#tali writes
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Happy birthday @carlyraejepsans!! Small birthday fic for you!!!
Word Count: 1 123
Rating: G
Summary: Papyrus and Mettaton enact an explosive plan to get Sans and the Queen together.
XXX
“Are you sure this will lead to an explosion of romantic feelings?” Papyrus whispered to Mettaton in their hiding spot behind a conveniently-shaped shrub.
The convenience was artificially-created—he had been the one to trim this particular hedge in the shape of himself and Mettaton—but that was okay. Sometimes these things needed a little artificial flavor, or nothing would ever get done!
He hoped Queen Toriel liked the artificial flavor of bombs.
“Darling, nothing is more romantic than missile toe!” Mettaton replied, holding a long pair of binoculars to see through the hedge. “Just wait. This program hasn’t even started yet!”
Papyrus scooted closer, pressing one eyesocket to half of the binoculars. It gave him a pretty good view of his brother and the queen standing beneath one of the garden’s arches, where Sans liked to hang out and pick water sausages for his “illegal” hot dog stand. Mettaton had forged a note in Sans’s handwriting, and Papyrus had set up the missile toe—a tarsal-and-bomb combo Mettaton said was a hit on the surface—to create the most romantic atmosphere possible. Surely it would blow through Sans’s aloof exterior and compel him to confess his true feelings!
“Hey, Tori.” Sans hid a bundle of water sausages behind his back. Papyrus wasn’t sure why he bothered, since they both knew Toriel knew what he was doing with them. “Water you doing here?”
Papyrus suppressed a groan. Sans was never going to get anywhere with abysmal puns like that! It was a good thing he had such a brilliant brother looking out for him!!
Toriel laughed, though, because she was absolutely smitten by Sans’s slime-emitting charms. Somehow.
“Oh, nothing mulch.” She smiled, her fangs poking out from under her upper lip. Papyrus had caught Sans grinning dopily at that smile more times than he could count. Not that Toriel would be able to tell, since Sans’s expressions were nearly impossible for anyone but Papyrus to read. “I hoped you might be able to tell me.”
She held out the note Mettaton had written. It had told her to meet Sans here for a special surprise.
“Huh. Any idea who wrote that?” Sans asked, glancing around.
Papyrus tried to keep his bones from rattling with anticipation.
“It was not from you?” Toriel frowned.
“Nope. It’s a pretty good forgery, though. They even got my i’s write.” He held the paper up to the sun lamps in the cavern ceiling, like he was trying to see through it. Mettaton hadn’t hidden any secret messages, though, as far as Papyrus was aware. “Hey, wait a second.”
While looking up, he’d apparently noticed the missile toe. Perfect timing!
“Hit it, darling!” Mettaton said.
Papyrus pressed the remote detonator.
The bomb exploded with a BOOM of bones and confetti. It was loud, it was flashy, it was perfect! In fact, Toriel was throwing herself at his brother already!!
She tackled Sans to the ground, tarsals raining down on her back. Sans’s face, pinned near her shoulder, went bright blue.
“Are you alright?” Toriel asked him quickly, propping herself up on her palms.
“Uh,” he said coherently.
“Ugh, Sans, you’re blowing it!!” Papyrus hissed.
“Let the show go on,” Mettaton stage-whispered. “There’s still time for a grand finale.”
“Not sure about all right, but looks like I’m all left in one piece,” Sans finally said, still lying on the ground.
“Thank goodness.” Toriel sighed shakily. “Perhaps I should not have disbanded the Royal Guard after all… I never would have expected such a cowardly attack…”
“Heh. I think you’ve got it the other way around.” Sans picked up one of the fallen tarsals. “This has the Royal Guard written all over it.”
“You mean—Papyrus did this?” Toriel’s brow furrowed.
Papyrus cursed. Ratted out by his own brother! Didn’t he have any sense of gratitude??
“Do you not think that is a little far-fetched?” Toriel asked, standing and helping him to his feet. “Perhaps he is being framed. Your brother has no reason to fight either of us. Unless our puns pushed him too far…”
“Nah, he’s not into that kind of pun-ishment.” Sans grimaced.
“Then why…?”
“Because Sans is incapable of telling you how he feels!” Papyrus burst through the hedge, leaving a Papyrus-shaped hole in the Papyrus-shaped shrub.
“Hey, bro.” Sans sounded tired, and not at all surprised to see him.
“Papyrus?” Toriel gaped.
“And Mettaton!” Mettaton burst through his adjacent shrub.
“And Mettaton.” Sans sighed. “Nice job with the note.”
“Thank you! Having a built-in photocopier comes in handy.”
Toriel pinched the bridge of her nose.
“What is the meaning of all this?”
“Romance! Drama! Bloodshed! What else?” Mettaton beamed. “The producer isn’t supposed to be seen on set, but Papyrus made the executive decision to pull back the curtain, so here we are! Ready for our close-up!”
Toriel shook her head, but chuckled.
“Of course… well, that is sweet of you. But, I am afraid your script has an error in it.”
“An error?” Mettaton gasped with a hand to his mouth.
“Yes. You see, I already know how Sans feels about me.” She smiled.
“You… what???” Papyrus’s jaw dropped.
Sans went pale. Paler than usual, anyway.
“What.”
She rested a hand on Sans’s shoulder.
“I did not want to press you on the subject. I have been alive for hundreds of years. I can be patient.” She gave Papyrus a stern look, and he shivered. “As you should learn to be, as well. It is terribly impolite to force someone to confront their feelings before they are ready.”
Papyrus looked away. He’d just been trying to help! Still, there was no fighting a look like that. He could only hope she decided to spare him.
“I see… My dating handbook must be missing a few pages,” he muttered.
“There was no force involved! Only the romantic catalyst of missile toe!” Mettaton insisted, hugging Papyrus close as if to protect him from Toriel’s glare.
“Missile…?” Sans snickered. “Okay, that’s funny.”
“I knew you would understand!” Papyrus said. Sans always appreciated a good jape!
“Yeah, yeah. Just don’t try toe blow me up again. Just ‘cause ya missed this time—”
“UGH!! You are impossible!!! You are lucky the Queen puts up with you!!!”
“I think I do more than put up with him.” Toriel winked.
Sans blushed again.
“Wonderful! That’s a wrap, darlings!” Mettaton waved with the arm that wasn’t squeezing Papyrus. “No need to thank us. Just order a jar of MTT-Brand Beauty Yogurt™ for your first date, and we’ll call it even!”
Mettaton engaged the wheels in the heels of his boots and zoomed them away. The sound of Sans and Toriel’s laughter echoed behind them.
That was all the thanks that Papyrus needed.
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Rating: G
Summary: Xehanort continues to haunt Kairi's dreams. She hopes to find a way to uproot his phantom presence for good.
Wordcount: 2,011
Notes: Written for @kairizine with illustrations by @mellekist! This was super fun, so glad I got to be a part of it!!
XXX
In the Weeds
Sweet scents fill the crisp spring air, wafting up from blossoms of every shape and color. The flowers are separated within geometric plots: tall from short, leafy from bare, vibrant from muted. Blue-gray paving stones wind between each bed, like island chains connecting blooming continents.
In the center of it all, a fountain gurgles. Shimmering water flows out like spokes of a wheel, giving life to flowers spreading past the horizon.
It’s a beautiful world. It resembles what would’ve been, should’ve been, her world—if not for the silver-haired man kneeling in the plot of flowerless dirt before her.
“Good evening, Kairi,” he says, even though the sun hangs directly overhead, casting no shadows on the world below. He doesn’t look up from his work—though why he’s bothering to weed a plot of nothing but weeds is anyone’s guess. “I hope that your day was sufficiently pleasant.”
How can it be, when I have to see you at the end of it? she wants to snap, bitter as the violet garlic blossoms in the plot behind her.
It doesn’t matter what she says, though. Nothing has been able to uproot this shadow of Xehanort from the soil of her dreams.
Tonight, he resembles his complete self—the one who had taken her as a child and sent her adrift. The one who had connected her heart to Sora. It’s his favorite form, from what she can tell, though he seems as helpless to choose between his alternate selves as she is to banish them.
His purple ascot hangs untied around his neck. His lab coat has been set aside, folded neatly on the ground between the budding plants, leaving him in a collared shirt under a ribbed gray vest. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, but dirt has still managed to stain his cuffs.
If he’s a phantom, he’s a very vivid one. And if he’s not…
“Ah. No words to spare for me tonight? And here I was rather looking forward to your clever barbs.” He plucks a thorned weed from the plot of leafy stalks, twirling the stem between his fingers.
She doesn’t know why a magical dream garden grows weeds at all, much less why Xehanort bothers to remove them, night after night. If not for his sisyphean effort, she would attribute the thorns to his corrupting influence. Of course, maybe he’s the reason this plot lacks the blooms that color the rest of the garden.
“I’m not here to entertain you, Xehanort,” she sighs.
“I suppose that’s true.” He nods thoughtfully. “I am meant to entertain you, more likely.”
She snorts, plopping down on the curved beam that edges this flower bed. If she has to be awake during her dreams, she can at least stop standing like she expects to be attacked.
Xehanort won’t harm her. He can’t. He’s tried a few times, when he first began invading her dreams. He seemed to believe that destroying her would free him from this dream-prison, but she’d just respawned, more frustrated than ever.
His idea of “entertainment” is likely just as violent. If she hadn’t sparred so much today, she might’ve picked a fight with him, just to see if her training would show.
Not that she expects to destroy him, either. No matter which form he’s taken, she hasn’t been able to best him—unless she counts the one time Sora had projected enough of his consciousness to assist her.
(She doesn’t.)
“Well, if you have nothing to say, then you won’t object to me filling the silence.” He hums, inspecting a narrow, slightly yellowed leaf that looks just like every other narrow, slightly yellowed leaf in this plot. “I have not been able to determine what time of year this place is meant to mirror. Every bed seems to run on its own timeframe. I’ve spotted zinnia and hellebore blooming in plots barely two stepping stones apart.”
“It’s a magic garden.” Kairi yawns. “You don’t expect it to make sense, do you?”
“Not particularly. But that’s why this bed is so fascinating. None of these plants have flowered, despite every other species’ state of perpetual bloom.”
Kairi’s brow furrows as she inspects the plants. A few leafy stems end in tiny bulbs, with the hint of orange petals hiding within. For the most part, though, they just resemble tall grass.
It is strange. Not as strange as hearing Xehanort sound so interested, though.
“I assume you are familiar with these flowers, considering this is your garden,” he continues. “Asclepias tuberosa. More commonly known as butterfly weed. But are you aware of their significance?”
He’s wrong. The garden is as much a mystery to her as it is to him. She hesitates to give him any more power by admitting her ignorance, though.
“So… they are weeds?” she asks tentatively.
“‘Weed’ is merely a title given to any plant that grows where it isn’t wanted. It isn’t a very useful classifier, botanically.”
She frowns, leaning forward to pick at one of the leaves.
“Something that grows where it isn’t wanted, huh? Sounds like you might know something about that.”
“Ah. There’s that wit of yours.” His smile looks entirely too genuine. On anyone else, she’d call the expression warm. “But yes, I do. What about you? You haven’t answered my question.”
She sighs. Unfortunately, she has nothing better to do than humor him.
“I don’t know anything about butterfly weed,” she admits, deciding that his opinion of her doesn’t matter enough to pretend otherwise.
“Really?” His eyes go wide with surprise. “I must reevaluate my hypotheses. That is what I get for assuming, I suppose…” He shakes his head. “Butterfly weed. In the code of flowers native to Radiant Garden, it is gifted as a goodbye—particularly to someone from which one desires long-term distance. The literally translated meaning is ‘let me go.’”
“Let me go…” she echoes quietly.
If only the buds would bloom. This is the only flower she’d want to share with Xehanort.
“How do you know all this?” she asks, caught between suspicion and curiosity. She can’t imagine him studying flowers alongside the experiments that plunged her homeworld into darkness.
“Ah. Let’s just say my former Master had plenty of chores for me to attend to… and my former companion had plenty of trivia to distract from the menial labor.” He smiles again, reminiscing fondly. “Of course, the meanings he assigned to each flower weren’t always accurate. I recall him trying to convince me that daffodils meant someone was ‘daft and smelled like dill.’”
He snorts softly, and Kairi’s teeth grind together to keep a shocked laugh from escaping.
How can he sound so normal? This is the man who stole her from her birth family, who used her as a pawn against Sora time and time again. He doesn’t deserve to be here, tending flowers without a care in the world.
“It would be wonderful to see him again…” he murmurs while caressing one of the stems.
“You should’ve thought of that before you tried to destroy the worlds,” she says sharply.
Before you destroyed me.
She can’t listen to this anymore. She doesn’t care if she’s stuck here all night; she’ll find another section of the garden to hide away in.
She stands, only to be stopped short by his melancholy voice.
“Yes… I suppose I should have.” He sighs. His hand falls to his side, index finger tracing aimless trails through the dirt. “If I had only been content with what I had… perhaps my life would not have ended alone.”
His form flickers like static, and a black coat replaces his gray vest and pants. The spikes of his hair split and darken a shade.
Xemnas. The Xehanort who delivered her up to her final fate.
“If that’s your way of apologizing for kidnapping me, it could use some work,” she huffs.
She refuses to flinch away from his more intimidating appearance. He’s still kneeling in the dirt. He still can’t hurt her. Not this time.
“You would accept an apology from me?” he asks, brow furrowed. His voice is at least a half-octave deeper now.
Jarringly, it reminds her of when Wakka’s voice dropped in junior high. At least the ridiculous mental comparison makes it easier to stand up to Xemnas.
“No. But it wouldn’t hurt.”
He chuckles ruefully, dipping his head.
“Very well. I am sorry for the pain you have suffered at my hands…” He takes his original form again, and his shoulders relax a little. “Though it is impossible for me to honestly apologize for everything.”
She frowns. She doesn’t believe he’s honest about anything—but if he’s going to lie, why not go all in?
“What do you mean?”
“Radiant Garden was already doomed, before any of my actions took effect. The Ansem you call ‘Wise’ made sure of that.” He snorts. “But you… you were our hope, Miss Kairi. If not for your bond with Sora, who would have come to pull us from the dark?”
He snaps a closed bud from its stem, holding it out to her like a peace offering.
“I sent you off. And you found a home that you treasured, did you not? The same home that half of me hailed from.” His visage flickers to that of Master Xehanort, but thankfully becomes his younger self again. She can’t look into the Master’s eyes without feeling like she’s choking. “And so the wind blows the next generation of seeds back out to sea…”
She does treasure the Islands. But most of all, she treasures the friends she has there. Her adopted parents. Sephie, Tidus, Wakka. Sora and Riku…
Sora, trapped in a realm beyond her comprehension. Riku, searching for him alone.
“I just want my friends back.” Her throat tightens. She doesn’t take the offered bud. “If you really cared, you wouldn’t have sent me to them just to take them away.”
“This is true.” Xehanort’s arm drops, letting the snapped stem fall. “I did not care. It is only in death that I can see how shortsighted that was.”
He looks up, and for once, she believes the regret in his brown eyes—a different color from the other Xehanorts.
(Why? It can’t be Terra’s influence. Terra’s eyes are blue.)
“But there is nothing I can do for them now. I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “You and I are both seeds drifting far from those we called friends.”
“Don’t—don’t compare yourself to me.” She shakes her head, her hands trembling.
He can still hurt her. He doesn’t need keyblades or magic—he just needs to be human. To nurture her sympathies the way he attempts to nurture this garden.
She hates that she wants to fall for it. She wants to believe the man trapped in her mind isn’t as evil as he appears. Is she really this desperate for someone to understand her?
Xehanort simply nods, returning to his silent plucking of weeds. Red wells from the pads of his fingers where thorns prick them.
It’s what he deserves. To be alone and forgotten.
(As alone and forgotten as she is.)
…Light, now she’s comparing them. The seed he’s planted has already taken root.
She brushes one butterfly weed bud—and a single petal peels free, facing the sun.
Her breath catches. How…?
Xehanort looks up at the sound, then to the opening orange bloom. His eyes widen.
“How did you…?” he echoes her thoughts.
She nearly says she doesn’t know. But—but she does.
She knows. And she knows how to make him leave.
(Asclepias tuberosa. “Let me go.”)
The flower bloomed when her hate had wavered. The question is, can it waver again? Can she let go of this pain for good?
Not yet. Not yet, but eventually. Hope blooms in her chest, bright as the flower in her hand.
“It’s my garden, remember?” She grips the blossom tight, its stem leaking warm sap against her palm. “I still hold the power here.”
And with that power, she’ll set herself free.
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I keep forgetting to post this here. anyway my s3 post-desperada divergent ladrien multichapter is finally done wooooo
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54 from the "sensory prompts" list, emmet + the redeemed team plasma members from driftviel city
Adamant Nature
Rating: G
Word Count: 2,938
Prompt: The moment when reality starts to make sense again (It is not very obvious in the fic sorry. I hope the general vibe works though)
Read on AO3: here
I loved this prompt a lot so I got kind of carried away haha. Note that this fic does contain minor references to Ingo being gone, but angst is not the focus. Happy (slightly late) anniversary to pokemon BW2 also :D
I am still taking prompt requests! More info here (on one of my other sideblogs).
XXX
Emmet gave the ornate door three sharp knocks. Moments later, a strangely uniformed young man opened up. He looked like he was on his way to a renaissance fair, but so had all of the Team Plasma members two years ago.
Emmet had been fortunate enough to avoid them back then. He only recognized the uniform from Elesa’s descriptions. She had said their hoods had made them look like Elgyem. She had been right.
“S-subway Boss Emmet!” The young man looked ready to shake out of his uniform.
“I am Emmet.” Emmet smiled. This didn’t appear to have the calming effect he’d hoped for.
“We’re not doing anything wrong, I swear! Clay g-gave us permission to use this building, and—”
“It is alright, Mason.”
The door opened wider, revealing an old man with wide brown robes and a fluffy mustache. Like a Herdier’s.
“I requested his assistance.” Herdier-man stepped closer, replacing the nervous young man. “Thank you for coming, Subway Boss Emmet.”
Of course he had come. There was a pokémon here that he could help. There had been no alternative course.
“My name is Rood. If you will come inside, the Galvantula I described in my letter is right through here. Mason has been taking good care of it.”
It. These former Team Plasma members didn’t even know if the Galvantula was male or female. Clearly they needed Emmet’s help.
“I—I’ve been trying my best, sir.” Mason—nervous-Elgyem-man—raised his hands awkwardly in front of his chest, as if beginning some kind of salute, before his arms snapped back to his sides.
“If you will excuse me, I must finish sorting through the letters we’ve received. I hope that some will be from trainers looking to reclaim their pokémon,” Rood said. “Mason, please assist the Subway Boss with anything he might need.”
“W-what? But I—” Mason bit his lip and glanced at Emmet, his eyes wide. “Yes, sir. Of course.”
Rood gave him a pat on the head before sweeping out of the foyer.
Emmet scanned the room in his absence, noting the variety of pokémon playing and eating, equal in number to the former Plasma members entertaining them. From the scratches, scorch marks, and slime trails on the hardwood floor and walls, these pokémon must rarely spend time in their pokéballs. They seemed happy, though. The Unfezant perched on the chandelier could have easily flown out the door if she wasn’t.
This house was full of good people. Emmet had to remember that. They were trying their best to get these passengers to their home stations. If their efforts hadn’t produced results yet—they would.
They would.
“Um… mister Subway Boss?”
Emmet snapped to attention, pulling his train of thought back on track.
“I am Emmet. I am listening.”
“Emmet,” Mason repeated. One hand fiddled with the front of his frock. “Sorry. Um, Galvantula is this way.”
Emmet nodded and followed. Mason walked quickly, which was a relief. It meant Emmet could walk at his normal pace without stepping on the young man’s heels.
After a few turns in the hallway, Mason opened a door into what looked like a bedroom—if the bed had been removed and replaced with a tangle of sparking webs. In the web’s center, a Galvantula rested, its six eyes twinkling like sapphires in the darkness.
“Hey, buddy. How’s it going?” Mason cooed, and the pokémon perked up.
“She is beautiful,” Emmet said, careful to keep his steps light and not approach the pokémon too quickly. “Rood was right. You have been taking good care of her.”
“Her?” Mason’s head tilted. “How can you tell she’s a girl?”
“The pedipalps are smaller and thinner for females than males.” Emmet pointed towards the appendages attached to Galvantula’s face.
“Oh. Huh. I guess you would have to know, breeding them and all.”
“I would. Yup.” Emmet smiled.
The Galvantula didn’t cringe as Emmet brushed the edge of her web. That was a good sign—she was accustomed to humans. Unlikely to have a timid nature. If Emmet could identify her nature, he would be one step closer to learning what sort of trainer she belonged to.
“Please give me her pokéball,” Emmet said to Mason, who startled.
“Huh? I—I can’t do that.”
Emmet’s smile wavered. Maybe Mason had misunderstood.
“I am serious. Her pokéball will help me identify her trainer.”
Mason shook his head. “I’m serious too. I can’t. She doesn’t have one. All the pokémon here—they’ve been released already. We thought that would let them go home if they wanted, but they didn’t know where to go. They’re so far from home.”
So far from home. Unable to return, no matter how much they wanted to.
Emmet’s chest hurt.
“I see. This makes my task more difficult. But not impossible.”
Pokéballs carried the history between pokémon and trainers. Each scratch and scuff was a sign of time treasured together. The type of ball could be a clue as to if the pokémon had been bred or caught in the wild—especially if this Galvantula was a descendant of Emmet’s own. He could have seen the trainer ID and lot number registered on the pokéball and estimated when he had given her away.
He was growing confident that this Galvantula had once been one of his Joltik. She had crept close and nuzzled his hand, trying to remove his glove with her pedipalps. His Joltik knew that when his gloves were off, it was time to eat—because if he didn’t remove his gloves first, they built up too much static electricity that the tiny Pokémon would try to feed off of. The discharge could give him and the Joltik both a nasty shock.
Emmet chuckled and removed his gloves, then took a tupperware full of berries from inside his coat. He sat down cross-legged at the edge of her web.
“Let’s see. Which flavor would you like?”
He picked out several varieties—Spelon, Durin, Watmel, Pamtre, Belue. Rare flavors in Unova, but Emmet had contacts in Hoenn. Berry farmers there were happy to trade him some of their fruit in exchange for pest-eating Joltik.
The Galvantula brushed her pedipalps over the fruits, sniffing them carefully before sinking her chelicerae into the Spelon berry. The berry swelled for a moment before the pokémon drained it of its juices.
“You prefer spicy food?” Emmet put the other berries back in their container and scratched Galvantula’s head. “Then you are hardy, lonely, adamant, naughty, or brave.”
She chirred brightly, her eyes blinking in a wave.
“Not naughty, nope. You’re a good girl, aren’t you?” Emmet grinned.
She tucked her legs under her and rested her head in his lap.
“You can tell her nature… just from the kind of berry she ate?” Mason frowned. “Are you some kind of psychic?”
“Ha, that’s funny. No. This is a common method breeders use. Especially those breeding for competitive pokémon. Natures are verrrry important to a pokémon’s stats. Pokémon who like spicy foods usually have a temperament that increases attack. Like my Galvantula, who is adamant.”
“Huh.” Mason nodded slowly. “That’s weird, but cool. You know a lot about pokémon, Emmet.”
“I am Emmet. I am serious about breeding and training my pokémon to win double battles. I know what I need to reach my destination.”
For some reason, Mason grimaced.
“I was wondering about that… I mean, you’re a trainer. A really good trainer, according to like, everyone.”
“I am a Subway Boss.” Emmet nodded. “I do my best to give my passengers exciting battles.”
“Right. But isn’t that using your pokémon as tools?” Mason wrung his hands together. “Sorry. I’m not trying to judge you. I know I’m the last person who should be questioning anyone, after what I’ve done. I just want to understand.”
Emmet pet the Galvantula in his lap as he considered the question. This wasn’t something anyone had asked him before. He enjoyed battles. His pokémon enjoyed battles. That was what mattered.
But Mason was not a trainer. That answer would not satisfy him.
“I could not do my job without my pokémon,” Emmet said. “While I conduct the battle, they are the engine, pulling us towards our destination. I choose the track. They choose whether or not to follow, and they choose the speed of our journey.”
Mason’s brow furrowed.
“Sorry. You’ve lost me.” He scratched the back of his head, and a lock of brown hair escaped from his hood.
“Hmm. You do not understand pokémon. You do not understand trains.”
Emmet clapped and jumped to his feet, accidentally startling the Galvantula.
“Ah. Sorry about that.” He grinned at her. “I just had an idea. Would you like to battle?”
“What? Nonono, I don’t fight.” Mason waved his hands.
“I wasn’t asking you. I was asking her.” He dipped his head towards the pokémon. “It is up to you. I have a Galvantula as well. Her name is Battery. You might like her.”
You might be her sister, he didn’t say.
The Galvantula chirred, rising onto her hind legs for a moment. Emmet grinned.
“Perfect! Then follow the rules. Safe driving!”
He unclipped two pokéballs from his belt before remembering that he couldn’t have a double battle with only one opponent. That was disappointing. But he was used to covering the Single Train now. He would be fine.
He returned his Archeops Angelo to his belt and sent out Battery.
“You’re not really going to—”
“This will allow me to observe her moves,” Emmet said. “That is important to finding her trainer. If she had a pokéball, I would be able to read her moves and stats from there. But I don’t.”
“Okay, okay. Just… don’t hurt her, alright?”
Emmet softened a little. Mason may not be a trainer, but he had been caring for this pokémon for some time.
“I will follow the rules and check safety.” Emmet nodded. “Will you direct your friend?”
“My…?”
“This Galvantula. She is your friend. You care for her.”
Mason looked surprised, though Emmet didn’t know why.
“...Yeah. Yeah, she’s my friend.” He nodded more confidently. His lone curl of brown hair bounced up and down.
“Perfect! Then you will conduct her to victory, or to defeat! All aboard!” Emmet pointed, his focus narrowing to the two Galvantula in front of him. “Battery, use Thunder Wave!”
“But I don’t even know—ack!” Mason jumped back, even though he was nowhere near the tiny shock of electricity. “Galvantula, um, uh, dodge it!”
Luckily, the Galvantula had known to dodge before Mason had said anything. Clearly it had some experience battling in the past.
“Okay. Now it’s your turn,” Emmet said. “You can try some of the moves Galvantula might know. Electroweb, Signal Beam, Screech, Agility, X-Scissor, Cross Poison. These are some options.”
Battery knew X-Scissor and Cross Poison, along with Wild Charge and of course, Thunder Wave. If the other Galvantula had hatched from one of Emmet’s eggs, she might know Cross Poison. It had taken him some time to pass down the egg move from an Ariados father.
“C-cross Poison?” Mason repeated timidly. That was a nature that would lower his attack. He was fortunate that the battle would be determined by the pokémon’s stats, and not the trainer’s.
The Galvantula reared up on its hind legs, its forelimbs dripping venom.
Emmet gave a series of sharp whistles, and Battery dodged left, clinging to the ancient wallpaper. The poisonous strike tore an X in the middle of the rug. This place was not battle-proofed like the subway, but Emmet was too delighted to care.
“So you are one of mine. Perfect! This will be an exciting battle!”
“I think I’m feeling more nauseous than excited…”
“Ah. Stand clear of the poison spray. It feels verrrrry unpleasant, yup.”
Blanching, Mason retreated further into the corner, where he stuck to a few stray webs.
Emmet called out more moves, with Mason mirroring each attack turn for turn. A respectable strategy for someone with no battling experience. It at least let Emmet see which moves the Galvantula knew: Cross Poison, Sucker Punch, Thunderbolt, and Return. A strange combination—why Thunderbolt instead of Wild Charge, if it had an attack-boosting nature? Galvantula already had exceptional speed stats, so why pick Sucker Punch over a bug-type move? There were plenty of dark types in Unova that could make better use of a STAB attack.
As they battled, Emmet put together a profile for the Galvantula’s original trainer. They were someone Emmet had entrusted with one of his Joltik. A trainer with such bizarre choice in moves was unlikely to have bred an adamant-natured Cross Poison Joltik on their own. They had trained this Galvantula to at least level forty-six, as evidenced by Sucker Punch. They owned a Thunderbolt technical machine and a Return technical machine. Return could be bought in the Nimbasa City Pokémon Center, so the trainer had likely visited the city at least once.
That profile could still fit a large number of trainers. Emmet had bred more Joltik than he knew what to do with, and he didn’t have a great memory for names or faces. Still, with this information he could make a missing pokémon poster for the Gear Station bulletin board. Surely that would be more effective than sending out individual letters like Rood seemed to be doing.
“Alright, that’s enough!” Mason stomped his foot, and the two Galvantula froze. Battery still sparked from the recoil of her last Wild Charge.
“The match is not over.” Emmet smiled in confusion. “Are you requesting an unauthorized stop?”
“I don’t know what that means,” Mason huffed, “but this Galvantula isn’t going to beat yours, and I’m not about to let you knock her out. So—so yeah, the match is over.”
Mason glared with a fire that Emmet was surprised to see from him. Maybe he wasn’t timid-natured after all. ‘Careful’ might be a better fit.
Emmet could respect that. Safety was verrrry important.
“Then we will pause our course. Great job, Battery!”
She leapt into his arms for a victory treat—one Occa berry—before he recalled her into her pokéball.
“G-good.” Mason nodded, looking shaky again. “Did you… did you figure out whatever you needed to? To get Galvantula back to her trainer?”
“Yup! I will post a notice in Gear Station as soon as I return. From what I learned, I believe her trainer is likely to pass through there.”
“Great.” Mason heaved a sigh of relief and scratched Galvantula’s head when she rubbed against his legs. “I mean, I’ll miss you, little buddy—uh, girl. But you… you looked like you were having fun battling. You had more energy than I’ve seen in weeks. I can’t… I can’t be the kind of trainer you deserve.”
Galvantula’s head tilted, blinking up at him slowly.
“Besides, you miss your old trainer, right? Whoever they are… they’re lucky to have you.” Mason smiled.
Emmet couldn’t help smiling too.
“You don’t have to be a trainer to love pokémon,” he said. “You don’t have to know about natures, or stats, or moves. There are pokémon who prefer not to battle. There are people who prefer not to battle. Every combination of pokémon and people is different.”
Mason looked up at him curiously.
“Really? Everyone I knew before Team Plasma was… well, they were like you. I guess that’s ‘cause I grew up near Victory Road, where everyone wanted to be the best. To win.” Mason frowned, looking away. “But when someone wins, someone has to lose, right?”
“That’s real. No one wants to lose.” Emmet nodded.
He had lost plenty of battles—mostly to his brother.
He had not lost a battle in a long time.
“I do not know you, Mason,” he said. “I do not know what ideals you hold. But you care about pokémon. So I would like to help you.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card.
“If you are in Mistralton or Nimbasa, leave me a message. I have a Joltik that will fit your nature like a glove.” Emmet smiled and pulled back on his own gloves, which he’d left next to Galvantula’s web. “In the meantime, thank you for battling with me! I had fun!”
Mason held the business card to his chest. “Y-you did? Even though I sucked?”
Emmet let out a barking laugh.
“You did not ‘suck.’ You were learning! I am not a good teacher, but you did your best. That’s real.”
Mason gave a wavering smile.
“Th-thanks, mister Emmet. And—thanks for trusting me with one of your Joltik. That really means a lot.” His eyes started to water.
Oh no. Had Emmet made him cry? It was best to be off before he said anything that might make things worse.
Emmet tipped his hat, smiling as wide as seemed appropriate. He couldn’t help saying one more thing, though.
“I meant it. You are a good person, Mason.”
Emmet strode from the room, arms swinging with his quick pace. He passed more stranded pokémon on his way out: Trubbish, Vanillite, Pawniard, Shelmet. Though he didn’t have as much experience with any of those pokémon, he wondered if he could come back and help place them. At least he could record their natures and movesets, which would help their trainers identify them. He could post detailed notices in Gear Station. There were things he could do.
He took a deep breath of the crisp Driftveil air and rubbed his thumb over Chandelure’s pokéball.
He hoped that wherever Ingo was, someone was helping him find his way home, too.
#emmet#team plasma#subway boss emmet#submas#galvantula#tali writes#prompt requests#fic tag#pokemon bw
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Damian was 10 when he was shipped off to his father.
He was 10 when he finally decided enough was enough, packed his stuff, called Mara, and the ball went rolling.
The moment Talia left the mansion, the DNA test confirmed, and Bruce emotionally compromised, did he finally move.
He'd stared his father down, felt nothing when he stood up and mild annoyance bloomed when his father asked– demanded– where he was going.
"You're a fool if you believe I will stay here." He spat, eyening the man in disdain.
It became very apparent that Damian wasn't what Bruce thought he'd be, what Talia thought he was.
"Your mother entrusted me with your safety–"
"I don't need protection. Mother wouldn't care if I stayed or not." He blinks. "Where is the cave? I wish to use the computer, I have people to contact."
Reluctantly, Bruce shows him the way, questions of who and why, and the plans he apparently had were asked.
Damian answers with vague wordings and enough open spaces for interpretation. Words greatest detective, he can figure it out himself without damian spelling it out for him.
When they do arrive in the batcave, Tim Drake— Robin— was sitting at the computer.
Huffing, Damian shoved the entire chair away from the table, taking its place and started typing.
"W— hey! What—? Who?" Tim looked between Bruce and Damian, despite being sleep deprived his eyes caught on the similarities, mouth dry and mind calculating.
"Does Dick know?" Is all he asks, leaning back and watching the younger boy work.
"Not yet."
A heavy sigh.
"Silence," the boy huffs, annoyed. "I'll have to make a call."
Glaring daggers, he pulls out a old burner phone, pressing the single number saved inside and waits.
"Damian."
"Hello, brother."
('Oh. Did he have another?' Tim wonders, watching Batman's face, blank like a paper sheet. Nothing. It feels like all his efforts of bringing the man back were just flushed.)
—
Or in simpler words:
Danyal al Ghul, the first successor of the demons head, born with his twin Athanasia al Ghul, to be the future of the league.
They were reborn with their former memories, stuck in place, constantly watched and trained. Manipulated. Weaponized.
All for a man playing immortal.
They'd only started planning when two more children came into the picture, Damian and Mara Al Ghul.
Danyal now Daniel "Danny" and Athanasia now Eleanor "Ellie" Nightingale took matters into their own hands and separated to take the kids in and end this.
End the league. End the cycle of whatever this, this cult is, and take over.
In many universes, Ra's al Ghul does not die, always returns, wielding his people like mere weapons.
In this universe, Danyal al Ghul is acknowledged as a traitor, killer of the Demons head and Older Brother, borderline father even, to his tiny brother Damian al Ghul.
In this universe, he raises Damian instead of Talia, shows him the cracks of this careful manipulated picture and listens when Ellie tells of her travels to this tiny child with a sad sad fate.
In this universe, Ellie takes in their tiny cousin, shielding her from the cruel eyes of a man not worthy. She trains her, shows her the ropes and takes her along when she leaves.
In this universe, Damian al Ghul and Mara al Ghul live a good live, protected by the twins of old souls and have a somewhat normal if not very complicated childhood.
#dcxdp#dpxdc#dp x dc crossover#fic prompt#writing prompt#dc x dp prompt#Danny is Damians older brother/father#Danny aka Danyal al Ghul#Ellie aka Athanasia al Ghul#Dani is Maras mentor/parental figurine#Danny and Dani got reincarnated as twins in the league#the reason Damian and Mara suffered so much under Ras was because he alr had a granddaughter and son#why a pair more if they cant even surpass the first ones? he blatantly ignores the huge age gap#danny killed ras#Bad parent Tali#bad parent bruce#bruce wayne tries#damian just doesnt care bcs he alr got a father figure#why one more?#to dami talia is more a of a teacher#and what does he do with teachers he doesnt like? get rid of them#sorry talia love#anyway clockwork is having a field day with his fav drama show#for funnsies#adding Dan as Jasons mentor for the rage issues#Mara al ghul my beloved#Damian is NOT interested in the Robin title!!!!#he is much more serious about the phantom family name
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୨୧·࣭࣪̇˖ 𝆬 having a secret enemies to lovers relationship with them 𝆬 𓏸
feat.: Jayce Talis, Vi, Ambessa Medarda, Mel Medarda, Ekko
content: f!reader, nsfw content, mild violence mentions
notes: this was commissioned by the most lovely @angelltheninth !! thank you so much again!! 💜
Honestly, JAYCE refuses to admit just how much he finds himself drawn to you. You're everything he's not, working in the shadows for Silco while he's Piltover's golden boy, the Man of the Future, and yet there's some odd tension between the two of you that he can't deny. He aches to label it as natural hate, though that couldn't be further from the truth. The catalyst for your eventual growing fondness of each other is when he's got you pinned down, imposing hammer so close to obliterating you and, God, he can't do it. You're his enemy, certainly, and yet he finds himself absentmindedly brushing some dirt off your cheek, touch gentle despite those huge hands.
After that, things go all too fast. One moment you're kissing, you softly moaning into his mouth, the next you try and sneak into the Academy, trying your hardest not to appear suspicious and, well — if you end up making out on one of the tables he usually does science stuff on, who can blame you? It feels all too nice to wrap your legs around his wide waist, pulling him closer while his dick pushes into you, calloused fingers roaming over your skin as if he's desperate to feel as much of you at the same time as somehow possible. It's all too good, until the sound of approaching footsteps, accompanied by the rhythmic thumping noise of a cane, makes both of you flinch, and you're forced to hide in an empty storage room, still dripping with need.
“Fuck, talk about horrible timing—, quick, in here, in here. God. Hopefully he'll leave real quick again, I'm stil hard; don't you worry, we'll continue just where we left off in but a moment. We just can't get caught.”
There is no word for what VI feels for you other than 'hate'. How could she not? As an Enforcer, you're her complete opposite, you're used to the riches and comfortable life of Piltover and, well, she would've never thought she could ever grow fond of you, but it turns out you look awfully pretty underneath her, pinned to the ground of Zaun. There's mud caked to the side of your face and a stray trail of blood runs down your forehead and, oh — for some reason, you don't do anything but moan softly when she leans down to meet your lips in a bruising kiss, her thick thigh spreading your own apart.
It's adorable how your cheeks flush when she calls you a teasing nickname; it's downright sweet when you whimper and press your body against her own. Your very reactions make you so very human, so very much like her. You're not that different from her at all, it appears, and that realisation itself makes things complicated. Vi swears she despises you, hates you with all her heart, but when she sneaks away to your usual meeting place, the sixth time this week, rough touches having turned into loving embraces along the way, she can't say she's being entirely truthful.
“Hey, sugar! You made it. Fuck, I'm always so happy to see ya, it's ridiculous. My heart's beatin' all fast. Oh—, hey, you're eager today, hm? Wanna continue that badly where we were interrupted last time? Fine by me. You gotta spread those cute legs of yours then, darl.”
It comes as no surprise that a powerful woman such as AMBESSA has quite a lot of enemies. There's all too many people who wish her death or worse for the countries she's conquered or the people she's slayed — and yet you're the only one who has ever caught her eye. It's all too easy to have you brought to her luxurious chambers, and even when you're glaring at her, eyes narrowed with nothing short of hatred, she doesn't care, really. Her fingers come up to grab your chin, keeping your head in place as her gaze rakes over your face, taking every feature of your face in.
You're not sure whether to be enraged or relieved that, apparently, she's satisfied with what she sees, though it's a lot preferable when, minutes later, she seats you on one thick thigh of hers rather than having you beheaded. Really, you couldn't stifle your mewls and moans even if you tried when she grinds said leg up against your already dripping folds. Over time, you grow fond of her — something you hadn't thought possible —; your relationship stays a secret, but your smile at her praise is honest, your laughter joining her boisterous one is not an act at all. She's surprisingly sweet for such a bold woman and, well; the fact that she leaves you unable to walk for a day or two whenever she's between your legs is a pretty convincing factor to stay with her, too.
“Aren't you just the sweetest little one? C'mon, now, no need to be shy. You've been grinding against my thigh like a bitch in heat before, haven't you? Surely you can do it again. Though, if my leg isn't good enough for you, maybe you're just not as desperate to cum as I thought.”
There's always been tension between you and MEL; how could there not be when you were anything she didn't stand for, being her political enemy and everything? Really, the amount of bickering you two did was close to ridiculous, and yet neither of you seemed to mind it all too much. Even though you don't make a pretty picture up on a stage or behind the council roundtable, you look all too ethereal on her bed, legs spread wide and arching your back while slender fingers alternate between gently rubbing and meanly pinching your throbbing clit.
Really, you'd worry about it being all too obvious how often you search up her quarters, though she's quick to distract you with soft kisses and the occasional cruel graze of teeth against your neck. There's no need to worry about anything, truly; when Mel wants your relationship to stay between the two of us, it will remain a secret at all costs.
“My, my. You're quite adorable today, hm? So very needy for my touch, and yet I remember quite clearly how you've challenged me in front of the rest of the Council. Love, it almost looks like you were aching to be punished by me. Is that not the case? I might go easier on you if you at least admit it.”
EKKO despises you. There's no way around it. Ekko despises you and, if needed, fights you with all his might, and yet his expression, Firelight mask long knocked off his face, softens oh so visibly when he, one day, meets you at random, your injuries awfully bad. He's not sure what he's thinking when he takes you in and cares for your wounds, nursing you back to health; you're his enemy, damn it, and he should act like it, but the only explanation he has for how he's acting is that empathy is an all too human trait he can't seem to get rid of, no matter how hard he tries. He can't just leave you in the Undercity to rot.
By the time you're back to full health, you can't deny that, even though you're supposed to be enemies, you've bonded quite a bit. He's funny and loving, protective of you, even; and even though your relationship has to stay secret at all costs, given how he'd otherwise lose credibility with the Firelights and you'd be called a traitor, you both can't help but sneak away at night to see each other, you embracing him in a loving hug and his lips pressing against yours all too eagerly. With Ekko, it takes a while until it gets to making out and getting even more intimate, but that's quite alright. There's no need to rush it; you're both more than happy to lose track of time while cuddling and kissing.
“Would've never thought that, one day, I'd be kissin' someone like you like this. Hey—, in a positive way. Don't get me wrong on purpose. Y'know I love everything about you. Yeah? Good. It's almost sunrise, though. 'm afraid you'll have to go back soon.”
tags: @vislovelywife @Mamanaga @vaemadz @cicada-teeth @jinxsslut @silcosnumber1 @coochie-intervention @inertiacreams @shinwifexx @rhaeena @bumbookitten @greeniegreengreen @my-awakened-ghost @afidiofobia @helloyellowsheeps @yuuotosaka3 @sccarymonster @satoruislove @pastelsbaby @artsyxabbyx @ cyan-skulls @arboranimus @marina-and-the-memes @holysmokesblog @twilightdollie @kaaylvst @definitely-not-v @innerstrawberrypolice @misty-q @perylinsus @pleasemakeitgayer @imaginesbymk @meimayooo @doxmino @smolbeandrabbles @darknessbyme @darthkenobii @mars738 @cupcakkesinflatedwetbussy @illicittete @lemzhargreeves @festivalthrash
@savagemickey03 @rosepxtlz @user4837 @Nervousartisanheart @mikariell95 @mechmoucha
@silcobrainrot @Medeaa5 @nocturnal-onlooker @modernamilf @catsaiem @t0r @beyondblissxoxo @zillahvathek @brainrottingrn @klaudia7 @okura-s
@666abby6666 @ironnieincarn8 @watercolourdreams @scturne19 @ladykatakuri @lunerenzo @cowboykiri @soullessbody @thottywizard @celebrity-crushes27 @ygrworld @sevikasslvtt @chaoticevilbakugo @trashbod @MiloMalaise @berywritesstuff @alice0blog @gooseberries88 @s1t1n0ny0url4p @black-rose-29
#honeydazai writes#Arcane x reader#Arcane x you#arcane imagines#Arcane headcanons#arcane smut#Jayce Talis#Jayce x Reader#Jayce imagines#Jayce headcanons#Jayce x you#Jayce smut#Vi x Reader#Vi x you#Vi headcanons#Vi imagines#Vi smut#Ekko x Reader#Ekko x you#Ekko imagines#Ekko headcanons#Ekko smut#mel x reader#Mel x you#Mel smut#Mel imagines#Mel headcanons#mel medarda#arcane ambessa#ambessa medarda
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Mel 🔆, Viktor 🌌, and Jayce 🔥 symbolism
SUN 🔆
Mel's association with the sun is self-evident and still mostly shrouded in mystery, though her love scene with Jayce is notable, which is overlaid with starry imagery, where her silhouette and her freckled face are compared to the cosmos. The sun is also a star. It's just the star that's closest to Runeterra and has the most influence over the world.
Mel and the Hexcore are the POVs of the scene.
Hexcore and starry imagery is more strongly and consistently associated with someone else, though!
STARS 🌟 / THE COSMOS 🌌
Viktor's blue to purple pipeline is real
But seriously, the starry/swirly shapes point toward distant stars, the cosmos, a galaxy. There is no moon in Viktor's night scenes throughout the season, only stars.
Viktor's character regresses as the season goes on (blue to purple, ready to fall into Shimmer-like magenta as his corruption nears its peak).
His hubris opens him up to some kind of corruption by the Hexcore, or by whatever - or whoever - is using the Hexcore as a gateway, like what Jinx points out. Singed as his mentor plants and encourages the lie that Viktor believes, that he's better off alone and that the ends justify the means.
These perfectly ruinous circumstances lead to him getting Sky killed (Sky like sky blue, like Inspiration, lost as Viktor has lost sight of good in his pursuit of great).
In his running scene, Viktor runs not from left to right, filmspeak for progression - he runs from right to left, as though backstepping.
(And also for the Rocky Balboa reference called out in this brilliant post, but hey, I think it all works)
It's also worth laying the foundation that Viktor is a fantasy interpretation of Nikola Tesla, the Serbian-American inventor who was fascinated with electricity, radio signals, the cosmos, and [REDACTED for another post probably lol]
If you've fallen down the rabbit hole of League lore like I have, you might have picked up that peoples and warriors who are sun-worshipers are (at least anciently) tasked with hunting down and destroying Void beings, who are eldritch beings associated with the distant stars, or are Runeterrans constructed by the Void Watchers trapped between realms. The sun fights against interlopers from other dimensions or celestial bodies.
Mel and Viktor have the same ideas about risk and the nature of progress, and they are both technically foreigners living in Piltover and pursuing that progress - in two very different (but complementary) ways. They are most likely the two characters whose literal bodies are celestial, imbued with the Arcane. Their bodies are most likely augmented with magical metals.
Yet the arcane imagery that seems to accompany them respectively are diametrically opposed - Sun vs. Void, possibly. (Also, purple and yellow/gold are opposite or complement colors on the color wheel.)
Whether they wind up working together or whether they clash (as Viktor loses himself) or if it's a mix of both, I think Mel and Viktor are destined to collide in season 2.
So where does this leave Jayce?
FIRE 🔥
Fire for Jayce means more than one thing. The first thing that should come to mind is the fire of the forge. Creation and industry. The legacy and hard work of his family.
However, his FIRST imagery with fire occurs when Elora says "Speak of the devil" and Jayce is framed in flames at Mel's fundraising party.
He's similarly framed in the flames of a Molotov cocktail on the bridge between Piltover and the undercity with Viktor, after he's just called the people of the undercity dangerous.
What I think we're being shown here are Jayce's choices. He can use his talents and influence for good - creation and industry - or he can use them for destruction and oppression. A hammer can create.
A hammer can also be a weapon, a tool of destruction:
Fire can quickly burn and spread out of control.
Hey look, blue all the way to magenta in one scene!
And if you know his original League lore, the reason why his rivalry with [REDACTED] crosses the point of no return - fire and destruction. Yeah.
Jayce is interesting because his point position in the Mel-Viktor-Jayce trifecta makes it tempting to assign celestial imagery to him, too. However, adult Jayce is only present with Hexcore, star, and sun imagery when he is sharing a scene with Viktor or Mel respectively.
The show makes it a point that Mel and Viktor are the reasons he is the Man of Progress at all:
Note that Jayce in the center of his Man of Progress posters is backed by a gear (Viktor) and the sun (Mel). If Viktor had not intervened in episode 2, Jayce would be dead or disenfranchised. If Mel had not intervened in episode 3, then Jayce AND Viktor would have been kicked out of the Academy if not imprisoned or exiled, and Hextech with Jayce and Viktor at the helm would not exist.
(This is reaching, but I like to interpret that the circle + notches in the gear shape are like Viktor's star symbolism, but even if that's the big reach that I think it is, Viktor is a machinist, engineer, and techmaturgist with Artificer parents - the gear definitely represents him on a meta level)
The imagery that I believe is Jayce's and Jayce's alone is that of fire. He is terrestrial, using magic contained within tools the way he has always wanted to bring Hextech to every household, while Mel and Viktor are influenced by magic on a whole other level.
Sure would be a shame if Jayce found a reason to choose the path of destruction and be corrupted further, diverging from Mel and Viktor's core values
Sure would be a shame if Viktor's personal choices had consequences that radiated out further than season 1 and he gets put on a disastrous collision course with everything that Jayce and by extension Piltover hates and fears
Sure would be stressful for us if Arcane decided to be a Greek tragedy about it
Though possibly the most important piece of this picture is how Mel - gold like the sun, gold that doesn't tarnish or rust, gold that is an excellent conductor - has already faced the abyss and said NO to her own corruption:
It sure would be something for her to have to watch Jayce and Viktor go down a different path, huh
#arcane#mel medarda#viktor#jayce talis#Theres been a lot of interpretations of symbolism in Arcane but this is where my personal beliefs lie#I take it as matter of fact that Mel survives like Im still flabbergasted that yall think she dies but I suppose we shall see#This post needs to be broken down into like 10 different posts but it's fine weve got 11 months til season 2 to cook its fine#and like 5 of those 10 posts need to be about Jayce alone like there is a lot to unpack and I do not say that lightly#but who I actually want to write about is Mel bc the fandom assuming that shes dead has completely nuked so much#of what the Mel-Viktor-Jayce storyline is trying to say AND what the ENTIRE storyline of all of Arcane is trying to say#I swear to god I will bring the receipts#and I will corrupt you all with my Mel + Viktor agenda on the side ehehehehehe
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gift for you
Headcanons of you getting them a personalized gift…
Jayce
He thinks it’s so sweet and cute of you to think about him in that way. Chances are he pulls you into a tight bear hug with a jovial “thank you!”
Mel
She’s completely surprised that you thought of something so nice for her. It’s not common she gets such intimate gifts, but the idea you think of her that way makes her slightly blush.
Viktor
If you ever got him a personal gift, he feels like the luckiest person in the city. So proud of it and either has it with him at all times, or has it front and center on his desk in the lab’s study.
#arcane#arcane league of legends#arcane x reader#my writing#arcane viktor x reader#arcane viktor#arcane mel#mel medarda#mel x reader#headcanons#arcane headcanon#arcane jayce#jayce talis#jayce arcane x reader#league of legends#viktor arcane#writeblr#viktor arcane x reader#writers of tumblr#writers on tumblr#jayce arcane#jayce x reader
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ꜰᴀɪᴛʜ ᴅᴇᴀɴ, ᴘᴀᴛʀᴏɴ ꜱᴀɪɴᴛ ᴏꜰ ɴᴏɴ-ʙᴇʟɪᴇᴠᴇʀꜱ
1.12 | A Prayer for the Non-Believer
If God's too busy, guess you can pray to me
but I gotta be honest, I don't exactly believe.
I've got questions, you see,
'bout how this all works,
who fixed my heart?
and what did it cost?
Everything's got a price, right?
And 'a life for a life'?
That ain't salvation, I say. No dice.
You know what I've got faith in?
What I can see. Reality. What's real?
Is it you and me?
Wish I could peel back my skin,
just to know my own heart,
and, yeah, I've got questions,
Like, 'Why'd you save me?' for a start.
And, 'What did you see?'
And, 'Am I deserving? Why, O, why me?'
And was it good?
The blind-faith, healer-man
says it's all big picture.
I got a purpose, I guess.
Big job to do.
Maybe I'll move Heaven and Hell,
or just do this. Breathe a few prayers
through sinful lips.
So, here we are, just us two,
tell me your plight
and I'll see what I can do.
Can't believe for me, but for you,
yeah, I'll pray. Down on my dirty knees
for you, I'll pray.
for @faithdeans 1k celebration. Had the idea for a faith!dean prayer card for a while and now was the time! While making this I searched to see if there already was such a saint. The answer was no, not really, because the non-believer wouldn’t pray to a saint. Well, I think Dean would make a great patron saint to the faithless. He gets it. He’ll try to help, knock on some doors upstairs, and if there’s no answer, well, he’ll find a way.
#also. y'know destiel parallels metaphors etc. he might not pray for himself but he'll pray for you (cas)#happy 1k tali<3#faithdeans1k#spn 1x12#myedits#my writing#poetry
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Perhaps it is time for the era of magic.
Hextech, the era of hextech.
⸻ MEL MEDARDA & JAYCE TALIS, Arcane
#happy meljay tuesday to those who celebrate!#meljay#mel medarda#jayce talis#mel x jayce#jayce arcane#arcaneedit#arcane mel#arcane jayce#mel arcane#arcane#arcane league of legends#arcane lol#jayce league of legends#showedit#animationedit#gonna pause on the gifs so i can focus on writing more#still posting on mondays and tuesdays though#meljay tuesday
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Rating: G
Summary: Sans treks through the laughterless Ruins to bring Toriel a donut. She has other worries on her mind. (Soriel, Exiled Queen Ending)
Word Count: 2449
XXX
Sans is nothing if not a creature of habit. Routine means Not Thinking and Not Thinking means he can pretend everything’s okay for a little longer.
QC’s bakery is closed. The sheet of paper tacked to the door says her sister caught some kind of bug (metaphorical, unfortunately, or else he’d ask for tips). So no Cinnamon Bunnies he’d planned on gifting Toriel to make up for accidentally sleep-shortcutting into her bedroom last night.
(That better not become a habit. For someone who snores so hard, she’s quick to jump awake, fireballs in hands. She wouldn’t hit him on purpose, and bone’s not particularly flammable, but still.)
Habit. He’s not been on the other side of the door long enough to build new ones, yet, though he will. He has before. Not the first time his life’s up and uprooted like a grinning Vegetoid, and at least this time there are familiar places to backtrack to.
Too bad they’re not open.
He sighs, watching the artificial sunlight filter through the golden storefront window, before shortcutting out of the closed shop.
By habit, he almost ends up at Grillby’s before yanking himself back to the Ruins. Can’t throw those dogs a bone. They’ll have too many questions about the Ex-Queen—geez, even about him—and whatever he says’ll end up back to Undyne and he’s not ready for that.
Ruins. The Ruins are safe, for all that they’re unfamiliar. Papyrus would’ve loved exploring the place, with all its rusted traps and spikes.
He shuts his eyesockets for a moment. No habit to keep him on autopilot here. What was he doing again?
Treats. That’s right. Something loaded with sugar that Toriel won’t have to bake herself. Conveniently, his off-kilter shortcut landed him in the room with the bowl of candy… but pilfering the sweets she’d left out for the Froggits and Whimsuns just to give them back to her is too lazy of an apology, even for him.
Speak of the devils. A pair of Froggits and one shaking Whimsun hop-and-flutter through the door. The moth-like monster bursts into tears at the sight of him, fleeing back into the hall.
“Huh. That’s a first.” His grin tightens. “Normally pals wait to cry until after the joke.”
“Ribbit, ribbit,” one Froggit’s face-mouth croaks.
“(Joke?)” the mouth hidden in the shadows of its belly translates. Different from the Final Froggits Sans is used to, whose two mouths tend to speak in harmonizing tandem. “(I don’t understand.)”
Man. Tough crowd.
“Don’t worry ‘bout it.” He shrugs his hands into his hoodie pockets. “Not everyone’s got a funny bone.”
Not even a groan at that. Just a couple of low, cricket-like croaks.
How has Toriel survived so long with this kind of audience? He can feel the humor leaking out his humerus already.
The Froggits are still staring at him. Warily.
“You know anywhere to get some grub around here?” he finally asks, because the silence is threatening to suffocate him and shortcutting around still-mostly-uncharted territory is a great way to spring one of those centuries-old traps. Just walking until he finds something is out of the question, of course. The Ruins are huge, and his legs aren’t.
“Ribbit…” “(Grub…?)”
Right. They’ve been stuck here as long as Toriel, with even less contact with the outside world.
“Food,” he translates. Though Toriel would probably appreciate literal grubs, too, considering her bug-hunting hobby.
“Ribbitttttt.” “(Ohhh. Spider bake sale. Go out and make a left, then keep going until you reach the end of the hall.)”
He has no idea how far that is, so. Walking. Fun.
“‘Preciate it.”
His slippers scuff across the lavender stone, and he can feel all four pairs of eyes follow him out. Normally he only minds stairs, not stares. But for some reason it makes his vertebrae shiver.
Maybe it was just that Whimsun. The sudden crying, before he could even get a word out… he’s not used to that.
He’s not used to silence. He’s used to laughter and warmth and explosions and booming cries of “SANS PICK UP YOUR SOCK!” He’s used to being at the beating heart of wherever he is—lab or town or bar or, or. Maybe no one needs him, but they like him and want him and he wants them and he never realized how much being alone sucks.
And this is how Toriel’s been living. For centuries.
Maybe she likes it this way, he rationalizes, but he’s heard the excitement in her voice every time he arrived at the door, the faintest longing whisper any time he mentioned his brother or friends. He doesn’t know her at all, and he knows her too well to believe that.
The thoughts buzz in his skull up until his foot plunges through a false veneer of stone.
Normally, he has a healthy respect for puzzles, for all that they’re not really his heritage to claim. Today, as he lands face-down in a leafpile, all he can muster is a flat annoyance.
Maybe he could shortcut back to Toriel’s house and restart from there. But ironically, he doesn’t have a good enough sense of direction to find the bakesale from that angle. If he even can now that he’s fallen a layer deeper underground…
The leaves are pretty comfy. It’s tempting to just lie here. It’s what his old habits want.
Fortunately—unfortunately?—something chomps down on his ankle.
“Contains Vitamin D,” a Vegetoid says, its voice muffled by the tibia in its mouth.
“Huh. So this’s where the jokers’ve been hiding.” Sans grunts and kicks the sentient vegetable away. “No wonder I didn’t Cal-cium before.”
Cal-see-’em. It’s horrible. He’d bet twenty G he can get Toriel to shoot milk out her nose with it.
“Plants Can’t Joke Dummy,” the Vegetoid deadpans despite the grin still carved into its face.
Eh, he can’t begrudge it the grin. He knows how having a one-note facial expression goes. Couldn’t it have at least given him a pity “heh,” though?
“Nah, Dummy’s in a different room,” he glibs despite knowing it won’t get him any results.
“Eat Your Greens,” it replies unrelatedly as he checks the puzzle explanation on the sign and treks back up the stairs.
Ugh. Stares and stairs. They really should just close the curtain on him today.
This time, he pays more attention to the terrain, and makes it to the bake sale with only a few more awkward encounters.
(He hadn’t meant to pick on Loox. He doesn’t pull out the eye trick for just anyone. It isn’t his fault the optical monster had chosen to interpret it as an insult rather than a flashy display of solidarity.)
He blinks at the bake sale prices on the signs. Only seven G for a donut here? Maybe that’s a reasonable price, but Muffet’s Hotland stand was as much of a ripoff as his fried snow. When the Froggit mentioned spiders, he’d expected to have to haggle or barter his way into some baked goods—which was always a good time, with Muffet. She understood the art of a good deal and if she swindled him a bit too much, at least it was going to charity.
Of course, Muffet isn’t here anyway. He doesn’t know what kind of bargaining these spiders would be up for, if any—and considering his track record today, dropping fourteen G in the web is probably his safest bet.
Some spiders crawl down and silently hand him two donuts.
“Pleasure doin’ business with ya,” he says. Habit.
His words echo off of the enclosing walls, topple down like a cave-in. With ya, with ya, with ya.
Somehow, he hates that even more than the silence.
XXX
Routine is like habit’s second cousin. Close enough to crash family reunions, distant enough to flake out when you need it most.
There’s no routine to coming home, ‘nuts in hand, only to find Toriel sobbing in her armchair.
“Uh,” he grunts, too caught off guard to even curse.
Toriel doesn’t cry. She didn’t cry when she saw Asgore’s dust, or when Undyne threatened her at spearpoint, or when she stumbled back over the Ruins threshold, blank stare glazing over her mahogany eyes. And Sans—well, he can’t cry, no ducts to pump out saltwater with, so he doesn’t—doesn’t know what to do.
Now that’s an understatement.
“Spider ‘nut?” he offers weakly, because food never made anything worse.
A wheeze cuts through her sob. She shakes her head, but waves him over.
Mixed messages, here.
“I was gonna get ya a cinnabun,” he approaches with soft steps, “but QC was closed today.”
Toriel wipes her face. Her hands are shaking; her claws leave thin trails in the fur above her brow.
“Of course. Of course, that’s all it was.” Her laugh cracks over the words.
“Huh?” Another step closer.
He wishes he weren’t holding donuts; he’d like to take her hands, pull them away from her face before her claws decide they want to dig in any deeper. He’s not sure that’d be welcome, anyway, after the scare he gave her last night.
“Ap…apologies,” she murmurs. “I… s-so pathetic…”
“Hey.” His browbone scrunches a little. “Not sure what you’re goin’ on about, but I won’t judge. There’s do-nuthin’ to be ashamed of.”
After all of today’s failures, he almost expects it to fall flat, but this is Toriel he’s talking to. A wet bleat interrupts her tears—and boy, that’s a lot of snot. He’s impressed.
“O-oh dear…” She stares down at her slimy hands.
He shuffles the donuts to the dining table so his hands are free, then shrugs out of his hoodie.
“Here.” He offers it to her, and she blinks down at him sharply.
“What—no, Sans—”
“‘S due for a wash anyway.”
He drapes the hoodie over her hands before she can protest any further. Too late, he hopes she wasn’t protesting because she wanted something cleaner to wipe her hands on. Oh well.
“...Thank you.” She clutches the garment tightly.
Something squeezes in his ribcage. They’re both staring, and trying to pretend they’re not, and the fireplace is cold so the only thing he can hear is her still-somewhat-congested breathing.
“You, uh. Want me to give you some space…?” he finally asks.
“No,” her answer is quicker and firmer than he expected. “No, please. Stay.”
He nods. Then, hoping he’s not pushing his luck, he hauls himself up onto the arm of her broad chair. His legs hang off the side, his back pressed to her shoulder.
“Now ya won’t have to break your neck lookin’ down at me,” he rationalizes away the touch.
“How thoughtful.” She smiles with a wet snort.
Her hands tangle deeper into his crumpled hoodie. Her claws are retracted now, though. He’s pretty sure she won’t poke any holes in it. Not that he’d mind if she did.
“I… thought you…” she inhales a shaky breath, “I thought you had left.”
“Yeah, I went out to get snacks and—oh.” He blinks. “You thought I—why?”
She’d thought he left. For good. Not even that he was gone, which could’ve implied she thought a stray Froggit offed him for one of his bad jokes. That he could’ve understood. But left, on purpose?
Nope. Not happening. She’d have to throw him out the doors and recast the seal if she wanted to get rid of him.
“I—I nearly hurt you last night…” she trails off, brows furrowed.
“Yeah, ‘cause I sleepwalked into your room.” Sleepwalked? Sleptwalked? Technically it was sleep-shortcutted, so. Whatever. “That’s, uh, what the apology ‘nuts were for.”
Stupid walking with his stupid legs. He must’ve taken even longer than he’d thought if Toriel had thought he wasn’t coming back.
“Of course. Of course.” Another weak laugh. “I have been falling apart over nothing…”
“I’ll leave a note next time,” he says lightly, but he means it.
He knew he meant a lot to her, but this—geez, this scares him. And thrills him, in a messed-up way that sends guilt itching at his collarbones. Someone does still want him, and that someone happens to be the funniest, sweetest, most incredible monster in the Underground. Staying with her was the easiest decision he’s ever made.
The thing is, where he stays is rarely his decision. Not with his luck. If anything happens to him, and she thinks he left by choice—
He just. Won’t think about that. Honestly, he may look as tough as wet cardboard, but he’s not gonna fall down to any Froggit or Loox.
(And if any twist of fate tries to drop him somewhere new again—he’ll fight and claw with all the determination he doesn’t have. He’ll try.)
(It’s the best he can do.)
He burrows his hand into the hoodie with hers, because the joke he has in mind doesn’t work without touching her palm. That’s the only reason.
“Tori. I’m sticking with you.”
She looks up, and her hand twitches. Still sticky.
“Snot like you can get rid of me that easy,” he says, in case the first quip was too subtle.
And there it is again, that laugh he lov—likes.
(Cherishes. Adores. Wants to bottle and put on everything like ketchup.)
“Thank you, Sans. I am… sorry you had to see me like that,” Toriel says, having mostly recovered. He can’t feel her shoulder trembling against his back anymore.
“Hey, like I said. No judgment here.” He shifts, bumping his shoulder against hers with a grin. “What’re friends for?”
After a blink, a warm smile spreads across her face, uncovering the two sharp teeth poking down from her upper lip.
“They are for worrying me silly, apparently.”
He’s about to apologize when she cups the side of his face, hand still sticky. Her thumb brushes the curve of his cheekbone.
“Also, for making me laugh, and smile, and apologizing for things that are not his fault, and being kinder than I remembered was possible.”
“Uh-uh…” he blushes, warm and blue under her touch. His brain is short-circuiting a little, and it shows in the embarrassingly flimsy joke he comes up. “I know you are, but what am I?”
She laughs anyway. She always does. It’s enough to make up for every silent Froggit and Whimsun and Loox in the Underground.
“You are awfully handsome in that shade of blue,” she answers, and his brain’s short-circuit goes into full power outage—
Only to explode like Gyftmas lights when she presses her lips to the side of his skull, her protruding teeth scraping slightly in a way that makes him shiver.
That’s something he could stand to make a habit.
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Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Kingdom Hearts (Video Games)
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Kairi/Roxas (Kingdom Hearts)
Characters: Roxas (Kingdom Hearts), Kairi (Kingdom Hearts)
Additional Tags: Post-Kingdom Hearts: Melody of Memory, POV Roxas (Kingdom Hearts), Pre-Relationship, Video Game Mechanics, Roxiri Week 2022 (Kingdom Hearts), Hurt/Comfort, Angry Kairi (Kingdom Hearts)
Summary:
"A weapon that enables your attacks to reach a wide area and deal immense damage."
Kairi's keyblade has a problem. Roxas hopes he can help.
(For rokukai week <3 i do not know the blog name to tag it sorry)
XXX
Kairi was avoiding him.
She didn’t say so, of course. She just had her lunches conveniently early, her dinners conveniently late. Spent her training on the back side of the mountain, through the woods, past the river she hadn’t taught him how to swim across, yet.
She’d promised to teach him and Xion. He could ask Aqua, but he already spent enough time in keyblade training under her structured regimen. He could ask Axel, but he was away with Saix—Isa—for the week.
Maybe Kairi wasn’t avoiding him on purpose. Maybe Roxas was just mad because Axel was splitting his time between them and the guy who had made their lives miserable for so long. Maybe he was just tired of Aqua treating him like a kid, as if he hadn’t held his own for a year in the Organization. Maybe he was just frustrated that Xion seemed to enjoy having such easy, redundant training.
Maybe he was just afraid that everyone was going to fall apart, again, and no one would bother to tell him why.
He wasn’t going to sit around and wait for that to happen, this time.
He crept out of the Castle before the sun came up. Stars twinkled above the sharp mountains, shimmered in the rivers below. He hoped Kairi hadn’t crossed the river, yet, if she was even up this early. Her bedroom door was always shut. He could open it with his keyblades, but that would be an awful breach of privacy. He wasn’t trying to make her hate him.
Assuming he hadn’t already done that, somehow.
He sighed and plopped down on the riverbank. After a moment of consideration, he took off his socks and shoes, dipping his feet in the cool water. The mud below squished satisfyingly between his toes.
“Sure would be nice to know how to swim,” he muttered.
After sitting there for a bit, drawing shapes in the mud with his big toe, he started to feel silly. What if Kairi didn’t actually train out here, and she’d just told him that she did to keep him out of her hair? What if she didn’t get up for another hour or more? What if she thought he was weird for waiting up for her?
He sighed. There wasn’t any better place to wait—he’d be even weirder in front of her door, and besides, Aqua or Xion would find her there and wonder what he was doing. He didn’t want to admit how worried he was, yet. In case he was just overreacting.
He flopped back in the grass, staring up at the stars. What were the constellations Aqua had taught him, again? Something about a snake… Anguis, that was right. He couldn’t pick out where it was, though. You could make a snake shape by connecting any dots.
“Roxas?” Kairi’s face appeared above him, and he screamed. His forehead nearly bonked hers as he sat up.
“Geez, you almost gave me a heart attack.” He held a hand to his chest. “I can get those now, probably.”
Kairi laughed, her scrunched eyebrows relaxing slightly.
“Sorry. I’m just glad you’re not—not that I think you’re weak or anything, but—you looked kind of dead, lying there.” She winced. “What are you doing out here, anyway?”
“Waiting for you,” he answered honestly. She might be mad at him, but he wasn’t going to lie.
She didn’t look mad, thankfully. She just looked… confused. Surprised, maybe? Recognizing expressions still didn’t come easy to him.
“Why?” she asked.
“...Because I can’t ever find you around the Castle anymore? And I get it if you want to train by yourself or whatever, but. Uh.” He rubbed the back of his head, and grass fell out of his hair. “I guess I just wanted to make sure you weren’t mad.”
Kairi’s eyes widened.
“You thought I was—huh.” Her brow furrowed. She sat down next to him on the bank, her knees pulled to her chest. “Sorry. I’m used to people assuming I can’t get mad. Because I’m all light, or whatever.” She waved a hand.
“Well, I’m used to assuming everyone’s mad. Or whatever the closest thing is when you’re not supposed to have hearts.” He shrugged. “If you’re not mad, then… why have you been spending so much time alone? Aqua and Xion are worried, too.”
Kairi’s lips pursed.
“I don’t need anyone to worry. I’ll be fine.”
“If you’ll be fine, then you’re not fine right now,” Roxas pointed out, and she glared at him.
He met her gaze without flinching. He’d survived living with Saix; she’d have to try harder to make him back down.
But then, shockingly, her lips twitched into a sharp smile.
“You know what? Fine. If anyone’s going to find out, it might as well be you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He frowned.
“You don’t treat me like a Princess. You say what you’re thinking. Maybe that makes you the worst person to tell, actually…” She looked away.
“I don’t get what you’re saying,” he said in exasperation. “I wish everyone said what they’re thinking.”
“Sorry, sorry.” She shook her head. “I just mean I don’t want you to tell anyone about this. Can you keep a secret?”
He snorted.
“You think I would’ve survived the Organization if I couldn’t? Saix would’ve killed us if he found out Xion lost her keyblade for a while.”
“Wait.” Kairi grabbed his arm, as if he was in any danger of going anywhere. “Xion lost her keyblade too?”
“Too?”
Finally, it all made sense. Why she never wanted to train together, why she distanced herself. It was exactly what Xion had done before.
Kairi winced.
“It’s not lost, exactly, it’s just—let me show you.”
She held out her hand and summoned Destiny’s Embrace. Or… what was left of it.
The flowers comprising its teeth had withered to dry husks that barely clung to the blade’s shaft. A deep crack ran down the middle of the blade, as if it were trying to split in two. And the paopu that used to be on the keychain… its center was eaten away by rot.
Roxas held out his hand to touch it, but stopped short. He didn’t want to make it any worse.
“What happened?” he asked quietly.
Bitterly, she stabbed the weapon into the ground beside her. More cracks spread through its handle and hilt.
“I stopped embracing my destiny.” Her lips drew to a thin line. She wrapped her arms back around her knees.
Destiny’s Embrace was the name of her keyblade, but—could it really be affected like that? Would Oathkeeper, for example, crumble if he gave up his promises? He couldn’t think of an opposite to Oblivion… unless he counted just being alive, which hadn’t broken the weapon so far.
“That’s all I can figure, anyway,” Kairi muttered. “I used to write letters to Sora. Not to send—I know I can’t reach him, wherever he is. But it still felt like… like I was holding onto him, in the only way I could.”
Roxas’s stomach churned. He knew how it felt to miss someone so desperately. It reminded him of when he would leave seashells for Xion while she was unconscious.
“What does that have to do with your destiny, though?”
She snorted.
“Everything, apparently. That’s how Xehanort was able to use me, when I was little—how I ended up on Destiny Islands in the first place. I’ve always been tied to Sora… until now.”
She stared up at the stars. Her fingernails dug into her knees.
“I’m sorry,” Roxas said, even though he didn’t really get it. Kairi hadn’t told him much about her past before.
“Don’t be. I’m the one who ended it.”
She poked the paopu charm, and it swung like an off-beat pendulum. The unbalanced motion somehow made Roxas’s skin prickle.
“In my last letter, I told him I was done. That I can’t—can’t keep waiting for him to come back. I don’t want to keep waiting.” She bit her lip. “I threw away my stationary. The next time I summoned my keyblade, it was wilting.”
“Wow,” Roxas breathed as the weight of it all sunk into him.
“Is that so terrible?” Her shoulders trembled. “I know Riku is off trying to bring him home, and maybe he will—he probably will, he’s always been able to do anything,” she said with a hint of bitterness. “But I can’t. I can’t keep caring, keep… putting my life on hold for him.”
Roxas put a hand on her knee. Her kneecaps were going to bleed if she didn’t stop digging her nails into them. At his touch, her grip relaxed, at least.
“You were asleep for a whole year,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to keep waiting, either.”
“Then why—” her voice cracked, “can’t I be anything without him?”
Her shout echoed against the surrounding mountains. It felt good—like a release, like the pin Roxas had been waiting to drop. But at the same time, he had no idea how to respond. He’d never been able to make Xion feel better with his words. Axel was the one who knew how to say stuff.
“Um.” He cleared his throat. “I can try to fix your keyblade, if you want?”
“Wh—huh?” She blinked at him. Water droplets clung to her eyelashes.
“I can try to fix your keyblade,” he repeated. Even if it was a stupid idea, it was better than nothing. Hopefully.
“You—how?”
He shrugged.
“When Xion lost her keyblade, she borrowed mine until she was able to summon it again. I dunno how it worked.”
She frowned.
“How would I explain that to Aqua? If I show up with Oathkeeper—”
“Oblivion,” Roxas corrected. “You should try Oblivion.”
If the universe decided that giving up on Sora was like breaking an Oath, Kairi might end up feeling even worse. Breaking two keyblades couldn’t feel good for anyone.
He summoned his keyblades, then flipped Oblivion around to offer her the handle. Her hand brushed his gently as she took it.
“It’s… beautiful,” she whispered, running her fingers over the chain at its center. “I wish I…”
“Wish you what?” he asked when she didn’t finish.
Her cheeks turned pink. She held the keyblade tightly, as if afraid he’d take it back.
“I wish my keyblade looked more like this. Maybe people would take me seriously, then.”
Roxas didn’t get it—Sora’s keyblades had looked just as strange as Kairi’s. Besides, the floral teeth of Destiny’s Embrace had been sharper than the blunt Kingdom Key.
“Do you not have any Gears? Or, uh, other keychains?” Roxas asked. “You don’t have to keep using your default if you don’t like it.”
“Gears?” Kairi looked up from Oblivion.
“Yeah. I don’t know if anyone outside the Organization uses them…” Roxas tapped a spot on Oathkeeper’s handguard, and the carved feathers flared to reveal his panel system. Zero Gear with three ability units took up the top left corner of the grid. “They look like this. Does your keyblade have one?”
Kairi sat Oblivion down gently, then tugged Destiny’s Embrace out of the ground. More dead petals drifted off of the end, but she didn’t treat it any more carefully. She pressed her thumb against the wave-shaped handguard, checking points from left to right. Each press left behind a shallow indentation.
“Um, maybe you should—” he began, but then the wave uncurled, revealing a grid about half the size of his.
“Aha!” She grinned. “How come nobody told me about this sooner?”
“I guess I thought everyone knew? Sorry. Um, you can test out one of my gears, to make up for it.”
He reached into his pocket, grabbing a handful of thumbnail-sized panels. He dropped the smaller ones back in, keeping the Gears that could hold at least three extra Units.
Duel Gear, maybe? That was a solid choice; he’d liked the lightweight feel of Abaddon Plasma. But if Kairi liked the dense Oblivion, she might want something heavier. That ruled out Nimble Gear, too…
Oh. Oh. He grinned as he picked out the perfect Gear for her.
“Try this on.” He handed her the Ominous Gear+.
She wasted no time clicking it into place. In a ripple of light, the dying keyblade transformed into something new.
“You’re kidding.” Kairi laughed incredulously, holding up the revived blade.
Barbed, triangular teeth blended into the dark sky. The shaft was a lighter shade of gray, shiny enough to reflect Kairi’s radiant grin.
“Is this how it looks when you equip it, too?”
“Yep.” Roxas grinned back. “You can tell what it’s called, right?”
He could always feel the name of a keyblade when he first equipped its Gear. He couldn’t explain how it worked, but he hoped Kairi could feel it, too. The joke would be kind of lame otherwise.
“Rejection of Fate.” She laughed again. “Kind of on the nose, isn’t it?”
“I just wanted to pick one that fit you.” He nudged her with his elbow. “Looks like you don’t even need Oblivion, now.”
“Yeah, but you might.” Her eyes twinkled. She picked up the black keyblade and tossed it back to him. “I’m not gonna go easy on you just because you’re sweet.”
He laughed a bit in surprise, but hopped to his feet, twirling his two blades.
“Right back at you!”
XXX
Roxas’s socks and shoes still sat by the riverbank. It was fun to fight barefoot, feeling the grass between his toes, the wind on his face. Everything felt crisp and alive. Kairi’s arms flexed with each swing, uncovered by her tank top; her teeth glinted as her blade screeched against his.
Maybe he would’ve done better if he’d spent more time watching her weapon, and less time watching her.
He landed on his butt. He still held onto Oathkeeper, but Oblivion stuck into the ground a few paces off. Kairi had managed to snag its interior chain with Rejection of Fate’s teeth, tugging it from his hand. He’d never even thought of such a creative strategy.
“Man, you haven’t been slacking on your solo training.” He blew his bangs out of his eyes. “I bet I’ll give you a better fight if you let me put on shoes next time.”
“Sure you will.” She winked, holding out a hand to pull him to his feet.
Both of their palms were sweaty, but it still felt nice. He found himself missing the feeling when she let go.
“Really, though. Thank you.” She smiled more soberly. She held Rejection of Fate close to her chest, the teeth pointed down. “You did more than just fix my keyblade. This one—it feels right, in the way my other one never did. Maybe because Riku gave it to me, instead of me summoning it myself.”
“Riku?” Roxas balked. “How did that even happen?”
“No idea.” She shrugged. “I wanted to ask Aqua, but, you know. Wouldn’t exactly make her proud to know her protege didn’t even summon her own keyblade.”
“Kairi.” He put her hand on her shoulder. “It doesn’t matter how you got the keyblade. Xion and I, we weren’t supposed to be able to use it at all. But now we’re all here. It wouldn’t be the same without you.”
It wasn’t the amazing pep talk he wished he could give. Kairi deserved a better reassurance that she belonged here, just as much as any of them. She deserved—
Suddenly, she was hugging him, the guard of her keyblade digging into his back.
“Thanks, Roxas. It wouldn’t be the same without you, either.”
His face warmed. He hugged her back, trying to make sure he didn’t accidentally jab her with Oathkeeper.
It must have been fine, because she held on just as long as he did.
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34. Prison
He SUFFERS, your honor.
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#crank it#comics#jayvik#jayce talis#arcane viktor#rio the hairless#fun fact#writing this tag in the past#how far in the past?#what are you a cop?#anyways#its the present and im drinking wine and realized I should do a holiday one because oops#i forgot to count out my weeks#lets see if I can rummage up something
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Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Pokemon Legends: Arceus (Video Game), Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Nobori | Ingo/Volo
Characters: Volo (Pokemon), Nobori | Ingo, Nyula | Sneasel
Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Suicidal Thoughts, Fictional Religion & Theology, Religious Discussion, Immortal Volo (Pokemon), POV Volo (Pokemon), Pre-Relationship, set directly after the giratina battle
Summary:
"Have you ever felt that God abandoned you, Ingo?"
(Or: Volo walks away, gets some warm stew, and answers some hard questions.)
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We Have Chemistry (Together)
A bonus chapter/prequel oneshot for Let's Get Physical
Gen || Jayce & Viktor || 3.7k || Modern/College AU || Ao3 Link
Tags: Baby frat boy Jayce, developing friendships, misunderstandings, emotional hurt/comfort (shitty), hazing, underage drinking (for us USAmericans), alternating POV, no Beef!Reader today sorry babes
Help is high on the list of what people typically want from Viktor. Usually in class. Sometimes in the elevator beforehand or in the hallway after, or following a light tap on the shoulder in the library. All academic help, strictly speaking. But this wasn't about their lab report.
Sweaty palms, shaky hands—he’s got one shot at this. One phone call. He knows the landline and his mom’s cell by heart, but he can’t call her. Can’t let her see him like this. Can’t think of who the hell else to call—who even memorizes phone numbers anymore?—so maybe he’d better get comfortable with sleeping upright and a permanent wedgie. There are worse things, like the disappointed purse of her lips; the way she sighs and bows her head and makes him wonder if it’s his fault her hair’s already shot through with gray.
Except.
Area code, same as the rest. Dorm number. Cait’s birthday.
He types it out. It looks as familiar on the screen now as the first time he saw that string of numbers, when the coincidences jumped out at him as the patterns in numbers always do. Enough to make an impression, apparently. Just like the person it belongs to.
Who, in all likelihood, won’t be thrilled about this.
But he decides then and there that he’s just desperate enough for normal underwear and his too-firm twin XL bed—and, fuck, there’s a quiz in materials performance first thing in the morning so he really needs the sleep—to hit call.
It rings three times. He feels a hot surge of nausea two in, the rising urge to puke into his purple foam hat. It’s bitter in his throat like those IPAs he didn’t want to drink in the first place, but he’s never been great with peer pressure.
And on the fourth, above the rustling:
“Hello?”
He sounds annoyed.
He usually sounds annoyed, but sometimes Jayce wonders if it’s all in his head, because Viktor’s voice softens when he explains the equations to the girl that sits next to him and snaps her gum too loud and misses every other class. He’s heard it gently ask the professor for a letter of recommendation in the hall after lecture, and lilt into the phone—in what? Russian?—on the bench outside before it. It’s only when Viktor’s talking to him, which is already rare, does it get quick and terse.
But maybe he hears it wrong half the time because there’s part of him that’s been intimidated since day one. That first day of class, when he’d taken the last seat at the front and stuck his hand out to the guy beside him. He was nervous. It felt like the right thing to do. But those egg-yolk eyes had ticked curtly from Jayce’s hand to the professor he’d just introduced himself to, with a detour to his crooked pink bow tie. Maybe it was a little much with the blazer and ironed slacks in sweltering August. And in hindsight, yeah, maybe shaking the professor’s hand and explaining how this class fit into his three year plan was definitely too much, but Jesus fucking Christ *was it also too much to just come out and call him egotistical *for it.
Without even shaking his hand! Who does that?
Really, he’s just trying to make this feel like a good idea. It’s not.
It’s also too late to back out. “Hey—Hi, yeah, it’s Jayce… Your lab partner. From chemistry?” He’s already started running his mouth.
“Ah. I realize.”
He wrings the hat in his lap. The iron-on stars are starting to peel off. Glitter flakes cling in the creases of his wet palms. It’s delusional, isn’t it, to imagine that Viktor doesn’t hate him.
Only with a deep breath can he get himself to say, “I know it’s late…”
“It is.”
“But I really need your help.”
—
Help is high on the list of what people typically want from Viktor.
It’s what he’s good for—all those questions along the lines of, ‘Did you do the homework?’ which means, ‘Can I copy it?’ (No.) Or, ‘Do you know what he’s talking about?’ which means, ‘Can you explain it like I’m five?’ (Yes, but try to keep up.) *Sometimes it’s, *‘Have you taken any of Heimer’s classes?’ which either means, ‘Can you give me the study guides?’ (There aren’t any.) or ‘Can you tutor me, but we somehow hook up and never speak of it again?’ (Depends.)
That’s usually in class. Sometimes in the elevator beforehand, or in the hallway after, or following a light tap on the shoulder in the library. All academic help, strictly speaking.
But this wasn’t about their lab report.
If anything, it should’ve been about their lab report. Because what else could Jayce Talis—who moved seats after the first day of class and made a face like a whipped animal when they were partnered for lab work last week, who pledged a fraternity (abhorrent) and has his pick of pretty friends—possibly want from him?
It feels as though he blinks and thirty five minutes of his life have just dissolved* since he hung up the call, so lost in theoreticals of *why *and *me that curiosity itself must’ve found his pants and his wallet and led him here by the hand. Rumpled, but fully clothed. This is novel and extremely necessary considering he’s standing in a squat, brutalist building at the front desk of campus security.
All because Jayce asked, ‘Can you come pick me up?’
And Viktor simply agreed.
There’s no bail, no paperwork, no real formality here. The only requirement to walk Jayce out is to be over the age of eighteen, and he clears that easily enough. The state ID he hands though the sliding glass window of reception says as much, but he still has to remind the campus cop who flips it over three times like there’s something confusing about it that it’s just as legitimate as a driver’s license, thank you.
“Time to go, Talis,” the man bellows, snapping Viktor’s ID onto the counter with thick fingers and no further acknowledgement. As he pockets it, a metal chair scrapes across the linoleum somewhere out of frame, behind a door with a decades old pin-punch lock.
“You’re a lucky one, kid,” the officer chuckles, deep and phlegmy with the sound of black lung. “If I hadn’t laughed so hard you’d be at county intake right now.”
“Do I… Um, do I need to sign something?” Jayce asks. His voice is world-weary more than ass-kissing.
“You want this on record?”
“No, sir.”
“Then there’s the exit.”
By that point, Viktor’s already tapping his way to it. Jayce will follow, and with his long legged stride, he will catch up easily. Probably to thank him with that performative politeness that drives him to say ma’am or sir *or to *shake the hands of strangers, and then they’ll go their separate ways after has Viktor served his purpose. Like whatever this was never happened.
Behind him, a hydraulic arm shrieks, the intake door claps shut, and Jayce whispers an apology to no one for rattling the lobby’s musty silence as Viktor pushes outside. The tepid night air rushing against his face, and because he’s not rude, he holds the door open for Jayce.
But Viktor gets stuck. Or maybe stunned. Perhaps it’s flummoxed, or even transfixed. There’s no one perfect word to describe why he’s stopped, blocking the door and staring, which is rude, but happens to him with enough regularity that he’s owed a pass or five, and he’s using one now.
He blinks.
Blinks again.
Once more, and yes, Jayce is still standing in the doorway clutching a cheap wizard hat in his hand and a child sized blanket around his body. It strains around the bulk of his arms, stretching, cracking the gold vinyl stars. It matches the purple beneath his eyes, complements the tawny red his face is turning, and does not, in fact, reach low enough to cover his too small speedo.
Or the knee high boots.
A cape, Viktor realizes. Not that he’s just eyed Jayce from top to bottom with enough scrutiny to notice that he’s unnaturally hairless and his thighs are ribbed with stretch marks, or that his own face is set in a hard frown like this is all somehow unsavory. (It’s… not. Definitely not.) No, Viktor simply notices that the starry patterned blanket has a collar, which makes it a cape.
And despite this revelation, the fact that Jayce is mostly naked remains unchanged.
‘Why’ is on the tip of his tongue. It usually is; its natural habitat is in his mouth. But Jayce’s eyes flit from Viktor’s down to his pointy toed boots, then back up again, and he preemptively explains, bitterly, “Nothing in the lost and found fit.” Which actually explains nothing.
Viktor nods as though he understands (he doesn’t), and forces himself to just start walking.
Jayce tails him down the sidewalk in uncomfortable silence. It’s when they pass the parking lot that Jayce picks up the pace, falling into stride side by side. The pieces fall into place too—late night, terrible costume, and now, the acerbic smell of stale beer wafting off him. Frat party.
It’s worse on Jayce’s breath. “So…” A tight, tried sort of impatience undercuts his attempt to sound casual. It’s familiar. Understandable, too, after sitting through a scared straight experience on a weeknight. “Where’d you park?” Jayce asks.
Lack of a car notwithstanding, the implication he’d ever be swindled out of eight hundred dollars a semester to park on campus is a joke. Not a laughable one. “I took the bus,” he flatly answers.
“Oh.”
For a moment, Viktor can ignore the palpable disappointment—that he is disappointing. He can even empathize with the situation. Riding public transit dressed like that isn’t exactly ideal. But then Jayce asks, “They run this late?”
“The city ones do.”
And then Jayce says, “It’s just… I don’t have any money.”
“They’re free to students.”
And then Jayce mutters, “Uh, cool. Good to know,” because he doesn’t have to know, has never had to know. And suddenly Viktor doesn’t feel so bad for him anymore, that he gets to learn tonight that need-based scholarships don’t buy cars or taxis, and that sometimes it’s slightly inconvenient when you fuck up. Perhaps that should be more obvious to someone who just lucked out with a slap on the wrist for flagrant underage drinking.
Except they stop and Jayce takes one look at the bus stop bench; notices—what is hopefully just—dried, congealed soda spilled across one side. He asks, “Do you want to sit?” because he’s ignorant, yes, but not the worst to ever live.
Viktor says, “No, thank you,” knowing what Jayce doesn’t: the bus schedule, and that up and down in short order won’t feel particularly good.
When it grinds to a halt at the curb two minutes later, Jayce pulls his student ID out of his boot and soldiers onboard with his head down. He collapses full bodied onto the seats running parallel down the center aisle the same way he'd collapsed on the bench outside: hunched over with his face in his hands. Luckily, people are sparse at this hour, and there is nobody sitting across from them. Unluckily, someone in the back laughs openly.
With so much space, Viktor leaves an open seat between them. It feels right. But in the awful fluorescence before the lights wink out, Jayce’s skin looks waxy and his shoulders rise and fall with the deep, intentional breaths, and Viktor is struck by how alone he is—how strange it is that he’s alone in this. Where are the drunk friends that should’ve been picked up with him, or the cavalry that should’ve pulled up in a dirty Jeep with Greek letters on the bumper to save him?
He sits up as the dark bus drives on, soberly tucking his cape and forearms over his stomach, and Viktor snatches his eyes away. It doesn’t add up—not really. Jayce* does not particularly like him*, and Jayce has other friends.
He should probably ask which dorm is Jayce’s or if he knows what stop to get off at, but he knows the right question now. “May I ask—?” Viktor tries.
Only to be shot down with a clipped, “No,” which is strange to be on the other side of, but he’ll learn nothing from it.
Viktor nods and sits back quietly, the plexiglass window cool against his skull. The vibrations ghost shifting patterns behind his eyes. The silence is filled with the rumble of the engine accelerating, and the time with drafting a polite, impersonal email in his head to request they not be partnered together in the future.
At the next stop, two people get off, and when the bus drives on the silence is different. It lacks the subtle undertone of whispers and snickering, of other passengers entirely. Viktor opens his eyes to find there’s no one else left but the driver with her headphones in.
“Okay, fine,” Jayce suddenly sighs, like he’s been holding his breath the whole time. “Ask.”
They don’t look at each other. Viktor watches the traffic light ahead tick to green out of the corner of his eye. “Why did you call me?”
Jayce leans back and groans, pained, into his hands. “No, about the outfit. You’re supposed to ask about the outfit, or the night, or how I got caught.” He pulls the tiny cape tightly around himself again. It doesn’t contain how badly he smells of pore-distilled alcohol and nervous sweat. “Any of those.”
He considers, briefly. “Explain the night, then.”
“I went to this pledge party…”
“On a Wednesday?” admonishes Viktor, who is known to stay out at the library until they banish him at close and sleeps the minimal amount to function most days of the week; who smokes and drinks and fucks enough for at least two frat boys, just in a wholly different context. Who is, sometimes, kind of a hypocrite.
“It’s Thursday now,” Jayce corrects as if it matters, stalling for seconds. “It was mandatory, okay?” He’s embarrassed, shrinking in his seat. “They had us drink, then confiscated our phones and gave us these costumes. I was supposed to do magic—” which explains the conical wizard hat, ”—but I wasn’t doing a good enough job, so I had to go out onto campus on a special errand,” he accentuates with limp, one handed air quotes, “to, uh, get something.”
“Is that not considered, eh…?” Viktor forgets the word. It doesn’t have much of a place in his vocabulary; was never really relevant during freshman year orientation.
“Yeah, it’s hazing, but it’s not a big deal,” Jayce snaps, filling it in defensively. He deflates just as quickly, resigning to his lot. “It’s just something that happens.”
But Viktor shrugs, “I see no benefit to the situation.” That’s putting it mildly. He’d rather amputate his own leg than be humiliated and told what to do. “Quit.”
This is, apparently, an offensive suggestion. “It’s—No, it’s about the connections.” Jayce is resolute. “Networking. Knowing the right people who can probably get me in the door at the places I want to be one day.”
One word stands out: “Probably?”
“It’s not exactly guaranteed, but if it means the odds are better…”Jayce is less resolute. Like he’s trying to convince himself, confidence in his own choices waxing and waning fretfully.
“And,” asks Viktor, “you think this is worth it?”
“I don’t know,” Jayce whispers in a small, scratchy, tired voice. He knows what this means. The heinous costume; risking his academic career; having to embarrass himself in front of a classmate he hardly knows or cares about. “I just… I thought it would make it easier to make friends, but I don’t want the whole *parties and drinking and girls and ‘haha, isn’t it funny I failed that test?’ *experience.” For a moment he looks like he wants to put his face into the hat in his lap and scream. Instead, he pinches his eyes shut. “They pushed me harder than anyone else tonight, because they know I don’t belong. My grades just bring up their stupid academic average.”
Viktor doesn’t know what to say. It’s not uncommon, this helpless sensation of floundering when confided in, when faced with the enormity of things outside his ability to change or control. He didn’t know what to say when the girl he was tutoring last year told him she lost her scholarship, or when he caught Heimerdinger’s last TA sitting shell shocked on the bathroom floor after finding out their partner cheated. He didn’t know what to say when his mother told him babička wanted to go home home to die (she’s fine, just dramatic and bitter about getting old), or when she saw him changing his shirt while they were packing up the apartment and cried for how she failed him (she didn’t).
He does know that saying I’m sorry never feels right. That it’s empty, and nobody really feels better hearing it. But Jayce is smart and attractive and also, perhaps, just dramatic too. He belongs somewhere, even if he hasn’t found that place yet. “How valuable could these, eh, connections with stupid people be, hm?”
“I mean,” Jayce mutters, “it’s not that they’re stupid—”
“Don’t argue. I’m aware of nepotism and how it functions,” Viktor huffs, tempered by Jayce’s soft laugh of the same quality. “There are always other avenues to get what or where you want. Find them. Your time is better spent than,” he gestures broadly, “on this.”
“Yeah…” Jayce nods. It’s a kinder resignation this time. The troubled creases in his face start to ease away. “Okay.”
Cars pass. Silence settles, strange in that it’s easy. Or, it starts to. But Jayce takes a breath. Hesitates. Takes another one that turns into, “There was no one I could call.” He crosses his legs. Uncrosses them again. Can’t get comfortable with himself or the admission:* *“Not because they took my phone, there just isn’t anyone else.”
“Your friends?”
“Still in high school, and she’s not even old enough to drive yet.” He finds himself on the receiving end of a curious stare, and gets the why of it wrong. “It’s not like that, I swear,” he cringes. “She’s a lesbian, Viktor.” Which is all fine and good, but has nothing to do with why Jayce is speaking in singular. He asked about the plural.
“Your roommate?” he tries.
“Dropped out two weeks ago, and please don’t suggest my mom next.” Jayce rolls his eyes, and they don’t find their way back. He stares off, down at the floor, canting his head away. There’s glitter in his hair. “Trust me on this. It’s not like I wanted someone who hates me but has an oddly memorable phone number to be my one phone call tonight.”
He would’ve been allowed multiple phone calls is the first thing that Viktor thinks. The second: “I don’t dislike you.”
Another eye roll. “You gave me a look.”
“I look at plenty of people,” Viktor hand waves.
“No, a look,” he insists. “It was this ‘if we were in a Russian prison right now, I would shank you’ kind of look.” Viktor narrows his eyes, so he specifies, “When we got assigned in lab?”
“Why,” Viktor asks slowly, “is the prison Russian in this scenario?”
“Because you’re—”
“No. Do not finish that sentence.” Wildly rude and too common of an assumption, but, “In the spirit of forgiveness, I will let that slide,” he holds up a slender finger, “once.” Jayce mouths sorry as Viktor considers the sort of look his face is being accused of. “I…” But he only remembers reading the clear disappointment on Jayce’s. “Was probably thinking about something at the time,” Viktor shrugs.
“How much you wish I’d switch majors?”
“Mm, no. It was the end of class, so probably how much homework I could accomplish before work study, or how late to my next class I could reasonably be if I showed up with coffee from the dining hall.”
“Yeah, but…” He pivots in his seat. His thighs squeak on the plastic. “But you still called me egotistical on the first day of class!”
Yes, when Jayce made a painful show of ingratiating himself to the professor before class. Jayce throws that in his face like some sort of gotcha; in reality, it ranks one of his top ten social failures. “It was a question.” He was simply asking if, in hindsight, the action could be misconstrued as egotistical. “Not a criticism.”
But Jayce scoffs, “How was I supposed to think that when you wouldn’t even shake my hand?”
“It was stuck.” Viktor lifts up his right hand. Empty, but the cane still comes with it, dangling where it’s looped around his wrist. “You took yours away before I could get it out of the strap.”
“But I didn’t know yet that you—” Jayce scrubs his hand down his face, quiet until he whispers a revelatory, “Fuck.” Then a slightly hysterical, breathy, “Fuck,” and he’s smiling, gap-toothed and too brilliant for the lateness of hour.
“Eh, still a weird thing to do, though,” Viktor shrugs. He’s smiling a little too. It’s a private, wry thing. It’s a start.
And by the time they finish, on the other side of campus, on a sidewalk, at a bus stop much like the one they came from, things are very different.
For instance, Jayce has put the horrible wizard hat on. Ironically, of course.
They meander past the library, its windows tall and dark, cutting across the quad in front of it toward the residence halls. “What was your special errand, anyhow?” Viktor asks. “You never said. I’m curious.”
“Yeah, well, I’m trying to forget the horrors. Y’know, of getting caught trying to break into a building with my entire ass out,” he says sheepishly, catching the hat as it starts to slip. It’s not his entire ass. Only about eighty five percent. “I had to borrow something.”
There’s a word he’s avoiding. “What, exactly, were you trying to steal?”
“Borrow,” Jayce counters. “There’s this paperweight in Heimer’s office. Looks kind of like chalcedony, but it does have these faint striations, so I think it might be agate—
“I’m familiar.”
“Anyways, that. I was supposed to get that. Probably because it was impossible.”
“Mm, no, not impossible,” Viktor hums. “You should’ve called me sooner,” he says, dragging a carabiner from his pocket, stripped of paint and utterly ancient. When he holds it up, the street lights catch on tens of little metal teeth. “I have the key.”
#arcane#viktor arcane#arcane viktor#jayce talis#arcane fanfic#new fic banner who dis#everybody say THANK YOU DICAX for making all the colors match 🥰#also for beta reading with my skaderbug too 💋#they read the first page last july when i was like peak miserable and gave up on writing this#and i made these motherfuckers read it aGAIN when the rest of it fell out of my brain 6 days ago#anyways. this is so important to me for so many reasons but I'm keeping my emotional vomit to myself#goodbye
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fic: midnight oil
1k of Jayce/Viktor established relationship ...hurt/comfort? part-angst part-fluff? ... for @nowwheresmynut and @frappujiku
Viktor officially gives up on sleep at a quarter past three in the morning.
Pushing himself up is a stiff, low process. By the time he swings his legs over the side of the bed, Jayce’s hand finds his shoulder.
“Hey." Jayce’s voice is too alert for this strange hour. "What do you need? I’ll get it.”
Viktor scowls at the carpet. It’s the third night like this in as many days, and his patience with his body is threadbare. Worse, the bags under Jayce’s eyes are starting to rival Viktor’s own.
Nighttime coughing spells are bitter enough on their own, without the chaser of guilt that comes from disturbing someone else, too. Jayce pretends to sleep through the lighter ones, and Viktor lets the lie go unchallenged, lest they engage in another fruitless debate that hurts feelings and solves nothing. Jayce doesn’t want to sleep alone—and the trump card at the heart of Jayce’s argument is that neither does Viktor, really. The irrefutable intersection of sentimentality and practicality.
In case, Jayce had said last time. He hadn’t had the heart to specify what case that was, and Viktor hadn’t needed to ask.
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