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hollow-writing-place · 2 months ago

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Dead on Mayn

Day 1 Prompts: Bones, Ghost culture is weird, "You can see me??", Jason meets Danny as a ghost.

Word Count: 1805

Pretty proud of this one!! Enjoy!

Quick Summary: Danny misplaces like all his bones after a GiW run-in and needs them all back to get out of ghost form. Jason finds a human spine that somehow makes the pit rage fade. Oddness ensues.

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Jason feels just slightly lost. Just a bit.

He's feeling slightly lost because he is 100% sure that he is seeing a real human spine on his apartment's fire escape.

It's perfectly isolated and polished, smoother than if it had been picked clean by a Gotham vulture. It may also be glowing slightly, which is a whole different issue.

If Jason knows anything, it's that he most certainly should not pick it up. That's the dumbest possible thing he could do.

But, as he looks at it, he gets this lonely sort of feeling twisting in his gut.

Okay, bad sign number two. The mysterious glowing spine is messing with his head. Even still, his mouth turns down in a frown, eyebrows furrowing.

He sits, still fully geared up in his window after a long night of patrol, and contemplates the situation for a moment. Finally, he sighs and brings it all back to the question it always boils down to.

What Would Batman Do?

Batman would call a magic user to identify the object. Batman would quarantine it and study it, take samples and test it. Batman would certainly not bring the object around his personal belongings.

Jason nods, acknowledging the inner Batman voice's opinion.

Mind made up, he scoops the bone into his arms and brings it inside. He gingerly lays it on his coffee table and promptly leaves to start up dinner.

—

Danny just needs one more piece.

The GiW did a number on him. I mean, dissection is par for the course, but dissection and then losing the parts they stole? Rookie moves.

Furthermore, Danny can’t get out of ghost form until he finds it. He’s collected most everything else, but it's taken weeks.

His ribs came from different places in the ocean, his femur from atop a news building in Metropolis, etc. He even had to venture up to that one Justice League space station to get his skull! Some idiot was using it like a paperweight in the room with all the cameras and whatnot. Danny scoffs at the memory.

He’s been flying all over the place, searching high and low for where his bones disappeared to.

This must be a ghost thing he didn’t know about. Or, more likely, a halfa thing no one knew anything about. All he knew was he didn’t want anyone he didn't trust getting their hands on his stuff, (the stuff being him), and somehow that translated to all his bones teleporting away from the GiW.

All he needed now was his spine.

All the other pieces of himself he found either somewhere secluded or somewhere he would deem safe. (Explaining to Jazz he was visiting her at college for his hand bones was awkward. Even worse, she’d already found all of them and had them organized by the time he got to her.)

This is why Danny is confused.

The last tether in his chest seems to be leading to… Gotham.

Gotham? The biggest, most dangerous city in the US? Not only home to a boatload of people, but also to a veritable menagerie of rogues and vigilantes?

Floating high over the city, Danny just sighs.

He needs his spine back. He needs it so he can be human again. The GiW is still after him. Hell, his parents are hunting him probably as he floats here. He’s safer if he’s human.

He tries to center himself, settles his core with the frigid air and thoughts of comfort and safety after this mess is over, before he begins his descent into the city of crime.

—

Jason is exhausted. Patrol was long. It's been a long few weeks, honestly.

He settles, fresh out of the shower, armor piled on the floor nearby, on the couch in his living room. The TV has a rerun of Pride and Prejudice on, and Jason sighs softly.

The spine on his coffee table glows as faintly as it had since he picked it up weeks ago.

Jason can’t explain why he finds this comforting.

It casts the room in cool blue-green at night, low and rippling like water in a fishtank.

It seems morbid to have it, but Jason, (heads in a duffle bag guy) really doesn’t mind. He finds himself spending more time in the living room, more time in the proximity of the bone.

Jason hasn’t taken the time to analyze this, but as he spends more and more time in the living room, the sickly green of the Lazarus Pits seems to fade. It sits in the corners of his vision, as always, but its presence in his mind feels… dull. Cowed, like a rambunctious dog by its exasperated owner.

He may not fully, consciously, recognize this change, but he does know the glowing spine makes him feel better. He falls asleep easy in this room now, even if the couch is far from comfortable.

Even now, his eyelids droop with exhaustion. He’s warm and safe and home.

He sighs again, tipping his head back onto the cushions and beginning to doze.

His half-sleep-half-wake state is broken pretty quickly though by the feeling of something shifting. Something in the air maybe, changing and moving.

Jason’s mind registers it as a wrong sort of feeling, but something in his chest, not his heart or anything cheesy, but something there in all but a physical sense, registers this change as good. Good and right. Good…

but anticipatory.

Something is coming. Jason sits up and leans forward.

His eyes rove the room for signs of this thing he knows is coming but can’t identify, before his gaze is inexplicably drawn back to the bone.

Oh.

—

Gotham is pretty much what he’s been told it would be. The atmosphere is gloomy, what with the near constant rain/smog combo blanketing the city. Crime is happening literally everywhere, and Danny means literally. The tall, sharp architecture paints the city as a gothic, dark place of high roofs and gargoyles. It’s dank, and it’s honestly kinda intimidating.

…Danny kinda loves it.

It’s got its own charm and beauty. Danny is enamored by the vibes it gives off, but maybe that’s his ghost half speaking.

Anyway, Danny is still following the pull in his chest down. He zips through buildings, skates along vertical walls, and still seems just as far away as he had been when he got here.

The streets get dirtier, the air gets grittier, and suddenly, Danny jerks to a stop. He knows, abruptly, like he’s been slammed into a wall, that he’s crossed a line into somewhere he shouldn’t be.

The oppressive feeling of trespassing weighs his shoulders down.

He’s entered someone’s haunt.

Danny stretches his own senses out, and feels like staggering at the sheer size of this thing. Hell, this haunt must span a whole chunk of Gotham. That means it belongs to someone powerful.

Or, at least, some nearly as powerful as Danny. (His haunt is currently the entirety of Amity. The power boost that allowed that is courtesy of being Ghost King.)

The tether Danny has guiding him to his spine pings softly again, resting deep in the heart of this haunt and just like that, the oppressive weight lifts.

It’s still there, ready and waiting, but it seems… friendlier somehow. Welcoming.

Danny shakes himself out, trying to throw off the nervous buzz in his ecto. He needs his spine, and it’s somewhere here.

—

Danny finds his spine easily. The house it resides in lights up in his senses like a beacon.

It’s drenched in bad energy, but gaps in the miasma show through, like light breaking through the clouds. Green-blue tinged light. Yeah, this guy has his spine for sure.

And, if Danny’s passing thoughts are to be believed, they may be feeding Danny’s remains with whatever evil shit is clogging up his house. He feels stronger just getting within a block of it.

…He doesn’t know how to feel about that.

Danny floats closer, going so far as to rest his ghostly form on the fire escape outside the window. He peers through the window before reeling back.

There’s a man inside, leaning towards a table where Danny’s spine sits, calm as you please. That weird black and neon green goop seems to not just be around the house, but rather, it was centered on the man’s form. It looked…

Ancients.

That can’t be comfortable. It was smothering the man’s fledgling core.

As Danny sat and observed, the light emanating from his spine wavered and rippled, much like water, and a ball of that disgusting goo ripped away from the man and into the bones.

Danny, being as close as he is, feels a rush of power flood his spectral form.

He only realizes his eyes flare green because the man whips around to look at him. Danny flinches and blinks, while the man’s brow furrows and he tilts his head in confusion.

Danny pauses only a moment before drifting into the apartment. It’s homey, he notes, as if this isn’t the oddest situation he’s been in in a bit.

The man straightens up where he sits, clearing his throat.

“Uhm. So. I guess you can see me?” Danny says, his tone much more questioning than he means it to be.

“Am… am I not supposed to?” The man replies, leaning back on his couch and crossing his arms over his broad chest.

Danny shrugs, drifting over to the table. He curls in the air over the table like a cat, still a foot or two above his spine. Protective. “No, you totally should be able to. Just not used to it. I mean, you are-”

Danny squints and inspects the man closely, realization dawning over him slowly. “You are a halfa.” His voice contains notes of awe. Their, ah, species, is pretty rare. (Understatement.)

The man only looks confused. “Is that a word I should know the meaning of?”

Danny blinks. Then he hums thoughtfully. Like always, he comes to a pretty impulsive decision. No thinking, just word vomit. “Listen, buddy-”

“Jason.”

“Right. Listen, Jason. You’ve got a really weird mass of junk around you that really just has to go, and I've just found out that pieces of me can cleanse it, or something-”

“What.”

“So what I think is going to happen, is you get to keep my spine for a bit and-”

"Again, what??”

“AND! And I will come stay with you for a bit. Win-win!” Danny throws his hands out to either side triumphantly.

Danny gets to live somewhere that seems- (feels, like, down in his core feels) safe, somewhere he can heal up and gain his strength, Jason gets that weird crap fixed, and everyone leaves happy!

Jason looks utterly dumbfounded. “I am… wildly confused.” Even as he says this, it looks like the beginnings of a smile are tugging at his lips.

Danny gives him a feral grin back. Oh yeah, this is going to work out just fine.

FIN

#dead on main #deadonmayn2025 #dead on mayn 2025 #dp x dc crossover #dcxdp #dc x dp crossover #dc x dp #dp x dc #dcxdp crossover #jason todd x danny phantom #jason todd x danny fenton #ghost king danny #halfa jason todd #deadonmayn25

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luci-in-trenchcoats · 1 year ago

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He's My Man (Part 2)

Summary: The reader isn't quite so sure if she can trust Russell with her secrets but he's decided she's going to get his help, whether she wants it or not. Reluctantly she accepts but in the process realizes she might actually be starting to care about him...

Masterlist

Pairing: Russell Shaw x reader

Word Count: 4,500ish

Warnings: language, gun shot injury mention, mentions of death, angst, fluff

A/N: Ooooh things are heating up! Please enjoy!

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Russell stared at you with what one could only describe as a look of wonder. You didn’t exactly blame him. Eating four large cheese danishes and chugging back a week’s worth of coffee in the span of fifteen minutes was enough to make anyone’s eyes widen.

You tossed your trash in his motel waste bin when you finished and returned to your seat at the tiny corner table. With an obnoxiously loud slurp of even more coffee, Russell titled his head, shaking it slightly.

“Good god. You have never been more attractive to me, which is saying something.” You slurped again, Russell letting his curiosity in your eating habits fade away in favor of the elephant in the room. He straightened in his seat, pausing a beat. “So. What’s this long story?”

Your fingertips rattled against the side of the large styrofoam cup, a small amount of heat radiating through. Now that you’d had some time to think, or rather stress eat, you knew this was a mistake. A big one. You needed to kick Russell out of your life and the sooner the better.

“I think you have the wrong idea about what’s going on and I thought it better we talk in private,” you said. Russell wore a weary expression, his eyes dissecting your every micro-movement. “I’m not interested in a relationship or a date or conversation. I don’t do that considering my line of work and I imagine you keep things casual with yours. So you take your money and consider this a warning. Contact me again and I will have you dealt with, understand?”

Russell leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms with a clenched jaw. You narrowed your eyes in response, Russell picking at his bandage without realizing.

“Stop that,” you mumbled when he kept doing it, his lip twitching up in a not so friendly way.

“You threaten me and in the next breath are worried about my damn stitches? I don’t think you realize just how good I am at my job,” he said, placing both hands on the table, folding them together. You swallowed, Russell staring so intently you had to glance away. “Alright. Back at the coffee shop, that was a moment of bravery and now it’s passed? Tough shit. We’re in the weeds now and we ain’t leaving until I know you do your job of your own free will. Understand?”

“Forget I said anything.” You stood up, Russell matching the movement and catching your bicep before you could take a step. Yes, he was injured but even one armed, he had enough raw strength in him to keep you from leaving.

“Tell me or I dig on my own and make things a lot riskier for both of us.” He dropped his hand, nodding to the seat. Russell sighed. “I trusted you. You can do the same.”

“You’re one guy.” You shook your head. “Drop this or you’ll wind up dead or worse.”

“I made my living doing jobs where if I fucked up I’d wish I were dead over the alternative. I know how to keep a secret. Maybe I can help, maybe I can’t. But you opened the box. You can’t just close it again.”

“Yes, I can. Goodbye, Russell.” You grabbed your coffee and headed for the door, pausing when you had a hand on the handle.

But what if he could help…he was ex-special ops…

Russell’s hand slid over yours, giving it a gentle squeeze. You frowned, a reassuring smile greeting you.

“Do you like your job?” he asked.

“S’complicated,” you whispered.

“How complicated?”

“Jobs like yours…that’s up to me to do that stuff but I…I work for someone else.” You found Russell’s unreadable green eyes and sighed. “I’m a fixer for the local mafia. It’s not a job you get to quit and stay alive very long.”

Russell contemplated your words, lips forming a thin line before he nodded. “I can take care of that assuming your story checks out.”

“My story?” you asked, Russell humming. “Why would I lie-”

“You could be playing me for any number of reasons. Like I said, I’m going to check your story out and if it’s all kosher, we’ll figure out where to go from there. Capiche?”

“Fine,” you grit out, shaking his hand away. “But do it quietly. You got three days.”

Late Evening

Your eye actually twitched when you answered your front door that night to find not your pizza delivery man before you but Russell fucking Shaw. He wore a deep navy utility jacket that hung loosely around his trim waist and a pair of black jeans. You weren’t sure why but his shift from lighter colored clothing this morning to this dark, edgy look made him look as dangerous as you expected he was.

“Russell,” you said. He didn’t bother hiding his smirk, eyes roaming over your body. You glanced down at your soft pale yellow pajama shirt and matching shorts set, huffing when he slipped past you inside.

“You totally are the kind of woman to having matching jammies,” he chuckled. You gripped the door tight, ready to kick him out just as your delivery driver pulled up.

“Just…take off your boots.” Two minutes later you had your pizza and garlic knots on your kitchen counter while Russell leaned back against it, his jacket since removed and tossed on the back of your couch. He wore a black zip up that was undone over a black t-shirt, Russell shifting at your growing unease.

“Listen,” he said, holding up his hands. “You got questions but first off, I’m not here to hurt you. This is just what I wear when I need to go…looking around places I ain’t exactly invited into.”

“Like my home?” He stared blankly, eyes drifting down to your chest. “The flirting was cute. Eye-fucking me in my kitchen, not so much.”

“You have sauce all over your shirt.” You glanced down, spotting marinara drops all over your short sleeve button up top from where you’d had the edge of the pizza box pressed against your torso as you’d carried it in. “Thanks for thinking so highly of me, though. Makes a guy feel special.”

“I’m on edge, alright?” you snapped, grabbing a towel and trying to get most of the sauce out. “Plus I just ruined a two hundred dollar shirt.”

“Figured you for a oversized men’s t-shirts kind of gal but little sets from french boutiques suites you.” You froze, Russell dropping his hands. “I know all about your shopping habits. You have high quality taste, much richer than the average suburbanite.”

“And?” you said, tossing the towel down, hands going to your hips. “Are you about to kidnap me and turn me over to the mafia or what?”

Russell approached you slowly, gently picking up the towel from the floor and dabbing it with some dish soap.

“If I had wanted to hurt you or take you or whatever else is going through your head, you wouldn’t have seen me coming.” He rubbed the towel against the damp spot on your shirt, letting the fabric get soapy. “Let that soak for a few minutes and then after you have some dinner, toss it in the wash. It’ll come out good as new.”

“How do you know that?” you asked, Russell hanging your towel on the oven handle.

“Because knowing how to get stains out of all types of fabrics is kind of necessary in my line of work,” he said, opening a few cabinets before finding the one with the plates. “Now. Can you put the knife you thought you grabbed without me seeing back and we have a civilized conversation over pizza?”

You weren’t sure how he’d seen you swipe the knife from the butchers block but figured he had a point. If he’d wanted to screw you over, he would have done it already. After excusing yourself, you returned in a pair of skinny black joggers and a slightly cropped gray AC/DC shirt to find Russell had already plated two sizeable portions for yourselves.

“See? Now that’s a look more fitting for the princess of darkness,” he chuckled.

“That’s queen of darkness to you,” you said, taking a seat at the island in front of one of the plates. “Do me a favor, lover boy. Grab me a guinness from the fridge.”

“Dark stout. Always a good choice.” He got out two, removing the cap for you before retreating to the other side of the island.

“As much as I love uninvited house guests who welcome themselves to my food and beer, why are you here, Russell?” You took a large bite of pizza, Russell long necking his beer for a moment.

“Yet I don’t see you kicking me out. It’s okay to admit you’ve fallen for me, Y/N,” he teased. You growled, Russell’s eyebrows raising in amusement. “Hot damn, woman. I love when you get all grr. Tells me you are a force to be reckoned with.”

You rolled your eyes, Russell taking an extra large bite. “Stop flirting and talk.”

“Why can’t I do both?” he asked, not waiting for an answer. “But to answer your original question, I’m here because your story checked out and that’s kind of a problem.”

“Excuse me? Why is that an issue?”

He set his plate down and gripped the island, leaning over it slightly. “Y/N. I can call up a few friends and wipe out a local mafia family no problem.”

“Awesome. Then what’s the fucking problem?” Russell tilted his head, like you’d just walked into some kind of trap he’d set.

“Y/N. Despite all the obvious sexual tension brewing between us, you failed to mention that you have a boyfriend. You know, the head of this fucking mafia family. The boyfriend that buys you those fancy french pajama sets? The one that bought that espresso machine over there? Girl, you better explain yourself because I am not a hired gun.”

You chewed quietly for a few moments under the heated scrutiny of Russell’s gaze before you pushed the plate away.

“My dad was an accomplished doctor. He was very well respected. I grew up very comfortably until I was about eight.” Russell loosened his stance and began to eat while you decided what he needed to absolutely know. “My dad unknowingly saved a mobster’s life one night in the ER. Mr. Lauter.”

“The former head of the mafia and this guy, Owen, your supposed boyfriend’s dad?” You nodded before taking a big swig from your bottle.

“Well, that pissed off Mr. Elpine who had almost had a successful hit on Mr. Lauter. Elpine tried to get my dad to kill Lauter. Dad refused and the next morning on the way to school, the brake lines in our car didn’t work. Dad and I walked away. Mom and my brother didn’t. Dad was scared Elpine would come after me again.”

“Your father went to Lauter for protection,” said Russell. You picked up your pizza as he put together the rest of the pieces. “Lauter offers him protection for saving his life but something happens and your dad ends up working for Lauter as his fixer.”

“The paranoia got to dad. He would take me on these weekend hunting trips all the time and teach me survival skills and medical stuff and I was a fucking kid, Russell. I didn’t want to do that shit but dad was…twitchy. PTSD for sure, a mental break too. I always guessed there was some brain trauma after the accident that never healed. He got real bad when I went to college. Bad enough that Lauter stepped in when my dad attacked me when I came home for the holidays. Lauter killed him and the fucked up part was I wasn’t even upset. My real dad had died when I was a kid. But…when a mob boss kills for you whether you wanted them to or not-”

“They think they own you for life.” You nodded. “So you became the fixer.”

“They let me finish college under the condition I come back and work for the family. They leave me be except for when I need to patch someone in the crew up. It’s honestly not that bad. They gave me a lot of money over the years. I hate to say this but Mr. Lauter was pretty good to me.”

Russell cleared his throat. “You do know how fucked up what he did to you is, right?”

“Of course I do,” you said, closing your eyes. “But compared to my dad and Owen, he was the lesser evil.”

“I came across the fact Mr. Lauter died about three weeks ago from heart disease.” You hummed. “Tell me about this fuckface, Owen.”

“Dude has had a crush on me since he was fucking twelve. He has it in his head that the family owns me, literally. Lauter always reined him in but since he’s been gone, Owen’s been…pushy. Telling the crew I’m his girlfriend, asking them to follow me. Thankfully, and this is why this is so weird, I grew up around a lot of the guys. Making me work and fix people, fine. But some kind of forced romance? They aren’t cool with it, at least they’re kind of ignoring Owen. I’ve kept Owen off my back because he’s grieving and busy trying to take over but he’s going to back on my ass soon. This time, those guys will have to listen to their new boss.”

“So…I take out Owen and you think you’re in the clear. You could have just said that.” He finished off his beer and washed his hands at the sink. “Here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going grab essentials, and I mean essentials, while I pack up your dinner in what I expect is some color coordinated tupperware. Then you’re going to take my car and drive to Elmhurst Camping Grounds. It’s about four hours north of here and no, you will stop for anything so use the bathroom before you go and I’ll pack you a snack. You’re going to park in the visitors lot and go to the airstream in lot 4. It’ll be isolated. You knock on the door and there’ll be a guy inside. Colter. You stay with him, go wherever he goes and do whatever he tells you to without question. You don’t leave his side until I come and get you, understand?”

“I feel like if I ask questions you’ll just tell me I don’t want to know.” Russell smirked.

“I love that big brain of yours.” You rolled your eyes but felt a tiny smile on your face. “Warming up to me are we?”

“Fuck no. But uh, who the hell are you sending me to?”

“My baby brother. Don’t worry. His ugly mug will keep you safe.”

Four Hours Later

“Uh, hi,” you said, practically bouncing up and down at midnight in front of a strange tall man at a very nice airstream RV.

“Y/N,” he said as you forced a smile. “Bathroom is right there-”

You darted past him and into the small cubby bathroom, grateful after the long drive. The man was waiting leaned against a small counter space when you exited, a temporary bed made up behind him in what looked like a breakfast nook.

“Sorry to barge in. Russell said not to stop for anything.”

“S’alright,” he said. “Bed’s made up if you want to crash. I’m going to stay up a bit longer by the fire. You’re welcome to join if you like.”

“Thanks, uh…” you said, a very brief smile on his face as you tried to remember what Russell had called him.

“Colter. It’s not a problem.” He skirted by you and outside, taking a seat in a foldable camping chair. You had questions but for the moment, all you wanted was to get some rest.

You woke up around six thirty, jolting up in your bed to find a very wet and nearly naked Colter trying to pick up a mug he’d dropped.

“Well good morning,” you said, his hand in a death grip on the towel just barely concealing him away.

“Morning,” he said, slowly backing up to the bedroom. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Not a problem,” you said, catching a whiff of coffee.

“Mug are in the first cabinet if you want a cup. I’ll be out in a minute,” he said. He excused himself to his room and slid the divider shut, leaving you to the rest of the airstreamer.

A moment later you were outside in front of a small fire, sitting in a chair with warm coffee in your hands. It was cool and you wished you’d thought to pack a jacket in your haste last night.

You were rubbing your arms when something was draped over your shoulders, a thick heavy hoodie.

“Russell got you out of there pretty quick, huh?” asked Colter, taking the mug while you shrugged into the warm fleece.

“Yeah. All I grabbed was my wallet, some cash and my computer. He told me I could buy clothes here,” you said. Colter handed you back the mug and took a seat beside you.

“I checked his car. He had a duffel full of his clothes in there I brought inside. You can use his stuff, or mine, until we can hit a store.”

“Thanks,” you said, smelling Russell’s deodorant on the fabric. Colter saw you tug the hood up, a question on the tip of his tongue but he decided against it. The air was still and quiet apart from the crackle of fire and morning birds.

“So,” said Colter, not looking at you as he drank. “You and Russell…you like, his girlfriend-”

“No,” you said, shaking your head. “I just met the guy yesterday. All I did was patch him up.”

“Right.” You sunk lower in your chair, slurping loudly.

“Were you special ops like him?” you asked. Colter shook his head.

“Civilian. Never had any formal training, just what we grew up with.” Well, that was an interesting statement. What the hell did it mean though? “Our father was a survivalist, taught us things.”

“Oh. My dad was a little out there too.” Was that why Russell was so adamant about helping you out of your situation? No. Maybe it played a part, but no. He’d wanted to help before you told him that. “Does Russell do this sort of thing often?”

“No clue. First time I talked to him in years was two days ago. I helped him find a friend of his. I was there when he got that bullet hole in him you fixed.”

Alrighty then. Russell was becoming more and more intriguing by the second.

“So you don’t know a lot about him then,” you said. Colter shrugged.

“I guess I’m figuring him out too but he’s a good guy. He’s somebody you want as a friend.” You hummed, finishing your coffee off. Colter excused himself to get you more and returned with a fresh cup, steam billowing from within.

“You trail run?” you asked, Colter’s eyes showing a flash of surprise. “Muddy sneakers by the door. I did cross country in school.”

“I try to get out most mornings. The hot water should be good to go in about five minutes if you want a shower.”

“Thanks.” You licked your lips as you remembered the sight of him exiting the bathroom not long ago. Sure, Colter was hot but Russell…well the image of that man in nothing but a towel as water dripped down his body…You shifted in your seat, squeezing your legs together to try and get a hold of yourself. Colter smirked slightly in his seat. “What?”

“I’m good at reading people is all.”

“And? What am I saying?” you asked, staring him down. Colter only smiled as he looked away to the fire.

“You’re wondering if Russell works out and picturing him naked.” You glared at him but it did nothing to hide the heat radiating off your cheeks. “Hey, you’re a grown woman. You can do as you please.”

“I think I will take that shower now.” You stood and set the mug down on the ground, shooting Colter one last look. There’d been no malice or teasing in his voice. He was simply being straight with you. “Listen. I just…I haven’t exactly been around good guys much, or ever. I’m not saying there’s anything there beyond physical attraction, okay?”

“Okay,” he said, looking at you like you were the worst liar in the world. “Whatever you say.”

You grumbled and went inside to take a very cold shower.

Three Days Later - Spokane, Washington

“Hey, Colt,” you said, pushing up the long sleeves of Russell’s gray henley you wore. Colter hummed around the piece of grilled chicken in his mouth as you spun your laptop around from the other side of the airstream’s dining table. “Could she have gone here? Looks like a decommissioned game trail.”

“Yeah, yeah that fits,” he said with his mouth full, chewing and swallowing quickly so he could take a closer look. You returned to your own dinner, Colter mentioning he was going to take a look after dark.

Things had fallen into an easy pattern with the two of you. Colter was very different than his brother but it wasn’t a bad thing. He didn’t talk much and worked as a rewardist. He’d planned on sticking around the east coast for when Russell met up with you again but an urgent case in Washington popped up. You’d spent most of the past three days driving cross-country behind Colter’s truck and the airstreamer, learning what the hell a rewardist was.

Colter had told you about the case at first to keep your mind off of Russell but you’d reluctantly taken an interest and now were deep in the weeds of helping him locate a missing young woman.

“You want to come look with me?” asked Colter, breaking you out of your train of thought. You blinked, a small smile on his face. “Come on. It’ll get you some experience with rewardest work and stop you from doom scrolling.”

“Alright,” you sighed. While you appreciated Colter’s attempts to make you feel better, you were starting to get very concerned. You hadn’t heard from Russell since you left your house a few days ago and there was nothing in the news about the local mafia members being killed. Or him.

Colter rubbed your back when you helped him unhook it from the airstream. He tended to do that when you started to get stressed out. He hadn’t been lying before. He really was good at reading people.

“Colter,” you said in the dark truck, the hum of the vehicle quiet in the cab as he drove. “What if something happened to him and he needs our help?”

“He knows what he’s doing. A job like this, he’s got to do a lot of prep work and he’s got to put a crew together. Trusted friends. Try not to worry.” You bit your bottom lip as you stared out the window, trees passing by.

If only it were that simple.

It was two in the morning by the time you and Colter made it back to the camping grounds. You’d found Martha in not too great of shape but she was alive and the doctors said she’d make a full recovery with time. Colter has tried to give you some of the reward money for helping but you hadn’t done all that much in your opinion.

“Stay here,” he said when he turned the truck into your lot and you spotted a dark figure sitting by the fire. He took his gun from the back of jeans and got out, pausing halfway out the door. He smiled over at you and you caught the dark figure give an awkward little wave. “Should I tell him how much you’ve been worried?”

“Not. A. Word. Colter,” you said before hopping out and happily rushing over to where Russell rose to his feet. You didn’t realize you were giving him a hug until he was laughing, returning it and lifting you off the ground.

“I missed my queen of darkness too,” he chuckled, setting you down with a smirk. You scoffed, Russell’s eyebrows raising at your attire. “Is that my jacket? And shirt?”

“Why waste the money on new stuff,” you shrugged, Russell grinning like an idiot. “Stop that.”

“I’m sure that was the reason.” Colter came over, the boys sharing a nod. “You keep my little delinquent out of trouble?”

“She’s a breeze,” said Colter, taking a seat. “Even helped with my latest case. She should try the rewardist thing. She’s good at it.”

“Maybe. All I want to know is am I good?” you asked. Russell took your hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze. He nodded, the tension running of out your body. “Thank you, Russell. Thank your friends too. I’ll pay you guys-”

“No payment. This was because you’re my friend, plain and simple. Just knowing you’re safe is more than enough.” You smiled, letting yourself rest your head against his shoulder. “You should rest. We’ll talk in the morning.”

“How-”

“In the morning. I need to catch up with my little brother.” You nodded, enjoying the feel of his heavy hand as it ran over your head. “Go sleep, Y/N. You’re exhausted.”

You reluctantly peeled yourself away and went inside to find your makeshift bed had been done up for you already. You didn’t even try to fight the flutters in your stomach when you spotted a yellow pajama shirt and shorts set neatly folded on top. There was a note beside it, a stupid ass smile finding it’s way onto your face.

Brand new. Imported from France. Don’t get used to fancy ass presents like these. I ain’t made of money. Even if these are soft as fuck and I totally wish they made these for men. I still think you’d look better wearing a band tee to bed.

Russ

P.S. They had a sale so I got you something else too. Check your backpack.

You shook your head and grabbed your bag from the floor, taking out a very elegant black bag. You undid the tissue paper and went wide eyed.

Inside was a very, very, fancy black lace bra and multiple pairs of gorgeous bikini style undies in soft muted colors. There was another note waiting for you inside, your heart stilling.

No strings attached. Hopefully these will cover you for a little while until you can get settled again.

“Oh, Russell,” you said quietly, thumbing over the bag, smiling to yourself as your insides did very happy backflips.

He wasn’t just a pretty and protective face. He was thoughtful too.

And you were starting to fall for a guy that’d most likely be gone by this time tomorrow.

Fuck.

__________

A/N: Read Part 3 here!

#russell shaw #Russell Shaw x reader #russell shaw fanfiction #Tracker Fanfiction #Tracker #Russell Shaw x you #Russell Shaw Series

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meocities · 1 year ago

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The Lack Thereof

Mithrun/Reader - 1423 words, hurt/comfort

You're nervous. You're sad and lonely and hurting, and on top of it all, you're nervous.

Mithrun stares at you from across the bedroom. He's been doing that a lot lately — you've noticed how his eyes linger. You notice a lot more than you let on about him, but you’ve realized that he ends up knowing anyway. You can't keep anything secret from him — he'll find out that you're hiding something, at the very least, and then he'll just keep staring until you tell him.

He's doing that now. Staring. His eyes bore into your own, and when you look away for a second, glance back, look away again, he moves his staring to your hands. You're wringing your fingers in your own grasp. The edges of your cuticles are dry and picked. Your skin might have bled a few times from your nervousness, and though the blood was the only thing that could have given your anxiety away (blood that had long been cleaned), you know Mithrun sees the red-flushed divot of wounds even from the distance you're keeping.

Mithrun raises an eyebrow, and the anxiety compounds in your stomach. It burns your skin, just as much as the memories do, and you know you're strong but you think to yourself, god, I want to cry.

You're strong, and you're brave, and you've always stood up to everything that has ever been thrown at you, and you're so tired. You're so tired of the effort. You wonder if he can relate.

So you bow your head, and you know Mithrun's eyes have gone wide — as much as they can, anyway — staring at you still. He's silent, unmoving on the bed the Canaries had set him up with after the new kingdom's establishment. Of course it would be silent. Of course he would be staring. You’re the one who invaded his room in the middle of the night, after all. You know you're lucky that he doesn't care.

Yet, for now, you're still looking at the floor while the former captain of the Canaries looks at you, with your hands wringing themselves into shreds, and the hole in your stomach is eating you alive. You know he expects something of you, so you take a breath (it's shaky, and you cringe because you know your words aren't going to come out right) and deliver, ineloquently, “you don't care about most things, right?”

Mithrun's told you his story. How he became a dungeon lord — and how he lost that title in five years. How he's been recovering over time, slowly but surely, thanks to the help of Kabru and his Canaries, and the noodle shop that he lives above, and everyone who's had the smallest bit of faith in him along the way. And while Mithrun's made endless progress, you know he still has trouble desiring, sometimes.

You can't imagine asking this of anyone else.

Mithrun nods his head slowly, and you realize you've looked back up at him when his brows furrow together. “I don't,” he says.

“Can you do me a favor,” you say, expecting to stop there, but highly reluctant to even consider the thought of him rejecting you before you even get the real question out. “Can I join you?”

Mithrun looks down, gaze sweeping his bed, before turning back to you. It's a silent question, and you nod, cheeks aflame. Are your legs shaking? You feel unsteady. You aren't sure if you're breathing right — feels too shallow, as if you're afraid to even make a sound. Your hands, still fidgeting with your fingers, twist a joint in such a way that your knuckle cracks, and you wince at the sound interrupting the silence. Mithrun remains quiet, and you think that you might never have taken a deep breath in your life.

He breaks this silence a moment after. “Why are you asking this of me?”

There's lots of things you can say to this — lots of things that go through your head in response. It feels delicate to dissect, yet heavy. Emotion and cognition flit through your brain, and you think about analyzing yourself in your typical pattern of being self-aware, but it feels like too much. There's no good straw to grasp onto, but the one thing that comes to your mind is that, despite not knowing him for long, there's something about him that makes you feel as if he's the only person in the world you can go to.

I don't know wouldn't suffice as an answer. Moreover, you would feel bad about not communicating to the best of your ability. To him, you say, “I trust you,” and you don't think about how his distance is the most familiar thing you've known.

He doesn't seem convinced, but he shrugs and lifts his head to lay on the side of the pillow — moving to make room for you. Your heart thuds hard in your chest, and you're both terrified and not. You wipe your sweaty palms on the surface of your clothes, because you don't want to put that on Mithrun, not at all — there's no need for him to see that you're any more nervous than he already knows you are. While your hands are wiped off, you approach the bed, lifting your leg so you can slide over the top, knees bent as you sit by his waist. You're so close that your knees are touching the right side of his waist. The bed wasn't very big to begin with, and by the way Mithrun moves his arm out to make room for you to lay down, you know he's aware of the proximity.

Which, this action makes your chest ache. He wasn’t supposed to be caring — he wasn't supposed to make this easy. You're tempted to pull back for a moment before Mithrun raises his eyebrow at your hesitation, and you bite your tongue even as your eyes begin to moisten. You won't cry, you know this for sure — you refuse to be weak in front of someone as strong as him, and even though his eyes narrow at all the things you won't say, you give up part of the act and lay your head down on his chest, nosing your face into his neck. Your left hand comes to rest on his stomach so that you're curled into him, and you can already feel the moisture from your breath condensing on the skin of his neck. You won't cry, you remind yourself. You won't cry, and if some tears do drop on Mithrun's shoulder beneath your face then it was an accident. You didn't mean to.

Slowly, his arm comes around to cradle you into his side. Your breath hitches as his fingers trail down your spine to pull you closer, stroking along the bone of your back. You can feel yourself shaking, frozen in place — you don't want to move, but something like this is so unfamiliar. You never would have expected this from him, of all people — wasn't the point of seeking this out from him because he wouldn't be overwhelming? Wasn't the point of this to have an image of being loved?

Yet, with Mithrun’s fingers at the slope of your back, the image you had is colored and crisp. Even if he's pretending, it almost feels like he actually cares about you.

He can feel that you're shaking now — there's no doubt about it. Your breathing rattles through your chest as your fingers grip the fabric on his stomach, and you feel his abdominal muscles clench for a moment before he forces them to relax. He shifts his face above you and you feel lips on your forehead — he pressed a kiss to your skin, you realize, and your heart shatters into a million pieces. You're warm, you're burning up, and all you can do is sling your arm across his ribs, tuck a leg between his, and bury your face so far into Mithrun's neck that you don't know where you end and he begins anymore.

This wasn't supposed to happen. Not like this — nothing this nice. You're still shaking, but you're held tightly. Why did he desire to hold you?

You vocalize this sentiment. “Why are you doing this?” You ask, and your voice is quiet. Devastated. Unsure.

Mithrun doesn't look at you. He doesn't even shift his position. Just hums a short noise in the hollow of his throat — something you feel the vibrations of tickling your nose — and says, “I trust you, too.”

#mithrun of the house of kerensil #mithrun x reader #dungeon meshi x reader #mithrun #meo writings

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vegetatales · 2 months ago

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So this is admittedly coming from me using my engineering paper to do art studies (which actually has been very helpful for proportion consistency and understanding why something looks off to me)

But I agree that Gideon is actually a fairly decent artist who has whatever the equivalent of an engineering notebook in Avantris is, full of drawings, blueprints, and schematics.

While most of these are of equipment, rides, and gadgets he's either seen or been wanting to make if he ever had the resources for them there are some of people and creatures that catch his eye.

Now, these drawings tend to be very technical just basically replicating exactly what he sees down to fine details. They're not gonna be hung up in museums or aiming to express some deep, symbolic meaning.

They're are as direct and to the point as the man holding the pen drafting them. More akin to biological illustrations or engineering drawings. Little distinction between drawing a person to drawing a machine.

It can come off quite cold, actually. Maybe even unnerving to see yourself dissected and pulled apart into components.

It's why Gideon doesn't consider himself much of an artist. To him, this isn't art. If anything, it's closer to copying or tracing in his mind.

Initially, when Kremy finally got to see these drawings, he was a little disappointed with how stiff and clinical they all looked. He particularly didn't know how to feel about all the ones of him from angles he personally found unflattering or the ones that were side by side comparisons to wild alligators.

And maybe perhaps previous romantic notions of a hidden page of him rendered with soft strokes and reverent shades of charcoal were quickly erased, but at least Gid got his snout shape correct.

It does ease his mind at least that the rest of the crew gets the same treatment. Sure, there are still more pages of him than anyone else, but Kremy boils it down as a product of near constant proximity than one of muse. Otherwise, his interest in the notebook fades. The illustrations are still impressive within their own right, and he makes sure to tell Gid that whenever he finds him angrily ripping out a page that he's spent almost an hour over correcting dimensions on.

It really isn't until he finds a page on Torbek that wasn't there before that Kremy starts to pay it any mind. There's nothing particularly special about Torbek's page. It's the same clinical breakdown of his physiology and of his attire.

But it's there now when it wasn't there before in all the time they've known Torbek prior to the Faewild. Then, another page appears with Twig and all her little details pinned to the paper.

That's when it finally occurs to Kremy. Gideon, a man who prides himself in living to the fullest. Never slowing down as he races from one moment to the next. Is taking the time to notice and jot them down to memory.

These are not quick, sweeping scratches of lead. But meticulously measured lines calculated to take on the form of their visage. Every flaw, every nick, every piece that comes together to make them a whole, living mechanism perfectly replicated and accounted for.

There are no vibrant hues or eye-catching gestures that make one feel like they were sculpted from silk, but there is beauty in the exact distance between your eyes.

And if Kremy instinctively begins to still at the sight of a ruler taking his measurements from a distance, to afford time to a man who's only ever had it taken from him well that's between him and the good Baron.

#once upon a witchlight #gideon coal #kremy lecroux #he ended up getting mentioned cause of course he wld #damn this was just gonna be a post about gideon making detailed diagrams of his friends #sorry about that i got lost in the dichotomy between engineering technical skills and art #my fellow stem majors hear me out #artists are not our polar opposite but actually a lot more closer to our profession than we think #YOU may be an artist and not even realize #this is also practice to further develop my idea of how gideon expresses his feelings #like i think with how explosive gideon can get that the assumption is he wears his feelings on his sleeve #but like hes very particular about which emotions leak out while the rest are locked up tight #does that make sense #like i think a lot about his form of affection is heavily tied to his utility #but im getting off the point again

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fanfictionismyaddiction · 7 months ago

Note

You asked for reqs so Im here to yap! How about Mycroft from Sherlock having a gf that is constantly overthinking if he actually likes her(if he is with her for some reason where he can take advantage of her later, even tho as far as she knows, she has no connection to anything political that he can use. She still can't stop thinking about it tho.)

Him comforting her awkwardly bc he literally can't say any affirming words coherently, just actions that you'd have to look for under a microscope to notice, but they are there! He does let her brew and feel bad for quite some time unintentionally because he is very avoidant of emotional confrontations tho🥹

Do feel free to ignore this if it isn't your cup of tea! Mwah💋

An Affair of Logic and Love

Word count: 1k

Pairing: Mycroft x reader

________________________________________________________

Mycroft Holmes wasn’t a man of romance. That much was obvious to anyone who knew him. Reserved, calculating, and perpetually aloof, he approached the world as a chessboard, his every move measured, every relationship dissected for utility. Yet here he was, seated across from you at his immaculate dining table, sipping his tea as if nothing in the world could rattle him.

And here you were, trying to decipher his every blink, every sigh, every sip.

You glanced at him cautiously. Did he even like you? Or was there some hidden reason—a grand strategy that somehow involved you, though you couldn’t imagine how? You were an ordinary person, far removed from the tangled webs of politics and espionage he navigated daily. What could he possibly gain from being with you?

These thoughts gnawed at you, louder with each interaction, until every small silence felt like proof that you were merely a pawn in his game.

“You’re staring,” Mycroft said without looking up from his tea.

Your cheeks flushed. “I’m not.”

“You are,” he replied smoothly, setting his cup down. His piercing gaze locked onto yours, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

You fumbled for a distraction, taking a sip of your tea and nearly scalding your tongue. “I was just… thinking.”

“Thinking, I see.” He folded his hands and leaned back slightly. “Should I be concerned?”

You hesitated. Part of you wanted to confront him, to demand why he was with you if he could barely muster a word of affection. But the other part—the overthinking, self-doubting part—was too afraid of his answer. What if he confirmed your fears?

“No,” you muttered, looking down at your cup.

He raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. But true to form, he didn’t press the matter. Instead, he let the silence stretch, leaving you alone with your spiraling thoughts.

For the next several days, the doubts consumed you. Every interaction became a puzzle to solve:

• When he handed you a cup of tea without a word, was it a sign of affection, or was he just being polite?

• When he mentioned your favorite book in passing, was it because he genuinely remembered, or because he needed to lull you into a false sense of security?

• When he kissed you on the cheek before leaving for work, was it out of habit or obligation?

The questions were endless, and Mycroft, in his typical manner, did nothing to alleviate them. He wasn’t cruel—far from it—but his reserved nature and avoidance of emotional discussions left you in the dark.

It all came to a head one evening when you couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“Mycroft,” you began hesitantly as the two of you sat in his living room, him reading a newspaper and you pretending to focus on a book.

“Yes?” he replied without looking up.

“Why are you with me?”

The question hung in the air like a thunderclap. Mycroft froze, his fingers tightening slightly around the edges of the paper.

“Pardon?” he said after a moment, his tone carefully neutral.

You set your book down and turned to face him fully. “Why are you with me? I just… I can’t help but wonder if there’s some reason—some ulterior motive—because I don’t understand why you’d choose me.”

He finally lowered the newspaper, his expression inscrutable. “Is that what’s been troubling you?”

“Yes,” you admitted, your voice trembling. “I know it’s irrational, but I can’t stop thinking about it. You’re so… you. And I’m just… me. It doesn’t make sense.”

For a long moment, Mycroft said nothing. He looked at you, his sharp gaze scanning your face as if you were a particularly challenging code to crack.

Then, finally, he spoke: “I see.”

That was it. I see.

You stared at him, waiting for more, but he just shifted slightly in his seat, as if the conversation had already concluded.

“That’s all you have to say?” you asked, your frustration bubbling over.

Mycroft cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable. “I… hadn’t realized you felt this way.”

“Well, I do.”

He looked down at his hands, his usually unshakeable composure faltering ever so slightly. “Emotions are… not my area of expertise,” he admitted, his voice quieter than usual. “But I assure you, my intentions are entirely genuine.”

It wasn’t the grand declaration you’d hoped for, but coming from Mycroft, it was monumental. Still, it wasn’t enough to banish your doubts entirely.

“Then why don’t you ever show it?” you pressed. “Why can’t you just say how you feel?”

Mycroft shifted again, clearly wrestling with his discomfort. “I’m not… accustomed to such expressions,” he said stiffly. “But that does not mean I don’t care for you. On the contrary, I—” He stopped, his mouth opening and closing like he was physically incapable of forming the words.

Instead, he stood abruptly and walked to his desk. You watched in confusion as he opened a drawer, pulled out a small velvet box, and returned to the couch.

He handed it to you without a word.

Inside was a delicate necklace, the pendant a simple yet elegant design that you immediately recognized—it was based on your favorite flower, something you’d mentioned in passing months ago.

“I had this made for you,” Mycroft said awkwardly, his gaze fixed firmly on the coffee table. “I was waiting for the right moment to give it to you. I suppose now will have to do.”

You stared at the necklace, your heart swelling with a mix of surprise and warmth.

“Mycroft…”

“I may not be able to express myself in the traditional sense,” he continued, his voice stiff but earnest. “But I do care for you. Deeply. If that were not the case, I wouldn’t—” He stopped himself again, sighing in frustration. “I wouldn’t have allowed this relationship to happen.”

It wasn’t a perfect confession. It wasn’t romantic or poetic. But it was Mycroft.

You smiled softly and reached out to take his hand. “Thank you,” you said, your voice thick with emotion.

He finally looked at you, his expression softening ever so slightly. “There’s nothing to thank me for,” he said gruffly.

#fanfiction #reader insert #fanfic #mycroft x reader #mycroft holmes #mycroft bbc #Mycroft #bbc sherlock #sherlock holmes #x reade

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girlfailureboylosercom · 4 months ago

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Ex-literature Student Hyperfixates on Haikyuu Characters and launches off their rocker

the title says everything.

i got too silly trying to plan a hrhs yuri au fic and ended up deciding to do an analysis on the Kamomedai team (its mostly hrhs. my bad guys)

I'll be analysing volumes 38-41 in this post!! If I miss out on certain panels or misinterpret moments, that's my bad. Most of the panels I'll be putting here are taken irl, so they might not be that easy to read 😞🙇

This is also an opportunity for me to dissect my brain and figure out why I took a liking to these characters. I LOVE ANALYSIS and genuinely wish there was more over Haikyuu, especially on themes and characters and their philosophies!

so, what will I be focusing on in this analysis?

Kamomedai's philosophy, importance + message

Hirugami Sāchiro and

Hoshiumi Kōrai's significance in the story of Haikyuu

Coach Murphy's connection to HRHS' philosophies

If there are any topics I've failed to list here but have explored in this analysis, please understand that I was simply too excited to write and may have forgotten to list them here!

Word Count (excluding titles): 4838

Hirugami Sachiro

His Backstory

of course, whenever Sachiro is brought up, his backstory is the first thing that automatically pops into mind. It's tragic but even worse, it's realistic. It stuck with me the first time I read the entire manga, but I couldn't figure out why. I knew it resonated with me, reminding me of the several burnouts I witnessed in multiple kids around me at school, but that reasoning wasn't enough. So I supposed that pushed me to write this analysis haha!

From these panels, it's safe to say that Sachiro did have love and passion for the sport. He practically grew up with it- his parents and siblings played it, and they eventually went down the path of going pro. It would be no surprise that he was bound to follow in their footsteps. It was natural. There's no confirmation and this is more like a theory/headcanon, yet I believe that his family did have these expectations for him or placed pressure on Sachiro to play volleyball, whether or not they intentionally meant to. When you grow up with a family of star athletes who all did the same sport, why would you do something different? In the manga, Hirugami states that if he just 'straight up quit' volleyball there and then, there would be a whole set of problems. We could assume that maybe their coach would be upset, but this could be another hint that his family would not take the news that well. Perhaps his parents would be the more judging ones. Since he has all of these expectations and the pressure to improve and earn respect and acknowledgement from his family, it wasn't a surprise that this mindset would eventually turn sour and cause Sachiro to crash. We even have some supporting evidence for this, and it (strangely) comes from Atsumu.

Atsumu states that he knew Hirugami was always this good, but the way he played was 'like a man possessed', and watching him gave Atsumu the impression that he was on edge at all times. In the panel that displays Atsumu's recollection of his original impression of (middle school) Hirugami, we can see that the Miya Twins are completely fine compared to Hirugami who is panting like a dog, tired out and not looking in top shape. I don't think it's a far-fetched assumption to say that Hirugami was just forcing himself to play the sport, to keep on going and giving his all despite his body protesting, trying to tell him that he's reached his limit. But the mind can be stubborn and Hirugami's mind was also dead set on goalless/vague improvement; He wants to build more muscle, not let anyone outdo him, and not get left behind- all these goals don't have a proper end and that's harmful. Of course he's going to force himself to continue whether or not his body gets the rest it deserves. To him, there's no such thing as a rest day. Hirugami doesn't believe he gets to rest until he finally achieves or stops chasing the improvement he desires. But there's no end to the goals he wants to achieve. If Hoshiumi didn't stop him, how long would've Hirugami been aimlessly chasing his own demise?

Hoshiumi & Hirugami's Middle School Relationship (sub-category of Hirugami's backstory)

I think that Hoshiumi and Hirugami have quite similar philosophies! Both are centered around hard work and the need to improve, to become better. However, here's the difference: Hoshiumi's more accepting, acknowledging the harsh reality that he's weak. There are stronger people out there, which is why he NEEDS to be competitive and strive for improvement in order to avoid lagging behind his competition. If Hoshiumi makes any mistakes, he most likely would take it as a learning opportunity and eventually shrug it off. He already knows he gives everything his all, so any mistakes he encounters are not an outcome of laziness or lack of effort. On the other hand, Hirugami's is more degrading. It's harsher, taking any mistake he makes and echoing it back at him in a harmful manner, telling him that he could've- should've done better, that there were ways Hirugami could've gotten that last point, that the smallest mistake he made would affect the way he and his team played. There's no room for error because if there is, then there's something wrong with him. And because of their difference in philosophies, I believe that led them to interact when Sachiro finally crumbles and hurts himself.

While re-reading Sachiro's backstory, I got the impression that he and Hoshiumi barely interacted during their middle school days, so I asked myself: why would Sachiro tell Hoshiumi, an all-time bench warmer, that he doesn't like volleyball? The few times we've seen middle school Hoshiumi and Hirugami interact besides the self-harm scene were they only getting brief glimpses of one another. The panel above shows Hirugami briefly noticing Hoshiumi, acknowledging that he's still practising this late at night, then shrugging it off and walking back to the canteen. Well, Hoshiumi just helped him out of a daze during a difficult moment. Hirugami's head is now above the deep, dark water called his thoughts, so he's most likely disorientated. He's shaken up by the pain in his knuckles that are finally alerting his senses and at the same time, he's settled on a simple conclusion: He doesn't like volleyball anymore. And in that moment of silent anguish, who else could he let out this confession to? Any walls Hirugami has put up during this time are now knocked down by raw vulnerability. He needs to speak and ground himself, to let his mind finally acknowledge that he doesn't want to continue playing volleyball like this. And it just so happens that Hoshiumi is also there to hear this statement. There is no hesitation in Hoshiumi, not when he offers a tissue for Sachiro to clean up his bloodied hands, not when he listens to Hirugami's sudden, sensitive confession and simply asks, "Okay. Why don't you quit?", a question that Hirugami didn't consider nor thought possible before. He doesn't coddle but offers Sachiro advice that he could take or leave behind. Korai doesn't forcefully press the tissue packet into Sachiro's hands, nor continues to show his discomfort at the sight of the other boy's wounds despite the response being natural. His steadiness and composure are reassuring, allowing Hirugami to take his time to calm down and process his thoughts and the advice that Hoshiumi has given him. Also, Hoshiumi's advice is structured more like a conversation, if that makes sense. Hoshiumi is straightforward and honest and his words hold no flattery when he points out Hirugami's strengths, something that he can't achieve as easily as the other could. He's not making a big deal out of the situation and is staying calm yet helpful, which is essential. Because of his approach and advice, Hoshiumi unknowingly helps to give Hirugami an entirely new perspective, when he probably intended to only stop him from harming himself even further. (I also believe that Hirugami revealed this thought to Hoshiumi because sometimes, people find it easier to talk to strangers than the family or friends that they are close to.)

Little note: I love how supportive HiruHoshi are of one another!! Throughout the manga, we can see how close they are; Hoshiumi has always been there for Hirugami, ever since they first properly interacted in middle school until the end of their high school days. And of course, during adulthood. Hirugami visibly reciprocates this by taking the time to understand Hoshiumi, learning his story and other things like his thought process and quirks in volleyball.

Sachiro's View on Volleyball

One of the special arts that included Hirugami called him 'dispassionate' and I found that very interesting. It highlights his whole stance on volleyball; He likes it, but after all that he's been through, Hirugami would rather leave it behind and watch from the sidelines. He likes it, but he's not going to get overwhelmed by it again, unlike the other Kamomedai members or characters in Haikyuu. This time, Hirugami has set the goal of playing volleyball only until the end of high school. Knowing that he will get to quit after all these years, that these long periods of burnout will finally come to an end, its a relief to him. Hirugami still has a love for volleyball, but he understands that his relationship with the sport will not go back to the original, passionate state that it was before. And he's accepted that. He wants to play the sport without getting drowned in those overwhelming thoughts, he wants to have fun and not let volleyball take over his life. It doesn't matter if his talent in volleyball gets wasted. So what if it does? Hirugami knows what he wants in life now and wants to pursue it.

Dispassion can come off as someone having no passion, but that's not true; it's simply another meaning for being calm and not letting emotion take over logic.

Parallels with Asahi

Also noted that he and Asahi have some parallels! Not as much or obvious as Hinata and Hoshiumi, but it's there! Even the summary for Volume 40 acknowledges this!

Both characters have had a past with or are currently experiencing overthinking, along with how it affects their attitude and behaviour during games and or in general. Their arcs are connected to their mental health/well-being and how volleyball, the sport they play, are closely intertwined. However, Asahi's character does seem to be more centred around anxiety and how it can affect his gameplay and social life. Meanwhile, Sachiro's character has a more intense focus on the depression that can come from burnout and the effects it can develop. Yet both of these characters share the pressure of needing to be better, the need to live up to certain expectations that have been placed on them consciously or not. For Asahi, it's being the ace. And for Sachiro, it used to be, well, being good at volleyball.

Throughout the entire story of Haikyuu, we can note that Asahi is still trying to get over the overthinking that his anxiety has given him- he's struggling with the thoughts, which have been shown to affect his plays and his relationships. Asahi is learning to have more faith in his abilities, to go easier on himself and stop wallowing in his negativity. Meanwhile, Sachiro is shown to have already gotten past that. Has he made a full recovery? I don't think so. But he's shown to have not been affected by expectations anymore; He's over that burden and he knows that even if things get tough, volleyball is just a game. If he makes a mistake, Sachiro knows he won't die. It's a sport he enjoys, but there are simply other things in life that he has more passion for. He's just currently focusing on having fun with volleyball and trying his best.

Hoshiumi Kōrai

The Little Giant Legacy

If you care about either Hinata or Hoshiumi, you would know that the cause of their rivalry is the pursuit of the 'Little Giant' title. It makes sense after all! Both players are considered astoundingly short for their sport, have great jumping lengths and are considered amazing players by their team, just like the original Little Giant, Udai (who changed his mind on the pursuit of volleyball and went on to do manga instead). Personally, I believe that the moment their rivalry was officially solidified was actually at the end of Chapter 361 and the beginning of Chapter 362!

This panel was when Hoshiumi started to develop some respect for Hinata, recognising him as a potential rival he wanted to go against. But before it, when Hinata jumps and manages to spike the ball against Kamomedai's defence, Hoshiumi recalls a statement he made earlier, one he gave to the interviewer: "Yes, being short is a disadvantage...but it isn't a sign of incompetence."

And this panel establishes just how similar they are. They haven't heard one another's philosophies, yet they share it already. Gao acknowledges it with an expression of unease, and even Sachiro thinks, "He's just like Korai-kun." For this part, I will focus on these four people due to their connection with one another: Hinata, Hoshiumi, Udai and Coach Washijo. These four characters have experienced how height can be an extreme hurdle to overcome in sports.

According to Udai, the original 'Little Giant', he talks about how he knew he was the ace back in the day and how he deserved to feel confident over it. However, as Udai grew up, it is implied that the pressuring competition experienced at nationals most likely got to him. Udai assumed that if he trained himself even more, and focused on improving his skills and technique, it would be enough to keep up. But there was one thing he forgot to factor in: mentality. In fact, I think Udai does acknowledge this as well! It's why he politely shoots down Akiteru's comparison compliment of his and Hoshiumi's playstyle. Udai points out during the match that if he was in one of the situations that Hoshiumi was in, he would've failed at scoring as he would've spiked the ball down instead of back, a sign that the block intimidated him and made him retreat. "Hoshiumi has far better skill and decision-making than I ever did." Referring to Volume 41, Udai gives this mental narration while watching Hoshiumi set the ball to Hirugami: 'Know your weaknesses. Accept them. Forget the weapons you can't wield. Find all the ones you can...and carefully, persistently hone them all to a wicked point. That is what it means...to be a Little Giant.' Between these two pages, we can note that Udai is also eagerly watching Hoshiumi's play, with a determination that we can conclude from that if Udai had to pass down the title personally to anyone, he would most definitely choose Hoshiumi. If Hinata has Coach Washijo rooting for him, then Udai is the one who is silently applauding for Hoshiumi from the sidelines. (Fun fact! In Volume 45, in a small panel that features Udai, we can see him drawing his second manga series and the main character looks reallyyyy similar to Hoshiumi,,,)

All four characters know that they are weak when it comes to volleyball. However, Udai and Washijo are the ones to have been shown to crumble under that knowledge, accompanied by other factors that have made them resign from the court and pursue another path. Yet, that other path is still connected to volleyball. For Udai, it was making a manga based on it; For Coach Washijo, it was becoming a coach and only cultivating those with strong potential.

Coach Washijo has been burdened by the knowledge that his height restricted his ability to play so severely that it's firmly become a staple of his philosophy, that he'll only take in the strongest and biggest, keeping that mindset for 40 years. He only starts to change his mind when Hinata enters the scene; Not when Udai started playing and became Karasuno's ace years ago. Yet, Coach Washijo remains resistant to the idea that a player like Hinata or Hoshiumi can make it. (We don't see what he thinks about Hoshiumi, but I think his view would be similar to how he views Hinata, but not as personal 🤷) Over the time of Haikyuu- and by the time we reach the Kamomedai vs Karasuno match, Washijo's mindset has already begun shifting into a more positive view. He's started becoming more open and eager to the idea of a 'Little Giant', finally accepting that the harsh reality he faced back then is now possible to overcome. I believe that the match and the development of the fun rivalry between Hoshiumi and Hinata contribute to it, even if it isn't hinted at that often.

Turning back the focus onto Hoshiumi and Hinata, their rivalry is simply a beautiful thing to witness, especially considering the legacy both these players are chasing and discovering the respect they have for one another despite being one another's biggest competition. (also something something about the monster generation players on the Adlers team being the people who are the top three rivals Hinata has experienced in the entirety of the story,,,,yeah)

Referring to a panel from Volume 41 (again), Hoshiumi confesses to Hirugami that compared to other competitor teams, where he states that he simply wants to go through them no matter how good they were, Karasuno is one that he truly wants to beat. This intimidating statement sends a shiver up Hirugami's spine, which is something considering the handful of panels we get of him making a sadistic expression throughout this match. From this interaction between the two, we can interpret that up until this point, Hoshiumi did give his all to help his team win against several other teams to get to Nationals, but most likely didn't experience much competitive thrill during those matches and had to hype himself up by beating opponents who would underestimate him due to his smaller stature. Yet now, he finally gets the competition he desires. In Nationals, every team has been proven to be good. No one's planning to overestimate or underestimate anyone, there's simply no time for that. The time on the court is precious, meant to be used to win against whichever team is on the other side of the net. And like a cherry on top, there is someone like him. Someone gunning for the same thing he desired- Hoshiumi and Hinata's relationship can be classified under 'mirror characters'. Or in a more literary viewpoint, parallels. Typically, this trope is used to give the protagonist a rival, which is one of the reasons why Hoshiumi was created. Hoshiumi's role in the story is necessary as considering the other two main 'rivals' Hinata faces in the story (Ushijima as the Privileged Rival and Kageyama as the Main Rival, referring to TV Tropes), both of them seem to have more of the upper hand due to their height and long experience with getting the chance to play on the court consistently. With the presence of Hoshiumi, his character further drives the message that whether or not you have been given blessings from the start or have access to certain opportunities, working hard & smart along with having passion are also essential elements that you require in order to achieve the success you want.

"They come to us with solid, undeniable strength, and make us choose them."

The Need For Competition

Disclaimer: I do NOT have any siblings. So if I do accidentally miss-analyse anything in this section, I sincerely apologize 🙇 But yeah. Akitomo. Although we BARELY see him for the rest of the manga, he still has an essential role- if not, why do we need him in the first place? Furudante gives every character a purpose, whether or not they're major or minor. From Kōrai's backstory, we can see that he and his brother have your usual competitive sibling rivalry and whatnot. Akitomo bullies him and Kōrai retorts. But I think that this manga panel solidified Kōrai's need to be competitive and the desire to drive himself to improve in every area of volleyball possible (besides his mother's helpful advice that also plays a huge role in his philosophy).

This was the utter devastating realisation that he was so much weaker than Akitomo, despite Akitomo not knowing how the fuck to play volleyball. Kōrai learned that sport, dedicated and invested himself into it, yet here comes his brother, easily taking away the spotlight and spiking the ball without breaking a sweat. Just a jump and a hit, and boom. He could be replaced like that. Akitomo has always teased Kōrai over his height, yet this moment was most likely one of several that Hoshiumi experienced and solidified his understanding of how weak he was, and there were some things that he simply couldn't change from just effort and hard work alone. But with Asa's advice, Kōrai also understood that just because some doors were shut to him didn't mean the rest were. Some doors required a bit of prying to open, while some were already waiting to be discovered, and all Kōrai needed was to find and sharpen the required tools. Throughout the manga, there is a theme of competitiveness and how it affects the lives of the high school players on the court. We see how it affects them for the better and also the worse. We see how regardless of its positive or negative effects, these teenagers strive for improvement, to learn how to work with others as a team, and the list goes on. Hoshiumi is an example of a character who has a good balance of competitiveness and passion, which keeps him going in his pursuit of being good at volleyball. But in a moment of vulnerability (not defeat), he suddenly turns to Gao during the match and admits that there were times when he'd given up a little, starting to feel there were limits to the height he could reach. I believe that this statement was essential for Hoshiumi to admit out loud, as it further shows us that even a character as confident and competitive as him can eventually start to feel the pressure of keeping up and even almost let it get to him. But it seems that by the end of the manga, all the effort Hoshiumi has put into his own improvement in both body and mind, along with letting his competitiveness drive his passion instead of control him, he manages to achieve not only a spot on one of the best V1 League teams in Japan but also becomes a player on the Japan National Team for the Olympics. The seeds he's sown have finally grown and now Hoshiumi can reap his rewards as he rightfully deserves.

Someone once told me that competition was simply part of human nature. It can come in forms we never thought possible, but it's still there. Sports, academics, collections, status, and so on. It doesn't matter what form this competitiveness comes in, but it does matter how we use it in our lives. Do we let it control us and our desires in turn? Or do we use it as fuel to strive for improvement, to make a positive change in our lives and for others as well?

Kamomedai's Message

The Importance Of A Coach

Aaron Murphy is the coach for Kamomedai and according to the manga, his background and qualifications make him stand out amongst the range of other coaches we've seen in the story. He's a coach for one of Italy's Pro Series A leagues for years, took a Japan V2 League team and made them V1, and many kids on the volleyball team purely attended Kamomedai High just to play for him. He's a pro through and through- you'd expect him to be harsh, to have multiple well-detailed training schedules for his team, to push the limits of his players- similar to Coach Washijo, who's also a coach for a powerhouse school that is amazing at volleyball and set up to be one of the biggest antagonists Karasuno will ever face. But he's not! He seems to be a far cry from that. According to an onlooker (and referencing the manga again), people view him as a coach who doesn't seem to stand out too much, despite knowing he has an incredible record of being one. Meanwhile, Coach Washijo only looks for players with raw strength and power, the ability to intimidate and rule the court with their impressive height and skill and he will cut them off from their position if they refuse to listen to him. He's painfully harsh and it's evident in the way we've seen how his players react when he merely calls their names. Coach Washjio is intimidating and fierce, something you'd expect from a coach who has cultivated a team that's produced some of the most impressive players in the history of Haikyuu. Yet this treatment stems from his background, where Washijo was not allowed to play volleyball because of his height. We don't know a lick of Coach Murphy's backstory, but that's okay! It's unrequired to dissect his importance and why someone like him fits perfectly with Kamomedai's message and significance in the story, along with implied effects on Hirugami and Hoshiumi's philosophies.

Earlier, I stated that Udai gave up on volleyball because the pressure of intense competition got to him. It was good that he knew that improving his skills and technique could help him make up for his height, but Udai forgot about improving one thing that Coach Murphy had emphasised when training the Kamomedai team: Mindset. (Or more accurately, mental toughness) Through short moments in Volume 41, we can see that Coach Murphy focuses on mental training. Furudante could've shown us how intensely he trains Kamomedai, as he does mention that serving and blocking are the other two skills that he wants to train the team in (and Kamomedai is well-known for those two aspects), but we only get a brief panel showing us how sweaty and exhausted the whole team is. Yet, during that moment, the focus is on Coach Murphy talking about mindset, before directing the team to scenario practice. In the same volume, Akaashi recognizes that not one, not two, but the whole Kamomedai team is capable of doing task focus throughout the game, something that he barely managed to do in Volume 38. Akaashi is a character that is typically perceived as someone who is very calm and collected due to his analytical nature, but in Fukurodani matches we get to see that he doesn't have a good view of himself and tends to have negative thoughts that are similar to Asahi. A character like Akaashi noticing and making this connection further emphasizes how the players on Kamomedai are exceptional at their way of thinking, besides their serves and blocking.

We can see that his teachings have effects on his players and that's great! Reflecting on my earlier comparison between him and Coach Washijo, his methods are tough and intensive, but they're not excessive and seem to value both physical and mental health equally. Although Coach Murphy and Coach Washijo have years of experience training volleyball players, only one of them has experience looking over a professional team of athletes. Coach Murphy focuses on taking the players he has and helping them to hone their skills, instead of filtering through them and only picking ones who have the most potential. He looks at the cards he's dealt with and figures out how to make the best use of them. There's an air of professionalism with the way he handles and talks to his players, in my opinion- he's playful at times, but Coach Murphy's words are also grounding and firm. In a way, his method is very similar to gentle parenting (if that makes sense haha). His healthy way of teaching has affected his players, assisting them on their journey of improving their thinking in both their games and outside of the court. In Volume 41 and on the same page that the players of Kamomedai are briefly shown to be undergoing training, Coach Murphy's advice clearly addresses potential physical or mental obstacles players can face during a match- 'What happened was either a failure of your skill...or a failure of your decision-making process and mental control'. Murphy also states that they should make success a larger habit, before following up that a thought along the lines of "Oh, I'm having an off day today" isn't an excuse, unless the player themselves are sick or hurt. From this, it's implied that Coach Murphy is advising his players to pursue success but not let a negative mindset prevent them from doing so. Coach Murphy's second statement also supports the point that his training is gentle but firm by implying that he guides his players on how to properly reflect on their mistakes and spot areas of improvement before making the next step (which is solving the issue). Kamomedai's slogan is 'Habit Becomes Second Nature', which further supports the purpose and message of the team in the story of Haikyuu. Combined with Coach Murphy's teachings, it's no surprise that Kamomedai will not only grow as a team, but their players will also become people who persist despite undergoing harsh conditions. It's why they're closely linked to seagulls (and also why Hoshiumi resembles and is heavily based on one); To quote Coach Murphy, Kamome means 'seagull'. Seagulls can handle sea or sky, fair weather or foul, no matter what.

So, what is Kamomedai's purpose and message in the manga? From all the evidence I've gathered, I believe that the team exists to show the viewers and other characters in the story the importance of mindset besides skill, to carefully train yourself to persist in doing or achieving something despite obstacles in your way and that if something bad happens, it's not good to beat yourself up. Instead, careful reflection is required if you wish to improve and avoid making the same mistake again. Take care of yourself, both physically and mentally.

But then again, this analysis might be a bit biased as Kamomedai is one of my favourite teams and I've typed a crap-ton of words for this, phewwwwww. My brain is dry now. So if you have any other views on them, feel free to reply to this! I'm all up for discussion :3

#I LOVEEEEEEE ANALYSIS GUYS #THE MULTIPLE TIMES IVE JUMPED OUT OF MY CHAIR AND SHRIEKED IN DELIGHT WHEN I FOUND A POINT THAT I COULD CONNECT TO ANOTHER #i love haikyuu i want to dissect everything about it one day and consume it like a five course meal #hoshiumi kourai #hirugami sachirou #hiruhoshi #hinata shoyo #tenma udai #tanji washijo #aaron murphy #kamomedai #haikyuu!!#haikyuu #hq #haikyuu analysis #hellspawn rambles

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brokenheartwithheartbreak · 3 months ago

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Okay I don’t even go here and I’ve never done this before but I’m 10k deep into a post-finale probably AU platonic Thiam fic based on Theo trying to figure out his shit and function as a human being and DOUBTING my writing very hard rn so. What’s the consensus from anyone whose been in this fandom for longer than two months (see: anyone but me)

Excerpt:

Melissa bustles away before he can unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth, Liam watching her go with an oddly forlorn look, still draped over the desk, before those wide puppy-innocent eyes snap to Theo, still hopelessly open and unguarded even as he sighs, a heavy laborious thing, and shakes his head.

“She’s still mad at you.” He says by way of greeting. Theo frowns, has lost Melissa in the throng of people toing and froing in the hallways already, eyes cutting to Liam instead and attempting to dissect why he seems to think this matters.

“I killed her son.” He says flatly, when it becomes apparent Liam expects an answer, “He’s still pissed. Why wouldn’t she be?"

Liam’s gaze turns thoughtful, studying Theo as he stands there in his threadbare t-shirt and the same jeans he’d been wearing when Gabe’s blood was splattering on the tiles, four floors up, three weeks ago. They've been cleaned since - he managed to scrape together enough change for a trip to the laundromat last week - but being back here he can distinctly remember the specific scent of blood and fear and death, a little different for every dead body left in Monroe's wake, tinged with a slightly different mix of the same three things her teenage soldiers feel in their last moments.

Liam's still looking at him with those deceptively sharp eyes, blue like the sky, like a bottomless ocean. He has a skill for looking at people - at Theo - and giving off the impression that he's looking deeper, peeling back the guarded layers and taking a look at the exposed damage underneath, poking at that damage and seeing how much it takes to make him jump, not in a malicious way, though, in a 'testing boundaries' sort of way, in a 'how far can I push you before you snap back' kind of way that Theo respects more than he resents, because he's the same, in a way. He gets the feeling Liam is still waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Theo to slip and the carefully crafted master plan to crack and splinter and shatter down around him all over again, gets the feeling this pushing and prodding is a reflexive, knee jerk reaction to how easily he'd slipped into their ranks and earned their trust last time around. While the rest of the pack seem to have decided the best policy is just to keep him at arm's length until they need to pull him in for a human shield, Liam seems to have gone for the opposite; tugging Theo closer so he can peer into the cracks and crevices Tara clawed into his armour and decide whether the things he does and the words he says are genuine or just another misdirection.

Theo really doesn't have the energy for misdirection anymore - what's the point? All these people have already seen the worst of him, have seen him rip them apart to take what he wanted, seen him rip apart his own pack to take their power, there is nothing he could say or do now to wipe that slate clean and make them forget, that much has been made quite obviously clear. And, somewhere along the line of those four months that felt like four years, four decades, too much time and not enough and how do you reconcile losing that much of your life when it felt like repeating the same five minutes over and over and over again, somewhere along the line the parts of him that were so well trained, so carefully schooled he could control his heartbeat and his chemosignals and his every minuscule emotion like his own body was his puppet, those parts died, ripped out of him a thousand times over alongside Tara's heart and left to rot on that cold hospital floor.

He thinks, privately, in some dark corner of his mind, that Liam might be the only one of them that's actually maybe worthy of being an Alpha. He's explosive and angry, yes, but when the anger drains out he's quiet and clever, stubborn and selfless and so quick to forgive. He's rushing headfirst into danger to give his friends a fighting chance, he's pounding fists against stone until his knuckles break to stop himself hurting a kid who honestly deserved it, he's a heart skipping traitorously over 'I'm not dying for you either.' He's the only one Theo might delude himself into believing has possibly come close to forgiving him, despite it all, despite Theo manipulating him into attacking his own Alpha, despite Theo taunting him and goading him at every opportunity because once, Before Skinwalker Prison Theo thought it was kind of funny to see how many buttons he could press before Scott's favourite blew a fuse.

All that, and he's still the top contact in Theo's pitifully empty phone, he's still the one who came looking that night after the hospital, after Gabe, limping on his own bullet wound, to find Theo sprawled in the back of his truck, rolling the crumpled slug he pulled from his sluggishly bleeding shoulder across the scratched plastic of the tray and trying to erase the feeling of death creeping through his veins as Gabe's heart gave out, pain free. He doesn't know where he stands with a lot of the pack these days, other than understanding the general air of discontent and distrust whenever he happens to be in the same room, but with Liam, at least, their relationship is relatively clear, cut and dried. They're not friends, probably never will be, but they went through something together, survived something together, and that simple act has tied some sort of invisible string between them that has Theo gravitating towards Liam like he's a sharp metal blade and Liam a magnet.

Maybe he's lonely, left behind by everything he's known, cracked open by Tara's hand in his chest, left exposed in the aftermath in such a way he doesn't know how to put the mask back on and pretend anymore. Maybe Liam doesn't look at him like a monster, just a puzzle, not ugly-messy-killer boy but beaten-tired-trying boy. It's not much but it's enough for him to think maybe one person in this fucked up town doesn't completely hate his guts, and that breadcrumb of hope is enough to stir the dead thing in his chest into some sort of continued existence every morning.

None of that stops him from feeling a little like a bug under a microscope, now, trapped in this moment that seems to last hours and seconds at the same time, caught in the arcing swing of the pendulum on a grandfather clock, caught under Liam's gaze that sees too much and not enough at the same time. He fights the urge to let his hands curl into fists, tries instead to remember what it felt like to break Liam’s nose - four weeks ago, five, it doesn’t matter - last time so he doesn’t give in to the urge to do it again, bloody and broken, right here in front of all these hospital staff, these Normal people who might not be so Normal after all. Half of them were here, were working when Monroe’s hunters took over the hospital, when they threw guns into the hands of children and told them to go to war against their classmates, told them that murdering a teenager for being Something Else would net them a win in some sort of moral war as well as the actual, bloody, violent one.

He wonders if any of them recognise him and Liam, two teenagers lingering in a hospital hallway, two Others making themselves easy targets.

“What?” He snaps, surprises himself a little with the sharp tone, but Liam hasn’t moved, hasn’t stopped pinning him with that piercing look, and that’s supposed to be Theo’s job, reading him like an open book, putting together all the little invisible tells and figuring out exactly which buttons to press to get the reaction he wants, the fallout he wants, writing the script and having Liam-Scott-Stiles, all, follow along without ever even realising it. He’s not so good at that anymore, lost that skill somewhere around the three hundredth time Tara ripped her heart out of his chest.

Liam has the grace to look bashful, peeling himself off the desk in a way that looks vaguely like tearing apart Velcro, wobbling to his feet in a way that speaks of long days and longer nights, exhaustion drifting off him like cologne. “Sorry, you just…seem different.”

The apology rolls of his tongue so easily, so simply, like Theo can’t count on just his fingers how many times someone has offered him any sort of apology, and it’s about nothing, about accidentally staring in a fatigued sort of way, but it’s about so much more than that in his head and Liam’s simple-easy camaraderie makes something in his chest ache even fiercer.

‘You seem different’ Liam says, and Theo thinks about his belt being two holes tighter, shirts hanging a little looser, hard ridges of bone hidden beneath. He thinks about long, uncomfortable nights, broken up into sections of haunted sleep and a constant, thick exhaustion he wears like a second skin. He thinks about the sandwich he wolfed down at the last pack meeting to discuss the Hunters, two days ago, that barely made a dent in the gnawing, empty feeling of his insides. It’s fine, he’s managing, he’s still alive; call it another test, perhaps. How long can The Subject sustain itself with no resources?

He wonders how much of that Liam can see, wonders if ‘different’ means ‘thin’ or ‘tired’ or ‘a facsimile of who you were before’.

Theo chooses to ignore the comment entirely, stuffs his hands a little deeper in his pockets, shakes around the boxes of himself in his mind to find some semblance of his usual cold, calculating snark. His lips curl into an expression that is all fangs without ever baring his teeth, one eyebrow lifted in challenge. “You call me here just to stare, Dunbar?”

#theo raeken #liam dunbar #teen wolf #teen wolf fic #fanfic #post canon #post finale #snippet #Ive never posted a snippet before #and never of a WIP #but I’m so nervous of writing these characters and need motivation to continue #if no one likes this I guess I’m just gonna have to light myself on fire 🙃#might delete later if the anxiety kicks in but for now #yolo #go forth into the world my child #Heart Writes tag

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drarrywords · 1 month ago

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The Precision of Spite

Part 1

They try—God, they try—to be normal.

They go for coffee like they’re not still trembling from the night before. Harry reads Draco’s newest sketchbook and says it’s “dangerously emotive,” which Draco thinks might be the highest compliment Harry’s capable of.

They begin work on a collaborative exhibition-slash-lecture: “The Aesthetic Brain”, a joint venture between the science and arts faculties. Draco proposes installations; Harry builds interactive modules mapping neural responses to each piece.

They don’t tell anyone what they are.

Because they don’t know.

Because sometimes Draco leans in and Harry pulls away.

Because sometimes Harry says too much, and Draco doesn’t say anything at all.

The first crack forms in the editing room.

Draco wants the final sequence to end in silence—a pure emotional climax with no explanation. No voiceover. No graph.

Harry disagrees.

“It’s meaningless without context,” he says. “People won’t get it.”

Draco's eyes narrow. “Or maybe you just can't stand letting someone feel something without dissecting it.”

Harry fires back, “And maybe you can’t make anything real unless someone is watching.”

They stand across the room like opposing theories.

Draco speaks again, but quietly. “Why do you do this? Every time we get close, you gut it. You look for a clean incision point.”

Harry’s jaw tightens. “Because I don’t trust it. Any of it.”

“Me?”

“Myself.”

And there it is—the ghost in the room. The thing neither of them will name.

Fear.

The second crack is louder.

A conference. A panel they both agreed to sit on, where the moderator opens with a simple question: Can neuroscience predict the aesthetics of love?

Harry responds clinically.

“Romantic attraction, as we understand it, is pattern recognition. Familiarity. Memory consolidation paired with neurochemical arousal. It’s not magic. It’s math.”

Draco watches him the way someone watches an approaching storm. When the mic passes to him, he doesn’t smile, “You can chart oxytocin and serotonin all you want,” he says. “But you can’t explain why someone walks into a room and undoes your entire world.”

The room holds its breath.

“Love is not a stimulus. It’s a consequence,” Draco finishes. “And some of us are still living inside it.”

He doesn’t look at Harry.

He doesn’t need to.

They don’t speak for two weeks.

The project stalls. Emails go unanswered. Gallery slots hang in limbo. Their names start becoming whispers in opposite corridors again—what happened, weren’t they working together, didn’t they used to hate each other?

Draco starts smoking again.

Harry stops sleeping.

They both keep creating in secret.

Harry builds a closed-loop simulation—a VR reconstruction of memory fragments from the last year. Visitors can walk through it, unaware that each frame is a filtered moment: Harry’s mind reliving Draco. Over and over. Like an algorithm trapped in longing.

Draco, meanwhile, sculpts something brutal: a large-scale installation of two figures back-to-back, joined by a thread pulled so taut it slices into their spines.

He calls it “The Anti-thesis.”

The final crack isn’t an explosion.

It’s quiet.

They meet in the gallery late one night, both there to finalize pieces for the opening. They stand before Draco’s sculpture, neither speaking.

Harry finally breaks. “Is this what we are?”

Draco doesn’t look at him. “You tell me. You're the one with the data.”

Harry steps closer. “I never wanted it to be like this.”

“And yet,” Draco whispers, “you always knew it would be.”

Harry's voice catches. “Do you really think we’re poisonous?”

“I think we’re flint and steel,” Draco says. “Beautiful until we burn the whole thing down.”

There’s no kiss this time.

Only a pause.

Only space.

And the slow, tragic decision to walk away before they ruin each other completely.

The exhibition opens without ceremony.

Draco arrives late, dressed like he’s attending a wake. He doesn’t glance toward the VR station where Harry’s installation is housed, and Harry—already seated behind the security-glass interface—pretends not to look when Draco passes.

They orbit each other like silent moons. Former collaborators. Former something else, too—but they’ve stopped naming it.

Students call their work “brilliant.” Critics murmur phrases like “disquieting synergy” and “twin genius.” No one notices that the artists don’t speak to each other. That their eyes are never in the same place at the same time.

Draco stands in front of Harry’s simulation once. He watches a girl wander through it with the headset on, laughing softly as fragments of memory reconstruct around her. She pauses before a moment Harry labeled July, rain, red scarf, recognition—a half-recreated evening, where a pixelated version of Draco had turned his head just enough to smile.

The girl moves on. Draco doesn't.

Harry begins breaking by precision.

His lab is cold. Clean. Too clean. His whiteboards are full of equations that no longer resolve, models with flaws he pretends not to see. He publishes a paper on “Neural Refusal: Memory Suppression and Emotional Pruning.” It’s full of quiet desperation disguised as science. Buried in footnotes, he defines a term:

Cognitive ghosting — The mind's attempt to overwrite a recurring figure that no longer resides in one's present but dominates all reflective architecture.

He doesn’t name Draco.

But he doesn’t have to.

His colleagues begin to notice he doesn’t smile anymore. He avoids sunlight. His coffee is replaced with energy drinks, his patience with silence. When someone mentions the art department, Harry simply blinks and says, “I don’t engage in unstructured variables anymore.”

As if Draco had been an experiment that failed to replicate.

Draco breaks louder.

He paints obsessively—large, erratic canvases of faceless bodies. His colour palette degrades from crimson to grey. He begins using scalpels instead of brushes, slicing his work before stitching it back together with thread.

His professors whisper. One of them suggests a leave of absence. Another asks if he’s seeing someone.

Draco laughs bitterly. “I was.”

He writes a series of untitled pieces. They are not published. They are not submitted.

He keeps one of them folded in his coat pocket, where it wrinkles and fades:

You called it pattern recognition. I call it a haunting.I haven’t slept since you stopped imagining me.

They start seeing each other in everything.

Harry, walking home from a lecture, glances up and sees Draco’s profile lit in the window of the sculpture lab—and almost crosses the street before catching himself. Before reminding himself: We don’t speak.

Draco, returning a library book, finds one in the neuroscience section with Harry’s name scrawled on the title page. He stares at it like it’s a relic. Like it still belongs to someone warm.

They never speak. But the silence hurts now.

They could have hated each other forever and been fine.

But now they’ve tasted softness.

And nothing feels safe.

Weeks pass. Then a month. Two.

The university feels clinical now. Their names are still attached to greatness, but never to each other.

There is a winter showcase. Draco’s final piece is unveiled: an enormous suspended structure of broken glass and violin strings, wired to a sensor that makes it hum when anyone walks beneath it. The sound is low. Disoriented. Longing.

It’s titled: “Things That Break Before the Sound Comes.”

Harry doesn’t attend. But the next day, the gallery curator finds a note slipped under her door in a sealed envelope:

I don’t know what I heard, but it was mine. Please tell him I was there.

It is unsigned. But the ink is smudged like rain.

Part 3

#drarry #harry potter #draco malfoy #draco x harry #drarry fanfic #fanfic #ao3 #fic rec #fiction #imagine your otp

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runicwhim · 2 months ago

Text

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝐁abydoll, 𝐌aybe 𝐈'll—

— ֺ 𑁤 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: How strangers, Mel and Viktor, started as nothing, then became something.

“She sounds like a wonderful woman.” Mel exclaims, a twinkling of wonder in her timbre. There's something within his delicate fold, in the tiniest of squeezes he compresses into Mel's wrist. Of something more. Of nothing less. Viktor smiles again, crooked, pearlescent whites peeking from the bloom of his lips. “Yes, you quite remind me of her. Someone wonderful.

— ֺ 𑁤 𝐓𝐲𝐩𝐞: one—shot; completed.

— ֺ 𑁤 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4.6k.

— ֺ 𑁤 𝐀/𝐍: Hi all, I don't want to rant the same way I had earlier on ao3, but hey, I'm here, and I bring this as a humble offering. I adore MelVik a ton and I needed this out of my system fast; thus, Babydoll was formed. Thank you all for reading ♡

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀AO3 .ᐟ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀TWITTER .ᐟ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀SONG .ᐟ

It starts with a swift dismissal, though Viktor notes the inkling of curiosity that alights in Mel Medarda's evergreen irises; the slight of dilation within the depths of eyne that search him, as if attempting to undress his mien and dissect him as he stumble away. For a mere moment’s repose, he had believed such a gaze was aimed at someone else, anyone else. Amber hues flit and flicker about as cane clacks against tile, but it is just the council and Viktor, and Viktor is nowhere near the council now.

Viktor blinks once,

twice,

three times, and a plume of pink dusts across the pallid skin of angular cheeks, a chirrup of anxiety and embarrassment catching on the tip of his laden tongue. A lovelorn hypothetical is worth a thousand lingering stares and touchtempered bruises the shapes of fingerprints pressed into the skin, but Viktor doesn't dare entertain such notion, no. His scientific imperatives—the rational, logical part of him that has become a bane, a tangible existence unable to be extinguished at forethought—won't allow him to entertain such phantasies. He shirks such clandestine pinings into the back pocket of his mind, catalogues it in the mental manilla folder of little nothings that mean a strata of somethings, and promptly, pointedly, avoids staring back into watching gaze.

Viktor continues to hobble down porcelain tile blindly until his spine is pressed firmly against mahogany doors and only then does he exhale, releasing the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Heels of cypress palms apply pressure to the eye sockets, the sinew wound with tension and emotion he couldn't quite name. It burgeons. It bludgeons.

Little somethings, meant to feel like nothing.

Little nothings, meant to feel like something.

Viktor ambles to the lab, trying to stop thinking of the phantom of green eyes shadowing his every step.

The pigment, Mel finds, is golden amber. The irises are akin to pistils of molten honey, the petals of his lashes dusting his cheeks as strokes of charcoal. Jealous, perhaps. That his features could kiss his visage so sweetly. That Viktor's teeth and the muscle within the cavern of wet cavity could feel him inside, lick along the hard palate behind tulip of cracked labrum.

How poisonous, these candied somethings,

candied nothings.

(What an ostentatious incline of envy; she's no pedant of his minutiae, yet she desires to be such. To lave into his soft palate and taste of him; iron and ambrosia and something so inexplicably Viktor. To get drunk on it within a cupidstricken stupor. To bite down and mar the most infinitesimal of his essence with her flavor. Is he sugary, a tart of caramel and salt? Is he bitter, a coalescence of acrid junkets and soured cates? Mel worry her lower lip between canines, as if pretending the petunia between opaline teeth is not that of her own, but the sweetmeat of Viktor's—)

She inhales. The tumultuous hagiography she spindles within silkspun thoughts does little to reconcile the fact that she will only taste him in fleeting dreams and willowy illusions begotten from stress; can only fantasize about his dulcet tones when she visits the Hextech lab bi-weekly. Mel paints a line of white down onto the textile before her, allowing it to bleed. Yearning, an unhinged maw begging to clamp its fangs down on her patient letch. Upper lip stiffens despite the feigned resignation of her dismay.

Mel stares blankly at the prepped space before her, then to the array of pigments lined in their carrier.

Ochre. Gold.

(If this is a haunting, so be it.)

She'll start with the searing of bright amber.

His demeanor was never vapid nor insipid, but Viktor had moments in which words had fallen flat on the bed of his tongue, roses of his soliloquies wilting and curling into themselves and the petals spoken off into a triptych of half–coherent syllables and the stubborn muscle memory of Shuriman and some dialect particularly of his father's bastardly tongue and Va-Noxian.

Every little thing in the lab both simultaneously under and overstimulates him and whets his annoyance into a blade sharper than the boughs of his discomfort, piercing it into the tender of his stomach and twisting it until he feels bile scalding his throat. Viktor needs air, something sickeningly, strikingly antiseptic and narcotic to cool the heat coursing through white–hot veins and sand the brittle of his rancor down into something softer and idyllic.

Viktor does not feed himself into the maw of his own anxious moil often, but this ouroboros beast coils within his stomach and nests there. It lives within him. It festers. Consumes. Viktor wishes there was a trashcan nearby, or perhaps some place to dig the soft riverbed of his skin and burrow deep into it, but he refrains, stumbling as quick as he can to the nearest exit and simply breathing.

He doesn't realize he's panting, whimpering pained ‘no’-s with each airy intake. Doesn't realize the hands wringing his neck are his own. Machina astray, or a mimicry of such. Viktor grimaces as he sloughs off his cravat and flinches as fingers skim the beginnings of a bruise mottled onto the flesh there. He's not dainty by any means, not fragile, but Viktor always tests his own limitations with the inattentive suicidality of a pedantic hewn to the fancy that is if he doesn't kill himself, his body will. Whether that is conjecture, he doesn't find it in himself to mull over such inklings.

Not that he's any time to think of such things in the first place.

The same eyes that had hexed him for weeks on end come into view; Mel Medarda stands before him with concern drawn along her brows and a moue far too augean for her features.

Viktor blinks once,

twice,

three times, and freezes as the slope of a dainty palm raises, hesitant to touch at first, but eventually conceding. She soothes it over the incline of his shoulder, two fingers feeling for his pulse, then trails upward to cup his cheek with kindness he's not quite sure he's ever been deserving of. Mel’s expression morphs—she's beautiful up close; golden paint lacquered along the polish of smooth skin, supple cheeks and a mouth equivalent to that of a petunia begging to be parted, and those eyes, evergreen and gorgeous and scrutinizing —her cadence pulls him back into reality, Viktor momentarily stunned.

“Viktor,” Her lilt is doe–ish, his name rolling along the meridian of her tongue as if it were a candied cherry: something to relish, something to savor. “You're crying.”

And it hits him. Seismic, 5 shot off the scale of a hurricane, the entanglement of his emotions unnoticed in the roundabout codex of deigned ‘alright’–ness. Sheepishly does Viktor clamber down from his stupor, clumsy skull immediately tumbling into the safety of his palms to wipe stray tears. Then come the apologies, a spillage of little nothings meant to mean something, the muscle not quite in accord with his brain dribbling out of his ears, “Oh, I—”

Mel hums. Worry remains evident within the way her hand moves to peel Viktor's trembling digits from his facture, warming lithe appendages and cupping them firmly as if to memorize the feeling of him in her palm. Her thumb runs along the crevices and dips of his knuckles and stopping to dote particularly on the mole there between his index and ring fingers, hues peeking down to map the constellations scattered across the pallid fresco of his limb, then blink forward with little fanfare.

“Poor thing,” She offers a grin, uncertain, but gentle, benevolent. Mel's fingers dust across his cheek once more, the thumb swiping near his waterline and collecting a crystalline pearl there, drying it away with little thought about Viktor's inner turmoil. (Because Mel Fucking Medarda is too ridiculously kind and it leaves a yearning, an ache; the maw is starving and craves this softness. Whatever this creature is festering inside the constraints of his sternum and rib cage, it is monstrous, fluttering about and threatening to cut open the vestibule and consume all she is willing to give and everything that Viktor is—). “You've no need to apologize. You were in the middle of a panic attack; I crossed your path by chance and grew concerned,”

Viktor sniffles pathetically at this. He feels disgusting, a darned thing of patchwork fabric mended within the careful regard of artisan’s suturing. Sanguine touch is reciprocated with a palm awninged over hers as if to keep the dyne pressure of Mel encased around him and to him for the waning time being. It's only when his brain processes the action that he staggers.

“I–I'm so sorry—”

“Viktor,” Mel interrupts with a velveteen whisper, “Do not apologize.” And as quiet as winter's first snow, Mel guides Viktor's forehead to touch her own.

(And Viktor stutters, his body jolting, but an excuse that this is just adrenaline and the residual cast of anxiety would be partially false; Mel is no denizen of Zaun's to relish in its peculiarities and nor is she familiar with the clamor of its idiosyncrasies. Nonetheless, Viktor is unraveled delicately. As a butterfly unfurling its wings. As the first leaves of autumn swaying onto the ground.)

With a fleeting moment, Mel guides his twitching hands to her chest and allows him the pleasure to feel where her heart lay encaged—(jealousy is a fickle thing; Viktor wished he could make a home in the cavity wherein the organ lay, to replace it with himself so that he could always be doused in the holy of red–hot gentleness and carve himself into her marrow just to never miss her touch)—and slot her fingers over his, palms pushing his into her bulk. Mel inhales slowly in numerical increments Viktor can't quite reach with fluttering lungs, but he mimics all the same.

and she exhales. The grin has yet to fade, gauzy and terribly cherry. “There you are,” She says, and Viktor calms with the undercurrent of clandestine praise. “There you are.”

“You … didn't have to do this.”

She chuckles, airy. “No. But I see you, Viktor.”

She's not quite as fond of it as most may believe. Painting in oils is far trickier, depending on a steadier, slier hand and the eyne of a seasoned artist.

But art is Mel's repose, stress melting into a diptych of colors blotted onto a blank space; a liminal filled with her rancor and amor easily. No, but that is not what troubles her. Not the painting, not politics. Red, bloodred, incarnadine, rubellite—She tires of such pigment, always grotesquely abundant as the same runnels in her veins and the tint saturated onto the horsehair of her brushes. The visage staring back from the portrait isn't right; a distance between optics is far too wide, the bridge of the nose far too long, the mouth only half plumped in a blot of grey pulp, misshapen and grotesque. Hoskel makes an unamusing portraiture, but alas, she had agreed to paint his likeness as a birthday gift.

The portrait she wishes to work on is left to an aside, molten honey hues staring into the very zenith of her soul. Evergreen irises fall upon it, flicker, and gaze back at the uncanny mein of Hoskel's, then,

hands smear it with the clamor of mute anger.

Red, red, red. Ruby stains the pale of her palms, smears against the expanse of skin, and Mel exhales a wobbling breath as she stumbles back from the canvas—on the floor, a puddle of ruby gathers in drops that run in rivulets down the worn edges of the easel.

A paroxysm of one–sided pining.

Of nothing more.

Of something less.

Footfalls stamp onward and shatter the tympanic membrane before the brain comprehends that svelte form is no longer wandering her private quarters, but has strolled farther past the baroque council chamber mounted behind her. The path is familiar; terracotta and cobblestone and grandiose marble architecture dwindle into more sterile buildings, wooden and mounted in foliage in weary corners. As if this section of the city were simply a mere margin filled in green highlighter, a postil candidly printed and long syne forgotten. The lab isn't all too far now; the cobblestone path is smoother here, bummed down by pneumatic tires streaking past and gaggles of students hiking their way to the strip connecting to the main roads.

Mel knows the path well. Bi-weekly visits have turned into ‘when I feel like it’ drop bys, as if she were a spectre haunting its favorite sepulchre. Heels dance ‘round stone and mire and potholes, palms distaining doors with red ribbons of oil paint still semi-fluid on stickly fingers as she pushes through. Her heart skips a beat and Mel swallows the froggish hull in her throat.

(Squandering, loitering. There is something that lives inside the basilica of her self; a desperation taken humanoid shape; a contemplative inkblot scribbled on parchment in mercury. It bubbles, a bumbling cauldron that both vexes and enthralls Mel when it comes to waltzing in Viktor's orbital. They're jovian things—crash into him, punch a crater into the skin and push into the endaunted divot. Pink-fingered touch nestle into concavity and savor him as Viktor squirms in place, pinned down as a butterfly and growling as a lupine thing. A craving for cataclystic psalms, an intangible vanitas woven by hunger.)

Mel pauses abruptly and stares at the door in front of her, as if alabaster paint and the glinting refraction of light bouncing off the tiles were inexplicably interesting. Sharp enough, and even then, sharper, she paints a grin atop the petal of her labrum, a Rothko and Gentileschi shadowshow as she amble forth. Her heels sing in a choired canticle that demand neither attention nor attraction, but her target is called to as an insect to funeral pyres. The stool creaks, the palm of his thumbing the polish of his cane as honeyed amber glimpse from his peripherals. Perhaps it is phantasmagoria, a pantomime of a something,

the illusion of a nothing,

but Mel marvels at the fraction of it, belispeak churning with the weight of fireflies bouncing about her abdomen—lips curled in a smooth combat, comforting, unguarded, and not quite as careful as it once had been.

“Councilor Medarda,” Viktor regards her then, not turning to face her completely, but his stool quavers as he shifts a quarter of ways and leans on the rind of his desk. The lab is largely quiet save for the hum of quasicrystals and the luminescence of powder blue of runes and in the crux of such isla is Viktor. Neither an arcadian nor clangorous entity, he simply is and has simply always been, as if his very quintessence was steepled into the cathedrals of the hexagonal chapel. Mel finds his demeanor intriguing all the same.

“Mel is just fine, Viktor,” Her swansong is met with a chirp of amusement, “As I've told you many a time before.”

Viktor watches as she settles on the chair beside him, likely Jayce's own having been pulled closer to Viktor's to share their notes. He quirks a crooked grin; Mel has learned, somewhat, what each of his smiles mean. In the dog-earred manilla folder of her mind, she's grown to catalog his meaningless and meaningful mannerisms, bookmarking the indices of touches and phrases that hold somethings and nothings. He's a fascination, a livewire, latticework, a dissection she could never tire from: one grin, not reaching the brim of his left eye, is insincere—oft reserved for the droning council meetings and entertaining gaudy elites at galas. The grin which is crooked, orchid of his upper lip etched higher and topaz hues sparkling—that is sincere, the catch of the draw—reserved for those he could—.

“So you've stated. What brings you to me today, Mel?” And there it is, her grin abloom into a toothy smile as his accent wraps around the syllables of her name in trickles of velvet.

She glances at his hand, still sat atop a blueprint half finished. Her degree is not within the sciences, but she's spent the better part of half a year in the lab alongside Viktor and Jayce alike, their syntax and scientific jargon not completely lost to her. Mel leans forth, fingers lightly nudging onto blue sheets before realizing her error. Viktor stares, head tilting as splotches of red spoil his work.

“I–I’m so sorry, I thought it had dried by now,” Mel's voice is susurrus, not pitying, but worrying of the fact she's ruined part of his work. Viktor hums, deliberating.

He searches for something in the tiny drawers beside his desk, body leaning away from hers and cloaking her vision temporarily. It's not long—Viktor groans minutely as he sits up once again, a tin in his palm and a rag clutched in the other as he uses his stronger leg to slide himself closer to her.

Popping the top of the tin off, he dabs the rag into whatever contents is within it, then encircles a hand round her wrist. “Semi-dried,” He says, washing away the paint with oil, “You must have been terribly distracted coming here to have forgotten to wash your hands.”

It's Mel's turn to speak, but all that escapes is a chuffed giggle. “My mind was elsewhere, yes. Apologies for ruining your work.”

Viktor shakes his head, all things considered. Meticulous and precise, yet humble. Mel had never seen him veering the edges of anger, and it seemed as if even now, despite her mistake, he remains with an obedearly candor.

“Hm, a bit of color never hurt anyone.”

It's not the first time she ponders what tumbles into the grooves and nooks of his gyri, what he thinks when he is met with ill timed misfortune.

“Then, perhaps, you're simply too kind.”

Viktor huffs a chuckle beneath his breath. “You came, despite the rancor of something troubling clinging to you. Why would I be mad at you for a little mishap?”

She hadn't considered how easily her troubles tainted her. From the tension in her shoulders to the pinching of her brow, Viktor had noticed it all and still welcomed her with welcoming arms. Mel exhales as Viktor inhales.

Sinew loses its harpstring tautness with each caress, the natural color of her palm returning as its washed of scorching rouge. Mel will tell him, one day, of all the resentment and distaste she may hold for the color red one day. Mel will tell him of the wolves. Today, she opted to melt into his being and let him bleed his color into her bloodstream.

(A morning glory, the color of a bruise.)

She notices it, then. The gleam in his glimpses are distant; something ghostly, something fizzing, but unannounced. “You're staring.” His voice shocks her into straightening her back. The hand dabbing the rag into her palm stills.

Mel offers little. “Wondering…”

“Ah, a dangerous thing. Idle minds, you know.”

At this, Mel snorts, “Idle hands, dear. Though, I suppose idle minds remain equally devilish.” An implication in their word play, a language spoken between windsong poets that neither are nor aren't. Viktor's gaze falls to erehwon, then back to the parchment of her palm.

“My mother,” And oh, the warmth seeping through his vocalis blankets her in goosebumps, “was an artist. She dabbled in all sorts of artistic ventures, but painting was her specialty. Specifically, oil painting. I would come and ruin her canvases, pretending I was adding flowers onto them by drenching my hand in her pots of paint.”

There's a pressure in Mel's ribcage, the bird hallows of her collarbones burning and the lungs tight with ilk of erratic fluttering.

“She would clean my hands with baby oil and a rag. Told me one day, I'd perfect her art within time.” Viktor lingers there, Mel's left palm heating his own through the rag that had since settled.

“She sounds like a wonderful woman.” Mel exclaims, a twinkling of wonder in her timbre. There's something within his delicate fold, in the tiniest of squeezes he compresses into Mel's wrist.

Of something more.

Of nothing less.

Viktor smiles again, crooked, pearlescent whites peeking from the bloom of his lips. “Yes, you quite remind me of her.

Someone wonderful.”

Zaun and Piltover are different beasts, though their bloodline aligns them as sisters.

One is hungry.

One is sated.

Mel purses her lips as she drags charcoal onto the page before her, sketchbook settled on her legs that curl up against her body, long having dropped the elegance of a swan and shrimping equally as Viktor does over the battlefield of his desk. The pang in his marrow had dimmed some, a medicated fug that balanced on the precipice of half–sleep and half–wake.

Viktor isn't given the knowledge of what Mel is working on, but his name on her lips are knowledge enough to recognize she might indulge him today.

“Have you a surname?” She speirs at him, but no words follow thereafter. Mel doesn't look up from her sketchbook, but she stills.

Viktor loosens his grip on his wrench. “Doesn't everyone?”

Viridian optics meet his as a single brow arches in further question, “What is it?”

Zaun did not have houses. There was a hierarchy, yes, but nothing at all similar to the beast of her sister. What mattered was the birth name, your first name, a proof that you lived despite the jungle of iron lattice and poverty you were born into. Viktor blanches as clutzy tongue moves. “That is nothing of importance.”

“To who?”

“To me.”

Mel grins, haughty and snapping, “But if it mattered to me?”

Viktor's cheeks burn. Why—he doesn’t know.

(Because he's recited her name enmeshed with his a thousand times, not even the stars could collaborate to make such wistful wishes come true. Should he tell her now, the ache will unfurl—the knife in his belly and all the sharpest of things will twist with wanting.)

“It doesn't matter.”

Mel scoffs, but it lacks any actual agitation, “But it does to me .” She stresses. Viktor runs his fingers over the wispy hairs of his nape, considering her poor argument, then conceding.

“Benes.”

Alpenglow in the apples of her eye; Mel's hand stops mid-stroke. Viktor licks his thumb, wiping a smudge of charcoal off her face as her mouth shapes itself around the name. “Viktor Benes.” She whispers, as if it were a secret kept between … she wears it on the tip of her tongue, as if the pretense is hers to keep. Viktor's marrow broils as she chant his name as a loving hymn. She's gleeful. Insouciant.

“You've a pretty name, Viktor,” Mel states as she places her sketchbook aside, dropping it with a slight thud as the war zone of his tools collapse ‘ways way from the thicker pages. Viktor can see the sharp angles of his countenance, moles on sketch. “I had begun calling you Viktor Medarda instead.”

It happens mid-summer.

The rain provides an ephemeral overcast, the white noise scratching a satisfying itch and cooling the lab from the scalding summer heat that irritated his emotions and skin alike. It's as silent as it always is, but the edges are blurred into softer semblances, the architrave yielding to the azure and yellow glow of light scattered about raindrops on stained glass.

Viktor isn't as opposed to touch as he'd once been, but the rain was always a comforting curtain of something he was amiss of. It never hurt, never left any ache. He would arch into it, allow the saturation of splitting refraction to prance as lightshow over his bare flesh and inhale its petrichor as if it were a forlorn lover. Fingers wrap around a wire as he sits back, his blouse already partially unbuttoned and work lain across his desk left somewhat abandoned as he admires the afternoon draft.

Calm, there is no need to rush. Calm, just as the arms embracing over his visage and the likely simper coyly etched across the lips of his darling phantom. It's been a year, and yet, she still wanders to his hip and side, Polaris and Cassiopeia. Magnetic. One arm drapes over his mouth, the other over his forehead, Mel's cheek lying along the mess of oaken tresses and murmuring in her throat as she stretched behind him. Viktor had told her once, when night had come and winter had hit, that she had resembled a feline when she reclines on him the way she does. Mel had laughed, claiming if she were a cat, Viktor would have been a fox.

He could neither agree nor disagree.

“You're early.” Viktor sets the wire down and instead replaces it with a gem.

Mel says nothing, shrugging as she toys with his hair. “I wanted to see you.”

Even on days in which the weather challenges her, Mel had never made herself stranger. She still saunter over, existed in his presence and made a home within the ecosystem of the lab. It would be incomplete without her; an inexorable piece of the mechanism it is, of whatever it is they were. They played their parts well, danced around it, ballet performers pirouetting on the line of

something.

(This is no longer nothing.)

“You see me everyday at this point. I'm surprised you've not tired of me yet.” He mumbles into her arm, placing the stone into the bassin of the prototype of a claw, mindful of the mechanical talons twitching with the charge.

Mel unwinds from him languidly to stand at his side. “You don't sound bothered by this,” nimble digits brush metal. Before he knows it, Mel has the gem between her thumb and pointer fingers, clerically linspecting, observing.

While not as dangerous as it normally could be when tossed about, the disposition of inertia keeps the hexstone from exploding in vibrant, hazardous sparks. Viktor stands, already reaching to take it back, but Mel is quicker. The movement catches him off guard; one foot behind the other, the arm extended farther away from his reach. Mel smiles with her teeth. Teasing.

“That is dangerous,” Viktor warns, but it is spoken casually as to not raise her hackles in suspicion. If there were anything about Viktor that Mel had forgotten, it would have been his stubbornness, followed closely by his adaptability. The handle of his cane hugs the small of her back and pulls, and within an instant, the gap between cherubs is closed. “Do be careful, I'd hate to have to call a medic.” There's no preamble. No fanfare.

Viktor smiles with his teeth. Mel giggles. “You play dirty. How bold.”

“What is it you said, all those years ago? Fortune favors the bold?” Her breath warms the tulip of his labrum;

far too close for nothing

too far for something.

“I can't seem to recall.” Mel responds, but her focus is split between amber hues and his mouth.

Viktor dare slant further.

Further. “Don't you?”

And—

A clash. Pink lightning, a bramble of little nothings and strata of somethings, tongues and teeth and mouths all encompassing and devouring. He can't recall who crashed first, but Viktor can't seem to care either way. She's sweet as she lave into his mouth, something parlously intoxicating and addictive, ambrosia on the moist of her tongue. The tug of her hand in his hair. The exhilaration in stuttering lungs.

“No,” Mel rasps as they pull a mere inch away, “But I remember you.”

#arcane .#arcane #melvik #melvik .#viktor x mel #viktor league of legends #mel medarda #mel league of legends #viktor arcane #mel arcane #❛ rune's words .#❛ rune's writing .

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justabigoldnerd · 2 months ago

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Thank you so much @pippinoftheshire for the tag (and for starting this chain! Feel free to consider this your invitation to join!!!)!!!!

My Words: Flight, Ripple, Under, Without

Your Words: Guilt, Arrogant, Sun, Burst

Flight - "Which Side of The Wall Really Suffers That Cost?"

“Ah, Mr. Kuryakin,” he sighed heavily, eyes absently tracing the wing of the plane, “You've got the plan memorized?” “Da. As much as I could in less than twenty-four hours.” “Yes, rather unfortunate that we couldn't extend your deadline,” he sighed again, then dropped the butt of his cigarette and stamped it out with the toe of his shoe, “Your flight and flight staff are all secure, cleared personally. However, once you land behind the Iron Curtain….well, we'll just have to hope we can pull this off, now won't we?” “Yes, sir,” Illya nodded, extending his hand for the Commander to shake. Waverly regarded it, then took the hand and pulled him into a brief hug instead. Illya stiffened at first, but hugged him back somewhat awkwardly. When they parted, Waverly kept his hands on Illya's arms and encouraged, “Get home safely, my dear boy.”

Ripple - "So Make Your Siren's Call"

Undeterred, he continues to slide his hand under Illya's layers. His skin is so slick and cold with seawater that it makes Illya arch his back, grit his teeth. Solo's touch settles on the curve of Illya's ribcage. Illya keeps his eyes locked on the siren's as the blue glow travels in pulsing waves from his face down his arms. He can feel the thrumming of the siren's heart in the side of his neck– steady, if a little faster than a human's. Solo lets his eyes close and, just like the first session, the pain Illya is carrying dissipates; radiating blissful reprieve in ripples from where his fingers nestle in the grooves of his ribs.

Under - "So Make Your Siren's Call"

A laugh that sounds far too much like a lioness attempting a purr, then, “I'm Victoria. I assume you're the one the old captain told me to expect?” “Da,” Illya rasps behind another sip. He's still queasy, and doesn't think he can stomach much more of the liquor. “I'll be honest, I hadn't expected you ‘till morning,” her eyes dart over him and Illya squirms under her dissecting stare, “If I may, why exactly were you near the water at this time of night? You do know how dangerous that is.” Dread shocks down Illya's spine, and for a moment it feels as if the freezing ocean has filled his chest again. He swallows hard and throws back the rest of the vodka, setting it down with a thunk as he stands. “I am going to bed, please give me the key.” “You shouldn't trust them.”

Without - "So Make Your Siren's Call"

Once they're in the car again, Gaby hesitates with her hands on the wheel. Without looking at him, she asks, “Are you going home?” The sea isn't visible from the street, blocked by rows of old buildings with thatched roofs that have been converted into gift shops and coastal restaurants, but he can hear the roar of Her ebb and flow. “No,” he decides, “I will stay at Diadema until you return.” He doesn't tell her about his ulterior motive. She isn't exactly in the right headspace to hear, ‘And also because I am meeting the merfolk who healed me at the pier tonight.’ “Okay,” she can't quite hide the relief in her voice, “I'll drop you off on the way to the dock.”

No pressure tagging @huggiebird @happybean17 @falling-into-peril @heytheredeann @pippinoftheshire

@bighandsforabigheart @kcscribbler @mybelovedillya @cha-melodius @the-golden-comet

@thattripleabattery @too-young-to-fall-in-love @times-up-alone-tonight @vnyu73 @nicijones

@prettyboynapoleonsolo @fandom-meet-fanthem @agreeableartist

And an Open Tag for anyone else who wants to join!!! 💕💕💕

#tmfu #the man from uncle #tmfu movie #illya kuryakin #napoleon solo #gaby teller #fanfiction #fanfic #ao3 #find the word tag #tag game

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girl-named-matty · 2 years ago

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Why I don't like Solomon Sallow

(I worked this out on a google docs first and that has some screenshots i couldn't fit into here so after this post imma post some screenshots of the document) SO HI EVERYONE! You'll probably remember what I posted yesterday about dissecting the scene where you first go to Feldcroft in order to find out just a few things about Solomon upfront, so here it is! Buckle up because it is a lot.

Why I dislike Solomon Sallow, by me. 💕 Based on the scene where you first arrive in Feldcroft to visit Anne with Sebastian.

So I’ve just finished writing this scene for my fanfiction and going over the dialogue so carefully has made me realize just how much from this scene only we can see why Solomon was just a horrible person in general–if it wasn’t already obvious by now. I’ve been wanting to dissect scenes from the game for quite a while now and I think this presents a perfect opportunity to do it!

First, we’re going to start out when MC first arrives in Feldcroft and Sebastian is standing up on a ‘watch-tower’ to keep an eye on things since Feldcroft hasn’t been safe with all the goblins around. And then he states this:

Now, the goblins being around Rookwood castle isn’t Solomon’s fault. But being a resident of Feldcroft and being an ex-Auror, one would assume that he’d at least check it out, correct? Nope. Because Sebastian goes on to say this as well:

Now at the time, everyone thinks that Anne has been cursed by Goblins and not Rookwood, even Solomon does. But even with Solomon thinking the goblins had cursed Anne, he refuses to confront them even though we know he could since two fifteen-year-olds (Sebastian and MC) could easily defend themselves against said goblins.

And this leads us into our second segment.

We are now at the Sallow residence in Feldcroft and Sebastian walks in first, going to surprise Anne. Everything is happy and Anne is extremely excited to see Sebastian as shown in this picture:

Sebastian then pulls out a Shrivelfig, something he picked up in Hogsmeade for Anne.

Now from that screenshot alone, we can’t really tell if Anne just really likes shrivelfigs or if she thought it could be the cure–but from what happens next I can safely assume she may have thought it was some form of cure.

Because as shown right here–SOLOMON JUST YOINKS IT OUT OF SEBASTIAN’S HAND.

Solomon doesn’t give Anne and Sebastian even a moment to have a proper reunion, he doesn’t say hello to Sebastian, or greet MC, he doesn’t wait until MC is out of the house to have a conversation with Sebastian like a civil person would if a guest were around. In fact, he doesn’t do anything civilly, he starts an argument with Sebastian RIGHT there and then over a shrivelfig!

He looks at Sebastian and tells him that Shrivelfigs cannot reverse the curse. But we have no background to if they’ve ever even tried to do something with a shrivelfig to even help ease Anne’s pain. Since Hogwarts Legacy came out, the wiki for shrivelfigs has stated that they cannot reverse curses but it does have “medicinal properties' which could’ve at least perhaps eased Anne’s pain for even just a bit.

But what is even worse is that when he says “Nothing can” he looks DIRECTLY AT ANNE!

Why would he look directly at Anne while saying nothing can reverse the curse she has? Probably because he wants her to believe that she cannot be cured. He’s tired of trying to find one and so if Anne isn’t complaining about not having a cure, he doesn’t have to hear about it from anyone other than Sebastian. I’ve had conversations with friends about this and have a few theories about this situation but that’s for a different post. Then Solomon proceeds to destroy the Shrivelfig right in front of Sebastian and Anne.

Now, this is possibly a bit of a stretch but Sebastian got that for Anne and not Solomon so he’s basically just destroying a gift that Sebastian took the time to get for her right in front of the both of them which is a pretty crappy move in my opinion.

Then he turns to leave, yet again not even taking the time to say hello to Sebastian or MC and of course Sebastian, feeling like he needs to defend himself, says that they haven’t tried everything–which is technically correct. But then of course, instead of Solomon civilly telling Sebastian that there is no cure–It turns into another shouting match.

He gets up in Sebastian’s face and shouts at him, right in front of Anne and MC. Wow Solomon! I wonder why your nephew hates you.

Yes I understand that Sebastian is a stubborn boy but at this point in time, he’s a fifteen-year-old boy who is desperate to cure his twin sister! Before this, all he had was Anne and Ominis because his parents were dead and his uncle truly never cared. Let’s say MC had never come into the mix and Anne died, all he would have was Ominis. This is an act of Sebastian trying to preserve the last of the people who love him.

And then, unfortunately, the effects of the curse start to pain Anne.

The first thing they do is look over but instead of Solomon immediately going to Anne’s aid, he has to look at Sebastian and blame him for Anne’s pain.

Then he goes over to Anne to aid her and Sebastian tries to apologize for the argument that Solomon started.

Then instead of letting Sebastian apologize, Solomon tells Sebastian to leave.

He doesn’t even give Sebastian a chance. He’s fed up and doesn’t even want his nephew around. My whole guess is that he’s truly never wanted Sebastian around and this was all just an excuse. This leads us into our third segment. Sebastian storms out of the house and tells MC that he needs a moment alone if they are alright with it. Then MC will go talk to Solomon and Anne and for this, we’re going to speak to Solomon first. You go up and you greet Solomon, everything seems normal. Solomon apologizes for Sebastian’s behavior claiming “he doesn’t know when to stop” which is true in some cases.

When he says this, this is not a fact, and we have to keep that in mind. When he says nothing can be done for her–that’s his opinion because HE doesn’t think anything can be done for her. Which opinions are okay to have, but using your opinions to discourage others is usually not the way you want to use them.

Now after this, MC can say two different things. If you pick the option “Surely there’s something” your MC will say “It could be that you’ve not yet discovered a cure.” so in turn, slightly disagreeing with Solomon’s statement that nothing can be done but not downright disagreeing with him out loud.

But again, instead of Solomon holding a civil conversation, he starts to accuse MC of thinking they know more than the healers at St. Mungo's.

Now did MC ever claim to know better than the trained healers? NO! So why is he assuming this? It’s because he’s incapable of having a civil conversation regarding the curse if anyone disagrees with him in the slightest. We see this several more times throughout the game!

After this, your MC will say “Perhaps the healers don't know everything, sir.” which is in turn–correct because as skilled as they are, no one knows everything. And keep in mind that MC is calling Solomon “sir” being respectful while Solomon is not, he is shouting and spouting off. MC then follows up with “Sebastian is single-mindedly focused on finding a way to help his sister. If there is a cure, he will find it.” Then Solomon responds with this.

Yet again going back to the fact that he could easily confront the goblins but he never does. You have a dialogue choice here but both of them really just lead back to this statement.

He claims giving Anne hope is cruel because he doesn’t want her to have hope that she can be cured but in my opinion—not giving her hope is just as cruel! Imagine telling your niece, the child you are supposed to be raising, that there is nothing that could possibly cure her and so she is stuck feeling immense pain for the rest of her possibly short life even when there are still chances of finding a cure! I’m not sure about anyone else, but that sounds pretty cruel to me. I can see why you’d want to keep her comfortable but its still keeping her comfortable for her impending death when there’s still a chance she can be cured.

Then, as if he’s been acting like a good guardian, Solomon plays this card.

He says he knows what's best for both of the twins–which is clearly not true seeing how he treats Sebastian. Then he goes to say “my stubborn brother’s children” which always makes me think that Solomon had something against his brother–a rivalry possibly–that led them into fighting a lot and so Solomon takes his anger for his late brother out onto his brother's children. Which, keep in mind, is never okay.

Sebastian is a target of Solomon’s constant attacks because Sebastian acts like his dad. And that’s just the nature of a young boy to act like their father. Also, to Solomon, are you sure your brother was the stubborn one here…?

Solomon follows up with this and then this.

THIS ^^ is probably the only sensible thing he says during the entire game. Yes, Sebastian doesn’t know when to stop sometimes but I wonder why he doesn’t stop. It’s because he’s constantly being verbally attacked and Anne is the LAST bit of family he has that actually loves him! Of course he isn’t going to stop–he’s trying to save the life of his twin sister!

Our fourth segment leads us into our conversation with Anne–which gives us more perspective since we get all three perspectives of the Sallows who were involved in this.

MC enters the house and apologizes for earlier and Anne–being the sweet girl she is, reassures MC that it is not their fault for the pain she has.

It’s clear she’s struggling but she always makes sure to make it clear that it is not anyone’s fault when her pain comes and goes. Meaning Solomon was wrong by blaming Sebastian for Anne’s pain during the argument.

MC and Anne go on to talk about Anne being at Hogwarts and how she misses it but she says she wouldn’t mind being in Feldcroft all the time if it weren’t so dreary. That meaning, the goblin attacks and of course, her uncle and brother fighting all the time.

She says this but the way she words it makes me think a few things. She mentions that Solomon is fighting with Sebastian whenever he’s home. Which this could be a stretch but that makes me believe that Solomon starts the majority of the arguments that they are in. As seen earlier, Solomon started this one as well instead of letting the scene play out before he jumped in. Not only does Solomon starting arguments affect Sebastian, it affects Anne too!

MC will then say “Sebastian mentioned something about your uncle being an ex-Auror but refusing to go after Ranrok’s Loyalists'' and while I’m not an uncle, I am an aunt and if someone cursed my niece especially while she was in my care–I’d be burning down the goblin encampment while demanding answers. Then MC says “I must say, I wasn’t prepared for him to be as angry as he was''

Then Anne goes to defend her uncle, which is understandable.

BUUUUUT then we get into Anne now thinking she cannot be cured, saying that she can feel it.

Now I am not about to argue with the victim of the curse for saying she doesn’t think she can be cured–after all, she is the one suffering. But from what we saw with Solomon looking directly at Anne while saying “nothing can” referring to nothing can cure her, how much of her disbelief about her being able to be cured is actually coming from Solomon that she has just accepted and isn’t actually her own belief?

After that, you finish up your conversation with Anne and go to find Sebastian which leads us into our fifth and final segment.

Now, Sebastian does the same thing Solomon does and apologizes to MC for the way he acted–which means they are sort of the two sides to the same coin when it comes to how others perceive them. Both feel like they need to apologize for something that the other has done–even when only one of them is actually in the wrong. You have two options for dialogue here. You can either choose “He was out of line” which will lead you into saying “I’ll admit, I wasn’t expecting him to be so angry.” or you can chose “He’s trying to do what’s right” which I honestly have no idea what that option will lead you to say because I’ve never chosen it and I went through nine different playthroughs I found on YouTube and nobody chose that option so I assume people agree that he was out of line. (If anyone could tell me what MC says if you chose the option “He’s trying to do what’s right”, that’d be lovely)

SO if you chose “He was out of line” which leads to you saying the part that you weren’t expecting him to be so angry, Sebastian will reply "He's always angry. He's been angry since my parents died." and "After Anne was hurt, he only grew worse. It's as though he blames me somehow. Always calling me 'my father's son' as if its an insult." (I apologize for the lack of screenshots here, I wrote this out on a google docs sheet before this and tumblr only allows me to have 30 pictures in post so screenshots of the doc are coming soon!) This brings us back to what I said earlier about Solomon deflecting his angry feelings from his late brother onto the twins and he most likely targets Sebastian the most because Sebastian acts the most like his father. Sebastian will go on to say “I’m the one trying to help her. He’s simply given up.” to which MC will reply, “Both Anne and your uncle seem to be genuinely convinced that nothing more can be done for her.”

To that, Sebastian replies that he refuses to believe that, that Anne’s pain is more than physical, that it’s changed her entirely, and that he misses her and is going to get his sister back.

After that you’ll go and explore the plateau that Anne was cursed on yada yada and you’ll get a bit of background on that.

So–what's the conclusion of all of this?

Solomon is just a horrible person.

He immediately starts an argument with Sebastian in front of Anne and MC over a shrivelfig, no less. And I don’t know about you but it's always so awkward when a friend gets yelled at by their parents/guardian and it's pretty embarrassing when it happens to you and you're the one being shouted at.

He’s either subconsciously or consciously trying to convince Anne that she cannot be cured by telling her “Nothing can” and by always screaming at Sebastian that nothing can cure her. When he shouts, it's scary, so obviously Anne isn’t going to want to speak up for herself and get screamed at.

He verbally abuses Sebastian–and probably Anne in the past as well. Now I’ve seen theories that there is possible physical abuse which I have also had theories about but it’s never been proven so I’m not gonna accuse him of such a crime BUT there is obvious evidence that he has no problem verbally abusing Sebastian at all by screaming, shouting and yada yada.

He’s taking his anger that he has for his late brother out on Sebastian and Anne, which is never okay. Children are never responsible for the sins of the father–and we don’t even know if their father did do anything wrong! From how Solomon acts, he could’ve totally been in the wrong for whatever arguments they had. And Sebastian is a target because he acts the most like his father.

And although this isn’t in this scene, Solomon has no problem attacking two 15/16-year-olds (who are still legally children) in the catacomb. So the conclusion is that Solomon Sallow is not a good person and he has no problem showing it. And that you can see so much just from this one scene that probably lasts only a few minutes.

I rest my case.

Taglist: @boomingsmile @biographyofanadult @kit-kair @operation-pez @morelikeravenbore @findingtruenorth23 @follesexual @epicsweetness712 @mcyt-trash-can @sallowgauntsupremacy @kukukha-sanctuary

#told y'all it was long #and I have more to say abt this guy too lol #hogwarts legacy #sebastian sallow #hl #ominis gaunt #hogwarts legacy mc #mc #Anne Sallow #Solomon sallow #Hogwarts legacy theories #Hogwarts Legacy theory #Solomon Sallow slander club #Im sorry char but it had to be done #if anyone has anything to say please voice it in the comments!#I love hearing feedback!

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1-imaginary-girl · 2 years ago

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A Mischievous Love Story - Part 8

Loki x Reader, Thor x Reader (platonic)

Summary: The reader and Loki were madly in love until you found out that he died. Deciding to follow Thor on his adventures, you soon find out the truth about what happened to your boyfriend. This series is a re-telling of Thor: Ragnarök with the reader inserted into the story. Reader uses she/her pronouns.

Warnings: Descriptive violence.

Word Count: 5.2k

Prologue Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7

I've finally returned to this series and yes it was because of season 2 of Loki and yes I'm still completely wrecked over it. There isn't much interaction between Loki and the reader this part, apologies for that, but after this it will be mainly just them as I stray from the plot of the movie to focus on their romance!

She’s my wife. The words echo in your mind over and over again as you stare at Loki. You heard him say those words, you know you did, and yet there’s no way that could have happened. There’s no way that he just called you his wife. Right?

Your mouth is hanging open and you want to close it or say something but you're in shock. Loki shoots a glance your way and grimaces. There’s no way.

“Your wife?” the Grandmaster asks, equally as confused as you. For some reason, you also hear disappointment in his voice. But you don’t have time to dissect that. The Grandmaster looks at you and then down at your hand. The jig is up, you think. “I never noticed that.”

Wait what? You look down at your left hand and again appear utterly shocked. There, on your ring finger, sits a wedding ring. It’s absolutely gorgeous. A gold band with emerald leaves wrapping around it. For a moment, it all feels real. The ring is perfect and you're married to the man you love. But reality settles in all too quickly.

The ring has been conjured up by Loki’s magic. You look at his hand and see a matching band. You remember that you're not married to the man you love. You're pretending to be married to a man who broke your heart. And the pieces plummet into your stomach, sinking like stone.

You want to glare at Loki but the Grandmaster is still looking your way. If you don’t play along, he’ll probably punish Loki for trying to lie to him. So you send a smile his way and nod. You can’t get yourself to speak.

“Please, let her go. She can stay here with me. I promise she’ll fit right in,” Loki says, using his most persuasive tone of voice. The Grandmaster seems to consider it.

“Alright,” he says. You toss aside your anger for now and rejoice in the fact that you don’t have to fight anyone. Although you will not be thanking Loki for getting you out. Not like this. “If your wife prevails in her fight, she will be free to accompany you in your place among the higher-ups.”

“Wait what?” Loki says and you slump a little in defeat. But you don’t let it keep you down. All you have to do is win one fight and you're free to enjoy a luxurious vacation until you can find a way to escape this planet.

“It’s a deal,” you say, looking at the Grandmaster. He smiles as if you've just sealed your fate. But you're used to people underestimating you and you've come to enjoy it. It only makes it that much more satisfying when you win.

“Wait, can’t we just—” Loki tries to say something but the Grandmaster’s mind is set. He extends a hand towards one of your restrained hands. You shake it to the best of your abilities despite your hand being tied down.

“I look forward to seeing how this plays out,” he says with a giddy smile on his face.

“As do I,” you say.

“Y/N—”

“See you on the battlefield,” the Grandmaster says before he hits a button on some remote and your chair is moving. You're caught off guard but determined not to show any fear. Instead, you'll focus on anger.

"Y/N!" Loki calls after you again but the wheels have already been set in motion. There’s no going back.

†††

Your surroundings pass by you in a blur, and you find it hard to focus on anything you pass. You allow the chair to take you where it’s programmed to go without resistance. Next thing you know, you're being hauled into a circular, white room and you land roughly on the ground, snapping you from your thoughts. You turn just in time to see the big cell door being slammed shut. You contemplate taking your anger out on the door, but you feel so drained of energy that you just let your head fall back with a sigh.

“Are you alright?” You hear a voice say, causing you to jump as you hadn’t taken note of anyone else in here. You push yourself onto your elbows and turn your head. “Over here! Big pile of rocks waving at you.”

As the voice said, you see an alien made of rocks casually sitting against the cell wall with his hand raised to wave. You've seen aliens like him, but not this species specifically. Beside him is another alien with purple skin that reminds you of an insect, with four black beady eyes and mandibles for a mouth. The creature is also in a full suit of armour with two blades where its arms should be.

“Yeah, I’m actually a thing, I’m a being,” the rock alien says. “Allow me to introduce myself, my name is Korg. I’m kind of like the leader in here. I’m made of rocks, as you can see, but don’t let that intimidate you. You don’t need to be afraid unless you’re made of scissors.” The alien, Korg, giggles to himself as he and the other alien stand up. “Just a little rock-paper-scissors joke for you. This is my very good friend over here, Miek. He’s an insect and has knives for hands.”

Miek moves his arm/blades around in what looks like a karate move, but you think it’s meant to be a gesture for hello. That was a hell of an introduction, you think to yourself. As this isn’t the strangest interaction you've had today, you slowly stand up to properly greet them.

“Hi,” you say with a little wave, which feels awkward but they seem to respond well to it. “My name is Y/N.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Y/N,” Korg says and Miek does another karate-like gesture. Your brain is pounding from your previous conversation but you figure you should be polite. Especially if you are going to be stuck in here for who knows how long with them.

“So,” you say, wondering what to ask. “What are you guys in for?”

“Well I tried to start a revolution but didn’t print enough pamphlets, so hardly anyone turned up,” Korg says. “Except for my mum and her boyfriend, who I hate. As punishment, I was forced to be in here and become a gladiator. Bit of a promotional disaster.” Then he leans in and starts to whisper. “Actually, I’m trying to organize another revolution right now. It’s a bit underdeveloped at the moment, but don’t let that deter you. Do you reckon you’d be interested in something like that?”

“No, actually I’m a bit busy at the moment.” You look past Korg and down the hall of this weird prison. If you can find an exit, maybe you can escape before the fight. From there, you can try to commandeer a ship and go back to Asgard. Simple. A quick breath, and you take off running down the circle. You're only running for a few seconds before Korg reappears in front of you.

You widen your eyes and look back before facing the alien again. “Did you—”

“Ah, yeah, no, this whole thing is a circle. But not a real circle, more like a freaky circle,” he says, and you just scrunch your face, trying to wrap your head around the whole thing. When’s the last time you've had a proper rest? You know, without being knocked out. Feels like a lifetime ago. “It doesn’t make much sense, but nothing around here makes sense. That’s the only thing that makes sense.”

You slump down against the wall as Korg talks. “So, I’m really stuck in here?”

“I’m afraid so. But it isn’t all bad. Miek and I have made up a few games to pass the time. For example, there’s this one called—”

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t think I’m up for any games at the moment.” You sigh and let your head hit the wall. “It’s been a long day.”

Korg gives you a sympathetic look before nodding. “I get that. Feel free to have a rest, Miek and I will look over you if you’d like,” he says. Despite everything that’s happened, you smile at them.

“Thank you.” Korg gives a nod while Miek does another expression you can’t quite figure out. With that, you settle against the wall. It’s not the most comfortable, but you've slept in worse. You sigh and sleep quickly takes over.

You're not sure how long you've slept for, but you're abruptly woken up by the sounds of shouting.

“Stay away from her, you freaky ghost!” you hear Korg yell. Groggily, you pull your eyes open to see Miek in a fighting stance and Korg throwing fallen bits of himself at—

“I just need to talk to her, I’m not going to hurt her!” Loki says. He’s standing a few feet away from you. You're confused as you watch Korg’s rocks pass through him before you fully wake up and understand it’s an illusion. Part of you is hurt, another isn’t so surprised anymore. Another one of his tricks.

“Like I’m going to trust the word of a freakin’ ghost!” Korg yells back. You realize that they really did watch over you as you slept, which makes you smile. As much as you love seeing Korg try to hit Loki with rocks, the two of you need to talk.

“It’s okay guys,” you speak up, clearing your throat. They all turn to look at you and Loki looks relieved. “I know him.”

Korg looks him over and Miek doesn’t stand down until Korg gives the go ahead. “You’re safe for now ghost,” Korg says threateningly. Korg looks at you once again and when you nod your head to say that you're okay, him and Miek walk a little way down the circle to give you two privacy.

“Making new friends already?” Loki jokes, trying to lighten the mood. You don’t respond. Instead, you look down at the ring still on your finger. Loki sighs. “I understand you’re upset—” You glare at him and he sighs again. “Look I’m sorry, but it was the only thing I could think of to protect you!”

You bristle at that. “So tell him that I’m your friend or a cousin, not your freaking wife!” you say. You don’t have the energy to yell at him right now.

“You don’t understand, the Grandmaster…he’s very particular about who he allows up there. It wouldn’t have been enough,” he says calmly. You shake your head.

“Then maybe you should have just let me compete normally,” you say, your anger growing the longer he’s here. “I could have made a deal to get out of here not prolong my stay.”

“Annabel, you haven’t seen the competitions,” he insists, stepping closer. “I have. They’re brutal, and I haven’t even seen his beloved Champion.”

“I told you, I can handle myself,” you spit out.

“Maybe, but I can’t just stand by and watch you get hurt.” Those words cracked something in you. You snap your eyes up to meet his and from the fury in them, he knows he said the wrong thing.

“You didn’t want me to get hurt? You don’t think this hurts?!” You stand up and shove the ring in his face. “You don’t think having to pretend to be your wife after you broke my heart is going to hurt me?” He looks down in shame, pain on his face. Good. “I’d rather face his Champion right now then have to endure that kind of pain.”

“Y/N, I’m sorry—”

“You keep apologizing but nothing changes with you! You keep making selfish moves and tricking people—”

“Hey, that was not selfish.” He defends himself but you don’t want to hear it.

“You tricked me, Loki. Again,” you say with tears in your eyes. His sudden defensiveness is crushed. “You tricked me into pretending to be your wife. Do you know how messed up that is?”

“Love—”

“Do not call me that!” you yell, getting into his face. You try to poke him in his chest but your finger passes right through him. You laugh humorlessly as a tear slips down your cheek. “God, you’re using a trick right now!” He looks hurt. “You couldn’t even come to see me yourself, you had to hide behind an illusion.”

“This place isn’t easy to get into,” he argues quietly, but you shake your head.

“I can’t fight with you again right now.” You turn away, moving back to the wall. This move seems to hurt him more. You slide down back to where you were. “Just go back to whatever party I’m sure the Grandmaster is hosting.”

“Y/N, please, let’s talk about this—” he begs, coming closer but you don’t move a muscle.

“I don’t have anything else to say to you,” you say, defeated. His eyebrows draw close together and if you didn’t know better, you’d say his eyes are welling.

“Please,” he whispers, and if he were really here, maybe you would have sought comfort from him. Maybe you would’ve kept talking. But he’s not.

“Go,” you say, keeping your eyes trained to the floor.

After a moment of hesitation, where it seemed like he wanted to reach out, but he couldn’t, he drew back. He takes a step backward. “Just…” He seems at a loss for words. “Please be careful.” When you don’t respond, his image shimmers and disappears. You put your head between youry legs and let a few more tears fall.

†††

You soon find yourself escorted into some sort of training rooms. Species of all kinds can be seen preparing for a fight. For the first time, you really start second-guessing your decision to fight. But you won’t give up, not yet.

The training area is next to the stadium and you can hear the distance sounds of cheering which makes you cringe. How could people actually watch this and enjoy it? You're running your fingers along the weapons, trying to decide which would suit you best, when you glance over at the divide in the area. On the other side of a wall of lasers is a bar of sorts. It looks rough, not the kind of bar you would want to find yourself in. But then your eyes widen.

Drinking at the counter, is the woman who got you thrown into this hellscape. Your blood boils as you try to find Korg. When you do, you point towards her and say, “Korg, that’s the woman who put me in here! Who the hell is she?”

“Ah, that’s scrapper 142,” he says, recognizing her. Interesting that she doesn’t seem to have a real name. “She’s a toughie, put the best of the best in here. Those Asgardians, man.”

Your burning gaze at the scrapper snaps back to Korg. “Wait, she’s Asgardian?” you ask.

“Yup,” he says. This changes everything. If you can talk to her, you can tell her what’s happening at Asgard and she can help you escape. And you won’t need to be anybody’s fake wife.

You hurriedly make your way over to the laser wall. “Hey! Hey, you!” you yell at her, not the most polite way to start the conversation but she did toss me to the wolves, possibly literally. She cocks her head and notices you. She smirks.

“If it isn’t the interesting human,” she says while taking a sip from her burning beer. You flinch. “I’m excited to see what you’ve got.”

“I need to talk to you,” you say, ignoring her statement. You won’t let her rattle you up again, not when you need her help. She looks at yo, waiting. “You’re Asgardian, right?”

She doesn’t reply but rather scoffs and goes in for another swig. As she does, you see an interesting tattoo on her left arm. You squint at it, and although you don’t remember what it means, you recognize it as an Asgardian symbol. Perfect, proof. “Okay, well, I’ve just come from there,” you say, and she looks at you in confusion. “I’m best friends with the prince, Thor Odinson? God of thunder?” You don’t mention Loki for obvious reasons.

“Good for you. Tell his Majesty I say hi if you ever see him again,” she says, walking away. Your eyes widen.

“No wait! That’s not the point,” you say, following her as she walks. She sighs and waits for you to continue. “Asgard is in danger. I need your help to escape this place and return to help or else the whole realm is doomed.”

“Pass,” she says, not looking at you. Your eyes blow open.

“Wait what?”

“Y/N the human, you’re up!” you hear someone yell from across the room. You sigh. Of course that’s the name they’ve given you.

“Good luck!” she says, as two guards come to take you. You're desperate, trying to convince her and stall your fight.

“A lot of people are going to die, and you’re just okay with that? Your own people?” you say enraged. “Then you’re a traitor to the crown and a coward.”

This catches her attention and it seems you've hit a sore spot. “First of all, my people are with Sakaar now,” she seethes. “And second, I’ve given enough to the crown. It’s no longer my problem.”

Two guards grasp you by your arms as you contemplate her words. Yo struggle against them out of frustration, but you don’t forget the chip in your neck. “Good luck,” the ex-Asgardian says as you're dragged away from her.

You're taken into a room and sat in another chair with handcuffs. “You guys sure do love locking people up,” you say to no one in particular. The workers don’t even give you a second glance. You're taken through a series of experiments in which they change your look completely. Considering you've been stuck in your regular earthly clothes for quite a while now, you welcome the change.

First, they do your hair. A really old man comes in with an intricate device that you feared would ruin your hair completely. But all he did was tie it into an intricate braid and made a crown on your head.

Next, they painted your face, and you didn’t feel like much of a fighter as they applied blush and lipstick. You couldn’t help but wonder who that is for. They paint three lines of purple down the middle of your face and you try to ask what it means but no one gives you an answer.

To finish off your debut look, they fit you into proper fighter attire. A chest plate the same colour as the lines on your place is fitted with blue, metal shoulder pads. The pants are black with blue knees pads to match the shoulders. The boots are black and so is your utility belt. The finishing touch, however, is the purple cape that they pin to your left shoulder and your waist.

They hand you a helmet that you're to put on after your entrance. You roll your eyes at the dramatics, although you do admire the helmet. It’s gold and with a wing on each side flowing upwards. There are also two pieces that move down to protect the sides of your face.

You are given the weapons you have chosen: a strong but simple sword and a powerful and small shield. You're hoping you can rely on your powers, but if all else fails, you have two daggers strapped to your sides so you can go down swinging. But as you walk towards the arena, you can feel the water around you: the pipes in the building, the drinks from the crowd…you can even use human or alien liquid if you have to.

You're told to stand in front of the gate until it opens and then you're left alone. You can hear the crowds much clearer from where you are now and they sound bloodthirsty. You grit your teeth as you listen to the Grandmaster go on and on about the battles, celebrating the deaths of contestants before you which makes your stomach turn. But it also fuels your energy: you will not be one of those names. All you have to do is win one fight and you're free from this madness…and thrust into another sort of madness.

You’ve fought plenty of aliens before with Thor but never in an arena in front of a crowd. A part of you is excited by this opportunity, a chance to feel what it was like to be a gladiator back on Earth. You hold onto that as you hear the Grandmaster announce you.

“Tonight, we are pleased to have a new contestant,” he says and the crowd goes wild. You bounce on the balls of your feet and focus on your breathing. “I can guarantee you’ve never seen anything like her. You’re in for quite a treat.” You swallow as the gates slowly start to rise but you set your features to stone. You’ve got this. “We’ll see what you think. Without further ado, ladies and gentlemen I give you…” You walk onto the sands of the arena. “Y/N the Human!”

As you enter the arena, a wave of boos greets you. You assume they don’t like newcomers here, especially not of the human variety. And although the sound floods your senses and threatens your confidence, you set your eyes across the plain to the other gate. The crowd doesn’t matter. You need to see who you're facing.

The Grandmaster is projected on a hologram overlooking the entire stadium. That makes sense for a man with his ego. But as you scan the crowds, your eyes catch on one box in particular. It stands out from the crowd and you can’t see in it but you do see the colour yellow painting the inside. Without a doubt, you know it’s the Grandmaster’s box. And without a doubt, you know Loki’s in there. It’s like you can feel him. You wonder what he’s thinking as you stand transformed in a giant arena. You wonder if he doubts your skills, despite his words. A new type of anger sparks at that thought and you set your gaze straight ahead. This is a chance for you to show him how you've grown without him.

“Isn’t she something?” the Grandmaster laughs as the crowd continues to boo you. You let the taunts roll past you, harbouring your energy. “Alright, now it’s time to welcome back a previous competitor.” A rumble rolls through the crowd as the boos quiet down. “She’s a warrior who has made quite the name for herself.” Red puffs of smoke burst over the audience and you place the helmet over your head and secure it. “What she lacks in looks she makes up for in brute strength.”

Across the arena, the other door begin to open. “You love her, I love her…” the Grandmaster builds the tension and you tighten the grip on your sword. “Ladies and gentlemen, get ready for…Hindaa the Ruiner!”

The doors open to reveal a tall alien woman, donned in red armour. The crowd goes wild, and you try not to let it sway you as you try to size up your opponent. It’s hard to see from where you are, but she looks to have gray skin with a dark-haired ponytail. She waves her arms for the crowd, holding a mace in one hand and a club in the other. So much for your gladiator’s battle.

You wait for her to approach you, grabbing hold of the water beneath the arena with your powers. Your eyes are laser-focused on Hindaa. The woman finishes showing off to the crowd and immediately starts racing towards you. That’s when you truly see how big and muscular she is, standing at least six and a half feet tall.

You don’t move. You drown out the noises from the stands and wait until she hits the center of the arena. When she does, you tighten your hold on the water and summon it forth, bursting through the floors of the arena at a speed that catches Hindaa in its waves and throws her into the air. You watch as she’s tossed back to the other side and lands heavily, a cloud of dust spreading around her.

The crowd is silent as you let the water wash onto the arena floor, wetting the sands. Then all at once, an eruption of applause and cheers emerge from the crowd. But your focus isn’t to entertain them. You move across the arena as Hindaa picks herself up off the ground, staggering to her feet and dripping wet. The closer you get to her, the angrier you can see she is. You smile and then see her launching towards you.

She runs and jumps to tackle you, but you take hold of the water again and quickly freeze it, entrapping Hindaa in an iceberg. She struggles and growls as her head remains unfrozen. You walk until you stand a few feet away from her.

“Hindaa was it?” you ask. She growls again. Up close, you can see that her skin is, in fact, gray. But more than that, there are red dotted stripes covering her body. Your eyes widen as you recognize what species she is. “You’re a Kylosian.” She stops her movements to glare at you. “How did you end up here?”

“That’s none of your business,” she hisses, continuing her struggle.

“Ah, so you can speak English. Good,” you say. “Because I wanted to have a quick chat.” The audience has settled down and you can hear whispers of confusion. You internally smile at how the Grandmaster must be reacting. “I don’t want to hurt you, I’m sure you’re a lovely person.” She snarls again. You keep smiling. “Anyway, I just need to win this battle and then I’ll be out of your hair.”

She’s staring you down, and you foolishly think that she’s considering your offer. “You don’t want to hurt me?” she asks and you nod in agreement. Yes, this plan might work after all. “That’s a shame.” You catch the cracking sound too late. “Because I want to hurt you.”

Before you can react, Hindaa’s right hand bursts through the ice and with it, her mace. The weapon swings and catches you in the side, sending you flying several feet away. You swallow a scream before you hit the ground. You groan. Begrudgingly, you look down at your side to see three large scratches ripping through your uniform. You take a deep breath and then fire yourself up, ignoring the pain.

"Have it your way then," you say as you pick yourself off the ground. Just as you're on your feet, Hindaa is crashing down on you with her club but this time you react quicker. You bring up your shield and the club smashes down onto it. You wince at your arm, but then you swing your sword up and catch her in the hand, causing her to drop her club. You quickly summon the water from the ice and trap the club in a bubble, casting it far, far away from the arena. Hindaa looks down and glares back up at you. “That wasn’t very nice.”

“I wasn’t trying to be nice,” she growls and you look at her in confusion as your sarcasm misses her completely. Her mace quickly comes swinging at you and you defend yourself with the shield again, but the force of her swing causes you to stumble back. Caught off guard, the mace comes back around, this time aiming at your legs. It swipes across your skin and you hiss as your knees buckle and you're on the ground again.

Hindaa continues her attack, kicking her leg up and catching you in the chin, throwing your head to the ground. You groan as your head swirls in pain. You can feel your nose pulsing in pain and feel blood begin to drip down. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Your spirit is wavering, and that’s when you feel something on your hand. You look down to see Loki’s ring pulsing. It’s never done that before. You risk a glance over at the Grandmaster’s box, but you still can’t see him. But he’s still here with you. Conflicting emotions rise within you, but it gives you the strength you need to get back up.

When you're on your feet, Hindaa swings at you but the mace is too slow this time, as you tuck and roll over to her side. You catch her side with your sword and she cries out. Her mace comes back but your shield is there, and with your other hand you swipe at her legs. She cries out again. Before her mace can take another swing, you jump and slice your sword along her hand, causing her to drop the mace. You did the same trick as you did with the club.

With no weapons, she charges at you. You use your shield but she still tackles you. She crushes your body under hers and rips the shield away from you, wrenching your arm to the side causing you to cry out. With fury, you slice your sword across her back, and when she bends in pain, you slip out from under her.

You're both dripping blood and your bodies are swaying, but you're determined. You toss your sword away, your power brimming to the surface. Before she can stand again, you take a few steps back before running and jumping towards her. As you're midair, you summon the water to freeze over your fist. You fall and crash your frozen fist down onto her head. You land on your feet, just barely. You're panting, but when you look back, Hindaa is unconscious. You take a few moments to catch your breath, and as you do that, the sounds of the crowd rush back in and you hear a loud, thundering cheer.

Holding onto your side, every inch of you either sore or bleeding, you look to the stands to see the crowd cheering for you. You're not sure if the adrenaline caused it or if you were delirious, but in that moment, you smiled. You raise one of your hands in triumph and the cheers get louder somehow. You laugh, not sure what it is exactly that you're laughing at.

Suddenly, the Grandmaster’s hologram reappears. “What a show! What a show!” he says, laughing and clapping his hands together. The efforts of the battle begin to weigh on you and you just need to keep standing. “Everyone give it up for our new champion, Y/N the Human!”

You noticed your name didn’t change. “I told you she’d be something to see!”

You look back at the door you came from to see it lifting and you start to walk that way, not much caring for what the Grandmaster has to say. You notice a few workers bring a hovering stretcher for Hindaa. One of them must have noticed your limping, because they come to your side and help take some of the weight off of your leg. You're not sure if you thanked them. All you were looking forward to was a nice, long nap.

You momentarily forgot whose bed it is you'll be sleeping on.

* * * * *

Tag List: @riribaex @80strashbag @justanothermagicalsara @speedy-object-dream @blueberry-soda57 @comehomecomehometous @chaoticsomeone

#loki x reader #loki x y/n #loki x reader series #loki x you series #loki x y/n series #loki #loki imagine #loki series #loki marvel #marvel loki #loki fanfiction #marvel #mcu #marvel fanfiction #thor x reader (platonic)

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uriekukistan · 1 year ago

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Hope your day or night is going well!! ✨

Okay, top five Megumi lines/scenes?

ahhh thank you i hope yours is as well!! and thank you for the ask!!

im in the car rn so some of these i couldn’t track down the specific chapter/page bc i dont wanna use all my data :’)

1 - “i’m not like itadori, i have no problem earning 100 points for myself.” or something along that line

one of the things that fascinates me the most about megumi is the way he places value on lives, and this line is just so cool to me. he’d said before this that he saves people unequally, but this shows just how far that goes. he’ll kill anywhere from 20-100 random people so tsumiki and itadori, the two people he cares about and thinks are worth saving more than anyone else, don’t have to get their hands dirty, and their lives hold more value to him than others. it’s also so interesting to me because of the way megumi doesn’t consider himself a good person like tsumiki or itadori, and therefore doesn’t really see himself as worth saving, so it’s just a necessary burden he has to carry as the “bad” person for those two. also add that in w this line, and im on the floor

2 - his battle vs sukuna at the detention facility/“i’m not a hero, i’m a jujutsu sorcerer”

another moment where we get an insight into his ideas on good/bad people and who deserves saving, can you tell i love this aspect of his character? i mean, he’s about to sacrifice himself for itadori to live (hopefully), even though he literally met the guy two weeks ago, because he thinks he’s a good person who deserves saving. it’s the first insight we get into megumi’s thought process, and this was really the moment that made me start paying attention to him more. i also love how he kept a softer expression on his face and didn’t cry until after itadori died, like he didnt want itadori to feel sad or guilty in his final moments im SICK also the fact that he took the name-tag to that guys mom even though he didnt have an interest in saving him, like he was paying a respect to itadori….ugh…anyway yeah i love dissecting the way he values life.

3 - “so start by saving me, itadori”

see as an itafushist of course this had to make the list like this whole chapter has me on the floor but anyway aside from that, i love thinking about this scene because the words he’s saying seem so contrary to how he thinks? like he’s asking to be saved but he doesn’t think he’s worth saving? so it needs an extra layer of consideration. i feel like he really said this more to motivate yuuji (and save tsumiki) than actually wanting to be saved himself. plus the “it’s our fault, don’t be selfish and give up all alone” aaahhahahsj i just love this moment i feel like it shows his character very well….when the idgafer actually very much gaf….

4 - his first domain expansion

hellooo this was so sick and cool and badass of him like i dont think there’s anything i need to say for this. huge character development moment for him too. add this with the simple domain he had in dagon’s domain + the part in the culling games arc where he literally hides himself in the shadows……he’s crazy powerful and i dont wanna hear anything abt it! if u were traumatized like that you’d be curled up on the floor too

5 - “if you die, i’ll kill you” both times

again as an itafushist i couldnt not include this….of course there’s implications for megumi’s character as well but i feel like there’s only so much i can talk about his moral code in one post yk? but yeah i think it just shows how much the people he cares about matter to him

also bonus i love just any culling games megumi, his determination to save tsumiki and make it so itadori doesnt have to kill anyone makes him grow so much as a character and as a sorcerer, i love it sm

thank u for the ask! any excuse to yap about megumi 🤞

#me when i queue an ask game and then forget #i have no idea what’s in my queue tbh #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jjk spoilers #megumi fushiguro #itafushi

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mogruith · 5 months ago

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Your OC's Personality

Aaaaaa! Thanks for tagging me here again, @majorasnightmare ! Although Coran and Dirge could not be more different, I do find it fascinating that they have something in common! Thanks for sharing your lore, it's been a joy watching you dissect and analyze bits and pieces of Dirge under a microscope while I've been following you! And thanks for inviting me to yap about my poor little drow meow (thanks to Solananana on Novarex's drow server for that term). Apologies, I do tend to yap a lot. And I am up quite late writing this, so I apologize if this is a bit ramble-y. In turn, I'd like to tap @susann-noir @nemo-of-house-hamartia @mystxmomo @vspin @the-weeping-dawn and anyone else I might've missed (sorry I am sleepy, forgive me) to chat about whichever OC of whichever fandom (or original content) you'd like! No pressure tag of course.

How would you describe their personality? Coranzan has a charismatic Type A personality fueled by ego and insecurity. A winning combination! But he also exhibits an unusual amount of empathy for a person that grew up in the Underdark, so it's not all bad. He's also a bit impatient and careless (to his sister's chagrin). Initially, he may come off as reserved and guarded until he feels like he's read you and if you're not a "threat", he will bombard you with his charm and affection - a tactic he's found is generally successful at getting him what he wants. It's one part manipulation and one part genuinely wanting to be affectionate - a relatively new experience he's enjoyed exploring, even though he's a bit clumsy at it.

What brings your character joy? Being a Type A, he gets very laser-focused on mission objectives and will pour himself into whatever it is that will get him there, so accomplishing related goals will give him the most satisfaction. Besides that, he's picked up some hobbies depending on his life goals in a given moment: Singing, songwriting, and dancing. He has gained enough of a proficiency that he's found them to be grounding activities and it's also an activity he shares with his twin sister, so it's been something they've grown together doing in some fashion or other. His hobbies have transformed their purpose over time - now they've been partly channeled into his worship of EIlistraee. He'll enjoy singing a good murder ballad for the camp but also finds peace in the Evensong and other rituals.

What does your character strongly dislike? Dirge and Coranzan have this in common: Being talked down to is a huge issue - it's something he used to get a lot in his youth as male drow and a dirt-poor commoner to boot. It strikes at the heart of his insecurity. Someone telling him he can't do something fills him with rage and spite and he will make it his life's goal to do that thing. As an example: Coran was told he couldn't be a Cleric of Eilistraee several times. It took him 130-ish years of spite-filled trying to finally get there. Finally, he's fiercely protective of his sister - this is because she stuck her neck out for him countless times in their youth, despite that it would've been better for her if she hadn't. If someone dares target her with cutting words or violence, Coran will target them back.

Is your OC scared of anything?

Coran's insecurity is fueled by a couple of things: The obvious one is the degrading experience he had growing up as a male in the poorer parts of Menzoberranzan. The second is a fierce need to protect himself and his sister from experiencing anything like that again on the surface. Being subjected to the old hierarchies is a big fear of his - he'll never return to Menzoberranzan, if he can help it. For emphasis: Coranzan straight up murdered a former lover who tried to force him back there against his wishes. There's something to be said about the fact that he is nonetheless subjected to a similar hierarchy under the Eilistraeens - but it seemed relatively benevolent, he didn't see it for what it was. Once he was convinced of it (by his sister and, later, Minthara), he's shaken by the realization and abandons the Church of Eilistraee in order to worship his own way.

What is their alignment?

Coran is generally Chaotic Good these days. His heart's in the right place usually and his goals generally serve the greater good (as he understands it). But they are also fueled by his personal experiences and hatred for Lolth and the system she's subjected upon the drow of the Underdark. But ultimately, he's a bit selfish and ego-driven at times, so it can waver depending on his whims.

Thanks for inviting me to talk about this again!!

#tag games #coranzan #bg3 tav #drow tav

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tg-pilled · 1 year ago

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Let's discuss: Queerness in Tokyo Ghoul!

To start off, I just want to mention that these are things I have noticed. Nothing is necessarily canon (or non canon) but it's something I'm very interested in. I've been learning a lot in the queer horror club I'm in and it's been really fun dissecting Tokyo Ghoul in the same way!

This will go character to character. It's not going to be a complete list as there's SO much to cover but...

Kaneki: Not to state the obvious but his friendship with Hide surpasses a Lot of what heteronormativity usually allows. I don't think he's even fully aware of his attraction until after he meets Touka. Because Hide had been such a permanent fixture in his life growing up, they never really had ever been apart. Their bond is deep and strong and definitely can be looked at from an extremely queer perspective. (I'm not trying to say that all men who show affection to one another are queer because that is simply not true.) Once he becomes a ghoul and he has that separation from Hide, I think that is when his sexuality is fully recognized. Especially in the manga, his bond with Hide runs deeper than with almost every other character. I'd say the exception to that rule is Touka in :re. In the manga during the death kiss, he didn't even know if Hide was real or not. He was in such a state of disorientation and confusion but Hide was still the one that he saw. Of course, Hide was actually there with him. But because Kaneki was in such a delirious state, surely he could have hallucinated the death kiss to be with Touka? Or anyone else? Why specifically did Hide come to mind during that time? Again, he was in a moment of crisis and Hide had always been that stability for him but it's just curious to think about...

Hide: I've seen and read so many different rumours about how Sui Ishida intended for Hide to be canonically bisexual. However, I can't find that interview or confession ANYWHERE in a way that makes it clear that Sui Ishida actually said that so we will disregard that for now. Setting that aside, Hide has a very intriguing point of view of Kaneki. His insight on Kaneki's life is the closest we get to an outside perspective of Kaneki's behaviour from an intimate view. Obviously we see other ghouls, CCG members, etc. studying the way Kaneki behaves but we never see it in the same way that we do with Hide. That boy has been taking notes on Kaneki since he first started acting odd. He caught onto Kaneki being a ghoul with ease (ofc this depends on the version as well. We are ignoring the live action version because it screws up the source material.) No matter how hard Kaneki tried, he could not get Hide to stop caring and stop observing. Hide went undercover in both the CCG and ghoul world to make sure Kaneki was okay. His life centred around Kaneki. That in itself is a confession of love and not in the platonic way.

Uta: Setting aside the way he looks at Renji for a moment, his entire being breaks the norms which is what queerness and queer history has always been. Uta quite literally makes masks so ghouls can create a whole other identity surrounding their otherness. His entire presence screams queer-coded.

Tsukiyama: I don't think I need to explain this one much tbh but his obsession with Kaneki cannot be overlooked. It is obviously super creepy in a lot of way and he crosses a TON of boundaries. However, that level of obsession is definitely not in a "you're my guy pal, let's go lift weights at the gym" (idk what cishet men do I'm sorry). His fascination with both the male and female ghouls feels very queer to me even though it is to an extreme that needs to be observed and dissected with caution.

Nico: He is the embodiment of a gay stereotype. Obviously not all rep is good rep but he definitely fits the mold and he is definitely queer, no doubt about it.

Mutsuki: Without a doubt, he is trans. Many people argue "oh he only transitioned so he could become a Quinx Squad member and change his identity better blah blah blah." HOWEVER. I raise you: once Urie found out his assigned gender at birth, why did he feel so deeply uncomfortable? Obviously, he was worried that Urie would tell everyone and their mom but even after Urie kept that a secret, he was still nervous. It's almost like he didn't want to be treated differently because of his assigned gender at birth and transition... There is a lot about Mutsuki that could have been handled better but I also think that him keeping his preferred name, pronouns, etc. is so important. Not once did Urie question it, he just wanted Mutsuki to keep doing his job well. Mutsuki is a very complex character and you can dissect his storyline from a million povs but I think first and foremost that he is trans and that there isn't really a question as to whether or not he wants to be referred to as a man or not

Overall, all these characters are only a small part of an even LARGER queer analogy! Tokyo Ghoul is about a man learning to grapple with being both ghoul AND human. Taking this into account, a ton of queer people have to be worried about being 'found out' or 'outed' because we live in a world where it is dangerous for queer people to exist still (much like it is dangerous for ghouls to exist). Kaneki is coming to terms with the fact that he might not be fully human (or the societal norm). Learning to deal with that, especially when you feel like you're the first EVER because you have no prior experience or relationships with other members of the LGBTQ+ community is terrifying! That feeling of 'otherness' or 'monstrosity' is unfortunately something a lot of queer folks have to go through. The CCG has a very religious/governmental parallel to it and could even be used as a metaphor for the hate that queer people receive from institutions that benefit from our suffering. However, Akira AND Amon both empathize with Takizawa eventually and are subject to abuse and rejection because they love and care about someone in the 'other' community. Haise's transition and morphing with Kaneki is a beautiful metaphor for how many queer people will try to be 'normal' or conform to society for protection but you always kind of know your identity is there. As mentioned earlier, Uta makes masks for other ghouls so they can create a separate identity to protect themselves when trying to exist. That feeling of two separate identities, two separate worlds that you think cannot combine is SO common in the queer community. Kaneki feeling like he isn't enough of ghoul OR human to fit into the world at all is often how queer people are treated too. Being told you're not enough of something and being rejected by communities who allegedly were there to protect you. To conclude, I'd like to say thank you for reading all this (if you did) and also feel free to add on, debate, or include things I'm missing! Also I wrote this very very sleep deprived so I'm sorry about my grammar. Okay goodnight oomfies

#tokyo ghoul #tokyo ghoul kaneki #tgre #tg kaneki #tokyo ghoul analysis #lgbtqia #lgbtq analysis

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