#Objectivity in Inquiry

[omegaphilosophia]

Rigorous Methods of Inquiry and Their Role in Achieving Objectivity

Rigorous methods of inquiry are systematic approaches to investigation that aim to eliminate bias, enhance reliability, and allow us to achieve objectivity in our understanding of the world. These methods are used across disciplines, from philosophy to science, and each method emphasizes a set of standards that help ensure conclusions are as objective and valid as possible.

Here are some key rigorous methods of inquiry and how they contribute to objectivity:

1. Empiricism (Empirical Method)

Description: Empiricism is the method of acquiring knowledge through direct observation or experimentation. It emphasizes the collection of data through sensory experience, particularly in the natural sciences.

Contribution to Objectivity:

Data-Driven: Empiricism relies on observable and measurable evidence, reducing reliance on subjective opinions or personal biases.

Reproducibility: Findings must be reproducible by others, ensuring that the knowledge is not based on individual interpretations.

Falsifiability: Theories are tested and must be falsifiable, meaning they can be proven wrong if evidence contradicts them. This constant testing refines and improves knowledge, moving it toward objective truth.

2. Rationalism (Deductive Method)

Description: Rationalism involves reasoning and logic to derive knowledge, particularly through the deductive method. It involves starting with general principles and drawing specific conclusions from them.

Contribution to Objectivity:

Internal Consistency: Logic is independent of personal experience and can be universally applied. The emphasis on logical consistency helps ensure that conclusions follow from premises without bias.

Clarity in Argumentation: Deductive reasoning breaks complex problems into smaller, well-defined parts, helping eliminate subjective assumptions.

Mathematical and Philosophical Proofs: Formal systems in mathematics and logic are often considered paradigms of objectivity because they rely on clear, universal rules.

3. Scientific Method

Description: The scientific method is a process that involves making observations, forming hypotheses, conducting experiments, and analyzing results to draw conclusions. It combines both empirical and rational methods.

Contribution to Objectivity:

Controlled Experiments: By controlling variables, researchers can isolate specific factors and establish causal relationships, limiting external biases.

Peer Review: Scientific findings are subject to scrutiny and validation by the wider scientific community, ensuring that personal biases of individual researchers are minimized.

Statistical Analysis: The use of statistical methods allows for the quantification of uncertainty and the identification of patterns that are more likely to reflect objective reality than random chance.

4. Phenomenology

Description: Phenomenology is the study of subjective experience and consciousness. It involves a rigorous analysis of how things appear to us, but with careful reflection on how these perceptions relate to reality.

Contribution to Objectivity:

Bracketing: In phenomenology, "bracketing" is the practice of setting aside personal biases, assumptions, and presuppositions to focus purely on the phenomena being experienced. This helps eliminate subjective distortions in the investigation of consciousness and experience.

Universal Structures of Experience: While phenomenology studies subjective experiences, it aims to identify structures of experience that are common across individuals, providing insights that transcend personal perspective.

5. Critical Thinking and Analytical Philosophy

Description: Critical thinking involves rigorous analysis, evaluation of evidence, and the logical assessment of arguments. Analytical philosophy, a branch of philosophy, uses precise argumentation and linguistic clarity to assess philosophical problems.

Contribution to Objectivity:

Identifying Fallacies: By learning to identify logical fallacies and cognitive biases, critical thinking reduces the influence of faulty reasoning on conclusions.

Clear Definitions: In analytic philosophy, precision in language helps to clarify concepts and avoid ambiguities that could lead to subjective misinterpretations.

Systematic Doubt: By questioning assumptions and systematically doubting unverified beliefs, critical thinking helps individuals avoid dogma and achieve more objective conclusions.

6. Historical Method

Description: The historical method involves the critical examination of historical sources, contextualizing information within a time period, and synthesizing narratives based on evidence.

Contribution to Objectivity:

Source Criticism: Historians critically assess the reliability, bias, and perspective of sources, weighing them against one another to form a balanced, objective view of historical events.

Triangulation of Evidence: By using multiple sources and comparing them, historians reduce reliance on any one biased or incomplete account, moving closer to an objective understanding of history.

Contextualization: Placing events in their proper historical context helps avoid presentism (judging the past by modern standards) and enhances objectivity by understanding events within their own framework.

7. Hermeneutics

Description: Hermeneutics is the study of interpretation, particularly of texts. It involves analyzing and interpreting language, meaning, and context, commonly used in fields such as theology, literature, and law.

Contribution to Objectivity:

Interpretive Framework: Hermeneutics encourages the awareness of the interpreter's own biases, enabling a more reflective and critical approach to understanding texts.

Contextual Sensitivity: By emphasizing the importance of context, hermeneutics helps ensure that interpretations are not anachronistic or overly influenced by the interpreter’s preconceptions.

Dialectical Process: It involves a dialogue between the reader and the text, promoting a balanced, evolving understanding that seeks to approximate objectivity.

8. Game Theory and Decision Theory

Description: These methods involve mathematical models of decision-making, often under conditions of uncertainty. Game theory examines strategies in competitive situations, while decision theory studies rational choices.

Contribution to Objectivity:

Rational Decision-Making: By using formal models, these methods help individuals make decisions that are logically consistent and optimal given the available information, removing subjective impulses.

Objective Payoffs and Strategies: Game theory provides objective tools to analyze strategies that lead to optimal outcomes, independent of personal preferences or biases.

9. Quantitative and Qualitative Research

Description: Quantitative research uses numerical data and statistical methods to find patterns and correlations, while qualitative research explores meanings, experiences, and narratives in a more interpretive manner.

Contribution to Objectivity:

Quantitative Research: The use of large datasets and statistical analysis minimizes individual biases, offering a more objective understanding of phenomena. Methods like random sampling and control groups add rigor to research findings.

Qualitative Research: While more interpretive, qualitative research can still strive for objectivity through triangulation, thick descriptions, and transparency in the research process.

Rigorous methods of inquiry, from empiricism and rationalism to critical thinking and statistical analysis, provide frameworks that enhance objectivity by reducing personal bias, improving reproducibility, and systematically analyzing evidence. Each method contributes to objective understanding by ensuring that conclusions are not shaped by subjective perspectives or unverified assumptions, and instead rely on clear, structured, and replicable processes. These methods are indispensable in fields ranging from science to philosophy and help us approach truth in a methodical, unbiased manner.

[ask-an-innocuous-taco]

Greetings, reader!

Well, this is awkward, is it not? It's strange to revisit these posts without the weight of burden. I feel lighter now—not because my struggles have vanished, but because I've finally found support from someone I've yearned for deeply, for so long!

I extend my heartfelt gratitude for your unwavering loyalty and patience during this extended period of silence. Despite receiving no updates, your steadfast support has been deeply appreciated! Your commitment means a great deal to me, more than words can express!

Please accept my sincerest apologies for the unexpected hiatus. Much has transpired since the last four episodes of Inanimate Insanity, and I trust you understand the circumstances.

I mean, the series HAS been broadcasted globally, so you are likely aware of my recent actions and the events that have unfolded, no?

I needed time to process these events, and the pain still lingers deeply. However, with Microphone's support, I am hopeful for a bright future ahead! Although... the scrutiny I face due to my past actions is indeed challenging, and the skepticism about change can be disheartening. (Foolish objects skimming over the fact that people can, in fact, CHANGE.)

Nevertheless, thank you for your understanding and continued support!

— Yours truly, Taco

[institute-of-oddology-founder]

It would be very appreciated if you would listen to the others on here and maybe stop trying to steal my brother ☺️

I am ignoring you.

[mewymarsher]

Commission (1) Open!!

Hi y'all. I decided to experiment and open a commission slot for the holiday season! This is for an MS Paint painting of a cherished/comfort object.

If this goes well, I might do more. But for now, I only have the single slot!

All the information you need is on my site at https://mewymarsher.neocities.org/commissions (site is best viewed on a computer). Please, please read through it before messaging me!

Thank you and I hope to hear from y'all soon!

[hildred-rex]

Hello, I love Hildred Castaigne! He’s such a fucked up unreliable narrator and he also reminds me so much of myself in middle school and I love him for it. What do you like about him?

First off, apologies for taking absolutely ages to answer this! Life happened and I promptly forgot tumblr existed for almost a month. Yay.

Anyhow, I think my love of Hildred is a combination of the factors you mentioned and the absolute state I got into shortly after I found The King in Yellow -- aaand here comes an essay. The last version of this got deleted, and apparently I've taken it upon myself to make its replacement even lengthier.

Hildred is a fascinating character to read and to write, and his opinions on things are (or would be) so different from mine that it's fun to try to puzzle them out. I keep a bevy of fictional characters that I can simulate reasonably well as a way to make myself consider how people get to opinions that differ from mine, and naturally he's among them.

Beyond that, I'm an absolute sucker for hints at a greater world, but only narrow viewpoints from which to try to figure out what's going on in that world.

The weird bits of The King in Yellow as a whole are superb at tantalizing you with smug allusions and tiny scraps of information about what, exactly, it is that the book is named for.

Is it a play? Is it an entity? What happened to the author? ...was the author Boris? (I don't think the author was Boris, but I won't lie that I've considered writing a fic where he was.)

I got hooked on Lovecraft for the same reason, and it's actually what put me on to Arthur Machen (favorite author) and The King in Yellow (favorite book).

Even with all that, I think my King in Yellow interest would have been a passing thing that returned occasionally, if it hadn't been the last thing I got into before my first set of high school final exams kicked my ass.

The tl;dr of freshman year is that I picked the wrong math class and it spent the semester wrecking my self-confidence (and my sleep schedule) before I finally managed to transfer to a better one. (Then I spent second semester picking myself back up.)

Hildred, notably, is self-confident to the point of it backfiring catastrophically on him. He absolutely should not have gloated to Louis, tactically speaking; in this essay I will-

Anyway. Stress is weird, so during finals season and its leadup I had quite a lot of unmarshalled energy that refused to work on what I actually needed it to do and that instead directed itself at my idle pokings at Hildred and his world.

Probably better than worrying about how my abysmal math grade was going to ruin my life.

It didn't, and I came out of the crucible with rather extensive additional worldbuilding. Since I essentially speedran getting invested in the project, I came away wanting to do more of it and... it just kind of stuck?

I mean, here we are several years later and my first impulse is still to name my tumblr blog for him. I've got a rough idea of his extended family back three generations. I have a design for that spring suit Hawberk had that was mentioned exactly once. I am the embodiment of

when it comes to this lol

_____

I couldn't find a good place to fit this in above, but Hildred was also the first time I encountered a story with an obviously intentional unreliable narrator after I'd encountered the term. Not sure how I missed it that long, lol. I spent probably half a decade looking askance at various authors and going "...do you know what you're writing there???"

I also couldn't integrate it anywhere, but I absolutely adore "The Mask." I have Thoughts on Chambers's ability to write romance more generally, the short version being that he writes Lovers™ and not characters and they're thus so wooden they're hard to read, but that he must have been in a position like the beginning of "The Mask" because holy god that is exactly how it feels.

[neebaa]

inquiry !!!

[frank-olivier]

From Mystery to Method: The Systematic Pursuit of UAP Understanding

The recent congressional hearing on Unidentified Anomalous Phenomenon (UAP) has shed new light on the intricacies of investigating these enigmatic events, formerly shrouded in secrecy and stigma. Dr. Jon Kosloski's testimony, as Director of the All-Domain Anomaly Resolution Office (AARO), provided a nuanced exploration of the challenges and advancements in UAP research, underscoring the delicate balance between transparency and national security.

By acknowledging the lack of verifiable evidence supporting extraterrestrial activity or technology, the hearing effectively tempered sensational expectations, instead highlighting the mundane explanations behind most reported UAP sightings, such as misidentified balloons, unmanned aerial systems (UAS), and satellites. Nevertheless, the small yet intriguing percentage of potentially anomalous cases warrants sustained scrutiny, necessitating enhanced analytical frameworks and concerted interagency cooperation.

The emphasis on fostering an environment conducive to stigma-free reporting is a laudable step forward, with the forthcoming public reporting mechanism slated for mid-2025 poised to enrich the diversity and quantity of collectible data. However, to truly harness the potential of this initiative, it is crucial that the reporting system is designed with user-centricity in mind, incorporating intuitive, automated processing to facilitate seamless engagement with the public.

AARO's strategic priorities, as outlined by Dr. Kosloski, offer a thoughtful roadmap for future endeavors, with the declassification of UAP-related information emerging as a pivotal element in promoting transparency. To leverage this approach effectively, it is essential that the declassification process is executed with precision, striking a balance between illuminating the public and safeguarding sensitive sources and methods. Furthermore, cultivating robust partnerships with academic institutions, facilitated by the strategic release of previously classified data, could prove instrumental in unlocking novel insights into UAP phenomena.

As the landscape of UAP research continues to evolve, it is imperative that congressional oversight remains proactive, with regular hearings scheduled to monitor progress, address emerging complexities, and ensure alignment with the dynamic priorities of national security. Through such a concerted effort, the truths underlying UAP may gradually come to light, contributing meaningfully to both the enrichment of our understanding and the enhancement of national security protocols.

Pentagon office testifies in Senate emerging threats committee amid UAP report (Austin American-Statesman, November 2024)

Wednesday, November 20, 2024

[forgingecgs]

Still Life Study

30 x 20 centimetres

pencil on cardboard

[irvingthree]

you act like im stupid irving. i do act a little foolish i'll admit!

i know these things. i know im another "freak" out there. but it is beautiful, the solidarity! maybe think of why your deep-set hatred tries to paint it as the opposite.

im happy where i am. im happy with my friends, all "freaks" as you say. are you happy with your "freaks"? they fall under the same category we do. a girl from the real world? a batshit wizard almost too tall and blood hungry? a fucking cat prophet who's just as insane? these aren't normal people - are they not a hurting existence too? or are you just a highschool bully who doesn't understand that the net they swing includes the people they care about?

oh, and don't forget!

when i would've died my pictures would've lined the walls. i'd be looked upon with glory. as an idea, sure, but i'm still held as if a beautiful creation in the eyes of the scientists! they'd keep the damn things clean!

people avoided and defaced your picture in the hall. someone snorted some of your ashes once!

- ⌨️

I ain’t reading all that godbless

[compassionmattersmost]

Beyond Objects: The Paradox of the Ever-Present Subject in Self-Inquiry

In the practice of self-inquiry, particularly when meditating on questions like “Who am I?” or “What am I?”, a profound paradox often arises. The goal is not to discover another object—another thought, concept, or identity—but to realize the ever-present subject, the pure awareness that is always observing but is itself never observed. This exploration can lead to confusion as the mind,…

[omegaphilosophia]

The Philosophy of Objectivity

Objectivity is a cornerstone of philosophical inquiry, often considered crucial for achieving impartiality and truth. It represents a stance or a method that aims to eliminate personal biases, emotions, and subjective influences from the process of understanding and evaluating reality. This exploration will delve into the philosophical dimensions of objectivity, examining its nature, significance, and the debates surrounding its attainability and application in various fields.

Understanding Objectivity

Objectivity refers to the quality of being free from personal biases, emotions, and subjective influences. It is often associated with impartiality, fairness, and neutrality. In philosophy, objectivity is essential for evaluating claims, theories, and arguments based on evidence and reason rather than personal feelings or opinions.

Philosophical Perspectives on Objectivity

Epistemological Objectivity:

In epistemology, objectivity is related to the pursuit of knowledge that is independent of individual perspectives. Objective knowledge is considered to be universally valid and verifiable. The quest for objective truth involves using rigorous methods of inquiry, such as the scientific method, to ensure that findings are reproducible and not influenced by subjective factors.

Moral Objectivity:

Moral objectivity pertains to the idea that certain moral truths or principles are universally valid, regardless of individual beliefs or cultural practices. Ethical theories like moral realism argue that moral facts exist independently of human opinions and can be discovered through rational reflection and ethical reasoning.

Aesthetic Objectivity:

Aesthetic objectivity concerns the possibility of making objective judgments about art and beauty. While aesthetic experiences are often deeply personal and subjective, some philosophers argue that there are objective criteria for evaluating artistic quality, such as coherence, complexity, and emotional impact.

Scientific Objectivity:

In the sciences, objectivity is critical for ensuring the reliability and validity of research findings. Scientific objectivity involves the use of standardized methods, peer review, and replication to minimize biases and errors. The goal is to produce knowledge that can be independently verified and is not influenced by the researchers' personal beliefs or desires.

Debates and Challenges

Objectivity vs. Subjectivity:

A central debate in the philosophy of objectivity revolves around the tension between objective and subjective perspectives. Critics argue that complete objectivity is unattainable because all human understanding is inherently shaped by individual experiences, cultural contexts, and cognitive biases. This viewpoint suggests that objectivity is an ideal rather than an achievable state.

Relativism:

Relativism challenges the notion of objective truth by arguing that what is considered true or valid depends on cultural, social, or individual perspectives. According to relativism, there are no absolute truths, and all knowledge is context-dependent. This poses a significant challenge to the idea of objectivity, especially in fields like ethics and aesthetics.

The Role of Values in Objectivity:

Another critical issue is the role of values and interests in shaping what is considered objective. Some philosophers argue that values inevitably influence the process of inquiry and that striving for value-free objectivity is neither possible nor desirable. Instead, they advocate for transparency about the values that guide research and decision-making.

Feminist and Postcolonial Critiques:

Feminist and postcolonial philosophers have critiqued traditional notions of objectivity, arguing that they often reflect the perspectives of dominant groups while marginalizing others. These critiques highlight the importance of considering diverse viewpoints and the potential biases in what is deemed objective knowledge.

The philosophy of objectivity addresses fundamental questions about the nature of truth, knowledge, and impartiality. It challenges us to consider how we can strive for fair and unbiased understanding while recognizing the limitations and influences of our subjective perspectives. By exploring the philosophical dimensions of objectivity, we gain deeper insights into the complexities of human cognition and the pursuit of knowledge.

[ask-an-innocuous-taco]

Ay bro, Here's a gift :3

*hands you a container full of sourcream*

Dear sweetcheesecakeflower,

??... Thank you? - Yours truly, Taco.

[ihopeinevergetsoberr]

academic rivals request! viktor x fem!reader, nsfw

request: @4-leafed pls... if u have time pls write a viktor x reader that r both geniuses at the academy but very much toe the line of rivalry and sexual tension...i love competitive smart people that fall in love when the rivalry becomes respect ... and they FREAK IT!!! possibly in a lab ! up to you : 3c

i liked this request so much that i ended up writing a decent-ish one-shot….

update: i wrote a part 2 because it was highly requested! you can read it here :)

rating: explicit

word count: 3,5k

warnings: academic rivals. LOTS of dialogue and bickering. dubious science because i skipped it in school, had to do some basic chemistry revision to write this pornographic catastrophe, so please pat me on the back. rough sex? rough… foreplay, that’s for sure. dirty talk, if you can call bickering that. penetration. reader tries to slap viktor, spits in his mouth and he cums in his pants. normally, i only write vanilla stuff, so i have no idea how it turned out THIS kinky (at least for me okay). not proofread (yet). nsfw under the cut:

—

“How do you take your coffee?”

His voice betrays the feeble intention of civility, fusing that polite inquiry into a hiss—a phonetic torture you didn’t even know could occur before. So much for killing you with kindness. Outstaging quips by desecrating courtesies. 

“I don’t care,” you mutter on autopilot. Can’t let him in on any personal preferences, no matter how insignificant. “Just don’t put arsenic in it.” 

Viktor scoffs. Puts the kettle away and peers at you over his shoulder, all wretchedly complacent. 

“So the rest of the periodic table is welcome, I presume?” 

Viktor. The local Nikola Tesla knock-off. Never a moment of peace with him; and the fierce taste of competition grows coppery in your mouth whenever he’s in your sight—the most handsome trigger of your cheek-biting reflex.

His name is an insult on your lips and you want to taste it. Chew it, crush it with your teeth and spit right out, preferably aiming for those poignant eyes seeking you in every classroom—so eager to light up with objection the second your opinion differs from his. 

Always the first prick to disparage your input. A never-resting generator of all the meticulous ways to denounce your projects. 

“If I may.” 

Sickeningly polite, too. With that lithe finger pointing in the air— so irritatingly comical. He may not, but there isn’t a chance he’ll shut up, now, is there?

And so he’d clear his throat, straightening his tie in that ridiculously solemn fashion. As if stepping on a pedestal to deliver a life-changing speech—not some shallow nitpicking regarding your circuit breakers. All eyes on him while his kept staring only into your soul. Special treatment, if you will. 

You will not.

“Using magnetic frames is careless,” he’d state. With his hand imposingly pointing to the blueprint on your slide. “Copper coils may oxidize. Not to mention the overheating. I would use thermoplastics. They’re significantly more efficient. And heat-resistant.”

Oh please. Like someone here gives a shit about what you’d use. 

But you can’t say that. Not in a room full of professors. And, judging from the countless nods of approval, the shits were, in fact, being given. 

“Too risky,” you oppose. “Thermoplastics often degrade at high temperatures. Electric insulation is not worth the damage of releasing hydrocarbons. I assumed that you’d be aware of that, Viktor. But I suppose that was an omission on my part.” 

More nods of approval, now in your favour. Here it goes again—the ever-lasting spectacle of hatred. Elegant, when entertaining the audience. Anything but discreet, in private. A perpetually drawn game of chess. By repetition, not agreement. Both of you refuse to retreat until checkmate. 

Oh yes, the sentiment was mutual. You and Viktor were notorious for tearing at each other's throats. The things you’d sacrifice to make that more than a mere metaphor, though. To pull him by that neat tie to sweet asphyxiation and hear him rasp for mercy with eyes full of pathetic condemnation. And he dreamed of that, too. His cane was itching to give you a smack—to paint your behind a plum so deep you’ll have troubles sitting without wincing. When it came to making metaphors literal, he’d pick being the pain in your ass.

However, your mentors couldn’t care less about the rivalry. The Collegiate Inventors Competition was coming up. And who could possibly make better candidates than two greatest minds of the engineering department, with academic excellence so accurately neck and neck that both of your names now occupy the honorary first place in every ranking table? 

That’s how you ended up with your sentence—three weeks of after-hours cooperation in the lab with the incorrigible bastard himself, a quarter of which you’ve already wasted on pointless bickering. Well, not without achieving some common grounds. The choice of prototype landed on one of your personal ambitions—a wearable exoskeleton for post-surgery rehabilitation, with plenty of robotics involved. Endorsed by Viktor, for once. The greater good must have swallowed even his dispute. Off to a nice start, if someone were to ask you.

However, the first issues struck early: on the very stage of development. Viktor volunteered for modelling: meaning, the framework would be custom, to accommodate his spine specifically. An object lesson for everyone involved, it would seem—but only in an ideal world. Which, considering what you had at hand (acrimony, bitterness, an entire picky bit of gall), was filtered out by default.

Now, five gruesome days and who’s-even-counting-anymore restarts later, you’re nowhere near close to at least a draft, yet borderline keen on murdering each other. And you’re certain the latter is approaching. He did just contemplate putting arsenic in your cup, after all. 

Viktor stirs the coffee. Watches his reflection smudge in the dark, whirly water, shooting you an askance glance from beneath thick brows when you start stirring yours—the spoon clanking a tad too loud, as if you were doing it on purpose. Which, you undoubtedly were. 

“Stop that,” he groans, almost leaping out of his chair. His heavy, disturbed gaze meets your cheeky simper. “You don’t have to stir it so thoroughly. It’s not like you take it with sugar anyway.”

“Of course.” You shrug. “I don’t drink slop.”

“Oh, I figured. There’s nothing sweet about you, so why would your coffee be any different?”

“There’s plenty of sweetness about me. I simply don’t squander it on entitled pricks.” 

That finally grounds him. And you’re giddy for the way his sturdy hand grips the cup so hard that it almost shatters into his palm, knuckles growing pale enough to match the porcelain. More so when you take a loud, languid sip, feigning innocence. Fully wallowing in his darling, defeated speechlessness. 

“Excuse you,” he mutters. “Entitled?!” 

“So you agree with the ‘prick’ part?” 

“Yes, and I take great pride in it. You may mark me flustered.” 

“Don’t forget to bust in your pants.”

Viktor sneers: chapped lip twitching, scowl growing defensive. Lanky legs untangle as he rises to his feet, towering above you in an angry lean on his cane—long frame transforming into your personal, scrawny menace, pissed exhale sharp and nasal above your head. And you admit to looking small beneath him—all hunched shoulders, weak smile finally tumbling lopsided. 

“Don’t you dare call me entitled,” he demands—and means it. It’s palpable in the way he twists the handle of his cane, the squeaky sound violently scratching your brain. “I sweated blood to achieve my privileges in this establishment.”

You huff, rolling your eyes. “So did I, and yet you keep ordering me around as if I’m some braindead apprentice. We’re counterparts, Viktor. You’re supposed to be mindful of my perspective.”

“I never see you being mindful of mine,” he counters.

And, well. You can’t argue with that. 

Your coffee break continued in avoidant silence, but the ambience simply reeked of hostility—stifling enough to make you leave the lab feet first. The deadline’s chokehold besieging your neck wasn’t of any help, either—you had to submit the draft for approval by Sunday. And, so far, you haven’t even agreed on the design plan. 

You shoot Viktor a reluctant glance. Pensive, he sat slouched over his parchment, emitting pure peril. Like his shoulder blades might stab you if you attempt a single tap, belligerently peeking through the thin shirt. You tucked your lip under your teeth, chewing hard, tongue running over every small, neurotic wound inside your mouth. Fruitless negotiations held a special spot amongst your least favourite endeavours, but this conundrum called for a desperate measure.

“Viktor.” You winced at how chocked up it came out. He noticed that, too—because of course he did—turning in his chair to nod at you, ever so shit-eatingly. Lancing eyes scrutinised their way up to your face. What an affront. 

“Yes?” Always chiding in that condescending tone of his. Hissy ‘s’ echoed in the lab, gnawing at your nerves. 

“We have to submit something by the end of this week. Let’s at least decide on the blueprint.” 

“Fine.” He shrugged, returning to his sketch. “We’re going with mine.” 

“No!” You snapped. “We’re coming up with a new one. Together.” 

Viktor hummed in mock consideration. The strand of hair he’s been twirling unraveled, claiming more attention than you deemed him worthy of. Sighing, he lazily reached for your graph, frowning as his eyes started skimming over the scribbles. You made your way to the desk, claiming a spot behind his shoulder. That required a tacit truce. 

“You really want to wield… hydraulic actuators?” He winced, looking up at you. Had your breath hitching at that respectful attempt, the effort prominent in the very way he uttered those words—as if struggling to filter out swear ones. 

“Yes,” you mustered. “For high power.” 

“But they’re so heavy.”  

“Well, what would you use?” 

He chuckled—rich and malicious. Flipped the page and finally averted those curious eyes, arching a bushy brow. 

“I thought no one gave a… crap about what I’d use.” 

Oh, well. It felt nice while it lasted. 

“How did you even—“

“You ought to be more discreet with your vitriol,” he retorted. “I’ll let you know that I’m a decent lip-reader.” 

“Then don’t stare at my mouth next time. What would you use, Viktor?” 

Now that left you both startled. His fingers stilled above the diagram, flexing in disbelief, hollow cheeks hued a puzzled rouge as you almost chomped your tongue off, showing an embarrassed curse back into the depth of your throat. 

“Ahem. Electric motors,” he chanted, pretending to overlook the slip-up. And for once, you were grateful for his tact. 

“I see. Well, er… put that down, please.” 

He instantly complied, fetching a pen. Left you to reflect on your misery to the rhythmic sound of his scrawling, pressing a sweaty palm to his forehead. 

“Right.” He sighed. “What about the power supply?”

“Rechargeable batteries?” You suggested weakly. “Lithium-ion.”

“Very well. Frame?”

“Something durable. Titanium?” 

“Absolutely not,” he scoffed, pushing the notes away. “Why must you always insist on using the heaviest equipment?”

“I don’t know, corrosion resistance?” You muttered back, hovering over him. “Biocompatibility?”

“That’s perfectly manageable with carbon fiber!”

“So it shatters after the tiniest bump? Bravo, Viktor, how ingenious.” 

He lurches forward—rigid breath quivering over yours. Close enough to crush that thick skull with your forehead—if only you ventured, that is. But, alas, you’re not as brave just yet. Some brief eye-stabbing is about all you’re good for. 

“Fine,” he agrees, pulling away. “We’ll use aluminium alloys. Corrosion resistant and easy to machine. No one wins. Does that suffice?” 

“Yes. Now will you finally let me take your measurements for the sketch?”

He doesn’t answer—at least not verbally. Merely stands up and nods to the measuring tape, face still heavily contorted with displeasure. But you don’t oblige just yet. How can you, when Viktor’s fingers suddenly reach for his collar, fumbling with the button? And—oh no—now they’re sliding lower, reiterating once, twice, thrice, until his chest (flushed, but that might just be wishful thinking) is fully peeking out, teasing the smooth scrap of ivory skin. 

“What… are you doing?” You mumble, utterly startled. 

“…Undressing?” He says matter-of-factly, looking up at you so askance as if you’d just asked him if the sky is blue. One more ministration and the shirt is neatly folded next to the parchment—waiting for you to be through with the measurements to be slid back on his bony shoulders. 

“That, I can tell,” you mumble. “Why did you undress?”

Viktor’s gaze daggers into you again. “Don’t tell me you were actually intending to measure me clothed? Can you not comprehend precision?”

“Precision?”

“The prototype is expected to cling to me. I don’t see how that’s achievable with my shirt on— I assumed that was rather obvious.”

“Shut the fuck up.” 

“Ah, sweet civility. I even started worrying that other entitled pricks must’ve depleted your decorum, but it seems like you saved some up for me after all. I’m flattered, really—“ 

You don’t even register when it happens.

Next thing you see is Viktor seizing your wrist—sternly yanking your slap off his face before it gets the chance to land there in a flared handprint. Nothing but pure rage and prickliness—right where his short nails are lancing your skin, engraving an ugly bracelet you’ll wear for hours.

Well, maybe there is something else. Something inexplicable, and tremendous—deep in the way your eyes keep drifting south—where his pants sling low on defined hips, and the pretty trail of dark hair runs from navel to waistband—no doubt circling exactly what you manage to make out in the convex slope of his crotch. And you want to slap him for that, too—sonorous, and frenetic. Going in again with full force, but his force always turns out to be fuller—and in an instance he firmly twists your arm, pinning it behind your back—pale face barely five inches away from your flushed one. 

What happens next is beyond any explanations. Later, he’ll blame it on inertia—that stupid urge to maintain the speed, to stay in motion with your messy antics until some external force stops him—a simple need to claim you before the inevitable collision.

But there’s no inertia in escalation. In the way his free hand grabs you by the nape and clashes agape mouths together, teeth bumping hard enough to make you consider booking a dentist appointment later. Not a sign of inertia when you grab him, either—a little clumsy through the sharp pain in your twisted arm—bold fingers raking his scalp in a vengeful tug on his hair. 

And it’s more than a kiss. If anything, it looks like you’re trying to eat him—tongue out and thrusting into his throat so fiercely that he gags on it, almost tearing up. Now you know what sheer desperation sounds like, and it’s grunting against your mouth, suddenly pitching to a pathetic moan when you grab a handful of chestnut hair and pull so hard that his eyes roll back, lean frame shaking under your violent approach. You use that startled momentum to try and pry your arm free, but he still keeps it in place. 

“You’re hurting me!” You hiss, attacking his neck—the very one you always shamefully admitted to finding the sexiest any man can possess, and your teeth roughly pinch at his voice box, coaxing another whine. 

“Good.” He groans with spite. “I hope I am.” 

And yet, he releases your aching arm, trading it for a calculated squeeze of your waist. But the audacity overshadows his little mercy. You instantly use the unrestrained privileges to force a finger into his mouth—astounded at the way he instantly opens up, almost mockingly pliant. More so when you spit on his tongue, sparing no shame—as if trying to rile him up beyond recognition. Grinning, when your saliva dribbles down his chin. 

“Ah.” He huffs, instantly licking up the remnants. “Thank you. Ever so disrespectful.”

“You haven’t earned my respect,” you lie, nudging him towards the chair. Not even bothering to wait until he lands, impatient hands already messing with his belt—so treacherously earnest as you shake, unfastening the buckle, and the bastard chuckles at that, looking down at your eager work. 

“That’s a new low, then,” murmurs coyly, helping you into his lap, heavy head leisurely thrown back. “Sleeping with someone you don’t respect.” 

“Fuck you.” 

“Oh yes. You’re about to.” 

You glare at him from under heavy lids, but the anger refuses to linger—not when he stares back full of indignant awe, so clearly basking in your attention. With his cock half-springing out of undone pants, shamelessly twitching against your palm. And not a single breath was hitched to conceal his excitement. 

“Must you always be so insufferable?” You reproach, pushing his hair back—too domestic for your own liking, and yet it doesn’t feel unfitting. Especially when he leans into your hand, welcoming your touch on his sweaty forehead—like he wanted you to feel it fever up with want.

“No.” He shakes his head. “But if it can grant me this, I’ll triple the effort.” 

“What happened to new lows? You don’t have a fraction of respect for me, either.”

“You’re right.” He shrugs. “Fractions could never encapsulate my tribute to you.”

And his hand slipped under your skirt, shakily crawling home—precisely where you’d never confess to needing him a mere minute ago. But the sentiment did a decent job at diluting your rancour. There came no protest when he introduced two long fingers into your underwear, openly gasping at the evident dampness. And you allowed him that with no regrets. Moreover, you helpfully sank yourself knuckle deep, wincing at the brief burn, arms wrapping around his neck as he sweetly looked up, seeking your  permission. Which was instantly found in the pretty moan you spilled into his mouth, slick tongues back at their futile attempts to strangle each other. 

However, your patience was running thin. As much as you wanted to indulge in proper foreplay, whatever masochistic dance he exposed you to had you in agony ever since it started—and it was getting unbearable to ignore the ache, no matter how bad Viktor  craved to postpone the main course. 

Your thighs clenched hard as you crouched above him, fingers wrapping around the hilt to awkwardly line the tip up with your cunt—the slick sound of it slowly sliding down suddenly igniting some tender bashfulness. Like you didn’t just spit in his mouth with a vile smirk. Like he never had to confine you from slapping him in the face. 

That stretch felt different from the one after his fingers. Significantly richer, it made you whine—a pitiful sound reverberating against his skin as you held on tighter and allowed him to bottom out, savouring every little crevice inside you. Raw, yet neither of you seemed to care—that concern was pushed alongside your underwear, then forgotten altogether when your walls clenched him, offering tight bliss. 

“Move,” you demanded, grabbing him by the chin. Viktor rasped something back, but you didn’t catch it—already too busy tongue-fucking his pretty neck, turning your teeth into sharp tools ready to stain it mauve with bites. 

And he complied again. One hand trembled on your hip while the other crawled between your legs—first missing your clit in the chaotic pace of thrusts, then finding it again as it grazed his fingertips. So cheeky when he dared to pinch it, avenging every pull on his hair. Though, he couldn’t gloat in your wince. Not when it clearly was one of the pleasured kind. 

But you didn’t feel like letting him regain composure. You already missed his husky groans—ached to test what else fucking you could make him mutter. Fogy gaze found his face again, softening at the sight—all wet forehead full of concentrated creases and thin lips bitten to bloodless paleness. 

You took over. Let him lean back and rest as you roughly rode him into the chair—and for that he gave you a grateful moan, the insistent thumb toying with your clit never stopping even for an instant. Good with his hands, and he knew it—proudly grinned when you struggled to keep going, taut legs treacherously giving up astride him. 

That didn’t please you in the slightest. You wanted him to be close, too: slid a hand up his chest and angrily tugged at one nipple—chortling when his mouth dropped in a stunned gasp. Bewildered, but he didn’t mind it—amber eyes squeezed shut when his head lolled, and you finally got his lovely moans back—raspier than before, ravenous enough to make your head spin. 

You could already feel it, pulsing somewhere deep within. Blurry vision couldn’t make him out anymore, the lab smudging into a mess of weird shapes—you were about to cum, hard, and Viktor threatened to follow suit any second—his thumb failing to hold steady, and yet the pressure was still there, courtlesly helping you chase that sweet relief. Such a gentleman. 

“Close,” you chanted. “So, so close.” 

“I know,” he answered, choking on a groan. “Me too.” 

And you melted, almost crushing him with your weight. Quivering in a spasm so intense that it had him struggling to keep moving, and yet he was mindful of the risk—used the last fractions of his brain capacity to gently nudge you off his cock and pump it fast and hectic. Cumming in one endlessly thick rope, with a moan so vocal that it reached you even through the layers of foggy, ear-buzzing aftermath. Had you shuddering when you clung off his shoulder, glassy eyes wide with trembling astonishment. You stared at him through the approaching wave of disbelief. 

No signs of regret so far, or maybe it was simply still forming—for now, you silently admired not a snarky bastard, but a pretty, fucked out boy beneath you. 

“Oh, would you look at that.” Viktor chuckled, sheepishly looking down. “I didn’t forget.”

“What?” You mumbled in confusion, following his gaze.

And when it finally caught your attention—sticky and relentlessly staining his pants—you slammed a hand over your mouth, muffling the hysterical laughter. 

“And here I thought I finally fucked your remarkable memory out.”

“Oh, by no means. As, eh… intense as that was, that misery of mine is not going anywhere. However,” he trailed off, his hand skittishly moving towards yours, “sex clearly proved beneficial for our… dynamic.”

You smile, sliding your palm into his warm grasp. 

“Can it ensure us enough civility to win the competition?”

And Viktor scoffs, coyly looking you in the eye. 

“Why should we limit it to just that?” 

[listen-to-the-inner-walrus]

so in an attempt to actually use positive thinking, anytime i fuck up and my brain reacts as if ive cause a minor apocalyptic event, i compare my fuck up to the 4 minute fuck up committed by the crew of the uss william d porter.

and only today, as i was having to explain what happened to my mom when i was explaining the whole comparison thing, did i realise that most people dont know about it and ive decided that needs to change because its objectively hilarious.

...which is a weird thing to say about an event that occured on a warship in 1943, specifically november 14th.

see the uss william d porter was a fletcher-class destroyer but you dont need to know what that means, just that she had guns that went bang bang and that she was escorting another ship, the uss iowa, to cairo.

while they were on their way there, they performed some gun trials like testing the anti-aircraft guns or the torpedos. and while they were running a torpedo drill, the crew of the porter managed to fire a live torpedo straight at the iowa which you know, in terms of a list of things to do while escorting a ship, shooting a torpedo at them is not on that list.

especially if the president of the united states is on board.

yeah so fdr was on board and the gun trials were actually his idea, and part of the trials was that they were conducted under radio silence.

and that means the crew of the porter couldnt just call the iowa to be like "move out the way, we accidentally shot a torpedo at you."

but they did have signal lamps and you know, the signalman on board was trained to signal this exact kind of message.

...and uh never mind, the signalman did manage to successfully tell the iowa that a torpedo was coming toward them but wasnt as successful when it came to the direction the torpedo was coming from.

not all hope is lost though because the signalman could still use the signal lamp to correct his previous mistake and-, never mind, he announced that the porter was reversing, which she wasnt.

yeah so at catastrophic mistake number 3, they broke radio silence to warn the iowa and she managed to turn out of the way just in time which meant no one got hurt. and even though the inquiry into the incident led to chief torpedoman (fantastic job title btw) lawton dawson being sentences to hard labour, fdr intervened and waved away his sentence, saying it was all an accident.

but yeah, so thats my new measure for "how much did i really fuck up?" and when i compared accidentally picking up a pencil case without a tag on it in wilko, turns out it was a very minor fuck-up. yes, the cashier had to ask another worker to grab a duplicate so they could scan the barcode, but i didnt nearly kill the president during wartime via accidental friendly fire

[solxamber]

Ruined || Riddle Rosehearts

In which he slowly realizes that he'll never be able to look at anyone else, he's been ruined for everyone else but you.

Riddle’s hand trembled slightly as he lingered over the pastry display, his eyes darting between options. The thought of indulging felt reckless, wasteful even, but the ache of exhaustion gnawed at him.

You stepped beside him, your presence a quiet anchor. Without hesitation, you gestured to the strawberry tart.

“That one,” you told the waiter, your voice steady. “He’ll have that.”

Riddle blinked, startled. “But I—I didn’t even—”

“You didn’t have to say anything,” you replied gently, turning to him with a small, knowing smile. “You’ve had a long week. This will help.”

When the tart arrived, he stared at it like it was some foreign object. Slowly, he took a bite. The sweetness hit his tongue, and his chest constricted—not from the sugar but from the overwhelming realization: you knew.

You had seen his fatigue, his silent need for comfort, and you didn’t push or pry. You just… provided.

He couldn’t meet your eyes after that, afraid they might betray the way his heart ached—aching because no one else had ever seen him like you did.

It was late at night, and Riddle sat on the dormitory steps, his arms crossed tightly against the evening chill. He’d come out for fresh air, but he’d forgotten how biting the breeze could be after sunset.

You found him there, looking small and cold under the moonlight. Without hesitation, you draped a blanket over his shoulders.

He blinked at you, startled. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Riddle,” you said softly, crouching down to meet his gaze. “You don’t have to freeze to death just to think. Take care of yourself too, okay?”

He stared at you, his heart stumbling over itself. The way you said it—it wasn’t pitying or scolding. It was kind.

You stood up, ruffling his hair lightly before heading back inside. He watched you go, the blanket still warm around him, and realized with a pang that no one else had ever made him feel so… cared for.

Riddle’s pen paused mid-signature as he glanced at the stack of paperwork on his desk. It had been shrinking steadily for the past week. Tasks he usually had to chase others down for were already complete. Events he’d normally plan were already organized. Even the Heartslabyul garden had been pruned to perfection.

At first, he thought he’d finally whipped the dorm into shape, but a quick inquiry revealed the truth: you. You had been handling the tasks quietly, never asking for credit or praise.

When he caught you refilling the ink on his desk before slipping out of his study, he finally confronted you. “Why?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

You tilted your head, smiling softly. “I know you can handle it, Riddle. You always do. But that doesn’t mean you have to do it alone.”

His heart tightened painfully at your words. He sat back in his chair, feeling a warmth spread through him that no one had ever sparked before. Who else would do this for me?

Riddle wasn’t one to admit weakness, but the fever had hit him hard. He barely remembered collapsing into bed, but when he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was you.

You were slumped over beside his bed, your hand still holding his, a damp cloth on his forehead and an empty glass on the nightstand.

His throat tightened. He tried to sit up, but the movement disturbed you. You blinked awake groggily, immediately sitting upright. “You’re awake!” you said, brushing your fingers across his forehead to check his temperature. “You’re still warm, but better than before.”

Riddle stared at you, his chest tightening at the sight of your tired eyes and messy hair. “You stayed here… all night?”

“Of course,” you said, as if it were obvious. “You’d do the same for me.”

The warmth in his chest spread until he couldn’t look at you without his heart pounding. He didn’t deserve this—your care, your kindness—but he wanted to, desperately.

The duel had been a simple training session, but when a stray spell came too close to Riddle, you had thrown yourself between him and the blast without a second thought.

Riddle caught you before you stumbled, pulling you close to steady you. His eyes widened as he realized what you’d done. “Why did you—?”

“Reflex,” you said, brushing yourself off like it was nothing. “I know you’re strong, but it was heading right for you.”

Riddle felt his heart lurch. You didn’t step in because you doubted him. You stepped in because you cared.

He realized you’d done it before—pulling him out of harm’s way, even when it wasn’t necessary. It wasn’t patronizing; it was just… you.

He couldn’t stop the blush creeping up his neck, spreading to his ears. “You don’t have to protect me,” he muttered, his voice softer than usual.

You grinned, nudging him playfully. “Yeah, well, someone’s got to make sure you don’t get singed.”

Riddle looked away, hiding his burning face. He couldn’t even find the words to respond, too overwhelmed by how much he wanted to pull you into his arms and never let go.

The moment the teapot cracked, Riddle’s world narrowed to that single shattering sound. He stared at the broken pieces, his hands gripping the porcelain as his chest tightened. It wasn’t just a teapot—it was his control, his composure, his legacy.

“Riddle.” Your voice cut through the panic, calm and resolute. You stepped closer, holding out your hands. “Give it to me.”

“I can’t,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “It’s irreplaceable. My mother—”

“And I’ll fix it,” you interrupted firmly, your gaze unwavering.

His breath hitched. “You can’t just fix something like this.”

“Riddle.” Your tone softened, but your resolve didn’t waver. “Trust me.”

Something in your voice broke through his panic. Against every instinct, he handed the pieces to you.

The next day, you presented the teapot to him, its cracks filled with shining gold. He held it in his hands, staring at the transformed porcelain.

“You used kintsugi,” he murmured, his voice hoarse.

You smiled. “I figured something this important deserved to be beautiful, even with its flaws.”

He couldn’t speak. All he could do was hold the teapot and try not to fall apart as he realized that no one else would have done this for him.

When a classmate asked him out, Riddle was so blindsided that he barely registered their words. He stared at them, their earnest expression blurring into the background as a single thought consumed him: It’s not them. It’s not you.

His mind betrayed him, conjuring images of you: your quiet understanding, the way you smoothed over his rough edges without hesitation, the way you saw him.

The classmate’s words faded entirely, and all he could think was that they didn’t know him—not like you did. They wouldn’t care for him like you did, wouldn’t anticipate his needs, wouldn’t challenge him, wouldn’t ruin him the way you had.

“I… I can’t,” he finally choked out, his voice trembling.

He walked away, his hands shaking, his heart a storm of realization. You had set a bar so high that no one could reach it. You had unraveled his meticulous rules, his expectations, and left him longing for something he’d never allowed himself to believe he could have.

Later that day, as he wandered the courtyard, still shaken by the confrontation, he saw you passing by. You were laughing at something Ace had said, your smile bright and easy, the sunlight catching on your hair.

The world stopped.

It hit him like a spell to the chest. He would never, could never, love anyone else. No one else could make him feel the way you did. No one else could understand him like you.

You turned slightly, catching his eye, and offered him a small wave before continuing on your way.

Riddle pressed a hand to his chest, trying to steady the wild thrum of his heart.

You had ruined him for anyone else—and he didn’t want to be unruined.

Masterlist

[menelausblues]

𖥔 ݁ your boyfriend xavier might be two people. 

mdni.

your boyfriend might be two people. xavier is a public persona while your baby is a private phenomenon you indulge in quietly. in secret. only in the tender nooks xavier intricately and intentionally carves out for the two of you to love in. safe from prying eyes and nosy ears to adore you shamelessly in peace. stoic and aloof, xavier presents himself to others in a way that insinuates inherent strength. back straight and cerulean eyes bright ahead, mouth in a stiff line or stern pout. he offers short answers and focuses solely on his current objective, never swayed by the shifts of others or your whims and charms. but in truth? your xavier is a diamond mine of ardor and romantic intent. xavier is a clingy man in a standoffish man’s denial. in front of others, it’s always your name said with a tone of insouciance, never crooned to the same tune as the song of desperation he sings in soft pants when you have him alone like you do now, hips grinding against his, riding out your frustration and making him take you until he’s a sputtering, overstimulated mess. “f-fuck,” he whines. “just like that, baby.” his trembling hands reach to grip your hips, thumbs kneading slow circles into flesh as he greedily grabs at you. he stares at the way your hips move to glide up his length, a sheen of slick left behind in sticky splotches, and slide right back down with ease, your walls clinging to the shape of his cock. “i shouldn’t ride you at all.” you gripe, soft moans fluttering in and out of your speech. “you don’t deserve it.” xavier whimpers, gripping you tighter and pulling you closer. “d-don’t say that.”

“why not when you can’t even kiss me goodbye? when you’re supposed to be my baby?” a charged inquiry, your hand slides into the back of his hair, gripping and tugging until his head lulls back with his panting mouth falling open. ꒰ he left for a small mission without you and when you went to say goodbye, he pathetically only told you he’d see you when he returned. he left without a kiss or even a pat on the head. the audacity of a man who’s supposed to love you. ꒱ “sorrysorrysorry,” his moans string together his apologies. “m’your baby. i am. i am.” your head tilts, your movements slowing. “are you?”

“y-y—” xavier can’t respond, chest rising and falling fervently. “ah, ah baby,” and he cums hard, trying to promise you he’s yours. clinging tight to you, eyes rolling back, xavier clutches at your hips, keeping them pressed taut to his as pearly streams of cum seep into your walls. “baby,” he whimpers, pouty lips puckering against your neck as he buries his face there. you hold him close, fingers raking through ashy tufts soothingly as he tries his hardest to regain his composure. 

this xavier, is so sensitive with you, so terrified of the day that comes and you say he’s not yours anymore, so terrified of the day he wakes up and it’s not by your side. this xavier clings with his arms wrapped tight around your middle, flushed face buried in the crook of your neck as he breathes in your scent. when you go to remove yourself, xavier lets out a pitiful sound, something small but helpless and pleading. “don’t. don’t move, please. not yet,” he whispers. you oblige him, staying perched on his lap with his cock nestled deep inside you. true to his nature only you know, he’s gripping you tight, holding you to him and keeping you both as close as he possibly can. needy. possessive. savoring every second he spends with you, craving the depths of intimacy with you, the softness of touching in silence. “m’sorry,” he murmurs after a moment. “i should have said goodbye properly.” he doesn’t move and neither do you, but his arms grip tighter to you. you smile gently to yourself, turning your head to kiss his temple, earning a content sigh and soft kisses against the hollow of your neck. “you should have.”

quietly, he inquires, “did i really lose my spot as your baby?” “yeah,” you tease. “but i do have a spot open for a cuddly llama if you wanna apply.” he huffs a soft laugh, sinking into your silliness in all fondness. “fine, but if i’m your cuddly llama, you’re not allowed to go looking for another one.” “scout’s honor.” you say, squeezing him in your arms. “i’ll be the best cuddly llama owner you ever saw.” the xavier that chuckles in soft amusement at your antics rather than stares blankly or reminds you of the task at hand, that’s the one you know and adore. 

the xavier that holds you close and basks in your proximity, that’s the xavier you can’t get enough of. your boyfriend might be two people, but one of them is only for you.