#there. two . gs . sure

[mealbits]

[toiletshit]

part 2

[vogelmeister]

the most pretentious exchange student thing i do is my pronunciation of gouda

[kiwibirdlafayette]

im definitely not ignoring my wips. why would you think that

(based on tags ideas by Licantropa in the original godswap post I saw em again and I was like. wait lemme see how I could design it for fun)

[yumedoca]

[deathsmallcaps]

Why the hell didn’t I listen to Lil Wayne earlier????

[hillarydiangelo]

I'm 22 years old and the first time I told someone that I love him and I'm in love with him, it wasn't a proposal, it was an apology for not hiding it because my actions made him uncomfortable.

[todareistodo]

OH BTWWWW IT'S ONE MORE WEEK TILL TWITCHCON I"M SO EXCITED!!!! 🫶🫶🫶

[rubys-domain]

well that was weird

[superhoeva]

the thought of walsh and abbott both getting possessive over reader at work and the both of them competing while double domming reader after they're all off is driving me insane

(i think you've opened pandora's box...)

When your name tumbles from their lips at the same time, all you can do is freeze.

“C’mere for a sec, kid. Got a good one for ya.” Jack is the first to start again, B-lining for where you stand at a monitor, ten seconds-post finishing a chart for your latest patient. “Guy in 18 has a–”

“Actually, I need you with me. Single GS incoming, six minutes out,” Walsh appears on the other side of your shoulders, clenching her hand together to keep her from grabbing your arm like she so desperately desires.

Pursing your lips, you keep your eyes on the screen. You end up kicking yourself in the inside when you can’t find anything to make it look like you’re busy.

“Well, sorry, Dr. Walsh but she’s coming with me,” Jack declares, making sure to soften his face with a quick smile when he nods his head at you to follow. “Gotta reattach the tip of an index finger, want you gloved up so I can talk you through the suture–”

“Too bad. I need her with me in Trauma. Have Parker do it, she could handle that with her eyes closed. Easy.”

“Parker’s busy, and this is a good learning opportunity for the kid. Or have you forgotten we’re a teaching hospital, Dr. Walsh?”

“She can learn just as much from a GSW as she can from a replantation.”

“You sure about that one?”

“Hey,” you breathe out, moving to step in between where the two are starting to unconsciously tug toward one another. You even throw a little frown at them but it probably looks like more of a pout because you hate when they get like this–and you know they know you hate it when they get like this. “Really, you guys? Right here?”

A handful of thick seconds pass. Finally–

“...come on.”

“...let’s move.”

Huffing, you drop your arms and toss an annoyed glare at the ceiling. “Fuck me.”

“Fuck me…” you whisper out, flinching when Emery circles a drenched tongue around your clit at a whine-indcucing pace. You squirm against Jack’s front, who doesn't stop the sloppy kisses he pressing just below your ear when he tightens his grip around you. “Ah.”

“Thought y-you all we’re supposed to be–shit–making up f-for earlier,” you whimper, “not this.”

“Should’ve had me go first. Would’a let you come on my tongue at least three times by now, doll.”

“Oh, I think you spent your fair share of time down here yesterday afternoon,” Emery smacks along your slit, hand squeezing at the plush of your thighs as she sends a cutting look past you toward Jack. He meets the sharp gaze, sending a just-as-piercing leer while his teeth move to nibble at your jaw. “Could still taste her when you kissed me before work. You should fucking shave, by the way.”

Just as Jack hurries to rebut, Emery sucks at you clit with enough force to wail a moan from you loud enough to cover Abbot’s rasp. He rolls his eyes at the two of you even though his cock jumps at the sound and the sight.

“Can someone please just fuck me?”

A little of the tension melts, Jack and Emery sharing a small quirk of the lips.

Dragging her lips up your body, Walsh hangs over you and Jack in a close hover. She bends a little, sharing a long snog with Jack before pulling away and turning to you.

“We’re sorry, baby,” she coos, cupping your cheeks and bending to kiss your lips. You feel Jack breathing deep behind you as her tongue swipes across yours. Giving you one last peck, she pulls away with a quick wink that only you can see before helping Jack shift you against him. “Got her?”

“Yeah. You set, hun?”

A genuine smile ghosts across Emery’s mouth, and she stares at you and Jack. Chest warming, she hums out an easy mhm. 

“You?”

Jack grins at Emery, pecking a kiss to your shoulder just before lacing his fingers with the woman at your front. “Never better, baby.”

© 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐯𝐚

[scuderiahalf]

middle man — arthur leclerc

pairing. arthur leclerc x ferrari driver!fem!reader

summary. you never set out to date your teammate's brother. in fact, it took arthur months just to convince you to go on a single date, but charles' opinion of you hit an all time low after he became aware of your relationship and nothing you did seemed to help mend your previously strong partnership. when charles takes it a step too far, you decide that you’ve had enough of it. 6.7k, 18+

warnings. injury, descriptions of injury, smut, dom/sub dynamic (sub!reader), fingering (fem receiving), impact play, penetrative sex, mirror sex

masterlist.

. . .

The slightest of contact was all it took. That was all it ever took. One second, you were making the overtake for P2, and the next, you were in the wall.

There was barely time to brace. Barely any time to hit the brakes. Reaction time was trained, drilled, conditioned into you until it became second nature. Thank god it was, otherwise, you might not have walked away from this one.

Your ears were ringing when you opened you eyes after impact. Your vision was swimming but you were conscious. You heard the cadence of the question in your ear more than you could actually understand the words being said.

Are you okay? Y/N, are you okay?

You weren't really sure if you were but your mind went to those that were watching the race, your fans, your team, your family, your friends. Arthur. They needed to hear you say that you were okay. The gritty details could come later.

"I'm good. We're good. That was a rough one, huh?"

You're sure that the pain was still evident in your voice. It was unavoidable after however many Gs of force you just withstood in that crash. You turned the engine off, took a moment to center yourself.

You had crashed. You were a Formula One driver. It was the Azerbaijan Grand Prix, the fourth race of your second season with Ferrari after your Haas contract expired two years ago.

Your boyfriend's name was Arthur Leclerc. Privately (and jokingly), you called him Artie because it made him cringe and you thought it was funny. He was your teammate's little brother.

He was the first person to make it to the circuit medical center after you had been loaded into the medical car. He was shaking as he hugged you, not from fear but from restraint, not wanting to hurt you by squeezing you as tightly as he wanted to.

"You are okay? Tell me you are okay."

"I'm fine, baby."

"I could strangle Max Verstappen sometimes. 'Leave the space' must only apply to others."

"Arthur, it's okay. It's just part of the sport."

He looked you over for a moment more before catching your mouth in a searing kiss. It spoke volumes, and you understood exactly what he meant by it.

I deeply respect your love of the sport but I would burn the FIA and the whole world to the ground if it meant keeping you safe.

"I love you," he said when he pulled back.

"Je t'aime," you returned.

That exchange of I love you's in your and Arthur's respective native languages of English and French had been a staple of your relationship since very early on. Your first "I love you" had been in each other's mother tongue. It had stuck ever since.

“Are you sure you are okay?”

“Yes,” you insisted, “A little dizzy, but okay.”

“Dizzy? You did not say you were dizzy.” That was the doctor that had checked you for any signs of a concussion.

You turned to face her. “Yes, but I had—“

You lost your balance as you turned. Your typical coordination escaped you and Arthur had to catch you to stop you from tipping sideways.

The doctor pulled out a phone. “I’m calling an ambulance. You’re going to the hospital.”

“I’m fine—“

“Mon coeur, please sit down,” Arthur urged.

Your calm but obviously worried boyfriend refused to leave your side even when it meant leaving for the hospital before the end of the race. You tried to convince him to stay for his brother but he wasn’t having it.

In the hospital room after you had completed all the precautionary brain scans, Arthur checked his phone.

"Maman is asking about you," he said. "Lorenzo, too."

You both took note of the lack of another of his family member’s text message, but you had grown all too used to it. It was easier not to comment on it.

"Tell them I'm fine."

"I will tell them we are waiting on your test results."

"Don’t worry them. I’m fine, Arthur.”

"We will know that once they have gotten their results."

Arthur had a very convincing poker face but this needless argument showed how concerned he truly was. He kept worrying his bottom lip between his teeth whenever he thought you weren’t looking.

You tugged on your intertwined hands to pull him closer. “Hey. I’ll be fine. It’s probably just a concussion.”

“You cannot know.”

“Then, call it positive thinking.”

Before anything more could be said, the doctor returned with the results of your tests.

You were okay, only a concussion as you had thought. You had a fair amount of bruising and a bit of whiplash to commemorate one of the worst crashes of your career but other than that, you seemed fine.

They still wanted to keep you overnight for observation but you should recover in a timely fashion.

When the doctor left, you only had time to shoot Arthur an “I told you so” look before his phone started ringing. The caller ID showed his second eldest brother’s name.

He answered in French, a language you knew almost fluently after living in Monaco since your rookie season. You had really buckled down to learn the language after beginning to date Arthur.

“Hello? ... I am at the hospital with Y/N. … I know but congratulations on third. Sorry I missed the celebrations.”

You couldn’t hear what Charles was saying, only your boyfriend’s responses. It was now over two hours since the end of the race. Charles must have only just gotten time to call Arthur.

“I know I am, but Y/N was dizzy and the doctor was concerned and I couldn’t just leave her. … She is part of Ferrari, too. I have a duty to both her and the team. … I was not needed at the garage. … And I said I’m sorry I missed your podium but I wasn’t going to leave her alone. What if something happened?”

You sunk back into your hospital bed. They were fighting again. Because of you.

You and Charles had been rookies together back in 2018. You had started your F1 career at Williams before moving through Haas to where you were now, your second year at Ferrari.

You were a handful of years younger than Charles and he had always treated you like a little sister. When you got the Ferrari contract, Charles was over the moon. You remember him going on a half hour tangent about how much fun it would be having you as a teammate, how excited he was for the next two years.

Charles adored you. At least, he used to, before you and Arthur told him you had started seeing each other.

Since then, Ferrari has been a minefield.

Charles was distant and cold. He stopped sending TikToks and stopped laughing at your memes. He unfollowed you on Instagram for about a week before the Ferrari PR team made him follow you again.

The PR department was working well past overtime thanks to you and Charles. You had learned not to try and approach him even when there were cameras around because he would continue to ignore you and it would further fuel the drama mill.

You missed your friend. You missed the fun you two had last year as teammates.

Now, you were with Arthur. And you loved him. And he made you so happy. But you missed being able to talk to Charles without him looking at you like you were the gum on the bottom of his shoe.

Arthur’s voice had gotten sharper the longer he spoke to Charles. “Not that you bothered to ask but Y/N is fine, by the way. We had to go to the hospital to scan her brain and make sure but she would be. Not like you’d care.”

Arthur hung up and tossed his phone onto a table where he couldn’t reach it. You reached out for his hand and he took it, kissing your knuckles and sighing deeply.

“I’m sorry,” you said quietly.

“Do not apologize. This is not your fault.”

“It feels like it is.”

“It is not. It is Charles being impossible for no reason. Before we were dating, he—“

He adored you. He called you mon ange. He praised your driving any time he could. He invited you to dinners with his family, which was how you got to know Arthur outside of racing.

Now, Charles couldn’t stand the sight of you. It hurt, you weren’t going to lie. Charles was your teammate and friend, but more importantly, he was Arthur’s brother.

You didn’t feel it was your place to try and close the gap gouged between you and Charles, not when he was Arthur’s family. You didn’t want to complicate things further, didn’t want to try and repair your friendship before the bond between brothers was mended.

“Maybe…”

You lacked the confidence to continue your thought. You didn’t want to suggest what you were about to, even if it could potentially fix everything.

You were selfish when it came to Arthur. You didn’t like sharing him and you especially didn’t want to let him go.

“What?” Arthur asked.

“Maybe we should take a break.”

“What? No? No. Why? No. Why would you want to—? Have I done something wrong? Why would you say that?”

You were quick to reassure him. “No, no, no, baby, it’s not that. I was just thinking that it might be a good idea to take a bit of time and come back to this in the off season. When Charles can separate me as your girlfriend from me as his teammate.”

“No,” he insisted. “No. I do not want him to ruin this any more than he already has. I do not want to take a break.”

“Okay. That’s okay. It was just a suggestion.” One that you were thankful Arthur objected to so vehemently.

“It is a dumb suggestion. I do not want a break. I will never want a break from you.”

“Okay.”

You let him lean in and kiss you. It seemed that Arthur was selfish with you, as well.

.

You were no stranger to Charles Leclerc’s yacht. You had spent many nights attending parties hosted by your friend on his impressive vessel and even more days lounging around or exploring islands along the Monaco coast.

But ever since Charles found out about you and Arthur, you hadn’t been invited back. Until the weekend between races, a week after your crash.

And you hadn’t exactly been invited, it was more that Charles had been told by his mother that you would be spending the day with the family and there was no getting out of it. Though, as the day stretched on and tensions grew higher, you were really wishing that you were the one who could have gotten out of going.

Your concussion wasn’t as severe as originally feared. Your ribs were still tender and the skin of your torso bruised but you were set to race at Miami next week as long as your checkup in a few days went well.

Arthur sat down beside you on the large daybed you had taken to reading on. It was shaded and secluded enough to be comfortable but not so far from the main seating area that you couldn’t easily rejoin the larger group. It was where you had usually set up camp whenever aboard Charles’ yacht.

Your boyfriend handed you the fizzy, non-alcoholic beverage you had requested. He accepted a kiss as gratuity.

“What are you reading?”

“One of those spicy fantasy novels you make fun of me for.”

“Oh, the porn books.”

“They’re not porn books!”

Arthur just laughed because he liked teasing you. He laid his head in your lap. You, of course, let him because you were not actually upset.

You smoothed the hair off his forehead lovingly.

“Are you feeling alright?” he asked.

“I’m okay.”

“You’re not hurting?”

“No. I’ve been doing my stretches and using bruise cream. I’ll be right as rain next weekend.”

Arthur seemed pleased with that answer. “Will you read to me?”

You regarded the content on the page you were open to. “I’m not exactly at a publicly appropriate chapter.”

“Am I not a better option than ink on paper?”

“You are not always readily available.”

“You are far more busy than me. You are always away from me.”

“Exactly. I need something to do with all my free time in my hotel room. All alone. Just me. And my hands all over… my latest smutty book.”

“You kill me, woman,” Arthur groaned, sitting up to kiss you.

You let out a peel of laughter when Arthur pushed you onto your back. You two were not in the habit of making your close friends and family uncomfortable with excessive PDA, so Arthur abandoned kissing you to pin you down, gentle and conscientious of your torso.

“Okay! Okay, you’re better!”

Arthur leaned down over you. “Better than what?”

“You’re better than my books.”

“Good.”

He kissed you, then wiggled his fingers against your neck to make you shriek.

“Arthur, Y/N. Come eat!” Pascale called the two of you over to the group.

Arthur helped you sit up, then held out a hand to help you down the steps to the deck below because god forbid you take the three stairs on your own. You didn’t mind; you liked that he wanted to help you, even with things you didn’t need him for.

You smiled at Arthur, able to forget about the Leclerc civil war for a moment. Then, you turned toward where everyone else was sitting in the main seating area.

Charles was glaring daggers.

Your stomach dropped. You pulled your hand free from Arthur’s to fix your hair then didn’t take it again when you were done.

Arthur looked at you odd, noticed where you were glancing. He glared back just as hard at his older brother.

“Arthur,” you muttered in reproach.

“If maman was not here, I swear I would smack him across the face.”

“Arthur, please.”

After the race in Azerbaijan was over, after podium celebrations and post-race interviews, Charles had spoken a little too loudly about how it was your fault that you had crashed, that it was what happened when you "still drive like a rookie five years into your career."

The video that some random clubgoer had managed to capture of your teammate badmouthing you while you spent the night in the hospital for observation had gone more than a little viral.

To hear him talk about you like that just made you sad. You didn't have the energy to be mad over it.

Arthur did not share those feelings. When he first saw the video, it was everything you could do to keep Arthur from charging halfway across Monaco to kick his brother's door in. Instead, you anxiously sat on the couch in your living room as he and his brother shouted at each other over the phone.

If it wasn't for Pascale's not at all subtle attempts to get her boys to make up, you and Arthur never would have come today. But she was your boyfriend's mother. She would not accept a refusal of her invitation for today.

You ended up sat beside Arthur and about as far from Charles as possible as sandwiches and chips were passed around. You kept making eye contact with Pascale, awkwardly smiling whenever you did before glancing away.

"Charles, do you have any more wine on this boat?" Pascale asked.

Charles stood. "I'll go get some."

"Arthur, why don't you help your brother?"

You held your breath. You truly admired the balls on that woman, and the unapologetically obvious pursuit of making her sons make up. When you glanced at Arthur, almost hopeful, you saw the dark edge to his gaze as he looked at his brother; he was still too angry to be left alone with Charles.

You didn't believe Arthur would actually slap or physically harm Charles in any way but things would not be made better by Arthur confronting his brother right now.

"I'll help," you said before Arthur had to respond. "Lead the way, Charlie."

You false enthusiasm shriveled into nothingness by the time you reached the stairs down to the bar. You trailed after him below deck, staying several paces behind.

Charles was silent as he began opening cupboards. He hadn't so much as looked at you when you took his younger brother's place in assisting him.

"Charles, I—"

"I do not want to hear it, Y/N."

You swallowed around the nervousness trying to clog up your throat. "Are you ever going to let me explain?"

"There is nothing to explain. You are my teammate. Arthur is my brother. You both go behind my back to start dating each other and do not care of what it will affect."

"Believe me, we've talked about it. At length. We know it's a risk."

"And you do not care," Charles concluded, ducking down below the bar and out of view as he continued his search.

"No, we decided it was worth it." You took a breath. "I don't know how to talk about how in love with your brother I am without making you uncomfortable but if I had to choose between him and racing, I would hesitate."

That statement may not sound all that impressive but Charles had once said to you—after many, many drinks following a successful race weekend for Ferrari—that he would know he truly loved a woman if when he had to choose between her and never racing again, he hesitated.

As a fellow driver, you understood exactly what he meant. That was what you felt for Arthur. That was what the youngest Leclerc meant to you. That was how hopelessly in love you were.

"I love Arthur, I really do. And I know it's messy and complicated and whatever else but I don't care about that. At the end of the day, I am happier with Arthur than I have been in a really long time."

Charles was silent behind the bar. He was still ducked down. It felt like you were monologuing to an empty room. It made it a little easier to continue.

"While I am willing to put a little strain on my career for my relationship, what I have never wanted to put strain on is your relationship with your brother. I never wanted anything like this to happen.

“I never wanted to go behind your back. I never would have pursued my feelings for Arthur if he hadn’t been so persistent but he wore me down and I couldn’t tell him no.

“I am truly sorry for breaking your trust. But I cannot stop loving your brother. I will not let him go just because you cannot accept us, despite all the difficulties it may come with.”

Two bottles of wine appeared on the bar top just before Charles stood upright again. He still would not look at you.

"If you can't forgive me for pursuing a member of your family, that's fine. I understand. But Arthur is your little brother; do not throw that away because of me.

"Hate me. Be mad at me. Ignore me on media days. Unfollow all my socials. Make the entire world think you despise me. I don't care; just don't take it out on Arthur.

"I am not worth you two falling out."

You nearly jumped out of your skin when Charles finally looked you in the eye. You held his gaze, imploring him to listen to what you were saying.

His expression did not change the longer he surveyed you. Then, he took the bottles of wine, walked right past you without another word, and went back above deck.

.

"That is it?" Arthur asked as you recounted the events to him later that night.

He was sat on the lid of the toilet as you washed your face before you two were going to settle in to watch a movie.

"Then, I told him I'm not worth you two falling out over and he walked away. Without a word. Just back up the stairs and that was that."

"You are."

"Are what?"

"Worth falling out over."

You sighed. "Arthur—"

"You are. I am serious."

"Arthur, I'm not going anywhere. You don’t have to choose between me and Charles; I don’t want you to.”

“I am not losing you because of him.”

“I’m not asking you to compromise. I’m not letting you go because of Charles, either, but we have to try and make this work. He’s your brother. That has to mean something to you.”

“He is being unreasonable.”

“Have you even tried to talk to him about it? Or have you just been pretending nothing’s changed?”

“Nothing has changed," he said stubbornly.

“Okay, that's one of the problems."

"It should not matter that we're dating."

"No, it should. And it does. I'm dating my teammate's brother; that is going to change some things. You do recall the HR meeting all of us had to suffer through, don't you?"

Shortly after telling Charles of your relationship, you and Arthur had gone to Ferrari to make them aware as well. There had been no major backlash from the team but there had been a several-hours-long meeting with HR and PR that you, Arthur, and Charles all had to be present for.

Arthur physically shuddered at the memory. "Do not remind me."

"Us being together changes things. You cannot ignore it and hope everything will blow over."

"He hasn't even apologized to you."

"Worry about me later. Fix your relationship with your brother before it's too late."

"Y/N, you are not understanding. I cannot fix my relationship with Charles if he is going to speak of you like he did in that video. If he is going to treat you like he has been, nothing is going to be fixed."

"He's your brother—"

"And you are l'amour de ma vie. I do not care that he is my brother; I will not tolerate anyone speaking of you in such a way. I cannot remove you from the situation. I cannot make up with him until he stops treating you horrible.”

You had not realized Arthur’s view on the whole situation. You supposed it made sense now that you thought about it.

Charles was generally being mean to you, not his brother. When the two youngest Leclercs argued, it was over you. Charles seemed convinced that you would never prioritize Arthur or his career over yourself or your own.

True, you would never give up your seat for Arthur, but you wouldn’t do that for anyone. Should the time ever come where Arthur got an F1 seat, you would never give him anything; he would have to work just as hard as anyone else to race against you. That was racing.

You do not think that Charles meant anything to that extreme of a degree. He perhaps meant that Arthur would seldom be prioritized in place of a career in F1, period, but you and Arthur were on the same page about that.

You had spoken in length about it. You had laid everything on the table a few months into your relationship and spoke about it all until you reached a true and total understanding.

And Charles… Well, Charles would always see Arthur as his baby brother, as someone to protect, as someone who is young and unknowing of the world even if he was snugly into his twenties.

“You need to speak to him. Really speak to him. Talk everything through.”

“He needs to apologize, first. Then, and only then, will I talk things out.”

“You are. So. Stubborn,” you growled at him, jokingly pretending to choke him in your frustration.

“If I was not, how would I keep you in check?”

He slid his hand right up under your oversized sleep shirt to hold your core in his palm. Your freshly washed face went a little pink.

“I don’t need to be kept in check,” you said indignantly.

“Don’t you? You always seem to find some way to misbehave and then I have to punish you for it. You know how I hate to punish you.”

“Don't lie. You love my punishments as much as I do.”

He rubbed his hand over the cloth of your panties, pushed his fingers between your closed thighs to prod over the fabric at where you had already started to ache for him. It took so little to get you worked up, just a few touches and some dirty words and you were ready to melt into any mold Arthur wanted.

“Backtalk.” He clicked his tongue at you. “Already misbehaving.”

“I’m debating my point. That is not misbehaving. You’re just being mean.”

“Keep talking and I can show you how mean I can be.”

“That’s not fair—“

You didn’t get to finish your thought before Arthur stood and pushed you against the bathroom counter. Your thighs dug into the edge of the counter as Arthur pressed against your back, hips nestled into the soft curve of your ass.

“Arthur—"

"Hm?"

He slowly slid your hair out of the way. The collar of your ancient sleep shirt was easily stretched to the side so Arthur could kiss the bare skin of his shoulder. His teeth bit into the curve of your neck just enough to feel but not hurt.

You whined, pushed your hips back into him. "Don't tease."

He slid a hand up to your neck, met your eye in the mirror. "Be patient."

He held you there until you nodded your understanding. Only then did he hitch the back of your shirt up to slip his hand inside your panties from behind.

He grabbed a handful of your ass. You exhaled a soft moan.

You hadn't been intimate since the Monday before the Azerbaijan GP, meaning it was pushing two weeks since Arthur had touched you. You were ready to fall apart and he hadn't even really touched you yet.

"Arthur, s'il te plaît."

In the mirror, you could see him smirk at your French. He had told you before that he liked when you spoke to him in French, that he thought your accent was cute.

You knew it was a totally indulgent way to get what you wanted but you didn't care; it worked. His fingers slid between your folds, feeling how slick and ready you were for him.

He cursed into your shoulder, slipping into French to say, "So wet for me—fuck, Y/N."

"Want you, baby. Please."

"Want me? Want me where?"

"Inside me."

"So lewd, mon coeur," he teased. "You're so needy tonight."

"You started it."

"And I will stop it if you are not grateful for what I am giving you."

He pulled his hand out of your underwear and you whined. You reached back to slide a hand into his hair.

"No, please, I'm sorry. Please, don't stop."

Arthur huffed out a laugh. "I will take care of you. You do not need to beg."

He pulled your panties down until you could kick them off to the side. He gently ran a hand over your stomach and ribs. Arthur was always conscientious of you, especially when you were injured.

"Can you bend over for me?"

You did so immediately, elbows coming to rest on the sink counter. Your shirt slid up off your hips to hang loosely around your waist. You felt your arousal hit the air in the bathroom, the chill making you shift your hips.

"So good for me. My good girl."

You could cry from the praise and the fact that his fingers still were not inside of you that exact second. You were embarrassingly worked up.

Arthur seemed to take pity on you, circling his thumb on your clit a few times before slipping a finger into you. Just one was nowhere near enough to fill you up but you dropped your head onto your arms and moaned.

He kissed your backside, knelt down behind you. "So noisy, amour."

Any snarky response you may have had died in your throat when he pressed a second finger into you. That was enough for a bit of a stretch that had you pushing your hips back against his hand.

"Stay still," Arthur warned.

You really did try to listen to him but after slowly scissoring you open with two fingers, he introduced a third and started really finger fucking you. You pressed your forehead against the counter, not able to stop yourself from pushing back into him again, trying to fuck yourself on his fingers, searching for something that would stretch you further, reach deeper into you.

He pulled his fingers out of you. Your whine was cut short when he slapped your bared cunt with the same soaked fingers that were just inside of you.

"You are so fucking impatient."

"Just want you."

"Yeah? You want me so bad you cannot even stay still and let me stretch you out? You want to be torn open by my cock?"

You whimpered. That was exactly what you wanted.

He slapped your pussy again. "Huh? Is that what you want?"

You raised your head just enough to be able to watch as Arthur pushed his shorts down. You couldn't see as he pulled his cock free with him stood behind you but you definitely felt it when he pressed his tip against your prepped entrance.

"Oh, fuck—"

He entered you in a swift motion. You choked around a moan.

He was gentle with his arms as he pulled you back against him but ruthless with his hips as he fucked into you without relent. He didn’t press on your bruised torso but he did get a hand around your throat to make you watch yourself in the mirror.

Your dynamic was like this. He was in charge and you loved that. He could hit you, fuck you hard, have you screaming, begging, crying, but where it truly mattered, he would always be gentle with you. His dominance was not just for him; he was always cognizant of your current state and how you were feeling in the moment.

“Arthur.” You breathed his name like a moan, like a prayer.

He kissed your neck, then your cheek. “So good for me.”

Arthur set the pace slow and deep. You could feel him nudging your cervix, stretching you open, the tug of your walls against his cock making you ache for him even more. You were a moaning mess for him in mere moments.

He coaxed you through your first orgasm like that, fucking you slowly from behind as you watched yourselves in the bathroom mirror, his hand between your thighs to push you along. Your legs shook and Arthur held you upright as he kept the torturous pace all the way through your climax.

“You have a bit more in you, amour. Yes?” he asked, still moving his hips as the continued stimulation was making you squirm.

You felt you could barely catch your breath but you nodded anyway. “Yes.”

Arthur hummed, pleased. “Good girl. Bend over.”

If your first orgasm was for you, the second was surely for Arthur. Sex was always a game of give and take with him. Though, even when he was taking, you were always being given so much.

As soon as he had you bent over again, he gripped your hips, adjusted his own, then started fucking into you fast and hard. You grabbed onto the counter to steady yourself, let your head drop onto the quartz as you went pliant and easy.

You were shaking from the overstimulation, from not getting a break between your first high and the second that Arthur was making you chase.

“Come on, amour. Come on.”

His pace was just uneven enough for you to become aware that he was definitely close. He was waiting for you.

His fingers found your clit again, rubbing out another wave of pleasure that had you trembling against the counter. Your head felt light, legs literally giving out and you would have fallen to your knees if Arthur wasn’t still gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, strong arming you into staying on your feet.

You cried his name and your body went slack. Arthur fucked you through your second high and past it, stroked himself out with your body and buried himself deep inside of you as he came.

You mewled at the feeling, at the depth and the spurting warmth. Arthur smoothed a hand up your spine to soothe you. He whispered praises and pressed kisses into your skin until you came back to Earth, getting your legs back underneath you.

"Welcome back, mon coeur."

You could hear the proud grin in his words but could only give a weak groan in response as you pushed yourself upright. Arthur helped you up, then sat you on the bathroom counter and kissed you sweetly before setting to cleaning you up.

He scooped you up into his arms once you were clean and dressed to carry you out to the living room.

"I can still walk," you told him but still happily wrapped your arms around his neck anyway, leaning against his chest.

"I'll have to do better next time, then."

Arthur set you on the couch. He told you to stay as he bustled around getting popcorn and drinks ready.

"What do you want to watch?" you asked.

"Whatever you want."

"Don't give me that kind of power," you mumbled to yourself.

You didn't giving in to the temptation to queue up some cringeworthy romcom you know Arthur would hate. He had given you enough tonight. You could be nice about the movie choice.

You made it through maybe half of the movie (some new Netflix film you thought looked decent) when there was a knock at the door. It was a soft noise, almost hesitant.

You shared a look with your boyfriend before you both checked your phones to make sure you hadn't missed a text from someone letting you know they were on their way over. You both came up blank.

Despite it being your apartment, Arthur pushed you down when you went to stand and ran to answer the door himself. You couldn't quite see the door from the couch, so you strained your ears to listen.

"What are you doing here?" Arthur asked, not quite unkindly but certainly not happy.

"I went to maman's. You were not there."

Charles. Why had he showed up at your door unannounced this late in the evening?

"I've been staying with Y/N most of the time."

Silence followed. It was painful just eavesdropping on the two brothers. You nearly got to your feet to approach them and attempt to mediate but Arthur beat you to it.

"What do you want, Charles?"

More silence. You don't think you were breathing, scared if you made yourself known it would ruin whatever was about to happen.

"I wanted to apologize," Charles eventually said.

"Apologize?"

You bit your cheek to stop from screeching with joy. Finally—finally! You were so ready for this whole thing to be over with. Even if it took some subtle guilt tripping on your part, you were more than pleased at the outcome.

"For how I've been treating you since you told me about you and Y/N. Is she here?"

"Yes."

"Yes, well, it is her apartment, no?" Charles tried for a weak laugh but Arthur did not take mercy and join him. "Er, well... I—I shouldn't have been so quick to judge you two. I was upset, at first, that you had hidden it from me.

"I forget that you are an adult and you have pursued your own career and you do not need protecting from people who might try to take advantage of you—not that I believe Y/N would do such a thing!"

You cringed. This could go downhill really fast considering Arthur's protective streak over you.

"Yes, I am an adult. How you feel will not dictate my relationship. But how you treat Y/N will dictate my relationship with you. How can you speak of her like you have? She has been your friend for so long."

"I know what it has been like for you to constantly be compared to me. I know it has been difficult for you and I have become paranoid in my fame that someone will use the people I care about to get to me."

"That is ridiculous. Y/N is just as well-known as you, if not more. And she knew you before she knew me—how does any of this make sense, Charles?"

Arthur had a point but you could understand where Charles was coming from. It was always a fear in your own mind that something may happen to or someone might try to take advantage of your family or your friends because they were in connection with you.

"It doesn't," Charles admitted. "It doesn't make any sense. I was being stupid. I assumed the worst—thought Y/N was using you to mess with my head—and refused to see it any other way and I never should have treated Y/N as I have been or said what I have about her.

"She is one of the most talented drivers I have ever driven alongside. She is the kindest person I know. She has been my friend for years longer than she has been dating you. I should not have let my judgement be so clouded by my own fear.

"I am sorry, Arthur. And if Y/N is here, I would like to apologize to her, as well."

It was quiet for several moments. You waited in silence, still holding your breath. Had you breathed at all since Charles started apologizing? Was Arthur going to say anything? Was he just standing there?

There was the rustle of fabric followed by the telltale sighs of relief that accompanied a much needed hug. You exhaled and slumped back against the couch. Thank God.

It was long overdue that the youngest Leclercs made up. Thankfully, Charles knew his brother well enough to know that you must also be apologized to if things were ever going to get better.

"Y/N?" Arthur called.

You suddenly remembered that you had been eavesdropping the whole time. Charles had no idea you were just around the corner in your living room. You had heard the entirety of Charles' apology, even the things not meant for your ears.

You cleared your throat. "Yes?"

"Do you think Charles should be forgiven?"

You laughed and went to join the brothers in the foyer. "I absolutely do. Do I get a hug, too?"

Charles' face was red but he seemed to find the humor in the situation, too. He opened his arms for you and wrapped you in a tight embrace.

"I am sorry, Y/N. I know you would never purposefully try to hurt me or my brother. I was rash in my understanding of the situation."

"It's okay, Charlie. I just missed my friend."

"I'm sorry." Charles squeezed you tight once more before letting you go.

When you stepped back into Arthur, he let his arm slip around your waist. He kissed the side of your head. You leaned into him, too pleased with the outcome of tonight to fret much over PDA in front of Charles.

For the first time, Charles didn't seem deeply disturbed by your affection. However, he did sigh faux irritably.

"You two are way too cute together. It was so difficult to be mad at you sometimes."

You and Arthur laughed.

"I am serious! You should see yourselves."

Despite knowing it was an inappropriate train of thought to entertain in front of your boyfriend's brother, you couldn't help but think back to just about an hour ago and how you had watched yourselves through the bathroom mirror.

"Oh, we have," Arthur said, innuendo lost on his brother but not on you.

You smacked him in the chest. Arthur just laughed. Luckily, Charles seemed none the wiser.

[horsedylan]

Since we’re on the subject of things being fake. This post?

Yeah. Fanfiction that has been derived from the truth. Its been going around since 2015 so idk who made it..But do not worry. It is I, the humble horsedylan here to offer you Horseumbine information and lead you on the right path so you can meet god!

Whenever one of my lovely and good natured mutuals reblogs this I get itchy. It’s a conflation of two events with some creative liberties. And it certainly didn’t happen a few months before the massacre. If anything we can place the tampon incident in junior year according to Brooks Brown (source: www.westword.com/news/the-missing-motive-5063685)

Incident Statement One.

We can simmer this event down to four sources; Here is one from Sue and Tom's police interview.

"Mr. Klebold said that Dylan was sheltered at his classes at Governor’s Ranch. The Klebold’s perspective in that Dylan seemed well adjusted. Mrs. Klebold then stated the only time she ever saw Dylan cry was once when he came home from school and went to his bedroom. Dylan then took a box of stuffed toys from the closet and buried himself and fell asleep underneath the stuffed toys. Mrs. Klebold said that she checked on what the problem was, however, Dylan would never tell her what had caused him to cry. The Klebolds indicated that they monitored everything about Dylan and Mr. Klebold said that based on his own experience, Dylan seemed normal. Mr. Klebold went on to state that he asked Dylan in the past if people were picking on him and Dylan would tell him no, and would point out that he was 6’4" so people wouldn’t pick on him, however, Dylan did indicate that people picked on Eric" this wasn't in high school!!! and she didn't ignore him!!!

Source: https://zanazl.tripod.com/Columbine/Suspects/DylanKlebold/Interview.html

Incident Statement Two.

This was taken from Andrew Solomon's book Far From the Tree;

"Unbeknownst to the Klebolds, Dylan had experienced significant humiliation at school, though he was six feet four and not easy to push around. He had come home one day with ketchup spots all over his shirt, and when his mother asked what had happened, he said he’d had the worst day of his life and didn’t want to talk about it. Months after his death, she learned of an incident in which Dylan and Eric had apparently been shoved and squirted with ketchup by kids calling them f*gs. “It hurt so much that I’d seen the remnants of that day and hadn’t helped him,” Sue Klebold said." (Page 590)

Dylan explicitly lied or shrugged things off each and every time she tried to help. I'm sorry but simply put, people can't help you if you buck it and obstruct them each and every time they ask you what's up.

Incident Statement Three.

This is also taken from the aforementioned Andrew Solomon book;

"Every year on Dylan’s birthday, Tom goes up to the place where the two used to hike and takes a Dr Pepper, because Dylan loved Dr. Pepper, and the stuffed koala that was Dylan’s childhood favorite" (Page 594)

Incident Four.

When he was in middle school, he had gone up to his room after a bad day. She went in to bring him some chocolate milk and he had been crying. She asked again, what happened. All he was willing to tell her was that some kids were mean to him.

Like people will complain about how some people take this shit too seriously ( and to an extent I get where you're coming from for sure.) and complain about the seriousness of infoposters but then go on to simultaneously complaining about Dave Cullen and the smear job he did on E. Like you acknowledge that if you aren’t careful you spread misinformation so..idk. Okay yeah its a tumblr post and not a book fair point but then why bother having info posts at all lol. Its one thing to make a mistake thats fine, I make mistakes with my infoposts ALLLL the time. and thats okay but spreading fanfiction and calling it fact is another matter.

I think one of the reasons why this annoyed me so much is that people have such a ridiculous hate boner for Sue that they just lie about her ignoring her son to make her look bad. Its cringe. She didn’t, she asked him so many times and Dylan lied to her constantly. Like I legitimately saw some of you fuckers going off about how you can’t wait for this VICTIM (and yes. She is a victim) to die explicitly because of this post. I’m gonna be doing a post about her in the coming weeks probably (I mean half of it is already written up) because holy moly.

I'm also gonna save this in a google doc or on obsidian just in case lol.

Edit: updated with page numbers.

[apomaro-mellow]

Corroded Coffin ransoms Steve 3

Part 2

They left Steve alone again, this time making sure he was tied up to the chair tight before leaving him in the basement. They conferenced in the living room again. By now, the sky was beginning to get dark. Winter in Hawkins could be such a bummer.

"So his parents won't be back in town a while. They'd still call to check on him, though, right?", Doug asked.

"He's right", Jeff said. "We can sneak back into his house, change the voicemail to our demands. The moment they call, they'll get it and we get our money."

Eddie rubbed his face. "Somethin' tells me it won't be that easy, gents."

"One of your famous 'feelings'?", Gareth rolled his eyes.

"Who leaves their golden child during the holidays? And when was the last time you actually saw either of his parents?", Eddie asked.

Living in a small town, you saw everybody at least once a week. Either at the grocery store, the gas station, at Benny's. It was hard to avoid people in this town unless they were a literal shut in.

"My mom had some things to say about her from that lady's luncheon the church threw", Jeff said.

"Dude, that was back in April", Gareth said, suddenly shooting to his feet. "Shit! What if he's really worthless?! We just kidnapped Harrington for nothing!"

"We let him go?", Doug suggested.

"So he can go and tell his jock friends what we did? They'll literally murder us!", Gareth shouted.

Eddie stood up and began pacing about as the others argued, all making valid points. They couldn't just let Steve go. Not only were they still penniless, Steve would probably go straight to the cops, or worse the basketball team. Getting arrested was a hundred times better than murdered by mob. It felt like they had nowhere to go.

"Shut up! Just shut the hell up!", Eddie shouted, bringing them all to silence. He took a deep breath. "Harrington said he can get us the money. I say we let him try."

"The moment we let him go, he's gonna make a run for it!", Gareth threw his hands up.

"Then we put a leash on him!", Eddie's hands also went into the air.

"If we don't do this right, we're all going to jail. Or worse", Jeff said.

Eddie opened his mouth only to freeze when he had an epiphany. Yes....yeah a way to kill two birds with one stone. He started mumbling to himself, pacing about the living room again before clapping his hands together.

"I got it!"

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

Steve could hear them shouting above, but couldn't make out every word. Not like he needed to anyway, he could figure out what they were talking about. It had to be him. Maybe it finally sunk in that they couldn't get a ransom from his parents and they were brainstorming a new plan. He hoped in involved letting him go.

His stomach growled.

Or letting him eat. God, it must've been hours since they grabbed him.

He heard it get quiet upstairs and that made the gurgling in his stomach even louder. Then there were footsteps coming down the stairs. This time it was just Munson. He pulled up a chair and turned it backwards before sitting across from Steve, crossing his arms over the back of it.

"You said you can get us five Gs."

"Yeah? Yeah, I can do that", Steve said.

"Elaborate, Harrington."

"My folks keep a lot of expensive stuff. And believe it or not, they let me have a key to the house", Steve grinned cheekily.

"And you'd let us just, what? Ransack your house?"

Steve shrugged. "It's not my stuff. Why should I care?"

Eddie snorted. "And you wouldn't even think of calling the police and telling them exactly who took all that valuable stuff."

"You don't trust me?"

"I don't KNOW you. But I got a way you can win some points with us."

"...What?"

"You've got all the leverage right now, Harrington. But if you commit a crime, then we'd have something on you. And, we'd know you could pull off this little heist."

Steve opened his mouth only to be interrupted by his stomach again. Eddie raised a brow. "Coach got you on a diet or something?"

"You guys kidnapped me hours ago, asshole. You don't expect me to rob a bank on an empty stomach, right?"

"Not a bank, Stevie", Eddie smirked.

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

"Were the dumbbells really necessary?", Steve asked.

"We could always get you a collar and leash", Eddie said.

Before untying him completely, they had used rope to tie two fifty pound weights to his ankles. Getting up the basement stairs had been a trial. He'd been tossed a box of cereal as Eddie explained the plan, the others glaring at him the whole time.

Steve knew why they disliked him. It didn't make it any better though. After he agreed to the plan, Steve was corralled into the van, still tied to the weights. The five of them drove through town until they got to the convenience store. It was just past five pm, but with the cold and darkness, most people were holed up in their houses by now.

"You ready for this, Harrington?", Jeff asked.

"As soon as you get these weights off, yeah."

"Are we really sure about this?", Gareth asked. He hadn't stopped giving Steve the stink eye this whole time.

"Don't got much of a choice", Eddie sighed from behind the wheel. He got out and released Steve from the weights. "If my boys get any inkling about you running, Jeff'll hit you with the van again."

Steve didn't need a reminder for how that felt, but played it off, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, let's just do this already."

Part 4

Taglist

@tinyplanet95 @dammitjim02 @chaotic-waffle @missarte-beltane @im-sam-fucking-winchester @persnicketysquares @estrellami-1 @spookycollectorcandies @chocolateraccoonlights @exasperatedsighohmy

[sevastiel]

Assorted Warframe fun facts I've found as of late! With screenshots and such. I find a lot of stuff just going through tilesets, looking for lore stuff that I can write into GS, so here's a few of my favorite things, in no particular order.

Folks who know me on discord have likely been subjected to these before.

-

-

While most of the 'growing' void angels look fem, there are masc variants of the ones you can wake up and fight.

The dummy you can whack on in Teshin's cave uses a very similar model+mask to the drifter doll in the Duviri paradox trailer, and I'm pretty sure it uses the drifter heron voice too, save with an accent.

There are a lot of wally arts around the zariman, (and liminus ones and orowyrm ones, I think,) but they're often close by symbols that seem like both references to dualism, (see: The scaldra's symbol) and the zariman's main time stream splitting in two, for the drifter and the Operator.

This pillar in the Backroom, and the underside of the loft, have some very silly issues with the 'surface' things snap to. The ceiling itself is a fair bit lower than what you see, and the pillar is thinner on that particular side.

The mission entrance symbol on both the deimos hubs is notably duviri-esque.

If you remove the zariman food cubes from your dormizone, they will double in size, allowing you to make comedically large bricks of nutrition. This sometimes applies to the utensils, too.

In some of the caves in the murmur parts of Albrecht's labs, there are little mollusk like growths on the walls and ceiling. They are visibly added on, too.

On the main image thing for the Hex, Arthur looks Very different, and his hair appears to be missing its silver.

If you put the Zariman horse poster on the wall backwards, it becomes impossible to interact with, and pitch black.

In the murmur areas, lightning will occasionally flash in the fog below, revealing Wally!

The bottom of the Zariman food tray casts a solid block of shadow upwards, sometimes.

Also, the wall scribbles project over items put against it.

If you're using a thrown weapon like the Glaive Prime, (Or something with a very slow heavy) and your target dies before you can complete the heavy attack induced by your Wrathful Advance, you can get stuck in the animation. Weapons/Abilities are still usable, but you're invincible and cant move. (To escape, you must use the ability again)

You can 'escape' the backroom by stacking decorations until you're mashed against the ceiling, transferring out, and transferring back in, (And mashing some more) but you can't actually place decorations out there which is sad. I could only access the little window ledge and haven't tried it again elsewhere, though I do mean to.

Sometimes the drifter's legs will glitch out on his agile stance and either stretch the Fuck out of the textures, or make his knees look like a bent straw. It makes me giggle.

The drifter's model takes priority over the decor around the backroom mirror for some reason.

95% sure that the center beam on the rafters is off centered, and it makes my brain really mad to look at.

The windows in the backroom reflect the original decorations/coloring, not your actual ones

The sand dunes in the sanctum anatomica are facing the wrong direction. This is not a problem in the actual in level tilesets that I've noticed.

[scrawleditalix]

so I, personally, am a huge fan of the Telemachian war rubble. incredible imagery? cool obstacle for our heroes? literal wall of corpses both protecting the heart of human civilization from those who wish to extinguish it and holding it captive to those who wish to exploit it? come on, what more do you want from a set piece?

just, like. a coating of rubble around an entire planet, y'know. that's too much rubble, isn't it? like, planets are really big. just kinda a flashy bit of writers' excess. it's gotta take a stupid, unrealistic number of ships to make a coating of rubble like that happen, right?

Right?

QUESTION ONE: How big is this planet?

Surely, in sci-fi world, the answer to this question is limitless, right? Far be it for me to impinge upon the boundless creativity of the sci-fi writer. That being said, as the local rubble-estimator, I do need to put some bounds on this thing. And the thing is, human bodies do very poorly outside of earth-gravity in the long-term. in the interest of not ruining the musculoskeletal system of every human in the not-so-distant future, we're going to assume that Telemachus has +/- 10% of Earth gravity. And, in the interest of not ruining my own evening, we're assuming that it also has the same density as earth, so the math is straightforward and we can actually answer the question we've set out to answer here. That being said, welcome to Telemachus!

it, uh, doesn't look like much yet, but I promise we will be answering some interesting questions here in the space. well, they're interesting to me, at least. I had fun. And that's what matters!

QUESTION 2: Where is the rubble?

Answer: not in the atmosphere, because the atmosphere would grab the rubble with its grubby little fingers and drag it planetside. The rubble layer must be sitting in the thermosphere, which is where the International Space Station lives. In the thermosphere, there's insufficient atmospheric pressure for anyone to hear you scream, and that is good enough for rubble to continue orbiting the planet indefinitely!

So, where is the thermosphere?

UHHHHHHHH

Okay so, good news. We already know where this is on earth. It's 85km above the surface. And looking through the variables, the only things that aren't constants for our purposes are local gravity (locked and loaded, baby), change in height (that's what we're looking for), and... uh......

Great news! Everything is a constant except for the two things we already have, everybody can breathe super normal air with a molar mass of 0.0289644 kg/mol and super normal barometric pressure on the surface just like on Earth, isn't terraforming fun? And that means we can play my favorite math trick, which is where we throw all of our constants out the window and just form a relational equation with our variables and with g0*dH0=g1*dH1 we are off to the races! Turns out, atmospheric physics is super easy when you just use the earth baseline and scale it by local gravity.

QUESTION 3: How thick is the rubble?

*cracks knuckles*

In S02E03 Deep Breath, the gang traverses the rubble layer surrounding Telemachus in order to evade a government checkpoint where their identity cards will surely fail them. The audio cue for the first flecks of rubble hitting the shields starts at 18:00; the audio cue for the Iris II hitting the atmosphere is at 20:30, which means that if we knew the Iris II's velocity, we would know the rubble thickness. Such a shame there's no way to know how fast they were moving...

Well, except that the landing sequence directly follows (it takes 50 seconds to reach the ground), and there is a limit to how quickly Krejjh is able to decelerate (a sustained 4-5 gs will knock a layperson unconscious, and Violet and Brian both stay conscious to our knowledge) (actually I suspect Brian passed out) (this is besides the point), and we just calculated exactly how far they traveled to reach the ground...

Oh, yeah, baby. It's all coming together.

It is at this juncture that I should mention that in this calculation, I am completely ignoring any movement that is not normal to the planet's surface, which is to say, straight up and down. I do not care if Krejjh is flying in a beautiful arcing spiral, if they are drawing a middle finger in midair, or if they plummet like a bird falling from the sky. This is a wonderful feature of vector math which I love. I only care about the thickness of the rubble layer, and the only acceleration that is important is the vertical component (a human can withstand like, 20-30 gs to the chest if they wear their seatbelt). Therefore, the other velocity components do not matter.

So, the Iris II entered the atmosphere at a speed of...

a flaming 1,100-1,300 mph, assuming that Krejjh decelerated at a moderate 3gs! Assuming that this is the maximum speed they achieve, I went ahead and halved this for their average speed through the debris field, which gives us a field over a hundred kilometers thick! Hell ye- wait, is that ten quintillion cubic meters of rubble layer???

QUESTION 4: How dense is dense?

I'm not going to lie to you, friends. This is where this gets ugly. We're going to do statistics. It will be okay.

How much of that volume is empty air?

The field of war rubble is described to us as dense. But that is not what makes it near-impregnable. If there is the physical space to pick your way through a static field of rubble, anybody could do that. What is dangerous, is that the rubble is orbiting, wrapped and writhing around the choking planet in a deadly Gordian knot. (I fucking love the Telemachus war rubble. Have I said how much I love the Telemachus war rubble?)

Now, if we pay close attention to the audio of Krejjh piloting through the rubble, we can hear large chunks of rubble zip past with a signature pitch-shift. This is the doppler effect causing sound (which doesn't travel in a vacuum but I'll forgive that) to be higher pitched as the rubble moves towards us and lower pitched as it moves away. Using these pitches, we can estimate the speed of the rubble--

yeah, okay, or we can just use the super simple stable orbital velocity equation that we already have all of the numbers for. if we were feeling lame.

So, imagine you're crossing the street at a brisk jog and a car is approaching at like 40mph from around a blind corner and also the street is hundreds of lanes with hundreds of cars whipping around a blind corner and also you are a ship that is parked across like ten lanes at a time. But hey, you can do a cool kick flip. So there's that, at least.

How many cars actually need to be on the road before it's "too dense" to traverse?

Luckily, there is a highly accurate, well-tested simulation we can consult.

The entire rubble field can be conceptualized as a series of orbital "lanes", containing a certain spacing of pieces of rubble, which cumulatively defines the density of the entire field. There exists a spacing by which it is possible, but difficult to get through. For example, in the image above, if there are 3 car tiles per 14 tile lane, the density of the entire street is 21%.

This spacing determines the frequency at which rubble crosses in front of the ship, on average. So, we're going to have to do some statistics. If you know how to do statistics, feel free to come at me, because I am pretty sure I did this stupid.

Alright, here's the game plan: we are going to define a space in front of the Iris II, designated as the Reaction Space, and we are going to designate a desired frequency of Reaction Events in that space. This is super arbitrary and has a huge impact on the final number! No pressure. So, let's give Krejjh one and a half seconds to react to the debris in front of the ship. If you've ever had a dog run in front of your car, this is scary as shit -- but hey, nobody said crossing the Telemachian rubble field was easy, and the ship did get hit a couple of times. Knowing the speed of the Iris, this gives us a physical distance in front of the ship which rubble may cross. Multiply that by the height of the ship- let's say 10 meters, there don't seem to be multiple floors- and we have bounded a certain number of orbital lanes through which the Iris is imminently about to cross. We'll call the average piece of rubble 5 by 5 meters, and therefore an orbital lane is about 25 square meters of space.

Each orbital lane represents an opportunity for a Reaction Event, which is to say one or more pieces of rubble entering the flight path of the Iris II, forcing Krejjh to maneuver to an open space (see Frogger above). Because statistics is an exercise in twisting your brain in circles like squeezing a wet wash cloth, in order to define how frequently Reaction Events occur, we must instead define how often they do not occur. The Reaction Space must be empty a certain amount of the time, or else there is literally nowhere to maneuver to- the space is literally impermeable. So, consulting the more difficult levels of Frogger, we are going to say the Reaction Space is empty 50% of the time. This means that every 1.5 seconds, there is a 50% chance that Krejjh has to pull some pants-shitting evasive maneuvers. This strikes me as acceptably challenging.

Now, each orbital lane does not have a 50% chance of spitting out a piece of rubble; rather, each lane has a very small chance of spitting out a piece of rubble and cumulatively, across hundreds of lanes, there is a 50% chance of one or more of them spitting out a piece of rubble within the selected timeframe. 50% = x raised to the number of orbital lanes, so a little bit of exponent math and we find that each lane has a 99.9% chance of being empty during a given second and a half.

Given a probability for an event over a certain time period, we are now able to calculate the return period of a given piece of rubble, which is to say, the average amount of time between events. Return periods are typically used to measure the probability of 100-year storms on a given year. Fun fact: There is a 37% chance that no 100-year storms will occur during a 100-year period, but there is also a 26% chance that there are 2 or more 100-year storms that occur over a 100-year period. Isn't statistics fun?

Using the average timing between pieces of rubble, we can determine the average spacing between pieces of rubble and therefore determine the density of the rubble field.

QUESTION 5: How many ships is that?

Alright, then. Here's the million dollar question: how many ships were destroyed to create the rubble field?

We will base this estimate off of the biggest modern fighter jet I could find with a 2-minute google search (I cannot overstate to you, dear reader, how little I care about fighter jets), so we're basing these ships off of the SU-35. Now, given that I have zero interest in caressing the delicate curvature of the Fighter Jet in the hopes of earning its trust and learning its True Volume, I'm going to estimate it as a cylinder with a diameter equivalent to the SU-35's height and assume the wings probably fit crammed up in the space there somehow. This gives us a volume of 587m^3, which makes the number of ships perpetually encircling Telemachus.......

Now, listen. This is an unrealistic number of ships. I do not believe that 70 billion people were killed in a single battle.

However.

When I set out on this estimate, I was willing to believe that 5 or so billion were. Between casualties on both sides, maybe a space station or two being destroyed, who knows, maybe they had a space trebuchet? This is only an order of magnitude away from a potentially reasonable number.

QUESTION 6: How Far Can I Stretch These Numbers?

Let's massage these numbers a bit and see what we can do.

First, let's round up the ship volume just a bit-- they're in space, maybe the FTL engine needs a bit of extra room. Let's call it 650m^3.

Then, we can start fiddling with the rubble frequency. Let's say the Iris II is 15 meters tall (it is a space yacht. maybe the ceilings are tall?) and then crank the reaction space up to 2 seconds (which means rubble can pass up to 2 seconds away, but it is still able to be anywhere nearer). And let's say the average piece of rubble is 4 meters across, not 5. Turn the the event frequency down to a 40% chance every 3 seconds, we can get this thing down to around 7 billion ships.

So, in conclusion: the Telemachus space debris ring is officially potentially reasonable! 🎉🎉🎉

Always remember, kids: number fudging is a proud, time-honored tradition when I do it, and a disgusting twisting of the nature of truth itself when anyone I don't like does it.

[goldenshrikecomic]

"Every time I write their interactions I'm noticing he's becoming [...]" as someone who has zero creativity, especially when it comes to creating stories, it's always so crazy to me when writers say stuff like "The characters are actually alive in our minds, sometimes they make their own decisions and we just write them down and we're just as perplexed as you all are while doing so. 🤷" like I can't even *fathom* how that's possible but I've seen it multiple times so it's definitely a thing. XD Do you have other examples of this happening?

Well sure! In the beginning I can plan that "hmm, Nero won't like Kasko in the beginning", but tons of nuance and new revelations happen only after I actually get to write the two characters together.

This is also what happens with scenes in general. I know what i want to portray in it, but it's bare bones until I script it, and only during that phase I get to see how it'll actually work out. Some scenes need more thinking, some just happen.

I've been dropping these new friends in the group with a vague idea of how they would work together, but it comes together only after I've actually written scenes with them. I didn't expect Boneslav and Kasko to get along so well, but that might be because Kasko is showing himself to be able to handle surprisingly different people - something I didn't plan to this degree. Right now, Usma is new in the group. I'll be frank, I have all kind of ideas and expections how things will go, but in the end it's up to them. I already have fun scenes with her, but I'm still waiting to dive deep and SEE. But my stories, GS especially, I want these relationships to ebb and flow throughout the story until the end. It won't be a nice 'click' and then merry going without a hitch. We have a lot of time for everyone.

I've said it before, that writing a script, for me, is to put my characters in a space and give them a subject to talk about. Someone is first to pipe up, another counters, maybe they argue. I know what the scene is about and what needs to be said to forward the plot, but it feels like they're in charge of how it's said. Then I of course have to clean up things a lot to summarize that mess so it can fit in the comic.