seeing straight men be disgusted by booktok smut recommenders has actually radicalized me to the side of booktok smut recommenders. girls your taste may be atrocious but i will never disparage you for exposing mainstream discourse to the concept of soaking through your underwear. spent my whole life listening to men talk about penises itâs about time they get jumpscared by women talking about pussy in crude detail on social media. go forth and goon my warriors
I work at a bookstore and hearing one of my male coworkers call smutty romantasy "the downfall of society" because it's "literally just porn" radicalized me
Men have an entire industry. Entire industries dedicated to their sexualities. Let women have fantasy sex. there's not even a camera crew involved.
The longer I live, the more deeply I learn that love â whether we call it friendship or family or romance â is the work of mirroring and magnifying each otherâs light. Gentle work. Steadfast work. Life-saving work in those moments when life and shame and sorrow occlude our own light from our view, but there is still a clear-eyed loving person to beam it back. In our best moments, we are that person for another.
The American people overwhelmingly oppose Trumpâs plan. In fact, a recent poll found that only 14% of voters support cutting social services to fund an extension of Trumpâs tax cuts. Thatâs why Republicans passed the bill early in the morning when no one was watching â because they know how wildly unpopular it is.
This bill is NOT a done deal. It still needs to pass the Senate. It's important that we get in touch with our senators and tell them to vote NO on this bill. Keep calling. (202) 224-3121
5calls makes it easy! All you need is your zip code. You dont even have to type a phone number. It also has a script you can use or modify for this issue.
In a world with no outbreak, Joel Miller runs a popular bakeryâgrumpy, flour-dusted, and way too serious about sourdough. His daughters, Sarah and Ellie, are either helping or causing chaos behind the counter.
He didnât even like how he counted them. But there it wasâtight in his chest, annoying as hell. You hadnât shown up Tuesday. Or Wednesday. Thursday rolled in, rainy and gray, and still no sign of you.
He waited until closing. Gave you all the time in the world to stroll in, say âSorry Iâm late, thesis hell,â and settle into your usual seat with your laptop and a hopeful glance toward the pastry case.
But you didnât.
And Joel had had enough.
âIâm goinâ out,â he muttered to Sarah, who was tallying receipts.
âYou sure you donât want to wait for another sign from the universe?â she said, raising an eyebrow.Â
He didnât dignify that with a response.
Ellie hollered after him, âBring her soup! Itâs romantic!â
He brought soup.
Goddammit.
ââââàšà§ââââ
You lived a few blocks off campus, in a cozy little apartment building with ivy climbing the bricks and a mailbox that leaned just slightly. Joel had walked past it a dozen times, back when you and Sarah talked about you moving in. Youâd pointed it out once, with a laugh, and said, âThat window? Thatâs where I scream into the void when my thesis eats my soul.â
He found that window now. The curtains were drawn.
He knocked. Once. Twice.
No answer.
Something clenched inside him.
But before he could reach for his phone, the door creaked open. And there you were.
Barefoot, bundled in two blankets, hair a mess, eyes glassy and tired. You blinked at him like you werenât entirely sure he was real.
ââŠJoel?â
He blinked right back.
âYou sick?â he asked, voice low, gruff.
You nodded slowly. âFever. Sore throat. Lost my voice yesterday. Havenât even checked my phone, Iââ
âYou didnât tell Sarah. Or Ellie. Or me.â
You opened your mouth to answerâthen paused.
ââŠDidnât know I was supposed to tell you.â
Joel stared.
Then handed you the Tupperware of soup like it was some sort of peace offering.
âI been savinâ lemon scones all week,â he said. âTheyâre goinâ stale.â
Your brows lifted, even as your eyes watered from the steam of the soup. âYou saved scones⊠for me?â
âDonât make a thing outta it.â
âIâm making a thing.â
Joel looked at you, pale and sick and smiling weakly at him like he hadnât just spent three days trying not to feel your absence like a bruise. And something inside him softened. Dropped its guard.
âYou shouldâve told me you were sick,â he said, quieter now. âI wouldâve brought soup earlier. Or tea. Or hell, carried your ass to the doctor.â
You leaned your head against the doorframe, voice barely audible. âDidnât know youâd care that much.â
Joelâs eyes met yours. Steady. Warm. Unspoken things settling between you like dust.
âI do.â
The silence stretched. Not uncomfortable. Just real.
ââŠAre you coming in or are you going to stand out here like a sad Victorian man with soup?â
He stepped inside and shut the door behind him.
Your apartment was a mess.
Not dirtyâjust lived-in and clearly abandoned in favor of survival. A couple empty mugs on the coffee table, tissues crumpled in soft piles, your laptop blinking sleepily from the couch. Joel had never been inside before, but it looked exactly like you: warm, chaotic, surrounded by books and soft blankets, a half-written post-it note stuck to the fridge reading âDonât forget to be kind to yourself.â
âYouâve been livinâ like this?â he muttered, setting the soup on the counter.
âDidnât really have the energy to do much else,â you croaked from where youâd sunk onto the couch, wrapping yourself tighter in your cocoon of blankets.
Joel walked over and handed you the mug of tea he madeâginger, lemon, and a lot more honey than heâd usually allow.
You took it with both hands, sniffled, then looked up at him with glassy eyes.
âThanks, Joel. Really. You didnât have toââ
âDonât finish that sentence,â he cut in, crossing his arms. âI did have to. âCause apparently youâd rather suffer in silence than text one of my daughters or me that youâre sick and dyinâ in here.â
You blinked at him, confused. âI wasnât dyingââ
âYouâve got a fever. You look like hell.â
âWow,â you rasped. âFlattery will get you everywhere.â
âDonât get cute with me,â he said, even as he checked your forehead with the back of his hand like it was second nature. âYou didnât even tell Sarah. Or Ellie. You know how mad theyâre gonna be?â
You sniffled, mumbling around the mug. âDidnât want to be a burden.â
That made Joel stop cold.
He crouched down in front of you, elbows on his knees, voice lower nowâfirm but gentle.
âYou listen to me. Youâre not a burden. Youâreââ he paused, jaw flexing. âYouâre someone we all care about. Me, especially.â
You blinked at him. Your throat worked like you wanted to say something, but all that came out was a tired squeak.
Joel sighed. âYou ever pull this stunt again, and I swear to god Iâll drag you back to the bakery myself. Sick or not.â
ââŠWill there be scones?â
He scowled. âAlways.â
You smiled behind the rim of your tea.
ââââàšà§ââââ
Later, you fell asleep on the couch with your head leaning on his shoulder, the blanket wrapped around you like a sad, shivering burrito. Joel didnât move. Just rested his hand gently on your knee, watching the rain blur the windows and feeling something settle in his chest for the first time in days.
When Sarah texted, âDid you find her or did you get lost?â, he sent a photo of you curled up next to him.
Joel: Sheâs safe. Still an idiot. Restinâ now.
Sarah: You love her.
Ellie: It is obvious.
Joel shook his head, turned the volume down, and stayed right thereâuntil your breathing evened out and the soup went cold and everything else finally felt warm.
Lord, grant me the strength to throw away this box that i'll never use, the courage to throw away this box that i'll never use, and the wisdom to throw away this box that i'll never use
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