Killer of OCs

Italian idiot with little self esteem and even less brain activity | chaotic men with mental issues and badass women with swords? send them my way, thanks | @marvellousamy on Instagram

[letmewritemylife]

Pinned post

Hello, it’s Agata here. My previous pinned post was my masterlist, but since I haven’t written anything in ages, I thought I should update my pinned post.

So here’s a list of stuff you may want to know:

I’m Agata (she/her), 21 and Italian

My reblogs and posts are not necessarily 18+, but I’m not going to filter any mature content so keep that in mind if you’re a minor

This is a sideblog. If @/let-me-spam-my-life shows up in your notifs, it’s me

My masterlist is here, but I’m not currently writing anything

My other social media accounts are: main blog on Tumblr; simblr; Tumblr blog to reblog icons and similars; meme page on Instagram; edit page on Instagram; my Ao3

[finnick-odairz]

in your eyes

your and haymitch's decades-long love affair.

post-sotr through mockingjay ⋆ haymitch x fem! district 9 victor reader ⋆ 4k

warnings: canon forced prostitution, mentions of death and suicide, typical haymitch alcoholism, eventual alcoholism recovery, angst, dual pov, gross capitol people, lonely reader, finnick friendship, barely proofread

⛰︎ ོ

He’s never forgotten the look in your eyes the first time he saw you.

Usually at this point in the games, with both District 12 tributes long gone, Haymitch would have been completely blinded by alcohol. An embarrassment to everyone in the room. So much so that people didn’t even try to continue talking to him. Which was the way he liked it.

But, this year was different. His tributes made it farther than the past couple. He thought, maybe, there was a sliver of a chance one could make it.

Of course, he was wrong.

However, you caught his eye. His drinking slowed, just enough for him to keep his eyes open. Long enough to see you bludgeon the only other remaining tribute, the District 2 boy, with the axe you pulled from another tribute’s deceased body. 

When the boy stopped fighting and his body collapsed, your body stopped as well. And when the cannons fired, you turned, your face in view of the camera. And what Haymitch saw in your eyes—pure misery.

Of course, he was well acquainted with misery. He had seen it in every pair of District 12 eyes since his childhood. But yours were different. Immediately after hearing that cannon, you became a new person from the charming, witty girl shown in the Flickerman interviews.

He hadn’t seen that precise genre of misery in anyone else but the face he sees in the mirror once in a while.

And then he saw you whisked into the world of the Capitol. He kept his distance. Drank more. Didn’t let you get even to the same half of a room with him before he would take off. Something about that look he saw—that he related to—told him it was in his best interest to avoid you.

⛰︎ ོ

You only saw the lone District 12 victor from afar. Well, at least in person. You remember watching his games when they aired when you were much younger. Since then, his hair had gotten straighter. His rebellious demeanor changed. Still a rebel from what you hear, but a rebel with nothing to say. He always had a drink in his hand and a look of misery and disgust in his eyes. 

You wanted to speak to him, as your fellow District 9 victors never wanted to openly discuss the horrors of a victor’s life, and you needed someone who understood. 

But you were not yet 16 and could not begin to imagine the horrors that Snow had planned for you. 

It began at the final stop of your victory tour, at Snow's mansion. Your stylist adorned you in, in your opinion, the most glamorous look of your time as a victor. Beige tool with sequins spotted all over. The color reminded you of the fields back home. You had never felt so pretty—or lonely.

You kept sneaking glances at Abernathy throughout the night to see if you could finally speak to him. And every time you looked, his eyes were already locked on you. He would immediately look away, but in the split seconds your gazes would connect, your stomach would leap. It wasn’t a feeling you were used to. You, of course, had your share of boys back in 9, but Abernathy was a man. A man who actually piqued your interest.

Halfway into the night, you were summoned to a one-on-one with President Snow. And it was then that you realized your life was no longer yours. The life you fought for—killed for—was nothing more than a piece of currency and flesh to the people who gathered in this mansion to celebrate you.

He had been almost bored when he made the demand. He had told you that you must allow him to trade and sell you whenever, to whomever, for whatever he decides. And if you refused? No tribute from District 9 would ever receive an advantage in the Games again. No sponsors. No allies. No chance.

You had thought of the kids you grew up with. The ones who'd been reaped before you. The ones who would be reaped after.

He had known you had no family to threaten. So he had put the fate of tens and hundreds of tributes—kids— on your shoulder. 

You did everything he wanted after that.

⛰︎ ོ

Haymitch saw the cycle repeat itself with you once again. And he didn’t stop it.

He kept telling himself it was for the best. You probably preferred being Snow’s pawn rather than living with the guilt that your defiance killed everyone you loved.

He would prefer that.

So, he continued to watch from afar. Watch you sneak away with Capitol elite during functions victors were forced to attend. Watched as your shoulders would hunch over with grief every time you saw another District 9 tribute die. 

The 62nd was the first time he spoke to you.

Both 12 tributes died in the cornicopia. His liquor intake slowly decreased by the thirteenth day, where your boy tribute died at the hands of a career. The runner-up. So close, but not close enough. Your body hunched more than usual. Your hands covered your face. Your shoulders began bouncing up and down. Others—mentors and Capitol scum—all watched with surprise and discomfort as you began to break down.

For the first time since he was 17, Haymitch didn’t think before taking action. He breezed cooly across the room and carefully grabbed your sides, pulling you up from the couch and guiding you into a nearby stairwell.

You were so upset that you didn’t even glance to see who was taking you or where you were going. You were used to not knowing either of these things by now.

The door to the large watching party shut behind him as he sat you down on the staircase. He crouched on the landing in front of your face.

You finally took your hands away from your face and jumped at the sight of him

“Oh–I–I’m sorry. I figured it was Mags…or…”

“Do my hands feel like Mags’?” he chuffed.

The corners of your lips slowly rose, “She's the only one I really speak to.”

He examined your face. He had never seen it up close like this, besides in photographs or playbacks from your games.

He snapped out of his trance and sat next to you. Silence filled the space between you to as you both stared ahead at the blank wall before you. He didn’t mind it. 

“I thought he could have done it. Won, I mean,” you say, still staring ahead. “It might sound awful, but I think I have to stop hoping.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, unsure of what else he could say. He hadn’t done this before.

Tears began to slowly trickle again, “I think I’m the only 9 mentor that even cares anymore.”

“You wanted your kid to win so you could have someone else who cares?” He asked, genuinely.

You turned to look at him, “Besides wanting them to survive, yes. I don’t know how you do it without other victors, and with how you isolate yourself. It must be horrible. I feel so lonely, and I have company all the time.”

You realize he is looking at the ground and fidgeting with his fingers.

“Sorry,” You wince. “I didn’t mean—I’m just upset.”

He nods. “I understand. It is horrible, actually. That is an astute observation.”

And then you laugh. And all he wants to do is keep making you laugh.

“I guess it's horrible for all of us in different ways,” You note.

He nods and takes his flask out of his chest pocket. He offers it to you first, but when you shake your head, he takes a swig.

“I wish I had lost,” You say, eyes desolate of any emotion you had moments before.

Haymitch nods. “I remember when you won. You looked-”

“Miserable?”

He nods.

“I realized it as soon as I killed that District 2 boy. It was pointless. He probably had someone to go home to. A mom or dad, maybe both. Maybe a crush he was going to ask out when he got back,” you start shaking your head.

“And I don’t have anyone. I killed people in there to survive–-for what? To live as an object that sends kids in that arena to die every year, with no one to go home to?” You scoff, “I should’ve died. Every one of those kids in my arena deserves to be alive. Not me.”

He thinks back to the look in your eyes when you won. The immediate misery. And now, he realizes the difference from what he saw in others was that you were also already consumed with loneliness.

Your hand was resting beside you. Your other hand is wiping the tears on your face. He can’t think of anything else to do. 

He grabs your hand and holds it.

And you sit there for a long time, both relieved and terrified there is finally someone else.

⛰︎ ོ

You don’t see him until the next games. And you’re embarrassed to admit, you’ve been anxious about what will happen when you see him next. You don’t understand the feelings you're having for the older, drunken, District 12 man you had only shared one interaction with.

You’re preparing your tributes backstage for the Flickerman interview, while your other mentors attempt to speak to possible sponsors. You're grateful they're trying.

You see Haymitch with his tributes, and your heart skips a beat. You stare, waiting for him to acknowledge you. He is drunk. Clearly. The 12 escort is doing most of the preparation while he sways in place. 

Your eyes finally connect, and you smile and wave. He gives you a drunken look up and down, then directs his attention back to his tributes.

Oh.

Shaking the interaction off and give your tributes some final words of advice before you send them off on stage.

Later that night, you can’t help but think about Haymitch. Why he barely acknowledged you. You weren’t even embarrassed—you were hurt. The 9 tributes, mentors, and escort all had gone to bed, but you were still up thinking about it. 

You had taken the liberty of finishing off multiple bottles of the finest alcohol the Capitol apartment had to offer. With each swig, you become more and more upset and less and less reasonable. You felt there was no other way to understand than to see him.

You knock, a little too loudly, on the 12th-floor door. You wait for a few minutes before you knock again. 

Luckily, Haymitch opens the door. He rubs his eyes and squints from the lights in the hallway. 

“What the hell? What are you doing here?”

You blow past him and allow yourself into the apartment.

“You can’t even give me a wave back?” You question.

“Shhh,” he gestures to the tribute’s rooms. “Did anyone see you?"

"Are you going to act like nothing happened?"

"What are you talking about?”

“Backstage at Flickerman. You brushed me off,” you say, quieter this time.

He scoffs, “Go back to bed. Someone will see you.” He starts going back to his room.

“I don’t care,” you grab his forearm. “I thought we were friends.”

Haymitch shakes you off. “I don’t need friends. Go back to bed, 9.”

And so you do. And it takes everything in you not to cry just like you did in that stairwell last year.

⛰︎ ོ

Haymitch needed it to happen. He couldn’t let what happened last year repeat itself. He got too close. Cared too much. Who knows what Snow would do to you if he knew? 

He laid awake in bed, thinking about how you stormed into the apartment. It took guts. He wished he had some.

Even though he knew it was necessary, he couldn’t help but feel pangs in his chest when he remembered the hurt look in your eyes. How he shrugged you off and pretended he didn’t want anything more than to talk to you and hold your hand again. Remembering the liquor on your breath made him want to go into the 9th apartment and get rid of every bottle of alcohol in there. He wanted to protect you.

He felt like a child. He knew the risks. He couldn’t let it happen. 

But he so, so wanted to.

When he woke up that morning, he skipped his first drink. In case he saw you, he wanted to be ready to say something. What he would say, he was not sure. 

He didn’t see you in the training center. Didn’t see you at the Capitol soiree. It made him nervous. He had to have a couple of drinks at that point in the day, but he was still focused on when he would see you. 

But he never did. 

So when he laid in bed that night, staring up at the ceiling, alcohol slowly wearing off, he did something he never thought he could do.

He made an effort.

He copied your movements. He went to your apartment. He knocked, as loudly as you did, understanding your escort was probably out celebrating the night before the games. It’s what Effie had been doing the past couple of nights as well. If your fellow mentors answer, he can lean on his reputation of being a drunk. 

But, just like he did, you open.

You almost shut the door in his face. You were still embarrassed and upset about the night before. You were cringing all day. You showed up at his apartment? You had never been so reckless. But now, he was doing the same thing.

“What are you doing here, Abernathy?”

He slides past you inside, hoping no one saw him waiting outside your door.

You shut the door and turn to face him. “Haymitch-”

“I’m sorry.”

You were taken aback. You rubbed your eyes to make sure you weren’t dreaming.

“It’s okay, I was just being–”

“I do,” he interrupted. 

You furrow your eyebrows.

“Want to be… friends. I do.”

He didn’t know what he was doing. But when you two sat and talked all through the night, he forgot about the risks for a moment. He enjoyed being with you—and he forgot what it felt like to genuinely laugh. It was exhilarating.

You spoke about your home lives and lack of acquaintances. You shared your favorite Capitol dishes and your least favorite Caesar Flickerman hair colors.

He told you what Snow did to him and you told him what he did to you.

You passed a bottle between one another, sharing an understanding of the lives you were cursed with. You both had not felt so comfortable in years.

So when he reached across the distance between you two and kissed you, he did not hesitate.

And when you pulled him into your bedroom, you were not afraid of Snow.

And for the night, you two were where you wanted, with who you wanted.

⛰︎ ོ

Your years together repeated themselves the same way. You two would sneak time together in the day, in rooms away from the hungry eyes of the Capitol. And the nights were yours. It wasn’t perfect, but it was what you had.

But the selling didn’t stop. 

You would sometimes go from a mansion to the 12th floor suite. Sometimes you would be so bruised and sore, neither you nor Haymitch wanted anything but to hold each other and try to fall asleep.

Being together made nights easier. When the nightmares came, one would rock the other back to sleep. And you would stay awake and talk to each other, and it still felt just as peaceful as that first night in the stairwell.

You thought that when the selling first started, you could never be touched by another person. You thought it would feel too emotionless—too transactional. But with Haymitch, it was perfect.

And you two thought there was a chance it could always be like this.

But there were eyes everywhere.

And your time had run out.

⛰︎ ོ

Haymitch had been summoned to see Snow during the Capitol’s 65th victory tour. It wasn’t hard for him to anticipate what was coming. Your sneaking had gotten sloppy. Your moves riskier. 

And when he sat across from the devil incarnate, the scent of roses doing their best to cloud his mind, he felt the same way he did fifteen years ago. He was in the same position—across from Snow, listening to him describe his knowledge of his lover. 

But this time, Haymitch knew he had to pull away from you. He couldn’t do it all over again.

The easiest way for him, selfishly, was a clean break. He stopped going to your apartment. He made Effie answer your knockings. He stopped staring at you from across crowded rooms. He never explained it. But deep inside, you understood it.

So, you latched onto the Capitol’s newest piece of meat—Finnick Odair. You both had been dealt the same wretched hand, and you attempted to be there for each other. You would make the best of Capitol parties before the horrors of the bidding started.

During the nights, all you wanted was Haymitch to hold you and make you laugh. And Finnick’s friendship couldn’t give you that.

Haymitch took note of your newfound partnership and enjoyment of Capitol company. It disgusted him. He didn’t understand your thought process. He thought he had understood you. But he began to wonder if he ever knew you at all. If the looks exchanged from across rooms and the words spoken in between the sheets were all a lie. 

He had begun to drink more than ever.

⛰︎ ོ

You watched Haymitch with Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark with satisfaction. That was the man you loved. Still loved. He shook the pockets of every piece of Capitol scum and managed to create two victors. You wanted him to give you the signal–that you could somehow be together again, but it never came.

When the third Quarter Quell was announced, you first thought of Haymitch. What would he do? He couldn’t fight like he used to, and neither could you. 

Your name was called at the reaping. You had anticipated it since the announcement. No one volunteered for you, and you couldn’t blame them. Between you and the other female victor, you were the youngest. You couldn’t be upset.

This was your chance to lose the games as you always intended to do.

You were relieved, selfishly, that Peeta volunteered in Haymitch’s place. Fighting in the Games is hard enough. Fighting with a heart full of desire for the man competing for survival alongside you was not an ideal situation. You couldn’t understand how Katniss and Peeta were going to do it.

Finnick scoffed when you told him you believed the pair of District 12 victors’ love story. He thought it was all made up. 

“Maybe,” you said. “But it's nice to think two people can be in love despite it all.”

It was not the last conversation you and Finnick would have about the star-crossed lovers. He pulled you aside when all the returning victors arrived at the Capitol. He laid out the plan to save Katniss and Peeta, to which you immediately agreed. If you were going to die anyway, you might as well leave behind the seeds for the rebellion.

⛰︎ ོ

Haymitch had other plans for your fate, however. 

In one of the numerous conversations he had with Plutarch and Finnick leading up to the Games, he finally decided to share what was on his mind. 

“I know what the goal is here, and I know the importance of it,” he began. “But I have a condition.”

The other two men glanced at each other. They couldn’t tell if he was serious or too drunk to understand what he was saying.

Plutarch began rejecting him. “Well, the outcome is-”

“Get her out,” he said, eyes locked on Finnick, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Finnick stared back at him, immediately understanding.

“Who? Get who out?” Plutarch asked. Finnick didn't need to.

“She’ll want to die in there. Trust me. But I need you to make sure she gets out.”

Finnick grabbed Haymitch’s shoulder back, “I will.” 

You had told Finnick of your and Haymitch’s love affair one drunken night, after a particularly horrific client. You regretted it after, but Finnick traded a secret as well. He told you of Annie. Listening to him, you were relieved that at least someone was able to be in love.

⛰︎ ོ

You were surprised by the games. Mags had gone so early, Katniss refused much of Finnick’s help, and the arena was as brutal as ever. You hadn’t anticipated staying so close to the three of them for as long as you did. By the time you met up with Johanna, Wiress, and Beetee, you thought it was a sign you could split off and finally end your time in the arena. 

But Finnick rarely let you out of his sight, and there was no way you could sneak off. On the beach, he urged you that with Wiress gone, you needed to stay alive to complete the plan. You were shocked he saw through you so easily. You had only shared your regret of survival in your games with one other person.

And coincidentally, you heard his voice soon after.

It started with Katniss’ sister, then her friend from 12. Then Finnick heard Annie. And then, you heard the screams you used to hear at night after Haymitch’s nightmares.

“Haymitch!?” You screamed, launching yourself into the jungle. You cut through the trees and plants voraciously, not letting any protests from anyone stop you.

His screams kept coming, your name the subject of each one.

“Haymitch!?” You kept screaming back until you realized they were jabberjays. A trick. A mechanism by the Capitol.

By the time it was over, your voice was hoarse and your face stained with tear tracks. You sat on the beach in silence, trying to understand the pain that had just taken place.

Peeta sat next to you.

"Are you okay?" He asked.

You couldn't do anything but try to nod.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't know."

You turned to him. You could tell he was talking about Haymitch.

"No one knows. Well, except him," you motioned to Finnick sitting on the shore. You smiled, "You know, Katniss reminds me of him."

Peeta grins, "Yeah. They're more alike than they care to admit."

You two stare at the watercolor dusk.

"They don't like to let people love them," you said, running your hand through the sand.

Peeta nodded. "That's why we have to love them anyway."

You smiled at him.

Katniss, feet away, couldn’t help but ask Johanna for some answers.

“Who’s Annie?” She asked.

“Annie Cresta, the girl Mags volunteered for. She won like four years–five years ago.”

“Is she the one that went a little…?”

“Mhm,” Johanna confirmed.

Silence fell between them.

“And-”

“Y/N and Haymitch?”

Katniss nodded, smiling a little at how quickly Johanna anticipated the question.

“That’s been happening for a long time. Finnick told me, because Haymitch asked-”

She caught herself. She couldn’t reveal too much. The two stared at you in the water as Johanna attempted to come up with something to say.

“Haymitch gets her. And she gets him.”

Katniss was shocked that anyone could get Haymitch. That Haymitch could love anyone.

“Love is weird,” Johanna said plainly.

When it was all over, you woke up in a white room. A room so meticulously clean, so lifeless, it couldn’t be anywhere but in the Capitol. You tried to get up, but you were tied down. 

Then Snow came. And he told you what was to come. The starvings, the beatings, the shockings.

But he let it slip that Haymitch was alive. And for some reason, you decided not to let yourself succumb to the torture. 

How he let it slip, you were not sure. You did not know the President as a man to make mistakes.

He was afraid.

⛰︎ ོ

Haymitch had to endure it all without alcohol. 

When he was informed that the Capitol’s jets had gotten to you first, he began throwing every object within his reach. He screamed at everyone–Plutarch, Coin, and even Beetee and Finnick.

He understood Katniss’ anger towards him for not getting Peeta out because, despite his best efforts not to, he felt the same way towards Finnick.

You should be in District 13 right now, safe and unharmed. But now, you were in the Capitol, and he was drying out in a worn-out facility.

When he was back, though, his fellow rebels saw a fire in him they had not yet seen before. To get you out. Despite the withdrawals, he paid more attention, contributed more, and even joked slightly less. He was desperate to get the revolution going. 

And he did. 

And when he was informed that the power went out in the Capitol and there was a chance you were coming back, he suddenly couldn’t be the new useful person he was. He talked to Katniss, watched Finnick’s propo, but he couldn’t think of anything else but the chance he was going to get to hold you again. 

When he, Finnick, and Katniss sat in the room silently, waiting for you to arrive, Finnick cleared his throat.

“You know, she didn’t enjoy the Capitol like you thought she did.”

Haymitch was shocked, not only at Finnick’s ability to even speak at the moment, but also at the fact that he knew his feelings towards your demeaner at Capitol gatherings after he pulled away from you.

“She noticed the way you would look at her, with, as she said, ‘disgust.’”

Haymitch shifted uncomfortably.

“She was trying to forget,” Finnick muttered, eyes still locked on the knot he was tying.

“Forget what?” Haymitch asked.

“How much she loved you.”

Haymitch wanted to cry, but before he could, a District 13 doctor opened the door to inform them they were back.

The three victors ran through the hallways, all with the same goal in mind. They saw Johanna, then Annie. 

He couldn’t see you, but then–

“Haymitch?” Your voice yelled.

He turned to see you hooked up to IVs across the room. You pulled them off and jumped off the bed.

He laughed out of pure joy. He ran towards you.

You launched yourself into his arms. He picked you up and held you tight. Tighter than any of those nights in previous years. He was never going to let you go.

⛰︎ ོ

You went with him back to 12 after it all. You wanted to keep him with Katniss and Peeta. You and Peeta bake bread together, though your skills from 9 aren't as good as his from the bakery. Katniss hunts during the day, and the four of you dine together every night.

You all became a family. Something that you had never had before.

At last, life was peaceful. You talked and laughed every night and had Haymitch's flock of geese to keep you occupied. He sang the songs he remembered from Lenore Dove. You made him go on long walks with you in the woods.

The nightmares never stopped, but neither of you ever expected them to. It's the same as it was in the Capitol, but you no longer have bruises and marks and Haymitch does not need alcohol.

The sun shines in through the window each morning, waking you both up. Without fail, you two always open your eyes facing each other.

Reflected in both your eyes is pure joy. 

[writrsblock]

credits: dead white square on vk

THIS was the image that haunted me as it just screams hellcheer! a major thank you to @endlessdreamerxoxo for finding the original for me 💕

[noirsloth]

only Benedict can be in love triangle with one girl

[fragcc]

It's not his fault he's an imbecile!!

[abominablecreation]

benedict “please do not go” bridgerton vs sophie “move out of your house, you’re fucking up my work environment” baek

[grapecaseschoices]

#sophie kicking benedict out of his mother’s home was such a great moment#and he was *gone*#walking that man like a dog [@/agentnatesewell]

[abitlikemercury]

I don't know what I love more: Sophie having the cheek the nerve the gall the audacity and the gumption to basically tell Benedict "You make me too horny, you must leave your own house" OR Benedict responding with "You're absolutely right and I am so sorry, I'll go pack my shit"

[witchcraftshere]

It's always "I love you" and never "Okay, I don't care that we're different. What I care about is you. I care about you. Okay? And I didn't say it. I should've said it. But I didn't. Because... well, 'cause I am an emotionally insecure source of your discomfot who is not good at expressing his feelings. Probably because I've been on my own my whole life. And it's not an excuse, it's just- it's why instead of telling you that you're the best thing that ever happened to me, I make jokes about your ears and I tell you that you try too hard. When, you know, the truth is, I just don't want you to get hurt because... because no one else in the world matters more to me than you do."

[berryplusbears]

never thought Disney would be bold enough to address the strain on Nick and Judy's relationship after the abortion

[sukiiwake]

Wanted to try a different coloring technique with them at the gala😌

[audioshimmer]

"girl, so anti-feminist": how the life of a showgirl exposed all of taylor swift's insecurities.

or: the life of a showgirl album review!!

(all reviews are made in good faith. op is not american. tw for mention of sa.)

"I need to be on the right side of history" Swift said in the 2018 documentary, Miss Americana. Eight years later, it’s getting harder to tell what side that is, exactly. Swift continues to spout feminist rhetoric while also being friendly with Trump voters and proud members of MAGA. This identity crisis is reflected in the sound of her newest album, The Life of A Showgirl.

Billed as a look into Swift's life during the monumental Eras Tour, Swift's 12th album is instead a sonically confusing mismash of songs declaring her love for fiance Travis Kelce, poorly concealed diss tracks about fellow musicians such as Charli XCX and Olivia Rodrigo, and bad bitch postruing of the likes of Nessa Barret - but does so gracelessly. Her attempts to seem fresh and cool are instead a clear indicator that Swift has lost - or is simply unintrested in - her own originality.

All of the album's themes and motifs are faded copies of the trademarks of other artists. It attempts at the panache of Chappel Roan, at Sabrina Carpenter's playful, coquette lyrics and tongue in cheek references, to seem as unbothered and carefree as Charli XCX's brat - and fails at all three. It's doing too much, trying to be serious and carefree and dark and intellectual and sexy, all at the same time, often in the same song, while also retaining Swift's obsession with romance. Production has clearly done it's best, but t's still too much; the album feels both overcrowded and strangely empty, like it has 'everything and nothing at all' -> lyrics pulled from the second track, Elizabeth Taylor.

Speaking of lyrics, Swift's signature lyricism - that once got her branded as the 'songwriter of the decade' - has completely fallen through. This wouldnt be an issue on a different record, but the songs on The Life of A Showgirl are all about the words, all clearly and sharply enunciated. Swift wants you to hear what she's saying, which is unfortunate, because its almost all terrible

At best, the lyrics are average allusions, and at worst, they're savage, unfunny attacks on Swift's 'enemies' and competitors - who are almost all women. 'Honey' contains suspicious lyrics about her fiancé's ex girlfriend. 'Father Figure' could potentially be a diss track directed at Olivia Rodrigo - one claiming Swift is owed Rodrigo's success. Even if it is, in fact, about Scooter Braun instead, she's still beating a horse which died a long, long time ago. The worst comes in the form of the album's seventh song, 'Anything Romantic' - a diss track at Charli XCX that involves comparing her to a dog, and repeatedly stating that the brat singer is obsessed with her - something which seems unlikely, considering her track record. But why is Swift, a self proclaimed feminist, attacking these women so viciously in the public sphere? And why does she hang out with literal assault apologists such as Brittany Mahomes?

While none of us know who Swift really is, it may be because her performative activism stems from the same reasons she tears down other women and blocks their music on the billboard chart, the same reason she spends her time with her fiancé's maga crowd - her own personal insecurities. If she isn't at the top of the charts, isn't exactly what the crowd wants, isn't proving her intelligence with pretentious and inaccurate literary references (Ophelia's lover played a large role in her death), then what does that mean for her career. Swift has set up some fascinating questions about pride, ambition, and self worth on her latest album, completely by accident. Let’s hope she tries to answer them on the next album.

PRODUCTION:

the production could very well be the highlight of the album. While it's nothing inspired, it remains simple and often strong enough to offput some of Swift's worst deliveries. Solid sushi restaurant music.

SONG RANKING:

1. Elizabeth Taylor

2. Eldest Daughter

3. Wi$h Li$t

4. Father Figure

5. The Life of A Showgirl (feat. Sabrina Carpenter)

6. CANCELLED!

7. The Fate of Ophelia

8. Ruin the Friendship

9. Honey

10. Wood

11. Actually Romantic

OVERALL REVIEW: 1/5

ps: while you're here, please share and/or donate to the following campaigns:

ahmed's

shareef family

haifa's

[shitswiftiessay]

Now, wait a second, Taylor. Why would the assassination of a prominent Republican talking head make YOU fear for your life?

I mean, if the shoe fits…

On a related note, Taylor Swift’s WAG bestie, Brittany Mahomes, has condemned the hate against Charlie Kirk because apparently hate is bad. Mind you, she publicly supports Donald Trump.

Taylor and Travis were also recently partying with Brittany MAGAhomes, her husband Patrick Mahomes, and the fellow Charlie Kirk mourner, Kane Brown, and his wife.

⬆️ That’s Taylor with her arm around her MAGA bestie, Brittany Mahomes.

This is the company that Taylor keeps. All red, all MAGA.

[demaparbat-hp]

What would be Azula's reaction to Zutara? (After she gets a redemption and free therapy)

Ohhhhh boy. To be honest, I love Feral Post-Redemption Azula, and in my heart of hearts I just know her reaction would be something along the lines of:

“So, you are both in a...relationship.”

“Yes.”

“And you have been for the past...three months.”

“Sorry we didn't tell you before, but—”

“Oh, do apologize. I have spent the last four years believing Zuzu here was a spineless coward who wouldn't propose to his girlfriend, and it turns out you two weren't even dating!”

“Hey! I'm not a spineless coward!”

“Who made the first move?”

“The first—what?”

“Please, Zuzu, don't add stupid to the list. The first move. Who made it?”

“Well, of course I—!”

“I did.”

“...Katara did.”

“I see... Waterbender?”

“Yes, Azula?”

“Break up with my brother. He's hopeless and you deserve better.”

“No, Azula.”

[thechy-fychannel]

Here's some fun facts about different characters from House that aren't canon but they're completely true (i just made them up)

Chase is lactose intolerant but eats insane amounts of dairy anyways bc he believes it increases his tolerance or smth idk

Taub was raised by his lesbian aunt(s)

Foreman was reigning champion of his schools spelling bee for all 4 years of highschool

Cameron once shoplifted a tube of lipgloss as a dare when she was a teen and she felt so guilty afterwards that she threw up. it still haunts her to this day

House doesn't like mushrooms (it's a texture thing)

Wilson's teachers tried to force him to write with his right hand as a kid so he's practically ambidextrous but his handwriting is god awful with either hand

Thirteen owns every single Alanis Morissette album

Kutner was actually one of the original developers behind Angry Birds

Cuddy was unbeatable at beer pong in college. She still is if you get enough liquor in her

Amber was a nanny for her first few years in med school and she hated it so much that she swore off ever having kids

Park was in her high school marching band and can play a mean trumpet

[my-ny]

House MD + text posts pt. ∞

[unaballerinascalza]

House, M.D. in 2024 headcanons

Pt. 2

That Nora lady uses the f slur with her besties at cocktail hour

House is THE Chappell Roan fan (loves her more than Thirteen does)

Someone from the team makes an artpiece out of defected IV needles while Under The Influence™. It either sells for tens of thousands at an auction or 31 dollars and 24 cents on Ebay, depending on the marketing

Chase has starred in a deodorant ad where he was on a motorbike and with sideburns

Chase and Thirteen constantly sing that one line from teenage dirtbag ("I've got two tickets to iron maiden, baby") together at the randomest times for no reason

Wilson feeds seagulls fries on purpose

Cuddy has a secret history of participating at fried chicken eating contests (and having won at least 4 times)

Thirteen gifts House a hot wheels colour changing monstertruck set. Kutner adds the garage from his collection. House keeps it all in his office

Chase wins a rap battle against an annoying kid who was bugging Cameron

Taub doesn't understand why everyone hates karma by Jojo Siwa

To make the ducklings concentrate during doctoring, House plays them royalty free music (e.g. spinning monkeys)

House steals Cameron's copy of "Red, white and royal blue" and doesn't give it back because it'S GENUINELY GOOD

Foreman orders boxes of samyang ramen noodles. He adds all the sauce and eats it without batting an eye

Chase takes Thirteen to Australia as a siblings trip. They get arrested.

Park has a cleaning tiktok

Pt. 1 Pt. 3 Pt. 4

[queenofshippingcringe]

Reblog if you ship the world’s top two sexiest women! 👑🌹

[redicillin]

I need me some Robert chase smut 😣✋✋ FWB reader and chase realising they like each other more than just the FWB situation they have going on??

𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 — (𝐫.𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐬𝐞)

when does a friends with benefits agreement stop being just that?

gn!reader ☆ 1.2k ☆ masterlist. ☆ 18+ for nsfw mentions

The first time it happens, you don’t notice.

You’re too lost in the feeling of Chase moving against you, his hands gripping your hips, his mouth trailing fire over your skin.

His breaths are ragged, each one punctuated by soft groans that send warmth pooling low in your stomach.

It’s always like this—urgent, desperate, pleasure tangled in the casualness of your arrangement. You both agreed to this. No strings, no expectations, just the kind of release that only two people who understand each other’s needs can give.

And yet… something feels different.

You only catch it in brief moments—his fingers threading through yours and holding on longer than usual, the way his lips linger against your skin as if memorizing the taste, the way his gaze locks onto yours and doesn’t waver even when he’s losing himself completely.

You chalk it up to the heat of the moment, a trick of the dim light and the rush of sensation, and let yourself fall over the edge with him.

What you don’t know is that, in that moment, Chase is realizing something that should terrify him.

He wants more than just this.

He doesn’t say anything. Of course, he doesn’t.

Chase isn’t the type to throw himself into feelings without overanalysing them, and he’s certainly not going to risk ruining what you have with a clumsy confession.

So, he carries on as if nothing’s changed.

Except… everything has.

It starts with little things.

The morning after, instead of rushing to clean up and send you on your way like usual, he lingers in bed. He watches as you stretch lazily, the sheets tangled around your legs, your body warm and pliant beside him. You make some joke about how he’s usually up and moving before you’ve even opened your eyes, and he just shrugs.

“Didn’t feel like rushing today.”

Then there’s the coffee.

You’re used to slipping out in the morning and grabbing something from the café near your place, but one morning, you find Chase in the kitchen, already making a second cup.

“For you,” he says simply, handing it over like it’s nothing.

It’s not nothing.

Neither is the way he stops grumbling when your toiletries start taking over his bathroom. At first, he teased you about it, playfully complaining about your products filling up his counter.

But now? He doesn’t say a word when you leave your moisturizer next to his razor, when your shampoo joins his in the shower, when a spare toothbrush just mysteriously appears next to his own.

And then there are the nights when he invites you over—not for sex, but just to be there.

“We could watch a movie or something,” he suggests one evening, his voice casual, but there’s something tentative in the way he asks.

You blink at him, caught off guard. That’s never been part of whatever this is between you. But you don’t question it, just shrug and agree.

So, you start spending time together in ways that have nothing to do with tangled sheets and heated touches. You sit side by side on his couch, his arm draped loosely over your shoulders.

You cook dinner together, laugh when he burns something, roll your eyes when he insists it’s still edible. You fall asleep next to him without the expectation of sex, just comfortable in the warmth of his presence.

And yet, neither of you says a word about it.

Weeks pass.

Nothing changes, and yet everything has.

You should question it, should demand some kind of clarification, but you don’t. Maybe you don’t want to break whatever spell this is.

Then one night, after another round of slow, lazy sex that feels more like making love than just satisfying a physical need, you find yourself lying in Chase’s bed once again.

You’re on your back, the sheets loosely covering your body, your breath still slowing from the high of it all. Chase is beside you, propped up on one elbow, watching you.

You don’t notice at first, too focused on the way the cool air feels against your heated skin. But when you turn your head, you catch him staring.

It’s not lust.

It’s not simple attraction or the sleepy daze of post-sex contentment.

It’s something deeper.

Something warm, something soft.

Something terrifying.

“What?” you ask, your voice quieter than you expect.

Chase doesn’t look away. If anything, his expression softens even more, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Nothing,”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re looking at me like you—” You stop yourself before you can say something dangerous.

Like you love me.

The thought sends your heart racing in a way that has nothing to do with physical pleasure.

But Chase doesn’t look away, and suddenly, it’s too much.

You sit up, pulling the sheets with you, and turn to face him fully. There’s something pressing against your ribs, a truth you’ve been too afraid to examine.

So, you just say it.

“Are we dating?”

The words hang in the air, thick with meaning.

Chase blinks. His lips part slightly, like he hadn’t expected you to be the one to say it first. He hesitates, but only for a second.

Then he exhales a soft laugh, shaking his head. “I don’t know,” he admits. “Are we?”

It’s not a no.

And that’s all the answer you need.

You stare at each other for a long moment before Chase reaches out, fingers brushing over your cheek, his touch feather-light but deliberate. He tilts his head, considering, before finally speaking again.

“I think… I think I want to be.”

Your breath catches. You weren’t expecting that kind of honesty—not from him, not from yourself. But there it is. The truth of it.

Something inside you unravels, something you didn’t realize you’d been holding onto.

You nod slowly, a small smile pulling at your lips. “Yeah,” you murmur. “Me too,”

Chase’s fingers slide down to your jaw, his thumb grazing your skin. He leans in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your lips, and for the first time, it feels different.

It’s not about lust.

It’s not about convenience.

It’s something more.

Something real.

Something that scares you both—but neither of you are running from it.