polytrix pls

just a blog to share my polytrix thoughts. feel free to use them for fics, just tag me so i can read pls

[polytrix-juseyo]

zoermira looking at some photos of celine

zoey: damn Celine's a real baddie

rumi who is just entering the room: what? celine is not a baddie. she is GOOD! and yes she might not have been the best, but she does love me, she did as best as she could. i know it is difficult to understand but she is Not bad!

mira: rumi... im sure celine would love to hear that but that's not what it means

rumi: what?

*zoey explains*

rumi: oh. she should've killed me back at the tree *dies of embarrassment*

[princington]

[past]

i could listen to you forever

[dremenec]

Olympic competitor Zoey

These were unconnected til we realised it's funnier if she enters as a skateboarder and gets roped into competing in the shooting (destroying rumira's WRs in the process)

[princington]

souvenir shopping

[princington]

"Look who it is."

[theplaguebeast]

I love the hc type of 'Celine was never around kids so she figured kids are just Like That any time Rumi did anything wild, except half the time it was Demon Stuff not Kid Stuff' so Rumi grows up just unhinged homeschool feral and I was thinking. About. The kimbap.

Like Celine is making it one day and she's got a couple rolls on a plate she's gonna cut and Rumi comes in and asks if she can have some and Celine is like 'sure' expecting the child to wait until it's ready except. No. She grabs a roll. Unhinges her jaw. And shoves the entire thing down her throat in one go.

And Celine. Just. Sighs. She's gonna have to make more now.

[splosh-crime]

*Celine in a parents forum trying to make online friends as an adult*

Random Parent: *talking about how their kid refuses to eat anything but mac n cheese everyday*

Celine, thinking: Yes! Dealing with picky kids! I can relate to that and get a good grade in friendship (Something that is both normal to want and possible to achieve)! Be cool, Celine. You can do this. Be casual.

Celine, commenting under the post: I know how that is. My foster kid wouldn’t eat anything but squirrels for an entire week.

Dozens of commenters, responding: ????????

[theplaguebeast]

Wheezing, sobbing, cackling. I can just picture like five different variations of 'surely she doesn't mean literally squirrels' like maybe some food that is lovingly fun shaped or something that got mispronounced as a small child and stuck or even just an absurd nickname for a food (when I was little all red colored juice, like koolaid, was Kitty Face Juice and literally no one knows why)

And then Celine pops back up in the thread like 'btw any advice for getting fur out from between her teeth? She hates when I floss her'

[theplaguebeast]

I wanted both of these on one branch I've been going insane not knowing which was getting more traction.

[kpdhdrabbles]

Mira moving into the hanok as this sad, scared, angry teenager who has spent her whole life being made very aware of all the ways in which she’s falling short of expectations, all the ways in which she’s too brusque, too impatient, too aggressive, too inconsiderate.

She doesn’t enjoy the knowledge that there’s something fundamentally wrong and unlovable about her…but the knowledge is always there, colouring everything.

She doesn’t know how to deal with how Celine acts towards her- always so calm, always so in control of everything, but without any hint that she judges Mira for falling so far short ofthat so often. She doesn’t know how to respond when Celine smiles at her when she sees her, she doesn’t know how to accept all the things Celine keeps offering her- plates of cut, peeled fruit and fashion magazines and compliments about how hard she’s working.

She doesn’t know how to answer Celine’s gentle questions about how she’s doing, Celine’s concern when she gets injured, her care over Mira’s training.

She doesn’t know how to respond to it- but she also doesn’t want it to STOP, she doesn’t want Celine to lose patience with her or get annoyed at her ingratitude and every time she freezes up, she’s can’t help but worry that this will be the time Celine gives up and realises she’s just not worth the effort.

When she gets sick and flinches away from Celine’s hand on her forehead at breakfast and mumbles that she’s FINE when Celine asks if she’s feeling ok, she mostly just wants everyone to let her power through…..but another part of her secretly is soothed by the knowledge that when Bobby finally sends her away from rehearsals, she can flop into bed and Celine will come check on her and tuck the covers around her and bring her tea.

Except this time Celine just doesn’t come- Mira doesn’t see her all day, Rumi says she’s on some errand, and she’s all by herself, feeling worse and worse in her lonely bed and also more and more abandoned and scared that Celine has decided she’s not worth worrying about.

Celine is horrified when she finds out that Rumi forgot to explain to Mira that the errand was actually to pick up medicine and a special hard to find herbal tea for her sore throat: Mira is so pathetically relieved to see her and so sick and tired and sad that when Celine finally comes in that evening, it’s impossible for her to not cry a little bit- and perhaps luckily, it’s also impossible, at last, for her to do anything other than lean against Celine and sniffle when Celine sits on the edge of the bed and pulls Mira into her arms.

[quentims]

Zoey

[quentims]

MIRA

[tattletaylor]

We've had bodyswaps, but weve never seen Rumi's patterns follow her. Demon stuff ain't biological but what happens when she wakes up in Mira's body covered in patterns, when she covers herself exactly the same way she did in her own body and the other two are even more confused (if very releived) as to why upon realizing Rumi's body looks fine, no scars or any other signs. How badly would it fuck up Rumi to have proof they aren't only skin deep?

[gveret-fic]

Oh, thinks Rumi, as she looks down at Mira’s long, perfect, delicate forearm, marred by twisted purple lines. So it isn't just the way she was born. She should've known. This taint is just her. 

Mira thankfully has plenty of long sleeves in her closet; she runs cold. But of course, there are no high collars. Mira has such an elegant neck; there's no reason for her to hide it. Rumi has to rummage through the winter closet for a sufficiently light scarf. It's going to be a challenge in this heat. 

It's okay. Rumi loves a challenge. 

She's just finished covering everything when there’s a frantic knock on the door. 

“Rumi,” her own voice says urgently. Fuck, that's weird. “Rumi? Are you in there? Are you okay?”

“I'm okay!” she calls in Mira’s lovely, luxurious voice. Fucking weird. But also nice. “You can come in.”

Rumi's body spills into the room, with Mira’s effortless feline grace. The relief is crystal clear in her own face. And then Rumi is being swept up and squeezed firmly in her own arms. It’s—kinda nice. 

Rumi laughs. It sounds so good in Mira’s voice. “Hi. I'm okay. You okay?”

Mira nods against Rumi's neck, and Rumi feels an inappropriate surge of delight at being taller. “You run so fucking hot,” Mira grumbles, still holding on tight. “How are you not dying in these sleeves?”

Rumi takes a breath. The patterns are on her. They're in her. They're a mark of her inhumanity, her inherent corruption. 

No matter her current form, they shouldn't be on Mira. 

Rumi forces herself to laugh again. “Sorry. I guess I have weird temperature regulation. Wanna grab something from here?”

Mira lets her go with clear reluctance. Rumi feels guiltily gratified. 

“You used to have normal summer shit too,” Mira complains as she raids her own closet. 

“Yeah, I donated them, sorry.”

“Hm.” Mira shoots her an assessing look. “Can I..?” She gestures at herself. 

“Oh! Yes, of course! Let me—should I turn around?”

Mira’s look turns condescending. “It’s your fucking body.”

Rumi makes herself laugh again. “Haha. Right.” She doesn't look away as Mira peels Rumi's sleep shirt off Rumi's body. 

Except—it isn't. Rumi’s body. It has never looked like that, not ever. Smooth and clear and unmarked. Human, human, human.

So much more right, under Mira’s stewardship. 

She wishes—

Never mind. 

“That's better,” Mira says quietly as she pulls on a cropped top, and Rumi can't help privately agreeing. 

Yeah. It is.

[secondtolastrow]

“That’s better,” Mira mumbles, incredibly relieved to get something lighter and shorter and allowing her skin access to air flow and wow is it fucking weird to have Rumi’s brain processing texture on her, not bad but just different, and…

Incredibly relieved, though she’s still trying to be respectful, not to see anything. No scars, no needle marks, no nothing.

Of course, Rumi has fished out a longsleeve and a a scarf from Mira’s closet already, so. There’s that.

(It’s not even—it’s one of the ones she breaks out in late fall. Mira’s probably going to have to do some kind of insane shenanigans to point out the silk scarves she sometimes uses for her hair can very much also cover a person’s throat without Rumi going fight-or-flight at the slightest implication that someone might’ve noticed her weird modesty shit. Fuck.)

“The braid feels weird,” she says instead, pulling it out of the shirt collar. “It’s like I have a whole counterweight to everything I do.”

Rumi smiles a little, the expression small but certain and so clearly Rumi despite being on Mira’s face that it sends a shiver of confusion down her spine. “I guess I don’t really think about it.”

“No, but you remember Zoey’s whole idea about putting spikes in it?”

That earns her a laugh, and it’s so weird to see her face doing things—doing Rumi things!—that she kind of wants to hit something. Possibly her-slash-Rumi’s face.

…She thinks that’s called cuteness aggression.

Unfortunately, in the beat of silence afterward, Rumi’s expression settles back into this—this quiet, sad, earnest longing look that Rumi does, the one like she’s seeing something really wonderful (usually when she’s seeing Mira and Zoey being awesome, really) and she just knows she isn’t allowed to touch.

Mira hates it, because Rumi very much is, but she never just stops being a coward and does.

She doesn’t know what triggered it now, but she does know the feeling is less ‘bite you because I love you’ and more ‘bite you until you stop being dumb’.

“Maybe someday,” Rumi says. “We should probably go get her either way though, huh? Make sure she hasn’t been swapped with some demon.”

“Ugh.” Mira fakes a shudder. “Don’t even joke.”

[redfoxraccoon]

[princington]

"How about getting us out of here?"

[princington]

bonus:

[polytrix-juseyo]

kinda on the same line of this post of zoey vs metric/celsius system.

zoey is no longer allowed to buy groceries via any app , after the spinach incident. the first and last time she did, she bought 5kgs of spinach by accident, they had to eat spinach for like a week.

"you should've bought cabbages, at least we could've prepared kimchi" "you could've asked us how much that was" "i dont want to see a spinach ever again"

[ngaumuforestlegs]

Zoerumi wrestle mania 🖤💜

[isufferfromyd]

The Winning Play

Leather collides with her palm.

She snaps through the ball, and it rockets over the net.

The blocker gets a hand up, but she's a fraction too late. The spike tears past her outstretched hands, skimming the outside of her arm before slamming into the open space behind the block. The sound cracks through the gym. Their libero throws herself after it anyway, diving across the floor on pure instinct, but the ball has already struck the court and ricocheted out of bounds.

Rumi lands lightly, knees bending with the impact.

The stadium erupts in shrieking whistles in tandem with hands crashing together . Her teammates are already shouting, but the noise reaches her as though she's underwater, distant and muffled beneath the steady thrum of blood in her ears.

Five in a row.

She lifts her eyes to the scoreboard.

20–15

Fifteen of those points are hers. No lucky wipeouts off the block either. All clean spikes.

The referee's whistle cuts through the cheers.

Timeout.

Of course.

Momentum is a living thing. You feed it, and it grows teeth. You let it run too long, and it devours the match. The other side knows it as well as she does. They need the pause more than they need instructions.

Rumi watches them drift toward their bench.

Their middle blocker is already arguing with the outside hitter, sharp gestures slicing through the air between them. Frustration spills from every movement — pointing at the net, at the floor, at each other. Neither wants to own what keeps happening. Then, almost in unison, they look at her.

Rumi meets their gaze without expression.

The moment lasts only a heartbeat before both of them look away first and disappear into the huddle with the rest of their team.

She looks up.

Celine catches her eye and offers a small smile. Rumi returns it.

She jogs back to her bench, where someone presses a bottle of water into her hand. She twists the cap off and drinks while Coach Park talks.

“...good tempo. Keep trusting your setter. They're struggling to close us off, so keep attacking like you have been.”

The rest blends into the familiar rhythm of timeout speeches. Encouragement. Minor adjustments. Stay focused. Don't get complacent.

They're playing well.

She's playing well.

There isn't much to fix or discuss.

Instead, her attention drifts to the opposite bench. The opposite team huddles tightly around their coach. Their middle blocker is still talking with animated hands. The outside shakes her head, jaw clenched.

“Don't forget,” Coach Park says, drawing Rumi's attention back. “Number One usually needs a set to warm up. Keep the pressure on her. Don't let her build momentum.”

Rumi's gaze flicks back across the net.

Momentum? Where?

They're five points away from taking the first set.

Once that happens, the pressure shifts. It always does. The team behind starts chasing points instead of playing them. They swing harder. Reach farther. Force plays that aren't there. That's when mistakes creep in.

She catches another glance from one of their opponents’ blockers. Then another. Neither lasts more than a second. They're already looking at her differently. As if they're searching for an answer they haven't found.

Another win for the Solar Flares, she thinks.

Another mark in the loss column for... Her eyes drift to the banner hanging above the opposite bench.

RISE.

What a fitting name…

The whistle slices through the gym. Players peel away from their benches and return to the court.

Rumi starts toward her position.

A hand settles on her shoulder.

She flinches before she can stop herself, twisting around fast enough that the touch slips away.

Haeun immediately raises both hands. “Sorry.”

Rumi blinks once, then shakes her head. It's fine. Or at least that's what she means to say. What comes out is only a quiet hum.

Haeun rubs the back of her neck. “So... um... listen, we—I…” She trails off.

Rumi waits.

Haeun lets out a breath through her nose. “Nevermind.”

She turns and jogs toward her position before Rumi can ask. Rumi watches her go, a faint crease settling between her brows.

What was that about?

The thought barely has time to form before the referee blows the whistle.

The serve flies. The rally begins. A clean receive. A quick set. A swing. A dig that skids inches above the floor. The ball refuses to die. Back and forth it goes, the rhythm building with every touch until the match swallows everything else.

RISE's middle never looks away from her.

Number Ten tracks every step Rumi takes along the net, shoulders tense, feet constantly adjusting to mirror her.

Good. Keep watching me.

The next pass is clean. Her setter’s — Vera's hands rise beneath the ball.

Rumi starts her approach.

One.

Two.

Three.

The set arcs toward the left antenna. She jumps. The opposing middle moves with her. A heartbeat later the outside closes the block, sealing the line. Another step, another pair of hands, and suddenly a wall rises in front of Rumi.

Three blockers.

Rumi's arm whips forward anyway.

Then, at the last instant, she loosens her wrist. Instead of driving through the ball, she cushions it, nudging it over the top of the block.

The libero reacts late. She lunges forward and manages to get an arm underneath it, but the ball has no pace left. It pops weakly into the air before falling right back onto the floor.

The whistle blows.

21–15

“Hey Rumi!”

She turns.

Vera is walking towards her.

Rumi raises an eyebrow.

Vera points toward Haeun with an awkward smile. “You mind being a decoy for the rest of the set?”

Rumi blinks. “What?”

“You've scored over half our points.”

“…Yes…?”

“And you're not graduating this year.”

Rumi waits.

Vera waves both hands vaguely, as though the rest should explain itself. “So... there are kind of... too many eyes on you, and not enough… um…”

Rumi's gaze shifts to Haeun. Haeun is already looking at them. The moment their eyes meet, she looks away.

Then back to Vera. “But... you set to me?”

“Yeah.” Vera lets out a small, embarrassed laugh. “I'll, uh... stop doing that for the rest of the set.” She points toward the net. “But, keep making your approach, okay? Jump every time. Just don't let them realize you're not getting the ball.”

Rumi's brow furrows. “But Coach—“

“Thanks, Rumi!” The words tumble out so quickly they barely sound like an answer. Vera is already halfway back to her position before Rumi can say anything else.

Rumi watches her go.

The scoreboard catches her eye.

21–15

Four points.

That's all they need.

She's found her rhythm. The block is reacting exactly the way she expects. Every swing feels cleaner than the last. Stopping now feels... She doesn't know, like leaving a sentence unfinished.

Her gaze drifts toward Haeun again. Haeun stands near the net, pretending to stretch her shoulders, but her eyes keep flicking back to Rumi. As if she's afraid Rumi might be angry.

Rumi isn't. Confused, maybe. A little frustrated. She doesn't understand why Haeun is acting as though this is Rumi’s decision.

The setter chooses who gets the ball. Not the hitter. If Vera stops setting her, then Vera stops setting her. That's how volleyball works. If spreading the ball around helps everyone's spirits, then... fine.

They only need four more points anyway.

The whistle blows before she can think about it any longer.

Rumi settles into her stance.

The game resumes and whether she likes it or not, the next decision isn't hers to make.

They lose the rally.

Vera sets Haeun. The ball hangs too close to the net. Haeun is late getting underneath it, still recovering from the receive she'd made seconds earlier, her feet never quite settling before she has to jump again. The swing is rushed. RISE blocks it cleanly.

The whistle blows.

21–16

Whatever.

It's one point.

They've got room to spare.

Across the sideline, Coach Park throws Vera a puzzled look. He points toward Rumi. Then toward their middle. Both had been open.

Vera winces. “Sorry, Coach,” she mouths as they rotate back into position.

The next rally begins. Rumi starts her approach anyway. She already knows the ball isn't coming. But, she jumps. Three blockers leave the floor with her. The instant their hands rise, Vera sends the ball sailing behind Rumi toward Haeun.

For a split second, the court opens. Haeun swings. The defense digs it, but awkwardly. The ball pinballs high into the air before drifting back over as a free ball.

Easy.

The Solar Flares reset. Haeun gets another chance. She buries it. The point is theirs. The rallies keep unfolding the same way after that.

Rumi approaches. The block follows. The set goes somewhere else. Sometimes Haeun. Sometimes the middle. Sometimes the opposite. The plan works. Mostly. Not because it's cleaner but because Rumi keeps dragging defenders with her wherever she goes.

The set stretches longer than it should. Points they could have finished in one swing become rallies. Easy kills become scrambles. Still. They win. That’s what matters. The first set belongs to the Solar Flares.

When they gather around the bench, Rumi waits for Coach Park to mention it. To ask Vera why she ignored the open hitters. Why she ignored him.

Instead, “good work.”

He talks about serve placement. About Number One finally finding her timing. About closing the line block sooner. Small adjustments. Nothing about Vera. Nothing about the sets.

Rumi glances toward her setter. Vera doesn't say anything either. As if nothing unusual happened. A faint crease settles between Rumi's brows.

She looks up into the stands. Celine isn't watching the court. Her attention is fixed on Coach Park instead.

She's frowning.

She’s noticed.

“Rumi?” Coach Park's voice cuts through her thoughts.

“Hm? She quickly turns back around.

Everyone is looking at her. Her ears warm. He'd asked her something. She hadn't heard a word.

“Sorry,” she says quietly. “Could you... repeat that?”

Coach Park studies her for a second. “I'm switching you out with Nolana.”

What?

The word echoes uselessly inside her head.

“But—“ She stops herself. The question never leaves her mouth.

Coach Park is already reaching for the substitution paddle. Rumi bites the inside of her cheek until she tastes copper.

“Okay.” She hands over her number and walks to the bench.

The towel feels rough between her fingers. She doesn't remember picking it up. When she glances into the stands Celine is still watching. The crease between her brows has only deepened.

The second set slips away from them one point at a time.

9–10

14–12

15–16

No one can build a lead. Rumi watches every rally from the sidelines. She watches openings appear. She watches them disappear.

At 17–20, Coach Park reaches for the substitution paddle.

Number three. Nolana.

Rumi is already standing before he says anything.

At 17–21, she's back on the court.

The familiar pressure of the hardwood beneath her shoes settles something inside her.

Finally.

She glances toward Vera. Vera never looks back. Neither does Haeun. Nolana mutters a quick, “good luck” as they switch before jogging off without meeting Rumi's eyes.

Something twists low in Rumi's stomach.

The referee whistles.

She steps behind the end line to serve.

The ball settles into her palm. One breath. Then she serves. The ball tears over the net.

An ace.

Then another point.

Then another.

20–21

The gap is almost gone.

RISE finally manages a controlled receive. The rally begins. Rumi approaches.

No set.

She lands. Transitions. Approaches again.

Still nothing.

Again.

Nothing.

Every blocker on RISE shadows her movement, drifting wherever she goes. The seams open. The middle is free, Haeun is free, the opposite is free. Vera uses every opening. Rumi doesn't mind.

Much.

They're scoring. That's what matters.

But with every rally, RISE adjusts. The block hesitates less, starts turning toward the real attack. Little by little, the windows shrink until they're barely there at all.

24–24

Another long rally. Another approach. Another jump. The set goes to Haeun. This time the blockers are waiting. The spike thunders into solid hands and straight down.

The whistle blows.

24–25

RISE is at match point.

The Solar Flares had been winning.

Comfortably.

The first set should have ended sooner. The second shouldn't have been close.

So why…

Why won't they just—

Her eyes find Vera. And stop. Vera is glaring at her. It’s no passing accident either, she’s looking directly at her. Haeun is too. The seniors. One after another. Expressions tight and frustrated. Resentful.

The feeling that has been tugging at Rumi since the end of the last set suddenly drops like a stone.

They're angry. At her.

Her chest tightens.

Why?

She looks instinctively toward the stands. Celine's seat is empty.

Rumi turns toward Coach Park instead. He's pacing. His cap is clenched so tightly in one hand, the brim bending between his fingers.

The whistle sounds.

He plants his feet. “Vera!”

She looks over.

“Set to whoever's most likely to score!” His voice echoes through the gym. “Ignore everything else!”

Vera stiffens and answers immediately, “yes, Coach!” With that she squares herself toward the court.

Rumi stares at her.

Ignore everything else... Doesn’t that go without saying?

The whistle pierces the air.

The ball hits the floor.

27–25

For a heartbeat, the gym is perfectly still. Then the cheers crash over the court. Rumi exhales.

They'd done it.

No.

Rumi had.

The thought comes so naturally she doesn't notice it until another follows behind it. The match should never have been that close.

Her teammates rush toward one another, laughing in relief. Rumi joins them a second later, accepting the quick hugs and high-fives that come with every win, though they feel different. Smaller somehow.

By the time they line up at the net, the smiles have settled back into something polite.

“Good game.”

“Good match.”

Hands meet hands down the line.

As the teams separate, Rumi glances toward the stands. Celine isn't climbing down the steps with the other spectators, instead, she's waiting beside the barrier.

Coach Park notices her a moment later and walks over. Rumi slows without meaning to. She can't hear what they're saying, but she can see that Coach Park talks first. His hands move as he speaks, broad gestures cutting through the air.

Celine listens. She says something and Rumi gets the feeling that it’s not loud but it is firm.

Coach Park's hands stop moving. He answers. It’s shorter this time. Celine responds as the crease between her brows deepens.

Coach Park rubs the back of his neck. His shoulders sink. By the end of the conversation, he's no longer looking at her. His gaze rests somewhere near the floor. Finally, he gives a single nod and Celine's expression relaxes, though only slightly.

Then they part without another word.

Rumi watches Coach Park walk back toward the team. He looks worn out somehow. He congratulates them on the win and walks out with them.

Rumi lags behind as they exit the stadium. The bus is already filling by the time she reaches the parking lot.

She starts toward it automatically but when a horn chirps once behind her it makes her pause. She turns and Celine leans across the passenger seat, pushing the door open. “Come on.”

Rumi looks from the bus to Coach Park to her team then back to Celine. No one is looking back at her other than Celine.

She climbs into the car. As the door shuts behind her and she glances once through the window. Her teammates are laughing again. Vera says something that makes Haeun grin. Coach Park stands a little apart from them, his arms folded, watching them enter one by one.

Rumi wonders, briefly, what Celine had said to him.

Then Celine pulls out of the parking lot and the question stays behind.

[princington]

[past]

i fell from the pedestal

[danger-honey]

You can trust them to do the dirty work