[koiukiy-o]

‎‧₊˚✧ knox. she/they. adult. ✧˚₊‧ everwinter tomes. : ̗̀➛ emissaries of the winter court — @.astronetwrk @.nereidsrealm

➻ Book of Breathings. (rules) ➻ The Inner Circle. (mutuals) ➻ The Library. (mlist)

now playing; cinderella.

˚₊‧⁺✧ 𝖘𝖍𝖊'𝖘 𝖆 𝖓𝖞𝖒𝖕𝖍𝖔.

[koiukiy-o]

purple lace bra; gojo x gn!reader. angst.

Gojo had already returned to his usual state of careless satisfaction, stretched across the sheets with one arm tucked beneath his head, his breathing evening out as though the last hour had been nothing more significant than an interruption to his evening. He looked comfortable. He always did. There was something almost infuriating about how easily he could slip back into himself afterward, how quickly the intensity between them dissolved into the familiar shape of friendship.

The sheets were still warm beneath you, twisted into careless folds around your legs, carrying the heat of the room in their creases. The dim light from the bedside lamp caught in the loose strands of his white hair, turning them almost silver against the pillow, while the faint scent of his cologne hung in the air between you. You could still feel the ghost of his touch everywhere, a residual warmth beneath your skin that seemed reluctant to disappear even as the rest of the room slowly returned to normal. 

You were still staring at the ceiling when he turned his head toward you.

“You know,” he murmured, voice roughened, “I think purple might be my new favourite colour.”

Your mouth twitched.

He caught it immediately.

“There,” he said, pleased with himself. “I knew I could get a smile out of you.”

You laughed because it was easier than explaining why the sound felt strange in your own throat.

His gaze wandered lazily over you, lingering just long enough to make his meaning obvious. “Seriously, though. That was a pretty good choice.”

The purple lace was still somewhere beneath the sheets, half-hidden in the disarray you'd made of them, and you found yourself looking at it with a peculiar sense of embarrassment. Three weeks ago, you'd bought it with him in mind. You had imagined his reaction, imagined that little pause he always made when something caught him unexpectedly, the slow grin that would follow when he realized you'd deliberately chosen something because you knew he'd like it. You had wanted his attention. You had wanted him to look at you and know that you'd wanted him to look.

Now the memory seemed almost childish.

“Glad you approve,” you murmured.

“I more than approve.”

He laughed softly, entirely at ease, and reached toward you in the absentminded way he sometimes did, fingertips brushing your side as though touching you were as natural as breathing. Ordinarily you would have leaned into him. You would have stayed there, talking about nothing until the hour became unreasonable, perhaps stealing his shirt and pretending you hadn't when he complained about it the next morning.

You could remember how those nights used to feel with a clarity that was almost cruel. The low amber light spilling across his bedroom floor. The curtains stirring faintly whenever the window was cracked open. The tangled sheets, the discarded clothes, the warmth of his body still pressed close to yours while the city outside continued on without either of you. There had always been something intoxicating about those hours after everything had gone quiet, the two of you reduced to nothing more complicated than warmth and breath and the lazy rhythm of conversation.

Sometimes Gojo would pull you against his chest without even seeming to realize he was doing it. You would lie there with your cheek resting against him, listening to the steady beat beneath your ear while his fingers wandered absently through your hair. His voice would lose some of its usual brightness in those hours, becoming softer and lower as he talked about missions, about people you barely knew, about whatever ridiculous thought happened to cross his mind. You had loved those moments more than you ever admitted.

Perhaps that was what had confused you.

Instead, you reached for your clothes.

The movement made his hand fall away.

“Leaving?”

“Yeah.”

He sounded surprised, though only mildly. “Already?”

You pulled your shirt over your head and smoothed the fabric down.

“I have things to do.”

It was a perfectly ordinary answer. There was nothing in it he could have objected to, and you made sure there was nothing in your voice for him to question. That was the strange thing about disappointment once it had settled deeply enough: it stopped demanding to be spoken. It became quieter than anger, more private than sadness. You had no desire to accuse him of anything. You weren't even certain he had done something wrong.

You were simply beginning to understand that the arrangement had been asking you to be someone you no longer wanted to be.

Gojo watched you dress for a moment, then dropped his head back against the pillow.

“You staying tomorrow?”

You glanced at him.

“Maybe.”

“That's suspiciously vague.”

You smiled faintly. “You'll survive.”

“Cruel.”

He sounded amused.

You bent to retrieve your bag.

“Text me when you get home.”

You paused.

It was such a small thing. So ordinary. Something he'd said dozens of times before.

“Okay.”

You left before he could say anything else.

The corridor outside his apartment felt colder than it should have. You could still smell him on your clothes, still feel the warmth of the room clinging stubbornly to your skin, and for a moment you stood there with your hand around the strap of your bag, wondering why leaving had suddenly begun to feel so much easier than staying. 

For a while, Gojo didn't think about it.

Why would he?

You had never been particularly difficult to understand. You wanted him, he wanted you, and somewhere along the way the two of you had found an arrangement that required very little discussion. There were no expectations attached to it, no promises either of you had made foolish enough to regret. You came over when you wanted to. He called when he wanted you. Sometimes you stayed until morning. Sometimes you left before either of you had properly fallen asleep. It worked precisely because neither of you asked it to become anything else.

So when his message appeared on your phone the following evening—

you busy?

—you stared at it for nearly an hour before answering.

kinda

His response arrived almost immediately.

come over

You set your phone face-down.

That was the first time he'd had to wait for you.

There would be others.

At first, Gojo treated the change as coincidence. You were busy. You were tired. You had things going on. He teased you about becoming difficult, complained that you were abandoning him, sent increasingly ridiculous messages whenever you took too long to answer. You played along when you had the energy for it, but something in you had become reluctant to perform the old version of yourself for him.

You stopped dressing with him in mind.

That was perhaps the smallest change, and somehow the one he noticed most.

There had always been little things. A particular perfume. A dress he'd once complimented. The lingerie he'd discovered by accident and then spent an embarrassing amount of time pretending he hadn't been thinking about. You had enjoyed being desired by him. There had been something intoxicating in knowing exactly what would make those bright blue eyes linger.

Now you found yourself choosing clothes without considering whether he'd like them.

You didn't bother wondering what he would think.

You simply got dressed.

And Gojo began to notice the absence before he understood what it meant.

He noticed that you no longer watched him from across the room to see whether he'd noticed you. He noticed that your teasing had softened into ordinary conversation. He noticed that you stopped reaching for him automatically when you sat beside him. He noticed that you left his apartment with your own clothes on instead of wandering around in one of his shirts while you waited for your coffee.

He missed the little things before he understood that he was missing them. The way your eyes used to find him the moment you walked into a room. The almost imperceptible smile that would appear whenever he caught you looking. The way you'd steal his clothes and then pretend innocence when he complained, bare feet padding across his floor while morning sunlight spilled through the curtains. There had always been a softness in you around him, something warm and unguarded that made his apartment feel less like an apartment whenever you were there. 

He noticed because he was accustomed to being wanted by you.

What he didn't notice was the reason.

That was the part you kept entirely to yourself.

You had begun to feel foolish about how much you had wanted from something that had never promised to give it to you. There had been no betrayal, no cruel remark, no moment dramatic enough to point toward and say there, that's when everything changed. It had been smaller than that. A hundred conversations in which you had tried to tell him about your day and watched his attention drift. A hundred moments when he could read your body perfectly and somehow miss what you were saying with your mouth. The realization had accumulated gradually until you could no longer pretend you hadn't seen it.

He listened when you touched him.

He listened when you wanted him.

There was something humiliating about realizing that his attention seemed to deepen in proportion to how much of yourself you were willing to give him physically. As though the things you said carried more weight once your clothes were on the floor. As though the intimacy of those nights could convince him, temporarily, that there was something complicated and worth knowing beneath the surface of you.

And God, you hated that you had started to feel clever only in hindsight. All those nights when he'd looked at you with such complete concentration, when every movement seemed to matter to him, when you could feel his attention like a physical thing; you had mistaken being thoroughly wanted for being thoroughly understood.

Maybe that was why the silence afterward had begun to hurt.

Because you knew he could listen. You had felt him do it. You had felt what it was like to have all of his attention fixed on you, undivided and almost frighteningly intense.

You just couldn't seem to make him listen when there was nothing for him to want.

Everywhere else, you sometimes felt like background noise.

And once you'd noticed it, you couldn't stop noticing.

You remembered how easily he could read you in the dark. A shift of your breathing, a hand curling into his shirt, the smallest change in the way you moved, and his attention would sharpen immediately. He could spend an entire night learning every silent answer your body gave him, as though there were nothing else in the world worth hearing.

You wished, sometimes, that he would listen to you with that same patience when you were sitting across from him in daylight. You wished he would notice the hesitation before you spoke, the tiredness beneath your jokes, the way your voice changed when something actually mattered to you. You wanted him to look up from his phone and listen as though your ordinary words were worth the same attention as everything you could never bring yourself to say aloud.

So when Gojo began trying to coax you back into the old rhythm, you let him.

You smiled when he complained that you were neglecting him. You rolled your eyes when he sent you shameless invitations at impossible hours. You occasionally went over when you wanted to, and afterward you lay beside him listening to him ramble about something ridiculous while the familiar warmth of his body slowly became less comforting than it used to be.

Sometimes, lying beside him afterward, you could almost remember why you'd stayed for so long. His arm would settle around your waist, his chin would rest against your shoulder, and the room would grow quiet except for the distant noise of the city beyond his windows. You would feel the weight of him beside you and remember all the nights when that closeness had been enough to make you believe you were loved.

Then morning would come.

Sunlight would creep across the sheets. His voice would brighten again. He would reach for his phone, complain about being hungry, tease you about stealing the blankets. The spell would dissolve with the daylight, and you would be left wondering whether the tenderness of the night had ever followed him out of the bedroom.

And then, sometimes, there would be a name flashing across his screen before you even had the chance to fully sit up.

A notification. A message. Something casual, effortless.

Maybe it was the girl he had seen the day before, the one whose laughter had lingered too easily in the air between them. 

Maybe it was nothing at all. It didn’t matter. It never really did.

What mattered was the way your chest tightened anyway, because there would always be something you wanted to say and never could.

A message you had rehearsed in your head a hundred times but never once let yourself type out. Words that would have sounded too soft, too honest, too revealing in the light of day when he looked at you like you were simply temporary.

And you would watch him scroll, watch his expression stay unchanged, watch him respond without hesitation, like it was nothing, like it never carried weight, like it never meant anything more than passing time.

He would never look at you the way you looked at them.

And that was the part that stayed with you long after the room had gone quiet again.

He seemed happier whenever you came.

That should have made you happy too.

Instead, you found yourself wondering how long it would take him to realize that you were no longer looking at him the way you used to.

Gojo didn't know yet.

And because he had spent so long believing he understood the boundaries between you, he kept reaching for the version of things that had existed before, certain that if he could make you laugh again, make you stay a little longer, make you look at him with that old softness in your eyes, everything would fall naturally back into place.

He didn't understand that you were already learning how to leave without making a sound.

[koiukiy-o]

why are you avoiding my dms about the most recent orphic chapter are u scared /j

(TAKE YOUR TIME i went through so many emotions this chapter it felt like a mental roller coaster)

oh fuck off i wasn’t on my phone!! (im so glad u did. i hope you wanted me dead by the end of it tee hee)

[koiukiy-o]

WHY ARE YOU BECOMING SUCH A PROLIFIC ANGST WRITER CAN YOU PLEASE GO BACK TO WRITING HAPPY STUFF 😭😭😭

I WILL IM RUNNING BACK I HATE IT HERE PLS GET ME OUT

[starglitterz]

reply to my other asks Now or i'm writing more angst too

[koiukiy-o]

i fucking did wtf you fake as hell you didn’t even see

[koiukiy-o]

ilias is a result of my love for the comedic relief character in every post-apocalyptic/dystopian + found family trope ever man i love him so much

[koiukiy-o]

every time a new orphic chapter comes out im a day late. NO MORE. i will be crying #inrealtime

pleaseeeee ill make up for it. youll be early from next time ill give you a heads up >:)

[koiukiy-o]

WHY ARE YOU BECOMING SUCH A PROLIFIC ANGST WRITER CAN YOU PLEASE GO BACK TO WRITING HAPPY STUFF 😭😭😭

I WILL IM RUNNING BACK I HATE IT HERE PLS GET ME OUT

[koiukiy-o]

ily bro

ily more bro

[koiukiy-o]

I KEEP FORGETTING TO ASK BUT CAN I BE ADDED TO THE ORPHIC TAGLIST,,, you keep tagging my old blog IVE MOVED ON!!!

o FUCK OKAY YES I CHANGED IT HAHAHAKFOJUED

[koiukiy-o]

purple lace bra; gojo x gn!reader. angst.

Gojo had already returned to his usual state of careless satisfaction, stretched across the sheets with one arm tucked beneath his head, his breathing evening out as though the last hour had been nothing more significant than an interruption to his evening. He looked comfortable. He always did. There was something almost infuriating about how easily he could slip back into himself afterward, how quickly the intensity between them dissolved into the familiar shape of friendship.

The sheets were still warm beneath you, twisted into careless folds around your legs, carrying the heat of the room in their creases. The dim light from the bedside lamp caught in the loose strands of his white hair, turning them almost silver against the pillow, while the faint scent of his cologne hung in the air between you. You could still feel the ghost of his touch everywhere, a residual warmth beneath your skin that seemed reluctant to disappear even as the rest of the room slowly returned to normal. 

You were still staring at the ceiling when he turned his head toward you.

“You know,” he murmured, voice roughened, “I think purple might be my new favourite colour.”

Your mouth twitched.

He caught it immediately.

“There,” he said, pleased with himself. “I knew I could get a smile out of you.”

You laughed because it was easier than explaining why the sound felt strange in your own throat.

His gaze wandered lazily over you, lingering just long enough to make his meaning obvious. “Seriously, though. That was a pretty good choice.”

The purple lace was still somewhere beneath the sheets, half-hidden in the disarray you'd made of them, and you found yourself looking at it with a peculiar sense of embarrassment. Three weeks ago, you'd bought it with him in mind. You had imagined his reaction, imagined that little pause he always made when something caught him unexpectedly, the slow grin that would follow when he realized you'd deliberately chosen something because you knew he'd like it. You had wanted his attention. You had wanted him to look at you and know that you'd wanted him to look.

Now the memory seemed almost childish.

“Glad you approve,” you murmured.

“I more than approve.”

He laughed softly, entirely at ease, and reached toward you in the absentminded way he sometimes did, fingertips brushing your side as though touching you were as natural as breathing. Ordinarily you would have leaned into him. You would have stayed there, talking about nothing until the hour became unreasonable, perhaps stealing his shirt and pretending you hadn't when he complained about it the next morning.

You could remember how those nights used to feel with a clarity that was almost cruel. The low amber light spilling across his bedroom floor. The curtains stirring faintly whenever the window was cracked open. The tangled sheets, the discarded clothes, the warmth of his body still pressed close to yours while the city outside continued on without either of you. There had always been something intoxicating about those hours after everything had gone quiet, the two of you reduced to nothing more complicated than warmth and breath and the lazy rhythm of conversation.

Sometimes Gojo would pull you against his chest without even seeming to realize he was doing it. You would lie there with your cheek resting against him, listening to the steady beat beneath your ear while his fingers wandered absently through your hair. His voice would lose some of its usual brightness in those hours, becoming softer and lower as he talked about missions, about people you barely knew, about whatever ridiculous thought happened to cross his mind. You had loved those moments more than you ever admitted.

Perhaps that was what had confused you.

Instead, you reached for your clothes.

The movement made his hand fall away.

“Leaving?”

“Yeah.”

He sounded surprised, though only mildly. “Already?”

You pulled your shirt over your head and smoothed the fabric down.

“I have things to do.”

It was a perfectly ordinary answer. There was nothing in it he could have objected to, and you made sure there was nothing in your voice for him to question. That was the strange thing about disappointment once it had settled deeply enough: it stopped demanding to be spoken. It became quieter than anger, more private than sadness. You had no desire to accuse him of anything. You weren't even certain he had done something wrong.

You were simply beginning to understand that the arrangement had been asking you to be someone you no longer wanted to be.

Gojo watched you dress for a moment, then dropped his head back against the pillow.

“You staying tomorrow?”

You glanced at him.

“Maybe.”

“That's suspiciously vague.”

You smiled faintly. “You'll survive.”

“Cruel.”

He sounded amused.

You bent to retrieve your bag.

“Text me when you get home.”

You paused.

It was such a small thing. So ordinary. Something he'd said dozens of times before.

“Okay.”

You left before he could say anything else.

The corridor outside his apartment felt colder than it should have. You could still smell him on your clothes, still feel the warmth of the room clinging stubbornly to your skin, and for a moment you stood there with your hand around the strap of your bag, wondering why leaving had suddenly begun to feel so much easier than staying. 

For a while, Gojo didn't think about it.

Why would he?

You had never been particularly difficult to understand. You wanted him, he wanted you, and somewhere along the way the two of you had found an arrangement that required very little discussion. There were no expectations attached to it, no promises either of you had made foolish enough to regret. You came over when you wanted to. He called when he wanted you. Sometimes you stayed until morning. Sometimes you left before either of you had properly fallen asleep. It worked precisely because neither of you asked it to become anything else.

So when his message appeared on your phone the following evening—

you busy?

—you stared at it for nearly an hour before answering.

kinda

His response arrived almost immediately.

come over

You set your phone face-down.

That was the first time he'd had to wait for you.

There would be others.

At first, Gojo treated the change as coincidence. You were busy. You were tired. You had things going on. He teased you about becoming difficult, complained that you were abandoning him, sent increasingly ridiculous messages whenever you took too long to answer. You played along when you had the energy for it, but something in you had become reluctant to perform the old version of yourself for him.

You stopped dressing with him in mind.

That was perhaps the smallest change, and somehow the one he noticed most.

There had always been little things. A particular perfume. A dress he'd once complimented. The lingerie he'd discovered by accident and then spent an embarrassing amount of time pretending he hadn't been thinking about. You had enjoyed being desired by him. There had been something intoxicating in knowing exactly what would make those bright blue eyes linger.

Now you found yourself choosing clothes without considering whether he'd like them.

You didn't bother wondering what he would think.

You simply got dressed.

And Gojo began to notice the absence before he understood what it meant.

He noticed that you no longer watched him from across the room to see whether he'd noticed you. He noticed that your teasing had softened into ordinary conversation. He noticed that you stopped reaching for him automatically when you sat beside him. He noticed that you left his apartment with your own clothes on instead of wandering around in one of his shirts while you waited for your coffee.

He missed the little things before he understood that he was missing them. The way your eyes used to find him the moment you walked into a room. The almost imperceptible smile that would appear whenever he caught you looking. The way you'd steal his clothes and then pretend innocence when he complained, bare feet padding across his floor while morning sunlight spilled through the curtains. There had always been a softness in you around him, something warm and unguarded that made his apartment feel less like an apartment whenever you were there. 

He noticed because he was accustomed to being wanted by you.

What he didn't notice was the reason.

That was the part you kept entirely to yourself.

You had begun to feel foolish about how much you had wanted from something that had never promised to give it to you. There had been no betrayal, no cruel remark, no moment dramatic enough to point toward and say there, that's when everything changed. It had been smaller than that. A hundred conversations in which you had tried to tell him about your day and watched his attention drift. A hundred moments when he could read your body perfectly and somehow miss what you were saying with your mouth. The realization had accumulated gradually until you could no longer pretend you hadn't seen it.

He listened when you touched him.

He listened when you wanted him.

There was something humiliating about realizing that his attention seemed to deepen in proportion to how much of yourself you were willing to give him physically. As though the things you said carried more weight once your clothes were on the floor. As though the intimacy of those nights could convince him, temporarily, that there was something complicated and worth knowing beneath the surface of you.

And God, you hated that you had started to feel clever only in hindsight. All those nights when he'd looked at you with such complete concentration, when every movement seemed to matter to him, when you could feel his attention like a physical thing; you had mistaken being thoroughly wanted for being thoroughly understood.

Maybe that was why the silence afterward had begun to hurt.

Because you knew he could listen. You had felt him do it. You had felt what it was like to have all of his attention fixed on you, undivided and almost frighteningly intense.

You just couldn't seem to make him listen when there was nothing for him to want.

Everywhere else, you sometimes felt like background noise.

And once you'd noticed it, you couldn't stop noticing.

You remembered how easily he could read you in the dark. A shift of your breathing, a hand curling into his shirt, the smallest change in the way you moved, and his attention would sharpen immediately. He could spend an entire night learning every silent answer your body gave him, as though there were nothing else in the world worth hearing.

You wished, sometimes, that he would listen to you with that same patience when you were sitting across from him in daylight. You wished he would notice the hesitation before you spoke, the tiredness beneath your jokes, the way your voice changed when something actually mattered to you. You wanted him to look up from his phone and listen as though your ordinary words were worth the same attention as everything you could never bring yourself to say aloud.

So when Gojo began trying to coax you back into the old rhythm, you let him.

You smiled when he complained that you were neglecting him. You rolled your eyes when he sent you shameless invitations at impossible hours. You occasionally went over when you wanted to, and afterward you lay beside him listening to him ramble about something ridiculous while the familiar warmth of his body slowly became less comforting than it used to be.

Sometimes, lying beside him afterward, you could almost remember why you'd stayed for so long. His arm would settle around your waist, his chin would rest against your shoulder, and the room would grow quiet except for the distant noise of the city beyond his windows. You would feel the weight of him beside you and remember all the nights when that closeness had been enough to make you believe you were loved.

Then morning would come.

Sunlight would creep across the sheets. His voice would brighten again. He would reach for his phone, complain about being hungry, tease you about stealing the blankets. The spell would dissolve with the daylight, and you would be left wondering whether the tenderness of the night had ever followed him out of the bedroom.

And then, sometimes, there would be a name flashing across his screen before you even had the chance to fully sit up.

A notification. A message. Something casual, effortless.

Maybe it was the girl he had seen the day before, the one whose laughter had lingered too easily in the air between them. 

Maybe it was nothing at all. It didn’t matter. It never really did.

What mattered was the way your chest tightened anyway, because there would always be something you wanted to say and never could.

A message you had rehearsed in your head a hundred times but never once let yourself type out. Words that would have sounded too soft, too honest, too revealing in the light of day when he looked at you like you were simply temporary.

And you would watch him scroll, watch his expression stay unchanged, watch him respond without hesitation, like it was nothing, like it never carried weight, like it never meant anything more than passing time.

He would never look at you the way you looked at them.

And that was the part that stayed with you long after the room had gone quiet again.

He seemed happier whenever you came.

That should have made you happy too.

Instead, you found yourself wondering how long it would take him to realize that you were no longer looking at him the way you used to.

Gojo didn't know yet.

And because he had spent so long believing he understood the boundaries between you, he kept reaching for the version of things that had existed before, certain that if he could make you laugh again, make you stay a little longer, make you look at him with that old softness in your eyes, everything would fall naturally back into place.

He didn't understand that you were already learning how to leave without making a sound.

[koiukiy-o]

decided to hate myself and wrote smth w purple lace bra by tate mcrae + gojo

[koiukiy-o]

i still havent moved on btw. so do i post it lol haha

[koiukiy-o]

listening to rihanna and writing childe LMAO its so fucking over

[koiukiy-o]

so when are we getting kilias smut

YOU tell ME

[koiukiy-o]

just so you all know, I (me) (quill kira starglitterz) am koi's favourite. i am also the #1 orphic fan. nobody can steal these titles from me. STAY AWAY.

yall better be nice, quill got somethin' to say.

[koiukiy-o]

WHAT CHILDE FIC ARE YOU WRITING PLEASE PLSPSLPLS TELL ME I WANT HIMMM

you will see very soon

[koiukiy-o]

sooo i have to write orphic again !! i havent written anything in WEEKS, all i did was edit and edit and edit some more these past few days </3 i will be writing the next chapter from next week/the week after that YAY!

grinding studies currently, but the ghost of my 2021 self possessed me and i wrote a childe fic.

simply because i played the new archon quests today (no i did not study like i was supposed to, ive been playing this game for 6 years and i was too excited SUE ME) childe being responsible and diplomatic set me on literal fire! i tried not to make it political but i... made it political... but theres more action in these 2.2k than there has been in orphic these past 1.5 years so thats good...

i guess...

[koiukiy-o]

v7.0 act II spoilers

the fact that we referred to childe as ajax while trying to determine Ptashka's true identity felt like a knife through my chest. oh my god ajax. hes my baby. i dont think anybody understands the severity of the situation rn im tweaking so bad :sob:

[koiukiy-o]

sooo i have to write orphic again !! i havent written anything in WEEKS, all i did was edit and edit and edit some more these past few days </3 i will be writing the next chapter from next week/the week after that YAY!

grinding studies currently, but the ghost of my 2021 self possessed me and i wrote a childe fic.

simply because i played the new archon quests today (no i did not study like i was supposed to, ive been playing this game for 6 years and i was too excited SUE ME) childe being responsible and diplomatic set me on literal fire! i tried not to make it political but i... made it political... but theres more action in these 2.2k than there has been in orphic these past 1.5 years so thats good...

i guess...