#if I wrote him too ooc

[feroluce]

I love the fact that the Silvermane Guards are essentially just a very devoted "We Love Gepard Landau" fanclub, and I desperately need for all of them to get into ship wars about it behind their Captain's back. The soldiers are all split into several factions:

Some of them ship him with Sampo 🛡💣 (enemies to lovers/hateship enjoyers; this does not necessarily mean they like Sampo- in fact it's more like most of them want to sic their Captain on him skzjsmdm)

Some of them ship him with Bronya 👑🛡 (knight and princess trope enjoyers and also a sorta-kinda "that is our mom and dad" type of deal; this faction gets riled up and ridiculously hypes Gepard up to Bronya every time she comes down to the frontlines mskdkxmd)

Some of them ship him with the trailblazer 🛡💫 (the smallest and newest faction, but steadily gaining!)

Some of them ship him with Pela ❄🛡 (workplace romance enjoyers; Gepard once charged out into the Fragmentum alone to save Pela from an expedition gone horribly wrong, and when this faction saw Gepard carrying Pela back princess style they threw a whole party)

Some of them ship him with Dunn 🛡🗡 (also workplace romance; Dunn is very flattered by this because yeah wrong Landau, but wow, the troops really think he's good enough to woo the Captain, what an honor)

And some of them ship themselves with the Captain 🛡❤ (yumejoshi enjoyers; this faction throws a massive group effort every Valentine's Day and are also all very supportive of each other)

The final faction is an odd one, because they're defined not by who they ship their beloved Captain Gepard with, but rather by who they don't ship him with. Their name is generally shortened to the A.B.S. Group- Anybody BUT Sampo 🚫💣 DKSZJJSMSOZ

[x-reader-things]

“I don’t want to fuck this up.”

Ekko x gn!reader [could be read as either romantic or platonic]

Summary ; In which you and Ekko help each other find your spark of creating again.

Requested? ; No. Self indulgent.

Warnings ; hurt / comfort, grief, a hint of survivors guilt but mostly just guilt in general, loss of a friend [unnamed uncanon character], not exactly a warning but hair is mentioned w / no specific hair type described.

Word count ; 2.3 k words

——————————————————————

You stare at the mural in front of you.

Tall and daunting. The tree grew around it like a shield, and the portraits were protected by the home built above in the branches.

Rain pattered on the ground. It had begun to soak through your clothes, dotted cold and unwelcoming on your cheeks. Slid off your head and yet caught into your hair at the same time. You were lucky it wasn’t pouring.

It smelled. A mix of petrichor and something putrid. No doubt from the smog that always left the sky over Zaun grey, and never clear enough for the sun to fully peak through. Such is the usual, for the undercity.

None of that mattered, though.

You were tasked - well, you took it upon yourself - to paint a portrait of another fallen Firelight. You were an artist like most of them were. You painted in your downtime for a while, up until recently.

The past year hadn’t been kind to you. Even with the Firelights being there, existing as a home. As a beacon of hope. For change. It wasn’t enough to fan the flames of the dimmed spark of creativity, that you longed to feel once again.

One failed mission after the next. An injury in your leg that had you benched for weeks. Chembarons were getting reckless, and enforcers were relentless - you feared when the other shoe would drop, when shit would hit the fan.

And then, the recent loss.

A close friend of yours.

The guilt was impudent. Almost impertinent. It seared into your bones like an angry flame that simmered and waited. Stars, you hated it so much. It never went away, no matter how much you tried to distract yourself by throwing yourself headfirst into work.

You took up more tasks despite the stinging twinge in your leg. You did more chores under the guise of letting fellow firelights take a break. Some meaningless and small, others bigger and more meaningful. Busying your mind so you didn’t have time to think too much.

And you took this task, especially, because you thought you could handle it.

You thought this would knock you out of your stupor, let you create again, out of respect for your fallen friend. Give yourself an outlet to let things be, let your mind be content, albeit in a melancholy way.

But the moment you stared into the blank space you were given to work with, all you could do was freeze.

One wrong move, and you’d fuck it up for good. One wrong stroke of a brush and a spray can would mess up the image of that friend.

And starting would ruin the blank space even more. It’d have marred the image you had in your mind, the one you needed to begin soon, lest you get sick from the rain. You didn’t want to mess it up.

You didn’t want to fuck it up.

You didn’t want to ruin the image of your friend.

The friend who you lost because the phantom pain in your leg grew too much to the point where it screwed up your footing on your hoverboard, made you swerve around an incoming bomb being thrown by a blue haired woman working for Silco, made you knock into your friend who lost their own balance and fell with a mind shattering scream, and then—

“Still haven’t started yet?”

Light thunder crackled in the distance, the rumbling amplified by your hyper vigilance.

Startled, you took in a sharp breath, and instantly turned to where you heard the voice from. You hadn’t even realized you were holding your breath in. Your lungs were grateful for the intake of air.

On the wooden balcony below you, you caught sight of the main firelight leader. Ekko.

Arms crossed, eyes tired, head tilted in the usual way he did while regarding something he needed to comprehend. The twisted locks of his hair moved with his head, vibrant against the greyed out colors surrounding you both. Usually, the grounds and the walls surrounding the firelight hideout were more colorful. Today, the rain made it more somber.

“I…”, you tried to form a viable excuse. Whatever your words were caught on the tip of your tongue, and refused to make themselves known. Your eyes flitted back to the blank part of the mural, and back to Ekko.

You wondered if he’d understand.

“I. Can’t.”

Your words were stilted. Hesitant. They cut through the rain like a knife. Unsettled in the air.

Ekko straightened up ever so slightly. He dipped his head the slightest bit lower, with a blink and a raise of his brows. His dark brown eyes urged you to continue.

“I-I can’t—“, you repeated, arms dropping to your sides in defeat. Your thoughts were buzzing in your mind and you couldn’t stop the words from flowing in time. They tumbled out in a jumble you swore on you could comprehend, and your arms gesticulated as you paced on the creaking wood below your feet.

“—every time I try, I just. Can’t. And I need to do this, I have to. I promised I would. And I can’t stop thinking about what happened but I need that to stop, I have to do this because they’re my friend and I can’t fuck this up, I can’t ruin the image of them. And I can’t fucking—“

You kicked a paint can at your feet. It soured over the ground below you, and felt to the grass well below the balconies.

“—bring myself to pick up a single one of these paint cans.”

Ekko’s eyes followed the paint can while it fell. It hit the dirt below, and the distant thump was drowned out by the rain. He clicked his tongue, and sighed with a shake of his head.

You were angry. You were grieving. It’s not like he could tell you to stop, nor would he ever. Any and every Firelight knew what it was like. Seeing you like this, though - abound with ideas, but with no spark, no drive anymore…

It reminded him too much of himself.

He was a leader. The leader of the Firelights. He focused his time on making their hideout a home. Bit by bit, he picked up the broken pieces of Zaun. Did his best to, at the very least. The chembarons, Silco and Shimmer proved difficult, along with Piltover.

With all that work, and all that responsibility, it left him restless. Left him exhausted. Even with the help of Scar, his second hand man, and many others within the community he created, it still weighed him down. Every time he opened that journal of his, without the need of making a blueprint for a new gadget to create, without the need for a map for a plan, the pages were blank.

When he tried, those pages were ripped. Those pages were full of jagged lines, or crinkled up and tossed to some corner of his messy room. He’d stare at those pages for hours, head in his hands, and wonder where the hell his spark went.

When did he lose it?

How?

Ekko took a few steps forward, and pulled himself up to the platform above. With a grunt, he heaved over the wooden railing as carefully as he could. The rain made everything they stood on wet, and prone to slip on. When he stood up, and dusted his hands off, he got a clear look at you.

You forced out a sound, a mix between a scoff and a wry laugh. Ran a hand over your head, and pushed water droplets flat onto your hair. Tore your eyes away from where the paint can used to be, and back to the mural. “Been stuck for months. And the one damn time I need to create, for them—“

You sharply gestured your arm out to the blank spot - an eerie crème colored sight compared to the rest of the wall, save for a few cracks - and your voice trembled. Water droplets fell from your hand as it flicked away from the top of your head.

“Hey—”, Ekko reached a hand out, and rested it against the opposite arm that stayed at your side. He grasped your elbow, and gave it a gentle tug. It tore your attention away from the wall, and back onto him. His voice was calm, almost somber. “— C’mon.”

He took in a breath, and his other hand made a breathe-in motion. You followed in suit, the smell of petrichor invading your nose, air filling your lungs. The tension in your shoulders went tighter.

After a few seconds, Ekko slowly breathed out. You followed him, and the tightness in your muscles faded ever so slightly.

Once Ekko was sure you were calm enough, he scoffed out a small breath, and the corners of his mouth twitched up in a wry sort of smile. It was small, but it was there.

“I… get what you mean”, he started. His voice was in a softer tone. One you didn’t hear as often, compared to his ‘Leader Voice’. It blended into the ambient noise of the rain, yet it was perfectly clear for you. Never broke the calm like the thunder did.

“When I got good enough, I started this—” Ekko looked at the wall behind you, an old ache settling into the small pinch between his brows. “—the mural. Thought that since i the skills, I could put this up. Thought that I could make something good, make something to remember them by, for...”

He sighed through his nose. You followed his gaze, and landed on the portraits you’ve known for years. Six portraits. The oldest ones. The same style, the same paint, the same process.

All were Ekko’s. The people he knew, before the Firelights had become The Firelights. Before he had to grow up as quick as he did.

“… your family?”, you asked tentatively, to complete the sentence for him. Ekko hummed in acknowledgment, and the smallest hint of a smile grew on his face.

“Yeah. My family.”, another sigh, and his shoulders dropped when he looked up at the rest of the mural. “Back then I created so much. Started this tradition, whenever we lost someone. Helped to create so many things for us. For the Firelights. A lot like you did, when you first started here, y’know? But now—”

Your eyes met again.

“—you can’t even look at a blank page anymore.”, you finished. He gently squeezed your elbow, and your hand had instinctively found its way to rest against his forearm.

“You get it”, he nods. “So…”

He let go of your arm to lean down and grab a paint can. Your hand lingered against the arm of his jacket, the outside of it already littered with dark spots from the rain. When Ekko stood up, he shook the spray can at his side. The mix bearing hit against tin of the can, and mixed the paint up enough to be properly used. After that, he took your hand off of his arm, and turned it so that your palm was facing up. He placed the paint can into your hand.

“—Let’s just… Take things slow. See how things go from there, alright?”

The cool metal of the can soaked into the skin of your hand. Your fingers curled over it, and tightened their grip.

“I don’t want to fuck this up.”, you whispered.

The very thought of starting the portrait you dreaded to creeped up from the back of your mind. The cold seeped back into your spine. You wouldn’t say it out loud but it terrified you to the very depths of your being.

“You won’t.” Ekko’s voice broke through the anxious haze that began to cloud your head again. His hand remained on the other side of the paint can in your hand. A promise that he wouldn’t leave you alone. “I got you. Besides—“

He gestured to your leg. A reference to the injury. “—standing up here alone for hours at a time won’t be good for that leg of yours. Figured you need someone to help when you need to rest it.”

You gave him a weak smile. A small thank you for the thought. He wasn’t wrong. Standing for that long would hurt. However…

“It’s gonna make it real, Ekko.”, the tremor in your voice returned. Warmth stung behind your eyes. Warm tears, against the cold air. “Losing them.”

The tremor in your voice this time had finally broken it into pieces.

“I know.”, Ekko murmured. He definitely knew. “It’s gonna hurt for a long time. But this—“

He waved his hand towards the mural. “—is the first step to healing. I’m gonna be right there with you.”

You nodded, and wiped a stray tear that fell from the corner of your eye.

“Alright.”

Ekko moved his hand away from the can, and you walked forward. You stepped on the creaking wood of the step stool in front of the mural. The intimidating blank stretch of the concrete felt way larger than it appeared. But when you took a deep breath, and caught the encouraging nod of Ekko when he went to your side a little ways away, the tension fell away.

The rain pattered calmly behind you.

The cold didn’t sting as deep. Neither did the guilt.

You shook the can at your side again, and raised it up to the wall. You sniffed once, and exhaled a shaky breath.

One spray after another.

One shape formed into an ear. Another, a nose. Soon the eyes.

And soon, a face. A little extra help from Ekko turned that face into a person. Your friend.

Nothing was marred, nothing was ruined.

And for once, the world seemed a little less cruel.

[glow-worms-are-believers]

Make off (dp x dc)

The important thing here was not to panic, Jazz thought to herself as she strained against her restraints fruitlessly. She tried to take a deep breath but the dirty gag that had been shoved into her mouth made it hard to do. In fact, with the way the left side of her face was swelling due to that punch she'd gotten earlier, breathing was hard in general right now. Jazz was in bad shape and she knew it.

She'd known Gotham was a dangerous choice, but she'd thought if she took precautions, if she stayed out of everything, she would be fine. She was a psych major in a city with lots of insane psychopaths, sure, but she was angling for family therapy, which was very much not going to put her anywhere near the infamous Arkham. And yet.

Jazz closed her eyes. It was useless to dwell on the past when she needed all her capacities to escape her current situation. She consciously did not look over to the misshapen pile she could see in a corner of the room, and very carefully did not take note of how she could distinguish the shape of something that looked like a cut off arm. Instead, she looked to the side, towards a slumped, tied up figure. He looked to be in his early twenties. Jazz managed to nudge at him with her foot in an attempt to wake him up.

It took a few tries before the guy started moving. It had taken the guy a second to come to, and when he did it was with a muffled shout. Jazz looked around, alarmed that someone had heard. She desperately tried to catch his eye as she vigorously shook her head in an attempt to signal him to shut up. He seemed to understand the message, but it was unfortunately too late.

"Oh, good. The new shipment is awake." It was a man in a white lab coat that had come out of a door off to the side. He was wearing surgical gloves and had rolled in a gurney. Jazz backed away from the man which simultaneously pressed herself into the wall, behind the other victim. As she did she felt a sharp pain in her arm as something sharp pressed into it. Could it be?

"I usually have more in stock but harvest has been poor lately."

Jazz made a show of pressing herself closer to the wall in fear to disguise her tracing the outline of the sharp thing. It felt like a piece of metal that was sticking out of the broken down, rusty walls.

The man in white looked over at her before he turned his attention towards the other victim. He strode over, crouched next to the bound man before grabbing his chin to tilt it upwards. The guy struggled against the grip but their kidnapper held firm.

Jazz took the opportunity to position her bound hands against the sharp thing and start sawing her restraint on the sharp edge experimentally. Back and forth.

"Hm," the scientist mused as he turned the guy's face to the sides, before letting go and brushing his hand against his pristine pants. Jazz stopped moving. "You'll do," he concluded before turning towards the gurney and taking a few things out of the side pockets.

Jazz started on the sawing again, this time more vigorously, grateful her partner in adversity was partially hiding her by the way he was positioned. She looked up to make sure her abductor was busy and caught him inserting the needle of a syringe into a bottle of unknown substance. She stifled a hiss as she cut the skin of her wrist on accident, and carried on her repetitive motion. She could feel the zip-tie starting to give way when the creep turned back towards them with a full syringe.

"Here we go," he said as he turned towards the younger man who just glared at him. The creep paid it no mind as he plunged the syringe into the younger guy's neck and pushed the plunger all the way down. Her fellow captive tried to headbutt the creep but he evaded it.

The creep turned back towards the gurney and Jazz took the chance. She gave a big heave and was rewarded by the snap of the zip-ties. After that it all happened very fast.

The creep started to turn around, only to be met with Jazz's roundhouse kick to the head. She immediately turned to the gurney, betting on there being a scalpel and was rewarded with the sight of a surgical knife instead. She grabbed it and made short work of her fellow captive's restraint.

As she was helping his up, a voice came from the corridor the creep had come out. "Boss?"

Jazz froze.

"You ok, Boss?" came a second voice.

Jazz looked to the now-freed man who looked back intently, though she could see how hard he was trying not to lose focus. Whatever was in the syringe was starting to take hold. She didn't know how many guys where there and her companion was clearly in no condition to help her fight. Their best chance was to run away and regroup later.

Jazz didn't have time to hesitate, she grabbed the guy's arm and started running down one of the tunnels leading away from the approaching voices.

Hopefully a head-start would be enough to make up for her flagging companion.

[otomes-and-tears]

i love your shya fanfic. So, i will be requesting one with Pran!! What if it was all cute, Pran becomes a bit more social with JB because he's slowly internally getting comfortable with Her, JB points it out and he gets flustered/embarassed over it and continues to ignore her for 2 days. (Do with this what you will. You're allowed to change up some things for the sake of making it in-character)

♦ Unavoidable Orbit ♦

► tags/warnings: -

► summary: Pran doesn't understand why Jb wants him.

► words: 866

► a/n: GLAD TO FEED PRAN NATION!!

► Masterlist

Pran’s world was supposed to be quiet. Predictable.

The kind of place where he could walk through the halls without catching a single glance, where no one bothered him unless absolutely necessary.

His version of peace was a delicate balance of avoidance and detachment, where he could never disappoint anyone because no one ever expected anything from him in the first place. He didn’t even offer the bare minimum.

And he’d had it.

He’d mastered it.

Then JB happened.

Jb was… Insistent, for lack of a better word.

She was utterly averse to any kind of rejection. Pran knew, from experience, that she’d much rather insist, insist and insist, push all buttons she could find, and win someone over through sheer exhaustion than simply accept a world in which someone wouldn’t want her. No matter how much he insisted on his lack of interest, how boring he made himself out to be, or how he’d perfected the art of the dead-eyed stare.

JB simply didn’t care.

It was exhausting. She was exhausting. 

And Pran wasn’t built for people like her—for JB’s sheer energy, her endless search for praise and validation, the way she preened under the spotlight. 

She was meant for people like Everett: shallow, willing to indulge her in banter and join her in making fun of other people. Or someone like Shiloh, who’d blindly follow her wherever she led, feeding her endless, meaningless praise, doing whatever he must for her amusement.

(he tries to forget about how she insisted, in a tone more serious than Pran had ever heard from her, that no matter how many books Shiloh carried for her, she was happy with Pran and wouldn’t trade him for anyone)

Pran ran from the type of attention she so eagerly sought out, but somehow, he’d ended up in her grasp anyway. Held tightly in her claws, blinded by the spotlight that followed her. Nothing seemed to be a deterrent, no matter how hard he tried to escape or how much he pushed her away.

No indifference seemed indifferent enough. His words just made her laugh. His silence didn’t faze her. Her presence became an ever-present part of his routine, as sure as Jeremy’s apathy.

So why couldn’t he hate her?

He hated everything about this. He hated that above all else he had begun to look forward to their dates, that he grew to enjoy her company, even when she was annoying and too loud. He hated how he didn’t even notice when he started answering her questions with full phrases instead of regarding them with annoyed silence.

He hated that he knew her favourite animals were bears, that he knew exactly what songs she’d pick at karaoke, and how he’d caught himself humming along to them later. He hated how he noticed that, even if she made fun of his preferences, she cared enough to respect them.

Pran gave her the bare minimum. Why was that enough?

“You’re talking to me more lately,” JB noted one day, her grin sharp and teasing as she poked his cheek. She sits close, too close, content under the cool shade of a large tree he likes to sit under. “Does this mean you’re finally realizing how charming I am?”

He’d snatched her hand away, careful not to hurt her, begging his face to remain impassive.

 “No.” 

He’d snapped, voice even, but a little too defensive. The answer is almost automatic in its frequency.

She’s unfettered, however. 

“Sure, sure…” JB said, that grin growing somehow more insufferable. “It’s okay to like your girlfriend, you know. I’m extremely likeable.”

“Go away.” 

He’d muttered, and she only laughed in response. When had she ever listened to him?

“Aww, look at you, all embarrassed!” She’d leaned in, and he’d known, he’d known, she’d read him like an open book “I’m winning, Pran.”

He’d ignored her. Completely. For two whole days.

At first, he felt relief. His world had returned to quiet predictability. 

No interruptions. No poking at his patience.

It was what he’d wanted, wasn’t it?

By the second day, that quiet began to feel too loud. He’d catch himself glancing down the hall, expecting her voice to cut through the noise of students passing by. She’d been there so often, it felt unnatural for her to be gone. He’d check his phone more than usual, not that he’d admit why, but the silence stretched on.

And on the third day, he’d opened his phone to find a single text from her.

> are you done being dramatic yet? i’m bored.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard. He stared at the screen for far too long. She didn’t send anything else. No follow-ups, no obnoxious selfies, no string of emojis. Just the single message, waiting for him to find it.

He hated how that made his chest feel tight.

He hated it even more when he found himself typing back.

> I’m still ignoring you.

Her reply came in seconds as if she was sitting by her phone, just waiting for his inevitable response.

> lol sure. meet me after class, panda

His head hit the desk. He didn’t delete the message.

He’d never tell her, but he’d already planned to.

[azul-marie]

leon. (brume)

fem. reader. angst, suggestive mentions.

your husband is a stranger.

the man you married months ago has been reduced to nothing, ground to bits, reborn as a soldier, a tool, a puppet. he is no longer yours; he will never be again.

the color of the sky, his eyes shone bright, now sullen and sunken with unspoken hurt. hollow cheeks from missed meals, dark bags from little sleep. of these things and more, he says nothing. shares nothing. and you let him be, out of love, out of fear, to keep the distance between the two of you from growing further apart.

nevertheless, he treats you much the same. still kisses you soft, still holds you close in all the ways he knows you like. but there is a new edge behind his movements. unfamiliar. paranoid. his hands, calloused in places they weren’t before, grip too tightly your own when you’re out and about. his unnerving stares towards alleys and doorways, his too quick response to his hip at every sound. was he always this way? or was it the city, the hell that brought it out?

leon, you’d whisper, come lay down and rest.

he listens. in the evenings he curls up next to you, lets your scent, your warmth, engulf him like a cloud. a tangible reminder of what he wants to protect. lets you tuck his face close up against your heart. he listens to its beating until it slows to a pulse, then slips away to stand guard at the front door again. and when you wake up alone in the dark, you pretend his version in your dreams sleeps soundly besides you.

leon, your arms hug around his waist, make love to me today.

he listens. be it by day or moonlight, he indulges you in every way you ask. his too rough hands grabbing, bruising, taut muscles grown slick with sweat and lips parting to kiss at your breasts. this body is unfamiliar, no matter the pleasure it brings. his newly assigned training, grueling and relentless, has wrung out every bit of softness he once had — he is sharp, cutting at your flesh, pulling and shaping you beyond what you knew. who is this stranger, loving you as he did? who is this man, whose dark eyes you avoid when he looks at you?

“leon,” you plead, sorrow in your throat, “please tell me you love me.”

he is quiet. stops stuffing his go-bag with mission ready supplies, beckoned by an early morning phone call before dawn even crackled through the sky. a part of him wishes to throw this godforsaken bag out the door, or crush his phone into the pavement and hope he finds a way to keep from being found. another wishes you’d just go back to sleep.

“you know i do.” he replies without turning around, voice heavy with a humorless sort of huff. a disbelieving sound. “don’t tell me you forgot already.”

“just tell me, please. say it before you go.” your voice breaks faintly at the end.

leon turns and peers so intensely at you that tears swell forth in your eyes. it prevents you from discerning his expression. was it one of pity? exasperation? you bury your face into your hands, woe bubbling up like a spring.

strong arms embrace you. whispers of affirmation dull against your sobs, against the outpour displaying your silent suffering. if only you could find comfort in this man’s arms. in the way he kisses your seasalt tears across your cheeks, how tenderly he runs his hands through your hair. through the blur, you see the youth of your love, the hopeful candor who was once your leon. when you blink, then blink again, it is the face of a jaded, somber man who gazes at you the same way he did, once upon a dream.

“i do. i swear i do.” leon insists. he presses kiss after kiss on every inch of your pretty face, unsure how else to soothe you. “you’re everything to me, remember? you’re why i’m still here. you’re all i have. please don’t cry, darling. i love you, i love you.”

you close your eyes. bask in the noise. if you try hard enough, you can still make out the soft cadence of your leon’s voice hidden beneath his baritone pain. but it’s not him, is it? it’s not anymore. try, try harder, and perhaps you’ll learn to love him like the leon he was before. maybe then his kisses wouldn’t feel like thorns, and his hugs wouldn’t choke you blue.

“i just want you back. that’s all i really want. please stay here, don’t leave me waiting alone.

oh, leon, please don’t go again.”

[danmeichael]

Mo Ran is 13 years old. He is at this horrible dinner party with his not-horrible aunt and uncle, and his only-annoying cousin. People keep getting up on stage and being presented with awards, and he has to clap for all of them because it's polite. He isn't entirely sure what's being celebrated and he doesn't really care, either.

His suit is itchy, the food doesn't taste good, and he really wishes he were at home playing a video game and eating fast food slathered in chili oil.

It's too loud, and it reeks here. So many alphas trying to show off how big their dick is, and omegas trying to bolster their alpha's ego by proving what a prized mate they are. What they're expected to do. What Mo Ran will one day be expected to do.

Mo Ran wasn't paying attention to what was going on on stage until suddenly his uncle jostled him and started pointing excitedly at the next person getting an award.

Ah, being here made sense now. It was Chu Wanning. One of uncle's friends, and probably the prettiest person on earth second only to Mo Ran's late mother. He didn't know how anyone could be that pretty in real life. He's smart, and he puts too much sugar in his coffee when he thinks nobody's looking, and he's an Omega, too, just like Mo Ran.

He proves just how smart he is by immediately starting on a short lecture the moment the presenter hands him the microphone. Most of the people in the ballroom are completely silent, save for a few whispers.

Nobody seems to comprehend anything he's saying, which means they're particularly stupid because Mo Ran understands at least half of it.

When he finishes speaking and is presented with his award most of the room claps out of obligation. Xue Zhengyong and Xue Meng leap up into a standing ovation and start cheering. Even his aunt joins in, more quietly.

"That's my Yuheng! Woo!"

"LAOSHI IS THE BEST!"

"That's our boy!"

Even drowned in the bright white lights of the stage, Chu Wanning's reddening face is obvious. His expression stays mostly the same, but Mo Ran thinks he sees his eye twitch.

Everyone seems ecstatic until the alpha presenter lingers a little too long at Chu Wanning's side, talking to him.

There's an odd tension from his aunt and uncle, like a cup you filled up just past the top that stays in place only thanks to surface tension.

The tension breaks when the presenter puts a hand on the small of Chu Wanning's back.

Wang Chuqing is also an alpha, but she doesn't stink like the rest of them. Her smell is usually faint and clean and warm. Not right now. Despite the calm neutrality of her expression, her scent is angry and hot, scorching, so strong it's just shy of giving Mo Ran a headache

It only abates when Xue Zhengyong grasps her hand.

Mo Ran thinks that they share a heart, that Wang Chuqing's rage is her husband's as well, and vice versa. That's how he can tell how close she is to snapping, even though Xue Zhengyong is a beta.

The presenter smiles in a way Mo Ran is quite sure he thinks looks charming.

"Chu-xiansheng, you're doing incredible work in your field! Beautiful, intelligent, making a name for yourself. Any Alpha would be lucky to have an omega like you!"

Here we go again.

There is only a momentary pause as Chu Wanning takes the microphone from him without looking at him. Like he isn't worth it.

With the same burning cold neutrality he almost always affects, Chu Wanning says "Any Alpha would be lucky to be me."

Mo Ran is frozen even as his aunt and uncle start tidying their place settings, gathering their things in preparation to leave.

Any Alpha would be lucky to be me.

Mo Ran was not aware of the shackles around his ankles until Chu Wanning clicked a key in place to unlock them. He didn't know their weight until he realized he didn't have to carry them. They were turning him black and blue, how had nobody told him not wearing them was an option? That being the extension of someone was not compulsory?

He's only pulled out of what he might later call a religious awakening when Chu Wanning rushes past the table with bright red cheeks.

"We're leaving," he says, as close to frantic as Mo Ran has ever heard him.

Xue Zhengyong laughs triumphantly as he half-jogs behind him. "Way ahead of you, Wanning!"

Wang Chuqing makes sure he and Xue Meng are a few steps ahead of her before she joins the precession. "What do you say we stop for dinner on the way home?"

The discussion of dinner plans that follows is loud enough to drown out all the whispering, and Mo Ran's revelation renders anything he catches meaningless anyway.

[thxgrxmrexpxr]

what character did you begin to hate not because of canon but because how how the fandom acts about them?

[Chris.

I'm sorry. I do love him as a character.

But fucking Chris.

The amount of times that I have had other fans get hostile as fuck about anything remotely critical levelled at his character is exasperating. The outright refusal to accept that Chris is a heavily flawed person who has made a lot of mistakes through the entire series and is not the poster boy of horror-hero perfection is just...astounding.

At no point in RE 5 does Chris ever properly communicate with Sheva just how fucking dangerous Wesker is before they run into him and she get's the surprise of learning the motherfucker can teleport.

The entirety of RE 8 imo could have be skewered a whole other direction had he bothered to TELL Ethan what the hell was going on instead of copping a fucking attitude because the guy who thinks he just SHOT his wife doesn't wanna go with him without some damn answers.

Chris is not a perfect person. It doesn't negate all the good he has done but it shouldn't just be ignored for the sake of the fact that you'd rather see him as a Superman archetype who never fumbles. Has he had a shit go of things? Absolutely. Does it negate the times when he's fucked up? Hell no. I do not understand why fans are so hyper defensive of his every action through the series.

I don't hate Chris. But I loathe the "uwu twagic muscle daddy" trope that a huge chunk of the fanbase has condensed him down into.]

[stillsolo]

so for years and years, i've been under the belief that han's blog anniversary is oct 16th — but it turns out i'm wrong? archive says i made this blog in sept, so then i was like wait, oh yeah! he was a sideblog long before i moved over to the swrpc. with that in mind, i logged out, logged into my super old art blog where i kept him as a sideblog, and according to my sideblog, it says i created him on tumblr in FEB???

idk how to explain to y'all how extraordinarily confused i am by this development that's apparently not a development at all bc i've just been a haplessly confused old man this whole time

[passthroughtime]

today i’m thinking about “different first meeting” kuwagami scenario where kuwana is acquainted with kaito beforehand, BUT not as friends, but as fuckbuddies at most. maybe, even just as a one night stand.

yagami comes to kaito’s apartment because he couldn’t reach him or something, and sees another new guy coming out of his shower; this isn’t news for him that kaito occasionally hooked up with random women and men alike, with preference in the former. yagami pays kuwana no mind and actively deflects any advances from him, thinking that kuwana sees him as another fuckbuddy of kaito. yagami doesn’t fuck around that much, and definitely isn’t in the mood to find somebody to stay the night with: they have an urgent case, and there isn’t any other thing on his mind at the moment.

while kuwana falls in love with yagami at the first sight. sure it’s weird to fall for a business partner of the guy he just fucked and isn’t going to remember for long. but, yagami is perfect, in some stupid way. kuwana says something dumb, gets rejected, and his hurting heart tells him he can’t let yagami go. he hasn’t felt this way about anyone in years.

so, he starts to hang around kaito much more frequently, they may even be called friends at some point. yagami thinks they are dating; this is the last thing kuwana wants him to think.

although, they click with each other pretty quickly; with all the annoyance, it’s fun to bicker with him, rarely being serious, picking on him and being picked on in turn. but it also frustrates yagami, because he sees that kuwana doesn’t really care about kaito (the amount he'd expect of the guy kaito is together with). while kuwana sees that yagami worries for kaito, and thinks that it’s in that way. once, he, heartbroken and losing hope, asks what yagami sees in kaito (as a possible romantic partner), but words it badly and is understood even worse. yagami falls out with kuwana, and they stop talking altogether.

yagami sulks and is very upset, because he thought they had something special going there, even if it was just a mutual interest, which wouldn’t turn into anything else. kuwana stops talking to kaito, explaining to him that it was because he couldn’t bear to be with yagami in one room when he hates him so much. his words kind of insinuate of kuwana’s feelings for yagami, but kaito doesn’t catch the hint.

some time passes, and yagami and kaito talk about kuwana. yagami says that he regrets so much cutting kuwana off from his life. kaito remembers what kuwana said, tells it to yagami as word for word as he could remember, and though he doesn’t understand what’s wrong, yagami sees kuwana’s message clearly.

yagami can’t reach him by his number (it’s out of service), so he comes to his house in ijincho. he isn’t home, but yagami waits for him. approaching his house, kuwana sees him sitting on the steps and asks, “did you not cuss me enough?” and everything he says is openly antagonizing. yagami tries to talk to him calmly, but with time kuwana, unyielding, starts to piss him off. yagami says something along, “and here i thought you’d want me to apologize to you” and storms out the house with an intention to drink this anger away and come back.

kuwana isn’t able to stop him (when he tries, yagami punches him in the nose so hard kuwana sees stars, and it starts bleeding), but he finds him leaning on the railing in the nearby parking lot, with cheep beer in his hands. “you didn’t escape far. feeling guilty?”, kuwana asks, meaning his injury. “yes,” yagami answers, meaning the argument that lead them to stop talking with each other.

kuwana asks to share his beer with him, to which yagami complies, and jokes about them having an indirect kiss. “so childish,” yagami says, “we are long past the age of indirect kisses.” “do you want an ‘adult’ kiss?” kuwana jokingly asks, falling into their playful type of talking naturally. “yes,” yagami answers, and kuwana hears no ridicule in turn. he kisses him and tries to say that he wanted to kiss him for as long as they know each other.

“i knew that all this time,” yagami interrupts him, “but i didn’t want a kiss from somebody who isn’t serious about it.” after kuwana’s question of what has changed, yagami answers, “because now i also know you want more from me than this, or sex, or whatever. makes kissing you a lot less disgusting.” kuwana laughs, and yagami steals this sound with another kiss.

[nyk-is-always-lurking]

Rc9gn au where after the finale Randy realizes that the ninja is no longer needed so after some time thinking it over he decides he will give up the mantle as the ninja and mind wipe himself with the ultimate lesson.

Except there's one teeny tiny problem. The door to the ultimate lesson keeps evading him, and every time he gets there the nomicon gets one of the doodles to pluck him out of reach. So apparently the Nomicon doesn't want Randy to stop being the ninja. So he doesn't wipe his memories and just continues life as normal, keeping the mask and nomicon with him at all times just in case but never putting the mask on.

This basically continues until adulthood, but before he graduated he had the brilliant idea of still going into the nomicon, either to train or just to tell it about his day. He does this like every other day until he dies of old age right.

And then far into the future, long after his death, someone has to take up the mantle of the ninja of norrisville again. And when they go into the Nomicon there's the usual nomicon advice and training but sometimes there's also someone else. They show up in various stages of their life, as a teen, adult, old man etc. And that person will give some advice that the nomicon can't really help with. Like non ninja related things.

And now there are two beings in the nomicon. One is the embodiment of all the experiences of the past ninjas, and one is the first and only ninja to never forget who he was

[ceruleansonata]

quick somebody make a sharon rp blog to interrogate Elliot

[alaricseer]

Always kind of a bummer to think about how the changes ive made to ala over the years so that i could enjoy him more are also ones that have made him more... niche? Or less generally palatable? But i also know i cant go backwards, nor do i want to.

[endawn]

if one were to receive an unprompted letter from pax, they should consider themself a person he holds a very high opinion of. he is not one to write much. to sit down and take the time.

[dayurno]

we’ve talked about nurse jean but have you ever thought about nurse kevin. have u. worlds most awkward most attentive nurse in the world. picturing him in scrubs as we speak

OF COURSE I HAVE i listen well obviously i have thought about it. first of all i am into nurse costumes with the little dresses so you can jot it down if you want, but even besides that its really cute……………. little scrubs……….. i feel like although kevin is not a nurturing person at all he would be such a good nurse, if a forceful one….. i think he would do great at telling people what to do and how to do it to get better and all things considered might even be a good nurse. plus if you hit your head really hard and ended up in a hospital and saw kevin day over you checking your vitals wouldnt you think he was an angel?

i wrote a kevjean fic once lovingly titled nurse kevin because it was about the stretch of time jean stayed in palmetto before usc where kevin kind of helped abby take care of jean’s injuries (mostly out of guilt, mostly out of a secret second reason). he was really good and diligent but not gentle at all… truly bulldozing jean back to health…. here’s a funny scene

“Don’t Kevin me, I am serious. If you hurt yourself for any reason, I will make you regret it.” He tilts Jean’s chin back, pushing the mouth of his own bottle through Jean’s lips and forcing water down. As a nurse, Kevin makes a tremendous athlete. “Drink. It’s good to get some water in you every few minutes.”

Cool water slips down his throat. A bit of it drips down the corner of Jean’s mouth, and it must soften the nasty stare he gives Kevin over the bottle. Kevin swipes it away with his thumb, squeezing Jean’s chin, and only pulls away when Jean cannot take it anymore and forcefully grips his wrist.

This is… this is babying, even for Kevin Day.

“I am not an invalid,” Jean tells him, but he is so thoroughly ignored in lieu of Kevin checking on his bandages that it doesn’t matter. “Kevin, I’m fine.”

“You’re fine when I see that you’re fine,” Kevin dismisses him. At last, he straightens up, then taps on the small of Jean’s back for him to do the same. Out of habit, and perhaps something else, Jean does as he says. “Keep your posture up. You might upset your stitches otherwise.”

SO YEAH horrible horrible nurse who does not care at all if you dont want to be healthy…… i need him. he could fix me. he did not fix jean but me for sure he would

[ladyseidr]

william "me and my Perfect Societally-Idealized Family" af.ton vs. jayne being a polyamorous lesbian who regularly scandalizes people on purpose and knows william is bullshitting himself ( even if he won't hear it )

[darabeatha]

the rules are simple! post characters you’d like to roleplay as, have roleplayed as, and might bring back. then tag ten people to do the same ( if you can’t think of ten, just write down however many you can and tag that number of people ). please repost, don’t reblog!

Current Muse:

Constantine XI (fgo)

Ashwatthama (fgo)

Vlad III (fgo)

Jason (fgo)

Camazotz (fgo)

Arjuna (fgo)

karna (fgo)

Odysseus (fgo)

Edmond Dantes (fgo)

Robin Hood (fgo)

Billy the kid (fgo)

Sherlock Holmes (fgo)

Daybit (fgo)

Tezcatlipoca (fgo)

Charlemagne (fgo)

Moctezuma II (fgo)

Duryodhana (fgo)

Ritsuka Fujimaru (fgo)

kukulkan (fgo)

tlaloc (fgo)

Saito Hajime (fgo)

Nitocris (fgo)

Moriarty ruler & archer (fgo)

Nero Claudius (fgo)

Castor (fgo)

Asclepius (fgo)

Antonio Salieri (fgo)

Morgan (fgo)

Baobhan Sith (fgo)

Barghest (fgo)

Oberon (fgo)

Arash (fgo)

Gilgamesh caster & archer (fgo)

Arthur Pendragon & alter (fgo)

Henry Jekyll and Hyde (fgo)

L.ucifer (fgo)

Want to write:

TO BE HONEST; right now I'm pretty chill but I definitely want to write an angel! Gabriel or Uriel or Michael

Have written (in Tumblr & other platforms):

(I'm not going to list all my f.ate muses bc that would make the list super long so I'll mainly focus on characters from different fandoms, if they are all on the same line its bc they were inside a multiuse)

Norton Campbell ( Identity v )

Aesop Carl ( Identity v )

Espresso cookie ( Cookie run )

Zhongli, Xiao, Kazuha, Diluc, Albedo, Kaeya + more ( Genshin Impact )

Giyuu ( kny )

Tsurumaru Kuninaga ( Touken Ranbu )

Heshikiri, Ishikirimaru, Kasen, Nagasone, Ookurikara, Shokudaikiri, Mikazuki ( Touken Ranbu )

Doppo Kannonzaka, Gentaro (as guest muse) ( Hypnosis mic )

Samatoki ( Hypnosis mic )

Akutagawa, Chuuya , Ranpo, Fyodor, Dazai, etc ( bungou stray dogs )

Cain, Shylock, Mithra, Lennox, Nero, Oz, Bradley, Chloe, Faust ( Mahoyaku )

Would write again:

Norton Campbell ( identity v )

Aesop Carl ( identity v )

Tsurumaru ( or any of my other touken ranbu muses )

tagging: Y O U