#affordable gaming equipment

[thedarkone121]

Currently thinking about Baldur’s Gate III and how if I had put my DnD character in it — who is AroAce —, it could lead to two things with Astarion.

The Spawn Route: Bickering Companions-to Friends-To Chaotic Siblings that still see each other from time-to-time, living their best lives.

The Ascended Route: Same as above, before it gradually fell into bittersweet enemies where my character, Mychele, feels like she has no choice but to destroy Astarion so his Master’s influence will not live on as homage to the man she once knew as her found-brother.

[takaska]

when will game devs realize people play games in spite of, and not because of, any grinding mechanics

[earlgraytay]

So, you've probably all seen this post going around, about how The Chuds Want Gentleman's Clubs (but can't afford to go to the things called "gentlemen's clubs" today, so wouldn't have been able to in the past either). And I hate to say it, but that post isn't accurate.

The things we call "gentlemen's clubs" today and the things that were called "gentleman's clubs" in the past are not the same thing; the one is descended from the other, but they used to be a lot more common and served a purpose that they don't really serve anymore.

The modern equivalent of the historical gentleman's club isn't the thing currently called a gentleman's club; it's the premium airport lounge. And by losing the concept for all but the turbo-rich, I think we genuinely have lost something! Let me explain.

(NOTA BENE: This is mostly about England and from about 1880-1930, and most of my experience with this is from fiction written in that era. I know enough to know what I don't know, but I also know menswear guy is wrong about this.)

So- gentlemen's clubs started in *wiggles hands* the late 1700s, and mostly served a particular purpose: they were places you could stay in a city if you mostly lived in the country, instead of staying in lodgings or owning your own place. Finding a place to stay in London was kind of a misery at the best of times, and owning your own house in Town wasn't practical for a lot of people, even rich people. If you were, say, a young man, just starting out in life, and you hadn't inherited your father's wealth but also weren't set up to live on your own? Having a place you were guaranteed to be able to stay was a fucking godsend. And as time went on, even people who lived in London most of the time started joining clubs, because they served another important purpose- they were a place you could go if you didn't particularly want to be at home, for whatever reason.

The way that historical gentlemen's clubs worked is, you got recommended to the club by a friend who was a member, you paid dues to the club, and in exchange, you'd get to use the club's facilities. * Most gentlemen's clubs had, at minimum, a dining room (with waitstaff, natch), a library, a couple of nice places to sit and hang out, a game room, and a bar. Many of them also had rooms you could sleep in overnight, fitness equipment, or stuff related to the club members' interests. Most of them had a room or two where you could invite friends who weren't part of your club and spend time with them. In the era where phones were a thing, a lot of them had a phone. You could write letters there and get your mail sent there.

Here's the thing: in the period I know best, gentlemen's clubs weren't just for the turbo-rich. They were the province of rich guys, yes- you had to be a 'gentleman' and know the right people to get in. But men who were doctor/lawyer/software-developer rich were most likely members of a gentlemen's club. Anyone who was rich enough to travel regularly was part of at least one club, because having somewhere to crash when you were going between (say) London and Delhi and back again was worth the cost.

Most gentlemen's clubs were owned by their members- not an outside corporate body. The club leaders were elected, usually by a small committee.

And a lot of gentlemen's clubs founded around specific interests, as time went on. There were gentlemen's clubs specifically for Guys Who Were Really Into Radio. There were clubs specifically for men who spent a lot of time traveling. There were clubs specifically for dudes who wanted to talk your ear off and clubs for old dudes who mostly wanted to nod off in their chairs and talk about The War and clubs for dudes who did not want to be percieved at all.

There were clubs for men who were really into science, or the arts, or sports. And one perk of being in a club like this is that you had access to equipment that you might not have been able to buy on your own. You didn't have to shell out for an entire library of scientific and medical books; you could go to your club and read in the library there. If your club had, say, an art studio, you could go paint at your club and not have to keep a studio space of your own.

There were gentlemen's clubs specifically oriented around specific political or social views. There were socialist clubs. (And a lot of them admitted women, which was !!!SCANDALOUS!!!) Like, they were still the province of goddamn rich people, there were a lot of trust fund baby socialists and not many working people, but there were socialist social clubs.

...I don't want to pretend that gentlemen's clubs were some kind of idyllic haven. 99% of these clubs were For Men, and For The Right Sort Of Men at that; if you didn't have a friend who was a member, or you weren't "respectable" enough, you didn't get to join. There's a reason that most of these clubs are gone now. Part of the point was excluding the Wrong Sort of People, and that became gauche over time. After a certain point, being part of a club became a thing for stodgy, out-of-touch rich men- not just "men who happened to have enough money to be part of a club"- and so most of the men who could join one didn't, and people stopped forming new ones. Only Old Money assholes (who will continue to do what they've always done, current trends be damned) keep the concept alive.

But like... the thing that replaced gentlemen's clubs for 99% of the people who would have had one a hundred years ago... is the premium airport lounge, and the premium gym membership, and the ~coworking hub~.** Anyone can join, yeah, as long as they're able to pay. You pay a corporation a chunk of money for similar amenities, and the amenities are ... fine? But because the entity is driven by profit, most of the money you're paying them goes into running their other business concerns and paying their CEOs a fat paycheck.

I think... as exclusionary as gentlemen's clubs were back in the day, there's the seed of a good idea there. I think the guys who wish they were still an attainable thing for a middle-class person have a point, and I wish we could inject some fucking nuance into this conversation.

A community-owned space that gives you a place to crash when you need one, has community-owned resources for its members, and isn't beholden to a corporation is a good thing. Third spaces that don't have to turn a profit are a damn good thing.

At the end of the day, my politics are 'everyone should get to have the kind of luxuries that were historically reserved for the rich'. Everyone should get to have the best life has to offer- leisure, beauty, good craftsmanship, and community. And so, you know, if this kind of community space sounds like a thing you'd like to have, maybe it's something you could work towards creating, too.

*TBF, this is still how they work today! But the networks are much smaller.

**I do find it very funny that apparently one of the biggest problems facing the few remaining Actual Gentlemen's Clubs (TM) is that people are trying to use their space to telework-- a lot of them are trying to ban laptops and business talk to "keep the club's character" (read: "we're too rich to have to work here").

[lovebugism]

Kissing eddie just as you’re both about to get out of the car and now he’s got a problem cause he’s hard, and all your friends are waiting for you and you’re both a little late and Eddie we really gotta hurry up! what’s the issue? and the poor boy is bright red to his neck over how gone he is on you

ty for requesting :D ps: i'm gnawing at the bars of my enclosure over this prompt –– when eddie's about to leave for a show, you make sure he knows exactly what he's missing out on (established relationship, st4 canon divergence, allusions to smut 18+ | 1k)

“How do I look?” Eddie wonders aloud as you trail down the creaking porch steps behind him. He plants his feet on the gravel driveway and spins on the heel of his sneaker to face you –– already bare-faced and clad in your pretty PJs for the night, a striking contrast to the lead guitarist of Corroded Coffin standing before you.

You pause on the second-to-last step and reach for his face. Eddie leans instinctively into your warm touch as you swipe your thumbs under his eyes, gently smudging his dark liner a bit more. 

“Like a rockstar,” you answer with a proud smile.

Eddie scrunches his nose sheepishly in response, ‘cause he has nowhere to hide with you cradling his blushing face like this. He’s still not immune to the way you look at him, even after all this time. “You’re just sayin’ that,” he mumbles, kicking a lone rock with the toe of his show.

You hum in agreement as your hands fall from his face. “Yeah. ‘Cause it’s true.”

“To you, maybe,” Eddie scoffs, trying hard to ignore the pang of anxiety in his chest. “No one else seems to think so.”

He never used to be nervous performing before Vecna tried to kill him. It was the world that was scared of Eddie Munson, not the other way around –– until it nearly ended, anyway. Now, just leaving the house is enough to induce a panic attack. A part of him is always distantly fearful that a stranger’s face will turn out to be the dark wizard’s, back to life and hiding in plain sight again.

“Hey,” you scold, only partially playful. “I think the crowd of five drunks who watch you perform every Tuesday would agree with me.”

Despite the ice-cold apprehension making his limbs feel numb, Eddie manages a breathy chuckle. “You’re right. We could bomb, and they’d still act like we were playing Madison Square Garden or something.”

You soften then, as though sensing his worry. “You’re not gonna bomb, Eds. You guys are gonna do great. Just like always.”

“Sure you can’t come?” Eddie wonders quietly, blinking up at you with a pair of chocolate button eyes that are hard to say no to.

“You know I can’t… I have an early morning tomorrow,” you coo sympathetically, fighting back a smile when the boy’s rosy bottom lip juts in a pout. “But I’ll be right here when you get back, okay? And I’ll make sure to heat up dinner when you’re on your way. So you have something to soak up the alcohol and adrenaline with.”

You tilt your cheek to your shoulder, squinting suspiciously when Eddie’s frown curls into a cheeky grin. He reaches for you with a pair of ringed hangs and squeezes at your clothed hips. “Just like a good little housewife, huh?” he croons mischievously.

You roll your eyes at him ‘cause you’re not a housewife by any means. 

You live in a trailer with his uncle, for one. And you work five days a week, for another. Besides, you’re not even his wife, which you think is usually the first step. (You have no idea Eddie’s already picked a ring out for you. Or that he plans on keeping that a secret until he plays enough shows to afford a house). 

You decide to humor him, anyway. 

“Sure,” you monotone with a slow nod.

Eddie’s grin widens.

“C’mon on, Munson! We’re gonna be late!” Jeff lisps from the passenger side window of the van. The rusted tin can is parked a ways down the drive, packed to the brim with all their band equipment like a perfect game of Tetris.

You lean forward to press a chaste kiss to his mouth.

“Wear that dress I like when I get back?” Eddie murmurs lowly.

You hum with your lips pursed to the side of your mouth, pretending to be deep in thought. “Hmm… I was kinda thinkin’ about wearing nothing, actually,” you answer, shrugging innocently. “You know, for easy access and whatnot.”

Eddie warms all over. His wild head starts to swim at the visual –– one he’s seen a hundred times before that he’s not quiet sure he’ll ever get over. “Have mercy…” the boy mumbles under his breath.

“Just try not to think about it too much while you’re gone…” you lilt knowingly, smoothing both your hands up and over the lapels of his leather jacket. “All alone… Naked in our bed… Trying to get myself off while I wait for you…”

Eddie stares at you with heavy, lidded eyes. He can’t take the chocolates of them off your lips as they curl into a mischievous, tightlipped smile. “How ‘bout I just stay home?” he offers lowly.

A resounding honk blares from the van in a wordless answer. 

Gareth leans out the driver’s side window, face screwed and sandy curls wild. “C’mon, Eddie!” the boy yells like an impatient younger brother. “Put your dick in your pants already so we can go!” 

Eddie’s head swivels back to face you again, chest deflating with a grieving sigh. 

“You have to go,” you tell him, soft and sympathetic, as you press another kiss to his pout. “Have fun, honey,” you croon and step back from him –– knowing exactly what you’re doing as you trek back up the wobbly wooden porch steps.

Before you shut the front door behind you, you flash the boy a curt wave and a pretty smile. It takes a world of strength to keep from following behind you. 

In a perfect world, Eddie would already have the door bolted shut with you pressed against it by now. He’d have your oversized shirt balled up at your ribs and your shorts pulled down to your ankles and his mouth licking over your pretty cotton panties.

He shakes his head in a physical attempt to remove the sinful thoughts from his brain as he stalks back to the van. He keeps his head bowed as he goes, trying to hide his reddened cheeks behind his wild curls. Gareth watches from the window as Eddie tugs at the crotch of his jeans, trying to un-strangle his hard cock like a teenager.

The boy leans between the front seats as Eddie climbs into the driver’s side, slamming the screeching door shut behind him. “You’re pathetic,” Gareth teases through a fit of boyish laughter.

“Shut up,” Eddie grumbles.

[toerrishumansodont]

Damn I miss wanting to do art, what do you people even DO with your day?

[artbyblastweave]

Playing through Fallout:New Vegas for the first time in years. And I'm developing a newfound appreciation for the damage done to the intended pacing of the narrative with the addition of the Courier's Stash. I wake up in Goodsprings, and as part of the extended tutorial you have Ghosttown Gunfight, the fairly self-contained faction war between Goodsprings and the Powder Gangers. And the design intent, I think, is that this is probably supposed to be a pain in the ass, with only one or two avenues of support available to you given the low level at which you'll pick this one up. Six Powder Gangers, some in body-armor, would be a serious threat, and committing to fighting against that with your dinky 9mm and a varmint rifle seems like a rough time! An actual uphill battle, doing the right thing instead of the easy thing. Fortunately, Benny inexplicably left my handy 40mm grenade launcher in the grave with me, so I cleaned up.

I'm working my way south, and, you know, in a version of the game where Benny didn't inexplicably leave my handy 40mm grenade launcher in the grave with me, this would have been the knock-on effect of my "good" Karmic choice in defending Goodsprings; the road south is littered with powder gangers who'd have been neutral had I not kicked the hornet's nest. As it stands? Free experience. I hit Primm, and fighting through the cramped hallways of the Bison Steve I encounter an enemy armed with what was clearly supposed to be the first heavy weapon I'd encounter in the world. Tight Corridors. Inexplicable Grenade Launcher. I clean up. South I go to the Mojave outpost, Nipton, that whole thing. And clearly, clearly you aren't meant to take a swing at Vulpes here, right? You're supposed to take it in, get a sense for the legion. In the version of the game that shipped you're supposed to get bodied if you try to kick the beef gate here. There are allowances in the game for if you pull it off, sure, but I did try with just the service rifle, without the glorious first-strike capabilities afforded to me by the 40mm grenade launcher that Benny inexplicably left in the grave with me. It didn't go very well!

So now I'm dogged by Legion hit squads on my way to Novac, which I get the distinct impression was not the point in the game at which this was supposed to start happening to me, because I am gathering up some pretty expensive equipment, all sold for space. I punch through to Vegas, and at this stage, the clear developer intent is that you need to spend some time milling around Freeside or Camp McCarran in order to gain access to the Strip- do odd jobs to scrape up the money, buy the forgery from Mick and Ralphs, gain monorail access, get your science skill high enough to hack the robot. Get the lay of the land, get a feel for the people, send some time stewing in the human cost of House's walled garden before you head in and hear the pitch from the big man himself.

Except I've got 5000 caps from selling off all the legion killteam equipment. In I go!

And the fun thing is, right, the Courier's stash can't be diegetic, but it is having a very direct impact on the world here. A top legion guy just went down to my inexplicable 40mm grenade launcher. Whatever else I'm roleplaying as, I am roleplaying as a guy who woke up in the possession of an inexplicable 40mm grenade launcher, and neither I nor my character can plausibly ignore that fact given its terrible bloodstained utility. I play a man, a man who would be a good man, a man nonetheless bewitched by the terrible resolutory power of the grenade launcher. My best friend, the inexplicable 40mm grenade launcher! My worst enemy, the inexplicable 40mm grenade launcher!

[darkmatilda]

𝐠𝐨 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: in which one spencer finds you in a place that might be attacked and tries to save your life—only for you to end up saving his instead

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x diva!chemist reader, reader is at a club, mention of consumed alcohol in the past (but not drinking in the fic) spencer gets (lightly) beaten up, reader kills (shoots) the unsub

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 3.8k

𝐚/𝐧: anon's request

There were many things Spencer Reid hated about clubs.

He had stepped into one just five minutes ago, and he had already checked off most of them. The purple and pink lights played a never-ending game of tag, intertwining, their intensity constantly shifting—one moment revealing the silhouettes around him in sharp clarity, the next melting them into a single, writhing, deafening mass. Completely cut off from their surroundings—bodies so absorbed in swaying to the pounding beat that they paid no mind to brushing against random strangers or accidentally shoving them aside.

He lost sight of Prentiss almost immediately. They had agreed to split up, sure but he would have preferred to at least know which direction she had gone. There were too many brunettes around to pick her out, and every time he tried to look around, he lost what little control he had over his path, colliding with someone's shoulder.

Eventually, he slowed his pace, nearly coming to a stop—one motionless pillar among the swaying crowd, set apart not just by his stillness but by the reason he was there in the first place.

Work felt like too trivial an excuse. Preventing a tragedy…maybe a bit too grandiose.

Another case, another unsub. This time, a more local one. Someone sneaking into clubs, specifically tampering with fog machines and replacing their contents with toxic gas. One moment, the crowd lost in dance. The next, gasping for breath and collapsing in convulsions on the floor, a pop song cruelly lingering above them as they took their last breath.

Well, not in every case—many had survived the attack. Thanks to their testimonies, they had built a profile of the unsub before they even identified him.

And once they had the profile, they were able to predict when and where he would strike next. Not exactly where. There were several clubs on his radar, forcing them to split into pairs. Time was against them, and they couldn’t afford the delay that bringing in a larger team would cause.

His gaze found the DJ booth. Deep down, he knew Prentiss was doing the exact same thing, wherever she was. Right next to it stod the fog machine—meant to enhance the sensory experience, he supposed, though he didn’t entirely understand the appeal.

In any case, they couldn’t just arrest the guy. Mostly because this guy wasn’t him. They had determined that the unsub had to sneak in to execute his plan, likely disguised as a maintenance worker—someone unremarkable, someone no one would question. Equipment needed servicing from time to time, after all.

That left them with one option. Observation. Waiting for the right moment. Literally waiting to catch the unsub in the act. 

He knew he had to get even closer.

That wasn’t exactly easy, given that it was a Saturday night and the club was packed wall to wall. Spencer took a deep breath—air thick with heat of the bodies—and fixed his gaze straight ahead, hoping that focusing would at least minimize how often he bumped into people.

The tactic itself, in theory, sounded like something that had a chance of success. He couldn’t control the movements of the people around him, but he could control his own—could force his awkward body to maximize its barely existing coordination, slipping through the crowd with as much grace as he could manage.

In practice, however, he froze mid-step the moment his eyes locked onto a single, specific point just ahead of him.

At first, he thought he was imagining things. The play of lights was deceptive—he could have easily been mistaken.

The thing was, when it came to her mistaking her for someone else was nearly impossible. And Spencer had long suspected that it wasn’t just about physical attractiveness.

At that moment, she was surrounded by women—women who had dressed in whatever made them feel their most confident for a night out, women who, as a result, looked undeniably striking. And yet, none of them had caught his eye as quickly or as completely as she had.

Maybe it was simply because he knew her, and the human brain was wired to pick out familiar shapes. Or maybe it was that obscure thought that had once crept into his mind—that there was something almost siren-like about her. In the way her hips moved so fluidly, in how people instinctively seemed to make space for her, in the way every gaze that landed on her lingered just a second too long, caught in quiet admiration.

And that was the ironic part.

Despite all the glances she effortlessly drew—glances she had long since grown used to, had learned to take in stride—she still somehow managed to feel his.

Spencer, still frozen in place, registered the exact moment her eyebrows lifted—first in surprise, then in amusement. He also registered how, almost without hesitation, she started moving toward him.

She didn’t need to elbow her way through the crowd. She never did.

Watching her fluid, measured steps slowly closing the space between them, he finally grasped one crucial fact.

She was in the same club as him. At the same time as him.

But he wasn’t there for fun.

He was there to prevent a mass poisoning. And it wasn’t until she stood right in front of him, head tilted slightly, lips curved in that playful way of hers, that it hit him. 

She had no idea what was potentially about to happen.

None of the other people there did. 

"Spencer Reid," she said slowly, deliberately, as if tasting his name for the first time.

He heard her perfectly despite the pounding music, but apparently, she decided he hadn’t—because she took another step closer. A step that cut through most of the already minimal space between them.

He had to tilt his head down just to keep his gaze on her.

"In a club. Alone. The world must be ending, because I’m not nearly drunk enough to be imagining you."

He felt his body take in a breath without his permission. His gaze flicked above her, back to the DJ booth. The same DJ as before—he recognized him by the neon pink shirt. No one had taken his place. No one was near him. Yet.

Their eyes met again.

His throat simply refused to work. He had no idea what to say, and not because someone had just bumped into his back, pushing him even closer. He had to steady himself with a light grip on her shoulder to avoid crashing into her entirely.

He glanced at his own hand on her skin, bathed in the pink and violet glow of the club lights. It looked almost forein, as if it didn’t belong to him.

Spencer didn’t know what to say—not because she was there, but because she was there. In this place, in this moment, where so many things could go wrong.

Sure, they worked together. But she wasn’t here on a case. Tonight, she was just another unaware, innocent civilian—one of the many people it was his job to protect.

Protect, but not warn. A warning would cause chaos among everyone present, sending them rushing toward the exit, ruining their chance to catch the unsub just when they knew the location he planned to strike.

Her hand waved in front of his eyes, making sure he was still present. Spencer swallowed, forcing himself to say something—anything—while he figured out what he really should say.

"Do you often imagine me when you're drunk?" he asked.

The very first thing that came to his mind. Surprisingly, it didn’t turn out to be such a terrible choice.

The woman pursed her lips in a thin line, as if genuinely considering it.

“It’s happened a few times,” she admitted without a hint of embarrassment, in the most casual tone possible. She let out a quiet chuckle, as if recalling something. “Last time, I was flirting with some guy, also in a club. I was convinced it was you, but the longer we talked, the more something felt off. Some element. I just didn’t know if it was the flirting or the fact that you were in a club at all…” 

He let her speak while his eyes once again scanned the surroundings. He reminded himself that they weren’t alone. The people around them—people just as unaware of the potential danger as she was.

Of course, he assumed they’d manage to prevent it. But he wouldn’t be himself if the thought hadn’t crossed his mind what if…

Then he’d be guilty of not telling her. Of not simply ordering her to leave immediately. She probably wouldn’t have listened—knowing her—but he would’ve found a way to make her.

He chalked it up to a natural instinct. They didn’t have to be particularly close for him to not want anything to happen to her. They didn’t even have to particularly like or tolerate each other.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t worried about all the other oblivious people in the club. But it was definitely harder to distance himself from her—when it was her face he saw nearly every day.

"Are you here alone?" Spencer asked suddenly

He must have interrupted her—her lips remained slightly parted.

"With a few friends," she stated, pausing as she studied him analytically. "Why? Asking if you can join us?"

He sighed at her response. A few friends. If he told her, she’d probably want to warn them too—which wasn’t surprising or wrong—but there was a chance that those friends also had friends here. And in the blink of an eye, it could trigger mass panic. Chaos.

He shut his eyes for a moment, hesitating.

"Spencer, what is wrong with you?" Her voice reached his ears, and he felt her hand on his shoulder, giving him a gentle shake.

When he looked at her again, her expression had completely changed.

Full of realization.

"Wait, I think I know what you’re doing here."

He had hesitated long enough for her to figure it out on her own. But at least that forced him to make a decision faster.

Without a moment’s hesitation, he leaned in toward her—something that, logically, made no sense. Their conversation was already happening within such a small space, close enough that he could see the way the light above them shifted in her eyes. There was no need to lower his voice conspiratorially. And yet, for some reason, he did.

He leaned in near her shoulder, speaking close to her ear.

Her hand remained on his shoulder, waiting for whatever he was about to say.

"Go home," he said simply.

She didn’t move, though he felt her fingers press slightly deeper against his skin, as when he confirmed her own suspicions.

"Take your friends if you have to. Just leave, okay?"

He waited for a moment, certain he could feel her taking a deep breath, steadying herself, keeping calm. When he straightened just enough to meet her gaze again, she was composed.

She didn’t know what exactly was happening—she had every right to be panicked—but she wasn’t.

"Is it really that serious?" she asked.

He glanced toward the DJ booth, scanning the situation. He considered her question. Honestly? No. Not that serious. They didn’t even have confirmation that their unsub was targeting this particular club.And yet, he gave her a small, confirming nod.At worst, she’d lose one night of fun with her friends for nothing. Better that than losing her life.

She answered him with a nod of her own.

Spencer watched the movement, exhaling slowly, but as his gaze dropped once more to the space just beyond her shoulder, he noticed something strange.

He straightened fully, and her hand slipped from his shoulder, falling away.

She turned, following his line of sight, but she didn’t know what to look for. A moment later, she turned back to him, confused. But he knew. And he had just seen it.

Reid stepped past her.

Oddly enough, pushing through the crowd no longer felt like an issue. He looked over his shoulder—almost reflexively—meeting her eyes for one brief second. Go home tried to tell her again, with no words. 

Some might find it strange how quickly he recognized the unsub in the crowd. While some would call it a hunch or instinct, he would simply call it experience. So many solved cases, so many profiles written, so many criminals interrogated. He had simply managed to pick him out. 

What he hadn’t anticipated was that the unsub would recognize him.

Not personally, but he would sense that something was off the moment their eyes met by chance.

He might have been aware that the FBI was on his tail.

Either way, as soon as he realized Spencer was heading toward him, he abruptly changed direction, picking up his pace. He was no longer moving toward the smoke machine—now, he was weaving blindly through the crowd.

Still, Reid couldn’t just let him slip away, of course.

He stayed on his heels, hoping that Prentiss was somewhere out there and had also recognized the man as their unsub. That she had even noticed him at all. He didn’t know whether the unsub was armed, but either way, he couldn’t reach for his weapon while still surrounded by people. His breathing quickened from the pace he was keeping, but he couldn’t afford to slow down—not if he wanted to keep him in sight.

Where was the unsub going?

He found out soon enough when he saw him slip through the emergency exit—somehow left unguarded—into a dark, empty alleyway.

Spencer realized he had made a huge mistake after just the first two steps. He had looked around too slowly, focusing too much on the left side when something hit him in the face from the right. The force was too much for a bare fist. He suspected brass knuckles. Mostly because it knocked him off his feet, sending him sprawling onto the hard pavement. As he shielded his head from the fall, the weapon slipped from his hand. Instinctively, he reached for it, a reflex, considering how badly the world was spinning in front of his eyes.

Before he could even brush it with his fingers, the hard sole of a boot landed on his toes, not breaking them, but definitely pulling more than just a pained hiss from his lips. The sound of dragging—the weapon kicked far out of his reach. He cursed under his breath, and possibly out loud. Not only because he had been so easily disarmed and neutralized, but because the realization hit him quickly. When a criminal doesn't bend down to retrieve a dropped weapon, it usually means one simple thing. They have their own.

And well, for the first time, he didn’t feel satisfied by being right. When he managed to prop himself up on his elbow with controlled movement, still feeling the pulse in his temples, the first thing he saw was the gleam of a barrel aimed directly at him. A long moment where their eyes locked. Spencer was about to say something. A lot of words pressed at his lips—there had to be a way to stop him from pulling the trigger. He knew the entire profile, and he could manipulate him. 

But before any sound could escape his mouth, the shot rang out.

The stab in his chest was so intense that he thought—he was absolutely certain—the shot had hit him. His heart—there was no point in even pressing his hand to it to check. It would have been covered in blood in an instant, and he wouldn’t even have time to look at it before he collapsed back to the ground, this time dead. But that didn’t happen, although something did fall.

The tall figure right in front of him collapsed to the ground, revealing who had been a few steps behind him.

The hand gripping the weapon so confidently that for a moment, he thought it was Prentiss.

That would have been the most logical option. After all, they had been sent there together, and it was her he expected to see. Not someone who had come to spend the evening with friends. Someone who, despite his warning, had followed him for some reason and, at the right moment, had lifted the weapon that had been knocked away by the unsub Spencer’s weapon and aimed it.

Someone who now stood still, staring down at his fallen form, with one hand still extended in front of them until it fell stiffly to their side.

They stared at each other in silence for a moment that felt almost unreal.

Finally, Spencer forced himself to look away from her and, feeling like he was in some strange dream, clumsily managed to get to his feet. When he succeeded in standing upright, her figure appeared right next to him, her hand gripping his shoulder, as if ensuring he wouldn’t fall again. For the first time in a while, he breathed— the taste of the air after almost being shot was strange. He needed two more breaths like that before he could even begin to process what had just happened. Her face—not directly in front of him, but slightly to the side, so that he had to turn his head to look at her. 

It might have sounded illogical, but he had the feeling that fear was only just beginning to appear on her face. When she shot the unsub right in the back of his head, her expression had shown nothing at all.

"I..." Spencer began, stopping as the pain pressed against his skull again. It was dull, but when he placed his hand on it, he didn't see any blood. He took that as a good sign. A sign that started to slowly clear things up. The unsub was dead. Okay, that happened. Sometimes, capturing him alive just wasn’t possible.

But he hadn’t been killed by him, as he perhaps should have been. He had been killed by her. How had she even ended up there?

"I told you to go home," he said sharply.

For a moment, she was silent, staring at him in disbelief, as if she couldn’t understand the meaning of his words. Meanwhile, Spencer felt a fleeting surge of anger. She had followed him, which was absolutely irresponsible. If the unsub hadn’t uncovered the weapon, or if he had decided to pick it up, she would have been completely defenseless because, as far as he knew, she hadn’t been carrying her own. And then she would have found herself in a dark alley with, quite simply, a murderer.

Her lips parted and closed again, as if trying to speak, but instead, she snorted. At least, she tried to. It wasn’t her usual, mocking snort, although she attempted it. It came out weak, barely audible, and then Spencer lowered his gaze, noticing that the hand holding his gun was trembling. She tightened her grip on the handle, trying to stop it.

“And some thank you?” she asked. “For, hmm, let’s see, saving your life?”

He felt a bit stupid, to be honest. Especially when he noticed her taking a deep breath and turning her head toward the body lying on the ground.

“I didn’t aim for his head,” she admitted, more to herself than to him.

He looked at her profile with hesitation. He hadn’t thought about it before, but this was probably the first time she had ever killed someone. Most of her work in the FBI had been in the confines of the lab, and she was rarely in situations that would require something like this.

Yet, she had still done it. Shoot, at the right moment, without hesitation.

Seeing that she couldn’t tear her gaze away from the dead man, he gently reached up and touched her cheek, turning her face back toward him. She flinched at the gesture, her eyes momentarily widening, almost vulnerable, before she clenched them shut, tension rising in her temples.

“But it’s a good thing I did,” she said, opening her eyes again. She shook off the emotions that had briefly settled there, adopting her usual expression. Most people probably wouldn’t even notice anything had changed. “Otherwise, he probably would’ve killed you. So…”

She didn’t finish, shrugging stiffly.

Spencer felt an unpleasant sensation in his stomach, rising up to his throat. A sudden wave of guilt, knowing that it was his fault and his lack of field skills that had led to this situation. He had to swallow it down before he could speak again.

“He killed a lot of people,” he told her. She deserved to know that. “And he was planning to do the same today. Maybe even to you. Your friends, and…”

He didn’t know what else he wanted to add, or if his words were in any way helpful. He hoped they were. They both lingered in silence, and Spencer realized that, in fact, he hadn’t even thanked her for what she did. But, well, that was life, not a favor to be repaid with a simple thank you. He knew, though, that he would be able to return to the daily grind of things as if nothing had happened, without offering anything in return. His gaze fell once more on her hand, still gripping the gun. He gently took it from her.

“I shot him,” he suddenly said.

The woman gave him a confused look.

“If anyone asks,” he added, aware that she still didn’t quite understand what he meant. In fact, he was having trouble putting it into words himself. “I mean, technically, you shouldn’t even know about all of this. No one knows you were here, so...you can just...forget about it, if you want.”

It wasn’t that the killing would get her into trouble. Considering she saved his life, she wouldn’t face any real consequences. However, her name would have to be mentioned in the report. Not a big deal, but Spencer just had the feeling that the less it attached to her, the better.

She was silent for a long time, and Spencer thought maybe she didn’t like the idea. He even considered retracting his words, just dismissing it as nothing. But then he noticed and heard her take a deep breath, and for a brief moment, something resembling a grateful smile appeared on her face.

“Okay,” she agreed with a weak nod. She glanced thoughtfully toward the club before turning her gaze back to him. “I guess I should go then.”

She didn’t move, as if waiting for something else.

“Right,” he muttered. “Right...thanks, by the way. For, you know, saving my life.”

It seemed like she was on the verge of a quiet chuckle, and he felt a little better.

“You’ll make it up to me somehow,” she replied.

This time, she didn’t acknowledge his words with a nod. Instead, she stepped closer, looping one arm around his neck, resting her chin against his shoulder, and staying still in that position, letting out just a sigh. Spencer, for most of the moment, felt too frozen to respond. And when he finally managed to, when he placed his hand gently on her back, returning the embrace, it was only a second before she pulled away and walked off.

[txttletale]

Do you have any opinions on the current Bluesky discourse about acting as a receiver for Palestinian fundraisers? You have a good head on your shoulders so your input would be nice

i don't keep up with bluesky discourse. i do maintain however that the broad reaction to palestinian fundraisers on here at least has been -- if i'm being brutally honest -- founded almost entirely in first-world guilt, leading to a strategy that fails to understand two extremely crucial facts:

palestinian cost-of-living fundraisers are a zero-sum game

there is a real, artificial scarcity in gaza. if an anonymous billionaire donated $10,000 to every gazan gofundme, it would not create more food or hospital beds in gaza, only increase the prices of those things to match. every gazan who can afford food for their family because their gofundme hit a certain goal is buying food at hyper-inflated prices that other families are not going to be able to get, and this will continue to be the case so long as israel continues their genocidal strategy of deliberate starvation.

2. your blog's attention economy is a zero-sum game

say you have 1,000 followers. let's assume a click-through rate of 5%, about commensuarate with the upper edge of what charities can expect -- that means that out of your followers, 5% of them will both see the gofundme link and click through to the actual page. then, again assuming you're operating at a similar batting average to very succesful charities, let's give you a 40% conversion rate from there, which means that 40% of your 5% will actually donate once they're on the page. that lands you at 20 people ultimately donating. there's no good data on 'average donation to a gaza gofundme specifically' and i can't think of a good analogue, so just scoping a few out it seems like $10 is a pretty 'average' donation. so that's $200 potentially directed to a fundraiser. which is not nothing!

but it's also not infinite. if you boost two fundraisers, you are now splitting those potential donators. you don't have infinite followers with infinite money: every gaza fundraiser post you make is competing with every other fundraiser that person has seen this day, or this week, or this month, or whatever period within which they allocate the budget they have for stuff like this. every separate fundraiser you reblog is competing with every other fundraiser on your blog for the attention (and therefore money) of your followers specifically.

and so when you combine these points, i think the very common strategy of "reblog every fundraiser you see or get sent" is an extremely bad one. this is not an 'every dollar helps' situation! this is a 'very large amounts of money are needed to cover basic living expenses on an ongoing basis' situation -- if a bag of flour costs $300, then splitting $200 worth of potential donations multiple ways can make the difference between the single family whose fundraiser you're promoting being able to buy it or none of the multiple fundraisers you're putting in front of your followers being able to.

and so i think that reblogging or posting a scattershot selection of fundraisers/asks is significantly less helpful to anybody than simply choosing one or two to consistently, regularly boost, and is a practice (if i am being ruthlessly honest) mostly fueled by people feeling guilty for 'ignoring' fundraisers and aid requests instead of thinking practically about how to provide the most help to people.

people will reply to this: 'but then it feels like i'm choosing who to help', and, yeah. that's what charity is. if you are not willing to do the calculus of triage between strangers in life or death situations then you should not be directly donating--and if you give to an NGO or a mutual aid fund, the same calculus has to be done regardless, you're just pushing it off onto someone else who may or may not be better equipped. and it is brutal and awful and the product of a deeply fucking evil global economic and political system but if you close your eyes and say 'la la la' and pretend that isn't the case that's not going to help any gazans eat.

because of this, i personally recommend that if you don't have family or friends in gaza, or some other personal connection that makes you determined to help a specific family, you focus on on-the-ground mutual aid efforts, who can at least take advantage of economies of scale and help those who can't access the internet or speak english. note that by this i do not mean international charities, who are mostly being prevented from providing aid by israel as of the date of this post (01/06/2025). i personally have focused my blog's attention economy on highlighting dahnoun mutual aid and the sameer project for this reason. i can't tell you what to do because ultimately that is a moral decision you have to make about who you want to help and how. & if you have less followers than i do (& therefore less reach, less potential impact) the stakes are ultimately lower. but i hate that the 'palestinian scammers' accusations have poisoned the well so thoroughly on having earnest discussions about whether the current popular engagement with fundraisers is actually as helpful as it could be.

[heavenlyraindrops]

“ᴏʙꜱᴇꜱꜱᴇᴅ.” | ᴋᴇɴᴊɪ ꜱᴀᴛᴏ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | { ɪ }

☆ Warnings: profanity, sports!photographer!reader, fem!reader, afab!reader, for future chapters: social media au, eventual smut

☆ 1.3k words | Available on: Tumblr, AO3

A career in sports photography was never something your parents wanted for you- they had decided your career path since the moment you were born. A surgeon. Bound to make them plenty of money, to make them proud. They wanted it more than anything else, and…

You decided that wasn’t your problem. 

You researched the job, the career path, and began building a portfolio. Taking pictures of athletes at games, major ones and others such as college games. Mostly baseball. In fact, it was almost all baseball.  

Oh. College games. Baseball.

You’d attended college in the States, attending the baseball games and snapping pictures. And, for some reason, you seemed to gravitate towards one specific player. 

You had no idea what his name was.

You didn’t share any classes. You saw him around campus occasionally, but you weren’t one for parties so you had no chance of running into him at one of those. Your circles barely even touched. You didn’t know each other at all. 

Correction: he didn’t know you at all, and you only knew him as the hot athlete guy you took pictures of. 

-

“Another one?” Your friend, Taika grumbled, another one of your posts coming up on her feed. “[name], this is the fifteenth time you’ve posted this guy.”

You rolled your eyes, laptop balanced on your thigh as you edited a picture. “I’m just building my portfolio.”

“No one’s gonna hire you if your portfolio is just a million pictures of the same guy.”

“It’s not, there’s other pictures too.”

“Yeah, like, two.”

“Hyperbole much?”

Taika sighed aggressively, setting her phone-face down next to her as she leaned forward, face turning serious. “[name], is this some weird fetish? Kink?”

“What?” You almost threw your laptop at her. “You’re so dramatic. Obviously it’s not. What kind of kink would that even be?”

“Just admit you think he’s hot.”

You pressed your lips together, slamming your laptop shut. “Okay, get out.”

“But-!”

“Out!”

-

And that was that. You kept taking pictures of Mysterious Hot Athlete Guy,, eventually veering away from him in the end to expand your name. Your portfolio grew, you gained jobs, and your parents got increasingly frustrated until the point where they threatened to cut contact with you. 

You didn’t care. This was your passion. You’d much rather be on a pitch, capturing the essence of exhausted yet still exhilarated camaraderie than in a sterile surgeon’s scrub, brandishing a scalpel, cutting into flesh to expose your patients innards. 

Unfortunately they went through with the threat. Oh well. 

With the little savings you had, the weight of college debt for a degree you’d never use on your shoulders and your rather expensive camera equipment for which you’d somehow managed to scrape together the money for, you decided to follow Taika back to Japan.

“There’s plenty of opportunities for you there,” she told you.

Taika, being a trust fund baby, had more than enough of her parents' money to support herself, and you in Japan. You slowly grew your career and by a couple of months, you could afford to move into your own apartment. 

And now you were a- somewhat-well known sports photographer in the industry, despite never actually having a stable job, and… that was that. 

That was your story. 

But not the end of it.

Because after a good few months deep into your path of sports photography, a baseball player rose to stardom. 

Kenji Sato.

-

“Oh my god!” Taika grabbed onto your arm, nails digging into your skin and making you yelp as she thrust the phone in your face. “Dude! That’s the guy you had a crush on in college!”

Your face burned with embarrassment, and your voice was grating. “I didn’t have a crush on him.”

He just had a nice… bone structure.

Maybe I should have taken pictures of models for magazines or something. 

You looked at the article. Newest player on the field sparks talk of the rise of a new baseball legend. 

Oh damn. Maybe he should have been a model. 

“Kenji Sato,” Taika read out the name. “Dude, I swear this is the guy.” Pulling up your instagram account, she scrolled all the way to the bottom, at your earlier days of shooting. “Dude. That’s him.”

“It’s him,” you said weakly. She grinned at you, a knowing smirk that made you want to tear her hair out. 

-

Another stretch of time passed, until the days where your life was immediately thrust into a direction it did not give consent into going. 

Firstly, Ken Sato made headlines by coming back to Japan. Secondly, you’d landed a job at a baseball game in the Tokyo Dome. Thirdly, it was the game which the Yomiuri Giants were playing. 

You were now on the corner of the pitch, equipment set up, game in full play. The heat of the crowd pressed down on you as you angled your camera at a figure all too familiar. 

Fucking focus, [name].

The ball whizzed through the air. He hit it, arm and bat lashing out, and-

“Fuck!”

You cursed, jerking away from the camera set up and throwing your hands over your head. It fell to the ground, shattered, and the ball rolled across the ground, hitting your knee. 

You looked up. The crowd was roaring. Your head was ringing, feeling faint as you stared at the broken camera lying on the ground. Oh jeez, you were going to faint. Fuck, those players hit the ball hard.

You looked up and saw Ken Sato hurrying towards you. 

And that was when you fainted. 

-

Kenji Sato was going to fucking jump off of a bridge.

Pacing his living room, he dragged his hands through his hair, muttering a string of curses under his breath. “Mina, I’m so screwed.” He paused, looking at her hopefully. “Am I? Screwed, I mean.”

“That would be an interesting topic of debate, Ken.”

“Give me a proper answer, dammit!”

“You’ll be fine.”

“What about the girl?” He stopped suddenly, freezing in place. “I feel awful, you know.” Mina stared at him. “Yes, I can feel regret. Shocker.” He ran his hand through his hair, again. “I already replaced her broken stuff, right?” He looked sick. “Should I apologize? In person? Over text?”

“You could apologize over text,” Mina said.

Kenji immediately fell into the couch, pulling out his phone. “What’s her instagram account name?” Pulling it up, he scrolled through the photos. “[name] [surname], sports photographer,” he read aloud, eyes flicking down to the pictures. 

“She has taken photos for teams, articles, and even major sports magazines.” Mina flew down, hovering near his head as he scrolled curiously. 

“How many photos do you bet she’s got of me?”

“Would you like me to run a search?”

Ken looked up, surprised. “I was just kidding.” He dug his nail beneath his other nail, considering the offer, but Mina was already doing it. 

“Approximately ninety-seven out of two-hundred and twenty-nine images posted on her professional account include your face,” Mina concluded. Ken stared at her blankly. She remained silent for a few more seconds, letting it sink in, then spoke again. “I suggest scrolling to the very bottom of her account, her earliest days of photography, Ken.”

“Ninety-seven?” He asked incredulously, and Mina simply repeated her previous statement. Scroll down.

He did. It took him a while, but he finally managed to hit it, and-

“I’m in college in these.”

His eyes scanned the pictures on the screen- most of which were of him. College games, every one of them. He’d never noticed her in the crowd. Had he?

And there were so, so many.

He could feel heat creeping up his neck. He didn’t find it creepy, or stalkerish- not at all, but instead dared to feel a tiny bit flattered. 

Oh, she was obsessed with me. That’s kind of cute. 

He wondered if she still was. 

Taglist: @moonjellyfishie, @lovingyeet, @aise-30, @scarasw1f3, @v1ennie im only doing taglist this once but I’d prefer it if people just followed me instead because they’re such a hassle

[the-one-that-weeps]

Can we please talk about how awfully rich the project sekai cast is.

- More more jump is composed of three reformed idols. If that's not enough, they also do shows fairly often and I bet those tickets sell well.

- Shizuku is also a model.

- And if that's not enough, Papa Hinomori is a well known artist.

- the Tenmas are pretty rich (just take a look at their house).

- Also Ichika afforded to buy a Miku software so she's not poor either.

- Shinodad is also a well known artist, the Shinonomes live fairly comfortably if I remember correctly.

- Toya is like the second richest character in the game.

- Ken doesn't act rich but that doesn't mean he's not a well known artist and if you've read any of the vbs area convos you know the RADder copies still sell after all these years

- Emu is the richest character in the game. I don't think I even have to specify why. The Otoris literally own an airline.

- Wxs also do shows all the time. Ticket money part 2

- Kanadad probably struggled financially after his failure as an artist, but Kanade doesn't only make enough profit to survive but also pays Honami every week or so. Also, she has really neat equipment in her room, so Kanadad used to have a fair amount of cash.

- Everyone who goes at Miya girl is automatically rich. It's a PREP SCHOOL

- Also Mafumom pays Mafuyu for grad school and I don't think that's a cheap miracle.

- Not only that but Niigo are probably the most popular group out of the cast, their channel has a lot of followers and their videos get thousands of views. This actually makes me question if they like. Split the money somehow. Or do they just give it to Kanade because no way she's living off of her grandma's pension.

- imagine Niigo getting the youtube golden play button because I need this to actually happen now

[zoe-oneesama]

Zoe, 1. Can anyone have an angel or in this case champion in history or only chosen ones?

2. Are the identities open between the characters and their family or friends?

3. The story will be like a normal Miraculous, where there is the guardian, the heroes are chosen, Gabriel is a motherfucker (especially in relation to Adrien)

Anyone can have an angel! ...as long as you can afford it. It is a very expensive sport, with expensive equipment that is designed to constantly be damaged and need upkeep. It's not for everyone.

Identities are open! ...for most. Some characters, for their own individual reasons, keep their identity secret (for example, Adrien's father doesn't want him to play so he plays with a mask on).

The story is a No Magic AU. No Miraculouses, no Guardians, no "Heroes". But Gabriel will continue to suck (see example above lol). HOWever, with the lack of magic means that many of the characters are more limited than canon in what terrible actions they can take, and therefore, are not irredeemable.

I know the original Angelic Layer anime/manga is not super well known, but it was aimed at fairly young kids, so I'm sticking to a similar tone. And that tone is This is a Game, Games are Meant to be Fun, so Everyone Will Have Fun.

[lagomorphique]

Mouthwashing and Capitalism - Analysis

this did unexpectedly well on twt so I'm gonna force people on tumblr to endure my takes as well for posterity (plus i can speculate and elaborate a bit more on here without the character limit). disclaimer that this includes untagged spoilers for both the game itself + the how fish is made dlc. I also refer to some of the meta facts from the dev qnas and to the demo version of curly's psych evaluation. Most of this is gonna be under a readmore and I'll elaborate a bit more on each character in reblogs

firstly, let's state the obvious - the working conditions enforced by pony express are atrocious. "do not indulge in over 5 hours of rest, including leisure time. sleeping over the allowed budget will result in disciplinary action."

Compare this to irl guidelines for pilots. Neither Curly or Jimmy are getting anything close to the required amount of rest for such a demanding job. This edges more into headcanon/speculation territory, but I've been trying to figure out how their shift patterns are supposed to work. I'd imagine that both of them don't always need to be on duty at the same time, so their shift patterns are probably more variable than everybody's else's. At the same time, we see them both on shift at the same time multiple times during the game and Curly is the only one with clearance to make certain extremely important navigation decisions (like turning off the autopilot). The tldr is that the crew is extremely overworked and running on dangerously little sleep for extended periods of time. It's enough to make anyone go crazy.

Next, the company routinely engages in collective punishment, as seen in the below screenshots. This is particularly important because I think it directly informs a lot of Curly's decisions in particular, especially with how he reassures Anya that her stealing the gun case will not go on the performance log. Given her precarious financial situation, she literally cannot afford to have her pay docked. I don't think he has any nefarious intentions here about covering up what's happened.

I think it's really interesting that each of the employee ID cards have an EMV chip. This would imply that they also function as payment cards. Perhaps they also have to pay for the food on board. It is possible that the 'credits' they are paid in are not even money per se, but rather a sort of company currency. Company currencies, or 'scrips,' have historically been used to exploit workers by making them solely dependent on company stores and products, enforcing loyalty.

Corporate communicates with Curly using something that looks no more sophisticated than a fax machine. It it also not clear whether this communication channel even goes both ways, which calls into question whether it would have even been possible to send out a distress signal in the event of an emergency (or, for example, a HR report needing to be filed).

The ship is not equipped for 5 people. It's notable here that Curly says "bigger" here, implying he /did/ raise this as a safety issue with corporate, but was shot down.

It's a plot point that there were only 4 cryopods, which meant that one person would always have been left out in the event of an emergency, even if they were all functioning.

I also wonder if this affects the rations available to the crew during the trip. I highly doubt that Pony Express bothered to provide extra food and other essentials to provide for an extra person, which means that the crew are probably dividing rations meant for four people amongst five.

[mediocre-shark-tales]

Brazilian GP part 2

Masterlist

Trigger Warning- slow burn of increasing themes including sexism, SA, depression, and implied grooming

Returning to the paddock for the sprint race, I focused on one thing: the job. The rain hadn’t come yet, but the air was thick with humidity, and the dark clouds rolling in on the horizon promised it wouldn’t hold off for long. As I climbed into my car, I pushed every stray thought out of my head. This was my escape. The only time Henry couldn’t get to me was when I was strapped into the cockpit.

The sprint race itself went well. I pushed hard, held my position, and finished P3 again. Behind Lando and Oscar, I couldn’t help but feel satisfied with my consistency, but there was still a fire burning in my chest, a determination to do even better in the main race. For now, though, I basked in the small victory.

After pulling into parc fermé and handling the brief celebrations with my team, I made my way back to the garage. That’s when I saw him—Henry. His smirk stretched across his face as he stood by my workstation, arms crossed like he owned the place. I immediately felt my stomach churn.

The weather had taken a turn for the worse, delaying the next session. Rain lashed against the paddock’s roof, and thunder rumbled ominously in the distance. Teams were stuck in their garages, waiting for updates from the FIA. It felt like the world was put on pause, and unfortunately for me, that meant I was stuck with Henry.

I tried to keep busy, double-checking data with the other engineers and chatting with Landon when I could. But Henry was like a shadow, following me wherever I went. His presence was suffocating, his comments laced with the same inappropriate undertones that made my skin crawl.

“Staying dry in here, sweetheart?” he asked as I passed by, his voice dripping with mock concern.

I ignored him, but he wasn’t deterred. He leaned against the table where I was reviewing some data and lowered his voice. “You know, I’ve been thinking... You’ve been looking really tense lately. Maybe after this weekend, we can spend some one-on-one time. You know, help you unwind.”

My jaw clenched, and I felt my fingers curl into fists at my sides. I didn’t trust myself to speak without snapping, so I stayed silent, my eyes glued to the tablet in front of me.

Henry chuckled, clearly amused by my lack of response. “Silent treatment, huh? That’s fine. I like a challenge.”

I needed to get away from him. Grabbing the tablet, I stood abruptly and made my way to the other side of the garage, pretending to check something with one of the mechanics. But no matter where I went, Henry was always close behind. It was like a game to him, and I was the unwilling participant.

At one point, I slipped into the back of the garage, trying to find some space to breathe. But Henry followed, cornering me near the equipment racks. His eyes glinted with something that made my skin crawl, and I pressed myself against the wall, desperate to put distance between us.

“Why so shy today?” he asked, his tone low and teasing. “You know, you don’t have to be so uptight around me. I don’t bite... unless you want me to.”

That was it. My breaking point was so close I could feel it bubbling under the surface. But I couldn’t afford to lose my composure, not here, not now. Instead, I forced myself to look him in the eye, my voice steady but cold. “Henry, I’m not in the mood for this. Back off.”

He smirked, leaning in just enough to make my pulse quicken. “Oh, come on. Don’t be like that. We’re just having a little fun.”

I stepped past him, my entire body trembling with frustration and disgust. I needed air, space—anything to escape him. But the rain still poured outside, trapping me in this nightmare of a garage.

The FIA announcement came through the garage speakers, crackling to life over the ambient noise of the rain hammering against the roof.

"Attention, teams. Due to the persistent rain and worsening conditions, qualifying will be moved to a slot a few hours ahead of the originally scheduled race time tomorrow. This will allow us to monitor for a potential break in the weather. Further updates will follow."

I felt a wave of relief wash over me. This was my chance to escape, at least for now. As soon as the announcement ended, I grabbed my things and slipped out of the garage. The quicker I got to my driver’s room, the less likely Henry would have a chance to corner me again. My heart pounded as I walked briskly through the bustling paddock, my eyes darting around to make sure he wasn’t following me.

Once inside the sanctuary of my driver’s room, I locked the door behind me and leaned against it, exhaling deeply. I allowed myself a moment to breathe before gathering my thoughts and changing into my casual clothes. The sooner I was out of here, the safer I’d feel.

As I finished changing, I peeked out the door, scanning the hallway for any sign of Henry. When I didn’t see him, I let out a small sigh of relief. For once, it looked like luck was on my side. Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I stepped out and made my way toward the paddock exit, keeping my head low and moving quickly.

Just as I was about to turn the corner, I nearly collided with someone. Looking up, I saw Franco Colapinto grinning down at me.

“Hey! You’re in a rush. Everything okay?” he asked, his tone light and friendly.

I plastered on my best fake smile, pushing down the lingering nerves. “Yeah, just trying to beat the rain back to the hotel. You know how it is.”

Franco chuckled, adjusting the strap of his bag. “True. I don’t envy whoever’s on the FIA’s weather team right now. Anyway, I was going to ask—do you want to join us for dinner tonight? I invited Alex and Lando, too. Figured it’d be good to unwind before tomorrow.”

I hesitated for a moment, my instincts telling me to retreat to my hotel room and hide for the rest of the evening. But the thought of being surrounded by friends, even for a little while, sounded comforting. And besides, Franco’s friendly demeanor was hard to resist.

“That sounds great,” I replied, the smile on my face feeling a little more genuine this time. “What time?”

“Let’s meet in the hotel lobby around seven,” he said. “We’ll figure out where to go from there.”

“Perfect. I’ll see you then,” I said, giving him a small wave before continuing toward the exit.

As I stepped out into the rain-soaked paddock, I felt a flicker of hope amidst the chaos. For a few hours tonight, I could pretend everything was normal. Even if I had to put on a brave face, I’d take any reprieve I could get.

Returning to the hotel felt like stepping into a sanctuary. The ride back had been quiet, giving me time to stew in my thoughts, but the moment I stepped into my room, I set my bag down and headed straight for the bathroom.

I didn’t just want to shower—I needed to scrub every trace of Henry’s words and his unwelcome touches from my skin. Turning the water as hot as I could bear, I stepped under the stream and let it pour over me, cleansing not just the grime of the day but the lingering weight of his actions. I scrubbed at my arms and shoulders, imagining I could wash away the memory of his arm around me, his hand gripping my waist. By the time I turned the water off, my skin was pink from the heat and friction, but I felt lighter, freer.

Wrapping myself in a towel, I leaned against the bathroom counter and took a moment to steady my breathing. Tonight wasn’t about Henry, I reminded myself. It was about Franco, Alex, and Lando—people who didn’t make me feel small or uncomfortable. I dried off and slipped into a pair of comfortable jeans and a sweater before tying my hair back loosely. With a glance in the mirror, I forced myself to smile. It didn’t quite reach my eyes, but it was a start.

At exactly seven, I stepped out of the elevator into the hotel lobby. The boys were already there, chatting and laughing. Franco spotted me first, waving me over with a bright grin.

“Perfect timing!” he said, his energy contagious. “You ready?”

“Always,” I replied, smiling back as Alex and Lando turned to greet me.

“Glad you could make it,” Alex said warmly, giving me a quick hug.

“You’re not allowed to bail halfway through, by the way,” Lando added with a smirk. “We’re keeping you hostage for the evening.”

“Oh, no,” I teased, feigning horror. “Guess I’m stuck with you guys then.”

They laughed, and just like that, I felt a little more at ease. We piled into a car Franco had arranged, and he directed the driver to a small, tucked-away restaurant he’d found online. It was styled like a quaint town eatery, the kind of place that served hearty, comforting meals with a side of charm.

Inside, the atmosphere was warm and inviting, with rustic wooden tables, dim lighting, and the smell of freshly baked bread wafting through the air. We grabbed a table near the back, and before we’d even ordered, the banter started.

“So,” Franco began, leaning forward with a grin. “What’s the over-under on Alex spilling his drink tonight?”

Alex rolled his eyes. “One time. It happened one time.”

“And yet, it lives rent-free in my memory,” Lando quipped, dodging Alex’s playful swat.

As the night went on, I found myself relaxing more and more. The boys were effortlessly funny, their lighthearted teasing pulling me out of my own head. When the food arrived—big plates of pasta, burgers, and fries—we dove in like we hadn’t eaten in days.

“So, what’s everyone’s game plan for tomorrow?” Franco asked between bites.

“Win,” Lando said confidently, earning a laugh from everyone.

“Revolutionary strategy,” I teased, shaking my head.

“And you?” Alex asked, looking at me curiously.

I hesitated for a moment, but their expectant faces made it impossible not to answer. “Honestly? Just survive the chaos. If the rain comes like they’re saying, it’s going to be wild out there.”

“You’ll do more than survive,” Franco said firmly. “You’re the rain master, remember? We’ll all be trying to keep up with you.”

I laughed softly, grateful for the confidence he had in me. The conversation continued, moving from racing to random topics like who could do the worst impression of their team principals (spoiler: it was Lando). By the time we left the restaurant, my cheeks hurt from smiling and laughing so much.

As we walked back to the car, Lando nudged me lightly. “See? I told you tonight would be good.”

“You’re not wrong,” I admitted, feeling a warmth in my chest that I hadn’t felt in a long time. For a few hours, I’d been able to forget the weight of everything else and just enjoy the company of my friends. And for that, I was endlessly grateful.

The morning of the race was a whirlwind of nerves and anticipation. I stood in front of the mirror in my hotel room, mentally preparing myself for the challenge ahead. Today was a new day, and no matter what had happened leading up to this moment, I was going to race like it was my last. The pressure from Henry and the team’s constant expectations weighed on me, but I refused to let it break me. Not today.

After going through my usual routine of getting ready—gearing up, double-checking everything—I made my way to the paddock. The moment I stepped foot into the familiar environment, I could already feel the tension mounting. Of course, Henry was the first to spot me. As usual, he had a comment or two to make as I walked past him, his gaze lingering longer than necessary. His voice had that familiar smugness, but today I had one thing on my mind: get into the car and forget about him.

I didn’t let his presence affect me; I couldn’t afford to. I gave the bare minimum responses, nodding along as he made more remarks, his tone still pushing boundaries. His touch lingered longer than I wanted, but I kept my focus on the goal. I was here to race, not to let him ruin this for me.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I made my way to the car. Once I was suited up and strapped in, the world outside of the cockpit faded. It was just me and the machine. The roar of the engines, the feel of the track beneath my tires—I was in my element. Qualifying started, and the nerves I’d been holding back finally seemed to evaporate.

But the track wasn’t as wet as I’d anticipated. The rain had calmed down to a drizzle, and the surface was surprisingly dry. That meant I couldn’t push as hard as I’d wanted, and the lap times didn’t reflect the pace I knew I was capable of. When I crossed the line, I felt a pang of disappointment. P5. Not terrible, but not what I had hoped for. Still, I couldn’t let it get to me. There was still the race, and I could make up for it.

The starting grid was a blur, and before I knew it, the lights went out. As we all took off, the rain came back in full force, and my confidence surged. This was my domain—racing in the rain was second nature to me, and I could feel myself carving through the field. It was almost effortless.

I overtook car after car, inching closer to the front. The rain never let up, but it didn’t bother me. I was in the zone. By the time I reached P3, I had a surge of pride—this was where I belonged. But the track was starting to get dangerous. The spray from the cars was so thick, visibility was reduced to almost nothing.

Then came the call.

"Bring your delta positive," Landon’s voice crackled over the radio. "Yellow flags. Be careful."

I felt the pit of my stomach drop. Yellow flags weren’t a good sign, and I could hear the tension in his voice as the tone of the message shifted. "We’ve got reds, we’ve got reds!" he said, loud and clear.

"What’s going on?" I asked, my hands tightening on the wheel.

"Franco has spun and crashed," Landon replied, his voice thick with concern. "We don’t know if he’s okay yet."

My heart skipped a beat. Franco. My mind raced with worry, the thought of him hurt gnawing at me. I had to swallow the lump in my throat, focusing on my breathing to calm myself. I needed to know he was alright.

"Franco, please be okay," I whispered under my breath.

The tension felt suffocating as I continued to slow and adjust my pace. It felt like an eternity before the radio came back on.

"Franco’s fine," Landon said, a slight relief in his voice. "He’s out of the car, shaken up but okay."

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Franco was fine. But the weight of the situation still hung in the air.

I made my way into the pit lane, my mind still racing. The red flags meant the session would be paused, and we’d have to wait it out. As I pulled into my pit box, I let out a slow, steady breath, still shaken but thankful. The team was already working hard to keep me updated, but for the moment, I had to reset.

I couldn’t let my emotions take over. I still had a race to finish.

As the red flags finally lifted, I found myself back on the track, adrenaline coursing through my veins. The rain had only intensified, turning the surface into a treacherous challenge. Visibility was at an all-time low, and the spray from the cars ahead of me blurred everything around. Every inch of the track felt like a gamble.

The lights went out again, and we were racing once more. I quickly regained my focus, the familiar rhythm of the car returning beneath me. I knew this track like the back of my hand, but today, it was a whole different beast. The rain made everything unpredictable. My heart was still pounding in my chest, but I pushed it aside, keeping my focus sharp. This was the moment where I had to trust my instincts and my training.

As the laps wore on, I found myself battling alongside some of the best drivers on the grid, feeling the pressure building up. Then came the moment that would define the rest of the race.

Carlos and I were side by side on one of the straights, inches apart, both of us fighting for the same piece of real estate. It was going well until, suddenly, Carlos’s car began to aquaplane. His back end snapped out, and in the blink of an eye, he was off the track. Instinctively, I tried to react, but it was too late—my car was already slipping, too. The moment my tires lost grip with the wet track, I felt the dreaded sensation of aquaplaning.

My heart leaped into my throat as the car began to slide. I fought the wheel, trying to regain control, but it felt like the world was spinning out of control. Carlos was already in the gravel, but I had a split second to save myself. I yanked the wheel, bringing the car around in a full 360 spin. Time slowed down as I felt the car slide and twirl, but somehow, by sheer force of will, I managed to keep the tires pointing in the right direction.

It wasn’t over yet. The car didn’t want to cooperate. As soon as I regained control of the wheel, the back end started to drift into the next corner. I could feel the tires barely gripping the surface as the car skated dangerously, but I didn’t panic. My fingers tightened on the wheel, my foot on the throttle, and I steered the car back into line.

Somehow, I managed to correct the slide, keeping my position. No spinouts, no off-track excursions. I hadn’t lost anything—except maybe a few heartbeats—and I was still in P3. The radio crackled to life as I rejoined the racing line.

"y/n, that was some incredible driving," Landon said, his voice a mix of relief and admiration. "You’re still in it—keep it up."

I allowed myself a small exhale of relief, but I knew this wasn’t over. The rain was still coming down hard, and the conditions were only going to get worse.

Behind me, Max was gaining on me. He was hungry, and I could feel the pressure building with every corner I took. Esteban and Pierre were still in front of me, but I knew it was only a matter of time before the battle for P3 would turn into a fight for the win.

As the laps ticked down, I had to remind myself that I wasn’t just here to survive—I was here to win. I would prove to everyone that I could handle anything, even when it felt like the world around me was falling apart. I wasn’t going to let the conditions, or the pressure, take me down. This was my race, and I wasn’t going to let anyone take it from me.

The final laps felt like a blur, a perfect mix of instinct and skill. I could hear the tires screeching as the rain continued to pour, but it was as if I had found my rhythm, my comfort in the chaos. Pierre and Esteban were still holding strong in front of me, but I could feel them starting to struggle with the conditions. The track was slick, every corner becoming more and more treacherous with each passing second.

I wasn’t going to let this opportunity slip away. I focused on the corners where they faltered, waiting for my chance. As we hit the straight, I pulled out from behind Esteban, my eyes fixed on the gap between him and Pierre. I knew exactly how much grip I had, and I wasn’t going to waste it.

I closed the distance with a calculated precision, then took the inside line into the next corner. Esteban was slow on the brakes, his car sliding just slightly in the rain, and I dove past him before he could react. In an instant, I was on Pierre's tail, my heart pounding in my chest.

He wasn’t giving up easily, but the rain was a relentless opponent, and I could see the strain in his movements. With one final push, I threaded my car through the corner in a perfect line, pulling ahead of him just as we came to the final stretch.

I could hear the roar of the engine in my ears, the tires biting into the wet tarmac, and my heartbeat syncing with the rhythm of the car. And then, just as the checkered flag waved ahead of me, I surged forward, crossing the line in first place.

The moment the race ended, a rush of emotion hit me, and I heard Landon’s voice crackle through the radio, full of excitement. “You did it! Master of racing in the rain, huh? I think the storm has nothing on you.”

I couldn't help but laugh, the tension lifting as the weight of the victory finally set in. "Maybe I’ve just got a magic touch on the wet tracks," I teased. "Looks like the rain’s not the only thing I can control today."

Landon chuckled on the other end. "Whatever it is, you crushed it. Proud of you."

As I slowed the car to a stop, the pit crew and team stood at the barriers, all cheering and clapping. The adrenaline that had kept me sharp during the race now flowed freely, and I allowed myself a moment to soak it in. I had done it. I had conquered the storm.

The podium ceremony was a blur of smiles, flashing cameras, and cheers, but for a moment, I allowed myself to truly savor the victory. The rain may have been relentless, but it hadn’t stopped me from coming out on top. I glanced over at Pierre and Esteban, both grinning ear to ear as we all stood side by side on the podium.

"Finally!" Esteban chuckled, holding up his trophy, the relief in his voice palpable. "It’s been a long time coming, but this is worth it."

Pierre nodded, his eyes sparkling with pride. "You’ve been quick all season, Y/N. Well-deserved. I’m just happy to be up here with you."

I grinned back at them, genuinely happy for their success. It was a long time coming for both of them, and I could tell how much this podium meant to them. Seeing their joy, their sense of achievement, made the victory feel even more meaningful.

We all raised our trophies high, basking in the moment as the crowd cheered. But as the noise of the celebration filled my ears, my eyes couldn't help but wander to the crowd below.

I caught sight of Henry, his smug expression standing out among the rest of the team. His eyes locked with mine, and for a moment, the joy of the podium felt distant, overshadowed by that familiar, disgusting feeling.

I couldn’t shake it. That sickening reminder that despite my hard work, my success, there was still something toxic lingering in the background. I forced myself to smile as I stood there, trying to shake off the unease creeping up from my gut. The team’s cheers filled the air, but all I could hear was the thought of the media duties that awaited me. I would have to face Henry again.

As the ceremony wrapped up and we made our way down from the podium, the momentary elation of the win started to fade, and reality hit me again. I tried to push the thoughts out of my head, focusing on the next step. But I knew deep down that the weight of what I was still facing wasn’t going to go away just because I’d crossed the finish line in first place.

I had a lot to prove, not just on the track, but off it too. And the hardest part? Getting through the next few hours, knowing what was waiting for me after the cameras stopped flashing.

[not-fortune-cookie]

Hey just saw your writing and I adored it and I had an idea for a story drabble or if you like it enough...a series...basically y/n is a person who loves playing cookie run kingdom but wishes to live among them. Kinda like your...special cookie story but can imagine they are transported into the game as like a weak cookie...like a common cookie. Bet that would make the cookies VERY protective of them if they like y/n lol! As y/n just lives their life and wanders around...possibly even taken on some of the adventures to see more of the world by gingerbrave and his friends, they meet more cookies who adore em aaaand want to protect em!

Bonus if ya want: reader is like...an absolute shy bean who either has no idea how to fight oooor is a pacifist.

𝐍𝐨𝐭-𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐮𝐧𝐞 𝐂𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐢𝐞 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬:

Spoiler Alert— That's actually my concept on my story, "Wished Fulfilled". [Y/N] is called the Ruler; or most authors put it-- Baker. But in my story, they're just [Y/N] Cookie. Unique category but the weakest among the Cookies. Also, thank you for the compliments! I appreciate your kind words. I'll try finish the story soon!

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

                You love to decorate the [Name] Kingdom. You are their Ruler after all even it's only a day when you transmigrated into the game. However, since you didn't know how to be a cookie, there are some downsides. Especially that you're the weakest among the kingdom and its residents.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

                You are quite a crumbling little thing. Your dough hasn't baked into a crispy one and your soul hadn't settled yet with your vessel. You're not allowed to be up and about yet, your legs are shaky and you're like a newborn.

                Don't worry your pretty little head, Pure Vanilla Cookie is kind and gentle with you. Standing by your side every step of the way as you practice. You're so shaky and weak, you easily fell down flat on the grass whenever you let go of your trusty staff. No wonder some of the Cookies have them—

                Every step you injure yourself, the Healer cookie never hesitated to erase each scratch from your dough. He watches your every move and even offer a hand when you need to. Eventually you'll get accustomed to your body soon enough.

                But that doesn't mean the Ancient hero will not be so protective. The young cookies can be rambunctious and run to you out of excitement to finally meet you. So he is alert and telling the young ones to not overwhelm you so much.

                Just don't traverse too far from him. He can't afford you to get injured without him to aid you. But he trusts Espresso to handle your curiosity of your Kingdom.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

                This situation made Espresso Cookie appoint a research for you to easily maneuver your new body. For such a Cookie like yourself, someone who the Ancient Cookie cares for, the scientist had made sure of it that you are well taken care of.

                Despite his busy schedule, Espresso Cookie uncharacteristically dropped his current research to leash you near him. He constantly has to panic whenever his sight isn't on you. He is already disheveled and in distress before he can finally find you among the deep forest that leads to adventure to Crispia.

                But the leash he had on you won't let you travel far. He can't let you go deep in dangers out there. The Kingdom is nothing without their ruler and you had just get here.

                He has to get the best distraction for you. Do you like shiny things? He has some trinkets you can play in his laboratory. Despite not wanting anyone to disorganize his tools, he may allow you to clean up his equipment as long as you don't get far from the premises of the Kingdom.

                But eventually you got away and curiosity got the best of you. What danger lays outside the Kingdom that made Pure Vanilla Cookie and Espresso Cookie forbid you to get far?

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

                That's when Red Velvet Cookie find you. He lost chiffon one time and some of his cakehounds when he encountered the frail you.

                Red Velvet Cookie knew the cookies that built a kingdom for the Ruler to arrive. He was expecting someone so powerful and as vile as the residents of [Name] Kingdom that harm his precious hounds. But the way you let the little ones cuddle up to you and hesitate to even have a thought of laying a hand of them. The cookie of darkness is intrigued by your pacifism.

                So he approached you, promising himself to protect you from harm as you adore and spoil the cakehounds that refused to leave you.

                You're part of his family now, despite being on the 'good' side.

I hope this is satisfactory for a drabble :]

[burnt-by-marigolds]

A (Bitter?) Taste of Power

I’m currently in Act III of my very first BG3 playthrough. I’m enjoying myself immensely in a way I didn’t foresee; I guess I had been too tired of AAA games to believe BG3 could impress me. And yet, there’s a marvel around nearly every corner of the story.

For example, the little cutscene in the flophouse between Astarion and his siblings. I almost missed it entirely, because in my party, Shadowheart has Lathander’s Blood equipped at all times, and that thing emits light. So before I even registered there were any vampire spawns in the vicinity, two mysterious NPCs – Dalyria and Petras, as I was not-so-soon going to learn – went up in a puff of blood-red smoke, even while standing behind a $#%! wall (praise our lord Lathander and his light that shines through solid obstacles). If not for Astarion’s comment, I would probably think it was just some weird glitch on the periphery of my screen.

Anyway, several in-game hours later (and some online searching) I realized I’m not going to meet them again elsewhere and if I want the cutscene, I need to go back to a way earlier save.

But I don’t regret it. The encounter was worth every bit of lost game progress.

It’s no secret Astarion has a penchant for casual violence and cruelty. Kicking squirrels, using mind control to tell others to gut themselves – he may approve of all these actions, should Tav choose to commit them. Enough sitting around – let’s go hurt someone is one of Astarion’s lines said with such playfulness it makes me chuckle every time. And yet, at least during my playthrough, I haven’t seen him act brutally outside of combat. The spawn would approve if my Tav were a bully (he isn't), but up until now, he never did anything himself.

I suppose during Act I and II Astarion is just this kind of a mean kid who likes to watch from the sidelines, hiding behind a tougher ally, and snicker quietly. He’s probably still too scared, still feeling too weak, still trying to get the hang of his new situation. At least, that’s how I imagine it.

Travelling with Tav and others empowers him, little by little. It’s a good thing in general, but there are bumps in the road. As I watched Astarion manhandle Petras, I realized what happens if the work stops halfway – if Astarion gets confident enough to act on his own, but not confident enough to understand he doesn't need to be cruel to show others his worth.

People who are truly self-assured don't need to prove this by outbursts of brutality. They can afford to show clemency. The scene with Petras and Dal shows Astarion still isn't free of Cazador’s influence, as he keeps confusing cruelty with power and power with self-worth. So he has grown enough to take action (instead of letting others handle things and watching from the sidelines), but the underlying motivation remains to avoid appearing weak. Deep inside, there's still anxiety, fear and self-loathing.

There's one more factor that plays a significant role in this scene. Astarion acts tough in front of his siblings, because now he has backup. 

You have no idea what I can do. The sun can’t harm me, Cazador can’t compel me. I don’t need to fear him anymore.

Boastful, isn’t he? So different from the time when my Tav first suggested disposing of Cazador. I still remember how Astarion snapped at Yae for not knowing what he’s saying or who he’d be facing.

But why do I get the feeling Astarion is trying to convince himself as much as he’s trying to convince others? And that he’s trying to impress his companions as much as he’s trying to intimidate Dal and Petras?

Soon enough, the façade crumbles, as Astarion starts to discuss the event with Tav. He gets defensive, he comes up with a whole range of excuses, explanations and justifications. He may even say he's capable of doing the right thing once in a while, as if he deserves a medal for not burning Petras to ash.

I think a part of him knows he overreacted. And the insistent voice in his head tells him other companions will judge him for that and abandon him. The fear finally resurfaces at the end of the dialogue:

We are a team, aren’t we? You’re still with me?

Still placing his worth in extrinsic things, like the support of his new friends. Still so scared of being alone. Remember that memory of the year spent sealed away in darkness?

This is such a potent cutscene; it gave me a lot to chew on, especially regarding headcanons and the relationship between my Tav and Astarion. Yae is no saint himself, but the display of unnecessary cruelty gives him pause. He may need time to process what happened, and temporarily keep more distance from Astarion, which the latter will – of course – read in the worst way possible. There will be misunderstandings, angst, arguments, reconciliations.

But this is a story for a different time.

⊱✿⊰

Postscript:

The date on the file tells me I've written this text over a month ago. 

But then anxiety kicked in. What if I'm wrong? I haven't even finished the game once, I have no right to join in the conversation! I know nothing, I haven't played any of the origin stories! What if there's that obscure bit of dialogue you only get by playing the game for an umpteenth time in a very specific way that sheds entirely new light on this scene? I'm not as smart/observant/articulate/whatever as others!

It took me almost six weeks to realize I can't let my anxious brain win this one. Even if I'm “wrong” (can personal interpretations and impressions really be “wrong”?), this is a testament to how much I've grown to enjoy the game and love the characters and their stories. So, if you've reached the end of this post and even read this postscript – thank you. This is an important step in my fight against the Anxious Brain.

[karenandhenwilson]

Okay, so you want to talk about the basketball scene? Let’s do that.

A couple of guys regularly meet for pickup basketball games. Buck has always declined invitations in the past and finally joined. It’s a pickup game, though. NBA rules are the last thing those guys are following. They’ve probably put down some ground rules. But more likely, they’ll assume everyone knows how to keep the game mostly friendly.

Because that’s the thing about pickup games of any sport. It’s not the kind of competition you find in a professional league or even in a semi-professional league like school leagues. It’s mostly about having fun, but it’s also about egging each other on, about riling each other up to such a degree that most people who meet for these kinds of games go around saying things like “just a friendly game, the ‘friendly’ being optional”. 

They play hard and fast with the rules, and we saw them egg each other on repeatedly during the scene. It was pretty clear where the whole scene was leading from the very beginning. Because the thing about these kinds of pickup games, no matter what game, is that the amateurs playing will always get injuries that professionals wouldn’t get so easily. Because of the general disregard for rules, but also because the amateurs don’t have the training for the game and might just take a wrong move, or don’t know how to fall, or aren’t able to contemplate the consequences of body checking the other player, especially in the heat of the game.

Everyone who joins in that kind of game knows exactly that they’re risking injuries. Not even just because the guys they’re playing with might get callous in their fouls, but just because they might make a wrong step, or they might be really unlucky in catching the ball.

Eddie had to go to the hospital. That’s true so far. 

Remember, we are watching a show about firefighters? The kind of job where having even so much a sprained ankle means you aren’t fit for duty. Because working with a limp while responding to a fire will slow you down in a situation where you can’t afford that. It might mean you aren’t even able to handle carrying all the required equipment in the first place. Working with a limp at the scene of a car accident or something similar, where you have to work with heavy equipment and sometimes have to rely on your strength alone.

Of course Eddie would go to see a doctor for such a fall to make sure he was fit for duty. He can’t just show up with a limp to his next shift and walk it off.

The next day we see Eddie on shift. (How do we know it’s the next day? Pickup basketball games are every other Thursday. Buck and Tommy’s first date was Saturday. The shift with the guy who had no control over his hand was between those two events.) And he isn’t even limping. Based on that, I dare say his ankle wasn’t even sprained and the whole hospital thing was nothing but being overcautious. Because that’s what canon tells us with that.

And with that, I have to say: Everyone claiming Buck broke Eddie’s ankle invalidates their whole argument right away. If you have to make the injury worse to make your argument work, you clearly know you’re full of bullshit.

Let’s take a look at the aftermath.

After Eddie falls because of Buck’s body check, Buck immediately looks and acts in a way that shows he is feeling guilty. Chimney calls him out on his behavior at the same moment. We then get a whole scene of Buck talking through that moment and how he feels about it with Maddie.

We don’t see an on screen apology, that’s true. But we get shown at great length that Buck’s behavior was not okay, that he feels guilty about it, and that the people around him call him out for the behavior. The episode then ends with the strong suggestion that Buck will call Eddie to apologize. 

You know when we haven’t seen people feeling even slightly remorseful or are so much as talking about an apology?

All three times someone got physical with Buck in an argument. 

Bobby never apologized or felt remorseful as far as we see. We never saw any follow-up for that scene. We don’t even see any kind of reaction in Hen, who watches the whole thing calmly as if nothing strange is going on.

Chimney went on a whole rant about killing Buck and bringing him back to life weeks later. So his off-hand comment much, much later to Hen that he talked it out with Buck and apologized feels suspicious at best, and unbelievable at worst.

Eddie claimed “someone” was mean to Buck, skillfully avoiding admitting any fault of his own. And then shoved two people at Buck he knew Buck would be so happy to see he’d forget what a jerk Eddie was both during the argument and then with the very misleading note in the morning and telling Buck it was his fault for misunderstanding that note.

Somehow, it’s always only Buck who is haunted by it, even seasons later, when he makes a mistake or people even just perceive Buck as the one who made a mistake (e.g. Dr. Wells being brought up as a joke). And people wonder why so many people feel with Buck and argue about his bad decisions less than other characters.