#this chapter got long as well

[wasyago]

the brainrot won

[lululawrence]

You Should Be Here With Me

A 2024 Advent Fic by lululawrence

Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson | 33k | 24/25 Chapters

The festive period is a traditionally hectic one in the world of Premier League football, and this year is no different. A lot is riding on how Manchester United is able to come through the fixtures in the coming weeks.

Louis and his teammates know all too well the pressure that is on their shoulders. They need to prove, not just to fans of the club but the entire league, that they still have what it takes to be a team worthy of fighting for the top of the table.

Throw in the fact that Louis is all too aware that he's not getting any younger in a profession that demands your peak physical fitness year round and the incredibly fit Harry Styles, who is part of the club's social media team, and this year's festive period might just be the most important one yet.

🎄1 🎄 2 🎄 3 🎄 4 🎄 5 🎄 6 🎄 7 🎄 8 🎄 9 🎄 10 🎄 11 🎄 12 🎄 13 🎄 14 🎄 15 🎄 16 🎄 17 🎄 18 🎄 19 🎄 20 🎄 21 🎄 22 🎄 23 🎄 24 🎄 25 🎄

[akkivee]

still kinda not over ichiro taking a bite out of his hamburger in the leaders bonus hypster track and going 'it's so good!! it tastes really meaty!!' lmao

[sandwichsapphic]

“an exceedingly pleasant and amiable young gentleman but… mentally he is negligible - quite negligible” is the Jeeves and Wooster equivalent of “she is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me”

[ms0milk]

𝟏𝟒 | 𝐑𝐞𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠

ー✧ prince!bakugou x royal guard!reader

"He does not notice because you are a distraction, the tumult stirring in the castle behind you. He cannot understand his heart’s frustration at your warm fingers against his own."

no cw talking never works for the two of you, will a sparring match? bruises, grappling, unsubtle admiration (with a live studio audience). heartstopping smiles. the arrival of a new and dreadful ghost that reader tries to kill on instinct. 4.5k

PREV | M.LIST | TAGLIST | NEXT

The Queen of Takoba cracks open her bedroom door just as early as you suspected. Threats and growling stop in the face of her beauty, gulps and pulses start up when she yawns. You lower your head to the floor. You kneel beside her chamber door with three glaives pressed sharp to the back of your neck and three dull guards insistent on spoiling your apology.

“Go play,” she murmurs and turns back inside, disinterested.

“It was cute.”

“It was unnecessary,” Bakugou growls.

Princess Fuyumi hikes up her skirts in her floury fists and jogs to keep pace beside her sous chef, “You’re chronic Katsuki, this is ridiculous,” and smiles when he bares his teeth.

“She should be resting.”

“She is not your soldier.”

“She’s a soldier! She is ridiculous, not me!” The two twist in sync through frosty hallways towards Aizawa’s training pit. The castle is teeming with staff and lords this morning so they take back passageways. Morning meetings be dammed– party planning, flower arranging, appetizer testing, inseam measuring get fucked.

You have spent your morning hunting down queens and princesses and completely disregarding the one thing asked of you. You are not so dense as you pretend and as Bakugou storms to find you, he can’t help but be impressed by your dedication to being an uncontainable menace– finding all the places he might hide in Takoba not for his protection, but so you can avoid him when it serves you.

You should have been more careful, Bakugou sneers as he erupts onto the gallery, because where he underestimated you, you underestimated Half n’half and his propensity to be a fucking airhead.

“She looked well this morning.” Todoroki sat on a bench in the kitchen, eyes bleary and nursing a tankard of coffee. His sister and friend hunched over their latest attempt to recreate Alderan biscuits and both jolted when he spoke. Fuyumi sent every telepathic message she could to her brother who just kept talking. Bakugou’s stare melted holes in the table.

“She’s looking for you too Fumi,” the prince yawned. Deku was wandering around somewhere with eye bags just like his and they both looked exactly like a stubborn guard had woken them up at dawn, “said she had an errand in the soldiers’ quarters so I gave her the address of your dressfitting in town tonight.”

Bakugou grips the gallery railing above the training pit and the metal in his fist starts to squeal as his magic slips out, because of course you’re there. Striking the training sword your opponent holds over their head desperately, over and over until it cracks and your weapon thunks their shoulder. Of course you’re smiling.

“Kirishima’ll worry,” Fuyumi wheezes and plants a hand on Bakugou’s back to steady herself. Bakugou doesn’t take his eyes off the ring.

“Let him.”

You’ve overpowered two guisarmier by the time your prince winds through back passageways onto the floor of the pit because you are an Alderan halberdier and Takoba does not train much in polearms. You have also just cracked a middle-ranked sabreur over the head because you are a decorated fencer and your opponent didn’t prepare for melee combat before agreeing to duel.

Your cheeks are red with exertion and excitement. Half-armored soldiers lounge at the edges of the arena laughing and hydrating. Some play cards. Uraraka is among them eating snacks and she nudges Shinsou forward with her foot, “You promised.”

“You promised,” you parrot and bounce a few paces into the center of the room because apparently you are well enough to fight Takoba’s future Armorer. Uraraka, the beast of melee and master-in-the-making, snorts and reclines on a pile of pads.

Bakugou steps forward before truly thinking and then Aizawa booms from the office above, “Halberds!” The doom spreading in your prince’s gut doesn’t know whether to multiply or dissipate. You still do not see him. You grin.

Two soldiers pass you the weapons their master ordered and you take your place eagerly while Shinsou finishes dusting himself off. The weapon twirls like a dancer between your hands.

As much as he berates him for it, Bakugou thinks just as much as Deku does.

Did Master Aizawa give you halberds for your advantage or Shinsou’s? Was it meant to embolden you– trick you? Did he predict how cocky you get when you think you have the advantage? Is Shinsou proficient? Is this to humble you?

He is thinking until the second the match bell rings and then gawks. Shinsou readies his weapon gracefully and crouches in position. You flourish the polearm once more in a figure-8 around your chest and shoulders and then abandon it entirely, spear thrust into the ground, to launch and tackle your opponent.

Aizawa wasn’t trying to embarrass you. It wasn't revenge for defeating his soldiers or discharging your weapon into a crowd of dinner guests. Shinsou grunts. He doesn’t drop his weapon but you are obviously too close to use it and his shoulders are already flat on the ground in defeat, “Shiny toys only help if you’re faster than me, weaponmaster.”

Shinsou erupts into laughter underneath you and nods in concession. Aizawa rumbles from his office, “You will learn creativity from Aldera or she will kill you,” clearly smiling as he speaks. Dread evaporates. It looks like they’re running a pin-drill, non-lethal, adaptive, against an unfamiliar fighting style. It’s just training. You’re not being held hostage by an army with a grudge. Takoba is not afraid to demean guests and it wouldn’t be the first time Bakugou picked a fight to defend the dignity of an Alderan. At home you are well respected and intimidating, but everywhere you are odd.

“s’not like we’re going to war,” Shinsou grumbles as you help him to his feet and dust off your knees.

The sabreur cackles under his bag of ice on the sideline, “Lucky us.”

“Royal contender!” Uraraka suddenly sings because she’s bored and has spotted entertainment from across the room, “An exotic prince wishes to challenge our victor.”

Your eyes shift from shared apprentice smiles to the place Uraraka gestures with her chin, the place where Bakugou has forgotten, momentarily, that he has a body.

He shakes his head without taking his eyes off of you.

“What? Does the prince not spar with his soldiers in Aldera?” Uraraka stops short of booing. He only knows she is mocking him because he has known her so long. Your face goes slack like his. “Shoto trains with us all the time.”

“I’m not fighting an outpatient.”

“Right, of course. Worried three days of coma made her too strong?”

Bakugou scowls knives in her direction. When Master Aizawa descends from his office there is obviously no way out of his apprentice’s instigation.

“Would you consider showing my recruits an Alderan combat exercise?”

He knows you well enough, he has known you all your lives, and when Bakugou looks to you for a response he knows what you’re going to say before your lips part. “Yes sir.”

“Weapon?”

“Unarmed sir.”

Aizawa nods, “Alderan hand-to-hand then. Takoba relies too much on magic anyway.”

Warmth drains first from Bakugou’s fingers and then his feet as the Master disables his magic and tips his head toward you, standing sure in the center of the arena under sunshine.

“Good morning, Highness” you murmur as your prince skulks into the light and takes his begrudging place in front of you.

“You’ve been fucking busy.”

He is skilled enough not to hurt you, and so this show will be simple. That’s all it is. A performance for the incompetence of Takoba. Aizawa takes a seat beside his apprentices to keep dust far away from his eyes, “Learn something, the lot of you.” His battalion falls silent.

Aldera excels in two things, combat and cultivation. Fruits richer than any on the planet. Warriors fiercer than you could find in hell. Bakugou is a culmination of his parents’ perfect magic and his mother’s aptitude for violence. He can speak the languages of the continent, he has trained under her men and has chosen his own champion. What are you made of?

Right now it’s something like apprehension as he extends his fist towards you and your open palm to him. Jeanist’s defensive stance, a wide open hand ready to swing, grab, or close. You assume he’ll attack first. Your eyes are bright and focused, muscles warm, and usual braids tied back high with a length ribbon Fuyumi snuck into your dressers. Of course you would recover from a three-day coma overnight. Worry falls from him like a bucket with a hole.

He steps forward in a crouch. Your wrists cross.

“She’s not made of glass, Kats!”

There’s a grunt and he can only assume Aizawa thwacked his apprentice over the head but it’s enough for him to harden his stance because any warrior would dream of the opportunity to catch him in disorganized anger, even for a moment. You don’t flinch.

He wasn’t wasn’t wrong, apprehension fills you and now his worry drips higher. You are no blank unreadable foe and your own worry is written all across your eyes. Jeanist taught a terrible poker face.

“Any day,” Aizawa grumbles this time. You have spent the morning cracking the skulls of Takoba’s guards and now Bakugou is the one who appears apprehensive to a room full of strangers. He looks to you one more time and ducks forward to strike with his fist.

He meant to hit a rib, durable, flexible, and send you to the ground without the danger of a drawn out grapple but you step carefully out of his way. You’re fast, which he knew, but when he readies himself for retaliation you take the beat to solidify your footing and don’t make a single move towards him. It’s just your open palm and a crouch in his direction. The crowd hums.

Fine, one more. This time Bakugou skips forward with his arms drawn high at his side and dips in close to feign a strike to your chest. His kick to your ankles is well timed and serves to surprise onlookers but you only pounce with your feet together, then land beside him where you should have had every instinct to knock him prone. Instead you slip back two more steps out of range and ready yourself again. 

Oh, Bakugou rolls his eyes as he stands again on two feet. He’s overcomplicating the obvious, “You’re permitted to fight me.”

Your ears perk like hound.

“Wouldn’t you like a real opponent after a morning of,” he gestures to the lounging soldiers, “this?” They suck their teeth but do not clamor. Your eyebrows raise in thought because you really do have a terrible poker face. Was that it? Apprehension at hurting your prince? “Cmon then.”

You do not make him wait when, lightfooted, you prance back into striking range. He plants one foot and swings forward to leave an obvious opening, it’s simple and always has been. You will dive into his fake opening and he will pin both your elbows in one arm to drop you on your back with the other.

You do not take the bait or a strike against him. You jump and tuck your head close to your chest to roll across his shoulders when he is still stuck in the motion of his faux swing. Bakugou growls and reaches behind himself to catch you where you land, which you somehow do not, hooking one leg around his waist to sling yourself back where you started. His heart pumps a little faster.

Where he punches, you duck, where he knees, you dodge, where he reaches, you redirect until you have danced your way around the ring a full rotation and still not exchanged a blow.

Are you really this useless without a weapon? Only able to defend? Bakugou spits and dives for your stomach in a full body attack. His heart pumps faster. You fall to your knees and bend far enough to slip under him and back upright on the other side.

He’s seen you fight and knows you’re capable of more than just taunting. Why will you spar with these useless fucks in a foreign kingdom and not him? Prince Bakugou does train with his soldiers at home but never with Jeanist’s precious Second. Everything but gratuitous hardships, a waste of time. Beneath you.

“Does this coward serve my kingdom?!” He roars, heart snapping, and spins when he lands on his palms like a cat to charge. Still like a hound, your ears pull back with his words.

“Take note,” Aizawa mutters.

Now your poker face– a bronze mirror really, channeled through your heart– blazes white hot, perfect. Two more steps. Bakugou was trained by Jeanist too and so you cannot hide from him.

Not that you’re trying to. Not that anything Jeanist taught would help him anticipate your dropped shoulder and open palms coming for him in a head on collision. You’re just as hot-headed as he is if a little shit talk riled you up this much.

Before Bakugou can tackle, you have dove flat underneath of him and grabbed his bicep with those ever-ready fists Jeanist tried to teach him to use. He’s thrown through the air with his own momentum and over your head faster than his heart can beat again. With your fists you pull, with your knees you push, and with two feet planted firm you sling him over your shoulder and sprawled onto the ground a few paces away. You are at his throat before he can blink.

“I am not a coward,” you hiss and hold a hand across his neck in clear victory.

Your prince watches the shape your lips make when you’re biting your cheek like he’s never seen anyone do it before. And the forest fire behind dark lashes. “No,” he breathes.

Aizawa’s knees crack when he stands and normally a few men would giggle, but every eye is on the foreign prince and his secret weapon. “Most deaths on the battlefield happen through carelessness.” The Master is probably pointing and lecturing but all Bakugou hears is the pulse in your chest and the crackle sand makes when sweat drips from the soft parts of your body. You blink to the crowd for a second.

“You should all remember your lessons from Aldera today on the element of surprise.”

“Rematch,” your prince grins. His arms fly above his head and he brings them down faster than you can get away, trapping your limbs against you and flipping you onto your back, much to the entertainment of the audience who, along with startled Aizawa, have forgone the lesson.

He pins your wrists above your head to keep them from gouging his eyes out and pushes hard on your thighs with his hips. A full body hold.

“Cheater!” Uraraka boos.

You think so too because you send a knees straight up between his legs. With your speed he can only dodge one strike at a time so when he shifts to block, you pull your arms back in tight. He’s lost fights before, spars against Kirishima and the rest, but he’s only lost to unmatched brute force or poor magic pairings.

When he falls forward, you bow away and wrap an arm around his neck to trap him flat against you with a grunt. Cradle his back with your hips. Lock your arms tight around his throat and taunt him with easy breath over the shell of his ear. It’s been an awfully long time since he’s had to think in a fight. If either of you could hear over the blood in your heads you’d be charmed by the excitement of Aizawa’s men.

“Three out of five,” your prince wheezes and before you can utter your huh, he leverages his weight to roll onto his knees and without any of the gentleness he cautioned before, jerks forward to throw you over his head.

Your grip does soften but not because he’s caught you by surprise. It’s so you can lock your legs around his neck instead of your arms and twist him, writhing, back onto the ground beneath you. His weight won’t help him here. Magic might not make a difference either.

Bakugou has tucked a hand beside his neck to keep you from knocking him out and grunts with two squeezed cheeks between your thighs. The tighter you lock, the slower he moves because you’re not the only one with tricks. Think about the body like armor. He snakes his hand through the sand to hide the noise and grabs at the crease where your thigh meets your hip with thick vicegrip fingers. You shudder around him instead of yelping and his heart swells, half at the sound, and half at the opening he’s made.

Slipping out of your hold and back onto his feet where you no longer have the advantage in flexibility or wrestling, he spits sand and gravel. “Ticklish?”

You’re already on your feet just two strikes’ distance away and Bakugou’s heart does something different than beat this time, because you wipe the blood from your split lip and grin. Big and cheesy. Your eyes crinkle like he always imagined they might.

“Four out of seven?”

“Count to ten,” his mother instructed fifteen years ago. “Katsuki, don’t let go of her.”

“Mm.”

She hoisted her beautiful cape over your shoulders beside one another and promised to be right back with clean clothes. The king and Jeanist had scattered in search of the doctor.

“What’s your name?”

You didn’t answer. A gash in your eyebrow had started to swell.

He squeezed your little hand tighter, “You’re at my house.”

“is my mother okay?”

He never could have guessed what the bloodsoaked puppy in his carriage would turn into. That your eyes would go as big as the moon under his magic or that you would love his library and chat with the wind through open windows instead of eating with everyone in the Hall.

This time he is flat on chest and you have both his arms bent behind him tight at the elbow. Aldera doesn’t excel in shit, you excel, in everything. You protect his kingdom on a whim like a brooding dragon.

“I’m unarmed,” Bakugou winces, smiling.

You huff lightheartedly, “me too,” and thumb over the callouses magic made in his palms.

He does not notice because you are a distraction, the tumult stirring in the castle behind you. He cannot understand his heart’s frustration at your warm fingers against his own.

Others notice before he does. You certainly beat him to it. “What was that?”

“What? Tired already?” He coos and snaps his biceps away from you like he probably could have done this whole time. Your prince is too distracted by everything that makes you– his odd little dragon– neatly trimmed nails and shiny scars like lace sprinkled across every part of your body. The thin line in your eyebrow. The cursed smell of the sea that still clings to your hair and the sweet sour of sparring all morning. He rolls back and bursts to his feet to coax you into another round.

You’re not quite paying attention. For the first time this morning you take your eyes off of him and pebbles drop in his chest because maybe not even a dragon can heal overnight, but you are not in the same daze as yesterday. Your fingers twitch like you’re remembering how to hold something as you rise to face him again– facing but glaring at something through him.

“Down Highness,”

Which is, all in all, a terrible omen because you only look the way you do now when you’re preparing to kill someone you are certainly not supposed to. 

Bakugou snaps around when the doors of the soldier’s quarters explode from their hinges in hellfire.

If the flames had been blue, they might not have been able to stop you. An intruder looms in the smoke of his destruction in the seconds before charging but you are already between Bakugou’s legs and out the other side before he can finish the syllables of your name, diving for a discarded handaxe from earlier duels and leaping– arms crossed over your face to shield from fire– as guard and executioner.

“Wait!”

“Majesty?!”

“Y/n!” With her half suit of armor and two biceps braced at her shoulder, Uraraka crashes into you and destroys your momentum before you can get one good step off the ground. Two guards collide. You're both smashed flat across the training room floor.

The intruder does not stop and wouldn’t have flinched if you took his head; he is the most despicable man after all, undeterred by evil or the stench of death.

“Attention whore,” Bakugou growls as Enji Todoroki clears the floor in a wake of screaming flames his soldiers can barely escape. Magic from Aizawa doesn’t refill your prince’s veins fast enough to stop the immolating man from knocking him four good lengths and picking him up again by the front of his tunic in his giant stride. He’s huge. And he’s set himself on fire in his fury.

“Majesty, stand down!”

“Which Alderan rat set fire in the North Wing?!” He roars as the prince shakes sand from his hair.

Bakugou bares his teeth so sharp the crowd worries he might bite. He’s close enough to. “You can’t even do absentee father right.”

You are struggling in a poor match between Aldera’s strongest soldier and Takoba’s lightest. No matter what hold or jerk you attempt, trying to escape from Uraraka is like screaming underwater. “I’m sorry!” She groans, mostly at the pin she uses to hold you but also at the fire that hops just out of reach of her greaves. No one remembers the might of the mellow apprentice until she stops smiling. Before you hit the ground your ax soared into the air with a life of its own– it’s still there now. It spins rapidly in its trapped momentum but still floats, harmless, up towards the glass ceiling.

“Highness!” You grunt and Uraraka apologizes again, and again after you try to break her nose with a weightless headbutt.

“I’ll put down your yapping dog and light up every rat infesting my castle,” the king is almost foaming. Bakugou itches at the prospect of a fight.

“Declaration of war, old man?”

“Enough!”

It’s not an accident that you escape– that Uraraka softens– as the princess appears in the arena. The intruder tosses your prince away before sparks can ignite his hellish beard and swings hard at the new voice. You barrel into her. You like a shield and poised in seconds to take his arrogant hand with a shortsword.

You couldn’t possibly know who this is. No one could have guessed he would return, today or at all. Bakugou could only pray that he died at sea long ago.

Mountains of soldiers ready at your back, archers trained on the new man’s neck, hesitant faces twisted with contradiction in every flow of movement– drawing weapons, dashing to the scene, racing to protect their princess and still somehow hesitating– before the giant hand freezes, and you with it, before your sword can cleave it off at the wrist. The flames disappear.

“She said, enough,” Aizawa barks. It’s not a shout, it’s something much more terrible, something like poison. It’s horrible enough to back away with the princess kept tight between your shoulders as the Master approaches. The intruder is not less intimidating without fire. They both glare. Four dozen soldiers watch.

Fuyumi hollers, “I gave the North Wing order!” over your arm when you won’t let her push forward and then your skin prickles at the grating of a voice you hoped was knocked unconscious, safe but out of the way, on the other side of the room.

“No she fucking didn’t,” Bakugou spits, and it’s everything you can manage to keep a hotheaded princess and a live grenade behind the cover of your back. Your prince presses forward, “I’ll burn down this whole fuckass seashell to keep my people warm.”

“Not helping!” Uraraka hisses with a group of her men racing to pat out pockets of flame before they catch on piles of padding. It wasn’t meant to.

The pit is an echo of heartbeats and rapid breathing. Half of the soldiers frozen in their attempt to stop you from killing their king and the other half frozen, now with fear, in their attempt to help. Fuyumi stares at her father through the adjoined shoulders of the Alderan prince and his captain.

The king looms over the Master with his hands set in fists. No matter how intimidating he tries to be, he is still extinguished. “It was your job to protect my kingdom.”

Aizawa bristles at the insinuation.

“I have been rotting at sea for the sake of this kingdom and you can’t keep a single rat away from–” 

“We weren’t expecting you, Majesty.”

“Would you have done a better job if I penned you a letter? Like a yearning fucking maiden.”

“It’s been eleven years.”

Bakugou knows what he’s doing. Keeping the king from exploding again, but it’s everything he can do to stay beside you on the sidelines and listen without exploding himself. Enji Todoroki looks like shit now that the fire has died down. Expensive shit. A thousand yards of now-ruined silk wrapped and spooled around and over his open chest. Blue and silver as far as the eye can see. What has he been doing for a decade? The belt at his hips drools with obscene wealth. A decorative sword Bakugou would like to see buried in his guts.

What do you think of him? This king. He’s half-giant and half-sea mad already, a waste of muscle and trimmed always in fire. His hair and beard, even the ridges of his fingertips singed round shapes into the collar of Bakugou's tunic. The prince makes a note to ask you about it later, if not just for an excuse to poison another Alderan against him. Not that it would take much push. When he looks down at you, the torchlight behind your eyes flickers furiously with thought.

The king takes one more look around the room when he decides he can’t win in a staring match with Aizawa. “Your Masters never taught you to kneel?” He seeths at his jumbled soldiers and the room immediately scrambles to the ground. You don’t flinch. Shinsou crosses his arms beside his master and Uraraka lays flat on her back in exhaustion some ways off. The king takes his satisfaction with a suck of his teeth and storms back across the room through the doors he destroyed. Fires still hop in the hallway beyond.

You don’t take your eyes off his shape even after it’s gone, “Was that..”

“My father,” Fuyumi answers quickly and equally as distant as you.

“Forgive me, princess.”

“Better luck next time.”

Bakugou watches you both somewhat frozen together, staring after fire, and moves before he’s thought out the action. Your knuckles are white on the sword you still raise.

“Stand down,” he murmurs as his hand wraps around yours. You are so strange. You both know too much. At his touch your weapon drops immediately through your fingers to the floor.

PREV | M.LIST | TAGLIST | NEXT

tagged angels ✧.* @nnubee @nonomesupposedto @kotarousproperty @strawberry-mentos69 @sveetnn @lunrai @km7474 @cathwritestragediesnotsins @idimmadontgiveashit @kooromin @k1tk4tkatsuki @litiri @kiwibao @sarcasticlittlebook @condy-wants-a-cookie @mysticalfridge @falling4fandoms @katanaski @romiinlove @cherripunch26 @acid-rain27 @bakugouswh0r3 @zukowantshishonourback @ultracrii @chandiewashere @screechingdreameater @when-you-are-just-done @levisbae2 @flyhighinthesky @1astr0id1 @thebluespacecow @mizzfizz @butterscotch-ripple-icecream @phoenix-draws77 @ltadoriyuujl @dreamingoftomorrow @optimisticprime3 @misscaller06 @the-omnipotent-phlowr @king-dynamight @sky-angel101 @rosiejacklyn

could not tag for some reason :,(

[blanketfortz]

who will i become

[skania]

AquaKane & OnK 148

Ohhhhh boy. I thought we would have to wait until July to get back to Aqua and Akane, so this chapter blindsided me lol

I know that the most on-the-nose reading of this chapter is that Aka is preparing to pull the classic romcom trope where the love interest gives up on the MC only so the rest of the cast can reassure her that she is the one who makes the MC happy, etc. etc. Considering that this is happening two chapters after Aqua told Kana that he has fun with her, it's like Aka is leading us all to believe that's where it's going. It's all very tropey and in-your-face and perfectly on brand with the way Aka has always written that particular ship.

So instead of talking about the obvious, I'd like to indulge my hopes for good writing and discuss the possibility of Aka actually subverting those tropes by playing this straight, regardless of how likely or unlikely it may be. Because if he does, then all of the stuff I've always loved about Aqua and Akane may just end up meaning something.

This is the possibility I'm rooting for against all odds after all, so I figure that I may as well go down throwing my ship the hurrahs it deserves while I can still do so lol

So buckle up because this is going to be long!

This chapter is a wild ride because it touches upon a lot of different things at once.

First, Aqua supposedly didn't want to be involved with Akane any longer in order to keep her safe.

However, when Akane announced that she would stop his plans — in other words, that she would stay involved in his life — Aqua looked giddy.

Look at him. When Aka allows him to actually emote and be an actual character, Aqua can be so funny!

True to form, in this chapter we see Akane come up to him and Aqua just... welcome her. In fact, he even asks her if she feels awkward around him. Instead of acting like they never dated (which is exactly what Akane has been doing, mind you), he himself brings their former relationship to the forefront.

There's a pause splitting his question in two, meaning that this is something Aqua hesitates to ask. Almost like he is scared of the reply. Or like he may be feeling a little awkward himself.

Which is no surprise, because that is how Aka himself presents their current era. Akane isn't just Akane and she isn't just a friend; she is Aqua's ex girlfriend, a title that never fails to bring attention to the fact that they used to be romantically involved.

From colleagues, to a fake couple, to partners, to a real couple and now they're in their Exes era. I've been waiting for Aka to explore all the tension and complexity that should bring, but he's been kind of busy off-paneling most things Aqua. Alas!

When I commented on Chapter 131, I mentioned that (to me) it feels like after Chapter 116, Akane found something to focus on. She isn't thinking about her relationship with Aqua, the only thing she has in mind is Aqua. Keeping him safe, helping him achieve happiness.

Even here during this chapter, she goes to him to ease his loneliness and remind him that he has people worth living for and that he deserves to be happy, but... nothing she says includes her. It's all about Aqua and the others, the others and Aqua.

I don't think it's a coincidence that Akane walks away from him with her eyes closed. Her mind is consumed with thoughts about wanting Aqua to be happy, and so she doesn't even notice the way he turns to look at her retreating back.

Until Kana shines her proverbial light on her, making Akane open her eyes.

The way the chapter is structured, it's like Kana is there to give Akane the answer — the missing piece to solve the Aqua Happiness Conundrum™ that Akane is so focused on. It's easy to think that the answer is predictably Kana herself, but since I'm here for Aqua and Akane, I'd like to believe the answer can be just as Kana says.

After all, who is prominently featured in what Aqua considers to be his happy days?

Kana's words are abrupt, yes, but the silver lining is that they reflect what Aqua himself has already told us.

Akane is front and center in what Aqua has come to know as happiness.

One may wonder: How TF does Kana know that though?? And it's a fair question that I'll talk about in a little bit, but maybe what matters most is that she knows it at all.

In a way, it feels almost like meta commentary. Like the story has finally reached the point where Aka can afford to go back to Aqua and Akane, and so he is getting ready to reap all the seeds he sowed during the previous arcs fingers crossed.

And this is the very first one of those seeds: Aqua was happy with Akane, but Akane never let herself think that she played an instrumental part in his happiness. She seems to think that it was just being freed from his revenge.

I'd even argue this right here was the true reason of their downfall. It wasn't Aqua finding out about the loophole and Akane not coming clean, it was the reason why she didn't come clean.

Aqua's happiness mattered so much to her that Akane failed to consider that risking her life for him was the last thing Aqua wanted.

So when I read the leaks and Kana's comment, my kneejerk reaction was to think Finally! because this could be setting in motion something I've been waiting for all along.

For Aqua and Akane to revisit their dynamic, their relationship, and come clean about what they mean to each other — wherever that may lead them.

Now, going back to Kana and that earlier question of how does she know? Perhaps she saw something we haven't been privy to (in classic Aka fashion). Or maybe it's as simple as Kana finally realizing that Aqua is deeply unwell, and knowing that the last time she saw him happy was back when he was dating Akane.

Considering the information Kana has and — especially — all the information she lacks, it's not far-fetched for her to come to the conclusion that Aqua's state is partly to blame on his break-up with Akane.

Once again, it would be easy for Aka to say that Kana got it wrong because she doesn't know anything about Aqua's revenge. But wouldn't it be ironic if Kana's lack of insight into that particular side of Aqua is what allows her to see something so simple that the very parties involved are missing it?

Regardless of the road she took to get there, I'd like to think the manga has given us enough reasons to believe Kana is not quite wrong.

After all, Aqua didn't get his black stars when he found out that his father was alive. It wasn't finding out about his father's identity that did it, either.

It was turning his back on Akane and on the naive thoughts of being happy in order to walk down the Revenge Road, on a chapter aptly titled "Going Astray", that gave Aqua his two black stars.

If that was the chapter where Aqua stepped away from the "correct path", so to speak, then it stands to reason to believe that Akane may be front and center in the path Aqua is meant to take.

Coincidentally, this was the last interaction Aqua and Akane were allowed to have before this chapter.

Another thing I find very important in c148 is the way Kana words her realization. Kana isn't telling all of this to Akane as an observer. She's saying it as someone who likes Aqua romantically.

This is in contrast to Akane and Aqua, who are two hot messes when it comes to identifying the nature of their own feelings.

Throughout the entire manga, we've never seen Akane put a label on the way she feels about Aqua. We've seen her realize why she feels the way she does, but we haven't seen her say what she feels, even though Aqua himself has questioned it.

Closest we got was this, and they broke up a chapter later.

Aqua has unexpectedly been more open than Akane in that regard, but... once again, they broke up literally one chapter after Aqua was at his most candid.

And considering everything that happened before and after that, I'm not sure if Akane actually got the message.

But before I get to that, there is an important difference in the way Akane was thinking of Aqua's happiness back then and the way she's thinking about it now.

Chapter 97 was even titled Together. Akane wanted to make Aqua happy, yes, and she also wanted to be together with him always. Just like Aqua wanted them to, according to his own admission: "I don't want to let go of these days... when you're by my side."

But all of that is missing in this most recent chapter. She no longer includes herself as part of the equation at all.

It truly feels like Akane is back to completely underestimating how much she means to Aqua.

Back when Aqua told her this:

Akane reacted like this:

And what is her reaction to Kana's words this chapter?

Every single time, Akane is taken aback by the thought of meaning more to Aqua than she thinks. Every. Single. Time.

This is sad and a little frustrating, but it's far from surprising. After all, this is how Akane has always interpreted their relationship:

As far as Akane is concerned, their relationship was a lie that was turning into truth little by little. She never dared to hope that he loved her back; hell, she even thought that he was attracted to Kana and wondered why he decided to date her instead.

To make matters worse, in Chapter 98, Aqua deliberately set the stage so that Akane's trust in him — the very basis of their relationship — would be broken.

So while Akane realizes that Aqua doesn't want to use her, she may have explained that away as Aqua being his kind self rather than as Aqua harboring any kind of special feelings towards her.

Regardless of how she interpreted his actions though, it seems likely that Akane thinks that she failed him.

She couldn't save him as his girlfriend and Aqua told her he would have nothing to do with her anymore, and so Akane is now trying to save him as something else entirely. Not even as a friend, because she hardly interacts with him at all.

She's trying to save him while staying away just like he wanted her to. While only stepping in when she deems it appropriate and/or necessary.

But is that really and truly what Aqua wants?

Most importantly, is that what Aqua needs?

This chapter suggests that may not be the case, and the rest of the manga agrees. Staying away is not how Akane saved Aqua little by little. This is how she did it:

That's why the way Kana worded her realization is important. It isn't only that Kana — the very girl Akane thought Aqua was attracted to — is bringing romance to the forefront and thus setting the stage for the nature of Akane's (and Aqua's) feelings to be finally cleared up.

It's also that Kana is showing Akane that it's possible to own her feelings while being selfless about his happiness.

After all, the ball right now is in Akane's court. In the state he is now, Aqua would never ever allow himself to chase his own happiness. Even when he thought he was free to do so, he felt that Akane deserved better than to be held back by him.

So all in all, it's like with this chapter alone Aka has laid the groundwork to address all the AquaKane elephants in the room. Just in time for the very season that will be showing AquaKane in all its glory to all the anime-only watchers, at that.

In each of the last arcs, Aqua has reconciled with someone important to him. Kana and Ruby are fully back in his life now, yet he isn't doing any better. Maybe it's finally Akane's turn to try again.

So yes, Kana's change of heart is so abrupt that it may be a red herring leading to a very predictable end.

But since I've made it this far, I may as well keep hoping for the opposite to be true: maybe, just maybe, Aka is planning to tie all of this together and lead it to a satisfying conclusion. I can only hope that is the case, because it's where I feel that the writing is at its best.

Besides, if "giving up on Aqua" and "turning his black star white" are so-called "winning flags", well... Akane did both of those first 😂

[gingermintpepper]

I would really like to read one piece of writing, amateur or not, that features Apollo and Zeus having a positive relationship. One. Any one. It could be 30 words long for all I care. I just need confirmation that one other writer actively producing content in the Greek Mythology sector doesn't think of Apollo as Zeus' toy, sexual or otherwise, or of Zeus purposefully surpressing Apollo because he doesn't want him to surpass his power, or of Apollo only being obedient to his father over all else because of fear and physical abuse, or of any other reason possibly invented except some sort of mutual understanding and respect.

It should not be this difficult to find content where they do not hate each other.

[purplebehittindifferent]

Battle won! You got 66g and crushing guilt!

That’s the end of chapter 2! Who’s ready for chapter 3? ME! ME! But wait- what’s THIS?

Masterpost

Prev (ch:2::8)/ End of chapter 2!

Next (INTERLUDE)

[jinzouactor]

Mayfly act 3 chapter.... 7?

<- prev chapter | next chapter ->

read in full

tumblr links masterpost

i forgot to mention!! bridget featured here is one of my gf @kesobun's ocs. this comic is an elaborate plot to get as many of them to interact with shimazaki as possible

[kinokoshoujoart]

the coolest kids in forgotten valley!!☆

(…it seems there may have been a stretch of time where rock and lumina were the only kids in forgotten valley…🥲)

poseref

[ywpd-translations]

Ride 764: Dearest wish

Pag 1

1: The one thing the third year Onoda Sakamichi desires is....?

Pag 2

3: His dearest wish!!

4: Right!!

Pag 3

1: That's definitely Onoda's dearest wish

Pag 4

2: Do your beest

They're so fast!

They move the wind

The jerseys are so brightly colored

3: No no no no

4: That- that's not it

That's not-

Is Sohoku arguing over something!?

Pag 5

1: That- that was just the spur of the moment

I ended up just saying anything

2: That's not my dearest wish at all....

So- uhm

3: Please forget about it, everyone!!

4: No way!!

Yeah

Teh!!

Yep

Yeah

Pag 6

1: That must be our goal this year!! Our third victory in a row!!

Pag 7

1: Yessir!!

On!!

Yeah!!

2: The three day long stage is harsh and long, that's why everyone's strengths will be necessary!!

Yessir!!

3: If we can all unite our strengths and support each other as one...

4: The I'll be able to win brilliantly!! Yeah!!

Just like I did during the prefectural qualification!!

Ohhhh

Tch

Pag 8

1: I'll sprint desperately, Hotshot-san will accompany me, and I'll do a grand finishing dash, just like that day!!

Okay!! You've been saying it over and over again!!

2: You're really a guy who clings to the glory of the past

The prefectural qualification is connected to the Inter High, it's not in the past!!

You're the type of guy I hate the most when you get carried away

Naruko-san was amazing, teh!!

That day, yeah!!

Naruko-san!!

3: Sto-stop iit, you were both amazing that day

4: Come oon... we're in the middle of an important meeting

6: Now that I think about it

Onoda-san's....

7: This is all

Pag 9

1: Can I say one last thing?

2: I also think our goal must be a third consecutive victory

3: There's just one thing I'm curious about we still haven't asked

Onoda-san

5: What's your goal this year?

What are you running in the Inter High for?

6: When I asked you this last year during the first years' race

Pag 10

1: I want to report it

2: You said you wanted to report the victory to your senpai

3: And you

4: Accomplished that

5: Honestly, when I first heard that I thought “what is he talking about, that's such a small goal”

But that day, after the race, when I saw Onoda-san doing it

6: I was shaking

I thought from the bottom of my heart that it was amazing

Pag 11

1: I thought you were super cool

5: Wh- no no

That- I was just reporting, there's nothing cool about it at all, okay

Pag 12

1: So I want to know what your goal is this year

Please tell us what you're thinking about!!

2: Is it “I want to report to that senpai once again”!?

4: Crowning your third victory in a row as the captain!?

6: Is it the mountain's bib!? Is it winning a stage!?

Please tell us... your goal during the race...

7: or maybe for when the race is over!!

8: A.....

9: No no no

It's nothing- yes, it's nothing!!

Pag 13

1: Onoda's goal....

2: I see, what Onoda-kun wants to do....

3: Now that I think about it....

4: What is it!? You started saying it now, “a”!!

Is it “running as an assist”!?

5: Does it mean you don't want to bear the last heavy burden!?

No no no no, that's fine, if the situation calls for it I'll do my best

6: That's enough, Issa

7: There are things Onoda-san doesn't want to say too

No, if it can become motivation for the team then he should say it

Pag 14

1: Onoda-san's goal!!

2: But still, Issa!!

I'm telling you, anything is fine!!

Ah, uhm...

3: It's a really personal thing, so.... don't get your hopes up...

But.... that's... always been.... my dearest wish...

4: Dearest wish!!

5: If we run with all we have in this Inter High.... putting together all of our strengths and deliver our jersey to the finish line

6: If we get the best result....

Pag 15

1: No no, I really can't say more than this

3: Say it, everything's fine. I'm curious too

4: Ah.... if we get the best results.... I....

5: I want to reserve a room somewhere...

6: A room?

8: Prepare teacakes

9: Cakes!?

10: Ask for everyone's cooperation...

Pag 16

1: Gather five people

5: It's something I've been imagining.... since before... entering school in my first year.....

7: Even just for one day

8: Even just a few hours after school

Everyone will bring what they like

9: A.....

Oi.... don't tell me you mean.... you

Pag 17

1: I'm thinking of reviving the anime research club!!

Pag 18

5: No way!!

Pag 19

1: And then, there

2: I think I could call Makishima-san, who likes figures

I feel like you've misunderstood something here

3: And Midosuji-kun who likes anime

Would you be able to hold a conversation with him!?

4: Isn't that good!! The best goal!!

5: You'll gather five people in no time!!

6: Kakaka mine will be the first name you write down

7: Amazing

From England and Kyoto....!!

Pag 20

1: I don't really get it, but somehow that fired me up!!

2: That's Onoda-san's dearest wish!!

3: Ah

4: N-no, it's really nothing much, so I take it back...

Revive the anime club!!

Let's do it, for Onoda-san!!

I don't really know what an anime club does, but I'm in!!

Me too!!

5: Yeeah!!

Let's do it!!

Issa, calm down

Pag 21

2: Your goal is to “revive the anime research club even for just day”?

Oi oi, that's such a small

3: but splendid goal!!

4: You managed to unite the club's intentions as one with such bizarre words!!

5: You're really are an unpredictable guy!!

The plate will soon become green

“Real start”.... the real race will start!!

[sabraeal]

The Man of Progress, Chapter 4

[Read on AO3]

Written for @infinitelystrangemachinex who has not only been very patiently been waiting nearly two weeks for this birthday fic, but beta read it TWICE in one week so I could turn this around within a week of Act 3 airing. Since I think we all could use...something else to think of right now 🤣

Pretty manners might keep any clansman in good standing from daring to venture the question, and a personal precedent to refuse answering any inquiry without compensation might keep her from giving it, but there’s no shame— in Mel’s mind, at least— in admitting that she is just shy of three decades. That might make her an old crone according to some of her more distant cousins; the kind that merely cling to Medarda’s coattails, only caring about investments and opportunities the clan makes when it affects the amount of money left in their pockets.

But to her, that is nearly twenty years of experience. The proof of a comprehensive education in keeping this clan afloat, even in its leanest years. A testament to her knowledge and skill, a record of competence—

And yet one step beneath these vaulted ceilings, and she might as well be that small girl child from Noxus once again, still smelling of blood and sand as they herded her into the master’s study. Even now she can picture their pinched smiles, worry and suspicion carving furrows at the corner of her cousins’ eyes.

“I wonder if you understand the scope of what you mean to do.” Master Jago does not so much speak as croak these days, his once sonorous voice interrupted by the pops and crackles of age; a victrola’s skipping needle on the record of time. “It was Medarda who cast the Sun Gates' first gears.”

Mel stifles a snort, pacing the length of a shelf, fingers tracing over the master’s trophies; a carved dunpor horn from Stonewall, the dried husk of a honeyfruit from Palclyff, two entwined statues from Demacia with wings spread wide. Ridiculous to think that she needed to be reminded of their contributions, as if her tutors hadn’t had her memorize those accounts down to the washer barely a week after Ambessa dropped her at their doorstep.

As if Jago hadn’t handpicked her himself to be their representative on the council, hadn’t called her ‘the most Medarda of all of them,’ as shrewd and sensible and relentlessly ruthless as any of the old cog-clutching misers that preceded her. The only difference between their service to the clan and hers was that she looked good doing it. “Isn’t it fitting, then, that we should be at the forefront of Piltover’s next great venture?”

“A more prudent one would have been to use this Hextech to strengthen our current investments.” Jago’s hands are parchment pale as they tremble over his desk, wrinkled as an bank note discarded in the bin, but when he takes up his pen, there’s not a bit of him that isn’t steady, as sharp as the nib he sets to page. “If the Sun Gates were able to pass ships through fifty percent higher than our current rate, then that would put us near Clan Ferros in terms of wealth generated per day—”

“And they would somehow find some way to pick at our profits, either through maintenance or manpower.” For a man who professed to have no interest in running his clan, Albus has a keen sense of how to wedge his elbow into every door, turning any opportunity for one clan into an unmitigated triumph for his. “Even if our current ventures vest as they should, we’ll still be left nipping at Ferros’ heels. But if we were to put our considerable assets behind something new, something bold, then we have a chance to not just pull ahead of the other families, but to set the pace entirely.”

Jago had been halfway to gray when she’d been dropped on Medarda’s doorstep, but the brows he furrows now are whitecap pale, one disappearing behind the golden frame of his monocle. “You present a compelling point, as always, Mel.”

It would be foolish to preen under the master’s praise— she’s no longer a child in the schoolroom, proving that she has sufficiently mastered her sums, after all— but Mel allows herself a moment to bask in the flush of her accomplishment. To even let her shoulders relax— no slumping, and never slouching, but not entirely square. A moment of repose, well earned.

That is, of course, until Master Jago says, “However…”

Her spine snaps straight, even as her steps remain languid, confident, as if she anticipated his doubt. “I have handled all the arrangements,” she assures him, circling behind his chair until only her voice and the steady staccato of her heels mark her. “Not only will the presentation be sure to impress even Hextech’s staunchest critics, but there will be no question as to which clan has chosen to back the venture. The Sun Gates ushered in a new age of progress for Piltover two hundred years ago, and the Hexgate will do the same now.”

“I have no doubt you have seen to all the details, my girl.” Her cousins might murmur that one day Master Jago will lose his edge, that senility will come for him the way it does every man and take Medarda with it, but the eyes that swing to her now are still sharp, wheels and cogs in the great machine of his mind still running with a young man’s ease. “But Medarda has long made its fortune on maritime trade routes. These are not seafaring vessels, but…”

“There is no reason to worry, Master.” His shoulder is thin beneath her hand, frailer than she remembers. Still, she keeps her grip firm, if gentle. “I don’t imagine you acquired that sky frigate a few years ago with no intent to use it, did you?”

“Of course I didn’t.” One absent hand reaches up to touch hers; an afterthought, if a fond one. “It doesn’t do to be beholden to only one form of trade. You only need to look at the Hollorans to see what happens when you allow yourself to fall beneath the wheel of progress.”

“Then Medarda is already poised to take advantage of the new avenues for trade that the Hexgate can open to us.” She steps past him, hand leaving his shoulder to trace along the contours of his desk. How large this thing had seemed as a girl— an entire other country, never to be traversed. And now she skirts around the perimeter of it with no more than a stretch of a leg or two. “Only a few families have bothered to buy into sky ships, and those are nearly all pleasure barges. Not a single one of them is fit for long distances with heavy cargo.”

“It will astound you how quickly those things can change.” He laughs— a heavy, rolling noise, more like thunder than humor— but the stare he fixes her with is stern, sober. If she were more given to drama, she might even call it dire. “Only this morning, the papers said Albus Ferros planned to finance a significant portion of Hextech research. How certain are you that he will not simply shut you out from your plans when they’ve advanced far enough and reap the benefits all on his own?”

It’s certainly not out of the realm of possibility, as uncomfortable as it is to admit. Talis plays the part of a man of the people, just one engineer out of the hundreds of genius inventors the Academy has put out, pulling himself up by the bootstraps to change the world— and he plays it well. But he’s not that humble engineer, no matter how well he swings a hammer; he’s the scion of one of Piltover’s merchant clans, even if their circumstances are much diminished, and as eager to prove himself among them as any master’s son. If she can sway him with a sashay and a smile, Ferros could just as easily with an open purse and a pat on the back. Even now she can see it, those two sets of broad shoulders— one natural, one entirely engineered— rubbing as they bend over some schematic, shaking hands as coins rattle one after the other on the workbench.

But then she pictures that constructed bit of posture turning around, glaring over his mustache at the curved spine in the corner, more grease than man, and laughs.

“Quite sure, my dear Master Jago,” she says, smile slanting over her lips. “But I must admit, I’d love to see him try.”

*

The morning still clings stubbornly to the horizon when Mel emerges from the Medarda manor, none the worse for wear. It’s too early; Master Jago might prefer to have his business done by tea, but it's hours yet before any councilman would dare to show their face at the office, the fog not even burnt off from the dawn’s chill. It sits thick on the cobbles, eddying around the sway of her skirt, leaving an unpleasant draft against her ankles.

“You’ll be off then, Councilor?” one of the grooms asks, pushing off from where he’d been leaning on the carriage’s cab, making time with what seemed to be a gardener.

“That I will.” She takes his offered hand— appropriately gloved, black, and sturdy for the purpose— and asks, “Is your mother feeling better, by the way?”

There’s a single moment of hesitation, a small hiccup between one blink and the next that leaves room for his cheeks to flush and his tongue to flop around like a loose cog before snapping right into smiling place. “Much, ma’am. And I’m supposed to pass on her thanks— for the tonic, she says. Got rid of the cough right away.”

“Think nothing of it.” Impossible, she knows, but humility assures more goodwill than lofty benevolence. And a squeeze of the hand— not too much; just shy of an invitation— wins more loyalty than words ever could. “It was the least I could do.”

The man’s too well-trained to gawp or gape— Medarda isn’t in the habit of hiring hayseeds fresh off the wagons, after all— but his wide eyes weigh on her as she ducks into the carriage, warm as a hand laid against her spine. There’s one less tongue to wag itself at the master the moment he glares its way; important, if she’s going to pull this snare tight without Jago’s long fingers tangling in the knots.

A sigh slips from her as she sits, fogging a sliver of the carriage’s glass. “I trust everything is set for the reception?”

“Yes, Councilor.” Engineers could use Elora’s spine as a slide-rule for how stiff she sits on the bench, collar and hemline pin-straight, perfect. Another flawless cog in Medarda’s great machine. “Your meeting went well?”

“As well as can be expected.” Better, but Mel’s hardly fool enough to admit it where it might work back to Jago’s ears. Elora may be her personal assistant, secretary, and the closest she comes to a confidant, but it’s not from her accounts that Medarda pulls the cogs to pay salary. “Do I have any other engagements today?”

Elora glances down at the notes in her lap, even the line of her jaw precise, if not the bend of her mouth, too worried to meet proper angles. “The atelier you requested is sending over samples this afternoon.”

“Really.” Mel leans back, frowning at where the Academy juts up from Piltover’s skyline, its towers far above the fog of the city below. “They’ll be acceptable this time, I assume.”

“They have been informed of your particular specifications.” A corner of Elora’s too-serious mouth lifts, almost a smirk. “No blue, no beige, no white. Something impressive.”

Mel snorts. “Let us hope that they pay attention this time. If I have to hear that man preach to me about visions or muses again just because he can’t envisage a color darker than cream…”

“Any other modiste in the city would trip over themselves to dress you,” Elora assures her, quick as reflex. But it’s not simply comforting patter, oh no; she’s already flipping through her notes, finding names. “It would be short notice, but it’s not as if we can’t afford to pay them for the rush. If they even thought to ask.”

“We would pay them for their hard work whether they asked for it or not.” The other clansmen might clutch to cogs and account for every nut down to the washer, but Mel prefers to deal in a more valuable currency. “But hopefully our dear modiste does not get it into his head that he knows my preferences better than I do, and we are saved the trouble of finding out.”

Elora’s mouth rumples, unconvinced, but her fingers cease to flip pages. “As long as you’re sure. We could start contacting a few of the more fashionable houses to see if they could promise a complete product, just in case—”

Mel holds up a hand. Better to beg for a dress at the eleventh hour than to be seen undermining one of their fellow dressmakers the day before. “Let us believe that he can at least put out one sample that meets our expectations. At least for now.”

Modistes might have a reputation for nipping at each other’s backs, having as many petty quarrels as the council itself with just as disastrous consequences, but all it would take is one perceived insult to turn them all into dear colleagues— and leave her quite in the lurch.

A lone sky ship putters through the clouds; a heavy, ungainly thing that wobbles as the wind eddies around its bulk. There’s another slouching over the horizon, propellers struggling to keep the whole of it aloft instead of fumbling toward the sea. Pleasure barges; one more and it would be as many as she’s ever seen floating at once. The merchant clans might tout progress as their business and innovation as their creed, but when they envisioned the future of Piltover, this was still what they saw— a city dominated by the Academy.

Mel squints at its peaked roofs, clouds catching the thrust of its golden spires, and asks, “Is that all?”

“That’s all,” Elora confirms, hands folding over paper and ink. “They’re not supposed to be by until later this afternoon, so if you wanted to head to the Council Building before—?”

“Hardly.” She leans forward, drawing down the trumpet that leads up to the driver’s box. “To the Academy, if you would, Mr Gallow. I would be most appreciative.”

The carriage lurches to the left, hurtling down the familiar cobbles, and Elora’s frown furrows deeper into her cheeks. “The Academy? What business do you have there?”

“Why, to check up on my favorite investment, of course.” Mel leans her arm on the rest, letting her gaze drift back to those ivory towers, considering. “If we’re having all of Piltover out to see this little bit of theater, I’d like to know we have an actual show to put on.”

*

“The presentation is only two days away,” Elora reminds her as she chases her heels up the academy steps, practically bleeding paper on the marble. “Nearly all our guests have RSVP’d.”

“You don’t need to remind me.” The Academy has always been an impressive edifice, a marvel of modern engineering— and hell on the legs, if one didn’t navigate stairways poro-back. Still, she mounts each one with the ease of habit, hand only just brushing over the rail rather than Elora’s life-line clutch. “Why do you think I’m here?”

Her assistant blinks up at the labs looming before them, just as stately as the lecture halls— and certainly far nicer than the warehouse in Midtown, only suited to contain occasional explosions of genius. “You don’t think it’s done?”

A laugh spills right off her lips, as airy as it is wry. “You don’t know many engineers, do you?”

The question catches Elora by surprise; she lags behind a step, then two, before she scurries to keep pace. “It’s just…Mr Talis’s presentations are so polished. I can’t imagine him leaving anything to the last minute— not something so important, at least.”

So one might be tempted to think, so long as they had not witnessed Talis more than ten minutes pre-symposium. The Master of Ceremonies could be cutting his teeth on the glowing words of their introduction, and both those Academy boys would be on their knees backstage with wrench in hand, tightening bolts until the curtains rose.

Knowing Viktor, he’d still insist they were one last tweak from perfection, sending Talis to beg for five more minutes— ten, twenty, just an hour, surely she could give them one more day?— to work. Just one last distraction before the masses got to take their peek behind the curtain.

Mel snorts. “It’s not Mr Talis that I’m worried about.”

Elora’s brow furrows. “Then who—?”

The lab’s glass facade does not so much open as burst; at one moment a long, endless bank of mirrored windows, and the next, hinges squeal their protest as the atrium doors fly open, disgorging an entire entourage of trousers and waists, open-cut coats fluttering in the breeze of their brisk pace.

“Reginald.” The voice is as bold— brassy, one might even say— as the cogs capping Ferros’s shoulders, ringing out across the pavilion with all the pomp of a man used to being heard. “I want results, not numbers. Make it happen.”

The man scurries off on Ferros’s business, but he could be bowing and scraping and crawling on his belly still for all that Ferros notices, swaggering down the steps with the confidence of kings. Piltover prided itself on its meritocracy, boasting that without lords and peers, any man may make himself into a master if only he worked hard enough. But it was men like Ferros— born clansmen, ones who had enough hexes to be patrons rather than the patronized— who seemed to succeed, standing on the backs of brighter minds and pretending to more talents than simply sussing con from coup.

“Councilor Medarda.” The man smiles with all the warmth of a shark in chummed waters. “What a pleasure to see you here.”

“Albus.” She inclines her head, letting him take her hand between his two over-large ones, swallowing her up to the wrist. Thankfully he refrains from doing anything so crass as pressing his lips to it. “The pleasure is all mine.”

“I doubt it.” His mustache twitches at a corner, threatening to lift, to smirk. “You must be here to take a gander at what my boys have been up to.”

His boys. Her smile nearly creaks. “I just came by to make sure that everything was prepared for the presentation. Only a few days left, after all, and Medarda has put quite a bit behind this technology of theirs. We’re quite invested in making sure there’s no…surprises before the curtain rises.”

Such as not having a functioning prototype. Clan Cadwalder had never quite recovered from their last little slip up— fifteen years ago, by her count— and Mel had no intention of making Medarda suffer the same shame. She hasn’t clawed them this far up Piltover’s wheel of progress to be shoved back down by trusting engineers to meet a deadline. Especially not these engineers.

“Of course, of course.” There’s a smoothness to the way Ferros speaks, leaving the gravel of his voice to catch on it like a callus on silk. “Mr Talis’s project would be quite the boon for Medarda and its investments, should it pay off. One you must sorely need, since those summer storms off Demacia have made your foreign ones…slow to mature.”

Sunk to the bottom of the Conqueror’s Sea, he means— or at least, his shark-smile implies, eager to feast upon misfortune. He’d gotten their taste not long ago, and oh, it seems he’s ravenous for more. Pity she’ll have to disappoint him.

“Your concern is touching, Albus,” she drawls, brushing her fingers just beneath his cogs. “But Medarda has been sailing their ships down that strait since before the Sun Gates’ first cog was a sparkle in our eye. A few summer squalls won’t scuttle our ships or our investments— we know better than to count our coins before they cross our palms, or ships before they come into harbor.”

That mustache twitches again, grin stretching to grimace before finding good humor again, and pride pulls those bronze cogs even broader. “Excellent to hear. Medarda has always had a history of…over-reliance on its foreign connections. A pity when there is so much profit to be made relying on good old Piltoverian stock.”

“When it comes to innovation, I suppose, we can hardly disagree.” Her hand presses against the fine wool of his coat, patting the sloped shoulders he’s trying so hard to conceal. That was ever Ferros’s way— covering weakness with a show of strength, whether it be a poorly worded trade agreement with a display of wealth, or a weak upper lip with a ridiculous mustache. “Progress Day would hardly be much of a celebration of Piltover’s prowess if Medarda hadn’t commissioned every gear to be made in our own forges.”

“Well said,” he drawls, like a man marinating more than a few arguments of his own. “I must admit, I didn’t think you would be so appreciative of Piltover’s place in history. Few are, outside of these walls.”

Mel blinks, fingers flinching back from where they rest. They hang in the air for a bare moment, tension coiled down to the knuckles, before she lets them fall. A controlled descent, poised, like a skipping needle set back on its groove.

An amateur might stretch a smile across their teeth, making bone act as a buttress, as if more structure would solve the need for motivation. But Mel is an expert in insincerity, letting her lips lilt instead, humor implied by angle rather than earnestness by length. “And we’re all the poorer for it. Just think what our engineers might achieve if only they had competition to compel them.”

There’s a sharp jerk that of that mustache, a spasm that resembles a furred creature’s death throes more than a facial twitch, before it settles into one of his patronizing smirks. Or at least the shadow of one; Ferros barely able to hold its shape as he drawls, “Now wouldn’t that be something to behold.”

“If you would excuse me.” She rises one more step, the gap between them shortening. “Business conspires to keep me moving. No rest for the wicked and all that.”

“There certainly isn’t.” It’s said pleasantly enough, polite smile clutched in his mustache’s talons, but when she moves to pass him, his eyes fix on her with a predator’s purpose. “The presentation is only a few days away, isn’t it, Councilor? And with Medarda hosting the reception, it must keep you busy.”

He might well put a paw to her neck for how thoroughly his stare gives her pause, mounting only one last step to draw them shoulder-to-shoulder.

“Talis’s technology— it’s quite impressive, isn’t it? Magic for the masses.” He huffs out a laugh, but for all his bluster, his eyes never move an inch, keeping her pinned perfectly in place. “It could go a long way in paying back Medarda’s debts. If it works.”

Spoken like the man who holds them. “I suppose,” she allows, careful of the purse strings that could choke her. “Though one might think that being informed of such an opportunity might be its own payment.”

“One might,” he remarks, as if it were nothing.

Clan Ferros never concedes, never compromises— and yet here’s a foot in the door; the wedge she needs to keep it open, if only so that one day she might get out. Desperation makes strange bedfellows, her mother would laugh, watching clans and countries scramble for allies under her encroaching shadow. If only Mel had known she meant necessity breeds mistakes, she might have thought better of crawling into bed with them in the first place.

“Have a good day, Lord Albus,” she says, putting one sole on the step above her, shifting her weight to rise—

Only for Ferros to reach out, fingers banding around her arm, folding over where metal bites into flesh. It warms beneath his touch, a warning and a promise, just like the way he leans toward her, shoulders so broad they cast her in shadow.

“Impress me, Mel.” It’s not a growl— Ferros is far too mannerly for that— but it grates nonetheless. “Give me progress, and then we’ll see just how much such a helpful hint was worth.”

He releases her— just a simple jerk of his fingers and he’s gone, as if manhandling her was as natural and unremarkable as picking up a handkerchief. And yet, here she is, standing on the pavilion steps with every nerve left raw and sparking, like some half-finished project strewn across Viktor’s bench.

“Mel.” It’s more gulp than gasp, Elora lurching forward, concern scrawled across the tight furrow of her brow—

But Mel holds up a hand, halting her in place. “I’ve changed my mind. I think I’d like to see some blue after all.”

“Blue?” Elora steps back, blinking. “You mean...the dress? But didn’t you say—?”

“I know what I said,” she says coolly. “But I think a few people need to be reminded.”

Her head tilts. “Reminded? Of what?”

Mel pointedly lifts her gaze, right up to the top of the Academy’s ivory towers, where the blue and gold of Piltover waves. “Of who I am.”

*

Much as Talis might have prided himself on Hextech’s humble origins, there is nothing of that Midtown warehouse left in the lab now. Every surface is polishing to gleaming in the showroom, even the podium for reception sleek and buffed until stone shines like chrome. Which is where Talis stumbles out from, notes fumbling across the desk as she makes her entrance, guilt leaking out of him like a faulty faucet.

“Councilor!” he calls out, surreptitiously shoving papers on top of other papers, every line of him screaming unready. “I didn’t expect to see you today.”

Her eyebrow arches, one corner of her mouth following. “Clearly.”

“What do I—? Er, I mean, we, what do we, ah…” He clears his throat, one large hand tugging at the knot of his tie, as if a little air might make his conscience cleaner. “Elora isn’t with you?”

“She was.” Mel paces past him, touring the tables with all the interest of a tutor overlooking a student’s drill work. They’re cunning pieces, useful things in a pretty package— even the mining gloves have an elegance to them, though she doubts it would be appreciated by the folk down in the fissures— but with the instability of the crystals themselves, ultimately decoration; a future Talis could design but not manufacture. “However, it seems that I overlooked a small detail for the reception. I sent her to handle it.”

“Really?” She has to hand it to Talis; when he turns those wide eyes on her, all concern, she believes it. “Not anything too important, I hope. Be a shame for things to go sideways this late in the game, you know.”

“Nothing that would keep you two from getting up on that stage, I’m sure.” Though she wouldn’t put it past Viktor to try. What’s the point, he would drawl from the bowels of his creation, if the Councilor isn’t looking her best? We might as well move the whole thing to, oh, let’s see…never?

“That’s good.” His waistcoat doesn’t leave much room for slumping, but, ever the over-achiever, Talis manages it, relief slackening that chiseled jaw. “So this is just a…er…personal visit?”

“Hardly. I was out handling some last-minute plans for the presentation, I thought I might see how you boys were coming along.” She brushes past him— not close enough to touch, but close enough to imply, which, by the sharp breath he draws in, is more than enough for an engineer wound as tight as Talis. “Or at least make sure there’s an actual, working prototype.”

“Aw, come on, Councilor, can’t you give us a little credit?” One of those large palms scrapes over the short hairs at the back of his head, and ha, no one else could make humility so appealing. “We’ve never come up empty-handed, have we?”

She lifts her chin with a playful sniff. “Try that on someone who hasn’t seen you spend every last second before an exhibition tightening bolts.”

“Well, you got me there.” Talis rests one hip against the receptionist’s podium, hands lifted in a very aesthetically pleasing surrender. He always did have the sort of face that Noxian artists would clamor to paint on its knees. “But I promise, Councilor, I don’t have any intention of letting you down.”

“I’m hoping neither of you will,” she warns with a warmth that leaves Talis grinning rather than grimacing. “Though I suppose if Lord Albus’s mood was any indication, I won’t be unsatisfied with your progress.”

“Ah…” Talis has the grace to look chagrined, at least. “So you did see him.”

She cocks a hip, crossing her arms beneath her chest for best effect. “We ran into each other on the stairs.”

“Ah, right, right. Makes sense.” Little as he seems to like it. Clearly crossing patrons hadn’t been part of his afternoon plans. “It’s just— he only wanted a look around. Not in the lab, though. You know how Viktor doesn’t like, er” — gawkers is the politest way he’s ever put it in her hearing, and she doubts he’s stretched himself to search for another— “visitors while he’s working.”

“Really?” She arches an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Albus Ferros never struck me as the sort to leave any sleeping dog to lie.”

At least, not as long as he had money in it. The finer details of Hextech might fly right over his well-oiled head, but he does know what it will cost right down to the washer.

“Well…” Talis grimaces, guilty. “He might have peeked his head in. Just for a minute.”

Ah. Gawker. “And I suppose Viktor’s in fine feather after such a pleasant visit from his patron?”

“To put it mildly,” Talis mutters, arms crossed over that wide expanse of waistcoat. “He’s in the lab, if you’re looking to get scowled at. I’m letting him make some last minute tweaks to blow off some steam.”

She doubts that Talis had much of a say in the matter, but she magnanimously refrains from saying so; no, instead she drawls, “Tweaks? Is there some problem I should be aware of, or—?”

“No, no, nothing like that, Councilor.” He’s all good humor and graciousness now, hands waving in the air between them. “He just— well, you know Viktor. He had some ideas about optimization and performance, and well…as long as the gate gets on stage in working order in time for my presentation, he can do whatever he likes.”

“Your presentation?” The muscles in her cheek twitch, one side of her smile slanting into a smirk. Teasing, of course; playful, even. Enough to take the sting out of, “Weren’t you the one who wouldn’t even stand next to it when there was a cage?”

“Well, that’s before we got the field stable,” he protests, shoulders a little too square for nonchalance. “Now there’s no worries at all. Smooth sailing. Like riding one of those steam cabs downhill.”

Mel arches an eyebrow. The masses do seem to find their fun where they can get it. “I can’t say I would know.”

“In any case, I think we’ve all earned a rest on our laurels, haven’t we?” He leans over the podium with his most charming smile, heedless of the pages crinkling beneath his sleeves. A little ink smudges on his cuff, still wet, and she can’t help dropping her gaze to trace the angle of it, making out strange corners and hastily scribbled letters. “Speaking of a little rest and relaxation…I’ve heard there’s a new restaurant that’s opened up on Sidereal Avenue, just down the street from the treasury.  Some little Shuriman fusion place, I thought maybe you might—”

“What is this?” She bypasses those big dog eyes of his with a tap of her finger, drawing his attention down to his elbow. “Runes, I suppose?”

“Oh, that?” A laugh blows right out of him, more dismissive than a wave of his hand. “This is just a theory Viktor’s got me working on. It’s…well, it’s kind of technical” —meaning, she presumes, that there’s no possibility she might understand it— “but he’s got some ideas about the formation of runes. You know, how they talk to each other.”

“Oh? Because of how you two constructed the gate, correct?” The nitty-gritty of Hextech’s inner workings has never been her forte; she saw little point learning a science poorly when she already had two experts at her beck and call. But even she can see these aren’t the sharp lines and pointed corners she’d seen etched into metal from the day she first elbowed her way into the lab. “You’ve been toying with that gravity rune for ages, but the beam needed—”

“Something to focus it, and another to aim, yeah.” Talis scratches at the back of his head, no longer from boyish charm, but single-minded focus. “Took more than a couple, and the whole time it felt like I was trying to reach an itch I couldn’t scratch. I thought I was, you know, remembering, but Viktor…”

A thick finger traces over a delicate curve of ink, four trembling tines disappearing beneath it. As if the strokes themselves were uncertain— or the hand that made them. “He’s wondering if we just sort of find them. You know, when we need to. Like when we reach for the arcane, it’s just….”

Talis shakes his head, suddenly all square jaw and smiles once again. “Anyway, it’s all just a theory. Something we’ve been scratching away at in our spare time.”

Mel arches an eyebrow. “I imagine you don’t have much of that, right now.”

“We don’t,” he agrees, a shade too quickly for sincerity. “But I’ve been pecking away at it when I’ve got a minute. It’ll all be worth it if a little bit of forethought now keeps us from burning the midnight oil for months, hoping the lack of sleep will give us a breakthrough later.”

“Is that so?” she hummed, resting a hip against the podium. “And here I thought Viktor loved staying up to all hours.”

Talis laughs, shaking that pretty head of his. “That’s what I said. And you know what Viktor told me? I’d like to be doing it alone.”

“Now that sounds like him.” She can see it now— his already curved spine bent to all angles, making one last tweak, taking one last measurement, peeking out from beneath his monumental work to say, get out. “I suppose since I’m here, I best pay my respects to the genius inventor. I’d hate for him to think I’m playing favorites.”

“I doubt he’d mind,” Talis huffs out, all humor until she sweeps past him, making her way to the lab door. “Hey, you aren’t really going to go in there, are you? I told you he…?”

She slows to a sashay, each click of her heels lingering before she makes the next. “Would be happy to see his favorite patron?”

His outstretched hand curls, falling back down to his side. “Not exactly what I was going to say, no.”

“Oh, please.” It’s a struggle not to roll her eyes, but she blunts her impatience down to a cock of her hip and a cross of her arms. “If you think I can’t weather a man’s poor temperament, Mr Talis, I’d invite you to spend a day on the council. Then you’ll really see the sort of tantrum a grown man can throw.”

Talis snorts, shaking his head. “Hey, it’s your— er, choice. Just thought I’d give you fair warning.”

“And miss Viktor’s undoubtedly stimulating conversation?” Her mouth hooks into her slyest smirk. “Perish the thought.”

“Try blistering,” he mutters, so soft he must think she cannot hear. “Ah, but about the restaurant—”

“It sounds lovely,” she replies absently, the first set of doors opening before her. “I do hope you have a good time.”

*

If there is one compliment Mel can lay at the Revered Professor’s feet, it is this: his penchant for high ideals never stumbles. Every building of the academy is designed with his lofty goals in mind, every wall stretching up to vaulted ceilings, supported by square columns meant to draw the eye up, inviting every body that views it to dream beyond their earthly goals.

What purpose that might serve in what was, essentially, a service corridor, she could never quite say, but the acoustics were superb. The harsh click of her heels amplifies with every step, echoing down the tunnel like her own personal set of heralding trumpets. A pity there’s a set of doors at the end of it, heavy and metal; the academy’s answer to Talis’s blast door— what she wouldn’t give to see the face of her favorite investment as she swept into the lab, a veritable angel choir announcing her arrival.

Knowing him, he’d start researching an automatic door. Or at least a way to sound-proof the corridor.

Not that either of them would be terrible ideas. Especially if this presentation impresses the way she’s certain it will. Going forward with gate technology would take all this from academic to proprietary; an investment Medarda will have to see to protecting. More doors would be a start, and security that did not simply start and stop at the reception desk. Heimerdinger would never consent to private consultants on academy soil, but maybe a more responsive team of Piltover’s best—or at least someone with a bit more ambition than a grandfather more eager to show off family pictures than arrest trespassers.

He’ll have his concerns, of course— too much power in one person’s hands, he’d bluster, and anyone could become a tyrant— but she knows all too well that most of his protests are meant to act as a dialogue; a mentor posing questions in order to lead a student along the proper path. To teach how to think, rather than provide answers. An irritating little habit of his, but one Mel is happy to play along with so long as it helps him put pen to paper. Or wrench to bolt, as it were.

The sticking point will be whose pockets the washers come from— Medarda eager to stake its claim, and the Good Professor just as keen to keep the academy from being sullied by the grasping hands of Piltover’s clans, but—

“—Much as I would usually love to debate over the wisdom of that particular phrasing.” Viktor’s voice rings clearly into the corridor, just as strident and harassed as she expected from a man who spent the morning with Albus Ferros. “I do not particularly have the time for the theoreticals right now. Not when the practicals are going to knock down my door if this isn’t ready to ship out by tomorrow.”

It’s not until the much softer, more uncertain, “I appreciate that, I really do,” that follows— from the assistant, she presumes, considering the heavy dose of hero worship weighing it down— that Mel notices the doors stand open, the full breadth of the lab on display before she even gets to the stairs.

“It’s just…” The girl hovers at Viktor’s shoulder— or where his shoulder would be, if the whole of his body wasn’t eclipsed by the dome bubbling out of the floor tiles— fretting the way Hoskel does over his horses. As if by worrying, he might make them cross over the finish line faster. “I’m concerned with how much power the beam might need to be focused. Doesn’t it have to be grounded somehow? I thought that if we moved a couple of these antecedents, we might be able to displace—”

“Sky.” He sighs at the precise pitch of the pinnacle of his patience. “That is a conversation almost certainly worth having…at another time. Right now I have to concern myself with—”

“Making it work?” Mel offers, letting her heels clack a little more sharply as she descends the small set of steps down to the lab floor. “And after Mr Talis spent so long assuring me that you actually finished something on time.”

“Councilor.” The title rolls around between his teeth, taking scores out of it before he lets it loose in his lab. Viktor doesn’t bother to stand— where he’s crouched, she hardly thinks he could manage it without a crutch and a decent dose of cussing, both of which he’s loath to use in front of her— but he also doesn’t bother to look up, not until she orbits around one side of his lonely star to meet him in the middle. “To what do we owe the”— he hesitates— “honor?”

Sky watches her closely, skittish, almost. Those clever eyes dart between them with the same fervor as children counting between thunder and lightning strike, trying to divine just how close the next might come to their doorstep.

Mel smiles, but not at her. “Do I need a reason to visit my favorite investment?”

“No.” His teeth bite around the word, just shy of something like a smile. “I was under the impression you didn’t do anything for less than three.”

He looks at her now, hair askew and brows lifted to meet it, entirely too cocky to abide. She wraps her mouth around her next volley, already calculating his return, when—

“Viktor.” The Sky girl elbows her way between them, tall enough for the puff of her hair to disrupt line of sight. “What I was saying, about the rune phrasing—”

“We will talk about that at a later date.” It’s a rare occurrence to see Viktor acting as a mentor rather than recalcitrant employee; what would have been a rousing row if Mel stood between the man and his machine is blunted down to a gentle correction, his impatience only apparent in the way he puts his back to the girl, focus narrowed down to the single point where he works. “Now is hardly the time to start talking about…grammar refinement.”

“But the arcane power demanded by the current construction is—”

“Miss Young." His hands still, his dismissal all the more stark in the silence. “Later.”

Her shoulders shift beneath the white of her lab coat, sitting straight enough a yardstick would turn green with envy. A defensive maneuver, like a kitten puffing up its fur or hedgehog quivering its spines. As if she makes herself big enough, his disinterest can’t hurt her.

It’s a child’s game, one destined not to last. Puffed up as she is, there’s nothing left to do but deflate, her chest rounding over the books she has clutched to them. The girl spares Viktor one last lingering glance— hoping, perhaps, that he’ll notice the blow he’s dealt— before scurrying toward the door. Mel’s half-tempted to pity her; it’s the same sort of scene she’s seen played out in schoolyards and soirées and soldier encampments alike, one of the abiding embarrassments of growing up—

But the clever little assistant stops at the top of the stairs. Has her hand on the door and hesitates even still, as if just one more moment, one last look might change everything. But this time, she doesn’t pitch puppy dog eyes toward Viktor, oh no— this is a wary glare, aimed squarely at where Mel stands. Accusatory, almost. As if she is the interloper in the sanctum sanctorum that is this lab.

Perhaps she’s right, at that. But Mel’s hardly going to apologize for it. Business, as always, comes before feelings, no matter how tender some may be.

“Don’t you think you might have been a little harsh?” Most of their conversations flow best with a level playing field, but it would be a cold day in Sai Faraj before Mel would lower herself to a crouch. Not in these shoes, and certainly not in this dress. “The girl only wanted to impress you.”

“What’s the point? I’m already impressed.” He leans back, hands flush against the marble floors, leaving dark streaks of grease over its artful veins. “What would be the point of having her here if we didn’t think she could lend any insight into this project?”

It’s at the tip of her tongue, a reflex rather than a conscious thought— have you thought to tell Ms Young any of that?

Were this merely the lapse of a mentor in regards to his student, a failure in encouraging professional confidence to thrive, she might have let it fall. She’s hardly an expert on the shaping of young minds; not nearly old enough to take on anything like a successor, at least according to the Medarda, and not inclined to tutor any of her younger cousins, lest they’re encouraged to compete for her place. But she had, not long ago, been an apprenta herself, and Master Jago— well, he had never had a reputation for being effusive in his praise, not even for a young girl desperate to prove her place among a family more eager to see her stumble than succeed, but Mel never questioned his respect for her skills or her talent.

But this— this is not that. Simple professional jealousy would hardly leave her back burning this long after that girl’s glare gouged it; no, this is something infinitely more personal—

“Besides.” A tuft of dark hair slips down the furrowed expanse of Viktor’s forehead, and he spares a breath to blow it back. “She’s right about the grammar. This design draws too much power to be supported by so short a phrase. We either have to elongate the chamber, or we’ll have to swap the antecedents etched on every piece of the mechanism, from top to bottom—“

And equally unlikely to be noticed. The object of Ms Young’s admiration was already in a committed, mutually-beneficial relationship: with his work.

Sweet though, to see someone so interested in a man made more of math than muscle. Refreshing, even, to know that there were some who were drawn to intelligence over aesthetic. Little as the man in question would ever see his way around to appreciating it.

“So you mean to tell me that when you flip your switch tomorrow, the machine won’t work?” Hard to believe when every surface of this dome is carved with runes, channels for the arcane shaped like fissures around them; somewhere between an art installation one might find in the Council Building’s atrium and a brain.

“Ah, what? No. No no.” His hand waves sharply between them, not to ward off her question, but to redirect his mind to answer it.

“This” —his palms open, the whole of this great machine encompassed between them— “will turn on. And not only will it turn on, it will work. It will work so well that all our esteemed patrons will see fit to empty their pockets and give us five more years funding. And that is where Miss Young’s theory on antecedent order will matter, since then we will either reconstruct the whole thing to use the more efficient grammar, or we’ll have to…I don’t know. Build a tunnel long enough to contain the runic phrasing done the wrong way.”

Mel has never been a slouch at mental calculations, but even her mental faculties fail her as she tries to consider the scope. “And just how long would that be?”

“Well, let me put it this way: it wouldn’t do the Council any favors with your relationship with the Undercity.”  A laugh scrapes up from the recesses of his chest, less like draining the dregs at the bottom of the barrel, and more like cleaners shoveling up carriage-crushed carcasses from the streets. “Not that any of our Betters have lost sleep over that sort of thing before. But I would like to consider it a last resort. Greatness does not come from taking shortcuts.”

That little adage still has so much of the Great Professor in it, it squeaks, but Mel hardly finds that the most noteworthy part.

“Betters?” Her fingers reach out to trace the dome’s joints, pacing its perimeter with all the curiosity of a child approaching pristine plate glass. “Esteemed patrons? I never thought I’d live to see the day when you called me that.”

“It goes over better than purse strings.” There’s a strain in his voice, a snap, before Viktor settles back on his heels, nodding at his success. “Jayce has informed me that if I liked the…academic lassitude that comes from our funding, I cannot bite the hands that feeds. Or at least”— his mouth curls at a corner, teasing the barest hint of teeth— “learn to nibble a little more pleasantly.”

“Oh my,” she hums, drawing the words out to their flattest notes. “What dire straits Hextech’s funds must be in if you consent to being civilized. Whatever will Mr Talis do should his project fail before he even takes the stage?”

Ah, now that gets a glare slanted her way, Viktor’s mouth pursing in the very picture of academic affront. “I’ll thank you to remember that this is our project, Councilor.”

“Is it?” She lets a brow arch, inquisitive, skeptical. “With the way Mr Talis was talking out in the showroom, I assumed you had stepped down from being a partner to a”—pet, she’s not quite unkind enough to say— “employee.”

Four years of handling Piltover’s prickliest engineer has made Mel a connoisseur of grunts and snorts, and this newest one— a huff, bare inches away from a cluck— is dismissive. Dubious, even. “Then I’m afraid you’ve quite misunderstood. I am just a much as founder as I was the day—”

“I found you fiddling with Heimerdinger’s keys outside his office door?” Her mouth tilts, the fold of her arms following a similar cant. “Or maybe you mean later, when you blew out the Revered Professor’s—?”

“That’s all water under the bridge,” he assures her with a lazy wave of his hand. “He can hardly complain about his star pupils, now can he?”

“I suppose not.” The fissures thread along the bottom of her fingers, the chaotic network of channels falling into a half-familiar pattern, one she almost anticipates as one etching leads into the next. Like a half-forgotten childhood lullaby; she knows the tune by heart but stumbles through the words, phrases rising from her memory only fall to pieces beneath the weight of her tongue. “I have to admit, despite all the…extralegal skulduggery, you seemed like more of a partner then. Now you stay here in the lab, working on the future you and he were so keen on creating, while Mr Talis makes himself a household name.”

There’s scuffling as he gets his foot beneath him, one hand grasping at the crutch leaning on the console to deftly lever himself to his feet with only the barest squeal of his brace. The man might be doused in lubricant, the stretch between wrist and rolled up sleeve more grease than skin, but even still he can’t keep the thing properly oiled. For all his flaws, Talis must have the patience of a saint; even now she’s half tempted to hold him down and care for the joints herself, if only to save her from the clanking and whining she’s subject to as he hobbles his way across the workshop. Away from her, she takes care to note.

“You may not know this, Councilor,” he drawls, leaning over a sprawl of schematics. “But long-term partnerships require compromise.”

“Is that so?” She approaches with all the patience of a predator, skirt swaying around her legs like tall grass before a sand cat strikes. He watches her the way prey doesn’t, wary but aware as her hip props up beside his, fingers brushing over the topmost sheet— a sky ship, it looks like, though its shape has more in common with a sloop rather than a galley— until they trace over the single signature sweeping across the corner: Jayce Talis. “Including who gets credit for your inventions?”

He scowls, scooping up the schematics and rolling them into a tight tube. “That is for patenting purposes. We both invented these. Jayce knows that better than anyone.”

Reality rarely keeps an ambitious man from claiming credit, in her experience. “And I suppose it’s the both of you who will make sure the gate is in proper working order before the presentation? With no chance of explosion, if you don’t mind.”

“Councilor, please.” He presses a hand to his chest, the slant on his smile far too steep for sincerity. “When has one of my projects ever exploded?”

She barely has time to roll her eyes toward the window before he adds, “Recently.”

“I’m being unfair,” she admits, after a heavy pause to consider. “Your inventions don’t explode.”

“Thank you for n—”

“You merely throw yourself through them, untested, and hope for the best.”

“The gate wasn’t untested.” Most men would puff themselves up for this amount of protest; stretching their spines to loom, hoping the breadth of their shoulders might quell any question. Viktor, however, sits. “Its effects were just largely unknown on living objects larger than…oh, let’s say a cat.”

It’s Mel who stretches now, lifting her chin to its most imperious height. “So you thought the first person to test those effects should be you?”

Viktor shrugs, mouth pulling into one of his ridiculous grimaces. “Someone had to do it.”

“And what about me, then?” Positioned at all her best, most forbidding angles, Mel favors him with a glare. “Was there some reason I had to be the one to witness it? Without warning, might I add! Just called across the city with no explanation, only to have you disappear right before my eyes—”

“Not disappear, really,” he muses, one long finger tapping at his chin. “More like a relocation. The gate merely opens a point of entry in reality, and the vacuum pulls you through, almost like a pneumatic tube—”

“You were gone.” Mel prides herself on control, on her precise grasp of the way her voice rises and falls, always doing just as it ought. As she wills it to. But that last word leaves her mouth and collapses, folding in on itself, unable to bear the weight.

Viktor glances at her. Not the kind she’s used to from men; that surreptitious pass from one end of her to another, taking her measurements as thoroughly as a modiste— only it’s not the fit of a dress they’re concerned about. No, this one lifts to meet hers, not falling to any more familiar anatomy, but lingering. His brow furrows, the subtle movements of his eyes searching.

It’s…embarrassing, really. This…vulnerability. Mother always said it would kill her, caring too much. If only she had known it could lead to things worse than death, maybe she might have listened.

It’s a relief when his attention finally drops away, fixed to where his hands rest on the desk. His fingers flutter, his mouth works, and after one terrible, too-long moment, he shrugs. “I came back, too.”

She clears her throat, the pitch of her voice concertedly casual as she says, “Yes, well, you might have given me some warning. I’m sure Mr Talis might have had some idea of what to do should your…experiment go wrong, but I was quite in the dark.”

“Well, if I’d done it in front of Jayce, he would have stopped me.” He rolls his eyes, hands lifting to wrap quotes around, “For ‘safety reasons.’”

“I see,” she hums, deceptively light even as her temper lashes behind the golden cage of her civility. “So you chose me because you thought I’d be too stupid to understand what you were up to.”

“You wouldn’t be aware of the precise nature of my intentions, no.” The bastard doesn’t even have the decency to sound even slightly apologetic. Typical of him, really. “Or the risks of putting myself through what essentially amounts to a hole in reality.”

“Oh?” There’s no point in hiding the edge of her tone, not when he could have a real, actual knife held to his throat and still go on about his precise criteria for what constituted a ‘calculated risk.’ “For example?”

“Well…” His head tilts, sending that tuft skittering across his brow again. “There’s no air in a vacuum, traditionally.”

“Oh, honestly—!”

“I lived,” he tells her, as if that is his only metric for success. Considering the few times she’s seen Viktor testing his creations, there’s a reasonable possibility it might be. “And you were suitably impressed with my efforts, if I recall.”

“I was suitably impressed when you managed to move a pencil.” Had she only known that would not be his only magic trick that day, she might have spared herself no small amount of fright. “It has always been Medarda’s policy to allow our apprenta be the experts of their field of study with little oversight, however”— she slanted a pointed stare toward him— “perhaps in the interest of our continued support, I should become more familiar with the basis of your work.”

“Oh, don’t put yourself out on our account, Councilor,” Viktor assures her with his best don’t-get-in-my-way smile. “The naive mind is a wonderful thing. A layman’s perspective often gives more insight into a problem than—”

“I’m not trying to help you with your work, Viktor,” she grates out, every syllable strained through her teeth. “I’m trying to keep you from killing yourself with it.”

“Oh.” His mouth wraps around the sound slowly, as if testing to see if it might hold his weight, brow furrowed. “Well, that doesn’t seem necessary. It’s not as if I’ve died.”

“Yet,” she stresses wearily. And yet, even so, her own mouth begins to curve, hands coming to rest against the cool metal of the tabletop. “I do have to admit, that’s the first time in a long while that someone’s dared to call me naive.”

“Well then.” Viktor makes to stand, the mole beneath his eye wrinkling with the first inkling of a smirk. “I’m glad I could get away with it.”

It’s just chance that makes his glance flick to hers, a trick of the light that turns amber to gold and the strain of straightening his spine that drops his voice just so, that makes him lean in, entirely too close. And yet—

And yet the effect is undeniable. A strange itch that settles beneath her skin, an odd twist to her stomach. The sort of things that a nice pair of shoulders might make her feel, at least on the right man.

Which this certainly is not. It’s just…Viktor.

He rights himself, cursing as he gets the splinted leg beneath him, chin dropping to inspect the brace— it may not be squealing now, but misbehaving certainly seems to be on the menu— and that ridiculous tuft drops over him again, obscuring his eyes, in the way—

Her hand reaches out, the lightest brush pushing the errant tuft back to where it belongs. Or at least, where it will consent to stay. She knows better than to expect anything about Viktor to be tamed, least of all by her. “You will get cleaned up, won’t you?”

He stares at her, his gloved hand half-raised— to knock hers away, she realizes. A reflex, perhaps, abandoned after a thought. Or by the look in his eyes, a lack of one. “Pardon?”

“For the reception,” she says, stilted in a way she can’t quite account for. “I thought you might try and look presentable, for once.”

“Reception?” He snorts, hand dropping back to his crutch. “Why do you want me to go to one of those things? So they can all talk over me like I’m furniture?” His weight shifts, turning his back to her. “I think I’ll pass.”

“So that they can see it’s not just Jayce who is the mind behind Hextech,” she presses. “But the both of you.”

He hesitates, knee joint squeaking in protest. “I think they might rather it that way. It’s certainly simpler. I don’t think any of them would enjoy having to owe something to a man from the Undercity.”

Mel crosses her arms, one eyebrow lifted in challenge. “I didn’t realize you wanted to make things simple for these people.”

His hand flexes on his crutch. “I’ll think about it.”

“That’s all I ask,” she says, and knows better than to add, for now.

[daffi-990]

Seven(ish) Sentence Sunday ✍️

Tagged by @diazsdimples & @wikiangela. Go check out their snippets and show them some love 💕

I’ve been going back and forth between my Fantasy AU and Rival Firefighters this week and am feeling a lot better about my writing than I was last week, which is refreshing.

Today’s snippet is more than seven sentences and I literally just wrote it so excuse any and all mistakes. It’s from Rival Firefighters 🚒 and oh look .. The Well Incident is making an appearance in this fic 👀

The hospital admit Eddie for the night, no matter how much he grumbles and insists he’s fine, that he just wants to go home and see his son. The nurses don’t budge, and it’s not until Bobby threatens to call Athena and have her handcuff Eddie to the bed that Eddie gives up and resigns himself to his fate. After that Bobby heads out, squeezing Buck on the shoulder as leaves, and then it’s just him and Eddie . They switch on the tv and watch late night infomercials until a nurse comes by an hour later, interrupting their argument over the price of a steam mop to inform Buck that extended visiting hours are over and it’s time for him to leave.

He doesn’t want to go, wants to stay right here in the uncomfortable hospital chair beside Eddie’s bed and watch tv until he falls asleep knowing that Eddie is safe and will be right there beside him when he opens his eyes. He doesn’t want to go home and face the nightmares he knows are waiting for him as soon as he closes his eyes. He can still feel the mud under his gloved hands, digging digging digging.

The nurse comes back 15 minutes later and all but drags Buck out, much to Eddie’s amusement. Buck promises to come back first thing in the morning which earns him a soft smile from Eddie that sets Bucks heart a flutter. The nurse, Kathy, walks Buck to the elevator, casually mentioning that visiting hours don’t officially start until 9, but that she’s on shift until 8:30 and is willing to slip him in earlier if he comes bearing coffee.

Buck hugs her before hoping into the elevator, the door closing on her startled and blushing face. On his way down to the ground floor he orders an Uber, thankfully not having to wait too long before it arrives.

When he gets home he sinks down onto the couch, turning the tv on and switching it to the same channel he and Eddie were watching at the hospital. He closes his eyes and pretends he’s still there, Eddie alive and safe in the hospital bed beside him, grumbling about infomercials and how they’re trying to scam people.

No pressure tagging: @tizniz @hippolotamus @spotsandsocks @puppyboybuckley @chaosandwolves @wikiangela @wildlife4life @watchyourbuck @jeeyuns @jesuisici33 @disasterbuckdiaz @devirnis @missmagooglie @mellaithwen @monsterrae1 @sunshinediaz @spagheddiediaz @shortsighted-owl @exhuastedpigeon @elvensorceress @eddiebabygirldiaz @epicbuddieficrecs @evanbegins @nmcggg @bekkachaos @captain-hen @rainbow-nerdss @rewritetheending @thewolvesof1998 @try-set-me-on-fire @theotherbuckley @lover-of-mine @loserdiaz @ladydorian05 @honestlydarkprincess @homerforsure @hoodie-buck @giddyupbuck @fortheloveofbuddie @fiona-fififi @steadfastsaturnsrings @shitouttabuck @king-buckley @glorious-spoon @athenagranted @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove and anyone else wanting to share something 🥰

[r-aindr0p]

Sorry for the ask as anon, I'm really shy and don't want to be perceived. Just wanted to say that I really like your art. I think it's really cool and it reminded me that Twisted Wonderland is a game to play and not a stagnant thing that I can info dump about to unsuspecting people :3 And your Rollo drawings are really cute and make me hungry because his name makes me think of candy

Ahdhsv thanks ! It's ok I'm shy too and I almost always overthink every word I write whenever I have/try to answer ppl :') Tumblr is mostly an introverted people site anyway, I think-

But hey, I'm happy if my little drawings makes people happy or help ! Imo twst can be enjoyed any way you want wether it's as a game you get invested into with the cards and stuff or just vibe w/ the fandom and appreciate the characters and stories through maybe fics or art or anything ! No need to even play the game.

Though the game does have aspects I appreciate like the guest room or judt being able to have your guys on the main screen and poke them non-stop, sometimes it also reminds me that "oh right this character is like that I kinda forgot" or just appreciate their seiyuus. (I try to guess who says "twisted wonderland" whenever Iopen the game and fail miserably necause I play 90% of the time w/ no sound :))))

+ When you look at it you see how much effort was put into the game and that it is loved, I'm honestly loving the lineless backgrounds !! + the costumes for event cards are always detailed, there was research put into the harveston or masquerade outfits !! (And the others as well tbh) + the soundtrack !!! Idia's dorm theme my beloved, I should really start chapter 6.....

(Though I get the infodump part, I have nobody I know irl playing the game so from time to time I do infodump on a friend (sorry 🙏))

Anyway, here's a mini Rollo chilling in the grass :)

[c-kiddo]

it truly does mean the world to me all the people who have read and reread dfy multiple times and all the people who left comments on like all the chapters , and all the people who drew fanart so much. so cool. thank u :' )