#also if one persons like but it’s from concentrate isn’t that bad DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS. IT JUST MEANS IT WAS RECONSTITUTED WITH WATER

[stoned-ratpack]

Welche’s White Grape Peach Juice is a beautiful name for a baby girl

[sinofwriting]

Every Kiss Begins With Tabs - Max Verstappen

Words: 1,544 Summary: Max and her have a tradition that was born from their first kiss. Note(s): The idea for this fic popped into my head one night, didn’t know what driver to do with it, and then quickly realized Max is the only option with him driving for a literal energy drink company. Also, this features Max and Charles being best friends, because your honor, I love them. (and features a bit of Ferrari bashing, because of course)

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At the end of their first date, Max had watched as she shyly reached into her purse, fishing for something, before pressing a small thing into his hand and instinctively he held it. He didn’t even get a second to figure out what it was, since she kissed him as soon as it was pressed into his hand. It was small, barely a second, just a peck. But it had made him flush, staring at her with wide eyes before he murmured a quiet again.

Her bottom lip had found its way between her teeth for a second, before she nodded at his hand, the one she had pressed something into. For the kiss. He remembers her mumble, making her all the more cute to him, how she was shy yet bold in the same breath.

It had been near painful to look away from her, but he forced his eyes down as he uncurled his hand and saw a generic soda tab sitting in his palm. Her words rang in his ears and memories of watching girls in school give them to boys run through his head and he’s pressing their hands together, keeping it between their palms as he kisses her.

—

Max’s eyebrows are furrowed in concentration as he messes with the tab on his can of Red Bull. The sound of the press and his fellow drivers' voices washing over him. When it easily tears off, he pockets it, just as he’s asked a question.

“Over these last few months, you’ve been a lot happier. Many people thought it was you winning races making you so happy, but with Singapore happening, that has been disproven. Is there something other than winning that makes you so happy?” Max’s eyes darted over to his press officer, personal questions were on the no list for after races. She looks back at him with a raised eyebrow and he has to resist letting his brows press together. She clearly didn’t think this was personal and in nature he supposes it wasn’t, but it was leading. Raising the microphone to his lips, he speaks. “Well, I think I’d have a very boring, shit life if the only thing that made me happy was winning.” The reporter coughs, “Of course. But nothing new in your life?” “Not that I can think of.” There’s a frown on the reporter's face, but they don’t ask anything else, and the session is called to a close.

“I fucking hate reporters.” Max murmurs as he walks out the room. Charles snorts, hearing him and gently bumping their shoulders together. “I couldn’t tell.” “Haha. Was a good race for you today, though.” “I feel like I need a fucking bodyguard. I’ve been getting threats like crazy.” Max winces, having seen some for himself and also knowing from experience how bad they could get. “Ferrari hasn’t hired any for you?” He scoffs, “No, too much faith, I suppose.” “Stick close, come to Red Bull’s hotel with me, I’ve got an extra room and security.” “Ooh.” Charles teases, poking at his side as they exit the building. “Look at the golden boy with his security.” Max rolls his eyes, but feigns away as he reaches out again. “Are you coming or not?” He scoffs again. “Of course. I’m too pretty to be killed.” It’s Max’s turn to scoff, “You're something, alright.” he mutters.

Entering Red Bull’s garage with Charles would feel weird if it weren't for the fact that for nearly all of this season Bradley, Christian, Tom, GP, or himself had all been sneaking the Ferrari driver in. Max knows that Christian is hoping with them allowing Charles access to their garage and helping hide him away from Ferrari that he’ll join their team, and Max isn’t too proud to say that he’s started to wish that too.

“I’ve gotta get something from Christian first.” Max murmurs when Charles makes a confused hum when they don’t immediately go to his driver’s room. “Also, might want to text something to collect your stuff.” “Andrea will get it. I just need the hotel and room number so he can send some stuff over.” “Don’t want to sleep in Red Bull branded clothes?” Charles sniffs, sticking his chin in the air, perfectly making a haughty face. “Of course not. I have fashion sense.”

—

“You want room service or something delivered from somewhere?” Charles stares at him, “Mate.” Max grins at him before returning his gaze to his phone. “Had to ask. We do have Brazil next weekend after all.” “I want all the tacos in the world right now.” “Margaritas as well?” It’s silent for a second, “why not. Just one though.” Max rolls his eyes, typing out the number ten before hitting send.

“Food has been ordered.” “Thank god. I’m starving.” “Not going to offer to pay?” Max jokes, even though he’d refuse. “God no.” He scoffs before grinning at him. “Thank you, Max, honestly.” “It’s no problem.”

“When will the food get here?” Charles asks nearly thirty minutes later as Max unlocks the door. “Already here.” He tells him, opening the door up and stepping through.

Tossing his backpack to the armchair, he doesn’t see the confused look on Charles’ face or how it grows more confused when Max fishes something out of his pocket and holds it out, a grin on his face as he stands just beside the suite's sofa.

Charles nearly stumbles when a girl appears out of nowhere, words gathering on his tongue, only for them to die before they can form when she takes whatever it is out of Max’s hand and kisses him. He knows his mouth is open, jaw dropped, as he stares at the two.

“Hello.” Max murmurs, pulling away after pressing another kiss to her lips. Her head is tilted up a bit to look at him, nose scrunching a little as she smiles. “Hi. Well done on the race.” He grins and is unable to resist kissing her again before finally separating from her, only to wrap an arm around her and pull her into his side as he turns them both to face Charles. “Charles, this is Y/N, my girlfriend.” The other driver blinks at them for a few seconds before smiling. “Hello. It’s lovely to meet you.” He tells her, stepping forward to greet her with a hug, giving Max a thumbs up when she easily goes along with it. Max snorts at the thumbs up.

“Congrats on your race as well, Charles. Always nice to see you on the podium.” “Oh.” He can feel his cheeks turn a little pink at the compliment. “Well, it is always nice to be there, even if he is always taking the top spot.” She laughs and then she’s ushering them both to sit down at the small table nearly overflowing with food. “Oh my god.” Charles breaths, staring at it all. “It’s beautiful.” “I think you're just hungry, mate.” Max remarks and Charles notices how she passes whatever Max handed her before they kissed back to the driver before giving him a peck on the lips. “Of course, I’m hungry.” His eyes wander over all the food, all the tacos, and he knows that Andrea will be pissed at their next session when Charles tells him what he ate, but he knows he won’t regret it. Even when Andrea makes the session a triple.

“Can I ask a question?” Charles asks, after they are done eating. The twelve tacos he ate and two margaritas he had in combination with pleasant company made him feel content. “Is it a stupid one?” “Max.” She playfully scolds, but there’s a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Of course.” “What is with the thing? The small thing you pass back and forth.” “Oh,” her eyes are a little wide and she seems to have stiffened and it has Charles' eyes widened. “You do not have to answer. I was just curious. You can of course tell me to shut up.” “No, it’s okay.” She shares a look with Max. “It’s just a habit, I don’t even really think about it anymore.”

Charles watches as she carefully extends her hand and opens it so he can stare at the thing the couple has been exchanging. His eyebrows furrow when he sees it’s a tab to a Red Bull can.

“Before I kissed Max for the first time, I gave him a tab from a soda can. It’s become a tradition of sorts.” His face softens at the explanation, and this whole weekend he has missed Alex, but now more than ever he wishes that she was able to come with him. “That is very sweet.” His lips then curl into a smirk and he looks at Max. “Must make sex uncomfortable though.” “You mother,” Max cuts himself off as he hits Charles with a pillow, his fellow driver howling with laughter. Hitting him with a pillow again, Max looks at her to see her laughing as well, face bright with joy and his hand is ducking into his pocket pulling out a spare tab he always keeps on him, pressing it into her hand before kissing her, ignoring the fake sounds of throwing up from Charles as he does.

@gemofthenight @peachiicherries @lpab @topguncultleader @iloveyou3000morgan @boiohboii @bibliosaurous @skepvids @elliegrey2803 @cixrosie @darleneslane @fanboyluvr @teti-menchon0604 @eugene-emt-roe @quackquackhun @rewmuslupin @copper-boom @stopeatread @crashingwavesofeuphoria @jointhehunt67

[pink-tea]

cute genes

☆ pairing: choi soobin x afab! reader

☆ smut

☆ word count: 3.2k

☆ sub! soobin, dom! reader, slightly dark content !!!, dubcon technically bc baby trapping, toxic behaviors (baby trapping is not okay you guys!!), riding, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, milking, use of the nicknames "angel" (extensive use) and "bunny", nipple play (like a lot)(both receiving), tit sucking, breeding kink

☆ soobin is worried that one day he'll have to choose between his relationship and his career. you make sure that he never has to

// heyyy...how's everybody doing? (´∀｀；)

you should be ashamed of what you’re about to do, for what you’ve been doing. throwing away the condoms and riling up your poor little boyfriend all day so that when you tell him not to cum, you know you’re setting him up for failure. his desperate cries of “please please please” doing nothing as you grind down on his pulsating cock. 

“come on, angel. you can do better than this, can’t you?” you ask softly, raking your nails over his chest and hard nipples. he writhes underneath you at the touch, letting out weak noises as he shuts his eyes in a desperate attempt to concentrate. it prevents him from seeing your smug expression at his struggle, sighing contentedly as you grind your clit down into his pelvis. 

“can’t,” he pants, bunny lips red and slick from all the foreplay and subconscious biting he does while trying to quiet himself down. “please, I really don’t think I can,” soobin whimpers, opening his glossy eyes to look up at you. you groan at the sight, the blonde so pretty and pathetic underneath you that it makes him cry out when you roughly grind your hips down again. 

“you’re gonna cum already?” you ask, watching as he quickly nods, lashes fluttering when you don’t even stop your pace to talk to him. “but I’m not gonna cum yet,” you sigh, rotating your hips in a slow circle. you reach a hand down to card through soobin’s hair, pushing the sweaty bangs on his forehead out of the way. “you have to get punished if you don’t do what I tell you, you know this,” you patronize, grabbing a fistful of the strands so that you can lightly shake his head side to side. 

he whines at both your words and the slightly disorienting feeling, desperate to please but so desperate for release after what you’ve already put him through. he recognizes the word punishment, and if he wasn’t crying already, he’s sure he would’ve teared up because he’s trying so hard to be good. it feels so unfair, and he doesn’t even know that it’s because you made sure it would be unfair for him. 

knowing that he’s being set up for failure makes something inside you bask at the control. it’s bad that you’re lying to him; it’s even worse that you’re making such a big decision without even considering what he wants, but isn’t it for the better? he’s been growing so much as an idol, more and more of your shared time spent on rescheduled dates and rushed intimacy. 

you know he’s been stressed; you can help with that. but you also know that lately he’s been growing less and less confident that he’ll be able to still be the love of your life, along with being a successful idol. 

you’d never make soobin choose between you and his dream. instead, you decided to make sure that he wouldn’t be able to choose. your sweet boyfriend, sweet soobin who would probably condemn himself to the furthest circle of hell before he abandoned his girlfriend and child. sweet soobin, who wouldn’t think of leaving you or your kid because he’s just too good of a person to do it. 

it just makes sense; it was the only other option besides forcing soobin to quit his true passion (which probably wouldn’t work in the first place), and you just didn’t have the heart to do it. besides, even if being pregnant would be a less than wonderful experience, you’d be able to do it if it were for soobin. you’d go through the weeks with only facetime calls and the texted ‘i love you’s for him and your future child. 

imagining your baby with soobin’s bright eyes and adorable dimples makes your heart fond. knowing that he'd be forced to forever come back home to you makes you determined. 

“don’t want a punishment, wanna be good,” soobin whimpers out from beneath you, causing you to sigh in mock pity. you let both your hands fall to hold his face, his cheeks wet with both dried and fresh tears. he’s always been a pretty crier. 

“bad boys have to get their punishment,” you explain softly, not being able to stop the small smile on your lips when soobin only responds with a high-pitched and needy whine. “even if they’re trying to be good,” you hum, letting your hands trail down his neck as you continue the moment of your hips. “surely you’re not trying to get out of your punishment,” you suggest, adding a tiny mocking gasp to your words. 

quickly, the blonde shakes his head. “n-no, would never!” he exclaims, eyes squeezed shut as your nails rake down his shoulders and slip to his collarbones. “wanna be good, wanna be really—” the words get caught in his throat the moment your hands trail down from the dip of his collarbones to his perky nipples. 

the reaction is immediate. a sob of anguish is ripped from his throat, his back unintentionally arching as his hips thrust up to meet yours. "no, no, no, please,” he tries to plead, head thrown back, and the hands that somehow found themselves on your waist leave a bruising grip. you ignore his cries, rolling his sensitive nipples under the pads of your thumbs. 

“if I didn’t know any better, i’d think you were about to cum, angel,” you say casually, only receiving a choked noise from soobin as he thrashes underneath you. it’s amusing, the way you bounce on top of him as a result of his desperate attempts to escape. he's so fucked-out that he doesn’t even realize that he’s working against his own interests, slamming harder and deeper into your warm cunt every time you come back down. 

“[your name], please, i can’t—i can’t!” he doesn’t even manage to finish forming his words before he’s shaking underneath you, the hands on your waist holding you down firmly as he thrusts up one last time. a chorus of moans and whimpers make their way to your ears as you watch Soobin’s face. his eyes are shut tight, a few stray tears making their way past his pretty lashes from the force. 

you feel him shoot warm ropes of cum inside you. it’s messy and gross, and it’s just the way you wanted it as you stop your ministrations on his nipples. tutting and shaking your head, you bring a hand up to tap his cheek. 

soobin opens his eyes at the cue, his pathetic gaze pleading and apologetic as he stares at your faux frown. your brows furrow as you look down at him, sighing dramatically as you pull back to sit down properly on his now-softening cock. “look what you did…” you scold, already feeling the way his cum is trickling out of you to form a disgusting mix of fluids at the base of where the two of you meet. 

“i’m sorry,” soobin chokes out, lips trembling as you smooth your fingers over adam’s apple. 

“i know,” you respond simply, placing your hands back on his tits. He shudders as you resume playing with his nipples, letting out a whimper when you start to ride him without warning. his hands fall from your waist, and soobin’s embarrassed to think about how the way you’re using him like your own personal fuck toy is making his sensitive dick harden all over again. 

“tell me what you’re thinking,” you breathe, soft pants leaving your lips as you adjust your pace to finally chase after your own orgasm rather than soobin’s. a strangled noise builds up in soobin’s throat at the sight of your tits bouncing, and the hand that you end up placing on his thigh for a better angle heats up his skin. 

“sensitive,” he manages to say after a few moments, struggling to process the pleasure that leaves his spine tingling. his dick is hard again, struggling to keep up with how your pussy swallows him, uncaring of what he’s feeling as you grind your clit onto him for the friction. “m’ not gonna last,” he tries to warn you, voice climbing into a higher pitch when you abandon the bouncing to roll your hips back and forth. 

“that’s okay, baby,” you reassure him, grabbing his hands and moving them so that his palms are full of your breasts. “you’re not supposed to,” you simper, groaning in satisfaction when Soobin obeys your silent demands and starts to play with your nipples. he swallows thickly, dick twitching inside of you as the flesh of your breast spills out between his fingers. 

“i don’t wanna get punished,” he insists, thumbing over your nipples despite his conviction. you smile at his words, cooing softly as you place your palms back on his toned stomach. your shadow looms over him, and like this you’re given a clear view as to how soobin’s gaze seems transfixed on your breasts, the pervert.

“baby, your punishment’s already begun,” you inform him, voice sweet despite your intentions of milking him dry. this information finally snaps soobin out of his daze, brown eyes catching yours with an almost comical look of shock and dismay. 

“but–”

“mm-mm, no buts,” you chastise, placing a hand over your boyfriend’s mouth to halt his complaints. “you get what you deserve, you take what I give you,” you remind him coldly. you can feel the way Soobin chokes on a tiny sob underneath your palm, his saliva slicking up your hand and no doubt making a mess out of his mouth as he struggles not to buck up into the overstimulating pleasure of your warm cunt. 

“that’s it,” you praise as he goes pliant and silent underneath you, minus the whines and groans that get muffled. “you’re gonna let me milk your pretty little cock, since apparently all you’re good for is cumming inside and making a mess,” you tell him, removing your hand from his mouth and wiping the mess of saliva on the bed sheets next to you. 

“not all I’m good for,” he whines in protest, making you hiss in pain when he accidentally squeezes your breasts too hard. 

“yeah? what else are you good for?” you ask tauntingly, raking your nails down the expanse of his stomach and enjoying the small mewl that slips past his lips at the pain. “good at looking pretty and fucked out? good at laying down and letting me have my way with you?” you list off, endeared by the small glare soobin manages to give you through his teary eyes. 

“all you have to be good at right now is taking your punishment and making me feel good. is that too much to ask for?” you huff, leaning down to brush your lips against his cute ones. 

“is that too much, angel?” You ask, hands reaching up to hold on to his shoulders. 

“no,” he groans in response, leaning up to capture your lips with his in a way that distracts you with fondness. normally a sweet kisser, soobin is messy. his saliva wets your lips as he barely manages to keep the two of you together, some of his own drool making its way down his chin. it’s adorably pathetic, the way it takes so much effort just to kiss you while you fuck him dumb. 

“i'm already close again,” he whines pitifully into your mouth. 

you don’t respond, sliding one of your hands back down to meanly grab one of his nipples and twist, and it’s all it takes before soobin cums with a cry. his hands fall off your chest, one grasping desperately at the pillow under his head while the other twists in your sheets. he’s hiccuping through each breath, and all you can think about is how you’d do anything to keep him all to yourself forever. 

you hum in appreciation as you watch him—the way his eyes screw close and his nose scrunches as his back arches off the bed. his cum is still warm inside of you, and you wait for his body to stop shuddering and drop back down before you grip his shoulders and start to chase your own release. 

soobin gasps in sensitivity at the movement, warm hands flying up to grab at your waist in a futile attempt to slow you down. 

“wait, ’m sensitive, [your name] please, it hurts,” he cries, and it's all in vain as you do your best to milk him for a third. 

you ride him with just a bit more desperation than usual. it’s already been too many weeks since you’ve been off birth control. you don’t even realize how hard you’re staring at soobin, as if you’re trying to memorize every detail of his face in the case that all your efforts go out the window and this is the last time you see him. that’s until another tear slips out of soobin’s eye, and you know that you’d never let that happen, idol career be damned. 

cooing, you lean down and lick the tear off his cheek, your pretty little boyfriend whining at the wet sensation. “i thought i put your hands somewhere,” you comment offhandedly, watching soobin’s eyes flutter in confusion before his brain catches up to your intentions. with a small groan, soobin’s hands are back on your tits, and you laugh at the way his cock twitches in your cunt. 

“think you can you give me one more?” you ask sweetly condescendingly, placing a wet kiss on the same cheek you’ve already defiled. soobin can only pout, giving you a quivering nod as his thumb covers your nipple, eyes fixated on it.

determinedly, you pick up your pace on soobin’s cock. he’s semi-hard, but he’s whimpering and whining and he’s twitching from overstimulation, despite the fact that he still makes a valiant effort to get hard again. his stamina was pretty decent, but you’re set on milking a third out of him. 

“just—just go a little slower, please,” he begs, limbs growing heavy and he’s struggling to keep a solid grip on your tit as you bounce. 

“if you have the mouth to complain, you might as well suck on them,” you scowl, grabbing a fistful of blonde hair just to hear soobin’s gasp when you yank his head up. 

“can’t be a good little breeding bitch when all you do is complain instead of cum,” you add on, soobin whimpering at the harsh words. his lips are in a wobbly frown, and with much effort he lifts himself high enough to sloppily take your nipple into his mouth. he desperately kneads the other with his hand, and you let yourself moan at the disgusting visual of soobin’s drool running down his chin and onto your chest. 

“so messy,” you comment, using both of your hands to keep soobin’s head up to your chest as you ride him. sometimes you pull the strands of his hair to see him jerk, guiding him to your other nipple as your thighs burn and your speed begins to slow. 

he’s hard inside of you, and there’s an embarrassing amount of cum frothing at the entrance of your cunt. there’s fluids all over soobin’s cock and pelvis, and you can’t help the way you drag your clit through the wet filth as you slow your hips into a grind. 

“angel,” you gasp, pulling Soobin off your nipple with a loud ‘pop’ so that he can look at you with his fucked-out gaze. he hums in acknowledgement, going pliant in your hold once your hands slide down to cup his face in both palms. 

"help me cum,” you demand, and soobin only needs a few seconds before he’s wordlessly dragging a thumb over your clit as you pick up your pace. you lean down to kiss him, taking a lip between your teeth and tugging as his eyes threaten to flutter shut once more. 

and it only takes a few more moments with the dizzying drag of soobin’s thumb over your puffy clit before you’re moaning into his mouth and riding through your orgasm. soobin answers you with his own soft moan, the noise breaking into a weak sob as your pussy clenches down on him. he cums inside of you for the third time with a weak pulse of his cock, giving you one more peck on the lips before he falls back onto the sheets tiredly. 

you huff in amusement as you straddle him, catching your breath before you roll over to drop down next to him and let him slip out of you. there’s a wet squelch that follows, but you’re too busy trying to catch your breath before a cuddly soobin quickly begins to latch onto your side. your heart aches at the affection, and you turn to face him so that he can bury his face under your chin. his hair tickles your nose.

“good job, baby. took your punishment so well,” you praise softly, running your fingers through his hair to try and soothe the way you kept tugging on it earlier. soobin hums in contentment, an arm wrapping over your waist to tug you closer. 

“you called me your breeding bitch,” he pouts into your shoulder, making you chuckle. 

“you like it. maybe you’ll even get me pregnant,” you joke, dead serious. soobin snorts at the implication, still unaware of the fact that you two are actually trying with every time you fuck him into the mattress.

“maybe. we’d have cute kids,” he shrugs, and you hold onto him just a bit tighter. 

“you think so?”

“'course,” Soobin yawns. “can’t go wrong with my genes,” he brags cheekily, and you give him a light smack on the shoulder that he whines about. 

when you actually tell him around 4 weeks later that you’re pregnant, soobin swears that the world around him goes completely quiet. then he’s a stuttering, disbelieved, and stressed-out mess over the phone. 

“what do you mean you're pregnant? i thought you were on birth control?” and you lie easily, telling him that this must’ve been one of those rare cases where the medication didn't work. 

then there’s a long pause, and you’re worried that soobin might actually make you march up to a clinic and correct this mess of a situation before you’re met with the telltale hiccup of soobin’s ugly cry. you immediately hush him and reassure him that it’s alright, that everything will be fine. 

soobin feels terrible; he feels so guilty that he hadn’t been mindful enough about cleaning up and showering after sex. he feels like he’s ruined your youth and that he’s burdened you with a child, even though the two of you aren’t even married yet. you tell him it’s ok, that you don’t blame him and that you’re willing to make this work. soobin promises to come see you as soon as he can and promises to faceTtme the moment he gets off work to properly talk about all that’s going to happen. he’s calmed down with your words and reassurance, but you can tell he’s still frazzled.

the last thing you say to him is “i love you,"  but before that, you can’t help but joke that, hey, at least our baby’s guaranteed to be cute with your genes.

[themattgirl]

could you please make one where Chris and reader are dating and reader feels sick and Chris just takes care of her and acts all sweet and stuff? 🫠

an: thank you for the request ily 🧡

this turned out so much longer than i intended

this isn’t my first one shot but it’s the first with one of the sturniolo triplets in it. 

obviously their characters have been altered by me a little to fit into the story but i tried to make it as realistic as possible by keeping their personality traits as they are in real life.

also comment or like this post if you want to be added to the taglist

pairing: chris x fem!reader

word count: 4.1k

warnings: fluff, use of ‘babe’ and ‘ma’ as pet names for reader, intentional wrong spelling in text messages to make it more realistic, mentions of nsfw themes, swearing, lots of playful teasing between characters

y/n’s dialogue  

chris’ dialogue

matt’s dialogue

nick’s dialogue

mary lou’s dialogue

“it’s just a cold, nothing serious i promise. i don’t think i can come over today though, i don’t wanna infect any of you. i’m sorry for ruining movie night,” i say to chris on facetime before breaking into a cough. i turn the camera away from me, not wanting him to see me in a disgusting state like this. if i could, i would’ve muted myself so he doesn’t have to listen to it either. plus, i know how worried he gets with any type of sickness or unwell feeling really.

so, of course it wouldn’t be chris if he didn’t immediately furrow his brows.

“babe no, don’t apologize. you didn’t choose to get sick.”

he gets up from where he was sitting on the couch and goes downstairs to his bedroom. he puts the phone down so all i can see now is his ceiling. his voice sounds a little farther away when he speaks again, “it doesn’t really sound like nothing serious, does anything hurt?”

“to be honest, my whole body has been aching since i woke up this morning. it’s not too bad, just a dull ache, i can still move and all that, even if i’d prefer to just lay here and rot away,” i laugh and hold back the cough that wants to escape right after in hopes it would make him worry a little less. vainly.

“your voice sounds stuffy and kinda hoarse, does your throat hurt?”

“i forgot you turn into a doctor every time somebody doesn’t feel great,” i roll my eyes even though he can’t see it with his phone still down and him on the other side of the room from how distant his voice sounds.

“shut up, y/n. you feel worse than ‘not great’. you’re not fooling anyone with that act.”

he reappears on the screen. now i can see what he has been doing in the time i couldn’t see him. he put on a hoodie over the tank top he had been wearing before, the hair he had put up in a little ponytail - if you could even call it that - in the front has been untied and brushed. or maybe he just ran his fingers through his hair a couple of times, that’d be more like it.

“anyways baby, imma call mom real quick. be right back,” he hangs up before i get the chance to respond.

i put the phone down next to me on the bed i’ve been in since i realized this morning how much it hurt to stand up and how i felt like i was gonna throw up every time i moved too hastily.

i took a deep breath - well, as deep as a breath can get when your nose is clogged - and closed my eyes to try and concentrate on something other than the throbbing pain in my head.

i feel so much worse than how i described it to chris and i feel bad for kind of lying to him, i do. but he has been dealing with so much of his own lately - new designs for his brand, fixing the shipping issues with some of the orders from his last drop, coming up with video ideas and prefilming those before him, nick and matt go on tour again, preparing everything for said tour - see, he really doesn’t need me to add to his things-to-worry-about-list, especially if he can’t do anything to fix it and it’ll go away on its own anyway.

i feel my phone’s vibration from somewhere in between the sheets and grab it. it's messages from nick.

hey y/n heard your not feeling so good (:/ smiley) i was really excited to see you again today but don’t you dare feel guilty for it

i know how you guilt trip yourself into thinking everything is your fault

its kind of a good thing bc now i have time to get the matching pjs we wanted

hope you feel better soon tho

matts sick too maybe you got it from him when you helped him decorate his room yesterday

I hey y/n heard your not feeling so good 😕 i was really excited to see you again today but don’t you dare feel guilty for it

word spreads faaast 😂 i’m so sad i gotta wait another week or so to see you again i only like sleepovers cuz of u but dont tell chris 🤫

I i know how you guilt trip yourself into thinking everything is your fault

seriously i hate that yk me so well 😐

I its kind of a good thing bc now i have time to get the matching pjs we wanted

at first i was like 🤨 but then i kept reading i LOVE YOUU SO MUCH OMG just so yk chris was the second option

I hope you feel better soon tho

me too now i’m excited for the pajamaaas 😫

I matts sick too maybe you got it from him when you helped him decorate his room yesterday 🤔

i’m gonna kill him like fr this time

hey where tf is chris??

talking to mom shes teaching him sth honestly don’t ask idk

ok 😂 i think im gonna take a nap talk later?

yess get some rest and lmk if you need anything ❤️

ly❤️❤️

after sending the last message i get a call from matt. i contemplate not picking up for a second but decide against it.

“what?”

“uff, what’s that attitude?”

“i’m sick because of you, shithead.”

“we don’t know that. what if you’re the one who passed it on to me, hm? besides, i was just calling to tell you to drink some water and to ask if you need anything. i was actually being nice but you clearly don’t deserve it,” his voice is just as bad as mine, if not worse which makes me feel a little bad, but matt wouldn’t be one of my best friends if i had to worry about him getting mad every time i’m not nice. that’s actually how we bonded after annoying each other every chance we got. we both have a bit of an attitude problem which caused a lot of irritation and aggravation. now we get along better than any pair of best friends. the teasing stayed in place, but now we both know there’s only endless love behind it. sometimes you just gotta let off a bit of steam and we both just get that.

“fine, i’m sorry. sickness really does turn you soft, huh?” i smirk.

“why’re you saying it like you just confirmed a theory?”

“mary lou told me once and i’ve been waiting ever since to see for myself, guess she was right.”

“you are actually the worst. i’m hanging up now. drink water, bye.”

he hangs up the phone and i laugh to myself. what a big baby.

i open chris’ chat and type in a message telling him i’m going to sleep and that i will call him once i wake up again. i don’t bother waiting for a reply and just put the phone on my nightstand. i turn on my side, close my eyes and after that i don’t notice anything anymore.

i jolt up from bed, breathing heavy, body sweaty and heart racing. my room is dark, lit up only by the moon shining through my window. i look around trying to remember where i am and shake the nightmare from my mind.

i reach for my phone and check the time.

11:43 pm

i turn on the flashlight and right when i notice a black jacket hung over the back of my desk chair i hear footsteps coming closer.

chris pushes the door open and steps in.

“oh shit, did i wake you?”

“no i had a nightmare. what are doing here?”

i sit upright in bed and turn the flashlight off when chris flips the switch to turn on the fairy lights around the edges of my ceiling.

he moves to sit on the bed next to me before he answers, “i had mom teach me how to make her get-well-quick-soup and brought you some. she also told me about the perfect remedy tea, i can make it for you,” he stands up again immediately, “i’ll heat up the soup for you first. shit ma, have you even eaten anything today?” he stands by the door, holding the handle but looking back over his shoulder at me.

“chris,” i honestly don’t know what to say to him. he is so sweet i have to fight the tears that build up on my waterline. i just look at him for a moment, a little smile ghosting on my lips.

i’m well aware of how caring, considerate and compassionate chris is as a person in general, but it still baffles me sometimes how much he goes out of his way to make others feel good. i guess i’m just not used to it, being loved like this, having someone do everything that lies in their hands - and beyond that - just for me. it’s astonishing to say the least. especially when i myself have had issues with showing how deeply i cherish somebody ever since i can remember. it’s probably rooted somewhere in my past and how my affection has been received and responded to, that’s what my therapist says anyway.

i shake myself out of my thoughts and move the blanket away from my body to finally get up. immediately chris is beside me, holding me in place, “what’re you doing, ma? stay here i’ll bring it up,” he talks quietly, trying to get me to take in my previous lying position but i stay put on the ground.

“babe, i have been in this bed almost all day. i need to get up. i’ll just come down with you, we can eat together in the kitchen,” i try to convince him.

he looks at me, an uncertain expression on his face for a few seconds, the gears in his head almost visibly turning while he thinks about it. at last he lets out a sigh and nods, “alright then, hop on my back,” he bends over in a piggy back position in front of me and i can’t help the laugh that escapes me.

“you do know i can walk, right?” i ask still chuckling.

“i know, come ooon, just do it,” he urges me on and wiggles his hips, making me laugh even harder when i climb on his back.

“you’re gonna be so sick tomorrow, chris,” i complain mournfully once he lets me down to sit on the kitchen counter while he gets to heating up the soup he brought.

chris insists he’s not prone to catch a cold or any sickness easily, no matter how contagious or how close to the source he might be, even though he has proven himself wrong multiple times on more occasions than he cares to admit.

“no i won’t. besides, i could use a few days off even if i have to be sick to get that,” he lets out a huff of air trying to make it sound humorous, but both of us - and everyone who knows chris for that matter - knows that he is exhausted and is in desperate need of a break.

i know he doesn’t want me to get serious about that topic right now though so i try to change routes, “oh my god,” he turns around from where he was stirring the soup on the stove and faces me, confused about my shocked exclamation. i point an accusatory finger at him, my jaw hanging low but a smile still creeping it’s way on my face.

“so that’s why you’re here. you came to try and get infected, that’s why you carried me down too even though you know damn well i coulda walked by myself. and i’m here thinking you were actually being the best boyfriend on earth. turns out my man is a piece of shit,” by the end i fail to stay serious and let out a giggle. well, it’s not like he actually believed that i meant what i was saying but still.

he lets go of everything he was holding, turns around to me fully and begins to stalk toward me slowly.

“oh yeah?” i don’t know if it’s just me or if he’s doing it on purpose but all of a sudden his voice sounds deeper, his face more stern and serious.

“is that what you think then? i’m just a piece of shit?” he makes me nervous at first but the second i see the smirk on his lips i know exactly what’s about to follow.

“chris. no.”

he is standing right in front of me, so close he has positioned himself in between my legs, his hands on the counter on either side of me, trapping me. the finger i was pointing at him long since taken back.

“am i a piece of shit when i make you cum with just my tongue?” his face is so close now.

“stop,” i say quieter than i mean to, almost whisper-like.

“or when i fuck you so good you can’t walk right for days, am i a piece of shit then?”

this asshole is doing it on purpose. he knows i would never have sex with him when i’m sick so he’s trying to rile me up the little fucker. have i mentioned that i actually hate him. like for real hate him. the type of hate that leads to an absolutely mindblowing fuck. shit.

“or yesterday when you told matt you needed a break and came downstairs to my room to suck me off and then you just wiped your mouth and went back up like nothing happened. did you do it because i’m a piece of shit?”

my jaw is on the floor.

“or when–”

“OKAY,” i practically scream, “you’re the best and i didn’t mean what i said, just please stop.”

i’m almost whining at this point.

i try to rub my legs together to ease some of the friction unnoticeably but chris is like a hawk, sees everything, notices everything. and then he smiles. just smiles and goes back to the soup.

later that night, after i was forced to eat almost all of the soup and drink two cups of magic tea while chris downed a cheese burger, fries and three of the last four pepsi cans i had in my fridge, we snuggled up on the couch with a heavy blanket that chris had also asked his mom for, thrown over both of our laps and a random movie playing on the tv. 

neither one of us actually felt like watching something but we threw it on as background noise anyway. chris and i have barely seen each other in almost two weeks so all we want right now is to enjoy each other's company. he has been so busy with all that’s coming up for him and his brothers, still is. and i've been studying like crazy because i always feel like i won’t pass if i don’t and when i wasn’t busy with that i’d be at work to earn my living and feel like i’m doing enough. so there wasn't really time for us to actually be together and get to enjoy it. i've missed it.

“you know you’re probably sick because you exhaust yourself all the time,” chris says when he turns to look at me.

“shh,” i shush him with my eyes closed and a smile on my lips, “i got it from matt, no discussion.”

he lets out a little laugh at that, “yes discussion. if you keep going like that, one day it’s gonna have more serious effects on your health than a cold. you don’t even need to do all that. how many times do i have to tell you your life is worth enough even if you don’t work yourself half to death and have a little fun every once in a while,” he rubs my thigh while talking. chris knows better than anyone that i don’t like being put on the spot and lectured about my not-so-healthy habits like that, especially when i know exactly that it’s in fact very unhealthy. but he also insists on having these talks with me because he knows i would shut out everyone else who’d dare to try immediately. he and his brothers are the only three people i have let come so close and they make use of that quite often, might i say. but it’s okay because these people are my best friends and i know i need to be put in check sometimes, i admit. nobody else would dare try but them so i just let them. 

i must say, it has helped me improve my life to an extent. they taught me that it’s okay to cut ties with people who are bad for my mental health and encourage bad habits, and that i don’t owe shit to them even if they want to make me believe that. they kept telling me “quality friends are worth so much more than a big amount of bad ones” until it finally clicked in my brain and i blocked half of my contact list.

“look who’s talkin’. mister i work twice as hard as the person i try to lecture,” i jab my finger in his side and he jerks.

“you know that’s different,” he holds my hands in his to stop me from doing it again.

i like feeling his hands on mine. i know he’s my boyfriend and it might be weird to say it like that. but i haven’t seen him in so long, which means i also haven’t felt him in so long. it’s crazy but it almost feels like in the beginning when we were scared to touch each other and would act like we accidentally brushed our hand on the other but we both knew it was fully on purpose.

chris pulls me out of my thoughts again when he speaks, “at least i have an end in sight and work’s gonna be way more relaxed once i’m done with everything. with you there’s always–”

the ringing of his phone cuts him off and he takes a look at the caller id, his mom. he narrows his eyes at me and gives me a look that says “we’re not done yet” but picks up the phone and holds it up so she can see the both of us on the screen.

“i was going to ask chris about you but since you’re with him please pinch him for me,” is the first thing mary lou says when she looks at us. and i gladly do as she says even though i don't know what he did to deserve it.

“oww, what was that for?” chris asks whining and i just shrug and chuckle.

“you told me you would bring y/n the soup and go back home. you lied to me.”

i turn to him with my mouth hanging open, “christopher owen, how dare you?”

it’s so fun to aggravate chris.

he furrows his brows at me and then looks back at the screen, “she literally begged me,” he straight up lies. “i was trying to tell her i didn’t wanna get sick so i could only drop off the soup and blanket and would have to leave again but then she started crying–”

i hit him for real this time, hard enough to make him suck air through his teeth.

“mary lou, don’t believe a word he says.”

“i know, darling, you wouldn’t do that. chris, that’s twice you’ve lied today.”

“sorry, mom,” he actually looks defeated now, “you know i can’t just leave her all alone when she’s like this. i lied because i didn’t wanna worry you. i won’t get sick though,” at that me and her give each other a knowing look but let him continue, “y/n’s weak and in pain, of course i’ll be by her side as much as i can, you probably knew i was here, that’s why you called me,” chris wiggles his finger at his mom with a cheeky smile while she’s trying to hide her own.

“alright, alright,” she gives in, “that’s how young love is, i guess. anyway, have you eaten the soup yet?”

“almost all of it,” i report proudly, rubbing my stomach.

“only forced,” chris side-eyes me and i roll my eyes at him.

“and the tea?” mary lou just keeps going. well, i definitely know where her son gets the caring from.

i grab the mug that’s been sitting on the table for two hours and could now be considered iced tea and hold it up for her to see, “this is my third,” i take a sip.

“very good. okay, well, i just wanted to check if chris is taking good care of you. it’s important for you to get enough rest, don’t go to sleep too late, alright darling? i have to go now but if you need something just give me a call. i’ll talk to you both in the morning. good night, i love you,” she blows two kisses as we tell her we love her and then she ends the call.

right when chris puts his phone down we hear the doorbell ring.

we both glance at the direction of the front door as if we could see through it and figure out who’s standing on the other side. then we turn and look at each other.

“expecting someone?” chris asks me and i just shake my head no and shrug unknowingly.

“open up!” the voice sounds muffled but it’s unmistakably matt.

chris rolls his eyes and sighs loudly and i just giggle.

he moves the blanket and gets up to go open the door but stops in his tracks suddenly, turns around again, bends down and kisses me.

“won’t be able to do that for a while if he’s here,” he explains before he goes.

matt and nick do complain every time we kiss in front of them, so we agreed on trying not to do it anymore. they act like little kids being forced to see their parents being all lovey-dovey with each other. at least one of them always yells “GET A ROOM!” as if they’re not invading our personal space. big babies, like i said.

“what’s up, bitches?” nick walks in wearing the pajamas we wanted to match, holding up his hands. one holding what i assume is my set of the exact same one and a pillow in his other hand.

i jump up from the couch immediately and squeal as i run toward him to hug him.

“what are you doing here?” i ask once we let go of each other, our smiles still as big as ever.

“since chris is here breathing in germs and this one,” he points his thumb over his shoulder where matt is giving chris a pajama pair, “is already sick i thought we might as well have our movie night here since i’m getting it from one of you either way.”

“i’m so happy,” i squeak, elongating the words.

“aren’t you happy to see me too?” matt acts sad and offended when he moves to stand next to nick.

i roll my eyes but give him a big hug, “i am actually.”

chris scoffs and we all laugh. he moves to stand closer to me and i wrap my arms around him, tilting my head to look at him.

“you guys can go in the kitchen, grab some snacks while me and chris put on our pajamas,” i say to nick and matt, my eyes still locked on my boyfriend.

they do as they’re told once the’ve put down their things and soon enough they’re out of sight.

“you good?” chris asks me quietly, stroking my hair gently

“yeah. i just realized our alone time is over,” i respond in a hushed tone.

he gives me a kiss on the forehead before he talks, “it’s okay, we’ll just go up to your room when they’re asleep. nothing’s keeping me away from you tonight.”

hearing it makes comfort spread in my chest in a way i didn’t know i needed right now.

“i love you so much, chris. thank you for everything,” i try to sound genuine, because i truly am.

he holds my chin between his thumb and forefinger and dips his head until his lips meet mine.

“i love you too, ma.”

taglist:

@strniolosworld @that-general-simp @sturniolosreads @whoreforchr1s

[mostlysignssomeportents]

The surprising truth about data-driven dictatorships

Here’s the “dictator’s dilemma”: they want to block their country’s frustrated elites from mobilizing against them, so they censor public communications; but they also want to know what their people truly believe, so they can head off simmering resentments before they boil over into regime-toppling revolutions.

These two strategies are in tension: the more you censor, the less you know about the true feelings of your citizens and the easier it will be to miss serious problems until they spill over into the streets (think: the fall of the Berlin Wall or Tunisia before the Arab Spring). Dictators try to square this circle with things like private opinion polling or petition systems, but these capture a small slice of the potentially destabiziling moods circulating in the body politic.

Enter AI: back in 2018, Yuval Harari proposed that AI would supercharge dictatorships by mining and summarizing the public mood — as captured on social media — allowing dictators to tack into serious discontent and diffuse it before it erupted into unequenchable wildfire:

https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2018/10/yuval-noah-harari-technology-tyranny/568330/

Harari wrote that “the desire to concentrate all information and power in one place may become [dictators] decisive advantage in the 21st century.” But other political scientists sharply disagreed. Last year, Henry Farrell, Jeremy Wallace and Abraham Newman published a thoroughgoing rebuttal to Harari in Foreign Affairs:

https://www.foreignaffairs.com/world/spirals-delusion-artificial-intelligence-decision-making

They argued that — like everyone who gets excited about AI, only to have their hopes dashed — dictators seeking to use AI to understand the public mood would run into serious training data bias problems. After all, people living under dictatorships know that spouting off about their discontent and desire for change is a risky business, so they will self-censor on social media. That’s true even if a person isn’t afraid of retaliation: if you know that using certain words or phrases in a post will get it autoblocked by a censorbot, what’s the point of trying to use those words?

The phrase “Garbage In, Garbage Out” dates back to 1957. That’s how long we’ve known that a computer that operates on bad data will barf up bad conclusions. But this is a very inconvenient truth for AI weirdos: having given up on manually assembling training data based on careful human judgment with multiple review steps, the AI industry “pivoted” to mass ingestion of scraped data from the whole internet.

But adding more unreliable data to an unreliable dataset doesn’t improve its reliability. GIGO is the iron law of computing, and you can’t repeal it by shoveling more garbage into the top of the training funnel:

https://memex.craphound.com/2018/05/29/garbage-in-garbage-out-machine-learning-has-not-repealed-the-iron-law-of-computer-science/

When it comes to “AI” that’s used for decision support — that is, when an algorithm tells humans what to do and they do it — then you get something worse than Garbage In, Garbage Out — you get Garbage In, Garbage Out, Garbage Back In Again. That’s when the AI spits out something wrong, and then another AI sucks up that wrong conclusion and uses it to generate more conclusions.

To see this in action, consider the deeply flawed predictive policing systems that cities around the world rely on. These systems suck up crime data from the cops, then predict where crime is going to be, and send cops to those “hotspots” to do things like throw Black kids up against a wall and make them turn out their pockets, or pull over drivers and search their cars after pretending to have smelled cannabis.

The problem here is that “crime the police detected” isn’t the same as “crime.” You only find crime where you look for it. For example, there are far more incidents of domestic abuse reported in apartment buildings than in fully detached homes. That’s not because apartment dwellers are more likely to be wife-beaters: it’s because domestic abuse is most often reported by a neighbor who hears it through the walls.

So if your cops practice racially biased policing (I know, this is hard to imagine, but stay with me /s), then the crime they detect will already be a function of bias. If you only ever throw Black kids up against a wall and turn out their pockets, then every knife and dime-bag you find in someone’s pockets will come from some Black kid the cops decided to harass.

That’s life without AI. But now let’s throw in predictive policing: feed your “knives found in pockets��� data to an algorithm and ask it to predict where there are more knives in pockets, and it will send you back to that Black neighborhood and tell you do throw even more Black kids up against a wall and search their pockets. The more you do this, the more knives you’ll find, and the more you’ll go back and do it again.

This is what Patrick Ball from the Human Rights Data Analysis Group calls “empiricism washing”: take a biased procedure and feed it to an algorithm, and then you get to go and do more biased procedures, and whenever anyone accuses you of bias, you can insist that you’re just following an empirical conclusion of a neutral algorithm, because “math can’t be racist.”

HRDAG has done excellent work on this, finding a natural experiment that makes the problem of GIGOGBI crystal clear. The National Survey On Drug Use and Health produces the gold standard snapshot of drug use in America. Kristian Lum and William Isaac took Oakland’s drug arrest data from 2010 and asked Predpol, a leading predictive policing product, to predict where Oakland’s 2011 drug use would take place.

[Image ID: (a) Number of drug arrests made by Oakland police department, 2010. (1) West Oakland, (2) International Boulevard. (b) Estimated number of drug users, based on 2011 National Survey on Drug Use and Health]

Then, they compared those predictions to the outcomes of the 2011 survey, which shows where actual drug use took place. The two maps couldn’t be more different:

https://rss.onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/full/10.1111/j.1740-9713.2016.00960.x

Predpol told cops to go and look for drug use in a predominantly Black, working class neighborhood. Meanwhile the NSDUH survey showed the actual drug use took place all over Oakland, with a higher concentration in the Berkeley-neighboring student neighborhood.

What’s even more vivid is what happens when you simulate running Predpol on the new arrest data that would be generated by cops following its recommendations. If the cops went to that Black neighborhood and found more drugs there and told Predpol about it, the recommendation gets stronger and more confident.

In other words, GIGOGBI is a system for concentrating bias. Even trace amounts of bias in the original training data get refined and magnified when they are output though a decision support system that directs humans to go an act on that output. Algorithms are to bias what centrifuges are to radioactive ore: a way to turn minute amounts of bias into pluripotent, indestructible toxic waste.

There’s a great name for an AI that’s trained on an AI’s output, courtesy of Jathan Sadowski: “Habsburg AI.”

And that brings me back to the Dictator’s Dilemma. If your citizens are self-censoring in order to avoid retaliation or algorithmic shadowbanning, then the AI you train on their posts in order to find out what they’re really thinking will steer you in the opposite direction, so you make bad policies that make people angrier and destabilize things more.

Or at least, that was Farrell(et al)’s theory. And for many years, that’s where the debate over AI and dictatorship has stalled: theory vs theory. But now, there’s some empirical data on this, thanks to the “The Digital Dictator’s Dilemma,” a new paper from UCSD PhD candidate Eddie Yang:

https://www.eddieyang.net/research/DDD.pdf

Yang figured out a way to test these dueling hypotheses. He got 10 million Chinese social media posts from the start of the pandemic, before companies like Weibo were required to censor certain pandemic-related posts as politically sensitive. Yang treats these posts as a robust snapshot of public opinion: because there was no censorship of pandemic-related chatter, Chinese users were free to post anything they wanted without having to self-censor for fear of retaliation or deletion.

Next, Yang acquired the censorship model used by a real Chinese social media company to decide which posts should be blocked. Using this, he was able to determine which of the posts in the original set would be censored today in China.

That means that Yang knows that the “real” sentiment in the Chinese social media snapshot is, and what Chinese authorities would believe it to be if Chinese users were self-censoring all the posts that would be flagged by censorware today.

From here, Yang was able to play with the knobs, and determine how “preference-falsification” (when users lie about their feelings) and self-censorship would give a dictatorship a misleading view of public sentiment. What he finds is that the more repressive a regime is — the more people are incentivized to falsify or censor their views — the worse the system gets at uncovering the true public mood.

What’s more, adding additional (bad) data to the system doesn’t fix this “missing data” problem. GIGO remains an iron law of computing in this context, too.

But it gets better (or worse, I guess): Yang models a “crisis” scenario in which users stop self-censoring and start articulating their true views (because they’ve run out of fucks to give). This is the most dangerous moment for a dictator, and depending on the dictatorship handles it, they either get another decade or rule, or they wake up with guillotines on their lawns.

But “crisis” is where AI performs the worst. Trained on the “status quo” data where users are continuously self-censoring and preference-falsifying, AI has no clue how to handle the unvarnished truth. Both its recommendations about what to censor and its summaries of public sentiment are the least accurate when crisis erupts.

But here’s an interesting wrinkle: Yang scraped a bunch of Chinese users’ posts from Twitter — which the Chinese government doesn’t get to censor (yet) or spy on (yet) — and fed them to the model. He hypothesized that when Chinese users post to American social media, they don’t self-censor or preference-falsify, so this data should help the model improve its accuracy.

He was right — the model got significantly better once it ingested data from Twitter than when it was working solely from Weibo posts. And Yang notes that dictatorships all over the world are widely understood to be scraping western/northern social media.

But even though Twitter data improved the model’s accuracy, it was still wildly inaccurate, compared to the same model trained on a full set of un-self-censored, un-falsified data. GIGO is not an option, it’s the law (of computing).

Writing about the study on Crooked Timber, Farrell notes that as the world fills up with “garbage and noise” (he invokes Philip K Dick’s delighted coinage “gubbish”), “approximately correct knowledge becomes the scarce and valuable resource.”

https://crookedtimber.org/2023/07/25/51610/

This “probably approximately correct knowledge” comes from humans, not LLMs or AI, and so “the social applications of machine learning in non-authoritarian societies are just as parasitic on these forms of human knowledge production as authoritarian governments.”

The Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers’ Workshop summer fundraiser is almost over! I am an alum, instructor and volunteer board member for this nonprofit workshop whose alums include Octavia Butler, Kim Stanley Robinson, Bruce Sterling, Nalo Hopkinson, Kameron Hurley, Nnedi Okorafor, Lucius Shepard, and Ted Chiang! Your donations will help us subsidize tuition for students, making Clarion — and sf/f — more accessible for all kinds of writers.

Libro.fm is the indie-bookstore-friendly, DRM-free audiobook alternative to Audible, the Amazon-owned monopolist that locks every book you buy to Amazon forever. When you buy a book on Libro, they share some of the purchase price with a local indie bookstore of your choosing (Libro is the best partner I have in selling my own DRM-free audiobooks!). As of today, Libro is even better, because it’s available in five new territories and currencies: Canada, the UK, the EU, Australia and New Zealand!

[Image ID: An altered image of the Nuremberg rally, with ranked lines of soldiers facing a towering figure in a many-ribboned soldier's coat. He wears a high-peaked cap with a microchip in place of insignia. His head has been replaced with the menacing red eye of HAL9000 from Stanley Kubrick's '2001: A Space Odyssey.' The sky behind him is filled with a 'code waterfall' from 'The Matrix.']

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

 — 

Raimond Spekking (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Acer_Extensa_5220_-_Columbia_MB_06236-1N_-_Intel_Celeron_M_530_-_SLA2G_-_in_Socket_479-5029.jpg

CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/deed.en

 — 

Russian Airborne Troops (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Vladislav_Achalov_at_the_Airborne_Troops_Day_in_Moscow_%E2%80%93_August_2,_2008.jpg

“Soldiers of Russia” Cultural Center (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Col._Leonid_Khabarov_in_an_everyday_service_uniform.JPG

CC BY-SA 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/deed.en

[pensat-i-fet]

From one wedding... (Rúben Dias x Reader)

**Naturally, after seeing Rúben at Bernardo's wedding, I got some requests to do a wedding related imagine. The person who requested here on Tumblr was @mountsgirl​ and I think I managed to do the request as close to what was requested as possible. I already had another wedding imagine from a couple of months ago and my aim was to make them different enough that you wouldn't feel you're just reading the same thing twice. Also, the title is explained in the imagine. Enjoy!! ❤️**

Word count: 1866

Masterlist

Wattpad

“Tomorrow is the big day”.

“You say it as if it was us getting married and not your friends”, you laughed, falling on the bed and wincing.

“What’s wrong?”

“My back still hurts. I knew we should have taken the sunscreen bottle to that cave expedition you wanted us to do”.

“Let me see”.

You took your shirt off so Rúben could see your back and flinched a little when he touched the still sensitive area.

“It looks much better. You can barely tell it’s red anymore”.

“Really?”

“Want me to put some more cream on it?”

You nodded, thankful for his help. Your dress for the wedding showed half of your back and the last thing you wanted was for everyone to see a big ugly sunburn.

“That feels nice”, you said, closing your eyes and enjoying the cooling effect of the cream and the way Rúben’s hand massaged your skin.

“Done”, he said, kissing the back of your neck.

“Thank you! Let’s go to bed now. Long day tomorrow but I can’t wait to see you wearing a suit”.

“I was wearing one the day we met”.

“And that’s how you tricked me into dating you”, you joked, pecking his lips and going to the bathroom to brush your teeth.

Rúben stared at you and then kept staring at the closed door. He had been feeling some type of way lately, and the wedding you were about to attend only made that feeling bigger. But he shook his head and got those ideas out of his head. It was too soon.

                                          **

Between the slight jet lag you had from your time in America and how early you had to wake up, you began the day already exhausted. Your eyes kept closing and you tried your hardest to stay awake.

“That coffee isn’t helping”.

“Don’t mock me, Rúben. I’m so tired”.

“Yeah, me too. Maybe we could sleep a little. I think we have another hour until we get there”.

“Can’t”, you groaned.

“Why?”

You and Rúben had never been on a long car trip together so he didn’t know. “I get travel sick when I’m on long drives like this one. But it’s better if I don’t sleep. Don’t ask me why”, you shrugged. “It’s how it works”.

“Well, we can’t have that. Is there anything that helps?”

“Funnily enough, looking outside of the car. Apparently, I get sick because I’m moving but I’m also not moving so my brain doesn’t understand what’s going on. And so seeing the outside moving helps. I don’t know, I read that in an article once”.

“You and your I read that in an article once”, he laughed and you hit him in the chest, making him laugh harder.

Once he was done laughing, Rúben moved to sit in the middle of the back seat to be closer to you. He turned you slightly so you could still look outside of the window and he could bring you closer to him to hug you.

“Let’s talk about what we see. Concentrate on that”.

Smiling, you did just that and started to describe the mountains and the little houses you saw sometimes. Not only did it help you not feel bad, but it also made the whole trip go by so much quicker.

“We are here. Let’s find our room”.

Rúben took your hand and a couple of minutes later, you were in your room. You placed your dress on the bed, carefully, and started to unpack all the things you needed to get ready.

“I’m going to need your help, Dias. Don’t get too comfortable”.

“With what? I can’t do your make-up. I mean, I can. But you don’t want me to”.

“Just with little things in general. Please”.

“No need to use puppy eyes. I was going to help you anyways”.

While he was helping you get ready, Rúben couldn’t help but go back to those thoughts he had been having lately. You looked so adorable wearing one of his old shirts and moving around the room getting all the things you needed.

“Last one, please”, you said and he gave you another roller to put on your head. “Rate how sexy I look from 1 to 10”.

“80”.

“Wait until I put the black face mask on. It’ll be a 100!”

“Can I have a kiss first?”

You leaned down to kiss Rúben before running to the bathroom again to put on your mask. The smile on your face couldn’t be bigger and his was matching yours.

"So you had the rollers on but now have to curl the hair anyways. It doesn’t make sense”.

“It actually does, hence why I did it like this”.

“If you say so…what else can I do?”

“Why don’t you start getting ready?”

“I don’t take as long as you. I’m fine”.

You moved the curling iron away from your face to laugh properly. “You don’t take long to get ready…right”.

“So funny! But I mean today. I just have to put the suit on and brush my hair”.

“Can I brush your hair? Please!!”

“Sure”, now it was his turn to laugh.

Once your hair and make-up were done, you and Rúben started to get dressed. You kept trying to look in the mirror to see how red your back looked and Rúben noticed.

“It’s fine. Not red at all. Does it hurt?”

“Not really. Can you take a photo so I see how it looks? I could always wear a jacket to cover the area, even if it would look terrible with this dress”.

He took the photo and showed it to you. And you were so relieved to see the skin was back to a normal colour. It still hurt a bit but no one would know.

“Do you like the dress?”, you asked, spinning around the room.

“I love it. And the colour looks great on you”.

“Thank you. I liked it better in white but obviously had to go for this shade instead”.

“White?”, now Rúben’s mind went back to those feelings that wouldn’t leave. “I wanted to see you wearing the white dress”, he said, almost to himself.

“I can’t wear white to someone else’s wedding”, you laughed, not understanding his comments.

“Of course”.

“Give me the brush now. I want to play with that gorgeous fluffy hair you have”.

Sitting down on the bed, you positioned yourself in between his legs and started to brush his hair gently.

"Ready!", you winked. And you both made your way to the ceremony.

                                       **

The wedding venue was so stunning you had to remind yourself that you should be looking at the ceremony and not at your surroundings. Rúben noticed and he put his arm around your shoulders, bringing you closer to him so he could whisper.

“We’ll come back here another time so you can see the area better, ok?”

You nodded, smiling. You were having the same idea at the moment. And even if Rúben didn’t know, other ideas he had were also reciprocated by you. But you weren't going to tell him.

Everyone gathered around the newlyweds to congratulate them and take photos. And when it was your turn, Rúben gave Bernardo a little “friendly” push. Bernardo looked as shocked as he always did when Rúben hit him, even if he should be used to it by now, and moved to hide behind his now wife.

"You can't be violent near a pregnant woman".

"Rúben, I told you your wedding gift was not hitting poor Bernardo", you said, slapping his arm.

"But it's fun".

"Psycho", said you and Bernardo at the same time, making Ines laugh.

More photos were taken, some with you in them but most of them with just Rúben and his teammates. You didn’t mind, not really enjoying being seen much on social media. But you did check the photos other people were taking and noticed one of Rúben’s friends added an interesting caption.

“Look”, you said to him, showing him the photo.

“What is it?”

“The caption”.

He read it and when he got to the end, he looked at you quickly. Why were you showing him that?

“Who’s next? Well, Ines didn’t throw her bouquet to the guests so we don’t know”, he laughed uncomfortably.

“You know? There is a saying in Spanish that says “de una boda sale otra”, which is like from one wedding we get another one. The caption reminded me of that”.

“Would you like it if there was another wedding soon?”

You looked up at him, trying to understand the meaning behind that question but he looked away. “I guess. It’s fun to attend them. And I get to see you wearing a suit”.

“It’s fun, yeah”, you wanted to say something to him but he spoke first. “They look so in love”.

You nodded and hugged Rúben’s arm before putting your head on his shoulder. “I like to think that’s how we look when people look at us”.

He kissed your head and kept looking at the band that was playing music, enjoying the moment. And also hoping that you both looked like that when people looked at you.

After a few hours of dancing and chatting with all the other guests, it was time to go back to the room.

“The gifts they got for the guests are so adorable. I even got pyjamas to wear while we’re here with my initials on them. You know how I love those silly details”.

“I didn’t get any pyjamas”.

“You’ll have to sleep naked then, Rúben. Terrible news but what else can we do?”

Rúben slapped your bum when you walked towards the bathroom but there were no more playful looks when you got out, wearing the white pyjamas Ines had picked for the female guests. They looked like something the bride would wear. It was a little inside joke she found funny and so did you. For Rúben…it only made those feelings harder to contain.

“Have you seen a ghost?”, you asked, walking to stand in between his legs while he just stared at you. “Or are you going to be super corny and say you saw an angel?”, you laughed.

“Marry me”.

“What?”

“I’m stupid”, he said, standing and moving away from you.

“Why would you be stupid?”

“I’ve been thinking about proposing for months now. And thinking about all the big gestures I could do because you deserve that. And now I just let these feelings I’ve had all weekend take over and just ask you like that…and I shouldn’t even ask you. We haven’t been dating for that long. I don’t want to scare you away. But…”.

“Stop talking”, you said, standing now in front of him and placing your index finger on his lips. “I’ve been having the same feelings, or thoughts, whatever you want to call them. But I didn’t want to scare you”.

“Really?”

You nodded. “And I don’t need gestures or you getting down on one knee or whatever. I just need you to really mean it when you say you want to marry me. So…do you really mean it?”

“I do”.

“Then let’s do it!”

[moonrisecoeur]

pls expand on the daddy kink thing i’m begging you

YES OF COURSE BBY!!

fem reader. this isn’t technically afab but was written from that perspective.

leon is beyond embarrassed. try mortified. when you’d said you had a daddy kink, he thought you meant the other way around. like, the normal way. which didn’t really make sense given the track record of other things you like, but he didn’t really think that far. he was expecting to try this once, to cringe just a little bit internally when you call him that and then say it just ‘wasn’t for him’.

and then you tell him, “it’s not me who’s gonna be calling someone daddy.”

and of course you buffer that with things like ‘but only if you’re comfortable with it!’ and ‘you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do!’ but it all goes in one ear and out the other and all leon can think about is you want him to call you daddy. he’s distraught.

you want to humiliate him, clearly. clearly you’re not asking for this because you want to assume some sort of paternal role in your relationship, you’re asking this because you know it hurts his ego to call his girlfriend something so powerful, so masculine. and he knows you like it.

he would have thought you’d want to be called mommy, which is something he could more easily get behind. not that he wants to think of you as his mother, but that’s more appropriate, isn’t it? why would you want to be called a name so manly? he can’t make sense of it.

he agrees to try it once, once, because he can’t not give you what you want when you look at him with those pleading puppy eyes. evil.

after making out for a little bit, kissing and biting his lips, enjoying the low groans that escape him when your bites get a little too aggressive, you decide it’s time. he already seems a little dazed, when would be more perfect?

“can you say it?” you ask softly, knowing you’ll have to be patient with him, coax it out of him.

he looks away, shyly, and you catch the way his heartbeat picks up. he’s nervous, clearly. you’re not sure if that’s a bad thing yet.

“…daddy,” he whispers. he does in fact, cringe at the sound of his voice like he thought he would. his face is red, his heart is pounding. god he’s pretty when he’s embarrassed. he wishes he could take it back for just a moment, he wishes he could find a way out of this experience so he could die peacefully. he knows he realistically could, that you could stop at any time, but something prevents him from doing so.

it’s the shift in your demeanor that catches his attention. he finally makes eye contact with you after a painful could seconds of silence.

the soft, loving girlfriend he adores and treasures is locked away right now, and he’s left with a side of you he hasn’t experienced yet. you feel like a different person.

“god, leon, if you- if you keep saying it like that…”you groan, more than satisfied. can’t even bother to finish your thoughts, “say it again.”

he shivers at the tone in your command, “daddy… wait i- uhm-”

you stop. you’re waiting for the words that are going to crush your soul. can we stop? this is weird and i don’t want to do this anymore. you’re weird for liking this. you know leon’s too kind to say it like that, but you worry that’s what he thinks.

but he’s always full of surprises.

“please, daddy… please,” he whimpers, eyes closed in his embarrassment, and your concentration breaks for a moment. it’s confusing, but it’s also invigorating, intoxicating.

“oh, fuck, leon,” you groan, “you can’t beg me like that…”

“what..? why not?”

you take a moment to appreciate how pretty he looks under you, that word escaping his pretty lips as he begs, “because i will ruin you, until that’s all you can do: beg for daddy to fuck you.”

he swallows dryly, his heart pounding in his chest. he’s still far beyond embarrassed, and he would be horrified if anyone heard or saw what was happening. he would rather die than face the world that knows he’s getting off on calling his girlfriend daddy when it theoretically should be the other way around. but you’re not theoretical. far from it.

[shini--chan]

hiya!! hope you’re having a good day, could i request 1p! and 2p! canada’s reaction to when their s/o finally gains enough of their trust to cook for them— only for them to try to poison their food? i know its oddly specific my bad lol

Don’t worry, it isn’t bad, or too specific. I wrote it gladly. 

Trigger warnings: poisoning, body horror, temporary character death, descriptions of corpses

Yandere 1p! & 2p! Canada - Sweet Lilly-of-the-Valley

Native to woodland areas, Sweet Lilly-of-the-Valley blooms in spring. The sprays of white bell-like flowers are sweet smelling and the resulting fruit take the shape of bright red berries. In the language of flowers, it symbolises happiness. It is often used in wedding bouquets and to make perfumes. Due to the high concentration of cardenolides, it is highly toxic. 

1p Canada

Sweat made your shirt stick to your torso in an uncomfortable manner, yet you were too tired to take it off, not to mention putting on a new one. You leaned back against the cool tiles of the bathroom wall and closed your eyes. Now, you just wanted to curl up where you were and fall asleep. You were so exhausted, both in body and in soul, that you thought you could sleep for a few days straight, damn the corpse that was in the other room.

Matthew's death had been surprisingly violent, something that you hadn't expected from a poisoning. Poison - you had just murdered somebody. It felt surreal, and the mere thought of it made your stomach twist and your limbs feel heavier than they were. It wasn't like it was a cold blooded crime that you had just committed, so why were you feeling so guilty?

Had you developed Stockholm Syndrome, between all the restrictions and isolation and coercion? Perhaps you had started to believe your captor again, when he explained that he was ruining your life because he loved you? It was twisted and fitted all too well into the mess that your life had become as of late. 

Talking of mess, you'd have to deal with the dead body at the other side of the bathroom door sooner or later. The vomit and blood that littered the living room floor would also have to be cleaned up, as well as the ash that he had tried to eat before he had become too weak to move. 

"I didn't think you had it in you."

Your eyes snapped open and you lazily turned your head in the direction of the voice. Matthew was standing in front of you, looking exactly as he had just minutes after his death. Since you hadn't heard footsteps or the door opening, this was probably just a hallucination conjured up by your overworked brain. 

"You always underestimated me, so the joke is on you", you shot back. If you were going to have a chat with the deceased, best play along and let off some steam. "For somebody that always complained of being seen as weak, you had the surprising tendency to underestimate those around you."

The corpse tilted its head in an eerie mockery of a living person. With his unearthly pallor, it looked like somebody was manipulating the head of a porcelain marionette. 

"So many spiteful words. Why couldn't you tell me about your problems before?"

At that, you snorted. Such a statement was rich coming from him. 

"I tried to tell you often enough, but you never listened. You always just brushed it off as me being childish. But now that you are dead, I don't have to worry about such things anymore."

Matthew grinned at that, exposing white teeth covered in blood. In death, his appearance suited his hidden vileness.

"Are you really sure that I'm dead?"

Since Canada would want nothing more than a "decent" relationship with you, the poisoning would actually catch him unawares, granted that you're not extremely sloppy. So he would die. Before that, he would put up a fight and do his best to get an antidote or some other countermeasure, as soon as he realises what is going on. Should he still be capable of speech, then he'll try to guilt trip or manipulate you into saving him. 

As a nation, he wouldn't stay dead for long. Once he revives, he'll scare the living daylights out of you. He wouldn't have wanted to reveal his innate nature this way, but since you would have left him with no other choice, he'd elect to use the opportunity to his advantage. The ensuing punishment would be harsher than any proceeding one.

2p Canada

The moment he disappeared to go to the toilet was the moment you chose to act. Quickly, you removed the flowers from the vase and poured some of the water into his half-empty beer. To cover your tracks, you poured some of the beer that was still in the bottle into the glass and the rest went down the drain. The Lily-of-the-valleys were returned to the vase, just in time as well.

 A few seconds later, James strode over the threshold and plonked down at the dining table. You had your back turned to him, and busied yourself with the food on the stove. Or tried to, because your hands were trembling and your heart was in your throat. 

You watched his reflection in the window and took deep breaths. James had picked the magazine he had been reading and resumed where he had left off. After a few minutes, he reached for his beer. Upon seeing that you had refilled it for him, he let out an appreciative grunt and a curt "Thanks." and placed the glass on his lips. A usual interaction - you didn't bother replying. 

The feeling of fear soared when you noted his frown, and how he looked at the glass in his hand with suspicion. He spat the beer out and fixed an angry glare at you. Before he could go on a triade, you took the initiative:

"You are darn rude, spitting stuff like that out. How old are you again? Four?"

Now, you turned around to face him. The best defence is offence, after all. 

"Hello pot, I'm kettle", he snarked. "What the blazes did you put in my beer?"

Unlike his 1p counterpart, James would be very cautious when it comes to you. While he would gladly embrace a more loving relationship, he wouldn't let his guard down. To him, it would just be the quiet before the storm. Additionally, he would be quick to taste most poisons you'd manage to get your hands on, being a trained nature conservationist. 

As such, he wouldn't feel betrayed when you finally do show your colours. Though, on top of your punishment for trying to kill him, you'd get a punishment for being cunning. If there is one trait he hates above all else, then it is cunning. 

[save-the-villainous-cat]

could u do a villain having a crush on hero, but not admitting it, and the other villains/henchmen teasing them for it bc they’re all “i am the epitome of darkness and all things evil” but when hero shows up they’re a blushing mess 😭 love ur writing <3

The henchman looked down at their victim. Slowly, they kicked them with their boot over, so that they were lying on their back. Blood was dripping down a wound on their forehead and their eyes seemed to be glassy already. What they hated the most about this job was the cleaning. A crime scene was truly hard to make look like before.

They wrinkled their nose.

“Looking pretty dead, if you ask me.” They turned towards their boss and tilted their head, hopefully signalling them that this meant they could wrap things up.

“We haven’t checked all of the perimeter,” the villain noted. The henchman knew quite well the villain wasn’t the best at concentrating on one thing. However, when it came to the hero, they were easily determined. They let their bloody knuckles crack, one after the other and the henchman wasn’t even sure why they had agreed to help the villain in the first place. This seemed a little too private. Even for them. “I’m curious about the basement.”

“Believe me, no one survived. And even if they did, they’re long gone. No one’s here anymore.” The henchman looked around and their eyes went over the warm bodies. They had to admit, these were quite drastic measures but the villain was…a special person.

“Hm.” Their boss was clearly not satisfied with that answer, so they started fidgeting. For as long as the henchman had known them, they weren’t one to be still. They walked up and down like a panther in a cage, searching through files and for cameras, taking in heavy breaths when they were frustrated, frowning when they got distracted. All of that was pretty much normal but the henchman also knew that they were nervous and moving more than usually.

It was an open secret now that people tried to assassinate the city’s saviour and the villain had tried everything in their power to prevent it.

It had been a long, incredibly and frustratingly long journey to watch the villain fall in love. They were stubborn and apparently not capable of allowing themselves to feel anything besides…rage. So, when the henchman had to watch them flirt with the hero awkwardly, they felt like a kid watching their parents.

Strangely sweet and totally embarrassing. God, what a mess.

So, it didn’t surprise the henchman that the villain tried to eliminate every possible threat.

“Your little hero will surely survive if one or two people attack them,” they said eventually. “They’re pretty tough.”

“This isn’t about the hero.” That made the henchman roll their eyes.

“No, you obviously just like killing random people.” The villain looked up from the papers they were looking through and frowned. It was like dealing with a teenager who was too embarrassed to ask out their crush and the henchman was so unbelievably sick of it.

“How about you look through this old bad boy—” they slapped the PC on the table next to them “—instead of being such a nuisance?”

The henchman grinned.

“I don’t think the hero likes people who insult their friends,” they said as they (reluctantly) sat down and turned on the computer. The desktop was illuminated by a strange blue light, dipping the already dark room into a weird atmosphere.

“Oh, what would you know about what they like…” The henchman could see the villain’s ears turn red and it would have been impressive what kind of power the hero had over them if it wasn’t so pathetic.

“Well, what would you know? You can’t even look them in the eyes when they talk to you.” That one team-up a few months ago had been really strange. An undeniable chemistry had been looming around the hero and the villain. Both got excited about the other’s tech, both technically read each other’s minds when they were creating plans and both were too oblivious to notice the people around them and their ugh-get-a-room-looks. Everyone on the team referred to it as The Incident. At least the villain had been in a good mood for the whole week after that.

“That’s, hey, that’s not true.”

“I don’t blame you. It’s like the whole city is thirsting after them. People definitely have too much time on their hands,” the henchman mumbled as they tried all kinds of password combinations to get into the computer. They looked over to the villain who seemed…determined? To be thinking a little too much?

“But the hero wouldn’t sleep with a fan…right?”

“If it’s too hot in summer, they probably will,” the henchman answered as the computer announced for the third time that their access got denied.

“Ah, forget it.” The villain showed absolutely no appreciation for their joke and somehow that was what did it for the henchman.

“Okay, listen.” The henchman pushed themselves away from the desk and rolled over to the villain with their chair. “You both are incredibly pathetic people and I truly believe that I will throw myself out of a window if I have to watch you flirt with them one more time.”

“…I’m not that bad, am I?”

The henchman sighed.

“They like you. They like you a lot. You obviously care for each other.”

“Debatable,” the villain said and the henchman wanted to pull out their hair.

“Okay,” the henchman said. “I’ll ask them out then.”

The look the villain gave them was indescribable.

[weemssapphic]

I desire. And I crave.

part one

Jane Murdstone x fem!reader

series page

summary: Jane Murdstone suffers from Hanahaki Disease. The object of her affections? Her lady’s maid. Too bad she would rather feel the cold embrace of death than confess her feelings. ~ For those unfamiliar with the Hanahaki Disease trope: HD is a (fictional, lol) disease where someone begins coughing up flower petals because they have unrequited feelings for someone. If not treated, the disease is fatal. Treatment is either a. the feelings become requited, or b. surgery (the caveat here is that the feelings for that person disappear entirely).

words: ~5k, ao3 link

chapter-specific warnings: slight angst/angst with a happy ending, Hanahaki Disease, blood, mentions of death/near-death experience, fear of death, unrequited love (or is it), hints of soft!Jane but also angry!Jane

That man to me seems equal to the gods,             the man who sits opposite you             and close by listens             to your sweet voice

            and your enticing laughter—             that indeed has stirred up the heart in my breast.             For whenever I look at you even briefly             I can no longer say a single thing,

            but my tongue is frozen in silence;             instantly a delicate flame runs beneath my skin;             with my eyes I see nothing;             my ears make a whirring noise.

            A cold sweat covers me,             trembling seizes my body,             and I am greener than grass.             Lacking but little of death do I seem.

Sappho 31

Jane Murdstone doesn’t have a soft spot for anyone. She prides herself on her calculating, cunning manner, takes joy in inciting just a little bit of fear in those she comes in contact with. A little healthy intimidation keeps people on their toes - and, in Jane’s mind, there is nothing worse than a person who is lazy or slow-witted.

No, Jane doesn’t have a soft spot for anyone. Except perhaps her lady’s maid. And only a little bit, really. It’s just that Jane has rarely met anyone who is able to keep with her like you are. 

What had first endeared her to you had been how quickly you’d caught on to your duties when you’d been hired, and how extremely meticulous you are - outshining any other maid or servant she’d ever employed with your eye for detail. 

What has her swooning (if, of course, she were even the type to swoon, which she isn’t, thank you very much), is realizing how your intelligence and quick-wit rival her own. 

She has often even caught you smiling slightly when she’s made a cutting, sarcastic remark towards another servant. Others cower in fear (which has an appeal all of its own), but you are unphased, seeming to appreciate her wit like no one else - it makes Jane’s heart flutter in a most unfamiliar way.

Today, Jane sits at her vanity, allowing you to pin up her hair for the day. She watches you in the mirror - you avoid her gaze, focusing intently on ensuring not a single hair is out of place, which gives her the freedom to stare. Her eyes track your movements, the painstaking way in which you push each pin into place, the concentrated way in which your pink tongue darts out ever so slightly and your brow furrows as you work.

Her gaze lingers on that tongue of yours, between full, soft lips, and Jane feels a warmth spread through her core. Her entire body tingles as your fingers brush against the nape of her neck, the gentle touch sending a shiver down her spine. She curses internally at herself - she should not be having such sinful feelings or thoughts about a maid. But you aren’t just a maid, are you?

She knows that her feelings aren’t professional. But you don’t seem interested in her anyway, only engaging in conversation when spoken to (although, really, that is what Jane had initially requested) - and you’re young, anyway, much younger than she is. She realizes she hasn’t had many personal conversations with you - she certainly doesn’t know where your interests lie. Men, women? Perhaps both? She allows herself to get lost in her musings, to indulge in the thoughts of lustful fantasies that will never come to fruition.

You push the final pin into place and look up, catching Jane’s eye in the mirror. Your eyes widen and your cheeks flush, and Jane quickly averts her gaze.

“Is it to your liking, milady?” comes your voice, slightly timid and perhaps a bit breathless.

“It’ll do,” Jane replies airily, regarding herself in the mirror. Of course it is to her liking - she has never felt more beautiful since you’ve come into her service - her previous lady’s maid had never been able to do her hair just right (her work, in general, had been so sloppy compared to yours).

As Jane rises to her feet, her thoughts, regrettably, lingering on you, she feels a tickle in the back of her throat. She begins to cough. It takes several seconds for the cough to ease up, and when it does there is a strange burning in her lungs that has her pressing her hand to her chest.

She turns to find your hesitant gaze upon her.

“Are you feeling ill, milady? Shall I make you a mustard plaster?”

Jane scoffs. She doesn’t feel ill. “Don’t be absurd, girl. It will pass. Fetch me some pepper tea and begin the rest of your duties, before you fall behind.”

“Yes, of course, milady. Right away.” You nod curtly, your gaze still curious and uncertain, before turning on your heel and hurrying down to the kitchens. Jane scolds herself for the longing she feels for your presence as soon as you vacate the room, shaking her head lightly and perching at her vanity to await your return, her throat beginning to tickle with another cough.

~~~

You’ve been working as a lady’s maid for Jane Murdstone for close to two years now - and they have been, for the most part, the most comfortable years of your life. After a bit of a rocky start (it had taken you quite a bit of time to be able to properly decipher Jane’s moods and get used to her cold demeanor and cutting, sometimes even cruel remarks) you’d settled into your routine and even gotten to like the abrasive woman.

She isn’t exactly kind to you - you aren’t sure if she’s ever been kind to anyone in her life - but she doesn’t seem to show quite as much disdain towards you as she does towards the other servants. She seems to recognize your diligence and intelligence, traits that she appears to value, and though she’s never openly thanked you for anything, she sometimes gives you a look of approval when you manage to anticipate her needs without her having to speak them aloud. That look alone always makes your heart beat just a little faster.

In turn, you admire her quick wit and sharp tongue, her ability to use words as a weapon and find a smart response to anything within a matter of seconds - you wish you possessed these traits, although you sometimes wish she would go a bit easier on others, particularly the other servants. 

You adore her intelligence and share her love for poetry (sometimes, she asks you to read to her and, recently, she has occasionally started to ask your opinion on certain lines - it makes you nervous, but you would do anything to please her). 

And she is beautiful. Her silky raven hair accentuates the icy blue of her eyes and her fair skin, while her unusual height and soft curves never fail to bring a flush to your cheeks. You often wonder how she hasn’t found a husband yet - if you were a man, you’d have already asked her hand in marriage long ago. There must have been suitors in her youth - you imagine a young Jane Murdstone, fresh-faced and innocent, and you shiver. She likely thinks herself too good for the likes of some foolish man, you think. Which she is, of course…

Pinning up her long, dark tresses always brings you more joy than you care to admit. Sometimes, if your mistress appears to be in a particularly pleasant mood, you allow your fingers to linger in the lush locks, taking your time with each and every wave. It is almost a sensual experience for you, though you would never admit it out loud. Definitely not to Jane herself.

When you finish with her hair and look up to find her regarding you in the mirror, you worry she has sensed your dawdling and is gearing up to reprimand you. Her response, however, indicates she is pleased with your work (you’ve learned that “it’ll do” is often the highest praise you’ll receive from your mistress, and, for that, it makes your heart swell).

A brief coughing fit causes you concern, and, of course, Jane refuses to allow you to properly care for her. It is not your place to argue, though, so you do as you’re told and scamper down to the kitchens. You leave the cup of tea on Jane’s vanity, then dismiss yourself to begin patching up a dress that Jane had requested you fix.

~~~

Jane’s cough appears to worsen over time, though she doesn’t necessarily appear ill. It puzzles you as much as it troubles you - she refuses every attempt from your side at finding a cure, be it a home remedy or allowing the doctor to stop by.

You decide to do something kind for her to ease her worries - you can sense the cough is beginning to perplex her as well, though she doesn’t say anything. Rising early, well before you are to assist Jane with dressing, you sneak into the gardens, intending to pick some flowers for your mistress.

Your eyes immediately land on the white phlox decorating the garden path. You are painfully aware that Jane is well-versed in the language of flowers, as ladies of her status often are, and would likely assign a meaning to whatever bloom you gift her, so you must be cautious. White phlox seem safe enough - pure intentions, honest commitment, faithfulness - all sentiments that can easily be written off as your devotion as a servant, with little room for misinterpretation.

Methodically snipping off a fistful of flowers near the edge of the flowerbed, where they won’t be missed, you find a small, ornate vase for the blooms and carry the bouquet carefully up to Jane’s bedroom.

You knock, as you do every morning, waiting for Jane’s smooth voice to call out “you may enter” before slipping in through the door.

“Good morning, milady.” You curtsey as best you can with the vase held firmly in your hands. “I brought you a small gift.”

Icy blue eyes fall to the bouquet, widening ever so slightly. You think you see a blush creep up her cheeks, though you quickly write it off as a trick of the light - you’ve never seen your mistress blush before.

“What’s the occasion?” Her eyes don’t leave the bouquet as she speaks, and she takes a step towards you as if transfixed.

“None, milady. I wanted to give you a token of my appreciation, is all. You have been very good to me in my time here - I hope the flowers can brighten your day.” You try not to blush or stutter as you speak, though Jane’s impenetrable gaze (that has begun to track every inch of your face) makes this difficult for you.

She is silent for a moment, as if allowing your words to sink in, her face an impassive mask. Finally, she speaks.

“They are very pretty.” She clears her throat. “Please place them on my nightstand.”

Her lips curve upward, stretching timidly towards her ears as she watches you follow her orders, and your heart races. When you turn back to face her again you can sense a hint of admiration shining through in those piercing eyes of hers, and it makes you giddy.

~~~

Jane’s cough is persistent. It doesn’t ease up as the days and weeks go on, and Jane wonders if maybe she should see a doctor, or allow you to try some other form of home remedy - even though she appears not to have any other symptoms of illness. These worries are always brief in nature, however, and she manages to push the thoughts of illness far from her mind. Until one morning just after you’ve left her bedroom, having brought her a small bouquet of white phlox from the garden.

As she admires the flowers, her thoughts drifting to the faint blush that had colored your cheeks as you’d gifted them to her, Jane feels a weight on her chest, accompanied by a light tickle at the back of her throat. The tickle quickly turns into a scratch and before she knows it, she begins to cough again. She covers her mouth and when she pulls her hand away, there is a single tiny, white petal nestled in her palm. She recognizes the petal immediately - it looks just like the petals of the phlox that decorate her nightstand. 

She furrows her brow. It can’t be… She shakes the thought from her head as quickly as it comes, tucking the petal into the drawer of her nightstand - she knows no one would dare open it - and clears her throat, the scratchy feeling already fading.

~~~

You are lacing up Jane’s corset as usual, trying to tamp down the blush that dusts your cheeks when your fingertips occasionally brush against Jane’s back. Unable to help yourself, you allow your fingers to linger just a moment longer - too long. Jane stiffens under your touch and you wonder if you’ve pushed too far, but then she begins to cough and sputter and you drop the laces of the corset as if burned. 

“Milady… are you alright?” you ask apprehensively, concerned by the exaggerated heaving of Jane’s chest. 

“Leave,” she rasps out, raising her hand to cover her mouth. You stand rooted to the spot, too worried to heed Jane’s warning - and you are sure it was a warning. 

“You insolent girl, I said leave!” she croaks, not sparing you a glance. The venom in her voice between coughs surprises you and spurs you into action - you rush out of the room, not daring to linger long enough to curtsey, shutting the door behind you. Jane’s coughs can be heard just a moment longer, before they begin to subside.

You return to your own chambers, pacing nervously as you wait for further instruction - the rest of your morning duties would involve tidying your lady’s chambers, but you are almost certain you aren’t currently welcome there. 

A knock shortly thereafter causes you to bolt to the door, smoothing your skirt before opening it just a crack. You feel a weight on your chest when you see the younger chambermaid, Emily, standing before you. 

“Hello, Miss. I am to inform you that Miss Murdstone is not feeling well today. She does not require your presence and requests you do not attend to her chambers,” Emily says timidly. 

You stare at her in shock. “O-okay.”

Emily digs around in her apron and pulls out a folded piece of paper. “I am to give you this as well, so you’ll have alternative duties to perform.”

Numbly, you take the paper, thanking Emily who nods in sympathy and turns to leave. You unfold the paper and scan the list - they are tedious duties, busy-work, and you are sure you will be finished quickly; things like replacing the water in the flower vases, dusting the books in the library, fixing up a loose thread in the sleeve of your mistresses overcoat.

You carry out these duties with a heavy heart, trying to keep your mind from wandering to Jane, from wondering what is wrong with her and why she won’t allow you to attend to her. The last time she was ill, you’d been asked to wait on her hand and foot, bringing her medicine and water and reading to her at her bedside. You wonder if you’ve done something to offend her - the thought alone makes you sick with worry.

~~~

Days turn into weeks and Jane withdraws more and more. You have come to expect a list of daily duties waiting for you by Jane’s door - you are no longer given permission to enter her bedroom, a room which Jane now seldom exits. 

Rumors about Jane’s illness spread amongst the servants - you, being her lady’s maid, are eyed curiously by the others at mealtimes, though no one dares to question you about the mysterious cough that has Jane retreating from society, not showing up to supper and refusing any form of sustenance that is brought up to her bedroom.

One morning, you see Emily exit Jane’s chambers. At first, your blood boils - why is Emily given permission to enter Jane’s chambers, and you aren’t? What’s so special about Emily? What have you done to displease Jane?

Then your eyes drop to the bedsheets that Emily carries. Brilliant white, dotted with specks of deep red. You feel as though your heart drops all the way down to your feet - you are certain it would drop even further if that were at all possible. Your mind races - that can’t be blood? If it is… then Jane is more ill than you’d thought. 

Your stomach churns and you make eye contact with Emily, who doesn’t bother to hide the worry on her face as she rushes past you, attempting to shield the sheets from view. You consider pestering Emily about Jane’s condition, however your pride is too great - you would have to admit that Jane no longer trusts you enough to speak with you, let alone see you. You are sure everyone knows by now anyway, but you refuse to admit it aloud.

You perform your duties half-heartedly and with a hollow pit in your stomach, often lingering outside Jane’s bedroom door when no one else is around. Occasionally you hear fits of coughing, and they often sound strangled, as if she is choking on something.

The first few times, you call out to her, asking if she is alright. At first, she asks you to leave, in a harsh yet utterly spent tone. After a while, she stops responding at all - and then, even later, you stop asking, choosing to simply lurk for a moment before carrying on with your day. 

It is a random Tuesday when you decide to try again - you bring a cup of her favorite tea, clinging to a tiny tendril of hope that she will be pleased at your thoughtfulness. You knock on Jane’s bedroom door, receiving no answer. 

“Milady, I have brought you some tea. May I come in?”

Still, no answer.

“I’ll just come in for a moment to leave the tea with you, milady.”

You push open the door as you’re speaking and walk up to Jane’s bedside, determined. If Emily can, then so can you, you think. 

Jane is livid.

You barely have a moment to appraise her, to assess the state of her illness, before rage settles over her features. She pushes herself up from the bed with great effort, closing the short distance between the two of you and ripping the porcelain cup out of your hands. The dark liquid sloshes over the rim of the cup and stains the rug underneath your feet - Jane either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.

“Get. Out.” Jane grits out, her voice scratchy like sandpaper, and you shrink back, taking slow, tentative steps backwards towards the door. You can feel your heartbeat in your throat - you have rarely seen Jane in such a blind rage, and it has never been directed at you before. 

“Please, milady, I only wish to help! If you could just-”

“NOW!” Jane bellows, lifting the hand that holds the teacup. You know she is about to throw it - you rush out the door, closing it behind you as the cup smashes against the wood, shattering instantly. 

That night, you have trouble sleeping. The shattering of the porcelain still rings in your ears, the fury on Jane’s face at the mere sight of you is imprinted on the back of your eyelids when you close your eyes. Your heart aches, grieving for Jane’s health - and for the loss of Jane’s presence in your life.

A few weeks after the incident, you overhear a conversation in hushed tones behind the closed door of Mr. Murdstone’s office that brings tears to your eyes:

“-sister. Is she still ill?” It is the voice of Mr. Browning, a business associate of Mr. Murdstone.

“Gravely, I’m afraid.” The usually impassive Mr. Murdstone, who has never sounded anything less than harsh and confident, clears his throat - his voice has wavered and this alone alarms you greatly.

“Is there a prognosis?”

“She refuses to allow anyone to see her, even her lady’s maid. I am unsure of the nature of the illness but it seems-” he clears his throat again. “-it seems she won’t make it past the turn of the season.”

You turn away from the door - you’ve heard enough. Bile rises in your throat, and your knees buckle as your legs threaten to give away underneath you - you take unsteady steps to your room, allowing yourself a moment to break down in the solace of your bed as the tears you’ve managed to keep at bay begin to fall, staining the pillow beneath your head like a patchwork of droplets.

~~~

Jane knows what’s wrong. No one else may know it, but Jane knows it, and it fills her with a sense of dread she’s never felt before.

At first she’d thought nothing of her cough. But once the petals began expelling themselves from her throat, she knew. Hanahaki Disease was rare, but she’d seen it in action before. She always thought herself above it all - she wasn’t one to give her heart out so easily, she wasn’t foolish enough to feel something for someone who didn’t want her. And, since no one wanted her, it was quite easy not to want in return.

But she’d overestimated herself. And she’d allowed herself to show softness, to show weakness. She’d allowed herself to fall in love. 

It had slipped through her grasp, that pesky feeling, trickling smoothly through the hairline cracks in her metaphorical armor like a tiny stream, going entirely unnoticed until it was too late.

And now, she is paying the price. Of course, Jane thinks bitterly as she sits at the edge of her bed, recovering from a particularly harsh coughing fit, glowering down at the petals in her hand as if they’d personally aggrieved her. Of course she would fall for the one person she can’t have. Someone who holds no love for her in their heart. 

A fitting end for cruel, cold Jane Murdstone. Dying unwanted and unloved, just as she’d always been. In her weakest moments she allows herself to succumb to her longing for you, imaginary scenarios running through her head of the two of you, happy - of a world where you love her and where she isn’t faced with her impending demise.

As she thinks of you, she begins to cough again. It hurts, as if thick, thorny vines are encircling her lungs, tightening in a vice-like grip with each passing day. The petals come out in a steady stream - they feel like shards of glass, cutting at her throat from the inside. A metallic taste fills her mouth and, as she looks down at the heap of tiny, snowy petals, she sees droplets of blood staining them red.

Jane hides the petals in the drawer of her nightstand, each new petal accompanying the last. She feels silly doing so - shameful even - and it places a heavy burden on her heart that weighs her down like lead. But if no one finds the petals - at least not while she is still alive - then she doesn’t have to bare her shame, her cowardice, for the world to see - for you to see.

And she vows never to let you see her like this - you must never find out. She cannot bear to witness the concern in your eyes when she feels unwell - it causes her great guilt, to think she may be a source of worry or pain in your life. She also cannot bear the thought of your disgust at her unrequited and entirely unwanted feelings towards you. Even if it means she must be cruel to you. Even if it means she must ignore your attempts to reach out, or channel her fear into rage. Even if it means she may never see you again.

There is a surgical procedure, she recalls, to rid oneself of Hanahaki Disease - with the price of ridding oneself entirely of the feelings causing the disease. Jane considers it, but she knows that in order to get treatment, she would have to admit to her unrequited feelings, in front of her brother, no less. The thought is humiliating. And there is a weight on her chest when she thinks of forgetting her love for you - something that, despite being the reason for her dismal state, has brought her a joyful reprieve from the dull ache of her general contempt for everyday life.

So she shuts you out. She shuts everyone out. She will die alone, and spare herself the inevitable heartbreak and humiliation. It is the only way. 

~~~

You are woken early in the morning - earlier than usual - by a persistent knocking at the door to your chambers. For a moment you think you’ve overslept, but you quickly realize that isn’t the case. You blink the sleep out of your eyes and comb through your hair with your fingers to make yourself more presentable, then pad over to the door and open it. There’s Emily again, a grave expression on her face that makes your stomach twist and causes you to lose any sense of formality.

“What is it, what’s wrong?”

“It’s Miss Murdstone, she’s not well. Mr. Murdstone has requested your company at her bedside immediately.”

Your heart sinks and it feels as though ice is sluicing through your veins.

“T-thank you. I will be right there.”

Emily nods and bids you farewell, and you rush about your chambers to get dressed for the day - you doubt Jane would appreciate you giving up all sense of propriety and turning up in your night clothes. You pull your hair back, pinning it haphazardly in place before starting off towards Jane’s chambers, your walk turning into a jog turning into a run. You catch your breath at her door before knocking. 

Once.

Twice.

There’s no answer.

“Milady? I’m coming in,” you call, trying (and failing) to control the tremble in your voice.

Entering her chambers, your eyes fall to the bed and you realize why you hadn’t received an answer. Jane lies on her back, eyes closed, cheeks sunken in. She looks like she has lost quite a bit of weight, surely a product of her missing meals for the past weeks. She is deathly pale and as you approach her with caution, you see the sheen of sweat on her brow. Her dark, matted locks spill over the pillow and stick to the perspiration on her neck.

“Milady? How are you feeling?” You drag the stool from her vanity to the bedside and settle down timidly, eyes raking over her weak form.

Her pale eyelashes flutter against her cheeks - you can tell she’s trying to open her eyes. Even in this state, gaunt and sickly, she looks hauntingly beautiful to you, so much so that it claws at your heart.

A cough racks her body, her shoulders shaking violently, her chest heaving. Her head lolls to the side and her mouth falls open as she coughs up a steady stream of small, white phlox petals.

You freeze when you see the petals. At first, horror washes over you at the sight of her gagging, at the deep red blood accompanying the petals. A slow understanding spreads throughout your entire body. Hanahaki Disease. 

You’d had a cousin die from the disease when you were a child - you curse yourself for not recognizing the signs. There’s a pit forming in your stomach.

So Jane Murdstone has fallen in love. 

Tears well up in your eyes and your heart clenches painfully. Jane has fallen in love - and she will die because of it.

She will die, leaving you alone and in search of new employment. She will die, not knowing the affection you hold for her in your heart. She will die, and you will have to go on without the sparkle of her eyes holding you captive whenever you catch her gaze, without the soft, melodic lilt of her voice brightening your dullest days.

You’ll miss her terribly (you already do). You like her, you really do… no, that isn’t quite right - you love her. The realization hits you like a train. You love Jane Murdstone, and it doesn’t matter.

You reach out tentatively and place your hand on top of Jane’s, squeezing gently. It’s the least you can do, to reassure her that you’ll be there for her when no one else seems to be. You shiver at the contact with her skin - it is quite cold in contrast to the warmth of your own, and this is more than you’ve ever dared touch her.

With your other hand you brush away some stray petals that stick to the blood on Jane’s cheek. There’s blood trickling out of her mouth and you swipe your thumb firmly down to her jaw, wiping it away as best you can. She should go out with dignity, you think. 

“Milady, can you hear me?” you ask quietly. You don’t receive a response. 

“Who is it?” You ask the question more for yourself than for her, you know she’s too weak to speak and you aren’t even sure she can hear you anyway. A single tear rolls down your cheek - you wipe it away with your sleeve. Your throat constricts, but there is something you want to say - you clear it roughly. When you speak, your voice has a pleading edge to it, desperation oozing out of your every pore.

“I love you, Jane. Please don’t leave me.” Any other day, you’d be afraid of being fired on the spot - for speaking out of turn, for voicing forbidden affections towards your employer, for addressing her by her first name. Today, you suppose, it doesn’t matter anymore. You feel lighter having said it - and heavier knowing it may be the last thing you ever say to her. Now that it doesn’t matter any longer, you lean over Jane’s face and press your lips firmly to her forehead. Perhaps this way she can feel she is loved, even if it’s not in the way - not by whom - she needs.

x

shout-out to @dianneking for being the catalyst to me writing this hehe <3 plus, gonna just tag everyone who has had the (dis)pleasure of me pestering them about this for the past month haha (love u): @yourlocaldisneyvillain @anti-bright-places @eveymay @scream-queenlover @orchidsshine @sapphicsbeloved @mrs-hilmarson 

[treedaddymcpuffpuff]

love hurts - john wick/plus size fem reader, nsfw

TW: dubcon, choking, angst, dom/sub undertones, author attempt at russian language, I think that’s it

Summary: you are in love with john wick.

You suppose you should feel bad about letting him take the lead on this. He’s always taking control of everything with such swift efficiency, no breaks in between. And this too. Even this. Making your cunt pulse around nothing while he rolls his nice dress sleeves up. It’s the forearms, really, all decorated with sinew and tendon and bulging vein. The way his huge fingers work like they’re dainty. You keep getting off track.

Take some semblance of control back.

The kitchen counter is icy compared to his warm hands; you know because your dress is riding up above your thighs. He’s pushing it up- nicely … softly … this time - like he’s afraid to spook you, like he’s apologizing for something. It seems he doesn’t really know how to be soft, though, because his touch is still rough, the measured pull of his palms and calloused knuckles on your jiggly flesh leaving red indents in their wake.

“krasivaya devushka,” he hums, just for you, kisses below your right ear, turning you into a throbbing beacon of light and warmth. Your toes curl up and you grunt. Maybe it’s not just the forearms, then, but his voice, too, consuming baritone that commands the room, the air, the band no matter how quiet he uses it.

Your underwear are an inconvenience to him. He slaps the band against your hips and receives a jerk of surprise, tsking at you as if you’re not supposed to be wearing any clothes.

Your punishment is him rubbing teasing, loose circles over your clothed clit.

His smile is against the pulse in your neck, expert fingers purposefully find no rhythm or meaning, keep the orchestra quiet and the audience on edge. The air is thick and wet like you’re in an auditorium with a 100 other people.

Your moan is muffled by saliva, instead coming out as a gurgle like a person who is dying and filling with fluid. The irony isn’t lost on you that he’s killing you in a much different way than he usually kills people. However, the same lethal precision is still being utilized. The gaze of the hunter, the controlled and harsh movement, the concentration. You try to swallow but your body wants the fluid in your throat.

The next few moans from you are just thick sounds of trying to clear your voice.

He kisses your pulse, your jaw, your cheek, swallows your mouth, licks out the generous pool of liquid inside. Your hands seek his silk hair clumsily, grabbing his ears and his cheeks, and he presses you back into the cupboard, the wood carvings denting your back.

Your thighs twitch to shut when his knuckles dig into the fat of your bloated cunt and find your pleasure, but he’s got his other hand holding the meat of your left one and his broad frame stands imposingly between your legs.

He swallows, greedily, the noises you make as he focuses on your clit. Fast learner that he is, he picks up the rhythm and the pressure and even finds the spot that you like the most.

This man is dangerous, not just because you watched him kill 10 men with his bare hands, not just because he knows how to get you off from just reading your reactions, but also because you can’t think or breathe anything except for him and not just when he’s crowding you like he is right now.

You push back into him but he is solid force and maybe you can get him to budge a centimeter before he realizes what you’re doing and takes leader back again. No, he can’t take it back because he never lost it.

“Look at me,” he says, and your eyes snap to his, coffee brown and heady. His mouth is pink and wet, slightly parted, and you can’t tell if he’s blinking or not while he watches every twitch and change in your expression. He keeps his thumb steady on your clit after he pushes down to grab some cum and slather it generously and presses a finger into your cunt to rub your g spot.

You hang onto his shoulders, sweaty palms slipping off of the fabric and down to his elbows. He chases your pleasure up the mountain, never stumbling, closer every second, and you have no hope of escaping him while he’s in pursuit so you freeze and let him catch up, heart thrumming with the beat of anticipation while he gets closer.

“Oh fuck,” you hiss, your voice catching on a high note and singing quietly for the conductor while your body tenses and spasms.

His arms catch and hold you through your trembling defeat, and your eyes are closed when he slips his hand out of your underwear and places it up on your cheek, the smell of your own cum heavy and damp. He rubs your lips with the thumb that just had your clit, and you open for him and suck just the tip in your mouth, licking the rough, slimy pad of it and trying, bravely, to look into his eyes.

Bravery comes with the price of a blush so hot it burns your already fiery skin.

“So you liked the spaghetti?” You ask him, your throat and goofy grin sharp.

He does something that reminds you of a laugh, chest and stomach rumbling. He is already smiling but it gets bigger and infects your mouth, too, making you grin wider.

“It was delicious,” he concedes, opening your mouth up with his thumb on your bottom lip. He looks from your eyes to your mouth, kisses you softly.

“I-“ you start when he stops -“what are we doing?”

He tickles your temple with his fingers, musses the baby hairs. “Kissing,” he says, his face full of teasing adoration.

It confuses your brain but your chest must know just what that look means because an invasive hole opens up in it and aches for him. Your eyes get wet. He wipes them off with both thumbs then cradles your face.

“Shhh, honey,” he tells you. “I know.” He comforts you but his expression turns hard again, unreadable.

Tiny tears drip onto his wrists and run down his forearms while you cry. He lets you ride it out, the consuming want for him that overtakes everything you are and shatters it, leaving only him, left whole and unharmed among the sharp pieces.

John revels in the silent shower of salt water from your eyes, cock hardening painfully at the knowledge that this display is all for him. He kisses your cheeks to taste your tears, because feeling and seeing and hearing is not enough.

You try to push him away but he catches your hands and places them on your sides, holds them there. You don’t know why you try to squirm, it gets you nowhere except more immobilized and trapped, bullied into a corner.

You can scream and cry and thrash, fight this man until all that’s left of you is blood and bone. You can run, hide, avoid, dodge, beg for mercy or try and find a breath of hope in the constricting bag placed over your head and smothering you that is John. None of that would be useful. Because your heart beats strong and fast and is much braver than you, and he is what it wants.

“Please,” you ask, not knowing what you’re begging for.

He complies with demanding palms pulling your hips forward. Your hands are on his chest, still unable to grasp and slipping on the silk of his white shirt. He makes a noise with his tongue against his teeth while he bunches your dress up off your thighs. Your upper back grinds painfully against the cabinets while he handles you into the angle that he prefers.

The sound of distress from you commands his attention. He looks from your hips to your face, understands, puts his arm around your upper back and hooks his other hand under your knee. He pulls and guides, grip assuring that there’s nothing you can or have to do to assist him. Maybe that’s the another thing, when you’re with him all you need to focus on is heat and want and pleasure because he handles the rest; like the standing and the keeping upright and the motion of both your bodies. You can touch and taste and feel at leisure, the thought of where your feet are planted unimportant and irrelevant.

Your upper body is on the counter while he holds your lower. The bulge of his cock presses against your underwear and suddenly you remember how big he is. You squirm, pupils dilate, breath quickens, fear feels like fire. Your brain is sending signals to pull your body away from the heat.

He stills you, not with force this time but with his timbre voice, his soothing pet on your tummy. “It’s okay, honey,” he tells you, holds you up with his hips while his hands cradle and caress. Thumbs work delicately over the fabric of your dress where your nipples are protruding.

“Look at you, beautiful,” he hums, “fucking irresistible, how can I help myself?” Holds your neck and palms your breast with a half open hand.

“ty zdes' v bezopasnosti, malyshka, v bezopasnosti ot vsekh, krome menya.”

He wets his lips, gently tilts your head so your tear-peppered eyes look at his face.

“ty nebesnyy, moy angel, sent from god, hm?” He flicks his chin up to emphasize his words.

His cock twitches, complaining, angry, needing to feel, reacting violently to your wide, wet, dilated eyes, the way your face can hide no emotion. Fear melting into lust, lips parting. He ignores the ache, body completely still except for his hands which mimic a softness that they’re not quite capable of.

He douses the flame of fear with the wet emotion and arousal of your body.

You are grinding against him before you notice the motion of your hips, friction minimal even with 3 layers of clothing in the way because of how soaked you are.

“There we go,” he praises, releasing your face in favor of leaving a trail of goosebumps down your neck, across your collar, between your breasts. You giggle when he gets to your tummy, too ticklish there for his touch now that he’s got your dress hiked up under your breasts and that you’re mostly bare.

A grin flashes on his face. You look away, blushing.

“Did I tell you to look away?” He muses, pushing his thumb into your panties and past your slippery lips to rest on your clit.

“Sorry,” you say, looking back into his eyes, burning with embarrassment and need.

You grind against his hand, heavy rapture spreading into you from the touch.

He chuckles, presses hard, to the side, the pad of his thumb rough and scratchy on delicate nerves but still good.

“You’re gonna cum again,” he assures, helping you rub yourself off by adjusting the position of his hand every so often. He switches his thumb for three fingers and broader pressure. You whine from the millisecond of lost contact.

“Which feels better?” He asks. He switches again, focused circles of the thumb, or dispersed pressure of multiple digits.

“That one,” you say when he uses many instead of one. An afterthought tells you that you’re giving him more ammunition to ruin you, but you don’t have time to think for long. Not when he’s assisting another slow orgasm. This one is long and heavy, sweat drips down your thighs and your toes curl and expand. Tension floods from you into his palm, staining your underwear and his nice pants.

He lays a heavy hand on your pubic mound while you twitch down from the high. The low is where your bones turn to rubber and you feel like an inflatable Christmas decoration in strong wind.

You are relaxed but aware, now, of your lower back digging into the jagged lip of the counter, the hard surface on the back of your soft head. It’s uncomfortable.

“Sorry but can we move to somewhere more comfortable?” You ask.

He holds out his hand and you take it, allowing him to help you sit up on the counter. Your dress pools back around your hips.

“Hold on to me,” he says, hands under your knees, pulling your legs around his hips.

It takes you a minute to realize that he wants to carry you, long arms wrap around your thighs and support your weight

“John, I am heavy,” you try and protest, but he’s already picking you up, boosting your body so that you can wrap your arms around his neck. He laughs at your warning while carrying you to the couch like you weigh nothing.

His lips quell your worry with a kiss, and while he presses into your mouth with his tongue you realize that you can’t remember a time when someone has picked you up and carried you.

It’s that, too, then.

He deposits you into the bouncy cushion, pushes your hair out of your face and your dress up over it. You lift your arms to assist in taking it off, and when he pulls it from your wrists, the fabric bunched in his fist, he looks at it for a moment, smirks. Looks back at you as if he’s just realized something.

“This is for me,” he affirms, sounding amused.

You bite the inside of your lip and nod, unable to look into his eyes. Instead, you look to the food and wine on the dining table. “It all was.”

“Oh.” His face drops back to blunt, dark, heavy, all eyes for you now, dress slipping out of his fingers, forgotten, onto the floor.

He sits beside you and wastes no time, tits in his hands and mouth open for your own. He presses and folds you into the position he prefers.

“Let me fuck you, sweet girl.” He sucks below your chin and rolls your nipple into a pinch.

Your head and hips perform the same nodding motion and he pulls away to unbutton his shirt, acknowledging your consent. The shiny scars littered over every inch of his skin takes you by surprise again - you reach out and feel them, his heart, the thick muscle of his chest, the lean meat of his stomach. Your arousal ebbs and flows, the occasional harsh clench of your pussy melting into soft, easy pulsing. You try and memorize the dark trail of hair from his belly button to the seam of his pants.

He tosses his shirt onto your dress and starts on the buttons and buckle of his slacks. You could take your underwear off but you’re much too enraptured by his lithe body, your lips and tongue reddening his skin, your plump fingers so soft and light they tickle him.

Hard, lean, big man presses against small, soft, chubby girl. Cock head forces your lips wide as it runs through the slippery mess he’s made of them. Your clit is sensitive but it still loves the feeling of him sliding against it. Your mouth laves at his chest and collar, rough and clumsy. You bite him, earning a grunt, then feeling bad about it. It’s all too much, though, and the emotion leaks out of your mouth onto his skin, nibbling, licking, sucking, desperate.

He kisses your sweat-dampened hair stuck to your temples, murmuring your name, and presses against the entrance of your cunt.

It’s strange, how you feel empty and gaping and ready before he is pressing in and making you feel tight and unyielding and unprepared.

Pleasure at the price of pain. Your legs lifted up to rest across his body vertically. He kisses your heal and pushes his cock into you by centimeters, one hand on the base of it to help ease in. The angle opens you up a bit, but the way he stretches you still hurts, and now your mouth is empty of him so your teeth gnash at the air.

“Rub your nipples for me,” he tells you. Your hands scramble onto your breasts, grateful for the suggestion, pinching and grabbing roughly, displacing some of the pain from your pussy.

He rubs rough, broad circles into your calves, ignoring the prominent beast inside of him who wants to pound into you without a care for how you take it. He knows that rough and uncaring, though, comes with a price of tearing your insides and possible infection, and that would be fine if he only planned to fuck you once.

“tugoy, how do you feel?” There is concern in his voice and you wish there wasn’t, because it turns your heart rabid.

“Full.” It’s what you can manage to groan while he sinks deeper, your cunt betraying itself, sucking him in. So fucking full and stretched.

He hums. “Good or bad?”

“Both.”

He stops the inching of his pelvis in favor of focusing on your right foot, licking under your toes and holding your ankle because you’re giggling and trying to scrunch up so he can’t get to the sensitive skin. It tickles but also makes your clit throb. Broad licks makes lightning shoot in your lower belly. He wraps his mouth around your big toe and sucks and you are the one moving, now, pressing your ass down into his thighs to urge his cock deeper.

“Oh fuck,” you say, grinding down on him, desperate to have him put pressure on and quell the feeling of tiny shocks deep inside you from the feeling of his mouth on your sensitive feet.

Yes, give him more ammunition to use on you. Let him know just how to make you desperate and feral. Something speaks sense at the very back of your thoughts, and he doesn’t allow that rational voice to linger for long.

He switches when you’re getting too comfortable with one foot, abruptly swallowing and licking the other. You laugh and moan and squeal, wriggling down onto his cock so that he’s bent against your cervix. Heavy pain settles in your lower belly, your giggles turning into strangled groans.

He stalls, stiffens. You look at his face and feel terrible for the pain you see there. His cock spasms inside of you, begging to move, pleading for friction. He sucks his teeth, wins control over basic instinct and doesn’t move a single muscle while you adjust to the massive intrusion.

“I’m going to move,” he tells you, and you nod, eager to please.

The wet, slow suck of your bodies mashed together flows into loud squelching. He rumbles baritone while you keen soprano.

The fat of your cunt gives for the thrust of his stony pelvis, and his fingers trap your clit again.

You try and fail not to wail on your third orgasm. It increases your sensitivity and makes your g spot swell up. His cock slips against it, faster. The spasms entrap him in sensation and help build his orgasm. He stops rubbing your clit and just gives it pressure, looks at your face to see your eyes closed.

“No, eyes on mine,” he says, flicking a nail over the hood of your ultra sensitive clitoris.

Your mouth growls protest, tiny abused bud shrinking back from his mean fingers, but your eyes open and you stare at him as best as you can while you feel like you’re about to explode and scream from all the feelings inside of you.

He wants to hear what you hold back, so he fucks harder and faster and wins the prize of your loud expletives, his name, the dig of your heals into his collar. Your own hands tear at your breasts and you do scream for him, much to your own dismay. To you, it is anything but an attractive sound. His jaw ticks, eyes slice heavy with pride. He obviously has a different opinion. “There we go,” he praises.

His hand aches to grab your pretty throat, so he does, and you’re not small there but his hand is large enough to wrap around the giving skin and press down on the sides. You grab his wrist, the instinct to live guiding the motion of your hand. Your eyes cloud with stinging water as you struggle for full breaths under his heavy hold.

If he feels bad for you, it does not show in his face; in fact, his expression is quite the opposite of empathetic as he abuses your guts and steals your air.

You aren’t keeping track of time, how could you possibly, but it seems both too soon and too late that his hips falter and slow and he buries warm, plentiful fluid deep inside your cunt. He kisses your heal again, and you notice him in the afterglow; sweat shimmers on his forehead and chest, the drowning and drooping gaze of his black eyes, the satiated relaxing of his mouth. He looks beautiful like this, worn and satisfied and tucking his cum up into you, refusing to let it spill just yet.

His hand relaxes from your neck to your cheek, smoothing out the fluid from your eyes into your burning skin. He shakes his head when he notices that you’re trying not to cry so, so hard. “No, no fighting it,” he scolds, “give me what’s mine.”

You obey, easily sliding into a small, fragile, sobbing and whimpering human for him.

“Tchk.” It’s a praise from him to you for being so brave, so good for him. His cock eases out of you, but his cum floods from the hole he leaves open. It soaks your thighs and the couch and instantly cools your overworked flesh, but the loss of him is too much, and you grab for him, pulling him down, his mouth to yours.

He allows your forceful handling but does not assist with any part of it except for the kiss. His mouth is lazier, now, kinder. You push your thighs together to relieve some feeling of the void at the center and push his soft hair off his face because it tickles your cheeks and neck.

You fill the desperate hole inside yourself with the crushing weight of John against you, and cry into the fine hair on his chest. He flips you both sideways so that you can breathe easier with his full weight off your lungs.

He holds your hip while his fingers skim down and up your spine and lets you press your body into his as hard as you can and want to.

It’s this, this overwhelming feeling to sink into his body, to slice him open and climb into him and steal his warmth to keep warm in the freezing snowstorm that is your life.

It takes a while to stop sobbing, but you do eventually. Your mind steps gingerly from murky, predator filled swamp into clear spring water. The clarity allows you to focus on why all you’ve been capable of is tears for the past however many hours it’s been, and it’s not hard to realize that its because you’re in love with him.

And that’s the final effect of all the tallied John-related reasons that you’ve been counting and scoring in your mind. The nail in the coffin, for lack of better reference.

You know he doesn’t feel the same way, not because of the way he gently untangles you from around him and stands up, not because he’s putting his clothes back on and smoothing his tie, not because of the chaste kiss goodbye on your forehead before he ties his shoes, not because of the lack of words he says to you as he walks out your door, not because he leaves you lying there, numb and cold and naked. No. Not because of any of that. He can’t feel the same way because it’s you, and you are not someone that people feel that way about. And that’s okay, as long as you never have to see him or think about him again.

At this rate, though, it’s becoming a problem liken to that of your own personal forest fire, and you’re not sure what you’re going to do once everything stops burning and turns to ash.

[ganxiously]

I was really trying to keep it to myself because it does give away the plot a little bit and also perhaps misleads it a bit but apparently 'if it hurts you, make it everyone else's problem' is the mindset that I now have.

The entire street is ensconced in thick, black smoke when they arrive, pouring out like sludge from the ventilation holes they have cut on the roof for pressure release. The fire isn’t visible from the outside but from what they had been told by dispatch, Buck knows that the entire interior of the one-storey commercial building is up in flames. Given that most of the storefronts he can see are for fabrics and furniture, it is apparent why there was a need for eight teams to get the fire under control. The IC that meets them at the command tent looks calm but harried, letting out a gusty sigh when he sees that a fresh new team has arrived to lend them a hand.  They had been halfway through dinner when the call had come in so Buck’s still a bit hungry but he’s also thankful. Not that there’s anything to be thankful about so much damage and so many livelihoods lost but Chimney had looked like he was finally losing the ability to keep his questions to himself and Buck will be eternally grateful that the call had come in before Chimney could through the proverbial first stone into the glass walls of Buck’s carefully taped together life.  The IC explains to Bobby where the fire is concentrated and how they plan on getting to it by launching a double-pronged attack through the roof and through the stores. Buck exchanges a look with Eddie to make sure they are on the same page here. After all, climbing onto the roof and using ladder pipes to fight the fire from above? Cool. He’s just about to open his mouth to volunteer for the work when someone else enters the tent. “We managed to control the fire leaking out onto the roof but the structure was too unstable for any of us to go down there.”

Tommy is using his outside people voice again, he thinks before he even registers whose voice he is hearing and then slams his eyes shut because he knows what is going to happen the moment he sees Tommy again. But the temptation is too strong, has always been too strong since that very first moment Tommy stepped out of the shadows of his chopper to introduce himself. And Buck had been doing good, he had been doing great. He even had a second date coming up this weekend, though it was the bowling alley he was looking forward to more than seeing Jack again. And now he knows he will go back and make up excuses to cancel the meetup, probably even block his number to ensure he doesn’t have to think about it again because one sight of him, ash-streaked, curls flying every which way and eyes, blue, blue, blue because they are really sensitive to smoke (he must have forgotten his eye drops again), is enough to wash away everything else —  every experience he has had so far, the touch he has felt and the conversations he has had, the good and the bad and the fucking mediocre, until all that is left is the Buck of that night, sitting in his kitchen, alone again because the man he thought would be forever, decided he wasn’t worth the risk after all. Tommy’s eyes fall on him and Buck should look away, pretend he wasn’t staring, pretend it doesn’t matter but he’s missed him. The ache in him throbs, the delicate tissue of his heart exposed to anyone who wants to take a hit and yet he can’t help but drink in the sight of him, can’t help but luxuriate in the feel of those eyes on him in return. Yes, look at me and no one else, he wants to tell him. He wants to take hold of Tommy’s turnouts, tuck himself up against his neck and complain about how hard everything has been, even though Tommy is the person who is directly responsible for making it hard in the first place. He wants to tell him how hard it is to be one when he just got used to planning for two, how driving his car every day feels weird, how Eddie’s quips fall stale without anyone to back them up and the last time he told someone about his research binge, they just hemmed and hawed in a way that made it clear that they were not even listening in the first place. He wants Tommy to make his appropriately angry on his behalf noises even as Buck can feel the amusement come off him in waves. He wants to pinch Tommy’s waist in retaliation and watch him flinch away because that is his most ticklish spot. He wants to ask Tommy about his life. Did he find the problem in Lucy’s car? Make it to the anniversary party of the old friend he was considering going to? Did the cat that he feeds sometimes finally deliver her babies? Did he move on? Did he find someone who can make him believe in forever, at least better than Buck had? Tommy’s lips part like he’s about to say something and Buck turns away. He doesn’t want to hear Tommy’s voice give shape to whatever stilted, awkward or mean thing that’s about to come out of his mouth. And he definitely doesn’t want to hear him say Buck.  “Bobby? I’ll go help Hen with triage.” Bobby’s eyebrows make a valiant climb towards his hairline before remembering they are supposed to be pretending that nothing’s wrong. Buck knows he’s giving himself away, to his team and god knows, however many firefighters are there cramped in that little tent and Tommy, who knows exactly how much Buck likes being in the thick of things. Tommy who knows that were it any other day, any other time with any other team than the 217, Buck would be up on that ladder or ploughing through rolls of half-burnt fabric in search of flames. “Yes, you do that, Firefighter Buckley. We’ve got it covered here and I’m sure they could use an extra pair of hands over there.”

sorry if it sounds a bit rough. i haven't had the opportunity to edit it yet

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

Writing anon #1 here with a few questions! As usual please don’t reply if you don’t want to. :)

What kind of character would you suggest writing for? Characters I’m currently interested in or characters I know more about? Perhaps a mix? I’m a little afraid that if I write for the characters I’m currently fixated on I’ll lose interest in them for awhile. For example, I’m currently interested in Daredevil but I know more about the Avengers because I hyperfixated on them in high school.

Where/how do you find inspiration and motivation to write? 

Do you think someone could write a relationship without having experienced it themselves? (Like a romantic relationship) I would assume it would just take a lot of research and editing to make sure it’s fairly realistic. Just like when you writing something else you don’t have experience in (like writing a character being a doctor or barista if you don’t have experience with that.)

Like the second anon I have a lot of trouble with outlining and plots. I usually get an idea I would love to write but have no idea what to do with it. Like how to get to the idea/scene or where to go from it. I really should try actually outlining and taking my time. I also really need to get my brain to understand that drafts are okay and normal. (I struggle with perfectionism, but I’m working on it.)

I realize now how number three might come across. I am an adult not a minor. I just had an extremely sheltered life growing up and have spent the few years I’ve been an adult dealing with a few things that are out of my control. So I haven’t had a romantic relationship of my own, I have read a ton of x reader fanfics and watched a lot of romcoms. And number four isn’t a question. :) Thank you so much in advance!

I'd say write for someone you like, someone you're comfortable with, and if you don't feel like you know enough about them to begin writing then that's easily fixed! rewatch/reread/re-whatever the thing that they're from and pay extra close attention, do it however many times you'd like, take notes. wiki's about the characters can also be super helpful for a ton of those little facts. but at the end of the day, write for whoever you like, whoever will be super fun to write for, whoever will make you excited to write. also you don't have to just choose one or even be stuck if you ever wanna move on, you make up the rules.

inspiration? i find that everywhere. sure, a movie is an easy thing to get my mind hooked on a fantasy, but most of my stories have just come to me in very mundane things. I've leaned into my own life experiences for a lot of sad stories (also used it as a therapeutic tool). there is literally inspiration everywhere, you just gotta open your eyes and see it. that weird tree right outside your window? that could be enough inspiration to begin a whole book. and as for motivation? well, first of all I really enjoy the whole process, so that helps a ton. I'm also autistic and have very good concentration, so I can easily just disappear completely into my wip. I'm also really good at just having it in my routine, sitting down and writing when I have the most energy for it. when I'm working on something very long, that's when it can become harder to keep that flame alive, but I think I've worked out a good rhythm to keep it going and not loose the drive to work on it: first of all, a detailed outline and notes. making a proper routine with it, though also not beating yourself up if it's a bad day and you only reread the last page 50 times, but don't actually write anything new. I also try my best to stay in the world while I work on it. like for when i'm not sitting and actively writing it, then I listen to music that fits the theme or watch movies or shows that have the vibe.

I think that truly depends on the person. some people can and some people can't. I personally don't write about too many subjects I don't have experience in (though still some like for example murder and some of the jobs the characters have, but my imagination can get me far enough to make me comfortable tackling those subjects). so yeah, that's so individual whether someone can do that well or not.

from my understanding of you from the very limited interactions we've had, I'd say that it'll probably continue to be difficult while you're not getting enough sleep for your brain to function properly as well as some other stressful things I could imagine is also going on and perhaps is the cause of the sleep issues. a few things that helps my perfectionism is to say that this draft will only be read by me and no one else, to say that this is only a silly little fanfiction just for the lols and not a fancy leather-bound novel, and also to aim for it simply to be finished and not for it to be perfect. and sometimes when it comes to beginning, you'll just have to jump straight in with the attitude of an imaginative and playful child. also sitting down and being like "okay, I'm not allowed to do anything other then come up with a story. I'm allowed to sit here, look around at my surroundings, and push through the boredom till my brain comes up with a story to entertain me". don't be afraid of slowing down and embracing the stillness, that's always where my best stuff comes from. and plot stuff? that is a huge subject and I'm not sure what advice could be beneficial for you. it's one of those things where learning about it on a technical level can be helpful, but only to get the sense into your bones and then throwing those rules and patterns out of the window like they never existed to begin with and just letting the flow of the story lead you.

[rebellenotes]

The Final Nail in the Coffin

Nailing a coffin shut, I always assumed it was a physical being. Yes, a metaphorical one, but still a person. A priest maybe, holding a hammer. I don’t know, I just see one in front of me. Or your worst human enemy. I didn’t expect my own mind to nail the coffin to my future shut, forcing me to accept a reality I’ve tried to push away for so long. To no avail, clearly, because here we are, and my coffin is being lowered down into the ground as I scream helplessly for someone to let me out. Let me go back in time. Before I ended up here. I can fix it. If I can only go back.

I slept for 16 hours yesterday. I haven’t eaten a proper meal in over 30 hours. The last thing I ate was too much candy over twenty-four hours ago. I had a coffee this morning too. I know I should eat. But I want to go back to sleep. I can’t bring myself to do the simplests of tasks.

It’s Thursday today. The fourth day of the week. I’ve only taken my antidepressants two out of four days this week. At least I think they were days. Time becomes blurry when you sleep at 10am and wake up at 11pm. And yet I’m still tired. “It’s because of your circadian rhythm,” my therapist repeats, over and over again, like I don’t already know. “You need to consume daylight, so you can sleep at night.” How about I sleep forever and never wake up.

Because that’s what I want to do sometimes. And even when I don’t want to do that, I fall asleep anyway because I’m so tired all the time. I didn’t mean to take a ten hour nap yesterday. It just happened.

I fluctuate between feeling numb, my eyes boring onto the screen with an indifference as I try to put words to the turmoil happening inside me, and crying my eyes out. Because this is it. The worst I’ve ever been. And now, my brain has officially sealed the deal for my future.

Anxiety won’t let me attend the class I need to attend today in order to complete an assignment I need in order to graduate together with the rest of my classmates next year. When I try to tell myself they’re just thoughts and that I can do it, depression laughs me in the face and envelopes me in a hug. Not the warm kind that makes you feel good. The one that sends a chill through your entire body down to the bone. The kind of hug that suffocates.

The kind of hug that whispers, You’ll never leave me. And I believe it. I believe every damn word, because it feels true. It feels final. Like there’s no point in fighting against something so much bigger and heavier than me.

But here’s the thing about coffins. They’re built for endings, yes. For finality. But they’re also a space to rest. A space to stop moving for just a moment. Maybe that’s all this is. Maybe this isn’t my permanent resting place, but a temporary reprieve from all the chaos.

Because deep down—deep, deep down—I know there’s still air in my lungs. And if there’s air, there’s a chance. Not for some grand, miraculous turnaround, but for a tiny, stubborn act of defiance. Like getting out of bed. Like pouring cereal into a bowl. Like taking my meds for no other reason than it’s what I said I’d do when I was feeling better.

One of the main symptoms of depression is feeling hopelessness. Perhaps it’s because I’m an optimist at heart, I love seeing the good in everything, but once I apply the methods my therapist taught me, to speak to myself kindly as if I’m comforting a friend going through a rough time, I can see just a tiny sliver of hope. It’s not a lot, and the lack of hope overshadows everything, but if I concentrate hard enough, I can push my worries away until tomorrow. Or next week. 

The one thing I can pride myself on is I will ask for help when it gets too bad. The only problem is I always do it too late. But acceptance is part of the healing process, I’ve realised. Once I accept that this is my reality, I can stop living in agony and start looking forward. It might not be the brightest of days ahead. There might be tough days ahead, but I have an appointment scheduled with a school advisor tomorrow, and next week, I’ve finally managed to book an appointment with my therapist after putting it off for months.

And I hope that by reaching out and talking to someone, I can figure out my next steps. Because that’s such a huge part of anxiety and depression. Thinking you know it all. From experience, I know that when you’re that upset, you can’t plan your healing journey by yourself. How could you? When all you feel is misery? You need an outside perspective.

You need someone to gently remind you that life isn’t all bad, even if it feels that way right now. Someone to help you sort through the tangled mess of your thoughts, like untangling a string of lights. It’s not easy, and it’s not quick, but with a little patience, the knots loosen.

As I’m writing this, I got a text from one of my closest friends. One of the many people I’ve pushed away these last few weeks when it has all gotten a bit too much. She asked me to please take care of myself, to eat something and be kind to myself. It warmed my heart. But then again, it also made me sad, because she must only have realised something was seriously wrong after I made a vague Twitter post about the fact I wasn’t sleeping or eating well. A call for help. 

A call for help I knew I was making. I wanted to feel seen, I think. There’s something about putting it out there, even in the vaguest terms, that feels safer than saying it directly. Like maybe someone will notice and say the right thing without me having to explain. Without me having to admit outright how much I’m struggling.

And she did notice. She saw me. Her message wasn’t long, wasn’t flowery, but it didn’t need to be. Just knowing that someone cared enough to reach out made me feel... a little less invisible. A little less lost in the fog. Maybe that’s why I post things like that sometimes. Not for attention in the shallow sense, but because it’s a way of saying, I’m here, and I don’t know how to ask for help, but I need it.

I think we all need that sometimes. To be reminded that we’re not alone in this world, even when our brains tell us otherwise. Her message didn’t fix anything—it didn’t magically make me feel okay—but it reminded me that someone out there wants me to be okay. And maybe that’s enough to start with. Maybe that’s what I needed: a small spark of connection in the middle of all this darkness.

So I’m holding onto that. To the idea that even when I feel like I’m falling apart, there are people who see the pieces and care enough to reach out. And maybe I need to learn to do that too. To be more honest when I need help. To let people in before it gets to the point of vague Twitter posts and silence.

I don’t have all the answers right now, but I know this: I don’t want to stay in this place forever. And even if I don’t know how to climb out just yet, I’m glad I made that call for help. Because it’s a start. And sometimes, a start is all you need.

[silkkorchid]

Unexpected surprise

This basically a lore that me and @welp-back-on-my-bs came up how Ikesen!Morgan and Ikesen!Amaryllis met and I decided to write it out

Check out Morgan Lore! 1, 2

No proofreading as I’m too tired and it may be shitty

•—————•

“Hm? Strange the weather is off… I should-“

*BOOM*

“What the!?”

Amaryllis who was scouting the now finished battlefield against Kenshin who supposedly died. Now heard a loud thunder that was too close for her comfort. She instinctively went to the Oda camp before she spotted two unfamiliar attire that definitely wasn’t apart of the Uesugi clan.

“Who are they…? Let alone their clothes look a bit more like- no. I shouldn’t get side tracked.” Smacking herself to concentrate on her task on hand.

-

“What happened!?” Morgan who is confused but also not enjoying the situation that they got themselves into.

“You there. Speak.” Kenshin who is now back alive thanks to Sasuke’s CPR.

“Morgan.”

“I am Sasuke Sarutobi, Lord Kenshin” Sasuke replied.

After their encounter with Kenshin, Morgan asked to be under the protection of Kenshin while Sasuke asked to be a Ninja for Kenshin. Days went by after their arrival to the 16 century, Morgan leaving the Kasugayama Castle to buy some sweets for their new ally, Shingen Takeda and Yukimura Sanada only to see a person that stands out in the crowd.

“Thank you for the offers but I need to get going!” Before being stopped by countless marriage proposals from several people.

“Young lady are you perhaps interested to marry my son?”

“She won’t marry a son who isn’t a warrior! Please marry my son!”

Using the argument as a distraction, Amaryllis got out of the situation and the marketplace.

“It sure seems like you’re popular with that beauty of yours.” Morgan commented.

“Thanks, it’s good to have some attention but I’m not really looking to be wed with someone for the sake of politics. Let alone my Dad wouldn’t be happy with that either.” Amaryllis replied after getting out of the crowd.

“I’m Ama, you?”

“Morgan”

“That name of yours doesn’t sound bad to be honest!”

Like that the two talked with each other frequently with the addition of Sasuke and Yukimura who got teased by her. Morgan who spent a lot of time being in their room decided to explore the world. With Ama giving them advice on how to live in the wild.

-

“H-hey… we can talk this out right…?” Now cornered by bandits who seem to far more interested in selling them than their stuff.

“Sorry girl, but you can fetch a good price for us.” One of the bandits spoke.

“Someone please help me! I don’t want to die!” Internally screaming before hearing someone’s voice.

“Get away from her.” One out of the pair spoke with their blades drawn to the bandits neck.

“Y-you are Hideyoshi!” The bandits spoke after seeing who came.

Knowing what the bandits are up against they fled leaving Morgan to be gasping for air after a tense moment of life or death situation.

“Are you okay?” The purple eye man asked.

“Y-yes. Thank you for saving my life.” Thanking their saviors.

Explaining to Hideyoshi and now Mitsunari, they told Morgan to follow them for safety. As they approached closer they realize the Castle was where Nobunaga Oda resides in. Knowing their connections to the Uesugi they kept quiet before meeting a familiar face.

“Ama!?”

“Morgan!?” Turning to find the source of the voice only to discover that it was them.

“You know Amaryllis?” Mitsunari questioned.

“Yes, we met in Echigo and talked with each there before I went my own way. But how do you know her?”

“She is my daughter, well adopted daughter to be more precise.” Hideyoshi gave his answer before being followed by Mitsunari.

“Lady Amaryllis has been here for a year now-“

“Mitsunari, you don’t need to use formalities here.” Ama, now Amaryllis cut off him.

“Also there is a council meeting that is about to start Dad and Mitsunari, you should head to the audience chamber.” Amaryllis reminds both men in front of her.

“Right. Let’s get going now”

“Yes Lord Hideyoshi.”

As Hideyoshi and Mitsunari leaves to attend the meeting, leaving Amaryllis and Morgan alone.

“Seems like I have a lot to explain…”

“You really do.”

[therealslimshakespeare]

https://www.tumblr.com/precious-little-scoundrel/752046088370962432/i-wanna-share-a-thought-thats-so-incredibly

ok here i go…

so the girls treatment before they get to the stalag. i know maureen and ida were assaulted and ida had her hair cut to rob her of her femininity. as for why they were assaulted, i’m sure it was a combination of wanting to break them down, creepy behaviour on the part of the guards and just a reflection on their thoughts on allowing women in the military (by committing acts of sexual violence).

but maureen and ida are white women. so it’s possible that they’re hated as americans and women and i’m sure the guards are violent because of it. but. smith would’ve been seen as racially inferior as well, which is just a whole other thing. the german guards have women in their lives, what they don’t have is people of colour. which in my mind makes it so much easier to treat smith like she isn’t even a person. so this is just my own two cents on why her assault might have been more violent, more derogatory and more of a spectacle than ida and maureen’s.

Oh fuck I see we are tracking and keeping it historically accurate, I see, I see, ok let’s do this-

Warnings: Y’all, this universe is hard as is, in response I am gonna reference a few specific, historical SS crimes and honestly? take care of yourselves, move along if it’s a bad day or you just aren’t up for it, please be gentle with yourself and skip if needed…

Fully agree about a differentiation occurring, I feel like a lot of the girls are grouped together as you said, in a very mistreated, abused and degraded bunch but I can see two being set aside for being picked on more than others and that would be Smith and Ida.

Like you said- with Ida it’s not even the usual base and sadistic reasons men rape, it’s the chance to get to demean a female officer of that caliber, it’s spiteful to the point of having hardly anything to do with sex except that it’s the chosen vehicle to torture her. That’s it.

And honestly, for the slightly different reason, Smith would be singled out for that too. If the goad of “colonel” is something Ida has to endure during it, Smith no doubt had to endure all sorts of extra slurs than the next woman, a constant stream of commentary putting her further down. And yes, the violence of being considered even less than the next.

Also for all these rapes, I do imagine many of them were during interrogations as that was not an uncommon tactic that the Gestapo used against resistance fighters, off the books. They often assaulted women in front of loved ones or each other to break the witnessing party as much as the victim. So I can see that happening to some.

Some of these rapes we might correlate to others documented, some by guards who were supposed to be fetching prisoners back and forth from integrations or holding cells. This is what I imagine happened to Kendeigh, when you’re getting taken back from interrogation to just rot in your cell for hours, no one is tracking how long the return journey takes, if there’s a detour? Who reports it? Who even cares in that place?

But I think you also hinted at the aspect of public humiliation/making a spectacle and that was perhaps one of the sickest/common things they did engage in. Just to drive the helplessness into both parties. Honestly I think this stays a fear even in the stalag, there were so many reports of the SS in concentration camps raping women/men in front of everyone and making them clap after like it was a show, or else, the other avenue pastime: demanding prisoners rape each other.

One other aspect. I’ve already mentioned the dogs, and I think this was a big aspect for Smith. However that may have played out. Some SS soldiers trained their dogs to tear off women’s breasts and an assortment of other truly mind boggling cruelties, some of which I’ll leave to your imagination. Truly makes you pause and ask how someone even comes up with this stuff. And if you’re the victim it’s happening to? That disbelief is multiplied along with the futility of asking for mercy.

Anyone who wants a horrifyingly sober take on this should read “Ordinary Men” about the SS death squads. It’ll haunt you, for certain, but what humans are capable of should never be underestimated. These were indeed “ordinary men” who took the power given them and became worse than beasts.