#it's. so damn complicated and for WHAT.....

[somewhatfound]

I read through the email again. The overly positive response with a slight undertone of aggression reading only “You can do it!” stared back at me.

Now I could do many things. I could write some damn good proposals for pitch meetings. I could soothe frazzled investors nerves over coffee. I could design a marketing camping guaranteed to increase sales by a minimum of 38%. I could even hyper focus and eat nothing but microwaved chalupas for days if I was stressed enough. But sell a glorified modern day torture device as ‘kid safe’? They must be shitting me.

The “Trans-plant ©” was a teleportation device meant to move living organic material across a “Unlimit’d (Trademark)” distance, and was also on its 33rd rebrand for a name. I was partial to linking it to a Fey portal fantasy theme but was shot down by investors as it being too feminine a reference. Clearly none of them read spicy fey romance.

So while I had my brain bursting with yet another round of branding ideas, already thinking about hiring influencers that worked in garden trends and #cottagecore to possibly be our first publicity stunt of using the “Trans-plant ©”, I had gotten the official details of the product itself. After 7 months of bureaucratic red tape and 1000s of meetings, today I was finally sent a single password protected pdf… on a locked server that could only be accessed with a 3-step verification log-in involving my personal and work cell phones… and social security number.

Dear God, it’s literally over 2000 pages.

Now despite working for years in advertising, I actually hate it. I hate the clients, I hate the work, and I hate bullshit like expecting me to read engineer notes (and understand them!) when all I wanted to know was how long does it take for teleportation to work? Why couldn’t anyone tell me that, I had to give SOMETHING to graphic designers this week. And the fact that they hired me at all meant they couldn’t pull off an advertising campaign with AI tools alone.

So it was bad. There was something very bad in here that required human ingenuity to spin into a positive.

I fucking hate my job.

I liked paying rent though, so I began a first pass of the reading through the document from hell searching for my turds they expected me to polish into gold. It took 10 minutes of scrolling only looking at pictures to reach the bottom of the document.

It’s fucking giant.

Ok, so it had what could be considered a preppers wet dream of a bunker storage beneath it filled with all sorts of spare parts, so it’ll have to be built by itself in the middle of an open field… not super convenient liked they pitched, but still workable with my current #cottagecore marketing plan. Middle of nature, middle of nowhere construction site, people will love it. I'll make them love it.

A second pass of the document was just the search function trying to find the speed of teleportation itself. No matter my keywords though, I found nothing.

Honestly they should never try to lie to their lawyers or their marketing team. It’s their public image that will be ruined if I pitch something wrong.

I was on my 7th plate of microwaved cheesy sadness when I finally found the bit I was looking for, page 1112:

The distance to which the organic matter must travel is proportional to the time divided by the size of the matter. In practice it has been found for stability reasons that the endoskeleton be targeted for transportation first, followed by soft tissue. For this configuration it is not recommend for living exoskeleton matter, or matter without any endoskeleton.

The highly complicated math problem underneath I had no hope of understanding, and I knew if I plugged it in to a computer it be recorded and I’d be reported and fired in a hot second. But through years of gas lighting I had developed a brilliant skill in translating hot air bullshit, so I read it again:

It takes a while to transport something big. To make sure it gets there, skeletons are transported first, followed by the flesh. Not recommend for crabs or jellyfish.

What. The. Fuck.

Ok so I did a little creative copy pasting that I absolutely should not do, but the only way I was going to get my answers was through the math problem. And What an answer it was.

A cat took 28 seconds. A full grown adult took 42 seconds. Hypothetically you could go the distance to the other side of the planet, but it would take 4 minutes and 17 seconds to get there. Bones first. Conveniently there was no health reports or mention of comfort level. Pretty sure there was comfort level mentioned somewhere. Maybe an email?

But no, there was nothing specific ever mention. More hours spent going through old client emails I discovered the only ones mentioning comfort level, "kid friendly" and "instant arrival" were all other marketing team people. The last and most recent one simply reading: “You can do it!”

I can do what exactly? Record influencers climbing into a pod in the middle of a bulldozed forest to make a space for the underground bunker, slowly melting bones first for 42 seconds? Perhaps a time-lapse…. No, no!

This was bad. The whole thing made my stomach queasy and for once it wasn’t the chalupas. I… I couldn’t work on this. The more I read the worse it got. Tiny foot notes relating to installing and stocking sedatives and other drugs to keep travelers compliant for "exceptionally bad responses to transport".

I had an ex coworker once who had gone full whistle blower on one of the clients. I had still been mulling over what to do, when I got the alert from IT our team was the compromise origin. I did what I could to minimize damage, calm tempers, but I was a grunt back then. Nothing I said could stop the full weight of the corporate law from coming down on them with a 80 year sentence.

I still sent them commissary money to use in jail. Once every few months an email since they were no longer allowed physical mail.

There, but for the grace of God, go I.

This could not be allowed though. Every single thing about it was worse and worse and I didn’t even understand the math parts! I went to art school for craps sake. Human psychology was just another hyper focus of mine like my sad melted cheese lunches, that were only getting sadder with my reading companion. And cold.

The thing about my ex-coworker, is that they blabbed to the wrong people. The blabbed to the media, the general populace. But that’s just free publicity. The companies are titans. But you know… Maybe a titian could take down another titian?

It would be a longshot but�� What if I it got leaked to their competitor? What if, in the rush to outpace my client, they got sloppy? A few horror stories here and there. Instead of influencers, everyday construction crew reporting live on the scene of the backstage horrors.

We’d need a name though. Something to mock, something to meme…. Bones first…. 28 seconds…

No, no. Wrong angle. People care about themselves first. Think locally!

Bulldozing homes and local markets to build these monstrosities. Underground bunkers holding mass amounts of drugs next to sweet children schools. Straining the resources of the power grid and knocking out hospitals, putting peoples lives in jeopardy. Sad music, rain in the background, night vision filters.

They’d lose every investor and most of the funding. At worst both company’s would install a hack job of a single set of teleporters, and it’d become a novelty no one uses after the first weekend.

I looked one last time at my email: “You can do it!”

Yeah… Yeah I think I can.

The teleporter was supposed to be instant. To your horror, as the one in charge of marketing, it is not. Now you have to find a way to sell this 'miracle machine' that slowly reassembles people, bones first.

[maddie0101]

just friends

summary: you and dean are out at a bar grabbing drinks with friends like it’s any other night but dean’s close, almost too close and you’re not doing a damn thing about it.

warnings/ tags: smut (mdni), college!au, friends w benefits, no love confessions (sadly), fingering, some dirty talk, public smut, hidden relationship and feelings, sexual tension.

word count: 1.4k (pretty small for me, yes ik..but I’m a tad rusty)

note: I’m back bitches! :) enjoy!

It’s not supposed to be complicated.

That’s what you tell yourself every time you sneak out of Dean's bed before sunrise. Every time you redress in silence and slip past your sleeping friends with flushed skin and sore thighs—pretending that nothing happened.

Friends with benefits. That’s the deal.

No dates. No hand-holding. No stolen glances that mean too much. And it’s been working—for the most part.

Except nights like this.

You’re at your favorite spot downtown, some hole-in-the-wall bar with loud music and warm string lights tangled above the tables. You’re squished into a booth with the usual group, consisting of Jo, Benny, Charlie, and Cas. Everyone's talking over each other with drinks in hand, plates of fries already half-gone.

You’re wearing a dress. Short, soft, and comfortable. A little risky for October, but worth it. You saw Dean’s eyes drop to your legs the second you walked in. He hasn’t said a word about it, but you felt the shift in the air.

Now, you’re pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with him in the booth, thighs touching, your drink sweating in your palm as you try to pretend you’re listening to Charlie’s story about her lab partner. You’re nodding, even laughing but your body is stiff.

Not because you're stressed or anything—but because Dean’s hand is on your thigh.

It started off innocent, honestly. Just resting there, his fingers lightly curled, the way a friend might touch a friend.

But you both know better.

He’s been inching higher for the past ten minutes, casual as anything, like this isn’t dangerous.

No one can see, not from the angle or with the table pressed against your ribs and the flickering shadows hiding his movements. But you can feel him and he knows exactly what he’s doing.

His hand shifts slightly, fingers brushing up your thigh, warm and steady and your breath catches in your throat.

“You okay?” Jo asks, blinking at you.

You force a smile and nod quickly. “Yeah. Just a little warm in here.”

Dean doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t even react. Just keeps sipping his beer, his free hand wrapped lazily around the neck of the bottle while the other, his real focus is sliding slowly beneath the hem of your dress.

Your pulse thuds in your ears and your heartbeat speeds up.

He’s still not touching you where you want him to. He’s toying with you. Circling higher and closer but never quite where you want him. His knuckles brush the inside of your thigh and you shudder, trying to sit still. Trying to not squirm.

So you shoot him a warning glare. But when he finally meets your eyes—his are dark, amused, and possessive?

You swallow hard and shift your legs, trying to squeeze them together. Dean’s hand follows easily, caught between them now, palm pressed against the soft skin just inches from your center.

You lean in toward him, voice quiet and shaky. “Dean.” You warn.

He hums, barely audible. “Problem?”

“You need to stop.”

He grins without looking at you. “You don’t want me to stop.”

He's right...You think. But here? In front of your friends? That's a whole new level.

His touch and the fact that you're in public, surrounded by your friends, feeling Dean's hand has you soaked. There’s nothing between you but a pair of thin lace panties and whatever control you’ve got left—which is crumbling fast.

Dean shifts again, his hand sliding higher, fingers brushing just under the edge of your underwear now and your breath leaves you in a slow, shaking exhale and you grip your drink tighter, knuckles white.

You glance up to Charlie still talking, Cas asking Jo a random question, and Benny’s leaned back with a lazy grin, completely oblivious—you hope.

But then Dean’s hand slips beneath your panties, bringing you back to what is going on and you choke on your drink, causing eyes to quickly snap onto you with concern.

“Jesus, you okay?” Benny says, reaching for a napkin.

“Yeah,” you cough. “Wrong pipe.”

Dean doesn’t move. Not even when he presses two fingers right there—just enough pressure to make you see stars. Your hips twitch and you cross your legs tighter, trapping his hand in place, but it only makes it worse.

He curls his fingers ever so slightly and leans in, lips brushing your ear. “You wore this dress just for me, didn’t you?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. So he nudges your panties aside and the cold air hits your soaked heat in an instant. He groans softly, barely a sound but you hear it. “Fuck, you’re already wet.”

Your thighs shake and you stare at your glass, willing yourself to keep breathing while his fingers slide through your slick folds. He doesn’t push inside you just yet. He's teasing you. Still playing his game and you shift again, pressing your hips into his hand, silently begging.

Dean tuts softly. “Needy.”

You shoot him another glare but he only smirks before giving you what you want. His finger slips inside, slow and smooth, just one and your breath catches. He moves it slowly, curling upward, then pulls back and adds a second. You clamp your teeth around a whimper and dig your nails into the seat beneath you.

“Doing so good,” he murmurs. “Sittin’ still like that. What would they say if they knew, huh? That you’re dripping around my fingers while Cas talks about his psych exam?”

“Dean,” you gasp.

“Yeah, baby?”

Your thighs tremble and your skin feels too tight. Your eyes are glassy and you’re so close it’s painful.

Dean curls his fingers again, just the slightest motion, and your hips twitch involuntarily. You shouldn’t be like this—not here. Not in public. But your body doesn’t care. It’s reacting to him like it always does—instinctively, desperately, completely.

And he presses his palm against your clit, not rubbing, just pressing, grounding you with that solid weight.

Your vision blurs for half a second and your breath hitches in your throat. You grip the edge of the table so hard your knuckles ache.

He leans in, his mouth just barely brushing your ear. His voice is calm but dangerous. “Gonna come just like this?” he whispers. “In your little dress, right here at the table?”

You can’t answer. Can’t breathe. All you can do is hold on as Dean’s fingers fuck into you slow and deep, his palm now dragging tight circles against your clit.

He’s doing it on purpose. Drawing it out—keeping you right on the edge.

You whimper softly—barely audible, but he hears it.

“Quiet,” he says, lips still at your ear. “You make a sound and I stop.”

You nod frantically, digging your nails into your thigh and casting a quick glance to your friends still sitting around you.

Jo and Charlie are still deep in conversation. While Cas is arguing with Benny over whether Die Hard is a Christmas movie. But no one suspects a thing. Thank God—because no one sees how Dean has you right there—blushing, panting, thighs shaking while he works you from the inside out.

Your dress has ridden up just enough to let him move without resistance, his wrist shifting with each slow thrust of his fingers. You’re dripping around him, muscles fluttering, begging for release.

“Dean,” you breathe, “please—please—”

His hand slows for a second and your breath stutters. “No,” you gasp, shaking your head, eyes wide. “Don’t stop, Dean, I swear—”

He smiles against your skin. “Then come for me.”

That’s all it takes. Your legs seize around his hand, muscles clenching tight as heat rushes through you—white-hot and overwhelming. You bury your face in his shoulder to keep from crying out, your body trembling so hard the table rattles.

Dean holds you through it, fingers still moving, gentler now, coaxing you through the waves.

“Good girl,” he whispers.

It takes a full minute before you can breathe again. And before you realize your nails left crescents in the vinyl seat, that your drink is untouched--that the conversation has kept going without you, blissfully unaware. Dean finally withdraws his hand, slowly and slides your panties back into place, straightens the hem of your dress like a gentleman—like he didn’t just ruin you in the middle of a crowded bar.

You turn your face slightly, hiding your dazed, flushed expression behind the curtain of your hair and Dean licks his fingers while meeting your gaze.

You nearly whimper again at the sight and Dean slides his arm back across the booth, settling like nothing happened.

Like his fingers don’t still glisten faintly.

Like your heart isn’t trying to beat out of your chest.

And you reach for your drink with a shaky hand, trying to pretend your entire body isn’t still humming from the aftershock.

Dean glances at you once more—smug, satisfied, and already plotting what he’ll do to you when he gets you alone.

And God help you, you can’t wait.

author’s note:

hii guys! thank y’all so much for being patient with me during this time! I’ve finally managed to write this little one shot after almost a 2 month hiatus! 🫠 I’m definitely in the mood to write but now it’s about finding the time to 😅 (I barely even have time to eat lmfaoo)

I should have some more fics coming out but I can’t promise how often it will be. I am going to try to work on requests as well and hopefully get those out to you guys!

anywaaaays— I hope y’all enjoyed this one! ❤︎

taglist:

@freeluigihesbae @aylacavebear @supernotnatural2005 @bettystonewell @lieutenantchaos @bejeweledinterludes @ambiguous-avery @star-yawnznn @exansation @darkrose064 @megara0224 @saturnsooya @miss-marmalade @xo-zeze @kamisobsessed @megara0224 @cupidzbunny @imsiriuslyreal @jollyhunter @kimxwinchester @julsvdamxn @tinas111 @acesdiary @sapphic-destiel @callsign-ember @ladykitana90 @h8aaz @closetedangel @lunaleah @pieandflannel @soldiersgirl (lmk if I’ve missed anyone or if you’d like to be taken off of my taglist)

If you would like to be tagged please fill out THIS form and I will add you to the list! ❤︎

my works

© maddie0101 do not copy or repost my works without my permission

[theseh00perscanh00p]

10 Moments That Led Me Back to You: Part 4

paige x azzi

a/n: If there's typos I'm sorry lol hope you enjoy

word count: 4.5k

The Championship Game

Song: “Let Me Go” – Daniel Caesar

Four Years Post Break-Up

The confetti was falling too quickly.

Like the ceiling had split and everything Paige was meant to feel had poured out: happiness and relief and pride — all in one. Her arms were slick with champagne. Her vision clouded by camera flashes. And somewhere behind her the crowd erupted in that way that always made her feel alive.

But tonight, it simply made her feel… off.

She had won. The trophy was real. The scoreboard’s numbers still glowed: 78–74. The kind of victory people remember. The type they would replay on SportsCenter, cutting to slo-mo and adding some dramatic background music. Her name would have lit up the highlight reels. Analysts would describe it as a career-defining performance.

And yet.

Her eyes looked out of instinct… not at the crowd, not at her teammates, and not at the scoreboard.

The tunnel.

There.

Azzi stood just at edge barely visible in the shadows. Hands loose at her sides. Shoulders high, chin steady. Watching.

And when Paige’s eyes settled on her — Azzi smiled.

Not a pity smile. Not a polite one, either.

It was real. Soft. Even a little proud.

And somehow, that was worse.

Did she just… Paige thought to herself. Even if Azzi had looked wounded, or hurt, or jealous, or just passive.. Paige could stomach the ache in her chest.

But this… this graceful complicity in her victory, in who Paige had become, it cracked something open.

Because deep down, Paige wasn’t at all certain she’d ever actually smiled like that at Azzi’s wins. Which made her feel like she didn’t deserve the smile she’d just received even more.

“Yo!” KK’s voice suddenly rang out, interrupting the moment. “Get up here and take this damn picture of me before I start happy crying and forget!”

Laughter. Champagne. Lights flashing. Paige blinked her way back to it, pulling her focus from the tunnel.

When she turned around — Azzi was no longer there.

And when she stepped off the court, Paige allowed herself to exhale.

But that did nothing to make things easier.

Putting an arm around teammates and posing like a celebrity, she hoisted the trophy above her head, surrounded by teammates and cameras. All that cheering, as if they’d just scaled a mountain.

But all she could think about was the girl who stood at the bottom of it and still smiled like she had built it.

Her voice echoed in her mind, “I wanted to be there for it: the chaos, the late nights, the big wins. I wanted all of it with you.”

In this moment Paige began to feel the weight of what that really meant.

Flashback: Four Years Prior to The Championship Game

They had just won a national title together for the first time since the two began playing together it was their senior year in college.

The buzzer sounded and everyone rushed the arena floor.

A roar erupted through the arena like a wave crashing over them. White and blue confetti exploded from the rafters in slow-motion bursts. Somewhere in the chaos of it all, Azzi dropped her water bottle mid-celebration, bolted across the court, and jumped straight into Paige’s arms.

Paige caught her with ease, instinctively. Azzi’s arms locked around her neck. Legs around her waist. Neither of them could stop smiling.

Paige’s heart thudded like she was still mid-game, adrenaline still roaring through her blood. She could feel Azzi’s laugh in her chest more than she heard it.

“We did it,” Azzi breathed into her ear. “We freaking did it.”

Paige squeezed her tighter, spinning them once just for the hell of it. “Hell yeah we did.”

Cameras caught the moment. So did half of Twitter. But neither of them cared. Not in that moment.

Their teammates surged toward them — bodies colliding in one giant tangle of limbs and tears and wooohoos — and Paige finally set Azzi down. They were swarmed, jerseys pulled, cheeks kissed, champagne bottle passed between hands too young to care about rules.

Someone — maybe KK — hoisted the trophy over her head. Jana and Nika grabbed Azzi and danced like maniacs while Ice tried to organize a team photo that never quite happened.

But even surrounded by noise and flashbulbs, Paige couldn’t stop looking at her.

Azzi. the girl who always had her full attention no matter the occasion.

She looked back and caught Paige watching.

“What?” Azzi mouthed with a half-laugh, still breathless.

Paige shook her head. “Nothing. Just…”

Azzi walked over, grabbed her hand, laced their fingers together.

They had won a national title.

But this? This was the part Paige would remember.

Eventually, they were herded into the locker room for press and cool-down, but no one was really calming down. Coaches cried. Trainers high-fived. Reporters stuck mics in their faces like they were ready to turn joy into headlines.

Paige gave her best “locked in” answers. Talked about leadership, composure, tempo. But her eyes kept drifting sideways.

Azzi, sitting next to her, legs bouncing, still wearing her Champions hat. Their shoulders brushed every time someone walked behind them. Paige tried not to reach for her.

Once the chaos thinned and the reporters trickled out, Paige stood up and nodded toward the showers. Azzi gave a smallest nod back and followed.

Except they didn’t go to the showers. Not right away.

They snuck down the tunnel to the auxiliary locker room — the one nobody used anymore. It was half-lit, kind of dusty, and smelled faintly like sports tape and sweat.

Azzi tugged Paige inside and shut the door.

They didn’t speak for a while.

Just stood there, letting the quiet fill the cracks. Letting adrenaline wear off. Letting their hands find each other again.

Azzi sat on the bench first, tugging Paige gently to sit between her legs. Paige leaned back against her chest and exhaled for the first time all night.

“Is it weird that I feel sad?” Azzi whispered into her shoulder.

Paige turned to look at her.

“Not at all.”

Azzi rested her chin on Paige’s shoulder. “We’re never going to be this version of us again.”

The words sank like stones in water.

It wasn’t that they didn’t have plans. They talked about the league. About getting drafted. About ending up in the same city somehow. But nothing was promised. Not anymore.

Paige twisted slightly to look at her. “We’ll play together again. I’ll make sure of it.”

Azzi’s smile was soft. Disbelieving, maybe. “You don’t get to promise me that.”

“I know,” Paige said. “But I’m going to anyway.”

They kissed. Quiet, tired, smiling into each other like the world hadn’t started moving again yet.

Later that night, long after the trophy was locked away and the arena swept clean they snuck back into the gym. Paige turned on just one court light, the amber glow casting long shadows across the hardwood.

They laid flat on their backs, center court, just staring at the ceiling that showered them in celebration just hours ago.

“This doesn’t feel real,” Azzi said, staring up at the rafters.

Paige reached for her hand. “That’s how you know it is.”

They didn’t sleep. Not really. Just rested there. Dreaming with their eyes open.

Because back then?

Back then, forever still felt possible.

Azzi was still tracing the edge of her piece of the net she cut with one fingertip, legs crossed at the ankles. Paige laid next to her with the full net around her neck and her hand resting — just barely — beside Azzi’s.

“Do you think we’ll remember this the same way?” Azzi asked.

Paige stared up at the ceiling. “What do you mean?”

Azzi shifted, propping herself up on one elbow. “I mean… ten years from now. When this all feels like a different life. Do you think I’ll remember your face the same way? The confetti? This gym? Or will I just… I don’t know….”

Paige turned to face her fully. “You’ll remember.”

Azzi gave a small, private smile. “You sound sure.”

“I am.” Paige tucked a strand of hair behind Azzi’s ear. “Because I’m gonna remind you.”

They stayed in that echoey gym a few minutes longer stealing one last breath of that version of their lives. One last second before drafts and deadlines and distance. Before everything turned real.

And when they finally did rise, Paige looked back once more.

Azzi caught her doing it. “What?”

“Nothing,” Paige said. “Just making sure I don’t forget.”

Flash Forward: The Championship Game

The arena had settled down at last.

The confetti cannons had gone empty. The crowd had funneled out.

But Paige was still there.

She emerged back out onto the hardwood.

She walked to center court.

Paused.

And then sat down, cross-legged, hands on the floor as if in need of grounding.

This was supposed to be the everything.

A title. A legacy. Her name in the news again.

And it did feel like everything. But it also didn’t.

She gazed at empty rows of seats where, hours before, the crowd had cheered her name. Where she’d embraced teammates, coaches, even that one assistant G.M. she had thought always hated her.

But it wasn’t until now — in this quiet — that the weight of it all landed.

“I said we wouldn’t forget this,” she murmured under her breath, the words mumbled but certain, as if they had been curled in the back of her mouth for years. “I told you I’d remind you.”

She threw her head back toward the scoreboard. The similar spot she’d fixated on after the Natty. The similar spot they’d laughed under, kissed under, dreamed of futures under.

“And I meant it.”

Her voice broke, but she pressed on.

“This is not how it was meant to be,” she whispered. “Not without you by my side.”

She could still see it — Azzi observing from that tunnel, caught in a frame Paige couldn’t erase from her memory. The way she’d smiled, not polite or pitying, but real. Pride and heartbreak in the same impossible look of yours.

It did more harm than any loss Paige had ever suffered, that smile.

Because it meant Azzi still looked towards her.

And she didn’t know where to go with that.

She didn’t bother turning on the lights upon arriving back in her room.

The celebratory noise of the evening still felt present in her body — every photo taken, every hand she’d shaken, every teammate she’d clung to as if somehow they could transfer the moment to themselves and make it permanent.

Her phone held 7% charge and was buried at the bottom of her duffel bag. She left it there. The texts would wait, didn’t matter whoever they were from — reporters, agents, the group chats that were blowing up with “🏆” emojis.

Paige lowered herself at the edge of her hotel bed and stared at her hands as if they belonged to someone else.

The hands that gripped the trophy.

The same hands that gripped around Azzi’s waist in post-game scrimmages. That used to line her spine during half-asleep mornings in college apartments.

She let out a breath — sharp, quick, and not entirely steady.

“I won,” she mumbled to the empty room.

Then again, a little louder. “I fucking won.”

She reached for the mini fridge, snatched an outrageously overpriced hotel water bottle, cracked it open and took a sip as though it were tequila. Burned just the same.

And then she laughed.

For this was the moment, wasn’t it?

The kind every player fantasized about. The championship. The glory. The spotlight.

But all she could think of was Azzi’s face in the tunnel. That half-smile. That soft nod. That look that said I’m proud of you but we used to share this.

Paige threw herself on the bed, arm covering her eyes, and held the pain in for a second.

What does it mean to win everything and yet feel like you still lost?

Eventually, the silence got too loud.

Paige sat up slowly, dragged herself off the bed like her limbs weighed double, and reached for her phone out of her duffel. It had just enough battery left to flicker back on, screen flooding with texts and missed calls.

KK: YOOOOOOOO 🏆🏆🏆

Jana: You’re a damn legend. Just cried watching it.

Nika: ok but did anyone else catch how Azzi was LOOKING at her in the tunnel 👀👀

She closed the thread before she could spiral again. Tapped over to YouTube. Typed in: WNBA Finals Press Conference.

The video was already up.

She skipped the intros, the coach’s speech, the stat breakdowns. Then paused — frame frozen on Azzi, sitting in front of a microphone in her jersey, hair pulled back, expression unreadable but composed.

She pressed play.

“I’m proud of our team,” Azzi began, her voice steady, if a little softer than normal. “We fought. We made it a game. That’s all you can ask for.”

“Was it weird watching Paige celebrating on the other side of the court?” a reporter off camera asked.

Azzi paused.

Just a second too long.

Then: “No,” she said. “She earned that moment. Every bit of it.”

Another pause. Then she smiled. Just barely. “We’ve been dreaming this for a long time together. And whether I was the one standing next to her tonight… I’m still proud it came true.”

For a beat she looked downward, then upward at the cameras, adding, more softly now:

“I’ve been her number one fan from the start. That part hasn’t changed.”

The room grew silent.

Paige blinked hard. She put her phone down facedown on the bed as if it had just wronged her.

Azzi’s tone was casual, there was no sneer in his voice. No sarcasm. Precisely the soft sincerity that made it worse.

And that was the thing about Azzi she never said anything just to say it.

If she said she was proud … she was proud.

And if she meant it…

Paige did not know how one was meant to sleep.

Not after she had heard that voice one more time.

Not with that half-smile that was permanently etched in her brain like a photograph she didn’t know how to stop staring at.

The hotel room was quiet now. Too quiet. After the game the buzz had fallen to the only kind of silence that came after the adrenaline wore off and reality crept back in.

Paige, legs aching, sat on the edge of the bed. Her phone was in her hand. The clip of the press conference still resonated in her mind.

I’ve been her number one fan.... That part hasn’t changed.

She knew she shouldn’t. Knew she should have resisted the urge to let her fingers linger over Azzi’s name like that. But there it was — Azzi, pinned at the top of her messages, untouched for months.

She opened the thread. Nothing but air between them. Paige looked at the flashing line, the blank space waiting.

She typed something.

Saw the press conference.... You didn’t have to say that, but I’m glad you did. I

She backspaced. All of it.

Then tried again.

I know it wasn’t your night, but I just … I’m proud of you too. I hope you know that.

She stared at it.

Too soft? Too late? Too obvious?

So she typed one more time plain and simply stating: I saw the interview.

It was 4:07 a.m. at that point — the hour that made everything feel more fragile than it actually was.

And she sighed, let the screen dim in her hand, thumb hovering over Send but not pushing it. She fell asleep like that — phone pressed against her chest, message glowing in the dark.

The next morning when she blinked awake. She narrowed her eyes, and dazed, felt her phone vibrate against her stomach. She fumbled for it, and then—

Delivered.

Paige shot up, wide-eyed. “No, no, no—”

Her glasses were nowhere to be found. She clicked into the thread, desperate for a miracle. But it was already there:

Azzi: I’m glad you saw it. And I meant every word. Congratulations, Paige. You were magic out there.

Her hands didn’t move. Her heart did.

The message blinked at her like it was staring into her soul.

She read it again.

I’m glad you saw it.

And I meant every word.

Paige stared.

Congratulations, Paige. You were magic out there.

Paige watched the screen as if it might disappear if she blinked too hard.

Magic. And that, always, is what she had wanted to be. Not just good, not just successful — unforgettable. The type of player who left ghosts of herself out on the court long after the final buzzer. And Azzi had stated it as a fact. As if she hadn’t just played against her, hadn’t just lost to her. Like she actually saw her, the way she used to, the way she did before everything had gotten so complicated.

Her chest constricted — the ache that only came after every mention of Azzi.

This isn’t the way it was supposed to be. Not after a win like this. Not after that kind of night.

She dropped the phone onto her stomach, staring at the ceiling. The hotel room was as foreign as ever. Sterile. A little too cold. A little too quiet.

Outside the city was beginning to stir. Except Paige wasn’t prepared to enter it quite yet.

But she remained there — cocooned in too many blankets, and wrapped in the sort of emotion that made her feel both exceedingly heavy and hollow all at once. Her heart was doing that thing. The stupid thing. The one where it hoped. Just a little. Just enough to make it worse.

She thought about replying.

She tried to think of something real to say but nothing felt like it would land right...

Instead, she turned off her phone and set it aside.

No more rewrites. Not yet.

Flashback: The Morning After The National Championship

Paige started to rise first – not because of the morning light, but because Azzi, beside her, shifted, arms tightening in that sleepy-half-possessive way she always got when she felt Paige moving.

Paige stilled.

She didn’t want to shatter it — this moment, this silence, this impossibly fragile peace.

Azzi’s curls were a soft cloud resting against her shoulder, her breath warm against Paige’s collarbone. A leg draped lazily across her hips. Their fingers were still entangled from the previous evening.

It had been a blur — the win, the champagne, the screaming teammates waving the trophy high above their heads as confetti rained all around them. A national title. A dream fulfilled.

And yet this — this was what Paige already knew she would remember.

The aftermath. The stillness. The way Azzi had led her home by the hand as if it was a reflex.

Azzi muttered something into her skin, his voice hoarse and sleepy. “Mmm… what time is it?”

Paige grinned, not even bothering to open her eyes. An emoji for “too early for anything but you.”

Azzi laughed softly, “Gross. That’s such a line.”

Paige nudged her with her knee. “Don’t pretend you don't love it.”

Azzi raised her head, eyes barely open. “I do. Which is annoying.”

Paige kissed her forehead. “You’re welcome.”

Paige wrapped an arm more tightly around Azzi’s waist. She felt… safe. Full. As if she had won something larger than a title.

Azzi turned onto her side and, supporting herself on one elbow, looked up. “You know that was our last college game, right?”

Paige looked at her then. Really looked. “I know.”

They stared at each other in of silence. Not heavy — just… aware.

“You think we’ll play on the same team again?” Azzi inquired, half teasing.

“Yes.” Paige didn’t hesitate at all. “Yeah. We will. We’ll find our way back.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “You promise?”

Paige blinked. It seemed that the room had grown smaller. More fragile.

“It’s a deal,” she said, and she meant it in that moment.

Azzi studied her. Smiled. “Okay then.”

She tucked a strand of hair behind Paige’s ear, and her fingers lingered. “You seemed really happy out there.”

“I was,” Paige said. “But I’m happier here.”

And she meant that too.

But what she didn’t know — not yet — was just how quickly happiness can be buried under pressure.

In the coming weeks, everything would change.

The noise of draft buzz would become louder. The lights would become brighter. Folks would start throwing around “legacy” and “generational talent.” And in the times when she wasn’t doing interviews and making appearances and taking meetings with agents, Paige would start to think about whether there was even space for both love and greatness — or whether one must be given up for the other.

And that’s when the fear would spring back in.

Not of losing Azzi.

But of not being enough for her and the life that was being put in front of Paige.

For what should she do, but the only thing that she thought she could control.

She’d start pulling away from.

One unread message at a time.

One missed dinner.

One silent night.

Until the girl whom she held in her arms now — the one to whom she promised she’d find her way back — was that same girl she let walk away without a word.

And somehow, that would be the most regretful thing of them all.

Flash Forward: The Morning After The Championship Game

When Paige regained consciousness, she had a headache and the name Azzi wouldn't disappear from her memory easily.

Her phone remained in her grip, the screen black, the battery barely clinging to life. Still in her sweats. Makeup barely washed off. Eyes gritty from the sleep, or maybe the crying, she had done between scrolling through highlights and the trying not to text her again.

Paige read it again. And again.

She hated how much she still was affected by words sent from the curly headed girl — how they cracked something in her chest that had long stopped aching. How they brought her straight back to the last time she won something big … and didn’t wake up alone that time.

The weight of memory pulled her down, like an anchor.

That morning, 4 years ago, she’d woken up to Azzi’s breath on her skin, arms knotted, legs warm beneath college blankets that smelled like detergent and comfort and everything she’d believed would last forever.

The future, back then, was shared trophies and shared apartments and arguing about on who got the better pregame playlist.

She’d promised Azzi back then that there would be more. More wins. More shared seasons. More them.

Now?

Now she was waking up with a phone shoved into her cheek and a text she didn’t earn flashing across her screen. A silent offering from someone she had wounded, someone she still could not manage to stop needing — no matter how many seasons came between them.

Paige turned over on her side, snuggling the blankets closer.

She wanted to say something. To ultimately say it out loud — to say that she was wrong about it. That she chose wrong. That it wasn’t merely about the game, or the pressure, or the timing.

That it was fear.

Pure, blinding terror of being unsure she could hold it all, all of it at the same time — the love, the ambition, the promise of everything that she’d assumed she needed to become.

But the words would not come out of her mouth. Still too big. Still too late.

So she murmured the only thing she was capable of in the silence.

“I miss you.”

To the ceiling. To the silence. To no one.

To her phone screen, which was dark, Azzi’s name just barely still glowing.

It didn’t respond.

And neither did she.

Now — Seven Years After the Break-Up

Here I am watching the WNBA Finals.

We didn’t make it this year...

But you did.

And God, you looked good out there.

It’s like seeing who I always knew you were supposed to be. Sharp. Confident. Unshakable.

They all see it now, the entire arena, but I saw it first.

And perhaps that’s why it hurts so much.

Because there you are out chasing the dream — the one I convinced myself I left you for…

I’m here.

Staring at this blank note.

Thinking of every single thing I should have done differently that day racing back to the front of my brain.

I’d been telling myself for years that I couldn’t have it all.

And maybe that was true.

But what I know now is this:

If I could go back…

Maybe if I could do one thing differently…

It would’ve been actually saying all the things I wish I would’ve said to you. So I’m typing it out now.

3. The Championship Game

I had imagined winning would feel different.

It wasn't worse, just… quieter.

Last time, there was yelling. Champagne. Confetti in my hair, your arms around me, a promise that we’d find our way back to that court together.

And I believed it.

My chest still hurts to think of how sure I was.

We were kids. Stupid, and filled with adrenaline, and the idea of forever.

I told you we’d be back for this.

I would have promised you anything that night.

And then I did. But then I broke all of those promises one by one in the weeks following navigating life with fear rather than intention.

Now here I am.

Same trophy on my shelf. Other hands helped me lift it up.

But there you were — this time not on the court, but in the tunnel. Still watching. Still showing up. Still beaming at me as if I didn’t break that version of you that used to leap into my arms and kiss me like the whole world had finally come into focus.

You could’ve looked away.

Could’ve given me nothing.

But you didn’t.

And somehow… that hurt worse.

Because secretly, in some small, unwound place in me, I still wanted you to be angry. Still wanted it to not be so easy for you to stand there, clapping and saying nice things into a mic like I didn’t gut us from the inside out. I wanted you to let me go.

But of course you were kind. You always are.

Your press conference made my stomach turn — not because of what you said, but everything I didn’t deserve to hear.

“...her number one fan...”

How do you keep showing up for someone who keeps choosing everything else first?

I was lying there in my hotel bed, trying to type something, anything in reply — something worthy — and all I could come up with was “I saw the interview.”

Real poetic, right?

I didn’t even hit send.

Until, I practically slipped into a dream, and my thumb twitched in my sleep, and destiny took care of it for me.

And you? You responded as if you had been waiting.

Like I never kept you waiting.

I didn’t know what to do with that then.

I still don’t know what to do with you now.

So instead I will write it down.

Because I need to write it even if I don’t know how to say it out loud yet.

You were my favorite win.

And my worst loss.

And no matter how many trophies get put in my hands, there will always be a part of me, a part buried deep within me, that wished I would’ve just held your hand instead.

[rori-is-writing]

Conflict of Interest

A The Pitt Drabble Series.

Drabbles | Teen | Dr. Robby x Nurse!Reader | 669 words ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ Summary: An unwanted visitor walks into your E.R. ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ Tags: Angst, Doctors Behaving Badly, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Nurse!Reader

Read on AO3 or below the cut.

[ A/N: Yes, this is longer than 500 words and I'm technically breaking my own rules about what a drabble is but this idea hit me like a freight train the other day and I couldn't not write it. So shhhhhhhhh. ]

You have always been a standout nurse. A tough nurse. You’ve been hit, pushed, spat on, and groped and all of it you’ve taken in stride and continued on like some stoic Buddhist warrior. 

But not today. 

Because today…he came in. 

The moment you walk into the room and see his face it’s like you’re an animatronic that had glitched mid-loop. Your skin feels hot. Your heart thunders in your ears. Your brain goes all staticky. 

“Oh would you look at that!” The older man says with a delighted smile. “I didn’t know you worked here sweetheart—“

But you don’t hear the rest because you’re already backpedaling out of the room and back into the hallway. 

You can feel your skin tingling like thousands of tiny spiders are skittering over it. You want to throw up. To cry. To run out of this hospital and never return. Instead, for possibly the first time in your entire career, you march up to Dana at the nurse’s station and say, “I need someone to switch patients with me.”

Dana frowns. 

“Excuse me?”

“I need a different patient. Any patient. I’ll even take Princess’s fecal impaction.”

“You will?!” Princess gasped hopefully. Nobody ever wanted the fecal impaction cases. 

“Why do you need a different patient? What’s wrong with him?”

You swallow. “He’s my uncle.”

If anything, Dana looks even more confused. “I know nobody is supposed to treat their family and friends but you know nobody here is going to rat you out to admin if you decide to do it anyway right?”  

But you’re already shaking your head. “That’s not why. I just…I can’t treat him. Please get someone else to do it.” And then, without another word you walk away, heading straight for the hallway that leads to the stairwell. 

You need some air. 

Now. 

Fifteen minutes later, Dr. Santos finds you. You stare up at her from your perch on the bottom steps, waiting for her to tell you to get back to work. That you’re pathetic for hiding back here instead of just doing your damn job and treating the harmless old man like you’re supposed to.

Instead, she surprises you. 

“He did something to you.”

You don’t say anything, but you don’t have to. It’s written all over your face. 

Her lips thin. 

“I thought so.”

You glance away, wringing your hands to keep them from shaking. 

“Want me to take him?”

You blink.

“…What?”

“As a patient. I’ll take him.”

Your eyes blink even faster. Did…did you hear her right? “But…why?”

“Because you need someone to be mean to him. And I’m amazing at mean.”

You don’t know whether to laugh or cry or throw your arms around her in an embrace. 

“Okay,” you croak instead. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” She said, strangely kind, before a glimmer appears in her eye. “So…how mean we talking?”

You can’t help but laugh, a strangled, pitiful sound if you ever heard one. “Mean enough that he never comes back here again?” 

This time, she smiles.

“You got it.” 

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

It’s only later—when you’re finally off the clock and indulging in a greasy, well-deserved dinner with Robby—that you hear what happened. 

“Do you know anything about the patient we had today who stormed out of the E.R.?” 

“Oh?” You say casually, knowing immediately who he’s talking about. You hadn’t been there to see it—having been assisting with a complicated trauma case at the time—but you’d heard plenty about it afterwards from your fellow gossipy nurses. 

“Yeah, apparently Santos decided to do a rectal exam. Even though, according to his symptoms, he had no need of one.” He eyed you carefully. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that would you?”

“Did she?” You say innocently. “Well, she’s the doctor. She would know better than me.” 

He sighed. 

“Do I wanna know?” 

“Not today,” you tell him as you steal his french fry. “Let’s just…enjoy this. Okay?” 

His eyes soften. 

“Okay.” 

Next Drabble | Drabble Masterlist

Thanks for reading! 💙

[krakensdottir]

And Murderbot is, unfortunately, as usual, not helping its case. Like, I get it. Not saying I'd be remotely gracious in that situation. But it's a simple fact that it has only let Mensah (and briefly Arada, but she was in shock) see that it gives a shit, and while provoked, it did rise to the bait and threaten Gurathin directly. These things do not look good. It doesn't give a damn about its image, it refuses to be emotionally open and earnest even when it is capable (which isn't always), and that is hurting it.

Now, Gurathin... the thing is that he might very well recognize that SecUnit is in a similar situation to himself, and that it needs help. But the other thing is... if it's a potential threat, right, he kind of doesn't give a shit. Like, there's a reason Bharadwaj has had to talk to him about compassion. Gurathin is capable of compassion, and he shows it to his friends (including Bharadwaj), but unlike them, he doesn't hand it out to complete strangers. Especially not potentially dangerous strangers. He's pragmatic to the point of being cold about it.

(And I don't mean a threat to him. I mean to the team. He's not afraid of Murderbot anymore, he hasn't been since about three seconds after it mock-choked him. But he still wonders what it's up to. He still wonders what it's up to with Mensah, and while there's jealousy in that, there's also a lot of genuine concern. When he said he was a cautious person, he was NOT kidding.)

What's funny is Murderbot is exactly the same way. It resents being seen that way, understandably, but it sees other people that way all the time. Honestly, they both resent each other for doing the same thing in a given situation that they'd probably do. Murderbot would throw someone under the bus if it thought they were any kind of threat to its clients. Gurathin would blow the head off of someone like Leebeebee. They're on a level of pragmatism that the others can't even begin to comprehend, because they're from a whole different world. Neither of them cares about other people by default. They have to come around to giving a shit. If you go around being a bleeding heart in the Corporate Rim, you won't last five minutes.

So Gurathin may not be blind to their similarities, but that doesn't automatically mean he'd empathize with it. After all, he was dangerous. He was a liar with sinister intentions. You think he'd have empathized with someone like him? He can't help Murderbot until he accepts that he was worth helping. He has to forgive himself first, and I don't think he's done that.

(Complicating things is that he still needs that help. He's not doing well. It's a bad time for him to have to share that attention and care, which is no one's fault, but there it is. So I'm really glad Bharadwaj is looking after him, and I'm really glad he's letting her. That care doesn't have to come from Mensah. There are other people he trusts now. I think a big part of his arc is accepting that.)

Gurathin's "Do you have feelings for it?" really adds another layer to his dislike of SecUnit.

Though the whole group is still grappling with whether to trust it or not, Gurathin remains the most stubbornly vocal about that distrust and on one level we already understood why. He's a former member of the Corporation Rim, someone who both grew up on the same feeds as the SecUnit engineers—'They go rogue and kill everyone all the time!'—and, as we learn this episode, has been horrendously abused by the Company itself, so why would he trust anything it gave them? One might even go so far as to say Gurathin still doesn't see SecUnit as a person, only a very dangerous piece of equipment.

Except... you don't see equipment as a romantic rival.

We know Gurathin has a rather intense crush on Mensah and who can blame him? She not only forgave him when few others would have, but she turned his whole world on its head, providing him with a new purpose and autonomy and love when he was very close to giving up. That's the level of devotion that inspires sneaking into her bedroom to smell her pillow, or staring star-struck across the dinner table, unable to think of a single critique. Gurathin loves Mensah and Mensah obviously loves him... but not in the same way.

Now toss SecUnit into the mix. Here's Company property that scares the shit out of you and as if that weren't enough, the woman you love is being so nice to it. Not just that, she's seemingly prioritizing it over you.

"It feel like it's going through something" vs. I'm going through something.

Running to talk to SecUnit vs. I was the one who was just threatened.

"I feel we can trust it" vs. I thought you trusted me?

"You need a MedBay" vs. But you won't get me to one because SecUnit advises otherwise, right? (Notably, Gurathin doesn't seem to be conscious when Mensah makes the decision to leave anyway, with or without SecUnit).

There are a lot of other moments like this and from our perspective we can see that Mensah is treating SecUnit similarly to how she no doubt treated Gurathin six years ago. The parallels between them abound, including being slaves to the Company who only start to demonstrate true autonomy after meeting Mensah. Gurathin still has a lot of healing to do, but after so many years he's in a better place than the slave that has just admitted to some level of personhood (not to mention the practical issues of them needing SecUnit to defend them), so of course Mensah is going to prioritize it to a certain extent. She's trying to help it the way she once helped Gurathin, but Gurathin is still so damaged and so JEALOUS that he can't conceptualize, "Oh. She's giving SecUnit what I was once lucky enough to receive."

He can't see that, so what comes out instead is, 'You have feelings for it don't you?' Because what other explanation does he have? If SecUnit already 'stole' her attention and her high opinion, why not her romantic love too! I don't think Gurathin would have ever asked that without the fever lowering his inhibitions, but I don't think the fever caused that worry either.

Gurathin makes me insane because I just want to scream, "SecUnit is you! It's you! It's not your rival, it's a mirror of who you were six years ago! You're not in competition with it, you're the best person to help it because you know something of what it's gone through!! You get to pass the torch, Gura, and help Mensah help someone else!!!!"

[lilywritings]

Little "time travel" au with gen!lilia and human reader!

.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑**̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑**̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑**̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑**̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑**̑˟

I can't stop thinking about "time travel" ughhh i love that au, imagine you two are already very deep into your relationship in current time then

Poof.

You're accidentally transported to the past only to meet general Lilia the second you land ( you already knew how he was bc of his dream in book 7 but now you're legit in the past).

You choose not to tell him that you're actually together but rather his future "friend" ( he is not buying that ) you knew general Lilia would've NOT taken it well bc you're a human that magically popped infront of him at the worst time possible, a little before the war.

But the way you said his name , had a blessing upon you and the way you looked at him made him a bit hesistant and unsure so he pulled his magearm away from you and took you to his dear friends to get the truth out of you.

Lucky for you Levan saved your ass here from his wife and best friend bc meleanor would've fried you by now . A human trespassing JUST before the war!?

And what added the oil to the fire was the fact that malleus put a blessing upon you ( the one mentioned up) after the whole book 7 heartbreak. Meleanor sensed it was a draconia family blessing IMMEDIATELY and was VERY suspicious and angry at you.

So you explained everthing to them and made them sort off belive that you're from the future and searching for a way to get back after you mentioned Malleus. Nobody should've known that princess was about to have a baby and you even knew his name. Meleanor was thinking of zapping you right then and there but Levan held her off and made an agreement.

And thus they put Lilia to supervise you while they work on a way to get you back and think about your words.

Let me tell you something, Lilia HATED IT . why HIM!? THIS HUMAN THAT WON'T STOP STARING AT HIM WEIRDLY AND CLAIMING TO BE HIS FUTURE "FRIEND"!? he wanted to hiss at you at least.

While Lilia was having a crisis you took this situation to try and get closer to him and find out more bc your lilia didn't really talk about his past SELF! that much he is a man of secrets after all...

This was your chance to get to know his past self better and maybe try to open him up a bit and help him.

You knew what was about to come and you know better than to mess with the fate in this "time travel thingy" but was it really that?

Your mind was boiling at tge idea to spoil him ROTTEN & show him how loved he is. But you couldn't do that rn at least not so sudden ...

Ahh loving this fae is complicating.

After some time of looking at him training the troops & being busy but still having to take you with him everywhere he finally sat down with you to talk about how you're bothering him.

And truly , what made lilia irritated and bothered the most was. Your gaze.

Ah those eyes that never stopped looking at his directly, firmly ,not an ounce of fear in them.

The way you gazed upon him like he was a treasure that you couldn't bare to look away from not even for a second or he might just slip away and never return.

Whats that emotion inside your eyes?

Whats that warmness?

It feels familiar yet different ? Nobody has ever looked at him that way . He is not used to it and it makes his skin crawl.

Are you bewitching him human?

He still doesn't trust the fact that you're magicless ,not when you're doing something to him .

Your damned gaze made him feel ... something at least.

Yet he couldn't help himself to brush you away completely you were ... interesting?

On the other hand you were fighting inside bc of the fact that you couldn't shower him in love right this moment and tell him who you are... You must focus to find out more.

And just as he was about to say something your vision got blurry~~~

.

.

.

"Darling you've been sleeping for a bit too long aren't you going to wake up soon?

"..."

"I might even make you a meal how about that? Oh i know you're going to love this one♡"

You stirred awake and found yourself on your present Lilias lap.

"Lilia?" you looked up at him all confused ( Was that all a dream?Does he know, does he remember?)

You didn't even notice you fell asleep on him while he was gaming for god knows how long.

He was caressing your face at your call and cooing at your sleepy state. My how adorable you looked to him right now.

"Hm?"

"Did we perhsaps meet before?"

Lilia smiled wide at your question before bending down and kissing your forehead gently.

"Perhaps my love, perhaps~"

.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑**̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑**̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑**̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑**̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑**̑˟

Ps. I would love to know what do you think guys :3 (i had a bit of help)

[clockwayswrites]

hope you're having a great day! I'm thoroughly enjoying your Dp x Dc stories and heard a passing comment that got me thinking about A Hill to Die on specifically that I thought I'd share. The comment was "I wish my brain wasn't so messed up", which is a totally human and natural passing comment for anyone with mental difficulties on earth. But for someone like Alvin, who has shown to have complicated feelings regarding sharing a body, in a universe/reality where physical manifestations of separate identities of the same person have certainly happened before (ie. Fun Danny/Super Danny. or Raven's emotional spectrum) such an offhanded comment is much more complicated. SO, thinking along those lines, I really appreciate that you're an author willing to portray DID and other physical and mental difficulties in your works so respectfully.

Oh, thank you!

It is a complicated thing. I mean, I was just lamenting how 'broken' my body was yesterday as I climbed up a hill, pulse hitting 174 and my ankle and knee trying valiantly to give out on me. But it's also just... what I have to deal with, you know? And I have to respect my body and brain for managing to do what they can! And on a whole they've done great! I got up that damn hill to the park in Bath and it was a lovely view.

I was told 'they'd get me reading' elementary school because my vision doubled on letters so badly when I was already an avid reader. I was deaf for 6-12 months as a little. I had consonant swapping and was in speech therapy twice. Now my whole job is to talk. And I'm writing! (With a lot of word swapping still mind you.)

I did dance (ballet, tap, jazz) and soccer and marching band. My hands are healing. My body tries so hard to manage despite everything! When you have chronic issues it's such a line between hating it's a thing, but also respecting what you can still do. And accepting when you need rest (hardest one for me).

I'm sure that being (I say fondly) the mess I am, that it helps me write it. And it is certainly why it comes up a lot! I know I will mess up, it's inevitable, you know? Or at least some people won't find what I write matches their experience, especially with something so diverse and complex like DID. But I do try my best and always to go with respect.

A lot of the world is easier when you go with respect.

[carnatedrugs]

Fix me.

Part 2

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem!Reader

Hi guys! I was struggling with my LOVE for Simon Riley so I wrote this and I'll just leave a first chapter. English is not my first language SO IM SORRY IF ANYTHING WRONG and I don't know if I need to continue but let's just leave it here for now.. heh ; - ;

Chapter 1

The train was late—too late, I’d say. I couldn’t tell how much time had passed; the summer heat was torturing me, melting my brain, making it hard to concentrate on anything. "Why did this damn piece of metal have to break now?" I huffed in frustration, eyeing the engine my father had built for my car. Now I had neither a car, nor a father to fix it.

Our relationship had always been... complicated. Maybe I’ll get into the details later. Despite our issues, there’s no denying he was a gifted man. The whole village relied on him—if it could be fixed with hands, he could fix it. Me? Not so much. I have my own talents—at least, I like to think so. But you know how it goes when parents want you to continue their legacy. So yeah, now you get why our relationship was tricky.

But none of that matters right now. I’m standing under this merciless sun, waiting for the fucking train. No one in my small town could fix the engine, so I had no choice but to travel to another city. I’ve never traveled like this before. I was content with where and how I lived. But without my dad around, I might as well throw the car away and forget it ever existed. Still, I made a choice—to find at least one person on this planet who could understand my father’s work and fix what he left behind.

Luckily, I’d heard rumors about a genius, someone who could fix anything. They said he was on another level—more magician than mechanic. Of course, no one could confirm that. I’m not someone who usually believes in miracles, but I’m desperate enough now to hope the rumors are true.

After what felt like forever, the train finally arrived. The ride would be long—apparently this so-called genius isn’t fond of people, and his home is far off the beaten path.

While watching the endless landscape pass by—fields, wires, smoke columns from distant furnaces—I started thinking about how hard these past four months had been. Money was tight, work was draining. The timing of this breakdown couldn’t have been worse. I couldn’t wait for another paycheck to get it fixed—without the car, my job becomes nearly impossible.

"Maybe think of it as a mini vacation—the one you always wanted," I whispered, forcing a sigh.

I work as a tutor for school kids. Since I was struggling financially, I started taking clients from nearby towns. They paid more—I didn’t have much of a choice. So yeah, I need that car back.

After countless kilometers of fields and lakes, I finally dozed off. My body had given in, but my mind kept spinning. Each bump on the tracks felt like a knock on the door of my nerves. Four months of holding everything together—and now this. I stared out the window, but the scenery blurred into something meaningless. What if this trip was a waste? What if he couldn’t fix it? What if I was chasing a ghost? The engine wasn’t just a piece of machinery. It was the last thing my father ever made for me. A cold thought slipped in: maybe it was never meant to be fixed.

I pressed my forehead against the window. The glass burned from the heat outside, but I didn’t move. The world rolled on, and I felt like I was stuck in place.

Taking these complicated thoughts aside I tried to cheer myself. I’m finally shifting my focus away from work, to steal a few hours of sleep. But just as I started to drift, the train jerked to a stop. I groaned from the sudden jolt and the ache in my back. Looking out the window, I saw a small village nestled among green hills, with quaint houses and scattered farms. The village looked like it had been plucked from a forgotten blueprint—where nature and machinery coexisted in a delicate, rusted balance. The cobblestone paths were lined with copper piping, some of them hissing gently with steam. Wind turbines, some broken and tilted, spun lazily above wooden rooftops reinforced with iron brackets and rivets. The air smelled like oil, coal, and lavender fields. An interesting mix.

As I stepped off the train, a rush of cool air filled my lungs. For a moment, I felt relief. This wasn’t my final destination—I still needed to find a ride to reach the “magician.”

I dragged my cart off the platform, the engine perched awkwardly on top. Back aching, hope still clinging to me, I headed into the village.

After asking around, one kind old man agreed to drive me where I needed to go. Everything went surprisingly smoothly. The people here were warm, the landscape beautiful, and I found what I needed faster than expected. That gave me a pause—maybe this “genius” wasn’t a magician after all. Maybe he was just a regular guy, and this trip was all for nothing.

"There’s no turning back now," I muttered, trying to quiet my doubts.

Lost in thought, I spotted a large windmill standing still against the sky. The car stopped. I got out.

"He lives here," the old man said, helping me unload the cart.

"Thank you so much!" I said with a smile as he drove off. Probably should’ve asked him to come back later. There’s no way this guy’s fixing it today. Looks like I’ll be staying in the village.

The moment that thought crossed my mind, exhaustion finally caught up with me. But rest would have to wait. I took a deep breath and approached the windmill.

It was quiet here—peacefully, almost hauntingly so. The air felt still. Lonely, that’s the word. Maybe it was just me.

I knocked on the heavy wooden door. No answer. Of course, I didn’t expect it to open right away, but it felt like no one was even inside.

"Maybe he went somewhe—" Before I could finish, the door creaked open with startling force. I stepped back, heart skipping a beat.

Standing in the doorway was a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a skull mask that clung tightly to his face like it belonged there. One arm, bare and marked with tattoos that told a story I dared not ask about, rested tensely at his side. He didn’t move much—just enough to study me. His eyes were steel-gray, the kind you don’t forget.

There was something military about him. Not in uniform, but in presence. In the way he stood, how his gaze scanned me like a tactical assessment. A man used to violence. Used to solitude.

He didn’t speak right away. Just watched me, expression unreadable beneath the bone-white grin of the mask. I couldn't tell if he was annoyed, bored, or thinking ten steps ahead of me. Maybe all three.

When he finally opened the door wider, I realized I hadn’t breathed in several seconds. “Surprise” doesn’t even begin to cover what I felt.

I cleared my throat. "Uh, hello! My name is Y/N. Sorry to bother you, but it’s kind of urgent. I’ve got an engine—one that’s pretty complicated. No one back home could fix it, and... that led me here." I tried to sound calm and confident, though the man in the skull mask standing silently in front of me didn’t make it that easy. He looked more like a serial killer than a mechanic.

He didn’t say anything—just listened, eyes never leaving mine. Then he gave a short nod and stepped aside, holding the door open.

Confused, I hesitated, then gave him a weak, awkward smile and turned to grab my cart.

"Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you," he said, stepping closer, his voice low and dry. It wasn’t aggressive, but it didn’t need to be. It felt controlled, like everything else about him. Calculated.

I tried to answer, but my voice came out thin. "It’s okay."

His voice sent shivers down my spine. Maybe it was the suddenness of it. Or maybe it was how deep and rough it sounded. I hadn’t expected him to speak at all.

I couldn’t stop staring at the mask. At his silence.

He didn’t rush. Just took the cart like it weighed nothing and held the door with a nod, as if to say Move. I tried to make sense of what was happening. I snapped back to reality and hurried inside the windmill.

[hrtfeltalex]

⌇﹒How you want to manifest something if you dont want to let go of the old history?﹒★

─────────────────────────────────

Honestly, The problem of many of you is that you wanna manifest smt with your whole heart, but then, you dont wanna let go of the old history, and i'm so sorry, but if you keep that cycle, you'll be at the same place your whole life.

﹒♰﹑Ps: Just to start because I'll probably use terms like "another/the version of you" and so on. There's no "that version" "other self" because everything is one, you and "other versions" are the same. You are only consciousness, you are everything, so there's no other versions of you, you are everything and all those "versions".

────────────────────────────────────────

Your only job is think like the version of you that have what you want, for example, you wanna manifest a car, you'll enter the state where you have it (thinking as the version of you that have it), then you'll manifest it instantly (the moment you decide you have it, you already have it).

But some of you be like:

"ok, i have the car, i have the car" but the next second "...no i dont have- no, i have it...But how am I going to get my driver's license? But ok, no, i have my car, i have my car...but what if..."

And NO, i'm not talking about "wavering" because i dont fw this sht, i'm talking about you don't let go of old history, the state of you that have it would be overthinking abt it, or they would be "hm...yeah i have this car? And Yeah, i have my driver's license" of course they wouldn't be thinking how and when BC THEY HAVE IT AND THEY KNOW IT.

Let go, damn, if is not what you want, then it has nothing to do with you, none of your business, just focus on what you want, because it is what you focus on that appears in your reality.

────────────────────────────────

"oh but i was manifesting this and that and it went wrong 🥺"

Ok, it may happened because you did accept this as truth? Like...you are the one who accepted this as a fact, as your reality, so what you want me to say?

"oh i've been manifesting x thing for months 🥺"

Why you're insisting on the old history? The old version? The old point of view?

Literally:

Drop the old history and think as the version of you who already have it » done

Dont complicate something so simple.

[cixteenyne]

‘Party at my grandmas, fuckers!’

Ch.1 (probably wont continue this fawwwk)

Content warning: Drug usage, Drug addiction, Overdose, Self destructive behaviors, Gojo is a dick head, NSFW elements (not between gojo and reader), Fratboy!Gojo, college AU, honestly everybody is a pos, Slowburn but not bc you hate this mf and he dont fw you. Not betaread, this is a draft sooo….✌️

There will always be someone who needs you, yet simultaneously gives not a single shit about you. Get what they need out of the box ‘n through the packaging away. Dust their hands off and go about their day.

It’s simple, it’s easy, it’s free, to fuck someone over- its free. The price of time management, planning and lies, all free.

This must be why it’s so common?

College isnt.. easy. Nobody claims it to be— whoever has in the past regrets such idiocy, and whoever preaches it now is begging for west to become south. And fast.

College is work and work isnt easy, simple shit.

Work isn’t easy, but neither are people. Infact- they’re the most complicated of all, and it’s unfortunate, really. Things arent complicated or difficult because they have to be, it’s just how things are, how can it be remedied? Fuck if anybody knows because we’ve exhausted the options of ‘patience, love and support’ like it’s a non renewable resource.

Halls were never easy to walk through. A semi closed space that gave the illusion of open access, a long.. streching.. seemlingy endless illusion.

You wouldn’t say you were claustrophobic, but you didn’t exactly enjoy knowing you’d brush up against at least 30-45 different people and objects in a limited space. It’s stressful for anyone to think about— but you manage, you always have and you will continue to, you have no choice.

You were not a shy person, but you did not go out of your way to make yourself known. You said what you needed to and mostly what you wanted to. As long as it wouldn’t lead to unnecessary problems, just more bullshit to deal with on top of tanking grades, so you kept slick comments to yourself. Mostly.

Satoru. He’s a man nobody besides his sleezy best friend could figure out. Popular guy, can’t blame anyone— charismatic, charming, winner smile, sexy—fuckers got it down pact.

You didn’t know a thing about the guy besides the basics. Party nut. Fraternity dude. Throwing a rager every other night for some damn reason, (does he ever rest?)

He’s basic in the way you find most men are.. he’s handsome- sure, startlingly so, but something’s wrong. All men, at least the ones you’ve been around— have that startling factor to them—that.. offputting factor.

It’s also in his eyes, Just looking in them hurts.

-1

Youve been partners with Satoru on this project for a couple days now and, well.. he’s not dumb as bricks, that’s for sure— but he also refuses to offer much. Shocker.

He usually shows up for the merit, scrolls, then dips like hes got places to be, and to his credit, maybe he does, a rager to plan, maybe attend? Chick to bang, a four loko to shotgun—for fucks-

“—sake, satoru, ‘the hell are you going now? We’re not even 10 minutes in.”

You couldn’t keep the exasperated tone out of your voice, ‘fed up’ is a feeling you’re well aquatinted with.

The clock on the wall, however useless it was- ticked on as he stared at her like she’d gone special in the head. “What, i dont have free will anymore? Lighten up, will you?” He laughed that type of laugh that only a 21 year old man who didn’t know how to talk to a woman beyond ‘through it’, could laugh.

Beyond frustrating.

Only he would say some dumb shit like that- ‘lighten up, will-‘ shut the fuck up.

“I’ve let you have free will this whole week and now we have tomorrow’s deadline to finish this.”

His lips moved into that smile that kept him popular. At the top. “People have lives, let me live mine?” A shrug that made it seem like nothing was wrong, even when the room was on fire. Fuck him.

You were not about to argure with this man. No man for that matter, grades be damned.

“Yeah- it’s whatever Satoru, live your life, bye.” A dismissive wave as you got your laptop and simply left.

Satoru stood at the exit you’d gone opposite of, just shaking his head with a laugh that would have only pissed you off more if youd stayed to hear it.

He had no problem with you, but he didn’t particularly like or care about you beyond.. well— nothing, he had no intention of doing this project, no need. He only needed to do enough to keep up appearances and then he’s out.

Yes. He’s an asshole through and through, but nobody needs to know that but him and his other asshole friends.

He saw you around, minding your business, no doubt you saw him too. Smug grin and all— just waiting for the right moment to get at you, in you, and leave. Like hell you’re gonna let him.

The moment you’d gotten partnered up with him, you knew an F was coming unless you planned to drop everything and fuck him, and you made peace with that. He wasn’t getting a damn thing.

It didn’t make it any easier to sit across from him and watch a grade get thrown in your face, though.

-2

You got an F.

But what confused you that day was that Satoru didn’t. Rich boy didn’t get an F, but you did— on the project you both did not do.

It made the wound of him sitting there, manspread in the library and refusing to respond to you burn hotter, like molten steel solidifying into your pores, and you trying to peel and pick it out, but every time you think you’ve got a good piece, it breaks off halfway- never to be reached again.

It never made sense to you, what was the point of fucking you over like that— it wasn’t free, he obviously paid off the teacher, had to have been hundreds of dollars— thousand, even.

The price of fucking you over wasn’t even free.

Every time you saw him after that? A refusal to acknowledge him. Not even a glance— ok, a couple glances, but only when he looked back did you walk away. Not that he even gave a fuck.

He seriously paid to win. In a fucking College.

A man like that didn’t deserve your emotions or time, no matter what. But—fuck, he got them anyway. You had nothing positive to associate with him. He got your petty glances, the rolled eyes, the mean mugs, all of it.

It pissed you off.

You had to take a walk around campus to blow off some steam, step by step, your anger rolled off of you in waves that felt like a Gua Sha massage, not exactly comforting, but necessary. Sort of.

You walked along empty classrooms, door by door.

You didn’t have a 1PM class, so this was your only time to roam.

The only opportunity to be relived of the on… and on… and on… of the professional that was paid to be there, sure- but didn’t make it any less boring.

Each step just as aimless as the next, a little leaf crunch every now and then to spice it up.

Fuck this wasn’t helping.

As you walked you could only try slow your beating heart— trying to break out of your chest, the anger, the shock, the disbelief— it grew out of you like invasive mushrooms all over the place, under your fingernails, out of your eyes, your skin.

The kind that if you picked one off, the roots would slowly drag out of your skin, making you realize it would have been better if you just left it alone.

It only grew once you made it out of the other end of the class hallway.

Son of a bitch, why hadn’t you just stayed at your dorms.

Satoru was fucking the teacher for brownie points.

-3

The next time you see him you’re like a dog who found a bone. Or an unsuspecting toddler.

He’s at the round table with his asshole friends, and their asshole sports talk, just talking like he’s not the worst person ever— they’re probably worse.

You come up behind him, a light slap on the shoulder. “Come here. Out back?”

He only turns back to look at you, his friends do too. silent. amused.

Satoru only looks back and smiles that smug smile, his head on his hand, he looks back at his friends and his smile only gets wider. As do theirs.

Like sharks in a damn pool.

“Here’s fine, yeah?”

“It’s really not.” You didn’t have the patience, never did.

He points to the enclosed study room across the library, soundproof. His idiot pink haired friend whistles. “This early, Satoru? New record.” Stupid chuckles makes its round as they all seem to find humor in that.

“Never too early for a little fun, c’mon guys.” He gets up with a huff and makes his way towards the door, you follow while burning holes into his back.

You don’t snap back into reality until the whooping, whistling and hollering stops when the door clicks closed.

Satoru turns around and leans his hips on the desk behind him as he shrugs towards you.

“Well?”

You dont speak for a while, it feels like millennium until you get that ocean of saliva down your throat and simmer the molten lava out of your brain.

“I got an F.”

“Shocker.”

Professional smartass over here. everything about him just made you want to pounce and stomp him out. He could probably see as much.

“You were fucking Mrs. Arlen.”

You see him about to speak before you decide you don’t want him to talk anymore. “You screwed me over on a project just to make up the assignment with a dick appointment? Really?”

You could see the gears turning in his head — ‘wreeeek, uuuuurk’ — as each cog wheel moved.

You could also see that stupid smirk, like he’s holding back a little laugh

“You’re acting like i owe you a good grade— what, wanna fuck one out of me? Use the ‘Satoru method’?”

What the fuck was wrong with him? Just looking at him hurts, it hurts your brain and your ability to comprehend.

“What the hell is your problem?”

He didn’t even grace you with a response this time, just a shrug and a shake of his head, dismissing you with a little smile. The fucker was evil without reason.

You took a moment to really look him in the eyes for a good 20 seconds— that’s a long time, yes, but that’s really what it took for you to finally get it. It’s in his eyes, what’s so off-putting about him.

He’s always slightly out of it, never too concerned about anything.

Too laid back to be genuine, yet a little too tense to be faked.

All that wrapped into a frat boy bow, and you have Satoru. Somehow.

Ah, you get it- He’s constantly on drugs.

The dialted pupils, the stare with lead injected into it when you looked for too long, all of it was in the eyes and it finally made sense.

He just tilted his head at you and nodded his head, that smug smile had never left his face.

“Been looking at me mighty long, you change your mind?”

That’s what was wrong with him.

“Do you just… do drugs and decide nothing else matters, fuck me over while off a damn pill?”

He didn’t respond for a while and just looked at you. Really looked at you. You doubt anything penetrated that drugged out mind— why didn’t you pick up on it before?

“You make it sound like that’s a bad thing.”

What a Satoru response, only he could say that and genuinely mean it.

“Just high on life, hm?”

And you just happened to be in the way of that, how- you didn’t know. Whatever episode he was having, you got caught up in.

“Something like that.”

-4

Looking at him felt different after that exchange— it’s been days since you last even spoke to him, knowing the worst person you know is probably coked out of his mind is a.. strange feeling.

He definitely looks at you differently now.

He seemed to pop up wherever you were, always there, always watching.

And whenever he was there, there was always a problem, him doing something just to piss you off.

Since you found out, he’s been going to extra mile to be petty.

You knew something deep about him, and he was taking out how uncomfortable he was with it on you, his constipated outlook on emotions was already fucked enough to turn to drugs, how could you expect him to deal with vulnerability?

Days and days pass as he torments you in little way only you could notice, the kind where if you tell anyone else they’d think you’re obsessed and reading into it. And he knew that, relied on that reasoning entirely.

It only made your dislike of him even more palpable.

Everytime you saw him, he was chipper in how he bothered you, way too happy to be putting somebody else down with no repercussions.

that’s just like him.

Maybe that’s why it was so shocking to see him in a state of unconsciousness in an empty classroom while you were just trying to print an essay.

Work of @cixteenyne

[katboykirby]

The game itself is NOT what is being crowdfunded. The goal of the Kickstarter is NOT "to fund the new game/app"

This has been stated very clearly by the OM Team, and has been re-explained on the official OM accounts multiple times now. The crowdfunding campaign has NEVER been to fund the development of the game itself, the new OM game has already been in development since long before the announcement back in May.

The Kickstarter is purely for bonus rewards, extra content, and celebratory merch. This is very clearly explained on both the official OM accounts and on the Kickstarter page itself. They go into great detail breaking down exactly what the crowdfunding is paying for. Absolutely 0% of it is being used to make the game itself. It's so very easy to just...go onto the Kickstarter page and see it all spelled out for you.

It is a completely separate, independent thing.

As for the expensive Reward Tiers, particularly the newer ones that were added a few days ago - yes, they are very expensive. No, not everyone will be able to afford them. I definitely can't afford them. Neither can any of my friends/mutuals. Does that suck? Sure. I think everybody on earth wishes that they had more money to spend on the things they like.

But the reason those expensive Reward Tiers exist? People were absolutely clamoring for them. It's important to understand that when the Kickstarter first went live, all of the limited-quantity Rewards instantly sold out in less than a minute. The OM Team absolutely obliterated their donation goal and blew right past it in a matter of minutes. And quite literally hundreds of people were already begging them to add more Reward Tiers. Within ten minutes of the initial Kickstarter completely selling out.

They added more Reward Tiers because it is just simply what hundreds of people were begging them for. It's not any more insidious or complicated than that. There's no secret plot to extort players out of their money just for fun. They are quite literally meeting fan demand by giving players exactly what they were asking for.

And again, yes, the newest Rewards are very expensive. That's objectively true. It's a damn shame for anybody who wants them and can't afford them. But the thing to remember is that not only can crowdfunding Rewards very commonly cost several thousand or even tens of thousands of dollars (this is a normal thing that happens often, it's not unusual or unique at all) but OM's Rewards are targeting a very specific and wealthy demographic. If you're unaware, it's a very well-known phenomenon that there are a LOT of exceedingly rich single men and women in places like JP/CN/KR, etc, who regularly spend (the equivalent of) hundreds upon hundreds of thousands of dollars on host clubs/hostess clubs, girlfriend bars, and in more recent years, gacha games. Just look at all the fabulously wealthy single women in CN who are spending obscene amounts of money on Love and Deepspace every single month. This is an entire demographic/audience in and of itself, and those are the people who are going to be buying OM's expensive Reward Tiers.

And in the end, I'm extremely happy that those Tiers exist, and I'm glad that rich fans will buy them. Because that is literally putting more money into supporting the game. They are the ones paying to make sure the dev team meet their stretch goals and add more and more free content into the game. It is OBJECTIVELY making the game better for absolutely every single other player. If you don't spend a single penny on the Kickstarter or on the game at all, you will still be getting 100% of the benefits that the crowdfunders are paying for. It is a complete win-win scenario.

Seen right here:

The next goal they want to meet? Having full, proper voice acting in the main story. THAT'S why those super expensive Reward Tiers exist. The funding costs for that much VA work, especially when it's a huge amount of voicework that wasn't originally planned for, will be incredibly high. It's going to be EXPENSIVE to make that happen. But it's something that literally EVERY SINGLE PLAYER will get to enjoy, completely for free, entirely thanks to the people paying for those high-tier Rewards.

And so will the production of a completely new Image Song. And so will the development of new game content like in-app cameras and photo modes. These all cost a LOT of money - especially when you remember that the OM Team is not getting the same level of funding from NTT Corp that they used to.

THIS is why those Reward Tiers exist. Do I wish I could afford them? Absolutely. Am I mad that they exist? Definitely not.

I have been bitting my tongue because I don't want to be a party popper or anything (not that It matter because this has always been a vent blog to me, not a fandom blog) but since they released new tiers that aré ridiculously expensive on Kickstarter AND we have less than two weeks for the crownfunding to end I can't anymore:

I just don't understand how succesfull this campaign currently Is when we know basically nothing about the game, I was waiting for AX for them to say anything but they decided to expand the tiers Instead of y'know... Promote what the game Is actually about...

Everything about this Is so... Vague... The goal of the Kickstarter Is to fund the new game/app... But we know basically nothing about it

[icecreampizzer]

Tried to give some of my characters voice claims - Deja and Theia had different VCs before but I think these fit them much better :) I think I still have a hard time finding fitting VCs for OCs (it's harddd to visualizeee) but from my recent experience it's really easier if you already have a wide pool of media to choose from.

All art and characters are mine, audio belongs to Schell Games, Studio Trigger, Worthikids, and Starkid respectively :thumbsup:

[bixels]

Taking the current topic as an excuse to ask you to tell me all the reasons you love Rarijack. Your art for the ship is so sweet and intimate I'd love to hear any in depth thoughts you have.

Breathes in.

I think what makes their dynamic really strong is that they have opposing personalities but aligned values. It's deeper than just "opposites attract." Rarity's fancy, prissy, and femme while Applejack's modest, rough, and "masculine." But both value hard work (to the point of being workaholics), their families (both have guardianship over their little sisters), running successful businesses, and eventually each other. Their relationship can be boiled down to, "Despite our differences/disagreements, I still like you because we value the same things."

We see their relationship develop so much. In the first season, they can't stop bickering about surface-level differences. By season four, they still bicker, but will mend their relationship because they can't help but do nice things for each other. In Trade Ya, they start off arguing over personality differences (Applejack likes old junk and Rarity likes useless crap). Then they pivot and start arguing that they value their relationship more than the other. In the end, they mend things by sacrificing their needs and buying each other a gift. Even if they don't understand it, they know it'd make the other happy. And that's all that really matters. It's a genuinely sweet moment that shows how arguing can be healthy and necessary for relationships to strengthen.

We even see them dropping their hang-ups about each others' personalities. In Made in Manehattan, when Rarity runs off in dramatics about someone's fashion, AJ doesn't roll her eyes or scoff, she smiles. Oftentimes, their conflicts are very common domestic conflicts romantic couples face. Applejack's Day Off is about a woman's inability to balance work and life and find time to properly spend with her partner, causing her partner to feel neglected.

By season seven, they're actively participating in each others' interests. Any problems or conflicts that arise are dealt with, and they come out the other end stronger and closer. In Honest Apple, AJ pretty much spells out why their relationship works so well: even though she doesn't understand fashion, she can recognize and appreciate how much work it takes and wants to respect that. When she realizes her mistake in the episode, AJ goes above and beyond to fix things and apologize to Rarity. They care about each other so much.

The two go out of their way, sacrificing their personal desires and beliefs and doing things they normally wouldn't, to make the other happy. That's just love.

There's Simple Ways, where AJ gets stuck in an unwanted love triangle between Rarity and her hipster crush. And her frustration and anger can be so easily interpreted as AJ finding herself in a terrible position; the girl she loves wants another man, and that man wants her.

I dunno. I've always had a preference for opposites attract ships, but Rarijack's stuck with me like a brain worm because they have the perfect chemistry. The way they show they care, or do things for each other, I've always read it as the truest representation of romance in the show.

[pepperpixel]

SAID HE LIKES CRAZY GIRLS,

BUT HE HATES WHEN I ACT CRAZY,

IT TAKES TWO TO TOXIC!

FINALLY!!! Finished these pics of jinx I’ve been working on!!!!! HOLY SHIT, these took so long…. But finally… they’re done… pls enjoy this art of my beautiful princess w a disorder. Featuring alternate colors for the big pic and also a closeup! Cuz I rlly like how both the lines and coloring on her face turned out… like the pink gradients w her eye… her deer in headlights expression,, like uve just startled a raccoon digging thru ur trashcan and r two seconds away from getting mauled.. m proud of it!

[possamble]

What are your headcanons about Marcille's mom if you have any? It's interesting that what drew Donato to her was cause she lived the history he studied, or that was said somewhere at least. She must've had an interesting life.

so this was going to be just a normal answer but then I realized I have a Lot of Things To Say. so here goes, a compilation of what we know for a fact from the canon, what I've extrapolated from the visual cues and details, and my theories based on all of that.

Things we know for a fact about Marcille's mother because they were explicitly stated in the manga and supplemental materials:

She was a court mage for a Tall-man kingdom at the southern part of the Northern Continent

Donato, a court historian, fell in love with her because she had lived through the history he was studying, and he courted her for 17 years (age 15 to 32) before getting married

She was a cheerful person who rarely showed extreme emotion and took things as they came

She always cooked a huge meal for Marcille on her birthdays

She remarried a gnome after Donato's death and a short distance away from Marcille's childhood home

Pipi, Marcille's pet bird, was actually older than Marcille and originally belonged to her mother (bird died at 62)

She was extremely heartbroken when Donato died and ultimately ended up instilling a deep fear of mortality in Marcille with her words

the only time she showed extreme emotion in front of her family was when Donato could no longer eat his favourite dish near the end of his life.

She scolded Marcille for being cruel to ants (implying she can have a stern side when needed)

Things that are explicitly shown but mostly through visual cues

She has a very distinctive style of dress always involving a ribbon choker (mirroring Marcille's habit of always wearing a matching choker with any of her outfits that don't cover her neck)

She was almost stereotypically good at housekeeping and traditionally "wifely" things (very frequently depicted wearing an apron or doing some domestic chore when not at work, seems to have been an avid cook).

She knits? (also, note the affectionate smile as she's looking at Donato and Marcille reading a book together in the full panel)

She was as excited for Marcille's milestones as Donato was.

She didn't tell Marcille much about elven food

(there are a couple things that this panel in particular implies:

She lived a good deal of her life (if not being born and raised) in a mainly elven country in the West, implied by her knowing enough of an elven region's cuisine to prefer Tall-man food over it

seems to have a pretty carefree and casual demeanour overall, if this is how she replied to Marcille asking her about it (sounds like she never gave her culinary preferences that much thought to begin with)

slightly related to number 2, it seems like she and Marcille had a fairly casual parent-child dynamic (especially in comparison to the Toudens' memory of their father)

(local elf tastes Italian food once and never goes back))

However, she seems a lot more... serious in most of the other times we see her? Almost like the very stereotypical archetype of a graceful elf.

Subsequent conclusions about her personality:

Usually pretty carefree and cheerful at home, has been a loving and attentive parent throughout Marcille's childhood (while not being so doting that she didn't discipline Marcille).

Slightly more conjectural theories on her personality:

Had a much more graceful and professional personality at work, which would explain the more serious portraits we see of her.

Given that both she and Donato had positions at the royal court, it seems a little odd that she'd go out of her way to do all the housework herself, so maybe she just enjoyed doing it?

Now taping all the evidence together and toeing the line between analysis and fanfiction:

It's clear that she loved Donato very much and was utterly devastated by losing him. But there's one thing that really stuck out to me in what little we see of her:

Doesn't she seem... angry? The way she's gritting her teeth, clutching the tablecloth, and how this is the first and only time we see her eyes opened that wide. In the following panel, you see her being quiet and dejected after her initial outburst. She's still crying very intensely, but her brows are furrowed, and she's not really responding to Donato's affection in her body language.

We're not told the details of how she felt about losing Donato other than that it upset her. But this, to me, implies that she was angry and resented that he was aging, that the end of his life was approaching. An "it's not fair" type of preemptive grief. And if this was the first and last time she cried like this in front of her family, she was either very good at coping in private... or very bad at letting herself feel unpleasant emotions until they become unavoidable and end up overwhelming her.

It's not too remarkable a detail on the surface. It's even reminiscent of what the audience has seen of Marcille. But... when it comes to the big picture, you'd think an elf who voluntarily chose to marry a tall-man and have a half-elf child would have been better prepared for this.

It kind of recontextualizes her cheerfulness to me.

"I'm sure everything's gonna be okay!" (or some variation thereof, depending on what translation you have).

And this is stated to contrast her extreme grief when finally confronting Donato's failing body and eventual death. But I'm wondering if... maybe this optimism was why she was so upset. What if she went into all of it thinking "everything's gonna be okay"? What if she was a little young by elven standards, and just followed her heart thinking that her own resilience would get her through anything?

Of course, only to get completely overwhelmed when she actually loses Donato. She turns into a completely different person. And that's heartbreaking on its own-- but what the audience sees is the effect it had on Marcille. Can you imagine being her, watching your invincible and upbeat mother suddenly lose all the light in her eyes in one go?

I've already made a huge post about how I think Marcille models her "work persona" off her mother, but another thing that stuck with me as I was looking for more details in the manga was this:

copy pasting from the other post i made about it lmao it's like... the second she resigns herself to lifelong pain and terror, there's another portrait of her mother facing her like this. with their heads bowed, in mirrored body language of resignation and despair and sorrow. Except it's posed like Marcille is still looking at her mother but her mother is looking away.

It took me a second to realize, but I think that it's a visual metaphor for the fact that Marcille's mother was the only long-lived role model she had-- and she failed to model healthy grief for her daughter. I don't say this as an accusation or to disparage her as a character, but just as a matter of fact. In her, Marcille was seeing herself older and losing a short-lived spouse or loved one of her own, and all she saw was hopelessness.

But her mother didn't mean to instill hopelessness and terror in her. She wasn't really thinking of how it would truly affect Marcille at all (at least, that's how I'm interpreting her looking down and away from Marcille in the metaphor), she was just sad. And she, in her own way, was trying to protect her daughter and help her prepare for future losses.

What she meant was "loss is inevitable, and you have to learn how to be in pain but live on anyway." What Marcille heard was "loss is inevitable, and you will be scared and hurt for the rest of your life."

Again. Marcille's mother doesn't feature explicitly in the story the way her father does -- but in so many ways, her shadow, her silhouette, her reflection is always hanging over Marcille.

All that to say... headcanon-wise (everything from here on is 100% without evidence lmao), I'd like to think that she matured and realized that she failed Marcille. I imagine her being regretful about it, wanting a chance to fix it but never finding a way to insert herself back into Marcille's life when Marcille is so so so busy becoming the most accomplished mage possible. I imagine her being herself again, now, so many years after her loss and after remarrying -- but with her cheerfulness tempered with a lot more wisdom and the pain of having gone through loss like that. I think the second Marcille actually tells her what happened in the dungeon, she'd want to go running to her daughter again -- if Marcille tells her the full truth instead of just being embarrassed she let things get that far. (oh, the tragedy of her wanting to be more like her mother and an accomplished adult who doesn't need to be babied... being embarrassed to actually tell her mother how much she fucked up...)

There's also the tension of her having remarried -- I know that there's at least a little bit of resentment that Marcille harbours about that, because she's childish like that at heart even if she makes an effort not to externalize it. I think that her mother would be aware of that, potentially adding to her sense of guilt and apprehension at trying to reappear/intrude on Marcille's life. I honestly don't think Marcille has met her stepfather -- or even considers him a stepfather rather than "mama's new husband" and kind of a total stranger. I think she and her mother actively don't talk about it in their correspondence, like an elephant in the room.

but, ultimately, I think her mother is on her side no matter what. Ancient magic? Dark necromancy? Sure, she'll feel guilty and like she was partially responsible for setting Marcille down such a painful path, but she wouldn't care. that's her daughter!! she would've moved back west and been petitioning for her at the court, buying a house right next to the Canaries barracks and visiting her every day that she wasn't on a mission. And if her husband had opinions on Marcille becoming a "dark arts user," he either gets over it or it's divorce with him. Yes, she might have had her optimism completely humbled by losing Donato like that -- but she's still headstrong and self-assured and she doesn't care what people think of her. It's her way or the highway and she's always going to be in Marcille's corner.

(She also needs a name lol. I went with Juno, just to be cute about "Marcille"s closest real life equivalent being Marcella, which is the female version of Marcellus, which in turn is a diminutive of Marcus, which was derived from Mars. Absolutely in love with Marcille potentially being named after Ares/Mars the fucking god of war btw)

[autistic-danieljackson]

I love Vegas but it's so funny as a penultimate episode. They were like 'hm how should we get the Wraith the co-ordinates to Earth? What if we did an episode that's an alternate reality where Atlantis is a gritty Vegas detective show and then in the last two minutes we'll tie it in by creating a rip in time-space that sends the co-ordinates through?' And it was brilliant