ʰᵉᵃᵛʸ & ˡᶦᵍʰᵗ

ind. coffeeman account. my ( pretty generic ) rules can be found here; some additional character info to help with interactions for people who aren’t too familiar with this guy can be found here. reminder that my take on him might not match certain simplistic ‘fandom interpretations.’ 

                                   -----  ✦ HIATUS INFO ✦ ----- due to personal circumstances (work, overall exhaustion, various deadlines, no mental capacity for social interaction, etc.) i’m currently taking a break! you may expect zero to spotty activity for the time being. i’ll be back. catch me on discord/private blogs the meantime.                                    -----  ✦ HIATUS INFO ✦ -----

✦ useful links: verses, ask prompts ( just browse if you want to start interactions but don’t know how? don’t mind the dates. i don’t rb a lot of them. ), some of my art, memes to steal, fun little sideblog with ace attorney ocs.

post-timeskip investigation but go*dot is getting a bit too into the detective noir atmosphere ( novel research purposes or just for the hell of it ) and committing hard to his role; ironically probably with decent results

murder cases in jail while he's still in jail. investigating in spite of being in jail

supernatural encounters/exploring his relationship with the spiritual world ( whether it is bc he 'died' or due to his proximity with the fey clan, he's definitely more attentive to it than most )

coffee disappearances. and now you have to deal with him decaffeinated. it's a terrible experience for everyone involved so you better quickly figure out where all the coffee went

visiting/hiking around the fey clan mountainscape

cruise ship murder mystery. complete with gambling and ... person #2 eventually realizing that go*dots a wild card since he can't fuckin see the red on cards or the roulette

go*dot being called in to provide a workshop/lesson for younger lawyers, give general advice on different legal scenarios, teach about intimidation strategies, and naturally this all sort of escalates

go*dot driving a car when he really shouldn't. who the hell let him

roped into someone's stage play because a person called in sick last minute. commits to the bit

cryptid hunting/investigation with someone, only it becomes increasingly clear over time that the cryptid of legend is actually go*dot who's been seen at night in the shape of a disembodied red glow. only the guy seems to not realize it. or is having too much fun and refuses to point it out

group of guys breaking out of jail and deciding he makes a good hostage ( wrong. he's insufferable and has no self-preservation instinct )

seconds are as meaningless as fallen leaves where he comes from—woodlands that swallow all life to see it soothed by eerie permanence. he'd tried to keep track of time at first. but what's a day to ancient tree roots. what's a week to the collective consciousness of its fungal denizens. what's a month to the night-born creatures hiding in the shade of its crown. time had ceased to matter before he'd known and, just like that, he'd shed another layer of human skin.

"i wonder if you're giving yourself too little credit. ... or too much," he says plainly, a dim smile crawling up the corners of his mouth while he blinks into the setting sun. half-blind; waiting for the sting in his eyes to make way for pleasant clarity.

“hmm.” he doesn’t look up from the contents of his cup; let’s the black liquid swirl along its rim instead with a practiced bob of his wrist. the lax smile on his lips would greet him right back ... if not for three glimmering scars usurping everything else in sight atop this bottomless ocean.

irritation cuts through his thoughts—the ones he’d so diligently smoothened out into edgeless versions of their former selves with nothing but time and determination on his hands. anger is a blade one can only wield expediently when its tip has been welded to perfectly puncture its sole target’s chest. justice is an excuse one is only entitled to use once the echoes of grief have yielded to a measure of clarity. he doesn’t qualify for either right now; not while the bitter flood of coffee he’s just crammed down his throat in a rush seeps on into the marrow of his bones. “... you want to know?” it’s a saving grace that the other is likely fueled by naive curiosity before anything else. an innate need to understand matters that have no bearing on him and are none of his business on top. a detective through and through—he can’t fault him for that. his timing, though, has always left much to be desired. a streak of crimson flares up against the smooth ceramic walls of his mug as he lets his gaze drift past the man, far into the distance.

“ha—.” granted, it feels a little surreal to cough up a dry laugh while working through mental list of the guilty and accused. the cops who’d done sloppy work at the scene. the courtroom that’d cared more for its affluence than for its integrity. the lawyers who’d comfortably wallowed in picking up the pieces instead of, at the very least, indulging in rightful outrage when it’d long been due. the doctors who’d done too little and had left him to drown in an ocean of obliviousness until it was too late. the doctors who’d done too much and ensured he’d see the light of day again just so that he could stand before a barren bathroom mirror in a quiet one-room apartment and trace the outlines of his own silhouette with blood-stained fingertips.

granted, he's accumulated plenty of bro experiences in his youth. sharing a cigarette in a bout of youthful curiosity. sharing a drink out of empathy after an afternoon of club activities in the scorching hot sun. sharing a bed out of necessity after a fun night out and no common sense left to make it home in one piece. sharing a seat on a cramped train, regardless of the curious looks they'd draw from their fellow students. sharing a tub. sharing a ██████. or a ████████. in the end, boys will be boys. and boys that are boys could get away with just about anything without any strings or meanings attached. he offers a slow blink underneath his relentlessly glowing mask. he's missed out on 6 years of bro culture development. how should he know?

timing is a mysterious thing. he'd risen to his feet about half a second off-cue to the detective's exhilarated cries, immersed in findings of his own but present enough to pause his trajectory to paper stack-filled shelves and grant himself a glance at the document that'd returned a week's worth of energy to the other man's formerly frustrated mien. too little too late. the dead angle produced by his visor's frame keeps him from spotting the disaster-in-the-making; his movement is too slow, too sluggish after hours of inertia. a clap thunders through the room. his lungs are robbed of a solitary breath.

'uh...?' doesn't even begin to describe the sizable jolt that seizes his lower spine upon encounter between buttocks and palm. "... ... ..." the half-filled coffee cup in his hand sways dangerously while his mind is still concerned with the question of what the hell just happened rather than on the matter of steadying it. a second hand rises slowly, utterly intuitively, to offer support from the opposite side of the handle and quell the rising tide of hot, deep brown broth. "uhm ..." it's unlike him to be at a loss for words—but, to be fair, any sane person would've withdrawn from accidental touch in an instant instead of doubling down with an uncertain squeeze.