#bluewind talks

[jamiebluewind]

I'm autistic. Sometimes I fuck up. When I realize I have, I not only apologize but I take action. I DO something to show that I know better now and I'm sorry and want to make things right. Sometimes I realize it on my own. Sometimes it takes somebody else pointing it out. But in the end, I want to put good out into the world.

If I accidentally used a gesture, symbol, or phrase that turned out to be strongly tied to bigotry, I WOULD BE UPSET!!! I'd be embarrassed and try to explain myself sure (especially if it was also tied to something benign in my own culture), but I'd also sincerely apologize to the people I inadvertently hurt. I'd do things like go into a deep dive on the subject so I could better understand, spread awareness, interact with organizations I was pointed towards by people in the community, and try my best to do better and make plans on how to approach it from then on. My autism might be an acceptable reason why I mess up sometimes, but it's not an excuse for me continuing to make that mistake and refusing to take ownership of my actions.

Autism is not a blank check to do whatever I please just because autistic. Autism does not mean I'm exempt from all consequences or criticism. Autism doesn't mean I get to hand-wave away my responsibilities of kindness and empathy. People (rather the person themself or those surrounding them) using autism as a catch all excuse for any actions and refuse to learn and grow? They not only upset me; they are used as an example that people point at when they treat me as less than who I am. It hurts.

[jamiebluewind]

Looking for book suggestions and resources for autistic adults, ESPECIALLY about what to do if diagnosed as an adult (I'm also nonbinary and afab if that helps). I'm overwhelmed by everything out there and it's hard to sort through what's good solid information, what's outdated, and what to stay away from (I've already been told to avoid Autism Speaks).

I've only had my official diagnosis two days. It's kind of wild to learn that things I attributed to my ADHD, PTSD, generalized anxiety, and depression were just... autism. Like, learning about autistic burnout and meltdown is making a lot of things make more sense. I want to learn more about autism so much (and maybe learn some new coping techniques?), but I keep hitting wall after wall of bad information and ableism. I know I'm probably just screaming into the void and hoping the void answers back, but I gotta try.

[jamiebluewind]

Today has been one of those "Sorry! I couldn't hear you over the texture of my socks" days.

[tenderwatches]

Summary: our boys lay eyes on each other things could be going better

"Ghost stories reveal the contours of our anxieties, the nature of our collective fear and desires, the things we can’t talk about any other way. The same past we’re most afraid to speak aloud of in the bright light of day tends to linger in the ghost stories we whisper in the dark." — Ghostland, by Colin Dickey

Jayce Talis is a man of science. He parses his world through observable truths, reaching for evidence in the unknown rather than accepting mysteries as beyond comprehension. As such, he’s never much considered himself to be prone to superstition or belief in the divine. No, he lives in the firm footing of reality—a man for whom even the vast mysteries of the Arcane are not without foundations that can be understood, predicted, and controlled.

This makes it all the more alarming to now find this city haunted by ghosts. At first, he ignores them. There is a tug in his chest, sudden sense memories that flood through him, ones he’s desperate to escape in the distraction of his work. But ignoring something never makes it vanish. It just closes a door on a fire that will still one day burn through it.

Dawn is breaking as he ambles through the still sleepy streets of Piltover. Chem-lamps burn bright on the corners in the half-light, chasing away the clinging chill of the damp spring morning. Fog still sits heavy over the city, blurring the edges of reality into something soft and dreamlike.

Jayce remembers a whole litany of mornings just like this one. He recalls himself as a child, shuffling after his father and blinking sleep from his eyes, eager to help stoke the fire in the family forge. Then himself as a teen, sprinting at breakneck pace past vendors as they unshutter their shops, racing to meet the tailor at first light to adjust his new academy uniform before his mother’s return, excited to show it off to her. And later still, arms overburdened with equipment, navigating the lower section of Piltover, heading toward his first private lab in the space the Kirimmans had approved.

For the most part, the memories today are kind, tinged with the fondness of nostalgia, the gentle grief of a time come and gone. But other thoughts lurk as well, lingering phantoms that clutch from the shadows. It is those thoughts that have helped him to understand that places can be haunted, that the ghosts living there aren’t spirits so much as regrets and longing, the empty air charged with the potential of what could have been.

He shrugs off the ache that lodges in his body as he skims close to the recollection of this walk done deliberately slower, his pace measured to match that of his partner, the dull rhythmic tap of a cane a staccato beat that undercut their hushed and frantic debates.

He’s halfway past the Drawsmith Arcade, his pace unconsciously quick now that there’s no one beside him to match steps with. Hurried footfalls rush from behind to meet him, pulling him from his memories.

“Mr. Talis!”

He turns sharply to meet the interloper, brows lifting in slight surprise to find that it’s Thomas. Why one of his fresh-faced lab assistants is flagging him down in the early dawn hours several city districts away from his private lab in Bluewind s beyond him. But he likes Thomas well enough—he’s not got the ambition of Sky Young, but he possesses a keen focus that has been helpful to Jayce since he accepted the boy’s application to work with him.

“Thomas,” he greets with a tone he hopes is polite. He sets a hand on the boy’s shoulder as he stoops to catch his breath a bit. “An early start today? And it’s Jayce, please.”

Thomas nods his head frantically as he begins to regain his composure. “I’m sorry, sir—uh, Jayce. I tried to catch you at home. I was on the third shift running diagnostics on the synthetic crystals and—” Jayce perks up at that. The synthetic hex crystals are the only nut the Council is particularly interested in him cracking. If he has to go one more round of dealing with them this morning, he’d love to at least bring them an update on the work that shows promise.

“Did they stabilise?” he interjects, and Thomas shakes his head, his expression grim.

“No, no, they, uh… liquified, I think is the best term for it.”

That has certainly never happened before—which is in itself intriguing, Jayce concedes—but not at all the results they were hoping for.

“It was a bit of a catastrophic meltdown, actually, uh… The stabilisation frame, the whole containment field—it’s all a bit of a mess. We may need to replace the components before we even attempt another trial—”

“Damn it!”

Thomas actually jumps a bit at his exclamation. Across the street, the woman opening her café shoots him a grim, judgemental stare, and he lifts a palm in awkward greeting.

He’s been like that lately, more frustrated, more prone to emotional outbursts. Most people, his lab staff included, are forgiving, but it makes Jayce feel twenty-one again, raw and reactive to the slightest provocation.

The feeling that he’s going in reverse gives him a helpless sense of implosion, a wild, horrible inversion of what he usually understands and expects from himself. He huffs out a laugh, falling back on affability and charm, and offers Thomas a sheepish smile.

“Sorry, sorry, Thomas. It’s good you told me. I’m headed to see the council as it is—I’ll see if Councillor Salo will approve additional funds with backing from Clan Ferros so we can replace those components. You just… document the full loss—oh, and make sure we don’t have a contamination risk on our hands from the meltdown—” He looks at the haggard, exhausted expression on Thomas’s thin face, still upturned to take in his every word. Ghosts nip at his heels. Another face, thin, growing thinner, sleepless nights of discovery. Impressions flicker on the edges of his memories like frantic moths against glass panes. “Actually, get some rest. Sky can pick up once she’s in.”

Thomas bids him goodbye, and he continues his walk through Mid Town. Above him, the shadowy hull of an airship lumbers over the skyline like a great beast, casting shadows over the gilded Piltover roofline. The sun breaks over the horizon as the Hexgate tower rolls to life, the massive globe of Runeterra shifting in its bearing to smoothly glide to a pinpointed location. There is the familiar charge of runes moving in patterns Jayce can trace by memory. He runs through them in his mind now as the blue glow of Hextech mixes with the frenetic oranges and pinks of dawn. The gate charges and releases. A streak of blue light cuts across the sky in a final exclamation mark—a truly miraculous moment of here and then gone.

He remembers the day the Hexgates officially opened, remembers Heimerdinger cutting the ribbon and lifting bright eyes in wonder, as if in his centuries of life, he’d never seen anything so extraordinary. The pure awe of discovery gleams in all those recollections, the glory and triumph of the moment others got to see and acknowledge his success…  their success.

He hates that he can’t exorcise the sharp stab of shame the memory of his partner brings him. Distraction will have to do what his own inability to reshape his loss cannot. He forces his mind from memories to his present issue with the synthetic crystals as he mounts the steps to the academy in long strides. He waves at a gaggle of Academy students who watch his procession with eager expressions. His face is still plastered on the sides of buildings around town in spite of the fact Hextech hasn’t launched anything of note in almost two years.

The synthetic crystals will have to be the next breakthrough, or he won’t have funding to do much else. With Clan Ferros throwing their considerable weight behind the project, he’s not surprised by the push for momentum in this work—that the crystals are a material they exclusively produce probably has a great deal to do with it as well.

He’s sure there is some game in the background of all this, some political manoeuvring he’s missing, but it’s been long enough since he’s been a councillor that he’s lost the thread for who is trying to one-up whom in this town. He just needs them to keep sending funding and staying blissfully unaware of the more interesting and less sanctioned items he currently has in his lab.

His thoughts are still back in those secretive experiments when he nearly walks straight into Mel Medarda just outside the council chamber.

“Having you here for a meeting on time—should I assume you haven’t slept?” She gently jokes as he rights himself, feeling flustered in contrast to her breathtaking composure.

Jayce shoots her a half-smile, taking in the way the light glitters off the gold in her hair and on her skin. She looks radiant. “For once, I wasn’t in the lab all night.”

He can’t place the look she throws him—sympathy? Exasperation? A gulf stretches between them, one he hasn’t yet learnt to cross, even though their relationship hadn’t fallen apart in the expected sort of tragic dissolution. It hadn’t been leagues of passionate argument—it had been one conversation, hushed and angry, and Mel’s walls slamming up like a vice around her.

Mel had cared for him like a spring trap, luring him in with the promise of something they both desperately wanted. Part of him still loves the dream of the kind of man she had believed he could be. But he’d sprung that wonderful trap all too early, tripped the wire before either of them had intended, and she’d snapped shut.

He’d asked her in the time following the worst of the fallout how she was doing. She’d simply shaken her head sadly and cupped his jaw as his palm settled against her waist. “I can’t answer that for you, Jayce, because I’m not certain you could answer that for yourself.”

He’d simply blinked at her, bemused by the sudden care of her touch. It hadn’t felt like a lover’s hand for once, but like one might hold an injured animal. He only realised what she’d meant by that much later—Mel wouldn’t settle for the obligation of his pity, only the sincerity of his care. She deserved that much from him.

The years have been kind to their estrangement; Mel’s still clever and determined, and it’s hard not to admire her when she looks at him. She must remember a time when there had been more intimate softness there between them. He certainly does. He can remember the first time she kissed him, how it felt to be held by her, tender and sheltered as the night closed around them in sacred silence.

But he isn’t that man anymore. Her own eyes hold something that might be guilt, and he isn’t entirely certain it’s guilt for him. Mel Medarda has broken some pact with herself, and while he believes in her ability to forgive him for the mess he made of everything in the final days of their relationship, he wonders if she’ll ever be capable of forgiving herself for whatever promise she broke in her mind.

Whatever the case, they are friends, and her face chases away the fog of sorrow that has been clinging to him all morning. Mel will always be the sunlight in every room she stands in. Jayce is happy for her warmth.

“I’m starting to feel like Clan Ferros is deliberately sending me flawed materials to delay our next innovation,” he tells her.

She smirks as she replies, “Oh, I wouldn’t put it past them—but if that were the case, I imagine they’d use a far more subtle approach, and certainly not one that requires them to empty their coffers.”

She tucks her hand into his proffered arm as they move into the council chambers. Only Councillor Hoskel is present, tapping his fingers on the tabletop as he rifles through papers Jayce is sure he’s not actually reading, and pointedly ignores them both. Jayce and Mel pause in the shadows of the columns by the door, and Mel leans in close to keep their conversation quiet.

“I assume you’ll need my help again today, Jayce, with Salo? He’s going to make a fuss if you’re here for more with nothing to show for it.” He sighs, already feeling the threat of a headache at considering the rounds of debates he’ll have to sit through.

“Mel, I don’t know how they expect they can hold my leash this tight and have me reach a breakthrough of any magnitude, but yes. I need more time and certainly more supplies. I’m looking at cleaning up a literal meltdown at the lab today.” She gives him an assessing look, and for one wild moment, he thinks she might refuse him.

Then, she lifts her hand from his arm and sets her shoulders back. “I’ll need something from you in return then.”

He blinks for a moment before he catches the steel in her gaze. She has a gambit she must be running and needs a new piece to play. If it means keeping the hounds from his heels, he’ll play her game every time. At least he can trust the outcome will always be well-intended with Mel.

“I’d expected no less,” he answers, adopting the cocky little expression he knows she finds deeply amusing.

She pats his cheek fondly. “You may only be a former member of this council, but I do enjoy that you still understand the game.” She glides away from him at that, calling her greeting to Hoskel, and Jayce moves to meet Heimerdinger as the professor toddles in.

What follows is about what he expects from a council meeting he’s been summoned to: a dressing down for lack of progress balanced with a great deal of jockeying for insight into what is actually forthcoming.

Jayce smooths over what concerns he can and blesses every star in the sky to have Mel backing him as he nearly begs Salo to submit his request for additional funds. It would have been a blow to his ego a few years ago, but now, he’s just pleased that he isn’t sitting behind the desk having to compose that particular request himself.

“Perhaps what you need is another sound mind to bounce your ideas off of!” Heimerdinger suggests with an enthusiastic gleam in his eyes. Jayce wants to stare, slack-jawed.

“With respect, Professor, we know I can’t… ” He swallows, heat rising under his collar. “I have lab assistants—great ones,” he hurries to say, hoping this buries the words caught in his throat.

“I might know someone.”

Jayce swears he sees the corners of the yordle’s moustache rising as Mel draws his attention away. She gracefully pulls him into the tailwinds of a disagreement over trade with Councillor Bolbok, which he soothes with a gentle insinuated promise about Hexgate access. She relaxes back into her seat, giving him a tiny, satisfied smile.

With his morning tied up with a neat little bow and the sun creeping ever higher, he is blissfully relieved to be dismissed when the council’s concerns shift. Giving Cassandra Kiramman a nod of respectful acknowledgement and staunchly avoiding Mel’s gaze to avoid appearing too smug at their little political farce, he exits the chambers and walks straight into the past.

All breath leaves his body at once, a shock so pure it feels like he might actually faint.

There, perched on a little golden bench across from the council chambers, is Viktor. It’s been almost two years since he’s seen his partner’s face in person, but there it is, soft and beautiful, not yet aware of Jayce’s presence. Viktor’s crutch lays across his thighs, and it’s such a familiar pose; it’s like he’s been there for Jayce all along, a memory he’s somehow made flesh.

Light filters through the glass panes behind Viktor, catching tiny particles that almost appear luminous in its beams. His chin tips back to greet the sun like a flower seeking sustenance. He looks much the same as how Jayce remembers him before they parted. Sharp as a knife, an elegant face sculpted from shadow into peaks and valleys that he knows as well as his own fingerprints. His hair is longer than Jayce has ever seen him wear it, deep auburn and wild. Jayce aches to touch him with a hunger that feels like madness—at the same time, he’s terrified even the lightest brush might shatter some illusion he’s found himself trapped by.

Instead, he catalogues each detail he can find: Viktor looks sick, hollowed out. His skin is thin as spun gossamer, gone nearly translucent so he can see the blue of his veins pressing through like striations on marble. To see him so diminished breaks Jayce apart and makes him whole again all at once, because, impossibly, madly, Viktor is here. He’s alive and not miles away, choking to death in the tomb of the Undercity that Jayce knows, has to know, can’t help but to know he sent him back to.

Time seems to bend like molten glass, simultaneously stretching backward and rushing forth. The ghosts become him, a torrent of arguments they never even had, apologies he’s written and rewritten in his mind. He wants to run from the shame that wrecks him, wants to fall on his knees like a supplicant, beg like a dog.

All he can manage is a shaky exhale bearing the other man’s name.

“Viktor.”

(Read the first chapter) (Read the next chapter on AO3)

AN: This was chapter two, 'Ghostland', from our fic Lies We Tell Ourselves! you can read the rest on AO3, where we've posted up to chapter 14!! (and we update tomorrow + a SPECIAL Valentine's day update on friday in addition to our usual Sunday chapter!) we'll continue to post full chapters here for funsies though :)) Thanks for reading and reblogging!! it's very dear to us 💖

[oddclangen]

Family tree time!!!

Since FluffFluff are mates i decided too combine their families for this one.

I start on Fidgetfluff side, She is a half-clan kit and her father is a warrior of FluffyClan. Elenctrone is still alive and doing fine, but he just doesnt talk with his kits. His relationships with Condortrail where more of a one time thing after which they went on their separate ways. F

Fidgetfluff unfortunately lost all her siblings over time. Heatherkit died from heat stroke just before his apprenticeship ceremony. While Gulldusk drowned on her way off the mountain trying to join a rouge group. Her Clanmate tried to save her, but died as well.

So yeah at least Fidgetfluff has her husband.

There not much to say about Fluffbramble, he is a very sweet boy who is kind to others. He is like his mother in that regard. As of now his best friend in the Clan is Bluewind. which is fun.

[letters-to-rosie]

chapter 35: soft launch, hard landing

When Powder was a child, any time late-night reruns of Bluewind would come on, Vander would call it hogwash and change the channel. They didn’t have cable, so there were only like five channels, but he would always change it. It took her a while to figure out why, but then Mrs. Garcia, her first foster mother, said something that cleared the murky waters.

Reeves was the voice of the Undercity. If anyone from south of the bridge was consulted on the show, they must’ve held similar opinions. Whenever Reeves was allowed to be more than the butt of the joke, he would dispense “knowledge” about the way trenchers thought and behaved, and nothing in the show’s universe ever contradicted him.

Once, when Powder was in treatment and taking a break from her degree, she was sitting with Vi, and she got another story. According to Vander, their birth father had made The Last Drop roar with laughter whenever he’d impersonate Reeves. That is the other side of the coin; the character is in the same breath a denigration and a tongue-in-cheek Undercity joke. Imitation is the sincerest form of mockery. As long as everyone’s in on it, it's funny. But if someone calls you Reeves and means it? Different story.

-

Powder stirs up trouble as the city plunges into (even more than usual) chaos and (day)dreams about Ekko.

[apaise]

❛ I stayed up to talk to you. ❜ lydia @ chrissy

still groggily gathering her bearings, it takes chrissy a second to remember what happened last night. ( waking up next to lydia had made her think she was still dreaming for a second, after all. ) but then everything comes flooding back quick, all the talk of the future and dreams and . . . pottery? cooking classes? on spur of the moment, they had decided to embark on some self-discovery together; chrissy just hopes that it was serious and not just fun speculation ( she's learned by now that scientists are all about their hypotheses . . . ).

the only way to be certain is to check with lydia again, maybe guitar in hand tonight. but that's for later, right now chrissy has to tend to the pretty girl currently shrinking right into her green blanket.

❝ right, ❞ chrissy chuckles, finding it cute the way lydia says it like it was something much more scandalous ( her embarrassment probably spurred on by the just audible chatter of her family downstairs ). ❝ thank you. ❞ resisting the urge to give that reddening cheek a quick kiss, chrissy simply tucks lydia in more comfortably.

❝ not to worry. i'm an expert at sneaking out of bedrooms, ❞ she reassures with a grin as she climbs out from the bed -- and then hears how unintentionally promiscuous that sounded. ❝ or uh, i mean -- i'm a good climber. ❞ she quickly corrects, waving a hand as if to bat away any potential inklings of her other past escapades. chrissy's used to being a bit more free-speaking in the talking stage, but with lydia, it's different. she really wants lydia to like her, not the image she's built.

she goes to open lydia's window, but upon opening the curtains, she's immediately met with an obstacle. the stark household is a lot more, uh -- public than the venues chrissy's used to. she can see the inhabitants of bluewind court already all out on their morning promenades, and if she climbs out now . . . they would see her, too.

gingerly closing the curtains again, chrissy returns ( a bit too happily ) to bed. ❝ okay. maybe we need a little more strategical planning. you guys don't happen to have a bunch of secret underground tunnels, do you? ❞

[jamiebluewind]

I want everybody to know that I am mentally screaming to some degree over everything I reblog ever, but I used to write unique comments in every post I reblogged YEARS ago, it took me hours because I was always sincere, and when I became disabled, there wasn't enough energy to do it anymore. I felt guilty if I reblogged something that I didn't comment on some way or that I didn't tag "properly", so I stopped reblogging anything over guilt. I told myself that I would like things to reblog when I had energy... but I never had enough energy. The likes built up, the guilt ate at me because it was "such a small thing" to write on a post and it would mean so much to some people know someone appreciated what they did, the drafts became full of half finished untagged posts that never got posted that I STILL haven't gone through, and eventually? I left.

I eventually came back YEARS later to a blog with mostly dead accounts and bots as followers. I started reblogging whatever I wanted to. No "theme". No rhythm or reason. I tagged spoilers, common triggers, and maybe the fandom (if it had one), but that's it. I add a few more tags than I did when I first got back, but it's not the bloated list it was. I talk in the tags now too (instead of worrying about it impacting my "sorting system"). Occasionally I say something, but that's more because something popped in my head and not because of obligation. I don't feel like I'm failing them or playing favorites if I don't tell every person what I think about their post. I just let myself be human. Just like I would let everybody else. Just like I hope op lets themselves be.

Reblogs are how things spread. They are how my friends get what they created to a random person who might want a commission. They are how theories and headcanons and silly in jokes and information travel from one to another to another until we look down and see a number in the MILLIONS. Small actions still matter. Never appologize for doing something good just because hypothetically you could have done more.

im so so sorry to every artist who's art ive ever reblogged without gushing in the tags. you deserve it im just so tired. ill do better i promise

[jamiebluewind]

Honestly, I feel Janet from The Good Place. I too have people in my life that I have to say "Not a girl" to on a regular basis.

[jamiebluewind]

I fired my aide

I fired my aide

Holy crap, I fired my aide

Anxiety is like

but I'm coping. I was honest with him and told him I tried so hard with him, but I couldn't risk my life. My bestie/roommate is here helping me calm down. My aide will keep working til a replacement is found (ho boy do I have feelings on THAT), but then he'll be gone. It's over.

[jamiebluewind]

Watched the latest episode of Fantasy High tonight. There was much screaming and stimming.

[jamiebluewind]

Me: *just chillin*

My brain: You know what this needs? A massive unnecessary anxiety spike!

Me: No??????

My brain:

Me:

[jamiebluewind]

GUESS WHO'S IN THE HOSPITAL AND FREAKING OUT ALL THE NURSES WOO!

[jamiebluewind]

I have a pretty bad food allergy, so I carry around an epipen. I've never reacted bad enough that immediate benadryl wouldn't fix my issues, but I still have an epipen. My doctor made it clear that just because I haven't needed one in the past, doesn't mean I won't react badly enough to need it in the future. So! I have them and everybody close to me know where they are and how to use them.

So what does this have to do with most of the tags I put? Right now, things are serious in the states and a lot of things can go a lot of ways for people like me. So, my autistic ass is making a metaphorical epipen (an epi-plan if you will 😎 ) for whatever may come. What to do, where to go, how to do, and all that. I'll make sure that everybody I care about knows and maybe coordinate and share information with anyone interested. And then? It goes in the junk drawer to only see the light of day when I remind everyone once a year or so and in case of something bad going down.

Am I irritated? Your god damn right I am! But I'm still chilling at home watching cats play instead of running off or acting rashly.

Do I ever want to be in a position that I need to use one (real or metaphorical)? Hell no! It's something you hope you never have to use, BUT you're grateful to have one when you need it. When things get serious, they help you make it to a place where you can get help.

[applesharonfiction]

I have no notion of loving people by halves, it is not my nature

Rating: M

Relationship: Jayce/Viktor

Ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/36961009/chapters/92215699

Years after his partnership with Viktor and their subsequent falling out, Jayce Giopara receives some bad news. (Divorce-era mystery. Fake character death.)

_________

Caitlyn appears on his doorstep at 9:00.

He erroneously assumes that the bell ringing is yet another young protégé from the Workshop and feels a headache gathering behind his temples already.

Bluewind Court is massive, guarded with its own private security separate from the city enforcers, and supposedly guarantees absolute privacy. As Jayce has learned over the years, this illusion of privacy only applies to those whom the mercantile clans and families deem beneath them.

Those who Jayce once, and still to some extent does, deem beneath him.

If the Horological Institute trainees spent more time on whatever their patrons had them hard at work creating and less time darkening his doorstep, surely they would have discovered something useful by now.

Surely they would have been able to create something that would challenge him.

He hasn’t been challenged in years he tells himself despite knowing already the depth of the lie.

“May I come in?” A sharp familiar voice calls out to him loudly from the foyer.

It lacks Caitlyn’s usual, sarcastic quality, which immediately puts Jayce on edge as he sets aside the spanner he had been mindlessly tinkering with. He’ll be the first to admit that he lacks social graces, or the ability to pick up on emotional cues of others, but something about her voice strikes him as off-putting.

He hopes it’s all in his imagination, and purposefully plasters a smile onto his face.

“Cait! I didn’t know you were in the neighbourhood.”

It’s a small joke between them — how Caitlyn’s partner is from the undercity and precipitated a separation from her parents that had been years upon years in the making. Caitlyn lives far away from Bluewind Court and the riches of North Piltover by choice.

Part of him loathes her for it; for having the bravery that he never had himself.

Jayce will never tell her this.

Caitlyn knows this anyway, having seen the anger on his face during a rare night of drinking, all four of them. While glaring at her hand in Vi’s, Jayce had waxed sarcastically on the all-consuming power of love as Viktor had watched the argument at Jayce’s side, laughing into his drink.

As she walks into the room, footsteps surprisingly softer than her usual confident stomping, Jayce tries to remember the last time they talked.

He can’t remember.

[jamiebluewind]

My goal is to make you feel, but that's not always a good thing.

"you have a responsibility to consider how your writing would affect other people" literally 50% of writing is manipulating the audience by setting tone and mood and drawing them in to fuck with their emotions. writers do NOTHING but consider how our writing is affecting other people and this is implying that our moral imperative is to make them feel warm and fuzzy which it is not