#and it definitely looks like that on the surface!!

[l4ndonorizz]

stuck / lando norris x reader

pairing: lando norris x reader

song: the neighbourhood - stuck with me

summary: you're lando's pr manager and you're fuming because he made a mess again. but he solves the problem when you're stuck in an elevator.

wc: 1.3k

“How are you feeling about this?” you asked, adjusting your bag over your shoulder as you both stepped into the elevator. You didn’t even look at Lando as you spoke, already feeling the headache building at the base of your skull. This wasn’t the first time you had to clean up after one of his slip-ups, and it definitely wouldn’t be the last.

Lando sighed heavily beside you, running a hand through his hair. “Honestly? I’d rather be anywhere else,” he muttered, his tone casual, almost as if this was just another day at work.

You shot him a sharp look, your patience already wearing thin. “Yeah, well, you wouldn’t have to be here if you hadn’t caused a media circus in the first place, would you?”

Lando raised an eyebrow, smirking at your response. “Oh, come on. It wasn’t that bad.”

“Not that bad?” You could hardly believe what you were hearing. “You literally gave the media a goldmine, Lando! And now I have to deal with the fallout because you couldn’t keep your mouth shut. Again.”

Lando leaned back against the elevator wall, crossing his arms, clearly enjoying your frustration. “You’re cute when you’re mad, you know that?”

You glared at him. “Don’t start with me. This is serious.”

“I’m always serious,” he said, his tone completely at odds with the grin spreading across his face. “I just think maybe you’re overreacting a little. I mean, it’s my job to get attention, right?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, trying to hold back the irritation bubbling up inside you. “There’s a difference between getting attention for winning a race and getting attention because you’ve said something stupid.”

Lando shrugged, seemingly unbothered. “Yeah, but the media loves a good drama. You should be thanking me for giving you something to do.”

You couldn’t help it—you laughed, but it was the kind of laugh that meant you were one second away from snapping. “Oh, right. I should be thanking you for making my life harder? Because now I have to smooth this over so you don’t look like a complete idiot?”

Lando’s grin widened. “Maybe you’re just jealous, huh?”

You blinked, thrown off by the sudden shift. “What?”

“You heard me,” he said, leaning in slightly, his voice teasing. “Maybe all this stress is because you’re a little jealous of the attention I’m getting. You know, from the fans, the press...the ladies.”

You felt your face heat up, a mix of anger and embarrassment rising to the surface. “Jealous? Of you? Absolutely not.”

“Sure,” he said, dragging out the word, clearly not buying it. “You definitely weren’t fuming when that journalist asked me out last week.”

Your eyes narrowed. “I was fuming because it was unprofessional, and we were in the middle of a press conference. Not because I’m jealous.”

Lando shrugged again, his smirk still firmly in place. “If you say so.”

Before you could respond, the elevator suddenly jerked to a stop, the lights flickering for a moment before everything went still. You both froze, glancing around the small space.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you muttered, pressing the button for the next floor. Nothing. You pressed it again, harder this time. Still nothing.

Lando looked at you, eyebrows raised. “Well, this is awkward.”

You groaned, running a hand through your hair. “Of course. Of course this would happen today.”

Lando, ever the optimist, leaned back against the wall again, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor. “Guess we’re stuck.”

You shot him a look of pure exasperation. “We can’t be stuck. We have the press conference in less than an hour. I don’t have time for this.”

He patted the floor beside him, looking up at you with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Come on, sit down. Might as well get comfortable.”

You huffed but eventually gave in, sliding down the wall to sit beside him. You were both quiet for a moment, the weight of the situation settling in.

“This is just perfect,” you muttered. “Now we’ll miss the conference, and everyone will assume you’re dodging questions.”

Lando chuckled softly. “Hey, at least we’ll have a good excuse. ‘Sorry, we’re trapped in an elevator.’”

You glared at him. “This isn’t funny, Lando. You’ve put yourself in a bad spot, and now I have to be the one to clean it up. Again.”

He looked at you, his expression softening just a little. “You’re really stressed about this, huh?”

You sighed, leaning your head back against the wall. “Yeah, I am. It’s my job to make sure you come out of this looking good, and you keep making it harder.”

Lando was quiet for a beat before nudging you lightly with his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I know I’m a pain sometimes.”

You rolled your eyes, though the edge in your voice had softened. “Sometimes?”

He grinned, clearly relieved that you weren’t completely mad at him anymore. “Okay, most of the time. But hey, you’re amazing at what you do. You always fix it.”

You couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips. “I have to be, with you around.”

“See?” Lando said, his voice light again. “You should really be thanking me.”

You shot him a playful glare, nudging him with your elbow. “Don’t push it.”

The tension between you softened as the teasing subsided, replaced by something more subtle. Lando looked at you, his eyes lingering on yours for a moment longer than usual, and suddenly the air in the elevator felt different. There was a shift, something unspoken but undeniably present. You were close, closer than you realized, and for the first time, you could feel a kind of weight behind his gaze.

“You know,” he said, his voice quieter now, “I don’t think I’ve ever told you just how much I appreciate everything you do for me.”

You blinked, not expecting the sincerity in his tone. “Lando, it’s my job—”

“No,” he interrupted, leaning in just slightly, his expression serious. “It’s more than that. You put up with me, you deal with all my shit, and... I don’t know. You’re always there.

His words hung in the air, thick with meaning you didn’t quite know how to process. Your heart was pounding, and you could feel the heat rising in your chest as the silence stretched on. Before you could say anything, the elevator jolted, the lights flickered, and the soft hum of the machinery kicked back in. The doors didn’t open yet, but you knew it was only a matter of time.

But then, in that suspended moment, Lando moved closer, his eyes searching yours, and before you could fully process what was happening, he leaned in and kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed or hesitant—it was a slow, deliberate kiss, as if he’d been thinking about doing this for a long time. His hand came up to cup your face, and for a second, you forgot about everything—the press conference, the mess he’d caused, the fact that you were his PR manager.

The kiss deepened, your hands instinctively reaching for his shoulders, and for that brief moment, nothing else mattered. Just the two of you, in this small, confined space, finally letting the tension between you spill over.

The elevator doors dinged softly, snapping you both back to reality. You pulled away, your breath coming in short gasps, eyes wide as the situation hit you.

Lando let out a soft, breathless laugh, his forehead resting against yours. “Guess we’ll have to finish that later.”

You could only nod, still too stunned to form words.

With one final smile, Lando stepped out of the elevator, and you followed, your mind still reeling from the kiss that had just changed everything.

[ariestrxsh]

🖤 content warning: 🖤 smut, blowjob, voyeurism, blackmail, mean!roughdom!chris

🖤 author's note: 🖤 part two is going to be some of the filthiest, roughest shit i've ever written, so proceed with caution.

🖤 summary: 🖤 your manager, chris, finds out you've been giving away free drinks at your bartending job, and he blackmails you. he won't tell your little secret as long as you can give him what he wants..

this story was requested/inspired by this ask 💖 (promise that i will be serving filth in part two)

Closer part one

You rolled your eyes when you walked into work, saw the schedule, and realized who you were closing with.

You loved everything about being a bartender. You liked serving drinks, flirting with the customers, and listening to music all night. You made decent money, and you even liked your coworkers. Well, most of them.

The one thing you couldn't stand about your job was Chris, your manager, who was insufferable to work with. Anytime the two of you shut down the bar together, he'd waste time either playing around on his phone, sitting in his car smoking weed, or hiding in the backroom doing god knows what. This meant you'd end up doing most of the closing tasks alone.

All Chris really did was count the money and lock the door at the end of the night, and it always pissed you off that he got paid more than you. It's not like he was better-qualified for the position or had a better work ethic than you did, but he'd landed himself a position in management because the owner was his best friend's dad.

"Can't wait to close with you, sweetheart. You always get us out faster than I do with any of the other girls," Chris grinned at you with a tooth pick between his teeth while he leaned up against the stainless steel counter in a black tanktop and jeans.

"Wow, that's crazy, because we'd get out even faster if you could go one shift without getting high in the parking lot, and instead helped me rinse out all the beer taps," you snarked back.

"You know, I have way more important shit to worry about than wiping down surfaces. That's why I have you," Chris remarked, flashing you a smirk and brushing the back of his hand across your cheek. You pulled away and scoffed at him. "Love when you play hard to get," Chris whispered before wandering off towards the back. You rolled your eyes.

It was Friday night, which meant it'd be busy, and you were hoping to pull in enough tips to make rent by the end of the shift. You were getting into a flow, mixing drinks, and engaging in witty banter with some out-of-towners when your eye caught Chris heading out to the parking lot. There was a pretty blonde girl with him.

You finished serving the drink in your hand and turned to your coworker, Sam. "Hey, cover me while I go have a cigarette?" You leaned in and asked. She gave you the thumbs up. You went to the back, shuffling around in your purse for your American spirits.

You weren't gonna spy on Chris. You were just curious to see where he was going, who he was with, and what they were doing. Okay, fine. You were spying on Chris.

You made your way outside, sparking up the end of your cigarette, and heading towards the back of the building where the smoking area was. You didn't see Chris or the girl anywhere at first until your eyes landed on Chris' car. Chris was in the driver's seat, and it looked like he was alone.

That was until you saw that Chris had a fistful of her blonde hair in his grip, bouncing her up and down on his lap. You studied Chris' expression, the way it was steeped in desire, the way his jaw hung slightly open, and the way he was peering down. He was definitely getting head in his car.

The girl's head bobbed up down, disappearing and reappearing behind the dashboard. You knew you shouldn't be watching, and you always thought you'd be grossed out if you ever caught Chris doing anything like that, but you couldn't take your eyes off him.

You sat there, taking drag after drag off your cigarette while you watched Chris enjoying himself in his car. In your deepest, darkest fantasies, you wondered what he sounded like behind the glass windows.

A wetness started to pool between your legs, and it's not that you were jealous that you weren't the one doing it, but.. fuck, were you a little jealous? You watched in awe until you'd smoked your cig all the way down to the filter.

You knew it would be hard to hate Chris and be annoyed with his closing process when your mind was overwhelmed with daydreams about sucking him off. You threw your cigarette on the ground and smushed it into the asphalt with your sneaker.

Thankfully, the night stayed busy, and you were able to keep your mind off the incident momentarily when an older gentleman who immediately caught your eye walked in through the door and sat at the end of the bar. You noted how handsome he was with his salt and pepper hair, his nice suit, and his intense stare. He looked like he could be in his forties, but you didn't mind. You liked older men.

"Whatcha drinking?" You smiled, approaching him. "A double of your finest scotch. Neat," he replied, looking deep into your soul. What a refined drinking order. He paid for his scotch right away, probably not planning on staying very long, but the two of you hit it off.

For next hour or so, he nursed his drink while you got to know a little bit about each other. You learned that he was a professor who taught philosophy, and he learned that you were a avid lover of philosophy. The subject had meandered towards absurdist theory and Albert Camus' works.

"You know, I remain unconvinced that life or anything at all really, has any meaning," you leaned onto the bar, looking into his dark, sultry eyes, "if there is no inherent meaning, then that takes all the pressure off." You grabbed his empty glass off the counter between the two of you, and you gestured to see if he wanted another.

"Please," he accepted, "don't you think it's a little sad if you don't give life some kind of meaning?" He squinted at you, trying to pick your brain.

"No, not at all, because we humans subconsciously give meaning to nearly everything that happens in our everyday lives, and it actually distorts our view of objective reality and keeps us assuming and imprisoned to a slew of reactions based off of a bunch of self-drawn conclusions," you replied, "plus if I were sad about life not having any meaning, I'd be a nihilist, not an absurdist." You topped off his glass and slid it over to him with a smug look on your face.

"Hmm. Smart girl," he responded, picking up his glass and taking a few sips. You liked that you'd found a man who could actually hold an intellectual conversation with you, and you boldly requested his number. He wrote it down on a napkin and slid it over to you.

"Does this mean I'm gonna see you again?" He stared at you longingly. "It can mean whatever you want it to mean," you smirked at him.

When he finished his drink, he pulled out his wallet to pay, but you stopped him. "Last one's on the house. Thanks for the mentally stimulating discussion. I don't get much of that around here," you insisted.

"Maybe that's because you're talking to boys instead of men," he suggestively raised an eyebrow at you and left you a generous tip before leaving the bar.

Shit. You hadn't even caught his name.

The rest of the night went well. It was fast-paced, everyone was in a good mood, and the tips were flowing in. Last call rolled around, and you started to clean up your station. "Who was that pretentious douchebag you were talking to?" Chris came up behind you, rasping directly into your ear and startling you, causing you to drop a shotglass.

If you didn't know any better, you'd think he sounded a little jealous.

"Shit!" You exclaimed, bending down to clean up the broken glass. Chris' eyes were drawn to your perfectly-shaped ass that your jeans hugged so well. "He teaches philosophy at the University. But I didn't catch his name," you replied.

"But you got his number," Chris snatched the folded napkin hanging out of your back pocket. "Give me that back!" You exclaimed, reaching for it as Chris held it above his head.

"I'll give it back to you, but first. You and I need to talk," Chris' tone got a little more serious. "About what?" You asked, picking up on the sudden shift in his voice. "You know, Professor Pretentious was drinking Macallan Scotch Whiskey, don't you?" Chris inquired as if that was supposed to mean something to you. "And?" You asked, shrugging at Chris.

"Do you have any idea how expensive that shit is and how dead you would be if Boss Man knew you were giving it out for free to old men you wanted to bone?" Chris leaned in close and gave you a disappointed look. "Well, we won't know, because he won't find out about it, will he, Chris?" You shot him a look.

"Well, the cameras show you handing him two drinks, but his bill only has one listed," Chris responded, indicating he had evidence. "Chris, come on. You wouldn't do that," you sneered at him. "Sure, I would. Unless you give me something I want. Then I won't tell boss man, and I'll give you professor dickhead's number back," Chris smirked at you deviously.

"What do you want?" You rolled your eyes, not really having a choice but to hear him out. "I'll think about it. In the meantime, I'm gonna go do inventory and count the safe, and you're gonna clean this shit up. Fucking loser," Chris said, motioning towards the broken glass on the ground and rolling his eyes. Then he left out the front door, presumably to go smoke weed in his car.

The clock hit 2:00 a.m. It was the end of the night, and no thanks to Chris, all your closing duties were done even earlier than you'd expected. The two of you were the only staff still there, and you were ready to hear whatever sick ultimatum Chris was about to give to you.

You trudged into the office where he was sitting on his phone with his feet kicked up on the desk. "All done, princess?" Chris asked, lustfully glancing you up and down. "Ew, don't call me that," you responded. "Why? You like it too much?" He chuckled at you.

"What's it gonna take for you to keep your mouth shut and give me back my future husband's phone number?" You crossed your arms, avoiding addressing his accusation. Chris fixed his contemplative eyes on you and gave you a bit of a malicious grin, "All you have to do is let me fuck you."

You were immediately taken aback, thinking you didn't hear him right. "What!?" You swallowed hard and narrowed your gaze at him. He stood up and got into your face, making you feel small and weak. "What? You liked watching me get head in the parking lot, and now you're getting all shy on me?" Chris cooed, stroking your cheek with his knuckles.

Your breath hitched in the back of your throat, and you found yourself unable to say anything. You were completely humiliated by the fact that he'd seen you peeping on him.

"Don't worry, princess. I won't tell anyone you like to watch. But I will tell Boss Man about the scotch if you don't let me do whatever I want to you," he said in a low, sexy voice, his carnal needs carved into the expression on his face.

"It kind of feels like you're not giving me a choice here," you studied his hypnotic blue and eyes and your gaze fell to his full lips.

"Well, then here are your choices. Let me spell them out for you. First scenario, I tell the boss, you get fired, you go work at a new bar, and you never have to see me again. Second scenario, you get on your fucking knees and you let me use that little back-talking mouth of yours and whatever other way I want to have you, and I'll make this whole problem of yours disappear," he winked at you and leaned in, chuckling into your ear,

"And if you choose the last option, I'm just letting you know in advance, I like it disgustingly rough."

part two posted here 💖

taglist: @bsturnzmtt @sturniolo-girl @munchingmini @butterbean-01 @coolasice01 @theyluvme-2315 @zariyam @brookiecookie-18 @maggot3647 @slut4chriztopher @miss-delicious @strnlslvr @sleepysturniolo @lvrsturniolo @sofieeeeex @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut @matts-myloverboy @mattsfavbigtitties @new2024cats4life @witchofthehour @slutforsturniolosss @sturniolosweetheart33 @whoahoahoahoahoa @ilovechrissturniolosposts @sturnrc @smt-obsessed @sturnioloxlver @that1fangirll @aalirosesblog @hrtz4alex2211 @luvhsien @sp3ncerslvt @sturniolo-munch44 @jakewebberswifee @karttpet @ssturniolooss @thenickgurl @sturniolo-fann @sst7niolo @slxtformatt @chestersturniolo @riowritesitall @camzeecorner @mattsturnixlo @annedebeijer @scorpioosworld @mynameisuser834 @mattlover-00 @sweetlikesug4rvenom @m11rx

[vigilskeep]

to summarise!! i’m planning to play andrastina de riva, a surface dwarf antivan crow rogue. she’s good at being the charm, the face, the distraction; trained for a similar role to zevran or illario or teia. she’s charismatic and funny, very full of life and expressive, which leads people to the occasionally fatal assumption that she’s always genuine—or that she’s any less dangerous than her fellow assassins. she’s definitely a risk taker, super impulsive, and over-confident that whatever she gets herself into, she can talk her way out of it. which, to be fair, she usually can. she’s often snarky and defiant about the crows, especially their leadership (when out of their earshot), but she cares more than she lets slip and would do almost anything for them rather than lose antiva as her home

i like the look of all the rogue specs which is partly why i’m playing one but for andrastina i am eyeing saboteur. that looks very fun and also like something a dwarf should be doing. there may not always be a plan up her sleeve but there’s definitely at least one explosive

i’m not locking in a lot of hard backstory details i want to be flexible for whatever the game has to offer

[stellayuta]

Racing Hearts! - F1 Driver! Gojo Satoru (A LOTG spinoff)

synopsis: Ferrari sensation Gojo Satoru dominates headlines and social media with his unmatched driving prowess and intriguing personal life. Yet, beneath the surface, Gojo harbors a secret that could shake up the F1 world. An unrelenting F1 journalist, determined to unearth the truth, becomes his unexpected adversary—one who might finally expose the enigma that is Gojo Satoru.

content: formula one x jujutsu kaisen, eventual enemies to lovers, angst, themes of isolation, mental health themes, swearing

author's note: I've decided that we all deserve F1 Gojo as much as we deserved F1 Yuta. Hope the jjk and formula one fans enjoy this. This will be much more drama packed than LOTG. Keep following along!

word count: 2k

When the strongest roars across the asphalt, the crowd sees burning red

-

Satoru Gojo lounges lazily on his plush, red velvet, king-sized bed, eyeing his mail with curiosity. He holds a dainty pink envelope up to the light, squinting to make out the words through the paper screen. Carefully, he tears it open, revealing a letter and a photograph: a glossy snapshot of one of his closest friends and fellow drivers, Yuta Okkotsu. Yuta, dressed in a sleek, emerald tuxedo, is smiling dreamily at his fiancée, who is cradled in his arms in a princess carry. They look good, Gojo thinks. Yuta has regained his glow over the past year; in fact, he seems to have put on a few pounds of healthy weight.

Gojo fishes out the letter next. Dyed a flowery shade of baby pink similar to the envelope and stamped with red words, it reads: We are getting married, and you are invited!

Bummer. He was 99.9% sure he'd be asked to officiate. But alas.

He shakes his head comically as he reads further.

"Kindly do not bring any gifts, only your blessings. If you feel like gifting something, please donate to a charity of your choice!"

Tacky much. If he were in their place, he definitely would have asked for extravagant gifts. But given how Yuta's brain works and how much his fiancée mirrors him, Gojo isn't surprised in the slightest.

What does surprise him though is the last line in the letter, highlighting the best man and the maid of honor. The best man isn't his mates from his early racing days, Geto or Gojo. But Inumaki...

"Seriously, Okkotsu?" Gojo gawks at the letter dramatically and then shoves it away from him. Must be nice. To have a small circuit of friends, a good team, a hot fiancée, a quiet, successful life.

Must be nice.

He skeptically eyes the collection of trophies that decorate the wall opposite to his bed. Some golds from Melbourne, Suzuka, Sao Paolo, Silverstone. A few silvers and bronzes from the American and Asian legs. No driver's championship yet.

Gojo joined Ferrari at just 20 years old as their golden boy, and now, after eight years with the team, he had experienced many successful runs—but never a victory. He had finished second six times until Okkotsu entered the scene and began dominating the field, pushing him to third in the championship standings. Despite his outwardly charismatic and confident persona, the pressure of failing to deliver Ferrari their long-awaited win gnawed at him like a thousand needles.

The prince of Ferrari was yet to become their king. But perhaps, the prince will never grow up enough to be a king.

He tries to shoo the depressing thoughts away. There is no time for depression during the long-awaited summer break.

He needed to get out of the house, that would do the trick.

Gojo swings his legs out of bed, stretching lazily as his bare feet sink into the soft, imported carpet beneath him. His house, perched on a hill overlooking the sparkling Mediterranean Sea, is a gleaming example of his lavish lifestyle in Monaco. The sleek, modern architecture—glass walls, sharp lines, and white stone—gives it a futuristic edge. Even the driveway has an air of luxury, with its tasteful selection of Italian sports cars parked under the evening sun.

The dusk is warm, the salty breeze from the sea cutting through the air, ruffling his silver hair and putting on his sunglasses as he steps out of the front door.

*ka-chick*

"Huh?" Gojo's ears perk up and he looks around to see where the sound came from. Usually, paparazzi hunt their prey in a herd. They are easily recognizable by their incessant catcalling, comments and the barrage of flash noise. Maybe this was a newbie or a paparazzo gone rogue. Gojo shrugs, strikes a pose or two for this invisible photographer and continues on his merry way.

He isn't in the mood for the clubs or the cabarets today. He mostly certainly would prefer a quiet, inconspicuous bar though. He is not much of a drinker, hell he won't even drink the champagne he pops on the podium - but a bar is a perfect place to be incognito. The dim ambience and drunk people - no one would notice him.

He almost passes a shoddy looking establishment and decides to enter it. To his massive relief, it is rather empty. There a blue LEDs lining the bar counter and the ceiling. There's about two couples snogging in the dark corners of the bar and a few lone souls scattered about, too drunk in their sorrows and the alcohol to look up.

So, it's that kind of place. It might be poetic for him to be there, satoru thinks.

Gojo settles into a dimly lit corner of the bar, reclining into the worn leather booth with a relaxed yet cynical smirk. His sunglasses, still perched on his nose despite the low light, reflect the faint blue glow from the LED strips. It’s not a place one would expect to find a Formula 1 superstar like him, and that’s exactly why he’s here. Tonight, he just wants to vanish.

He signals for the bartender, a gruff-looking man with a thick beard and tired eyes. “Vodka, neat,” Gojo says, voice low and lazy. The bartender nods and moves without a word, leaving Gojo to his thoughts.

As he waits, his mind circles back to Yuta. That damn wedding invitation. It shouldn’t bother him, but it does. Yuta Okkotsu—once the rookie he used to coach on the finer points of track politics—had come into his own. Not only was he dominating on the track, but now he was settling down, tying the knot, living the kind of balanced life that Gojo had never allowed himself to dream of. Gojo could dominate in any social setting, but in his private moments, he always felt like something was missing—like he was playing a role, never truly himself.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. Gojo pulls it out, half-expecting spam but instead, it’s a message from an unexpected friend.

Geto Suguru: Get the invite yet?

Gojo satoru: Sure did. Gonna go?

Geto Suguru: Well, of course. Won't you?

Gojo Satoru: I'm having second thoughts. After he picked Inumaki as his best man. What speech is Inumaki even going to give, I swear I've never heard him speak!

As Gojo waits for a reply, the bartender slides him a stout glass full of clear liquid, reeking of spirit. Gojo takes a small sip that burns his palate and throat. He never drinks, what was he thinking.

He tries savoring the bitter aftertaste and the buzz hitting his brain as he sees the shadows on his tables shift.

He looks up from under his sunglasses and stares at you who is blocking the light from reaching his table completely. His eyes narrow as he tries to make out your features through the dim, blue-lit haze of the bar. It takes him a second to register who it is, but when he does, his expression lights up, though the usual cocky grin doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

"Well, well, well..." He sings. "Look who's here."

You don't reply back and take a seat across him. The leather on your seat is cracking and reeks of smoke. Could Gojo have not picked a better place to sulk in.

His eyes crinkle at their edges as you notice a slight shift in his expression. He appears to be pitying you.

"Out for my blood again, you leech?" he asks flatly, taking another sip of his drink. You don't recall him being a drinker from your years worth of notes.

"There are better things to drink." you reply, matching his tone as the bartender appears at the table again.

"Ah, miss, anything for you?"

"A bloody mary, please."

"On your tab right, sir?" the bartender looks at Gojo.

"Hell to the NO!" He snaps. "Put her drink on her tab!"

The bartender grimaces at Gojo and leaves, mumbling.

"They'll think you're a monster. Couldn't even pay for his woman's drink?" You prod Gojo, trying to make him break.

"As if anyone would ever think I'd be dating you. Don't embarrass yourself. What do you want from me now?" Gojo demands, crossing his arms against his chest after removing his sunglasses. His piercing blue eyes refuse to look away from you.

"The people need to know... I need to do my job." you state.

"They know enough. They don't need to know any more."

You quickly bring out a notepad, a recorder and press record on it.

"Any comments regarding rumors surrounding your transfer?"

At that moment, you witness the color leaves Gojo's face.

"W-What transfer? I am unsure what you're insinuating here."

"The rumor mill says you will be leaving Ferrari soon due to unsatisfactory performance and unreasonable team strategy. I'll quote you, please say something."

"You can't put those words in my mouth, all of that is-"

Gojo clears his throat and realizes he's now screaming, almost upright on his chair. He sits back to down.

"I am dedicated to Ferrari and their mission to win for this rest of 2024. That's all. Thank you."

You swiftly stop recording and lean over the table.

"So, what after 2024?"

"It's none of your business."

"I told you... this is my job."

"Y/N." His voice softens. "It's been nearly 7 years now. Can you not find any other driver to stalk?"

"I'm fine even if you report about my personal life." He continues. "That's less stressful than all of this."

Gojo's eyes, once sharp with irritation, soften as he leans back in his chair. His posture relaxes slightly, though his fingers still tap impatiently against the glass in his hand. The tension in the air between the two of you is palpable—years of history, unresolved tension, and unspoken words that neither of you have ever truly addressed. His last remark lingers in the dim light of the bar.

“Seven years, huh?” you say, raising an eyebrow. “And yet, here we are. You, still the untouchable star, and me, still chasing after the story that no one else can seem to tell.”

Gojo chuckles, though it lacks the usual arrogance. “Untouchable star? More like a dimming one. I can see it in your eyes. You think this is it for me, don’t you? That I’m washed up. A wasted talent. You can write about all that.”

You don’t reply immediately, watching him instead. The Gojo sitting across from you is different from the man you first met seven years ago. He was all fire and flash back then, burning too bright to let anyone close. But now, the cracks in the façade are starting to show. The endless pressure, the failure to deliver Ferrari’s long-awaited championship, and the gnawing sense of inadequacy have worn him down, whether he admits it or not.

“I don’t think you’re washed up,” you finally say, leaning back in your seat. “But I do think you’re scared.”

His blue eyes narrow slightly, the playful glint fading. “Scared? Of what?”

“Of what happens if you’re not the Satoru Gojo anymore. Of what happens when the lights go out, and the fans move on to the next rising star. What happens when you’re not Ferrari’s golden boy anymore?”

Gojo is speechless for a second after which he downs the remnants of his Vodka.

"I will resign before that happens." he declares.

"And you-" He gets up finally, covering the distance between you and him in a single stride, grabbing your jaw as he looks down at you.

"Move the hell on. It's been seven years. Get a life."

And with that, he pays for both of your drinks, takes his leave - the bar door chiming as it swings shut behind him.

"You are wrong Satoru." you whisper to yourself, letting go of the breath you were holding.

"Seven years. I have waited seven years for this."

You shimmy out your laptop from your bag and prop it open on the table. Quite a few curious eyes turn to see you.

*email sent!*

To be continued.....

[hyun3hk3y]

Symbolism in "Portrait of Lady Edelgard Von Hresvelg"

This is something that I’ve usually never really felt comfortable doing. If you ever wonder why some artists are a bit more reluctant to actually *talk* about the “meaning” of their work, its because it strikes the same tenor as having to explain why a joke is funny.  If I have to actually lay it out for the viewer why certain decisions were made in the execution of a work of art, the magic of the whole experience may be lost.  Moreover, many artists avoid making definitive statements on their work because they do not wish to deprive viewers the opportunity to derive their own unique explanation. 

While I chiefly view myself as a fine artist, most of my artistic training was as an illustrator.  As an artist, this can lead to an interesting dichotomy when it comes to creating paintings.  During my studies, I was told that the job of an illustrator is to solve pictorial problems for people often by making pictures that tell a story or convey an idea.  Fine art’s definition, in contrast, tends to be more nebulous.  But I digress, on to the painting…

A number of people on reddit and Tumblr have remarked on the candle with the snuffed-out flame.  No interpretations on it have been offered, the mere presence of a candle with a smoldering wick is a strong enough implication.  However, this is one instance where I drew inspiration from art history so I believe it is worth elaborating on.  The animus for the candle originates in the Arnolfini Portrait by Jan Van Eyck.  Below is an image of the painting with the pertinent candle circled.

Art history scholars have a number of different readings about the candle’s presence, but the one I was taught in Art History is that the lit candle indicates the presence of the holy ghost or the watchful eye of God.  Three Houses draws from a number of religions for its world building, in the case of The Church of Serios, the developers took the majority of their cues from The Catholic Church.  If a lit candle would suggest Edelgard’s faith in the Goddess, then an extinguished one must imply Edelgard’s *loss* of faith. 

In addition to the extinguished candle, I would also like to direct viewers to the reflection of the candle in the polished wood table surface. In the reflection the candle is still burning very brightly, almost down to the base of the candelabra.

The purpose of this image is to recall a saying from old Taoism Philosophy in China: “The candle that burns twice as bright burns half as long.”  Those who are familiar with Edelgard’s back story in Three Houses will find its relevance obvious.  I doubt I am the only one to make the allusion.

This brings me to the next major piece of symbolism I employed in the painting, the dagger and the drapery on the table.  The dagger’s significance should go without saying, but its application as a device will become more apparent after I explain the table cloth.  To put it succinctly, the majority of the dark shadow shapes made by the tablecloth are arranged to evoke the shape of the crest of flames.  Below is another visual to help illuminate this detail. 

The immediate implication here is the detail of Edelgard possessing the crest of flames.  As for why I decided to depict it in a more concealed way…When I first got the idea for this painting, the whole concept was that if a person saw this painting in a gallery, they would be looking at an actual artifact from Fodlan, one that created by an artist who actually lived there.  This is why the second row of the inscription reads “In the Imperial Year” on the left side and “1179” on the right.  This means the painting would have been completed just before Edelgard starts attending Gareg Mach, and long before the greater public would know she has the crest of flames.  How the artist came to know this would remain a mystery.  I like to imagine it as a detail that Fodlan’s historians would debate over for years after the game’s narrative.

There is also a second message that I have intended with the dagger’s placement cutting (heh) across the crest…Gripping the dagger over the crest of flames is a statement about what the path is that Edelgard will take, especially when the crest is examined as representing the Goddess Sothis.  In fact, there are two (technically three) lines of dialogue from Three Houses I had in mind for this symbolism.

That about sums it up!  I may do a couple more posts in the future where I show how the painting evolved from thumbnails, to studies to the finished image if theres interest in that sort of thing.

[witchlingcirce]

Okay I’m going to say my upmost unpopular opinion that I will get jumped for is that I genuinely don’t think the TMI movie casting for Isabelle and Alec was that bad.

Like idk, I think they both resemble their book counterparts. I feel like so much of the hate they get is that there characters are a bit awkwardly placed in the film- which fair. But idk, I don’t there that bad!!

And I see Alec always getting the most hate in the cast, and I honestly think his only problem was that he definitely looked alot older than the rest of the chase. But other that I genuinely don’t think he was that bad 😭😭 I’m always surprised by the amount of hate I see these two get in particular!!

And I’ll say my other unpopular opinion is that I don’t think the show cast was any better but that’s another opinion to grace the surface for another day

[thejockout]

New File | "Dressed-Up Himbo"

"Deep down… all along… you’ve wanted to be a better himbo. You’ve wanted to embody everything that word means; to be big, and strong, and fun, and goofy, and so driven by libido it’s only fair others say you think with your dick… You want others to look at you and see pretty much everything you’ve got to offer. All surface… all flash, all beauty, all aesthetic. There’s a bit of shallowness to that perfect himbo. Even a bit of missing depth, but… who really cares, when you look that good? When you can feel so good in your bulging, flexing skin, and your pretty face, and all those beautiful clothes… that’s more than enough."

Dressed-Up Himbo is my third dedicated "himbo" file. It builds on the programming of Himbo Unchained/Himbo Muscle Freak (though you don't need either to enjoy this one), so it plays off similar tropes. Muscular, beautiful, vapid. Peep the quote above!

However, this file does contain explicit dumbing and some dominant language over the listener. It additionally contains my first dabble into clothing/style changes via hypnosis... it makes you, specifically, want to wear formalwear, dress smart and fashionably, with some brief allusions to being so big you bulge out of a dress shirt in your office. And for some people, that'd be embarrassing - but for a good himbo like you? Being everyone's sex object will just turn you on.

Listen and enjoy, good boy. And if you really enjoy, send me a tip on Throne.

CONTENT WARNINGS:

Dumbing down - not incredibly specific, so if you're worried, try my "P.S: Dumb Definition" file to reflect on what being a dumb himbo might mean to you.

Shallowness/some narcissism - emphasis on valuing your appearance most in terms of what you offer others. Style, muscle, your natural beauty... it all combines to make you the best himbo you can be.

General masculinization - male pronouns, references to a male body, and suggestions to want to look and feel more masculine as you become bigger, dumber, and more beautiful.

---------------------------------------------------------

https://linktr.ee/jockout

When I'm not dropping myself or others, I'm off being a mystical forest bro in the wilderness of Ireland. But I am always available for commissions if you reach out via DM. My flat rate is currently $65-100, but you can check my pinned Tumblr post for more up-to-date info. You can also support me with a one-time tip either via Paypal or Ko-Fi! Keep listening, bros.

[erathene]

Instinct (Part 2)

Summary: Elrond is restless, and cannot shake the unease that plagues his mind. Suddenly, his gift of foresight shows him a vision of his adopted son Estel in trouble. It will take all of his fatherly instincts to patiently wait for news of Estel's wellbeing, having sent Elladan and Elrohir straight into the face of danger.

Word count: 2.2k

Pairing: Elrond & Estel, Elrond & Elladan and Elrohir.

Warnings: Generous amounts of canon-typical violence, including graphic descriptions of blood, injury, and loss of consciousness. Angst including self-doubt and anxiety. Mention of death.

AO3 Link: Instinct

Author's note: Here it is! Part 2 of the fic I created for @elrondweek with the prompts "Family and Love". Originally this was going to be 2 parts, but it looks like there will be a Part 3! 😅 I feel like I'm turning up the dial on the whump and angst in this part, so please heed the warnings. Enjoy!

......................

"Tracks."

Elladan paused to look at the section of ground where Elrohir was pointing, crouching low to get a better view of the imprints left in the dried mud. The tracks were not fresh, but neither were they old, and the size and shape provided little doubt as to who had made them.

"Definitely orcs," noted Elladan quietly with a frown, his distaste for the foul creatures evident in his tone. He swept a few fallen leaves away from the area with his hand to further examine the tracks, only to see an additional shape that was unlike the rest. "And human." He glanced up to exchange a knowing look with Elrohir.

Estel.

The brothers did not have to converse any further to confirm they were on the right path. Ever since their father had reluctantly revealed his vision, the twins had been determined to locate their brother and bring him home. Both Elladan and Elrohir hated seeing their father worry incessantly for his youngest son. They were even more determined to cut down and destroy the orcs; the foul creatures would soon know it had been a grave mistake to launch an assault against the house of Elrond.

It was a mistake they would never forgive. Not after what had happened to their beloved mother. They would track these beasts down and cut them limb from limb.

And they were close.

---

Ragged gasping was the first thing Aragorn heard as he began to come round from his unconscious state. His lungs drew in hungry breaths as if searching for oxygen in the air around him. His eyelids were too heavy to lift, and a high pitched ringing blasted in his ears. Valar, everything hurt. He slowly became aware that he was sitting on the cold earth, albeit slumped sideways against the trunk of a large tree; the surface of the bark touching his cheek was coarse and rough, and the scent of sap passed through his nostrils with each gasp he took.

Breathing was far more difficult than he remembered.

No sooner had this thought wandered through his mind, his senses encountered a further onslaught of pain. White hot burning radiated through his entire body, causing him to groan weakly. Dizziness made his head spin and he kept his eyes firmly shut, for if he opened them he would surely see the world gyrating. The ranger's mind flickered between the experienced healer in himself, inwardly trying to examine every inch of his being for the source of the agony, and the injured patient who wanted nothing more than to surrender to the pain and slip into oblivion. His next breath caused him to descend into a coughing fit, and he desperately clutched his side in an attempt to lessen the torment.

As he began to regain control and steady his breathing, Aragorn idly wondered how it was he found himself here and in this state. He had been travelling alone, that much he remembered. He had departed through the gates of Rivendell over a fortnight ago, but at present he was unable to recall the purpose of leaving his father's halls. Flashes of his journey came through now; picking his way through the wilds, the first signs of winter beginning to show. Crossing small streams edged with ice, brushing past foliage crisp with frost. His breath rising like smoke in the frigid morning air. Staying off the road. The landscape around him empty and peaceful.

Until the orcs had appeared.

The village under attack. The citizens defenceless. The filthy orc with its filthy hands around his neck, choking him, air unable to reach his lungs...

Remembering these events was enough to drive his eyes open with panic. His hand automatically went to his closest weapon: a hunting knife strapped to his thigh. He willed the ringing in his ears to abate as he listened for any unusual sounds. True to his instincts, unnatural crashes through forest undergrowth could be heard, and they were far too close for comfort.

"That filthy whelp is around here somewhere, find him!" the harsh command was barked out by one of the orc leaders, it's voice carrying through the trees. Aragorn's panic rose. He had to move, and move fast.

It took all his strength to rise to his feet. His hand shook as he gripped the tree, willing the black spots that clouded his vision to recede. The sound of orcs on the move was growing louder by the second. He had only taken a few paces forwards when pain flared to the right of his navel, causing him to inhale sharply and reach for his side. His palm came away warm and wet with his own blood; he made a mental note to check the wound properly when he was clear of danger. For now, applying pressure and getting himself to safety was the best he could do.

Aragorn half walked, half ran falteringly through the trees, trying his best to stick behind shrubs and undergrowth to avoid being seen. He was thankful for his ranger's cloak which blended him into the landscape, his hood obscuring his human features, but at present it was his only defence. He was in no position to outrun these beasts, and without knowing how many remained he was hesitant to draw his sword and fight. He could hide, but his scent would not be hidden for long and they would surely track him down with ease. His threw a quick glance over his shoulder, noting how the assailants were edging closer on his location. The orcs were tightening the noose.

Not far away to his right, the land dipped away down a steep embankment to a river. He hesitated for a moment before switching direction, having concluded that it was his only option. In his haste, his feet slipped out from beneath him on the muddy riverbank, causing him to land less than gracefully into the shallows of the perishing water. His pain flared angrily with the fall, and he silently prayed to the Valar that the orcs had not overheard neither the splash nor his cry of suffering. The sounds of the orcs nearby thundered louder than ever. His heart raced in his chest and his lungs heaved as he looked up and down the river, searching for options.

In that moment, Aragorn caught sight of a large log wedged in rocks on the opposite bank. Foliage still decorated the branches, and it was big enough to serve as a hiding place, but he knew the orcs would still be able to follow his scent. Now desperate to evade the enemy, he mustered some of his waning strength to scoop handfuls of wet mud and dirt from the water's edge, running it through his hair and over his face. As he smeared the muck across his neck and shoulders, the biting sting of another open wound made itself known and he remembered the arrow he had ripped from his flesh. He winced. Covering an open wound with mud would probably do him no favours later, but the alternative of being caught would be infinitely worse. He piled more mud on his limbs and down his side where the larger wound was still weeping fresh blood. The smell of the filth was enough to set his stomach on edge, yet this gave him the reassurance that his true scent would be masked.

With some difficulty, he pushed himself to his feet, and clutching the wound at his side he waded across the sweeping current towards the trapped log. The water, which came up to his waist in places, was biting cold and left goosebumps on his skin. Once he reached the rocks, he wasted no time concealing himself within the twisted boughs, sinking into the water up to his neck and using the leaf-lined branches as his disguise. The chill of the water took his breath away, and he had to clench his jaw shut to stop his teeth chattering.

He had concealed himself just in time. From his hiding place, Aragorn watched as an orc appeared from the tree line at the top of the embankment. The monster looked around carefully, sniffing the air for any trace of the human and stepping down to the water's edge. The ranger silently cursed himself for not obscuring the footprints he had left behind in the mud.

A second orc appeared on the ridge, calling down to the first in black speech and sending further chills across the hidden man's skin. Aragorn did not need to understand the creature's foul utterances to know they were still looking for him. His heart pounded in his chest like a war drum. Both orcs were now looking at the mud beneath their feet and exchanging grunts. They might be slow-minded, but not completely stupid, and they would soon work out that Aragorn had entered the water.

A third, larger orc then appeared on the scene, his weapon and armour marking him out as a leader. He saw his two subordinates apparently loitering by the water and cursed them. "Get back to hunting, scum! If that human's flesh isn't roasting on my campfire tonight, it will be yours instead!"

Aragorn exhaled in relief as the orcs dissipated back into the trees. With the immediate danger gone, his adrenaline was quickly replaced by physical suffering once more. His head ached and he felt weary; he did not need to be an expert healer to know that blood loss from the untreated lacerations was the likely cause. Not yet ready to abandon his safe space, he rose from the water and dangled his arms and chest over a sturdy bough, letting his limbs float in the swift current. A shiver of cold coursed through his body. He would leave the water in a minute, he just needed a quick rest, and this feeling of weightlessness was a welcome reprieve. His head came down to settle against the bark of the log. Just a moment to rest. His mind felt foggy, coherent thoughts evaporating. Just a minute. His eyelids closed. Rest.

---

Elrond paced his study. Backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards. No matter how many times he traversed the soft rugs or glanced across at the open window, his entire being remained restless.

Just over a week had passed since he had seen Estel in a vision of foresight. Since then, Elrond had barely eaten, had taken no rest, and had done little else other than roam the various rooms and hallways of Imladris. As the days crept by, he could no longer pretend that his worries and woes were not devouring him from the inside. Renowned for being as kind as summer, Elrond's temperament had changed, becoming as chilled and cold as a midwinter's night. He had always treated all of his household staff with respect, regardless of length of service or rank. Yet now he had become irritable, snapping at those who brought him meals when he had no desire to eat, or brought him steaming cups of tea instead of news of his sons.

The sons he had willingly sent into the mouth of danger.

In the immediate aftermath of the vision, Elladan and Elrohir had insisted their father to tell them what he had seen. Elrond had granted their request, albeit reluctantly; the scenes he had gleaned through foresight were not ones he wished to relive again, nor implant into the minds of his family. However, both Elladan and Elrohir were well aware of their father's gift and how it occasionally appeared without his will or consent.

They were also well aware of how the visions appeared clearest when the subject was near death.

"Estel will be alright, father," Elladan had reassured his father as the brothers readied for their departure in the stables. Elrohir nodded in Elrond's direction as he tossed the saddle over his horse and began to tightly secure the fastenings.

Elrond's brow creased as he brought his hand to the bridge of his nose. "Arathorn suffered greatly at the hands of orcs; I worry the same fate has befallen Estel," he said quietly.

Elladan looked over his shoulder to see several of the household staff approaching, their arms laden with weapons. The twin's blades had been sharpened at the forge, and their quivers restocked by the arrowsmiths. He took his own equipment and quickly loaded it to his steed.

Elrohir crossed the stable to collect his sword, and place his hand on his father's shoulder. "We will find him, Ada. No matter what it takes."

Elrond shook his head in the face of his eldest son. "I should have done more. I should have kept him here where he was safe, away from--"

"What does your instinct tell you?"

The lord of Imladris was temporarily taken aback by his son's question. He placed a trembling hand on his chest, touching his collarbone, as he searched his thoughts. Somewhere, deep down, he knew his youngest son was not lost. Not yet. Regardless of the horrors his foresight had shown him, his instinct as a father told him they had not won out. Estel was alive, he could feel it. 

Elrond blinked as the recollection of his final conversation with his eldest sons slid away, returning his study to the forefront of his sight. The sentiment he felt down in the stables of his son's wellbeing clung to him like a shadow as he continued to pace the room. Yet it was not enough to fully dissipate his concerns; he would not be content until Estel walked through the gates of Imladris, until he could hold him in his arms once more.

He said a silent prayer to the Valar that his instinct was right.

[forestfiresandfics]

Foils and Mirrors

Another oft misconstrued literary technique is that of the foil. It may just be me misconstruing it though, considering I have to periodically look up the definition because I’ve gotten it confused again. Character foils are two characters who interact and by their interaction, their differences are highlighted. TV tropes describes it as ‘the foil behind a jewel to make it shine brighter’ but another way to look at it would be the way yellow shows up better on a black background compared to white. Foils are defined by their differences. Mirror characters are defined by their similarities. 

While I don’t think it’s wrong to call 3rd life Grian and Martyn foils per say, I think a more interesting reading is them as mirrors. And really, the two aren’t mutually exclusive. I’m getting ahead of myself. 

Third life features a lot of parallels, both in plot and character arc, and the Desert Duo and Renchanting are often pointed to when it comes to discussions of this. I think it’s worth also including Flower Husbands in that list as well. And every day I consider adding Cleo and Bdubs to that list as well, but I haven’t quite decided how well they work, so for now I’ll focus on just the three groups. I will often in my writing and musing and comments and stuff refer to these three pairs as the ‘red-green’ pairs, because they spend a protracted amount of time where one of them is on their green life and the other is on their red. Scar and Grian are the most extreme example of this, spending 5 and a half episodes like that. But the timing of it aside, what’s maybe more important is that each of these teams entered into the battle of the red desert as one red and one green each. A pivotal moment in the story where we also see everyone mirroring each other. 

I think it’s fair to view Desert Duo and Renchanting as mirrors, with the flower husbands acting as foils to the others. Each share enough in common that it’s worth discussing all three groups, but while the desert faction and the kingdom share basically the exact same plot lines and traits, the hobbits serve as something of an alternative option—what they ‘could have been.’ Also fun, is that the Flower Husbands spend nearly, but not quite, equal time with both other groups: doing their job well as foils in the context of contrast-via-interaction. They discuss their statuses and their plans, and as far as the reading of ‘desert duo: protagonists’ and ‘renchanting: antagonists’ go, the flower husbands are ideologically neutral for most of the series. They make friends where they can, call out bullshit where they see it, and it wasn’t until they were thrown into the war that they actually participated in taking sides. 

So what are the similarities between each, and what are the differences? The similarities come first. All three groups are red-green pairs. All three pairs have some kind of strong partnership, all three pairs have a scene where the red of the relationship offers fealty with a trinket (flowers for the husbands, flowers for the desert, and depending how you see it either the rabbit’s foot or the axe for the kingdom). As I suggested before, Desert Duo and Renchanting have even more in common. Both partnerships began because of a debt, both leaders are businessmen, both leaders are red and indentures green, both of the indentures are the “brains of the operation,” both indentures grumble their way through the partnership at first before becoming devoted, and both sit on either side of the server wide war—not just as participants but as the ringleaders. There is also literally even a scene where Martyn tells Ren to put his clothes back on (“me lord? Fancy putting your armour on?”). Frankly this is just scratching the surface, it’s insane how perfect mirrors they are. 

This similarity between the two main groups on the server really highlight the tragedy (lowercase t) of the death game, how these two groups ended up mortal enemies simply because of the world they live in, despite having more in common than differences. And the flower husbands as foils in my opinion ALSO make it sadder. While renchanting and desert duo are messing around with complicated hierarchical relationships and testing loyalty and ordering their partners around, the husbands are working together out of trust and respect. Scott starts out with his fellow greens in rejecting the partnership at first, but he demonstrates what mutualistic relationship should look like, not to mention a relationship that doesn’t make itself the whole server’s problem.

This is already getting long so I won’t get into this next bit too far, but while the red-green pairs foil and mirror each other, each pair also serves as a foil for themselves. Scar is confident while Grian is timid, Ren is trying to do a lot all at once while Martyn is organized and keeps him in line. Jimmy is friendly while Scott is matter of fact. All the reds end up acting as cloudcuckoolanders with the greens to bring them back down to earth and on track. They are all somewhat odd couples, they are very different from one another, and the juxtaposition of these differences highlights each other’s traits as well as their strengths and weaknesses. These partnerships are all advantageous, and they can each fill in for the other’s weaknesses. All three partnerships wouldn’t have made it as far as they did without each other. Not that this makes them idillic partners, they each have their flaws as well, but that’s not really the point. They each help the other shine, like the backing of a jewel. 

Masterlist

[pwurrz]

damn. kaveh and alhaitham really are adhd vs autism huh

[sampilled]

whenever sam brings up his childhood, its always like "awww so cute <3333" followed by "JESUS FUCKING CHRIST" approximately 2 seconds later

like "awww he had an imaginary friend, thats so sweet! i love sully!" and then "oh jesus, his imaginary friend is real and was there to fill in the gaps so that sam didn't fall through them :((("

or "aww sam had a dog friend" followed by "sam lived with his dog friend in an abandoned house cause he ran away for TWO WEEKS, apparently one of his happiest childhood memories wtf"

or "awww dean read to him" and then "oh the whole time he was thinking about how he was dirty and wrong haha 0_0"

[buwheal]

How is your hand doing? Is it still bleeding, at all?

[ivyithink]

His dark child, his love, evil of his evil. The one who broke his heart.

[thegreatyin]

scoundrel?? what scoundrel???? the magnificent mr cards (who ironically has more of a flower aesthetic going on) is completely unrelated to any "bandaged scoundrels" running around the neath. in fact it's never heard of the word scoundrel ever in its entire definitely long definitely ancient life. but yknow, hypothetically, if it did know the scoundrel, it's confident that they're really really really handsome and cool and epic and they're almost just as amazing as it is and you should totally donate all your valuables to them and stuff

aaand because i like them too much, have a transparent version. the Creachure. the Thing, even.

[clannfearrunt]

Sometimes I start getting worried for no reason like “oh no what if people take issue with my different species in worldbuilding projects having different physical needs and abilities because it could lead to inequality” as if that isn’t an interesting and worthwhile topic to think about in itself. We have a society of ONE sapient species and we still have endless variation in our experiences and one million inequalities bitch you think it won’t be a problem when there’s even MORE variety? Dont you want to think about how this manifests and how people accommodate (or don’t accommodate!) these differences. Don’t you love passively generating entirely fictional toxic tumblr discourse threads <- don’t actually do that part I think it fuels the anxiety even if it’s fun in abstract

[aroaessidhe]

2024 reads / storygraph

The West Passage

medieval fantasy set in a giant crumbling palace of traditions with forgotten origin, ruled by giant eldritch Ladies

when winter weather comes in the middle of summer, and a beast below the palace begins to rise, two teens from Grey who have suddenly gained a lot of responsibilities set out on separate journeys to the other towers to find a way to stop it, and meet all sorts of strange people and creatures along the way

world where pronouns/names are based on people’s roles

tons of cool medieval-style chapter illustrations by the author