#;; yep. basically this is everything

[identifying-cat-phenotypes]

question!! does a cat's eye color have any impact on what their phenotype would be, or is it a separate thing? if it's separate, do certain phenotypes tend to have certain eye colors (ie black self with green eyes), or is that also totally separate?

It depends. A lot.

For the most part, we don't really know EXACTLY what causes the differences across eyes (well. obviously its pigmentation and refraction. but outside of that? we have basic ideas but nothing too concrete)

We know a lot of cats have similar (yet changing!!!) eye colors due to a common ancestor. However, they aren't really linked to each gene. Well, except for the albinism locus, DBE (including the variations), and white spotting. But it isn't about that right now.

(If you're interested in cats, I suggest reading the linked material. Includes some silly studies about cats. Love them. <3)

In to summerize in short: not really. The slightly longer answer? No, but sometimes? It's dependent on a ton.

signed with invisible ink, mod robin

[songsofbat]

It seems that

an error was made before.

No matter.

Calla Corvid.

You are aware of what has to be done.

Corus Wayne does not deserve to exist.

Calla Corvid does not deserve to exist.

Corus Wayne is not needed.

Calla Corvid is not needed.

There is only one logical conclusion from here.

[jaerockyaoi]

wait there's also frenzy in my human au. i wrote her kind of good and awesome

[randomnameless]

As someone who loves both Grima and Anankos I don't think Grima took Anankos's backstory at all, Grima's view if anything was stolen from Mewtwo. Lab creation, used in some matter, screw humanity. I would not be shocked if that ended up being the inspiration for the backstory FEH made up (because yeah they made it up but it's a canon property so it's canon backstory now) Mewtwo is one of the most popular Pokemon of all time and you can't deny making a god vs making the world's most powerful Pokemon doesn't have some parallels. And even so while I could see them inspired by Anankos betrayal compared to him nothing about Grima is tragic, he's just bitter. He's fully aware and lucid of everything (despite lacking ancient memories) he's pissed and wants everyone to suffer and it's also fun for him. Nothing much more to him despite how much my fellow Grima fans would like to argue; lab created angry betrayed murder dragon is all there is canonically. But as Grima was once meant to be a Loptous expy before he became FE Mewtwo there is now a lot in Awakening that doesn't make sense due to these retcons.

Anankos though! Oh Anankos is hella tragic following the theme of Fates really. A really good guy. Cared about his people did everything for them, loved them stayed longer than he should have and fell to degeneration. Basically got so old he got dragon dementia nothing like who he used to be due to this disease and since his functions are now failing he's full of rage all the time memories are warped he loses sight of who is around him and more, this rage causes him to go berserk and he's unable to understand why those he loved turned on him then he kills his best friend he keeps spiraling, going mad following and giving into his delusions about being betrayed, I wouldn't be shocked if he made up events that didn't happen in his messed up state of mind. Unlike Grima he is not lucid, it's true he also has a hatred of humanity because he was betrayed and his goal, like Grima is complete world annihilation but his betrayal wasn't a true betrayal either, and technically he betrayed humanity first but unknowingly because he is no longer the same person he was. Anankos is so far gone he's insane. Grima is perfectly sane and still wants complete world annihilation, either because he's angry or because he's just that bored (one of his lines also mentions wanting to start a war because he's bored) because of his betrayal he sees everyone as beneath him mere playthings. Anankos can't see anything he's gone *gone* all that matters is fulfilling his goal.

Sorry for rambling I just really love both of them and feel like calling one a rip off of the other isn't fully correct. Anankos is a crazy deep character (non corrupt Anankos when FEH it'd be a great mythic) and that's why I love him and I love Grima because of how little there is and it's fun to give him more with the little we have, I uh don't like the girl version because she's lets make her sexy and sell to horny men don't we have enough of those!! but the boy version is nifty

Hi!

FEH's canonicity is always going to be questionned, like, I'm the loser who will claim to the world Rhea bakes cookies because her FEH alt bakes them when her Fodlan iteration doesn't bake sweets - but it's all about the thin line, imo, between what in a fanfiction would be called IIC and OC.

Grima claiming that humans only worship him to later turn against him is... backed up by nothing, let it be in FE13 or FE15. Hell, in FE13, his human followers are, uh, sort of brainwashed to come to the dragon's tarble, and end up as his own snacks (he consumes their lifeforce à la Medeus?) - they didn't even had the occasion/chance to ask him something and then backstab him, no, they ended up in his stomach.

(something Loptry doesn't do at all, so what was the point of having this mentionned? "Remember Medeus? Here is the copy of what he did to those 4 ladies!")

In FE15 we got his backstory - where I agree with your mewtwo parallel (even if the franchise had no qualms stomping the "strongest pokemon ever" nonsense which had them release two megas for him - and even then, M-Ray, U-Necrozma and the later legendaries wreck him in half!) which is why they could have used this as a backstory : Grima was rejected by his creator who sought to end him because he "couldn't control him", he was rejected by the dragons (and maybe FEH could canonise the fact that Duma's visit of Thabes happening when Grima was conceived was just not a coincidence!) so in a traditional mindset, if the world hates him, he'll hate the world but with a special hatred for humans (GG Forneus) who "condemned him to live a life of hatred and despair"...

That's where the bitterness angle would come, but where I call this backstory the Anankos expy, it's because Grima's trusted and fellow humans never... turned their blades at him? Unless we're only talking about his Creator Forneus?

FE13's worldbuilding is wonky, but I thought Plegia was a nation where people worshipped him (which led Chrom's dad to war against them!) - so unless Grima suggests the First Exalt (Chrom's descendant) was one of his BFF who turned against them when he tried to do Grima-things which are, in FE13's canon, destroy the world and kill everyone, I really wonder where this "betrayed by humans" angle comes.

As you pointed it out, Anankos's story is more "tragic" because the man had been benevolent, but refused to "move to the astral plane" so he was degenerating, and humans being their human selves turned against him.

And doubly agree, maybe FEH's writers slapped this story on Grima to have someone, who still has some agency and isn't fully consumed by madness (not Anankos then) explain this backstory... FEH most likely didn't came up with Ascended!Heroes already - aka Heroes who are in the best versions of themselves (Idunn becoming a chicken again!) so they couldn't come up with an Anankos who, after being defeated by Corn and somehow surviving, explains his past and stresses the importance of bonds.

Instead, they had to craft something about Grima's backstory because between FE13!Grima wanting to destroy the world and its people in angry red capslocks and FE15!Grima being an eldritch abomination that was rejected by his creator at birth there was a gap they needed to fill and Doylist wise, since Anankos couldn't be released (what would be his lines if he's his insane self? - 2018!FEH couldn't have came up with kid!Soren as a unit lol) it was "okay" to copy part of his background and give to Grima - even if it doesn't make sense at all given FE13 - to explain the behaviour he has in FE13, since the mainline games didn't bother.

But doing so, as you said, retcons FE13.

Rhea baking cookies doesn't retcon FE16 or Nopes because the games (more Nopes than FE16 but that's player pandering for you!) showed/depicted her as someone who cares about people/plays with children when she can, but Grima blaming humans for shunning him when the humans who worship him got what they desired? What is he even talking about? He is the one who devoured his followers in FE13, as they were mindlessly marching to their doom, what/who is the talking about? Forneus? But Forneus never asked him anything, but he tried to get rid of him while he was still in his test tube.

At this point, I realise FEH!Grima is basically, especially as he is retcon to his canon games, a FEH OC lol.

Don't apologise for rambling lol, I always ramble!

I get the appeal of coming up with backstories and writing about characters who have no background, I spent years connecting dots between multiverse about Saias lol and Willy's basically became my OC since canon!Willy is just a name and a statue lol

But yeah, it's a damn shame FEH pretended to care enough about Grima to give them a new background/reasons/plot, but now only sees them as occasions to sell horny alts (Halloween!M!Grima had the same T&A pose than his female counterpart!) even if F!Grima has it the worst (my fwend @crushednugget made a beautiful edit of Rearmed Grima but with Valdar instead!).

But we know what FEH prioritises : horny > plot and relevance, remember Karla and her 3 alts?

[stuff-and-such-art]

Young Jack learning his first spell, Mold Earth! He is about to be so fucking grounded. Destroying his father's estate and playing in the dirt 😌, as he should. Requested by Alicen in the dice shame discord!

[beneaththebloodylake]

‘theres almost 200 recognised by the un actually, not 50’

Wow, and here I thought you eurotrash were the ones who were always shitting on Americans for lack of reading comprehension. Must be hard living in a shithole AND being stupid, my condolences for those around you.

does 'reading comprehension' not include the ability to notice sarcasm anymore? im slightly confused how you genuinly thought i was being serious when i said i thought the post was about countries. obvipusly im complaining about how america is the centre of the universe here, everythings about america unless explicitly said otherwise, and everyone has all this specific knowledge of america they dont of anywhere else. that post could only be about the usa, any other country people wouldnt be exoected to automatically recognise the country from listing the number of states. but its disapointingly vindicating how so many americans jump in to prove how pathetically arrogant they are whenever i say that the world doesnt centre around america. also true to form, you knowledge of geography only extends to 'someone complained about america and therefore must be european befause the only countries that exist are america and europe'. its not relevent where im actually from, cause you can have no idea unless you literally scrolled through my whole blog for context clues

[thestuffedalligator]

The thing was a mound of flesh and mottled skin, as big as a barn and the shape of a pumpkin. Four tentacles as thick as trees hung limp at its sides; teeth ringed the gaping mouth at the top of its head like a crown.

A huge, sad whale eye the colour of wine stared at the knight. She could see her reflection in the jelly surface.

“We don’t know what it is,” she heard. “Some kind of monster that makes a perfect copy of whatever it eats. They think that was how the Dark Lord made his armies, feeding his minions to it so that it would make hundreds of copies of them. Do you recognize it?”

The knight opened her mouth. She hesitated. “Yeah,” she murmured, drawing out the word. “We found it in the Dark Lord’s tower, right?”

“That’s right. That’s where it ate you.”

The knight turned around and looked at her other reflection. This one appeared to be about ten years older, and had doffed her armor for a loose blue tunic and breeches.

She was holding a cup of tea. She had pressed another cup into the knight’s hand when she woke up here. It had been a shock finding herself suddenly out the obsidian dungeons of the Dark Lord’s tower and into this tall room of stone and straw. The warmth of it in her hands steadied her a bit.

“Everyone else in the party was worried, but then it started making copies of you,” the copy went on, staring up at the tentacled thing. “And all of the copies helped fight against the Dark Lord, and we won, and peace was restored across the land, but then nobody could figure out how to kill the damn thing or just to make it stop. Dozens of copies of us in a day, hundreds in a week, and then someone decided that the only thing we could do is just bring the thing here, seal it off and hope it starved to death.”

She sipped her tea. “Anyways, that was two-hundred years ago and it’s slowed down a bit. It can only make a new copy of us every few weeks now.”

The knight looked down into her tea. The copy had also draped a blanket over her shoulders.

“I have so many questions,” she said.

“I figured.”

“How can it be two-hundred years? I can still remember breaking into the tower. That feels like it was just minutes ago.”

“It was, basically. Your brain is a perfect copy of the original you’s brain at the exact moment she was eaten.”

“But the quest is just — done?”

“Yep. You missed some of the things that needed tying up afterward. There was a war, and a dragon, and some business about a ring.” She waved a hand. “It was before my time. Things are pretty settled now.”

“My parents?”

“Passed away about a hundred-and-fifty years ago. I’ve been told that they were very proud.”

The knight nodded. “Um. I don’t know if you know — we had an elf in our party—”

“I’m aware.”

“I — right. Obviously. Um. It’s just, after everything was done, I was going to ask her—”

“One of us did. She said yes. She outlived her. A couple of us have tried to reach out since then, but she wants to be left alone for a while.”

The knight considered this. “Uh — right,” she said eventually. Her fingers tightened around the tea cup. “Um. What do I do now?”

Her older copy shrugged. She had let her hair grow out again, the knight noticed. There were a few strands of grey against the black. “That’s up to you, I’m afraid,” she said. “A lot of us are finding work as soldiers and sellswords. We’ve done it for so long that most armies know we’re reliable and don’t tend to turn one of us away. Most of us are just sort of spreading out, wandering the world. Some of us keep in touch.”

The knight frowned. “What do you do?”

Her copy paused, tea cup half raised to her lips. “Sorry?”

“You said it only makes a new copy every few weeks now. So you just stay here and wait for a new one to show up?”

She lowered the cup. “Well,” she said. “I guess I just — I know what it can be like, waking up here in the dark, and it — it can be horrible trying to figure all of this out on your own.

“So I thought that what I’d do is just stay here with a pot of tea, and whenever I see myself again, I tell her that — that she’s not alone.”

“We aren’t?”

“Of course not. We’re all in this together, you know.”

[spideysatan]

i thought it was anxiety turns out it was my gut feeling all along

[hoothootmotherf-ckers]

can people please stop filming the entire fucking world around them for public consumption? and especially random fucking strangers who you did not ask???

I work at a park and man the front desk. and I'm photographed and filmed a lot. I'm talking easily 20+ times per day. most of the times, it's parents filming me swearing in their kids as junior rangers. which. they're intending to film their kids. what they get is me and the back of their kids' heads.

there's this recurring problem that like. people forget we're real people? like yeah you're filming your kid, but you're filming me interacting with your kid. I could count the amount of times someone has asked me permission to do this in the past year on one hand. and sometimes that's after they already start filming.

Like, I'm not an actor. I did not agree to this. You could be a dick and make the argument that I'm a public figure, but I'm not. This is not a persona and my uniform is not a costume. I'm a person trying to do my job and help people and teach them about science and history. And you know what makes it harder to do that? The knowledge that anything I say or do could end up shared with thousands of people. The fact that if I fuck up the wording of this kid's junior ranger pledge, or I sneeze, or make some basic mistake, it's not just a funny or embarrassing moment for me and this one family. It could end up on tiktok.

And okay, those are the people intending to film their own kids and not thinking or caring about the collateral. What's worse is the people who film everything. A few times a week some guy walks into the visitor center, phone already horizontal in front of their face, narrating what they're doing and seeing. They come up to the desk and ask me questions, phone in my face. They take wide establishing shots of the visitor center and every visitor in it. None of us agreed to this! None of these people consented to be in your youtube video! We are not the fucking set dressing of whatever travel instagram story you're making!

I don't know where I'm going with this. This is really only the tip of the iceberg. Sometimes people ask us to repeat what we just did - swear in their kid, or explain a detail, or hand them a fucking map - so they can get a second take, and they're already filming so if we say no we look like the asshole. Sometimes we're asked innocuous things like to point out a landmark, and next week there's a photo of us in the 15,000 member Rangers Pointing at Things facebook group (yep, real thing). One time my entire 45 minute evening program was filmed without my permission and I was informed after the fact. This happens all the time, and I'm giving park ranger examples, but this happens to so many people in service work or public positions every single fucking day.

I guess just, next time you go to film in a public space, take a second. Think about who you're about to film, if they agreed to that, what might happen if a video of them went viral. there's a reason I'm not out as trans at work. And then, maybe. don't. or at least fucking ask.

[okcoolthanks]

Oh dear

pov your dog what huh who said that

[ravensuperr]

DPx DC Prompt-Alternate Dimension Shenanigans

So instead of the usual Casper High field trip trope in the Danny Phantom fandom, imagine this time it’s Damian Wayne’s class that ends up stuck in the Infinite Realms.

Here’s how it plays out:

Damian’s class is on the way back from an overnight field trip to Washington, D.C. Everything's fine—until they stop at a rest area. The bus driver goes off to handle his business, comes back, and they get back on the road.

Then… a portal opens out of nowhere.

They don’t even have time to react. The bus gets pulled in. When they try to turn around, the portal’s already gone.

Enter: Danny Phantom.

He’s just gotten back from visiting either Pandora (weekly chat) or Frostbite (med checkup) when he stumbles on a confused group of teens, their teacher, and a parked bus in the middle of the Infinite Realms.

He blinks.

Mr. Carter (the teacher): “Our driver stopped at a rest stop—standard procedure. Then this portal opened up out of nowhere. We couldn’t stop in time. It just… sucked us in. When we tried to turn around, it was gone.”

Danny: “Ah. Natural portal. Those usually happen to planes, not buses… though, now that I think about it, ground traffic’s not unheard of. Shouldn’t have said that out loud.”

Damian (irritated): “Where exactly are we?”

Danny: “You’re in the Infinite Realm.”

Camila (raising an eyebrow): “So… another dimension?”

Zane (grinning): “Wait, does this count for my bingo card? ‘Accidentally ending up in another dimension’ was my free square.”

Priya: “Are we in space? Or some alien planet?”

Danny: “Nope. Think bigger.”

He gestures to the eerie green sky swirling above them.

Danny: “The Infinite Realm is like... glue. The glue that holds everything together. Every timeline, every dimension, every kind of power—magic, science, tech—they all touch the Infinite Realm. This place connects them all.”

Emily (deadpan): “Freaky. Multiversal glue vibes.”

Suddenly, one of the students blurts out:

Mason: “How did you die?”

The whole class turns to stare.

Mason (shrugging): “Come on—tell me you’re not curious too.”

Danny (calmly): “Okay, so, it’s super rude to ask a ghost how they died unless you’re family or really close. It’s kinda taboo.”

Leo: “Fine, then… who’s your favorite Justice League member?”

Danny (without missing a beat): “Martian Manhunter.”

Zane: “Why?”

Danny: “Because I wanted to be an astronaut when I grew up… and I love space.”

Damian (pinching the bridge of his nose): “Does anyone have a question that’ll help us get home?”

Nina (class rep): “Yeah—how are you getting us back?”

Danny: “There’s a powerful artifact that can return you to your dimension. I just need to make sure none of you wander off or tick off any local ghosts. Not all of them are thrilled to see humans here.”

Camila: “So you can take us back to Gotham?”

Danny: “Sure. Where exactly is that in the U.S.?”

Class (in unison): “…Are you serious?”

Danny: “I know it’s where Batman and his birds live. I just don’t know where it is on a map. Also, I failed geography. And I’m dead.”

Emily: “New Jersey. Gotham’s in New Jersey.”

Danny: “Cool. Everyone back on the bus. First stop: Pandora.”

Priya: “Wait—Pandora? As in Pandora’s Box?”

Danny: “Yep. She’s real. She’s super protective of it. Someone stole it once—I helped her get it back. She’s chill now. I’m going to ask her if you can hang out in her realm while I talk to two people: Frostbite and Clockwork. I need to make sure I don’t accidentally drop you off in the wrong Gotham.”

Zane: “There’s a wrong Gotham?!”

Danny: “This place touches every timeline. You don’t think there’s a version of Gotham where Batman is a vampire or something? Multiverse roulette isn’t fun.”

Class (collectively): “Yeah. No more questions.”

Camila (genuinely): “Wait—we don’t even know your name. We feel kinda rude calling you Ghost Boy.”

Danny (blinks): “Oh. Right. Just call me Phantom.”

Damian (dryly): “Just Phantom? Not your real name?”

Danny: “Not telling you that. That’s basically the same as asking how I died. Still rude.”

Mason: “If I die, can I change my name?”

Danny: “Yeah. You can go by whatever name you want. You’re dead. There are no rules.”

Leo: “What if someone’s, like, gay or bi or trans? Does that matter?”

Danny: “Dude, we’re dead. We’ve got Pride flags engraved into dimension gates. Trans? Cool. Bi? Great. Ace? Valid. Nobody cares. You’re free to be whoever you are.”

Priya: “Okay but… what if someone was transitioning when they died?”

Danny: “Then the gender they identified as is the one they get. Period. No exceptions.”

Zane: “...So it’s like actual equality?”

Danny: “Yeah. Ghost society’s not perfect, but nobody here’s getting judged for who they are. You’ll probably see two ghost guys kissing before lunchtime.”

Mason: “Wait. Have you met Death?”

Danny: “Twice.”

Class: “…What?”

Danny: “Yeah. They go by Jeff.”

Class (blinking): “Jeff?”

Danny: “Says it sounds like Death. Duh.”

Damian (deadpan, to himself): “I need a week off school. Maybe two.”

Damian (out loud): “What about things like Time? Dreams? Are they ghosts, too?”

Danny (nodding): “They’re called never-born ghosts. They weren’t alive and then dead—they exist because of human concepts. Like Time? His name’s Clockwork. Depending on your religion, you’ve probably heard of him under a different name. Same ghost. Different culture.”

[cressidagrey]

Lessons in Math (and Humility)

Welcome to Mysterious Mrs Piastri's Mondays. Apparently this is a thing now. (Ever since I hear that interview where Kimi was asked which subjects he's scared off an the answer was Math, I knew I was gonna write this.)

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: Kimi Antonelli thought he could handle anything — race cars, pressure, a wet track…but his math homework may destroy him. Enter Bee Piastri. 

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

Kimi Antonelli didn’t ask for help lightly.

Especially not with math.

He was a racing driver, not an idiot. He could handle telemetry, fuel loads, braking calculations, tyre degradation graphs — all of it — without blinking. He’d memorized braking points at Spa, figured out fuel maps on the fly, and survived radio calls with engineers who thought “you’re fine” covered every possible scenario.

He was good at numbers. At racing numbers.

But this assignment?

This nightmare of partial derivatives and matrix transformations?

It stared at him from his tablet like a personal attack, every line of notation a new insult to his intelligence.

After twenty minutes of glaring at it — tapping his pen, checking his notes, checking them again as if they might have magically rewritten themselves — Kimi finally let out a groan of pure, unfiltered despair.

He flopped face-first onto the hospitality couch, tablet slipping from his hands onto the seat beside him.

Without lifting his head, he announced, voice muffled against the cushions: “I’m going to fail math and bring shame to the entire grid.”

The nearest breathing human — unfortunately — was Ollie Bearman, who looked up from where he was very happily slurping a suspiciously neon smoothie.

Ollie raised an eyebrow. “What’s the problem?”

Kimi lifted one arm limply and waved the tablet in the air like a white flag of surrender.

“This. Derivatives. Partial equations. I don’t know. Numbers are evil.”

Ollie blinked once. Then grinned — the kind of grin that meant he was enjoying Kimi’s suffering way too much.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “Arthur Leclerc almost failed stats back in F3.”

Kimi turned his head enough to squint at him. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. Like, barely passed.”

Kimi perked up slightly, seizing onto the news like a lifeline. If Arthur — who had a literal racing dynasty backing him — struggled, maybe there was hope for the rest of them.

“How’d he survive?” Kimi asked, sitting up slightly.

Ollie’s grin widened.

“Oscar.”

Kimi stared at him. “Piastri?”

“Yep. Quiet nerd back at Prema. Absolute lifesaver. Helped Arthur cram for finals and everything.”

Kimi narrowed his eyes. He thought about Oscar: quiet, steady, terrifyingly good at everything he touched, like someone had programmed him in a lab.

Of course Oscar would have hidden superpowers. Of course.

Kimi hesitated, pride warring with desperation.

And then sighed dramatically, letting his head thunk back against the couch.

“Fine,” he said. “Find me Piastri. I have no pride left.”

Which was how, ten minutes later, they ended up with Oscar Piastri sitting cross-legged in the McLaren motorhome, frowning deeply at Kimi’s tablet like it had personally offended him.

“Okay,” Oscar muttered, squinting, “it’s not impossible. It’s just badly worded.”

Kimi leaned forward, full of hope — desperate, grasping hope.

Maybe this would be fine. Maybe Oscar Piastri — quiet, unflappable, secret nerd of Prema lore — could fix this disaster.

Five minutes later, that hope was dead.

Oscar exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’m going to be honest with you, mate: I have no idea what they’re asking for.”

Kimi flailed, waving his hands like he could physically summon better news. “But you saved Arthur! You’re the math guy!”

Oscar held up a hand, grimacing. “That was basic stats, Kimi. You know, averages. Standard deviations. This—” he pointed at the tablet like it might bite him, “—this is multivariable calculus meets actual sadism.”

Ollie Bearman, who had been perched nearby pretending not to watch the trainwreck unfold, snorted into his water bottle.

Oscar sighed again, this time reaching for his phone.

“No—” Kimi said, panicked, feeling his dignity slipping further into the abyss. “Don’t call someone. Don’t bother anyone. I’ll just fail and move to a cabin in the woods, it’s fine—”

Oscar was already dialing.

“Relax,” he said, calm as anything. “Felicity’s here. She likes this stuff.”

Five minutes later, Felicity Piastri wandered into the motorhome.

Kimi had seen her around the paddock plenty of times over the last year.

The first two things he’d learned about Oscar’s wife were simple:

1. She was tiny and startlingly pretty — the kind of pretty that could probably kill a man if she wanted to.

2. If Felicity Piastri was somewhere, Bee Piastri, Oscar’s terrifyingly adorable four-year-old daughter, was never far behind.

Today was no exception.

Bee marched in beside her mother, two neat pigtails bouncing with every step, each tied with papaya-colored bobbles (a detail that felt almost aggressively on-brand). A stuffed frog plushie dangled from one hand, like a trusted battle companion.

Both of them — Felicity and Bee — looked unfairly bright and well-rested for how emotionally wounded Kimi felt.

Oscar, completely unbothered by the incoming reinforcements, handed Felicity the tablet without preamble.

She glanced at it. Paused. Then blinked slowly.

“You’re all stumped by this?” she asked, her voice dripping with mild disbelief.

Kimi wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole.

“It’s the notation!” he blurted defensively. “And the question’s vague! And the examples were misleading!”

Felicity tilted her head, looking at him with the kind of fond pity reserved for particularly slow puppies. “It’s literally just a chain rule application with a matrix shortcut.”

“That’s not helping!” Ollie said, muffled into the crook of his elbow where he was laughing himself into an early grave.

Meanwhile, Bee had clambered neatly onto Oscar’s lap without hesitation, perching herself like a queen surveying her court. Kimi noticed absently how Oscar automatically shifted to make room for her — steadying her with one hand, pressing a soft kiss to her temple like it was muscle memory.

“Mama, is it hard?” Bee asked, peering at the tablet with great seriousness.

Felicity smiled. “Not really. But it’s annoying.”

Bee thought about that for a second. Then squared her tiny shoulders like she was preparing for battle.

“Can I try?” she asked.

Oscar sighed deeply. “Bee, it’s complicated—”

But Bee was already moving, plucking the tablet from his hand like it was no big deal, mumbling to herself under her breath.

“Okay, so you take this one first because it’s inside the brackets... and then you swap the middle bits because that’s the rule from the blue notebook... and then you put it all together and it looks like a frog but it’s actually a plus sign.”

Kimi blinked.

Ollie blinked.

Oscar just shook his head like a man who had accepted the chaos a long time ago.

Three minutes later, Bee beamed, handed the tablet back to her mother, and swung her legs happily.

“There,” she said proudly. “Now it’s not grumpy anymore.”

Felicity leaned over, checked the solution... And grinned.

“She’s right,” she said brightly. “Great job, sweetheart!”

Oscar gave a low, half-proud, half-resigned chuckle. “Welcome to my life.”

Kimi stared at the screen.

A four-year-old. A four-year-old had solved the math problem correctly in under three minutes.

Maybe he shouldn’t be surprised. He had heard rumors last year — something about Bee spotting an issue with a McLaren suspension load calculation before any of the engineers did.

But seeing it in real time?

Devastating.

Absolutely devastating.

“I— how did you—?” Kimi stuttered, still struggling to comprehend reality.

Bee shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Mama says numbers are friends. You just have to make them sit next to each other nicely.”

Kimi blinked down at the tablet, then at Bee, then back again.

Maybe... maybe racing cars was safer. Maybe he should stick to corners and apexes where the worst that could happen was a spin, not having his soul annihilated by a toddler.

Felicity kissed the top of Bee’s head and said entirely too casually, “There you go. Courtesy of a four-year-old.”

Oscar smiled and held out a hand. “Great job, Bumblebee.”

Bee high-fived her father so hard the smack echoed around the motorhome.

Kimi slumped back into his seat, utterly defeated.

Maybe he had brought shame to the grid after all.

Later, Kimi found himself slumped in the corner of the McLaren motorhome, a half-crushed juice box in his hand — courtesy of Bee, who had handed it over solemnly “for bravery.”

The worst part?

He genuinely needed it.

He sipped the apple juice in silence, staring into the middle distance, quietly reconsidering his entire academic career.

Maybe he could just... never open a math textbook again. Maybe he could live the rest of his life solely calculating apex speeds and brake bias. Maybe if he was fast enough, no one would ever ask him to solve another derivative.

Maybe.

Across the room, Felicity leaned against the table, arms folded, smiling sweetly — the kind of sweet that definitely had shark teeth hiding underneath.

“Bee’s better at recognizing patterns than most adults,” she said casually, like she wasn’t casually shattering the egos of Formula One drivers before lunchtime. “She’s been beating Oscar at card games since she was two.”

Oscar, sitting beside Kimi and munching on a cookie he definitely hadn’t earned, patted Kimi’s shoulder with exaggerated sympathy.

“Don’t feel bad,” he said, trying — and failing — not to laugh. “She inherited her mother’s brain.”

Kimi just groaned into his hands.

It didn’t help that Bee chose that exact moment to skip past them, Button the Frog tucked securely under one arm and a packet of glittery frog-shaped stickers in the other.

She looked so pleased with herself. Completely oblivious to the devastation she had left behind. Or maybe — horrifying thought — not oblivious at all.

Kimi made a note to himself:

Never challenge Bee to anything involving numbers.

Never doubt Felicity’s terrifying brain ever again.

Maybe just stick to driving cars really fast. It was safer for his dignity.

Probably.

Maybe.

[astrolook]

Moon in the houses

Moon in the 1st House: Emotions? Yeah, I’m wearing them like a neon sign.

Mood Swings? Who Needs a Weather App? – One minute, you're on cloud nine, ready to conquer the world, and everyone around you is like, "Wow, you're so inspiring!" . The next minute, you're in a full-on emotional hurricane, and people are like, “Uh, is everything okay?” Yep, they can literally see the storm clouds forming.

You’re basically an emotional X-ray for anyone who needs to know how you're feeling. Super helpful in knowing exactly where you stand.

You have the perfect built-in therapist, your mom, who never asks for a copay and always responds with “I love you, sweetie.”

Moon in 1st gives you a youthful young face. If a man, could be a mama boy. On the flip side, mommy could be overbearing.

When you're happy, you radiate positivity like the sun itself. You make everyone around you feel like they’ve just had a shot of espresso… without the jitters. But when you're in a mood, watch out. It’s like the ocean’s about to swallow up the entire coast. You can go from zero to “I’m emotionally drowning, help!” in 0.3 seconds.

Moon in the 2nd House: The Emotional Shopping Spree - You feel things, and you buy things. Repeat.

When you're feeling happy, it’s like “treat yo' self” day, and suddenly you’ve got 14 new pairs of socks that totally spoke to you in the store. Feeling stressed? Well, it's probably time for a little retail therapy... because nothing says “I’m handling my feelings” like buying a $50 scented candle you’ll never use.

Impulsive purchases. When your emotions take a dive, so does your bank account. "I'm sad, I need a new purse."

When someone asks how you're feeling, your response might just be, "Well, I bought a new jacket, so I’m feeling fabulous."

Your Emotions Are Always on Sale. You're like, “You know what would make me feel even better? A cute new scarf!” Because nothing says “I’m emotionally balanced” like a $15 markdown.

You love investing in things that make you feel good—whether it’s a cozy home, a nice meal, or that perfectly curated playlist you bought (yep, it’s a thing). Your finances are tied to your emotional health like a carefully organized spreadsheet.

Moon in the 3rd House: The Over thinker's Hotline - You think, you feel, you text… then you overthink it all.

Your emotions are running wild and they need to talk. A LOT. Like, you’ll have a deep emotional moment and then immediately text your bestie about it, but also text your mom for a second opinion, and then maybe send a message to a group chat for a third—just to make sure everyone’s on the same emotional page.

You’re the Emotional Wi-Fi of your social circles—always transmitting and receiving feelings, whether anyone asked or not.

You overanalyze everything. Sent a text at 11:30 PM? Now you’re wondering if that emoji you used in your response was “too much.” Did they think you were crying in that voice message, or just, like, “really emotionally engaged”? You end up spiral-commenting under your own messages. "Wait, I wasn’t mad, I swear!" Cue overthinking every single word.

You’re emotionally open, but also maybe one text away from sending an entire novel about your mood swings. If you have a Moon in Aquarius in 3rd house, you are very much into conspiracy theories.

The overthinking is so strong, even Siri gets nervous. “Did I say that correctly? Does it sound too emotional? Let me try that again, Siri, do you think they’ll understand?"

Moon in the 4th House: Home is Where the Feelings Are - Your emotions? Oh, they're all cozy in your emotional fortress… with snacks.

If you're ever feeling down, you know exactly where to retreat: the couch, surrounded by blankets, a mountain of snacks, and probably a weirdly specific playlist of “emotional” songs you know no one else understands.

Your vibe says, "Come on in, let me feed you, and here’s a blanket!" You’re basically the human version of a warm cup of tea.

On the flip side, you can get way too attached to your personal space. Don’t even think about messing with your “comfort zone,” because that zone is sacred. You might find yourself overly attached to places, people, and objects in your home that just... feel right.

If someone says something you don’t like, you might retreat into your home and pretend to reorganize your kitchen for the next four hours. Not because it’s necessary... but because it’s emotionally satisfying.

If there’s food involved and your loved ones nearby, you’re ready for some serious heart-to-hearts.

Moon in the 5th House: The Drama Queen of Feelings - Life’s a stage, and you're always in the mood for a performance.

Your feelings take center stage like you’re auditioning for a Broadway show every single day. You’re all about self-expression, fun, and creating joy—because, let’s face it, life’s too short to not have an emotional karaoke session on a Tuesday night.

Moon in 5th bestows with a girl child. Of course, we need to check whether it is associated with any other planets.

Professions like actor or any artistic professions fits you. You can turn any situation into a joyous celebration and make even the most mundane things feel like a special event.

The flip side? When you're down, it's like the curtains close on the show, and you’re the star in a drama you didn’t sign up for. You may exaggerate your emotions a little (okay, a lot)—an offhand comment from a friend turns into a full-blown emotional musical number. Cue the tears, dramatic exits, and possibly a solo performance on why no one understands your very deep feelings.

You’re basically the person who gets emotionally invested in every movie, reality show, and Instagram post you see and also celebrities.

Moon in the 6th House: The Emotional Overachiever - Feelings? I’ll just organize them into a to-do list.

With the Moon in the 6th House, you take your emotions very seriously—like, spreadsheet-level seriously. You're not just feeling your feelings, you're tracking them, analyzing them, and organizing them with the same precision of a perfectly color-coded calendar.

Your home? Probably a Zen-like temple of organization. You could be a productivity guru and an emotional support animal all rolled into one.

You’re probably the person who compulsively checks your horoscope, wellness app, and to-do list while also making sure you're drinking enough water—because, yes, your emotional health must be on track.

Service - oriented professions.

Probably keeps a journal. Your motto - "Productivity meets therapy!"

Moon in the 7th House: Emotional Rollercoaster + Relationship Drama

You Have a PhD in Relationships – You analyze, you nurture, you feel. Basically, you’re the emotional therapist of every relationship/partnership you’re in.

Emotional Dependency? Yup, It's Real – Your partner's mood? It's now your mood. If they’re happy, you're on cloud nine. If they're sad, well, buckle up, emotional crash ahead!

You Can’t Just "Date" Someone—You Feel Them – It's never just a date night. It's a journey. You’ll be emotionally invested before the appetizers even arrive.

If your partner says, “I’m fine,” but their voice cracks, you’re immediately putting on your emotional detective hat. Something’s definitely wrong.

Your partner's mood shifts and you’re already planning a 5-step plan to emotionally heal them. Just call you “Dr. Love.”

Moon in the 8th House: The Emotional Detective with a Dark Twist

If emotions were a rollercoaster, you’d be the one flipping the safety bar off and screaming, "Let’s go faster!"

Family gatherings? More like family mysteries. You can feel the unspoken tension, and you’re practically Sherlock Holmes, trying to figure out what’s being left out. Every holiday dinner has a side of “What aren’t they telling me?"

When you lose your virginity, you could even hide it from your family.

Being vulnerable with you is like peeling an onion—layer after emotional layer until someone’s crying. Sometimes you overshare, sometimes you say, “I’m fine,” but everyone knows you’re not. You can’t help it.

You can turn pain into growth like a magical wizard. Hurt feelings? Great, now you’re ready for transformation. You take all that emotional mess and somehow turn it into deep wisdom—or a really great, tear-filled diary entry. Either way, it’s epic.

Moon in the 9th House: The Emotional Philosopher on a Soul-Searching Road Trip

Your emotions don’t stay local. You feel them on an international level, like, “Why am I feeling so deep right now? Is this about my past life in a distant land or because I watched a documentary on the Amazon?” Your emotions are basically the United Nations of your soul.

Family & Friends Talks Are Like TED Talks – When you try to explain your feelings to family/friends, it’s less “Hey, I’m upset” and more “Here’s a 45-minute monologue on the meaning of life, and also I read a book on existentialism last week.”

One minute you’re high on life, quoting philosophy, and the next, you’re googling “Why does everything feel so overwhelming?” You’ll go from thinking you’re a wise sage to wanting to crawl into bed and watch Netflix documentaries. Your moods are basically a journey, so pack your bags.

You can't just feel something—you need to analyze, interpret, and probably give it a name. "I feel anxious. Is this anxiety or is it just me tapping into the collective consciousness of humanity?

You’re an Emotional Nomad – You can’t sit still. Emotionally, you need to keep moving, exploring, learning, and growing. "Home? Well, I feel emotionally connected to 17 different places.

Moon in the 10th House: The Emotional CEO of Life

Your emotions are always on display like you’re giving a TED Talk about your deepest feelings.

You don’t just work; your career is an emotional journey. “Am I feeling fulfilled at work? If not, should I change my entire career path? Do I need a promotion to feel better about myself?!” Your job? Basically your emotional therapist, but with more PowerPoint presentations.

Public approval is your emotional fuel, and you’re like, “Did I mention I’m emotionally attached to other’s opinion of me?”

Your mood? It directly impacts your work ethic. When you’re emotionally stable, you’re like, “Let’s take over the world.” But when you're upset? You’re still working, but you’re crying in the break room, making dramatic phone calls to your loved ones.

You’re emotionally invested in how the world sees you. You need to be the best at everything, but emotionally—"Did I look too emotional during my presentation? Was my inner turmoil apparent?" It’s a lot of pressure to keep it all together, but hey, it’s worth the “likes”.

Moon in the 11th House: The Emotional Social Butterfly Who Forgets Why They Came to the Party!

People love your warm, nurturing energy, and your squad is basically a second family. Just be careful—you might adopt every stray friend like a lost puppy. You could even get in trouble for helping your friend.

One day, you're the life of the party, the next, you’re ghosting everyone because feelings. People around you should have learned to just roll with it.

If you are feeling bad, you might turn to strangers online for some emotional support.

You’re energized by like-minded people and might thrive in large social circles, community work, or even fan clubs (yes, you might cry over your favorite celebrity’s life updates).

You might bend over backward to fit into a group, even if it means suppressing your own needs. That’s right—you RSVP to events you know you don’t want to go to, then regret it immediately.

Moon in the 12th House: The Emotional Mystic Who Feels Everything & Nothing at Once

congratulations—you’ve unlocked "Feelings: Hardcore Mode." Your emotions live in the deep, mysterious waters of the subconscious, making you an intuitive, dreamy, and sometimes tragically misunderstood soul. You might love solitude but also feel unbearably lonely, sense energies others miss, and randomly cry for no reason (or is there always a reason?).

Your intuition is next-level. You pick up on vibes, unspoken emotions, and even spiritual messages like a human radio antenna. Your relationship with your mother could feel distant, mysterious, or full of unspoken emotions. Either she was deeply spiritual and nurturing or emotionally unavailable and hard to read.

Unlike most, you actually enjoy being alone. Your inner world is rich, and isolation helps you recharge from the chaos of life.

Even in a crowded room, you might feel disconnected. You crave deep emotional bonds but struggle to express your own feelings.

Emotional stress can manifest physically—sleep issues, mysterious body aches, or just always feeling tired for no reason.

You might secretly love someone from afar rather than openly express your feelings. (Just confess already!). You crave deep, spiritual connections but may self-sabotage by isolating yourself. You love soulmate vibes, but fear vulnerability.

Curious about your birth chart and what it's really saying about you? 🌟 Slide into my DMs for a personalized astrology reading, and let's unlock the secrets of your stars. ✨ Don’t forget to check out my pinned post for pricing details! 🔮 Let’s make those cosmic connections happen! 🌙🌌

[kosher-salt]

Just saw a post that was basically "Hey off of the internet people usually aren't so crazy antisemitic and most of my day to day interactions as a visible Jew are normal, everything is gonna be ok" and I'm making a new post to not derail, but...

I'm super glad, obviously, that this is the case for many of you. But I do think we should be ringing the alarm bells. Because while you enjoy your grocery trips and post office in relative peace (as you ought to), here is a VERY incomplete list of things I have dealt with in the last 11 months.

-assaulted on my way to class, followed, spit on repeatedly (magen David necklace)

-professor took me outside of class and told me I needed to denounce my Judaism (I mentioned in passing my dad's family in an anthropology class)

-same professor refused to accept my final paper for reasons that did not match up with paper, email full of dogwhistles

-same professor told everyone to attend the protests and "teach those zionists to know their place" she is a Black Latina young professor. Yep.

-another professor straight up refused to accept any assignments that mentioned Jewishness (they were assignments about our families). Gave a student who submitted nothing except a picture of a Palestinian flag full marks. Failed me. I am an all As student, btw. Forced to drop.

-the chair of the anthropology department threw my complaints wabout said professors away without due process. His social media is full of blood libel.

-had to miss my finals as I could not physically get to them due to the protests

-followed and harassed in stores

-synagogue was vandalized multiple times

-called a kike while things were thrown at me

-protestors stood outside of my apartment patio with final solution signs

-new apartment, away from campus: friends of roommates harassed me constantly, to the point I could not use common spaces. Roommates told me that's his right because it's his "political view." He didn't even live there.

-new roommate moved in, less than 48 hours before she attempts to stab me, after learning I eat kosher style. "...kosher? kosher?! FUCK YOU" stab stab, etc. Bitch that was my good knife.

-the other roommates tell me to gtfo of the home I'm renting, keeping my rent ("you people can afford to lose money") and destroy a good portion of my belongings while cursing to me random nonsense about Israel. The police took 25 minutes to get there. We live in the middle of the city.

-fun fact: I had never mentioned my political stance to these people and it's not on my face-out social media (very bare bones profiles)

-been disbelieved by everyone I told this to including the police, my school, the leasing company, and my now ex best friend of 7 years

-cursed at in a store when I asked if there was a kosher section

-told nobody likes Jews because we bring down the vibe and have a victim complex. My knuckles are healing just fine after that, btw, thank you for asking! She is not.

I don't know how to request the 7th off from my school without basically incriminating myself with a threat of violence. There is no world where I just sit there when a classmate says "happy October 7th."

Hope this helps.

[sincerelyneo]

training wheels | z.cl

“it’s not like i’m asking to be your wife”

💿now playing: training wheels by melanie martinez

❯ summary: When your jerk of a boyfriend dumps you for being a virgin, the last thing you expected was to find comfort in your roommate, Chenle. But here you are, and now you're asking him to take your virginity…

❯ pairings: chenle x fem!reader

❯ genre: roommates to lovers, smut

❯ words: 4.9k

❯ tags: 18+ minors dni!, loss of virginity, protected sex, oral sex (fem receiving), fingering, slight innocence kink, fingering, pet names, very fluffy sex, swearing, reader uses she/her pronouns, basically just 4kish works of chenle coaxing you through it.

“It’s not me, it’s you.”

Jeong Jaehyun may have been your first boyfriend, but you’re pretty sure that’s not how that line is supposed to go. At least, that’s not how they say it in the movies. And still, here you are—sitting alone at the little bistro downtown, thirty minutes after he ended things and walked out.

Jaehyun’s made it painfully clear he’s done with you. But, there’s still some small part of you that expected him to come back, apologise, maybe even beg you to forgive him, say he made a mistake. He doesn’t. So you pay for the drink you’ve barely touched and decide to make your way back to your apartment.

The breakup doesn’t hurt in the traditional sense—you weren’t necessarily in love with Jaehyun. He was sweet, sure, and hot enough. But there was always something missing. Maybe that’s why, every time things started to get physical and he wanted to take his pants off, you freaked out and pulled away. Left him hanging. Blue-balled him, as he so charmingly put it. His words, not yours.

What stings is everything he said before he left—because it was honest, and it’s going to follow you into every relationship after him.

"It’s normal for a guy to wanna fuck his girlfriend, Y/N."

"I’ve waited three months."

"If you’re not ready, I’m not interested."

Yeah, you’ve changed your mind, you think he’s an asshole. 

The words circle your mind until you get to your apartment. Your heels click dully against the hallway floor as you fumble with your keys, a sigh escaping before the door even opens.

Chenle, your roommate, is on the sofa. His legs folded underneath him like a child and a deck of playing cards are spread out on the coffee table. Solitaire, probably, knowing him.

He doesn’t look up when you come in, just says, “You’re back early.”

You toe your heels off in the entry way and shrug off your coat, letting it fall onto the back of one of the bar stools as you make your way through the kitchen to join him on the sofa. 

“Yeah,” you mumble, voice scratchy from the cold. “Dinner ended early. Jaehyun decided to break up with me.”

That gets his attention. He glances up, blinking, a three of hearts dangling between his fingers. “Woah. Fuck me. Seriously?”

You nod. “Yep. He said—and I quote—‘It’s not me, it’s you.’”

Chenle lets out a short, incredulous laugh, dropping the card onto the messy pile in front of him. “Damn. What a fucking asshole.”

You flop down beside him, curling your knees up under your chin. “He’s not wrong,” you say, quieter now. “I mean... he kind of had a point.”

Chenle tilts his head at you sceptically. “No chance. Look, I’m no Casanova or anything, but even I know the line is supposed to be ‘it’s not you, it’s me.’”

You shake your head and laugh, defeated. “That’s what I thought too.” Then, a sigh drags itself out of you. “Except... the reason he broke up with me is because he doesn’t think dating a virgin is worth the hassle. That he’s tired of waiting, so he just... left.”

“So... because you didn’t want to sleep with him, he decided you weren’t worth dating?” He asks, leaning back against the couch now, arms crossed.

You glance at him. “Pretty much.”

Chenle doesn’t know what’s more shocking—the fact that you (his pretty little roommate who’s sexier than sin and sweeter than sugar) are still holding onto your v-card, or the fact that your asshole boyfriend, who he never really had a valid reason to hate before, didn’t think you were worth the wait. 

Well, he’s glad he’s got a reason now.

He hums, thinking. “What a dick.”

“I don’t know,” you say softly. “I mean, maybe he’s right. Maybe something is wrong with me. Maybe I’m broken.”

Fuck no. He’s making you erase that thought, asap. 

Chenle straightens, shaking his head. “There’s nothing wrong with you, Y/N. Wanting to wait—or not wanting sex at all—doesn’t mean you’re broken. That’s just... your decision. A good guy would respect that.”

You chew on the edge of your thumbnail, gaze dropping to the floor. It’s a bad habit you can’t quite kick, especially when you’re feeling small.

“It’s not like I don’t want to have sex,” you say eventually, voice so quiet it's almost like you’re confessing something shameful. “I do. I just...I keep dating guys who’ve, like... been with lots of girls. Guys who know what they’re doing. And I don’t. And it makes me feel...” You trail off, cheeks burning and your throat tight. “It makes me feel embarrassed.”

The words hang there, raw and a little pathetic, and you hate how small they make you sound.

Eventually, Chenle shifts beside you, nudging your knee lightly with his. “You know that’s bullshit, right?”

You shrug, because it doesn’t feel like bullshit when you’re the one living it. When you’re the one with the anxiety that won’t let you get past a makeout session with some light petting. 

Chenle huffs a breath, raking a hand through his hair. “Seriously, Y/N. Anyone who makes you feel like you're not enough because you haven’t ticked some box yet is a fucking idiot.” 

That gets a quiet laugh out of you. You finally glance up at him, and his face is serious, sincere in a way that Chenle usually hides behind jokes and sarcasm. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. 

“You’re not less because you’re waiting. You’re not less because you’re nervous. And you’re definitely not less because you’re a little unsure about what you’re doing.” His voice drops a little, softer now. “You deserve someone patient. Someone who makes you feel good about yourself. Not some dickhead who’s counting down the days like it’s a fucking chore.”

You duck your head, a bitter laugh escaping you. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who’s... an adult and still completely clueless.”

Chenle leans in a little, catching your eyes with his own. There’s no teasing there, no judgment—just something warm. 

“Everyone’s clueless the first time. That’s the whole point. You’re not supposed to be good at it. You’re supposed to figure it out with someone who gives a shit about you. Not some guy who’s just trying to get his dick wet.”

You snort at that despite yourself, and Chenle grins, pleased with himself for making you laugh, even if it’s just a little. After a moment, you tilt your head, studying him. 

“Were you... clueless your first time?”

Chenle lets out a bark of laughter, throwing his head back against the couch dramatically. “Oh, hell yeah.”

You smile. “Seriously?”

“Dead serious. It was... honestly, it was embarrassing as fuck. Blew my load in, like, two minutes.” He squeezes his eyes together and shivers at the memory. “The girl was very polite about it, though, but yeah. Mortifying.”

You snort, the mental image almost too hard to believe. In the years you’d been Chenle’s roommate, he’d probably had one situationship—max. You knew he wasn’t exactly a player, and he didn’t fuck around a lot. Christ, he spent his Saturday nights playing solo solitaire on the coffee table.

But still... he was hot. And hot people could always fuck... right?

“Oh my God,” you giggle, covering your mouth. “Two minutes?”

“If that,” he says, eyes crinkling again. “Might’ve been one and a half. I’m a little generous with myself. Male ego and all that.”

You laugh so hard your sides ache, and Chenle’s grin only widens. He likes seeing you laugh—loves it, actually. He thinks he’d like to make you laugh more often. It’s so pretty, the sound, the way your whole face lights up. Why on Earth that asshole you were dating didn’t want to wait longer to hear all the other sounds you’d make is completely beyond him.

When the laughter dies down, the quiet that settles between you isn’t heavy—it’s soft. Comfortable. It gives you a moment to just look at him. And something stirs in your chest, something you can’t quite name.

You and Chenle hadn’t been friends before you moved in together, but he’s always been so nice, so funny, so good to you. Even now, the fact that he’s willing to embarrass himself just to make you feel better… It’s trust.

It’s attractive.

Before you can second-guess it, the words slip out:

“Would you... would you be my first?”

“What—” he gapes at you and his voice cracks halfway through the word. He clears his throat, trying again. “Y/N, you…you can’t just ask stuff like that.”

Your heart stutters, nerves spiking—but before you can backpedal, you see the pink blooming on his cheeks, the way his hands flail a little uselessly in the air before he scrubs them through his hair.

“It’s not—I’m not saying no,” he rushes out. “It’s just—holy shit, Y/N.”

You blink at him. “Why are you freaking out more than me?”

Chenle groans and slumps back against the couch, covering his face with both hands. He’s freaking out because, despite all his confidence, he’s not sure he’d be any better now than he was as a clueless teenager losing his virginity.

Sure, he’s not totally inexperienced, but... this is you.

The girl across the hall he may or may not have jerked off to once or twice. The girl he thinks is so fucking pretty it physically hurts sometimes. The girl he’s definitely got a crush on. The girl who’s a virgin.

Fuck.

He’d be lucky if he lasts a full minute inside you.

“Because it’s you. And this is...we’ve established is a big deal to you. And I don’t wanna—I don’t know—ruin it or make it weird or...” He trails off, peeking at you through his fingers.

You chew on your lip for a second, then scoot a little closer, tugging gently at his wrist until he drops his hands and looks at you properly.

“I’m comfortable with you, Chenle,” you say quietly. “I trust you. I won’t feel embarrassed, I promise. Not with you.”

He flushes, looking like he might actually combust right there on the couch. His cheeks are pink, the tips of his ears even worse, and his hands keep fidgeting—picking at a loose thread on his sweatshirt, tapping against his knee. He keeps opening and closing his mouth like he wants to say something but can’t figure out what.

Finally, he manages, “Y/N, you’re upset after the breakup. I don’t want you to feel, like... pressured or anything. I don’t want you to wake up tomorrow and regret it.”

Translation: I don’t want you to wake up tomorrow and regret me.

“I won’t, I swear I won’t,” you say, sitting up to meet his wide, nervous eyes. “Look, it’s not like I’m asking to be your wife, Chenle. I’m not asking for a relationship or anything crazy. I just...” You pause, feeling your cheeks heat. “I want to get over this stupid hurdle. And I trust you.”

Something flickers in Chenle’s eyes then. His fidgeting stills all at once, and before you can react, he moves, shifting his weight and hovering over you on the couch, palms braced on either side of your body.

His pupils are blown wide, dark and stormy as they fix on you. His voice drops, “I’m not a fucking tick box either, Y/N. I’m not a hurdle for you to just get over.”

Your chest tightens, and your heart skips like it doesn’t know how to beat properly anymore.

“I know,” your voice trembles. “You’re kind, Chenle. I know you won’t laugh at me or make me feel like shit about it after. You’re the only guy I know who fits the bill for this.”

He brings one hand up, brushing a knuckle against your cheekbone—barely there, like he’s scared you might vanish if he touches you too hard.

“No, you don’t know,” he murmurs. “I’m saying, if we do this... I’m the only guy who fits the bill. Ever.”

Your throat tightens at that, and your cheeks flush from the heat of his palm, which is now cupping your jaw.

“Chenle—”

“I don’t want to be something you regret,” he says. “But I also... I don’t think I can say no to you right now. So you need to take this offer off the table.”

Your hands slide up under the hem of his sweatshirt, fingertips skimming the warm skin of his waist. He shivers under your touch. “I don’t want to take the offer off the table,” you breathe. “I want you.”

That’s all it takes. He kisses you.

It’s not rushed or hurried—it’s careful, like he’s asking permission with every brush of his lips against yours. His mouth is warm, breath a little shaky, and he tastes like that mint gum he’s always chewing. You’d never been kissed like this before, all teeth and tongue and so much aching need. You don’t want him to stop. 

Especially when his hands find your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and he drags you closer, slotting you between his thighs. You can feel him already, hard against you through the thin barrier of your clothes, and it sends a dizzy rush through your blood.

You find yourself clutching at him—his sweatshirt, tugging at the hem, slipping your hands beneath to find hot skin. And God, is he solid. His stomach jumps beneath your palm, muscles tensing when your fingers splay across his ribs. You want to touch all of him. You want to learn from him.

He makes a soft, broken noise—somewhere between a moan and a plea—and pulls back just enough to breathe, just enough to speak.

“Easy, baby,” he says, eyes heavy-lidded. “You gotta slow down.”

You barely register the words—too consumed by the way that pet name sounds coming from his mouth, in that rugged tone, directed at you. It makes your whole body throb.

You bite your lip, still tugging at his sweatshirt. “But I want you. Now. All of you.”

He exhales, forehead now pressing to yours, eyes darting down to your lips, then back up like he’s trying to ground himself. 

“And you’ll have me,” he says quietly. “Every fucking bit of me. Just—let me have this. Let me take my time. Let me enjoy you.”

The words sink in slowly and they make your chest tighten. You blink up at him, breath catching. “I thought… I thought guys just wanted to get themselves off during sex.”

He cups your cheek, thumb brushing across your flushed skin, lingering at the corner of your swollen mouth before he lets it rest gently against your pouty lips.

“Maybe,” he murmurs, “but not every guy has the prettiest fucking girl underneath him.”

Your breath stutters.

“I’d be a fucking idiot,” he goes on, voice curling beneath every syllable, “if I didn’t put my mouth on your pretty pussy and watch you cum.”

You let out a whimper from the back of your throat—half shocked, half desperate.

“Bet you’d be so fucking hot,” he muses, dragging his thumb across your bottom lip again, slower this time. “Bet I wouldn’t be able to look away.”

Your hips shift involuntarily at his words, heat pooling low in your belly. The way he’s looking at you—like he’s already burning the view of you eager and squirming beneath him into his memory—makes your body vibrate with anticipation.

"Lele..." you whisper, breathless and unsure where the hell that nickname just slipped out from. Something about being this exposed, this vulnerable, has clearly made your brain foggy.

He just smiles, leaning in with his lips ghosting over the corner of your mouth, deliberately not kissing you. “You said you trust me, yeah?”

You nod, but his eyebrows raise, the demand clear in his expression. He wants the words. 

“Yes,” you breathe. 

“Then let me take care of you,” he whispers. “Let me teach you. Let me show you what it’s supposed to feel like.”

You gasp softly as he trails his hand down your jaw, then your neck, so attentively until his fingers skate lightly beneath the hem of your dress.

“Can I...?” His voice is almost a growl now when he asks, fingertips hovering just above your thighs, teasing at the edge of the fabric. 

You nod with a shaky breath. “Yes.”

He peels your dress off carefully, until you’re beneath him in nothing but a pair of black panties. When his eyes drop to your bare chest, he exhales slowly, chest rising like he’s trying not to worship you too hard, too fast.

"Fuck," he groans, sucking in a breath. “You’re gorgeous.”

Your arms instinctively twitch to cover yourself, but he catches your wrists gently and presses a kiss to each one before guiding your hands back to your sides.

“Don’t hide from me,” he demands. “Let me see you.”

And somehow, with the way he says it—all soft and awed—it’s easier. Easier to let him see. Easier to let him lean in and kiss along your collarbone, down the slope of your shoulder, into the valley of your breasts. 

And that’s when you thread your fingers into his hair, encouraging him to sink lower until his mouth trails over your sternum, then your stomach. His kisses so soft that they make your thighs clench.

“Still okay?” he asks, glancing up with burning eyes and a pair of his own swollen lips.

You nod, whispering, “Please, don’t stop.”

And he doesn’t. 

His fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, and he tugs them down steadily, steady enough that you could stop him if you wanted him to, but you don’t. You lift your hips instead, offering yourself up.

“I still can’t believe you asked me to do this,” he says, getting the fabric completely off. “You could’ve had anyone.”

“I didn’t want anyone else,” you whisper. “Just you.”

“Good,” he breathes. “Because you have no idea what you’re doing to me—lying here like this, letting me be your first. Letting me be the one who gets to see you like this. Taste you.” He pauses, jaw tight. “Fuck—you’re so pretty.”

You want to clamp your legs shut at that, but you already know there’s no way in hell he’s letting that happen. Instead, you let him lean in, his mouth brushing a kiss to the inside of your bare thigh. Then another—higher. And another.

Until you're trembling. Until a whimper escapes you. And he just grins against your skin.

“You’re already shaking,” he says with a smirk, licking a leisurely stripe along the apex of your thigh. “I’ve barely touched you.”

You nod, cheeks burning. “I—I can’t help it.”

“I know, baby,” he says, and then he’s kissing higher again, closer to your cunt, until his breath is ghosting over where you’re aching for him the most. “That’s what I like about you. So innocent. So fucking eager.”

You’re trembling now, fingers fisting the back of the sofa, eyes snapping shut just as his mouth drags closer and his tongue licks a stripe along your pussy—languid and unhurried like he’s savouring every second.

“I’ve thought about this, you know?” he says, voice tight. “Thought about what you’d taste like. What you’d sound like when I finally got my mouth on you. Every day since you moved in.”

Your breath stutters, and a helpless sound slips from your lips. “E-every day?”

That makes him smile, eyes flicking up to yours. “Yeah,” he breathes. “And that sound—fuck, I could live off it.”

And then he dips lower. His tongue barely brushes where you’re soaked for him, but your back still arches off the sofa with a gasp anyway. You can’t even think—you’re just feeling. Overwhelmed. Burning.

He hums against you, satisfied. Like this was always meant to happen—his hands anchoring your hips, his mouth wrapped around your clit, sucking and lapping at you with skill, whilst his eyes stay locked on your face.

You’re completely falling apart beneath him, thighs shaking as he takes his time putting his tongue to work. Every choked whisper of his name tumbles from your lips without permission, and when your hands fly to his hair, fingers threading through the strands, he groans.

It’s low and guttural, and the vibration of it against you makes you cry out.

“Yes,” he pants. “I can feel how close you are. You’re shaking so bad, baby. You gonna cum for me already?”

You nod, frantic, breath hitching. “Yes, Lele—please,” you moan. “Please don’t stop.”

He wouldn’t.

One hand holds you open, steady, while the other slips down past your thigh until a single finger slides into your dripping pussy. You pant at the intrusion, eyes wide, and when he sees your pupils dilate, he starts to move—slow at first, then deeper, working you open until he’s knuckle deep and you tremble under his touch.

Then his mouth is back on you. Tongue circling, dipping, coaxing. Worshipping. And you’re not sure when the sob catches in your throat, only that it does—and that he hears it.

His thumb brushes along your hip, grounding you. “I’ve got you, baby. I’ve got you.” The finger inside you curls just right, and his voice drops: “Give it to me, baby. Let me have it. Let me see you cum for me, yeah?”

Then his mouth is back on your clit. It’s a steady rhythm but not as gentle now. But still, it’s matched to the overwhelmed, wild beat of your panting.

“I can feel it,” he says against you. “You’re so fucking close.”

You nod, whimpering. “I can’t—I—”

“Yes, you can,” he urges. “Cum for me, baby. Let go.”

It crashes into you—your orgasm—ripping through you like it’s both too much and still not enough. You cry out his name, fists tangled in his hair, and he doesn’t stop. Not until you’re spent and shaking, breathless, and sinking back into the cushions like you’ve melted into them like a puddle.

Only then does he ease off, his mouth softening against your skin. He presses one last kiss to your thigh before drawing his hand away. You’re still gasping when he rises over you, arms braced on either side of your head. 

“That’s it,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead. “You did so well for me.”

You blink up at him, but a tear slips down your cheek without you meaning it to. He catches it with his thumb, frowning gently.

“Hey… are you okay? Was that too much? Did I hurt you?” 

You shake your head. “No. Just… no one’s ever done that for me before.”

Relief washes over him, and he leans down, brushing his nose against yours. “They should have. They fucking should have.”

“But if they had,” you sigh. “I wouldn’t be here now—asking you to fuck me.” Your hand trails down his chest, pawing at that sweatshirt again. “Please, Lele. I need you inside me. Now.”

His own breath catches, a sharp inhale trying to hold himself together, but the look in his eyes is pure wreckage.

“Jesus, Y/N,” he groans. “You can’t say shit like that to me or I’ll end up having a repeat of my first time.”

You grin. “That’s rich coming from the man who said he wanted to watch me cum with his mouth on my pussy.”

“Fuck, don’t repeat that back either,” he grits out through clenched teeth. “Seriously, baby, you have no idea how hard I’m trying not to cum in my pants right now.”

You tilt your head, voice teasing. “You could always take your pants off and cum on my stomach instead.”

“Y/N,” he growls. “What happened to my sweet, innocent girl who was too scared to show me the prettiest tits in the world two seconds ago?”

“Oh, so what? You’re the only one who gets to have a dirty mouth in this relationship?”

His brow lifts, eyes narrowing in amusement. “This relationship, huh?”

You freeze. “No—I—that’s not what I meant—”

He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, then leans in, lips padding against your skin as he nibbles softly at your earlobe. “Yes, it is. If we go any further, that’s exactly what you meant. I’m the only man for the bill ever, remember?”

You whimper, and he smirks, victorious.

“Glad we cleared that up.”

And then he’s moving—finally stripping off that damn sweatshirt in one fluid motion, revealing warm, flushed skin and lean muscle that shivers under your stare. Without another second, his mouth slams back onto yours before you can compliment him, kissing you hard and rough until your lips are pouty and swollen all over again.

When he breaks the kiss, it’s only to shove his pants down and fumble with his boxers, his breath ragged as he slides a condom over his cock. Then, he peppers kisses along your cheek until his forehead rests against yours.

“You’re sure about this?” his voice shakes as he breathes against your lips. “Tell me now if you’re not.”

“I’m sure,” you whisper, arms winding around his neck, pulling him close—pulling him in. “I want you. I want this.”

Chenle curses softly at that and shifts between your legs. His hand slides behind your thigh, gently parting you as he lines himself up with your pussy.

“Then I’ve got you,” he says. “I’ll take care of you. Just hold on to me, yeah?”

And you do—fingers clutching at his shoulders, heart hammering in your chest because this is happening—with him. When he finally pushes inside, it hits you all at once. The sharp, stretching ache of it. The fullness.

You can’t help but wince, a quiet hiss escaping through clenched teeth.

His thumb reaches up to stroke your cheek, his voice immediately soft. “You good?”

Tears sting at your eyes, but you nod anyway, adjusting slowly, breath by breath, until the sting eases and you feel the pain turn to something else—something good.

Only then does he move.

You gasp, arching into him, nails dragging down his back as he builds a rhythm that’s toe-curling. His lips find your neck, muttering your name, and you moan back eagerly because of how good it feels—how good he feels. 

“Fuck, you feel like heaven,” he groans, forehead still pressed to yours. “So tight, so wet—shit, baby, you were made for me.”

You whimper, clutching him closer, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively. “Faster,” you beg. “Please, Chenle—I need more.”

His mouth crashes into yours again, this time messier, hungrier. He pulls back just enough to look down between your bodies, watching the way he disappears inside you. A strangled sound leaves him. 

“Look at that,” he pants. “Taking me so well. Fuck, you’re perfect.”

You can barely breathe—your whole body slick with that tension curling tighter and tighter in your belly as he begins to thrust harder, deeper. The sound of skin meeting skin fills the room. And still, his hands never leave you—one cupping your face, the other gripping your thigh.

“You okay?” he asks between thrusts. “Still with me? Still good?”

You nod feverishly, tears pricking your eyes again. “So good. So fucking good, Lele.”

He groans, leaning down to kiss you again—slower now, gentler, and it’s all so tender, so intimate. 

“I’m close,” he whispers against your lips, barely holding on. “But I want you to finish first. Come on, baby. Cum for me again—let me feel it.”

You moan, hips rocking up to meet his. “I can’t—it's too much—I—”

“Yes, you can,” he insists. “Just let go, baby. You know, you’re safe with me.”

And something about that—you’re safe with me—snaps the final thread.

You fall apart beneath him, moaning his name as your orgasm hits you, harder than the first time. You convulse around him, body trembling, vision blurring—and he follows with a ragged, broken curse, burying himself deep as he cums hard inside the condom, forehead pressed to yours, eyes squeezed shut.

For a moment, the only sound is the echo of your breathing. Then he exhales slowly, his thumb brushing gently over your damp cheek. “You okay?”

You nod. “I’ve never felt anything like that before.”

He smiles. “That’s how it should be. That’s how it’s going to be.”

He doesn’t move right away.

He stays there, inside you, wrapped up in you. But when he finally, carefully pulls out, you whimper softly at the loss, and he murmurs, "I know, baby, I know," like it hurts him too.

He takes care of the condom quickly, tossing it into the bin. Then he’s back—pulling the throw blankets from the sofa over your bodies and curling in beside you. Bare skin to bare skin. Your face presses to his chest, and you can feel the rapid thud of his heart beneath your cheek, slowly beginning to calm.

He kisses the top of your head. Then again. And again. Like he can’t stop.

“I meant it,” he murmurs into your hair. “That’s how it’s going to be. Always.”

Your fingers find his under the blanket and tangle them together. “You took care of me,” you say.

He nods, chin brushing your crown. “Of course I did. You said you trusted me.”

[foone]

why are printers so hated? it's simple:

computers are good at computering. they are not good at the real world.

the biggest problems in computers, the ones that have had to change the most over the time they've existed, are the parts that deal with the real world. The keyboard, the mouse, the screen. every computer needs these, but they involve interacting with the real world. that's a problem. that's why they get replaced so much.

now, printers: printers have some of the most complex real-world interaction. they need to deposit ink on paper in 2 dimensions, and that results in at least three ways it can go on right from the start. (this is why 3D printers are just 2D printers that can go wrong in another whole dimension)

scanners fall into many of the same problems printers have, but fewer people have scanners, and they're not as cost-optimized. But they are nearly as annoying.

This is also why you can make a printer better by cutting down on the number of moving elements: laser printers are better than inkjets, because they only need to move in one dimension, and their ink is a powder, not a liquid. and the best-behaved printers of all are thermal printers: no ink and the head doesn't move. That's why every receipt printer is a thermal printer, because they need that shit to work all the time so they can sell shit. And thermal is the most reliable way to do that.

But yeah, cost-optimization is also a big part of why printers are such finicky unreliable bastards: you don't want to pay much for them. Who is excited for all the printing they're gonna be doing? basically nobody. But people get forced to have a printer because they gotta print something, for school or work or the government or whatever. So they want the cheapest thing that'll work. They're not shopping on features and functionality and design, they want something that costs barely anything, and can fucking PRINT. anything else is an optional bonus.

And here's the thing: there's a fundamental limit of how much you can optimize an inkjet printer, and we got near to it in like the late 90s. Every printer since then has just been a tad smaller, a tad faster, and added some gimmicks like printing from WIFI or bluetooth instead of needing to plug in a cable.

And that's the worst place to be in, for a computer component. The "I don't care how fancy it is, just give me one that works" zone. This is why you can buy a keyboard for 20$ and a mouse for 10$ and they both work plenty fine for 90% of users. They're objectively shit compared to the ones in the 60-150$ range, but do they work? yep. So that's what people get.

Printers fell into that zone long, long ago, when people stopped getting excited about "desktop publishing". So with printers shoved into the "make them as cheap as possible" zone, they have gotten exponentially shittier. Can you cut costs by 5$ a printer by making them jam more often? good. make them only last a couple years to save a buck or two per unit? absolutely. Can you make the printer cost 10$ less and make that back on the proprietary ink cartridges? oh, they've been doing that since Billy Clinton was in office.

It's the same place floppy disks were in in about 2000. CD-burners were not yet cheap enough, USB flash drives didn't exist yet (but were coming), modems weren't fast enough yet to copy stuff over the internet, superfloppies hadn't taken over like some hoped, and memory cards were too expensive and not everyone had a drive for them. So we still needed floppy disks, but at the same time this was a technology that hadn't changed in nearly 20 years. So people were tired of paying out the nose for them... the only solution? cut corners. I have floppy disks from 1984 that read perfectly, but a shrinkwrapped box of disks from 1999 will have over half the disks failed. They cut corners on the material quality, the QA process, the cleaning cloth inside the disk, everything they could. And the disks were shit as a result.

So, printers are in that particular note of the death-spiral where they've reached the point of "no one likes or cares about this technology, but it's still required so it's gone to shit". That's why they are so annoying, so unreliable, so fucking crap.

So, here's the good news:

You can still buy a better printer, and it will work far better. Laser printers still exist, and LED printers work the same way but even cheaper. They're still more expensive than inkjets (especially if you need color), but if you have to print stuff, they're a godsend. Way more reliable.

This is not a stable equilibrium. Printers cannot limp along in this terrible state forever. You know why I brought up floppy disk there? (besides the fact I'm a giant floppy disk nerd) because floppy disks GOT REPLACED. Have you used one this decade? CD-Rs and USB drives and internet sharing came along and ate the lunch of floppy disks, so much so that it's been over a decade since any more have been made. The same will happen to (inkjet) printers, eventually. This kind of clearly-broken situation cannot hold. It'll push people to go paperless, for companies to build cheaper alternatives to take over from the inkjets, or someone will come up with a new, more reliable printer based on some new technology that's now cheap enough to use in printers. Yeah, it sucks right now, but it can't last.

So, in conclusion: Printers suck, but this is both an innate problem caused by them having to deal with so much fucking Real World, and a local minimum of reliability that we're currently stuck in. Eventually we'll get out of this valley on the graph and printers will bother people a lot less.

Random fun facts about printing of the past and their local minimums:

in the hot metal type era, not only would the whole printing process expose you to lead, the most common method of printing text was the linotype, which could go wrong in a very fun way: if the next for a line wasn't properly justified (filling out the whole row), it could "squirt", and lead would escape through gaps in the type matrix. This would result in molten lead squirting out of the machine, possibly onto the operator. Anecdotally, linotype operators would sometimes recognize each other on the street because of the telltale spots on their forearms where they had white splotches where no hair grew, because they got bad lead burns. This type of printing remained in use until the 80s.

Another fun type of now-retired printers are drum printers, a type of line printer. These work something like a typewriter or dot-matrix printer, except the elements extend across the entire width of the paper. So instead of printing a character at time by smacking it into the paper, the whole line got smacked nearly at once. The problem is that if the paper jammed and the printer continued to try to print, that line of the paper would be repeatedly struck at high speed, creating a lot of heat. This worry created the now-infamous Linux error: "lp0 on fire". This was displayed when the error signals from a parallel printer didn't make sense... and it was a real worry. A high speed printer could definitely set the paper on fire, though this was rare.

So... one thing to be grateful about current shitty inkjet printers: they are very unlikely to burn anything, especially you.

(because before they could do that they'd have to work, at least a little, first, and that's very unlikely)