#podcasts about tv shows are really good too

[fisherrprince]

the problem is I’m such a staunch believer in the slow buildup, the earnest enjoyment of meandering through terrible story decisions and weird nothing subplots to build up into a conclusion that explodes out from all that as fantastic storytelling and intrigue based on all that buildup, such that it makes it necessary to get through all that or you’re missing something essential, that I’m also a terrible person to talk to about what makes a story good. I can tell you plenty of what actually makes something tight and well-written and all that technical speak but how could anyone take my advice when I so so so love excruciatingly long unnecessarily complex fumbling and weird nonsense that spirals into, inexplicably, weird nonsense that makes you cry your lungs sore

[carriesthewind]

I reread the IA's contemporaneous post justifying their "National Emergency Library", and one of the things that struck me is just how selfish it was.

(It was also full of falsehoods, ranging from exaggeration to outright lies, but that's another matter.)

While 2020 feels like it was several decades in the past, it was actually only a few years ago. And I remember March of 2020! I was there! And oh my god, is this post right in line with every other selfish, demanding asshole determined to make a global pandemic all about themselves!

First of all, there is the language of the post - it is a "tremendous and historic outage" that books are unavailable to patrons because libraries are closed for the pandemic. "Right now, today, there are 650 million books that tax-paying citizens have paid to access that are sitting on shelves in closed libraries, inaccessible to them."

Missing from this outrage is a recognition that, like. Librarians are people. They get sick, and die.

They did get sick, and died.

Libraries were closed not only to protect patrons and the public, but librarians too. Libraries were closed to protect people, human beings. Because generally speaking, even the most enthusiastic supporters of access to books and knowledge, prioritize lives over books.

The AI's post, however, reeks of an entitlement to things that *my* tax dollars paid for. Libraries and library collections aren't a public good. They're something *I* should be able to access anytime I want, damn the context or the consequences.

(Was it also a historic outrage when I had to wait several months to check out Nona the Ninth, because so many other people were checking it out?)

Second, as I said, I remember early 2020. And in spring and summer of 2020, there was more free content on the internet than before or since. So many people and so many institutions were bending over backwards to provide people with books and tv shows and music and podcasts and virtual tours and collections and just about anything that someone could figure out how to digitize. So many people were giving away books for free, or writing/recording new content to give away for free. I can't even remember how many times I heard or read someone telling their readers or listeners just to pay what they could, if they could. So many people and institutions were giving away so much, do so much, to provide access to knowledge and books and entertainment and information.

And in that moment, the IA decided to steal from people. When so many people, so many authors, were acting so selflessly, they decided that it wasn't good enough. And instead of giving away themselves, they decided to steal from authors and pat themselves on the back for "meet[ing] this unprecedented need," when they didn't even actually do anything themselves. Or maybe more accurately, the only thing they did was something irrelevant to the actual needs of the community, something they wanted to do anyway, something to try to use a pandemic as an excuse to advance their agenda.

Because third, there is zero concern for the population of patrons actually most impacted by the closure. The IA cares, to a fault, only about information being digitized.* But many people who use physical libraries, many of the people most impacted by their closure, are people who do not have access to the AI's so-called "open library." And people who could access digital books generally continued to have access to their library's e-book services, and to tons of other free content. The patrons who were actually in the most need are ignored as irrelevant.

*And I want to be clear - they care that information is digitized, not about digital access. "Access" means more than information being digitized and theoretically being able to be read.

It's so clear that IA didn't really care about the patrons of physical libraries. Instead, they saw a real problem, and instead of working toward any solutions, decided to use it as a prop to push their own agenda. (Again, while people were dying.)

It's just all so deeply selfish.

[drgnflyteabox]

something to remember you by

pairing: soap x fem reader summary: your boyfriend wants some memorabilia of you to take on his deployments. only, he wants his superior officer to take the photos. w.c: 3.7k tags/warnings: dubcon, cucking, mild degradation, oral (m + f, rough), hair pulling, un-negotiated kink, dom!soap, clothed man naked reader, teasing scent kink (m + f), one (1) pussy slap, crying, squirting, unprotected sex, some anxiety, reassurance mid-fuck, overstimulation, some aftercare, abrupt but open ending, reader has some internal shame around sex/kink, reader doesn't rlly like her bf

At first, it’s nothing. Dirty talk, suggestive texts, passing comments while he’s on his second deployment with a hand around his cock and you pretending to be into it.

"Think about it, babe," he’s panting, but it’s less sexy when you can tell he’s deepening his voice on purpose like Christian Bale Batman. "Don’t you wanna give me something to remember you by? While I’m out here fighting for you?"

Corny. So fucking corny. Your feet are kicked up on your coffee table, fuzzy-socked, face schlopped with a cooling gel mask. Quarter past 8 o’clock, and he’s trying to sell you on letting one of his army buddies fuck you and take pictures of you. The absurdity makes you almost laugh.

"…babe?" Oh, shit.

"Yeah honey, I’m here." You’d kind of feel bad, if it weren’t for the ick factor. It wasn’t that you didn’t like him, he was fine, it was just that since he’d joined the army he’d inched closer and closer to picking up a mic and dictating which body counts were okay to women over podcasts. That, and he’s gotten hornier. Kinkier.

Which is fine, really. Only you don't consider yourself adventurous. Sex is like a chore, something to put you to sleep, to relax the muscles. Relationships are quid pro quo - I suck your dick, you make my parents think I’m succeeding in life, deal?

Not to mention, you've never even considered stepping outside of the idea that sex is between committed couples only, sequestered away and hidden in the closet like old clothes.

"So, are you picturing it?" Schlap schlap schlap. He must’ve added lotion. "You can say no obviously, ughnnn, but I know this guy really well. I'd, ahhh fuck, sit in the other room."

"Thanks for being so considerate," you sound dry, but you’re honestly intrigued. Life has been monotonous since graduation, the transition from study to office… rough.

You aren’t adventurous. But you’re so fucking bored.

"Can I see him first?" On the TV in front of you, muted, Matthew Macfayden confesses his love tearfully in the rain. You want to be bewitched, body and soul. To feel something.

"So you’ll do it? Oh, fuck-" Not what I said, you think. His voice goes high, reedy, trembling with his orgasm. "See how fucking hot this makes me? I’ll send a pic, give me a sec."

It’s a group photo. He’s dressed in his uniform, head shaved, standing next to a group of a dozen or so men. Outlined, at the far corner with a group of guys big enough to dwarf a good third of the rest, is a man with building biceps and a smarmy grin and a confident, wide-legged pose. Hips jutted out. Fuck, he’s hot. You can see his bulge through his pants, through the picture, under a heavy tac vest.

"Get in, get in!" the apartment is clean for once. At least, clean without you getting sick of his clutter and playing maid. Did he do it himself to impress his friend? That makes you snort, but he doesn’t catch it, too preoccupied with his phone.

"Um, woah-" you start, taken aback. It looks like a porn set. There’s a plastic sheet on the ground in front of the couch. "I thought this was supposed to be casual?"

"It is, babe," he’s brushing you off, same as he did the few days leading up to this. You’d gone through some minor confidence and judgment crises, anxiety building like a balloon about to pop. All of which he’d brushed off.

It’s all fun and games, babe. Plus he’s done this before, he’s like a pro, showed me some videos - that was something you hadn't agreed to, just some pictures for him to take on deployments.

Still, trepidation makes you sweat, makes your thighs stick to the brown leather couch when you sit and try to sip water. Your socks crinkle the sheet.

You don’t turn when he arrives, still too nervous, knees stuck together and hands slipping on the glass from condensation when they start talking behind you. There’s too many what ifs - all reasons you’d used to avoid hookups in college, all reasons you wanted to break through your shell now.

Plus, you’re sick of hearing "did you finish?"

"This must be her," says an accented voice, gruff and maybe amused, "ye feelin' shy?"

No. You’re just nervous. Exposed. One of the only conditions you'd pushed was no cuck chair, but now you weren't sure how to feel to be left alone with him soon. This man is so big, so imposing.

"Hi," you say smartly. He looks just like his photo, only bigger. Bulging muscles and the same wide stance when he comes to stand in front of you. It’s only because you can’t stand sitting face-to-face with his crotch that you stand and hold your hand out to shake.

"And polite!" Loud. He introduces himself as Johnny, which makes your boyfriend's eyebrows raise. "So cute." he takes the liberty of bypassing your hand and grabbing your waist.

Oh fuck, he runs hot. His hands burn, even through your shirt. You feel self-conscious, plain, looking up at his probing blue eyes. They’re so intense, captivating, distracting you from the feeling of him getting closer and closer, till your tits are pressed to his.

"Hey-"

The moment breaks. Your boyfriend is looking at you both, unreadable expression on his face. Is he regretting this? Feeling emasculated, maybe? Hard to feel much sympathy when you’re the one about to get fucked.

And it was his idea.

"I’m gonna go to the bedroom," his eyes squint, flitting between the both of you before he scurries away, pants tented.

"Now that that's outta the way," Johnny grunts. "C'mere." And sits down with a grunt, pulling you to him.

You try to pivot, to sit next to him, but he's strong and coordinated so you wind up in his lap, back touching the arm of the couch and your legs slung over his, bum on one thigh.

"That's more like it, no?" there's that wolfish grin again, so close. One hand rests on your knee, possessively, while the other wraps around your shoulders and plays with your shirt. "Why don't we introduce ourselves?"

The hand on your knee moves to your face, gripping your cheeks in a grip hard enough to push your lips out into an embarrassing pout. You struggle a little, pulling at his wrist, but he doesn't budge.

He pulls his phone out, aiming the camera at your face, recording a video through a text-app. You can that it's a groupchat, assured by your boyfriend before that it was totally private, babe. This is jut between us.

"Now say hello," he puts his stubbly cheek next to yours, rubbing like a cat. "And introduce yourself."

"H'llo," you struggle through it, muffled by his grip. Your name is almost unintelligible, and your jaw starts to ache a little.

"Say, can I please suck your cock, sir?"

Your stomach tightens, right down to your pussy, which gushes a little into your panties.

"Cn'I please suck your cock, sir?" he's so fucking forward, just jumping in headfirst. The loss of control, your being told what to do, makes your clit jump. Sex has never been like this - you've never been so acquiescing.

"Of course you can, bonnie!" you're almost tossed to the floor, no gentleness as he pulls you toward him by the hair so quickly it almost makes you dizzy. He scoots to the edge of the couch, leaning back against it, and uses that strong arm to rub your face on his bulge. "Get me hard."

He puts his phone on the arm of the couch.

You flounder, hands finding his knees and trying to pull back. He doesn't let you.

"Use your mouth, kiss me," his hand finds a firmer hold on your hair as you start mouthing against him, tasting denim, smelling his musk, letting it get to your head and make you dizzy. "That's right, kitten."

His cock starts to chub under his clothes, and you almost wish you could feel it in your mouth. Oral isn't your favourite, but the way your pussy clenches around nothing and drips into your panties is making you think maybe you were wrong about yourself.

"Up, up," your face is rubbed a little raw by the time you sit up, looking at him. Waiting for instruction. "Everything off, except your panties."

You obey, stripping your shirt and bra and then your shorts. Your nipples tighten in the cool air of the apartment, goosebumps dancing along your arms and your belly. Self-consciousness almost has you reaching to cover yourself, until Johnny grabs you by the shoulders and twists you just enough that you're back to facing his phone.

"Look at these," he grunts in your ear, fingers finding your nipples. Pulling them, pinching them. It's not for you, it's for the camera. You feel like an object, an accessory, secondary to getting the shot of the rough pads of his fingers teasing you into whimpers.

You've never been more turned on.

"Nice, eh?" he pulls them up and out, which hurts, but draws a line of pure electricity from your nipples to your clit. "Whatd'ye think, L.T?" the name doesn't register. Army stuff, you assume.

You're turned back around sharply again to face his actual cock. He's pulled it from his fly, thick and leaking, while you were getting undressed. It's unfair, really, nice and long and curved.

"Ask me again," a statement. A command, phone discarded.

"Please can I suck your cock, sir?" the words make your cheeks burn, your body quiver, your clit jump.

"Ye can," laughter this time, worsening your embarrassment. His hand finds your hair again, pulling you down when you're too slow to touch your lips to the head of his dick. "I'm gonnae fuck your face, alright?"

Without waiting, he lifts his hips up and thrust into your mouth. It's not as deep as it can go, but you almost gag, unprepared. The next thrust is deeper, quicker. He's letting you build up to it, letting your hands rest on his knees for balance.

Your nose touches his pubic hair, inhaling the scent of him. Any attempt at hollowing your cheeks, sucking, licking, is futile. He's so quick that the best you can do is hang on for the ride, keeping your teeth in check.

Drool builds and spills past your lips, making wet sounds compete with his frankly pornographic moaning. He's a man possessed, using you while you squeeze your eyes against overwhelmed tears.

Finally he yanks you off of him by the hair, holding you up while you splutter from the unexpected change. Your hands go to your face, trying to wipe.

"None o'that, now," he bats them away, giving you a shake when you keep trying. "Leave it." like you're a bad dog.

Strings of spit connect your swollen lips to his cock, thin and gooey, that fall to your bare chest when he sits up.

You're turned, stood up and then guided to the couch to sit. Johnny slaps your thighs to get you to open them, lifting your feet for you so that your heels rest on the edge of the couch cushions.

"Awe, look how wet she is," he holds your legs, exposing your wet panties to him and to his phone, where he takes a few pictures. Again, you wonder about the appeal of this for your boyfriend. It's hot for you. Degrading, but hot. Or maybe more hot because of the degradation.

"Oh god," you say out of shock. You've never been so fucking wet in your life, and god forbid he sees how swollen with arousal you are underneath.

"Naw, just me," Johnny says, rubbing his knuckles over your pussy through the fabric. "She all wet and frustrated?"

You don't answer, hands keeping you sat up, chest heaving. You're still a little dizzy.

Johnny licks over your panties, mouthing over them not unlike what you did for him only a few minutes before. It's nothing, really, but you're so worked up that it startles a long, drawn-out moan from you.

He continues like this, never actually making contact with where you need it, with your skin. Every one in a while he turns his head to the side and grins, taking a picture or a videoclip while you tip your head back and resist begging him to just get on with it.

His nose presses on your mound, where he drags it down to your hole and sniffs.

That's what breaks your resolve.

"Please," you whine. Your voice is rough from taking his cock in your throat.

"Please what?" he opens his mouth and puts his teeth on you, not biting, just letting you feel them. Gnawing gently.

"Please do it," you look down at him, and even though he's on his knees you know you aren't the one in control. "Please lick my cunt."

A laugh, mean and condescending. Your eyes close in shame, pussy burning for attention.

"This cunt right here?" he pulls the gusset aside, whistling. "This desperate little cunt?"

"Yes, please," you curl your toes into the couch.

Something shifts in his eyes, some unrecognizable flash. It feels like danger, like you're in over your head. Johnny takes two fingers and rubs them over your clit, slowly at first, and then quickly when he feels how slippery you are.

Somewhere, a volcano erupts and it isn't comparable to the heat or the feeling of your clit finally getting attention. It zings through you, making you squeeze your muscles, taught and trembling.

The pads of his fingers are a rough sensation on your swollen skin, the worlds best vibrator, ribbed for your pleasure. All he does is rub, up and down over your clit, quickly and until your face starts to scrunch together in orgasm, trembling hard.

Then he pulls back and slaps you so hard on your pussy you scream.

You almost come from it, shocked, legs kicking out, skin burning and clit pulsing with desperation, back bowing. You keep making sound after, a long and drawn out aaaaaahhhhh while he grins like the cat that got the cream. Takes another picture, the click of the camera loud in the face of your disappointment.

The intensity of it almost brings you to tears, looking at him with betrayal and vulnerability in your face. You feel weak all of a sudden, cored, devoured, pulled apart as soft as slow cooked meat.

Your panties fall back over your skin, a minor comfort against the sting.

"Poor girl," Johnny says with false sympathy. "Let me make it up to ye."

Then you're up again, pulled and pressed against Johnny's chest until he pulls your underwear down and rearranges you to sit on his lap over his spread legs, yours dangling on either side.

"Gonna bounce ye on my cock, alright?" you nod. "Sit on it."

You lift your hips, using his knees for balance, and he guides the head of his cock to your hole. Stops you from sitting back right away with a hand on your hip, squeezing the soft flesh there, and holding you there.

"They're kissing," he laughs. You feel it, your cunt mouthing at him like a conscious being, separate from you. "Ye think they want tae meet each other?"

"Can I?" you don't fight to keep the whine out of your voice. You want to come, you want this aching and this emptiness to end.

"Can ye what?"

"Sit on your cock, please."

"Well, since ye asked so nicely," and then he notches himself properly again, and forces you down with two hands on your waist. You shout, arching, head thrown back. "Bounce on it now, kitten. Show me how badly ye want to come."

And oh god, you do. You rock forward, shaking at the feeling of him, no technique to guide you just pure intuition, brain and cunt and body as one. Distantly, the sound of the camera registers, but it only makes you move faster.

He spreads your cheeks, exposing where you're connected, putting the camera close to the wet clench of your cunt around his cock and - oh, he's filming it. There's no click, just the wet sounds of you riding him.

"Thas'right," he murmurs lowly, maybe for show. "You wanna come?"

"Yes!" you lean back, then, sweat slicked back sticking to his shirt, forgetting where you are and why you're here. Everything narrows down to your pussy, but you feel compelled to keep your hands off your clit even though you know it would make you come quickly.

You want to listen to him, to wait for permission. The thought is searing heat through your core.

Fingers find your face, slipping into your mouth. Your lips wrap around them, sucking like you would've his cock.

His other hand lifts his phone in front of you both, snapping shots of your unfocused eyes, your tits pushed into the air, his smarmy expression. He hooks his fingers then into your cheek, pulling back like a fishhook.

"Good girl," his lips against your ear, stubble scratching the hot skin of your neck. "I'm gonna fuck you for real now, alright?"

You nod, desperately. He pushes you up and off of him, face down in the cushion. He's still clothed, for gods sake, jeans rubbing against the backs of your thighs when he drags your ass back toward him.

The mushroom head of his cock finds your cunt again, pushing in, driving you nuts. You're moaning helplessly, letting him take your boneless arms to hold them behind you.

He fucks you like a man possessed, in a short strokes, barely leaving the hot clutch of your pussy. The sounds, if they were bad before, are worse now, wet and humiliating.

Every thrust feels like he's slowly inflating a balloon inside you, like something pulling taut, like pressure about to burst.

"Fuck, wait!" you shout and turn your head. The pressure is insane, mixed up with a building orgasm, twined together. He hasn't even touched your clit, and yet you're on the precipice.

Johnny leans down, lips on your ear. He slows, but doesn't stop.

"What is it, bonnie?"

"I have to pee," you'd have mumbled it before, but the feeling is so strong you can't help but whimper and cry. "Please let me up."

"Ye aren't gonna pee," he laughs. "Trust me, just trust me." Then keeps pistoning into you.

You feel like jello, like mush, the only solid part of you is about to burst and somehow it makes you feel real anxiety, dampening your enjoyment.

"Johnny-" you whimper, emotion clogging your voice. You feel vulnerable, held down and bared.

In need of reassurance.

"You're alright," he leans back down and nuzzles your wet cheek. "Ye can let go, kitten, I've got ye."

You gasp, pulsing hard around him, the feeling back again, before you gush around his cock, a spray so intense you cry as it forces him out of you.

"Good. Fucking. Girl!" he slaps your ass once, twice, on both cheeks. Rubs your flank like a horse and then plunges back into you when you finish dripping down your legs.

This is purely selfish, him fucking you hard now, jackrabbiting his hips into yours. You hear the phone again, just barely, as your ears ring.

You're raw from coming without any touch to your clit, a weird limbo between being on-edge and oversensitive.

"Gonna give me another," he's growling now, getting impossibly faster. You actually really cry when he reaches around to twist your clit, thrashing under him, not sure if you want to leap off the couch or crawl right back into him. "Come for me!" he shouts, pulling up the hood of your clit to really get at you, rubbing rough circles around your beleaguered little nub.

The second orgasm melts your brain out of your ears, so long and drawn out that you're still shivering with the aftershocks as he pulls out of you and paints your back with his release.

You pant, arm one arm dangling over the edge of the couch while you the other covers your eyes.

Johnny rubs a hand on your thigh, light and gentle, patting your bum as he stands. You move your arm just enough to squint at him.

His jeans are soaked.

You laugh, uninhibited, delirious. He laughs with you.

"All you, darlin'!" he takes another shot of you, pulls your legs apart and takes a picture of your wet, sore hole.

"Is she good?" ah, your boyfriend. He has his own wet spot on the front of his pants.

"She's good," Johnny confirms. "Ye need to take care of her now, right?"

Something in his voice changes. A different kind of authority to the one he used on you, one reserved for soldiers. For men beneath him. At that thought, your pussy makes a valiant effort to clench.

"Yeah, yeah," you hear. Your boyfriend has his phone out, his cheeks flushed with excitement. "These are great man, thanks."

You start to sit up, still shaking, but not wanting to have him see you that way.

"Man, you weren't kidding!" he goes on. Johnny frowns and steps forward to clap him hard on the back and grab his nape.

"Run a bath, do it now. Ye got granola bars?"

"Uh, yeah. Hold on."

You're touched by his concern, and wind up soaking in warm bubbles after he leaves. You wonder about the photos, about what you look like. If your boyfriend is satisfied, if Johnny is.

If you were good.

Feels like you were, but somethings changed. Johnny found a soft spot knife-deep inside you and dug himself in, made you fly and made sure you were brought back to earth after, tenderized and then wrapped in comfort.

Beneath the water, you touch your pussy. Not to masturbate, just to feel the soft sore flesh, to remember the feeling of fullness.

Maybe, after his deployment, your boyfriend will want more pictures.

Fresh material.

Beneath the water, your finger curls into yourself and you sigh, satisfied.

[lazybookangels]

okay hear me out. what do our beloved pro players go on to do after retirement? Specifically Neil and Kevin, because I don't think these to could or want to do something that is entirely removed from exy. Sure Kevin has history but I really don't see this man ever making it his job.

So Kevin and Neil have a habit of watching exy games together and I like to think they still do it after graduation whenever they can. It's just their idea of hanging out. Over the years they start commenting on the game more and more and have silly little arguments and debates that get way too heated because it's them. Kevin needs to be right and Neil likes to start shit now and then. As a treat.

One day, at a meeting with the other foxes shortly before their retirement from exy (not out of free will) someone complains that sports commentators are way too formal, they should just let them call a player a moron if they wanted to. Let them be honest. Let them go apeshit. Someone else says Yeah I wish they were more like Neil and Kevin when theyre watching exy together it'd be way more entertaining that way. And well. It's both the worst and best idea they've ever had. Good thing wymack is already gray.

Podcast or radio or talkshow or live TV hell even twitch for all I care but they start doing live exy commentary. Neither of them can shut up about exy and the insane brainrot these two have bouncing off of eachother is unparalleled. It's perfect. Match made in hell. There's a lot of silly arguments, debates taken way too seriously and (mostly well meant) insults thrown around, which makes it VERY entertaining to watch.

They also invite other people onto their little show as guests and that just makes it even more chaotic.

Bonus points if it does well enough and finds its way on TV it would get Ichirou off their backs for another few years at least

[capuccinodoll]

The boyfriend act, part 6: "The one with the late night talk" Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!reader SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter summary: After spending a couple of weeks tormenting yourself over your argument with Frankie, you finally open up to Santi. He offers you a different perspective—one that hurts, but one you need to hear. WC: 6.8k

A/N: TW!!! This chapter touches on sensitive topics such as mental health and references to self-destructive behaviors. If these subjects are difficult for you, please proceed with caution. Thank you so much for reading and for your support! I truly appreciate it. Don’t forget to share your thoughts in the comments, love reading them!!! love you guys<3 If you want to be in the tag list, let me know. Don't forget to follow capuccinodollupdates for notifications!

Tuesday, August 27th

August was dissolving, slipping through your fingers like the last ice cube in a too-warm drink. The days were heavy, pressing down on your skin, thick with the kind of heat that made everything feel slow and sticky. And the nights still belonged to it, summer—restless, humming, too warm to be comfortable but too familiar to resent. Inside, your apartment was quiet, the only real sound the steady, hypnotic whirl of the ceiling fan.

You kept busy. It was easier that way. There was always something to do: the new café down the street had changed the flow of foot traffic past the bookstore, drawing people in, pushing them through the doors in lazy waves. Customers wandered between the shelves, asking about novels they’d heard mentioned on a podcast, about poetry collections they’d been meaning to buy for months. You answered every question, made polite conversation, pretended you weren’t hyper-aware of how your own voice sounded when you used it too much.

Yesterday, a woman had lingered by the register, chatting about the café. She mentioned the owner—a charming man, she said, the kind of person who gave out free donuts on Friday mornings, which struck you as an objectively good and decent thing. You nodded along, made a mental note to stop by one of these days, even though you knew you probably wouldn’t.

But now it was tuesday night, and you were exhausted.

You collapsed onto the couch, grabbed the remote, pressed play. When Harry Met Sally. A movie you loved, though you weren’t really watching. Your legs stretched out along the cushions, arms folded against your chest, eyes on the screen but unfocused.

At the other end of the couch, Mr. Darcy curled into himself, his eyes dark and unblinking, watching you with something close to judgment. Because he knew. He knew that you were pretending. That you were acting like none of it had happened.

When Santi called, you told him you were fine. More than fine. And it wasn’t exactly a lie. You kept busy, your bank account was in better shape than last year. You knew how to work, how to keep your head down. If he asked about Frankie, you told him you hadn’t seen him—true. If he asked about Harry’s wedding, you lied, said you hadn’t decided yet.

Lying over the phone was easy. You’d always been good at it.

But then Santi showed up in person, unannounced, standing in your doorway with his arms crossed and his head tilted slightly, like he was already trying to figure you out.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked, his voice even, his gaze sharpening like he could see right through you.

“I’m just tired,” you said, and maybe that was true in a way, but not in the way he meant it. “Didn’t sleep well. Stayed up too late watching tv.”

He hesitated, like he was waiting for you to crack, to fill the silence with the thing you weren’t saying. But you didn’t. Instead, you pivoted—smooth, practiced—asked about Yov, about the wedding. He didn’t look convinced, but he let it go.

And you told yourself you wouldn’t think about Frankie.

Except that you did.

At night, when the house was still, when you were alone, his face surfaced in your mind with alarming clarity. The last thing you’d said to him. The way his expression had changed the second he heard you. The way it had made something deep inside you twist and ache.

You felt guilty. It hurt, a slow, deep kind of hurt, like pressing a bruise just to see how much you could stand. But then you reminded yourself—he had hurt you too, in ways you still carried with you. That should’ve made it easier. It didn’t.

Across the room, Mr. Darcy watched you, his gaze unmoving. Like he knew. Like he could see the way your thoughts kept circling, caught in a loop you didn’t know how to break.

The movie flickered on, a blur of motion, of dialogue you’d heard a hundred times before but suddenly couldn’t follow.

When the credits rolled, you stood, crossed the room, reached for your journal where it sat on the kitchen counter.

You flipped to the right page—the one where you kept your list. Little things. Big things. Things that made you feel like you were moving forward, even when you weren’t sure you were.

You uncapped a pen, pressed the tip to the page, and wrote:

Have a New Year’s kiss. Just like Harry and Sally. Less romantic, I guess.

You stared at the words, then exhaled sharply, almost a laugh.

Then you rolled your eyes at yourself, shut the journal, and left it there.

Thursday, August 29th

Yov was out of town, and Santi called that morning while you were at the bookstore, his voice warm but edged with something careful, like he was trying to keep things light. He asked if he could come over later, maybe stay for the night. You told him yes, of course. But you knew there was something beneath the surface of the invitation, an intention that had nothing to do with food. He was checking in on you.

It wasn’t unusual, the dinners. He loved coming over, eating something homemade, stretching out on your couch to watch a movie, half the time falling asleep before the credits rolled. Sometimes you’d drink wine and end up crying with laughter over Scary Movie, even though you could both quote it word for word. But this time, you could tell—he had noticed something. A shift in your mood, a dullness in your voice that you hadn’t managed to hide.

Still, you weren’t complaining. You loved spending time with him.

You closed the bookstore a little earlier than usual and walked the two blocks to the grocery store, the sun pressing against your skin. It was warm, but not suffocating, which felt strange for august. You slipped in your headphones, letting music filter in as you walked past the park. It was quiet today—only a few people scattered under the old trees, some walking, others sitting on benches, faces tilted toward the sky.

And then you crossed the street.

At the intersection, your eyes flicked up, catching the traffic light without thinking. It was green, glowing steadily above you. For some reason, it hit you in the chest like a second heartbeat. The last time you’d seen Frankie, it had been right here. You could still see it in your mind—the green light, the blur of the quiet night, the way your hands had felt too empty as you stepped out of the car, a weight forming somewhere deep in your ribs.

Pointless, thinking about it now. You exhaled, pulled out your phone, and skipped to the next song. The first few notes played, something familiar, something that made you smile despite yourself. Just Like Heaven.

Inside the store, the air conditioning wrapped around you like a cold, weightless hand. A relief. You grabbed a cart and started down the aisles, scrolling through your notes app for the grocery list you’d made after Santi had texted, asking if you could make that spaghetti—the one with the sauce he always raved about.

Ten minutes later, you had almost everything. A bottle of rosé sat nestled between vegetables and pasta, but now you hesitated in front of the wine section, eyeing the rows of deep reds and pale golds. You wanted something good. Something that would feel nice in your hands as you curled up on the couch later.

Merlot. You reached for a bottle, ran your fingers over the label before setting it gently in the cart.

Maybe you’d grab something sweet for later too—chocolates, gummies. Something with nuts and caramel.

Eyes without a face faded out, replaced by the sharp, unmistakable opening of Toxic. Without thinking, you smiled, mouthing the words as you steered the cart down the cereal aisle. Your eyes drifted over the shelves, barely registering the neon-colored boxes, the cartoon mascots grinning at you from their spots. You weren’t really looking for anything there, just moving through the motions.

At the end of the aisle, you turned left.

And then, you saw him.

Frankie.

He was crouched at the far end of the aisle, head tilted slightly, eyes scanning a label like he was deciphering something complicated. He hadn’t seen you.

Black T-shirt, dark gray cargo pants, messy hair. You weren’t sure why you noticed that, why your mind cataloged the details like they meant something. But it did.

For a second, you froze.

Your fingers tightened around the handle of the cart. A quick assessment: the space between you, the angle of his gaze, the seconds you had before he looked up.

You turned.

No hesitation, no second-guessing. Just a sharp turn on your heel, a swift retreat in the opposite direction before he could lift his head, before his eyes could meet yours.

You’d buy candy somewhere else.

Santi dropped onto the couch beside you with all the weight of a falling tree, the cushions sinking under him, a rush of air brushing past you.

"Hey!" you groaned, swatting his shoulder in mock protest.

He just grinned, unbothered, reaching past you to grab his wine glass from the coffee table. You watched as he took a sip, settling in like he had nowhere else to be.

You picked up the remote and resumed the movie, the screen flickering back to life after the pause you’d hit when he disappeared into the bathroom, grumbling about his bladder. You’d made a joke about him getting old, and he’d laughed, but then he muttered something about making an appointment with a urologist. You didn’t ask for details.

Tonight’s movie was his pick. As Above, So Below. A group of overconfident explorers descending into the parisian catacombs, searching for the philosopher’s stone. Things go wrong, as they always do. They end up in hell itself. Santi loved this kind of thing. Honestly, so did you.

It was something you’d shared since you were kids—sitting cross-legged on the floor with your dad, watching horror movies long past bedtime. He had a deep, unwavering love for them, and your mother always scolded him for scaring you senseless. But you loved it, even when you had to sleep with the hallway light on for weeks, even when the images stuck to the backs of your eyelids like aftershadows.

You still remembered the night you watched The Blair Witch Project. Your dad had told you, very seriously, that it was real. That the film had been pieced together from actual footage, that the people in it were still missing. You and Santi believed him completely. You spent days afterward peeking around corners, flinching at the sound of snapping twigs, avoiding the woods near your house like they held something waiting just beyond the trees.

For days, you couldn’t shake it. The idea that somewhere out there, in some dark, endless forest, they were still lost. And then, one day, Santi came home from school, eyes wide, voice low.

“They found something in the woods,” he whispered.

You blinked at him. “What do you mean?”

“Candles. Leftover wax, melted onto the ground. Bones. Like from some kind of ritual.” His eyes were wide, serious. “One of the guys at school told me. He said there’s probably a witch.”

You swallowed, trying to look unimpressed. “There’s no witch.”

“There must be,” he insisted. “That’s why I’m telling you—you cannot go near there, okay? Or you’ll get lost, and who knows when we’ll find you. I don’t know how to fight witches. Do you?”

You shook your head, lips pressed together, pretending to be indifferent. But during the next few years, you avoided that stretch of forest like your life depended on it. Even when you turned twelve and realized he had made the whole thing up, even when you knew, logically, that there was nothing out there in the trees, you still found yourself watching from a distance, something uneasy curling in your stomach whenever you passed by.

On the screen, one of the protagonists was panicking, struggling against the rope wrapped around his foot. His breathing grew ragged, his face contorted in fear. The music swelled, sharp and urgent. You squinted at the television.

Santi snorted next to you. “Come on, don’t be scared. Nothing’s happening yet.” 

The living room was dark except for the glow of the TV, washing the room in flickering light. Even the small lamp beside you was off. Mr. Darcy, usually nestled against your leg during movie nights, was nowhere to be found—probably curled up in your bed, fast asleep.

“I know,” you murmured, shifting slightly, “but something’s going to happen.”

Santi let out a deep, satisfied sigh as he stretched out beside you, rotating his shoulder with a wince.

“God, I’m so full,” he groaned, then yawned. “But I won’t complain if you give me the leftovers.”

You turned to him with a smirk. The soft glow from the screen reflected in your eyes, and the slight haze of wine made the moment feel heavier, slower.

“You really have no bottom, do you?” you teased, reaching for the half-eaten chocolate on the coffee table. “Fine. You can take them. But only if you make me some of that stew you do later.”

Santi scoffed, sitting up a little. “What did you think of the last one I made? I changed the recipe—more cumin, extra celery. I was waiting for your opinion on it.” His expression was expectant, a little put out.

You frowned, trying to recall. “When?”

He blinked at you, then sat up straighter. “Are you serious?”

You shrugged.

“You couldn’t have missed it,” he insisted, narrowing his eyes. “I put so much more celery in. You didn’t taste it? And a little ginger. That was Yov’s idea.”

“Why are you so fixated on the stew?”

“Because it’s my thing,” he said, pressing a hand to his chest like he was deeply wounded. “I take your spaghetti seriously, right?”

You tilted your head. “I take your cooking seriously too. But I—wait, when? When we had dinner after going to the movies?”

“No, dumbass,” he scoffed. “When you and Frankie came over.”

Your mouth opened slightly. The realization hit you all at once.

Right. That night.

You had completely forgotten about Santi’s meal. If you were remembering correctly, you'd left the container in Frankie’s car.

Your gaze flickered back to the screen, where the protagonist was now screaming. You exhaled.

“Ah. Yeah. I forgot your stew in Frankie’s car.” Your voice was quieter, like the words had escaped before you fully thought them through. Then you turned back to Santi, offering a small, sheepish smile. “But I won’t complain if you make me more.”

Santi studied you for a beat, then tilted his head. “So, are you giving me the leftovers or not?”

“Yes. And some apple pie I made yesterday.” You lifted your eyebrows, watching the way his face lit up.

“Done.”

You settled back into the couch, shifting your gaze toward the screen. The movie was unfolding exactly as expected—each character trapped in their own personal hell, doomed by their own choices. You found a strange sense of relief in knowing this was something that could never happen to you. Not because you thought you were immune to disaster, but because you simply weren’t the kind of person who would put themselves in a situation like that.

The Paris catacombs? Sure, there were guided tours with clear paths and bright lighting—why would anyone willingly crawl through some secret, uncharted part of it, especially when history had already proven that people got lost down there?

You never understood that kind of thrill-seeking. Rock climbing? Fine. Trekking through forests, deserts? Sure. Skydiving, bungee jumping—adrenaline junkies, you got it. But willingly wedging yourself into a cavern, not knowing if you’d make it back out? That part never made sense.

Santi shifted beside you, pulling you from your thoughts.

“Have you seen him?”

Your eyes remained on the screen. The only two survivors were finally making their way out, and you felt your body relax.

“Who?”

“Frankie.”

The name landed somewhere uncomfortable, somewhere in your chest. Your eyes flicked to Santi for just a second before returning to the television.

“Oh. No.”

“I thought you were supposed to have dinner at Helena’s weeks ago.”

“As it turned out, no.”

“Why?”

You shrugged, still watching the screen as if it required your full attention. “Been busy. I think he has too. It’s all good.”

Santi didn’t say anything at first, just watched you like he was waiting for something more. You ignored it, eyes trained on the credits rolling up the screen.

“That’s weird,” he said finally. “I talked to Helena this week. She asked about you.”

You nodded, fingers tightening slightly around the remote.

“She also said Frankie’s been dodging her questions. She’s a little worried.”

You exhaled through your nose, lips pressing together as you casually scrolled back in the movie.

"Do you want to watch something else, or are you already falling asleep?" you asked, scrolling absently through the app’s home screen, your thumb hovering over different titles without really seeing them.

Santi shifted beside you. "No, let’s watch something else if you want. Pick whatever."

You nodded, though you weren’t really listening. Your focus had already drifted, your eyes moving over rows of movies and shows, not settling on anything in particular. You were just going through the motions, waiting for something to click. The thought of anything too heavy, too thought-provoking, made your stomach clench. You needed something easy, something you didn’t have to engage with beyond letting the sounds fill the space.

Eventually, your finger landed on Family Guy, and you hit play without much thought. The opening chords of the theme song played like muscle memory, a familiar noise cutting through the low hum of tension in the room. Your head felt a little fuzzy from the alcohol, pleasantly weightless in a way that made it easier not to think too hard.

Next to you, Santi exhaled, long and deliberate, before tilting his head against your shoulder. A few beats of quiet passed before he spoke again.

"Aren't you going to tell me what happened?" His voice was careful, measured.

You blinked at the screen. "What?"

"With Frankie."

"Nothing happened with him," you said automatically, too quickly.

Santi made a small noise, like he didn’t believe you for a second. "Right. Sure."

You turned your head slightly but kept your gaze forward. "Why—why would that surprise you, anyway? It’s not like we’ve ever gotten along." You let out a dry, humorless laugh, the kind that barely reached your throat.

"Exactly," he said, sitting up straighter beside you. "That’s exactly why I’m asking. I know you well enough to know when something’s off. And I know him well enough to know the same thing. You add those two things together, plus the fact that Helena sounded concerned when she talked to me earlier, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out something must have happened." He turned to look at you fully now, voice shifting into something closer to amusement. "I mean, I knew this whole plan between you two wasn’t exactly solid, but I didn’t think you’d manage to mess it up this fast."

You turned to him then, incredulous. "Seriously? You, Santiago—the one who’s been saying from the beginning that this was a terrible idea, who’s been acting like a prophet of doom about the whole thing—you’re surprised?"

Santi’s lips quirked up, eyes glinting. He looked, irritatingly, pleased with himself.

"Knew it," he said. "So what happened?"

You let out a breath, shaking your head before turning back to the TV. The theme song was over now, the first scene of the episode already unfolding. You folded your arms, pressing them tightly against your chest, like maybe you could keep whatever you were feeling contained that way. But it was still there, that dull, unwelcome ache settling back in.

"We had an argument," you said finally.

Santi waited a second, then: "About what?"

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you let the silence stretch between you, weighing your options. Santi was staring at you, waiting. 

You’d already talked to Emma about this. She had listened carefully, nodding at the right moments, offering up her own quiet honesty in return. She hadn’t sugarcoated things, hadn’t let you off the hook. She had even agreed with you—that yes, you had been cruel, whether or not Frankie had deserved it.

So you had already said the words once, already unburdened yourself. But the weight of not telling Santi felt different, heavier in a way that had nothing to do with guilt and everything to do with trust.

You wanted to tell him. Of course you did. He had been listening to you your whole life, letting you spill your secrets without fear of judgment. And he had never once betrayed you, never let anything slip where it wasn’t supposed to. Nothing you told him would reach Frankie. Nothing. You knew that.

But this—this was harder. It wasn’t just about Frankie. It was about you. About saying something out loud that you weren’t even sure you had fully admitted to yourself yet. It was one thing to talk about your insecurities with Emma. It was another thing entirely to lay them bare in front of your brother. To tell him that Frankie—of all people—had seen them before you’d even opened your mouth.

Still, what choice did you have? Santi wasn’t going to let this go. He never did.

"About Harry," you said finally, your voice flat, stripped of any real emotion.

Santi frowned. "Harry?"

You nodded.

"Why?"

You exhaled, suddenly hyperaware of the breath leaving your body, the way it felt too sharp, too deliberate.

"Because," you said, shifting against the couch, "I’m not as over him as I thought I was. And Francisco apparently decided that was his business. Thought it would be a great idea to ask me a million questions about it, maybe even offer up some unsolicited advice."

Santi folded his arms, his expression shifting from confusion to something more serious.

"What kind of advice?"

You turned to look at him then, and whatever was in your expression must have given him pause.

"Santi," you said carefully, "I’m going to tell you this, but you can’t say anything until I’m done. No opinions, no interruptions. You can ask questions, but don’t react until I finish. Okay?"

He straightened slightly, concern settling into the lines of his face. Then he nodded. "Okay."

You swallowed.

"The thing is…" Another breath. Another hesitation. "I haven’t been feeling okay. And it’s not just because of Harry, or Frankie, or any of that. It’s… more than that. It’s been going on for a long time. Years, even. It’s about me. It’s about the way I am, the way I live my life. Or, maybe, the way I don’t. I feel like I’m afraid all the time. And that fear—it limits me. It always has. You know that. You’ve seen it. Remember when we were kids, and you and Dad would invite me camping? And I’d always make up some excuse because the idea of sleeping in the middle of nowhere freaked me out? Or that weekend you wanted me to go rock climbing with you?"

He nodded, his expression unreadable now.

"And I hate that about myself," you admitted, voice quieter now. "Because fear holds me back. It keeps me from doing things that—who knows?—maybe I’d like. But how am I supposed to know that if I never try?"

Santi opened his mouth, but you didn’t give him the chance.

"No," you said, holding up a finger. "No opinions yet. Remember?"

He lifted his hands in surrender, pressing his lips together like he was physically stopping himself from speaking.

You exhaled, pressing your palms against your thighs. “Well, that’s just it. That’s the thing that’s been bothering me for a long time. Longer than I want to admit. And it—it doesn’t feel good. I don’t feel good about it.” You paused, fingers twitching like they wanted to pick at something, to fidget with the hem of your shirt, the couch cushion, anything. “And then there’s Harry.” You let out a small laugh, barely more than an exhale. “I really thought I was over him, or at least I told myself I was. But I don’t think I am. And I don’t even think it’s about him, exactly.”

Santi tilted his head slightly, watching you closely. You waved a hand, dismissing whatever concern you saw creeping into his face.

“It’s not really about him,” you clarified. “It’s about what he did. How easy it was for him to let me go. How easy it was for me to let myself fall into something I knew wasn’t going to end well. I wasn’t stupid—I knew he didn’t want anything serious. He told me that. But I still didn’t leave when I started to feel more than I should have. And I guess—” you swallowed, your throat suddenly tight, “I guess some part of me really thought that if I just waited long enough, he’d start feeling the same way.”

You shook your head, eyes flicking back to the TV screen. The cartoon characters moved in exaggerated motions, their voices playing somewhere in the background of your thoughts. You weren’t really hearing them.

“But he didn’t,” you added, quieter now. “If anything, he did the opposite.”

Santi didn’t say anything, and you appreciated that. He just sat there, listening, waiting.

You rubbed your hand over the couch cushion beside you, letting the soft fabric ground you before you spoke again.

“And then, when we saw him that day,” you continued, “Francisco basically laughed in my face when I told him I was going to the wedding. He thought it was pathetic. Told me I was a masochist. And I got pissed off, obviously. But the thing is, I hadn’t actually thought about it that much before then. I mean, yeah, I knew Harry was oblivious, that he probably hadn’t even considered how it might feel for me to be there. But I hadn’t really let myself think about how ridiculous it was that I said yes in the first place.”

You swallowed, tracing the seam of the couch absentmindedly.

“Francisco, though—he was vocal about it from the start. He never held back. He called Harry an idiot, told me it was obvious he knew how I felt and just pretended he didn’t. And that night at your place—” you hesitated, glancing at Santi, “I’d had a bad day. Like, a really bad day. I was already in my own head, already torturing myself by checking Harry’s social media, going down the usual spiral. And Francisco, of course, noticed. And he asked me about it on the way home.”

You sighed, rubbing your temple. “But it was the way he did it. He was relentless. He just kept pushing and pushing, like he was trying to get a reaction out of me, and I—I just felt awful. Like he was doing it on purpose. Like he wanted me to crack. Because…” You trailed off, staring blankly at the screen again. “I don’t know. It’s like he knows exactly which buttons to press to tear me apart. He always has. He finds my weak spots and then just—shoves them in my face.”

Your voice wavered slightly, but you didn’t look at Santi until you were finished speaking. When you did, your eyes felt heavy, glazed over with something you didn’t want to name.

Santi’s expression was unreadable. His voice, careful. “What did he say to you?”

You felt your heartbeat pick up, steady but noticeable, like a pulse pressing against your ribs.

"That I needed to get over it." Your voice came out unsteady, something raw beneath the words. "That I had to stop making Harry into this tragic hero who unknowingly destroyed me." You swallowed hard, fingers curling into the fabric of your sleeve. "But he wasn’t gentle about it. He wasn’t even neutral. He was the opposite. And I—" You hesitated, feeling the weight of it settle in your chest. "I know he’s probably right. I do. But that didn’t make it feel any less awful. It didn’t make me feel any less—"

You stopped. Your throat burned. Your vision blurred at the edges, a tear threatening to spill over. You blinked hard, forcing it back.

"He made me feel stupid," you admitted finally. "Like I was ridiculous for feeling this way in the first place. And that’s what really gets me—because I know he doesn’t actually care. It’s not like this was some act of concern, like he wanted to help me move on. He did it just to dig at me. To get a reaction. To remind me that I’m weak in ways he isn’t." Your breath came out unsteady. "What the fuck does he know about how I feel?"

Santi exhaled your name softly, the way he always did when you were teetering on the edge of something painful. Then, without a word, he wrapped his arm around you and pulled you in.

The warmth of it—his steady heartbeat, the way his chin rested lightly on the top of your head—worked like a balm. It didn’t erase the feeling completely, but it dulled it, took the sharpest edges away. You closed your eyes for a second, just breathing.

"I know your relationship with him is complicated," Santi murmured, "but, really… Frankie’s not that kind of person."

You pulled back, looking up at him in disbelief.

"He’s different with you," you said, shaking your head. "With me, it’s—something else."

"No, no, I get it," Santi said, his voice careful. "I’ve watched you two argue for years. But what I mean is… he wouldn’t ask you those kinds of questions just to be cruel. He wouldn’t push you about something painful just to see you suffer."

You scoffed, looking away. "How can you be so sure?"

"Because I know him." Santi’s tone was even, patient. "Better than anyone. I know he can be unbearable and insufferable, and I know he gets under your skin. But he doesn’t have an ounce of real cruelty in him. Whatever his reasons were, they weren’t to hurt you."

You let out a short, humorless laugh. "Doesn’t seem like it." You ran a hand through your hair, shaking your head. "Why would he care so much, then? Why does it even matter to him? He doesn’t know anything about what it’s like to regret something this much."

Santi didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you, something unreadable in his expression. Like he was deciding what to say, or maybe whether to say anything at all.

Then he sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw, his eyes flickering to the coffee table before landing back on you.

"What has he told you about Rachel?" he asked finally.

You blinked.

"Not much," you admitted. "That she dumped him. Maia didn’t like her. Helena mentioned something, but she never gave me details."

"Yeah," Santi nodded, exhaling through his nose. "Well, Frankie and Rachel were together for almost two years. Longer, if you count the months they spent circling each other before making it official. It wasn’t perfect—none of them are—but this was… different. He loved her. I mean, really loved her. The kind of love that makes you a little unrecognizable, you know? I’d never seen him like that before. But it wasn’t good for him."

He looked at you then, more serious now, like he was weighing his words before saying them out loud.

"I don’t know if it’s my place to tell you this," he said, "but you’re my sister, and I trust you."

You didn’t say anything, just kept your eyes on him, still reeling from everything you already knew—and everything you didn’t.

"A few years ago, Frankie left the CAG after one of his closest friends died in the middle of a mission." Santi paused, his jaw tightening for a brief second. "It hit him hard. Too hard. Took him a long time to find his footing again. He came back to Austin, took a year off before he even thought about working again. And, you know, he got better. Kind of. But never fully."

You blinked at him, stunned. You had no idea.

All those years ago, when Santi had mentioned a friend who had returned to Austin, a friend who needed help—you’d never really thought about it. He’d never given you details. He’d talked about Will and Benny often enough, but Frankie had been a more distant presence, like an acquaintance who existed on the fringes of your brother’s life. Someone he never really brought up.

"And then, a few years later, he met Rachel," Santi went on. "And at first, we thought—okay, maybe this is good. Maybe this will be good for him." He shook his head. "But it wasn’t. She was… possessive. Controlling. Not good to him at all. But Frankie was in love, and what were we supposed to do? He was happy—at least in the moments where she let him be—so we let it go, even though we didn’t approve."

You could hear the resentment in his voice. The hindsight.

"But he was still up and down. And then, his dad died."

Santi rubbed a hand over his face, and when he looked back at you, there was something deeply weary in his expression.

"He spiraled," he said. "It wrecked him, just like you’d expect it to. And then—two months later, Rachel left him."

You felt the words hit you square in the chest.

Santi exhaled sharply, shaking his head again, looking indignant in a way you rarely saw.

"She told him he wasn’t what she wanted anymore. That he wasn’t enough. That he wasn’t acting like the man she needed. That he spent too much time holed up, too much time in bed." Santi’s voice turned hard. "Frankie was fucking depressed, and she had the audacity to tell him he was being selfish. That he wasn’t stepping up."

Your breath caught in your throat.

"Jesus," you whispered, closing your eyes. You could feel the sharp sting of tears, the words you had thrown at Frankie earlier coming back in painful flashes.

Santi let the silence settle for a second before continuing.

"Anyway," he said, his voice lower now, "she left. And two weeks later, Benny saw her at the mall, kissing another guy. He told us, asked if we should say something. If it was even worth it. And at first, we thought maybe we shouldn’t. But Frankie… he thought he could still win her back. He was talking about changing for her, about fighting for her. And I swear—" Santi let out a breath that sounded close to a laugh, but there was nothing amused about it. "I’ve never been so angry at someone in my life. And the worst part?" He glanced at you. "She had been seeing that guy for months."

You felt something tighten in your throat.

"You told him?"

"Yeah," Santi said. "We had to. Even though we knew it would wreck him."

"And what did he say?"

Santi’s expression turned unreadable for a moment. Then he furrowed his brows, shaking his head.

"Nothing," he said. "He just nodded, got up, and walked away."

You didn’t say anything. A moment passed, stretched and heavy, and you felt Santi tense beside you. Like he was bracing himself.

You turned to look at him, already knowing he wasn’t finished.

"Less than a month later," he said, his voice quieter now, like the words had to be handled with care. "Helena called me. Said Frankie was in the hospital. He’d taken something—pills, a lot of pills. And he’d been drinking."

Your stomach twisted, a deep, sinking feeling settling in your chest.

"What do you mean?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. "Are you saying he tried to—"

"I don’t know." Santi shook his head, rubbing a hand over his face. "I never asked. And none of us did. He didn't wanted us to, he was clear about it. And I think we were afraid to." He hesitated, like he was weighing his words again. "And to ask him now, after all this time… I don’t know, it feels... it feels out of place. Because I really think he's in a better place now, so."

You just stared at him, eyes wide, unmoving. Something inside you cracked, like a hairline fracture deep enough to make the whole structure feel unsteady.

Santi exhaled and looked down at his hands.

"What I’m trying to say," he went on, his voice softer now, "is that if anyone understands what it feels like to be abandoned, to feel like you’re not enough—it’s Frankie. That’s why I don’t think he was trying to hurt you. I think he was just… misguided. Trying to help in the only way he knows how."

Your lips trembled, the weight of everything pressing down on you, thick and unbearable. A sharp breath caught in your throat, half a gasp, half a sob. You turned to Santi, searching his face for something—understanding, reassurance, maybe a way out of the feeling that had settled, heavy, inside your ribs.

He furrowed his brows, watching you carefully, a crease of worry between his eyes.

“I…” You barely got the word out before tears blurred your vision. A thick, aching regret filled your chest. “I said horrible things to him.”

Santi didn’t hesitate. He pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly, one hand resting against the back of your head.

You let yourself sink into the hug, but it didn’t make the feeling go away. If anything, it made it worse—because you couldn’t undo it. Because knowing the truth now didn’t erase the things you’d said, the sharp edges of your words still lodged somewhere deep in your memory, in Frankie’s memory.

And yes, he had been cruel to you for years. Yes, you had convinced yourself that whatever existed between you was just mutual disdain, nothing more, nothing less. But now, everything felt different. Everything had shifted, changed color. And you hated the way it looked now.

You weren’t this person. The kind who threw words like weapons, who dug into wounds just to make them deeper. You knew too well what it was like to feel that kind of hurt.

“What did you tell him?” Santi asked, his voice gentle, careful.

You swallowed hard, keeping your face pressed against his shirt, as if not looking at him would make it easier to admit.

“That he must have a lot of experience feeling like shit. That he was nothing but a failure, a loser. That he was drowning in his own misery.”

Santi let out a quiet curse under his breath, his fingers moving absently over your hair.

“I was awful, Santi,” you said, your voice breaking slightly. “I just wanted him to leave me alone.”

Santi exhaled. “I’m sure he knows you were angry—”

“Why?” You pulled away, looking up at him, your face tight with frustration. “Why would he believe that? We’ve never been kind to each other. Not once. Why would he think this time was any different?”

“Because you’re not cruel,” Santi said simply.

You shook your head. “I wanted to hurt him.”

“That doesn’t make you a bad person.” He studied you, his gaze steady. “I think… Unfortunately, I think you’re both a little messed up in the same ways, and that’s exactly why he recognizes it in you so easily. But that doesn’t make you a bad person. And it doesn’t make him one either.”

Silence settled between you. You lowered your gaze, your fingers twisting the hem of your sleeve.

“Do you think I’m fucked up?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

Santi snorted, shaking his head. A small, tired smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Not really. Not really, really fucked up. Just a little. Fixable.”

Despite yourself, you let out a weak, uneven breath—something that wasn’t quite a laugh, but close enough. You glanced up at him, the smallest trace of humor flickering in your eyes.

“What am I supposed to do, Santi?”

Your voice was so soft, so uncertain, that he visibly winced. He didn’t like hearing you like this. Santi sighed, his own exhaustion catching up with him, but there was something warm in his expression, something steady.

“Right now? You go to bed and get some sleep,” he said, nudging your arm. “Later? Maybe we figure out how to fix this. Talking to Frankie would probably be a good start, don’t you think?”

You hesitated, then nodded. “I’ll get back to you on that in the morning.”

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Taglis: @paleidiot @gothcsz @everyth1ngfan @katw474 @mellymbee @pedritosgirl2000 @tsunamistorm123 @jokesonthem @sunnytuliptime @greenwitchfromthewoods @ashleyfilm @darkheartgatita @joelmillerisapunk @nandan11 @whirlwindrider29 @onlythehobi @diabaroxa @yellowbrickyeti @daybleedsintonightfa11 @mys2425 @pigeonmama @speaktothehandpeasants @pez3639 @stylesispunk @imaginecrushes @isla-finke-blog @smiithys @jokesonthem @brittmb115 @sukivenue @awkwardmebaby @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @suzysface @picketniffler

[charliemwrites]

Part 2 of Neighbor!Johnny!

(Feeling a bit ✨naughty✨ this Christmas Eve so… here.)

After the fight with Ryan, you try to keep your distance from Johnny — keep the peace and all that. The more you think about the accusations your husband made… the more that guilty pit in your stomach grows.

It’s all been platonic, at least on your end. Sure, you let Johnny get away with a bit more than the average stranger, but he’s a good friend! Nothing you wouldn’t let one of your other friends do. (Even if you would find the lingering touches and general disregard for personal space a little strange from someone else.)

Sure, you have a suspicion every now and then that Johnny has more than platonic feelings for you… but they’re fleeting. Every time you worry that he’s about to cross a line, he always draws away from it. Evens out his smile, break his gaze, drops his hand. You’re close, that’s all.

But… if it’s bothering your husband. Well, you’re obligated to take that into account, aren’t you?

Even if you ache, missing your friend. Missing his silly little jokes, his cheeky grin. Miss his company while you do laundry, a helping hand in the yard, even just someone to chat with over podcasts and tv shows.

Hell, you miss hugs. Ryan’s never been big on… affection. Especially not in public.

(Barely in the house, either, really. You’ve tried talking to him about it. He swears he loves you, he just doesn’t show affection that way. You struggle to figure out why that’s so with you when he has no problem hugging his mother, sister, hell, even his secretary.

Actually… you struggle to figure out how he shows you affection. So you’ve stopped trying to figure it out at.)

But Johnny. Oh, Johnny is just so sweet to you. A hug when he greets you, a hug before he leaves. A kiss to your cheek when you hand him a drink or a snack. A hand on your hip when he leans past you to get things from high shelves. Nudges to your thighs during good parts of shows.

You miss it. Him. The friendship you’ve built in your too-quiet home, where the other neighbors seem to like your husband so much more than you.

“What’s goin’ on, hen?” Johnny asks one morning. You’ve been keeping coffee dates meetups on the porch. Which is almost worse, because it’s cold and you find yourself cuddling up to the heat he exudes like a furnace. “Hardly seen you in a month; miss my best girl.”

“Sorry, Johnny,” you sigh, rubbing at your face. Ryan’s been working late most days this week, comes in so late and wakes you up. “Just… Ryan, ya know.”

His jaw tightens, eyes flashing dangerously. You’re reminded suddenly, inexplicably, of just what Johnny does for a living. How often you’ve seen him just back home with blood still buried in his nail beds.

“Dinnae, hen,” he replies. “What about ‘im?”

You fidget, eyes on your half-empty mug. It feels wrong, admitting relationship quibbles to someone outside of family. You used to have a policy that marriage matters should stay within the marriage. But… it’s hard when it feels like you’re the only one working on the marriage. It’s a lot of work to do alone.

“He just… he doesn’t think it’s proper,” you admit, “how… how often you’re over. How close we are.”

“That so?”

You hunch your shoulders, feeling wrong. Feeling guilty for a whole new reason; for disappointing Johnny.

“Look at me, bonnie?”

He has to tip your chin up with his hand to get you to meet his eyes. His expression is softer than you expect.

“What about you, eh?”

“Me…?” You blink, peering up at him through your lashes.

“Yer feelings are all I care about, hen.”

“Johnny,” you sigh, trying to reprimand, but sound more pleading instead. He shakes your head a bit, gently; his own reprimand.

“Answer me, bonnie.”

“I like spending time with you,” you whisper.

The corners of his mouth twitch up as he hums.

“‘Course ye do,” he hums, “‘n I like spendin’ time with you. It’s not fair of ‘im, is it?”

You blink, brows pulling together in confusion. Johnny continues, the thumb on your chin gently stroking.

“Not fair of ‘im to keep you all cooped up here, come home so late, neglect ye when he is around,” he coos. “And now he’s tellin’ you to keep away from your best friend.”

He tsks, that dangerous glint in his eyes again.

“Wastin’ his tongue for bullshite when he should be usin’ it to lick your pretty pussy.”

Your mouth drops open, shock and heat flooding you hotly. “Johnny!” You gasp, scandalized.

He finally cracks a grin again. “Tell me I’m wrong, bonnie, ‘m not! When’s the last time he worked you over the way you deserve, huh? When’s the last time he made you squirt all over your sheets?”

You shove at him and then cover your burning face, trying not to squirm. Can’t answer because it would be proving him right and you don’t want to encourage his scandalous teasing.

“Bet he’d try to make you change ‘em even if he did,” Johnny grumbles, shaking his head. “Disgraceful. You ought to be put to sleep on a nice, thick cock.”

Whack!

“Oi! What was that fer?!”

“You’re being a creep, Johnny!” Your stern tone in undercut by your embarrassed laughter. “Quit talking about my shitty sex life.”

“So it is shitty!”

“Shut up!”

When a discreet box shows up at your door two days later, you know exactly who it’s from.

…that doesn’t stop you from using the (shockingly detailed and realistic) dildo inside the packaging.

[midnightsslut]

A Guide to Red - The Quintessential Taylor Swift Album

After the release of The Manuscript, the role of Red and Red (Taylor’s Version) in Taylor’s life and discography has been highly discussed. A lot of people have referred to it as her magnum opus and most formative album. I have decided to compile a condensed list of about a dozen key interviews, performances, speeches, posts, and videos from 2011 all the way until 2024 that illustrate the importance of this record for Taylor’s personal life and career. I’m putting the list under a cut because it got pretty long. You don’t have to go through all of these, obviously, but I would suggest at least one per era. The bolded ones are essential in my opinion.

Pre-Red - These interviews hint at Taylor’s emotional state at the time and thus the content that will be explored on the Red album

2011 The New Yorker profile

Taylor Swift reveals new album is all about heartbreak - Extra TV

Bonus: an article going through Taylor’s arm lyrics on the Speak Now World Tour, which she described as mood rings for any particular show

Lover diary entries from the making of Red (credit to @cabincreaking for the scans)

- All Too Well lyrics first draft (February 2011)

- Random bursts of happiness and anxiety during the Speak Now Tour (June 17, 2011)

- Red (September 8, 2011)

- Holy Ground (February 2012)

- Nothing New (March 2, 2012)

- Working with Max Martin (June 10, 2012)

Red era - Listen to the original sixteen songs on the Red album at this point.

Red announcement livestream + Q&A

Red prologue

2012 Rolling Stone interview

2012 The Guardian interview

2012 Billboard interview

2012 Esquire interview

Sirius XM Town Hall - an hourlong interview from the day Red came out

Good Morning America - this is the first mention of the ten-minute version of All Too Well

Red track-by-track descriptions

Random interview where she discusses the connection between writing Speak Now and Red

I Knew You Were Trouble music video

Diary entry about how love is fiction and she might move to New York after all (January 6, 2014)

Diary entry from Grammy night (January 25, 2014)

Red Tour London performance of All Too Well - any performance of this song from 2013-14 will work here, but this one has a pretty comprehensive speech

Final performance of All Too Well on the Red Tour - just listen to the speech here

Post-Red era - Over the course of these interviews, you’ll see her relationship to the album evolve.

Taylor’s description of Clean (skip to 11:18)

2014 BBC Live Lounge interview

1989 World Tour interview where she mentions thinking she’d never sell as many albums as she did with Red before 1989 came out

Clean speech - a lot of these will work, but these two best describe her relationship with the Red era and heartbreak in general

All Too Well (The 1989 World Tour live)

2015 GrammyPro interview

All Too Well Super Saturday Night performance

Reputation Tour All Too Well speech

Red into Daylight performance - 2019 City of Lover concert in Paris

Re-recordings era - at this point, listen to the red vault

2020 Rolling Stone podcast

Red (Taylor’s Version) prologue

2021 Saturday Night Live performance

All Too Well: The Short Film + Behind the Scenes

Seth Meyers interview

2022 Tribeca film talk OR TIFF (both are equally good. I have a slight preference for the former, but there are some interesting new details in the latter). You could also watch directors on directors from the same year as a bonus, but it’s less comprehensive.

2022 Graham Norton - How All Too Well (10 Minute Version) came about + how the re-recordings inspired Midnights

Also listen to Midnights

The Eras Tour

All Too Well speech (Glendale Night 2 & Atlanta Night 1) - any of the speeches from March and April 2023 will work, but these two really illustrate how she feels about this time in her life now and how the fans changed the Red album for her. Obviously credit to @cages-boxes-hunters-foxes for the transcripts!

Maroon first ever live performance (‘This is a song about something that happened a long time ago, but it took place in New York’)

Aaaand finally listen to The Tortured Poets Department, especially The Manuscript

This is a lot, but it’s worth it. Enjoy!

[rqbossman]

I found out about tma from my friend because he asked me to make an edit of michael distortion and got into it a few months later. I LOVE TMA. I mostly listened to the whole thing three times when I was mostly offline because I have the 200 episodes downloaded on YouTube and now I'm finding out that there's some stuff I missed, there's bloopers, q&a and I was in the wiki because i wanted to see how many times the admiral was mentioned and theres one what the ghost episode? IM GOING INSANE. I love tma. I think it's rotting my brain... it's everywhere, it's in my veins. I need to know everything but when I try to search these things up on YouTube it only shows me rusty quill gaming which I will be watching later but where do I find the other stuff where is the best place to listen to tma and find every extra lore even if it's just the tiniest squeeze of lore? I need to know y'all really did an amazing job with tma, I don't think I'm ever going to get tired of listening to it. I need to relisten to it before hell— I mean... School starts again. Lord save us for another year of merciless torture. Also I was trying to type this fast and forgot to say hi. hi Mr Alex, I hope you're having an amazing day/night when you see this. I promise to listen to all the podcasts rusty quill has after I learn every little squeeze of tma lore. Where is the best place to listen to and learn every little squeeze of information of all of rusty quill podcasts? (I absolutely did not install Tumblr just to ask this what do you mean 😓😓😓)

Lovely to hear from you and thankyou for the kind words. To list good locations for TMA Lore: 1) The podcast feed is obviously first port of call and includes some bonus materials between seasons 2) Our Patreon has an absolutely enormous amount of content in there now and I believe it should at this point be organised into collections so you can just look up TMA and it's all there for you (although that is behind a paywall) 2) Any video QNA's/events etc. not included in the main feed should be on our twitch channel. 3) Rustyquill.com has various links dotted around that have snippets too 4) The fan wiki is a very strong resource. Like any wiki there is the odd error here or there but for the most part its astonishingly accurate and detailed. 5) Special mention to whoever keeps our TV Tropes pages up to date. It was when I saw a proper entry for The Magnus Archives on that site that I actually started to call myself a "proper" writer.

[plaidos]

I've basically given up on the idea of rep for us, maybe Arcane really is the best treatment our allies can give us

I wouldn't be surprised if Dropout thinks drag queens count as rep for trans women honestly

well don’t give up. the reason you can’t find good “representation” for trans girls is because you’re looking for it in a netflix show and a company of lab-grown mcelroy brothers and children of career politicians. that isn’t to say we shouldn’t demand more — we should, this shit is dire — but there is plenty of tabletop stuff being made out there BY trans women ABOUT trans women BEING trans women and it’s not even that hard to find if you go on itch or just ask a girl who makes tabletop rpgs on this website. you could probably find dozens of transfem exclusive actual play podcasts — they just won’t have the same overproduced feeling or lost of snazzy special effects and celebrity guests (well. tme celebrity guests. it’s pretty easy to get Chelsea Manning on your podcast so i hear).

and that’s just actual play! like, this website in particular is full to the brim with independently made transfeminine art. webcomics have also often historically been spearheaded by (sometimes then-closeted) trans women — like here’s some webcomics about/by transfems that i personally like; Haus of Decline, close your eyes look at the mountains, Homestuck, Shencomix (well we’ll get him one day) — i hear Questionable Content and Dumbing of Age are made by the two biggest eggs in webcomic history and both comics have transfems galore in them too (go figure)

i… do really wish there were more transfems in animated tv though! the scraps we get are fucking dire.

[craftygobelin]

I decided not to create fan art or post about Good Omens (Tv Show) anymore.

This fandom was a great support for a long time for me and the book is still one of my favourites from the time I started reading compulsively everything from Sir Terry Pratchett, but I'm so pissed with the fandom right now.

The fact that the recent allegations against Neil Gaiman (I was a big fan of his work until I discovered that like every white cismen of his era with a bit of fame he is a piece of shit and think he can do what he wants to women) was barely covered is a thing and yes, it's pissing me off too.

But the fact that so many people in the fandom try to find excuses or justification for his action and don't participate to spread the information or just say nothing about it thinking you can be "neutral" is pissing me way more.

I don't judge people who want to separate his work from him or those who consider that a fandom, at the end, is more the propriety of the fans than the artist, I'm totally agreeing with the last one and I think they are ways to consume the work of problematic authors without giving them platform and money if you really cannot do without it.

BUT, and my big point is here, the issue I have with GO fandom right now it's that a big fandom like this has the possibility to spread the information and awareness pretty easily and right now people continue to post their fan art or fanfic without any infos about the allegations like nothing happened, that's bad! And don't start me with those who are more focused on if the last season will be released or not. It shouldn't be, not with him as screenwriter and executive producer at least and with a lot of money sent to SA associations and transparency about the situation.

It's giving him the possibility to keep the whole thing discret and make people forget about it. It's giving him the opportunity to have kind of a come back at some point, even a small discret one, and give him access to more women in the future who might not know what he did and what kind of man he is.

I don't say that people need to speak about it on every post, but at least, please :

- stop tagging Neil Gaiman in your fandom works (Good Omens, Sandman, ...fan art, fanfiction).

- stop posting, blazing, or reposting quotes from him, or giving him a platform by showing off his work.

- don't buy first hand or loan at the library his books or comics. Why the local library too ? When more people ask for a book at the library, they buy more copies, and in most of the countries, writers receive something when people loan ebooks at the library, even physical books sometimes.

If you really cannot live without merch products from your favourite fandom, then by all means buy those who are not licenced on etsy or other platforms by small artists. I usually don't recommend that, though I prefer not to buy merch at all if the original creator of the license can not be rewarded, and here it's a bad thing if he is.

- and speak about it. If you post fanfiction, post a disclaimer about the allegation at some point on every fanctiction you post, adding at least the two links of the two principles podcasts. Same when you post fanart on whatever platform it is.

That's all I have to say for now, I think.

[corrodedcoffins-blog]

Celebrity crush

jack hughes x youtuber!reader universe

note: i love this one, it's just cute and short!

“Do we have to watch ‘Nowhere Boy’ again?” a very annoyed Jack asked his obviously excited girlfriend, before he continued, “We just watched it last month.”

“Yes. But that was a recreational watch, this is a watch for research.” the girl said, already pulling up the familiar movie, knowing Jack will cave, he always caves for her.

“What research do you have to do?” the younger brother asked from the kitchen, for one of his trips to get food, between playing his video game.

“So glad you asked Luke!” she said, turning her body to face behind her at the boy, her boyfriend rolling his eyes (as he usually does) his head falling into place on the couch cushion behind him, as Y/n continues, “It’s the end of the year, and with the end of the year comes my ‘crush recap’ podcast episode. It’s my favourite time of year!”

“I didn’t know that was why we were watching this! I don’t want to watch a movie were the entire time you just note everytime he does something hot!”

“That is not what I do.”

--

“Who are you taking notes on in this one.”

“Who do you think?” the girl says, giving her boyfriend an ‘are you serious’ look, as she turns back to the TV abd turning on ‘don’t worry, darling’

“What I mean is Harry Styles and Florence Pugh, so which one?”

“This is good for you, two birds one stone.” Y/n replied, impressed he remembered who was in the movie. But thinking more of it, she did not shut up about it in the months leading up to the movies release (and many months after the release)

“Good.”

--

Sitting in the living room, Y/n was recording a podcast. Both the boys were at practice, leaving the girl a good time to record.

“She is so hot! Ahhhhhh!!…. I’m sorry, the Julian Baker thing is really getting out of hand. But like I’m in love with her so I don’t know what you want from me.” Y/n mumbled, looking as if she just got caught red-handed. Which she had, she was just too busy to notice.

“Who-Wha-” Jack said, before giving up and walking into their shared room to get ready to shower off the practice.

--

As Jack walked into the living room, looking for his girlfriend he comes to find her sitting on the couch. Blushing. This was nowhere out of the realm of ordinary for Y/n, but never this much.

“Who has you blushing this much?” the boy asked, coming to look other the older girl’s shoulder, only for him to bot be able to get a look as Y/n quickly turns off her phone. Now this was weird, she never has a problem telling him who her celebrity crush this week is, so why not now?

“It’s nothing.”

“Why won’t you show me.” he questioned, pouting slightly in hopes of getting her to crack.

“‘Cause it’s nothing.” she replies, her eyes following Jack as he rounds the couch.

“Really?” he asks, in a rhetorical sense, bringing his hands to her sides where he knows she’s ticklish. Wary of his hand placement the girl responds with, “Yes. Really.”

“‘Cause I don’t think so!” He announced, bringing one hand to reach for his girlfriends phone, while the other begins to tickle the girls sides.

“No! Jack! Aghh, stop!” Y/n struggles out, laughing and trying to wiggy out of Jack’s grasp. Yet, she’s to late as Jack grabs her phone, standing from the couch and running into the kitchen. Y/n recovering then running after him.

“Me?! I made you blush like that?” the boys yells, rewatching the edit of himself that previously had his girl a blushing mess.

“Shut up! Give me that!” the girl says, back to being said blushing mess, while grabbing her phone from the younger boys hand.

“Aw, am I this weeks celebrity crush?” Jack teases, following Y/n out of the room.

~taglist~

@inejghafawifesblog @dancerbailey3

[imthegayone]

Missing Jenna Playlist

Summary: Without your girlfriend's comforting presence, you take to youtube to find any form of comfort. Luckliy for you, your girlfriend is a celebertiy with a lot of interviews to watch.

Warrnings: None, just fluff, and maybe some errors

Author's Note: Thank you for the love on my last fic, seeing how many of you enjoyed it has really helped me feel more motivated to write. So again, thank you and I hope you enjoy. 🩵

Word Count: 1255

__________

If anyone asked about your comfort playlist full of your girlfriend’s interviews, you’d deny it. Even as said playlist made an appearance in your watch history when she was away filming. 

It had been a particularly hard time spent away from each other when you gave in and made the list. Jenna was so busy that she barely had time to call or FaceTime like usual, not that your conflicting timezone was helping any either. You weren't getting any sleep, realizing just how much your girlfriend’s voice and presence had on your ability to do so. 

At first it was just one of her Wednesday interviews with Emma. Hearing both of them laugh and joke brought you back to the time you had a sleepover together while visiting Romania. It was comforting hearing her raspy voice coax you into a deep sleep. But it would always end too soon, just as you would start to drift off, they were saying goodbye and the video would end. 

So you’d search ‘Jenna Ortega Interview’, a hundred options popping up. You had your favorites and your least favorites. The ratings mostly consist of how much Jenna talked in them and the ones you knew she was excited to have done. 

One day after a week of not hearing Jenna’s voice from her phone calls you wanted your favorites to comfort you. But they were all scattered around, some from Wednesday press junket, Scream 6, her promoting her book, it was too many to just queue every time so you decided a playlist would be good. 

It’d keep everything together, no random videos to play afterwards, just all your favorite interviews in one place. You only did it as a convenience, not because you were desperate for her to be by your side, or anything. Just, supporting your girlfriend while she promoted her recent work. Plus you were tired, and fewer things to select so you could fall asleep to the sound of Jenna’s comforting voice was obviously the better option.

Maybe the playlist started to see the light of day however. Not only being played on your phone as it sat on the mattress next to you. But as the days went on you’d play it on the tv as you cooked, cleaned, or read a book. It basically became your favorite form of podcast without even being one. 

It started to become a routine, you’d come home from work, fix something to eat and watch a show you recently started, until you’d begin to miss her. Your fingers expertly pressing every button needed to enter YouTube and reach your playlist, as if it was second nature. 

It was one of those days, watching Jenna and Melissa die laughing at something Courtney said, the sound of keys unlocking your front door catching your attention. You perk up like a puppy hearing the bag of their favorite treats being opened. “Baby?” You hear the voice you’ve been wanting to hear for weeks and shoot up from your seat. 

Your socked feet against the hardwood making your trek to the door more uncoordinated than usual. “Hi, baby.” You say a little out of breath, a smile gracing both of your faces. “Hello.” She replies, cupping your face and pulling you down into a smiling kiss. You wrap your arms around her pulling her even more into you, your body buzzing with happiness. She sighs as she wraps her arms around your neck, tucking her head in the slope of your neck. 

“I didn’t know you’d be coming home so soon.” Not that you were complaining at all.

“We got a week off of filming and I wanted to see you.” Tightening her grip around your shoulder you feel her relax as you start to sway side to side. “I’ve missed you so much.”  You couldn’t be happier at hearing she felt the same. 

“I’ve missed you too.” Just as you couldn't feel any more at home, your heart sinks as you hear Jenna’s laugh, but it wasn’t coming from Jenna in your arms. No, it was Jenna prompting Scream months ago. You can’t believe you forgot to turn the tv to literally anything else. Jenna pulls away confused, you try pulling her back into you but she pulls away fully walking towards your shared living room. This is a great time to have the floor swallow you whole, you think. 

“Hey, why don’t we put your clothes up and get ready for bed. I’m sure you’re so tired and wanna sleep the rest of the day away. That sounds like a great plan, right?” Unfortunately, she continues on her way, towards the sound of her own voice. Your only comfort being the sly smile she gives you over her shoulder. She stops when she sees what’s on the tv and you sigh. You’ve been caught, and now you are gonna have to hide away for the rest of your life.  

“Did this just come on by itself?” You nod not making eye contact with her. “Yep, it just came on. I guess it got recommended after I watched the roundtable interview.” 

“Oh really?” You hum in agreement, your hands start to sweat as she looks back at you with a mischievous smile. “You didn’t just really miss me?” 

“You don’t even know.” That wasn’t suppose to come out, but it made her smile grow bigger. Her fingers reach out and grasp the hem of your shirt. Her smile and eyes softening at your admission, she pulls you in, her big brown eyes looking up at you takes your breath away for the millionth time. 

Your hand comes up and cradles her neck as your thumb rubs against her jaw bone. It’s quiet for a moment as you just take each other in. You lean down pressing your lips to hers. When you pull away her mischievous smile is back. “You missed me.” She singsongs, you lovingly roll your eyes. “Maybe a little.” 

She pulls you towards the couch, pushing on your chest until you fall into its pillows. “It’s very sweet that you watch my interviews but I can’t watch myself.” She says as she lays on top of you and reaches for the remote. You're so caught up in finally having her in your arms that you don’t realize what she's about to see. 

“You’re watching a playlist of my interviews?” She looks down at you, then back at the screen. “You made the playlist?” You groan, why didn’t you change the tv, why aren't the cushions swallowing you whole like you hope they would? Trying to hide your blush you hear Jenna giggle on top of you and her kissing your warm cheek. “Baby, you’re so cute. Do you know that?” 

“Shut up.” You mutter feeling even more flustered at her words and kiss. That makes her laugh more. You feel her hand slide up your body and find its resting place on your cheek. Pushing you to look at her, she smiles down at you. 

The overwhelming need to confess your feelings almost takes over but after a year of dating you wanted it to be her choice to say it without pressure. 

“I love you, Y/n. So much.” Relief and happiness floods through you, she said it and she meant it. She loves you. You can’t help but surge up, capturing her lips in a kiss, and confess the same sentiment you felt since you met her against her lips. 

“I love you too, J.” 

[icyg4l]

Pick-A-Child Star: Inner Child Messages

In honor of Black History Month, I am continuing the series of highlighting Black icons while prioritizing the spiritual needs of Black Americans. Pick the image that resonates with you most.

Left-to-Right (1-3): Keke Palmer, Aleisha Allen, China Anne McClain

If you chose Pile One, you resonate with the energy of Keke Palmer. As we all know, she is a multi-talented human being. She is a singer-songwriter, actress, dancer, talk show host, podcaster and model. Her name is synonymous with the phrase 'busy bee'. Her infectious personality has followed us through movies and tv shows like True Jackson VP, Scream Queens, Akeelah and the Bee, Nope and much more. She continues to grace the screens with her charismatic nature.

"You're always wondering what you're not, can't you be happy with what you've got?"

When you were younger, you may have watched the tv show, 'How to Rock', starring Cymphonique. The premise of the show is navigating the social castes of high school. I channeled the theme song for this show. You really need to show some more gratitude, man. What's in your imagination is being reflected on the outside world; just enjoy the moment. Your brain is on overload all the time and you really need to rest. On Valentine's Day, you should give yourself some 'me time'. Another message that I get from your inner child is that you need to go play! For some of you, I sense that you're reluctant to let someone into your life when they have good intentions. I think high school plays a big role into why you navigate the world the way that you do. You are not in high school anymore! You are officially responsible for your own shit (that means the emotional trauma too, boo). Your inner child also wants you to know that you should take up some karate/self-defense classes. It is imperative that you learn how to stick up for yourself physically, not just verbally. Lastly, if you have lost a father figure, you should do that thing to honor his legacy such as getting a tattoo of him, getting a portrait painted of him, starting that company and naming it after him. You are your father's offspring, you know?

If you chose pile 2, this means you resonate with the energy of Aleisha Allen. She is most famously known for her roles in the 'Are We There Yet?' film series and School of Rock. Her cheeky portrayal of these characters solidified her as a Black child star icon. After starring in these classic films, she took on smaller roles in 'The Electric Company' and indie films. Since then, she has acquired a Bachelor's degree at Pace University and a Master's degree at Columbia University in Communication Science and Disorders to fulfill a career as a speech pathologist.

“I gets down, I don’t play”

Some of you may be in the midst of choosing a major after being undecided for so long. Some of you may switch majors a lot. Your inner child wants you to choose something that makes them come alive this time. In other words, choose a career path that's not boring to you. You could have ADHD/ADD or some type of learning disability. You need to slow down because you’re inviting some disingenuous energy. Your inner child does not trust the people that are around you. Your light shines too bright to be staying in spaces where you're not celebrated. This made me think of a video of Megan Thee Stallion talking about walking out of rooms where you don't feel comfortable. Do exactly that, my love. Everything will work out just fine if you believe that it will. Your inner child wants you to be as optimistic about this transition as possible. And lastly, you don't have to tolerate anyone's behavior, or quite frankly anything. If you feel like you have to put up with someone's bull, then you need to leave. You guys were quite the sassy kids, weren't you? Now, where did all of that energy go? Why are you dimming yourself down just to appeal to others? It doesn't matter if you're in a corporate meeting or a classroom filled with white people, you speak your mind. You know what's going on, don't be intimidated.

If you chose Pile 3, you resonate with the energy of China Anne McClain. She is known for her roles in Daddy’s Little Girls, A.N.T. Farm, the Descendants series and Black Lightning. Her range in roles highlights her witty, yet dramatic personality, which is the reason for any drawn interest in her. She is also a singer-songwriter who was once in a girl group with her older sisters, Lauryn and Sierra. Since then, she has documented her spiritual journey on social media after quitting acting.

“I’ve got friends on the other side”

This is the pile that I would probably choose. This is the pile of the hoodoos/witches/spiritualists/occultists. Your inner child wants you to know that the spells you’ve been casting have been working. As a child, you may have had some experiences with ghosts/spirits. Nobody believed you but who cares? They’re your friends now. There may be a cousin that you haven’t seen/talked to in a while. Please talk to them! Your inner child misses them so much! It doesn’t matter if you’re not on good terms with them, please go do it. For some reason, you should go play hide and seek. This could also mean that you should prepare for an item of yours to go missing temporarily. It could also mean that you will find out some information that you’ve been searching for. Finally, if you feel like you have nowhere to go, think again! Your inner child wants to go to place where you once frequented. This could be the beach, an arcade or the park. Go have a picnic. Go insert those coins/swipe that card into your favorite apocalypse game. Go dig your toes into the sand! You are going through self-actualization and it is important that you stay grounded. Be prepared to step into uncomfortable positions. Connecting with your inner child is a way to do so. It is essential for your growth as a person.

[alphabotanical]

fuck neil gaiman. obviously. what he did was monstrous and utterly indefensible. his flimsy excuse of a statement is laughable and i believe and stand with the women who have come forward. he deserves prison, and it's despicable on the part of the justice system that he'll never get it.

but speaking as someone in fan spaces dedicated to media gaiman created, i don't appreciate the people who have taken it upon themselves to be the media police. a lot of people have all of a sudden declared themselves the arbiters of morality and instantly condemn anyone who didn't immediately take a torch to every page written by gaiman they've ever possessed. i'm not saying this is not a valid reaction; i never enjoyed his solo novels and will be getting rid of the only one i ever owned (i did not get even a quarter of the way through american gods before getting bored and weirded out by the way he wrote women). you can erase his name from your shelves, you can scribble it out, hold a bonfire, whatever is cathartic for you.

however, if you're on tumblr reading through the tags, you probably have some kind of emotional attachment to a piece of media he created, and a blanket command to destroy a book or delete a tv show you love is not helpful or productive in seeking a resolution. obviously the most important thing here is the victims. our personal feelings about his work obviously don't really matter. but shaming someone for having complicated feelings about the creator of something they really love turning out to be a horrible person doesn't do anything besides strengthen your own sense of righteousness.

because the thing is, we already knew this. anyone in the loop about good omens knew why production was halted last year and basically presumed dead. that podcast told the truth about him months ago, and i and many others spent months processing this and hurting for the women who came forward. anyone who just learned about it because of the new yorker hasn't had that time, is still in the knee-jerk reaction phase, and with the new details that have come out i too am horrified all over again. but after the first allegations, i grieved for good omens. i thought it was done for, that there would never be a season three, and i knew if gaiman wasn't divested from the production and would continue to profit from it that i would rather never have a third season at all. then gaiman stepped back, new directors and writers came in, and somehow it was going forward. i was so happy. i wanted season three so badly, and even though it was truncated, it was genuinely the best outcome anyone could have hoped for. gaiman's scripts wouldn't be used and he wouldn't be profiting. and as far as i know, production is still happening. what i'm trying to say is that we have known all of this for the past several months, and we have processed and watched the rollercoaster of season three's production and eventually come to our own conclusions on whether we want to support it. gaiman is financially severed, and the separation of art and artist is an issue in and of itself. but personally, my decision was that good omens is important to me, and the tv adaptation is a bigger thing than just gaiman.

other people might have made other decisions. i know some people have decided they can't watch it anymore, and i'm heartbroken that something i love has this stain on it now. but as long as i'm not giving him money, and that's a line i absolutely will not cross (pirating is a valid way to access media), i want to see good omens to its end. i don't know. i'm just really tired of being called a terrible person for feeling sad that something i love is now forever tainted, and i don't think it's helpful to see things in immutable black and white.

[utilitycaster]

In thinking about the new information we've recently learned about the gods of Exandria, I started thinking about epic fantasy novels. The thing is, Exandria's deity lore is not actually terribly unique. This isn't a bad thing! But the idea of an idyllic age when gods were not just powerful but present and united; the fall of one (or many) gods and an ensuing devastation this causes; and the gods subsequently withdrawing or diminishing is a very, very common one in fantasy (and, to be totally honest, world religion). Similarly, the idea of a much more advanced age that has since passed into distant memory is also an extremely common trope. I think it's less common to have both of these tropes working in tandem though certainly not unheard of (hello, Wheel of Time), and the nature of the storytelling method in effect here means that the fallen advanced civilization is more thoroughly developed in the worldbuilding than it is in many other stories, but none of this is a wildly new concept.

I want to talk about genre, medium, and actual play, which is sort of both and sort of neither. I think people talking about actual play tend to mash all three of these things together when they really shouldn't.

(this is a long one so it's under a cut to not wreck your dash)

The genre of Critical Role's main campaigns is heroic fantasy, which I know I've covered in the past, and of epic scale. This is honestly pretty typical of D&D. NADDPod (especially Bahumia) and TAZ Balance and Graduation are also arguably within this same broad genre, just more comedic and looser with aspects of the worldbuilding.

Despite the fact that Brennan is very well-versed in fantasy novels, D20's main deal is that it's not classic heroic fantasy. I think this is actually a bigger factor in why people prefer CR to D20 than many people think. The shorter length is definitely another factor (though that too feels almost related - the critically acclaimed indie comic run to Critical Role's series of doorstopper novels) but Dimension 20, while it comments on classic heroic fantasy with Fantasy High and Escape from the Bloodkeep, only ever dips into anything actually approaching that genre with the Game of Thrones-inspired low fantasy seasons and, funnily enough, with the Dungeons and Drag Queens miniseries. Otherwise, it's telling school stories, urban fantasy, space operas, heists, murder mysteries, comedies of manners, and action-adventure. Similarly, TAZ Steeplechase and Amnesty very much aren't of this genre. Critical Role meanwhile touches on supernatural horror with Candela Obscura.

Actual Play is a means of telling a story, and typically the system at least puts in place the general expectations of what can be done within the improv. Some systems (such as Candela Obscura or Blades in the Dark) set a particular genre; others, like D&D, favor one but permit a good degree of flexibility. Actual Play is not really the same as genre, as discussed above; D20 genre hops quite readily, as does The Adventure Zone, even while using the same TTRPG systems.

Finally, there's medium. This one is easy. Critical Role and D20 are filmed shows (though are available as podcasts); so is, to give a non-Actual Play example, The Bear. NADDPod and TAZ are podcasts. So are (for example) The Silt Verses and Midst.

The reason I've outlined all of the above is to say that I think people tend to assume simply being actual play is somehow closer than sharing genre. This is also to an extent true for longform fiction podcasts (though it is less true for TV and books). I think this has led to an influx of fans of actual play (and, tbh, podcasts) who aren't familiar with the genres within which actual play shows are working.

I do not say this to gatekeep (though honestly, gatekeeping is both not inherently bad and also, not possible in this context). It's more of an exploration of what I think may be a reason why, particularly in the Critical Role fandom, it feels some of the Campaign 3 opinions feel somewhat half-baked.

You can be a fan of heroic fantasy and enjoy actual play but not actually be terribly into actual play that isn't heroic fantasy. I think some people who loved Critical Role Campaign 1 but nothing after that and no other actual play fit into that category. I think Campaign 1's fandom was, indeed, heavily skewed towards fans of fantasy and fans of D&D (as a venue to roleplay one's own fantasy story and as a game itself heavily shaped by heroic fantasy fiction) more so than anything else. If you like, say, The Kingkiller Chronicles or the Stormlight Archives or the Wheel of Time or Lord of the Rings? You might like Critical Role.

By 2018, and definitely by 2019-2020, the landscape had changed, and the attitude was much more one of "if you like this actual play, you'll like this one" which is actually...nowhere near as true, in my mind, as recommendations based on genre. I think this is also when people started folding in "longform speculative fiction podcasts in general" which to be honest was already an issue with the medium of longform fiction podcasts. Wolf 359, The Silt Verses, Midst, The Penumbra Podcast, and any season of NADDPod are all longform, plot-based speculative fiction podcasts with queer representation, but that doesn't actually mean someone who likes one will like another. (Also? Queer rep? Gets treated like podcasts or actual play, to be honest. It's extremely possible to love only one of The Mysteries of Pittsburgh, Stars in My Pocket Like Grains of Sand, The Woods All Black, and The Priory of the Orange Tree despite all of these being novels with queer relationships, yet a lot of the time Queer Rep is treated as a genre, an "if you like this, you'll like that!")

I think it is true that there are people who enjoy actual play on a fairly general level (myself included), and with podcasts especially I think there are people who enjoy fiction delivered in this manner and people who have some difficulty with it. But I think there's a tendency to push people who like one actual play towards other actual play when they may be more interested in longform audio fiction, scripted or not; or might be inclined towards a particular genre. To go back to the examples I've given, someone who likes Candela Obscura might find The Silt Verses and The Woods All Black more appealing than, for example, Fantasy High, despite that also being filmed actual play, because the latter two are also supernatural horror with exploration of class.

Because actual play, in its weird not a medium, not a genre, but kind of both space is, well, in between spaces, it gets treated as the most specific element of works of fiction when that's not always true. The consequences, therefore, end up being twofold. You get people who come to AP series because they liked another one that doesn't actually have a ton in common, and it ends up hit or miss (this is one of my theories why the D20 fandom can be extremely weird about Critical Role; because it was pushed on them when it's really not what they're into, which is neither their nor CR's fault); and you get people coming to specific actual plays and enjoying them without much familiarity with their genres, which I think is behind some of the weirder C3 takes since C3 is arguably the first campaign that truly began after Actual Play began to be treated as a genre.

[vivianbernadetteaurora]

Effy Stoneham

Effy Stoneham

Her makeup and everything was so old iconic and. Mid to late 2000s and early twenty 10s. She was even on one of these programs where they’re like vogue or somewhere like that. Where they go through like old chronic looks in TV shows or they go through that iconic characters.. I think it was like the the character James McAvoy did one as well he did one talking about him being him shameless and also playing like someone in the UM something like the lion the witch and the wardrobe that kind of thing. But yeah her looks and that have been copied so much right with Jenna generations but it’s more of my generation and she started that show so young that she was like this is what made her Jen free not as good because they didn’t have Fe as like a Cliff note if you will. they had to use other characters to make that connection between it all but.. they did as well as they could on what budget they had in fact they had a really good budget for Gen. 3 but it just didn’t sit as well over the viewers. I like the second season of Gen. 3. especially allow. He makes it good and so does many for her character development but Frankie ruins it and it’s sad because she’s the only skins character that in real life they didn’t give her a verified tick online because she was disliked by so many viewers and she’s on.. April Pearson who played Michelle Richardson in Gen. 1. In the podcast are you Michelle from skins.

.... and how the creator who none of them are that fond of by the sounds of it I guess it was different with the younger lot I don’t know but they said that the sex scenes were really awkward and if you look at it it’s like really weird these people are teenagers are now having to take off their clothes and TV shows when they’re actually of that age I can’t think of anything worse.. well I could but not much worse it would be horrible to like when you’ve got all those feelings as a teenager it’s that age it’s hurtful and maybe you don’t feel good enough about yourself. the FBI was always the lead person’s favorite character I think because she got most of the good parts she got the bad parts obviously but she was popular because she was in all Four Seasons of Gen. 1 and Gen. 2... she was leading on to Jan 2 before taking over tonye space and there’s this thing on TikTok called the Stoneham and EFF ECT.. warehouse the Stoneham siblings really everybody there close to it. With Tony and Effie. but her looks have been iconic up until like now where things of my generation are now vintage because they're really well they're 20 years old a lot of them and that makes something vintage now.. they have a 10 to 20 year cycle 10 years of being popular Max and then ten years of being the opposite where it’s like say 80s compared to 90s clothing... so there’s that in between. Where they’re very similar and then it slowly peaks off and goes into a whole different genre of clothing and music also affects this too I feel like if it became later the series then Effie would have been a Lana Del Rey kind of girl... somebody else said sky fiera I don’t know enough of her music to know if she would be but seeing her hanging around with their banks and some of the pictures that I’ve put on here makes sense.