#but Something Else is happening that idk what it is yet

[goldfades]

baby time. | JOE BURROW⁹ [007]

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MASTERLIST

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 3.5k

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | your son's birth!

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | mentions of birth (who would have thought!?), not too descriptive, joe being the sweetest baby daddy EVERRR, maisie being the coolest aunt, mentions of water-breaking, descriptions of contractions, idk what else but... it's pretty soft!

APRIL 9TH, 2022

𝐈𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐘 𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓. The kind where the quiet hum of the fan filled the room and the soft rhythm of Joe’s breathing set a peaceful background to your restless tossing and turning. Pregnancy sleep was its own brand of chaos—you were hot, then cold, then uncomfortable, then starving. The baby wasn’t even here yet, and they already had your schedule on a tight leash.

Sighing, you swung your legs over the side of the bed, the cool floor a small relief against your aching feet. The bedside clock glowed faintly: 3:27 a.m.

Joe stirred beside you, murmuring something incoherent before settling back into his usual sprawl. He looked so peaceful, one arm flung over his head, the other draped protectively over the empty side of the bed you’d just vacated.

You shuffled toward the bathroom, rubbing a hand over your belly as if to soothe the little one nestled there. "Let’s not make this a nightly thing, okay?" you muttered. The baby gave a single, emphatic kick in response.

Just as you reached for the bathroom door, it happened—a warm gush that stopped you in your tracks.

For a split second, you froze, your sleep-addled brain scrambling to make sense of what just happened. Did I…? No, it couldn’t be. But the dampness spreading down your legs told a very different story.

“Oh, no,” you whispered, wide-eyed.

Your water had broken.

The realization hit like a bolt of lightning, and panic surged through your veins. You weren’t ready. The baby wasn’t ready. Nothing was ready.

“Joe,” you croaked, your voice barely above a whisper as you stood there, utterly frozen. Then louder, more urgent: “Joe!”

He shot up immediately, eyes wild with the disorientation of someone ripped from deep sleep. “What? What’s wrong?” His voice was thick, his hair sticking up in every direction.

“My water,” you stammered, gesturing vaguely to the puddle on the floor. “It broke. It’s happening. The baby’s coming. Right now.”

Joe blinked at you, his brain clearly lagging behind your words. Then his eyes darted down, taking in the scene.

“Oh, shit,” he said, throwing the covers off and leaping out of bed. “Okay, okay. Don’t freak out.”

“I’m not freaking out,” you said, though your trembling hands and rapid-fire breathing told a very different story. “I’m just… processing.”

“Processing is good,” Joe said, nodding like a man trying very hard not to freak out himself. “Processing is great. Let’s… uh, let’s get to the hospital.”

He darted to the closet, yanking out a duffle bag you’d packed weeks ago. Thank God for Maisie, who had insisted on the just-in-case preparations.

“Where are your shoes?” he asked, rummaging through the closet like it was a black hole.

“I don’t know!” you wailed, clutching the dresser for support as another wave of panic rolled through you. “Joe, I can’t do this. It’s too early. What if something’s wrong? What if—”

“Hey, hey,” he said, dropping the bag and crossing the room in two long strides. He cupped your face in his hands, his blue eyes locking onto yours. “You can do this. We can do this. Everything’s going to be fine.”

His voice was calm, steady, and just grounding enough to slow the whirlwind in your head. You nodded, taking a shaky breath.

“Good,” he said, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead before stepping back. “Now, let’s get you out of these wet clothes, okay?”

A flurry of activity followed—Joe helping you into fresh leggings and one of his sweatshirts, both of you scrambling to gather last-minute items. The whole time, you couldn’t stop glancing at the clock. Was this really happening? Right now?

By the time you made it to the car, Joe had shifted into full quarterback mode, his focus laser-sharp as he buckled you in and started the engine.

“You good?” he asked, glancing over at you as he pulled out of the driveway.

You nodded, clutching your belly as the first faint contraction rippled through you. “I think so.”

The drive to the hospital felt both endless and impossibly fast. Joe kept glancing at you, his hand gripping the wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white.

“You okay?” he asked every few minutes.

“I’m fine,” you said, though your voice wavered as the contractions grew stronger. “Just keep driving.”

When you finally pulled up to the hospital, everything blurred into a chaotic rush—nurses, wheelchairs, bright lights, and a flurry of paperwork that Joe handled while you focused on breathing through the increasingly intense waves of pain.

“This is it,” he said softly as the nurse wheeled you toward a delivery room, his hand warm and steady on your shoulder. “We’re going to meet our baby.”

And just like that, the panic ebbed, replaced by a strange, calm anticipation. Because no matter how unprepared you felt, you knew one thing for certain: you weren’t doing this alone. Joe was there, and you were a team.

The hospital room was a blur of sterile white and cold tile floors, softened only slightly by the hum of machines monitoring your every breath and beat. You hadn’t even been in the room for an hour, but it already felt like days. The contractions were still mild, coming in waves that tightened your belly and sent a ripple of discomfort through your lower back.

Joe stood by the window, his phone pressed to his ear, his face tight with concentration. The fluorescent light overhead cast sharp angles on his features, making the exhaustion in his eyes more pronounced. He ran a hand through his hair for what felt like the hundredth time, a nervous tic that betrayed the calm front he was trying to keep up.

“Yeah, Mom,” he said, his voice low but insistent. “Her water broke a couple hours ago. We’re at the hospital now.”

You could hear Robin’s voice on the other end, shrill with concern even though she was hours away in Athens. Joe flinched slightly, pulling the phone an inch from his ear as he glanced back at you.

“She’s okay,” he assured her, though his eyes flicked nervously toward the monitors beeping steadily by your bedside. “It’s early, but the doctors aren’t worried. They said everything looks good so far.”

You shifted on the bed, trying to find a position that didn’t make your hips feel like they were being pried apart. Easier said than done. Joe noticed immediately, his brow furrowing as he mouthed, You good?

You nodded, even though you weren’t entirely sure it was true.

“Mom, I gotta go,” he said, cutting her off mid-sentence. “I’ll keep you updated, okay? Love you. Bye.”

He hung up and exhaled sharply, dragging a chair closer to your bedside and sinking into it. His hand found yours automatically, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a steady rhythm.

“My parents are driving up right now,” he said, managing a small, wry smile. “Mom’s freaking out, of course. Told me to tell you she loves you and to hang in there.”

You smiled faintly, though your heart clenched a little at the thought of your parents, who were currently halfway across the country on a long-awaited vacation. Timing really was everything.

“They’re gonna feel so guilty about missing this,” you murmured, wincing as another contraction started to build.

Joe squeezed your hand. “They’ll be here soon enough. And Maisie’s on her way—she’ll probably get here before I even figure out how to fold that damn swaddle blanket.”

That managed to pull a weak laugh out of you, even as the contraction peaked, forcing you to close your eyes and breathe through the sharp wave of pain. Joe immediately sat up straighter, his free hand hovering uncertainly over your leg like he wanted to help but didn’t know how.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” you said through gritted teeth. “That one was just… a little stronger.”

He nodded, his jaw tightening. “Should I call the nurse?”

You shook your head, exhaling shakily as the contraction ebbed. “Not yet. They said this could take a while.”

Joe’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he looked like he wanted to argue, but the sound of the door opening cut him off. A nurse bustled in, her smile professional and calm as she checked your vitals and updated the monitor.

“Everything’s looking good,” she said brightly, glancing between you and Joe. “First babies can take their time, though, so try to relax as much as you can. I’ll be back in a little while to check on you again.”

Relax. Right.

The door had barely swung shut behind her when Joe’s phone buzzed on the bedside table. He snatched it up, glancing at the screen. “Maisie’s downstairs. I’ll go grab her, okay?”

You nodded, watching him go with a mix of relief and unease. As much as you appreciated his constant presence, the nervous energy radiating off him was almost suffocating. Maybe Maisie would help diffuse some of the tension.

Maisie arrived like a whirlwind, her hair pulled into a messy bun and a to-go coffee cup in one hand.

“Oh my God,” she said, rushing to your side. “You look… okay, actually. Better than I thought you’d look after your water broke in the middle of the night.”

“Gee, thanks,” you said dryly, but the corner of your mouth twitched upward despite the ache in your back.

Joe reappeared behind her, carrying a paper bag you could only assume was filled with the snacks Maisie insisted on bringing every time you so much as sneezed.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, plopping into the chair Joe had vacated and immediately taking over the hand-holding duties. “Is it bad yet?”

“It’s… manageable,” you said, though another contraction building in the distance made you wonder how long that would last.

Joe stood by the window again, arms crossed as he stared out at the dark parking lot below. Maisie glanced at him, then back at you, lowering her voice.

“How’s he doing?” she asked, her tone laced with concern.

You sighed. “He’s trying. But you know Joe—he doesn’t like not being in control. And this… well, this is definitely not something he can control.”

Maisie nodded knowingly, squeezing your hand. “Well, that’s what I’m here for. To distract him and annoy him until he forgets how stressed he is.”

You laughed softly, but the sound was cut off by the sharp onset of another contraction. Maisie’s grip on your hand tightened, her expression shifting to one of fierce determination.

“Breathe through it,” she coached, her voice calm and steady. “You’ve got this.”

Joe turned from the window, his eyes darting to you as if he could feel the shift in the room.

“Another one?” he asked, stepping closer.

You nodded, focusing on the slow, measured breaths Maisie was guiding you through. When it finally passed, you leaned back against the pillows, utterly drained.

Joe brushed a strand of hair out of your face, his touch gentle. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

You managed a tired smile. “I’m just trying to survive the night.”

Joe glanced at Maisie, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. For once, they seemed to be on the same team, united in their shared mission to get you through this.

And as the clock ticked past four in the morning, you realized just how long this night was going to be.

┈┈┈

Time in the labor room felt elastic, stretching and warping with every contraction that rolled over you like a storm. By now, the initial nerves had morphed into something heavier, grittier, as the reality of what lay ahead began to sink in. The monitor beside you beeped steadily, a metronome marking time in an endless loop as the contractions grew stronger and closer together.

Joe hadn’t sat down in what felt like hours. He hovered near your bedside, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, looking like he was ready to throw a block or tackle someone if it would make this easier for you. His hand was a near-permanent fixture in yours, and though he winced every time you squeezed too hard, he never once pulled away.

The nurse entered again, her calm professionalism a steadying presence in the chaos. “How are we doing?” she asked, pulling on gloves as she approached.

“How does it look like we’re doing?” you managed, the bite in your voice softened by the sheer exhaustion that clung to every word.

Joe rubbed soothing circles into your back with his free hand. “She’s hanging in there,” he answered for you, though his voice was tight with worry.

The nurse smiled, unbothered. “Let’s see where we’re at.” She glanced at the monitor, then moved to check your progress. “You’re about six centimeters now. Things are definitely moving along, but we’ve still got a little ways to go.”

Six centimeters. You wanted to cry, both because of how far you’d come and how much farther you still had to go.

“Is there anything we can do to help?” Joe asked, his tone almost desperate.

The nurse tilted her head thoughtfully. “Walking can help speed things up, if she’s up for it. Otherwise, we’ll just keep monitoring and let nature take its course.”

Walking sounded like the most impossible thing in the world, but the thought of lying in this bed for several more hours wasn’t much better. You nodded weakly.

Joe sprang into action, gently untangling your hand from his to help you sit up. The shift in position sent a sharp wave of discomfort through your lower back, and you sucked in a breath.

“Easy,” he murmured, his hands firm but careful as he steadied you. “Take your time.”

Maisie appeared at the foot of the bed, her expression a mix of concern and determination. “You’re a warrior, babe. Let’s do this.”

With their help, you managed to swing your legs over the side of the bed and stand, though your knees wobbled like a newborn fawn’s. Joe wrapped an arm securely around your waist, holding most of your weight as you shuffled toward the door.

The hallway was quiet, dimly lit in the eerie way only hospitals managed, and you could feel the curious stares of passing nurses and doctors. Every few steps, a contraction would stop you in your tracks, forcing you to cling to Joe as you breathed through the pain.

“You’re doing so good,” he said softly, his lips brushing your temple.

You didn’t have the energy to respond, but you leaned into him, drawing strength from his presence.

By the time you made it back to the room, the contractions were coming hard and fast, leaving little room to breathe between them. You collapsed onto the bed with a groan, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes as the nurse reappeared to check on you again.

“You’re at eight centimeters,” she announced, giving you an encouraging smile. “We’re getting closer.”

“Closer,” you echoed faintly, as though the word had lost all meaning.

Joe crouched beside you, his hand brushing your hair away from your sweaty forehead. “You’re almost there, babe. Just a little longer.”

“Easy for you to say,” you muttered, though there was no heat behind the words.

Maisie snorted from her seat in the corner. “He’d probably pass out if he had to do half of what you’re doing.”

“Not helping, Maisie,” Joe said, though his lips twitched upward for the briefest moment.

The tension in the room ebbed slightly, replaced by a flicker of warmth. But it didn’t last long. Another contraction ripped through you, stealing the air from your lungs and making you cry out. Joe immediately shifted closer, his hand gripping yours like a lifeline.

“You’re okay,” he murmured, his voice steady even as his eyes filled with helplessness. “Breathe, baby. I’ve got you.”

You tried to focus on his voice, on the grounding sensation of his hand in yours, but the pain was relentless, all-consuming. By the time the contraction finally subsided, you were trembling, tears streaming silently down your cheeks.

“I can’t do this,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Joe’s grip on your hand tightened. “Yes, you can. You’re the strongest person I know. You’ve got this.”

Maisie appeared at your other side, her hand resting lightly on your shoulder. “He’s right. You’ve already done the impossible—this is just the final push, literally.”

You managed a weak laugh through your tears, though it quickly dissolved into a sob as another contraction loomed on the horizon.

Joe leaned closer, pressing his forehead to yours. “We’re gonna meet our baby soon,” he said softly, his voice thick with emotion. “Just hold on a little longer.”

And so you did. With every ounce of strength you had left, you held on, clinging to Joe’s steady presence as the hours stretched on. Time lost all meaning, the only markers the intensifying contractions and the quiet reassurances of the nurses who moved in and out of the room like clockwork.

By the time the nurse announced you were fully dilated and ready to push, exhaustion weighed heavy on you, but there was a spark of determination in your chest.

Joe’s hand never left yours, his voice never wavered. And as you braced yourself for the final stretch, you knew that no matter how long or painful this night turned out to be, you weren’t facing it alone.

And finally, the time had come.

The world seemed to narrow to a single, blinding focus as you pushed, every ounce of energy you had left poured into this final effort. The voices of the medical team swirled around you—encouraging, instructing—but all you could truly hear was Joe.

His voice was steady, firm but soft, like a lighthouse in a storm. “You’ve got this, baby. You’re so close. I’m right here.” His hand gripped yours with unwavering strength, grounding you when you felt like you were splintering apart.

Another push. The room tilted slightly, your vision swimming as exhaustion tugged at your every muscle. But then—then—there was a shift in the air, a crescendo of activity from the doctors, and suddenly, the sound you’d been waiting for burst into the room.

A cry.

A wail so raw and new that it seemed to rip through every other sound, anchoring you firmly back to reality.

Joe’s breath hitched beside you, a sharp inhale as he straightened up, his eyes wide and unblinking. “He’s here,” he whispered, like he couldn’t quite believe it. “He’s here.”

Maisie, who had been pacing like a caged animal near the back of the room, let out a sob so loud and unrestrained it made one of the nurses jump. “Oh my god, oh my god! It’s a boy! He’s really here!”

Her tears came in rivers, and she pressed a tissue to her face, smearing mascara into a black mess. “I’m never going to be normal again!” she wailed, though her voice cracked with joy.

Through the haze of pain and exhaustion, you felt the weight of your baby being placed on your chest. The tiny, warm bundle shifted against you, his cries tapering off as he rooted instinctively. His skin was pink and wrinkled, his hair a dark tuft of softness.

You could barely see through the tears streaming down your face, but none of that mattered. “Hi,” you choked out, your voice cracking. “Hi, baby. We’ve been waiting for you.”

Joe leaned over you, his face inches from the baby’s, his own tears spilling freely now. His hand trembled as he brushed a finger against the baby’s tiny fist, which curled immediately around it. “Hey, buddy,” Joe said, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re perfect.”

It was 7:09 a.m., and the sun was rising outside the hospital window, casting the room in a golden glow. Time seemed to stop for a moment, the three of you cocooned in a bubble of love and relief.

Maisie sniffled dramatically from her corner. “He’s going to be the quarterback of my heart forever.” She clutched at her chest like she was physically overwhelmed. “I’m gonna buy him so many tiny football jerseys, you don’t even understand.”

Joe let out a wet laugh, shaking his head as he kissed the top of your hair. “Maisie, give it an hour before you start planning his draft.”

“Nope. I’m in it for life,” she shot back, though her voice wavered with emotion.

The baby stirred against you, his little nose scrunching up as he adjusted to the strange, new world. Joe pressed another kiss to your forehead before pulling back slightly, his eyes shining as they met yours.

“You’re amazing,” he said, his voice cracking. “I can’t believe you did that. He’s here, and he’s ours.”

A shaky laugh escaped you. “I can’t believe it either. Look at him, Joe. He’s perfect.”

Joe nodded, his jaw tightening as another wave of emotion hit him. “Yeah. He really is.”

The two of you stayed like that for a long moment, the chaos of the world outside fading into nothingness. It didn’t matter that you were exhausted, or that your body ached in ways you hadn’t known it could.

What mattered was the tiny life cradled against you, the miracle you and Joe had created together.

Your son.

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[deathbringer]

does anyone besides me ever get preoccupied with how mind chess and the magatama kind of serve as yet more wrightworth character foil ammunition?

like, mind chess on its face appears to be exactly what it is: treating people like a strategy game, getting to the truth not via warmth but via logic. of course it's miles edgeworth, who the papers used to label inhuman, doing this, right? except when you look at it for more than two fucking seconds you realize that there is so much actual heart in the correct paths to the truth that it's almost insane. the games punish you for being needlessly cruel and playing to demon prosecutor stereotype. miles isn't callously treating people like pawns--he's using the chess framework to make the erratic nature of humanity a little less baffling.

meanwhile phoenix wright is fully out here supernaturally intimidating people. i love him and i love the magatama as a mechanic but every indication seems to point to "breaking a lock = causing some form and degree of psychic distress." yeah there's catharsis in the mix too but even so, it can only happen after a relentless onslaught of damning evidence. phoenix is complicated and full of bitchy depths but it's a core trait that he cares deeply about the people around him, and about humanity as a whole, and people see that commitment to defending the good from--sorry--a mile away. so you'd think he'd be the one with an investigative mechanic that leaves so much room for delicately picking people apart.

(sure, phoenix isn't a chess guy, but maybe that art school background could have come in clutch? except trying to imagine that just doesn't work, because the magatama is also a big, bright indicator of his bond with the feys. and there's something else to be made, i think, of miles' chess set as a commonly-known and relatively impersonal iconography versus the magatama's deeply personal and relatively obscure symbolic meaning.)

idk it just makes me want to gnaw the drywall a little bit.

[sonarspace]

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆STUDY BREAK (FT. GOJO)

꒰ synopsis. being in the same class as gojo satoru was bad enough; having him as the professor’s insufferably smug assistant made it worse. content. college au. nsfw. (teasing. slight praise kınk. fıngering. oräl. p in v. multiple ōrgasms.) wc. 5.3k. an. to clear up any confusion 😭.. satoru’s a senior student + the professor’s assistant in the course you’re both taking. (fic is kinda all over the place so idk if this works but let’s pretend like it does).

there’s something about gojo satoru that drives you insane. not in the fun, heart-fluttering way that comes with a secret crush or the thrill of banter. no—this is the kind of insane where you want to hurl something, preferably at his stupidly smug face.

“class,” he drawls, leaning lazily against the desk at the front of the room, his shirt slightly rumpled like he doesn’t give a damn—and he doesn’t. “these papers? a mixed bag. some of you really impressed me. others… well.” his lips curve into a smirk. “let’s just say the recycling bin was hungry.”

you groan inwardly, already sensing where this is going. he’s done this before, holding your work hostage like it’s part of his routine entertainment.

“and here,” he continues, brandishing a paper like a prop. your paper. “is a prime example of someone… almost getting there. strong ideas, decent execution, but the conclusion? oof. fell harder than my GPA sophomore year.”

a few students laugh. your jaw tightens, the heat in your chest bubbling up into something sharp and biting. he doesn’t have to name you; everyone knows exactly whose paper he’s waving around.

“anyway,” he finishes with a shrug, tossing the paper onto the desk like it’s disposable. “there’s potential. keep at it.”

you don’t even wait for class to end before your resolve solidifies: you’re going to kill him. maybe not literally, but metaphorically? absolutely.

you don’t plan on storming to his dorm room. it just… happens. one moment, you’re replaying his smug grin and the way his eyes gleamed when he mocked your paper, and the next, you’re standing outside his door, your fist raised to knock.

he answers quickly, and the sight of him makes you falter. his hair is damp, sticking out in soft tufts like he just got out of the shower, and his plain white t-shirt clings to him in a way that’s almost—no. you shake the thought away.

“well, this is unexpected,” he says, leaning against the doorframe with a grin that’s all teeth. “if you wanted private tutoring, you could’ve just asked.”

“don’t flatter yourself,” you snap, brushing past him into the room without waiting for an invitation.

he whistles low under his breath. “feisty tonight. to what do I owe the pleasure?”

you spin to face him, your hands clenched at your sides. “what is your problem with me?”

he blinks, his smirk faltering for a fraction of a second before returning full force. “problem? sweetheart, i don’t have a problem with you.”

“you humiliate me in class,” you say, your voice rising. “you make these comments, you single me out—what, are you that bored with your life?”

“humiliate?” he echoes, feigning a wounded look. “i think you mean ‘motivate.’ you’re one of the smartest people in that class. if i don’t push you, who will?”

“that’s bullshit,” you fire back, stepping closer. “you don’t ‘push’ anyone else.”

“because no one else is as fun,” he replies easily, his grin tilting into something sharper. “the way you react, the fire in your eyes—it’s addictive.”

your breath catches, the heat in your chest spreading to your cheeks. “you’re insufferable.”

“and yet, here you are,” he says, his voice dropping just enough to make the air between you feel heavier. “in my room. alone.”

“because you drive me crazy,” you snap, the words tumbling out before you can stop them.

his eyebrows lift slightly, as if he’s genuinely intrigued by your outburst. “good crazy or bad crazy?”

he takes a step closer, too close. the kind of close that makes your pulse stutter and your instincts scream at you to step back—but you don’t. instead, you stand your ground, your jaw clenched as he waits for your answer, his gaze steady and almost daring.

“what does it matter?” you mutter, your voice quieter now, the heat of your earlier anger ebbing into something more uncertain.

“it matters,” he says, his voice low as his eyes flicker to your lips. “because I need to know if I can do this.”

before you can ask what he means, he leans in, his lips brushing against yours like he’s giving you the chance to pull away. but you don’t. his hand finds your waist, tugging you closer as the kiss deepens, his mouth hot and insistent against yours.

it’s like a dam breaking. weeks—months—of tension and unspoken words all come crashing down in a rush of heat and urgency. his other hand slides into your hair, tilting your head to kiss you deeper, and the sound you make in response is embarrassing and needy, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

you should stop this. you should push him away, tell him he’s crossed a line. but the way his thumb brushes against your waist, the way he tilts his head just right, the way he kisses like he’s been waiting for this moment as long as you have—it’s addictive. you can’t stop. you don’t want to.

but then reality slams into you like a cold gust of wind. what are you doing? your chest tightens as the weight of it crashes down all at once, the heat between you dissolving into something sharper, more terrifying.

you pull back abruptly, your breathing uneven. “i can’t.”

he blinks, his expression softening from one of heat to confusion. “what?”

“this—this is a mistake,” you stammer, backing away. your hands feel clumsy as they fumble behind you for the door. “i shouldn’t have come here.”

“wait.” his hand reaches out, almost instinctively, but you’re already opening the door, your chest tight and your mind racing as you step out into the hall. you don’t look back, even as the warmth of his touch lingers on your skin.

────

you avoid him after that. in class, you sit as far from him as possible, claiming a seat in the back corner, close to the door. the usual tension he brought to the room—his teasing remarks, his piercing gaze when he caught you rolling your eyes—feels conspicuously absent. he doesn’t call on you, doesn’t glance your way, doesn’t even acknowledge you.

it’s been weeks since that night in his dorm, and as the semester nears its end, the distance feels heavier with every passing class. his silence, once the thing you desperately wanted, now presses on your chest like a weight. you wonder if he regrets it, if he’s just as caught in the what-ifs as you are—or if he’s already forgotten.

the final project looms, deadlines creeping closer, but the distraction isn’t enough to stop the quiet ache that’s settled in your chest. you remind yourself it’s for the best. boundaries were crossed, a line you know you shouldn’t have stepped over. it doesn’t matter how he made you feel, how his kisses left you breathless and yearning. none of it matters.

and yet, every time you leave class, you rush, head down, praying he won’t stop you. and every time he doesn’t, the ache grows.

when class ends today, the air feels heavier than usual. your peers chatter around you, their voices blending into background noise as you pack your things quickly, eyes fixed on the door. if you can just slip out unnoticed, avoid another day of walking the tightrope you’ve been balancing on since that night—

but then a hand wraps gently around your wrist, warm and familiar.

“you’re avoiding me,” he says, his voice low and steady. there’s no edge to it, no teasing grin or smug undertone. just quiet certainty, like he’s stating a fact.

you freeze, your heart thudding in your chest. it’s been so long since he’s said anything to you that the sound of his voice directed at you feels foreign.

“i’m late,” you mumble, tugging your wrist weakly in an attempt to free yourself. “let me go.”

“you don’t have any classes after this,” he says, his grip loosening but not letting go. his eyes meet yours, calm but resolute. “i checked your schedule.”

your jaw tightens, irritation flashing through you. “you shouldn’t have access to my schedule.”

“probably not,” he admits with a shrug, a hint of the old satoru creeping into his voice, “but i’m me.”

you open your mouth to snap at him, to tell him to back off, but he cuts you off first. “come have coffee with me.”

you blink, caught off guard by the casual offer. “what?”

“coffee,” he repeats, his tone light, as if this is perfectly normal. “you like coffee, don’t you?”

“that’s not the point,” you snap, yanking your wrist free from his grasp. “what is this, some weird apology?”

“it’s not weird,” he says, his smirk faltering slightly now, his expression open and strangely earnest. “it’s just coffee. with me.”

you stare at him, struggling to find the right words. “gojo,” you begin, your voice heavy, “you and i are not friends.”

his face falls, the shift so quick and unexpected that it makes your stomach twist. you see the way his shoulders tense, the way his gaze drops for just a moment, but you force yourself to look away. without giving him a chance to reply, you turn and push past him, your steps quick and unsteady as you leave the classroom.

the ache in your chest grows with every step, and even as you round the corner, out of sight, the image of his expression lingers. there’s no relief this time. only guilt.

────

you don’t know why you’re here. no, that’s a lie—you know exactly why you’re here. the memory of his expression, the slight drop of his shoulders at your retort, has been looping in your mind, making it impossible to focus on anything else.

your feet carry you down the familiar path to his dorm, the ache in your chest twisting tighter with every step. before you can talk yourself out of it, your fist is already knocking on the door.

it opens almost immediately, and the sight of him steals the breath from your lungs. his white hair is a mess, sticking up in chaotic directions, and his glasses are perched crookedly on his nose. there’s a faint crease on his cheek, like he’d been leaning against a book, and his shirt hangs loosely off one shoulder, rumpled from sleep or hours spent working. he looks… soft. disarming. almost painfully cute.

“coffee,” you say, holding up the cups like a white flag. “can i come in?”

his lips twitch, a hint of a smile breaking through the haze of surprise as he steps aside. “bribery, huh? didn’t think you had it in you.”

his dorm is as cluttered as you remember—papers and notebooks sprawled across his desk, a blinking laptop shoved precariously to one side. you set the coffee down on the edge of the desk, your gaze catching on the scrawled notes and dense blocks of text.

“grading?” you ask.

“research,” he replies, dropping onto the edge of his bed with a tired sigh. his hand rakes through his already-messy hair, making it stick up even more. “finals prep. you know, glamorous TA things.”

you hand him a cup, your fingers brushing against his as he takes it. the simple contact sends a jolt up your arm that you stubbornly ignore. “thought you could use it.”

he hums as he takes a sip, his lashes fluttering briefly before he lets out a quiet sound of approval. the noise is so low, so soft, it makes your stomach twist. you glance away quickly, your grip tightening on your own cup.

“about the other day,” you start, the words quiet and tentative.

he glances up, the coffee still in his hands. his expression is unreadable, but his fingers still against the cup, like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. “you don’t have to explain,” he says, setting his cup down on the desk. “if you don’t want this—if i got it wrong—just say so.”

“it’s not that,” you blurt, the words tumbling out too fast, too raw. warmth floods your cheeks, creeping down to your chest. “i just… i don’t know what this is.”

he doesn’t respond immediately, doesn’t fall into his usual teasing deflection. instead, he stands, crossing the small space between you with deliberate steps. his gaze holds yours, steady and unguarded, and it makes your stomach flip in a way you can’t control.

“let me show you,” he says softly, his voice low, uncharacteristically serious.

he’s so close now, his hand brushing against yours, his touch light, almost hesitant. and then his lips are on yours, and everything else fades away.

this kiss is nothing like the first. there’s no uncertainty, no restraint. his hands find your waist, pulling you flush against him as his mouth moves against yours, hot and insistent. your grip on the coffee slips, the cup hitting the floor with a dull thud as your hands find his shoulders, clutching at the fabric of his shirt.

when his hands slide under your shirt, the roughness of his palms against your bare skin makes you shudder. he guides you backward, his body pressing into yours until the backs of your knees hit the mattress. you sink down, the weight of him grounding you as he follows, his lips trailing fire along your jaw and down your neck.

his hands are everywhere—tracing the curve of your waist, brushing the underside of your ribs, exploring like he’s memorizing every inch of you. when he pulls back to look at you, his lips are curved in a wicked, breath-stealing grin.

“you’re infuriating,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough as his eyes rake over you, drinking in every detail.

“you’re worse,” you manage, though your voice is barely more than a whisper.

his grin widens, and his laugh is warm against your skin as he dips his head, his teeth grazing the sensitive spot just below your ear. “you’re already so worked up. it’s cute.”

“shut up,” you snap, though the way your hips arch into his touch betrays you.

“make me,” he challenges, his lips brushing against yours before descending lower, kissing down your collarbone and tugging your shirt higher with every inch. his hands roam greedily, tugging the fabric over your head and tossing it somewhere behind him without a second thought.

his mouth is back on you immediately, nipping and kissing along the swell of your breasts as his hands work the clasp of your bra. when it comes free, his lips part in a satisfied hum, his hands kneading your soft skin like he’s savoring every second of this.

“so fucking perfect,” he mutters, his voice husky as he leans back slightly to take in the sight of you. his gaze is heavy, filled with something dark and hungry that makes your stomach twist in the best way.

“stop staring,” you grumble, though the heat in your cheeks betrays the sharpness of your words.

“can’t help it,” he says, his grin tilting into something softer, more genuine. “you’re gorgeous.”

before you can respond, his mouth is back on you, his tongue flicking over your nipple as his other hand trails down your stomach, fingers dipping just beneath the waistband of your pants. your breath hitches as he pauses, his gaze flicking up to meet yours.

“can i?” he asks, his voice quieter now, his expression serious.

you nod, and he wastes no time. his fingers hook under the fabric, tugging your pants and underwear down in one swift motion. the cool air against your bare skin makes you shiver, but the warmth of his hands is there immediately, coaxing you to relax under his touch.

“look at you,” he murmurs, his voice low and thick as his hands part your thighs, his gaze drinking in every inch of you. “so fucking pretty.”

your cheeks flush, and you try to turn your head away, but his hand cups your chin, gently coaxing you to meet his eyes. “don’t hide from me,” he says, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “not tonight.”

his other hand slides between your thighs, his touch featherlight at first, teasing. when his thumb brushes over your clit, a jolt of heat shoots through you, and your hips buck involuntarily.

“sensitive,” he murmurs, his lips curving into a wicked grin. “i barely touched you, and you’re already squirming.”

“shut up,” you snap, your voice shaky as your fingers clutch at the sheets beneath you. but the way your body reacts—arching into his touch, chasing the pressure—makes it clear that his teasing isn’t far from the truth.

“you don’t really want me to, do you?” his voice is low, almost a growl, and the sound of it sends a shiver down your spine. “i think you like when i talk to you like this. when i tell you how good you’re doing, how fucking beautiful you look right now.”

your chest heaves as his fingers dip lower, sliding through your slick folds with infuriating slowness. every movement feels deliberate, calculated, like he’s savoring every second. when his fingers finally slip inside you, the stretch makes your head fall back, a gasp tumbling from your lips.

“that’s it,” he murmurs, his thumb circling your clit as his fingers begin to move, slow and deliberate at first. “you feel so fucking good, baby. so perfect.”

your hands fly to his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as he curls his fingers, hitting a spot that makes your vision blur. “oh my god—gojo—”

he tuts sharply, his fingers pausing inside you, his thumb stalling its maddening rhythm. your head snaps up, breathless and confused, to find him staring down at you with a dark look, his lips curving into a smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“no,” he says firmly, his voice low and commanding as he tilts his head. “say satoru.”

“w-what?” you stammer, your heart racing as his fingers remain perfectly still, the tension building with every passing second.

“not ‘gojo,’” he says again, his free hand sliding up to cup your jaw, tilting your face toward his. his thumb brushes over your bottom lip, his grin sharpening. “say satoru.”

you hesitate, your breath hitching as your body trembles beneath him. he presses his fingers deeper, curling them just enough to make your toes curl, and your resolve shatters.

“satoru,” you gasp, your voice breaking on the syllables.

his smirk widens, something dark and triumphant flickering in his eyes. “good girl,” he murmurs, his thumb resuming its slow, torturous circles on your clit as his fingers pick up their rhythm again, harder this time, deeper.

your head falls back against the mattress, your body arching into his touch as the pleasure builds again, higher and hotter than before. his name tumbles from your lips like a mantra, breathless and needy as he drives you closer to the edge.

“that’s it,” he coaxes, his voice dripping with praise as his free hand slides down your body, his touch possessive. “just like that, baby. let go for me.”

the coil in your stomach tightens to the breaking point, and when he curls his fingers just right, pressing against the perfect spot, it snaps. your orgasm crashes over you, white-hot and overwhelming, and his name spills from your lips in a broken moan.

“satoru—fuck—”

“that’s my girl,” he murmurs, his voice rough with approval as he works you through the waves of pleasure, his movements slowing but never stopping until your body goes slack beneath him, trembling and spent.

he pulls his hand away slowly, his gaze fixed on you as he brings his fingers to his lips, licking them clean with a deliberate, satisfied hum. “even better than i imagined,” he says, his voice dripping with arrogance, his eyes gleaming as they roam over your flushed, trembling body.

you blink, your breath still uneven as his words settle over you. “wait—” you say, your voice catching slightly. “you’ve thought about this?”

his grin widens, slow and deliberate, and he leans down, bracing himself on his forearms so his face is just inches from yours. “oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing, “you really think i haven’t?”

your cheeks flush even hotter, your pulse racing as his words sink in. “you’re—” you stammer, at a rare loss for words. “you’re ridiculous.”

“ridiculous?” he repeats, feigning offense, though the wicked glint in his eyes never falters. “i’d say i’m a man of focus. you’ve been in my head for weeks, driving me insane with that sharp mouth and the way you look at me when you think i don’t notice.”

“i don’t—” you begin, but his lips curve into a knowing smirk, cutting you off.

“you do,” he insists, his tone softening just slightly. “and every time you glared at me, every time you rolled your eyes or bit back some little retort, all i could think about was how much i wanted to shut you up. like this.”

his lips capture yours again, and this kiss is slower, heavier, laced with an intensity that makes your toes curl. his hands roam, sliding over your bare skin with a reverence that feels almost out of place against his words.

when he finally pulls back, his gaze is still on you, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “and now that i’ve got you,” he says, his voice dipping into something darker, “i don’t think i’ll ever get enough.”

the weight of his confession leaves you breathless, and before you can respond, his lips are trailing down your body again, his hands parting your thighs as he settles between them.

“what are you—” you start, but his eyes flick up to meet yours, and the look in them steals the rest of your words.

“relax,” he murmurs, his lips curving into a soft, almost mischievous smile. “i’m not done tasting you yet.”

his hands slide to grip your thighs, pulling you apart with ease as his lips descend, brushing over your inner thighs, teasingly slow. his tongue flicks out, hot and wet against your skin, and when his mouth finally finds you again, you feel your body arch instinctively, your breath leaving in a sharp, unrestrained gasp.

he’s relentless. his tongue drags up your folds in a languid stroke before circling your clit with maddening precision. his mouth is hot, the slick, wet sounds mingling with your soft moans, and his breath—warm and uneven—fans against your skin with every movement.

his hair brushes against your thighs, soft and messy, and your fingers thread through it again, tugging sharply enough to make him groan against you. the vibration of it sends a jolt of pleasure straight through your core, and your hips buck against his mouth.

“satoru,” you gasp, but it’s barely coherent, your voice breaking as he latches onto your clit, sucking just enough to make your toes curl. “oh my—”

the cold press of something against your inner thigh pulls you out of the haze, just barely. it’s sharp, unfamiliar, and you glance down—his glasses. they’re still perched on his nose, slightly crooked, the metal frame fogging faintly from the heat of his breath. he’s so lost in the moment, so focused on the way his tongue works against you, that he hasn’t even noticed.

your hand drifts down, brushing against the cool frame, and you slip them off without a word. the absurdity of it—the way he’s been eating you out with his glasses still on—makes you want to laugh. the corners of your mouth twitch, and a soft sound bubbles up in your throat, but then his tongue presses flat against your folds, dragging up in one slow, deliberate motion, and the laugh dissolves into a sharp moan.

your head falls back against the pillow, your hand tangling back in his hair as you toss the glasses onto the bed with the other. the noise they make as they hit the mattress is faint, drowned out by the obscene wet sounds of his mouth, the low hums of satisfaction he lets out as he devours you.

“fuck,” you whimper, your thighs trembling as his tongue flicks against your clit again, faster now, more insistent. your body arches instinctively, chasing the pressure, and his hands tighten on your thighs, pulling you even closer to his mouth.

he growls against you, the sound low and rough, vibrating through you in a way that makes your toes curl. his tongue dips lower, teasing your entrance before sliding back up, and the sharp scrape of his teeth against your swollen clit has you seeing stars.

“so fucking sweet,” he mutters, his voice muffled against your slick skin. “can’t get enough of you, baby.”

you can’t respond, can’t think. the only thing you can focus on is the way his tongue works against you, precise and relentless, building the heat in your stomach until it’s unbearable. your fingers twist in his hair, pulling harder, and the groan he lets out in response sends you spiraling.

“satoru—” his name falls from your lips like a prayer, breathless and broken. he doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up, his mouth dragging you closer and closer to the edge until you can’t hold on any longer.

your orgasm hits you hard, ripping through you in waves that leave your entire body trembling. your hips jerk against his hold, your moans loud and unrestrained as you ride it out. his tongue slows, working you through every aftershock until you’re left panting, boneless against the bed.

when he finally pulls back, his chest is heaving, his lips and chin glistening with your slick. his hair is a mess, strands sticking up where your fingers had tugged, and his eyes—those impossibly bright blues—flick up to meet yours, gleaming with satisfaction.

“twice,” he says, his voice low and teasing as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

he sits back on his knees, his hands smoothing over your trembling thighs as he takes in the sight of you—flushed, panting, your chest rising and falling as you try to catch your breath. his grin is lazy, self-satisfied, like he knows exactly what he’s done to you.

“you’re staring,” you mutter weakly, your voice barely above a whisper.

“hard not to,” he replies, his tone low and full of amusement. his fingers trace lazy patterns on your skin, his touch soft, teasing. “you look so fucking good when you come.”

your cheeks burn, and you want to glare at him, to tell him to shut up, but the words catch in your throat as he reaches for the hem of his shirt. in one fluid motion, he pulls it over his head and tosses it to the side, the movement effortless and maddeningly confident.

your eyes follow the shift of his muscles, the way they ripple under his skin, lean and defined. a faint sheen of sweat glistens across his chest, catching the dim light, highlighting every sharp line and curve. your gaze drifts lower, down to the sharp ridges of his abdomen. the faint trail of white hair starting just below his navel draws your attention, leading your eyes further, until his hands move to the waistband of his boxers.

he doesn’t rush. he hooks his thumbs under the fabric, dragging it down slowly, deliberately, letting the anticipation coil tighter in your stomach. as the fabric falls away, your breath hitches.

he’s fully bare now, and your mouth goes dry.

his cock is… breathtaking. thick and flushed a deep pink at the tip, already leaking beads of precum that catch the light as they drip down the length. it’s long, the kind of length that makes your thighs press together instinctively, wondering how he’ll fit, but the heat pooling low in your stomach burns hotter, overriding any hesitation.

his hand wraps around it, and he strokes himself slowly, his thumb swiping over the head to collect the wetness there. the motion is deliberate, almost lazy, and the soft groan he lets out sends a shiver down your spine.

you’re staring—you know you are—and he notices, his lips curving into a wicked grin as his eyes flick up to meet yours.

“don’t worry, baby,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing as he leans forward, the head of his cock brushing against your folds, slick and hot. “i’ll make it fit.”

his words send a shiver through you, his voice low and dripping with confidence. the weight of his cock against your folds, hot and heavy, is enough to make your hips twitch instinctively, chasing the friction. but he doesn’t push in right away—of course he doesn’t. instead, he drags the head up and down your slick, letting it catch on your clit with every pass, teasing you until you’re squirming beneath him.

“satoru,” you whimper, your nails digging into his shoulders. you’re not above begging at this point. “please.”

his grin widens, his head dipping to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “what’s the rush, baby? we’ve got all night.”

“satoru,” you repeat, more insistently this time, and he groans at the sound of his name on your lips, his cock twitching against you.

“fuck,” he mutters, his voice tight now, losing some of that smug edge. “you sound so pretty when you beg.”

he lines himself up, his hand still wrapped around the base as he presses the head against your entrance. the stretch is immediate, a sharp, overwhelming mix of pleasure and pressure as he pushes in slowly, inch by inch.

“holy shit,” he breathes, his voice rough as his head falls forward, his hair brushing against your cheek. “you’re so fucking tight.”

your fingers clutch at his shoulders, your breath catching as he sinks deeper, the fullness stealing every coherent thought from your mind. he pauses halfway, his free hand sliding up to cup your jaw, tilting your face toward his.

“you okay?” he asks, and there’s something softer in his voice now, his eyes scanning your face for any sign of discomfort.

you nod, your voice shaky as you answer. “yeah. just—keep going.”

his jaw tightens, and he exhales slowly, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead before he starts to move again. every inch feels impossibly deep, your walls stretching around him, and when he finally bottoms out, you both pause, your breaths mingling as you try to adjust.

“fuck,” he groans again, his voice strained as his hips twitch against yours. “you feel so good. better than i ever—” he cuts himself off with a shaky laugh, shaking his head. “shit, you’re perfect.”

you can barely respond, the stretch and fullness leaving you trembling. but then he starts to move, pulling out almost entirely before sliding back in with a slow, deliberate roll of his hips. the drag of his cock against your walls is enough to have you moaning, your head falling back against the pillow.

“that’s it,” he murmurs, his voice rough and approving as he sets a steady rhythm. “good girl. taking me so well.”

your hands trail down his back, your nails scraping lightly against his skin, and the groan he lets out sends a fresh wave of heat through you. his movements quicken, the sound of skin against skin filling the room, and every thrust has him hitting that perfect spot deep inside you, making you cry out.

“satoru—” his name falls from your lips again, and he leans down, his teeth grazing your neck as he thrusts harder, deeper.

“you’re gonna make me lose my fucking mind,” he growls, his hands gripping your hips tighter, holding you in place as he drives into you. “you feel so good—so fucking perfect for me.”

the coil in your stomach tightens with every roll of his hips, the pressure building higher and higher until it’s unbearable. his thumb finds your clit, rubbing in tight circles that make your vision blur, and your moans grow louder, more desperate.

“come for me,” he demands, his voice rough and low in your ear. “let me feel you.”

the command sends you over the edge. your orgasm rips through you, your body arching into his as you cry out, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer. your walls clench around him, and the sensation makes him groan, his thrusts growing erratic as he chases his own release.

“fuck—” he gasps, burying himself as deep as he can go as he comes, the heat of him spilling into you, thick and warm. his head falls to your shoulder, his breath ragged against your skin as he rides out the last waves of pleasure.

the room is quiet except for the sound of your heavy breathing, the air thick and charged as he finally pulls back, his weight pressing into you as he collapses onto the bed beside you. his arm slides around your waist, pulling you against his chest as he presses a soft, lazy kiss to your temple.

“told you i’d make it fit,” he murmurs, his voice still rough, but there’s a hint of smugness there, his lips curving into a small grin.

you can’t help the laugh that escapes you, your body still trembling against his. “you’re such an asshole.”

“yeah,” he agrees, his tone light, teasing, as he brushes a strand of hair from your face. “but you like it.”

you roll your eyes, but there’s no heat to it, your lips curving into a faint smile as you bury your face against his chest. “shut up, satoru.”

“never,” he replies, and the warmth of his laughter vibrates through you, grounding you as your breaths slowly even out.

an. gojo with glasses... *hnnggghh*

DO NOT COPY, TRANSLATE, OR REPOST MY WORK ON OTHER PLATFORMS!

[fluxweeed]

hi i'm a grouchy old hag muttering to myself in my hut in the woods

1. not everyone finds it hurtful to find out that people are discussing their fic in private discord servers or on tiktok, actually. i for one passionately don't care that people aren't only mentioning my fic where i can see it. ofc i'm curious when one fic gets a sudden unexplained boost in kudos for a few days. am i HURT that i don't know exactly where the new readers are coming from? am i upset that the boost in hits/kudos isn't accompanied with a flurry of praise? am i sad that i can't jump into the discussion? i am not.

2. the messaging of "okay but you wouldn't post the fic if you didn't enjoy validation" makes me want to delete my ao3 immediately kasdjhfg. people post things for all sorts of reasons thank u!! my personal motivation is i'm trying to make myself feel better about making imperfect things!! the idea that by posting fic i'm inherently coming across as seeking praise makes me want to throw up. (since this discussion started, i've considered disabling comments on my fic for this reason – but i'm worried that move is so non-standard that it'll end up coming across even MORE that i want attention, so i haven't taken the plunge yet)

3. i also pretty firmly disagree with "commenting on fic builds community!" (i made this joke in a grouchy bluesky rant already so if u saw that pretend u didn't) but personally i feel the community spirit when i'm in a server discussing which weasley has the biggest dick (percy). i don't feel it when people are being nice to me in my fic's comments. i'd almost go as far as to say community CAN'T be built when one person is praising another bc there's an inherent imbalance. sure, writers can mutually read and comment on each other's fic and become friends/community co-members that way, but what if u don't write? who's in YOUR comments telling u how great u are? idk about anyone else, but when i am in a community space (like a discord server) and someone starts being nice about my fic, i feel awkward. the focus shifts from a shared enjoyment onto something inherently UNshared, because one person is the creator and the others are readers. that's not to say that these interactions shouldn't happen, but imo it's disingenuous to say that's the core of fandom community.

4. i really can't stress enough how crazy it makes writers when they're writing for praise/validation. i've had conversations with very well-known drarry writers where they've been genuinely upset that nobody is reading their fic (the fic in question had hundreds of comments). i've had conversations with people who take part in fests, only to continually sort the works by stats and feel awful that theirs isn't at the top. i've had conversations with people who have had multiple devastating life events happen to them so they're struggling to write, and the lack of New Fic Comment Validation makes them feel 10x worse. i can't help but feel like if you ARE posting for feedback (or "recognition" or however you want to package it), it's genuinely not good for your brain.

5. obviously there's nuance to all of this! it's a big topic! but notice how we're talking about it on tumblr, not in ao3 comments. it would probably be even more productive in a discord server. in a voice chat. you know – fandom community spaces like that.

6. can y'all keep the next round of discussions to like 700 words max pls lmao i have stuff to do

[nowimjustastranger]

Was talking to my friends in our Discord group chat about how Lee got his facial scars and this happened. Idk what to tell you, I blacked out, lol.

Part 2

“That uh… that looks bad, pal.” Stan said haltingly, glancing between the bloodied cloth pressed to Lee’s face and the road in an anxious fashion, his equally bloody hands white-knuckle tight on the steering wheel. Stan had gotten covered in the stuff when he’d tackled the thug with the knife, the two grappling for the blade.

As soon as the knife was in Stan’s hand, he buried it into the thug’s chest with an efficient brutality that had the four other men sluggishly picking themselves up off the ground and bolting, probably to regroup. Stan yanked the knife out and rushed to Lee, setting the blade aside before he knelt down to look him over, helping him to his feet so they could stumble to the Stanleymobile.

“We both know I’ve had worse.” Lee grunted, grimacing at the persistent burn of split skin. He hadn’t gotten himself this fucked up since before he was nabbed by Ford almost two years ago; and the serum that Ford had slipped him a few weeks back had healed the damage that his body had taken during the decade that he’d spent on the streets. Lee had never felt so good in his life, the various aches and pains that he had long grown accustomed to gone in an instant.

“Wish I could say I got a first aid kit, but you’re gonna hafta settle for a pitstop at the nearest drug store.” Stan announced, one of his hands leaving the wheel to tap Lee’s arm in a wordless bid to see the wound again. Lee hissed as he moved the relatively clean shirt that Stan had sacrificed away from the two deep slashes marring the left side of his face, fresh blood slithering down his cheek and chin to drip onto his ruined jeans.

“I got cash.” Lee tentatively divulged, his free hand awkwardly digging the clip of bills that Ford had given him before they parted ways out of his front pocket. He passed it to Stan, who pinched it between two fingers like it would come to life and maul him. Lee would find it funny if he didn’t know all too well why Stan was acting that way. Lee had ever been good at accepting handouts either.

“Cash or no cash, you were gettin’ patched up.” Stan said gruffly, stuffing the money clip into the pocket of his ragged red coat. Lee pressed the shirt back to his face to stanch the bleeding, breathing through the pain with practiced ease. Thankfully, they were only three hours away from Gravity Falls. They just had to get to the Shack before their entourage caught up with them, then Ford would handle the rest.

“Huh. Thanks.” Lee murmured, feeling tired and drained yet unable to drift off because his face hurt like a bitch. Stan’s spare hand didn’t return to the wheel, settling on the back of Lee’s neck instead. The touch was grounding, giving him something else to focus on other than the viciously throbbing wounds. Lee leaned into the touch, his eyes falling closed as he basked in the offered warmth.

“It’s nothin’, really.” Stan said dismissively, but his tone had gentled a considerable amount, his soft core peeking through that hard exterior that he constructed to protect himself. Lee had to fight a smile, mostly because it would hurt but also because he couldn’t be sure that Stan wouldn’t get the wrong impression and punch him square in the jaw. “Least I can do. You kept that knife outta my neck back there.”

[my-halo-is-a-little-broken]

Examples of what i had hoped they would expand on (I would have loved filler episodes or at least wish they hadn't cut so much out):

What exactly did Silco do that made Vander attack? We know it's connected to the bridge and Felica, but we never know what the reason was other than a vague, "Vander wanted to stop fighting, Silco didn't".

How did Vander and Silco make up in the au? Did Vi trigger Silco to go back to blisters and bedrock upon learning one of Felicia's kids, the very first one that created the blisters and bedrock convo, was no longer living?

Did the girls, or at least Vi, know Silco at all from the "before" times?

Was it Silco and Vander making up that led to the undercity improving? Was it something else, like Heimerdingers' influence? It couldn't have just been Hextech not being invented.

What was Vi and Jinxs bio dad like?

How did Viktor manage to make it from the Undercity and rise all the way up to being Heimerdingers assistant? I'm not saying it's impossible, but we've seen the barriers and such that make it hard for people from the Undercity to achieve great heights in Piltover.

What happened to make the Firelights even consider listening to Sevika and seeminly develop a partnership? Was it a talk? Desperation? Scar doesn't seem the type to fold easily.

Sevika's reaction to Isha, or anything from her in Act 3, really. How did she get on the council, and what was her reaction to it?

Jinx and Echo prepping for the final battle. I wanna know how they made Jinxs' dirigible(?).

Who did Ambessa fall in love with? What exactly did she steal? Was it Mel in general? Or the magic Mel ended up with?

Did Jayce end up jumping in the au, or was he just exiled? Did he and Cait blow up in the apartment explosion?

Why did Vi trust Loris so much? What was their friendship like?

Why was Loris not on the front lines or being the "shield" he's shown as?

What was with the look in Stillwater when Ambessa saw the disgused Jinx and Sevika?

Vi's pitfighting arc.

Jinx and Isha getting close.

Mel. Her time captured, getting back to Piltover, anything to do with her.

Singed creating Warwick. That was a long time to experiment on a (seemingly) lifeless body until things turned just right for it to "work".

What happened to Lest?

Does Vi know about Cait's suspicions about Jinx living? I personally don't think so, as I feel Vi wouldn't give up on trying to reunite with her. Even with Jinxs permission to be happy with Cait, Vi isn't the type to give up on her sister. She would at least want to keep in contact. You're telling me this woman survived years in Stillwater and all the other bullshit mainly for her sister, and then just decides to let her go?

How does Warwick "survive" (like being able to make blood) Isha blowing everything up with the gems, but apparently doesn't survive falling and Jinxs bomb? I know he has regeneration, but one of those is worse than the other, and yet he survives it.

Do Ekko and Vi bond more? Both of them have lost Powder/Jinx, and they're the only two left from each others childhood.

I'm sure this will eventually get covered in the other series they're planning, but it appears Orianna (is that how you spell her name? Idk, I don't play LoL) is similar to the creatures Viktor makes, so how is she "alive"?

Is Bandle City outside of timelines, or is Heimer gone from "our" timeliness forever?

[habijob]

Soooo, Sebastian’s marriage lore has been ping ponging in my head like the pecking DVD logo for the last week.

And the reason being that when looking at it, it does not come with any explanation whatsoever. Which seemed to have resulted in many people getting... let’s call it “overworked” over it.

Including me.

But not because of the related discourse... drama(?) on the official pressure discord.

No, it’s been on my mind for the last week, because the inclusion of this lore doesn’t make sense... yet.

Pressure is stated to be in alpha. And the devs are working on adding more content to it; so any new lore surrounding our favorite pool noodle fish can happen to come across as “incomplete”.

Because it is *incomplete*.

And the marriage lore is this exact thing. It was added for reasons during the friendly fire update I don't want to pin point down, because I want to avoid talking about the drama itself and just want to talk about the ring and the photo.

So, what do I mean by it feels "incomplete". Well, it lacks an explanation how Sebastian got into the possession of these *personal items*.

"But Habi, why aren't you questioning then anything else on his design? From where did he got his clothes?"

I dunno. Maybe these clothes are his personal belongings. Maybe Urbanshade had allowed him to have "free time clothes". Or maybe these clothes were something he found within Urbanshade after he caused the lockdown. Idk, maybe there an entire pecking area for prisoner theater and he got the outfit from a chest with costumes in it. Maybe his pecking jabat shirt thing was part of a pirate costume. Or that green dude that is apparently part of the canon narrative gave him these clothes. Who knows, but it doesn't matter, because these clothes can be seen as not personal belongings.

However a wedding ring and a photo of his wife are personal belongings. And considering Urbanshade seems to be a horrible, horrible company according to the "discord lore", so I have to wonder how Sebastian was able to get these two items (back?) during the lockdown.

And because this bugs me so much, my brain has spent the last couple of days figuring out ideas, on how to answer these questions. So that this marriage lore doesn't feel "weirdly ducttaped on" anymore.

Question 1: "How did the photo and the wedding ring end up in Urbanshade in the first place?"

-> Well, according to a (rather sparingly) google search, death row inmates are allowed to have small amounts of personal belongings.

So, Sebastian could have possessed the photo and ring since he was sentenced to death. And then when Urbanshade scooped him up, he simply took these two items with him.

Like, here's an idea, this guy maybe didn't even know he was getting declared dead by Urbanshade, after he was tranfered over to Hadal Blacksite. So, he always believed that his family and his wife think he's still alive, but well, somewhere else entirely. Not knowing, that they got told he was dead.

Only later learning that he was declared dead by Urbanshade BUT also declared innocent by the authorities, once he had gotten his file into his fingers uh claws?

Question 1.5: "Wait, but isn't his wife also in Hadal Blacksite, if we consider that in that one ref sheet she seems to have void mass tentacles?"

-> She is currently not in the game as an entity or NPC or whatever. Therefore, we are gonna ignore her existence for the sake of keeping this simpler.

Question 2: "What happened to the ring and photo when they were in Urbanshade? Did Sebastian have them the entire time or not?? Because he didn't have the ring and photo before the Friendly Fire update"

-> Well, there are multiple possibilties to this one. The first idea is yes, Sebastian was able to have them the entire time, and that he didn't wear the ring or have the photo with him can simply be explained as "game's still in development".

Another possibility is that some asshole working at Urbanshade took these two things from him. Maybe a guard or a scientist, because they saw Sebastian with these items, and thought that this death-sentenced, 9-people-murderer LR-P doesn't deserve these items.

And so they disappeared.

Question 2.5: "If someone took them, then how did Sebastian find them??"

-> He simply stumbled upon them during his scavanging through the facility. Like, he probably didn't even actively look for them, because he was just trying to find useful stuff, but then he found these very important items to him.

Question 3: "The ring doesn't make sense. His hands and therefore fingers are larger than normal, how can he have such a large ring."

-> I actually attempted to explain this (and the previous question) with a comic of mine. The simple answer is, he probably made himself a new ring, so that he can wear this symbol of his marriage and find comfort in thinking about his wife.

Question 4: "But shouldn't Sebastian maybe realize that his wife could have moved on? It's been 12 years."

-> This man is running on various things like stress, anxiety, adrenaline, low sleep, and what else you can slap into this poor man during a lockdown that he caused, because he wants to break out. So him being very hopeful about his wife is probably one of the only comforts he currently is able to have. Let him have that.

-> Second answer though, now not ignoring his wife anymore. She is probably just somewhere around in the facility, working together with Sebastian, or Sebastian is working on getting her free from wherever she is contained. Who knows? (Well actually, Zerum does, but we don't. Which is why everything here is my speculations.)

But anyway, now the ring and the photo can make sense, and I can hopefully move to being crazy about other stuff related to him.

Late edit; bonus question:

Question 5: "Okay, let's pretend Zerum is in the facility. How the peck did she end up in the facility too?"

-> Perhaps the photo was the reason. Urbanshade knew this is his wife, and when Sebastian became more hard to deal with, they would threaten him with his wife. Eventuall leading to them bringing her down to Hadal Blacksite (somehow).

And then experiments on her ensued ú_ù

[hircines-hunter]

WIP Wednesday

Tagged by @firefly-factory ! Thank you!!! ✨❤️ I’m having decision paralysis soooo idk what to share really…. It’s not that I don’t have stuff to share… I just want some things to not…. Be shared yet lol! 😂 but I eventually decided! Why not share Estinan? It’s not Sifkni, but she is a werewolf! She knows Sifkni very well too! And eventually she’ll be all gross with Brynjolf!

Gonna tag @umbracirrus @bougainvillea-and-saltwater @thequeenofthewinter @madamefluffnstuff @moriche

@pocket-vvardvark @fangsandsoftgrass @moicaire @skyrim-forever

And anyone else that wants to join! Feel free to tag me please!!! Whether it’s art or writing or crafts!

Brynjolf watched as Estinan slid down the ladder and walked over to her bed. He looked away briefly when she started changing her clothing. He saw a large healing wound on her shoulder. He sucked in air. His eyes wandered to her other scars across her back. She turned abruptly. His eyes locked with her amber ones. She flashed him a smile and turned back to her small dresser, pulling out a clean tunic. Brynjolf walked over after finishing the bottle of Black-Briar mead. “Did something happen, lass? Maven isn’t upset, is she?”

Estinan turned as she put on the tunic. “I’m alive?” She laughed with a wide grin. “There was some hermit living under the Meadery. Tried to kill me. I’m fine.”

Brynjolf took a step closer and moved the collar of her tunic. He looked at the wound. “Magic?” He also noticed the bruises on her neck.

“Ice spike. I’m fine.” Estinan moved away and readjusted her tunic to cover her wound. She fixed her hair, trying to cover the bruises. She turned back to Brynjolf. “Do I get to keep what Maven gave me?”

Brynjolf looked at her. “What did she give you?”

“Dagger. Enchanted.” She flipped the blade and showed him.

Brynjolf looked at the ornate dagger. Maven must’ve liked her to give her payment outside of what she normally would. She did work fast. And efficiently. Maybe she would be the one to fix the mess they were in. “Aye, you can keep it. Maven will pay the guild for your work. You’ll get your cut when that happens. Maybe later tonight or tomorrow.”

Estinan smiled and placed the dagger back into its sheath. She then placed the blade into her boot as she took them off. Estinan sat on the bed and leaned back, looking up at Brynjolf. “Now, unless you want to join me in my bed, I am rather exhausted.” She smirked as she watched his reaction. A slight twitch at his lips. He fidgeted with his hands. His heart thudded against his chest.

Brynjolf smiled a bit and he looked at the bed. “It’s a little small to share, lass.” He chuckled. “I will let you sleep then. Good night, lass.” Brynjolf turned and left.

Estinan stood up to remove her pants. She climbed back into the bed and pulled the scratchy blanket up to her shoulders. Oh, she would need to get new bedding for herself.

[longer-than-i-should-admit]

Okay so here it is. Had to work through my emotions first so I've found my equilibrium.

I really liked how Neve's narrative turned out as a whole. I didn't expect to get along with her because she seemed kind of cold at first but honestly? She's for the girlies. I love her. So warm once you get to know her. She's such a bestie, comparative to Leliana in DAO imo

The section I was missing was in the Heights of Athim where the well is. Killed the demon, found the chests, got the last of the statues. I didn't expect to get that achievement so I was quite proud of myself.

I didn't 100% everywhere, I'll probably try to do that next run tbh. By that point I just wanted to see what happened, and...oh boy.

I was honestly 100% happy with the game 'til I got to the third act. Now that I've stewed on it I'll confidently say it's only dropped to 90%, but that's only because I'm of the rather rose-tinted persuasion of despising even "necessary" or "worthy" character deaths. I was NOT expecting to have Davrin die (which...Lace is the alternative? my heart!). Him AND Assan, too? After everything? I know that's the whole point of sacrifice, "whatever it takes", but...idk, it just didn't sit right with me. It felt squandered. But I know that's just my opinion.

And, speaking of squandered...Varric. I'd had the gut feeling that there was more to his situation than he was letting on, especially given Solas’ little "[he] is...quite practiced at shading the truth himself", so I was thinking "oh the only reason he survived was that he got tied to the Lighthouse's energy somehow and can't leave" or “he had a reaction to the dagger like Lace did just slightly different” or smth, but the longer the game went on the more details I noticed. Lace's reaction in the start confused me. There were just enough references to him throughout to mollify my suspicions, but then I got the codex about Xenon trying to buy Bianca and Lace almost gutting him for it. Also no one ever looked at him during the table meetings, and in the scenes he spoke to Rook he waited 'til everyone else left. That all was adding up, especially when I realized that Neve had healed completely, yet Varric was still as weak as he was at first with the casts and bandages and getting tired.

So. It didn't really surprise me when I got to the Fade mission and found out the truth, but...it still upset me. I know he's been in BW's sights for a long time but I hoped he would be the one character to make it out unscathed tbh. So I accepted it, thinking that it must be worth something, that once Rook brings it up to Solas it would help to persuade him, but...nothing. The companion banter in Minrathous didn't trigger for me, so other than Rook initially confronting Solas about it I didn't get any sense of lingering remorse from Solas, which I felt was out of character for him, especially given the circumstances. (I saw Lace's dressing down later, which helped me resolve it all in my mind. It doesn't fix the fact that no one really talks about it very much, but it made me feel a little better hearing Solas say he was sorry. Really sorry.) Ultimately I felt that it was a bit cheap overall since even the Inquisitor doesn't really bring it up, so I'll be discarding that in my AU. No thanks, BW. I want my bestest dwarf intact, thank you. Moving on.

Now, the rest of Solas in the third act? *chef's kiss* Did not see him leaving us in the Fade coming at all, especially since I got the "you have earned the respect of the dread wolf " message. In retrospect I should have expected it, but I guess I forgot I was looking at him through Rook’s eyes, whom he doesn’t know, and not as "me" (who I guess I associate with the Inquisitor more atm, ironically), so it makes sense that he still doesn't necessarily trust her and was manipulating her. The blood magic thing got me, too. And what fooled me was how concerned he genuinely seemed before, like after Weisshaupt, especially when he distracted Elgarn'nan on our behalf. So it fits him, and it gave me the good moment of like "fuck you. that was clever, Dread Wolf, you got me. but fuck you."

Fade mission was the closest I got to crying the whole game. Well written, most definitely. Still don't like the character deaths but c'est la vie. Not that big of a deal since I've seen that others appreciate the stakes being so high and there actually having to be that choice. To each their own. (I'll be changing it in my fic eventually regardless lol)

Emmrich's romance got me dude. The little argument before the island genuinely had me so worried, and then them making up once she escaped the Fade? *chef's kiss* The coffin slew me on sight though lol, it was so funny to me. He's so sweet I love him so much I swear. Definitely already a favorite and I haven't even experienced the others yet lol (Lucanis will be next, for whom I am so excited)

Minrathous was crazy. I believed Solas that time, too, so caught up in his sad little puppy dog eyes. I even noticed the "by my hand" comment and thought about it and then just dismissed it like "whatever you say king I am at your disposal". Woof. Getting to fight with him again, especially at full power, was so...well, empowering. Like I said, I didn't get the banter (since I had Lace and Emmrich with me), so it felt a little empty. I'll make sure to wait for it next time. (AND I SO CALLED IT THAT HE AND EMMRICH WOULD GET ALONG. WHERE ARE THE FICS OF THEM GETTING TO INTERACT, HUH? W H E R E)

I'm so glad Bellara turned out okay, I didn't think I could handle losing her, too. And Enaste in the middle of it all? Poor baby. I wanted to hug her so bad. Morrigan calling her out was funny though ngl

I got the rune of Felassan from the Caretaker, but I had really hoped that the spirit would have some sort of greater impact on the narrative, like appealing to Solas on our behalf for our help in the Crossroads/for the spirits, or with the rune actually summoning some spirits to help fight Elgar'nan like it sounded when the caretaker described it. A little thing, perhaps, but I thought for sure the Caretaker would have a greater narrative impact than that.

And boy. Oh boy. Getting to see the Dread Wolf was something. Big boy. Big pupper. That was so badass.

By the time I fought Elgar’nan I had mostly gotten the hang of the combat so it wasn’t too bad. I really like him and Ghil as villains overall. Just the right balance of real tangible threat and silly evils.

Oh and Solas clinging to his duty right until the end? I was so scared I wouldn’t be able to convince him when I first saw the trick or fight options, but then I realized I got the good ending from Mythal’s essence and I was so relieved. And boy? Let me tell you.

That entire scene had me almost in tears. It was so good. The angles and the lighting and the voice acting and the interactions and...everything. It was everything I wanted. So heartfelt and brought such good closure. And Lavellan getting to be with him in the end is actual perfection.

So, overall, I'd say I am mostly satisfied with the game personally. It was a product of a decade of ups and downs and while it is by no means perfect, I am so grateful to have had the chance to find "canon" closure and experience this game (mostly) spoiler free the first time. To me the world building we were afforded feels more like cherries put on top of the cake that was already there rather than baking something new, although there are of course some completely understandable nitpicks I have seen other people make. However, for what it is, and where it leaves us, I am content. Even if they don't make another game, I'm glad we got this one.

Anywho...I have already started my second playthrough with my Mournwatcher rook and have already started tweaking my AU/fics to accommodate the new information we got. :)

Thirteen (point six) hours in now that it’s finally downloaded…I tired…I’ve been up since seven am lol, it’s so much better than I expected!🥰

I’ll post better images once I figure out where in the hell my screenshot folder is but my baby Fenalan turned out so so gorgeous oml🥹

Spoilers mentioned under the cut:

I’m so glad Varric is okay. He gave Fenalan a little pep talk when she cracked under the pressure a bit so she’s doing her best to hold it together for the team. She left the mayor bc he’s a shithead and she’s generally been rather purple-coded, as I thought.

She has also given Solas a hard time at first, as planned. I wasn’t expecting him to clap back like he did in that second scene lol, but now that Varric has given her more insight into Solas’ personality she’ll be more cooperative going forward (while still being a lil shit of course).

God I know I’m waiting to romance Lucanis for Khalida but I understand why people are so I love with him. He went grocery shopping for them🥹and the delight in his voice when Fenalan got him the wyvern tooth dagger? Oh my lanta, my heart. And the fact that he noted her favorite drink being tea? That slew me on the spot. By god I am going to smooch you so hard next time. Get ready for it. (Rn he and Neve are flirting up a storm and it’s so damn cute I want to die.)

Honestly all the companion missions so far have been so sincere and sweet. I can’t wait to see more! I’m starting to get all the little side missions branching out so I’m trying not to get overwhelmed with them all by taking them one at a time. I think I’ll tackle more of arlathan forest first thing tomorrow.

I unlocked the memory where Solas fights Elgar’nan, so is the elf who was with him Felassan? I’m assuming it’s Felassan. And if that’s Felassan I am going to cry bc he seems so nice and outgoing.

Also who summoned the fish in the Lighthouse? (I think it was Felassan lol, he seems like an agent of chaos. The “you summoned them, you’ll have to feed them” line took me out.)

I’m mentally cataloguing all the little differences I’ll be making with Khalida, who is more of the soft-spoken, shy, diplomatic type. Her favorite drink will be the “something sweeter” option, she’ll have supported Varric’s plan, and she’ll be more open to Solas’ input off the bat once she gets over her initial fright of him. She’s such a sweet little thing and Lucanis is going to be an utter disaster with her since she’s a bit oblivious lol

God idk if I’m going to be able to sleep after all this but hey, here’s to trying lol

On nydha, lethal’len!🥰

[wren-kitchens]

this is such a random gripe but those 'if you think you might be [thing] then you are. no one who isnt [thing] thinks about that' INCORRECT. i have thought i was many things (genders, sexualities, disorders etc) and i was in fact wrong an enormous amount of the time

[beanghostprincess]

Actually thinking more about Reiju's only sin being a woman and... Going into more depth, I know that logically/canonically she's smart and empathetic enough to not want to be in her brothers' place. She doesn't want to be an heir/ successor or follow the family's footsteps at all. She knows they're bad. She sees herself as such, too, unable to change/be different like Sanji was. She doesn't think she can bring her mother's kindness to this world the way Sanji does, so she sticks to what she knows, whether it is to protect Sanji too or to accept her fate.

BUT (and bear with me for a second here, I know I have been watching too much Succession lately) we also do know that during her childhood she didn't do anything to help Sanji from the abuse. She watched it happen because that was the way things went there and because she knew what would happen to her if she did. Of course, she ends up helping him escape and taking care of him but-- I'm just thinking, for a tiny little moment, about how she's actually the oldest.

She should be the heir. She should be the person everybody views Ichiji as. She should be considered the most responsible. The smartest. The strongest one. The one who should take the throne. And she doesn't even want it now, but what about back then? What about when she did have some little, tiny faith/hopes for her family and what they did? She sought approval and naively thought "my father is going to offer me the place I rightfully deserve, right?" blindly seeking acceptance like all of them did.

But no, because she might be the oldest but Ichiji is a man. She might be the strongest, the smartest, the most reliable... But she is not a man. And I believe there must have been a time when she expected her destiny to be something more, and once she realized she was just a woman in their eyes... Well, we know what happened.

I just keep finding similarities between The Vinsmokes (OP) and The Roys (Succession) and perhaps my headcanon of Reiju being similar to Shiv has gone a bit too far. But the scene where Shiv is like "This is real?" when Logan promises she'll be the CEO and he goes "This is real. Remember this. The slant of light" for it to be a lie later is something I fear could have happened with Reiju and Judge if Oda had given us more content,,,,

[pizzaqueen]

Steve has to wear jeans all summer, even on the hottest days when all he wants is to wear shorts, because Eddie keeps biting his legs (mostly his thighs). Honestly, he’d never admit it, but he doesn’t mind the biting—maybe even likes it—it’s just that sometimes Eddie leaves bite marks and they’re getting hard to explain

(This starts before they get together by the way)

[fishareglorious]

Me playing chess against a 12 year old with the intent of killing her friends: Yeah i'm a total grandmasterpilled chesscel. I'm basically going chess mode and i'm giving checkmatecore vibes My subordinate Z, chief of staff: Vice President I think God should kill you

[lit-in-thy-heart]

been trying out a new writing technique recently and it's called chilling tf out and reminding myself that fic is written for fun.

[dykedvonte]

I think the most baffling thing about the Tulpar as a vessel to me is the fact that the ship really did only have a one way communication system.

I know it was cheap but even the most basic of vessels regarding major transport would have some way, shape or form for outside communication. Not only that but there was absolutely no form of innate emergency signal to show they may have been offline or in trouble despite clearly having a system to dock credits if they went off course. It's another factor that really shows that bad situations are made to get worse by design. One person who is required to relay all information to the crew and make all the choices without feedback. No way to update or call for help in case of a dire situation. No way to inform of inner personal conflicts and acquire procedures accordingly.

It really is like they are all in some sort of fucked up solitary confinement. They have their own world with strict roles that are meaningless in the end, as long as the cargo makes it, it doesn't matter what happens on that ship to the company. They don't want to hear anything and will come to conclusions on what happened based on how much pay they can withhold from the workers. Even what they do send is short, sterile and corporate to the extent it was likely written and sent out with a command by some random unmanned computer in an office.

There's something to be said about how unfair it is to force absolute power and control onto one person when you as an entity could do so much more to offload it but I've said it many times before so I won't again.

[stephaniedola]

every time i start to think things might be looking up with my dad some bullshit happens that makes the guilt kick right back in again