#like what do all the lines mean. how do I use this tool. I can barely use rhe 3D tools in general đ«Ł but Iâve had the program for so long!!
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
Text
arcane, shipping and âword of godâ within queer readings
tldr: âword of godâ vs âdeath of the authorâ through the lens of jayvik
so first of all, hereâs linkeâs now-infamous reaction to jayvik:
first of all, thereâs the classic mistake of conflating asexuality with aromanticism (they can and do overlap, but having one does not automatically mean the other)
to be clear: asexual viktor is not a bad concept. iâve seen arguments for and against it that bring up valid points (thereâs also the question of whether itâs a stereotype to make the disabled character asexual, but iâm not disabled, so i donât really know the fine details of that debate?), but the questionable thing here is that it seems to have been brought up specifically against a jayvik interpretation
aside from this iâve seen twitter screenshots floating around where it looks like linke is arguing with people about jayvik? idkâ
sigh.
iâm not even going to get into this.
ironically, and unfortunately for linke, a piece of media the fans drew an immediate parallel to is the ending of the magnus archives with two of the main characters jon and martin dying together to save the universe, and they are both a canonical couple and jon is explicitly confirmed to be ace within the universe by dialogue between characters
amanda overton, luckily, is a breath of fresh air:
the first part of what overton says is similar to linkeâwritten with a brotherly love, etc.âbut while linke uses this as a âgotcha!â moment to shut down discussion, overton rightly recognizes that âother people give it their own meaningââthat art exists as dialogue with the audience where intent and interpretation do not necessarily align
honestly, what strikes me the most when contrasted with linke is the lack of possessiveness here, as linke clings to the original intentions of the writers like a lifeline whereas overton has set her creation free into the wild with serenity
which can also be rephrased to mean that linke believes in the power of word of god
so word of god is extremely interesting when it comes to the history of queer media
from the korrasami being confirmed via word of god because of network restrictions that meant they had their hands tied when it came to the text of the show, but still making a huge step in the direction of explicit queer rep
to hannigram, where the ship has an incredibly solid textual base within the universe (with âis hannibal in love with me?â âyesâ being actual lines), but shipping wiki still has it as âcanon (confirmed by bryan fuller)â as if because itâs a queer couple, it needs that extra layer of assurance when for a straight ship it would have less scrutiny
so these two examples have been instances of positive word of godâcases where the creators intentionally wrote in queerness
and media creators have not always been so supportiveâjust look at the 2010s epidemic of queerbaiting
BUT HEREâS THE THING: the âword of godâ stands in near direct contrast with another incredibly useful toolââdeath of the author,â which posits that authors essentially lose authority over the meaning of their work and that the work can be analyzed contradicting the authorial intent if there is textual evidence to support it (grossly oversimplified)
essentially, the âdeath of the authorâ approach happened a lot in fandoms that had âhostileâ creators (moff and gatis mocking fans for shipping, both within and without the show sherlock, for example)
and the thing about fandoms is that itâs great when the creator is on our side! but if not? weâre going to be just fine on our own, weâve survived like that for decades
and here comes 2024, a year rich with queer content and the practice of queer readings having lost a fair bit of the stigma that was long associated with it (with special mention to the good omens and ofmd fan readings before and after the episodes with kissing were released)
and linke is⊠still stuck in a 2010s mindset??? like iâm not sure how to explain it more elegantly. do not be like linke
in contrast, amanda overton has the much more nuanced view of fandom and fan interpretations, where she can both acknowledge authorial intent and that differing interpretations will exist and that they still carry weight. be like amanda overton
#arcane#arcane analysis#fandom#christian linke#amanda overton#shipping#jayvik#long post#death of the author#word of god
47 notes
·
View notes
Text
[<<< First] [< Prev]
Eggman: We now convene for the trial of Yanshu Dryll the Mole. I trust the prosecution is ready to commence?
Payne: The prosecution's been ready for days, your honor.
Eggman: And is the defense ready to proceed?
Reiker: Yes, your honor.
Reiker: (Yeah⊠Ready. No evidence, no alternate theories⊠Guess I should just pay attention and do my best.)
Payne: Seems the murderer finally gathered enough funds for a private defender. How'd you do it? Kill another robot? Rob a casino?
Eggman: Actually, this man is our new public defender. This will be his first case.
Payne: Oh, how precious⊠I bet he'll be running out of town with his tail feathers between his legs after we confirm the guilty verdict.
Reiker: (⊠Is he serious?)
Eggman: Weâll see, now⊠Let's not keep this waiting any longer than we already have. Prosecutor Payne, your opening statement?
Payne: The solution to this case is so obvious that no private defense attorney would even pick up the case! In fact, I almost feel sorry for the poor sap standing across from me.
Reiker: Can we get on with it instead of gloating?
Payne: So eager to face your own demise? Very well, thenâŠ
Payne: The crime took place around 8:45 PM last Wednesday. The victim, Flash Driver, is a new member of the doctorâs E-5000 line.
Payne: The victim was found with his legs battered and multiple components taken out of their rear hatch. We cannot obtain camera footage due to the parts being missing, however, we have multiple reasons to believe it was the mole standing before us today.
Reiker: Wait, his legs were battered?
Eggman: This is basic information, did you not read the autopsy report!?
Reiker: With all due respect, you never gave me the autopsy report, your honor.
Eggman: Hm⊠I suppose in this instance your ill-preparedness is somewhat understandable. Don't let it happen again.
Payne: Feh. Here, fledgling - your first piece of evidence. Please try to keep your gape-mouthed self from drooling all over the pages.
Strait: ⊠I think Iâll be fine, thanks.
Autopsy Report (Flash) has been added to the Court Record.
Reiker: (I should take a closer look at that. Remember, Strait - evidence is a lawyer's best friend! Good thing I keep it Pinned at the Top of my mind!)
Reiker: I notice you haven't mentioned a motive, or why my client is your prime suspect. Was she even near the crime scene at the time of the murder?
Payne: Listen, kid, I have this case down tight. Your defendant there is one of 10 people who could have possibly committed the crime at hand.
Reiker: ⊠One of 10? How do you figure?
Payne: Let's just call them the tools of the trade. Specifically, the tool set a Robo-Tech like her uses daily.
Eggman: Ah, you must be referring to the Omnitools, no?
Reiker: Omnitools?
Eggman: You're familiar with the concept of an army knife, correct? Imagine a compact device like that, equipped with every screwdriver, wrench, and key needed to access all the technical parts of my machines, including Robians. This one is assigned to her.
Yanshu's Omnitool has been added to Court Record.
Payne: No one could have accessed the stolen parts without those tools, not to mention that Yanshu was the last person to meet with the victim, during a routine maintenance checkupâŠ
That was anything but routine!
Eggman: Uh... Interesting. In what way was it not routine?
Payne: Well, the perpetrator is right here. Why don't we ask her? Miss, let's start with your name and occupation.
Yanshu: Eep! I, um⊠M-⊠My name is Yanshu Dryll. I'm a Class C Robo-Tech, f-for the Main DivisionâŠ
Payne: And if I'm correct, you assisted the victimâŠ
On the day of the murder!?
Yanshu: W-well, yes, but that doesn't mean I killed him!
Eggman: The court will be the judge of that. Now, if you could please testify regarding this maintenance appointment you had.
Yanshu: Y-yes doctor- I mean, sir! I mean-⊠Y-yes, your honor!
Testimony 1 - The Maintenance Appointment
1:) I had been assigned to Flash to do a routine checkup, scheduled for Wednesday at noon.
2:) All the required checks were proceeding as normal, and the appointment was rather short.
3:) My boss came by and signed off on my maintenance sheetâŠ
4:) ⊠And shortly after that, Flash left, just like he usually does. That was the last time I saw him.
Reiker: (Hm⊠Not much to work with... At least that old cat has just as little information as I do.)
Reiker: (But if thatâs really the case, why does he look so confidentâŠ?)
Payne: ⊠Really? That's all you have to say?
Yanshu: Y-yes, and itâs the truth! Wh-⊠What more could you want?
Eggman: I will kindly ask the prosecution to not badger the witness. Now, defense, are you ready for the cross examination?
Reiker: (I need more information⊠Just gotta dive into the old Thought Pool and figure out what to ask. Maybe I'll glean some new information! Once I think I've got it down pat, I can Present an idea by connecting a Statement with an Item in the Court Record!)
#sonic the hedgehog#sonic#sth#ace attorney#eggs attorney#turnabout assembly#reiker strait#dr eggman#rythen payne#yanshu dryll
22 notes
·
View notes
Text
Okay, so, I talked about some Sampo thoughts before, but I never really talked about the whole poem thing, which seems to be a must when talking about this man so here we go.
I've seen many takes regarding the Sampo of Kalevala and Sampo Koski, his true identity, what role he plays and etc.
I personally have yet to read it, so most of my knowledge is based on wikipedia and tumblr.
I did notice that the theory that Sampo's real name is Ilmarinen (no idea if I spelled that correctly), the creator of The Sampo, is somewhat popular.
But, what if Sampo IS The Sampo? Like his name is actually Sampo Koski, it's not a fake name.
Like, let's say Sampo was born on Kalevala like most people believe, and let's say he was born there years ago, like, hundreds of years ago.
I say that because Sampo always gave me ancient vibes, which is why he calls himself an old timer, and if we go with the theory that he is an Emanator, then it is definitely plausible.
Anyways, back to Kalevala, if Sampo had left the planet hundreds of years before now, then it would make sense that stories of Sampo would change as time went on, eventually becoming the poem we know, when it wasn't how it really happened.
Basically, The Sampo of Kalevala is about Sampo Koski himself but hundreds of years of oral story telling led to it changing and you can now no longer tell it was about a person.
This can also create other ties, for example, The Sampo was stolen by a powerful entity and eventually lost, which could be Aha yoinking Sampo off the planet in reality, which to them was probably very confusing.
Why would Aha do this? Well, we know for a fact that the planet has gone to war over a powerful artifact before (gestures over to Guyun) and it def fits into Aha's MO to start a war.
After all, we do know there was battle after The Sampo was stolen in the poem.
But wait, you may probably not ask, Sampo is a living being, not an atrifact! Which to that I raise Sampo's lines from the recent events that show that this man sees all relationships as transactional and expects people to see him as a tool, so.
And if this is true, this would mean Sampo had the power the grant endless riches to people, and knowing people, he was no doubt only seen as a way to get rich rather than as a person.
Would explain why he joined the Masked Fools in the first place, before he grew older and realized these people sucked too, especially if they knew about the Emanator thing, and he proceeded to fuck off to Belobog where he was probably treated as a person and not a god/tool.
So to sum up; Sampo was born on Kalevala many ember eras ago, was able to grant people riches, was used and seen as a tool, Aha thought it would be funny to remove Sampo from the planet and start a war, Sampo joins the Elation as a means of escape, regrets it, goes to Belobog to escape, again, grows attached, and now has to embrace his powers and Emanator status instead of running away to protect the place he can finally call home.
#another theory to the pile#I swear you would think this man was my fave#with how much I talk about him#not my fault he has a lot of stuff I can talk about#anyways#bonus points if Sampo met Aha when he was a kid#and that's the reason the way he talks is so similar to Aha's#hsr#honkai star rail#sampo koski
24 notes
·
View notes
Text
I slept in and just woke up, so here's what I've been able to figure out while sipping coffee:
Twitter has officially rebranded to X just a day or two after the move was announced.
The official branding is that a tweet is now called "an X", for which there are too many jokes to make.
The official account is still @twitter because someone else owns @X and they didn't reclaim the username first.
The logo is đ which is the Unicode character Unicode U+1D54F so the logo cannot be copyrighted and it is highly likely that it cannot be protected as a trademark.
Outside the visual logo, the trademark for the use of the name "X" in social media is held by Meta/Facebook, while the trademark for "X" in finance/commerce is owned by Microsoft.
The rebranding has been stopped in Japan as the term "X Japan" is trademarked by the band X JAPAN.
Elon had workers taking down the "Twitter" name from the side of the building. He did not have any permits to do this. The building owner called the cops who stopped the crew midway through so the sign just says "er".
He still plans to call his streaming and media hosting branch of the company as "Xvideo". Nobody tell him.
This man wants you to give him control over all of your financial information.
Edit to add further developments:
Yes, this is all real. Check the notes and people have pictures. I understand the skepticism because it feels like a joke, but to the best of my knowledge, everything in the above is accurate.
Microsoft also owns the trademark on X for chatting and gaming because, y'know, X-box.
The logo came from a random podcaster who tweeted it at Musk.
The act of sending a tweet is now known as "Xeet". They even added a guide for how to Xeet.
The branding change is inconsistent. Some icons have changed, some have not, and the words "tweet" and "Twitter" are still all over the place on the site.
TweetDeck is currently unaffected and I hope it's because they forgot that it exists again. The complete negligence toward that tool and just leaving it the hell alone is the only thing that makes the site usable (and some of us are stuck on there for work).
This is likely because Musk was forced out of PayPal due to a failed credit line project and because he wanted to rename the site to "X-Paypal" and eventually just to "X".
This became a big deal behind the scenes as Musk paid over $1 million for the domain X.com and wanted to rebrand the company that already had the brand awareness people were using it as a verb to "pay online" (as in "I'll paypal you the money")
X.com is not currently owned by Musk. It is held by a domain registrar (I believe GoDaddy but I'm not entirely sure). Meaning as long as he's hung onto this idea of making X Corp a thing, he couldn't be arsed to pay the $15/year domain renewal.
Bloomberg estimates the rebranding wiped between $4 to $20 billion from the valuation of Twitter due to the loss of brand awareness.
The company was already worth less than half of the $44 billion Musk paid for it in the first place, meaning this may end up a worse deal than when Yahoo bought Tumblr.
One estimation (though this is with a grain of salt) said that Twitter is three months from defaulting on its loans taken out to buy the site. Those loans were secured with Tesla stock. Meaning the bank will seize that stock and, since it won't be enough to pay the debt (since it's worth around 50-75% of what it was at the time of the loan), they can start seizing personal assets of Elon Musk including the Twitter company itself and his interest in SpaceX.
Sesame Street's official accounts mocked the rebranding.
158K notes
·
View notes
Text
wanna be yours â vi (league of legends) !
âą synopsis. in the gritty underbelly of zaun, you find yourself entangled in the life of a new pit fighter: vi, a hardened fighter who wears her pain like armour. as a medic working in the fighting pit, you are tasked with patching up her wounds after matches, and you realize that while you can heal viâs injuries, you canât mend the broken pieces of her heart that belong to someone else.
âą contains. afab!reader, arcane!vi, feminine characteristics, angst, lesbians, lots and lots of longing, kinda enemies to lovers (but worse), nsfw, fingering, 17+ kinda explicit.
âą word count. 15.2k+
âą authors note. i spent the last few weeks working on this fic and i am really happy with how it turned out!! eek!! happy reading!! <3 :)
Youâve grown used to the sight of blood.
It streaks across the tiled floor in dark smears, trails on the edge of your workbench, and stains the tattered cloths shoved into the waste bin. The scent of copper lingers in the air, mingling with the faint tang of disinfectant.
Youâve made it work, though. You have to.
Your bench is lined with the tools: sutures, gauze, tape, and a half-empty bottle of antiseptic youâve been meaning to replace. You keep it organized, and meticulous because chaos out there demands control in here. The pit fighters appreciate it, and you, in their own way. Thereâs always a pep in their step when they leave your little corner, heading to the bar with fresh bandages and a story to tell.
Some linger longer than they need to, chatting while you clean up. The regulars know your rhythmâwhen to crack a joke to ease the tension or when to stay quiet and let you focus. The brawlers come to trust you, and trust is hard to come by lately.
Maybe it was because you werenât trying to punch the lights out of their eyes.
The room itself is far from perfect. Cramped, poorly lit, and barely adequate, it feels more like a storage closet someone forgot to clear out than a proper medical station. Youâve done what you can to make it your own. A few paintings hang crookedly on the wallsâcheap prints, but bright enough to cut through the gloom. Candles flicker in the corners of your desk, casting a soft glow that doesnât do much for the lighting but makes the space feel warmer, more welcoming.
The pit fighters notice. They never say much about it, but you catch the way they relax when they sit down, their shoulders loosening just slightly as the room wraps them in its quiet. Itâs your small rebellion against the harshness of Zaun, a reminder that even here, thereâs room for gentleness.
Sometimes they repay that gentleness in their own wayâa drink after a fight, a nod of thanks, or a protective presence when the streets get dangerous, walking you home. Youâve been here long enough to know that loyalty is rare in Zaun, but somehow, youâve earned it.
The fighting arena roars with life, the crowdâs cheers rumbling through the walls like distant thunder. Tonightâs fights have been loudâlouder than usual. People running around with their coloured tickets based on who they were betting on. You glance at the clock.
Thereâs been a buzz all week about a newcomer, someone fresh and untested.
Vi, they call her.
Scrappy and wild, with a chip on her shoulder and fists to match. The kind of fighter who comes in all swagger and leaves in pieces.
You havenât met her yet, but the bookiesâ chatter alone has you bracing yourself. First fights are always the worstâtoo much pride, not enough sense.
The door rattles, hard enough to make the jars on your shelf tremble and you can hear muffled shouting from the other side.
It slams open, rattling on its hinges, but you donât look up right away. Your focus is on threading a needle carefully through the gash along the side of Rykerâs jawâa nasty wound from an earlier fight. Rykerâs been coming here for years, but never with complaints. Heâs one of the good ones, fighting not just for himself but for his daughter, scraping by on the cash these matches earn him. He sits hunched over, still radiating the heat of adrenaline.
âDonât fucking shove me,â a voice grumbles from the doorway. âFuck off, Loris!â
Your attention shifts to the two figures stumbling into the room. One of themâa broad-shouldered man with a face like heâs eaten rocks for breakfastâcould easily pass for one of the fighters. But itâs the girl heâs dragging by the arm that catches your eye.
Sheâs all jagged lines and sharp edges, her messy, dark pink hair sticking up in uneven tufts. Blood drips lazily from her nose, smudging against the back of her hand when she wipes at it, and her scowl is carved so deep it feels like her only expression.
âI donât need a medic,â the girlâVi, you hear the man mutterâsnaps, yanking her arm free. âI need a drink.â
âProtocol,â He replies flatly, giving her a shove that nearly sends her sprawling.
Vi catches herself with a stumble, shooting him a glare before surveying the room with obvious disdain. Her gaze lands on you, and her lip curls faintly. âThis it? Cozy,â she mutters, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
You ignore her, focusing on the final stitch on Rykerâs jaw. âYou can take a seat,â you say evenly, nodding toward the empty couch by the far wall.
âNo thanks,â Vi shoots back, shoving her hands into her jacket pockets. She leans against the wall instead, glaring at nothing in particular.
âToo proud to sit down, blue belly?â Ryker mutters, casting a sharp glance from his seat. His voice is low, edged with a warning. âOr has the guilt of hunting your own finally caught up with you?â
âRyker,â you say softly, your tone a quiet scold. The last thing you need is a fight breaking out here.
But his words make you look at Vi more closely. Her features are familiar, in a vague, nagging way. It clicks as you take in the hard set of her shoulders, the stubborn way she holds herself, and the bruises already blooming across her cheekbone. A new batch of enforcers had swept through Zaun a few weeks back, leaving havoc and clouds of Grey in their wake. Theyïżœïżœïżœd brought their brutality, painted their violence into the walls of the city, and then disappeared like ghosts, leaving Zaun more broken than before.
Thatâs how it usually went with them.
However, you had never heard of someone from the undercity becoming an Enforcer before.
Vi scoffs, slurring her words just slightly. âI donât knowâdâyou wanna find out?â
You pause, needle halfway through a stitch, tension coiling tight in the air. âDonât,â you warn softly, already sensing where this is headed.
Ryker shifts forward on the bench, his battered knuckles flexing. âYou wanna go another round?â
Vi pushes off the wall, stepping closer. âYou wanna lose again?â she challenges, her voice low and sharp.
âThatâs enough,â you snap, moving quickly to step between them. Loris mirrors your movement, his larger frame serving as an immovable barrier.
âSit. Down,â Loris growls at Vi, his glare enough to make her hesitate. With a huff, she leans back against the wall again, though her fists remain clenched in her jacket pockets.
You shake your head and turn back to Ryker, finishing the last stitch with practiced ease. âYouâre done,â you tell him, rummaging through your cabinet and handing him a small bottle of pain meds. âKeep it clean, change the bandage twice a day, and stay out of troubleâfor your sake and your daughterâs.â
Ryker stands slowly, still throwing a glare Viâs way. But his expression softens when he looks at you. âThanks,â when he says your name, his voice is warmer than before. âYouâre too good for this place.â
You offer him a faint smile. âTake care, Ryker.â
He leaves, brushing past Vi with a grunt, and the room feels quieterâtense but quieter. You turn your attention to the newcomer, whoâs leaning against the wall, her posture relaxed but her eyes sharp, tracking your every movement.
âAlright,â you say, already washing your hands and gathering fresh supplies. âYour turn.â
Vi doesnât move from the wall. âIâm fine,â she insists, âpatch up the ones who actually need it.â
Your gaze flicks over herâthe bloody nose thatâs started to run again, the gash seeping through her sleeve, and the raw swelling on her knuckles. âSit,â you say, your voice firm.
She doesnât budge.
You meet her gaze, letting the silence stretch uncomfortably long, a quiet standoff neither of you seems willing to break. Your fingers tap once against the counter, but your glare doesnât waver. You wonât repeat yourself.
Loris, the man who dragged her in, steps forward with a roll of his eyes, giving her a nudge with his elbow. âSit down, Vi.â
She winces at the pressure on her back, her bravado faltering for just a split second. With a low grumble, she finally drops onto the bench, slouching with exaggerated indifference, her arms crossing tight over her chest.
You grab a clipboard and step closer. She watches you like youâre some kind of nuisance.
âName?â you ask, clicking your pen.
âVi,â she mutters, her eyes fixed on the far wall.
âVi what?â
âJust Vi.â
You suppress a sigh. âWhatâs your full name?â
âI said, just Vi.â
Thereâs an edge to her tone, enough to make you glance up. Her jaw is set, her expression daring you to press the issue. You donât. Instead, you scrawl it down and move on. âFine. Age?â
âOld enough to fight.â
Your pen stills mid-note, the corners of your mouth tightening as you resist the urge to roll your eyes. âOf course, you are,â you say dryly, setting the clipboard aside with a little more force than necessary. âAlright, letâs start with the obvious,â you say, gesturing at her face. âYour nose is bleeding. Tilt your head back.â
Viâs brow arches like youâve just said something funny. âI said, Iâm fine.â
âAnd I said, tilt your head back,â you reply, your voice steady but no less firm.
Her gaze sharpens, a flicker of defiance lighting in her eyes, but she tilts her head back with a dramatic huff. âHappy?â
You ignore her tone, stepping closer to inspect the injury. The faint scent of sweat and iron lingers between you, and for a moment, you notice the heat of her skin where your gloved fingers gently tilt her chin.
âDoesnât feel broken,â you mutter, reaching for a clean cloth to dab away the blood. She flinches as the fabric touches her skin, her muscles twitching under your fingers. âRelax,â you say softly. âIâm not going to hurt you.â
âCouldâve fooled me,â she mutters.
Your hand falters, just briefly. Thereâs a weight to her words, a sharpness you werenât expecting, but you push past it. âWell, I mean it,â you reply quietly.
Her silence stretches as you work, less hostile but no less charged. The closer you look, the more details you notice: the faint scars lining her skin, the inked letters etched into her cheekbone, the edge of a tattoo just barely visible beneath her collar, and the faint shine of her silver nose ring.
âJacket off,â you say, gesturing to the gash on her arm.
Her gaze snaps to yours, wary and sharp. âWhy?â
You give her a flat look. âBecause I canât stitch it through fabric.â
For a second, she doesnât move, her body tensing as if bracing for something. Then, with a muttered curse, she shrugs out of her jacket, tossing it onto the bench beside her.
Her arms are a messâold fighting hand wraps soaked with blood and dirt wrapped tightly around her forearms. You offer to replace them, but she cuts you off. âIâll do it myself.â
You let it go, focusing instead on cleaning the fresh wound. Her muscles tense every time you touch her, but she doesnât flinch again. âYou can relax, you know,â you say, trying to sound light. âIâm just trying to help.â
Vi lets out a bitter snort. âYouâre not the first to say that.â
You pause, but you donât press. Sheâs lashing out on you. Thatâs the most you can make of it.
The silence stretches again as you stitch the wound, her eyes watching you closely, unreadable. When you finally glance up, your movements stilling, she shrugs.
âWhat?â you ask, unable to help yourself.
âNothing,â she says, leaning back.
You hold her gaze for a beat longer before shaking your head and returning to your work, wrapping the freshly stitched wound with clean bandages. She stays quiet, watching until the silence becomes heavy again.
Then, without warning, she speaks, her voice quieter but cutting. âYou know, youâre wasting your time on these people. Half of them wouldnât piss on you if you were on fire.â
The words hit like a punch, sharper than anything sheâs said before. You freeze mid-motion, your fingers hovering over the bandage as you process her bluntness. Slowly, deliberately, you resume wrapping her arm, tucking the end of the bandage into place with more care than you think she deserves at that moment.
âGood thing I donât do this for their gratitude,â you reply evenly, though the edge in your voice betrays a flicker of irritation. Youâre trying not to let it get to you.
Sheâs new. Clearly, sheâs fighting off some kind of pent-up frustration. She must have anger issues or something. You wonder how many hits Ryker got on her before she knocked him out.
Her chuckle is low and humourless, more of a scoff than anything else. âRight.â
You hope he got a solid six or seven punches in.
You step back, peeling off your gloves with a deliberate snap. Thereâs a moment where you consider saying something more, but you swallow the impulse. Professionalism, you remind yourself.
âYouâre all set,â you say curtly, gathering up the soiled supplies. âIâd suggest taking tomorrow off. You know, to let the wound heal before you go back out there.â
Vi grabs her jacket, standing in a single fluid motion. She doesnât look at you when she replies, her tone casual but dismissive. âIâll live.â
You wish Ryker had broken her nose.
You shake your head, already turning back to tidy your workstation, unwilling to watch her saunter out.
Loris, standing by the door, offers you a small, almost apologetic smile. âThanks,â he says, his voice warmer than hers ever was.
You manage a smile back, but itâs shallow, worn. The door swings shut behind them, leaving you alone in the cramped room. The exasperation settles in like a weight, not heavy but persistent.
For a moment, you stand there in silence, staring at the supplies on your counter. You shake your head again, this time at yourself.
What the fuck is her problem?
You know you shouldnât be surprised when Vi stumbles into the medic room again the very next day. The fights at Antisâs brawling ring are infamous for their relentless schedule, especially on weekends when the bets come pouring in before sundown. Itâs barely dusk now, but the underground buzz is already unmistakableâthe muffled cheers and jeers vibrating through the walls.
Vi comes alone this timeâor at least she leaves Loris waiting outside the door. You catch a brief glimpse of him through the crack in the door, leaning against the wall with a drink at his lips, shaking his head like this is just another day for him.
The door slams shut as Vi shoulders her way in, her boots heavy against the floor. Sheâs holding one hand against her face, blood dripping sluggishly through her fingers and trailing down her arm.
You have to bite back a smile at the sight.
Sheâs ditched her jacket, and the sleeveless collared top sheâs wearing looks like itâs seen more fights than she hasâworn thin, patched up in places, and stained with a lifetime of blood and sweat. Her hand wraps are shredded and still filthy, hanging loosely around her forearms. The gash on her arm has reopened, the stitches torn apart as if they were never there to begin with.
You take all of this in within seconds, and something tightens in your chestâa mix of frustration and satisfaction. âYou canât fight back-to-back nights,â you say, your voice sharper than intended as you grab your gloves and a fresh set of supplies.
Vi grunts, brushing past you to sit on the bench. âI can do what I want,â she snaps, her words muffled by her hand still pressed to her face. Her defiance is unshaken, but the tremble in her shoulders gives her away. Sheâs hurting.
Now you start to feel bad. But just a little bit.
Youâve seen this beforeânew fighters crashing into the medic room with the same mix of bruised pride and bloodied skin. They fight like thereâs no tomorrow, each punch is thrown carrying something more than just adrenaline. Some fight for money, some for escape, and others just because they donât know how to stop. Thereâs always a reason. You canât help but wonder whatâor whoâVi is fighting for.
With a quiet exhale, you turn to the counter and grab your supplies. The clatter of tools fills the silence as you steel yourself for the inevitable pushback. âLet me guess,â you say, glancing over your shoulder at her. âAntis needed someone to keep the bets high, and you couldnât say no.â
Vi drops her hand from her face, and for the first time, you see the full extent of the damage. A deep bruise blooms across the bridge of her nose, nearly swollen shut in one eye, while blood smears across her mouth and drips down her jaw.
She glares at you through the mess, her voice sharp. âItâs none of your business.â
âNo,â you admit, stepping closer and gesturing for her to tilt her head back. âBut Iâm the one who has to patch you up. So humour me.â
She scoffs but tilts her head back, letting you inspect the damage. Up close, the bruise looks worseâangry and dark, already spreading across her pale skin. Her nose isnât broken (unfortunately), but itâs close, and the blood smeared across her upper lip makes her look like itâs been bitten off. You grab a clean cloth and start wiping the blood away. Your movements are brisk but careful, and she winces slightly as you press the cloth to her skin. Still, she doesnât pull away, just sits there stiff and unyielding.
âYouâre going to tear open the stitches every time you fight like this,â you mutter, reaching for the antiseptic. âYouâve gotta take it easy. I know how these guys fight out thereââ
âI donât need your pity,â she cuts in, her voice sharp enough to cut glass.
âNot pity,â you reply, keeping your tone even. âJust words of advice.â
âI donât need that either,â she snaps, her jaw tightening as you dab antiseptic on the wound. âJust patch me up so I can go. Iâm only here because Antis wonât clear me for my pay otherwise.â
âYeah, itâs protocol,â you say, capping the bottle and setting it down beside you.
âItâs stupid.â
âIt was my idea.â
Her head jerks slightly, her eyes flicking toward you for a beat. Thereâs something almost vulnerable in her expression before she quickly looks away. She doesnât answer right away, her gaze fixed firmly on the far wall. When she finally speaks, her voice is quieter, almost bitter. â...Still stupid.â
You smile faintly as you reach for fresh bandages. âYeah, well, stupid or not, itâs keeping people alive. Even stubborn ones like you.â
Stubborn is definitely a nicer word than what you really want to say.
She doesnât respond, and the silence stretches between you as you unwrap the old bandage around her arm. Her fingers twitch against her thigh, like sheâs itching to leave, but she stays seated, her posture rigid. You canât tell if itâs pride or exhaustion keeping her thereâor maybe both.
For the rest of the session, Vi is quieter than usual. Her sharp retorts are replaced by a heavy silence that seems to weigh down the air in the room. Outside, the muffled roars of the crowd echo through the thin walls.
As you work to clean and re-stitch her arm, you glance at her every so often, noting the way her jaw tightens and her fingers tap restlessly against her thigh. Itâs like sheâs bracing for a blow that might never come, her body constantly coiled, ready to spring.
You take a step back, pulling off your gloves with a snap. âYouâre good to go,â you say, your voice softer now. âBut you need rest.â
She snorts, grabbing her jacket off the bench without looking at you. âCanât rest. Iâm on a winning streak.â
You arch a brow. âYouâve only been here two days. I wouldnât count that as a streak.â
âDonât really care what you think.â
âYou should. Youâre sleep-deprived, by the way. Your eyes barely focus. Get more sleep. And you need to drink more water.â
Vi huffs a dry, sarcastic laugh, âSure, doc. Whatever you say.â
You want to argue, but sheâs already out the door, leaving behind only the faint scent of iron and the lingering weight of words left unsaid. Loris nods at you through the open door as she stalks past him, his gaze flicking back to you briefly.
The door swings shut behind them, leaving you alone with the distant hum of the crowd and the bloodstained bench. For a long moment, you just stand there, staring at the scraps of torn bandages scattered on the floor, the mess she left behind.
Itâs not long after that you learn her name is Violet.
The knowledge of it nearly makes you laugh.
Violets. Youâve never actually seen them, but a friend of yours, a painter, once gifted you a piece featuring soft, delicate purple blooms. It hangs over your bedside table, a rare touch of beauty in an otherwise bleak city. You like to imagine those flowers are violets, though youâre not entirely sure. Flowers arenât exactly a common sight in Zaun.
The irony of her name strikes you every time you think about it. Violet. Thereâs nothing soft or delicate about herânot the way she fights, nor the way she speaks to you.
She didnât tell you her name herself, of course. That would require her to speak more than three sentences in your direction, which feels like an impossible feat. No, funnily enough, it was Loris who let it slip, though you suspect he knew exactly what he was doing. It wasnât much of a âslipâ rather than straight-up telling you her name.
It happened a night at a bar near your work. Youâd gone with some friends, seeking a much-needed reprieve. The bartender, a friend of yours, had slipped you a couple of free drinks, and in a haze of warmth and exhaustion, you noticed Loris at the bar. He looked out of place, all gruffness and silence amid the lively chatter, so you invited him to join your table.
Several drinks in, your curiosity got the better of you. You leaned closer to him, your voice barely cutting through the music and chatter as you asked him about his pink-haired friend.
Loris wasnât much of a talker, you realized. Heâd spur out a few words or two, maybe a grunt or nod.
Loris made a face, his usual stoic front slipping just enough to reveal a flicker of amusement. He leaned in, his breath heavy with the scent of cheap beer, and gave a rare grin. âSleeping,â he said simply, before adding, almost as an afterthought, âHer nameâs Violet, by the way.â
Violet. You didnât expect that, and it mustâve shown on your face because Loris chuckled softly.
It doesnât take long for her name to start climbing the ranks at Antisâs. Fighters and spectators alike talk about her with equal parts fear and admiration. âAntisâs money-maker,â they call her, and itâs not hard to see why. When word spread about the unbeatable pink-haired girl, business began booming. Crowds flooded in, the promise of blood and spectacle drawing them like moths to a flame.
At first, she was just another new fighter, opening matches against scrappy, overconfident rookies. But that changed quickly. Within weeks, she was headlining brawls, her name alone enough to pack the stands. She didnât just winâshe dominated, often taking on two, three, even four opponents in a single night. And you? You kept count. You had to.
She tore through supplies faster than you could restock them. Bandages, antiseptics, medsâall of it consumed at an alarming rate. Youâve patched her up more times than you can count. But what stands out most isnât just the state of her after a fightâitâs what she leaves behind.
Her opponents donât come to you for minor injuries. No, they stumble in half-broken, their faces smashed and unrecognizable. Each night growing worse for wear. She fights with a ruthlessness youâve rarely seen, a fury that feels almost personal. You canât help but wonder what drives her. Is she trying to make a point?
Sheâs changing, turning into something the crowd craves. Her old, worn clothes have been replacedâblack jeans, already ripped at the knees, and a sleeveless black tank that clings to her frame. Sheâs losing pieces of herself, or maybe just hiding them.
You still can't believe that there's a girl named Violet out there beating the shit out of people for money.
One day, you accidentally walk into her in Antisâs office. Youâre here to drop off some invoices for medical supplies, your mind preoccupied with balancing the clinicâs dwindling stock against the rising demand. But when you open the door, you find Vi and Antis inside, deep in conversation.
Antis looks up first, his sharp eyes narrowing at your intrusion. âYouâre early,â he grunts, though thereâs no real annoyance in his tone. If anything, he seems amused. âPerfect timing. We were just talking about her look. What do you think?ïżœïżœïżœ
Vi shifts uncomfortably, her arms crossed over her chest. She doesnât meet your gaze, her expression unreadable. You glance between them, caught off guard. âHer⊠look?â
Antis gestures to Vi with a sweep of his hand, his grin wolfish. âYeah. Gotta sell the whole package, yâknow? The crowd loves her, but theyâll eat up a good aesthetic, too. Weâre thinking something that screams âunbeatable.â Right, Vi?â
Viâs jaw tightens, and for a brief moment, you think she might snap at Antis. But she doesnât. Instead, her gaze flicks to you, like sheâs waiting for somethingâyour reaction, maybe, though you canât figure out why it matters.
You clear your throat, hoping your voice doesnât betray you. âShe doesnât need to change anything. Sheâs already pretty... unforgettable.â
Antisâs booming laugh fills the room, but you barely hear it. Your focus is locked on her. Something flickers in her eyesâa fleeting softness, vulnerability, gratitude, maybe?âbefore she schools her expression and looks away. You tell yourself itâs nothing, just a trick of the dim light.
A few days later, she shows up in the medic room again. But this time, it's differentâsheâs not limping in, not dripping with sweat or covered in bruises. Sheâs just there, standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame with a casual air that catches you off guard. Her knuckles brush the doorframe absentmindedly as if sheâs unsure whether to knock or let herself in.
âDo you need something?â you ask, glancing up from where youâre restocking the shelves. âAre you hurt?â
She shrugs, pushing off the door and stepping inside. âNo, just⊠itâs quiet in here.â
Your brows knit together. Quiet?
She didnât seem like the kind of person to seek out quiet, especially not in a place like this. âYou came all the way here because itâs quiet?â
âYeah,â she says simply, her tone flat, like itâs the most obvious thing in the world. She grabs the chair from your desk, spins it around, and sits backward on it, resting her arms over the backrest. âProblem?â
âNo... itâs justâŠâ You trail off, unsure how to articulate the strangeness of it. Instead, you turn back to organizing supplies, aware of her eyes on you. âNever mind.â
These visits became more frequent whenever she didnât fight. And she even stays back for a bit after you patch her up. Sometimes she speaks, but more often than not, she doesnâtâsimply sitting in that chair, letting the distant noise of the arena, the cheers and shouts, fade into the background. Sheâll stare at the walls or absentmindedly tap her fingers against the chairâs edge, lost in thought, but thereâs a serenity about her, an unfamiliar stillness that you start to recognize.
She never tells you what brings her inâif something is weighing on her mind or if itâs just a need to escape the chaos. And you donât ask. Instead, you begin to anticipate her visits, a strange comfort taking root in the space between you.
The conversations are sparse, but you begin to notice the small things: the way her body relaxes when she settles into the old couch, the weight lifting from her shoulders as she stretches out, the way sheâll let herself drift off into a light sleep. Itâs almost like youâre giving her a moment of rest she didnât know she needed.
Vi strides in, her steps heavier than usual, and tosses a small, overstuffed bag of coins onto your desk. You recognize it immediatelyâone of the payout sacks Antis gives to the fighters, filled with their share of the betting pool. This one looks heavier than most, jingling with an unmistakable weight as it lands right on top of your paperwork. You pause, your pen hovering midair, and stare at it.
Her grin spreads as she catches the look on your faceâwide-eyed and mildly incredulous. âDonât worry, itâs not for you,â she teases, her tone light and mocking.
You roll your eyes, setting the pen down with an exaggerated sigh. âThis from your fight last night?â
Vi nods, her grin twisting into something sharper, a little more wicked. âSome of my best work,â she replies, her voice carrying the faintest edge of pride.
You tilt your head, raising an eyebrow as your gaze sharpens on her face. âI donât know,â you counter dryly. âHe broke your nose, and the whole side of your face is swollen. Doesnât sound like your best to me.â
Standing up, you step closer, brows knitting together in concern as you get a better look at the mess of bruises sheâs sporting. Without thinking, your hands lift, reaching toward her face to assess the damage.
Vi flinches. Itâs quick, almost imperceptible, but enough to make you hesitate. Your hands hover in the air, faltering. âSorry,â you murmur, your voice soft.
She coughs awkwardly, shifting her weight. âNo, uhâno. Itâs fine,â she says, a little too fast.
This time, when you move again, she doesnât flinch. She lets you gently brush your fingers over the swollen, splotchy skin along her cheekbone and jaw, and you feel the heat radiating off the inflamed area. Your touch is careful, clinical, but you canât help wincing at the sight. âYouâre kidding yourself if you call this your best work, Viâ you mutter. âDid you even ice this like I told you?â
Her eyes roll so hard youâre almost worried sheâll sprain something. She grabs your wristânot roughly, but enough to lower your handâand shrugs. âYou shouldâve seen the other guy.â
You give her a deadpan look. âI did.â
Her smirk returns, a little more genuine now, though she doesnât say anything. Instead, she sits on the edge of your desk and starts digging absently through the bag of coins, her fingers brushing over the shiny hexes and cogs. She doesnât pull anything out, just lets her hand linger there.
âI brought you food,â she says suddenly, her voice casual.
You blink, momentarily thrown. âFood?â
She lifts a greasy paper bag into your line of sight, and you realize you hadnât even noticed it when she walked in. âYeah, you know. The stuff you eat when youâre hungry.â
âOkay, asshole,â you mutter, but the corner of your mouth quirks up despite yourself.
She shrugs, feigning nonchalance. âGot it for Loris and I, but heâs, uh⊠busy. Doing... someone else.â Her tone is flat, like she couldnât care less, but thereâs a flicker of something thereâan edge of amusement, maybe. âSo, more for us.â
You watch her for a second. You like to think that you can see right through her sometimes, that you can read her, but as usual, sheâs an enigma. Thereâs something in the way she said us that makes your chest feel a little lighter, but you donât let it show. âThanks,â you say simply.
âWell, donât get used to it,â she shoots back. There is kindness she tries to hide, though itâs written all over her expression.
She settles onto the old medical bench, pulling out boxes of food from the bag. You wince internally at the sight, thinking about the number of people whoâve bled, puked, and worse on that very bench. Just hours ago, Vi had been sitting there herself, nose snapped out of place, grinning through bloody teeth and swollen lips and teary eyes. Now, sheâs perched there like itâs nothing, tearing into her meal with that same reckless ease she carries into every fight.
âIs this where Iâm supposed to remind you how unsanitary this is?â
She shrugs mid-bite, unbothered.
You donât bother arguing. Instead, you take the box she pushes toward you and settle in. The two of you eat in silence.
The days begin to blur into one another as Viâs visits grow more casual. At first, you barely tolerated herâa pit fighter like so many others, bruised and bloody and reckless, shuffling into your medic room with the same bravado they all wore like armour. But somewhere along the way, you start to realize you actually donât hate her company.
And as Vi continues her rise with pit fighting, you realize you also like to take care of her afterwards, even if it is your job or not. Each fight ends quicker than the last, her victories coming faster and fiercer. With every knockout, her confidence bloomsâbold, intoxicating.
Youâve always been able to tell why people fight. Some thrive on the violence, seeking it out like a drug, their eyes lit with a manic fire that never seems to dim. Others do it out of desperation: to keep a roof overhead, food on the table, some semblance of stability in their lives.
At first, you were certain Vi belonged in the first category. The way she took punches, how she barely flinched when you patched her upâshe didnât just endure the pain. She absorbed it. Relished it. She wore her scars like trophies, and it almost seemed like she was chasing something more with every bruise and break.
But then you started noticing other things. How her clothes, once old and frayed, began to look newer. The leather jacket she bought just last week, the new earrings glinting against her skin, the sturdy boots sheâs traded her worn ones for. Loris mentioned she moved out of his apartment recently and got her own place, though most of her money seemed to go toward booze.
You realize that fighting for Vi isnât just about survival or enjoyment. Itâs an outletâa way to lose herself in the chaos and the violence, to drown out whatever it is she doesnât want to face.
One night, you do something youâve never done before: you buy a ticket to one of her fights. Youâve seen enough carnage in the medicâs room to last a lifetime, but something about Vi pulls you in, like gravity. The crowd is as raucous as everâcheers, boos, the metallic clang of Antisâs bell marking the start and end of each match. You donât join in the noise. You just watch, feeling out of place among the spectators who are here for the bloodlust.
And then Vi steps into the ring.
Itâs the first time youâve seen her fight, and itâs nothing like you imagined. Youâd seen the aftermathâthe blood, the bruises, the broken bonesâbut witnessing her in action is something else entirely. Sheâs skilled, fast, brutally efficient, her punches calculated yet devastating.
The man sheâs up against is nearly twice her size, but it doesnât matter. She ducks under his swing with ease, her fist connecting with his jaw in a single, bone-crunching motion that sends him sprawling. The fight is over in less than a minute, and the crowd roars its approval.
Your eyes linger on her, unable to look away. Her back is to you, sweat gleaming on her exposed skin, highlighting the intricate tattoo that snakes across her shoulders. When she turns, she seems to know exactly where you are, her gaze locking onto yours even in the chaos of the crowd.
Your breath catches. The rise and fall of her chest, the bead of sweat tracing down her neck, the raw, undeniable power in her every movementâitâs overwhelming.
Something stirs deep inside you, hot and wanting.
You leave before her second fight starts, slipping through the crowd and into the tunnels. The line waiting for you in the medic room feels endless, yet the blur of bruised faces and bloody wounds canât distract you. Viâs image lingersâsweat on her skin, her breath heavy after the fight, and the way her eyes found yours in the crowd.
You never bring it up, and Vi doesnât either.
But something changes.
That night, as you treat her wounds again, it feels different. Sheâs quieter than usual, her usual cocky smile missing. You notice how her eyes linger on your hands as you work, following the glide of your fingers over her skin.
Your gloves feel thinner tonight, or maybe itâs just your imagination. Youâre hyperaware of every small movementâhow her skin feels warm under your touch, the sharp contrast of the calluses on her knuckles against your palm when you steady her hand to examine it.
She doesnât flinch when you press a damp cloth to the gash on her temple. Normally, sheâd tease you, mutter something about your bedside manner, or complain about the sting even though the both of you know she can take it. Instead, she just watches you, her gaze unwavering.
Itâs almost unbearable.
Sweat, blood, and alcohol. That is what she smells like. Thick and hanging on your tongue like smog.
âYouâre awfully quiet tonight,â you finally say, your voice softer than you intended.
Viâs lips quirk, but itâs a faint ghost of her usual grin. âJust tired, I guess.â
Itâs a lie, and you both know it.
You focus on cleaning the cut, trying to steady your hand. But her closeness throws you off. Sheâs sitting on the edge of the cot, her knees brushing against your thighs whenever she shifts. The room feels smaller.
âAlmost done,â you murmur, though it feels like youâre saying it more to yourself than her.
Vi tilts her head slightly, giving you better access, and the movement draws your attention to the curve of her jaw. Thereâs a bead of sweat lingering there, catching the dim light, and you have to force yourself to look away.
âTake your time,â she says.
Your fingers pause for just a second before you continue cleaning the wound. Her words hang in the air, charged and heavy, and you wonder if she knows how theyâve started to affect you. You reach for the bandages, your hands brushing against her skin again. Her breath hitchesâjust barelyâbut itâs enough for you to notice.
âThere,â you say, pulling back slightly. âDone.â
But your hands linger for a moment too long, your fingers still ghosting over her cheek. Youâre not sure if itâs you or her that doesnât pull away first.
Viâs eyes are on you again, darker now, and the air between you crackles with something unspoken. You donât know if itâs the proximity, the adrenaline still lingering from her fight, or the way her lips part slightly like sheâs about to say somethingâbut you canât take it anymore.
âI should clean up,â you say abruptly, turning away to gather the used bandages and cloths.
For a moment, she doesnât move, and you think she might say something to stop you. But then you hear the rustle of her leather jacket as she stands, the creak of the cot as her weight leaves it.
âThanks,â she says.
You glance over your shoulder, just in time to see her slip through the door. She doesnât look back.
Her visits dwindle after that night. Fewer and fewer until she stops coming altogether. She starts fighting nights back to back, ignoring protocol and refusing to see you after each one.
You try to shake it off.
To ignore it until you can't.
And then you visit her one day.
Itâs not in the medic room or the fighting ring. Itâs at her door, and itâs jarring, her address scribbled on a small piece of paper that Loris gave you.
You canât tell if Antis is pushing Vi to fight more or if Vi willingly puts herself through it every day. She is always in rotation, more so than any other fighter. Itâs gotten to the point where people are betting on how long Vi could remain undefeated.
You hate how you immediately perk up when her door opens.
âWhat are you doing here?â she asks, her voice low and guarded.
Her hair is black, dripping wet and staining her pale shoulders with inky streaks. The change startles you, but whatâs more disarming is the sight of her like thisâstripped-down, raw. Bandages are wrapped haphazardly around her chest, serving as an impromptu shirt. Her arms, usually hidden beneath gauze and gloves, are bare, revealing the countless scars that crisscross her skin. You can kind of see where her tattoos start and end. You think theyâre beautiful.
You open your mouth, but the words donât come. Why are you here? For some reason, you hadnât thought much about it before knocking. Now, standing here in her doorway, it feels like a mistake.
Youâre not really friends.
âUh,â you stammer, fumbling for an answer. Your gaze keeps straying to her hair, the stark black making it look longer, heavier. The pigment stains her hairline, dripping in uneven streaks along her temple. You notice how the damp strands cling to her neck, how the water pools in the hollow of her collarbone. It feels intrusive to look, but you canât help it.
Sheâs staring at you, her shock quickly shifting to irritation. âYou gonna stand there all day, or what?â
âIâyour hair,â you blurt out. âItâs⊠different.â
She scoffs, brushing past you as if youâre not worth the effort of a proper reply. The door swings open wider, an unspoken invitationâor maybe just a lack of concern if you follow. You hesitate, then step inside.
Her apartment is small and dim, almost claustrophobic. The air is stale and thick with a faint tang of alcohol. The small bed in the corner is unmade, the sheets rumpled and half-pushed onto the floor. A punching bag hangs in the center of the room, its surface worn and cracked from overuse. Thereâs a stack of clothes shoved into the corner, and a few empty bottles litter the floor near the bed.
But itâs the quiet that hits you the hardest. Itâs so different from the loud, chaotic energy she carries at the ring or the silence in the medic room. Here, everything feels muted, almost sad.
âYou dye it yourself?â you ask, trying to fill the awkward silence as she settles onto the edge of the bed.
She glances at you, the bottle in her hand tipping slightly. âYeah.â
âAntis didnât make you do it?â
Vi snorts a small, humourless sound. âNo. He suggested green.â
You try to picture her with green hair and fail. âWhy black?â
âNeeded a change,â she says simply, taking a swig from the bottle. The way she winces as she swallows tells you itâs not her first drink tonight. âWhy are you here?â
The bluntness of the question knocks you off balance. For a moment, you forget. Then the weight of the box in your hands reminds you. âOh, uh, I brought you some new hand wrappings. I saw them at the store and thought you could use them since yours are... shit. Yours are shit.â
Her eyes snap up to yours, something unreadable flickering in them before she looks away. âThanks.â
âItâs no problem,â you reply, though your voice feels stiff and awkward. You shift your weight, unsure whether to stay or leave. Her gaze returns to you, steady but unreadable, and you feel the strange urge to say somethingâsomething meaningful.
âYou... you okay, Vi?â you ask softly, not even sure why the words come out. You immediately want to take it back.
âWhy wouldnât I be?â
You look at her, really look at her. Not in the way you do at work, but right now, as a friend(?), guest(?) in her space. The dark circles under her eyes, the tension in her shoulders, the way she grips the bottle of cheap beer as if itâs the only thing keeping her upright. She looks⊠tired. Beaten down, in a way youâve never seen before.
âI donât know,â you admit, your voice quieter now, careful. âI guess you just⊠you havenât come by in a while. It looks like you need a good patch up again, no? Donât worry, I wonât charge.â
The words sound too casual, too light like youâre trying to make a jokeâand you are, but you can see the way her face stiffens after you say it. The faint bruises on her face, the bandages on her arms and hands, theyâre a clear sign of how badly sheâs been pushing herselfâsheâs been taking supplies from you without checking in, and youâve noticed. You know she hasnât gotten her pay yet. You havenât had the chance to clear her for it since she stopped coming by after fights. Itâs a faint sore spot between you both, an unspoken thing she wonât acknowledge, but you know sheâs not getting the care she needs.
For a moment, her face hardens, and you wonder if youâve crossed a line, if sheâs going to snap at you. Instead, she just stares at you, her jaw tight, her eyes narrowing like sheâs trying to figure out what your angle is.
You feel her gaze like a weight pressing down on you, making your skin itch.
Then, she exhales slowly, the tension in her posture easing just a fraction.
âIâm fine,â she says finally, though the words lack conviction. She shifts, setting the bottle down on the floor. âYou done?â
Youâre about to say something elseâmaybe ask again, maybe push for moreâbut then you realize itâs not your place. You step back, suddenly feeling like an intruder. âYeah.â
You place the box of hand wraps on the counter, but your hands feel clumsy as you do. You want to say something more, something comforting, but the words stick in your throat. âGood luck tonight, Vi.â
She doesnât respond right away. You turn to leave, your feet dragging slightly, unsure if you should even be leaving at all. It feels like thereâs something more to say.
Just as you reach the door, her voice stops you. Itâs softer than you expect, quieter, almost hesitant.
âThanks.â
As you walk down the hallway, the ache in your chest lingers, a nebulous knot of worry, pity, and something else you canât quite pin down. It tightens with each step, and you wonder, not for the first time, what weight Vi carries with herâand why it feels like itâs starting to settle on you too.
You shake it off, reminding yourself that you're not working this weekend. A rare luxury. Vi doesnât need to know, and honestly, you doubt sheâd even care. If anything, sheâd probably be glad to be rid of you for a few more days.
Thatâs what you tell yourself.
The next time youâre sitting in your cramped little medical room, fussing over how some of the things on your desk are now out of place, the door creaks open just a sliver. You pause, mid-motion, and glance at the shadow shifting on the other side. When whoever it is spots you, the door swings wide with an almost violent energy, smacking against the wall behind it.
âHey,â Vi stumbles inside, the loud thud of her boots and the echoing cheers from the fighting pit outside spilling into the room with her.
You stand abruptly, the chair scraping back against the floor as you take her in. âVi?â
It takes you a second to recognize her. The black hair throws you off again, though the pink is already creeping back into the ends, the dye washing out like itâs given up trying to keep up with her. Paint smears her faceâthick streaks running from her eyes down to her chin like some warped battle mask. Sheâs gripping a large bottle in one hand, cradling it as if itâs precious, her knuckles stained red.
Her smirk is crooked, her words slurred. âWonât believe it,â she drawls, letting herself fall unceremoniously onto the old, battered couch in the corner. The springs squeak loudly in protest, and she almost knocks over one of your carefully hung paintings. âHey.â
You frown, stepping closer. âAre you drunk?â
Her smirk widens, playful and defiant. âNo.â
âNo?â
âI just won,â she says, like that explains everything. âAgain. Beat that big guyâmetal jaw. You know the one. Knocked it clean off.â
Sheâs grinning like she just told a funny joke, but you donât laugh. Fighters donât go into the pit drunk, at least not that youâve ever seen. They also donât win, which is why Antis is strict about that; drunk fighters are bad fighters, and bad donât bring in any moneyâheâll kick anyone out who even smells like shimmer, let alone someone stumbling around with a bottle of booze.
You move closer cautiously, studying her.
She sits up straighter as you approach, her hair falling messily across her face. You catch a glint of her blue eyes through the strandsâsharp, even with the haze of alcohol dulling the rest of her. Her gaze flickers down to her bloodied knuckles, and so does yoursâred seeps through the white of her hand wraps, staining them in uneven patches.
She murmurs something, but itâs too soft to catch.
âWhat?â
âYou werenât here.â
Her words surprise you.
âYeah,â you say, unsure how else to respond.
âFour days.â
âI know.â
âWhy not?â
You hesitate, caught between wanting to downplay your absence and knowing sheâll see through it. âIâve been busy. I have a life outside this place, you know that, right?â
âRight,â she mutters, though thereâs something bitter in the way she says it.
She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her fingers gripping the bottle loosely. She stares ahead, her face unreadable, and for a moment, the room feels impossibly quiet despite the muffled roar of the crowd outside. Youâre counting the seconds until someone from the pit shows up looking worse for wear, but she just sits there, unmoving.
Finally, she speaks. âLoris and I are going out for drinks at the bar next door.â
âMore of them?â
She scoffs, but thereâs a faint smile playing on her lips. âFuck off. I was gonna invite you.â
âYou want me there?â
âSure,â she shrugs, leaning back against the couch. âSince you and Loris are so close.â
You roll your eyes, grabbing a plastic bag and filling it with ice. âOh, yeah. Best friends. I thought you knew.â
She grins at that, her expression lazy but amused as you press the makeshift ice pack to her cheek. She winces, hissing under her breath, but doesnât pull away. The familiarity of the moment settles between you, a rhythm you hadnât realized you missed. You didnât know how much you liked being around her, with all her flaws and quirks, until it was gone.
When she stands to leave, thereâs a lightness to her movements. She pauses at the door, glancing back over her shoulder.
âBut youâre coming, right?â she asks, her voice softer, less guarded.
You nod, tugging absently at the rings on your fingers. âYeah. Iâll stop by after I finish up here.â
Her smile catches you off guard. Itâs not the smirk or grin youâre used toâitâs warmer, something youâve never seen before. âGood.â
And then sheâs gone, leaving you alone in the stillness of the room. The ache in your chest hasnât gone away, but it feels different now, lighter somehow, settling into the pit of your stomach like a flutter of butterflies.
You canât wipe the smile off your face even if you tried.
Your night stretches on, each task blending into the next. Stitches to pull, bruises to ice, concussions to monitor. This is your rhythmâcalm, focused, efficient. You donât dwell on the blood staining your gloves or the bruised faces looking back at you. Usually, thereâs a detachment, a quiet understanding between you and the fighters. You help them, and they leave.
But tonight feels different. The weight of the work presses a little heavier, the hours crawling by as the thought of Viâs smile keeps replaying in your head. You remind yourself to focus, to get through the line of battered fighters who rely on you, but every second drags, making your usual rhythm feel offbeat.
Itâs not just Viâs smileâitâs the invitation, her softer tone, the way she paused at the door like your answer mattered more than usual. You donât let yourself overthink it, but you do catch yourself checking the time more often than youâd like.
When the last fighter leaves, mumbling a tired thank-you, you exhale in relief. The medic room is quiet now, the faint smell of antiseptic lingering in the air. You pack your supplies, stuffing gloves, gauze, and a few stray pins into your cabinets. The bathroom across the hall catches your eye as you pass, and for once, you pause.
The bathroom is dimly lit, the bulb above buzzing faintly as it flickers. The mirror is cracked in one corner, the surface smudged and grimy, but it still reflects more of you than youâre ready to see. Your sleeves are stained, and your hands are scrubbed raw but not clean enough. The uneven greenish light only makes you look worse, casting harsh shadows on your face.
You roll your sleeves up and run water into the sink, trying to scrub the splotches from your clothes. The waterâs cold and your hands ache from the effort, but it feels worth itâlike a small chance to put your best self forward. You straighten your shirt, brush off your jacket, and fix your hair as best as you can.
Itâs not enough.
Itâll never be enough for a bar full of fighters, let alone for her. You think about going home to change, but itâs already late, and the idea of missing her is ridiculously unbearable.
Clutching your jacket tightly, you step into the downpour outside. The rain pelts against your skin, soaking through your boots as you jog the few steps to the bar. The hum of voices reaches you before the neon glow of the sign above the door does.
Inside, the place is alive.
Most of the crowd from the arena spills into the corners of the bar, still riding the high of the nightâs fights. Tables are crammed with victorious fighters and their friends and sponsors, their voices rising above the heavy bassline of a song playing in the background. The air is thick with the smell of sweat, beer, and the faint tang of spilled liquor.
The dim lighting casts a warm, golden hue over the room, softening the rough edges of the crowd. People laugh, shout, and toast to victories. Some are already slumped over the bar, lost in exhaustion or celebration.
Your eyes scan the room, searching for her. Instead, you spot Loris firstâhis brick-like frame standing out even among the chaos. Heâs leaning casually against the bar, arms crossed, but his face lights up when he sees you.
He waves you over, and you weave through the crowd, dodging dancing bodies and familiar faces who call out greetings as you pass. Your heart beats faster, a mix of nerves and anticipation, as you approach.
âYou made it,â Loris says, his grin wide and genuine.
You huff, brushing a damp strand of hair out of your face, but you canât fight the smile tugging at your lips. âHi.â
Loris gives you a nod, his usual gruffness softened just a bit for you. He calls the bartender over, jerking his chin toward you to signal itâs your turn to order.
You glance at the menu briefly, though you already know what you want. After placing your order, the two of you settle into a quiet rhythm. Loris doesnât seem like the type to fill silence for the sake of it, and you donât mind. Thereâs a strange comfort in his presence.
You find yourself scanning the crowd without thinking, your eyes searching for pink hair at first, a flash of brightness that would stand out even in a place like this. Then you remember her hair is black now. Your eyes adjust, searching instead for the sleek leather of her jacket or the familiar glint of its spikes catching the dim, shifting light.
The bartender sets your drink down in front of you with a solid thud, breaking your focus. Your heart skips a beat, and you reach for the glass more out of reflex than thirst. The cool edge of it presses against your palm, grounding you.
âHappy youâre here.â
Lorisâs voice cuts through the noise, low but steady. You look up at him, caught off guard. His eyes remain fixed on his drink, but thereâs a weight to his words that makes your chest tighten.
âMaybe itâll keep Vi from doing something stupid,â he adds after a beat, his tone rough but not unkind.
Your eyebrows knit together as you bring your glass to your lips. The liquor burns on the way down, but itâs nothing compared to the unease settling in your stomach. âWhat do you mean?â
Loris hesitates, his fingers drumming against the counter as he considers his words. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter, almost reluctant. âShe gets into fights sometimes.â
Your stomach sinks further. âHere?â
âOnly happened twice,â he says quickly like itâs supposed to make you feel better.
âOh.â You set your drink down, your fingers lingering on the glass. âWhy?â
Loris exhales through his nose, his shoulders shifting as if the question itself is a burden. âDunno. She wonât talk about it.â
You blink, caught off guard. âShe doesnât seemâŠâ You trail off, unsure how to finish that sentence.
âLike a drunk?â he finishes for you. âSheâs good at hiding it, most of the time. But sheâs been drinking more. Gets worse when sheâs stressed.â
You bite your lip, your fingers tightening around your glass. âStressed about what? Fighting?â
He shakes his head, never answering. âSheâs stubborn as shit, you know that. But somethingâs been eating at her, and I donât think she knows how to deal with it.â
The words hang between you as the clamour of the bar continues around you. You glance down at your drink, the amber liquid catching the dim light, and take another sip. It doesnât burn as much this time, but it doesnât settle the knot in your stomach, either.
âI can keep an eye on her,â you say quietly, more to yourself than Loris. âSheâs not supposed to be in the pit intoxicated anyway.â
He nods, a faint hint of gratitude flickering in his eyes. âSheâs lucky to have you.â
The comment catches you off guard, and you look at him sharply, but heâs already turning back to his drink. You swallow, your cheeks warming for reasons that have nothing to do with the alcohol.
You look away.
And then you spot her.
Vi pushes her way through the crowd, a storm parting the sea of bodies on the dance floor. Her scowl deepens as she brushes off someoneâs outstretched hand, her movements sharp, purposeful. The smudged paint on her cheeksâlikely streaked from the rainâgives her the appearance of someone worn down by more than just the weather. Faint lines trace across her face like tears.
Your eyes trail to her arms, bare and flexing slightly as she adjusts the leather jacket slung over her shoulder. The spikes catch the dim, flashing lights of the bar, their edges softened by the haze of the room. In her other hand, she grips a glass of something amber and strong.
Your heart jumps, and you realize youâve been staring when her gaze lifts to you. For a moment, she pauses in her tracks and just looks at you, her eyes scanning your face as if confirming youâre really here. Then, she grinsâa slow, crooked thing that tugs at her lips and sends your pulse hammering in your chest.
The smile is lazy but unmistakably pleased.
She changes course, heading straight for you.
She doesnât look drunkânot like beforeâbut the memory of her swaying slightly in your medic room comes rushing back. You donât miss the way her drink is already nearly empty, or how smoothly she downs the last of it before setting the glass on the bar with a clink.
When she reaches you, the faint scent of rain and leather clings to her, mingling with the sharper tang of alcohol.
âHey,â Vi says, your name rolling off her tongue in that low, slightly rough voice of hers, and she leans against the counter next to you.
âHey,â you grin, trying to keep your voice light even as your pulse races and Loris laughs at you. âYou seem surprised to see me.â
âNot surprised,â she replies quickly, her eyes flicking to yours and then away, her smirk faltering for just a second. âJust⊠glad.â
The simplicity of her words sends your thoughts scattering, but before you can respond, she tilts her head toward your glass. âWhatâre you drinking?â
You lift it slightly, letting the dim light catch the remaining liquid. Vi eyes it for a moment, nodding in approval. âGood choice. Finish it.â
You blink, âWhat?â
She nudges your elbow lightly, a teasing smile tugging at the corner of her lips. âCome on. Youâre here to have fun, right? Finish your drink, and Iâll show you what that looks like.â
Her tone is playful, almost teasing, but thereâs an edge of sincerity beneath it. You hesitate, then take a longer sip, her expectant gaze making it impossible not to comply. The drink burns a little less this time, and when you place the empty glass down, sheâs already holding out her hand.
âCome with me,â she says, and itâs not really a question.
Her fingers are warm when they curl around yours, her grip firm and steady as she leads you toward the heart of the bar. The crowd thickens as you move closer to the dance floor, the music pounding louder with every step. The bass thrums through the floor, climbing up your legs and settling in your chest, and the swirl of bodies around you becomes a blur of movement and heat.
Vi doesnât let go of your hand, even as she turns back to glance at you, a faint smile pulling at her lips. For the first time in a while, thereâs a lightness in her expression, a spark of something youâve missed seeing.
Her usual confidence is there, but itâs softened, almost shy. You follow her lead, feeling awkward at first, but her laughâlow and huskyâeases some of your nerves.
The two of you move together amidst the shifting pulse of the dance floor, the heat of the crowd wrapping around you like a living thing. Youâre acutely aware of every brush of her fingers against yours, the subtle way her body angles toward you as if sheâs drawn to your orbit.
Youâre staring at her, looking at the few freckles on her cheeks you can still see under the smudged paint, at the pink ends of her dark hair, at the way her leather jacket has found itself back on her shoulders, muscular arms hiding inside the sleeves.
You think youâre a little obsessed with her.
The question forms on your lips before you can stop it. âWhy did you stop coming by?â
Your voice is soft, barely carrying over the music, but itâs enough. Her gaze sharpens as she hears you, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face.
âI like taking care of you, Vi.â
For a moment, she freezes. Then, almost imperceptibly, she steps closer. Her hand slides to your waist, the calluses on her fingers warm against the thin fabric of your clothes. She doesnât answerânot with words. Instead, she tilts her head slightly, her thumb brushing against your jaw, coaxing you to look at her.
Her eyes search yours, hesitating just long enough for you to realize whatâs about to happen. Her breath, warm and faintly tinged with alcohol, fans across your lips, and a shiver runs down your spine.
And then she kisses you.
Itâs quick at first, almost testing the watersâa soft brush of her lips against yours that leaves your breath caught somewhere between your heart and throat.
You pull away from her, face burning, when you notice her eyes are still closed, only to flutter open questioningly. Bright, piercing blue meets yours, and for a moment, you see panic flare in her expression.
âFuck,â she mutters, running a hand through her rain-damp hair. âFuck, Iâm sorryâI shouldnât haveââ
âNo.â The word comes out instinctively, you cannot get rid of that stupid smile on your face. âNo, donât apologize.â
Your fingers find their way to the lapels of her jacket. Her face scrunches up, caught somewhere between hope and disbelief, but youâre not looking at her eyes anymore. Youâre focused on her lips, on the faint scar cutting across the corner of her mouth.
You tug her closer.
You kiss her back.
She exhales sharply against your lips, the sound half a gasp, half a groan, as her hands come up to cradle your face and the nape of your neck. Itâs as if something inside her has snapped, all her restraint slipping away as she pours herself into you.
The world around you dissolvesâthe music, the crowd, the cacophony of Zaunâs nightlife fading into a muted hum. Itâs just her, her warmth and her touch, her breath mingling with yours as she holds you like youâre the only thing anchoring her to the moment.
Her lips move against yours with a fervour that borders on desperation, her hands mapping out the curve of your waist, the small of your back, your hips, and your ass with her eyes closed. Sheâs eager to have you close, to feel you.
You respond in kind, your hands sliding up her abs, your fingers tangling in her hair, tugging slightly as her groan vibrates against your mouth.
The sound she emits makes your head spin. Viâs warmth is all-consuming. A tangle of heat and want that leaves you both breathless by the time she finally pulls back, her forehead resting against yours.
âI need toââ she starts, her voice hoarse and trembling. She glances around, as if suddenly aware of where you are. âLetâs go somewhere. Outside.â
She doesnât wait for a response, her hand finding yours again as she guides you through the crowd. You barely register the shift in the air until youâre stepping into the rain-soaked streets of Zaun.
The alley she leads you into is dimly lit, the flicker of a neon sign casting faint, wavering light against the wet pavement. The rain is light but steady, cool droplets clinging to your skin as she turns to you, her chest rising and falling like sheâs been running.
Her gaze is intense, unwavering, as she steps closer, crowding you against the brick wall. âYouâre making me crazy,â she murmurs, her voice low and rough. Her hand cups your jaw, her thumb tracing a slow, deliberate path along your cheekbone.
âI could say the same,â you admit.
And then sheâs kissing you again, this time with a fervour that leaves no room for hesitation.
Itâs embarrassing how fast you tangle together after this, melding together into a pathetic heap out on the sidewalk for god and everyone in this podunk city to see. This time, you note with a ticklish glee settling in your stomach, your lips moving in tandem. They slit against each other with ease.
The rain seeps into your clothes, cold against your skin, but Viâs touch is fire. Her hands are everywhere, rough and sure as they explore your body, pulling you closer, as if afraid youâll slip away.
You thread your fingers through her hair, pulling her to you, matching her passion with your own softness. She groans into your mouth, the sound vibrating through you, and you take the opportunity to deepen the kiss, your tongue brushing against hers in a slow, deliberate caress.
Her grip tightens on your hips, fingers digging into damp fabric as she presses you harder against the wall. The rain patters around you, mingling with the sound of your ragged breaths, the occasional distant noise of the bar fading into irrelevance. She parts your thighs with one of her own and places a steadying hand right next to your face. She takes you in, wholly and completely and you let her.Â
The rain beats down relentlessly, plastering your clothes to your skin, but you barely notice it. Not when Vi is kissing you like thisâlike sheâs trying to consume you like sheâs been starving for this. Her body is warm, her lips are hot, insistent, and messy against yours, her teeth occasionally graze your lower lip in a way that sends shocks through your entire body.
Breathy moans expel from your mouth in tandem with curses as her leg creates delicious friction against the lace of your underwear.Â
âVi,â you manage, though it comes out as more of a broken whine, breathless and desperate.
Her name on your lips pulls a moan from her, low and guttural, and the sound is enough to make your knees weaken. You think you might collapse if she werenât holding you so tightly.
Your head spins. You feel like youâre dissolving, every nerve alight as you lose yourself in her touch. Your lungs burn, screaming for air, but you canât pull away. You donât want to. Instead, you cling to her, fingers tugging in her hair.
Itâs overwhelmingâher heat, her strength, her desperation. Sheâs chaos and want, all Violet and nothing else, and youâre caught in her pull, like a leaf tossed about in a gale. It terrifies you, the way she consumes your thoughts, your senses. It feels like being set aflame, every kiss, every touch fanning the fire until youâre sure youâll burn to ashes.
Her hands slide lower, shoving into the back pockets of your pants, and she grips you firmly, guiding your hips to rock against her. The movement is deliberate, slow at first, but the friction makes you whimper, a sound that seems to drive her further. Vi pulls you closer, dragging your body against hers in a way that makes you shudder.
Your breaths come in sharp, uneven gasps, each one punctuated by her low moans. You donât think youâve ever felt like thisâuntethered, your body moving on instinct as you grind down against her leg. Her hold on you tightens, fingers digging into you, her strength reminds you of all the noses sheâs broken, all the wounds you had to tend to because of her. The thought makes you dizzy, makes you crave her more.
Viâs hips roll up into you, meeting your movements with a messy rhythm that leaves you trembling. The heat pooling in your stomach builds steadily, like a fire that refuses to be sated, even under the torrent of rain.
You let your hands wander, sliding up the hard planes of her stomach, your fingers tracing the ridges of muscle through her soaked bandages. Youâre struck by how solid she feels, how strong, and it makes your chest tighten with something you canât quite name. When your palm presses lower, cupping her over her pants, she keensâa quiet, needy sound that has you aching to hear it again.
Oh, you want her to do that again, youâre going to make her do that again.
Her grip on your hips becomes almost bruising, her breath coming faster as she sighs into your mouth. âFuck,â she mutters, the word a rough exhale that sends a shiver down your spine. And then, barely audible, she mumbles, âCait.â
You falter, the word barely registering over the storm and your own pounding heartbeat. Itâs unfamiliar and foreign, and it sticks in your mind like a splinter.
Her lips are on yours again, insistent and wild, her teeth catching your bottom lip as her hands slide up under your shirt. Her fingertips are warm despite the rain, leaving trails of fire along your skin as she pushes the wet fabric higher. You shudder under her touch, goosebumps rising in her wake, your body arching instinctively toward her.
Your mind is a tangle of emotions and half-formed thoughts. Youâre hyper-aware of everythingâof the rain soaking through your clothes, the way her breath mingles with yours, the quiet groans she canât seem to hold back.
She moves with purpose, her lips finding the sensitive skin along your jaw, then lower, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. Each touch sends a fresh wave of heat through you, making it harder to think, to breathe.
Your fingers are clumsily slipping into her underwear and then youâre there, fingers brushing right against her clitâsheâs so wet that your fingers brush right through her folds, gliding like silk.
âVi,â you whisper again.
Her answering hum vibrates against your skin, and she pulls back just enough to meet your gaze. Her eyes are half-lidded, the blue of them dark and turbulent, like the sea during a storm.
You lean in, pressing your lips to the sensitive spot just below her jaw. Itâs a place you know well, one youâve touched countless times in the dim light of your medicâs room, dabbing at bruises and wiping away blood. Each time, sheâd jerk away ever so slightly. Now, you press your lips there with the same precision, but the sense is wholly different.
She shifts beneath your touch, her breath hitching as your mouth moves deliberately along her neck. The breathy moans she leaves by your ear fuel you, spurring you on as you focus on the rhythm of her breathing, the way her body responds to you.
âGood,â she mutters, her voice rough and uneven. âFuck, feels so good.â
Her hand moves beneath your shirt, her palm rough and calloused against the softness of your skin, digging under your bra. She cups your breast, her thumb brushing over your nipple, and the sensation sends a jolt through you, sharp and electric. Her other hand tangles in your hair, tugging just hard enough to make your scalp tingle.
It aches, but youâre smiling, even as the rain continues to pour, soaking through your clothes and plastering your hair to your face. You sneak a glance at her, and the sight nearly undoes you. Her eyes are squeezed shut, her dark lashes clumped together with rain and dark, smudged makeup against pale, bruised skin. Her lips are parted, searching for somethingâyour lips, your skin, something to kiss.
You donât make her wait. She bites at your neck, teeth grazing your skin, and you gasp, your hand instinctively moving to her hair. You tug, and the sound she makesâa guttural, desperate moanâsends heat pooling low in your stomach.
She mutters your name, her voice soft yet filled with a hunger that shakes you to your core. Thereâs a plea disguised in her tone, a silent plea to give her everything, to let her take all you have to offer.
And you will. Youâll give her everything. Your time, your care, your thoughts and prayers, every piece of yourself. Your leg, an arm, the air you breathe, and the food you make. Youâd give her your heart, too, if only sheâd take it.
Her body trembles against yours, her chest heaving as her breath comes in sharp, shallow bursts. You canât tell if itâs from the cold rain seeping into your bones or from the way your fingers move against her. You trace light circles over her clit, teasing, testing, and the way she reactsâhips jerking, her hands clutching at you desperatelyâyou think she wants your warmth, and you hope that is what she chases after.
When you slip a finger inside, she gasps, her voice breaking into soft, fractured sounds that make your chest ache. It takes a few tries, careful adjustments to find the spot that makes her fall apart, but when you do, itâs like a floodgate opens. Her moans grow louder, more desperate, her body tensing beneath your touch as she winds tighter, tighterâ
âCaitâŠâ The same name from before slips from her lips like a whisper at first, so faint you almost miss it.
Then she says it again, her voice catching on the syllable, and your world tilts.
âCait⊠CaitâŠâ she chants, the name tumbling from her lips in fervent prayer, each utterance cutting through the haze that had clouded your mind.
It tastes bitter. Bitter like the alcohol still lingering on her breath. Bitter like the realization sinking into your chest.
You freeze, suddenly sober.
Your hands falter, and Vi doesnât seem to notice at first, still panting, still trembling, her forehead pressed against yours. The furrow in her brow deepens when you pull back, untangling yourself from her arms.
âWhatâ? Whyâd you stop?â Her voice is hoarse and confused, the desperation still thick in her tone.
âWhoâs Cait?â The words leave your mouth before you can stop them.
âWhat?â
Vi blinks, her face a mask of confusion before her expression shifts. Guilt flashes in her eyesâraw and unguarded. Itâs a look youâve seen before, maybe once or twice.
âYou keep calling me âCait.ââ You canât meet her gaze as you say it. Your chest tightens, your throat burns, and suddenly, the space between the two of you feels suffocating.
You reach for her hand still under your shirt, running your thumb over her split knuckles. Itâs a gesture that feels too tender now, and you pull her hand away from you, stepping aside to put distance between your bodies.
âI donât knowâŠâ Your voice cracks as you say it, your mind grasping for anything to make sense of this moment.
âShit. Shit.â Vi curses under her breath, running a hand through her wet hair. âIâm sorry. I didnât mean toâI didnâtâCaitâs just⊠someone I used to know, alright?â
The rain pours harder, the chill sinking into your bones as you cross your arms tightly against your chest. You glance down the alley, to where the streetlights cast faint glows on the wet pavement. Anywhere but her face.
âUm⊠I think I need to go,â you mumble.
âYou just got here.â Her voice is low and unsure, and it makes you stutter for a moment. She takes a step toward you, one hand lifting as though to touch you, but she freezes mid-motion, her fingers curling into a fist.
âI know.â You force the words out. âBut itâs been a long day.â You take a step back, and then another.
âPlease.â Her voice cracks on the word. âDonât leave.â
You pause, your breath hitching at the desperation in her tone. It tugs at something in your chest, something that still wants to turn around, to reach for her and say everything is fine. But itâs not fine. Not anymore.
âViâŠâ Her name feels raw on your tongue. âYouâre drunk. I shouldnât have⊠Iâm sorry.â
âNo.â She cuts you off, the panic in her voice sharp enough to pierce through the rain. âNo, donât say that. Iâm not drunkââ
âYou are.â
Her words are rushed, and frantic, like sheâs trying to convince herself as much as you. You shake your head, stepping back again, the cold of the brick wall scraping against your palm as you steady yourself.
âYouâre clearly not in the right state of mind right now,â you say, your tone firmer this time. It feels like a lie, like a mask youâre slipping on to hide the crack forming in your resolve. âIâll see you tomorrow, alright? Just⊠rest easy. You fight early tomorrow.â
She exhales sharply, a sound halfway between a sob and a growl, her hands clenching at her sides. âFuck. Fuck!â The frustration explodes out of her as her fist slams into the brick wall beside her, the dull thud reverberating in the air.
The sound makes you flinch, your shoulders stiffening as you start walking away. Her voice chases after you, raw and broken, but you canât bring yourself to turn back.
Your lips burn where her mouth had been, a phantom heat that refuses to fade despite the freezing rain. You wipe your hands against the damp fabric of your pants, but the scent of her lingersâsmoke, leather, and something wholly hers. It clings to you like a ghost.
The sunlight catches you off guard the next morning. It filters in through the grimy window of the medic room, cutting golden beams through the usual haze of smog. The light feels almost intrusive, prying into the shadows youâve grown accustomed to.
You glance at the old clock on the wall, your eyes heavy from lack of sleep. Last night replays in your mind like a broken recordâViâs voice, raw and regretful, the taste of her still lingering on your lips, and that name, Cait, slipping like a shard of glass between your ribs.
Outside, the faint hum of Zaun waking up filters through the walls. Fighters pass by the door, their voices carrying muffled excitement or hushed murmurs about Viâs loss.
âSheâs never been this off her game,â someone says as they pass. âWonder whatâs eating her.â
You tighten your grip on the bandage roll in your hand, trying to ignore the way your stomach clenches.
The sunlight persists, illuminating every imperfection in the roomâthe cracks in the walls, the scuff marks on the floor, the faint stains on the counter. Itâs the first time youâve seen this much light down here, and yet it only seems to highlight everything you want to forget.
You try to focus on your work, lining up supplies that donât need organizing, folding bandages that donât need folding. You think about how Viâs presence, chaotic as it was, had somehow made this job bearable. Her grins, her dry wit, the way she sat in that chair like it was her throneâit had all made this dim room feel a little less oppressive.
But today, the chair stays empty.
Word of her loss had swept through the Pit hours ago. Even the ones who bet against herâout of spite or fearâseemed shocked. Youâd caught snippets of conversations, whispers about how Vi had gone down hard, how her opponentâs hit had landed with a sickening crack that echoed through the arena.
Ryker confirmed the details when he came in, his voice low as he described the sound her body made hitting the floor. The image had stuck with you, sharp and unrelenting, as you waited.
You expected her to show up the way she always didâbleeding but defiant, swaggering in with that cocky grin, already downplaying her injuries. But as the hours stretched into evening, the worry settled deeper.
Maybe sheâd gone straight to the bar again, skipping protocol out of spite. You wanted to believe it, even if it wasnât fair. If anyone had the right to be upset, it should be you.
You paced the cramped room, the sound of your boots scraping against the floor the only thing keeping you grounded. You told yourself you didnât careâit wasnât your job to chase after fighters who wouldnât take care of themselves. But deep down, it stung.
The thought of her turning back to old habitsâof her brushing you aside like you never matteredâsettled in your chest like a bruise you couldnât rub out.
And then the door creaks open.
Vi steps inside, her silhouette framed by the soft, golden light spilling through the window behind her. She hesitates in the doorway, a shadow of her usual self. Her confident swagger is gone, replaced by a tired, battered figure. The black paint streaked across her shoulders has smeared into her skin, blending with dried blood and sweat. Her leather jacket hangs heavily from her hands, and her makeshift top is damp, torn in places, and caked with dirt.
Her face tells the rest of the story. A swollen eye, a nose bent at an angle that makes you wince just looking at it, and a constellation of bruises across her cheekbone and jaw. Blood has dried in crusty patches along her hairline and temples, merging with the remnants of the black paint she hadnât bothered to wash off.
She lingers there, gripping the edges of the doorframe like sheâs bracing herself for rejection. Youâre about to speak when her gaze finds yours, cutting through the silence like a knife.
âHey,â she says, her voice scratchy and low.
You exhale a breath you didnât realize you were holding, willing your tone to stay steady. âTook you long enough,â you say lightly, turning toward the counter to grab the salve and bandages.
When you glance back, the ghost of a smirk flickers on her lips, but it vanishes just as quickly. She steps further inside, lowering herself into the chair with a muted groan. Thereâs no quip this time, no offhand joke. She just sits there, shoulders sagging, staring at her bloodied hands like they belong to someone else.
You pull on your gloves, the snap of latex breaking the silence. âWhat happened?â
Her shrug is stiff, âGuess I wasnât fast enough.â
Thereâs an edge to her voice, sharp and bitter. Itâs self-directed, steeped in frustration, and it takes you by surprise. You soak a cloth in antiseptic and step closer, gently dabbing at a jagged cut above her eyebrow. She flinches but doesnât pull away.
âWhy didnât you come sooner?â you ask, your tone soft but firm.
Her jaw tightens, and her hands curl into fists on her lap. âDidnât think youâd want to see me.â
You pause mid-motion, your hand hovering just above her skin. Her words feel like a slap, and youâre not sure if the sting comes from the accusation. âI still like to take care of you,â you say quietly.
Vi scoffs, the sound is humourless and tired. âThatâs your job.â
âYeah, but,â you counter, meeting her gaze head-on. âI like doing it.â
The confession hangs in the air, heavy and unspoken between you. Her shoulders tense as she processes your words, her eyes darting away like she canât bear to look at you.
You try to focus on cleaning her wounds, âYou shouldâve come earlier. You shouldnât do this to yourself.â
âWhy not? Seems to be what Iâm good at.â
Her words strike a chord, a pang of hurt and anger swirling in your chest. You step back, giving her space as you set the cloth down. The sunlight streaming through the window catches on her hair, painting her in a halo of gold. She looks almost ethereal, and it breaks your heart, because you know she doesnât see it.
âViâŠâ You hesitate, unsure of what to say.
She looks up then, her eye searching your face. Her voice cracks when she speaks. âI donât get it. Iâm a jerk, right? Always have been to fucking everyone, even Loris and my sister and I... I mean, Iâve been a dick to you since day one. Why donât you just⊠let me fuck myself up?â
âIâve thought about it,â you admit, a hint of teasing laced in your voice. âBut then Iâd be a pretty shitty medic, wouldnât I?â
Her lips twitch upward again, but it doesnât quite stick. âIâm sorry,â she says, her voice so quiet you almost miss it. âFor everything.â
You nod, not trusting yourself to speak.
âI didnât mean toâŠâ She trails off, her gaze dropping to the floor. âI didnât mean to hurt you.â
The sincerity in her voice twists the knife deeper, but it doesnât change the truth. âItâs okay,â you manage.
âNo, itâs not.â She finally looks at you, her blue eyes clouded with something you couldnât quite place. Regret? Shame? âI⊠You deserve better than that. Better than me.â
Her words hit like a punch to the gut. You swallowed hard, forcing a small smile. âYouâre being dramatic. Iâm fine, really.â
Vi shook her head, leaning back against the chair. âYouâre not. Youâre just too good to say it.â
Her eyes flick up to meet yours, and for a moment, it feels like the world has stopped spinning. You can see the pain in her expression, the regret and the sorrow, but thereâs something else, tooâa longing that mirrors your own.
But itâs not enough.
You step back, and the distance between you feels like miles. âYou should rest. I gotta fix your nose.â
Vi nods, leaning back in the chair. The sunlight catches on her bruises, highlighting every mark, every scar. She looks like a warrior, battle-worn and beautiful, and you know youâll never forget this image of her.
As you work in silence, you canât help but wonder what it wouldâve been like if things were differentâif whoever Cait was didnât haunt her, if she could see you the way you see her.
But deep down, you know the answer.
Sheâll never be yours.
But youâll always be hers.
When you finish, Vi hesitates for a moment longer than you expect, her movements slow and deliberate, as though she doesnât know where to go next or what to do. She stands, and the way her shoulders rise, like sheâs summoning whatâs left of her strength, makes your heart ache.
âThanks,â she says.
âOf course. Itâs what Iâm here for.â
As the words leave you, they feel hollow. You want to reach for more, to say something else, to make her understand. You want to scream, to tell her that you could be enough for her if sheâd just let you. You could make her believe that sheâs worth more than the pain sheâs carrying. But instead, all you do is smile. Itâs soft, strained, and bittersweet.
She doesnât meet your eye as she turns toward the door. You watch her move, each step deliberate, like sheâs carrying an invisible weight. For a fleeting moment, itâs as if sheâs pulling the room with her, dragging everything back into the shadows.
And then, sheâs gone.
The door clicks softly behind her, leaving the room eerily silent. You sit back in your chair, the quiet pressing in around you like a heavy fog. The warmth from the light seems to linger, but it doesnât reach you anymore.
You sit back in your chair, staring at the empty space. The room feels colder and quieter, and you realize that, no matter how much you wish otherwise, sheâll always carry pieces of someone else with her.
#this is kinda crazy oops#viâs gauntlets#fayeâs writing â§Ë*°àż#arcane#arcane x reader#vi x reader#arcane fluff#arcane vi#arcane imagines#arcane headcanon#vi arcane#vi fluff#arcane fanfic#vi x you#vi arcane x reader#arcane x female reader#tattoo artist vi#wlw fanfic#vi league of legends#violet arcane#vi#arcane vi x reader#vi arcane smut#vi fanfic#vi smut#vi fanart#league of legends#arcane smut#league of legends smut#vi x y/n
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
I really hope that now, the people who have been under-appreciating the class and racial dynamics of the show and Blitz and Stolasâ relationship can now realize that Blitz had every right to have doubts and worries over Stolasâ character when it came to their gap.
Do you know what this episode reminds me of? Authoritarian, dictatorial rule. People have opinions of public execution in the real world. Itâs something that actually happens. Even for peoples and societies that donât currently commit to public executions more than likely have a past history of doing so. And the realities of this very real thing were made clear in this episode. Because Blitz, and even all of IMP, was going to die. And in the real world, you probably donât have a royal lover to save you at the last second. It is a real tool used by cruel masters to keep people in line, to invoke terror and submission. We all saw their faces.
A family of imps, children watching. The little girl closing her eyes sadly.
His best friend and loved ones watching him get his head lopped off.
Even his scorned ex who he viciously hurt is horrified by this.
Just because we knew Blitz was going to be saved, should in no way erase the seriousness of this event. This is something used to enforce submission, to instill fear. Satan mentions how he created imps to be obedient. This was meant to be a reminder to all the lowly people in hell that their place is in the dirt. Because Blitz is only moderately successful for his race. By the standards of higher classes he would still be seen as a low-rate wannabe business man running a seedy operation. His is not rich by any means. His business only produces enough to moderately support his family and his workers.
And he was about to be killed for it.
He was about to be executed because he was a little too uppity. Because he dared to be anything other than what was designated for his race. Let that sink in. Imagine if you were executed on international television just because you wanted a better career and life. This is the reality in Hell. And the unfairness of it all is so blatantly seen when Stolas is harshly punished but still allowed to live. Not only that, but it was put on public record that heâs silly to think he would be killed because âhis life actually has worthâ. Thatâs insane.
And I need everyone to apologize and write Viv and her team love letters because these dynamics EXIST IN REAL LIFE. They are real and have real consequences, and this is real for the POC that lives down the street from you. This is not something that happens in a backwards place 10,000 miles away. Itâs in everyoneâs backyard. This episode was beautifully written and I look forward to every new episode to come.
#helluva boss#helluva boss stolitz#stolitz#blitz x stolas#blitzo buckzo#blitzo#helluva stolas#helluva boss stolas#stolas x blitz#stolas goetia#race and class are real#mastermind helluva
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
âShow, Donât TellââŠBut This Time Someone Explains It
If youâve ever been on the hunt for writing advice, you've definitely seen the phrase âShow, Donât Tell.â
Writeblr coughs up these three words on the daily; itâs often considered the âGolden Ruleâ of writing. However, many posts don't provide an in-depth explanation about what this "Golden Rule" means (This is most likely to save time, and under the assumption that viewers are already informed).
More dangerously, some posts fail to explain that âShow, Donât Tellâ occasionally doesnât apply in certain contexts, toeing a dangerous line by issuing a blanket statement to every writing situation.Â
The thing to take away from this is: âShow, Donât Tellâ is an essential tool for more immersive writing, but don't feel like a bad writer if you canât make it work in every scenario (or if you canât get the hang of it!)
1. What Does "Show, Don't Tell" Even Mean?
âShow, Donât Tellâ is a writing technique in which the narrative or a characterâs feelings are related through sensory details rather than exposition. Instead of telling the reader what is happening, the reader infers what is happening due to the clues theyâve been shown.
EXAMPLE 1:
Telling: The room was very cold. Showing: She shivered as she stepped into the room, her breath steaming in the air.
EXAMPLE 2:
Telling: He was furious. Showing: He grabbed the nearest book and hurled it against the wall, his teeth bared and his eyes blazing.
EXAMPLE 3 ("SHOW, DON'T TELL" DOESN'T HAVE TO MEAN "WRITE A LOT MORE")
Telling: The room hadn't been lived in for a very long time. Showing: She shoved the door open with a spray of dust.
Although the âshowingâ sentences donât explicitly state how the characters felt, you as the reader use context clues to form an interpretation; it provides information in an indirect way, rather than a direct one.
Because of this, âShow, Donât Tellâ is an incredibly immersive way to write; readers formulate conclusions alongside the characters, as if they were experiencing the story for themselves instead of spectating.Â
As you have probably guessed, âshowingâ can require a lot more words (as well as patience and effort). Itâs a skill that has to be practiced and improved, so donât feel discouraged if you have trouble getting it on the first try!
2. How Do I Use âShow, Donât Tellâ ?
There are no foolproof parameters about where you âshowâ and not âtell" or vice versa; itâs more of a writing habit that you develop rather than something that you selectively decide to employ.
In actuality, most stories are a blend of both showing and telling, and more experienced writers instinctively switch between one and another to cater to their narrative needs. You need to find a good balance of both in order to create a narrative that is both immersive and engaging.
i. Help When Your Writing Feels Bare-Bones/Soulless/Boring
Your writing is just not what youâve pictured in your head, no matter how much you do it over. Conversations are stilted. The characters are flat. The sentences donât flow as well as they do in the books you've read. Whatâs missing?
Itâs possibly because youâve been âtellingâ your audience everything and not âshowingâ! If a reader's mind is not exercised (i.e. they're being "spoon-fed" all of the details), your writing may feel boring or uninspired!
Instead of saying that a room was old and dingy, maybe describe the peeling wallpaper. The cobwebs in the corners. The smell of dust and old mothballs. Write down what you see in your mind's eye, and allow your audience to formulate their own interpretations from that. (Scroll for a more in-depth explanation on HOW to develop this skill!)
ii. Add More Depth and Emotion to Your Scenes
Because "Show, Don't Tell" is a more immersive way of writing, a reader is going to feel the narrative beats of your story a lot more deeply when this rule is utilized.
Describing how a character has fallen to their knees sobbing and tearing our their hair is going to strike a reader's heart more than saying: "They were devastated."
Describing blood trickling through a character's fingers and staining their clothes will seem more dire than saying: "They were gravely wounded."
iii. Understand that Sometimes Telling Can Fit Your Story Better
Telling can be a great way to show your characters' personalities, especially when it comes to first-person or narrator-driven stories. Below, I've listed a few examples; however, this list isn't exclusive or comprehensive!
Initial Impressions and Character Opinions
If a character describes someone's outfit as "gaudy" or a room as "absolutely disgusting," it can pack more of a punch about their initial impression, rather than describing the way that they react (and can save you some words!). In addition, it can provide some interesting juxtaposition (i.e. when a character describes a dog as "hideous" despite telling their friend it looks cute).
2. Tone and Reader Opinions
Piggybacking off of the first point, you can "tell, not show" when you want to be certain about how a reader is supposed to feel about something. "Showing" revolves around readers drawing their own conclusions, so if you want to make sure that every reader draws the same conclusion, "telling" can be more useful! For example, if you describe a character's outfit as being a turquoise jacket with zebra-patterned pants, some readers may be like "Ok yeah a 2010 Justice-core girlie is slaying!" But if you want the outfit to come across as badly arranged, using a "telling" word like "ridiculous" or "gaudy" can help set the stage.
3. Pacing
"Show, don't tell" can often take more words; after all, describing a character's reaction is more complicated than stating how they're feeling. If your story calls for readers to be focused more on the action than the details, such as a fight or chase scene, sometimes "telling" can serve you better than "showing." A lot of writers have dedicated themselves to the rule "tell action, show emotion," but don't feel like you have to restrict yourself to one or the other.
iv. ABOVE ALL ELSE: Getting Words on the Page is More Important!
If youâre stuck on a section of your story and just canât find it in yourself to write poetic, flowing prose, getting words on the paper is more important than writing something thatâs âgood.â If you want to be able to come back and fix it later, put your writing in brackets that you can Ctrl + F later.
Keeping your momentum is the hardest part of writing. Don't sacrifice your inspiration in favor of following rules!
3. How Can I Get Better at âShow, Donât Tellâ?
i. Use the Five Senses, and Immerse Yourself!
Imagine youâre the protagonist, standing in the scene that you have just created. Think of the setting. What are things about the space that youâd notice, if you were the one in your characterâs shoes?
Smell? Hear? See? Touch? Taste?
Sight and sound are the senses that writers most often use, but donât discount the importance of smell and taste! Smell is the most evocative sense, triggering memories and emotions the moment someone walks into the room and has registered what is going on insideâdonât take it for granted. And even if your character isnât eating, there are some things that can be âtastedâ in the air.
EXAMPLE:
TELLING: She walked into the room and felt disgusted. It smelled, and it was dirty and slightly creepy. She wished she could leave. SHOWING: She shuffled into the room, wrinkling her nose as she stepped over a suspicious stain on the carpet. The blankets on the bed were moth-bitten and yellowed, and the flowery wallpaper had peeled in places to reveal a layer of blood-red paint beneathâŠlike torn cuticles. The stench of cigarettes and mildew permeated the air. âHow long are we staying here again?â she asked, flinching as the door squealed shut.Â
The âshowingâ excerpt gives more of an idea about how the room looks, and how the protagonist perceives it. However, something briefer may be more suited for writers who are not looking to break the momentum in their story. (I.e. if the character was CHASED into this room and doesnât have time to take in the details.)
ii. Study Movies and TV Shows: Think like a Storyteller, Not Just a Writer
Movies and TV shows quite literally HAVE TO "show, and not tell." This is because there is often no inner monologue or narrator telling the viewers what's happening. As a filmmaker, you need to use your limited time wisely, and make sure that the audience is engaged.
Think about how boring it would be if a movie consisted solely of a character monologuing about what they think and feel, rather than having the actor ACT what they feel.
(Tangent, but thereâs also been controversy that this exposition/âtellingâ mindset in current screenwriting marks a downfall of media literacy. Examples include the new Percy Jackson and Avatar: The Last Airbender remakes that have been criticized for info-dumping dialogue instead of âshowing.â)
If you find it easy to envision things in your head, imagine how your scene would look in a movie. What is the lighting like? What are the subtle expressions flitting across the actors' faces, letting you know just how they're feeling? Is there any droning background noise that sets the tone-- like traffic outside, rain, or an air conditioner?
How do the actors convey things that can't be experienced through a screen, like smell and taste?
Write exactly what you see in your mind's eye, instead of explaining it with a degree of separation to your readers.
iii. Listen to Music
I find that because music evokes emotion, it helps you write with more passionâfeelings instead of facts! Itâs also slightly distracting, so if youâre writing while caught up in the music, it might free you from the rigid boundaries youâve put in place for yourself.
Hereâs a link to my master list of instrumental writing playlists!
iv. Practice, Practice, Practice! And Take Inspiration from Others!
âShow Donât Tellâ is the core of an immersive scene, and requires tons of writing skills cultivated through repeated exposure. Like I said before, more experienced writers instinctively switch between showing and telling as they writeâ but itâs a muscle that needs to be constantly exercised!
If I havenât written in a while and need to get back into the flow of things, I take a look at a writing prompt, and try cultivating a scene that is as immersive as possible! Working on your âShow, Donât Tellâ skills by practicing writing short, fun one-shots can be much less restrictive than a lengthier work.
In addition, get some inspiration and study from reading the works of others, whether it be a fanfiction or published novel!
If you need some extra help, feel free to check out my Master List of Writing Tips and Advice, which features links to all of my best posts, each of them categorized !
Hope this helped, and happy writing!
3K notes
·
View notes
Note
How did you learn to draw fat bodies but still keep it cartoony? I love how you draw different types of bodies and make them all seem normal instead of certain body types sticking out like a sore thumb next to others. I struggle to draw fat bodies without it looking weird with the rest of my art. Do you have a specific tutorial you followed or something?
This is a really good question! I'm glad you like my depictions of different body types, i worked really hard to get better at that so im happy folks enjoy em!! I didn't actually learn from a book or tutorial, it was mostly looking at fat bodies IRL and learning to incorporate those features onto what I already drew. As it turns out, we're all human, so if you understand the anatomy enough to draw a skinny person, you have the tools to understand the anatomy of a fat person.
So, like, here, this is my sketch of someone with a very average build. If I were to draw a fat body, I would still use all the basic principles I use here. One mistake I think folks run into is "isolating" parts, which can lead to things like this
which isn't necessarily bad, but if its not what you're going for, the issue is pretty apparent. Weight affects ALL of the body, not just the stomach or the face or the limbs. If you think about how that weight affects everything in tandem then you can start drawing fat bodies that work more in your style.
for this, this is the same quick sketch using the same pose and principles as the first one. but! I allowed the weight to be distributed across the body. Notice how the legs, belly, arms, etc all got thicker? The key to drawing fat bodies and making them look like they fit is allowing that weight to affect everything. without it, it just looks like you're adding on features to someone rather than considering everything at once.
my other tip is: don't be scared! things like fat arms or chins or bellies or stretch lines are not something that's bad to depict. if you want to draw fat bodies, you gotta not be scared to draw things the way they are. someone having a fat body is not bad, and you drawing that fat body is not bad either. Experiment! To me, art is about representing ideas, and the only way to get better is to experiment with how you represent those ideas. I'm by no means an expert, and I think you can also get a ton done by looking for resources aside from me, but I hope this helps, and have fun!!
5K notes
·
View notes
Text
I rly should learn how to use perspective rulers in clip studio esp with the new fisheye one just being released bc I know theyâre very useful and would probably help a ton. Itâs justâŠ.perspective in general is so hard and confusing for me I rly do not get the concept of perspective lines/rulers at all đ
#I struggle with basic concepts of âwhich way is left or rightâ irl . so u can imagine a billion weird lines on the screen make NO SENSE#like what do all the lines mean. how do I use this tool. I can barely use rhe 3D tools in general đ«Ł but Iâve had the program for so long!!#I should try to learn all the features!!!! right!!! like Iâm still paying money bc#tablet version requires a yearly payment (which is actually coming up next month iircâŠ) so!#I should get the most out of my money!#but no tutorial explains it in a way Iâve been able to get đ girl help#I know it would help sooo much for bgs if I brute force trying to learn it maybe smth will clickâŠâŠhopefully#I also have a random itch to animate???? whatâs going on w my brain lately đ€š#Iâve gotten a few of those free icons done at least :3 but idk how fast Iâll be able to focus on finishing all of them#Brain is playing ping pong with what it wants to do I am trying so Hard to focus on Anything#sanchoyorambles#I also still want to mess with blender but am Scared like girl if I canât work well w basic 3D models and conceptualizing 3D spaces how am#I gonna be able to make 3D models myself#I still will try tho
1 note
·
View note
Text
The high-level prophecy interpreters all worked for the government or major corporations. They were the ones with the money, and the ones most likely to be the subject of a prophecy. Sometimes you'd have a multi-billionaire hire on a prophecy interpreter, but usually they just had one on retainer. The same went for celebrities who were famous enough to attract significant prophecies.
But at the lower level, there were prophecy interpreters who opened up their own firms, usually just one or two if they weren't in a major city. That was me: I had gotten in prophecy interpretation in college and ended up majoring in it after the Kepler Incident. I had my name on bus stops and billboards, and a single secretary in my employ who thankfully handled most of the phone calls.
In the field we sometimes divide the business up into three sectors based on timing. There's "prophecy impact", which is when we do a consultation right after the prophecy has been made, or at least sometime before it rears its head. Some prophecies are decades in the making, but people want to be told what to do about them. I hate that part of the job, personally, because there's not a whole lot to do, depending on the language. Plus the conversations are pretty repetitive: a guy hears a pretty clear-cut prophecy that he's going to die falling out of a plane, and he's begging for some way out, as though there's something I can do about it, as though I can tell him that prophecies are lairs sometimes. Prophecies are liars, but they're clever liars, hiding meanings inside words, only clear after they've passed. You can't escape prophecy, and at least half of "prophecy impact" clients explaining that fact to them.
The second sector is "prophetic immanence", when the client has a prophecy that they think is coming true. Sometimes this can be because there's a trigger phrase in the prophecy, a conditional that appears to have been met. One of the dirty secrets of the industry is that nine times out of the ten, people are mistaken: the nature of prophecy is such that you can't often pinpoint when the prophecy is nigh. In my opinion, you can judge a prophecy interpreter by how upfront they are about this. The weasels will milk their clients dry by pretending that every moment is a crisis moment.
It's the last sector that I find the most satisfaction from, which is why it's a disappointment that it's the least in demand. This is post facto prophecy interpretation. You're not trying to prevent anything, you're not formulating a reaction, you're just trying to figure out what happened and how it all fit together. These are clients that are in the aftermath of prophecy, or what they're pretty sure is the aftermath, and a lot of the time, they just want someone to talk to more than they want my specific expertise.
My client that day was an artist, a rising star who had a few very successful gallery showings. It had been prophesied that her older brother would accidentally kill her father, but it had been her instead. This wasn't a recent trauma, but the wound was clearly still there, so I tried to navigate it as carefully as I could.
"One of the things that makes prophecy tricky is ambiguity," I said gently. "There are some, outliers, that depend on pretty tortured readings. But in this case, I think it's just an alternate meaning. From what you gave me, the prophecy was specifically 'the child who first draws breath', and that's in reference to your career as an artist."
"That's stupid," she said. "He's two years older than me, would he really never have doodled a person drawing? Just a few lines indicating that something is coming out of their mouth?" Her hands were folded in her lap. They were curiously still, for someone who used her hands for a living, but maybe artists were like that, preserving the tools of their trade.
"It's stupid," I agreed. "But I do think it's entirely possible that his drawings didn't include anyone breathing, and that yours did."
"How can we know for sure?" she asked.
"We can't," I replied. "Though if we take for granted that the prophecy was fulfilled, and that you were the one to fulfill it, then we have to search for answers within the realm of what we know. And if you're not satisfied with that answer, then I need to spend some time searching for alternate meanings, to find some interpretation that lands better."
"I could understand it if I had some obsession with drawing breath," she said. "If I had done a series of paintings of visible breath escaping from a person's body, then that would make sense. But it's not that, it's the first to draw breath, and that's just ... I mean, doodles we did when we were children. It means nothing. We have no way to mark that. It wasn't pivotal."
I shrugged. "It is what it is." I use that phrase a lot. "There's a selection effect with prophecies. The ones we hear about are hugely ironic, they show the hand of fate, they warp and twist people. But many of them are just," I shrugged again. "Things that happened."
"My brother moved away," she said. "My father had kind of accepted it, probably from the moment we were born, or before that. He'd made peace with it, hadn't tried to fight it. But it was a hard thing to learn for my brother, and he'd just left to go to school a thousand miles away, and coming home was always stressful for him, because maybe this was when it was going to happen."
I nodded. "I can see where that would be difficult. How did he handle it?"
"Poorly," she sighed. "Dad was a good guy. My brother lost all that time, and it had always been a source of tension between them, not the death, but their perspective, you know? Dad preached acceptance, my brother wanted to avoid it, and so when my brother went out west, dad was disappointed. He said it was like losing his son, and that he'd have rather died than have that happen. So not only did my brother not have a close relationship with my dad because of the prophecy, it turns out that dad was right all along. It would have been better for everyone not to fight it."
"Maybe," I said. "In the business we don't counsel people not to fight prophecies. Sometimes it's the right thing to do."
"Well, sorry for wasting your time," she said. "Though I guess I'm paying by the hour, and I'm not going to apologize for something I paid for. So I'd like my apology back, please."
I smiled at her. "Certainly."
She stood up to go, and I marked the time so I could bill her later, but she paused for a moment. I put in the time all the same; so far as I was concerned, we were off the clock.
"Do you have any unresolved prophecies that you know of?" she asked.
"That's sort of a personal question," I said. "But I get it a lot, and if it might help you, I can share: I'm going to be eaten by an alligator."
"You're ... what?" she asked.
"An alligator?" I asked. "They live in swamps."
"And how are you going to be eaten by one?" she asked.
"Well, I don't know," I replied. "There's a chance I've dodged it already, or ... dodged it in the way that you can sometimes dodge an obvious reading." I held up my hand and showed her my pinky, or rather, my lack of pinky. "I went down to Florida, had my finger amputated, then fed it to three baby alligators under the supervision of a zoo keeper."
She stared at me. "And that works?" she finally asked.
"We'll see," I replied. "In general, yes, it's an approach with relatively good outcomes. A self-fulfilling prophecy. It's a peace of mind thing."
"But ... your finger?" she asked. She was looking at it. I sometimes thought that going with a toe would be better, or a chunk of flesh from somewhere else, but I had heard that losing a toe could interfere with balance. I had never regretted that it was a pinky finger.
"If I didn't avert the prophecy, I want to be the kind of guy who says 'oh, well that's funny'," I replied. "I think ... whatever helps you, you know? And now I don't need to stay up at night wondering how the hell it's going to happen. See, your father had it right, I think. You have to find a way to make peace with it. And this was what it took for me to make peace with mine. Though I have to admit that I'm not a fan of zoos, and I don't take vacations south of the Mason Dixon, so maybe I'm not as much at peace as I would like myself to believe."
"Huh," she said. She looked away from the missing finger and to my eyes. "Thank you for sharing that."
"It's okay if you think it's kooky," I replied.
"No," she said. "I was just ... thinking that if my brother had something like that, he might have had more time with dad before he passed."
I nodded. "You can share that story, if you think it will help. Sometimes it does."
When she left I went back to my computer, cruising the local news sites to see whether there had been any updates. I hadn't given her the best advice. My mind had been elsewhere.
A local guy had been busted for breeding reptiles without a license. I was sure it was nothing, but they hadn't said what specific reptiles it had been. It was probably nothing. I mean, a full-grown alligator escaping from custody, finding me, and managing to eat me was a little too much for me to believe.
But fate is a funny thing sometimes, and I was going to keep my eyes open.
651 notes
·
View notes
Text
fate
clarisse la rue x reader â percy jackson and the olympians
[fem!daughter of apollo reader]
[part 2 to the trees]
summary: clarisse is being weirdly standoffish, and youâre not one to cave to that, no matter how much you like her. and no matter how things go, you still have to get your weapons from the forest.
warnings: swearing, arguing, fighting, monsters, PINING BUT THEYRE IDIOTS, everyoneâs so mad at each other rn, kissing (AHHHH), canon typical violence, again probably slightly ooc clarisse but hey i love her anyway
word count: 3.2k
(uhhh so this is probably not what anyone was expecting for part two but this is how i alway a planned it, so here it is!! tag list in reblogs and also thank you for the love on the trees! i love you all so much <3 and iâd die for you just like clarisse and this dumb bitch here would die for each other)
(this is much more enemies to lovers than the first one btw so have fun)
âââââââââââââââ
the day after capture the flag was always a little tense. of course it was. half the camp had just lost, and not many people at camp were good losers, especially not those who got their butts kicked.
this time, though, there was a new level of tension in the air.
ares kids didnât often run the flag over the line themselves, and those who did were crowing about it at breakfast, then all morning too.
curiously, clarisse wasnât. she was eating in silence, picking through her eggs like she was searching for something.
youâd never seen her like that before. no one had. but, it seemed you were the only person to notice. you always were, and you were okay with that.
your brother nudged your arm and shot you a questioning look, but you brushed him off with a smile.
why was clarisse so down? sheâd won. what did she have to be upset about? was she mad at you? did you do something to piss her off in the tree? she hadnât seemed exactly happy when she left.
stuck in your thoughts, you didnât realise sheâd met your eyes until your brother elbowed you.
âow! what do you want?â you snapped, rubbing your rib cage tenderly.
âclarisse is staring at you,â he said with wide eyes. âdude⊠what did you do?â
ânothing,â you scoffed and stood up, taking your empty plate to the stack of dirty dishes, tryingâand failingâto not look at clarisse as you left.
ây/n, wait up!â
you slowed down for sam as he jogged to catch up to you. there was a newfound bitterness in your mouth when you saw him. youâd never liked him, not like heâd liked you, but youâd never felt like you wanted to be away from him. not like you did in that moment then. but where would you go? to clarisse? yeah, right, sheâd laugh in your face, regardless of whatever happenedâor might have happenedâin that tree.
âwhatâs up?â you asked. you couldnât help your voice being drier than usual.
âjust wanted to see how those arrows did you? were they good? i can make some more, if you want.â he looked almost eager to do so.
you smiled kindly. he really was sweet. âthey were great, thanks, sam. best arrows iâve ever used, even if i didnât get too much of a chance to use them.â your steps faltered. âi did leave one in the forest though. iâll have to get that later.â
your eyes locked on clarisse as she walked towards you down the path. two of her siblings were behind her, laughing, but she wasnât. in fact, her jaw was set tight and she was glaring. at sam.
âi could come with you?â he suggested. âwatch your back. keep you safe, you know?â
clarisse scoffed as she passed. âshe doesnât need you to keep her safe, tool-box.â
that was a little mean. sure, sam carried his tool-box everywhere, but you never know what might need to be fixed! despite yourself, you had to hold in a laugh. your eyes were alight with amusement as you locked gaze with clarisse.
she looked proud of herself, a jaunty grin on her lips. you couldnât help your gaze dropping to them briefly. she smiled wider. it was infuriating. she now knew what her effect on you was, and she was using it.
âif she needed someone to protect her, sheâd come to me, right, angel?â she tilted her head.
your mouth was infuriatingly dry. you nodded. âuhââ
âwhatever,â sam snapped. âcome on, y/n. letâs go.â
you kind of wanted to stay, but his grip on your arm didnât leave any room for an argument. you trailed after him as he left, glancing over your shoulder just in time to see clarisseâs face darken with anger.
âangel?â sam scoffed. âwho does she think she is?â
âuhâŠâ
âwhatever. gods, sheâs just soââ he turned and faced you, almost causing you to bump into his chest. youâd never seen him so intense before. âstay away from her, y/n. seriously. sheâs bad news.â
âsheâs nice to me,â you protested.
âsheâs not nice to anyone. donât be naive.â he turned on his heel and started to walk away, then turned back, his face softer. âcome on. do you want to learn how to weld? you said you did last week.â
did you? you didnât remember that. but you did vaguely remember a conversation with sam that you spent zoned out and staring at clarisse as she trained, so that was probably it. âoh, no⊠i have to⊠trainâŠâ
he looked disappointed, but nodded. âokay, thatâs cool. maybe another day. or maybe, we can⊠go for a walk together? or even have lunch on the beach?â
you nodded absently. âmaybe.â
âgreat, itâs a date!â
you frowned. âitâs a what?â
he looked happier than youâd ever seen him. he even kissed your cheek before walking off, a new spring in his step. you stood there for a moment, eyes wide, wondering what the hell just happened. then you heard a scoff from behind you.
when you turned around, clarisse was walking away.
âclarisse,â you said softly, jogging after her. âclarisse, wait!â
âgo hang out with your boyfriend, l/n.â she snapped, her arms crossed as she walked. âheâs probably waiting for you so you two can make out in that sweaty little sex dungeon they call a workshop.â
your eyebrows shot up. âokay, first of all, iâm pretty sure it is actually a workshop, and second of all, heâs still not my boyfriend!â
she scoffed again but didnât answer, stomping up the steps to the ares cabin and stopping at the top, looking down at you.
you felt small under her gaze, but you didnât back down.
âwhat are you doing here?â she asked after a moment.
âyou said i could come get a new dagger,âyou said.
she rolled her eyes and leaned on the porch railing. âand?â
you frowned, looking up at her. âand⊠iâm here to get one?â
she regarded you for a few seconds in silence, then, just as she was about to speak, a new voice called out.
âclarisse, are you giving out girlfriend privileges already?â one of her brothers, marcus, you thought, stepped into the doorway of the cabin and peered around her to look at you. he looked like a stereotypical son of ares: buff, tall and mean. âthatâs cute.â he continued, looking at you like you were an animal in a zoo.
âsheâs not my girlfriend,â she scoffed like it was the most ridiculous thing in the world.
well, that hurt.
âyeah, weâre justââ
âweâre not even friends,â she added hurriedly, not even looking at you. âshe just thinks sheâs special.â
your jaw clenched. that really hurt. âi donât think iâm special,â you snapped. âi think i want you to honour your word from yesterday or go and get my dagger out of the forest for me.â
ânot my fault you forgot your dagger,â she studied her nails nonchalantly.
âbut if you hadnât thrown my dagger out of a tree and tossed my new arrow aside like it was trash then i wouldnât have forgotten. and maybe if you hadnât leaned in like you were about to kiss me, maybe i wouldnât have forgotten either.â your gaze was as sharp as hers was, meeting in the middle with fire and lightning crackling between you.
she stepped forward, face to face with you. for a second, you thought sheâd punch you, but you didnât back down.
then she laughed. it wasnât at all like her laugh in the tree the day before. this was her cold, cruel laugh that she usually saved for her victims. with a start, you realised thatâs what you were: another victim of clarisse la rue. your heart broke for a split second before you pulled yourself together and straightened your back, meeting her eyes.
âkiss you?â she snickered. âget your head out of your ass, angel, youâre not all that because you can shoot a bow and climb a tree.â
you stepped closer to her, so you were right up in her face. âand youâre not all that because you scare away everyone who cares about you, just because your daddyâs a little mean. you donât need to be a bitch about everything.â
you regretted it instantly. youâd gone too far. you knew that.
her face dropped and a hurt look flashed through her eyes, but it died as soon as it came to life.
you stepped back and turned, marching away.
âwhere are you going?â she called after you. âweâre not finished here!â
âyou have something else to say to me, clarisse, you come find me!â you shot back, your voice hard. you didnât start arguments often, but goddamn did you finish them.
you stomped into the forest, determined to find your dagger and arrow so you could prove to both clarisse and sam that you were capable of more than just shooting arrows from trees and running away from fights.
it was darker today. the clouds that covered camp half-blood permeated through the forest, leaving a heavy weight suspended among the trees. the air felt thicker, even, and the birdsong seemed quieter than usual. was there something around? something hanging in the air, waiting to attack you? drag your body back to camp and leave it on clarisseâs doorstep like a cat bringing in a dead bird?
or was your fear just because you were alone instead of with the rest of camp.
whatever it was, it put you on edge.
there was a clicking sound behind you, like someone was cracking a joint, but when you turned, no one was there. you werenât foolish enough to call out.
you could feel a chill going down your spine, and thatâs when you knew: the first shoe had dropped.
your eyelids fluttered and you nearly dropped to the ground, but you leaned heavily against a tree to catch yourself. typical. go out on your own, thinking you can take care of yourself and you get hit with a premonition. howâs that for fate?
you let the feeling wash over you; the pure panic of the near future and the warm grip of a hand on your wrist, like someone was pulling you along.
the future was not looking promising.
there was another clicking sound behind you as you finally managed to straighten up, much closer this time.
you turned around.
the bushes were rustling.
you suddenly realised what that clicking sound was.
mandibles.
two ants the size of german shepherds burst through the foliage. myrmeke.
there was the other shoe, dropping real hard.
âshit!â you stumbled backward, reaching for a weapon. you had no weapon. âdouble shit!â
you turned and ran.
the ants were fucking fast. they could have caught up to you if you werenât so agile, turning and springing off in different directions every few steps, sending them careening into trees and rocks. that was the only thing keeping you alive.
where even were you? you didnât recognise this area. hopefully you werenât running directly for their anthill. that would be a real twist of fate.
then you burst into a new area, this one with a large treeâa large tree that you recognised.
âyes!â you exclaimed, dashing for the trunk. you found your dagger easily, then your discarded arrow too. you didnât know what good theyâd do against the myrmeke, considering that their shells were as hard as armour and, while force was good in some cases, you had to admit that sharpness may have helped you against them.
you couldnât run anymore. your screaming lungs told you that. you couldnât climb either. the ants could climb better than you and youâd be a sitting duck up there, no matter how high you went. but maybe, just maybe, you could hold them off until they got bored or someone realised you were missing.
it wasnât easy, but you managed to deflect and dodge the myrmekeâs attacks. they were fast, but you were faster. you even managed a swipe at one of their legs as you rolled past, but all it did was leave a tiny chink in its armour.
you were beginning to lose hope.
honestly, what you wouldnât give for a spear right now. your blunt dagger and slim arrow were about as good as a toothpick against these monsters.
just as you were backed against the tree that youâd once found a safe haven, you heard a battle cry. you could have sobbed from relief, but instead, as the spear-wielding figure landed on top of one of the ants, driving her weapon into the gap between its armoured plates, you took your opportunity to stab your arrow with as much force as you could into the other antâs gaping mouth, slipping it precisely between its mandibles and, hopefully, into its brain.
it jerked back in pain and screeched, the sound making your ears ring, but it didnât die. instead, it looked rightfully pissed off, and now it had an arrow sticking from its mouth.
as your saviour pulled her spear from the ants back, a warm, brown liquid sprayed on you. it smelled like ants always did after you crushed them, just a million times worse. you wondered if this was revenge for all the ants youâd murdered in your life.
âgross!â you exclaimed, wiping it off your face.
âgrow up, bows, we gotta go!â clarisse. your saviour was clarisse. of course.
just as you were about to protest, two more myrmeke crept out of the forest towards you.
she gripped your wrist, right where that warmth was in your premonition, and dragged you away, making you drop your dagger in the rush.
âi dropped myââ
âsave it!â she snapped, pulling you along.
the desperation in her voice kicked you into gear and you started running faster, alongside her now.
you didnât use the same tactics as before. instead of dodging, you just ran as fast as you could and prayed that the myrmeke would be slower. clarisse seemed to know where she was going, at least.
âyouâre such an idiot!â clarisse yelled as they ran.
âweâre doing this now?â you panted incredulously.
âyou could have died!â
âweâll both die if you donât stop yelling at me!â
finally, gloriously, you breached the edge of the forest and stepped into camp. the myrmeke wouldnât follow you there.
you dropped to you knees, panting and staring into the forest. clarisse was standing in front of you, her spear ready, just in case.
youâd stepped into a quiet part of camp up behind the amphitheatre, so there was no one around to see you, and no one around to help you. you had a feeling that if the myrmeke didnât kill you, clarisse wouldnât hesitate.
once it was clear that they werenât following, she rounded on you.
you were still on your knees, your legs too tired and shaky with adrenaline to stand, but she didnât seem to care.
âwhat were you thinking, going in on your own?â she snapped.
âwell i wasnât expecting to get attacked by killer ants within the campâs borders!â you protested.
âeveryone knows theyâre there.â
âi forgot, okay? iâm not perfect.â
âoh, i know.â she rolled her eyes.
âgods, would you just fuck off?â you finally stood up, face to face with her. âyouâre horrible sometimes, you know that? i canât believe iâve defended you.â
âi donât need your defending.â
âand i donât need your help!â
âyou would have died!â she yelled, emphasising every word.
âbut i didnât!â you shouted back.
she rolled her eyes and stepped closer, anger practically radiating off her. âyeah, thanks to me. youâd be dead if i hadnât followed you in thereââ
âwhy did you follow me?â you asked suddenly, voice harsh.
âwhat?â
âwhy did you follow me?â you asked again, slower. âi didnât ask you to look after me, clarisse.â
there it was again. that slightly relaxation of her shoulders when you said her name. it drove you nuts. you didnât know if you wanted to kiss her for hours or throw her to the myrmeke.
she tensed up again and turned to leave. âwhatever. iâm done here.â
âiâm not!â you gripped her shoulder and pulled her back around. to your surprise, she didnât pull a weapon on you. âwhy did you follow me, clarisse? was it the same reason that you were flirting with me yesterday? and why youâre so protective of me? and why you hate sam?â
âi wasnât flirting with you,â she grumbled. âand i hate sam for⊠personal reasons. and iâm not protective of you! why would you even think that?â
âthatâs all bullshit and you know it,â you sneered.
âgods, you aggravate me!â she exclaimed.
âyou didnât have to come help me,â you scoffed, stepping back. âi didnât ask for your help.â
âand i didnât want to help you!â
âthen why did you? huh? you could handle not winning a fight? you wanted to finish the argument on your terms?â your eyebrows were raised and your face was cold. âor were you gonna beat me up but the giant killer ants got to me first?â
she looked like she was about to explode with anger. âbecause i love you!â
the air escaped from your lungs in one sharp moment, and it looked like hers did the same thing.
âwhat?â you asked, your voice softer.
it was silent. she looked like she was trying to find something to say, but couldnât. her mouth opened and closed weakly, and she shook her head, lips pressed together. you wanted to kiss her.
so you did.
she tensed up as your hands came to her waist, pulling her body and lips against yours hard. then, finally, she relaxed. she dropped her spear at your feet and raised her hands to your hair, threading her fingers through the strands. she was a softer kisser than youâd expected, but it was definitely her. it was all her. the tug on your hair, the underlying, undeniable harshness of the kiss, the spear that rested against your foot. it was perfectly clarisse. you could have kissed her until the sun went down and the ants came and carried you both to their anthill, and if you stayed kissing her like this, you wouldnât even mind.
when, finally, you pulled away, you were both breathing heavily. all of the tension from the fight hid dissipated, leaving only a warm sparkling in the air, like a mirage around her face in the sunlight. maybe that was a sign? or a vision? whatever it was, it was heaven-sent.
she was smiling. she looked softer like this. gods, you loved it. it felt like fate, and you knew a lot about fate. fate was fickle. fate was cruel. fate brought you the arguments, the myrmeke, the terror. but fate also brought you this. this girl who was glowing in the sun like she was made of pure rays of light. the girl with a spear that she laid down at your feet and would save you barehanded if you asked. the girl who had sunk into your arms like she was made to be there.
âdo you think i can get that new dagger now?â you asked cheekily, playing with the hem of her camp shirt. âi mean, i have girlfriend privileges now, right, babe?â
clarisse rolled her eyes, but she was still smiling. âshut up, devil.â
âooh, devil. thatâs new,â you teased. âi like it. itâs apt.â
âit sure is.â she looked down. âiâm⊠sorry, by the way.â
âme too,â you nodded. âi didnât really mean any of that, you know?â
ââcause you like me,â she said in a teasing voice.
âyeah, âcause i like you, or whatever.â you kissed her again, smiling against her lips. âand i know you like me too, because you so did nearly kiss me in that tree yesterday.â
she shrugged. âmaybe. maybe not. guess weâll never know.â
you found out at the next capture the flag game. and the next. and the next. she would go out of her way to find you, defeat you, then kiss you before running off to win the games. and honestly, you didnât really mind.
fate was a fickle thing, but with clarisse by your side, no one could touch you. sam left you alone, people started treating you better, and you had everything you could ask for. her.
and whenever you two argued, youâd go into the woods together and kill some ants. after all, what says âcoupleâs bondingâ quite like murder?
#clarisse la rue#clarisse la rue x reader#clarisse la rue x y/n#clarisse la rue x you#pjo#pjo tv show#pjo x reader#percy jackson#percy jackon and the olympians#dior goodjohn
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
Lucifer meeting an artist reader
ă»â„ The King of Hell admires your paintings
| Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 |
x: reader is g/n :) no use of pronouns or y/n
warnings: some raunchy details of your painting & mild swearing
When you arrived in Hell, the first thing you did was scream.
Where were you? Why was it so hot? What happened to your bed?!
âYouâre in Hell, kid.â A blue bat-faced man had broke the news, as you stood helpless and confused on the street.
Hell? Like, demons and dark satanic magic kind of Hell?
That couldnât be right. Were you that bad of a person to deserve such a fate? Did the few times you passed the Salvation Army donation bucket without dropping a coin damn you to this place?
Your death was fuzzy, a trail of shattered memories that could only give you bits and pieces of your final days. Did you go quickly in your sleep? Maybe, you hit your head so hard it caused you some kind of post-death amnesia?
Whatever had happened, you were here now with no way out.
During your first few days scouring for answers, you began to notice that Hell had an eerie similarity to life above ground. There were clubs, casinos, concerts. Heck, even TV! Sure, the things broadcasted were dark and sometimes disgusting.. but at least you had something to watch.
Maybe it wasnât so bad after all? At least, compared to being thrown into dark, fiery pits for all of eternity like some cruel game of sink or swim.
Minus the people, of course. Most of them were pretty bad. Your first day watching a man get shot in the chest and lines of cocaine across tables in a diner made you decide to stay away from the streets of the city.
Which meant you had to get busy making a life for yourself. It started with working odd jobs as a bartender or a bell-hopper. Youâd scrap together enough money to head to the nearest art supply store, and fill your bag with paints and charcoal pencils.
âYou an artist or something?â The clerk had asked you as she scanned your items, taking note of your vast amount of diverse tools you were slowly collecting every time you stopped by.
âI usually paint, but yes, I used to do all kinds of mediums professionally when I was.. alive,â You had whispered that last part out with a pang of sadness, the reality of your situation still a fresh wound in your mind.
You had found an ad for an art studio, ran by a demon named Alexandre. You had showed him a few of your pieces, some pretty landscapes, a rendition of the Starry Night Sky which you had replaced the backdrop to be Pentagram city instead of whatever little village it was originally, and a self portrait.
âYou got talent, iâll give you that,â He had hummed, as his eyes scanned your paintings with intrigue, âBut the subject? Not really what weâre looking for.â
âWhat do you mean?â You had asked, confusion evident in your voice.
âWeâre in Hell, demons ainât into pretty ponies and happy, little trees. They want moreâ eh how do i put this â sinful behavior?â
âLikeâŠ?â
âLike tits or anything that can be turned into a kink. They like blood and guts, and dead people splayed around. Dead angels too. Stuff like that.â
Tits? Dead people? You didnât have much practice with that! At least not enough to make a career out of it.
But you had agreed anyway, this was your only shot. You stayed up late into the night, sometimes even into the early mornings, perfecting your skill when it came to much more risqué visuals. You would buy stacks of pornograohic magazines, flipping through for poses to memorize.
Slowly, you began to master the craft, and your time at the studio increased as you finally settled into life in Hell.
All you had to do was churn out painting after pastel after acrylic in the little cramped room you now called home. Alexandre would then take your pieces and sell them to the highest bidder. Youâd get a percentage of the commission, using the money for whatever necessary.
Seeing as you could be mugged at literally any point in time, or anywhere for that matter, you made sure to keep a large sum of cash locked away in a double-bolted safe.
âYou know Ozzieâs, that club down in the Lust Ring?â Alexandre had approached you one day, excitement in his eyes.
You shook your head as you sat behind the easel, your brush an inch from the canvas.
âRun by Asmodeus, one of the literal seven deadly sins?â
You shook your head once more.
âFuck, you still have a lot to learn. Well, he really likes your art. He wants to buy a bunch of paintings for his club, and heâll drop a shit ton of cash too. Ya think you can handle it?â
Your eyes had widened when he told you the exact price this sin guy was willing to pay. You had jumped from your seat, shaking his hand in profuse thanks, before scurrying off to gather more supplies.
And for a time, thatâs how it went. Youâd sell your steamiest paintings to Asmodeus, and other private commissions you took one after the other.
Apparently, your painting hung up in Ozzieâs was getting a lot of attention. Especially from a certain spider demon named Angel Dust.
After hearing Charlieâs decision to look for another member of their staffâ someone whoâd be in charge of decorating the premise with promises of love and tranquility up in Heavenâ Angel Dust had taken a few snaps of your work with his phone, before showing it to Vaggie and Charlie. He had complimented your work, claiming it was âthe bestâ oil paintings heâd ever seen.
Although, in his line of work, he probably hadnât seen many to compare yours so.
âls this what we want in our hotel?" Vaggie had asked, motioning to a woman on the canvas that was drenched in sweat and white fluid, her private parts exposed to the audience as she posed suggestively on a stripper pole.
To which Charlie has responded, "I think it's... unique! You can definitely see she knows how to, um, really bring the scene to life! l'm sure she'll be open to creating our vision!"
Your phone had rung one night, with a voice on the other end begging you to come to her hotel and at least hear her offer for a new job.
Which lead you to the Hazbin Hotel, a slightly run down building that obviously needed more work. Inside and out.
âOh my gosh! Hi there! My name is Charlie, and this is my hotel! itâs such a pleasure to meet you!â
âThanks.. but I donât see many guests around.â You had told her, your eyes darting around the lobby as you absorbed your surroundings.
âWell, weâre still trying to get our name out there. Weâre not just any hotel, weâre a hotel set on redeeming sinners!â She exclaimed with pride.
âRedeem?â You had asked her, an eyebrow raised in disbelief.
She shook her head vigorously, âThis hotel.. itâs going to be amazing! Weâre going to turn Sinners into well.. non-sinners! Theyâll be rehabilitated, and have morals! And honor! Heaven wonât be able to do anything but welcome them as angels!â
This idea had sounded a little far-fetched when you first heard it.
âYouâll be in charge of making art that reflects such views! Something that will make Sinners go, âWow! Now thatâs where I want to go!ââ
âWhatâs in it for me?â You had asked.
âWell youâll have your own room, and your own little studio too! Iâm sure itâs much bigger than the one you already have. Plus we have a bar, and good company!â
You turned your head to the small crowd of demons a few feet away. A pornstar, a gambler, a snake guy with weird little walking eggs, and a really creepy man in a red coat that shot you a wide smile with eyes that seemed to stare right through your soul.
This was good company?
You contemplated her words, thinking deeply. Did you really need to leave the studio you were already a part of? You already had a room and place to paint, anyway.
Charlie must have noticed your hesitation to accept before quickly adding,
âAnddd you can sell your pieces here too! Plus, you can keep a hundred percent of the earnings.â
You perked up at that, the money made from your art would be... all yours? And, youâd get a breather from the drawing people having sex? That didnât sound so bad after all!
âDeal!â You had reached out a hand, shaking hers with delight.
It had taken you a day or two to map out the interior of the hotel and figure out what could go where. You began to slowly brainstorm, what could make a sinner stare at a canvas and want to redeem themselves?
During your time on earth, you studied many artists through history. Most notably however, were those from the Renaissance. You remembered walking through the Sistine Chapel when you were younger,
staring at awe of the paintings of winged angels and heavenly skies.
You perked at that thought. That was it! The inspiration for your paintings, an ethereal perspective on what one would find in heaven. The feelings of bliss and care-free joy.
You spent your first few days in an undisturbed area of the hotel, it was a large room on the farthest side of the lobby. It mustâve been a guest room at one point, but other than a bed and few cushions that the âRadio Demonâ had placed for you, it was empty.
It was quiet enough that you could sit there, undisturbed, as you drew upon your memories and vast knowledge of histories in art as you slowly began to bring your ideas to life. Slowly, the room also took form into being yours, personal knick-knacks and stacks upon stacks of blank canvases waiting to bring your visions to life.
At the end of every day, you'd come out with your hands covered in charcoal and paint, your hard work on full display.
You had even grown closer to the other residents in the hotel, beginning to see them as more than their initial appearance. Even Alastor, who still kind of gave you the creeps, you had regarded as someone you could speak to without hesitation.
Youâd sit on the couches with Angel Dust, drowning in popcorn as you watched whatever was on TV for the night. Sometimes, youâd sit with Husk at the bar as you listened to his stories from his days at the casino and as an Overlord.
It was there, when Charlie had summoned the courage to call her father, Lucifer, the King of Hell, to come visit the hotel and decide on getting her that meeting with the higher powers in Heaven.
Upon hearing about Lucifer's impending visit, you felta mixture of nerves and excitement. You've heardstories about him-his charisma, his power--but you never expected to meet him, let alone showcase your art to him. Would he even like them? He's no doubt seen much more beautiful sights.
As preparations for Lucifer's visit got more chaotic by the minute, you found yourself back in your Atelier, quickly cleaning up your room and berating yourself for any little mistakes you found in your paintings. Each stroke of the brush carried with it a sense of urgency, a desire to impress not just your friends at the hotel, but also the King of Hell himself.
The current piece you were working on was your most intense one yet. It depicted that of an almost nude man, flying high in the skies. His back was faced towards you, his face hidden from view. He was faced towards the sun, which bathed him in a warm glow. Arms outstretched, knees curled in, it seemed as if the angel was going to give the sun a large bear-hug.ïżŒ
It wasnât until you heard loud commotion in the lobby did you realize Lucifer had arrived. Quickly dropping the brush you were holding, you sneaked down the stairs and quickly neared the archway of the lobby.
Peaking your head out, you canned the large room. Until your eyes locked in a pale figure. Lucifer.
He was beautiful, definitely held the looks of an angel that fell from heaven. His light blonde hair curled elegantly around his face. The candles from the chandelier above basked him in an ethereal glow, as though he could replace the sun itself. Just like the angel from your painting.
His eyes reminded you mostly of a snake. Calculating and cold, but holding so much wisdom and depth. There was a slight sadness there as well, as though itate at him slowly, consuming his soul. It was masked incredibly well though, and you only caught a glimpse before it disappeared.
His attitude toward his daughter made your heartmelt, it was obvious he cared about her in the way heacted and spoke to Charlie, even if his absence didn't speak so fondly of him.
As Lucifer and Alastor butted heads, you quickly scurried back to your room. You had hoped to finish your work-in-progress by the time he arrived, but the struggle to get those damn angel wings to be anatomically correct was a pain.
You hurriedly continued your work, trying to calm your nerves by busying yourself with the painting in front of you.
Charlie's voice broke you out of your concentration soon after, multiple footsteps closing in on where your room lay. You shot up from your seat, and stood up straight, ready to meet the man of the hour.
You couldn't help but feel a flutter of anticipation mixed with apprehension as they approached your make-shift gallery.
Charlie, Vaggie, andâ wow, he looked so much better up closeâ Lucifer stepped through the doorway.
âDad, this is the newest addition to our staff! They are in charge of helping to inspire our future guests through the power of art!" Charlie proclaimed with glee, pulling you by the arm towards her father.
âIt's a pleasure to meet you, your majesty. I apologize for being so messy, I was just finishing up another painting." You had greeted him softly.
"Don't worry, you look great," He assured, a gleam in his eyes, "and the pleasure is all mine, anyone who is willing to help my little girl is someone worth meeting,"
You stood there for a moment. Unsure of where to go next, before you felt a slight nudge from Charlie that pulled you back to reality, "Why don't we take a look at your paintings? I promise you, Dad, they are amazing!" She squealed softly.
Beckoning Lucifer forward, you took him through each painting. You described your feelings for each piece, and what made you choose them for the hotel.
You rambled on and on, and Lucifer never said anything, he just listened as you spoke.
Which made you nervous, what was he thinking? Did he like them, or was he just waiting for you to stop talking so he could quickly escape to something of more interest to him? The thought made sweat dribble down your forehead.
To your surprise, Lucifer's reaction to your art was not what you expected. Instead of dismissing it as mere frivolity, he studied each piece with genuine interest, his expression thoughtful and contemplative.
He mostly stayed quiet, but once in awhile would throw in a joke here and there if he noticed anything of interest in the paintings.
His goofy nature that you caught onto watching him earlier was barely evident though, unlike when he was trying to impress his daughter.
After finishing the small tour, you turned to him in anticipation. Your hands nervously rubbing together, as you shot a glance to Charlie, and she gave you an uncertain look. You both held the same question in your gaze: What is he thinking?
"These paintings.." Lucifer began, his voice low and melodic, "Are different than most i've seen down here, not just some scandalous display, but with real meaning. They evoke emotions long buried, memories of a time before.. all this."
His words caught you off guard, and you found yourself nodding in agreement, unable to tear your gaze away from his intense eyes.
The one he was staring at in particular was a recreation of The Garden of Eden by Jan Breghal, a painting that depicted the place where humanity was birthed, and where it fell.
âDoes it look like.. how you remembered?" You had asked slowly, if anyone could validate the truth in your work, it would be him.
"Actually, this is much prettier. The real deal doesn't do your painting justice," He replied, "It was so boring, just green on green."
Also," He added, "An unfortunate lack of ducks. Humanity should be grateful that I got them out of that forest, so they could see something actually worthwhile.. and with ducks."
You giggled softly at his words, have you ever met someone that seemed to love ducks as much as him?
As Lucifer continued to explore the room, you couldnât help but notice the way he lingered on certain paintings, his fingers tracing the delicate lines with reverence. It was as if he saw something in your art that no one else did, something profound and personal.
Perhaps your choice of baby-faced angels, and ethereal landscapes brought back memories of his time in Heaven. Hopefully, that wasn't a bad thing.
When Lucifer finally turned to you, his gaze softened, a hint of something unreadable lurking beneath the surface. "You have a rare gift," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "To create beauty in a place like this... it's truly remarkable."
He looked at you for a moment, before a smile crept onto his lips. He was Lucifer, he knew exactly what you meant. It's what drove him to manipulate Eve to eat from the Tree of Life in the first place.
Was he finally getting a glimpse of the good free will brought to humanity? Was there actually meaning in his past actions that sent him to the depths of Hell?
His gaze narrowed in on the canvas behind you, and he slipped past you. "What is this?" He asked with intrigue, pointing towards your unfinished painting.
âMy final piece. I've been working on it for days, but I just can't get the wings right.. believe it or not, i've never actually seen angel wings in person." You said that last bit as a joke.
His smile sent butterflies fluttering in your stomach. For the King of Hell, it was surprisingly warm, and kind.
Then an idea struck you, but you tried to desperately to push it down. Except it seemed like the only time you could ask someone with angel wings to let you use them as a reference. How many fallen angels were in Hell, anyway?
"I'm so sorry if this is out of line, but. could I, um, borrow you for a little bit? I've just been having trouble drawing the wings correctly and you, well, have them?â
His eyes widened, and his chest puffed slightly at your question. He shot you a toothy grin, âPaint me? Why didn't you mention that earlier?! I have the perfect figure for such a thing.â
Behind him, Charlie rolled her eyes, a hint of a smile on her lips. You smiled too, you should've known he'd have no problem with it, he was the embodiment of pride after all.
He plopped down on a stool before you, and removed his overcoat. Beneath what seemed to be a red and white gatsby vest that hugged his frame perfectly. Jeez, he was almost too good looking.
He stretched out his large wings, folding the otherfour behind him, only revealing the two much largerones. They were breathtaking, truly. They looked so fluffy too!ïżŒ
You guided him on the exact position you needed them to be in, before making your way to the canvas and getting to work.
Assuring the group you only needed to get a visual on the canvas, the actual work you would do on your own. Slowly, you traced the frame of his wings, etching out the soft lines of his feathers and the curvatures of its form.
You could only imagine how soft those feathers were and what it would be like to curl around them like a pillo-
You shook your head to rid those thoughts. Why were you thinking such things about Lucifer like that? It's not like he would even want to let you go anywhere near him or his wings.
Would he?
You continued your painting, trying not to meet his gaze as you would occasionally peak your head from behind the large canvas to get another good look at his wings.
There was a moment when you two did lock eyes, and he sent a half-lidded smirk in your direction. Thankfully the large object between you two helped hide your growing blush. He was obviously just trying to get you worked up, you assured yourself. Just like he did with Alastor. In a different way, of course.
"This reminds me of when Charlie was younger" Lucifer began, filling the silence, "We sat for a good few hours trying to get a family portrait painted and she would just not sit still!â
âDad.. please, not right now." Charlie growled out in embarrassment, her cheeks flushed. Vaggie only smiled beside her, listening intently as Lucifer filled everyone in on her younger years.
âlt got to the point where I had to summon her favorite toy to get her to stop squirming, everything was smooth sailing after that.
"And what was her favorite toy?" You inquired softly behind the canvas
âA rubber duck! Like the ones you play with in the bath? She could not get enough of it whenever it squeaked. One time the squeaker broke, and I went to my workshop and crafted her a magical one that meowed instead! Haha!"
Okay, this family really has a thing for ducks!
âShe hated it, but that only inspired me to keep making more. Sometimes, we'd sit together on the work bench, and I would just come up with ideas like confetti-spitting, or color changing ducks. She wasn't too good at speaking at that time, so every time she'd laugh that was my clue that she liked it!"
It was sweet, the way he rambled about his daughter. He never spoke of himself or his accomplishments, despite embodying the sin of pride. It was almost like his only pride was his best creation, Charlie.
He continued, the room full of jokes and laughter, even from Vaggie, regarding Charlie's life as a youngling. You listened intently to his stories, his voice dripping with amusement as he recounted story after story.
lt was so sappy and you loved it. Which made you grumble quietly to yourself, why did you have to have a thing for DILFS?! Concentrate on the painting!
After a moment, Lucifer's eyes turned back to the paintings around him, his gaze scanning each painting once more. "I've noticed that you seem to have a repetition in your work.. not that that's a bad thing!" He quickly corrected.
âBut in all of your paintings featuring angels, there's always a swan swimming or resting nearby. Do they hold any significance, or are they just a passion for you?"
You looked up from the canvas, and also traced the angelic figures across the room. He was right, with the images of the divine beings also came the appearance of the large, white water fowl. Lying lazily beside the angels, or swimming across pools of water as the care-free beings danced and frolicked.
You contemplated for a moment, before speaking truthfully.
âI just think Swans are elegant and ethereal creatures. They embody the purest of souls, untouched by the taint of sin that consumes the world, just like how their feathers remain untouched from the waters they glide on"
Lucifer's eyes lit up slightly, drinking up your words.
âPlus," You continue, "they mate for life, and allow themselves to just.. decay once their significant other departs from the world. It's very romantic, and love is one of the purest emotions in the world."
Lucifer wasn't looking at you when your eyes met his again, his stare was far off. Past the room entirely, as your words echoed through him. There it was again, the glimpse of sadness that he tried to hide so painfully well.
âDoes such love like that exist?," he murmured so softly you had to strain your ears.
There was a few moments of deathly silence before Charlie piped up, asking her father something about heaven. You tried to listen, but your mind was stuck on his words. Lucifer was in heaven once, and he still didn't fully believe in such things?
If there weren't others in the room, perhaps you wouldâve asked him.
It took a few more minutes before you were able to wrap up fully, but you had no regrets of asking this man for help, the angel on the canvas actually looked like he had wings, not just stumps of white tuft.
You got up from your seat and walked towards him, noticing that Charlie and her girlfriend were not present anymore. It was just you and Lucifer in theroom now.
âWell, thank you, Your Majesty. You really helped me out here, and it'll go a long way to make the hotel look even better"
âPlease, call me Lucifer. The formalities are only for subjects, not friends," he replied, "l did really enjoy getting to see your paintings, you are quite a phenomenal artist. I wasn't lying when I said your work was different from the rest. If only you were around for those family portraits."
You were so taken aback by his praise that you only shrugged it off, like it was no big deal. Even though, coming from the King of Hell, it was.
Glancing behind him, you saw Charlie and Vaggie whispering to each other in the hallway outside of the door. You assumed they probably wanted to finish up so they could get him to agree to the meeting with Heaven.
lgnoring his previous statement of formalitiesâ he was the king, you thought, you weren't going to just pat him on the back and say 'see ya! âyou lowered your head and bent down to curtsy, just like you were taught when you were younger, placing your hand slightly in front of you.
Usually, you'd use that hand to shake or grasp the other person's, but it felt wrong to treat this powerful angel like any other man.
Suddenly, you felt the soft touch of fingers gliding across your hand. In confusion, you looked up at those golden eyes and that charming smile. Trying to get a glimpse of what he was thinking.
His hand gripped yours gently, and with a bow of his own, lowered his lips, and pressed a soft kiss your knuckles.
Your breath caught in your throat, and you feared to blink, soaking in his beauty for as long as you could before he had the chance to pull away. You wanted to say something, but your tongue was refusing to work as your mouth opened and closed silently.
When he finally released your hand, he adjusted his hat and turned towards the door. Leaving you standing there, your face burning hot
He cleared his throat, and turned his head slightly, his eye catching yours. A playful smile dancing on his lips.
âl look forward to our next portrait together, hopefully where I am the motivation behind your strokes. Not just these dull wings."
And with his words hanging in the air, you were left alone, with the growing itch to press your face into a pillow and squeal.
ââââââ
awww man, my first fic! I was trying to make this more dating-centric, but i couldnât stop writing for their first meeting and it got too long haha! If yâall like this one enough, iâll make a dating version!
let me know what you think đ i reallyyyy appreciate all comments and criticisms!!
wonderful art i commissioned by DawnDrawnS on twitter! <3
#Hazbin hotel#lucifer x reader#lucifer morningstar x reader#hellverse#OOC Lucifer?#He just ainât as goofy#But I HC heâs only like that around Charlie :)#fanfiction#writing
3K notes
·
View notes
Text
uhhh thinkin about how mizu and taigen's relationship was described as "this meeting of the minds, this meeting of the swords, that they could not share with anybody else" in one of the netflix articles about the show
and i'm going crazy because YEAH they're both equally invested about swords and fighting in a way that nobody else in their lives are. and that's just. so important considering we're talking about mizu, who sees her sword as her own soul.
and it's not JUST mizu who's obsessed with fighting. taigen is too. cuz like after their duel at the shindo dojo, as taigen is examining his bald spot in the mirror where mizu cut off his hair, he literally interrupts his own turmoil over losing his honour, just to express his awe, openly admiring mizu's skill DESPITE the fact that mizu just beat his ass and stripped his honour and status from him
then in the next episode, mizu says a very similar line when she examines the cut flower that fowler had pinned to heiji shindo's robe.
this was also such a sudden thing to notice in the middle of their conversation (my interpretation of this is that it hints to fowler's own skills with a blade, and gives mizu information about her enemy being a formidable opponent), but the fact that mizu had such a keen eye and managed to hone in on such a tiny detail from like a foot or two away is interesting because it shows us just how attentive mizu is, especially when it comes to blades and anything to do with them
to mizu (when she's not spiralling and agonising over her own self-hatred and the way the world treats her), swords are not a mere tool for revenge, but an art form which she is fascinated by and loves and admires. we see this from time to time, during rare moments of respite, like when she admires the duel in the beginning of ep4
mizu also takes to heart all the teachings from her years training, while taigen is interestingly less strict about them, basically disregarding some of those teachings as mere pedantry, or even if he doesn't actually really think so, he at least tells mizu as much in his attempt to comfort her after her sword breaks
but that doesn't mean he doesn't care for the more formal aspects of his training at all. because in ep3 when he says this
this line about mount sumeru is not talking about the literal mountain in front of them, but is a recitation of a line from the lotus sutra, which is among the mahayana sutras that they learned as part of their spiritual training, as zen buddhism forms a lot of the basis for samurai doctrines and philosophy. the sutra given more emphasis in the show is the heart sutra that mizu writes on her body in ep7 during her rite of rebirth
so taigen saying this line, as i see it, is a way to bond with mizu, or at least make conversation over their shared knowledge, as we see him await a reaction as soon as he says this. but mizu gives him none, and he looks disappointed/annoyed/frustrated or what have you as he watches her walk off without a word
also we see a little more of their shared knowledge of swordsmanship in the last episode when it's clear that mizu has been training ringo in sword fighting techniques
and later taigen recognises it instantly
they're both nerds about swords and fighting!!! they both respect each other's skills!!!
GOD i really hope in future episodes they get to bond some more over their shared passion and common training and just samurai camaraderie in general!!! mizu clearly loves the artistry of sword fighting so much, she deserves to have a confidant who shares that with her, someone she can talk openly about these things to!!!
because like remember when mikio was telling her about the naginata, she looked soooo uwu in love!!! admiring her husband as he showed off the weapon and told her the benefits of using it!!! believing at the time that she'd found a match who she could openly share her love of martial arts with!! she was having so much fun sparring him too. everyone says fighting is part of her love language and YES it IS!!!
except the difference is that mikioâdue to, among other things, their large age difference and subsequent gap in life experienceâbelieves he is mizu's teacher, rather than her equal. this is the role he's readily taken throughout their marriage, from teaching her how to throw a knife to cut down fruit (not like she needed that particular lesson), to teaching her equestrian skills.
meanwhile taigen and mizu were both kids growing up poor in the same backwater fishing village, which means that they are and always have been PEERS. and this becomes even more pronounced once taigen is stripped of his giant ego and unlearns his prejudice, allowing them both to fully respect each other and view each other as equals
which is again why it frustrates taigen when mizu admits later in this scene that she basically doesn't care about saving the shogun. like he gets mad because it upends his initial belief in their shared goals and aligned values, believing them both to be samurai of equal standing and honour.
ALSO i'd like to add, that though mizu is the better swordsman as we see her win all their brawls and matches, she doesn't surpass him by that much, and mizu knows this.
these words coming from mizu is such a huge compliment all things considered, acknowledging that he was strong enough to deserve fighting her, because shortly before this mizu was just about to say "no one has given me much of a challenge" only for taigen to enter the scene and, well, challenge her.
now combine this with her saying that chiaki's broken blade suits him well, giving to him HER sword which SHE made AND won, as a surety, promising him a duel that he "deserves". it's proof that even though she finds taigen an annoying brat and oftentimes an obstacle to her mission for revenge, she DOES respect him and does value his skills.
IN CONCLUSION nobody else is on their level, nobody else shares their love of swordsmanship and that is such an important factor to their bond and the way they relate to each other. i rest my case your honour
#mizu x taigen#taigen x mizu#taimizu#taizu#blue eye samurai#mizu blue eye samurai#taigen blue eye samurai#blue eye samurai meta#i caaaant stop thinking about THEM#like im soooo sorry im being annoying and cant shut up about these two#the brainrot is real yall. pray for me in these trying times#shut up haydar#meta dissertations.pdf#fandom.rtf
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
never going back again - 03
summary: ghost finds himself at the wrong safe house, injured and unable to call for backup
simon âghostâ riley x innocent fem!reader
warnings: mdni (18+), mention of nudity, mention of food, simons a flirt
prev part masterlist next part
a/n: havenât proofread this yet, sorry for any grammatical errors
Itâs a loud banging that wakes you, echoing through the walls of the small cottage, shifting frames on the wall as it continues.
In a sleepy daze you remember how Simon had mentioned he was going to fix the shower, something about mould and needing to redo the tile, what you didnât recall was him saying heâd start work promptly at 7am, effectively disrupting your peaceful slumber.
You trudge your way out of the bedroom, wrapping the blanket around your form for some warmth as you stand in the doorway to the bathroom, heavy eyes watching him.
It takes him no time at all to acknowledge your presence, probably due to whatever training heâd acquired over the years, he could notice a mosquito shift from 10 feet away, such keen eyes.
He turns to you, his dark clothes sprinkled with powdered remnants of tile, âDid I wake you?â
You smile weakly, âYou know thereâs no rush, can always start these things, I dunno, in the afternoonâ
âWoke up early, wanted to get a head startâ
âHead start, sure, yeahâ You dig your palms into your eyes, trying to rub the sleep from them, he drops his tools, moving closer to you and gently wrapping his fingers around your wrists, tugging them from your face.
âHowâd you sleep love?â
âYou mean before you shook my entire house at the crack of dawn? Very well, youâre quite comfortableâ
âAm I?â
You smile, shifting your arms to wrap around him, letting the blanket draped on you fall to the floor, he snakes a hand behind your head, tugging it against his chest as he lifts his mask slightly, planting a kiss on the crown of your head.
âHow long is this gonna take?â
âShouldnât be more than two daysâ
âYou understand this is my only washroomâ
âI knowâ
âAnd I use itâ
âMhmâ
âPlease donât destroy itâ
âWouldnât dream of itâ
You peak your head around him, getting a full glance at the room, itâs a complete mess, tools and dust everywhere, fallen tiles scattering the floor.
âOh my godâ
He pulls back, following your line of sight, âItâs not that badâ
âNot that bad, Simon, be seriousâ
âYou still have the bathtubâ
You huff, your forehead falling into his chest, âJust, promise me you know what youâre doingâ
He scrunches his face under his mask, âI know what Iâm doingâ Running his hands up your arms, lying.
âOkay, Iâm trusting youâ
âGo get some tea love, Iâll take a break soonâ
You lift your head from him, gazing up at his masked face before turning around, picking up your fallen blanket and making your way to the kitchen, jolting at the sudden clanging from a wall away and silently praying he wouldnât destroy your entire washroom.
Itâs takes him a few hours before the banging stops, your hearing feeling like it was permanently damaged from the consistent noise as Simon emerges, completely covered in dust.
You bite back the smile that pulls on your lips as you watch him saunter in, reaching for a mug and pouring himself a cup of tea before dramatically huffing a breath while he sits down.
âDone yet?â
He chuckles lightly, shaking his head, âDone taking the old tile downâ
âSeems like it took all your energy old manâ
âOld man?â
You laugh lightly into your tea,
âBelieve me love, Iâve got energy to spareâ He smirks under his mask as you choke into your tea, drops of the liquid spurting from the mug as your cheeks flush.
You clear your throat, tilting your head lightly âWanna use some of it to help me in the garden?â
âGive me five minutesâ
You smile, standing from your chair and walking beside him, placing a hand to his shoulder and dragging it along the skin as you walk away.
It takes him more than 5 minutes to meet you, more interested in watching you move around the land whilst sipping his tea, the privacy granting him the opportunity to drink properly without the hindrance of his mask, he made a mental note to buy you proper tea considering the stuff you had tasted like wet dirt to him.
By the time he found you in the garden he had changed his clothes, opting for a more comfortable t-shirt and jeans, the man looked damn good, his arms flexing under the thin cloth that allowed you perfect sight of the ink on his arm.
âMust be hot with that mask on all the timeâ
âMânot gonna take it offâ He groans, standing behind you to wrap his arms around your waist, he leans in to your ear âYetâ
You bite you lower lip as the thoughts flash through your mind, really you didnât mean the words in a teasing way, more of an observation but now all you could think about was what he looked like. You knew his eyes were dark and his lips were full and pink, that his jaw was muscular and stubbled, from the few angles he granted you, you could tell he had scars on his face, specifically one that spanned his chin going down and another that cut through his left eyebrow.
It was enough, the small glimpses of him, the mystery intriguing but now there was a desire to know him under the mask, how he looked alongside who he was.
âOkayâ You break yourself from your thought,la, pulling his arms from you and turning around, âI need you to help me plant theseâ
âYes maâamâ
You hand him a small shovel, kneeling in the dirt, âSo dig a small hole here, and then just put the pods in and cover themâ
âSeems simple enoughâ
âSo you wonât mess up?â
âI didnât say thatâ
You smile, âJust do your best, need these to eatâ
You watch him struggle to choose spots to dig, clearly overthinking his moves as he twists his body, reaching across the beds.
You shake your head, patting down the dirt in front of you at you settle one of the plants, untangling the vines and sitting back, wiping your hand across your forehead.
âJust plant it Siâ
He whips his head to you, his eyes glued to your face in a panicked manner, it makes you uneasy,
âYou okay?â
You slowly reach a hand down to rest on top of his, watching his reaction,
âYeah fineâ He shakes his head, âNo oneâs called me that in a long time, took me by surpriseâ
âOh, mâsorry it just slipped outâ
âNo, I like it, sounds nice coming from youâ
âOhâ You turn your gaze down, how did he always manage to make you so nervous, his hand meets your jaw, moving your gaze up to him as he holds you, his other thumb moving to swipe across your forehead.
âGot somethinâ
He shows his palm, a smear of dirt on it as you realize, using your own hand to wipe it, you glance down at your body, stains of grass and soil covering you as you laugh.
âYouâre filthyâ
âYouâre no betterâ You joke, gesturing to the clumps of spilt soil on his lap,
âCould probably use a showerâ
âYou think youâre so funnyâ
âSometimes yeahâ
You huff, grabbing a small handful of soil and tossing it at him, he closes his eyes for a moment, âSeriouslyâ
You canât fight the laughter that erupts from you, the dirt sticking to his sweat covered skin as he looks at you.
You yelp as he pounced on you, throwing your body back into the dirt as he hovers over your frame, his fingers tickling at your sides as you writhe under him.
âSay youâre sorryâ
âWill notâ You manage through laughs
His fingers poke at your skin, smearing the dirt from his arms onto your clothes in the process,
âPlease, canât breathâ
He leans back with a smile, watching your heavy breaths raise your chest as your arms fall to the ground.
âApologizeâ
âIâm-â
Youâre sentence is cut short as you hear a car pull up, itâs door slamming shut, Simon jumps from you in full fight mode, extending an arm back to keep you guarded as a man exits the vehicle.
You squint your eyes at him, pushing Simons arm down gently as you recognize the person.
âWilliam?â
âHey dollâ
Simon looks between you and the man, a sudden fire burning under his skin at the pet name, he stands back slightly as you approach him.
âWhat are you doing here?â
âWhoâs this?â
You glance at Simon, giving him a small smile before turning back, âA friendâ
The term feels like a punch to his chest.
âPleasureâ William extends a hand to Simon who neglects to shake it, eyeing the smaller manâs frame before turning back to you.
âWhat do you wantâ
âCame to drop something off, or someone ratherâ
He walks toward the car, opening the back door quickly as you watch a furry mass sprint toward you, gasping as you kneel down to meet it.
He licks your face as you scrunch it, running your hands over his fur, laughing as he prances around you before he catches Simons scent.
Simon watches the animal intently, studying itâs moves, as it approaches him quickly, jumping to his chest, licking his arms.
âHe missed you, and Iâm movingâ
You tilt your head to him, âMoving?â
âGoing to Spain, my mums sickâ
âWill Iâm so sorryâ
âSâalright, just figured Riley needed a better place to stayâ
âYeah of course, thank youâ
âWeâll Iâll get out of your hair, seems your busy, it was nice meeting you Simonâ
Ghost is at a loss for words, he simply nods toward the man, his gaze focused on Riley.
âSeems he likes youâ
âWhereâd you get this dogâ His tone is serious
âWe adopted him when Will and I were together, heâs a retired-â
âSpec ops dogâ
âYeah? Howâd you knowâ
âThis is my dogâ
âSimon what are you talking about?â
âI work in the military, thatâs my jobâ
âAnd Riley was yours?â
âFor a few years yeah, last they told me heâd retired in the statesâ
âThey didnât let you keep him?â
âNot protocol, Iâm not home muchâ
âHomeâ The word triggers something in your mind, heâs not home, this isnât his house, youâd been so caught up in being around him youâd completely forgot that he has a life outside yours.
Simons eyes crinkle as he plays with the dog, rough housing with him as they roll in the dirt, âWe should get inside, looks like rainâ
âBe in, in a minute loveâ
You walk slowly toward the house, resting your back against the front door and shutting your eyes, why hadnât you thought about him leaving, there were people relying on him, itâs not like he could stay forever.
Even with the anxiety in your chest, your heart swells at the sight of Simon playing with Riley, even in the short time youâd known him, youâd never seen him this comfortable, he was so happy.
You glance at your arms, caked in dirt and sweat, deciding you needed to wash off. Stumbling over the mess of the washroom to turn on the bath, closing your eyes as you sink into the warm water.
Losing track of time in the water you notice your skin had grown wrinkled, scrubbing off the last bits of dirt and stepping out, wrapping a towel around your body and carefully navigating around the room.
Apparently during your alone time, Simon and Riley had moved their fun into the house, moving around the rooms together as they settled in.
You open the door, bumping directly into Simons chest, your nerves jumping as you collide. In a panic your towel falls,
âSorry I didnât see youâ He struggles to get the last words out, his eyes roaming your naked form as you quickly move to cover yourself,
âOh my god!â You reach for your towel but Riley runs over, grabbing it with his teeth and running away, âRiley! No, not a toy!â
Your cheeks flush with heat as you glance up, Simons eyes glued to you, your own eyes blown wide as you scurry away, slamming your bedroom door shut.
âHey, waitâ He follows you, leaning against your door as you drop your head to your hands on the other side.
âPlease, go awayâ
âCâmon, it wasnât that badâ
âYou saw my whole bodyâ
âLucky meâ
âSimonâ You laugh,
âIt was bound to happen at some pointâ
âWell these are awful circumstancesâ
He moves the door open slightly, his eyes on your face as you hide behind the wood, face flush, he smiles, reaching to lift his mask slightly as he leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss.
âYouâre so beautifulâ
You take a deep breath, smiling against his lips before shoving him back and closing the door. He sits down, back resting against the door as you shuffle around in your room, quickly throwing on clothes.
âIâm serious, the most perfect girl iâve ever seen, honestly just canât believe it took this long for you to get nakedâ
You open the door quickly, his body falling backwards onto the ground, wincing lightly as he laughs, his eyes opening to see you standing above him.
âYouâre very cocky, has anyone ever told you that?â
âActually yeahâ
Shaking your head you step over him, making your way to the kitchen, Riley following closely behind you.
Simon appears in the door frame, watching you pull food from the fridge, tossing items into pots and onto the cutting board.
âYou hungry?â Twisting your head over your shoulder,
âStarvedâ
He rests an arm above his head against the frame, watching you cook, his hand extended down to pet Riley, this was perfect, the life he never knew he wanted, he had you and his dog and goliath his own little family.
He gives you some space to work, settling on the couch while Riley rests at his feet, seemingly tired out from the day. He reaches for the small tray of electronics on the table, toying with his comms for a moment before piecing it together finally, clipping in the missing cord.
Thereâs a massive weight on his shoulders, he knows what he has to do, he has a team waiting on him, a family, less conventional yes, but a family none the less, the team were his brothers, he had to get in contact.
He grabs his comm, tucking it to his ear before moving into the bedroom, closing the door so you couldnât hear.
âBravo Delta, this is Ghostâ
He waits a few minutes before repeating himself, double checking his channel, those few minutes make his heart sink lower, either no one was there and his team had forgotten him, or his comms really were destroyed, and he could stay with you.
âGhost?â
âCaptain, good to hear your voiceâ
âChrist Son, we thought youâd diedâ
âNot yet Sir, just a little misplacedâ
âSend your coordinates, weâll get you evacâ
âNegative Sir, Iâve got hostiles in the city nearâ
âCan you get out? We need you on baseâ
âHow much time can you give me?â
He hears Price take a deep breath, murmuring to someone else in the room, âThree days Simon, then Iâm sending everyone I have to get youâ
âCopy, see you in three daysâ
âBe carefulâ
The line goes dead, Simons worries surfacing, he had three days, he didnât want to face the idea of leaving you let alone how youâd react when he told you, heâd finally gotten his family, he wouldnât give it up this easy.
tag list: @pepsicolacoochie @coolbanana44 @konigsblog @lialacleaf @mli345 @gghoulzz @fuckface-6996
#cod mw2#simon riley x reader#cod mw x reader#simon ghost riley x reader#simon riley#ghost cod#ghost x reader#mw2022#ghost mw2#call of duty mwii#cod x reader
3K notes
·
View notes
Note
So I don't know who to ask about this, and since it's your profession, I figured you'd know most! I like to use Magic Poser to help me draw my characters' poses, but I feel like I always wind up altering the proportions to fit the models rather than my style without meaning to just because I'm drawing what I'm looking at. It feels less like looking at a reference and more copying a picture, and it makes me feel really bad, like I'm cheating at art. Do you have any thoughts or word of advice on this? I'd greatly appreciate it. Thanks!
Hey Nonnie! Hmmm there's I feel like kind of two questions here. One, using Magic Poser or any other legit reference to make your art is not cheating. It's just using a tool the way it's meant to be used (as a reference). There's nothing at all wrong with that. â„ However, if you are getting Not The Results You Want from this process that's another issue entirely. So, two: what do I do if the art I'm making from reference doesn't look like *my* art? If you find that working from a reference is changing your style in ways you don't like, I have suggestions: 1) do a sketch from the reference just like you normally would in whatever style comes out naturally using the reference 2) look at the drawing you did and put the reference away 3) draw another drawing from the drawing you did but try to make adjustments towards the stylization you prefer (your first drawing is your reference for your second) OR, if your brain will do this for you: 3b) after sketching from the reference (maybe a few times for good measure) put the reference away completely and try to draw the pose from memory* and see what happens. If you think you're overly reliant on references to the point you think it's holding you back then you can start to wean yourself off of them but doing more and more drawing without them. Maybe start with a 20min warm-up on my Sketch App drawing a bunch of poses really fast from reference, then pull up a new pose, look at it, and try to draw it without checking back in at all. Honestly the best way to get to a style you like is to just draw A LOT. Draw lots of different ways. Mess around with line weight and shapes. Make things swish, make them pointy, make lines that cross over a lot, make a mess, make it neat, keep going. Do a lot of drawing and investigate what feels and looks right to you. And if a tool isn't serving your goals, you can let it go. It might be hard at first but you will find your way. â„ * Side note: I have aphantasia which means I don't have head pictures. If I look at a reference and walk into the other room, I am not going to be able to replicated it very well from memory. That being said, if I sketch a pose over and over and over a bunch I will retain it somehow, somewhere (I don't know how brains work). The next time I go to draw that pose it will be easier. Just popping this in here in case you have the same trouble.
512 notes
·
View notes
Text
I have gotten a lot of messages saying that they really love the presentation of CURSE/KISS/CUTE. Often the commenter in question canât say what exactly it is about the formatting that they appreciate, but that it just reads well and looks good. Well!!! Allow me to bare my wealth of secret knowledge for you once and for all:
I sorta just did some research into book typography...?
Hereâs something you should know about web development, alright: typography on the web is really, really bad. The tools we have at our disposalâHTML and CSSâare incredibly powerful, but they are set up to fight you every step of the way towards Good Typography. When you know what youâre looking for, you can fix all the common issues quickly and easily. But itâs not easy to know what to look for, because
problematic typography is overwhelmingly the norm on the web, and
good typography is invisible.
Hereâs a screenshot from CURSE/KISS/CUTE episode 0:
Now, I donât want this post to come across as prescriptive. It is not my intention to tell you, âThis is what good typography looks like, so follow my lead exactly.â I made a lot of choices with the typography of my web novel: many of those choices would not make sense in other contexts. What I want to convey to you is what those choices are, so that you will know theyâre available to be made.
I mentioned that the web âfights youâ when it comes to good typography. What do I mean by that? Well, check this out:
This is how that passage of text renders âby default.â In other words, this is how a web browser would render that text without any input from me about what styles to apply. It kind of sucks ass! But it also looks pretty familiar, right? This is not that far off from how a lot of websitesâeven websites full of prose (looking at you, AO3)ârender text.
I think the most illustrative thing to do here would be to walk you through my thought process and show you, step by step, what decisions I made to turn this unstyled text into the styled version you see in the novel.
So, first things first:
1. We have got to shrink that text column.
Computer monitors... are wide. They are wider than they are tall. They are so wide, and they have so many pixels. This means you can fit a lot of characters on them. If you wanted, you could just have a wall of characters from the left side of the screen all the way to the right side. Talk about efficient!!
You should never, ever, ever do this.
This is one choice that I actually will make a prescriptive statement about, because itâs supported by quite a lot of research: fairly narrow text columns are more legible. Specifically, research seems to support the idea that a width in the range of 50 to 70 characters per line is the most comfortable for people to read*. Every font is different, so it takes a little doing to turn that âcharactersâ figure into a pixel measurement; I went with 512 CSS pixels for the maximum width of my text column:
Isnât that just so much nicer to read already?
*A commenter reminds me that Iâd be remiss not to point out that the research on column width legibility isnât completely conclusive. You do want to limit the width of your text columns, but going over the 70 character-per-line recommendation isnât necessarily the end of the world, and you might have good reasons to do so. I did not: as mentioned, one of my goals was to mimic book-style typography, and books by nature have fairly restrained column widths, on account of theyâre books.
2. Picking a font.
Iâm not going to give you the blow-by-blow on how I decided what font to use. The short story is that I asked some designers, and one of the recommendations I got was the free font Crimson Pro, which I took a liking to immediately:
Itâs just an all-around attractive serif font, but one thing I really like about it for use in a novel is its highly-visible quotation marks. Theyâre just kinda jumbo! Theyâre real big! Easy to see! In a novel, those things arenât just ornamentation. It makes a great deal of practical sense for them to stand out just a bit. It also has a fairly large x-height, unlike a lot of the more traditional options, which is good for legibility on a computer screen.
3. Adjusting the line-height
Web browsers default to a line-height of about 1.2em, which, as you can probably tell, is quite cramped. If you go and Google âoptimal line height for legibilityâ, youâll get a number of results right off the bat suggesting 1.5em. Sounds good! Letâs do that:
Well... hmm. Thatâs definitely an improvement, but between you and me, it actually looks a bit too spacey to my eyes. I wonder why?
Iâll cut to the chase: the 1.5em recommendation makes some assumptions about the font youâre using. In Arial, the letter âAâ is about 0.6em tall; in Crimson Pro, itâs about 0.5em. That means that thereâs no one-size-fits-all solution to spacing your lines, because different fonts have different amounts of empty space baked in. How annoying!
Let me tell you something about the kind of nerd I am. When I had this realization, I grabbed some books off my shelf and pulled out a literal micrometer. I started measuring the line-heights against various font features to see if there were any patterns I could spot in professional typesetting. Hereâs what I found:
Almost every book on my shelf spaces lines such that the distance between one baseline and the next is about three times the x-height. How cool is that? I clapped my hands like a seal when I put this together.
Adjusting the line-height to match what I observed in the wild gives us this:
Itâs a subtle difference, but to my eyes it feels just right. Itâs almost like magic!
4. Paragraph spacing...
Letâs address the elephant in the room. Probably the most controversial choice I made with CURSE/KISS/CUTEâs typography was to opt for book-style paragraph indentation rather than web-style paragraph spacingâlike so:
I did this for a few reasons:
Itâs what Iâm used to. Iâve read a lot of books, and this is just the way that books are formatted. I think for something aspiring to the title of ânovelâ, thereâs value in making it look the way a reader probably expects a novel to look.
A novel has a lot of paragraph breaks in it. A paragraph in, say, an encyclopedia entry might go on for half a page or more; whereas it is unusual for a paragraph in a modern work of narrative prose to run for more than a handful of sentences, especially in any scene with dialogue. Because paragraph breaks are so common, spacing between paragraphs in a novel results in a lot of wasted space. Also, subjectively speaking, the additional space seems to me to lend an undue amount of weight to paragraph breaks. Iâm just starting a new thought; thereâs no need for a 21-gun salute, you know?
Having said that, here are some good reasons you might decide not to do paragraph indentation anyway:
Doing it right requires a bit of extra legwork. Notice how the very first paragraph in the image above has no indentation. Thatâs because itâs the start of a new section, and the first paragraph in a section traditionally goes unindented. This is an easy detail to miss, and it can be difficult to wrangle CSS into doing it for you automatically.
Web users donât expect it. For the first decade of the webâs existence, there was no good way to do paragraph indentation; by the time CSS rolled around and made it easy, paragraph spacing had already become the norm. And while CURSE/KISS/CUTE may be a novel, it is also, specifically, a web novel!
But itâs my house and I get to make the rules, so I went with indentation. Incidentally, there seems to be a dire lack of research into the question of whether indentation or spacing is more legible for readersâbut the data that does exist appears inconclusive at best. So, the choice really does come down to vibes.
5. The tragedy of justification.
Youâll note that one way in which I did not make my web novel look like a paper novel is the text alignment. Itâs un-justified: the right margin is ripsaw-ragged.
This is because it is not possible to justify text on the web.
Oh, you can try. Look right here: thereâs a CSS property for it and everything. Just turn on âtext-align: justifyâ and...
Nightmare! The interword spacing on that first line is almost as wide as the indentation!
Reader, Iâm afraid that your web browser is simply too dumb. Thatâs not the browserâs fault: robust algorithms for justifying text without creating these distractingly huge gaps between words have existed for many decades, and modern computers are powerful enough to run them in real time with little performance impact. Itâs just, uhânobody has ever bothered to implement them into web browsers. It is the damnedest thing.
I tried, I really did. You can mitigate this problem a bit if you enable automatic hyphenation, but browsers are unfortunately also kind of dumb at hyphenating. Firefox, for example, will refuse to hyphenate any word containing a capital letter, so any sentence with a lot of proper nouns in it is a lost cause. I tried manually inserting soft hyphens with a text preprocessor I wrote myself, but still these overjustified lines plagued me: when the text column narrows, for example on a phone, even hyphens canât save you. The line-breaking algorithm is simply too naĂŻve to optimize for well-justified text, and thatâs not something you can fix as a web developer.
As a result, my heavy-hearted recommendation is to never use text justification. Itâs just too distracting.
6. And then some extra stuff just for me
I added drop-caps because it looks neat and I made the ellipses spacier because I think it looks good when it, uh, when they are spacier. I think that looks pretty good thatâs just my opinion though.
Thatâs all! Hope you learned something bye!!!
382 notes
·
View notes