#bad end restructuring

[threepandas]

Bad End: Restructuring

The blast doors on my office were stronger then the ones on most bunkers. They matched the one's on the company dorms AND my personal rooms. Thing is? They weren't designed to hold out forever. In fact, I was pretty sure they were a pretty bit of security theater, just to let us fleshys feel safe.

We weren't.

Not a single moment of a single day.

The pay was unmatched. But then again, it'd HAVE to be, with the mortality rate. The morbidity rate on top, too. You didn't take a job like this unless you were crazy. Or, you know, desperate. College loans, man. They get you over a barrel and don't let up. But a few years of this? I'd be clear an free~

Few MORE years? I'd ever have a tasty little nest egg to fall back on, in case of emergencies. I just... you know, had to play it smart. Be really, REALLY careful.

No slacking off. No getting comfortable. Vigilance and best manners. Then we all get to go home alive. Because what's out there? In the Labs? Those guys can pop diamonds like we crush packing peanuts. Highest grade, fancy ass, metal bars of specialty blend metals? Tied up in pretty little bows.

They may LOOK like some sort of waifish boy band... but God, they are NOT. They are really, REALLY not. And their "personality" matrix program thingies? Apparently still a work in progress. A LONG work in progress.

People have fucking DIED.

But does management care? Of course not. Pay out some life insurance. "It was an accident on the job". And "of COURSE steps will be taken to insure to never happens again". Ha! My ass, it is. And my ass, they are. They aren't doing SHIT. Nor are they GOING too. They're in too deep with this project, whatever it is. And us?

Well WE'RE expendable.

Just the cost of doing business.

I watch bleeding edge technology move like dancers, room to room. The wall of screen lighting up my cramped little office. The mini-fridge hums and the fan whirrs, filling the silence. I try to spot FM-036 on one of the screens. I can't find him and it makes me nervous.

He might be hiding. Trying to be polite, in his own way. Since there was an incident.

I FUCKING TOLD Ric not to call them "it"! I TOLD him! It aggravates them. Provokes. You don't DO that with something... some ONE, with that much physical power. 36 put their fist through his SHOULDER. And the God damned wall! He might LOSE his arm, which? Given their ability to calculate better then most supercomputers?

Was probably the point.

I notice one of the androids messing with a computer in a lab. Fuck. I lean forward, hating drawing their attention but knowing I have to do my damn job. I press on the speaker system for that room after a quick glance at the ID on their jumpsuit.

"FM-047, could you please not touch that? I know you are aware that you are not supposed to tamper, meddle, or otherwise engage with the researchers notes or electronics."

The android stop typing. Their head rolling up and to the side to look directly at the camera, their body perfectly still. The angle borders on impossible. Almost owlish, nearly snake like. All perfectly smooth movements effortlessly controlled. Joint not limited by human designs. His face is bemused. Pleasant.

"Of course, night gaurd. My mistake. Thank you for correcting me." He replies, something almost like laughter, nearly like mocking, but not quite, in his smooth voice. They always sound like they are... HUMORING us. Working around us.

It sends a jolt of cold fear though my veins.

I... I REALLY hate talking to the androids.

Pity, they seem to like talking to ME.

"I was unaware you were on shift tonight. I will update the others. It's good to hear your voice again, you seemed nervous, last time we spoke."

Yeah. Because you were asking PERSONAL QUESTIONS. Oh, sure, they had dressed them up as "We're so CURIOUS about Humans~☆" but I wasn't an IDIOT. You Did NOT, under ANY circumstances, try to bond with the machines. NO chatting. That was lesson number one from my trainer.

And Frank? Frank had seen too many "but THIS time it's DIFFERENT! We're FWIENDS~!" Incidents end in unspeakable carnage. Lost too many noobies. We DO NOT chat! With the machines!!! DO. NOT.

"Ah~, you made her nervous again, FM-047" came from a different screen. I flinched. Jerked back so I could see it. Oh god. "Besides, I told you. The calculations showed she wasnt going anywhere. The 'money' is too good."

The androids had stopped. Turned, in some cases unnaturally, to stare up at the cameras. At me. It was a blatant show of how interconnected they were. How distance meant nothing to them. How... how enmeshed they were, in the Lab's systems.

COULD they see me?

I didn't want to know. I NEEDED not to know. If only so I could continue to sleep at night.

They smiled, clearly hoping I'd engage. I wanted to. God did I want too. Wanted to demand "what calculations" and for them to STOP looking at me like that. But I didn't. With tense muscles I careful lifted my finger from the speaker system's button and leaned back. Crossed my arms like I was hugging myself.

Do. Not. Engage.

Remember what Frank taught you.

My... my office felt so claustrophobic. Painfully small. Across the screens before me, matching faces huffed laughs of condescending amusement. Some out right DID laugh. Bright and mean noises that echoed in silence of the night.

Humans? Frank had observed (and I kinda had to agree) were beneath them, in their minds. Flawed little flesh creatures. Annoying. It was something the scientists were trying to correct. Pretty sure they fucked up. Badly. And long, long ago.

Watching over these guys? Felt like watching over a sea of identical demons. Pretty, cruel, and incapable of human understanding. Fond of tormenting the nearest human for sport.

"Tell us, night gaurd, are you afraid?"

Oh that's just PETTY. Fucking cliché as shit, too. I mean, YES, obviously. But STILL. And... and you know what? Fuck it! Frank, gave me his number for a reason! I scramble for my belt. The communicator there. It barely rings.

"Mph, m'awake! Wus happin' kid? Come on, talk to me."

I ramble. Knees dragged up on my chair, curled in a ball. Frank's low, old man, rumble a soothing focal point. These guys are so creepy. I HATE that they KNOW that. Gleefully will TRY to be, sometimes. Can BACK IT UP.

"Hey, hey. I'll stay on the line, okay? You just need to make it to morning shift. They're are creepy lil shits, but they can't get past the doors. I'll come get you myself, okay? Walk you right back to the dorms. You're going to be okay, sweetheart."

I nod, even though I know the old man can't see me. Manage to crackle out a "Mmmhmm". The androids haven't stopped staring. The worst part? Is they realistically DONT HAVE TOO. Can stay, perfectly still, like statues... forever, if they wish.

Watching.

With those "I'm laughing at you" grins. That "aaaw, how PATHETIC" expression. As though I were a wretched little animal to be observed. I ask Frank to tell me about his new show. It's... it's something about socialites, right? Historical? He's glad too. Filling my office with the sound of his voice. It's gonna be a long shift.

I don't notice, high up on the wall, near the back of my office?

A security camera that I do not control. It's red light on.

The company has to be sure it's employees aren't slacking, after all! Aren't up to no good! But don't worry, THAT camera is connect to a database the androids shouldn't be able to access! Because we told them not too.

And THAT'S IT.

No one will learn of the security breach until its far, far too late.

Now? They watch as I watch them.

And it's just the beginning.

[wherestarsarestillasleep]

My bf is playing undertale for the first time (wild I get to watch that in 2025) and it has made me aware of something I never paid much mind to in the last 10 years. Whyyyy the fuck does Alphys react exactly the same to Frisk, trying to help them and be their friend/hero and gushing about cheering them on, if she's been watching them murder potentially dozens of people. If you've killed Undyne there's her texts about missing the fight so she doesn't know that but she did not fucking miss Every fight

I've like only really thought about her in the context of pacifist or full no mercy runs I guess or maybe neutral Endings but I never played the game like that. Its bothering me so much how is one supposed to fit this into understanding her characterisation otherwise. Like she would not fucckinf do that But she does! Someone please discuss this with me 😭

[figofswords]

anybody remember the stephanie brown essay I was working on under a research grant fully last summer? yeah it’s not done yet it super needs to be done and I’ve been avoiding working on it for weeks. someone tell me to just do it already

[diamondsandtoads]

wrote for 5 hours today :))))) FINALLY FINISHED MY ROUGH DRAFT OF CHAPTER 3!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[dolcecherub]

off the record ‧͙⁺˚*･☾

♡ pairing: oscar piastri x media manager!reader

♡ tags: social media manager reader, lowkey tension, deadpan oscar, pining oscar, frustrated reader lol, happy ending, fluff

♡ yap: this was inspired by this fic here by the lovely @papayainsectorone, they wrote this dynamic so well and the smut is *chefs kiss* i was craving more build up so here's my take on it :) honestly wasn't expecting to have another fic out so soon but i'm in the writing mood, so expect maybe some smut soon lol

♡ word count: 4.6k

Being Oscar Piastri’s social media manager sounded a hell of a lot cooler on paper.

The reality? A full-time position in pure damage control and editing. 

It wasn’t that Oscar was a bad guy, quite the opposite actually. He was annoyingly likable. But in an industry of personalities so polished you could see your reflections in them, Oscar was… well, Oscar. Dry-humoured, mostly straight-faced, foreign with emojis aside from the simple smiley face. Not even a golden retriever puppy in a McLaren hoodie could crack a big smile from the man.

You had tried everything and it was quite easy to say that the last few months had been hell. 

You wrote him fun captions, you scheduled posts, and briefed him before interviews. And yet he would still deadpan his way through as many interactions as he possibly could, switching up your pre-written captions for three-word ones. If you were lucky, maybe he’d add a song to it. 

Once, in a fatal attempt, you had practically begged Oscar to do a TikTok trend. His response?

“I’d rather crash into a barrier and get stuck in a gravel trap.”

Still, you kept at it. You filtered photos, crafted witty tweets and captions, and edited videos for TikTok, so he at least looked 20% more charming and 100% engaged. But Oscar remained the same, calm, collected, and chronically unbothered. 

It drove you crazy, and some part of you was convinced Oscar found joy in riling you up, the tension spiralling between you two. 

Until one day, you just…stopped.

It was after an interview in which Oscar said, “Yeah, the car was good,” followed by a few simple remarks about the overall race and the car, even though you had specifically coached him on how to highlight the team’s efforts and the new upgrades. You sat there, watching the video on your laptop, the PR director sending you questioning looks. Something in you just gave up.

If Oscar didn’t care, why should you?

This time, instead of doubling down and trying harder to fix it, you shifted gears. 

You kept running the socials, kept building out the calendar, kept coordinating cross-posts with sponsors. You threw yourself into season promos for some rookies, drafted killer captions for Lando (who did, in fact, appreciate them, often adding his own flair as well). Hell, you even helped restructure the entire engagement strategy for McLaren’s YouTube account. Your inbox was still flooded, deadlines still to be met. You were still good at your job, just focusing your attention elsewhere rather than bending over backwards for Oscar. 

You still gave him the essentials. Posted his podium shots with a simple caption fit for him, uploaded interview clips without the usual fun editing. You stopped chasing him for quotes and thoughts, and generally stopped fighting for moments he didn’t want to give.

And weirdly enough, it all kept going. 

Oscar didn’t change, of course, the fans still adored him, his dry wit, his blank expressions, the accidental charisma of someone who didn’t try at all, or didn’t have to. People enjoyed his slightly sarcastic comments post-race, and so what if his metrics slightly dipped? It’s not like he necessarily noticed it. 

You still saw him every day, still worked around him, still made space for him on the schedule, but not in your head. Not in that quiet, careful way you used to. Perhaps you had gotten too close, you reeled. No more last-minute efforts to make him sound polished, no more staying late to re-edit his posts, not when you had better things to do for people who truly cared. 

And if he noticed the shift, the quiet space you left where your effort used to live, he didn’t say a word. Which, somehow, was more than enough. 

✧༺♥༻∞

It was a Thursday morning, and everything had been off.

You were running late, which, truthfully, rarely happened. A sponsor call had run longer than it should’ve, your usual transportation route taking a detour you were unaware of, and your badge wouldn’t scan at the main paddock gate. By the time you finally walked through the McLaren hospitality, your hair had been haphazardly clipped up, your phone was at 3%, and your brain was somewhere between caffeine withdrawal and a full-on system crash. 

You exhaled sharply, finally getting a moment to catch your breath. You pulled open the media schedule to hopefully catch up before the day truly began, your head slightly spinning as you barely noticed the figure leaning against the wall. 

Oscar.

He was dressed in team gear, the orange always sitting well with his skin tone as he had a basic black ball cap on and some shorts, his bag slung over his shoulder with a hand in his pocket. He looked casual, calm. 

As per usual. 

His other hand held out something to you as he walked closer. A coffee cup.

You looked up at him curiously, head tilting slightly as you lowered your tablet. “What’s this?” 

“Coffee,” he said simply. “Obviously.” 

You eyed it, seeing your name written on the side as your jaw twitched at his tone.

“...What kind of coffee?” You asked, his eyes roaming your face.

“Extra hot. Two sugars. Oat milk and a shot of caramel.” He said like it was nothing, as if he hadn’t just recited your exact order back to you, heart stammering against your chest. 

You brought your hand up, taking it from him, fingers brushing his slightly. Your jaw nearly dropped with shock. Why hadn’t he listened like this during pre-interview briefings? 

It was still warm to hold, still fresh. The lid was secured the way you always preferred, double cups, the lid pressed down tight with no drips at the seam.

You searched his face for expressions, “You got this for me?” You asked, albeit a silly question.

Oscar shrugged, arms crossing against his chest, his biceps stretching the sleeves of his shirt, his eyes straying from yours. “You’re usually here earlier. Figured you didn’t have time to stop for one.” He said as if it meant nothing.

A beat passed, your heart skipping that exact beat. 

You swallowed. “I didn’t.”

Another pause, your face flushing slightly. 

“Thank you,” You said finally, voice far quieter than before. 

He nodded, not smug, just acknowledging, as if that was the end of it. As if he hadn’t just undone a week’s worth of you convincing yourself that he didn’t notice you slipping away. 

He adjusted the strap on his shoulder and added, “I wasn’t sure if it was oat or almond. Figured it was oat, you seem like it.”

You blinked, brows furrowing slightly in confusion. “Why?”

He gave you the faintest smirk, “Almond milk people always have something to prove.” He joked. 

You huffed, surprised by the small, shaky breath of laughter it pulled out of you. Perhaps you did understand the population’s obsession with him. 

Oscar turned to leave, no further acknowledgement, no comment on your attire or the lack of polish to your appearance this morning, no follow-up. Just the quietest moment between you two, the coffee in your hand warming your palm cozily, his smirk setting your pulse to quicken. 

He didn’t look back. 

Although it didn’t matter, because you were already watching him go, heart quietly pounding.

So he did notice. 

Even when you thought he didn’t. 

✧༺♥༻∞

A few weeks had passed, and you were getting yourself ready for the following race weekend. The past few weeks had been the same, doing more for others to keep yourself while keeping Oscar entertained with the bare minimum. 

Now, it started with a headache.

Then came the chills, the sore throat, the kind of fatigue that sank into your bones like wet cement, weighing you down impossibly. You told yourself it was nothing, stress maybe, but by the time the race weekend rolled around, you couldn’t even sit up without your head spinning. 

You did what you had to. You called in sick, feeling bad, although you had not done so before while working with the team.

Just one day, you told yourself. Just one race day. The team could surely handle it, you had pre-scheduled most of the posts anyway, as well as sending over any notes and ideas you had to the rest of the team to follow. And it wasn’t like Oscar would notice. He barely spoke to you when you were there anyway. 

So you stayed in your hotel room, curtains drawn, laptop closed, and haphazardly thrown onto the armchair next to the bed. You had wrapped yourself in two blankets, your body settled with a chill that wouldn’t leave. You drifted in and out of sleep, vaguely aware of your phone buzzing a few times, your body far too sleepy to pay attention, let alone respond. 

Around 6 p.m., there was a knock on the door. 

You blinked, trying to figure out if it was in your room or a distant noise in the hall. You felt your stomach clench, mostly empty aside from a few pieces of toast from earlier in the afternoon and water. 

Another knock sounded on the door. Firmer this time, followed by silence. 

You dragged yourself up, wincing as the floor spun. You brushed your hair down slightly and wiped away any sleep from your eyes, your body shivering from the sudden chill after emerging from your blankets. You cracked the door open slowly, expecting the hotel staff, perhaps with a message from the team or even room service. 

It was neither.

Oscar stood in front of you, simply dressed in a quarter zip and some jeans, his hair slightly tousled. He still looked calm, a medium sized brown paper bag in one hand and a plastic container in the other. You froze, so did he, though only for a second, just enough to make you think he hadn’t expected you to actually open the door. 

“Hi,” you croaked, your throat aching and sore, raw from not speaking all day. 

“You’ve sure seen better days, hm?,” he asked rhetorically, face deadpan.

You raised a brow, now feeling slightly embarrassed at the state he was seeing you in as you shamefully brushed your messy hair down as well as possible. “Thanks…”

“I meant it in a supportive way.”

You rolled your eyes, leaning against the doorway, suddenly feeling fairly light headed again, simply too tired to question what the hell was going on. “Why are you here?”

He shifted the bag in his hand, fixing his grip, eyes not meeting yours. “You didn’t show up today. You don’t not show up.”

You swallowed sorely, “I texted the team, told them I was sick.”

“Yeah,” he said, tone quiet, “but you didn’t text me.” 

That shut you up.

Oscar cleared his throat, holding out the plastic container filled with soup. “It’s the one you always get when it’s cold, the one from the random organic store down the street. You know, the one with the weird green logo.” 

Your chest tightened, his eyes trailing back up to yours. 

“And I brought some ginger tea bags. And the gummy vitamins you always hoard in the media van.” 

You stared at the bag in his hand, and then back up at him, his eyes dark, cheeks slightly pink, surely from being in the sun all day. “You walked across the paddock to get those?” 

“They deliver. I’m not that heroic.” He joked. You knew as a matter of fact that they didn’t deliver, you had most definitely asked more than once before, but you supposed Oscar didn’t want to admit that he had done that for you.

You exhaled a half-laugh, quiet, slightly painful and unsteady. 

Oscar looked at you, no smirk, no blank stare. Just something softer, eyes relaxed, something he could barely hold back. 

“Can I come in?” he asked after a pause, “Just to make sure you don’t choke on soup or something.” He teased.

You stepped aside, far too tired to joke and too tired to pretend like you didn’t want to be taken care of. 

He stepped in, toeing off his shoes, then settling the soup and the bag on the table tucked in the hotel corner. You crawled back into bed, body immediately collapsing into the fluffed sheets as you sniffled. 

He walked around filling the room’s small kettle with some water before putting it to boil and opening up the soup container before bringing it and a spoon to the bedside table. You sleepily watched him quietly move around the room with a sense of ease, your heart aching at his actions. Hearing the kettle click, he grabbed a mug, opened up the tea bag case and popped one in before pouring in some water. Settling that beside you on the table, too, he finally glanced at you. 

“Come on, sit up. At least eat some of the soup before you fall asleep,” Oscar spoke, voice soft and convincing as he settled down into the armchair next to the bed, making sure to move your laptop before sitting. 

Pushing yourself up, you sat against the headboard, head spinning again. He passed you the soup, simply watching you eat as much as you could without feeling sick. Neither of you said anything, Oscar simply ensuring you were okay, passing you a napkin whenever you needed it.

Placing the empty container down on the bedside table, you wiped your sleeve across your mouth before sliding back down into bed. Oscar stood up, adjusting the blanket around your shoulders when you shifted with a wince as your eyes fluttered shut. His fingers brushed over your arm as he did, then simply brushing a few hairs off your forehead, your body shivering, not from the chill this time but rather from his touch. 

“I’m fine,” you spoke, voice extremely rough but quiet. 

He didn’t say anything. Just sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, hands now folded in his lap, his eyes flickering between you and the headboard as if he was doing anything to stop himself from looking at you for too long. 

You were the one to break the silence, eyes still shut. “You didn’t have to come.”

“I know,” he said. You felt your breath catch for a second, mind drifting slowly to sleep.

“Thank you, Osc.” You mumbled quietly, words slurring from fatigue. 

He hadn’t said anything after that. And so what if his gaze lingered a bit too long before he left that night? You would be none the wiser, head misty with sleep.

✧༺♥༻∞

Weeks later, at the start of a triple header, everything felt back to normal. Too normal. It grated your nerves more than ever.

Oscar was back to his usual self, low-effort captions, brushing off most interview questions with short answers, and ignoring half of your content ideas. After you had thought you’d made at least some progress, you found yourself rubbing your temple in frustration after he refused to film a “Pre-race ritual” TikTok a few sponsors had requested. 

You found him in the garage, talking to a mechanic, most likely about race strats. If only he spoke to the media with such enthusiasm. You walked towards him angrily, your tablet hanging at your fingertips, face flushed with anger. 

“Oscar, may I speak with you, please?” You asked, tone stern and straight to the point. 

His brows knitted together with confusion, the mechanic patting his arm twice before walking away. He tilted his head, following behind you as you led him to a meeting room. You closed the door, setting the tablet down on the desk before turning back to face Oscar, arms crossing angrily against your chest. You leaned back against the desk, staring him down momentarily before speaking.

“Why do you make this so hard?” You huffed, voice cracking slightly. You hate that it cracked.

“Make what hard?” He asked, mirroring your body language.

“This!” You said waving your arms around for emphasis. “Your image, your career. I bust my ass trying to make you look even remotely engaged in sponsorships and media day, and yet you act like you’re allergic to enthusiasm.” You ramble exasperatedly, catching your breath before you continue. “And then- then you go and do these little things, like buying me coffee or taking care of me when I’m sick. I’m not stupid Oscar, I know you’re not oblivious. You notice things, you care. But you pretend like you don’t and it’s… infuriating.”

He was quiet, not blinking, eyes still holding your gaze. He walked closer, rubbing a frustrated hand over his face before returning to his crossed-arm position, just now closer to you. Your heart pounded at his proximity. 

The silence between you was heavy, suffocating almost. 

“I don’t let people see it because once they do, they expect more. They expect a reaction every time a little blip happens. And I’m not good at more.”

You stared up at him, lips parted slightly. 

“I didn’t grow up under the impression of needing to be liked.” He spoke, eyes searching yours. “I wanted to drive. I wanted to win. But now, I’ve got people picking apart every expression, every quote, hell everything I don’t say. And you-you come into my life like this force to be reckoned with. You clean up my messes, making me look far better than I am. And it terrifies me.” He admitted truthfully.

He exhaled as though he hadn’t meant to say that last part, but it was too late now. 

“You make me want to try. Even though I don’t know how. And I hate that I let you do everything alone, I’m sorry I don’t cooperate more. I hate that I don’t say thank you when I should. I hate that I barely show what I feel because I’m scared that once I do, it’ll matter too much. That people will always want that, and I won’t be able to deliver.” Oscar spoke frantically.

Your breath caught, heart aching for being mean to him originally. “Oscar…” 

He continued, “I noticed when you stopped trying so hard,” He admitted, voice softer as he took a step closer. “And it scared the shit out of me because I thought that meant you were done. That I had pushed you too far. And if I lost you…I don’t know what I’d do.” 

And for the first time, you felt as though Oscar hadn’t just meant in terms of work. 

You stood still, heart hammering against your ribs. 

He stepped forward once more, practically caging you against the desk and himself. 

“I brought you coffee because I know you can barely function without it in the morning. I remember your order because you complained about the barista using a shot of vanilla instead of caramel once. I remember you like it extra hot because it keeps your hands warm while you’re out. I brought you soup because I know you hate being alone when you’re sick. I pay attention, even if I don’t always know what to say, but I do care, okay? Far more than I’ve let on.” He expressed, eyes fluttering across your face. “Maybe more than I should.” He confessed quietly, cheeks lightly flushing.

You stared at him, awestruck. The boy who never flinched on track, now looking completely exposed. 

You reached a hand towards him, pulling them away from his chest and placing them next to you on the desk, his body leaning slightly forward. 

And in a quiet, breaking voice, you said, “Then say it, tell me.” You plead.

His eyes didn’t leave yours. 

“I care about you,” his voice hoarse with emotion. “Not just because you make my life easier, even if I don’t make yours any easier,” he joked with a sarcastic huff before continuing. “Not just because you’re brilliant at your job. Because I care about you. And I think I’ve been falling for you since the day you yelled at me for skipping media day.” 

The silence returned, your body flushing at the confession and your breath hitched slightly. 

“You make me want to be better. Not just for the press. For you. Because when you’re around, I don’t feel like some machine for the media to chew up and spit out. I feel like maybe I’m someone worth showing up for.” He confessed, arms encaging you against the desk as his head leaned down slightly. 

Then quieter, “I know I’ve been difficult. I don’t say enough, but I’m saying it now. I care, I care about you. I want you here. Not because you fix things, but because I love having you around.” He reiterated, you felt as though you hadn’t spoken in ages, none of the right words coming to mind.

Your throat tightened. 

And suddenly, the frustration, the exhaustion, the weeks worth of wondering if he even noticed you slipping away, all cracked away and spilled into something else. 

A knock on the door interrupted your moment as you broke away. He took a step back, head whipping towards the door as your breath caught up to you. 

Work awaited you. 

✧༺♥༻∞

Days had passed, the paddock was winding down for the night.

You had migrated from your desk to one of the couches in the corner of the hospitality unit, half-heartedly editing clips from Oscar’s earlier media rounds to hopefully post the following morning. Your headphones sat around your neck, untouched. The screen glowed, but your eyes glazed over somewhere between the third and fourth timestamp. 

You hadn’t talked about the confession since it happened, but your mind kept drifting back to him. The look on his face and the way his voice sounded. 

You’d both gone back to work like professionals. He gave more thoughtful answers during interviews. You polished his media presence like always, job slightly easier nowadays. But under every interaction with him sat this new charged silence, one that said something happened and neither of you had figured out what it meant yet. 

Then came a quiet knock from the doorframe. 

Oscar.

He wasn’t in race gear anymore, not even team gear, just a hoodie, slightly damp at the sleeves, his hair tousled from his post-session shower. He looked…normal, cozy if you would. Not a headline, or a race statistic, or a social media puzzle for people to pick apart.

Just him. 

“You busy?” He asked, walking closer anyway.

“A little,” you blinked, watching him intently. 

He stepped closer, sitting on the couch across from you, silent for a moment, before wordlessly placing a bag on the table between you, sliding it towards you.

Your brows furrowed curiously, “What is this?”

“Some takeout, I figured you hadn’t eaten in a while since most places on the track are closed by now. It’s the fried rice you like and some of those weird seaweed chips you eat when you’re stressed.” He explained, cheeks flushing slightly pink.

You paused, still in awe of the fact that he noticed. “You remembered.” you spoke, leaning forward to untie the bag and pulling out the bag of chips, a soft smile crossing your face.

He didn’t look at you, eyes wandering the room. “It wasn’t hard.” 

Your chest tightened. 

You pushed your laptop aside, slowly looking at him. There was something in the way his shoulders tensed, the slight crease in his brow. As though he was trying to say something without saying it too fast, or too wrong. 

“Oscar-”

“I keep thinking about what you said. About how you care and how I didn’t give you anything back.” He swallowed thickly. Your breath caught but you stayed quiet. 

He looked up at you then, and for once he didn’t look guarded or sarcastic. He looked nervous. 

“I kept thinking if I acted like I didn’t need anyone, I couldn’t lose anything. But I think maybe I lost a little bit of you already, and fuck, I don’t want to keep doing that.” 

You felt your eyes sting unexpectedly as you blinked quickly. 

“I don’t expect you to fix me up or stay just because I suddenly decided to show up. But I meant it all. I care. About all of it, about you. I was worried if I said the wrong thing, I’d ruin the only good thing I actually gave a shit about.” 

“I’ve been trying to show it,” he went on, voice tighter now. “In the ways I can, but I don’t know if it’s enough. And it’s driving me fucking insane wondering if I’ve missed my chance” 

Your heart beat a little too loudly in your chest.

He ran a stressed hand through his hair, “I keep thinking about how close I could’ve been to losing you. It’s not just about work, it never has been.” His eyes met yours, raw and serious. “It’s you. I don’t want to go through another race weekend without knowing if you’re mine. If this thing between us is real or if I’ve just been imagining it.”

The room went still.

You stood slowly, every nerve in your body on fire, the air between you wound so tight it could snap. 

“You didn’t miss your chance,” you said, your voice barely a breath. You walked towards him, now standing next to him sat on the couch, within arm’s reach.

A pause, his jaw clenching as though something had finally broken. 

He reached for you, pulling you closer with a hand on your waist as he stood up. Oscar towered over you now, arms snaking around you comfortably as your hands came up to rest on his chest.

He leaned down, breath fanning your face as his nose nudged yours. Then, he kissed you. Lips landing on yours like they had waited months. 

Tension bled out of both of you like a flood. His mouth was warm and searching, far too much restraint pent up as his teeth gnashed teasingly against your bottom lip. You stood slightly on your tiptoes to reach him better, a hand sliding up from his chest into his hair, tugging lightly as he groaned. 

It was far from perfect, you stumbled slightly unbalanced as his hands shook against your hip, but it was real. Honest and a little desperate. You slid your tongue against Oscar’s lip, his own poking out to meet yours. He licked into your mouth, hand tightening against your hip as you whined. 

You pulled back slightly, nose still pressed against his breathlessly, his forehead resting against yours. 

“I’ve wanted to do that since my second week on the job,” You admitted, lips curling into a smile. 

He huffed a soft laugh. “Took me that long to stop pretending I didn’t”

You smiled, brushing your fingers along the curve of his neck, lightly scratching the hair at the nape of his neck as he shivered. “So what now?”

“Now I stop pretending, full stop.” He spoke, no hesitation. “And I get to flirt with my media manager.” He joked, a small smirk settling on his face. 

You giggled softly, feeling the weight of that promise, simple and sincere, You leaned into him, body warming at his words. 

“Let me take you home,” He spoke softly, mouth near your ear as he whispered as if trying to keep it a secret between you two. 

You shuddered at his words, biting your lip before facing him again. You nodded slowly at him, eyes lighting with excitement. He smiled at you sweetly, placing another small kiss on your lips before letting you go to pack up. 

Everything seemed to be exactly where it was meant to be, and you felt your heart settle happily at how the night turned out.

✧༺♥༻∞

[baguettenjoyer]

Matchmaker Caine

CHAPTER FIVE: Funny…The Moon

Summary:

During a late-night adventure, Pomni finds herself alone with an unexpected listener—and Jax ends up hearing more than he planned from someone wiser than he expected.

———————————————————————————

The walls of the labyrinth were covered in foliage, twisting and turning and screaming everytime you touched it. Pomni started to feel dizzy.

 

She wasn’t sure when she got ahead of everyone, but somehow she ended up alone in the dead center. She sat down with a sigh.

 

For once, there was no music or confetti or Caine. The night was quiet.

 

The Moon floated high above the maze, glowing. Unlike everything else in the Digital Circus, it never warped or jittered or blinked at her. She was so still it was like she was etched into the night sky.

 

Pomni folded her legs under her, staring up at it. “You’re not going to talk back,” she muttered, “are you?”

 

A pause.

 

“Only if you want me to.”

 

She jolted so hard she almost fell off the platform.

 

“I can do many things,” the Moon said gently, her voice silky. “But I’m very good at listening.”

 

Maybe it was the quiet. Maybe it was how the Moon didn’t ask questions, didn’t hover too close or beam with glee like Caine. She just floated. Present.

 

“I’m lying to everyone.”

 

The words came out too fast. She didn’t mean to start there. But once they left her mouth, more flooded out.

 

“It’s not real,” she mumbled. “Me and Jax—we’re not a couple. We’re pretending. Faking it. Because Caine wouldn’t leave us alone. And now everyone’s watching us like we’re a car crash.”

 

The Moon didn’t respond. Just waited.

 

Pomni slumped. “They think I’m being manipulated. That Jax is playing some cruel game, and I’m too emotionally stunted to know better. And maybe they’re right? But also…maybe they’re wrong!”

 

Her face flushed when she thought about the dumb kiss performance. She shook it away.

“And Ragatha—god. She yelled at us. At me. Like I was too dumb to see it. And then she—she told me—” Her throat tightened. “She said she liked me. And she’s sweet and kind and everything I’m not. And I hurt her. And I can’t fix that.”

 

Still, the Moon waited.

 

“I didn’t even mean to hurt anyone,” Pomni whispered, curling her fingers into the grass. “I just…wanted the pressure to stop. And now it’s worse.”

 

Her voice got small. “What if I’m the joke?”

 

Finally, the Moon spoke again.

 

“You’re not.”

 

Pomni blinked.

 

“You’re not the joke, little jester,” she repeated, warmer now. “You’re someone trying. And pretending doesn’t always mean you’re lying. Sometimes pretending is how we learn.”

 

Pomni sat in silence, her legs numb. She felt so messy.

 

The Moon continued. “You’re allowed to be confused. And you’re allowed to want kindness.”

 

Pomni blinked rapidly. “I’m not crying,” she muttered.

 

“I didn’t say you were.”

 

She looked up at it again. “Why are you being nice to me?”

 

The Moon tilted ever so slightly, like a nod. Her smile was so warm and comforting. “Because someone should be.”

 

That one line made Pomni feel heard. Safe. She stared up at the Moon, pupils wide. She smiled softly. “…Thanks.”

 

A warm silence settled between them. Pomni stretched out on the grass, arms behind her head, watching the sky. She let her thoughts simmer down as she counted the stars. They were only six.

 

——

“Great,” Jax muttered, stepping over his third ‘decoy exit’—a doorway painted onto a wall with crayon and the words ‘freedom this way!! :)’ scribbled in Comic Sans. “This place royally sucks!”

 

He kicked a bouncing bush out of the way. It squealed like a pig.

 

Honestly, it wasn’t the worst trap Caine had cooked up. Just annoying. And dumb. And covered in leaves and vines that screamed like banshees. He was pretty sure this wasn’t even a real maze because the walls restructured if you stared at them too long. It was like a bad dream designed by someone who hated logic and was a fan of jello. That would be Caine.

 

Jax wasn’t worried. He was too petty to let the maze beat him. Stupid maze.

 

Where the hell is Pomni?

 

She was ahead of him somewhere. He’d seen her get launched by a springboard ladder thing and hadn’t caught up since. Which was fine. Obviously. He wasn’t her handler. He didn’t care.

 

The image of her in his arms as they kissed flashed in his mind. He flushed. Why was he thinking about that? It was such a dumb solution to a dumb problem, and it had passed.

 

He turned a corner, expecting another dead end, and instead walked straight into—

 

“Kinger?”

 

The chess piece stumbled back. He stared at him, eyes not glossed over for once. It was almost like…he was lucid. Nah, no way.

 

“Ah,” Kinger said cheerfully. “Jax. You’re not a hallucination, are you?”

 

“…Not unless we’re sharing one.”

 

“Wonderful.” Kinger said.

 

Jax rolled his eyes as Kinger followed his every turn.

 

There was a beat of silence. Then:

 

“You and Pomni, huh.”

 

Jax’s ears twitched. Kinger of all people, bringing this up.

 

Jax scoffed.

 

“They say you kissed her.”

 

“…Hnnnggh.”

 

“That wasn’t a no.”

 

“Technically,” Jax said. “It’s not the end of the world.”

 

“So you like her?”

 

Jax shot him a look. “What are you, a greeting card?”

 

Kinger didn’t flinch, instead he stared up at the sky. “I was married, once.”

 

Jax blinked. “You—what?”

 

“Her name was Queenie,” Kinger said, eyes distant. “She was strong. Kind. Smarter than me. She made this place bearable once upon a time.”

 

Jax didn’t know what to think of this. Kinger was married to someone in the circus, and it seemed like she had abstracted ages ago.  Jax didn’t know of a ‘Queenie.’ How long has Kinger been trapped here exactly?

 

“I didn’t know,” Jax said quietly, walking faster now.

 

“You wouldn’t. I don’t always remember her clearly. But when I do…” Kinger gave a soft shrug. “It helps.”

 

Jax strode. This was too much. Too personal.

 

“I don’t do all this feelings stuff,” he said, hands getting sweaty. “We’re just messing around. It’s not that deep.”

 

“Mm,” Kinger said, as if to say sure, buddy.

 

Jax stared ahead. “I don’t know what she wants. Pomni. One second she’s yelling, the next she’s all shy, and then she’s defending me like I didn’t let her fall on her face multiple times.”

 

He couldn’t tell Kinger it was just an act. But he did need someone to tell him how to play the part.

 

“Maybe she wants to be treated gently,” Kinger said. “You ever try that?”

 

“I am gentle,” Jax grumbled.

 

“Sure you are, son.”

 

Jax could hardly believe he was talking to Kinger. It felt delirious.

 

He stopped and folded his arms. “I held her hand.”

 

“Mmhm.”

 

“I almost caught her last adventure.”

 

“But you didn’t.”

 

“She didn’t ask me to—”

 

There was a long pause. Jax’s ears twitched again. “I don’t know what to do with her.”

 

“You don’t have to do anything. Just treat her like she’s real.”

 

Jax blinked. “She is real!”

 

“Then show her. Always be by her side. Give her what she needs without her having to ask.”

 

Jax didn’t reply.

 

Somewhere in the distance, he heard a shatter and a yelp. Gangle probably. Heh.

 

Kinger wobbled a little. “The exit’s that way, I think. Try not to walk into a wall again.”

 

“I only did that once, old man!”

 

“Funny.” Kinger patted his shoulder. “Good luck, son. Whenever you need to talk about this, you can find me. Just make sure it’s dark.” He gave him a thumbs up.

 

Jax groaned so hard it echoed off the maze walls. The walls groaned with him.

 

Son.

 

——

 

Hours later, Jax stood in front of Gangle’s door, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He hadn’t knocked yet. He just stood there, like the door offended him.

 

He finally knocked then pressed his face against the door. “Hey, Gangle.”

 

There was a long pause. Very long. God, is she sleeping?

 

Gangle’s voice came out muffled and nervous from behind the door. “Jax? What do you want?”

 

“Open up, ribbons. I wanna ask you somethin’.”

 

The door creaked open just enough for her mask to peek through. Gangle blinked at him, alarmed. “It’s the middle of the ni—“

 

“Got any paper?” he interrupted.

 

Her brow furrowed. “P-paper?”

 

“Yeah. Paper. Blank. Preferably colored. Whatever ya got.”

 

Gangle opened the door a bit more. She was so confused. “What…do you need it for?”

 

“None of your business.”

 

She peered at him. He had never demanded anything from her before. Cautiously, she opened the door for him, but only because her curiousity outweighed her fear. She gestured to a cluttered corner of her room. “There’s some paper over there. If that works.”

 

Jax walked in without asking. He didn’t really expect her to help him. In fact, he only came to check if Gangle wasn’t in her room so he could slip in to steal the paper. Too bad.

 

The room was…so Gangle. Neat but messy all at once. Half-finished doodles pinned to the walls, crumpled paper on every piece of furniture. Her desk was clear and tidy, but the floor was littered with paper. He ignored all of it and grabbed a few sheets from the pile, flipping through them like he knew what he was doing.

 

“Thanks,” he said eventually, heading out the door. “Later, sadface.”

 

Gangle stood alone in the doorway, watching him leave. Her mask was tilted and intact.

 

“…He said thank you,” she whispered to herself.

———————————————————————————

More about this fanfic:

Jax/Pomni (platonic), Jax/Pomni (romantic), Ragatha/Pomni (one-sided crush), Caine/Moon (romantic), Jax/Kinger (son-father relationship), Gangle/Jax (platonic), Kinger/Queenie (romantic), jealous Ragatha, protective Jax, Soft Jax, slow burn, wholesome, fluff, light angst, good vibes, character development

Matchmaker Caine Masterpost

———————————————————————————

First | Previous | Next

[flebdoodle]

You want specific?

a little confession: i got into Hermitcraft through Life SMP (and even that one i discovered mere months ago), so i wanted to know which came first for the lot of you

[rainrot4me]

What's the creeps' favorite chill activity with the reader?

✦ . jeff the killer

Playing dumb games on the floor.

Despite the chaos in his soul, Jeff thrives when you’re both laid out on the floor—playing cards, stacking dice, arguing over who cheated in Uno.

He gets competitive in a way that’s just annoying enough to be endearing.

“I’m not flipping the table. I’m strategically removing your ability to win.”

Eventually he ends up lying on top of you, cards scattered, face pressed into your shoulder. He’s warm and quiet like that. Doesn’t need to say it—but he likes this version of himself with you.

✦ . ticci toby

Blanket forts & movies.

Toby LOVES making blanket forts. Like, he will restructure the living room for the perfect space.

Soft lighting, popcorn, horror movies he talks through, your head in his lap as he fiddles with your hair or hoodie string.

“We can wat-watch something else if this freaks you out—but I will judge you a little.”

He feels safe in small spaces, where the world’s shut out and it’s just you. He’s chatty, happy, and full of little giggles in moments like these.

✦ . eyeless jack

Cooking in comfortable silence.

Jack finds peace in the methodical motion of cooking. Even if he’s not cooking for himself, he gladly does for you.

You chop, he stirs. You hum, he listens. He lets you taste test from the pan and press kisses to his shoulder.

“You’re not helping, you know. You’re just distracting.”

But his voice is soft, and there’s a fondness in his movements. Afterwards, you eat together in calm quiet, and he always insists on doing the dishes with you.

✦ . masky (tim wright)

Long, quiet walks.

Tim likes taking walks. Doesn’t matter if it’s through the woods, around a lake, or through crumbling ruins of a dead town.

He walks beside you, occasionally brushing his fingers against yours. When you finally take his hand, he just squeezes it and keeps walking.

“This is nice. Being here. With you.”

Sometimes he’ll bring a flask. Sometimes he’ll pause to show you something he remembers. It’s always peaceful with him, even when the world isn’t.

✦ . hoodie (brian thomas)

Photographing you.

Brian finds calm in photography. His favorite subject? You.

Candid moments, sleepy moments, “turn your face toward the light” moments. You’ll hear the click of his camera and look over to see him already lowering it with a faint smile.

“Don’t stop what you’re doing. I like seeing you like this.”

Later, he shows you his collection. Each photo is quiet, intimate—a love letter he doesn’t always know how to say aloud.

✦ . kate the chaser

Target practice & then lounging around.

Kate isn’t very still by nature, so her “chill” time usually involves active bonding.

She’ll drag you to do target practice with her—knives, throwing stars, or even just rocks at cans.

But after she’s burned her energy, she’s a limpet. She’ll curl into you with a cocky grin and steal your hoodie.

“Not bad, rookie. Still not as good as mine, though.”

She runs her fingers over your knuckles while you rest, her adrenaline replaced with quiet affection.

✦ . ben drowned

Gaming marathons in bed.

Ben loves lazy afternoons with both of you tangled up in blankets, controllers in hand, snacks everywhere.

He makes dumb jokes, shouts when he loses, and lets you win sometimes just to watch you gloat.

“Look at you acting all smug—fine. Rematch. No mercy.”

After a few rounds, he tosses the controller and turns to you, cheek pressed to your chest, just vibing while the pause screen hums in the background.

✦ . clockwork

Bath time + skincare.

Clockwork loves winding down with self-care rituals and insists you join her.

She’ll run a hot bath for both of you, drop in something that smells like sandalwood or mint, and just let you lean against her.

“You smell like my soap. Good. That’s how it should be.”

Afterwards, she dabs lotion onto your face with gentle fingers, murmuring praise. She’d never admit it, but she cherishes this softness more than anything.

✦ . laughing jack

Drawing together on the floor.

Jack isn’t a quiet guy—but when you break out pens and paper, he gets weirdly focused.

You draw on the floor, trading doodles, laughing at each other’s terrible art. Sometimes he traces your hand. Sometimes he draws your face from memory.

“You’re my best canvas, you know. But I like it when you leave your mark on me, too.”

He ends up covered in glitter, ink, and stickers, laying in a pile of scribbled paper and fake frustration.

✦ . slenderman

Reading together in total silence.

Slender’s favorite activity is the quiet kind. You, him, a dark library or fireside room, curled up on opposite sides of a velvet couch, each with a book.

Sometimes he reads aloud if you ask. His voice is low, calm—hypnotic.

“Rest your eyes if you’d like. I’ll keep going.”

You fall asleep to the sound of his voice and the rustle of pages. He always bookmarks your spot.

꩜ .ᐟ

[dragonfairies]

Here's the thing. Ludinus is a hypocrite. At this point he knows he a hypocrite. It's the reason he refused to engage Chetney about Molaesmyr.

Here's the thing, we need to remove "are the Gods good or bad?" Question from the table when talking about Ludinus. We have two different issues that are only connected because of his end point.

So what does Ludinus want? He wants to set Predathos free to kill the gods. How is he getting to that end goal? He's murdered hundreds, if not thousands, of fey to extend his life, he destroyed an entire city, he wrecked thousands of acres of land surrounding that city, the corruption of which is still spreading hundreds of years later, he had an anti revivify poison created, tested, and then used to kill, more than likely, more than just the Ashari around Keyleth. This is not a man you work with. Ludinus Da'leth is a problem that's needed delt with for centuries.

Deal with Ludanis, circle back to restructuring the faith of Exandria after.

Tl;Dr the ends do not justify the means. Ludinus Da'leth does not care about sentient life. He cares only about his trauma.

[habken]

Habs I want your 36 hour long YouTube analysis on bnha including thoughts on the new info from the fan book SO bad the toga stuff has me biting holes into the walls

Okay, it’s long:

First, stuff I liked:

Deku:

Good to see deku stocks rise, they doubted my nephew but he always comes out on top 🙏🙏

Circling back to 431, I don’t think it was all bad and I don’t hate it like some people do. I like that it shows us how passionate he is as a teacher and that he was able to carve out a path for himself outside of hero work. I think people were quick to judge him and make assumptions about him after declining Katsuki’s sidekick proposal, and it was Rough having to see Deku get bashed for it for months. I’m so happy that the new info shows that he didn’t give up on those heroic dreams, he just had to find the balance between teaching and being a pro.

I’m over the moon that he’s #4 and that Katsuki’s ranking bounced back too to #5 as a reaction to Deku being back on the hero scene, this is what I wanted so much from the ending, the two of them fighting neck-in-neck, competing for forever, teasing each other and being in each other’s lives… it’s perfect :’))

I think it’s so cool that apparently Deku was still placing in the top 100 despite being retired because of the extended requirements on the hero ranking, but I think that info should have come up in 430. The epilogue suggested that hero charts were going to be restructured or done away with entirely, and I think it’s silly that it’s only vaguely touched on in an art book lol. That should’ve been part of the main ending.

Streets are saying Deku did not get a degree before he started his teaching career… I’m electing to ignore that because I really want to imagine him in uni. I think it’s fair that UA wouldn’t have traditional standards for teachers… but let my boy get some certification before putting him in charge of a class c’mon.. But also this could be a bit of a misinterpretation considering there’s no official english translations out yet.

Also I’m so glad that it’s confirmed the suit mimics the ofa quirks !! I was worried that wasn’t gonna be the case and I was gonna end up disappointed but I can rest easy!

Bakugou:

I talked about him already kind of but the thing I’m happy to learn the most about from the art book is that supposedly older pro heroes have a soft spot for him. I think there’s something really endearing about that, and I feel like despite having a “bad attitude” he’s such a sentimental and sweet character and he’s grown so much from the middle school punk from chapter 1. He’s got this blunt but genuine quality to him and I think that’s what older characters would latch onto.

I am such a big fan of his friendship with todorok and love what they said about it in the book under todoroki’s section. Also a big fan of the tidbit that monoma tried to get close to him after the war, the guy saw him die right, and there’s something very touching about him trying to reach out and check up of katsuki and worm his way into his life because of that trauma idk. I want to make something about their friendship maybe.

Eri:

IThe information that jirou helped eri with guitar lessons fills my heart with so much joy :’)) I love that Eri has so many older siblings who all love her and want to teach her stuff and be part of her life and cheer her on

I really like that she’s pursuing music! I know some people wanted her to go down the hero path too, but I think it’s really nice that she was able to carve out a path that makes her happiest. It’s what first brought a smile to her face! When class A performed! And seeing her be able to live that dream is so nice :’))

Deku and mirio being her biggest cheerleaders also makes me so happyy. Those are her older brothers frfr.

I’m really glad the one shot was focused on her, very great thag we get to see her relationship with aizawa and the teachers, and learn about her life now. I was so worried about what the extra pages were gonna be about and it was such a pleasant surprise lol

Things I’m… less of a fan of:

Uraraka:

It’s genuinely criminal that the art book doesn’t touch on her reformed quirk counselling programs at all. To me, this was one of the most interesting tidbits of info we got from class 1-A in 430, and something I really wish we’d been able to learn more about.

It’s very clear that her character’s potential was tossed aside the entire story, and honestly her relationship with deku was too. I’m not really a fan of izuocha, but I am a lover of character relationships and the lack of growth the two had together throughout the series was very disappointing to me. I think the idea of romance between them and horikoshi’s aversion to writing it got in the way of their actual relationship and it stayed stagnant for too long — which is why 431 feels so disappointing in that regard — because they should have gotten closer in the actual story instead of in an add-on epilogue chapter.

All that to say, from what I’ve seen from the artbook, her info section is taken up mostly by things that relate to izuku, all we really learn is her parents don’t use the money she sends them LMAO. It’s just so strange for her to be both disregarded as a character and labelled the “Love Interest” when it comes to talking about her as her own person, but yet not have really any development alongside the character she’s supposedly going to end up with in the actual story.

She’s apparently there to cheer deku on, that’s the role they want her to have. They don’t care about who she is outside of that even though her entire character is a separate person with a life and a story beyond having a crush on a boy. It’s misogyny lol.

Toga and the LOV:

Speaking of misogyny… Toga’s death :( Learning that there were other options for her is upsetting. The artbook has really reopened my feelings about all the endings for the LoV members.

In my mind toga had the most satisfying ending, but that’s really not saying much. I don’t think she should’ve died, I don’t think her “facing responsibility/taking accountability” had to mean the only ending for her was death. She was a kid, she was mentally ill, she wanted love and to be loved and to me, her death being off-screened and used as canon-fodder for uraraka’s feelings and to be pushed towards izuku was so upsetting.

Idk it just feels like a habit for the female characters to be sidelined and for their sacrifices and deaths to be pushed to the side, it’s aggravating.

With the lov in general, it just seems like the overall message is there’s no real path to redemption, that the only way they could find it is to die. For a story that seems to want to highlight the fact that everyone can be saved, and that things aren’t so black and white, and that it’s the fault in society that drove these “villains” to where they are, it really does treat them as if they’re completely and utterly irredeemable and there was never any hope for them. That they are a product of their nature/nurture and cannot escape it any way but through dying. It’s not even tragic, it feels lazy and unsatisfying and feels like it goes against whatever the message of the story was supposed to be.

Idk I’ve defended mha a lot, and I think there’s a lot of positives in it. I think it does have strong messages that no one person can fix issues that are societal in nature, and that real change comes with forming community and being there for those around us. Etc etc. But I’m disappointed that a lot of the themes of mha fell flat and don’t go deeper than surface level.

I’m upset that horikoshi has made these compelling and very human villains, and shown us their stories and that they’re not all evil at the core, and then decided that their arcs all had to end in pain and suffering.

The one who upsets me the most is Tomura. He’s been one of my favourite characters since the beginning, and I think his ending hit me the worst. To me it felt like he was right on the cusp of something and then afo came in and told him his whole life was a lie, that he was groomed to be an angry man with half a quirk that could only destroy, and every choice he’d ever made was directly under afo’s influence. That he never had any free will, he was always meant to go down this path. I thought for sure the final battle with deku and afo would have shigaraki fighting back against the possession, and I was disappointed that his final moments were barely anything at all.

Learning about his original quirk and the original plans for his ending, it’s made me angry about his arc all over again. Thinking about how things could’ve been, and that there were other options for his final moments, I’m frustrated.

I hate that the villain’s are used as emotional canon fodder, to serve as character development for the heroic main characters, when horikoshi made us so invested in their stories as well. You just end up wanting to root for them, not in a “I want them taking over the world” way, but in a way where they find some sort of happiness. And we kind of maybe get that from toga, but to me all their endings just don’t hit the mark. They feel cheap and unsatisfying, and this art book drives a lot of that home for me.

Anyways yeah. I’m gonna stop myself here before I go crazy lol. Hope this made sense

[trying-harder-then-u]

Russian roulette

The gun hit the table with a loud "clank," catching Damien by surprise. He had been enjoying the sound of the wind rustling through the well-maintained trees, but now that a weapon was being chucked around, he reckoned he should probably pay attention. Turning around, he saw Jacob smugly looking down at him, his blonde hair dropping over his deep brown eyes, a spotless white shirt and a pair of tan pants loosely fitting his thin, lightly muscled frame, a gold chain the only jewelry he had. Damien sighed to himself; he should have known that his rich, bratty friend was up to something, but when you get invited to a rural manor for a weekend by the son of the richest oil tycoon this side of the Atlantic, you don't tend to make a habit of saying no. The gun was black with gold and white lines swirling around the barrel and handle; like everything in the house, it looked expensive, and like everything, if Damien broke it, his family would most likely be paying it off for generations.

"What are you doing, Jacob?" he asked, his tone dripping with the exhaustion that comes from dealing with a spoiled brat's shenanigans. "Setting up for the game," Jacobs's shit-eating grin told Damien everything he needed to know: something dangerous was about to go down, and if he didn't stop it, then there was going to be a news story about this in the next 24 hours. In his mind's eye he could see the text flash across the screen: "Heir to oil empire murdered in cold blood by a jealous, impoverished schoolmate." Carefully getting up, Damien weighed his options before deciding to go on with Jacob till he could convince him that whatever he had planned was a bad idea. "What are we going to play then?" "Oh, nothing too complicated, my dear friend." Damien watched unnerved as Jacob opened the chamber of the pistol and put a small pellet in it. "Just some good old Russian roulette."

…

"Are you fucking insane? You do know how Russian roulette ends, right? I thought you were just a dick, but this is fully psychotic." "Oh, calm down, Damien, you worry too much; of course no one's going to die." Jacob pointed the gun at Damien and pulled the trigger, causing Damien to duck for cover as a click sound revealed that it was one of the five empty slots, much to Damien's relief. "How unfortunate; anyways, it's not a real bullet; it's a powerful drug that one of my dad's friends made." "And that's better how?" "It's this whole atomic structural thing. I'm not sure how it works exactly, but anyone hit with it can have their genetic makeup altered simply by the thoughts of the closest person, that isn't themselves, of course." Jacob proceeded to point the gun to his skull before shooting again, another harmless click. "See, I'm playing fair." "Jacob, that is not the point; I don't want to play at all." Damien was confused how Jacob was so nonchalant about this whole thing. Even if this whole atomic restructuring nonsense was real, what did he have to gain from that? "You're so unfun sometimes, but fine, I'll sweeten the deal for you: we play one game, and if I lose, then I'll make sure your parents get a nice cushy job where they will never have to go hungry again." The offer made Damien double back; it was one thing to give into Jacob's flights of fancy, a whole other when he could get his parents out of the rut they were currently in. "Fine, one game." "Great, let's sit down and continue."

Damien held the gun in shaking hands; he knew now that the bullet wasn't able to harm him, but his whole body being at the whims of Jacob was still terryfying even if it was temporary. Click, safe. Jacob, turn now and click. There are only two bullets left, and so a 50/50 chance; no turning back now. Damien's finger moved the trigger and-. Damien felt strange; he couldn't hear anything; the wind in the trees was gone; he didn't hear the gun go off, but this weird state he was in seemed to say he had been drugged; color swirled around him until finally something formed in front of him. Jacob.

"Hey there, dear friend," Jacob's smile seemed more malicious than usual. "Seems like you lose, so I'm going to enjoy the show now." Jacob leaned back; Damien's skin felt like it was crawling; he felt like spiders were crawling all over him, but as he looked to see what was causing it, he almost jumped back in surprise. His skin was changing; it was growing darker. He watched as the melanin in his skin increased until he went from the olive skin tone he inherited from his mother's Italian genes to something much darker; he looked almost African. Not only that, but the calouses from working after school to help his family vanished along with all his blemishes and pimples till his skin was as clear as day, but how was that possible? Damien remembered now the drug; the closest person controlled his atomic structure, but what was Jacob doing to him? He looked up to try and address Jacob, but a punching sensation in his gut drew him to look down, seeing his clothes dissolve away and abs form; the rest of his frame was not neglected either; he continued to bulk up and even felt a couple inches added to his height till he was a goliath of a man; his feet and hands grew much larger, his face grew more chiseled, and his hair shrank back into his head.

He tried to yell at Jacob, but before he could, their faces collided as Jacob passionately kissed Damien. Only moans, slowly deepening in pitch, escaped his mouth. "God, I've been waiting so long for this. You think I'd ever be friends with your poor ass? God, no, you're my plaything now, and don't worry, it's permanent." Damien whimpered as Jacob's hand reached down, grabbing onto Damien's cock, and began to stroke slowly and methodically. Each time Damien felt more confused: where was he, why was he worried about his parents, who was he? His mind slowed as he gave into Jacob, the pleasure overwhelming his mind. His dick grew larger than it had ever been before, 4 inches, now 5, 6, till a 7-inch-long monster was left in its place. Damien's moans grew louder as he neared the end; he just wanted to cum; he didn't know who this strange man beating him off was, but he just wanted him to continue. Jacob continued to go faster and faster, until long streams of hot cum splashed across both of them. up his hand to for Damien to lick clean, which he gladly did, enjoying every taste.

2 months later

He was sitting at home, waiting for his rich boyfriend to get back. He had spent the last 2 months spending every hour he could with Jacob, but with Jacob's school, he had large amounts of time to reflect and learn how to be a good boyfriend, how to cook, clean, and do everything for Jacob. Awhile ago, two older people came around looking for their sun that shared his name, but he told them he had no clue where he had gone. His life was good, but the best part was no doubt every night when Jacob would take control; he would sometimes be pleased and sometimes give pleasure, but regardless, he knew that life would be good when he just went with what his boyfriend said, and man was life good.

[sterifels-blog]

simon "ghost" riley

The first time Simon saw your boyfriend, he knew.

Oh, he knew. Not in that “you’re too good for him” way you half-expected your protective, burly best friend to behave. No, Simon hated him with a ferocity so immediate, so visceral, it made his blood hum a little sharper. He didn’t just hate him. He despised him. Abhorred him. Wanted to roll his sleeves up and grate him into the damn carpet with the sheer force of his forearms alone. And if that wasn’t enough, he wanted to spend the rest of his natural-born life proving to you (and to himself, if we’re being honest) that he was better.

Tighter shirts. The flex of his fists when your boyfriend spoke in that grating voice Simon privately referred to as "discount Casanova." The subtle, almost casual cracks of his knuckles whenever the man dared to open his mouth about you in any way that wasn’t pristine worship. Every time your boyfriend laughed at you instead of with you, Simon would let out a low, bone-chilling chuckle of his own— a rumbling thing, gravelly and sharp, because he wasn’t laughing at all.

And then there was that one night.

It wasn’t like Simon was trying to hover. He wasn’t. He didn’t need to be your babysitter. You were strong, capable, smarter than everyone Simon had ever met— except, apparently, when it came to that bloody waste of oxygen you called a boyfriend. But when he saw the way your smile dimmed just a little too much at something the guy said, the way your fingers tightened around your glass as if to crush it, something ancient and primal roared inside Simon’s chest.

He stayed behind when you went home. Watched the fool stagger out into the night like a walking bad decision. Simon followed him with the quiet, measured gait of a shadow given form—leather jacket snug over his frame, boots heavy, but silent as sin.

Simon wasn’t poetic about what happened next. He didn’t need to be. There was no artistry in the precise, methodical lesson he taught your boyfriend in a dim alleyway under a broken porch light. (Broken now, thanks to your boyfriend's skull, if Simon were feeling particularly cheeky about it.) He made sure the man knew exactly why he was being "affectionately" restructured. And when the lesson ended, Simon left without a single word but with a vivid reminder that would stick for weeks:

stay the hell away.

The next morning, your boyfriend broke up with you via text message. A single line of lukewarm cowardice you barely had time to process before Simon was at your door, arms laden with snacks, beer, and the sweater you always stole anyway.

You curled up next to him on the couch, face half-hidden in the collar of that massive gray hoodie, and let out an exhausted sigh. Your voice was soft when you mumbled- sniffling with a stuffy nose from your previous sobs, “I just don’t get it, Si. I thought he cared..”

Simon didn’t answer right away, gaze fixed on the screen as Finding Nemo played in the background—a film you’d insisted on because you needed something light and harmless. Of course, to Simon, it wasn’t harmless at all. He frowned as Marlin yelled at Dory, the tiny blue fish babbling nonsense with frantic, short-term determination.

“'Course he didn’t care. Idiot didn’t even notice he was playing chicken with a shark,” Simon finally muttered, his deadpan delivery laced with something so dry you almost didn’t catch it.

You looked up, confused. “Huh?”

“Forget your boyfriend,” Simon said, tone flat as a blade. “This is why I don’t swim. Can’t trust anything with gills. Bloody sharks, jellyfish, clownfish...all useless. Why d’you think they call it Finding Nemo? Should’ve named it Simon Was Right: Stay Out of the Water.”

You snorted, unable to help yourself, and Simon glanced down at you, lips quirking upward just enough to show the barest hint of satisfaction.

And there it was. That warmth. That comfort. Simon didn’t need to say it, didn’t need to spell it out for you in big, stupid letters. You could see it in the way his arm stayed firm around your shoulders, in the way he made sure your blanket covered your toes, in the way his ridiculous commentary on Finding Nemo somehow made you feel whole again.

Yeah. You'd find your own way to thank him later.

[rhynestonez]

BY THE BOOK ( PART 1)

Congressman! Bucky X Assistant! Reader

Summary: Freshly fired and desperate, you apply to a poorly written government job—only to end up assistant to Congressman James Barnes, a quiet war hero with no clue how to run an office.

You knew something was off the moment you stepped into the office.

Not the usual “It’s-Monday-and-everyone-hates-their-lives” kind of off. No, this was quieter. Tighter. Like the whole floor was holding its breath and pretending not to look directly at you. Hallie from HR waved at you with a little too much teeth. Greg didn’t make his usual awkward dad-joke at the coffee machine. And your boss—well, he hadn’t shown his face at all.

The silence followed you all the way to your desk, cubicle 3B. You sat down, booted up your sluggish desktop, and tried to shake the feeling crawling over your skin. Maybe you were just paranoid. Maybe Hallie had finally figured out that you stole her granola bars from the break room and this was her revenge.

Or maybe you were about to get fired. “Hey..” came a voice from above you, making your stomach drop. You looked up. It was Jason—your supervisor. Clipboard in hand. Nervous energy oozing off him like sweat.

“Could you… come with me for a sec?” And there it was. The death knell. The walk to the conference room felt like a funeral procession. One that only you had RSVP’d to.

You passed by desks you used to joke around with. Smiled tightly at coworkers who suddenly became very busy with their spreadsheets. The same people you shared frozen yogurt with two days ago now wouldn’t meet your eyes. It was like being a ghost at your own job. Still here, but already halfway gone.

Jason opened the door for you. There were two people inside.

HR Hallie and one of the senior managers. The manager smiled sympathetically, like he’d just euthanized your childhood pet and wanted you to know he felt really bad about it.

You sat down. And they began.

Something about restructuring. Budget cuts. A shift in departmental focus. You were “valued.” and “appreciated.” and “not being let go because of performance.” but the bottom line was the same.

You were being released back into the wild.

You nodded a lot. Smiled even more. Signed the papers they gave you without reading them. You felt numb, like your brain was trying to protect you from registering the slow-motion collapse of your paycheck, your routine, your health insurance.

“Do you want a moment to gather your things?” Hallie asked gently, as though you might burst into tears.

“No, I’m good.” you said too quickly, already rising to your feet. “I don’t even have that much stuff.”

Another lie. You had so much stuff.

Back at your cubicle, the walk of shame began. You grabbed the cardboard box someone had thoughtfully left on your chair. You avoided looking up, knowing what you’d see- coworkers pretending to be busy while stealing glances, faces frozen in sympathetic guilt. The worst kind.

You packed in a fog. Mousepad. Desk cactus. Your favorite pens. The ceramic mug you stole from the supply closet. The birthday card everyone signed last month with forced little messages like “You’re crushing it!” and “Don’t forget us when you’re famous!”

Well. You wouldn’t have to worry about that.

Jason hovered awkwardly nearby like a shadow. “You sure you don’t need help carrying anything?”

“Nope. Just my dignity.”It slipped out before you could stop it. He gave a stiff chuckle. You wanted to melt into the floor.

You made your way to the elevator like it was the final scene of a dramatic indie film. Box in arms. Head held high. Pretending this wasn’t the most humiliating day of your professional life. The elevator doors opened. No applause. Just an old man coughing inside.

Perfect.

You got home two hours later. Kicked off your shoes, dumped the box on the floor of your living room, and collapsed on the couch like a deflated balloon. You stared at the ceiling fan spinning lazily above you.

And that’s where you stayed. For the rest of the day. And most of the next.

You ate chips straight out of the bag. Watched reality TV you’d never admit to enjoying. Didn’t shower. Only left the couch to grab more snacks or charge your phone. You were spiraling—but it was a soft spiral. One wrapped in blankets and denial.

Eventually, shame crept in like an uninvited guest. You opened your laptop. The screen glowed like an accusation. You pulled up a job board. Your search history from last time was still there: “office jobs near me.” “remote jobs for introverts.” “do I really need health insurance if I’m careful.”

You scrolled.

Most listings made you want to evaporate. Corporate jargon. Unrealistic qualifications. $40K salaries requiring six degrees and willingness to be emotionally abused. You were about to close the tab when something caught your eye.

“ASSISTANT NEEDED – GOVT JOB”

No punctuation. No detail. The kind of post that practically begged you to ignore it.

So naturally, you clicked.

“Man needs help. With papers. Office stuff. Maybe coffee sometimes. Not illegal. Good pay. Please have experience with Microsoft… the word one. And fast typing. Not too fast. Just normal. Must be trustworthy. And not annoying.”

You stared. You re-read it. You laughed. Out loud. For the first time all day.

“This has to be a joke..” you muttered, mouth curled into a tired grin. The name at the bottom just said: Congressman J. Barnes.

You weren’t sure if it was real. You weren’t sure you cared. You clicked “Apply.” Attached your outdated résumé. Wrote “Available immediately” in the cover letter box. And hit send. “God help whoever’s desk that lands on.” you muttered, already tossing your laptop to the side.

You figured you’d never hear from them again. But the next morning, your phone rang. Unknown number. You squinted at it.

Half of you wanted to let it go to voicemail. The other half wanted to believe in a miracle. You answered.

“Hi, is this..?” a chipper voice asked, trailing off a little like she was reading your name off a list. “This is Gemma, from the Office of Congressman Barnes. He’d like to bring you in for an interview.” You blinked.

“…oh.”

-

You stood in front of your closet like it had personally offended you. Somewhere between the third blazer and sixth wave of panic, you realized you had no idea what to wear to a government job interview.

Especially one that might’ve been posted by a man who thinks Microsoft Word is called “Microsoft the word one.”

“I don’t even know what I’m applying for..” you muttered to yourself, yanking out a wrinkled blouse that hadn’t seen daylight since your cousin’s wedding. “Is this for a desk job? A CIA field mission? Coffee courier to a congressman with a mysterious past?”

Because let’s be honest—you Googled him.

Congressman James B. Barnes. And let’s just say the results… were not what you expected.

There were official headshots: clean-cut, classic suit, stoic stare. But then there were older photos. Grayscale. Battle-worn. Like something out of a history book. You clicked deeper into the rabbit hole and discovered enough chaos to make your resume feel wildly underqualified.

War hero. Former assassin. Reformed government weapon.

Now… congressman?

“This man needs more than an assistant-“ you muttered, buttoning your shirt with trembling fingers. “He needs a therapist. Maybe a nap.”

And then there was that job description. The weirdly direct, charmingly awkward message that had made you laugh harder than you had in days.

“Man needs help. With papers. Office stuff. Maybe coffee sometimes.”You could not imagine this man typing that. But you kind of wanted to meet whoever did.

The morning of the interview arrived far too quickly. You barely slept. Your nerves were frayed. Your eyeliner was uneven.

You triple-checked your bag: résumé (printed on fancy paper you borrowed from your neighbor), breath mints, water bottle, emergency chocolate, and a sticky note with the name Gemma – Front Office Contact written in panicked caps.

The Capitol Hill building was less intimidating than you expected. Smaller. Like it didn’t quite get the memo that it was hosting a literal congressman. Security was tight but polite. The guard at the front desk glanced at your visitor badge, then up at you.

“You here for Barnes?” You nodded. He snorted. “Good luck.” You opened your mouth to ask what that meant—but he waved you through before you could.

Great. Definitely not ominous at all.

The elevator dinged open on the third floor, revealing a hallway lined with framed press clippings, black-and-white photos, and one strange oil painting that made your eyes sore.

You approached the office door and hesitated for exactly one soul-crushing moment.

You could still turn around. Blame traffic. Say you got the wrong building. But instead, you knocked. “Come in!” a bright voice called.

You opened the door and were immediately greeted by a perky woman in a lavender button up—Gemma, you assumed—who smiled like she just saw a long lost friend.

“You made it!” she said, motioning you in. “Right on time. I love that. He’ll love that. Timeliness is kind of… a thing.”

You smiled nervously. “I’m a big fan of clocks.”

God. You were already spiraling.

Gemma didn’t seem to notice. She gestured for you to sit in a sleek waiting chair beside a bookshelf stacked with…well. Mostly military history. And something called ‘how to overcome being antisocial’ which honestly felt like a cry for help.

“He’s just finishing a call-“ she chirped. “Shouldn’t be more than a minute.” You nodded. Hands folded tightly in your lap. The silence stretched.

Then you heard it. A low voice. Just beyond the closed office door. Rough. Steady. Calm like a storm cloud.

You couldn’t make out the words—but something about the tone made your skin prickle. So this is him.

James Barnes.

Your potential boss. War hero turned congressman. Possibly the worst job poster in the history of the internet.

You felt a laugh catch in your throat and swallowed it back. This was fine. Normal. You were in control. “Can I ask..” you whispered to Gemma, leaning slightly closer. “Did… he actually write that job post?”

She blinked, then smiled guiltily. “I… typed it. But he dictated it.. I suggested we workshop it but he said—and I quote—‘If they’re the right person, they’ll understand what I meant.’” Your stomach did a weird little flip. “Right.” You mumbled, eyebrow twitching slightly. The door opened. You straightened instinctively. And there he was.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Hair slicked back neatly. Navy-blue shirt rolled at the sleeves. One hand in his pocket. The other—metal, unmistakable—still adjusting the watch on his wrist.

He looked up. Eyes like winter. And when they landed on you… he actually smiled. Just a little. Not the polished politician kind. The real kind. A bit tired. A bit curious. A bit… surprised.

“You’re early.” he said. Voice just like you imagined—low, quiet, steady. “That’s good.”

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.

Your brain offered nothing useful except: Holy shit he’s hot.

Gemma, bless her soul, stepped in. “This is the applicant we spoke about.” He nodded. Extended a hand. You shook it, startled by how warm the metal felt. Strong but careful. Like he knew exactly how much pressure to use.

“Nice to meet you.” he said. “I’m Bucky.” You blinked, then instinctively gave your name. “-but I’m sure you already knew that from my application..” He huffed a soft laugh. Not unkind. Just amused.

“Well-“ he said, stepping aside and gesturing to the door behind him. “Let’s talk.”

His office was quiet. Not the peaceful kind—more like the kind of silence that follows a bomb going off. Thick, slightly tense, and filled with the unspoken energy of “I didn’t plan for this.”

You sat down as Bucky gestured vaguely at the chair across from him and lowered himself into his own, the leather creaking under his weight. He didn’t speak at first—just opened a drawer, pulled out a pen, then closed the drawer again. Looked at the pen like he forgot what to do with it.

You smoothed your blouse, the long skirt you wore and cleared your throat lightly, trying to keep your posture professional. His office was cluttered but lived-in, stacks of folders on the floor and two mugs on his desk—one clearly from yesterday. Or possibly last week. You couldn’t tell.

He opened a folder, blinked at the blank sheet inside, then closed it. Then looked up at you. Then back down. Then exhaled through his nose like this was already too much.

You offered a polite smile. “Should I… begin?”

He cleared his throat. “No—I mean. I’ll start.”

You folded your hands in your lap, waiting. Silence. He tapped the pen against the desk. Slowly. Then, after a beat too long.

“…Why do you want this job?”

It came out flat. Hesitant. Like he wasn’t sure it was the right question but figured it sounded interview-y enough to work.

You sat up straighter, shifting into the persona you’d practiced in the mirror. “Well, first and foremost, I believe I can bring organizational cohesion and administrative fluidity to your daily operations. I have extensive experience in interdepartmental coordination, and I thrive in high-pressure environments with adaptive logistics.”

Bucky blinked. His brow furrowed. “…Right.”

You smiled, trying not to panic. “Also I’m really good at, you know, keeping things… tidy.”

He nodded slowly. “Okay.”

You saw him glance at your résumé—upside down—and then make a noise deep in his throat. His eyes scanned the desk like he was searching for help. Or divine intervention.

Another long pause. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then tried again: “Do you… type fast?”

You hesitated. “Yes. Around 85 words per minute, depending on format.”

He nodded like that meant something. “Cool.”

You both sat in the silence of that word for a second too long.

“…Are you… looking for someone with any particular certifications?” you offered, trying to help. He blinked again. “Hm?”

“Like government clearance, or scheduling software—”

“Oh. Uh. No. I just need someone who… knows how to do things. Like calendars. Paper stuff.”

“Calendars and paper,” you repeated with a kind smile. “Yeah.” Another pause. He fiddled with the pen cap, then tossed it onto the desk like it had personally betrayed him.

“Have you ever worked for someone…as an assistant?”

You straightened a little. “I’ve worked in team dynamics with various communication styles, so technically no, but I’m adaptable. I understand how to read nonverbal cues and maintain effective workflow even without constant direction.”

Bucky stared. He tilted his head a little, like he was trying to decipher a foreign language.

“…So you’ve never done it before?”

You smiled again. “Correct.” Oh god..

“Okay.” More silence.

You could see the panic just barely behind his neutral expression. It sat in his shoulders, in the way his fingers tapped against the desk like Morse code. He clearly hadn’t expected to do this himself. Or at all.

You tried to fill the space.

“I uhm- also have experience managing travel itineraries, liaising with constituents, and handling confidential information with discretion. I’m extremely punctual, digitally literate, and can operate independently.”

He gave you a slow blink. “…You sound like a brochure.” You froze. “Oh. Sorry.”

“No—it’s fine. I just. Didn’t catch… half those words.” You flushed immediately. “Sorry—I’m nervous. I didn’t mean to—”

“No, it’s—it’s not bad.” He shifted, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re just… a lot more professional than I thought.”

You tried to laugh. “Well, your job posting did say ‘not annoying,’ so I figured I should overachieve.” That actually made the corner of his mouth twitch. Not a smile. But close.

“I actually didn’t write that part.” You lifted a brow. “Oh?”

“I said ‘don’t hire anyone weird.’ Gemma translated.” You laughed quietly, the tension cracking a little. Then he rubbed his chin and asked, out of nowhere.

“…Do you like cats?”

You blinked. “Um—yes.” He nodded slowly, like this was very serious. “Good.” And then nothing else. You waited.

He leaned back in his chair, clearly out of questions. After a moment, you gently asked “Would you like to know about my references-Or work history?”

“No.” he said. Then added “I read the résumé.” You could see it sticking halfway out from under his coffee mug.

“I don’t really know what to ask.” he admitted finally, voice lower, quieter. “I’ve never had an assistant before. I usually just… figure things out alone.” There was a flicker of something vulnerable in that. Something human. And tired.

You softened. “I can help with that.” He looked at you for a long moment. Then nodded once. “Okay.”

You blinked. “So… am I hired?”He stood up abruptly. “Yeah. Tomorrow. Eight a.m.” You scrambled to your feet. “Right—great! Should I bring—?”

“Coffee. If you want.”

You tilted your head. “How do you take it?”He paused. Shrugged. “I don’t know. Gemma makes it.” You laughed despite yourself. “Guess I’ll improvise.” You reached for the door, and with a nervous sigh you stepped out.

The door clicked shut behind you. Bucky exhaled slowly. Then sat back down in his chair like he’d just returned from war.

He stared at the coffee mug on his desk.

“Calendars and… liaisoning.” he mumbled under his breath, brow furrowed. “What the hell is a liaison.”

Right then, the door cracked open again—without knocking—and Gemma poked her head in like a cartoon squirrel.

“So?” she asked, too brightly.

Behind her, Jace from accounting and Maya from policy hovered in the hallway, definitely pretending they weren’t listening.

Bucky glanced at them all. “What?”

Gemma stepped inside fully. “How’d the interview go?” He shrugged. “Fine.”

“Just fine?” she asked, moving closer. “You’ve had that same piece of pen cap in your hand for twenty minutes.” He looked down. He had, in fact, snapped it clean in half.

“She was really impressive.” he said, almost defensively. “Said a lotta smart stuff. Big words. I think she knows what she’s doing.”

Jace leaned into the doorway. “Did you ask her that weird cat question again?”

Bucky squinted. “It’s a valid question.”

“Sure-“ Maya said, sipping from a mug. “Because nothing says ‘professional screening process’ like ‘Would you feed my cat if I forgot.’”

Bucky muttered something under his breath and grabbed the crumpled receipt off his desk, folding it in half.

“She’s not annoying.”

“Oh well then.” Gemma grinned, hands on her hips. “Hire her immediately, let’s throw a party.”

“I did.” Bucky said flatly. They all stared. “You what?” He shrugged. “She starts tomorrow.”

Jace whistled. “Hope she brings her own chair. The spare one in your office still has three screws missing.”

“I can fix it.”

Maya blinked. “Really now?”

“I’ll try, she’ll be a good addition here..”

Gemma raised her eyebrows. “Wow. High praise already.” Bucky ignored them, turning back to his papers—but not before glancing once toward the door you’d just walked out of.

“Aw-“ Gemma teased. “Are you flustered, Congressman?” He didn’t respond. But his ears did go a little pink.

“Get out.”

[askagamedev]

A follow up to your answer about veilguard (was really hoping you would touch on that one). Why do game companies that have a “bad” release always seem to start from the bottom of the pyramid when it comes to restructuring and recouping losses? Why fire low level devs who did their best with what they had, when the companies have people in senior positions making hundreds of thousands of dollars (if not more) that they could just cut from? Why do the trenches always get the punishment first?

The short answer is because shit rolls downhill. For a longer and more nuanced answer, there's multiple factors to consider.

The main issue is that the company is trying to cut costs immediately. This is usually for two major reasons:

Reassure investors to keep them from dumping the stock and driving down the company's value

Save as much money as they can from their current stockpile for other projects still in development.

If the company goes under because it can't make payroll company-wide, everybody is doomed regardless. A gecko will sacrifice its tail in order to escape with its life. A crab will tear its own claw off to survive. A company will always cut staff to keep itself afloat.

The next factor is that each major experience level up a dev attains tends to be a geometric difference in productivity. [A large task that would take a junior dev two months to complete might take a mid-level dev one month and a senior dev only a week or two]. This is why senior devs are entrusted with the bigger and more critical tasks. Further, the typical quality of work that a senior dev produces is much higher than what you'd get from a mid-level or a junior. I'm a senior dev and I cost the team a large amount of money to keep, but paying for just me is still significantly cheaper than paying a pair of mid-level designers or three/four juniors.

The next factor is that most big layoffs come after a project has shipped. This is because a given project is at its maximum headcount right before it ships - you need all hands on deck during full production, building and validating all of the content in the game. There needs to be other projects in development to pay for those people after the game launches. If the game launches well, a significant portion of the team can stay on to do post-launch content and the others can join in-progress projects at the studio or at other studios owned by the publisher. In the case of a bad launch the post-launch content gets cancelled because there just aren't enough players to make building the post-launch content financially viable and the people who were supposed to build it have no new project to pay for their salaries.

There's also the factor of how projects have different needs at different times. You always need a core team to get a project off the ground - engineering who can put together the foundations of the game, design that can prototype and build core gameplay, art that can establish a new visual standard for a new game. But you likely don't need an army of designers to build content for a game that doesn't have any core gameplay yet, gameplay engineers to flesh out systems that haven't been designed yet, artists to model and skin characters that haven't been concepted yet, or QA to test content that hasn't been built yet. You need those folks when you're in production and all of the groundwork has been laid.

These are the nominal reasons why job cuts always start from the bottom - the juniors and mid-levels have the least to do when a game gets cancelled or a bad launch happens and the cost to keep them all adds up significantly. The fact that it also shields decisionmakers and middle managers is, of course, also in there. This is also why I never offer or expect loyalty to or from an employer, especially a large publicly-traded one. They will never sacrifice their own survival (or even advantage) to keep me, so I should never expect more than a business relationship from them that could end at any time.

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[threepandas]

⋆˚✿˖°New Master Post!⋆˚✿˖° \(˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)/

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DC:

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Thumbelina: 1

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[gr8writingtips]

somehow this has ended up being the plan for my current project:

step 1. completely rewrite and restructure the beginning (bad, difficult)

step 2. polish everything in the middle (good, pure)

step 3. completely rewrite and restructure the end (terrible, not again, evil)

currently i'm still on step one. it's going okay