#you specifically should know that but whatever.

[flowersforbucky]

either way, i'm going your way

logan howlett x reader (worst!logan x reader)

word count: 4k

summary: logan doesn't remember the last time he celebrated valentine's day, and he doesn't have any reason to believe that this year will be any different. then he runs into you, wade's neighbor, who happens to love the holiday despite not having anyone to celebrate it with.

warnings/tags: smut, 18+ only mdni, sex in a public place kind of, oral (m&f receiving), unprotected p in v, logan's pov, neighbor!reader, reader is afab, reader is described as being shorter than logan, no use of y/n, hints of grumpy x sunshine

this is my entry for @yxtkiwiyxt & @lubdubology valentine's writing challenge! thank you both for hosting this, i can't wait to read the other submissions ❤️

logan howlett masterlist

Logan has been alive for two centuries worth of Valentine's Days. He can count on one hand how many he’s actually celebrated, and he can't recall the last time he had a reason to even acknowledge the day.

To him, Valentine’s Days have always been just another Tuesday, or Thursday, or whatever day it falls on that year.

He hates how commercialized the holiday is thanks to the multi-billion dollar corporations that fill department stores with trinkets the second that Christmas is over. He hates all of the pressure and unrealistic expectations that come with planning the perfect date. And as much as he hates to admit it to himself, he hates that it's a stark reminder that he's just as alone in this universe as he had been in the last one.

Technically he can't say that he's entirely alone. Romantically? Yes. Sexually? Yes.

Physically, however, he’s lodged between a blind eighty-year-old cocaine addict and a ten pound living tumor - the latter of whom keeps trying to French kiss him.

Wade might be out with Vanessa for Valentine’s Day, but for Logan, this is any other Friday night – watching Who Wants To Be A Millionaire reruns with Al and Mary Puppins.

Something about his current predicament makes him feel even more alone than if he actually were alone. Maybe it’s how unfamiliar and foreign this universe still feels in so many ways – he’s been here for some months now, but there’s some things that remind him that he still has a ways to go in terms of adjustment.

He'd never admit it aloud, but just maybe the fact that he can’t keep his thoughts from straying to a specific next door neighbor certainly doesn’t help. He hates to use the word crush at his grown age, but he can’t really think of a better word for it. If it’s not a crush, why else would he be wondering what your plans are for this evening? Why else would he feel the unmistakable, undeniable twinge of jealousy when he thinks of the mere possibility of you spending your night in the arms of someone other than him?

He has no one to blame but himself, and he knows it. He had the perfect opportunity to ask you out just last week, and he didn’t take it. The two of you were both taking the elevator up to your neighboring apartments when it broke down for the third fucking time in the last month. It took nearly an hour for maintenance to get it back up and running, and he couldn’t find the nerve to simply ask if you have any plans at any point during the time you were trapped in the fifteen square feet of space together. Instead, he awkwardly rambled about he had walked in on Wade and Vanessa in a compromising position the day before.

He cringes at the memory, tossing back another swig of whiskey when he realizes the bottle is empty. He sighs, earning a side-eye from Mary Puppins.

If this is how he’s going to be spending his evening, he should at least be a little intoxicated.

“I’m going to the liquor store,” Logan announces as he transfers Mary Puppins from his lap to Al’s before standing up from his position on the couch for the first time in hours. “You need anything?”

“Pick me up a couple of scratchers and a pack of Newports.”

Just her usual requests, then.

Logan throws on his leather jacket, dreading the cold and dreary February night but willing to face it for a bottle of bourbon and some cigars. He’s been out of those since yesterday, so a trip to the nearest convenience store is much needed, anyway.

The door to the apartment complex’s singular outdated elevator is sliding to a close when Logan hears a familiar, feminine voice call out.

“Hold up!”

Logan immediately pushes the hold button, freezing the door in place. A second later, you appear in the doorframe. You’re slightly out of breath, with a relieved expression on your face.

“Thanks,” you greet him as you lean against the wall of the elevator, smoothing your hands over the fabric of your plaid skirt. “I’m running late to my dinner reservations and really didn’t wanna have to take the stairs in these.” You glance down at the heels of the uncomfortable looking thigh high boots that you’re wearing.

Uncomfortable looking and hot, he thinks, before your words sink in. Dinner reservations – of course you’d have plans tonight. He feels a slight pang of disappointment (and jealousy, if he’s being honest with himself) at the realization, but he isn’t surprised.

“Well, let’s cross our fingers that we don’t get stuck in here again and that you make it to your date on time,” Logan says with a forced laugh and smile as he pushes the button once again to close the door, followed by the button that says lobby.

“Oh, no. Not a date,” you correct him quickly with a bashful grin. “Well, maybe. Is it considered a date if I’m dining by myself?”

“You’re going to dinner by yourself?” Logan asks, unable to hide the surprise in his tone. “Looking like that?”

Your eyes widen in shock. “What’s wrong with how I look? And what’s wrong with going to dinner by myself?”

“Nothing!” Logan begins to backtrack when he realizes how his questions came across. “You - you look great. I'm just a little surprised. Would’ve assumed that you had a date tonight is all—”

He trails off when he realizes that you’re pursing your lips together in an obvious attempt to hide a smirk. The mischievous glimmer in your eyes gives you away.

“I’m just fucking with you, Logan,” you snort with a playful slap to his arm. “I know it’s a little unconventional to take yourself out on Valentine’s Day. But I’ve always loved the holiday despite being painfully single, so I thought why not? Better than sitting at home and sulking all night.”

The corners of his lips threaten to twitch upwards at the words painfully single as he contemplates the rest of your response. He can’t help but admire your way of thinking. He was content with staying holed up inside the apartment and drinking himself into a stupor, but he can’t deny that your outlook on the holiday is far less depressing and boring than his.

“What about you?” you ask as the elevator comes to a stop with a melodic ding. You exit, looking back at him over your shoulder. “Are you on your way to your Valentine’s plans?”

He chuckles at the question. For a second, he considers lying to you. He considers telling you that yes, he is on his way to pick up his date right now, just so he doesn’t have to tell you the truth – that he’s on his way to buy bourbon, cancer sticks, and lottery tickets for him and his elderly roommate. But with his luck, you’d run into Wade tomorrow and he’d open his big fucking mouth about how Logan actually spent his night, and the thought of that is even more mortifying than telling you the truth to your face.

“Not unless you count making a liquor run as Valentine’s plans,” he sighs, averting your gaze as he opens the door to the apartment building for you. “The only thing I plan on doing tonight is listen to Althea scream at her game shows.”

You come to a stop outside of the apartment building, wrapping your coat tightly around your chest to fight off the chilly night air. There’s a peculiar look on your face that Logan can’t quite read – something between amusement and hesitation.

“You could have worse dates, I suppose,” you laugh.

“That’s true,” Logan agrees. “At least I have Vanessa to thank for a Wade free evening. But I’ll let you go, don’t wanna make you late for your—”

“Do you like Korean barbecue?”

Logan freezes, taken aback by the question. He snaps his mouth shut, realizing he’s staring at you like a deer in the headlights.

“Korean barbecue?” He asks lamely. “Don’t think I’ve ever tried it.”

He’s had barbecue. He’s had Korean food.. maybe? He’s been alive a really long time, he’s sure he’s had Korean food at some point in the last two hundred years.

But he can’t say that he’s had Korean barbecue.

A nervous looking grin appears on your face, and you cross your arms over your chest before taking a small step towards him.

“Are you hungry?”

••••••

All it takes is one look at the table that the host takes the two of you to for Logan to realize that he has indeed never had Korean barbecue.

You don’t appear to be the slightest bit confused so he assumes that the circular grill built into the middle of the table is normal, though he’s never seen anything quite like it in a restaurant before.

You giggle when you notice the curious expression on his face.

“It’s kinda like hibachi,” you begin. “Except instead of someone cooking it in front of you, you cook it yourself.”

Logan takes in the array of various meats on the tray to the left of him. You pick up a piece of what appears to be some kind of beef with a pair of tongs, and place it on the grill. It sizzles, and he watches as you add a few more pieces of meat onto the hot surface.

“Isn’t that kinda the whole point of going to a restaurant? To have someone else cook the food for you?” He asks the question as gently as he can, not wanting to hurt your feelings. He’s just happy to be here with you – even if he doesn’t fully understand the appeal of going to a restaurant to pay to cook your own food.

“It’s about the experience,” you explain with a shrug. “To be fair, when most people come to a Korean barbecue restaurant, they usually come with a group of people – hence the large amount of meat.” You nod towards the arrangement of the meats that have yet to be cooked.

“It’s a social thing. But all of my friends had plans with their significant others tonight, so…”

You trail off as the server places another tray on the table – this one covered in various colorful side dishes that he’s definitely never had before. He wouldn’t exactly describe himself as adventurous when it comes to trying new foods – for the most part, he lives off of ham and cheese sandwiches and frozen TV dinners. But he tried shawarma when he’d first arrived in this universe and ended up loving it, so he’s determined to try a bite of everything on this table.

“Sounds like it’s a good thing that you ran into me, then,” Logan murmurs when the server walks off.

You take your eyes off of the pieces of meat that you’re paying careful attention not to overcook, looking up at him through your lashes with a soft smile.

“I'd say that you’re right about that.”

••••••

Despite the breeze and the chilly night air, Logan feels perfectly toasty on the walk back to the apartment thanks to your tight hold on his arm and the wine that you had insisted that he try.

He'd learned a lot tonight – a lot about you; your hobbies and your interests. He’d learned all about Korean barbecue, and that he likes bulgogi and buldak.

Most importantly, he'd learned that he was stupid for ever being nervous about asking you out.

He feels at ease with you. He already knew he enjoys your company from all of the times that you’ve joined Wade’s movie nights and get-togethers – but he’d never been alone with you (with the exception of getting stuck in the elevator with you last week). Wade, Vanessa, Al, Peter, Yukio, and countless others always seemed to be present, making it near impossible for him to get to know you in the way that he’s wanted to since he first met you.

But now, with your arm intertwined with his and the scent of your perfume hitting him each time there is a gust of air, he knows that he is going to do all that he can to keep having moments like this with you.

“I have a question,” you state as the two of you turn onto the street where your apartment building is. Logan glances down at you in curiosity, but you’re not looking at him – you’re looking ahead, your teeth biting into your lower lip.

“What’s that?” Logan murmurs.

You hesitate, your eyes flickering up to him before quickly looking away again. “Did you actually like the kimchi?”

Logan can’t help but cackle, taken off guard by the question.

“That’s your question?” he laughs, thinking back to the spicy and tangy flavor of the fermented vegetables.

You come to a stop next to a streetlight outside of your apartment building, pulling your arm away from his to stand just inches in front of him.

“No,” you admit with a smirk. “Though I am curious about that, too.” You take a step closer to him, your chest ever so slightly brushing against his. He feels his breath catch in his throat at the way that your eyes twinkle in the glow of the streetlight.

“Last week, when we got stuck in the elevator together,” you begin in a low voice. He swears that your eyes flicker to his lips for a split second before meeting his gaze once more. “Were you nervous?”

He thinks back to his nervous rambling in the elevator, to how you looked so pretty that he found it difficult to hold direct eye contact with you, and to how it felt like half of his brain was screaming at him to ask you out and the other half was screaming at him to not make himself look like an idiot.

Yeah, nervous is accurate.

“That obvious, huh?” he sighs.

“Just a little,” you shrug. “But don’t worry. I was too.”

“Is that right?” Logan asks, trying not to give away just how happy the confession makes him. “And what about now?”

He doesn’t have to ask – he's standing close enough to you that your increased heartrate is easy for him to detect.

“Something like that,” you whisper, and before he fully process what’s happening, you’re raising up on your tippy toes to capture his lips in yours.

The taste of the fruity wine from dinner still lingers on your lips. He places his hands on the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. Your hands cradle his face, pulling him down closer to you. The warmth of you is a balm against the brisk night air, making him feel like he can’t get close enough to you. You don’t pull away until you’re breathless, looking up at him with dilated pupils in the florescent street lighting.

“Do you wanna come up to my place?” you breathe, nodding your head in the direction of the apartment building.

“What? You don’t wanna come to mine and hang out with Al?” he teases, nudging you in the direction of the building’s entrance.

“As tempting as that sounds…” You trail off, following his lead.

The second that the elevator door comes to a close, his hands are back on you. He backs you up against the wall, his hands gripping your hips as you spread your legs enough to allow one of his thick thighs in between them. This time, he’s the one who kisses you, wasting no time in slipping his tongue between your lips. You whimper into the kiss, your tongue fighting his for dominance.

It isn’t until he pulls away for air and opens his eyes that he realizes the elevator has come to a stop. It couldn’t have been moving for more than ten seconds –

“Fuckin’ hell,” you groan. “Not this again.”

Logan looks at the panel of buttons to his left. Sure enough, the number reads that you’re still a floor beneath your apartments. He beats his fist against the elevator wall, as if that’s actually going to help the matter.

Still pinned between his body and the wall, you pull your cell phone out from an interior pocket of your coat. You quickly find the number for building maintenance in your call history, but it just rings, and rings, and rings.

“I could probably pry the doors open,” Logan muses as he begins to pull away from you. He thinks back to how it took maintenance nearly an hour to get the elevator back up and running last week, and knows that he wouldn’t have the patience for that now. The thought of having to wait even a fraction of that long to get back to your apartment…

“Let’s not do anything that could potentially put the elevator out of commission permanently, yeah?” You pull him back to you, grabbing his face in your hand and making him look at you. “I think that we'll be just fine right here for a while.”

There’s a mischievous look on your face. Before he can question you, you’re sliding down the wall until you reach the floor. You reach for his belt with your hands, making quick work of undoing the buckle and then the button to his jeans.

Oh.

All Logan can do is stare down at you in wonderment as you tug his zipper down.

“This okay with you?” you ask, but the look on your face says that you already know the answer.

He nods, his mouth suddenly feeling too dry to speak. He helps you shimmy his boxers and jeans down enough for his cock to spring free. He glances around the elevator, double checking that there aren’t any security cameras. Considering this elevator is ancient and doesn’t even function half the time, he isn’t surprised to see that there aren’t any.

You take the base of him in your hand, languidly massaging the length as you tease his slit with your tongue. You lap up the beads of pre-cum before easing him past your lips.

The sight of you on your knees for him is enough to have him twitching in your mouth. Add in how your soft lips and tongue feel working his length, and he knows he won’t last long like this.

You bob your head around him, gagging when his head juts against the back of your throat. You pull off of him, leaving a thick rope of saliva that trails from his cock to your mouth.

He doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything prettier. He could spend hours looking at you like this.

But this isn’t how he wants to finish – in your mouth, before he’s even had a chance to make you feel good. So as much as it nearly kills him to do it, he pulls himself away from your sweet lips and yanks you back up by the tops of your arms. There’s the slightest hint of disappointment on your face, but it quickly disappears when he pushes your coat off of your shoulders and down your arms. It falls to floor, leaving you in still too many articles of clothing for Logan’s liking.

Later, he tells himself. He’ll get you naked later, in the privacy of your apartment, where there’s no risk of the elevator doors sliding open at any given moment.

For now, he settles for pushing the restrictive fabric of your skirt upwards, bunching it around your waist. He sinks to the ground in front of you, splaying his palms on your inner thighs and spreading your legs open for him. He rubs the pad of his thumb over the soft material of your panties, right over your clit. He feels shudder at the sensation, and notices the goosebumps that appear on the skin of your thighs.

He hooks his index finger through the cotton fabric, pulling it to the side. He looks up to see if there’s any kind of hesitation on your face, but you quickly pull him to your center by the back of his head, erasing any doubt. He chuckles lowly, and flattens his tongue over your slit.

Your cunt tastes as sweet as the fruity wine from the restaurant did on your tongue. He eats you like he wants to get drunk off of you, alternating between soft licks through your folds and fervent kisses to your swollen bud.

He feels your legs quiver around the sides of his head. He supports you from below, letting you go all but limp above him. He glances up at you, your head thrown back in pleasure and your chest heaving with ragged breaths.

His name slips through your lips, your voice strained with desperation. He loves the sound of it, and wants more than anything to hear you keep saying it. He snakes one of his hands between your thighs, and teases your hole with the tip 9t his finger. You involuntarily sink down, nudging the tip of it past your entrance.

He groans against your clit at how fucking tight you feel around his finger. God, he can’t wait to be inside you. He pumps the digit, your walls already clenching around him.

“Logan,” you moan from above him. “I’m gonna—”

“I know,” he hums against your clit. “Let go. I got you.”

Your climax washes over you with a sharp cry of his name and Logan mentally prays that the elevator walls aren’t as thin as the apartment walls.

When you go still above him, he reluctantly takes his mouth off of you and stands up. His jeans and boxers are still bunched just above his knees, his erection painfully hard and his balls full. He wipes the excess of your slick from his mouth with the back of his hand, and then begins to stroke his own length in his fist.

“Do you.. wanna wait until we get back to your..?”

“God, no,” you exhale, and pull him to you by grabbing his flannel in your fists.

His lips crash against yours as he nestles himself in between your legs, teasing your slit with the head of his cock. He coats it in your juices and eases into you slowly. You groan into his mouth and he has to try not to cum on the spot.

You’re tight, and warm, and your walls flutter around him just right. He hikes one of your thighs over his hip, deepening the angle before he pulls almost all the way out. He rocks back into you, working up to a steady pace.

The small, confined space is filled with the sound of your body meeting his and the sweet noises you make that are music to his ears. You grip around him like a velvet vice and he knows that he isn't going to last long.

“Gonna cum, honey,” he warns in a grunt next to your ear. “Ya feel too fuckin’ good.”

He feels your walls pulse around him at his words and he can tell that you're just as close as he is. A few more deep thrusts that hit your cervix just right and he’s spilling into you as you cum around him.

When he’s empty, his movements cease but he doesn’t pull out. He nuzzles his face against your throat, pressing kisses to the soft but sweat-slicked skin.

“Happy Valentine’s Day to us,” you murmur in a borderline delirious voice. He laughs, pulling back just enough to press his lips to yours.

“Mind if I still come back to your place? I know we just…” He trails off, glancing down at where he’s still tucked inside you. “But I just realized I forgot to pick up cigarettes for Al and she isn’t gonna be too happy with me.”

You roll your eyes, and playfully push him away from you so that you can tug your skirt back into place.

“I think I can find a way to be okay with that,” you smirk. “If we ever get out of this fuckin’ elevator.”

not my favorite thing i've ever written by any means, i've been feeling really unmotivated to write and have felt kinda burnt out, but i still wanted to get this out before valentine's day bc if i didn't then i never would have finished it at all, lol. so i'm sorry it's short 😭 hope you still enjoyed

reblogs/comments are always appreciated, thanks for reading!

[shoujoboy-restart]

Oh thought I was rebbloging from them, eh potato potato.

Also why would I be "scared" of them lol, you yourself said THEIR comparison isn't good, I'm not the one saying abortion for women is equal or comparable to the draft for men, they did.

> I've seen no love for Tate from MRAs

Neither have i because the MRA movement is dead and rotting when it comes to relevance in politics and social discourse at all, you had to bring it up unrelated, no, literally I also had to check if I even said "MRA", I only used "men's right" generically and obviously about the concept not the movement, that's how irrelevant it is to discussions now days.

Which makes this weird strawmans and skeleton digging you are doing really embarrassing

Idk who this warren dude is, good for him, bad for for him whatever, seems like a guy who the topic of a generic buzzfeed feminist article in the 2010s that would make some good and bad point about his beliefs i guess.

Roosh v, don't know don't care, I can remember the name only and he seems to call himself a pick up artist from I've seen, so the anti-sjw slop tubers from 2014 would probably go to great lengths to make him seem more relevant than he is just like mainstream media and probably use him for click bait, but whatever he's doing is for money and grifting by default from what I can see in the surface and that's just common sense I don't make rules lol.

Marc Lepine...

So a random anti-feminist shooter from the 80s? There's like a handful of them, again idk how he's relevant to this discussion specifically, like if you are using this to relive a debunk post you made against We Hunt The Mammoth in the 2010s and you felt it deserved more notes I will need you to pay before and after you finish and i ain't no cheap hoe. But I can definetely see a 2010s video by a random slop tuber that would use the fact he killed men too as proof "he's not a Real™ anti-feminist", make a bunch of edgy commentary about how actually someone should have pitty fucked him for the benefit of society, women shouldn't have been so picky about his demonic depressed aura and they should have thought of him when fighting for women rights completely unrelated to whatever internal issue he was having, issues which the slop tuber and his audience would probably call "socialism welfare" if separated from the topics of men's rights (again, generically, no one is referring to a movement that failed upwards, please move on 2010s it is better for a everyone if we do that)

Honey Badger Brigade, oof that's a deep cut, remember when they tried to go on Metakour's stream to beg for money for that pointless lawsuit going back where they said "actually we are now going to represent ourselves because all lawyers are dumb and don't know anything" which looking back as a adult really just came off as begging and trying to extend their 15 minutes of fame and that any lawyer worth their salt was telling them the contract they signed probably said they could lose their spot whenever and for whatever reason, I also remember when the butch one started using every slur know to man trying to be one of the Cool YouTubers™ 😎 when responding back to Metakour's not giving a shit about men rights because he didn't care about politics of any kind and told them to stop begging his viewers for money, even at like 14 i cringed and noticed how desperate they were to be pandering to anybody that gave them relevance, like nothing shows you REALLY care about men's right than using slurs like the hard-r n-word that dehumanized men based on their skin color and ethnicity, honestly they were the definition of pick me if you ask me, just saying whatever men wanted to hear with no care of concistency or true higher beliefs because it gave them some sort of relevance they could get if involving themselves with real world activism.

Yeah I genuinely don't get why you just brought up some random Mc Nobody author, one of the handful of grifters before Andrew Tate perfected the formula and prepared the soil for him to land, a random anti-feminist shooter form the 80s that would probably get some Devil's Advocacy for YouTube clicks from grifting slop tubers which would be consumed uncritically and then would make y'all look bad obviously and two pick me that had no real beliefs, begged for money every other week for like the political equivalent of pizza parties and would had no real opinion besides whatever mediocre men would like to hear women say.

Again, I said "red pill movement" which is a incredibly generic catch all term for men and people claiming to seek male improvement, which Tate is, he uses that term, most people that also call themselves "red pilled" accept and love him and I have yet to even see a "association fallacy" even begin to being used to claim he doesn't represent "red pill values", mostly because there's none since it just a "floating symbol".

But hey you are the same dude who believes in that weird narrative of "the term incel was actually made derogatorily by a random zoophililic radfem" made by incel appropriators themselves in a beyond weird attempt to make it seem like they didn't steal the term from a disabled woman who made a support forum for disabled and socially unpalatable men and women and actually everyone everywhere wronged them and that's why they advocate for pedophilia now (this is just as irrelevant to topic like your weird creature of the nights checklist you did so lol and lmao even).

Genuine advice, move on, the MRA movement is the definition of reactionary, the only accomplishment it has to show is a Apollo curse PR documentary, a bunch of pizza parties about how great it is to have xy chromosomes in a average way and a bunch of rent seekers shadow boxing at already retires feminist internet figure heads or waiting for the next ai generated article about why eating avocados and doing yoga is the ultimate feminism activism to drop to dibonky it epic style, I'm afraid if this discussion goes any further you are doing to talk about Anita Sarkesian as if she relevant still, and that's scary, move on genuinely, almost a decade doing this and y'all having nothing but YouTube views to show. Genuinely the only people who bring up MRAs unironically these days are TERFs and radfems claiming they have evolved into trans rights activists, and like they are twice more chronically online than MRAs yet they have more real world accomplishmenta than y'all did at the top of y'all's relevance back then...that's sad babe, real sad.

Not feminist as in "women should be included in the draft" but feminist as in "being drafted is a violation of bodily autonomy for any gender".

The draft should not exist. Drafting people into the military is a violation of human rights. You should not be able to force someone to risk their life. If you can't find enough people who care about a conflict to keep it going then it simply shouldn't keep going. You can't even force someone to donate a kidney using government power, why the fuck can you force them to donate their whole body and life to a cause they don't agree with or don't care about?

[muwapsturniolo]

Nipple or Tip ( • )( • ) C. Sturniolo

"I also saw one of those weird makeup hacks-"

⟢ funny shit tbh. nipples and tips of dick are mentioned as well as balls. chris being unhinged in ulta, reader done with his bs but also down with his bs.

dividers by the one and only rose toy @bernardsbendystraws

You were a beauty lover, it was well known by everyone in your life. When you were a kid, you were constantly in your moms makeup bag, messing up her high-priced lipsticks and eyeshadows on a daily basis.

As you got older, that love for makeup stayed.

You had a whole beauty room in your two-bedroom apartment. You had the vanity, the box lights as well as ring lights, and drawers on top of drawers filled with makeup you may not even have a chance to touch.

Chris knew of your love for makeup, he has been in you're beauty room one too many times to think otherwise. He never saw it as too much because he knew it was your way of expressing yourself - he was never the one to hate on expression.

So here he was, driving you to the place he should just invest in at this point.

Ulta.

You spent so much time there, that the workers recognize you. You have the credit card, you've racked up points, and you memorized the aisles. This was basically your third home, the first being your own and the second being Chris's.

"Alright, what do you need today?"

You proceed to go through your list as you walk inside the bright store, the sound of Billie's "Birds of a Feather" playing over the speakers. The song distracts him for a moment, but he comes back to reality hearing you say foundation.

"Wait, didn't you just get a new foundation?"

"Well...Yes, but I need another one!" He gives you a look as the two of you walk over to Wyn Beauty. "Technically, you don't need another one. You have about forty of them, but who am I to complain considering you're paying?"

It's comical to him the way you stop in your tracks, your eyes widening in disbelief. "What do you mean I'm paying? It's your turn to pay!"

Chris chuckles to himself, fixing the beanie on his head. "I'm just pulling your clit."

"Chris please stop fuckin' talking to me. That's not even how the damn saying goes!"

He giggles like a schoolboy and kisses your shoulder, motioning to the bright green packaging in front of you. "Go ahead and pick out your millionth foundation."

And so you do, you pick out a new foundation...and concealer, primer, setting spray, bronzer, lip gloss, and lipstick.

"Ok, now a lip liner." Your words spark Chris's interest, his mind going back to a specific video he saw not too long ago. The two of you start walking over to NYX, and he decides to fill you in on the content he consumed.

"So like, I saw this makeup video on tik- Why are you getting makeup videos on TikTok? What girl are you sending them to?"

"I'm getting them because of you, dumbass. You're the only girl that actually puts up with me, why would I talk to another one?" You snicker to yourself knowing he's right.

He's too in love with you to go find someone else.

"Anyway, like I was saying. I saw this video on TikTok where this girl was trying out these makeup hacks or secrets, whatever it's called. So she said the best way to match your lip liner is to match it to your nipples! Crazy shit, but it has me thinking, what if you matched it to the tip of my dick?"

All you could do was stare at him in silence.

"You being deadass?"

He shrugs before answering you, a smirk that shows he's up to no good making its way onto his face. "I mean, I think it would look nice on you. A nice pinky red....It's up your alley anyway considering you have a blush named 'orgasm' and a mascara called 'better than sex' ."

"Didn't I tell you to stop talking to me?" He groans and pulls you closer, his hands settling right on top of your ass. "Come on it would be funny! I will literally give you my card and let you roam in TJ Maxx and I will take you to Chili's!''

"You had me at TJ Maxx."

You whip your phone out, thanking yourself for buying a privacy screen, and begin scrolling through your privet photo albums to find a picture of Chris's dick.

"Wait, you should match one to your nipples too. Then we can compare which one looks better."

He could be so childish at times, but you were the exact same.

The two of you stand in the aisle, holding up different shades of pink and brown to your phone. Eventually, you two settle on "Rose" and "Nutmeg", the two colors being the closest you could get.

Soon the two of you are back in the car and Chris is urging you to try on both lip liners, refusing to drive until he sees them on you. You first try on the brown shade, lining your lips with ease. It was a pretty color, simple and not unusual considering you always wore brown lipliner.

You turn to Chris, asking him what he thinks. "Sexy as usual. You know I like it when you do the brown ones." You smile at his flattering words, giving him a quick peck on the lips before wiping the lip liner off. You unravel the pink liner and swipe it on, rubbing your lips together so it blends out.

"So what do we think? Nipple or tip?"

You see the way his eyes dart across your face, analyzing everything about you.

"Both look good, you know you can make everything look good. It's what I love about you." You find your cheeks getting warm, never getting used to the way he makes you feel so good, even on days when you look like a bum.

"Come on, I promised to let you roam in TJ Maxx." He puts the car in reverse and begins driving towards the retail store. The drive is quiet for the most part, nothing but music and the occasional small talk. As soon as the two of you make it to TJ Maxx, Chris turns to you before getting out of the car.

"You know, I also saw one of those weird makeup hacks where this girl put her foundation on with her boyfriend's balls."

"This the last time imma tell you to shut up talkin' to me!"

[arkhambug]

JASON TODD hearing you try to mask your accent

“and, that isn’t—,” you enunciate, and jason doesn’t even hear the rest of what you’re saying. your words are coated in some weird neutral accent, and he’s sure you’re not even trying to sound any specific way other than not how you do. you’d started off normal, with that pretty southern twang, but somewhere through the conversation it was like a switch was flipped and you’d eased yourself into whatever this was.

he tries to tune back in, to listen to what you’re saying, but his brows are knitted together, and his nose is crinkled, and he hates this. “the hell are you doin’, ma?”

“what do you mean?” you push out, trying so damn hard not speak how you’re used to, and every word is wrong, not how it should sound coming from that pretty mouth. and jason shoots you a look, one that very much conveys ‘you know damn well what’ with a heavy frown, and you cave in an instant.

you try to explain. that you don’t want to sound like a hick, or a country bumpkin, or uneducated, because you’re not uneducated. and there’s reasons, of course there are, and they’re all stupid to him. coworkers mocking you, or friends making a poorly timed joke. maybe an overheard conversation, just something. but the one that stands out the most is that you don’t want his friends, or his family, or him to think of you that way.

and that’s the most stupid, by far, because how could his brilliant, wonderful partner ever worry he’d think you’re uneducated? he’s seen your brain work, seen you solve things in half the time it takes him to, and that’s when you’re giving him a chance.

and he drags you to him, across the couch, and pulls your face into his chest, and kisses the crown of your head. and he sings your praises, a million words of reassurance — about how you’re the smartest person he’s ever met, about how he could never think that, about how he’d kick someones ass for even insinuating that you weren’t as brilliant as you were

and it doesn’t fix everything, but it makes it okay, even just for a minute. it helps.

yeah idk how to end this????

straight up was gonna just give up at the fifth paragraph and call it

but anyways!! im insecure abt my accent and i want a big ass sweet man to hold me and kiss me and tell me my accent is pretty and that it doesnt make me sound dumb like people say it do 💪💪

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing your Character's "Soulmate"

Soulmate - someone with whom you share immense compatibility.

Deep connections forge soulmates, and while people often see soulmates through a rom-com lens as a love story-perfect match, soulmates can transcend much more than romantic love.

It is possible that your true love—your spouse or romantic partner—is your soulmate, but you can have another or a different soulmate, like a best friend, mentor, or professional partner.

Healthy relationships outside of marriage are essential.

Still, when people mention a soulmate, they often refer to “the one”: the person with whom they share an instant connection and romantic interest.

No matter what kind of soulmate you have or seek, this person will uplift and fulfill you in life-changing ways.

Types of Soulmates

Several types of relationships can be soulmates. Consider the following strong connections that can be soulmates:

Best friends: A best friend can be a soulmate. A best friend might be someone you’ve known since middle or high school or from an adult friendship. Best friends will foster a deep connection and find it easy and fun to be in each other’s presence. Best friends may go on trips together, support one another’s families and life goals, and be there in times of difficulty to help each other.

Karmic soulmates: A karmic soulmate will come into your life to teach you something or provide a need. Each person may bring particular skills to the table in this soulmate connection, but both unite in a shared vision.

Life partners: A life partner—a spouse or significant other—can be a romantic soulmate. This soulmate relationship usually entails building a home and family together. Unconditional love is a marker of this kind of soulmate.

Twin flames: A twin flame connection describes a relationship in which each person sees a part of themselves in the other. Twin flames might share specific qualities, passions, or insecurities. Twin flame love can be platonic, emotional, romantic, intellectual, or a combination. Sometimes it is an artistic collaborator, mentor, or standalone friend with whom you share a deep bond.

Finding Your Soulmate

Pay attention to the following 5 signs, pointing to someone being your soulmate:

You can easily spend time together. There should be little to no tension when you spend time with a soulmate; your hours together will take on a breezy quality, and time passes quickly. Soulmates can and do have disagreements, but the important thing is that you always act toward one another from a place of love and find room in your heart for forgiveness.

You care about their well-being. You will want to genuinely support your soulmate’s family, career aspirations, and ventures outside of your relationship, and they should want the same happiness for you.

You feel a spark around the person. You might feel a romantic spark—an ineffable feeling when you are in each other’s presence—but it also may be a platonic or intellectual spark. Whatever it is, it will feel contagious and like you want to spend more time together.

Your self-confidence increases. You may feel sunnier when spending time with a soulmate. This person should make you feel better about yourself, raising your self-esteem. Similarly, this person should feel safe, comfortable, and celebrated by you as well.

Imagining a life without your soulmate may feel dark and lonely. Losing a soulmate can be a tremendous loss, so you may feel bittersweet with this person as you know how lucky finding a soulmate is, how fragile some relationships are, and how important this person is to have in your life.

Source ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[avaantares]

USAmericans: If you want to save your democracy, participate in it.

I've heard from people both IRL and online who feel helpless and overwhelmed in the face of SO MUCH awful news -- from the hostile fascist takeover of our government to the dissolution of our foreign aid agencies to the establishment of "detainment camps" (we all know what they really are) both inside and outside U.S. borders.

It's easy to feel hopeless and overwhelmed when there's so much to take in. In fact, that's exactly what the perpetrators of this crisis want you to feel. They want to flood the opposition to the point that we stop fighting back.

But here's the thing: We still have elected officials in Washington, and midterm elections loom on the horizon. Midterms can (and often do) switch which party holds the majority of seats in Congress. Even if your elected officials are Republicans, they can't alienate their entire constituency if they want to keep their jobs. The more dissenting voices they hear from their home districts, the more motivated they will be to listen.

If you want Elon Musk to keep his paws off your Social Security number, or if you want the USAID office reinstated, or if you oppose racist policies being enacted or prison camps being built or literal war crimes being committed (as Trump has proposed), contact your representatives now. Don't put it off, don't feel intimidated. Add one more tally mark to the "opposed" column in their offices.

How to make your voice heard in four easy steps:

Go to this site: https://www.usa.gov/elected-officials/

Put in your home address (or an address near where you stay, if you do not have a home address) to access a list of your elected officials ranging from the President all the way down to city offices.

Expand the "Federal" tab. Find your U.S. Senators and U.S. Representative. Their phone numbers should be listed under their names. (If it is not listed, you can Google their name and "office phone number" and it should turn up. It will have a 202 area code.)

Call each of their offices. Calling is more effective than emailing. If you are unable to call, you can email, or you can call and email, but if you're going to pick just one, calling has MUCH more impact.

Note: If you call during office hours, you will likely speak to a staff member who will take your name and address or email and ask what issue you would like to comment on. If you call after hours, you can just leave a voicemail. If you hate speaking to strangers on the phone, write down a couple of sentences about your chosen issue in advance, call after hours, and read your statement to the voicemail. It takes less than a minute.

Sample Scripts:

It doesn't have to be complicated! You can just say something simple like this:

Hi, my name is [name] and I live in [city/state]. I am calling to state my opposition to [whatever outlandish thing Trump just proposed]. I would like [elected official] to take steps to oppose this in Congress. Thank you.

Or you can go into more detail about a specific issue:

Hello, my name is [name] and I live in [city/state]. I am calling to express my concern about the unlawful seizure of personal taxpayer information by the DOGE. Elon Musk has no legal right to access the sensitive personal and financial data of millions of Americans, and I am very concerned that my Social Security and bank account numbers are now in the hands of a group with no government oversight. This is a clear violation of our privacy, and the potential for abuse of this information is high. I am asking [elected official] to protect [his/her] constituents by enacting legislation to restrict the DOGE, and working to restore the authorized, Congressionally-funded departments that Elon Musk has taken over or shut down. Thank you.

Additional tips:

Be polite. Yes, everything the Trump administration does makes us want to swear a blue streak, but the person taking your call or listening to your message is a low-level staffer or intern, and they didn't make the policies you hate. They are responsible for recording and collating the data about calls received, however, so don't give them any reason to omit yours.

Be brief. Your goal is to add one more tally mark to the list of "constituents who oppose Elon Musk having their personal bank account numbers," not to write a persuasive essay explaining what identity theft is and why this is a problem.

You can call more than once. Don't spam a bunch of calls about the same issue, but just because you called this week about the DOGE doesn't mean you can't call next week about illegal ICE raids, or the week after that about the Department of Education being dissolved, or the week after that about the detainment camps. If another issue comes up that concerns you (and let's face it -- it will), call and leave another message! Keep their phones ringing.

[softlypaintedseafoam]

as soft as a misty rain

synopsis. it's all typical sanji; there's no deeper meaning to his actions. until it isn't all typical sanji and there are many meanings to everything he does.

pairing. vinsmoke sanji x f!reader

word count. 1.3k | masterlist

content warning. recently established relationship, allusions that sanji's past is more complicated than he lets on, reader has a defined devil fruit ability

reblogs & interactions appreciated.

one of two reposts i'm doing today with my valentine's day event nearly completed. this fic was a gift for my friend @hash-slinging-slasher-trash and i wanted it over here too

Sanji has always handled you with care.

There is nothing to realize. It’s an objective fact that has been apparent from almost the very moment you met on Charmed Enclave. Aside from children, there are very specific individuals Sanji will always be gentle with. An enthusiastic softness, eager and ready to serve at the drop of a hat.

I’m not special, you had told yourself, clutching Zoro’s previous warnings tightly. He does this for every woman, with or without a pulse.

It didn’t matter how many treats he brought you, reserved solely for you.

There was no deeper meaning to when he held out his hand to help you down a few steps.

Nor did it matter if he’d push Zoro onto a puddle for you to walk across like a coat taking in all the liquid, amusing as it had been.

It’s all typical Sanji.

The question is raised when it isn’t typical Sanji; that is what makes your skin buzz as Sanj’s fingers thrum across your own. What makes your chest warm as you watch as he wraps a cloth around your palms and your fingers, how he touches you as if protecting a thousand treasures.

“I won’t lie and say the Nervy Nervy Fruit isn’t useful,” Sanji murmurs with a sigh. “But if you can’t feel pain, how are you supposed to recognize your limits? Like the other day.”

You chuckle sheepishly and Sanji’s expression is uncharacteristically sharp, unamused at the display. You are sure he will be sour about your turning off your pain receptors to test the heat of the stovetop a while longer. The blond has been fretting over you like a mother hen even since. “I’ll try to be more mindful,” you promise when your chuckles subside, letting your gaze rest on your connected hands. As of now, you’ve only dulled your senses to a light discomfort. Enough to feel everything without wanting to croak from your injuries. “But this time I was distracted, I normally don’t singe myself when I check how hot the stove is.”

That does little to sway Sanji in your favor.

“I’ll be more careful,” you dramatically let your head hang as if you’re being reprimanded by your boss.

“You’ll make Chopper sad otherwise,” despite his words, Sanji sounds satisfied with the conclusion. “Think about Chopper. That’s what you told me, remember?”

Your shoulders shake with hearty laughter, “don’t use my words against me,” you beam brightly with a hint of challenge. “And you should be thanking me. Quitting smoking is going to help you in the long run. What if they started calling you Black Lung Sanji? What would you do then?” Not to mention with how impressionable the young reindeer is, the last thing you want is to see him attempting to take a smoke break between patients.

With how hectic things tend to get for the Straw Hats, it is too easy to envision.

Sanji’s cigarettes and lighter had to go for the greater good.

As your laughter subsides, a comfortable silence settles over you both.

“So,” you feel possessed to break it. Comfortable as it may be, you fear you’ll drown in it. Sink deeper and deeper in it until you do something foolish, whatever foolish thing that may be. It’s easy to drown as a power holder, it is why you are always careful around the water’s edge. What happens when you find a piece of the ocean you aren’t afraid to fall into, however. You’ve never been prepared for that. “Have you always wanted to become a cook? I know that’s what you were doing before you joined the crew.”

At your query, Sanji’s eyes shine like a child’s, “it is.” As if he’s water flowing over a dam, Sanji tells you about his home in the East Blue. The floating restaurant, the Baratie ー a concept you’ve never certainly thought possible ー and the fighting cooks that reside in it.

He tells you about Zeff and the many cooks that joined his ranks over the years. Laughter falls from your lips as easily as the stories leave Sanji’s. 

The Baratie sounds more like the Waffle House restaurant chain throughout your home island than anything else. At the tail end of Sanji’s story about how a line cook named Peter got into a fist fight with three drunks and a cranky chicken, you finally ask, “what made you love cooking so much?”

“I’ve always enjoyed it, but I’d say my mom is the one who really encouraged it,” he tells you thoughtfully, his hands moving slower against your own as he recalls the woman. He should have long since finished, you know, but you don’t mind that he’s stalled in his ‘wound tending efforts’. It’s nice feeling as if it is only you on the ship when in reality you are just the only ones awake. “I liked making her lunches, not that I was always good at it. But even if it tasted like garbage, she always ate it,” the blond’s dark eyes are miles away from where you sit on the Sunny. “Then she’d ask me to make her something else again.”

“I can’t wait to meet her,” you try to imagine what such a gentle person looks like. I think you probably look a lot like her. A good portion of the woman’s character certainly had been imbued in her son. He’s always been gentle and kind, you’ve seen it in how he treats Chopper.

It’s easy to baby the crew’s smallest member, but there is something unique in how everyone does it. Sanji was meant to be a father. It’s a thought that flusters you, but you know it is true regardless. It’s a bit too soon to think about that though.

“It,” Sanji’s gaze doesn’t meet yours as his thumb brushes over the back of your cloth-covered hand. You aren’t able to dwell long on what exactly your newly minted boyfriend means, however, as he continues on. “will probably be easier meeting Zeff than my mother. He’s a stubborn old fart but he means well. You’ll like him. Just don’t believe anything those jackasses at the Baratie tell you about me. I just know they put up that god awful wanted poster of me where everyone can see it.”

A giggle slips from your lips at Sanji’s distressed expression and you recall how he begged for you to pretend the portrait didn’t exist. 

It’s easy to imagine all the cantankerous characters he mentioned growing up with. Zeff, Patty, Carne and you can easily picture the boisterous men hanging Sanji’s wanted poster for all to see like proud parents and uncles. Ones very good at teasing their group’s baby. The men who made Black Leg Sanji ‘Black Leg Sanji’.

“I can’t wait to meet them.”

Sanji pauses at your words before he lips stretch into a dreamy smile and you let yourself arrogantly assume he’s picturing the same things you are. “I can’t wait to introduce you to them.” With that, his tending to your hand is finished, cloth gently knotted so it can’t move. “I’m no Chopper, so he’ll probably have to redo it once he wakes up.”

You smile at his handiwork, “thanks again.” You think that will be the end of your little moment, but rather than let your hand go Sanji holds your fingers a touch tighter.

“Can I kiss your hand,” the cook asks earnestly, dark eyes reserved yet hopeful.

“You don’t have to ask permission for that,” your chest burns a gold the color of Sanji’s hair. It’s unfair how easily he gets your heart pounding like a drum. In spite of your words, he doesn’t lean forward an inch. “Of course you can,” you grumble, eyes darting to a particularly interesting piece of wood in your embarrassment.

The hair of his chin dances across your skin like raindrops.

[hivemuthur]

Nothing's New - Ch.4.

viktorxfemale!reader explicit!

AU modern era, lovers to enemies to lovers, getting back together, a lot of angst, smut present

Ch.1. | Ch.2. | Ch.3. | Ch.5. | Ch.6.

word count: 6,2K

warnings: angst (in case you haven't expected it), unsafe sex, dacryphilia

tag: #nothings new

author's note: a note, instead of summary - things happen fast in this chapter, but the inclination is, everything is consented to, even though not specifically stated. Actions speaking louder than words and all that.

Cross-posted on AO3

—

“Viktor, where is Julia? I need her for a minute,” Jayce asks, absentmindedly lifting a notebook from the desk, as if Julia could somehow be hidden beneath it.

“Oh. I gave her a day off,” comes the reply in a flat, unamused tone. Viktor doesn’t even glance up from his workstation, ensuring Jayce won’t catch the frown etched across his face. He bites his lower lip, his focus drawn to the shuffling of papers behind him.

“What? Why— You can’t just… uh,” Jayce stammers, his frustration mounting. You can’t just give your girlfriend a day off whenever you feel like it seems too accusatory, even for this. He settles instead on, “You can’t just give her a—” before Viktor’s deadpan voice cuts through.

“We split up yesterday. I thought it was the least I could do.” Viktor’s tone is dry, as if he’s merely informing someone they’ve run out of milk. Bracing for questions, he exhales a long sigh and swivels in his chair to face Jayce. His friend’s expression is a painful mix of surprise and—annoyance?

“W-what? Why?” Jayce stutters, his voice rising in a whiny pitch that Viktor instantly equates with a child pleading to stay at the park a little longer.

The truth feels mortifying, so Viktor lies. “It just… didn’t work out,” he says with a shrug, his eyes darting to avoid Jayce’s gaze. The gesture feels incomplete, though—his shoulders remain bunched up by his ears when he finally meets Jayce’s blinking stare.

“I thought you guys… fit?” Jayce offers after a pause, clearly searching for a neutral word to soften the blow.

“I suppose.” Viktor’s shoulders drop with a resigned sigh. “But I wouldn’t call it a perfect fit.” He spreads his hands slightly, a silent apology for the imminent awkward atmosphere this is going to cause during the next few weeks.

“Viktor, I thought you… um, are you alright? Do you want to take a day off?” Jayce asks, though he already knows the answer.

Viktor chuckles quietly and swivels back to his desk, resuming his work. “I’m fine. You know me—I’d rather work than dwell. I’ll adjust our schedules to smooth things over in the next few days,” he mutters, as if simply avoiding Julia will somehow ease the tension.

“Huh, sure. Whatever you need,” Jayce mumbles, scratching the back of his neck, his attention already drifting elsewhere. His phone vibrates. A text from Mel.

Fresh gossip! Paul is no more. Don’t tell V. XoXo.

Jayce clears his throat and starts shuffling papers aimlessly. Viktor raises an eyebrow. “Everything alright there, Jayce?”

“Uh, yeah, it’s nothing. Just Mel,” Jayce replies hastily, already backing toward the door. He gives Viktor an uncharacteristic salute and bolts before Viktor can press further. “I gotta get back to class. See you later!”

Of course, Jayce doesn’t stay quiet. By the end of the day, when Viktor is rubbing his eyes in the dim lab light, Jayce leans in and whispers, as if they’re sharing state secrets. “Listen, I feel like I should tell you something. But promise you won’t say anything to Mel. Or to—” He pauses, scrunches his nose, and mouths your name silently, as if it’s forbidden to say aloud.

Viktor’s jaw tightens, his grip on the pencil firm. He sighs, masking his unease, and turns to Jayce. “Well, I suppose. What is it, then?” The promise is weak, but Jayce is so anxious he takes it.

Jayce tells him. Viktor almost snaps his pencil in two. He utters a soft curse in Czech and presses a hand to his mouth.

“Are you alright?” Jayce asks, for the second time that day. Immediately, he feels like he shouldn’t have said anything.

“Eh, why wouldn’t I be? It’s hardly something that should concern me, Jayce,” Viktor replies dismissively, rubbing his temple. But the truth gnaws at him. It does concern him—so much so that his fingers itch to press the unblock button on his phone, to send you a text, to call you and ask you to come over. He forces himself to resist, for about a week.

Until Saturday afternoon comes, and he finds himself lingering by the windowsill, phone in hand. So he presses that button. And he sends the text.

We should talk. Come over.

***

You wake up, dreams askew, thoughts apart. Your hand rubs the sleep from your eyes, and you peek through your fingers at your phone. 11:45, Saturday. A text from Mel.

When you told her about breaking up with Paul, she was very serious, urging you to take as much time as you needed. Until she wasn’t. Now, the letters glare at you from the screen:

Time’s up, bitch. I’m picking you up at 12. Coffee and breakfast. XoXo

The entirety of the week had been a blur. You worked like a madwoman, taking extra hours at the shop. Your nails were ruined from all the old books you’d catalogued. You even exchanged a few texts with Paul—entirely dictated by his courtesy to remain friends with his exes. You didn’t want to deepen the wound, so you replied to each one and even sent one of your own.

And now, you’ve even managed to smile at Mel’s text.

Make it 12:15, just woke up.

Hurriedly, you skip around the flat, pulling out all the necessary things, grab a very quick shower, and sigh when it’s 12:08, just as you hear the buzzer. Mel smiles at you sweetly, extending her hand with a coffee cup.

“Just to get you there,” she chirps, and you accept the peace offering.

The walk to the bistro is relatively civil. Mel has enough decency to give you some time to grind through all the tea she’s expecting you to spill, waiting until you’re seated and have ordered. She taps her nails on the table and gives you an expectant look.

“Well?”

You snort, despite yourself. “God, you are impossible. Well what? Well, I’m single. There it is.” You stuff your mouth with a breadstick before she gets the chance to sigh.

“Some details, as to why and why now, especially? You guys seemed really cozy at the dinner,” she drags out her vowels, waving a breadstick at you. You wince at the thought of that dinner. It had been horrific, and you’d felt far from cozy.

You give her a summary of last week’s events, excluding Viktor, of course. She nods, interjecting with quiet comments when you describe Paul’s expressions and behaviour. Then she throws her best look of fake pity when you mention you’ve already been texting. You know she knows something more—you can tell from the way her jaw clenches when you try to justify your decision with a complete lie. Your jaw clenches as well.

“Is that all?” Mel asks, her eyes piercing through you. “Are you… feeling alright?” Her voice is careful, and you fall into the delicate battle of wits, suddenly aware of your body language and the wrinkles on your forehead.

“That is all,” you shrug and take a sip of your soda. Mel hums, and you can practically hear the gears grinding against each other in her head as she wonders how to strike next. Then she decides.

“Alright. So you’re telling me there’s no connection between you breaking up with Paul and Viktor breaking up with Julia on the same day?” She watches you carefully as you pause mid-sip, trying not to choke on your drink. She twists the dagger further. “Like, for example, something happening between you and Viktor didn’t cause this… perfect alignment?”

“I—” you stutter, your mind swelling, your head about to explode. “They broke up?” You lean over the table, searching for a lie in her eyes, but there is none. You scold yourself for how hopeful you sound.

“Yes. On Sunday. Just like you and Paul.”

“W-why?” you ask dumbly, as if you don’t know. The truth is you probably don’t know, but the absolutely pathetic, self-centred part of you hopes, hopes, hopes it’s because of what happened. The rational part of you kicks the pathetic one. Why would you hope for something like that?

“Apparently, Viktor thinks they weren’t a good match. That’s all I’ve managed to drag out from Jayce,” she smiles slyly, making a show of admiring her nails. “I’ve shown you my cards. Spill.”

“Mel, I… I’m not sure you’ll be able to look me in the eye if I tell you.” You wince, squeezing your eyes shut, momentarily blinded by your own stupidity. Mel grabs your hands and holds them tight.

“I will,” she says with the reverence of someone more than just a good friend. A comrade. “Spill.”

You inhale sharply and let your mouth fall open and close a couple of times, desperately trying to figure out where to start, how to start, how to justify it. Instead of starting at the beginning, you say simply, “We kissed.”

Mel’s eyes are full of questions, and she squeezes your palms to encourage you. So, you take another gulp of air, order a glass of wine, and tell her everything—from your encounter at the furniture shop to picking up your stuff from his apartment. You stop at the crying part.

“Meltdown?” Mel asks carefully, trying to hide the pity painting itself on her face behind concern.

“A meltdown. A very ugly crying session. Come as it may,” you sigh, thanking the waiter for the wine in a way that embarrassingly gives away just how much you need it right now.

“I was so fucking sure, Mel, that he planted that note on purpose, just to rile me up. But when he came into the room, he was so concerned. He was so worried that something had happened to me. He crouched and everything. So I thought… he wouldn’t act like that if it was fake. He would be glad that I was a mess. But he wasn’t, and I just, oh—” You bury your face in your hands, allowing the shame to devour you completely.

“Honey, you are not stupid, and this is not silly,” Mel says softly, pulling your palms away and caressing them, this time honestly. “Frankly, I would think that too, if I were you. What happened after?”

“He kicked me out.” You don’t recognise your own voice.

“Oh.”

“Oh?” you say it back, and your mouth stays in the shape of a little o.

“Well, yes, I didn’t expect that.” Mel’s brows furrow, and she brings a finger adorned with three gold rings to her lower lip.

“Really?” You scoff. “I expect him to clap when I die.” But you certainly hope he wouldn’t. You hope he would cry like a baby if you died.

“Oh, darling, you have no idea what you’re talking about,” Mel says, almost laughing you out. She knows for sure that Viktor would cry like a baby if you died. “He would probably die with you, knowing the dramatics,” she snorts, taking a sip of her wine and immediately correcting herself when she sees your dumbfounded expression.

“Sorry about that. So… what are you going to do?”

“Me? Absolutely nothing. I have my things. I am single. This is fine,” you recite, straightening the tablecloth with your hands. Mel… well, she doesn’t believe you for a beat.

She smirks, sighs, and stretches—a symbolic way of telling you she’s giving the topic a rest until you figure yourself out. You gossip about Jayce a bit. Bicker when you tell her your boss has hired a new guy with gropy tendencies. You crack a bottle of wine between the two of you. It’s 4 P.M., and by the end of the meeting, you feel significantly lighter.

You hold hands until you reach a corner that’s usually your parting spot. Mel kisses your cheek and walks backwards a couple of steps before waving you off, exuding lead-character aura. You check your phone, and your heart falls out of your chest and stumbles onto the pavement.

We should talk. Come over.

You’ve been unblocked. Moreover, you’ve been invited. To talk. When, though? Come over, when? Come over now? It’s been sent half an hour ago. Before you can think, you text him back.

Be there in 10.

But you are there in five, because your legs keep on running when you tell them not to. You pace in front of the building entrance for around three minutes, weighing the options and wondering whether you should walk in or bolt. You ring the buzzer, and Viktor lets you in almost immediately, without checking who’s doing the buzzing. Walking in on wonky legs, you chew on your cheek and tongue and try to make yourself look presentable in the elevator mirror.

When you get to the door, it’s ajar. You make sure to slam it shut loudly so Viktor knows you’re there. You kick off your shoes by the entrance, and the creaks in his floor announce your movements. He sits on the couch in the middle of the living room, reading. When you fidget by the door a second too long, he lifts his head and says, “You made it.”

You lean in the entrance to the living room, gripping the strap of your bag like it’s the only thing keeping you steady. Viktor hasn’t moved from the couch, legs apart, his fingers tracing idly over the top of his cane resting between them. He looks exactly like you thought he was going to look—he is staging being unbothered nearly perfectly, but somehow you know he actually has just sat down and opened the book on a random page. Makes you smile, internally.

“Sit,” he says after a beat, but it sounds more like an order than an invitation. His hand extends toward the empty spot on the couch, and you consider, for another beat.

In the end you don’t. “I’m fine here,” you reply, your voice tight and you are grateful for the door frame supporting your hip.

He raises an eyebrow at that, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Suit yourself.” He leans back on the couch and stares at his knees. Either he thinks of what to say next or how to start, but the silence begins to gnaw at you.

“You said you wanted to talk,” you blurt out and your voice raises a pitch with the last word, making you cringe. Your hands slide down on the bag strap and uh, you feel your dignity seeping through your pores.

“I do,” Viktor says in an infuriatingly calm tone. His eyes wander, from your hands, the bag strap indentation slightly reddened on one of them, then to your bare feet and you feel the urge to hide them, so you keep stepping from one to the other. “But it seems you’re in a hurry to leave.”

“Maybe I am.”

His eyes flick back to you, sharp and assessing. “Then I’ll keep this brief.” He shifts, setting his cane aside, the motion deliberate, like he’s buying himself time. “I wanted to tell you—to your face—that I didn’t end things with Julia because of you.”

The words land with an echo, and you feel yourself exhaling, even though you should’ve seen them coming. You manage to keep your expression neutral, but something in your chest tightens and you watch him, furious about how composed he seems to be.

“I didn’t ask,” you say, though the tremor in your voice betrays you.

“No,” he agrees, his gaze narrowing slightly. “But I suspect you’ve been wondering.” He knows you've been wondering, he just doesn't know how little time you had to do it. He's been wondering for an entire week and what's infuriating here, is that if forced him to show his cards, because his patience has worn thin. Completely unlike him.

You force a laugh, shaky and brittle. “You really think I’m that self-absorbed?”

“Not at all.” He leans back, watching you with an agonizing calmness. “But I know Jayce has a loud mouth and a pair of ears close to him willing to listen. And that between this pair of ears is another, even louder mouth." His lips curve into something that’s almost a smirk.

Your throat tightens, and you look away, focusing on a scuff mark on the floor. “So, that’s it? You brought me here to clear up some imaginary misunderstanding?” You look at your feet and you are suddenly very aware of how much you were sweating, your soles leaving steamy footprints whenever you stepped from one foot to the other.

“I brought you here because I thought it was better to address this directly,” he says, his voice low, measured. “Before you started making assumptions.”

“Assumptions about what?” That does it. You step forward, hands balled up into fists. “That this is some sort of… opportunity?" You scoff so hard you almost spit on yourself. "Because trust me, Viktor, I don’t care what you do.”

His jaw twitches at that, a tell he can’t hide. “Good,” he says after a pause, though his tone is clipped. “Then we’re in agreement.” And silently, in his head, Viktor curses himself, because a tiny part of him thought exactly that, once he has learnt about the news of you and Paul. Opportunity. He has killed that part soon enough, of course, but its whiny little voice still lingers in his memory.

You stare at him, your breath coming quicker now. You want to scream, to demand why he’s lying to you—or maybe why he’s so good at making you doubt yourself. Instead, you say, “Why do you even care what I think?”

He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes search your face, his usual calm slipping just enough for you to catch something—hesitation. But it's only another beat, after which Viktor settles on a lie.

"I don't. I do care about civility, that Jayce keeps asking us for." Yes, that one. A very good choice.

Your breath catches, and for a moment you want to just storm off. You feel pinned, while someone is pulling your skin off you. Viktor seems happy enough with the outcome. He exhales, leans back on the couch and sadly, opens his mouth again.

“If that’s all, you know the way out,” he says, gesturing toward the door without meeting your eyes.

You don’t move. Your legs feel like they’re stuck to the floor, and you hate how small his dismissal makes you feel. “That’s not all,” you say quietly, your voice breaking just enough to make him glance back at you. But that’s it, as your remark doesn't get to be dignified with a follow up question.

"Me and Paul split up. Not that it matters, but since you care about civility so much, there it is." You try to study him. But it's too hot, and you had half a bottle of wine with your breakfast and mind feels foggy. Until Viktor blinks one time too many.

"But of course… you already know that," you say quietly, you tone inflecting a question at the end. Jayce also has ears, it would seem. "Is that why I'm here? So you can clear the air and make sure I know that nothing I do matters to you?”

His gaze hardens, but he doesn’t bite. He’s silent for so long that you throw your hands up in exasperation.

“If that’s all, I’m going to go,” you say, already turning toward the door.

But his voice stops you cold. “It’s not.” And you hate, hate, hate the way it stops you immediately and gives your heart an extra pump. You turn back slowly, chest trembling, as you watch him push himself to his feet. He pulls something from his pocket, his movements wobbly, as he makes those few steps without the cane, and when he does, your breath catches.

He holds out his hand, and there it is. The star chunk.

“Take it,” he says quietly. Take it. Take it. Take it.

Something crumbles inside you. Anger flees. Sadness settles. Every last bit to be erased, everything to be cleaned until it squeaks. Your throat tightens, and all that crawls out of it is a whisper. "It was a gift. It's a bad luck to return them."

He frowns slightly, his hand still outstretched. “I can't keep it,” he mutters, reaching out for your palm, but you hide your wrist behind your back.

“Then throw it away,” you breathe out, barely. Viktor almost doesn't hear it, almost reads it from your lips. He moves closer, the box poking your arm now.

"I can't do that either." His voice shrinks to match yours. You can swear his hair is tickling your forehead.

You swallow something very bitter, tongue twisting. "Then it seems," an exhale and then, a shuddery inhale. "It's meant to stay with you."

"You were meant to stay with me," he breathes the accusation into your mouth. Hesitantly, like the last time, his lips meet yours. He kisses you gently, hand comes between your shoulder blades. "It reminds me, that you are gone," he speaks so softly, regret in his voice almost crushing you. His lips are warm against yours, each brush sending electric spark straight to your toes and you feel like you are drinking water on a hot summer day. Your brows furrow and mouth doesn't close, you are ready for his tongue.

"Viktor," you whisper against his skin and cup his face. He is breathing so heavily, as if there is a physical restraint stopping him from kissing you, from touching you. You can see his heart beating fast in the vein on his neck and you press your lips to it. He brushes your hair away, mouths touch again, eyes unseeing. His nails dig into your cheek, the grip stretches from his thumb hooked on your jaw to the index finger pulling down the skin under your eye, your face in full restraint.

His nose presses into you, breathing heavily, your own breath only as deep as he would grant you between the movements of his tongue, in and out of your mouth. The one, tremendous feeling flooding your veins, as you feel yourself belonging again, your mouth tongue-fucked by Viktor. There, where he drinks your breaths in his anger, in his yearning. There, where he bites your lips, growls straight into your stomach, pumps air into your lungs. There, where your thighs touch and you can feel how hard he is. Viktor's touch taking its righteous place back in the grooves on your brain, embedding itself in.

Your hands can't decide whether to fist his shirt of tangle into his hair, so they roam, making him look like a hot mess. You brace for this invitation being rescinded as well, but nothing comes. Viktor leans on you, kicks your feet to walk backwards toward the couch until the creases of your knees meet the edge. Your legs buck and you fall, pulling him on top of you. You wrap your legs around his hips, and he groans, fumbling with his fly for a moment, before he frees his cock and glues himself to your core, pulling your skirt up, underwear to the side. Kisses you all the way through. Everything is happening so fast. You breathe so heavily, each of your exhales gains a different sound and you are so, so, desperate, you almost cry when he enters you.

The initial stretch burns, as he covers your body with his. Hand snakes around your neck, another cups the back of your head in a firm grip. He thrusts and you moan, bracing your palms on his chest, closing your eyes but Viktor tsk-s at you.

"Look at me," he rasps into your mouth, noses touching as he hunches over you, and you can feel the friction of your clothes on top of each other making you unbearably hot. "Why did you break up with him?"

"He broke up with me," you strain, too many things happening at once.

"Why?"

"I told him we kissed," you confess, through breaths. Ah. So you did break up with him, Viktor thinks.

"And what else?" The feeling of his chest crushing yours, the press of his hips rutting into you, his hand squeezing the back of your neck tightly, crushing the tiny blood vessels under your skin, coaxing small bruises to the surface to remind you of this moment tomorrow, the day after tomorrow, and the day after. Another thrust, punching the answers out of you.

"He asked me if I want to get back together with you, ah," you pant underneath him, fixed in place with his hands, his weight and his eyes, studying you.

"And what did you say?" Another rough thrust.

"I said… no." It's the truth about what you've told Paul, but not the truth, which, of course, you are oblivious to.

"And what else?" He asks again, and you can see in his eyes how much he needs you to say something real. How scared he is. You can feel his heart thundering next to yours.

"He asked me if I still loved you," you mumble, tears pooling in the corners of your eyes. Viktor's mouth brushes against yours when he gives you the next roll of his hips.

"What did you say?" Patiently, he digs further, completely unready for the answer. When it comes his breath hitches.

"I said nothing." Barely a whisper pushes itself out of you, almost shameful, as you roll your eyes to avoid his gaze. But he fixes your neck back into place.

"Do you?" Viktor lets out his last breath and just keeps staring. You can feel him being close to cumming, his cock twitching inside you, stomach contorting. He keeps on giving you slow, deep thrusts.

You cup his neck and lick your lips, your tongue brushing against his. Your eyes fall close and open, as you give yourself back to him with a timid nod.

And Viktor breathes again, he kisses you again. He takes a shaky inhale, his brows knit together, and he can no longer hide the affection seeping from him. His kiss is so thankful when he whispers, "God, I love you," and picks up his pace. A couple of stuttering thrusts, his nails digging further in the skin of your neck, his belt buckle scratching your hip and he paints your insides with his seed, an audible moan escaping his lips. He drops on top of you, still inside you, breathing heavily. His entire body shakes, and his hands cling onto you, so you tangle your fingers into his damp hair and massage his temple. He sighs.

Minutes pass. Or eternity, you don't know. Thousands of blood cells die in your spleens in the moment when your eyes meet. With a grunt, he props himself up and places his chin on your sternum to look at you. Viktor looks at you the same way he used to look at you long ago, making your breath uneven. "Are you alright?" He asks you wearily, himself barely holding together.

"Yes," you mutter quietly. He slides up. Brushes your mouth with his.

"But you didn't come," he whispers, apology dripping from his tongue. "Would you like me to make you come?" He rubs his face on yours, fingers tangling into your hair. "Ask me."

You hesitate, feeling very exposed. Like you owe him your orgasm. You gather up your courage, lift your head to meet his lips and kiss him. "Please, make me come, please," you plead, giving him the rest of you. All of the clenched up, tensed up rest of you, as you feel his cock twitch again and him growing back hard.

"Ask me again," he hums, taking a deep breath, along with the smell of you, his hair tickles your face.

"Please," you say quietly, combing it back with your hands and fix your eyes on his. "Please, make me cum. Please, fuck me till I die." So very dramatic, so very fitting to this little moment of you giving up. Mel was kind of right, damn her.

Eyes roll back in Viktor’s skull. He disconnects from you with a growl, and you whine at the emptiness, despite the burn of previous roughness. He swings your legs off him and sits in the middle of the couch, tapping your legs, and urging, "Up, up."

Your thighs feel wobbly as you try to close them for a second, before straddling Viktor's lap. He slides you down and rubs his cock against you, causing you to shudder. He gives you his bedroom eyes before pulling you in for a kiss and you remember how crushingly beautiful he is when he's having sex. How absolutely stripped of all his usual practiced poise, how utterly naked despite still wearing clothes, how loving and open he gets when his face is flushed in pretty pink, when his lips glisten with your spit. And you think to yourself how this is different to anything else you've had.

Viktor's thumb brushes your clit, the most delicate, featherlight touch. You whimper against his mouth, and he wraps his free hand around your waist, grounding you. Your arms encircle his neck, face pressed into his as you lower yourself until your ass slaps against his legs. The rest of his hand is splayed flat on your navel, and he barely moves it so you can find your own rhythm.

It takes somewhere between a few seconds and another eternity before you roll on top of him. Before your mind registers what is happening, you take this time between few seconds and eternity to gasp at how your bodies slot in together. What he smells like and how quickly your scent becomes his and his becomes yours. And then you both move.

Your mouths fall open, faces squished against each other. You feel the painful stretch, the build-up of soreness as you rock your hips and Viktor's thumb begins to rub small circles around your clit and it hits you how he remembers where and how to touch you in an instant. His eyes give testament to his longing, half-lidded, gentle, glittery gold, when he looks at you and the dying sun of the day paints him in orange and pink.

Your rhythm stutters when he asks, "Will you leave me again?" You meet his eyes as his hand cups your face and all you can do is shake your head. It's not yet settled if you came back, but you know for sure you won't leave now.

He presses your pelvis forward, so you can rub against his pubic bone while rocking your hips. Arms cage around you, hands in a tight grip on your flesh, your waist and your neck, fingers digging into the crook of your shoulder. His face looks calm, almost encouraging. His palm massages your neck, almost lovingly. It’s all so good, almost as it always used to be. Almost better.

Yet somehow, you can’t come. You struggle on his lap, balancing on the edge of orgasm that refuses to come. You try to catch it, and it slips away. Your own gasps and moans distract you, so you can only breathe heavily. Viktor notices, untangles his hands from around you and cups your face. His mouth grazes your ear, his breath is hot and calm, when he tells you, “It’s okay.”

He inhales, slowly, then speaks again. “It’s not the same with other people, is it?” His hand caresses the back of your head. He gets the answer from your eyes.

It’s not. It’s completely different and he could be searching for something to never be found, because it was left with you. He allows himself to crack.

“Please, come for me,” Viktor pleads, and his voice is so soft in your ear you feel your walls crumbling. Clenching and squeezing him tight, painfully wrenching the pleasure out of you. And it takes over you for the longest time, verging on the border of too much. Your thighs tighten around him, back arches and you press your face into Viktor’s. Your vision blurs, as you babble complete nonsense about God, mixing it in with his name. His eyes remain open, gentle, mouth shaped like an o when he soothes you and whispers quiet praises.

And then you hear your whimper before you can feel it. Your body shakes with a heart seizing sob, as you feel all tensions leave you and only feelings remain. You need them all out, so you cling to Viktor, dampening his sweaty clothes further, sniffling and crying straight into his face, mumbling incoherent apologies. “I’m s-sorry, I’m so, so sorry.” An echo of a cramp still lingers in your lower belly.

Viktor collapses you both to the side, squeezes himself into the crease of the couch so you don’t fall off. “Shhh,” he soothes you. Your legs are tangled, his leg on yours, yours on his, then his on yours again. Your torsos are pressed together, your head rests in the crook of his shoulder as he cradles your face to his chest and whispers, “It’s okay, you are okay.” My beautiful girl, I’ve missed you so much, Viktor imagines himself saying. God, I love you, tries to slip out again, but he keeps it in, as innocuous as it would sound right now.

Nothing matters—you’re back. Viktor nudges you through your cries, asks about the bathroom, tries to detangle your legs and you answer by clinging to him further and wailing a “no”. A panicked, desperate sound, so he stops. Nothing matters, only this. And he’s shocked by how much you’ve been hiding from yourself. It all overspills now, pours into him, and his heart swells as he feels a strange pang, again, in his lower belly.

You cry, for a while. He kisses you and it’s so utterly gross. You lose control of your face, snot mixing with tears—it’s salt on Viktor’s tongue and you can taste it in your mouth. You wince, but Viktor doesn’t care. He kisses you like you are oxygen. Like you are the water he’s been denied. Like you are the answer he’s been searching for. He feels invincible with you fallen apart in his arms.

And because he feels like this, the words push through, and he doesn’t even bother to try and catch them as they leave. “My girl, I’ve missed you so much,” he hums placing a sweet kiss to your forehead. “Talk to me.”

“I’m so sorry, this is incredibly gross,” you snort an undignified chuckle, trying to wipe away the fluids with the back of your hand, but they only smear and leave a glistening slimy trail behind. Viktor looks at you with something that screams relief and pride and again, kisses your disgusting snotty mouth.

“I do not care about that,” he whispers softly and for once, the love and softness in someone’s voice doesn’t make you feel like vomiting. Completely transfixed with your tears, he smiles and coos at you, brushing damp hair away from your face, his hand between your shoulder blades steadying your thundering heartbeat. The feeling is indescribable to him. To hold something so fragile. To be given something like this.

Silence, for a while. Heavy breaths, that transform into lighter, calmer breathing. And when you finally sigh and move, Viktor rolls over on top of you to rest his head on your stomach. He holds you like a stuffed animal, while your fingers comb through his hair. A better type of silence falls between you. Kinder, calmer, safer.

He lifts your t-shirt with his nose and kisses your belly. You arch instantly under his hands splayed on your ribs and he chuckles. It’s different than with other people.

“I say we need to bathe you and feed you,” he mumbles against your skin, and you can feel long nasal exhales on you.

“Are you saying that I smell?”

“You smell of me. That I do not mind, but,” he cuts to push himself up to meet your face with his and then palms your core with his hand, knickers obscenely damp. “I fear that I’ve made you sore.”

“Yes. But that I do not mind,” you say with overwhelming sincerity. “I suppose you will want to talk, no?”

“Later.” A kiss that says Let’s keep this for a little while longer.  “I would like to stay like this… with you, for a little while longer,” Viktor says and his eyes gloss over you, searching if you want the same thing.

Feeling the scrutiny burning through you, you reply, “Viktor, I am not going to leave. Not yet, at least. I mean—” you stumble over words and pause to take a breath. “Unless you tell me to. But you just said you want to stay like this, so I hope you won’t. Tell me to leave, that is.”

Viktor chuckles, you can almost hear him muttering, “peculiar.”

“What if I tell you to stay?” He cocks his head and resumes staring.

“Then… then I will stay,” you reply, searching for anything, the faintest sign of hesitation within him and you can’t find any. If anything, Viktor appears to be high on something, and you can’t pin point what that is. But it compliments your weird, comfortable low.

[r3starttt]

Caitlyn taking care of you when you're sick :(

She's so tender, constantly touching your forehead to make sure you don't have a fever and using it as an excuse to kiss it, too. She's also wrapping you with the warmest blankets ever, not letting you get out of bed without clothes that keep your body warm, covering you and hugging you when going to sleep. She gets clingy.

She has her staff taking care of you while she's not home, with a long list of what you should do and what you should eat and how you should dress because you getting sick is just proof of how she knows better. And when she's back home, she's pampering you with all the kisses and hugs ever and the warmest and most relaxing bath ever.

Kinda feel like she's the type to know remedies. Maybe she got forced to drink a tea whenever she got sick or eat a specific soup (also feel like she's a picky eater) but even when she knows it might suck she also trusts it works so she's forcing you to have whatever she thinks will make you feel better faster.

Oh and when it gets so bad you can't speak or you're simply all moody and off, trust she's gonna quit anything to be on your side, brushing your hair, caressing your cheeks, massaging your body, kissing you, whispering sweet words and promising you it'll go away fast. She'll stay awake until you fall asleep and will make sure she's aware of you on her sleep in case you wake up. And if (when) you do, she's doing everything she can to help you go back to sleep again. She has everything you need near her and will be on your side as much as she can.

You're definitely getting the fancier doctors ever and all the medicine you wish. She won't let you suffer with a sore throat or a stomach ache or the nauseous sensation. Whatever she can give you to make sure you're not uncomfortable, she will find and provide it to you. And that goes from medical care to the sweet treats. You're getting your favorite food, favorite drinks, movie nights, and cuddling sessions. Just anything she knows will make you feel better she will give it to you.

Ugh, and talking about cuddling, she's totally the type to be like "let's not kiss because you'll get me sick" then five minutes later she's all over you because she just loves you too much to not be near you.

[mariacallous]

It feels like no one should have to say this, and yet we are in a situation where it needs to be said, very loudly and clearly, before it’s too late to do anything about it: The United States is not a startup. If you run it like one, it will break.

The onslaught of news about Elon Musk’s takeover of the federal government’s core institutions is altogether too much—in volume, in magnitude, in the sheer chaotic absurdity of a 19-year-old who goes by “Big Balls” helping the world’s richest man consolidate power. There’s an easy way to process it, though.

Donald Trump may be the president of the United States, but Musk has made himself its CEO.

This is bad on its face. Musk was not elected to any office, has billions of dollars of government contracts, and has radicalized others and himself by elevating conspiratorial X accounts with handles like @redpillsigma420. His allies control the US government’s human resources and information technology departments, and he has deployed a strike force of eager former interns to poke and prod at the data and code bases that are effectively the gears of democracy. None of this should be happening.

It is, though. And while this takeover is unprecedented for the government, it’s standard operating procedure for Musk. It maps almost too neatly to his acquisition of Twitter in 2022: Get rid of most of the workforce. Install loyalists. Rip up safeguards. Remake in your own image.

This is the way of the startup. You’re scrappy, you’re unconventional, you’re iterating. This is the world that Musk’s lieutenants come from, and the one they are imposing on the Office of Personnel Management and the General Services Administration.

What do they want? A lot.

There’s AI, of course. They all want AI. They want it especially at the GSA, where a Tesla engineer runs a key government IT department and thinks AI coding agents are just what bureaucracy needs. Never mind that large language models can be effective but are inherently, definitionally unreliable, or that AI agents—essentially chatbots that can perform certain tasks for you—are especially unproven. Never mind that AI works not just by outputting information but by ingesting it, turning whatever enters its maw into training data for the next frontier model. Never mind that, wouldn’t you know it, Elon Musk happens to own an AI company himself. Go figure.

Speaking of data: They want that, too. DOGE agents are installed at or have visited the Treasury Department, the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, the Small Business Administration, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, the Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services, the Department of Education, the Department of Health and Human Services, the Department of Labor. Probably more. They’ve demanded data, sensitive data, payments data, and in many cases they’ve gotten it—the pursuit of data as an end unto itself but also data that could easily be used as a competitive edge, as a weapon, if you care to wield it.

And savings. They want savings. Specifically they want to subject the federal government to zero-based budgeting, a popular financial planning method in Silicon Valley in which every expenditure needs to be justified from scratch. One way to do that is to offer legally dubious buyouts to almost all federal employees, who collectively make up a low-single-digit percentage of the budget. Another, apparently, is to dismantle USAID just because you can. (If you’re wondering how that’s legal, many, many experts will tell you that it’s not.) The fact that the spending to support these people and programs has been both justified and mandated by Congress is treated as inconvenience, or maybe not even that.

Those are just the goals we know about. They have, by now, so many tentacles in so many agencies that anything is possible. The only certainty is that it’s happening in secret.

Musk’s fans, and many of Trump’s, have cheered all of this. Surely billionaires must know what they’re doing; they’re billionaires, after all. Fresh-faced engineer whiz kids are just what this country needs, not the stodgy, analog thinking of the past. It’s time to nextify the Constitution. Sure, why not, give Big Balls a memecoin while you’re at it.

The thing about most software startups, though, is that they fail. They take big risks and they don’t pay off and they leave the carcass of that failure behind and start cranking out a new pitch deck. This is the process that DOGE is imposing on the United States.

No one would argue that federal bureaucracy is perfect, or especially efficient. Of course it can be improved. Of course it should be. But there is a reason that change comes slowly, methodically, through processes that involve elected officials and civil servants and care and consideration. The stakes are too high, and the cost of failure is total and irrevocable.

Musk will reinvent the US government in the way that the hyperloop reinvented trains, that the Boring company reinvented subways, that Juicero reinvented squeezing. Which is to say he will reinvent nothing at all, fix no problems, offer no solutions beyond those that further consolidate his own power and wealth. He will strip democracy down to the studs and rebuild it in the fractious image of his own companies. He will move fast. He will break things.

[cambankromyy]

THE ISLAND LOOKOUT (pt.10): get a room - (smau & irl au) childhood bsf!rafe cameron x thornton!reader

series masterlist; general masterlist; taglist

warning/an; kinda? implied smut/sexual content. i think real real smut is coming in ch.12... AFTER midsummers

part 9 - part 10 - part 11

you pull into tannyhill, the headlights cutting through the driveway as you park. the drive from the chateau was quiet, the kind of calm you didn’t realize you needed until you finally had it, especially after almost being caught with jj.

sarah’s already out of the car and heading toward the front door, phone in hand. "need to grab a few things before dinner," she says without looking up. you just follow her inside, not even bothering to answer. you can hear her moving around in the kitchen as you take off your shoes and toss your bag onto the couch.

it’s quieter than usual. too quiet. you glance around, the house emptier than you’re used to.

"where’s everyone?" you ask, scanning the room.

sarah doesn’t even glance up. "wheezie day. ward and rose took her out."

you nod, not needing any further details. you’ve learned enough to know the deal with wheezie and her little trips.

you don’t ask about rafe, though. "oh, i think he’s with topper at the club," sarah adds, clearly not caring enough to offer anything else.

you just shrug. it’s whatever. not like you’d want to hear any more about them tonight.

dinner’s laid-back, comfortable. nothing extraordinary, just easy chatter and the usual back-and-forth. it’s simple. you laugh, maybe share some stories. by the time you finish eating, you're full and content, ready to crash.

you drop sarah back off at tannyhill after dinner, settling into your bed as soon as you get home, scrolling through your phone. the house stays quiet, though you can hear the crashing waves outside and the occasional sound of footsteps outside. at some point, you hear the front door open. voices—muffled, indistinct. you figure topper and ruthie are back, a little earlier than usual— 10 pm. maybe drunk and stumbling, but then the voices fade, and you don’t think much of it.

until you hear it.

a sound. a very specific sound.

your brow furrows. you sit up, listening closer.

moaning.

you immediately groan, flopping back onto your bed. ugh. topper. gross.

it wouldn’t be the first time. he and ruthie were shameless, and unfortunately, the walls in this house weren’t soundproof. you sigh and grab your phone, fingers already moving before you can think twice.

you put your phone down, staring at the ceiling.

it’s fine. you don't care. it’s just rafe. and sofia.

it shouldn’t piss you off as much as it does.

you do not care that rafe is here. you do not care that he’s with sofia. you are completely indifferent.

that’s why you go about your normal night. that’s why you act completely normal as you brush your teeth, change into your pj's, and definitely don't press your ear against the wall to see if you can still hear them.

(you can. you hate it.)

when you get into bed, you try to go to sleep, but your brain is racing. you grab your phone.

sarah doesn't text back after that, probably falling asleep.

you should do the same. but you don't.

the next morning, you wake up early, which is unusual for you. but you refuse to let last night make you weird. you go downstairs to get coffee and pretend nothing happened.

and then you see them.

rafe is sitting at the counter, staring into the void, looking like he didn’t sleep at all. sofia is standing in front of him, digging through the fridge like she owns the place, casually sipping from his water bottle.

topper and ruthie are there too, sitting at the kitchen table, lost in their own world as they eat breakfast. topper’s half-asleep, shoveling eggs into his mouth like it’s the only thing keeping him alive, while ruthie scrolls through her phone, nudging him every so often to show him something. they don’t even glance at you when you walk in.

which is fine. you don’t need them to. you just need to get your coffee and go.

you grab something from the fridge, acting casual, pretending that nothing about this morning is off—that nothing about this bothers you. you brace yourself for something nauseating, some gross display that’ll make you want to walk into the ocean. but then you actually watch them.

sofia’s hand trails over rafe’s shoulder. he doesn’t even react.

she leans in, saying something in his ear, probably something flirty, and he just nods absently, barely paying attention.

when she kisses him, he doesn’t even move forward. it’s all her.

you shouldn’t be, but you are. you’re happy. overjoyed that he could care less about sofia—but it feels so wrong to think like that.

you snap out of it, grab your drink, and practically skip out of the kitchen, knowing sofia is just a stand in. for who? you don't know. but some part of you, a feeling buried deep inside, wishes for it to be you.

tags: @italk2god @angelicameron @marleymarleymarleymarley, @queenvane64, @raeven-marie43 @idiotussupremus @sereneera @yesshewrites1 @inlovewithchriss @ethanthequeefqueen @amterasuu @popou61 @drewsstars @yannew @anothertimegirl @flvredcas @yootvi @mrsdrewstarkeyy @niaunofficial @cooper8224 @rafegetinmybed @pogueprincesa @6r4cie @adalia-lovelace @bee-43 @drewrry @masongetinmybed @defnotayonna @lcversvoid @my-name-is-baby @lolasangelz @polli05927 @laniirackssss @rafecameronswifeyy @starsval @hypnotizedstarkey

[lindsey-laufeyson]

Distractions- Chapter 18

Distractions Masterlist

Pairing: Reader x FWB!Tom Hiddleston

Series Warnings: SMUT, fluff, angst, friends with benefits

The next day at work you were exhausted and distracted, almost putting the wrong shade of foundation on two different clients and completely forgetting primer and setting spray on another. You never fell back asleep after you got home that morning and you spent the entire day constantly checking your phone to see if Tom had texted you, even though you told yourself you didn’t want him to. You needed space from him to get over whatever was going on with you. However, the longer the day went on without hearing from him, the more depressed you got. What the fuck was happening to you?

When you went to bed that night, you checked the On Demand Entertainment website to see if Tom’s interview was online yet. Sure enough, the video was just posted. You settled back against your pillow and pressed play. 

Tom was dressed in a classic white button down shirt with a navy suit jacket and trousers. He was also wearing his glasses, which usually meant he was too tired for contacts. Still, you always thought he looked especially sexy in his glasses. 

The interview started with the classically attractive blonde reporter asking about Tom’s latest projects. His face lit up as he answered her, like it always did when he talked about his work. It wasn’t long, however, before she began ramping up to ask him about his love life, at which point, he began fidgeting more than usual, touching his face, rubbing his thighs, adjusting his glasses, and running his fingers through his hair. 

“So Tom, many of your films and series revolve heavily around romance, something you seem to have quite the knack for on screen,” the reporter began. 

Tom blushed. “Well, thank you. You’re too kind, really.”

“But what about off screen,” she continued. “You would have a hard time convincing me that Tom Hiddleston doesn’t have someone special in his life.”

He shifted in his seat, crossing his legs as he laughed nervously. Your heart rate sped up a little bit. You told yourself it was just because you were nervous for him, but the truth was you were genuinely anxious about what he would say. “Actually, I am currently unattached,” he replied coyly. “I’m sorry I couldn’t give you a better answer than that.” He chuckled bashfully.

“In that case, I’m sure our viewers would love to know how you would describe your perfect woman,” she responded without missing a beat. You rolled your eyes. Hear we go, you thought.

Tom furrowed his brow and rubbed the pad of his index finger across his lips contemplatively. “Should have seen that one coming,” he joked. Then he blushed again and smiled, seemingly thinking of something. “I think my so-called ‘perfect woman’ is anything but perfect. Someone who is passionate, almost to a fault, who recognizes the beauty in everyone but herself, and who calls me out on things that no one else will because she sees me for who I truly am, not what the world makes me out to be.” His face lit up again, just like when he talked about his work. That usually didn’t happen when he talked about his personal life. Was he thinking of someone specific, or was he acting? You’d like to think you knew him well enough to know whether he was acting or not, but then again, he was incredibly talented. 

Once the video ended, you set your phone aside and stared at the ceiling, debating if you should text Tom or not. You definitely hadn’t cleared your head of those annoying thoughts and feelings from the night before, and you wanted him to be the one to text you first. Still, you were the one to leave abruptly this morning, and you should still be a supportive friend about his interview. After about an hour of wrestling with yourself, you finally picked up your phone.

Goddammit, you thought. So much for getting some space. 

A few minutes later, you heard Tom enter your house. “Sweets?” he called, looking for you.

“In here,” you responded from the bedroom. You continued scrolling through your phone, wanting to appear indifferent.

Your bedroom door was open, but he gave a courtesy knock on the door frame anyway. “May I come in?”

“I was under the impression that I didn’t have a choice,” you replied, never looking away from your phone screen.

He chuckled lightly and then flopped down next to you on the bed. He gave you a quick peck on the shoulder and then positioned himself so he was laying perpendicular to you, with his head resting on your stomach.  “Hi.”

“Hi.” Your eyes stayed on the screen.

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong, or do I have to hold your phone hostage to get you to talk?” 

“You will do no such thing,” you told him firmly, still not looking at him. “You were the one who decided to interrupt my quiet evening.” He swiftly plucked your phone from your hands and tucked it underneath him, forcing you to finally look at him. “Oi!”

“Talk,” he commanded. 

“There is nothing to talk about.”

“You literally just told me that you’re too in your head lately. So what exactly is going on in your head?”

You sighed and rubbed your face. “Nothing you need to concern yourself with, trust me.”

“Fine then. Tell me what you meant when you told me to take you out of my ‘rotation.’”

“You know what I meant.”

“Actually, no, I don’t. Do you really think I just have a bunch of women on retainer, ready to come when I call?” 

You raised your eyebrows at him. “You expect me to believe that you don’t?”

“Is that really what you think of me?” He looked concerned. 

“I didn’t mean it as a bad thing,” you said, running your fingers through his hair. “I just meant that you could literally have anyone you want. Why wouldn’t you take advantage of that opportunity?”

He sighed. “It’s a bit more complicated than that.”

“Care to explain?”

“Not particularly. I thought we weren’t supposed to talk about that?”

“You started it!”

“I just… I hope that’s not what you’re upset about.” He searched your face for confirmation, but you weren’t about to give it to him.

“It’s not. Don’t worry about it, okay? I’m sure you’ll find something or someone else to do while I work through my shit.”

“That’s not why I’m concerned. You’re my friend and I want to help you. I don’t understand why you won’t let me.”

You paused, feeling a lump form in your throat as you fought back tears. “Because it’s not something you can help with,” you choked out.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he said softly as he sat up and took your face in his hands. “You’re starting to scare me, Y/n. Please talk to me.” 

You closed your eyes for a moment, causing some tears to fall down your cheeks. Tom brushed them away with his thumbs. You looked back up at him. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” you whispered, your teary eyes darting between his eyes and his lips. With genuine concern still in his eyes, he slowly leaned forward and just barely touched his lips to yours. You brought your hands up to cradle the back of his neck and gently pull him closer to you. His lips caressed yours tenderly, moving cautiously. 

After a moment, he hesitantly broke the kiss, resting his forehead against yours. “Should I stay, or do you want me to leave?” he asked in a low voice.

“It’s a bit more complicated than that,” you replied, echoing his own words from moments ago.

“Care to explain?”

“Not particularly.” Though there was still sadness in your eyes, a slight smirk crossed your face from giving him a taste of his own medicine.

He gave a small chuckle. “Then I think I’d like to stay. I’d rather not leave you like this.”

Your stomach filled with butterflies, but your brain told you not to think anything of it. “You really don’t have to,” you told him as he stood up and stripped down to his boxers. “Honestly, I’m okay.”

“While I one hundred percent believe you,” he said sarcastically as he climbed back into your bed and gently brushed one last stray tear from your face. “I know I don’t have to. I want to.”

You looked into his eyes, searching for any sign that he was just doing this out of pity. When you couldn’t find one, you gave him a small smile. “Then I suppose I have no choice but to let you stay.”

“That’s my girl,” he said, smiling back at you. He’d never called you that before– his girl– and even though you knew it was just an expression, you were sure that if you’d been standing, your knees would have buckled. He kissed you again briefly and then laid down on his side facing you. You turned on your side so the two of you were face to face and he wrapped an arm around you and pulled you close.

”I noticed you wore your glasses for your interview. Did you get any sleep after I left this morning?” you asked him.

“You know me too well,” he replied, running his foot lazily up and down your calf. “No, I couldn’t fall back asleep after you left.”

“Shit, I’m sorry,” you groaned, hiding your face in his chest. “You were sleeping so soundly before I woke you up.”

“Why do you say that?” he asked.

You lifted your head back up to look at him. “You were snoring.”

“What? I do not snore,” he argued in disbelief.

“It’s just a soft, little snore,” you explained, trying to hide your smile. “It’s kind of cute actually.” 

He looked at you suspiciously. “Are you sure it wasn’t just that one time?”

You couldn’t help but giggle. “Oh no. You’ve snored every night that we’ve slept together. I can’t believe no one else has told you this before!”

He shrugged. “Not everyone is as honest with me as you are, darling.”

“Well, someone needs to put you in your place once in a while,” you teased.

He laughed. “You’ll have no arguments from me about that.” His expression quickly shifted back to concern. “Are you sure it doesn’t bother you?”

“I’m positive,” you assured him. “Like I said, I think it’s cute.” You tried to fight the yawn that crept up on you, but you lost.

Tom carefully tucked your hair behind your ear. “Go to sleep, sweetheart.” He kissed your forehead and held you close to his chest. You fell asleep almost instantly.

…

When you woke up the next morning, you rolled over to find that Tom was gone and there was a note on the side table. 

Had to rush to a meeting. I would have said goodbye but you were sleeping so soundly, I didn’t want to wake you. I hope you’re feeling better, and know that I’m always here if you need me. xx -T

With a heavy sigh, you let your forehead fall onto the mattress. This man was not making this easy on you. Why did he have to be so goddamn sweet? And why did you let him stay over in the first place? Even without the sex, you wouldn’t be able to get over…whatever was going on with you… if you kept up all this cuddling, and kissing, and sleeping over. Unfortunately, that meant that you had to set that boundary with him.

He didn’t reply right away, and your mind and heart started racing. Was it just about the sex for him this whole time? Did you just lose who you thought was your best friend over this? You felt yourself about to break down in tears, but then your phone buzzed.

You let out a sigh of relief, but there was still a small pit in your stomach. You desperately hoped that this would work; that the two of you could just focus on your friendship for a while and you would get over your silly emotions, and maybe you would go back to having casual sex one day, or maybe not. The important thing was that you wouldn’t lose him. You couldn’t lose him.

…

Tom threw his phone to the other end of the sofa and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and burying his head in his hands. You wanted to focus on being friends. Of course. Just when he’d finally admitted to himself that he had feelings for you. He wanted so desperately to take a step forward, and instead you took a step back. At least he hadn’t made a fool of himself like Evelyn had suggested he do in Hawaii. 

It was a few nights before you came to visit him, and he and a few cast members had gone out for some drinks. 

“So Tom, are you ever going to tell us who she is?” Evelyn said with a nudge to Tom’s side.

“Who who is?” Tom asked, confused. 

Evelyn rolled her eyes. “Do you really think no one has noticed when you get a text and you start grinning like an idiot?”

“I don’t grin like an idiot,” he defended. 

“Oh, you so do,” Lily, another co-star, chimed in. 

He chuckled nervously. “It’s just my friend, Y/n.”

Evelyn scoffed. “Your friend? If she’s just your friend, then why are you blushing?”

Tom felt his cheek with his hand and looked down in embarrassment. “She’s my best friend, actually. And yes, we sleep together occasionally, but it’s casual. Nothing more than that.”

“You sleep together??” Evelyn and Lily squealed in unison. 

He blushed harder. “Okay, tone it down, ladies. It’s not a big deal.”

“It’s a huge deal!” Evelyn contested. “You’re best friends, you sleep together, and she makes you light up like a fucking christmas tree… You’re completely smitten!”

Tom shook his head. “Stop. I am not smitten. We’ve had an agreement to keep things casual and that’s what we’ve done.”

Lily’s face suddenly lit up in realization. “Wait! Is this the friend that’s coming to stay with you this week?”

“Yeah, but–”

“Casual, my ass!” Evelyn accused, pointing her finger in his face. “You are SO smitten!”

Tom hid his face in his hands, failing to hide his ears which were now bright red. “Okay, fine… Maybe a little.”

Evelyn and Lily both let out another squeal, this time reaching a pitch only dogs could hear. 

Tom was actually surprised himself. Maybe it was because he was a bit tipsy, but they just got him to admit something out loud that he’d never even admitted to himself before. 

Evelyn grabbed his arm rather aggressively. “You have to tell her!” 

Tom’s head shot up from the cover of his hands. “Absolutely not,” he protested. 

“Why not?” Lily asked.

“Are you mad? What if she doesn’t feel the same? Then it’s going to be awkward between us and I could lose my best friend!”

Evelyn looked at him like he was stupid. “She’s coming all the way from London to spend a whole week with you!” 

“Because she desperately needs a holiday, and the only reason she decided to take it was because I already arranged it!”

“Dude, you’ve got it bad,” Lily said, shaking her head. 

“I do, don’t I?” Tom groaned, returning his head to his hands. 

Evelyn rubbed his shoulder in an effort to comfort him. “Look, see how the week goes. If you detect any sign that maybe she has feelings for you too, tell her. If she doesn’t feel the same– which I find highly unlikely, by the way– at least you know, and then you can move on. And if she’s truly your best friend, then this little hiccup won’t matter!”

Tom sighed and then turned his head to look at her. “You really think so?”

“I’m sure of it.”

He almost did it. He was going to tell you how he felt on the ride to the airport, but then you suddenly closed yourself off and told him not to come with you, saying you had to “get back to reality,” and it made him question everything he thought he felt between you the night before.

Despite Evelyn’s hopeful sentiment, however, you only seemed to pull away more and more after that. You stopped wearing his clothes, you were texting him less and less, you wouldn’t tell him what’s wrong, and now you just wanted to strictly be friends. He would no longer be able to kiss you, to hold you, to feel you in his arms while he slept, to wake up to your beautiful face. But he’d sacrifice all of that if it meant he wouldn’t lose you. He couldn’t lose you.

Taglist: @chronicallybubbly , @the-princess-of-loki , @princess-ofthe-pages , @darcylikesloki , @kikster606 , @foxherder , @simone818283 , @newtomofgods @christinebloodwrittings @tom-hlover , @lulubelle814 , @kingliam2019

[femheartlocket]

Stop trying to label arcane characters as “good or bad.”

Im so tired of seeing this argument specifically with Caitlyn, labeling her as bad when truthfully that way of thinking is juvenile and tells me you lack critical thinking skills.

Attempting to label complex characters in such a black or white way is a baseless argument when it comes to arcane, for example trying to label jinx as good or bad would be not only subjective but situational. For whatever reason people target this way of thinking toward Caitlyn a lot. Specifically her gassing the undercity, now that was objectively bad and I’m surely not trying to deny it but there was reasoning behind that people like to forget. Jinx murdered her mother, she was grieving and on top of her grieving she was being manipulated by Ambessa. Do we really think she was thinking clearly? I thought we all understood that her mind wasn’t clear and her thoughts were fogged with emotion she didn’t know what to do with.

Now that’s just an example but I really am speaking generally about the whole show, it’s really disappointing to see so many people blatantly ignoring the complexities of these layered characters. I’m not saying that everyone should or will think this way since it takes a very open mind to be able to accept criticism and uphold a postive view of a situation or character but it looks very ignorant when I see people ranting on here claiming to be “fair” but have a clearly biased argument.

[zepskies]

Don't you think you should give more credit to all the writers you so call friends? You seem pretty biased...

lol Congratulations, anon. I think you're the first person to send negativity to my inbox.

Here's a tip: if you're going to say something bold, be bold and say it to me non-anonymously.

2. When I have time to read fanfiction, I read the stories that call to my attention, whether they're my mutual or not, whether they're my good friend or not, whether they're well-known around here or not.

You can verify this by checking out my @zepskiesreads side blog, which I started recently, or for an even longer archive, search "#zepskies reads" in my main blog. Why? Because whatever I read and enjoy, I reblog. Simple as that.

I also credit other writers (and readers) for giving me ideas and helping me work through a plot line behind the scenes. I support my friends whenever I can, however I am able.

3. Recently, I have been catching up in my TBR reading with some of my friends, since I haven't had as much time to read due to my full-time job and other demanding things happening in my life.

So who specifically do you think I'm not supporting? If there's a writer that you want to bring to my attention, you could've just said that respectfully.

However, if it's any business of yours what I choose to read and reblog, I'll be sure to let you know. 😉

[haytan]

WILDFLOWER | G.A

inspired by billie eilish's wildflower. I think you can already predict that it's very angst. I cried writing this and I love it even more because of it.

𓍼 WORD COUNT: 3390

𓍼 SUMMARY: after listening to Two People on Good Riddance tour something invades you, like a fever.

𓍼 WARNINGS: angst, good ending...

good riddance had been out for a few months now, yet you still remembered the nights when gracie came home late from the studio. it might have seemed like a bad thing, but she always found a way to make it up to you—small surprises, late-night apologies that always ended with her between your legs—so, in the end, it was never really that bad.

one of the things you admired most about her was her honesty, especially when it came to her feelings. while working on the album, she never let you forget how much she loved you, how important your relationship was, and how those lyrics were nothing more than echoes of old wounds.

more than anyone, you understood what this album meant to her. it wasn’t just a way to express everything she had been through, but the first project that was truly hers, a piece of her heart laid bare. and you had been there for every part of it.

before love ever crossed your mind, you and gracie were just friends. and you had the luck—or maybe the curse—of knowing her ex-boyfriend, of watching them grow together and, eventually, fall apart.

it should have been easy to let time wash it all away, to accept that the past was nothing more than that. you had promised yourself it wouldn’t matter anymore. you had promised gracie, too.

but then two people started playing.

and when gracie sang that one specific line—

"and you know, you know every inch of my body"

that was when the tears started falling, before you could even think about stopping them. that was the night you started seeing him in the back of your mind again when you started feeling like you were burning alive.

but you knew she didn't mean to hurt you.

so you kept it to yourself.

…

the next morning, usually filled with kisses and silly conversations, is ruined by a tension that settles between you like something unspoken—thick and heavy. the air inside the apartment feels too still, as if it’s holding its breath, waiting for one of you to break the silence.

gracie leans against the sink, absentmindedly stirring her tea, though you’re not even sure if she actually intends to drink it. her fingers tap a slow rhythm against the ceramic mug, eyes fixed on some distant point.

you sit on a stool by the counter, arms crossed, so close yet so far away. the hum of the fridge, the faint ticking of the clock on the wall—everything sounds too loud in the midst of the silence between you.

"are you really not going to talk to me?" gracie finally says, her voice quieter than usual but heavy with frustration.

you exhale through your nose, hearing your own heartbeat echo inside your head. "i don’t know what you want me to say."

"i want you to say whatever it is that’s bothering you."

you shake your head, staring at a spot on the floor. "it’s nothing, gracie."

she laughs, but there’s no humor in it. "liar. you shut down the moment we got home. you barely looked at me all night. just tell me what’s going on!"

"i already told you—i’m fine."

"no, you’re not." she leans forward slightly, exasperated. "and i’m tired of pretending i don’t notice when you’re upset just because you refuse to talk to me."

your chest tightens. part of you knows she’s right. but another part—the one that’s been burning since last night, since that damn song and the way it made something ugly take root inside you—wants to resist.

you run your hands through your hair, a habit stolen from her. "maybe i just don’t want to talk about it, okay?"

gracie shakes her head. "god, why do you always do this? why do you always push me away when something’s wrong?"

"because i don’t want to fight with you!" you snap, your voice rising as your patience wears thin. "i don’t want to ruin the morning or… or make things weird before your show!"

gracie exhales sharply, setting her mug down on the counter harder than she intended. "and you think not talking makes everything better? because right now, it just feels like you’re shutting me out."

you press your fingers against your forehead, breathing heavily. "i just need time, okay?"

"time for what?" her voice wavers now, a trace of hurt seeping in. "for me to stop asking? for me to just sit here and pretend i don’t see that you’re upset?"

"for me to figure out how to talk without sounding like an idiot!"

that makes her pause. the tension between you crackles in the air, the silence stretching too long.

gracie swallows, the sound making you shiver.

"you know what? forget it," she says, turning back to the sink and picking up her tea.

you close your eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply. "gracie—"

"no, i get it." she cuts you off, taking a long sip. "you don’t want to talk. fine."

gracie turns back to you, searching your face for some sign of regret, but she finds nothing but confusion.

"in the end, i’m always the only one trying to fix things," she says before walking away, the sound of her heavy footsteps echoing as she climbs the stairs.

you stay there, sitting on the stool, staring at the empty space where gracie stood just seconds ago.

your fingers grip the edge of the counter, and you let out a shaky breath, frustration still pulsing beneath your skin. this wasn’t how you wanted the morning to go. this wasn’t how you wanted things to be before her show.

but now it’s done.

you rub your face, trying to clear your thoughts. but everything feels blurred, tangled—a mess of emotions you don’t know how to unravel.

the apartment suddenly feels too small. the air inside it, too heavy.

you need to get out.

standing up quickly, you grab a sweatshirt draped over a chair and shove your keys into your pocket. the soft click of the door unlocking echoes through the apartment, but there’s no sound from upstairs. no attempt to stop you from leaving.

a part of you wishes there was.

you walk down the stairs slowly, hands buried in your pockets, with no real destination in mind. you just keep moving.

the cold morning air hits you the moment you step outside, and an immediate urge to cry swells inside you. your nose starts to sting, your eyes well up, and before you know it, those words are replaying in your head again.

"and you know, you know every inch of my body."

you know she loves you. you should let this go, shouldn’t you? but he lingers, always there, in the back of your mind.

last night, when gracie wrapped her arms around you, kissed the nape of your neck, and told you she loved you, you wanted to turn around, hold her tighter, tell her you loved her more, and start a silly argument over it.

but every time she touched you, all you could think about was how he felt.

had gracie ever looked at you and seen him? in the dark of the bedroom, between kisses and whispered promises, had a part of him ever slipped into her mind?

and if, just for a moment, she had wished it was him instead of you?

you try to push the thought away, try to hold onto the certainties gracie gives you—the way she reaches for your hand without thinking, the way her eyes light up when she talks about you, the i love yous that sound so real.

but doubt creeps in, spreading like a loose thread unraveling everything.

what if they’re not?

what if, deep down, you’re only here because he’s not?

the thought tightens in your chest. you swallow hard and keep walking, unfamiliar streets closing in around you.

but nothing feels as endless or inescapable as the maze inside your own mind.

…

the lights dim, and the crowd erupts into cheers. the air is electric, pulsing with anticipation, and gracie feels it thrumming through her veins. she grips the microphone tightly, fingers trembling just slightly, but she forces herself to take a deep breath. this is her moment—her show. no matter what happened this morning, she needs to push through.

but she knows better than to think she can just shut it out.

as she steps onto the stage, her eyes scan the audience, moving quickly over the sea of faces. the adrenaline in her chest spikes as she catches sight of you.

standing near the back, hands buried in your pockets, shoulders drawn tight, looking at her like you’re not sure whether you want to be here or not.

the moment stretches between you, thick with words left unsaid.

gracie knows that for months she has been exposing you to these painful memories embedded in her own songs. but she also knows that they are past pains, without weight or meaning, and she expected you to know that too. if something was wrong, you would tell her. wouldn't you? but as she stands there, watching you from the stage, doubt grips her chest.

did i cross the line?

abrams swallows hard, forcing herself to keep moving, to wave at the fans screaming her name, to smile like she’s okay. but her mind is already somewhere else, stuck in the heaviness of this morning, the way you looked at her, the sound of the door clicking shut behind you as you left.

she drags in another breath, stepping up to the mic as the opening chords of the first song hum through the speakers. the setlist is the same as always, but tonight, everything feels different. she wonders if you can feel it too, if the weight pressing down on her is pressing down on you as well.

and then the next song starts.

the one that ruined everything last night.

the crowd sings along, voices blending with hers. her gaze, however, is locked on yours. she sings the line without hesitation, without breaking, watching the way your jaw clenches, your eyes darkening just slightly. she wonders if you can tell that she’s looking at you. if you can hear what she’s trying to say through the words that once meant something else.

i didn’t mean to hurt you.

it’s just a song. it’s just a song.

but that doesn’t make it any less real, does it?

the song ends, the moment passes, and yet, the weight lingers. the rest of the show blurs together—flashes of movement, chords, applause—but that moment stays lodged in her ribs, burning like something she doesn’t know how to name.

by the time the final song fades, the crowd’s cheers ring in her ears, and gracie barely remembers getting through it. sweat clings to her skin as she steps backstage, her heart still pounding too fast, and she doesn’t know if it’s from the performance or the way you looked at her.

she doesn’t have time to figure it out before she hears movement behind her.

turning slowly, she finds you standing there, just a few feet away.

you’re still wearing that same guarded expression, the one that makes something in her ache, but there’s something else beneath it now. something hesitant. something like regret.

she wants to say something, anything—but what is there to say?

where were you?

are you okay?

i’m sorry?

but before she can choose the perfect false words, you take the first step. "we should talk… at home."

"yeah, definitely," she says almost automatically.

you hold each other’s gaze for a moment, both fidgeting with your hands—shared habits.

the ride home is silent. the radio plays some random melody, but neither of you really listens. gracie keeps her hands on her thighs, fingers restless, resisting the urge to reach out. she doesn’t know if it would be welcomed. if she still can.

on the other side, you stare out the window, your hand so close to hers. close enough that if one of you just…

but no one moves.

back home, the silence is just as heavy. gracie drops her bag on the counter but doesn’t step away, fingers gripping the marble as if she needs something solid to hold onto.

this time, there are no distractions. just the two of you and the space between you.

"can we talk now?" gracie asks, her voice low.

"yeah," you answer hesitant. but it takes a moment before you can actually speak.

gracie’s breath seems caught in her chest as she waits, and you hate it—hate how uncertainty spreads across her features, like she’s bracing for something bad. but the truth is, you don’t even know how to put what you’re feeling into words.

you run your tongue over your dry lips before finally saying:

"that song last night, two people… it really fucked me up."

gracie blinks a few times, surprised by the raw honesty in your voice. she swallows hard before responding.

"i didn’t…" she pauses, the words dying before they fully form. "i didn’t mean for it to hurt you."

"i know." you squeeze your fingers, letting out a heavy sigh. "but it did."

gracie nods slowly, eyes fixed on you, unsure of where to step. "you never said anything before. about the song, about…" she hesitates. "him."

"because i thought i was fine," you admit, your voice coming out rougher than you intended. "i thought i had let it go. but hearing it—hearing you sing it—just brought everything back, and i hated it. i hated that it still gets to me."

gracie stays silent for a moment, her gaze locked on you like she’s searching for the right thing to say. then, in a hesitant, almost resigned tone, she asks:

"do you want me to stop singing it?"

do you want that?

"because if you do, i will."

"of course not," you say, shaking your head. "that’s not the point, gracie."

"then what is the point?"

"i don’t fucking know!" tears start streaming down your face, and suddenly, you’ve never felt more exposed than now. "i’m sorry…" you bring your hands up to your face, as if trying to hide somehow.

gracie doesn’t think. she just moves.

before she can second-guess herself, she closes the space between you, wrapping her arms around your trembling frame. you tense at first, your body stiff against hers, but then, slowly, you sink into it.

your hands clutch the fabric of her jacket, desperate for something to hold onto, something solid in the middle of everything unraveling inside you.

gracie presses her face into your hair, eyes squeezing shut. "hey," she whispers, voice barely steady. "it’s okay. you don’t have to be sorry."

but you shake your head against her shoulder, fingers tightening. "i hate this," you choke out. "i hate feeling like this. like i’m stuck. like i—" your breath catches, breaking apart in your throat.

gracie pulls back just enough to look at you, cradling your face in her hands, her thumbs brushing the tears from your cheeks. her gaze is searching, pained, but steady. "then don’t do it alone." she almost whispers. "let me be here. let us figure this out together."

"look at me," she continues, tilting your chin up with gentle fingers.

your breath hitches. "gracie—"

"i love you."

you swallow hard, eyes flickering between hers. "i know that you love me."

"no." her grip tightens, not to hold you in place, but to make you feel her, to feel the weight of what she’s saying. she looks at you like she’s searching for something deeper, something that words alone can’t reach. "i don’t want you to just know. i need you to feel it. i need you to feel it in every vein in your body, how much i want you, how much i love you, y/n."

your chest tightens, throat burning with unshed tears.

"you’re my baby, my girl, my fucking adorable, sweet princess," she breathes, her forehead resting against yours. "i’d give you the whole damn universe if you asked me. and i’m sorry for not noticing how hard this has been for you."

"you don’t have to do anything," you shake your head. "it’s not your responsibility. it’s not your fault."

gracie lets out a soft, almost disbelieving laugh, brushing a stray tear from your cheek with her thumb. "i’m your girlfriend, of course it’s my responsibility. but it’s not just that—i want to. i want to be here. i want to hold this with you."

you let out a shaky breath, your forehead still pressed against hers. the warmth of her hands, the closeness of her body, it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

gracie watches you, waiting, giving you space even as she holds you close. there’s no rush, no expectation. just her, just this moment, just the steady rhythm of her breathing mixing with yours.

"i don’t know how to stop feeling like this," you admit, voice barely above a whisper.

"you don’t have to figure it out all at once. we’ll take it one step at a time. no pressure, no rush. just us."

you close your eyes for a moment, letting yourself lean into her, feeling the warmth of her presence wrap around you like something safe, something solid.

then, after a beat, you whisper, "say it again."

gracie pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, her lips curving into a soft, knowing smile. "i love you."

you shake your head. "no. the whole thing."

her hands tighten around your face, eyes dark and unwavering as she speaks again, voice like a vow:

"i don’t want you to just know how much i love you. i need you to feel it. in every breath, every touch, every part of you. you’re my baby, my girl, my sweet, adorable princess. and i’d give you the universe if you asked me."

tears slip silently down your cheeks, but this time, they don’t feel heavy. it’s love, because of love.

gracie catches one with her thumb, her smile turning just a little teasing, a little mischievous. "and i’m never singing two people again unless you say it’s okay."

you let out a breathy, tearful laugh, shoving her shoulder lightly. "i never said that."

she grins, eyes crinkling, before she leans in and presses the softest, most deliberate kiss to your lips. like a promise. like a beginning.

gracie doesn’t pull away right away. she lingers her lips barely brushing yours, memorizing the shape of you, like she’s making sure you feel every ounce of her love in that kiss. when she finally does part from you, it’s only far enough to rest her forehead against yours again, her breath mingling with yours in the small space between you.

"you okay?"

you nod, a little shy now, a little overwhelmed but in a way that doesn’t hurt as much anymore.

she smiles, thumbs still tracing light patterns on your cheeks before one hand slips down, lacing her fingers with yours. "come here," she says, giving your hand the gentlest tug.

abrams leads you to the couch, pulling you down with her, and before you can even think, she’s tucking you against her side, wrapping you up in warmth. it’s so easy, so effortless—the way your body finds its place against hers, the way her arm fits snugly around your waist, like you were always meant to be here.

"do you wanna talk more?" she asks after a moment, her voice soft. "or do you just wanna stay like this for a while?"

you don’t answer right away. instead, you shift, pressing your face into the curve of her neck, breathing her in. she smells like vanilla and something distinctly her, something comforting.

"this," you murmur against her skin. "just this."

gracie hums, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. "okay, baby. just this."

and so you stay there, tangled together in the quiet, her fingers trailing lazy patterns along your back, your hands resting against her chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breathing.

it’s not perfect. there’s still a lot to talk about, a lot to work through. but for now, in this moment, in her arms, you feel safe.

and that’s enough.

guys…

thanks for reading <3

back to nav

[your-turn-to-role]

if it helps at all (reblogging directly from you starry bc can't tag you) - as someone who gave up on it pretty early on bc it wasn't really my thing, i have been wanting to look up more positive opinions on the campaign recently, i've just been really busy so haven't had time to respond to anything but what's on my dash, which yeah is a lot of critique, and with what i do know there's definitely stuff i'm not a fan of, sure

but also like. the critical role cast aren't some corporation just trying to squeeze money out of this show, like a lot of the things c3 has been compared to are

while they could have, in retrospect, probably made better decisions to really pull off whatever they were going for, they're also playing the game that makes them happiest (and they're putting it all online for free it's not like they're obligated to follow the fans' ideas of what should happen)

if you enjoyed it all start to finish, you're honestly a perspective i'd like to see round tumblr more! you're seeing what the cast see in this narrative and that definitely doesn't make you wrong or stupid. if there was no value in this story whatsoever they would have stopped a long time ago

as megs said, being able to articulate an opinion well doesn't make it objective truth. god knows i can pull out a million references for any of my essays but when i write them it's always gonna be me shining light on a specific angle of the narrative that appeals to me. other people can choose to pick a different angle and still be just as right, regardless of whether or not it's something i personally would enjoy looking at. and that's even more true in a fandom like this, where every narrative is in fact 7+ narratives that we hope will weave together well, and there's a million things to focus on that haven't all been handpicked by the creators for the sake of telling a singular story

if you're seeing an angle a lot of people aren't focusing on, hell, celebrate that! i love hearing about the moments that genuinely appealed to people, it just feels like there's been fewer and fewer of them focused on bells hells the longer the story went on. but i've also been in fandoms where i truly genuinely enjoyed the ending of a particular story and thought it was well told the whole way through, and then it turned out 99% of the fandom thought the ending was rushed and it ruined the whole thing, so i definitely get how that can feel a bit crushing and like you're fighting a tidal wave

(and hell to your tags about being worried c3 will become an automatic skip in the fandom - i also really love a lot of the c1 episodes before ep24 and think there's some great character stuff there that a lot of people skip bc orion or because the briarwood arc is where it gets 'good', so im with you on that one. it sucks but it doesn't mean i can't talk about, say, trial of the take, there still are and always will be people in the fandom who've watched it, and there will be even more people who didn't watch it but are glad to find out what's in it because they couldn't find out themselves)

so yeah all to say if you ever wanted to write about c3 stuff you loved, im on your side here

if you're just sad that the fandom reaction to stuff you liked has been overwhelmingly negative, that's also fine, and doesn't make you any less a valued member of this fandom

idk I kind of feel like I'm an idiot bc I actually enjoyed cr 3 from the jump to the end but like the blogs who follow bc I feel they are definitely more articulate and insightful than me are like "the whole thing was meaningless and pointless! matt fumbled everything!" so maybe I'm wrong to have liked it all? I'm not really sure where I'm going with this sorry

I think one thing to keep in mind is that many (and in fact, I would argue, most!) people who are critiquing the story and construction have also generally enjoyed the campaign as a whole! Certainly I don't know anyone who stuck it out through the end who did not overall enjoy watching it, for various reasons; I know there are people who hate watch, which I think is an absurd and honestly really stupid waste of time, but from my experience they are normally making snide and vicious tweet-length posts rather than long considerations of what isn't working for them.

There are also a lot of levels of critique—I've greatly enjoyed a lot of moments in isolation that I simultaneously felt weakened, contradicted, or even actively undermined the structure of the story as a whole, but those moments were still really fun and interesting beats. The Arch Heart's cameo comes to mind, as does, in hindsight, some of the construction of the post-Solstice split, but there are plenty of others of higher or lower impact on the story. In the finale the Raise Dead falls into this place very strongly, so I'm going to talk about it at length for a moment, since it was an absolutely stellar moment for me personally and as such I do think it serves as very illustrative of an example where I simultaneously fucking love a moment while finding it worth significant critique. I think it also touches on the critiques you're referring to, which I would summarize overall as the idea that many of the outcomes feel influenced negatively by pulled punches on the part of the DM rather than a flaw of one player or another. (Also, I want to talk about it cuz I love it. :3) This got very long but I think that to your point, it is worth examining in this amount of depth.

First, the good: it is an absolutely phenomenal culminating point of an arc that was only really concluded in summary; I have, as noted earlier this week, written at length about how Essek is never situated as a protagonist, which is functionally fine and even good. He ends up tied very strongly to Caleb's arc, and moves in the narrative in such a way after 2x97 that allows Caleb to reach a concluding note, and strengthens that narrative. So we only really hear about the outcome of Essek's choices, his inevitable leave from the Dynasty, in the summarization of the campaign 2 epilogue. This is not inherently a problem, because he is not a protagonist. But this moment does functionally create a material representation of that denouement, which does strengthen his arc in its own right.

This moment also, hilariously, bears out my argument from this post. That the resurrection should only work with this intervention, particularly while the Nein are involved, does follow through on the Nein's general positioning within Exandria. Essek's leave happening without a fight (and, frankly, with only one attempted Counterspell) both makes for a very well-paced moment and also maintains the overall sense of story that the Nein impart when they are on screen; I'm thinking again of how their Ruidus episodes feel, much like their campaign and their post-campaign one-shots, like an intrigue action thriller series, and this fits well in that framing.

So overall, it is a fantastic moment... for the Nein. The Nein are not the protagonists of this story. They exist in the world, and are such active agents that they do continue to develop and exert motion on the narrative into this campaign, and frankly, I think this would have been fine if the party given ownership of this story and campaign did not abdicate their responsibility for it with unfortunate frequency. They do not exert a strong control over their story, which is at odds with the fact that the Nein do, and are present and also involved by the nature of their ending. It completely overshadows Ashton's heroic moment, in that the culminating action beat of this sequence is Essek getting away, which kind of takes the wind out of the sails of the Hells' involvement in the gods' outcome. It doesn't negate it, certainly, but it does refocus the story from them to, for some reason, Essek. So in this sense, it occurs at the expense of the Hells.

I find that while the handwaving of using dunamantic intervention to push Raise Dead beyond its limits (if indeed the reason it didn't originally work was because Ashton's brain was essentially gone) fits fine and even well within the framework of the Nein's story, and an NPC being able to do so without a roll is fine, since NPCs are vehicles the DM uses to guide the story, this is a significant divergence from the overall mechanics of the world at large; even the Nein had to do a full ritual for the resurrection of their tiefling. Matt put those mechanics in place specifically to create narrative meaning behind resurrections, which can feel very unmotivated and like a get out of jail free card in D&D, and while it's been noted that this would've really strained the runtime beyond its existing length, prioritizing it at the cost of, for instance, more truncated end notes for the Nein and Vox would've bolstered the Hells' presence in an ending to their own story that even many of their fans felt was ultimately lacking.

Giving the resurrection full weight would've also given Ashton's sacrifice and the Hells' involvement more narrative weight; the reason the other parties are involved at all is because the Hells were truly running on fumes by that point, but any lack of involvement this created could've been alleviated by having them directly involved through pre-established ritual elements that are not contingent on them having any mechanical offerings. So this moment sits within the context of critique that I agree with: that it felt like a pulled punch that ultimately also served to decenter the Hells within their own narrative, when it could've been used with more deliberate narrative force.

At the same time, I fucking love it, and watched it four times in a row yesterday, because it is so good—and it is, as I described, narratively and thematically coherent in one sense! And I think that is one issue of the campaign: many, many great moments are excellent and coherent in a certain framework but are weaker to varying degrees when considered as one piece of a larger whole. There are so many frameworks at play in this narrative, and not enough direct intervention to manage those as frameworks rather than as a single story, but at the same time, I think those frameworks are far more apparent if you're really looking for them, and that's much more difficult, if not impossible, when you're in the midst of them and telling the story.

I also don't think this means one cannot critique this; in fact, I would say this is more an issue of being a serialized narrative than an improvised one, which is often how critique of it has been pushed back against within the fandom. I was thinking about this as I'm currently in a course on, quite literally, how to critique comics, and we discussed this week how Marjane Satrapi said in an interview after making the film adaptation of Persepolis, which was first a serialized comic, that she ended up preferring the film, and I speculated that was because with a film, one has the ability to make a more cohesive narrative purely by virtue of the fact that with a serialized form, you cannot go back and make retroactive edits when no developments come to light. This is something that long-running comics must constantly navigate (as do many long TV shows), and in extreme circumstances such as decades-old comic franchises, ends up resulting in infinite timelines and hand-waving, which becomes so ridiculous that at this point it's a meme. In that scenario, though, it is not presented as a non-contradictory story, let alone a cohesive one.

Many of the critiques of campaign 3 are operating within the idea that this is presented as one overarching narrative. (And honestly, comics and other narratives that don't utilize that presentation are also still critiqued on that merit by people who greatly enjoy the texts they're critiquing anyway.) Within that context, I feel that the framing of the Raise Dead, as well as much of what would be my critique of the other pieces I referenced (the Arch Heart's cameo and some of the party-split sections) if I was to do the same kind of rundown of those, actively undermine this presentation by introducing and forefronting too many conflicting frameworks that are not interwoven well enough to create a single, cohesive overarching narrative.

This is a very long-winded way to illustrate my point, which is that I would really encourage reading critique not as a lack of enjoyment of the campaign, let alone a suggestion that no one should've enjoyed it (and if you did, then you're not smart enough to know better), but as a way to engage with the text(s) as presented within one framework or another. I think this is sometimes obscured in online fandom spaces, where we're not engaging in critique in as formal of a sense as one would in, say, an academic setting, where the norms generally dictate the framework one is using is explicitly stated if not fully delineated within the critique, but it is, more often than not, still implicitly present within the critique.

And as a final note, I would also really urge everyone reading others' opinions on something they enjoy to resist the urge to elide their own opinions from the conversation, even if you don't feel as articulate or as well-versed in critique. Critique is a trained skill, so it is certainly something one can pick up if they are inclined, and at the same time, someone doing it does not mean they are inherently right—and in fact, with all argumentative writing, it is up to the reader to consider the argument and decide whether or not they agree with it. (You can decide that you disagree with me about the Raise Dead! Just because I wrote a thousand words on it does not inherently make my interpretation truth; it's just an interpretation. You get to say whether or not you think my interpretation makes sense based on the evidence presented.) Even here I'm using the framework of some critique that others have made, but I don't delineate in full myself. In doing do I'm not presuming that you agree, but I am presuming that you've read it and know what I'm referring to. Strictly speaking it's also not even saying that I take that critique as true; it's saying that I feel the conclusions drawn are applicable as a basis for my argument. If you wanted, you could even say that you feel that my argument is irrelevant to you because you don't feel those critiques are true! But you ultimately do have to be the one to decide any of that, which does involve a balance between a confidence in the formation of your own opinions on the text and an openness to entertaining others'.