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blixabargelds · 2 months ago

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snowing already- a superstar christmas

set one year into superstar's main story timeline.

tags: rimming, anal fingering, blowjobs, substance abuse/ addiction, fluff (?!), mild angst.

word count: 4.3k

The first time Gale remembers seeing snow he was seven.

His mom had taken him on a road trip. She had called it a road trip. She’d told Gale they were going to stay with a friend for a little while. It had struck him as strange- that he’d never met this friend before, and now he was sleeping on her couch, wearing her son’s winter clothes, but he hadn’t asked about it. She was easy to be friends with, his mom. She was Gale’s best friend.

He’d understood, later, that his mom’s friend was a friend of a friend. That his dad didn’t know about their road trip. But his dad wasn’t around, and Gale’s mom was happy, so he was happy, too. They’d woken up some day near his birthday, both of them on this huge, worn couch, in a part of the city he’d never been to, and snow was stacked thick against the outside of the windows. Nobody knew where they were. They had their own, entirely blank universe. He’d run outside in his socks and soaked them straight through. Had hurdled back into the house with sopping feet, jostling his mom awake, and begged her to come make a snow angel with him. She’d told him to take the socks off, voice hushed and clipped and angry in a way she rarely got, telling Gale they didn’t have any spare clothes, that he was getting the carpet wet and cold, that they needed to make a good impression because they didn’t want to cut their road trip short. His lip bled from biting down against its wobbling.

She’d smiled at him guiltily that afternoon. Kissing the top of his head, she took off her combat boots and put them on him, and took him to the garden to make a snowman. Her hand steady near his shoulders to keep him from toppling over; her hair dyed blue that month, bare toes the same colour in minutes.

Gale doesn’t like Christmas. He knows John doesn’t much like it, either. But where John’s kept his thoughts on planning Gale’s ‘surprise’ birthday party, Gale’s been growing steadily frozen. The heater in their apartment is on the fritz again. He’s finding it harder and harder to feel the effects of the coke. He wakes up chilly, pulling the drawstring of his sweats tighter again, and the threat of festivities looms over him. More often than not, these days, he’s on the edge of a comedown. He leans over, squinting at the alarm clock. It’s 10am. He hasn’t been awake this early for weeks, save for nights he hasn’t slept at all, and he almost thinks twice before picking up the little bag on his nightstand. There’s just about enough coke left in it to rack up a few substantial lines. He fumbles for the waiting bill, re-rolls it, snorts one chalky trail in practiced silence.

The motions of his morning routine wake John all the same. His hand snakes across Gale’s waist and pulls him back under the covers, tugging him on his side to face him. Sleepy, pink-cheeked, curls in disarray, a furrow pulling his brows as he blinks himself aware. He brushes the space between Gale’s nose and lips with his thumb. Puts that thumb between his own teeth and licks it.

“Snowin’ already?” he says, with an uneasy kind of smile. Gale sniffs, hiding his face in the pillows, but John just coaxes him back out, tucking his long hair behind his accessible ear. “’S’it early?”

Gale hesitates. “’Bout ten.”

John looks pensive for a moment, frown deepening. “Think we oughtta keep this shit ’til after midday?”

Gale gnaws on his dry lips. They’re already tingling, his head buzzing and fingers restless, and he doesn’t feel particularly happy. “Think it’s Christmas,” he says.

John glances at his phone with a grimace. “Shit. Sure is.”

Gale swallows. John watches him, like he’s trying to predict the day on the way Gale’s mouth twitches, twists on a sentence and stalls.

“At Marge’s,” he starts to say, for no real reason at all, “they- we used to do the whole thing. Turkey an’ a tree. Had a fireplace goin’ all day.”

John nods slowly. Gale can see his expression tearing, knit together by patience, and an effort to fight some great uninvited feeling. “You wanna do the- whole thing?”

Gale knows the answer he’s hoping for. Luckily, it’s the one he’s got. He shakes his head. “No. I didn’t know what to do. Sounds damn ungrateful, but I didn’t want a- a mini DVD player or a pair of boots. Said thank you and smiled, and all, of course. But why would I need new boots if mine ain’t got holes in yet. Were my boots- were they offensive? Or-” he clears his throat. The cocaine’s agitating him more than lifting him, like it has been lately. John’s right. It’s a little too early. “Just wanted the day to be over.”

John nods again. Gale can tell he’s making him tense. Knows without asking that he is being ungrateful. That no matter how bad his holidays have been, John’s had worse. John’s never been gifted a mini DVD player.

“Shit, Bucky, ’m sorry. Complaining ’bout nothing like some- think my teeth are too fast.”

“Hey, Buck, no,” John says. When Gale looks at him, he’s looking back with nothing but understanding, eyes bright and kind, and Gale feels vaguely nauseous at his hasty assumption; that John would be comparing hurts at all. “Was just gonna ask what you would’ve wanted, is all.”

Gale’s cheeks warm with some unpinnable flush of shame. He says quietly, “books, I guess. Never asked for anythin’, though.”

John’s twirling Gale’s hair around his finger, now. Gale’s playing with the hem of his t-shirt, needing to touch something solid before his heart beats out of his palms. “And have some old perv come up your chimney? Better off without, really.”

Gale laughs. It bursts out of him feather-light, a shock to his system. He hadn’t noticed his chest growing so heavy. “Didn’t have a chimney, Bucky. ’N I’m pretty sure he’s meant to come down it.”

“Tomayto, tomahto,” John shrugs.

Gale smiles, but it’s forced. He’s hollow. Hungry for something he can’t figure out; itching for more sleep, or more blow. He slides further down in the bed, pulling the covers up to his ears, hoping to stay there for the rest of the day. John shuffles down with him. He drags the sheets over their heads entirely, caging them in with a cotton shield, and Gale knows he’s telling him that he can stay there, if he wants. That he’ll stay with him, too. He moves into Gale’s space with a series of rustles, close enough their noses touch.

“If it helps,” John whispers against his mouth, “I didn’t get you anythin’.”

Gale huffs out a short laugh. “Didn’t get you anything, either.”

John closes the minuscule gap between them, kissing Gale soft and deep. His fingers slide under Gale’s shirt, tracing the peaks and divots of his ribs and spine, tickling gently until he’s truly smiling at John’s teeth.

“Can give you a present, if you want one,” John says, pulling back just enough to press his lips to Gale’s jaw.

“Mm.” John’s touch is falling lower, pushing Gale’s sweatpants down to his knees. Gale kicks them the rest of the way off. “Maybe.”

“Just one thing,” John carries on, his breath warm, tongue flicking out to lick lightly at Gale’s throat.

Gale hums. Grabs John’s ass, drags him so their hips are flush, sighing at the contact, tugging at John’s boxers. “Yeah, Bucky?”

“You gotta sit on my lap and tell me what a good kid you’ve been.”

Gale can’t stop the snort that happens before he can turn it into a groan. He shoves at John’s chest. “Jesus, Bucky.”

“Don’t say the birthday boy’s name in vain,” John chastises. He crowds back in, sets his lips to Gale’s overworked pulse point, whispers there, “or you’ll be on my naughty list.”

“Christ,” Gale laughs, swatting at John’s chest.

“There you go again,” John says. “Askin’ for a proper lesson, now.”

“Thought this was a present?”

Gale’s hair is sticking static to the sheets as John tents them with his body, expanding their private world by leaning up and over him. Hands either side of Gale’s shoulders, he digs his fingers underneath. Rolls him onto his front and rucks up his shirt, exposing his back for kissing down. He sinks his teeth into the soft flesh at Gale’s side. Gale groans.

“S’pose you can decide that.”

John makes his way back up, pressing his lips to the squirming line of Gale’s spine, and for the first time in a while the attention doesn’t make him cringe. He knows he looks a little wan. That he’s getting a little thin. He’s told himself he’ll get back into shape. Back into regular sleep and regular meals; after this bag, after the next.

John licks at his lower back, and Gale settles face-down. He thinks John’s about to spit on his fingers, open him up and fuck him from behind, but John spits directly onto his tailbone instead. Gale feels it slide down, and John spreads Gale open with both hands, tonguing his own spit inside his hole. Gale’s brain misfires. He jolts in surprise. Gasps, as John licks around the tight seal of muscle. Lapping at him with gentle pressure, not quite slipping inside, breath warm on sensitive skin. John’s hands are kneading his asscheeks absently, gentle thumbs pulling him apart.

“Bucky,” Gale says, head still catching up, the strained plea of John’s name muffled by sheets and wet with drool. “What-”

John just hums against him. Gale keeps expecting him to sit back at any moment, to slick himself up and slide his cock into him like so many mornings, only he doesn’t. John stays there. He licks a long stripe all the way from Gale’s taint to the last notch of his spine. Hovers there, breath a tickle, a tease, a quiet little laugh, before moving back down to tongue messily at Gale’s hole. Gale moans stupidly loud. John’s hands are still prying him open, baring each inch of wetted skin and making him feel exposed in a way he hasn’t since John first tied his wrists behind his back. Gale grinds his hips down into the sheets. His shirt’s sticking to him with sweat. His cock’s sticking to the bed with precum, every part of him hot and dizzy. He’s gasping in unsure little chirrups, each swipe of John’s tongue a new experience, each damp flick at the rim of him sending a chain reaction up his spinal cord. He’s still barely taunting him. Gale’s watched John’s tongue dart out between his lips on stage, spit clinging in clear thread from his teeth to the microphone. Seen the way he presses the flat of it to the grill, throws a wink at Gale, unaware, or perhaps only conceptually aware, of people in the crowd fawning, too. John’s a menace with his tongue. Gale makes a shocked, strangled noise as he proves this- fucking into him fully.

“God- hell, Bucky,” Gale groans, fingers tight in the sheets beside him.

John doesn’t relent. He lets go of one of Gale’s asscheeks, using his hand instead to curl around his hip bone, pulling him further down onto his mouth. Gale’s cock is so wet at the tip he half thinks he’s come already, until John shifts his other hand, presses a fingertip to Gale’s rim alongside his tongue, and Gale bites down on the pillow so hard he tastes polyester foam. He makes a feral sort of sound into the cotton. Thrusts onto the mattress and back down onto John’s tongue, stuck between the two, rutting like a dog, panting like one. John withdraws just enough to lap at Gale’s relaxed, spasming hole as he slips his finger inside him. The sensation of John eating him out, licking at his insides, was fresh and overwhelming, but Gale’s near convulsing immediately with the length and precision of his movements, now. He gets another finger inside him with ease, lips never moving from the ring of muscle, and Gale thinks he might be sobbing. He can barely breathe. Ragged, wet gasps eaten by the sheets, and he realises, in only vague horror, that the reason he hasn’t hurtled over the edge already is because of his chemical fucking breakfast. John brushes his prostate with the pad of his pointer finger, and Gale laughs in sheer delirium. Sweat’s pooling at the base of his spine. John smiles, Gale feels it against him, and lifts his head just to lick at the perspiration. Gale wishes he could turn around only to see how wet John’s moustache is. He can’t move an inch beyond his trembling.

“You okay?” John says at the small of his back, soft and somewhat smug. He punctuates his question with a crook of his fingers. Gale’s cock leaks more precum into the bed.

“’M close,” he manages to gasp.

“Uh-huh,” John says, and Gale groans at the toying tone of his voice.

John dips his head again, but doesn’t move any closer. Gale spreads his legs wider without thinking. His breath catches in his throat as John fucks his fingers in and out. Slowly, each drag out and press back in felt down to the nerve, no lube but John’s drying spit making it sting just enough to ground him. John’s still just there. Just far enough away from his own fingers, from where they’re disappearing into Gale, that Gale realises he’s watching intently. Creating a show for himself: Gale’s shaking back, spit slick between his cheeks, John’s fingers dipping, pulling, crooking, being swallowed. The scrutiny makes him whine. Makes his face flush as he presses it hot into the crook of his elbow. John angles his next press just so, and Gale jumps, fucking himself down onto the bed with a pitiful whimper. John does it again, and Gale’s just about to strike up a fuss when he sets his mouth back to him. He doesn’t pull his fingers out, but pulls them apart, spreading Gale’s hole as far as it will comfortably go and then some, spitting then slipping his tongue between them. Gale moans again, choked-off, and his next sound is closer to something begging. His face is wet. John takes one finger out just so he can fully fit his tongue back inside him, and his head is white noise as John finds his prostate. Circles it, rubbing and pressing, tongue aimless and nothing but further wet heat stuffing him full. Gale’s humping the bed desperately, not entirely sure which way is up, the drag of the sheets against his dripping cock no mercy as he pushes himself away from John’s ministrations and back down. John makes a moan of his own against Gale’s body, and Gale comes rocking back onto John and forward onto the bed like he’s wild, hardly a sound scraping from his throat with the last of his desperate lung capacity. John’s fingers and mouth stay at his hole until he’s shedding fresh tears.

Gale goes boneless and brainless when John’s touch leaves. He’s stroking his spine when Gale comes back to himself, fingertips tacky with sweat, catching on each vertebrae. There must be a bruise on the hill of one, because John settles there, pressing down on something tender just slightly, the rise and fall of each breath drawing that aching touch closer, bringing the ringing in Gale’s ears down to a low throb. John bends and brushes his hair out of the way, kissing the nape of his neck.

“You good?” he says. His lips are at Gale’s ear, wet.

Gale makes a contented sound into the sheets. Clears his throat and shifts slowly, curling his legs up to his chest and tugging his loose shirt back down around himself. He rolls onto his side and looks up at John. Smiles, half-buzzed and on the cusp of laughing again. John’s face is open and pale in the light. Gale reaches up to touch the glistening spit on his chin, hand shaking a little.

“Liked my present,” he says.

John’s the one who laughs, then. Grabs Gale’s wrist and kisses his pulse, flips him onto his back and kisses the underside of his jaw, nipping at the lobe of his ear. Says, words shredded by his beaming, “You loved it. You fuckin’ loved it, you noisy fuckin’ treasure.”

“John-” Gale tries to bat him away, futile under the strength of John’s precious joy.

“I fuckin’ love you,” John says.

“I love you, Jesus, Bucky, get off I’m disgusting,” Gale’s breathless, wrestling John far enough away to peel himself from the damp sheets.

He leans down and kisses John’s face. His lips, slips his tongue into the overworked heat of his mouth and smiles into it. With a lingering grin and shaking legs, Gale stumbles into their bathroom to change. He fucks around with the heater some more. It’s still flashing some awful pressure warning, so he groans, strips, towels off the worst of the cum from his stomach, tugs on yesterday’s sweatpants left on the bathroom floor. He grabs a clean enough t-shirt from the edge of the bath and turns back into their bedroom.

An idea occurs to him as he’s looking for a matching sock. Something’s buried in their chest of drawers. Something that shouldn’t have been buried at all. He roots around until he finds it; the small, angular shape tucked inside an old glove. He grabs it, tipping the contents into his hand.

“Bucky,” he says. John’s tugging on his own shirt and pants, pushing damp hair back from his forehead, glowing. Gale bites the inside of his cheek. “Y’can have this. I mean, I want you to. I want you to have it. For Christmas.”

John frowns at him. He hesitates, stretching out his hand, and into his open palm Gale drops the necklace. It’s a star. Silver, a little smaller than a dime, one of its points shorter than the others. John blinks down at it, turning it over slowly.

“Chain’s a bit delicate,” Gale says. His chest feels tight, throat dry. “Was Mom’s. But I’m sure you can get another, it’ll- it’ll fit another.”

John looks up at him with wide eyes. “Buck.”

Gale yearns, suddenly, for another line. He’s not sure why. “She wore it nearly every day. Gave it to me to hold onto when she thought- when Dad had sold everythin’ else. Never really knew what to do with it. Felt wrong to just wear it, but it should be worn by someone. Someone who-” he takes a breath in through his nose. Making a meal out it; chewing on his words, he concludes, “it’s special. Y’know?”

“Buck,” John says again quietly. His eyes are still fixed on the pendant, brows drawn tight. He shakes his head slightly. He looks almost pained, and Gale wonders, for a moment, if he’s stepped on some hidden land-mine he had no prior knowledge of. John takes a breath. “It should be on someone special.”

Gale exhales roughly. Torn somewhere between relief and an aching sadness. He shrugs, like it’s easy, like it’s simple. “It is. Here-”

He crosses the distance from the doorway to their bed, climbing up onto it and situating himself behind John. There’s a faint pull to his shoulders. Maybe the tiniest tremble. Gale takes the necklace gently from his hands, fastening it around John’s neck before pressing a kiss to the clasp.

“Suits you,” he says lightly, without turning John around to face him.

Gale stays like that for a minute. He can feel John’s heart beat steadily through his back, Gale’s running a faster rhythm still. He’s waiting for the tension to leave through John’s lungs. For him to sag a little under his touch, let him lean into the line of his body and drape himself over him like a shroud, not like something boneless over glass. He wants to tell John that a gift is not a weight; it isn’t something to be earned or something he has to fulfil, but Gale knows that would only strengthen that wall. Eventually John just rolls his shoulders, letting out a shaky breath. He leans back awkwardly, dislodging Gale in the process of kissing his temple.

“Goin’ for a smoke,” he says. A tight smile.

Gale nods and falls back to the mattress. There’s a flash of white as John twitches their blinds open, just enough to climb out onto the fire escape. Smoke begins to drift in with the cold air. Gale curses under his breath, flopping over to his side of the bed and doing another line. 10:40am isn’t so bad. He feels it buzz beneath his eyelids as he counts the racing beats of his heart.

“You comin’?” John calls from outside. It startles him. Gale sits, rubbing a hand over his face. He pulls on his boots, the closest hoodie, tugging the hood up and zipping it to his throat. “You’re really gonna want a smoke, Buck.”

“Alright, ’m comin’,” Gale says. He snatches a cigarette from John’s pack and dips out onto the fire escape.

It’s snowing.

John’s backed up against the railings, grinning around his cigarette, as fat white flakes of snow fall fast into his hair, sticking to his clothes and his lashes in a thick, glittering film. “Merry fuckin’ Christmas, huh?”

“Jesus,” Gale breathes. “There’s so much of it.”

“Most of a blizzard,” John says, shaking his head hard enough to send snowflakes spiralling off his hair, drifting into Gale’s face until he’s blinded.

Gale splutters, wiping snow from his eyes, tilting his head up to the sky. The whiteness of it is all-encompassing. He can’t see the tops of buildings, the clouds, the middle distance. There’s a sprig of holly hanging loose and dead from the fire escape above. Ice creeping off the end of it in suspended free-fall . He closes his eyes. Feels his cheeks rapidly freeze, moisture sticking to his lashes and landing on his parted lips. Without thinking, childish and impulsive, he sticks his tongue out and catches the snowflakes to taste. When he looks back at John he’s looking at him, thoughtful, the tip of his nose red, smiling a small kind of private smile. His fingers, a gentle shiver to them, are playing absently with the pendant around his neck.

“It’s beautiful, Gale,” he says seriously. “I mean it. It’s the most beautiful thing.”

Gale’s heart thuds. He looks out at the snowfall around them. “Yeah. Merry Christmas, Bucky.”

John’s chewing on his lip, the way he does in those rare moments Gale knows he wants to say something, but can’t quite reach the right words. He looks a little unsteady. Gale takes the front of his sweater in his hands, wet cigarettes knocked loose and forgotten, fast buried in fresh snow. He pulls John close and casts his eyes up above them. To that rotting, discarded sprig of holly.

“Close enough, right?” he says.

John quirks an eyebrow. Smirking, pulling on that thread of raw softness inside Gale that takes an age, or a kiss, to unspool. “To what, hm, Buck?”

Gale rolls his eyes and presses their lips together. It’s wet and cold, running noses and smoke, and when Gale’s had enough of John’s tongue against his he drops to his knees. His sweats soak straight through. He thinks, with some level of amusement, that numb knees might help here. His lips are losing sensation, too; ice cold and humming with cocaine. He tests that sensation, dragging his mouth against the metal zip of John’s fly, flattening his tongue at the denim already stiffening in the air, against the shape of John’s cock.

John’s hands are in his hair already, when he says, “Get up, baby, you’ll freeze.” Gale shakes his head, slipping his fingers into John’s waistband, eliciting a small gasp and a breathless giggle. “Buck, I’m not tryin’ to lose my dick out here.”

Gale looks up at him, and the laughter is shimmering on the breeze as it goes. “You won’t.”

“When d’you get so- Jesus-” John chokes off as Gale gets his chilly fingers around his cock, pulling him out of his pants and directly into his warm mouth. “Out in the fuckin’ open-”

Gale swallows his response. No one is seeing them through the drift, tucked inside their apartments, warm and sensible. Gale’s half-brave streak of bold exhibitionism is blanketed in white. John’s hot on his tongue; hard already, as Gale takes him down deep. He keeps him there, using his hands to work what won’t fit, preventing John from exposure to the frigid air as much as possible. Gale finds his slit and licks at it. Finds the full vein on the underside of John’s cock and runs his tongue along it. Takes him further down his throat, gently aching and relaxed, until his eyes are watering, tears cooling on his cheeks and wind-whipped sleet chapping his stretched lips in record time. John’s fingers dig into the back of Gale’s head. Gale moans around the size of him.

“Buck,” John says. Gale can hardly hear him. “Jesus, Buck-” John groans loud into the open air.

Gale keeps his pace, pulling back far enough to taste John’s arousal; falling forward to take him so deep he can’t taste much of anything at all. John’s clenching fingers pull at his dampened hair. He’s begun to move his hips a little, and Gale makes no move to steady him as John bullies further down his throat, taking it and flexing his muscles around him. The sounds John’s making grow louder, bolder, bordering on a dare for the world to hear them. The world won’t. Each gasping hitch of breath, each honeyed deep moan; they’re muffled by the dense, steady fall of snow.

#frankiefic #mota #masters of the air #mota fanfic #superstar #wow a whole superstar fic yallll #mini one but #john egan #gale cleven #clegan #in honour of this i [redacted] my bf and this is now scheduled bc we're in the cinema watching queer #happy fuckin xmas #lowkey hate the formatting text wall of this but cant post it on ao3 bc its out of order of the whole thing but #whateverrr enjoy #superfic

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danwhobrowses · 2 months ago

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Well Critters the year is almost up, at least for me here in England. Aside from the general pensiveness and reflection of the past year, it also means I'm about to (technically) complete my first full year of following the CR episodes as they came out; a year full of twists, turns, uprisings, downfalls, and just so much going on - only for the campaign to now be nearing its end.

We knew the end was coming sure, but since December's 4SD announced itself as the last of the campaign the number of episodes remaining has grown more finite, likely to be around 1-4 more episodes, and confronting the end is very different to acknowledging it ending. Admittedly in the confronting part I've become a liiiiittle bit of a mess, loaded with panic and worry beyond my own control; I sometimes tell myself that I'm being silly, they're fictional characters, the story's likely already recorded its end, and I never had any control or influence on the story to begin with, but as expected such attempts are both hollow and in vain. It's been a while since I was this invested in a story, or fandom for that matter, and the fact that most key and decisive moments will be determined by dice rolls continuously does nothing to soothe my nerves, or my uncertainties towards how it'll end - after all, the hardest battle has yet to be fought, the biggest decisions yet to be made, and Ludinus Da'leth is way WAY too calm about being trapped in a Force Cage for my liking.

I wonder if the fear and dread was the same for those watching the end of the previous two campaigns? If it was more or less than it is now by comparison? In hindsight, while the final stage so far feels more grounded compared to the more spectacular, massive miniature, larger-than-life endgame battles against Vecna and Lucien's Neo-Somnovem phases, it feels like the stakes are riskier for Bells Hells, on a low Level 15 with no cleric, dismal openings for additional support, and little wiggle room to get creative, especially since killing Ludinus - who continues to be touted as the 'strongest mage of our time' and could get even stronger depending on which way Matt goes with him - alone potentially won't end the overarching conflict, though he should still die nonetheless. At the very least I want the Hells (as we have for VM and the Nein) to all be free to live happily, be it settling down, embarking on new adventures, or just being the best they can be - and doing so with the people that mean the most to them - and at the very most I want them to make the best and kindest decision for the world as a whole, which I hope they get the chance and take the opportunity to do so.

It's still difficult to ready myself for it ending mind you, since I could have very easily spent another year with these idiots and still not be fully ready to say goodbye to them. On that however, I know not everyone shares my sentiment; some are truly ready for the campaign to be over and for C4 for explode (pun intended) onto the scene with brand new characters that in a few years time we'll also likely be unready to say goodbye to, and that's fine. But for all that can and will be said about Campaign 3 - positively and critically - it has very much delighted, disheveled, and deranged me for most of the year, usually at my desk of work, so trying to brace myself for the climax has, and continues to be, a lot of mental effort. Keeping myself positive and hopeful in these situations is tough especially when on the verge of a big battle; sometimes the negative thoughts creep in, Youtube videos full of pessimists and clickbait titles appearing unwantedly on my recommendations don't help, nor does the memory of what happened the last time the Hells were in a major boss battle at the tail end of their time on Ruidus, but when the campaign does end I want it to be looked upon fondly, and a lot of that does hinge on its conclusion. Obviously, I trust the group and Matt's storytelling, but that is only to an extent; defeating Ludinus is something I know Bells Hells are capable of doing - so long as the dice gods play ball and Matt doesn't inexplicably overbuff Ludinus to the nth degree like he did with Otohan - but the Predathos decision remains the root and focal point of the campaign's criticisms for good reason, often overshadowing and playing obstacle to character growth and direction. There is a satisfying and spectacular conclusion in there, but navigating it - even for a group that embraces 'when given two options, we pick option 3' more times than not - let alone achieving it is a very delicate path of fine margins, one that can indeed make or break the campaign - and a lot of my worries lie there, that and approaching/confronting an entity so voracious and eager to escape that it makes the gods terrified enough to deliberate breaking down the Divine Gate.

Without talking more to death about the god stuff and Predathos thing like we the fandom have already done aplenty, there's not much else I can say except that I'm worried but also trying to be hopeful. The campaign ending in tragedy or a pyrrhic victory is possible but it's not an outcome I personally desire or want to entertain. You could perhaps aptly translate that to my general feelings towards the new year too; having wants and wishes, hopes and hesitancies, fears and fandom, just currently a bit more compressed here than it is for the full year - and given our recent run of the years playing dystopia simulator, I'm more hopeful in one than the other right now - and perhaps it would do good to start the year with something to smile about. Right now, it's just that it's happening; it's happening, it's soon, and it's very apparent how close we are to finishing, which means I'm panicking and rambling, and panicking, and of course, rambling. I don't know what emotions will January send me through, but I do hope with all my being that they'll be positive ones.

So whether or not you reached the end of this, I wish you all a Happy New Year and, much like the end of Campaign 3, I hope it's a good one.

#critical role #cr3 #c3 spoilers #campaign 3 #bells hells #cr spoilers #waiter could I get a serving of rambling with a side of panic and dread - medium reflection on a bed of edits no sauces #also your finest bottle of fretting - one that desires for things to hit the right notes amongst the maelstrom of my imagined scenarios #the cast are all devious though because they know to play coy and with our emotions - I love and hate (affectionately) them so XD #'now Danny make sure to keep things short and sweet annnnnnd that's seven paragraphs...'#god knows what I'll be like when OP ends - in like 2055 or something #CR's 10th year is gonna be huge anyway between this and the M9 wedding one-shot alone - not to mention the other one shots and maybe C4 #we started the year getting on the moon and we'll start the new year wrapping up stuff on the moon #my prayer circle is very much in full force too - gonna be all jitters every Thursday night/Friday morning for a while #if I can fight the sleep I'll try to watch 118 live - in hopes it's the one where Ludinus' ancient elf ass gets handed to him permanently #since I spend most of my pto during the xmas period I have that thursday off - but after that I'll be doing the usual Friday morning panic #I hope someone has at least enjoyed my slow descent into madness this past year #just...y'know! Pull it off! I know you can do it! Roll well (not you Matt) be well and make the right choices!

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