’t be possible. Not him.

If he were like you, then what a tragedy, isn’t it? Someone as beautiful and desirable and accomplished as him deserved an equal on his first foray into intimacy. What sin did he commit in his previous life to be destined to a basket case?

What a relief that none of this was real.

“Ushiwaka, please, don’t move!”

The giant apologized under his breath because, apparently, you realized as you blinked, that he had turned his head to look at you.

Oh, no. Hold on. Not just look, actually.

He was watching, too.

You snatched the latte off the table and sipped, averting your eyes as they carried on. It was nice. Not too sweet. And once that was over, the photographer proceeded to capture the ensemble of caffeine and pastries between the two of you. He and Misaki-chan moved fleetly yet assiduously, like a ship captain and her second mate, discussing angles, lightings, and intent. “Do they look good here?” “I think this one looks busy” “Let’s stick to the mood board for now” etc. etc.

On the other hand, you and Ushijima were more akin to the ship’s bow and stern, as far away as you could get from one another. Not physically, though. You remained sharing the same table: Ushijima taking a bite out of a tart and you, sipping— as chatty and familiar as strangers forced by chance to breathe in the same lift. The two of you only got up to move, and acknowledge each other’s presence after the past couple of hours, when you’d been told to go to the café’s powder room, captain and second following behind.

Ushijima let you in first, opening the door for you. He had to duck to get inside that nook of a space. In there, the wallpaper was a muted shade of peach, doodles of rabbits in frilly dresses scattered about. The shelves surrounding the vanity were stacked with tchotchkes: porcelain kittens licking their paws, wicker baskets filled with buttons and marbles, and enamel portraits of beautiful women in gowns and ceremonial garbs and feathered hats.

It would’ve all been very comforting, a perfect, warmly lit spot for a prey animal to hide in, had it not been for the fact that you could practically feel Ushijima right against your back.

“For this one, we’d like to ask you to recreate—” From outside the room, they showed you an image of a couple in front of a bathroom mirror. The man was behind her, chin resting on her head and arms wrapped around her waist, while the woman held the phone. Again, both of their faces were obstructed. “Easy, right?”

It was your task to take the picture for the both of you. Maybe that’s why they thought that this’d be a breeze. You took the phone with a damp hand. He stepped closer and your heart sprinted. You wanted to close your eyes, but that wouldn’t be helpful. Some of the tiny kittens had fracture on their eyes, likely the result of being dropped by tiny, grubby hands. They smiled at you. ‘See,’ they tee-heed, ‘even broken things can manage to be cute.’ Then—

“Would it be alright to skip this?” Ushijima’s voice came rumbling.

Misaki-san, who leaned against the door frame, stood up in alarm. “O-Of course…!”

“Yeah, this does feel a bit…much,” the photographer agreed. “We can do this one some other time, Misaki-san.”

They decided to move on to the next and final location.

Ushijima waited for you to walk out first, his large hand propped above the door and keeping it from shutting on its own. You passed through with a quiet thank you, and as you did, the smell of fresh laundry and yuzu lemons wafted from above you. Bright and sparkly like a summer’s day. Dandelion fluffs waltzing with the wind.

Your fingers ached for calloused warmth.

You needed to peel off your skin.

The way to the flower shop that Misaki-san had called ahead for this shoot was just as whimsical as the café, another cobbled hill with steps made for teacup dogs, or, perhaps, elves. You couldn’t help but drag your feet climbing up, admiring the way tufts of Bermuda and wildflowers bloomed through the cracks, at the back of the trail with Ushijima behind you. A small, man-made creek ran down the side.

For just this one day, just this moment, the world felt light on your shoulders. You haven’t had one of these in a while. You would have hopped if it did not make you look all the more insane. Giggled, too. All that sugar must have finally rushed through your system.  

The photographer turned around. Although you were losing daylight, with a perky tone, he suddenly yelled, “Wait, miss!”

He pointed his camera at you. “This is a great shot! Can you look down a bit? Yes, thank you. This’ll make a beautiful candid photo, Misaki-san! Something her soulmate would’ve taken of her while they’re— uh…”

The man laughed. “Please, can you move out of the frame, er, Ushiwaka?” he requested, grinning impishly.

You looked back.

It took Ushijima a second to understand that he was being spoken to. Those sharp, penetrating eyes were— and maybe you were seeing things— soft, like dewy leaves after a heavy rain. And they were turned right at—

He’s tired. That must be it. He’d just won a game, too.

“Ah,” the giant muttered. “Apologies.” He climbed ahead of you.

The rest of the afternoon flew by.

By the end of it, Misaki-san’s team had accumulated photos that ranged from delectable to charming. The shot of the food was your favorite. The photographer had done an incredible job. You hoped, with the amount of attention that you were told this’d receive, that the café would garner the same. Maybe more. All of this would have been worthwhile then, you thought.

You were to upload most of the pictures from the café (at Misaki-san’s behest, of course) using your old account (the only one you had), which you mostly (only) opened to promote the restaurant’s special holiday group meals. Misaki-san didn’t see the problem with that. She said it would help make your pictures look organic.

The ones taken outside were to be posted on Ushijima’s account (that, upon seeing, you didn’t think the man even knew the password to). Your pictures would be a shock among still life images of volleyballs, courts, trophies, shoes, and products, for sure. The rare, sedate photos of other human beings: teammates, coaches, Ushijima flying in the air, Ushijima receiving an award, will be disturbed by you—

On the hill, looking at flowers like you couldn’t do any wrong.

Crouched down to the pavement, beckoning a stray cat to come to you.

Holding a bouquet of red tulips— “Symbols of passion, loyalty, and everlasting love,” the florist had said— their lush buds smothering half of your face.

It wasn’t until late in the evening when the company started showing signs of inebriation.

Brandon came to the izakaya after the shoot, as it was only a block away from where he had his appointment early in the afternoon. He, too, was drunk. And if the way Misaki-san didn’t mind playing bekuhai with him, then that meant, maybe, that so was she.

Her entire team, after all, was celebrating the successful first phase of their project. Even the ones who couldn’t come with them earlier showed up just for this party. They earned it, Wakatoshi thought, as he watched their group clap and sing, “The drunken god is an honest god! Please point out the beautiful one! Hey, point it out!”

The spinning top on the table stopped, pointing towards Misaki-san. The table erupted in fists and cackles.

“Ah, Tengu, Tengu! You’re so unlucky, Misaki-chan!”

They poured sake into the ceramic goblin cup, the largest one of the three, and cheered as she tossed it back. And even with all that whooping and yowling, Wakatoshi could still hear you chuckle behind your hand.

The two of you were at the edge of the long table, once again, facing each other. Your glass of mocktail was half-full and what little food you’d asked for was already gone. Ushijima had only one glass of beer and no more. He ordered another plate of gyoza.

“Hey, everyone!” Misaki-san’s assistant, if his memory served him right, shouted from the hallway. “The karaoke upstairs is empty!”

The group got on their feet like the floor had caught up in flames. “C’mon!” Misaki-san exclaimed his way, just as she did when they’d put down the bekuhai set on the table.

He chewed, then swallowed to say, “No, thank you—”

“—I’m okay right here...!”

He looked at you. You looked at him. Misaki-san looked at the both of you, then, with her whole face aflush, beamed.

“Okie-dokie!” Misaki-san’s thumb and index formed an O, three fingers up. From behind her, Brandon wiggled his brows at Wakatoshi as he slid out of the room. “We’ll leave you to it! Have fun!”

It got quiet, then. The TV by the bar droned on with its weather report. The few patrons around their table ate alone, or in pairs, conversing in mutters. Or not at all.

“Ushijima-san,”

You spoke.

To him.

Wakatoshi’s chopsticks paused from picking, as he shifted his attention to you.

“You can go anytime if you want to,” you muttered.

He dipped the gyoza in sauce. “I don’t want to,” he replied, admittedly puzzled.

“O-Oh. I didn’t mean, like, go go. I meant, go, join the karaoke upstairs, with Misaki-san and the others. Y-you can just go…if ever…you feel like it.”

“I understand.” He blinked. “So should you.”

“R-right.”

A beat. You finally plucked one gyoza from the plate.

Somebody did tell Wakatoshi once that conversations one does not wish to have are best buffered by food. One would have no recourse but to eat, just to avoid speaking. He watched, at ease, as your face brightened, humming discreetly when you nibbled.

“You don’t have to talk to me.”

You covered your mouth. “I’m sorry?” you chewed.

“I meant to say,” he said, “you don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to.”

“I- I see. Um.” You gulped, then smacked your lips. “You also don’t have to. If you don’t want to.”

Your eyes were everywhere but on him as you told him that. You took another morsel as his phone piped up.

A text. “Takl 2 he rr !!!1!!!            111111 she looks LONELEY USHWAIKA,” it said.

“Many people beg me to,” Wakatoshi huffed, closing his phone. That was not necessary.

“Brandon-san?” you glanced to his phone, then winced. “Sorry.”

Wakatoshi placed his chopsticks to the side. This way, with nobody and nothing else demanding you to listen, he had all the freedom to study you as you were. All his own. It called to mind the turtle that their classroom once had, back in kindergarten. He’d forgotten what they’d named it, but it retreated to its shell every time he got close too.

He wondered what the difference was, between then and now. You did not have this reaction to him the first time you’d met. You hadn’t known who he was at that time. Perhaps it was the knowing that induced this. Besides, it wasn’t his place to compare. Then and now held minute differences for Wakatoshi too: before he’d learned your name and what you could possibly mean, and after.

Things seemed… muddled now, somehow. Like the point where colors are mixing together before they can transform into another hue.

“Do you mean that?” Wakatoshi crossed his arms together. He leaned back into the chair.

The bead of sweat that’d gathered on your forehead went to the shell of your ear. You stared back up at him, mouth agape. “Excuse…me…?”

“Why are you sorry?”

“N-no, no, I was just—” You dropped your chopsticks. “It was just an expression. I was only—"

You swallowed, then dropped your gaze. You sighed. “I am. Sorry. I do feel that I’ve been…Look, dude, can we talk about something else?”

His brow lifted. You’d raised your tone. That was new. “We don’t have to,” he reminded you. “Not if you don’t want to.”

“Right. Sorry.”

There it was again. Wakatoshi frowned, but before he could say something back, the news that had been a white noise in the background became one that his ears could recognize in his sleep.

Shrill whistle, followed by a vociferous crowd. He turned to the screen. The Sendai Frogs were playing against the Tamaden Elephants. Wakatoshi tried to recall the date today. He must’ve forgotten. The camera panned to a blonde player wiping his glasses. “Folks, we have just entered the second set and the game is already this tense!” the commentator boomed. “No one is letting up! Especially Tsukishima over there! Talk about drive, eh, Miyake-san?”

Wakatoshi could hear Tendou cackling somewhere.

No doubt he’s joyous to see the blocker in a pinch, all the while impatient to see him overcome.

“Do you know them?”

He almost didn’t hear. Not just because Wakatoshi had been too engrossed, but also that you’d asked so bashfully. Again, you barely met his gaze when he looked at you. Nevertheless, at the very least, Wakatoshi was no longer confounded. Not as he’d been before.

So you did want to speak to him.  

“Yes,” Wakatoshi said.

“Like, personally?”

“Yes.”

“Th-That was stupid of me, of course you do, sorry—"

“Stop apologizing.”

“So- I just thought…I might as well talk to you about this.” You gave him a smile that didn’t reach your cheeks, eyes downcast. “Volleyball, you know. It being our common interest and all—"

“It’s not.” Wakatoshi felt the words deep in his throat. That was untrue. You did not care for it. Perhaps even averse to it. There wasn’t a need to lie for something as hollow and flimsy as keeping the conversation going. “And we don’t have to talk about it.”

You stared, face dimming. “Got it,” you mumbled, before taking the last gyoza on the plate.

It seemed that the more he talked to you, the easier it was getting for Wakatoshi to recognize the tells: the way your features sink, lashes flickering as if trying to get dirt out, the inflection in your voice breaking like fine china. He knew then that his response had brought about a sort of dejection. The last thing that he liked seeing on your face, he realized. Wakatoshi inched closer to the table.

He could watch a recording of the game tomorrow.

Shearing the edges off of his tone, Wakatoshi began, “Please forgive me. I wanted to say that I’m more than capable of conversing about other things. Not just volleyball.”

Wakatoshi had expected that that would soothe you, having expressed that he’s not being hostile as people often thought he was. It usually did the job in his experience. After explaining himself, he’d learned that most people can be quite forgiving.

What he did not expect was for you to laugh.

After that pause that looked to Wakatoshi like you’re trying to work out what he said, you suddenly broke into a snort, then slapped your hands over your mouth, then laughed.

“What?” Wakatoshi demanded.

“S-sorry-“ You snickered, coughing and shaking your head. He pushed a glass of water towards you. “T-Thank you- it’s just you- dude, you looked like you were having the worst time of your life saying that.”

 He should start getting used to surprises when he’s with you, Wakatoshi noted.

You looked like you were having the worst time of your life saying that.

Did he really? He hadn’t noticed. Nor did he feel like it. He couldn’t help but touch his face.

“I’m sorry,” Wakatoshi murmured.

“Stop apologizing,” you grinned.

His brows furrowed. He hadn’t known you were this…puckish.

“I think I get it, though,” you sighed, slumping on your chair. “Maybe. I could be wrong, but you love it, don’t you?”

You looked up at the screen. He followed you. The Sendai Frogs had won the second set. “More than anything in this world,” you continued. “Everything else must be very boring to you.”

Love.

Many people had called what he’d felt towards volleyball in a myriad of ways. “Ma’am, volleyball makes Wakatoshi happy,” his father had supplicated to his grandmother when he was young. “You only enjoy playing volleyball!” the girl he’d tried dating when he was fourteen had cried. From then on it generally oscillated between dedicated and obsessed.

But never loved.

It wasn’t a word that he— nor other people in his life, really— would ever throw around so casually, either. It had never even crossed his mind. You weren’t just throwing it around, though, weren’t you?

You’d meant that.

Not like earlier. This time you’d looked at him in the eye, and you smiled at him like you’d been there with him when he’s alone, on the rare occasions after a lost game, pondering methodically how he could make it up to his team in the next.

Wakatoshi could only nod.

“I’m saying you don’t have to force yourself.” You picked up your neglected mocktail. “I’m not completely ignorant about volleyball. I don’t know much, but I know some things. Like, that—” Gesturing towards the game, “Was their libero doing an underhand serve.”

He glanced at the screen, then to you. “That was an overhead serve.”

“Was it?” You pursed your lips.

“Yes.”

“And was he their libero?”

“No.”

“I see. Not their libero, huh.”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am sure. Liberos wear a different jersey from their teammates.”

“Right, I remember tha— Ouh! The ball was in!”

“It was out,” he informed.

“But the referee went…” You put both arms forward.

Wakatoshi mimicked and raised his hands to his face, palm inwards. “It was out.”

“Hm.” You suddenly perked up. “That one, I know. That’s their setter.”

Sure enough, it was Hirabayashi, Sendai’s setter, that had tossed the ball to Koganegawa. A rally ensued. 

“That was a dump!”

The crowd roared as Tamaden’s blockers dove to the floor. Wakatoshi almost rankled at the sight, if not only for…

“What a powerful jump serve,” you said, almost to yourself. But, then, your commentary halted completely when the camera zoomed in on Sendai’s opposite hitter.

It’s as if all your interest in the game had died, and with it all the light and mirth that had set you aglow in the past couple of minutes.

“Another player that’s been the talk of the town,” the commentator supplied. “A dark horse, one might even say. Not as illustrious as his teammate Tsukishima, whose had an impressive high school career, but don’t you underestimate this guy! Kyotani Kentaro is one tough nut!”

Wakatoshi hadn’t had the opportunity to play against him, but he could recognize the hitter from Aoba Johsai’s game against Karasuno, all those years ago.

You looked back down at the table, but having nothing to distract you with, settled for feeding your teeth with the blunt nail on your thumb. You gnashed and tore. Wakatoshi tempered the instinct to pull your hand away.

That would be impolite, Wakatoshi reminded himself.

He contented himself with observing you.  

A lack of rudimentary knowledge about volleyball, as if all that you’d been made aware of were things that had to do with the roles and skills of the setter. There’s also that reaction.

The muddled colors swirled, melting into each other, once a muddied shade now becoming more distinct— something so unlike what it was, but unequivocally itself.

But not yet.

“Do you dislike volleyball?” he asked, jolting you back to him.

You discarded your nails back to your lap, before looking at Wakatoshi like you’d been scandalized by your behavior. He could make out the beginnings of an apology on your face, which you wrangled back with a grimace. How could he have ever thought you to be a mystery?

Everything is right there for him to see, isn’t it?

“Not- Not really… I don’t give off that impression, do I? Oh, God. It’s okay,” you prattled. “It’s okay. Really. I can’t judge. Clearly, I still have a lot to learn.” A frail chuckle.

“Do you want to?”

Your forehead creased. “Learn? To play? From you? As in, learn how to play? From you?”

Wakatoshi nodded through it all.

You barked, all smiles. 

“That is so generous, Mister Olympic MVP, but no! Are you insane?!” you giggled.

He shrugged. He tried.

“Why not?”

You swallowed. The light snuffed out. In a blink.

“…Got hit by a ball in high school,” you lied. “Square in the face. Brings back bad memories. I wouldn’t wanna embarrass myself like that…again. Especially not in front of you.”

The thousand-yard stare returned with vengeance.

Where do you go when you do that? And how do you do it so easily? Are you subjected to this capricious maelstrom that comes to pull you away without your consent? Or is it just that you’ve always been there— in that place that even Wakatoshi cannot reach?

Something like this happened to him once, when he’d finally been prepared enough to hike Orla Perć. He was halfway to climbing the peak, but then what was once a placidly sunny day became abruptly beset by a storm that had engulfed the trail, strong enough to knock him off where he’d been hanging. Worse, it had stolen the few slants of light that guided Wakatoshi to his destination.

Below him was a steep drop, and behind him only darkness.

Wakatoshi had not known the cold in that way before.

All he could think then, with his hands gripping the metal rungs, was that regardless if the storm had been there to stay, regardless if the few drops of sun had disappeared forever, Wakatoshi had no other choice but to drag himself out of there, and into the light— bleeding, if he had to.

And so, he thought the same now, looking at you. 

“Do I make you uncomfortable?”

The shutters blew open. “I- Ushijima-san- I don’t…follow- I…”

Neither of you said anything more after that. However:

“…You make me nervous,” you whispered.

Wakatoshi breathed in, then nodded. “Many people have said the same thing.”

You huffed, smirking. “I believe that.”

“I’ve heard our opposite hitter from my last team once say about me that—” Wakatoshi tipped his head back in an effort to conjure the words front of his mind. You waited patiently, hanging on. “He said, ‘Pan Ushijima may not be the anti-Christ—”

Both your eyebrows raised. “Oh?”

“—But I would not hang out with him willingly.”

You pressed your eyes shut, looking as if you’re about to sneeze. “Oh my God?”

“And not even with a gun to my head,” he continued, even when you’re already reduced to convulsions on the table. “Apparently I always made him feel like he’s never left the court.” Which, to this day, Wakatoshi still did not find the problem with.

That was lost on you, however, as it seemed that you’d been robbed of the ability to form a coherent sentence. Your shaking back was accompanied by shrill cackling that soon became a soundless, breathless thing. It made Wakatoshi fear that you might be on the verge of a cardiac event, but rather than asking if you were okay, or if you needed help, or water (again), he found himself smiling along instead.

Wakatoshi did not have the heart nor the desire to interrupt the sound. Although neither melodious nor the kind his grandmother would call appropriate for a lady, it was pleasant all the same.

It meant that you were here, with him.

“S-sorry, that was just so mean!” you gasped. “Why would he say that oh my god,” you snorted. Wakatoshi nodded. Indeed. “For what it’s worth, I- I think I’d hang out with you willingly, Ushijima-san, oh my god that was still so mean though!”

You laughed. Wakatoshi tilted his head slightly, pensively, looking at you. Watching.

“You think?” he pushed.

You stopped. Your mouth closed and opened like a fish. “Oh, um- yeah- you know what I mean-“ You touched both of your cheeks. He’d bet that if he held your face in his hands that it’d feel like a fresh cup of coffee. Wouldn’t that be something?

“I just think- now, you know, that we’ve- that we are speaking- like this- not like before- sor- I think that maybe- you’re cool? I don’t know. I think. Which is not to say that you’re not, Ushijima-san. All I’m saying is I’d do this again even if Misaki-san didn’t ask us to…”

You were already panting. “…I think.”

Wakatoshi smiled. “I would too. I would like to hang out with you again, please.”

For a second, he’d thought he’d said the wrong thing. You just stared at him as if he weren’t real. Then, your expression crumpled, a misty film over your eyes, and it was like your toes had been stepped on and the person who’d done it didn’t bother apologizing.

He felt the pain shoot up to his chest like it’d been his own.

“That—” you snarled, grinning ruefully, “is something I have not heard in a very long time.”

You grabbed your mocktail and chugged, finishing it, before swiping away its traces with the back of your hand. You looked up, keeping your tears unshed, then exhaled.

“Thank you, Ushijima-san, for saying that,” you croaked.

Simple honesty did not warrant such a reaction, but Wakatoshi chose not to say that. As such:

“I’ve been hit on the face too,” Wakatoshi told you at length. “Only that one time. In the middle of a game.”

You sat up, blinking. “No way?”

“Yes. I was ten. I bled and I had to run to the infirmary right after.”

Your eyes narrowed. “After you bled or after the game?”

“After the game,” he clarified. “I had to make the point.”

“What?!”

The couple nearest to the table turned to you, to whom both of you regretfully bowed your heads to. You leaned towards him. Wakatoshi did the same.

“What?” you continued, hushed this time. “So you played while bleeding?”

He nodded. He could see all the blemishes this close.

“That’s crazy!”

“I suppose,” he muttered. “It wasn’t a smart decision. I made a mess on the court.”

You gawked as if Wakatoshi had beheaded a man in front of you.

“Of course you did!” you cried.

“My mother had the same reaction,” Wakatoshi recalled. That was the first time he’d seen his mother yell at someone other than his father. He still owed a great deal to his coach for bearing it. “She was deeply cross with me.”

“I would be too! I can’t believe your coach forced you to play in that state! That’s very irresponsible.”

You shook your head and Wakatoshi wanted to pinch your cheeks.

“No one can force me to do anything,” he said. “I refused to leave the court.”

“What…” Your smile hung on your lips. “You were still a kid, you know?”

That was true. However, “I was also team captain.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” You nodded emphatically.

“But,” Wakatoshi conceded. “You’re right. That was irresponsible. And it wouldn’t happen now. I wouldn’t be allowed to.” It was reasonable. It was also, in Wakatoshi’s heart of hearts, quite annoying.

You chuckled, gazing at him knowingly. “Of course.”

Silence dawned, but not the kind that you didn’t know what to do with. Silence shared between the two of you, Wakatoshi had realized, was cushy enough to lean into.

“Were you close with your mom?” you asked after a beat.

He considered the question for a minute. “No,” he finally answered. “She didn’t like me very much. Although I believe she tolerates me now.”

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, delicate yet firm.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I’m sorry anyway.”

“How about you?” Wakatoshi asked this time, and was rewarded for it with a sure and even a tiny bit defiant smile, as if you were daring him to oppose you. He came to the conclusion that he liked you best like this.

“Yes,” you avowed. “Well, I like to think we are. She cares for me even after all the trouble I’ve brought her, so there’s that at least.”

Wakatoshi would’ve been more than happy to ask some more— Are you an only child? Yes, he would assume by the way your eyes lingered at the family pictures back at the café; Do you like your father? He couldn’t be sure, but he’d readily say that he does; Doesn’t alcohol suck? Yes, absolutely, he’d agree with you; Would you like to have a family of your own? — but the clambering return of Misaki-san’s party had taken the opportunity from him.

Both of you left to catch those who’d almost tripped on their way to the table. Brandon was being carried by two men whom Wakatoshi had never met before. They handed him to Wakatoshi with a winded thank you.

“Maaaaaan! You kiddies shoulda been there!” Misaki-san hiccuped as she tackled you into a hug. “We sang our hearts out! You are always gonna be my love! Itsuka-” Her assistant pulled her away from you, followed by an outburst of apologies. Hamasaki-san, who was tasked to drive the large team van, seemed to be the only one who’d stayed sober. The man only shook his head and laughed as he lugged his traipsing co-workers out of the restaurant. 

The entire company made a trail of drunken, rambunctious Utada Hikaru songs towards the parking lot.

With Brandon in his arms, Wakatoshi quickly retrieved his manager’s car keys in his (slightly moist) back pocket. He laid him at the back of his car and started the engine. You knelt to the floor to pick up some dropped wallets and makeup bottles, while Hamasaki-san set the team to rights inside the van. Wakatoshi went to you to help.

He picked up a watch, then another. You faced each other as you closed some loose caps, before placing them inside a bag that had his sponsor’s logo on it. He slipped his finds there.

“Being soulmates with me must be overwhelming.”

You paused, staring at him. “Not…really…” you lied, again.

But you just looked at each other and exchanged stifled chuckles.

“May I ask you something?” he then murmured.

“Hm?”

A few coins fell from your hands.

Wakatoshi retrieved them for you.

“Why did you run?”

He was looming over you, even as both of you were on your knees. This was how it must’ve been, that first time, but you’d just been too out of it to even be conscious of that. But his presence wasn’t as it was, wasn’t it? A mystery, how far a brief conversation can take two strangers.

It was no longer as fleeting and dream-like as the first, nor as daunting as the second and third.

Wakatoshi Ushijima felt more…tangible now.

There was a distance between the two of you, but you feel every one of his breaths like you’re the one catching them, wrapped in a blanket of yuzu lemons.

Why did you run?

Ushijima waited for your answer.

You knew you shouldn’t have done that earlier, opened a conversation like that. Dumb dummy. Was his smile, watching that game, really that striking? Like you were looking at a different person?

Really? Really, little girl?

Now look at what you’ve done. What will you tell him, huh? Not even the answer closest to the truth would sound believable from your mouth.

Dummy.

“You don’t have to answer,” he said as he put another a compact powder in the bag.

“No…!” Your hand trembled when you pulled at his sleeve. “S-sorry.” You let go.

You didn’t answer, in the end. Instead, you asked, “What did it feel like for you, the first time it happened? When our palms…”

Unlike you, it didn’t take him a meltdown to give a reply. “Weird,” he answered. “I’d long believed that it was impossible for me. So it was a shock when it finally happened. You?”

You looked up at him.

He wasn’t so bad: you’d thought that earlier. You were still thinking it now.

Wakatoshi Ushijima was an unscalable a tower as ever, perhaps not even years of acquaintanceship would change that for folks such as yourself. But you’d accepted now that he was also the type to pull a woman whom he didn’t know from a can of paint out of the hell residing in her mind; the one to say “You did well” and the one to give a forthright sort of kindness without asking for anything in return.

This unscalable tower, who’d bled from his nose when he was ten because he couldn’t leave his volleyball team without winning first.

So, would it be so bad?

“I was…” you choked. “I felt…” You breathed in. “…scared.”

You kept your head down as you got up, dusting off your dress, before pulling at the bag’s drawstrings. When you met his eyes, he had already been there expecting you, still on his knees. You haven’t watched any of his games yet, had never seen him play, but this must be how he looks at his opponents when he does.

It’s a wonder how anybody can survive this.

Wakatoshi stood, gazing down at you, as he handed you something with a closed fist. Something pink and translucent peeked through his thumb; it was the shimmery gloss they’d used on you.

You opened your palm for him. His warm, calloused fingers brushed forked and dashed lines and you’d felt like crying again. You almost caught them with your own.

He stepped forward, not too close, but he leaned just enough for you to hear.

“You don’t have to be scared anymore,” he told you as he took the hefty bag from your hand.

Ushijima walked with you to the van, then bowed and thanked the team, leaving the bag inside the compartment. You watched him through the rearview mirror, watching the car leave, as you mulled over what he’d said.

Did he mean that you didn’t have to be scared anymore because he’s really not as scary as he seems? Or was it that you didn’t have to be anymore now that he’s here?

Was it a promise? Or a threat?

The line between the two seemed to blur with someone like Ushijima.

As soon as you got home, you’d called your mother to share about the things that’d happened at the shoot, how the people treated you (They were all very nice, mama!), how Ushijima had been (He was…nice, too!), what you’d done (We just took some pictures, then had a dinner party), and other gossip here and there (Did you know they have people in their teams who are dating but they’re not allowed to be public about it?). Finally, she asked you if you had fun.

You said yes, meaning it.

She also asked how you felt now that this wonderful and romantic thing was finally happening to you, as she’d always hoped it would. And you’d only said that you felt happy, keeping the other bit to yourself for fear that she might worry about you again.

Although you really did want to say it, that something much more miraculous than a soul glow had occurred, because it'd felt that, after all these years, like you had finally made a friend.

The sweltering heat melted Wakatoshi’s skin and clung to his shirt. Bass imploded under his feet, thumping an unending rhythm as he weaved his way out of the pack of swaying bodies.

Ahead, Nikola-san had already reached the couch where Matias Ruiz and his teammates were waiting. They embraced and clapped each other’s backs. A stark contrast to two days ago when they had been at each other’s throats on the court, crying foul and cursing at the referee.

The two had played together in an international league when Wakatoshi was still an amateur, and he could see them calling each other brother even through the pulsating kaleidoscope that engulfed the spacious room.

He picked up his pace, gingerly pushing the ones who’d knocked into him out of his way, apologizing even though Wakatoshi knew he couldn’t be heard among the din.

“Hey! Asshole!” An American accent. Wakatoshi looked down to see a woman. “Watch where you’re go—”

The woman seemed to have forgotten what she was about to say, gaping at him. He didn’t have the time to wait for it. The renowned outside hitter called out his name, and Wakatoshi speedily escaped the labyrinthine crowd.

Matias and Nikola-san flanked him, shaking him by the shoulders.

“Fédération Internationale de Volleyball’s Most Valuable Player of the Year!” they declared.

The men whistled, raising their glasses. “Salud!”

Andrzej, Janek, and Daniel were already sprawled on the couch. Their youngest grinned, yelling.

“…flacha!” he caught from Janek.

Nikola-san ruffled the boy’s hair, to the entire couch’s amusement, before offering a shot to Wakatoshi. He shook his head.

“Co tam?” the older man asked, scrunching his face when Wakatoshi answered.

“Git,” Wakatoshi repeated. Nikola-san nodded, then shoved the tiny glass to their middle blocker. Daniel accepted it gleefully.

Beside his teammates were Valentin Paez and Martin Cufré. The rest of them stood up to join the dance floor, while the others were engaged in arm wrestling. The only one missing was—

“Chabón!” Wakatoshi stooped under the sudden onslaught of Federico Muñoz’s arm. “Buenos Aires ni irasshaimase!”

Wakatoshi bowed slightly.

“The fool is drunk, please excuse him, Ushijima-san!” Matias hooted with laughter.

“Tomé bocha…birra….!" he caught from the intoxicated libero, who’d grinned at the men on the couch. Then, to him, “You gave us hell out there, brother! You are a… How do you say… tensai!”

He patted Wakatoshi’s chest and proceeded to slump on the low glass table in the middle.

Just behind the couch was a fire exit. Wakatoshi was filled with gratitude seeing it. He excused himself from his team.

The night air welcomed him in its cool bosom. He welcomed the sound of the muted honking of cars below, inhaling, but a trace of musk and a familiar burning smell prompted Wakatoshi to halt, and turn around.

Aleksander, a fellow opposite hitter, was there, leaning against the railing, head to the starless sky. Standing next to him was Klemens, who had something pinched between his fingers. Its end glowed and emitted smoke.

“Pan Ushijima,” Aleksander sing-songed, blowing out a cloud.

Klemens followed, smiling dazedly. "Zioło?” He extended the thin roll to Ushijima.

It was snatched by Aleksander, who’d then spat, “The MVP is too good for smoking. Winner like him, does not do things… such as this.”  

Yet another thing he’d gotten wrong about him.

“I have,” Wakatoshi explained. During his stay in America. His roommate had a habit, and he was quite adamant that Wakatoshi would take well to it, but, “It only made me hungry and unproductive.”

Aleksander sneered. “Idiota.” Klemens, red eyes drooping, glanced to Wakatoshi, and was about to reprimand the taller blonde, but:

“Excuse me, señor.” They all turned back to the door. “What a mean thing to say to your teammate.”

Nahuel Caneo addressed them with a smile, a bottle in each hand. He bowed briefly to Wakatoshi.

Wakatoshi bowed back.

His teammates, clearly perturbed by his presence, left in haste. Aleksander, however, grumbled along the way. Wakatoshi had never seen an angrier man who’d indulged in the purportedly calming drug. Fascinating.

“You must forgive him,” Nahuel told Wakatoshi as the door shut close.

He looked at him. “They haven’t harmed me.”

Nahuel laughed. “You’re just as they say, Ushijima-san.”

A frosty, unopened bottle was handed to Wakatoshi.

“Felicidades.” The setter beamed. “That was one of the most delightful games of my career.”

Wakatoshi felt his chest expand. “It’s an honor, Nahuel-san.” He bowed once more.

“I hope it’s to your liking. I heard from Nikola that you would only partake in beer.”

The one given to him had low alcohol content. He’s had it before. Andrzej must have told him. A quiet thank you, then Wakatoshi borrowed a discarded bottle cap and used it to break his open. Tangy sweet ginger refreshed his parched throat.

They rested their arms against the railing, drinking in silence as they watched over the traffic.

“Getting benched is one thing. Staying benched is another. A sort of death,” Nahuel suddenly uttered. “Sometimes death is better. Less shame to it.”

“Aleksander has not died. He’s just not good. Not right now. He is blinded by expectations of his potential.”

Nahuel paused from drinking. “Aren’t we all, at that young age? Aren’t you?”

“No,” he replied, sipping. “I only see what I can do and what I will. What others expect of it is none of my business.”

The older man shook his head, chuckling. “Spoken like a champion. That one only had his eyes on you, you know. You two— truly something else. You do acknowledge that it was a very close call?”

Wakatoshi huffed, smiling. “I do.” It was the best game of Wakatoshi’s career, too.

“A pair of prodigal sons,” Nahuel muttered around the lip of the bottle. “Your motherland must be weeping for the loss of you two.”

“Japan doesn’t hold a grudge against us.”

Nahuel laughed kindly. “No, no. Please excuse me. I mean to say…they must want for the both of you to come home and play there.”

He considered this. “Perhaps. But they can’t be wanting that much. We’ve no lack of competent players.”

A flash of pride in Nahuel’s eyes. He offered his bottle for a toast. Wakatoshi accepted.

“There are rumors of Romero…”

“A land of beasts.” Nahuel frowned, shivering. “Please, I take back what I said. Do not ever come home.”

Wakatoshi chuckled lowly.  

“But do you plan on going back?” Nahuel asked.

“…In a few years,” he answered.

After emptying the bottle, Nahuel patted his back to say goodbye. “I must get going. Matias might be undressing as we speak.”

Wakatoshi nodded, then, “Do you happen to know where the toilet is?”

“Take those stairs.” He gestured behind Wakatoshi. “The one for the customers smell. Use the one for employees. It’s okay. They’re fans too. They know you know us. And we know the guy who runs the place. Good guy. Wife and four kids.”

Wakatoshi bowed, thanking Nahuel.

Then, just as he was turning to leave, Nahuel called his name. He spoke, but Wakatoshi did not recognize the words. It must be his native language.

“It’s something my grandmother used to tell me,” he elucidated with a gentle, patient expression. “I hope everything that occurs to you will be as joyful as a dream.”

“You too, Nahuel-san,” Wakatoshi said.

Nahuel smiled, waving as he turned back.

What a man.

He followed the older setter’s instructions. The men’s room was unoccupied and, although dimly lit, was as clean as Nahuel had said. Wakatoshi washed his hands after having done his business. He was about to go, send a message to his teammates and retire for the night, when a loud thud alerted him to the cubicle at the farthest corner of the room. It was the largest one, painted a deep maroon like the others.

Another thud, then a groan.

“Hello?” His voice echoed back to him. “Is everything alright?”

A strangled cry prompted Wakatoshi to march to the cubicle and force his way inside. The door unhinged partly at the top. It hung open.

A man in a black shirt, with the club’s logo stitched on the chest, stared back at Wakatoshi.

He’s shoved against the wall, his wrists pinned above his head. His eyes were blown wide open, grinning blankly, as a large, veined hand smothered his mouth into muffled keening. The other taller man who’s got him there is on his throat, a thick head of brown hair facing Wakatoshi, as his hips thrusted in wild abandon into the smaller one.

“Oikawa,” Wakatoshi growled.

The hand left his mouth, and the man let out a sharp howl, his entire body caught in trembles. Oikawa whispered something to him, pulling an absent, empty giggle out of him, before he fixed his pants and stumbled out of the cubicle, then out of the room. Wakatoshi glanced at the sopping pile of rubber beside the toilet. 

Oikawa slumped to the floor; belt still unbuckled around his waist. A sheen of sweat glistened against his pale face. He looked up at Wakatoshi, who then knelt next to him without another word.

His pupils were massive, shining black marbles. He should’ve brought a bottle of water with him, Wakatoshi thought.

“What did you take?”

Oikawa bared his teeth to grin at Wakatoshi, then stuck his tongue out. A bright, bubblegum blue pill sat there, still perfectly round.  Before he could roll it back in and swallow, Wakatoshi grabbed him by the nape, pulled, and shoved his tongue inside Oikawa’s mouth.

His lips were pillowy and wet against his, and he tasted bitter, almost astringent, as Wakatoshi swiped the fat of his tongue to catch the pill. He pulled away, already hard in his pants, and spat it into the toilet next to them, slamming the lid down.

In the next breath, Wakatoshi is on his back. Oikawa is on top of him, fist wrenching his collar. “Don’t leave me hanging, you fucking dog,” he drawled, chuckling.

He spat into Wakatoshi’s mouth. “Just like old times, huh?”

Wakatoshi grunted. He found himself unable sit up, until he pulled Oikawa by the hair and sunk his canines into his throat. Copper and salt mingled in Wakatoshi’s tongue. Oikawa moaned, grinding his ass down into Wakatoshi’s stiff cock as he made quick work of his pants.

Around his fingers, there’s a tacky downiness to Oikawa’s chestnut strands that made Wakatoshi grin. It almost felt like coming back home. He tugged harder, until Oikawa is facing the ceiling. The brunette cackled as he swiveled his hips.

“My greedy, little virgin boy,” he groaned. God, he wanted to slam himself inside that tight heat so fucking bad. “A trophy isn’t enough for you, huh? Want my ass too?”

“Fucking tease,” Wakatoshi grounded between his teeth. Blood trailed down Oikawa’s throat. He licked it up, feeling his Adam’s apple bob under his tongue.  

Oikawa cackled, sighing, as he stroked himself. “Iwa-chan.”

The world turned red. Wakatoshi snarled, then grabbed Oikawa’s arm with the other hand, and lunged him to the wall, both of them a couple of scrambling feet. Oikawa barked, sneering, as he pushed Wakatoshi to the plank of wood dividing the cubicles, his arm locking Wakatoshi by the shoulders.

The divider cracked under the impact. The hinges of the door creaked in protest.

“You think you're all that?! Think you’ve won, motherfucker?!” Oikawa snapped. They heaved into each other’s panting mouths.  “You haven’t won shit!”

Hot flushes fluttered in Wakatoshi’s chest. He laughed. “You’re a sore loser.”

“Yeah, better a sore loser than a— fuck me,” Oikawa groaned, “—than a desperate one. Hm?”

He’s already got Wakatoshi in his grip, their cock heads twitching and leaking into each other. Wakatoshi felt each heavy drop of Oikawa’s pre-cum on the tip, then slithering down to trace every vein on his shaft.

His cock was as pretty as him. The pink, curved head caught around Wakatoshi’s thick girth. Their fingers probed and scratched against each other as Wakatoshi stroked along with Oikawa. They bucked their hips forwards and backwards in a slow, frenzied rhythm.

They throbbed against each other, the meat of their cocks grinding and kissing. Sticky, wet sliding noises reverberated across the room.

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa moaned, those enlarged pupils laughing at him.

“Shut the fuck up,” Wakatoshi growled, thrusting his fingers into the brunette’s waiting mouth.

He gnawed until they bled. Wakatoshi hissed, but watched anyway, transfixed, as Oikawa sucked them dry.

“Then what do you want me to call you?” he crooned around his fingers.

Their once measured movements became erratic, and his heart careened along with it. The light behind his eyes bursting, a volatile thing, sending shockwaves in his nerves.

“My baby? My prince? S’that what you want? You and that fucked up savior’s complex of yours?” Oikawa spat, sighing into his ear. “My prince? Have you come to save me? Ah, right there— My prince — fuck, baby, I’m so close—”

They spilled all over each other’s hands, shivering and gasping.

Oikawa fell to him, his damp forehead resting on his equally damp shoulders. For a while, there was only the sound of their strained breathing. Then, whimpering.

He wondered if the high had worn off and if it was causing him pain. Wakatoshi tried to shake him off just so he could see his face, but Oikawa stubbornly pressed into his cheek instead. He let him. Only for a minute though. They needed to clean up soon.

A steady trickle of sweat dripped from Oikawa to Wakatoshi’s neck.

Oikawa was blabbering something. He might still be up there after all, swimming in a river of adrenaline. However, the more he did it, that high-pitched blabbering, the less convinced Wakatoshi had been that that was indeed the case.

He was repeating a name, whispering it like a prayer, almost like sickly plea.

Wakatoshi understood then that Oikawa was no longer provoking him.

It wasn’t even Iwaizumi Hajime’s name.

It was somebody else’s.

One he couldn’t recognize.

And the sweat that flowed unceasingly didn’t seem to be just that.

[eempyreall]

This is the original request. This story is the non fandom original character version.

༺————————————————————————༻

♪ 𝐶𝑎𝑡 𝐺𝑖𝑟𝑙𝑠 𝐴𝑟𝑒 𝑅𝑢𝑖𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑀𝑦 𝐿𝑖𝑓𝑒! 𝑏𝑦 𝐶𝑂𝑅𝑃𝑆𝐸 ♪

༺ Plaything ༻

Oneshot ~ Lion Hybrid x Hamster Hybrid Female Reader

Summary ~ You were found, almost unconscious, by a dumpster and brought home to another hybrid.

Featuring ~ Original Character: Calix

Extra Notes ~ This is the non fandom version of this story. If you want to read the Tokyo Revengers’ version, press this link.

This story should only be posted under eempyreall on my tumblr. Report if you see it posted under anyone else but me.

Warning ~

You and the characters are 21+. Although I picture the reader as a black cis-gendered female, physical appearance will not be described at all.

Content within this story may not be realistic or factual.

I do not condone any of the behavior displayed within the story.

There may be dark content such as: gore, violence, triggering topics, graphic scenes, vulgar language, explicit content, sexual content, non consensual and/or dubious consensual content, etc.

That being said, this story is for 18+ only.

The human owner never thought twice about bringing strays home. It was just in his nature—especially when he found them injured or near death. Although he was more of a cat person, he couldn’t deny the heaviness in his heart when he found you—shivering, dirty, and barely breathing next to a dumpster in an alleyway. The fur on your ears was matted, and your eyes were barely open.

Once the owner bent down, you bared your teeth as your tail flicked with agitation, immediately sitting upright as you shoved your back against the grimy wall.

He found it interesting that a hamster hybrid like you could have so much willpower and energy to defend yourself. Instead of sending you to one of the sanctuaries that cared for hybrid monsters before sending them off to scientists, he decided to nurse you back to health.

Of course, he had his close friends, who owned a vet for regular animals, help aid in his quest to clean you up and get you on your feet.

When you were finally well, you showed your gratitude to all of them before the owner took you home.

But you weren’t expecting another hybrid to live with him. It wasn’t a problem until you realized that the hybrid was a cat hybrid.

The moment your owner brought you through the door, Calix’s hazel eyes locked onto you. His tail swayed lazily, ears perking with interest. He’d always been a predator at heart, but it wasn’t hunger in his gaze—it was a sick sort of amusement.

Despite Calix being spoiled with many toys, you were his favorite by far. No matter how much you hissed, spat, cursed, or tried to run, Calix always caught you. His tactics were frustratingly unpredictable—sometimes he'd chase you, claws grazing your back and drawing blood as he pounced.

Other times, he'd creep up behind you, silent, as if he were stalking prey, before snatching your tail and dragging you across the floor like a doll.

It was even more fun for him when you tried to hide.

“Found you,” he'd hum, pinning you down by stepping on your tail.

Your ears would flatten as you tugged at your tail, trying your best to ignore the pain. “Let me go, you fucking asshole!”

He'd tilt his head in response, brown-and-blonde streaked tips touching his shoulder as he crouched to your level, grabbing the back of your head before pulling you close. He'd rub his cheek against yours while purring, marking you with his scent.

“I can do whatever I want,” he'd boast with a wide smile.

Sometimes, he'd sniff you with a look of irritation. “You reek of our owner,” he'd complain before dragging his tongue over the skin of your neck until you were covered in his scent, causing you to shudder in the process.

“Calix, she's not a chew toy. You can't just bite her like that,” the owner said, arms crossed as he gave Calix an unamused gaze.

Painful marks and bruises covered the skin of your neck, collarbone, arms, and even thighs. Unfortunately, when you tried to bite Calix back, he'd only shudder before pulling you closer, egging you on to bite him again.

“You're so fucking weird, Calix,” you'd say as he pinned you while rubbing his face against your concealed breasts.

He'd moan as your claws pierced his shoulders while you tried to push him off of you. You'd gasp at the red hue forming on his face before his head dipped into the crook of your neck.

“Calix! Get off!”

You'd freeze as his claws gripped your jaw and moved your face to the side.

“Quit struggling. You're mine whether you like it or not,” he'd say, the warmth of his breath tickling your ear before he extracted his fangs and bit into the skin of your neck.

The pain would cause you to scream and cry before the palm of his hand covered your mouth.

“Figured you might like someone around who isn't a cat,” your owner said as he introduced the male hamster hybrid he had, ironically, found dumped in the same spot as you.

The male stood with his arms crossed and an unreadable expression as you mimicked his stance.

Having another hamster around should have been a relief. You figured that Calix would be distracted tormenting the new guy since he should get bored of you.

It wasn't until that night, when Calix woke up from his nap, that you and your owner heard screams, squeals, and squelching before the apartment went silent.

Your jaw dropped when you found a bloody Calix licking the crimson off his hand as he sat beside the corpse of the new hybrid.

His ribcage was split open, bones exposed as crimson, entrails, and flesh covered the area.The smell was the most sickening part, as well as Calix’s calm expression.

“Damnit, Calix,” your owner sighed as his fingers reached his temple.

“Not my fault. You're the one who brought her a mate~,” he responded with a heavy-lidded gaze.

You couldn't focus on the conversation as you felt bile rise in your throat. You almost forgot that Calix was a predator and not just some little shit who bothered you consistently.

While the owner and his friends clean up the remains, Calix held you closely, his warmth covering your back as you both lay beneath the covers of your bed.

Once again, after a shower, he was in a deep slumber, leaving you alone with your thoughts about the events that had happened before. You had forgotten how serious of a situation this was and that Calix could kill you at any instant. You came to terms with the fact that you might just have to accept being Calix’s toy.

[xjackjackx]

Victim Becker is like The character ever because. as a Person he absolutely deserved better, he deserves a second chance to be happy again with Mitsi and Agent and his three new friends. he does not need an atonement arc, he does not need to apologize for anything, the world should be apologizing to him. but as a Character i would fucking hate it if victim redeemed himself.

like no. there is no world where i can see any scenario where victim gives alan and/or chosen a second chance and i'll be happy with it. it's not like chosen, who owed all his strength to alan and ultimately knew they have to team up against a stronger evil. it's not like purple, where his issue was a shitty father that he needs to forget and move on from, not hunt for approval or revenge or anything else. it's not like king, whose "villain" was a nonsentient game he was projecting his rage and inability to protect gold onto. victim has an objective, real antagonist to his story, and that antagonist is Alan Becker and his (in victim's mind) sidekick The Chosen One. There is no misunderstanding like King, there's no greater evil or vic owing them something like Chosen. Alan is responsible for every bad thing in vic's life, knowingly or not, that's an objective fact. Victim was traumatized for years because of Alan, Victim lost the love of his life because of Alan and Chosen (even if Dark is the one who killed Mitsi, Chosen assisted and Dark's dead so there's no one else Vic can hunt for)

I just. cannot see Victim ever redeeming himself. Him ever giving Alan and Chosen a second chance. Him going "I won't actively hunt you if you fuck off and never show up again" would be the best outcome, and that'd still feel wrong cause it's been over a decade, would Victim really back off after all of that?

What could make Victim back off? That's the biggest issue here. Why would Victim ever turn good after a life like his. He's spent 12 years plotting revenge. He lost the most important person in his life. He's so stuck up his own ass he views all his former employees as traitors and cowards. He's never shown himself to be grateful towards Agent despite all the shit that he did for him. He's convinced the rules are "I'm good and anyone against me is evil and probably with Alan ngl". His innocence is gone, Mitsi is gone, Agent is on his side and if he'll turn against Vic he would be written off as another "coward" and "fool", and the mercs are random hired guns that he does not give two fucks about.

If I was writing Season 3, I would not give Victim a redemption for the sake of a "happy ending" (he's similar enough to King anyway). For me, Victim is a character defined by tragedy; he's been wronged, nothing ever goes his way, he is the Victim of this universe. For me, Victim's story will end with failure, with a death that he won't return from, after he's lost everyone in a single-minded obssession with getting revenge. The same way the Chosen One became a hero, the Dark Lord died a monster in a failed attempt for world domination and the Second Coming succeeded where his predecessor couldn't, the Victim cannot escape the fate that's been forced onto him since his author wrote his story. Since fate cursed him. Since Alan gave him that damn name.

Would it be cruel and tragic for Victim to never get a happy ending after a life of suffering? Yes. But it would give AVA a more mature story than another "happily ever after". But it would teach Alan and Chosen that no matter how hard they regret and atone, some of their victims will never let them go. But it would teach the Stick Gang that even if they want to, there are some people you can't group-hug it out with.

Funnily enough, I only have that feeling with Victim. I'm very open for an Agent redemption, but that's for another day.

[eddiediazismyhusband]

I mean..they haven't been renewed yet and tim will start working on the spinoff in march, so who knows. Ryan always has other projects to plug though (like the indie film he did with his brother last hiatus) so I hope he's not leaving, maybe jeff is just overselling the interview. It makes me sad that one person potentially leaving (whether it's lou or ryan) makes people stop watching the show, but I guess the writers only have themselves to blame :/ sooo much potential and they keep reversing storylines instead of going for it. The whole eddie&chris story is disappointing and sending buck back on the hamster wheel is too. It just wasn't necessary to hold back so much in s7/8 of a successful show.

yeah, like i said we won’t know until we know

i sincerely hope i’m wrong, but i’ve spent too many years of this show going “maybe this time it’ll be satisfying” just for them to fuck it up

tbh tho if there are fans leaving bc they’re upset lou is gone… i say good riddance. i have no space to hold for people who turn a blind eye to that man/character’s racism in 2025, especially not when we have a facist in the white house- that’s why i disagree with the notion that buck was ever off the hamster wheel; even oliver himself said he wasn’t, and the whole relationship with tommy fell so much in line w buck’s previous ones that to say he was off the hamster wheel is giving tommy far too much credit.

i genuinely feel like there needs to be a writer’s room purge, and someone younger with s much clearer vision needs to take over as showrunner… tim has just been turning this into the new ls with the most random ass plotlines and story arcs that he never follows through on… like this is not the show to experiment on- use the new spinoff for that, but not the og

anyway… i’m at the point where i’m like let tim fuck around and find out. if he wants to destroy the fandom and the support he has, watching record numbers tank in a matter of weeks, then by all means be my guest. let him see that we’re not gonna sit here and let him do what has been done to us time snd time and time again w network tv shows blatantly queerbaiting

unfortunately though, knowing the fandom, i think expecting people to actually hold tim accountable for queerbaiting is wishful thinking at this point

[purple-mushroom-cap]

i think part of the reason we as a fandom think percy is so based because there's thousands of stories where the "superhero" defeats the "supervillain" that is sick of being stuck in a fucked up system and is hailed a savior for restoring the status quo.

it comes to the point where so many people prefer the anti-heroes because you hear them and think "why are they making good points, and why are they being framed as the bad guy." we as readers are never condemned for thinking that luke has a point. the characters of the story--even chiron understands how and why luke turned.

percy is someone who is actively suffering from the system that is stacked against him, just like luke. throughout the books, he actively is on hater shit towards the hypocrisy of the god's so-called "perfect system." they demand respect, literally making their children worship them to give them any crumb of favor, without doing anything to show they deserve it.

he calls out athena for stringing annabeth along. he sees what hermes has done for may castellan. he despises heracles for treating zoe like shit and selling out/submitting to the same system that broke him down by becoming a god. the gods offer percy the same choice to become a god, because they've been through this before. they've seen a tired, angry, overpowered demigod with the power to topple the system and they offer him godhood because it *works* to keep the system in place.

instead of defeating luke and getting the glory, he gives back to the story by breaking the status quo and demanding the right for every kid to have equal opportunity to belong in a world where they've been called mistakes their entire lives.

that's also why hestia is the last olympian. he respects her because she never forgot those that need her. she might not be the strongest in fights, but she represents those that have been beaten down and unrepresented by those in power.

[ezrasxfics]

what about an abstragedy angst fic where gangle abstracted and its the aftermath with zooble dealing with that? or during and its like a queenie and kinger thing?

you’re a symphony, i’m just a sour note

-

abstragedy angst (ft ragatha)

-

zooble pov

it’s been a few weeks since she abstracted, and i’ve not been able to get out of bed. nobody wants to say it, but i know they all think i’m dramatic for taking this long. honestly, i agree, even if it’s just a little. she’d want me to get up, to be happy. but i can’t bring myself to, not in a world without her in it. it doesn’t feel fair, not in the slightest. there’s no ‘zooble’ without a ‘gangle’.

ragatha, pomni and kinger have been checking in on me almost every day, trying to encourage me to socialise, to force myself to be happy, even when i have every right not to be. they just don’t get it, except maybe kinger, who’s been encouraging me to take as long as i need. i’ve never seen this side of him before, and i definitely welcome it. i guess he’s not too bad when he’s kinda sane.

soon, i hear a knock on my door, one to a familiar jolly tune. it’s ragatha. at this time, though? it’s like 4am.

“zooble? can i come in?” she asks, her tone far too chipper. it feels like she doesn’t even care. like she NEVER cared, it’s honestly disgusting. why am i the only one that’s actually bothered? gangle’s gone, and it feels like i’m the only one who gives a sh*t.

she opens the door slowly, slipping in with a pitying smile on her face. i hate that. i don’t want to be pitied, that’s not right. i’m just coping with grief, i’ll be fine. i don’t need anyone’s pity.

“how are you holding up? i know you’ve taken this all pretty hard. we’re here for you, you know?”

i’ve not taken it hard - it’s everyone else not taking it seriously enough. she really has the fucking audacity to—

“..i’m fine. i’m managing.” i reply drily, trying to subtly show her i’m not in the mood for visitors. i rarely am these days, it’s almost embarrassing. i shouldn’t be like this all the time - gangle would want me to be happy. she’d be so disappointed right now.

“you do know we’re all worried about you, right? you should try come and hang out, just this once.” great. another guilttrip, huh? i don’t need to hear this, i feel bad enough as it is, why is she trying to make this worse?!

well, i know that’s not what she’s trying to do. she’s just worried. but it’s just.. so irritating. how she’s trying to tell me how to feel, even when she doesn’t get it. she doesn’t know what i’m dealing with. i mean, she’s lost people before, we all have, but she hasn’t lost the love of her f**king life - her reason for getting up in the morning.

she doesn’t get it in the slightest.

-

thanks for the request!! i love writing zooble because they’re my favourite character (they’re so me)!!

reblogs appreciated!