#how about we check how it’s like if it does end?

[covenofagatha]

Saw you're taking requests and decided to toss one your way!

Agatha x reader, reader has had a really tough day and Agatha helps put her into subspace to relax. Some soft!dom Agatha with a splash of praise, degradation, mommy and maybe some size kink? And of course some fluffy aftercare after reader has been thoroughly fucked out of her mind❤

Hope you enjoy! (Disclaimer: I've never written subspace before so hopefully I did it justice, along with everything else you wanted)

Bad day

When Agatha comes home to find that you had a bad day, she takes it upon herself to make you feel better

Word count: 2600

Warnings: praise kink, degradation kink, subspace, size kink, mommy kink, oral, strap-on, aftercare, smut, and fluff (I may have missed one)

You’re on your last nerve when you get to your afternoon class on Wednesday. 

Your car didn’t start in the morning so your girlfriend, Agatha, had to drop you off at work, which you’d never complain about, except she had still been asleep when this happened so you were almost late because she had to get ready. 

And then work was awful. You had a shift at the popular retail store in town and it seemed like every customer who came in was on a mission to personally ruin your day. 

From dissatisfaction with the prices to vomit all over the restroom floor, it seemed like nothing could go right. 

Agatha had been at work herself so you had to call one of your college friends to give you a ride after. 

And now you had to sit in a class on Personality Theory for the next three hours and listen to your professor drone off on tangents. You would be getting your tests back from last week though, and you were hoping you had done well. 

“Alright, before we get started, I’ll go ahead and pass out your exams. Once I call your name, you can come up and look at it,” your professor says and you anxiously tap your fingers on the desk while you wait for your turn. 

Finally, he says your name. Butterflies in your stomach, you walk to the front to look and it’s like you’ve been punched in the gut. 

There must be something wrong, you don’t understand how you missed this many. 

Red ink stains the page and you have to clench your jaw together to keep your composure. Tears prick at your eyes as you hand the exam back to your professor and head back to your seat, burning with shame. 

It seems like it’s just one thing after another. 

You barely pay attention for the rest of class, head spinning with thoughts of how bad you did, how everything sucks, how you just want to go home. 

Agatha texts you a few times during the three hour time span, just checking in on you, but you don’t even respond. She always says that you get too wrapped up in your own brain and you know she’s right. You do let her know that you won’t need a ride home, not sure you could take the older woman’s softness right now. 

You just want to take a shower and lie in bed. 

Class finally ends and you order an Uber instead of asking a friend to take you home. When you get in these moods, you don’t want to talk to anyone. 

You grunt in response to the driver’s question of asking how you are and then the rest of the ride is spent in silence. It’s not often you get in such a foul mood, but when it does, it’s tough. 

When you make it through the front door of Agatha’s home, you immediately collapse on the couch and breathe in the blanket that still has her scent. She’ll be home soon and now you just want her to give you a big hug and tell you that everything will be alright. 

You hear keys jingle in the front door maybe ten minutes later and you sit up on the couch expectantly, heartbeat picking up. You’ve been with Agatha for six months now and she still managed to have the same effect on you that she had at the beginning. 

“Hey, baby,” she calls out, seeing the lights on, and she makes her way to the living room to find you swaddled in her favorite blanket on the couch. She frowns, instantly able to tell something is wrong. Usually you get up to give her a kiss. “You okay?” 

And then it’s like a dam breaks. You start sobbing and telling her all the things that have gone wrong that day and she instantly sits down next to you, engulfing you into a hug and whispering that everything will be okay. 

She lets you cry for a bit, hand stroking your hair, making soothing sounds. Eventually, you calm down enough to take slow, shaky breaths. 

“I’m sorry, doll. Sounds like you had a rough day,” she says, pressing a kiss to your head and wiping the tears off your cheeks. You nod in agreement. “Is there anything I can do to help?” 

You shrug while you think about it. And then you lean in and chastely kiss her lips. 

When you pull back, she’s smirking. 

“You want mommy to help you?” She coos and instantly, a fire awakens in your belly at the use of your favorite name for her. Your head bobs up and down eagerly but she tuts and grabs your jaw to hold it still. “Words, baby.” 

“Yes please, mommy,” you whisper. No one can make you feel as good as Agatha can. 

“Good girl,” Agatha hums and the fire gets worse. “What do you want?” 

You squirm on the couch, just looking at her, begging with wide eyes. 

“Why don’t you show me what you want?” You whine and grab her hand and bring it down to your shorts. “Oh, do you want me to touch you?” 

“Please,” you force out again. “Touch me, mommy.” 

Her grin is wicked as she lays you back down on the couch, positioning herself so she’s holding her weight above you. Your noses are almost close enough to touch. 

“Does my little baby want me to reward her like the perfect little angel that she is?” Agatha purrs and you gasp, feeling your head start to get fuzzy. She plays with the waistband of your shorts and your hips buck up involuntarily. You make a sort of strangled noise from your throat – all you can do, really – and she shushes you. “Just relax, doll. Let mommy take care of you.” You whimper as she kisses your nose and moves down your body to undress you. 

You feel like you’re on a different planet when Agatha pats your waist so you can lift yourself up for her to take your shorts and underwear off. 

“There we go, so good for me,” she says, leaving kisses against your thighs. You moan, senses heightened. You babble something incoherently and you can hear her chuckling at you. “Baby, you’re absolutely dripping for me.” 

Her fingers move up and down your slit, collecting wetness, and sounds are pulled out of your mouth by her administration. 

“Does that feel good, hon?” 

Your head lulls back on the couch and you try to say something to affirm her question. 

“Aw, is my little baby in subspace right now?” Something in the back of your mind tells you that you must be, but you’re too blissed out to answer. 

And then her tongue is on your pussy and you couldn’t say a word even if you tried. If you didn’t already feel like you were floating then, you sure do now. Your back arches off the couch as she sucks on your clit but her hands come up to hold you down. 

“Be a good girl for me and let mommy do all the work.” 

Your moans get louder as she keeps eating you out and you’ve never felt this good before. It’s like all your worries and stress and frustration that built up over the day are melting away to leave you in a puddle of pleasure. 

“Mommy, so close,” you slur, hands digging into the couch beneath you. Her teeth scrape against your clit and she moans into you and it sends you into an explosive orgasm. 

You’re not sure you’ve ever cum that hard. 

She licks you through it and you have to pull her away after a while because you become sensitive. 

Agatha comes up to kiss you, long and hard, and you can taste yourself on her tongue. 

“Do you want to try something new tonight, baby?” She asks once she pulls away and you nod eagerly before even asking what it is. You trust her more than anyone. “I’ll be right back.” She gives you one last parting kiss and quickly runs upstairs. 

She’s up there for a few minutes while you lay on the couch, still in a trance-like haze. 

And then she comes back down and your mouth falls open. 

Attached to her hips is the biggest strap-on you’ve ever seen. She must have just bought it. You had gotten to where you could take the toys you had pretty easily, but you are certain that this will stretch you out so much more than them. 

“Mommy,” you whisper, eyes widening as she comes back over to the couch. You can see that she’s holding lube in one hand. 

“Mommy wants to see if your tiny, little pussy can fit her big cock,” she says and a thrill runs through you despite yourself. “Might have to work you up to it.” 

Your legs part without thinking and she laughs. 

“So desperate for me, aren’t you? My perfect, little slut.” You gasp at the words, feeling yourself get even more wet. 

While you loved the praise from her, degradation almost turned you on more. 

“You have to relax, baby,” she reminds you, moving to kneel on the couch between your legs and pushing them even more open. She rubs your clit and slides two fingers in easily. You grind up on her fingers, trying to pull them in more. “Look at how well you take my fingers. So good for mommy. You can’t get enough of them, can you?” 

You shake your head and groan when she curls them just right. 

“Such a good whore for mommy,” she sighs. “Can you take another?” 

“Please,” you gasp out, walls clenching around the two already inside you. She pulls them and you feel empty, but that feeling is quickly gone when she pushes three in you. The stretch feels so good and your hips meet her every thrust, the pleasure in you already growing. 

And then it’s gone. Your head flies up to look at her wrapping the hand wet with you around her strap and coating it. And then she opens the bottle of lube and pours a hefty amount in her other hand to also stroke the toy with. 

“Are you ready, baby?” 

“Go slow, mommy,” you tell her, even though you know that she will. “You’re so big.” 

“You’re going to look so pretty, sweetheart, stretched around my big cock,” she says and positions the tip at your entrance. “Like a little, perfect slut. 

The first push steals all the air from your lungs. 

“Fuck,” you groan. You’ve never been so full in your life and you barely have any of it inside you. Agatha doesn’t move, just rubs small circles on your thighs and waits for you to tell her you’re okay. 

It takes a few moments for you to adjust. It’s definitely easier in the headspace that you’re in right now. 

“Okay,” you say and Agatha obeys, slowly moving forward inside you. She stops when your breathing gets strangled and doesn’t move again until you’re back to normal. 

“God, your little pussy looks so good taking my big cock so well,” she grunts once she finally bottoms out. If your mind was clearer, you’d tease her about the size kink she so clearly has. “How are you doing, baby? Can I move?” 

“Please, mommy,” you beg, still feeling euphoric. Every drag of her cock against your walls now feels like heaven. She smirks and starts to move.

She starts slow at first, just short, slow strokes to make sure that you’re still comfortable, and then she starts to really fuck you. 

The pace Agatha sets is rough and bruising and you can hear the wet, squelching sounds that the toy makes as it pushes back inside you every thrust, a mix of your wetness and lube. 

“Mommy,” is all you can pant as she fucks into you over and over again, a light sheen of sweat breaking out on her. 

“So fucking good, sweetheart, you’re taking my cock so well, such a perfect slut for mommy,” Agatha mutters, never slowing down once. If you were already in subspace before, you’re not sure you have a word for what state you’re in right now. There are not even semblances of thoughts in your head, there is only Agatha and the pleasure she is giving you. You can’t even remember what you were in such a bad mood about earlier. 

She reaches down to rub your clit again and you hear someone moan obscenely loudly. 

You think it might have been you. 

All you know is that you’re getting so close again you can taste it. She seems like she can tell because she somehow speeds up, which you didn’t think was possible. Little gasps are forced out of your mouth with every push and your walls are tightening so much around her that it makes it hard for her to thrust. 

“So good, baby, you’re taking me so well,” Agatha chants, a hand reaching up to play with your nipple under your shirt. “So perfect, such a perfect slut, my perfect good girl. Cum for mommy, cum all over mommy’s big cock.” 

She angles her hips just right and rubs your clit hard and you spasm, back bowing off the couch. You’ve never felt pleasure this extreme; it feels like you’re having an out-of-body experience. All the tension in your body is gone and you pant heavily as Agatha pulls out of you. 

“You okay, baby?” She asks and you wheeze a laugh. 

“M’okay,” you say happily, a slow smile spreading onto your face. You can feel your head clearing with the loss of her touch. 

“Let me get a washcloth, alright? I’ll be right back, I promise.” She gives you a kiss on your head and she’s back in what seems like seconds with a warm towel. You wince at the feeling of it between her legs but it helps. “Do you want to move to bed?” 

You nod, but you’re not actually sure if you can stand up based on the jelly feeling in your legs. Agatha seems to understand this without you saying anything and she scoops you off the couch bridal style and carries you up the stairs. 

You giggle and burrow your head into the crook of her neck, breathing her in and feeling her against you. 

“You did so good, baby,” she whispers. 

“Thank you, Agatha. I really needed that.” 

She pauses for a second in the hallway to peck your lips. “I know you did. I’m happy to help, sweetheart. Whatever you need.” 

Once in the bedroom, Agatha helps you into some comfy pajamas and makes you take sips of water from the bottle on her nightstand. You lay down and she pulls the covers over you both, pulling you close to her so she can wrap an arm around you. 

“You’re so perfect, baby, you know that?” She murmurs. “I love you so much.” She kisses you softly, bringing a hand up to stroke your hair. 

“I love you too,” you mumble in-between kisses. No one has ever made you feel more loved than Agatha. 

“I’m so proud of you,” she continues and you blush. “I know you had a hard day today, but tomorrow will be better. You’re so strong. You’re my perfect girl. I love you.” 

And she keeps whispering the sweetest things into your ear, and you drift off to sleep in her arms, feeling like nothing was ever wrong. 

[sinofwriting]

Insane Person - Max Verstappen (I ❤️ MILFS verse)

Words: 667 Summary: Max wants to be sure he can give Pan kids. (Part of the I ❤️ MILFS verse) Note(s): Takes place during the original I ❤️ MILFS fic, before Max finds out Pan’s age. Max is insane btw, this has been a blurb idea since I wrote the original fic and finally it has been written so enjoy, lol.

Masterlist | Support Me! | I ❤️ MILFS verse

“I’d love to give Logan a sibling or two.”

The words so soft had made his heart speed up as soon as he heard them and now thinking about them, letting them play on repeat.

It’s early in their relationship, though they haven’t yet talked about it yet, no matter how much Max is dying to do so. But Max wants to be the one that she gives Logan siblings with.

Which is why he’s sitting in front of his computer and looking at medical studies.

A lot of it is going over his head. The most schooling he sat through was the first four or five years of it. He can grasp engineering, anything to do with cars and their data, but medical terminology goes over his head.

He powers through, he doesn’t know Pan’s exact age, his mother would smack him over the head if he even thought to ask her age, but she’s got to to be mid to late thirties if not early forties considering Logan is twenty.

The studies say she’d be fine getting pregnant, shouldn’t have trouble conceiving, and his cheeks burn at the word, at the image it puts in his mind. They haven’t quite got their, but they’ve gotten close. They throw out the term geriatric pregnancy which makes him flinch because forty wasn’t old, at least not if you weren’t a driver and to see it be called something like that felt harsh, rude. Another one calls it advanced maternal age which really isn’t any better, but it’s just relieving to see that’s still possible. And then a study mentions that if people are having trouble conceiving that not only does the person birthing need to get checked, but both do and a new panic takes over his brain.

What if when it came time to try, he was the problem? It would really be his luck. Things had been going very well for the past few years, it would be his luck that he couldn’t give the woman he loves more kids.

And Logan wanted siblings, the panic grows as he remembers Logan chiming in that he’d love some siblings. Oh god, what if he failed in giving Logan siblings? He wanted the younger driver to like him, to really like him.

His fingers act quickly, wanting to know how he can know if he can have kids and the results make him blink because it couldn’t be that easy.

He just had to provide a sample in a cup?

Max’s brain struggles to compute that after just reading everything that women have to go through to get their fertility checked.

His hand goes to his phone, he rarely if ever called his doctor, but this was important.

He goes through the motions of confirming he is who he is, wondering how weird it must be for other people to do this for him before he finally gets asked why for the purpose of the appointment.

“I want to check to see if I can have kids.”

“Okay, are you and your partner having trouble conceiving?”

His cheeks burn, “We aren’t trying yet. I just want to make sure that it’s possible on my end.”

“Okay, it’s a simple procedure at our clinic and we could see you in the next three days if that works for you at any time we are open.”

“That’s perfect.”

“Alright, we’ll see you in a few days, Mr. Verstappen.”

He gets the results back five days after his appointment, an email sitting in his inbox, and he forces himself to take a deep breath before finally opening it.

There are words he doesn’t know, ones he doesn’t really want to think about, but there at the end, a note from his doctor that says everything looks great, and he shouldn’t have troubles getting someone pregnant and his fist goes in the air, a quiet but excited yes leaving him.

He could give Logan siblings and Pan more kids, thank fuck.

[amateurvoltaire]

For the past six years or so, this graph has been making its rounds on social media, always reappearing at conveniently timed moments…

The insinuation is loud and clear: parallels abound between 18th-century France and 21st-century USA. Cue the alarm bells—revolution is imminent! The 10% should panic, and ordinary folk should stock up on non-perishables and, of course, toilet paper, because it wouldn’t be a proper crisis without that particular frenzy. You know the drill.

Well, unfortunately, I have zero interest in commenting on the political implications or the parallels this graph is trying to make with today’s world. I have precisely zero interest in discussing modern-day politics here. And I also have zero interest in addressing the bottom graph.

This is not going to be one of those "the [insert random group of people] à la lanterne” (1) kind of posts.  If you’re here for that, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.

What I am interested in is something much less click-worthy but far more useful: how historical data gets used and abused and why the illusion of historical parallels can be so seductive—and so misleading. It’s not glamorous, I’ll admit, but digging into this stuff teaches us a lot more than mindless rage.

So, let’s get into it. Step by step, we’ll examine the top graph, unpick its assumptions, and see whether its alarmist undertones hold any historical weight.

Step 1: Actually Look at the Picture and Use Your Brain

When I saw this graph, my first thought was, “That’s odd.” Not because it’s hard to believe the top 10% in 18th-century France controlled 60% of the wealth—that could very well be true. But because, in 15 years of studying the French Revolution, I’ve never encountered reliable data on wealth distribution from that period.

Why? Because to the best of my knowledge, no one was systematically tracking income or wealth across the population in the 18th century. There were no comprehensive records, no centralised statistics, and certainly no detailed breakdowns of who owned what across different classes. Graphs like this imply data, and data means either someone tracked it or someone made assumptions to reconstruct it. That’s not inherently bad,  but it did get my spider senses tingling.

Then there’s the timeframe: 1760–1790. Thirty years is a long time— especially when discussing a period that included wars, failed financial policies, growing debt, and shifting social dynamics. Wealth distribution wouldn’t have stayed static during that time. Nobles who were at the top in 1760 could be destitute by 1790, while merchants starting out in 1760 could be climbing into the upper tiers by the end of the period. Economic mobility wasn’t common, but over three decades, it wasn’t unheard of either.

All of this raises questions about how this graph was created. Where’s the data coming from? How was it measured? And can we really trust it to represent such a complex period?

Step 2: Check the Fine Print

Since the graph seemed questionable, the obvious next step was to ask: Where does this thing come from? Luckily, the source is clearly cited at the bottom: “The Income Inequality of France in Historical Perspective” by Christian Morrisson and Wayne Snyder, published in the European Review of Economic History, Vol. 4, No. 1 (2000).

Great! A proper academic source. But, before diving into the article, there’s a crucial detail tucked into the fine print:

“Data for the bottom 40% in France is extrapolated given a single data point.”

What does that mean?

Extrapolation is a statistical method used to estimate unknown values by extending patterns or trends from a small sample of data. In this case, the graph’s creator used one single piece of data—one solitary data point—about the wealth of the bottom 40% of the French population. They then scaled or applied that one value to represent the entire group across the 30-year period (1760–1790).

Put simply, this means someone found one record—maybe a tax ledger, an income statement, or some financial data—pertaining to one specific year, region, or subset of the bottom 40%, and decided it was representative of the entire demographic for three decades.

Let’s be honest: you don’t need a degree in statistics to know that’s problematic. Using a single data point to make sweeping generalisations about a large, diverse population (let alone across an era of wars, famines, and economic shifts) is a massive leap. In fact, it’s about as reliable as guessing how the internet feels about a topic from a single tweet.

This immediately tells me that whatever numbers they claim for the bottom 40% of the population are, at best, speculative. At worst? Utterly meaningless.

It also raises another question: What kind of serious journal would let something like this slide? So, time to pull up the actual article and see what’s going on.

Step 3: Check the Sources

As I mentioned earlier, the source for this graph is conveniently listed at the bottom of the image. Three clicks later, I had downloaded the actual article: “The Income Inequality of France in Historical Perspective” by Morrisson and Snyder.

The first thing I noticed while skimming through the article? The graph itself is nowhere to be found in the publication.

This is important. It means the person who created the graph didn’t just lift it straight from the article—they derived it from the data in the publication. Now, that’s not necessarily a problem; secondary analysis of published data is common. But here’s the kicker: there’s no explanation in the screenshot of the graph about which dataset or calculations were used to make it. We’re left to guess.

So, to figure this out, I guess I’ll have to dive into the article itself, trying to identify where they might have pulled the numbers from. Translation: I signed myself up to read 20+ pages of economic history. Thrilling stuff.

But hey, someone has to do it. The things I endure to fight disinformation...

Step 4: Actually Assess the Sources Critically

It doesn’t take long, once you start reading the article, to realise that regardless of what the graph is based on, it’s bound to be somewhat unreliable. Right from the first paragraph, the authors of the paper point out the core issue with calculating income for 18th-century French households: THERE IS NO DATA.

The article is refreshingly honest about this. It states multiple times that there were no reliable income distribution estimates in France before World War II. To fill this gap, Morrisson and Snyder used a variety of proxy sources like the Capitation Tax Records (2), historical socio-professional tables, and Isnard’s income distribution estimates (3).

After reading the whole paper, I can say their methodology is intriguing and very reasonable. They’ve pieced together what they could by using available evidence, and their process is quite well thought-out. I won’t rehash their entire argument here, but if you’re curious, I’d genuinely recommend giving it a read.

Most importantly, the authors are painfully aware of the limitations of their approach. They make it very clear that their estimates are a form of educated guesswork—evidence-based, yes, but still guesswork.   At no point do they overstate their findings or present their conclusions as definitive

As such,  instead of concluding with a single, definitive version of the income distribution, they offer multiple possible scenarios.

It’s not as flashy as a bold, tidy graph, is it? But it’s far more honest—and far more reflective of the complexities involved in reconstructing historical economic data.

Step 5: Run the numbers

Now that we’ve established the authors of the paper don’t actually propose a definitive income distribution, the question remains: where did the creators of the graph get their data? More specifically, which of the proposed distributions did they use?

Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to locate the original article or post containing the graph. Admittedly, I haven’t tried very hard, but the first few pages of Google results just link back to Twitter, Reddit, Facebook, and Tumblr posts. In short, all I have to go on is this screenshot.

I’ll give the graph creators the benefit of the doubt and assume that, in the full article, they explain where they sourced their data. I really hope they do—because they absolutely should.

That being said, based on the information in Morrisson and Snyder’s paper, I’d make an educated guess that the data came from Table 6 or Table 10, as these are the sections where the authors attempt to provide income distribution estimates.

Now, which dataset does the graph use? Spoiler: None of them.

How can we tell? Since I don’t have access to the raw data or the article where this graph might have been originally posted, I resorted to a rather unscientific method: I used a graphical design program to divide each bar of the chart into 2.5% increments and measure the approximate percentage for each income group.

Here’s what I found:

Now, take a moment to spot the issue. Do you see it?

The problem is glaring: NONE of the datasets from the paper fit the graph. Granted, my measurements are just estimates, so there might be some rounding errors. But the discrepancies are impossible to ignore, particularly for the bottom 40% and the top 10%.

In Morrisson and Snyder’s paper, the lowest estimate for the bottom 40% (1st and 2nd quintiles) is 10%. Even if we use the most conservative proxy, the Capitation Tax estimate, it’s 9%. But the graph claims the bottom 40% held only 6%.

For the top 10% (10th decile), the highest estimate in the paper is 53%. Yet the graph inflates this to 60%.

Step 6: For fun, I made my own bar charts

Because I enjoy this sort of thing (yes, this is what I consider fun—I’m a very fun person), I decided to use the data from the paper to create my own bar charts. Here’s what came out:

What do you notice?

While the results don’t exactly scream “healthy economy,” they look much less dramatic than the graph we started with. The creators of the graph have clearly exaggerated the disparities, making inequality seem worse.

Step 7: Understand the context before drawing conclusions

Numbers, by themselves, mean nothing. Absolutely nothing.

I could tell you right now that 47% of people admit to arguing with inanimate objects when they don’t work, with printers being the most common offender, and you’d probably believe it. Why? Because it sounds plausible—printers are frustrating, I’ve used a percentage, and I’ve phrased it in a way that sounds “academic.”

You likely wouldn’t even pause to consider that I’m claiming 3.8 billion people argue with inanimate objects. And let’s be real: 3.8 billion is such an incomprehensibly large number that our brains tend to gloss over it.

If, instead, I said, “Half of your friends probably argue with their printers,” you might stop and think, “Wait, that seems a bit unlikely.” (For the record, I completely made that up—I have no clue how many people yell at their stoves or complain to their toasters.)

The point? Numbers mean nothing unless we put them into context.

The original paper does this well by contextualising its estimates, primarily through the calculation of the Gini coefficient (4).

The authors estimate France’s Gini coefficient in the late 18th century to be 0.59, indicating significant income inequality. However, they compare this figure to other regions and periods to provide a clearer picture:

Amsterdam (1742): Much higher inequality, with a Gini of 0.69.

Britain (1759): Lower inequality, with a Gini of 0.52, which rose to 0.59 by 1801.

Prussia (mid-19th century): Far less inequality, with a Gini of 0.34–0.36.

This comparison shows that income inequality wasn’t unique to France. Other regions experienced similar or even higher levels of inequality without spontaneously erupting into revolution.

Accounting for Variations

The authors also recalculated the Gini coefficient to account for potential variations. They assumed that the income of the top quintile (the wealthiest 20%) could vary by ±10%. Here’s what they found:

If the top quintile earned 10% more, the Gini coefficient rose to 0.66, placing France significantly above other European countries of the time.

If the top quintile earned 10% less, the Gini dropped to 0.55, bringing France closer to Britain’s level.

Ultimately, the authors admit there’s uncertainty about the exact level of inequality in France. Their best guess is that it was comparable to other countries or somewhat worse.

Step 8: Drawing Some Conclusions

Saying that most people in the 18th century were poor and miserable—perhaps the French more so than others—isn’t exactly a compelling statement if your goal is to gather clicks or make a dramatic political point.

It’s incredibly tempting to look at the past and find exactly what we want to see in it. History often acts as a mirror, reflecting our own expectations unless we challenge ourselves to think critically. Whether you call it wishful thinking or confirmation bias, it’s easy to project the future onto the past.

Looking at the initial graph, I understand why someone might fall into this trap. Simple, tidy narratives are appealing to everyone. But if you’ve studied history, you’ll know that such narratives are a myth. Human nature may not have changed in thousands of years, but the contexts we inhabit are so vastly different that direct parallels are meaningless.

So, is revolution imminent? Well, that’s up to you—not some random graph on the internet.

Notes

(1) A la lanterne was a  revolutionary cry during the French Revolution, symbolising mob justice where individuals were sometimes hanged from lampposts as a form of public execution

(2) The capitation tax was a fixed head tax implemented in France during the Ancien Régime. It was levied on individuals, with the amount owed determined by their social and professional status. Unlike a proportional income tax, it was based on pre-assigned categories rather than actual earnings, meaning nobles, clergy, and commoners paid different rates regardless of their actual wealth or income.

(3) Jean-Baptiste Isnard was an 18th-century economist. These estimates attempted to describe the theoretical distribution of income among different social classes in pre-revolutionary France. Isnard’s work aimed to categorise income across groups like nobles, clergy, and commoners, providing a broad picture of economic disparity during the period.

(4) The Gini coefficient (or Gini index) is a widely used statistical measure of inequality within a population, specifically in terms of income or wealth distribution. It ranges from 0 to 1, where 0 indicates perfect equality (everyone has the same income or wealth), and 1 represents maximum inequality (one person or household holds all the wealth).

[oneletteredwondered]

!!!!!

That's the thing!!! C!Thomas could probably benefit from indulging in dark creativity, be that breaking something, writing something gruesome, or in general just screaming really loud. He hasn't ever really fully leaned into that and I think it'd be good for him to have that catharsis.

But dark creativity and intrusive thoughts are not the same and can't be treated that way regardless of the fact they are combined into the one facet.

Especially in WTIT where he's fully leaned into the intrusive thoughts role.

Dark creativity is generally beneficial to Thomas because giving Thomas a greater perspective for his art is useful. However, intrusive thoughts are never helpful, and none of them have anything to do with the actual issues Thomas is dealing with. Generally Remus is much more likely to emerge and cause chaos when Thomas is already upset or anxious about something else because when Thomas is already feeling low, it is easier to further upset him. You could say that Remus showing up is beneficial to the other sides to indicate to them that Thomas is upset about something, but nothing Remus does has anything to do with his actual issues or realistic problems, he is just creating more anxiety and chaos because it is fun for him, and that anxiety and chaos that Remus causes has nothing to do with Thomas's actual real life issues, they are separate.

As someone who also has intrusive thoughts (twinsies, you and me, I want the window seat), I agree that Remus works like a litmus test, but more so like a check engine light. The light comes on when something is wrong enough, but the light itself does not tell you exactly what is wrong. You have to go into the system, you can't just trust the light. Remus comes around when something is wrong, but hes not giving any good indication as to what. He's playing to sensitivities and insecurities, and while those things are stuff to work on, they are not the root problem. He's misleading.

The issue is that, if Remus is showing up to show something is wrong and he's trying to help fix it, he's going about it in the literal worst way possible. He's not helping by making Thomas anxious and giving him Intrusive thoughts. And he's not really trying to guide anyone to a solution either. Yes he tells Logan he can't fix Thomas by himself, but that's more of a dig at Logan specifically cause Logan would want to fix Thomas by himself, and he can't. Remus is enjoying the misery.

He may be recognizing something is wrong, but he doesn't seem to care about the solution. If anything, it would be more beneficial for Remus if Thomas was to remain upset and anxious cause that's when remus is more likely to be listened to and kept around.

On one hand I can agree that it might be a disservice to reduce Remus to shits and giggles. How ever, he hasnt really proved much reason otherwise. In general I actually do believe he is in it for shits and giggles and that his character is that one dimensional. He's shallow enough that he would do things, and has done things, for the soul purpose of making someone upset or because he thinks it's funny.

The only solution I can see him being a part of is pushing Thomas so far to the breaking point so that he does indulge in dark creativity, but if he does that, he's not doing that to fix things, he's doing it because it's going to be fun.

In the end I think we just have a fundamental disagreement on what Remus motive is. I just haven't seen anything that indicates he wants to help as a whole. He likes poking the bear "just because" in my opinion.

But I do still agree with original sentiment, I think he's incredibly clever in the way he does what he does, he knows exactly how to get under everyone's skin and takes full advantage of it.

I don't think Remus is given enough credit for being clever.

[allastoredeer]

Overlord politics! I love reading about overlord politics and how it relate to how they all coexist and tolerate each other without going into turf wars everyday in Hell!

GOSH I love thinking about Overlord politics so much and why they aren't constantly trying to kill each other. Moreover, how they ended establishing what is, essentially, a council so they're all running the city together while also having the freedom to run their own districts.

There has to be a system of checks and balances.

Carmilla Carmine sells angelic weapons for crying out loud. Weapons that could kill the Overlords. They have to be watching her like a fucking hawk to make sure she's not going to turn against them.

The Vee's have control of almost all media AND have the means to spy and collect intel on all the other Overlords. They have to have some degree of restraint so it doesn’t look like they’re stepping on the other Overlords toes and painting themselves as a direct threat to them and their people.

Rosie owns all the cannibals. We know she's not as powerful as the other Overlords (I believe Viv confirmed that, but take it with a grain of salt), but the other Overlords don't mess with her. At all. Why does she get to have a monopoly on the cannibals? Is it just that she gets to them first? Or are the cannibals so much of a risk, are so unruly and unpredictable, that the other Overlords happily pass them over to Rosie so she can keep control of them?

And Alastor???? This guy who came out of nowhere, has no territory as far as we're aware, and just...offed a fuck-ton of Overlords and gained so much power overnight that the other Overlords didn't even have a chance to step in. They go on with theirs live, meeting up with each other, with Alastor in the same room, knowing that somehow, someway, he has killed (permanently killed) multiple of their associates, and that he could do the same to them if the fancy hits him? I know Carmilla brushed him off during the meeting, but like???? Can you imagine the first Overlord meeting Alastor showed up at? Him just sitting with the handful of Overlords he spared after mass-murdering their colleagues????

I have so many thoughts about the Overlords, their politics, and how they run the city together. So. Many. Thoughts.

[whipped-for-kpop-fics]

Naive - L.C

💡Who: Lee Chan (Seventeen) x female reader 💡What: Best friends to ??? Angst. Thriller. Soft moments. Dark themes (please check warnings). 18+ 💡Word count: 11.5k 💡Warnings: Profanity. Stalking. Nonconsensual voyeurism. Nonconsensual photos. Cheating. Major injury (Not Chan or reader). Mentions of a car accident. Mentions of sexual harassment. Mentions of panic attacks and almost panic attacks. No smut, but suggestive content, some dirty talk and mentions of sexual acts. Very morally dark character. Drugging. Kidnapping. Restraints. Chan calls reader angel a lot (mostly because I don’t wanna use y/n), and baby in the second half.

Summary: Breakups are always painful, but at least you have your best friend by your side to make everything better. Right?

Minors do NOT interact, which means reblogging and/or commenting on this story. I WILL block any account that interacts without an age indicator in their bio.

-2024 Masterlist-

A/N- I know nothing about flower meanings, it all came straight from Wikipedia so don't blame me for inaccurate meanings, it's just a fic.

“It’s okay, he’s in the past, he’s not worth your tears,” your best friend soothes as you cry into his chest for the third night in a row.

“I-I should’ve li-listened to you,” you sob, gripping his t-shirt tighter and curling up smaller.

“It doesn’t matter now; what matters is you ended it and never have to deal with that asshole again.”

“A-asshole is too kind.”

Chan chuckles and tilts his head against the top of your head yet says nothing more and simply continues to hold you until you run out of tears for your cheating, pervert of an ex-boyfriend. Proving once again that Lee Chan is the only man you can ever trust to be good and honest.

Over a year ago, you met Lee Chan while in the gardening section of the bookstore. It was a cliché romcom moment where you both reached for the same book and your hands met before your eyes did. He smiled at you with a soft little chuckle and said something like “guess we both want to know what Victorian people thought flowers meant”, which somehow led to you both buying a copy of the book on the Victorian language of flowers to take to the nearby coffee shop with the intention of reading side by side. Though very little reading happened, and you found yourself sitting there with Chan for hours; laughing and talking as if you’ve known one another for years. It was like he was made to be the other half of you, designed with only you in mind.

At first, you thought maybe it was true; that Chan was your romantic soulmate. But you were seeing someone else at the time and pushed the thought of Chan being anything but platonic entirely out of your mind.

It’s a year and multiple failed relationships later, while you’re out shopping on a rare day off, that something changes.

“What do you think of this one?” Chan asks, drawing your attention to where he’s a few racks away donned in the black, leather biker jacket he just found on the men’s sale rack.

“Oh,” you murmur, suddenly hit with the realisation that your best friend is ridiculously attractive.

It’s not that you’ve ever thought Chan is ugly; in fact, you first paid attention to him in the bookstore past a glance because of how handsome he is. But that was over a year ago and your thoughts have never moved on from considering him the same kind of beautiful as you would a piece of art that you see in a store, yet easily move on past without looking back.

Yet now, you’ve noticed and suddenly can’t draw your eyes away from him.

“Hello?” Chan laughs, waving his arms to bring you back to reality when you do nothing more than stare at him for almost a full minute. “You alright? Getting hungry?” He pouts at you teasingly. “Does the baby need num nums?”

“I hate it when you say that” you remind and stick your middle finger up at him, making him laugh while you turn back to the sale rack you had been looking through.

“I know, why do you think I say it?” He cackles and bounces over to prod you and gain your attention back. “You didn’t say what you think? Do I look sexy?” He wiggles his eyebrows at you while posing in the jacket. “Should I get it?”

“Yeah,” you answer with a nod after taking his body in once more and turning away.

“Was that yes to getting it, or that I look sexy?” He murmurs from suddenly behind you with his mouth right by your ear. You jolt in surprise having not heard him approach, then turn to whack his arm while he cracks up laughing. “You think I’m sexyyy!” He sings loudly, just to annoy you.

“Why are we best friends again?”

“I took pity on you and your bad taste in men.” He definitely deserves the hit this time, even if he’s right.

Ever since you’ve known Chan, you’ve had nothing but terrible luck with picking men to date. You always think they’re okay at first, but then the red flags start popping up and begin waving manically in the hot air spewing from their mouths.

You really thought you had run out of bad luck and finally picked a good one with your ex. He was kind and endlessly attractive; a hard worker, yet always made time for fun and relaxation; and his parents loved you.

It lasted a whole seven months before you found another woman’s underwear in his car, and you realised you should’ve listened to Chan’s gut feeling about Kyle from the start. Finding a stack of polaroids of various women getting changed when you were emptying his apartment of your belongings that same night only made the heartache worse. Not only did he cheat on you, but he also likes to take photos of unsuspecting women through windows and cracked doors.

Upon turning your back on him three weeks ago, you decided to give up on men and always listen to Chan’s gut instincts from now on.

You don’t need a boyfriend; you just need your best friend.

Just when you’re about to leave your apartment building to meet with Chan for lunch one day, you come face to face with your ex. He looks, frankly put, like shit. He used to be so well put together, never to an obsessive degree but he was always well rested and tidy, but now he looks like he hasn’t slept or eaten in at least two days with his hair sticking up a little as if he’s been running his hands through it repeatedly. He’s still wearing nice clothes, but they’re creased, and his shoes aren’t even properly tied.

“What are you doing here?” You hiss while glaring at the man and trying to step past him, but he gets in your path with his hands held up placatingly; he even doesn’t attempt to touch you or get in your personal space.

Vaguely, you think how weird it is of him to respect that boundary yet have polaroids of you half naked in the changing room at your gym. A completely separate gym to the one he frequents too, which somehow makes it even worse; that he went so far out of his way to take the photos you never consented to.

“I just want to talk to you, please? Just a few minutes and I’ll go, and you’ll never see me again,” he pleads. The genuine desperation in his eyes makes you relent and nod. “Can we go somewhere a little less public? I’m not asking to go somewhere isolated, just not the middle of the building lobby.”

Again, you relent and move to the side of the lobby out of the light foot traffic; still perfectly in sight of others yet far enough away to have a private conversation.

“Thank you,” he breathes out gratefully and relaxes a little as you lean one shoulder against the wall with your arms crossed over your chest.

“What is it? I’m going to be late to meet Chan.”

“Right, how is he?”

“Good, it’s Chan. He’s always good.” The words are a little pointed, designed to hurt, and the way his features flinch at the jab sends a little surge of satisfaction into you. Though there’s something in you aching at that same hurt in his eyes; it looks too real.

“Yeah, he’s a good guy,” he agrees softly, and you hum. “So uh, I just…I can’t stop thinking about what happened.”

“Cheating on me or taking photos of women without their consent?” You question, glaring again at the reminder of why you want nothing to do with this man before you. This pathetic, sad eyed, mess of a man.

It’s funny how far he’s fallen in so little time. Strange how a man who cheated on you in the backseat of the same car he often pulled you into with shared giggles, can break so much at being called out on his misdeeds.

You really thought he would just move on to the next conquest and forget all about you for good, just like he did while with the other woman. Or women. You never asked how many there were.

Yet the man before you doesn’t seem to have moved on at all.

“I didn’t do either of those things,” he repeats the words he had said to you a little over a month ago. You didn’t believe him then; you were so full of anger and betrayal as you tried to cradle the pieces of your shattered heart and hoped he hadn’t stolen any of the pieces leaving you unable to stitch it back together again.

Now that you’ve let go of most of your anger and Chan has helped you in putting the pieces back together to the point that your heart is almost whole and healing, you can see through the pain and tears and notice that this man in front of you looks genuine. He’s looking at you without any attempt to look aside or shrink away. He isn’t hiding.

“I found underwear in your car Kyle,” you point out, holding your ground even if you suddenly realise that something here doesn’t feel right. “And those photos in your apartment.”

“I know, I know, and I’ve been trying to figure out how the fuck they got there because it wasn’t me.”

“You live alone and don’t share your car.”

“I know!” He exclaims, hands flying up in frustration, though it doesn’t feel like it’s aimed at you, especially as he steps back to make certain that he doesn’t accidentally hit you. Kyle’s always been considerate like that; always made sure to give you a wide berth when he flung his arms around in play or frustration. But that doesn’t mean he can’t be a cheating pervert. A man can be against physically harming his partner and still betray their trust so deeply.

“Then only you could’ve put them there.”

“No, no, I didn’t though,” he steps closer while lifting his hands between you, though he brings them to his own chest instead of touching you. “Look me in the eye and tell me I have ever done a thing to make you think I would cheat on you or take photos without consent. I never even asked you for pictures; you were the one who offered and asked if you could send me pictures months into our relationship.”

The thing is, he’s right. Although you did have sex regularly and he would send you dirty texts when he was in the mood, Kyle never asked for nudes. You had to be the one to bring it up and ask if he was against that kind of thing.

Now that he brings it up, you can vividly recall him telling you that does enjoy nudes and would certainly enjoy seeing photos of you like that, but he also knows how dangerous they can be to send and receive because of hacking, losing phones or breaking up. He had been so genuine about it and triple checked that you were comfortable with it entirely before giving you consent to send him photos whenever you wanted.

“You had those polaroids, you didn’t need me to send you any,” you reason in a mumble. You don’t even know if you believe what you’re saying at this point, or if you’re just trying to explain the behaviour away. Something isn’t sitting right in you.

“Why would I want polaroids of random women I don’t even know when I have you?” He asks, eyes silently begging you to understand.

“There were photos of me too,” you answer.

“What?” He frowns confusedly. “I didn’t see those, just the top ones before you took them all away.”

“You know I was in there, at the gym changing rooms.”

“I’ve never been anywhere near your gym!” He puts his face in his hands. “I don’t understand what the fuck is going on. I swear I have never been to your gym.” He looks at you imploringly as his hands drop. “And you know I keep my car clean, there’s no way I would’ve failed to notice that underwear; so if I did cheat on you, do you really think I’d miss the evidence and leave them somewhere you’d see them?”

You open your mouth to retort automatically, only to realise there isn’t a single word ready to roll off your tongue. He’s making far too much sense and that doesn’t make sense.

He cheated on you. He’s a pervert who takes photos of unsuspecting women in vulnerable situations. He’s a terrible person.

At least, you thought he was.

Maybe Chan is right and you’re just naïve when faced with a handsome man giving you big puppy dog eyes.

“I need to go,” you decide after a few long moments of trying to form some kind of reaction other than staring at him with furrowed brows. “Chan’s waiting.”

“Right,” Kyle lets out a disappointed sigh, yet nods resignedly and steps back as if giving you space to leave. He hadn’t been in your way in the first place but it’s a silent sign that he won’t try to stop you. “I guess I can’t say anything else to convince you that I didn’t do those things, and I never would. I…I wanted to marry you, you know?”

“What?” You whisper in shock, eyebrows lifting as your eyes turn wide. “Marry me?”

“Yeah,” he lets out a soft, humourless laugh and runs one hand through his hair while looking aside, a shy flush creeping onto his neck and ears. “I was in love with you.”

“You were?”

“Yeah, well, no, actually, that’s a lie.” He looks at you and catches the way your face falls into a frown hearing him admitting to lying to your face like that. “I’m still so fucking in love with you that I can’t function properly knowing you hate me. I’m not asking you to come back to me; I know that won’t happen. I’m just…asking you to really think about it, about us, and me. I never lied to you, never showed you a false me. You know me better than anyone else. Do you really believe I did those things?”

“What took you so long?” Chan pouts at you when you sit down in your usual seat opposite him at your usual table in your usual café. “Angel?”

“Uh, so Kyle was at my apartment,” you inform, picking up your mug that’s been waiting for you for ten minutes already thanks to Chan always ordering for you both. Usually you arrive minutes before your food and drinks arrive, but today you’re late for the first time.

“What?” Chan’s face drops so drastically it throws you off for a second. You’ve never seen such a dark expression on him; you’ve never seen him so entirely void of any light. He doesn’t look like your best friend. “Your apartment? Did he force himself in? Did he hurt you?”

“No, no, I meant the lobby and no, he’s never hurt me. He wouldn’t do that.”

“He cheated on you, took fucking creeper shots of you in your gym and you think he’s above putting his hands on you?” He scoffs, shaking his head a little and pushes the salt across the table to you. You hadn’t asked for it, but you will before you start eating.

He’s always doing thoughtful little things like that for you, but you’ve never really noticed it until the last weeks. Silently noticing what you need and giving it to you with a smile.

But he’s not smiling now. He looks concerned now, rounded eyes locked on you and head tilted down a little as he frowns, almost looking at you through his eyelashes. “I don’t want to be mean or anything, but he fooled you before, angel, he’s clearly trying to do it again. I don’t know what he said to you, but you’ve got that lost look you get when you don’t know what to do.”

“He made good points, Channie,” you reply as you salt your fries before putting the shaker down. Chan doesn’t even look at it past a quick glance before sliding it back to its home out of the way.

“What good points could he have for cheating on you?”

“He said he didn’t do it-” Chan sighs heavily, cutting you off.

“Angel, he said that before, remember? Why do you suddenly believe that piece of shit?”

“Because…he looked honest.”

Chan stares at you for a moment before he sighs and reaches over to hold your hands. “I say this with all the love in me, but you’re not the best judge of character, angel. You’re naïve, innocent. I love that you see the good in the world and everyone, really, I fucking love it; it’s really sweet and cute. But it’s going to get you hurt all over again if you let him fool you like this.”

You look down at your hands in Chan’s, then back up at his face. His gaze is entirely open; big eyes and soft, naturally pouting lips. Your heart skips a beat.

You look away while nodding in understanding, silently telling him that you’re listening to him as you free your hands so that you can pick up your fork.

“Good, I really don’t want to see you hurt again like that. It broke my heart,” Chan says, relaxing as he picks up his own fork to stab too many fries onto the prongs, which he then points at you. “If you break my heart again like that, I’m stealing your TV.”

“My TV?” You sputter in surprise before laughing. Chan grins around the too many fries in his mouth and nods. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You love me though,” he sings around his mouthful while stabbing more fries.

Even with the view of his partially chewed food in his mouth, you can’t really deny it.

“No! Stop it!” You giggle while trying to block Chan from entering your kitchen behind you. “It’s not ready!”

“Just tell me what you’re doing!” He replies, laughing along with you as he tries to dart around you.

“Not yet! Just wait, you impatient shit!”

“No!” He wraps his arms around your waist to pull you away from the doorway and spin you both, so his back is to the kitchen now instead of yours. “Ha!”

“No!” You gasp and reach out, grabbing fistfuls of his t-shirt and in a panic, you yank him closer harshly, unintentionally making him stumble into you.

“Shit, are you okay?” He worries once you’re both steady and he’s holding your upper arms to nudge you back just enough that he can look at your face. You’re frowning, though he can only see your furrowed eyebrows thanks to your hand being over most of the bottom half of your face to cup your nose as his shoulder had collided with it. “Oh, did I hurt you?”

“Asshole,” you murmur while nodding, even if it doesn’t hurt that much; you just honestly like being doted on by your best friend to the extent that you are willing to play up minor injuries to gain his gentle touch and attention.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to,” he apologises, frowning at you as he carefully tugs your hand down. “Let Doctor Channie see.”

“You’d be a terrible doctor,” you reply, moving your hand down to let him cup your face so that he can tilt your head into the light coming in through the windows and see your features better.

“What? I’d be great!” He defends, pouting at you offendedly.

“You thought the uvula is what you pee from.”

“It’s not my fault!” He blushes a little at the reminder of his innocent mix up. “Nobody told me that dangly thing isn’t tonsils! And the pee pipe thingy starts with a U too!”

“Urethra.”

“Exactly, they’re so similar! They should name them differently. Anyway, that doesn’t mean anything, I’d still be a good doctor.”

“Yeah, until you try to catheter someone’s throat.” His expression turns unimpressed, and you can’t help but giggle. He rolls his eyes as his lips turn up into a smile.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” he murmurs, turning his attention back to your slightly red nose.

“Mm, so what’s the verdict doc?” You tease, poking at his stomach and trying not to focus on the physical reminder that your best friend has abs under his baggy clothes.

“I think you’ll be okay with the right treatment.”

“And what treatment is that?”

“The best thing for a boo-boo,” he replies seriously, and then visibly nearly breaks into a laugh at the almost glare you land on him. “What?”

“I’m not a baby.”

“Yes you are. My baby,” he coos and taps his thumbs to your cheeks. You hope he doesn’t see or feel the way they warm at his words. “I specialise in baby angels, I know this.”

“You’re seriously ridiculous.”

“Mm, so, are you consenting to Doctor Channie’s effective boo-boo treatment?”

You raise an eyebrow at him. “You haven’t told me what it is yet.”

“You know what the treatment for a boo-boo is, angel,” he chuckles and tilts forward to press a soft kiss to the tip of your nose. “Like that.”

“I didn’t consent to that treatment, I can sue you,” you mumble, trying to distract from the growing pink on your cheeks. Chan’s eyes glide over your features, lips turning up into a soft smile. “Stop smiling at me like that!” You whine, slapping his waist so gently that it can’t even be classed at a slap, more like you’re just putting your hands on his waist with a little force.

“But you’re so fucking cute,” he reasons, smiling wider. “My cute baby,” he murmurs lowly and brushes his nose against yours gently. Your breath hitches at the tender action while your fingers curl reflexively to loosely grip his t-shirt. “Do I have consent to administer treatment, angel?” He whispers, lips so close to yours that you can almost feel them moving as he talks.

“I…” Just as you start to nod, your phone starts to ring in the kitchen, making you jump in surprise and jolt away from Chan in a natural reaction to the unexpected noise. “I should get that.”

“Right,” Chan mutters, dropping his arms to his side with a disappointed frown as he watches you scoot around him to enter the kitchen.

When you pick up your phone from the counter, you’re more than just a little surprised to see your ex’s mother calling you.

You haven’t heard from her since the breakup when she messaged you to say that she doesn’t know what happened, but she hopes that you and her can still be friends as she values you so highly. You hadn’t responded then; you hadn’t wanted to interact with anyone who you knew through him, even if you had regret ghosting her afterwards because she genuinely is such a lovely woman who always treated you lovingly.

Still, even with the period of no contact between you, you pick your phone up to answer the call. “Hello?”

“O-oh thank goodness,” the still familiar voice sobs in relief.

“Auntie? What is it? What’s wrong?”

“It’s Kyle, there-there’s been an accident.”

Just over an hour after receiving the call, you’re tucked up in between Kyle’s parents on the couch of the private room with their arms around you, both of them crying for their son as you do your best to comfort them while feeling numb yourself. You’re too in shock at the sight of the heavily injured man laid unconscious on the bed to process it.

When you had arrived with Chan right behind you, the pair had just about managed to tell you through their tears that Kyle had been driving to work that morning when another vehicle had violently run him off of the road.

It had been on such a quiet road so early that nobody else was around; no witnesses to give details of the other car, nor to run to his aide or call for help. By the time someone found the wreck in the ditch, it had been long enough that too much damage had been done.

And now, even after hours of surgery, there’s no knowing if Kyle will make it through the night, let alone wake up again. There’s only waiting.

So, you wait.

“They’ll call if there’s any sign,” Chan reminds as he helps you out of your jacket. “You spent two days by his side, angel, there’s nothing more you can do for him. He’s not your responsibility or person to care for anymore. His parents and sister are there, and they promised to call you.”

“I know,” you reply, moving woodenly as Chan leads you through your apartment to the kitchen with his hand in yours to keep you moving.

He flicks on the light and falls still at the sight of the mess you left on the counter from leaving so quickly three evenings ago to get to the hospital. He never learned what you had been refusing to let him see until now. “Cake,” he murmurs, noticing the half decorated cake on the counter, surrounded by all the items you had been using to decorate it.

“For your new job,” you reply with a shrug. “It’s no good now. Sorry, I’ll buy you a replacement tomorrow.”

“No, no, you don’t have to. Just knowing is enough for me,” Chan assures, turning to bring you in to hold against his chest where you melt against him with an exhale. “I appreciate the thought and effort you went to, angel; that means more than a store bought cake ever could.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t finish it.”

“It’s not your fault. Let’s order something for dinner and while it’s on its way, I’ll clean this up while you go shower.”

“Do I smell?” You mumble against his shoulder.

“Like sadness,” he retorts with a joking edge to his sombre tone that makes you jab your fingers into his waist in scold. He yelps and contorts away from your fingers without releasing his arms from around you. “And meanness.”

“Meanness,” you repeat, scoffing a short laugh and leaning back from his shoulder to look at him.

“Yes. It’s mean to take advantage of my weak spots.”

“You do it to me all the time.”

“Yes, but you’re the nice one, my angel,” he coos, pinching your cheek before he lets you go to nudge you out of the kitchen while you try to recall just when it got so normal for Chan to call you his.

Since becoming best friends with Chan, it’s not unusual at all to return home and find him in your apartment as if he owns the place. Honestly, you genuinely think he spends more time in your apartment than his own, especially the past couple months. The couch is practically his bed at this point.

What is very unusual however, is to arrive home to find the door slightly open and hear another voice talking with Chan from inside your apartment.

“Chan?” You call in a cautious, soft voice as you nudge the door open and peer around it.

“Hi, angel, welcome home,” Chan greets, smiling at you and motioning you to join him opposite the two uniformed police officers standing and talking to him in the entrance hall.

“What’s going on, Channie?” You ask as you stand at his side and cling to his hand while remaining just a little behind him and away from the officers. They’re both taller than you and Chan, with one of them being thick with muscle and rather intimidating. Though when he smiles at you in polite greeting, most of the fear melts away.

“This is Officer Choi Seungcheol and Officer Chwe Hansol, they’re here to talk to you about Kyle,” Chan explains, motioning to each man in turn.

“Is there news on who ran him off the road?” You ask, looking at the two men with hope in your eyes and chest. It’s been over a week since the incident and there hasn’t been any more information about who put Kyle into such a devastating condition.

The last you heard, they had managed to get sight of a damaged SUV in the general vicinity from CCTV a handful of roads away, but the plates turned out to be stolen from another car across the country over a year ago and the windows were blacked out so there’s no way to tell who was driving the car. Whoever it was clearly knows the streets well enough that they escaped the CCTV quickly and the vehicle hasn’t shown up since. Nor has one matching the description been scrapped or sent to be fixed.

“That’s not our department,” the intimidating officer, Seungcheol, replies while giving you another gentle little smile. “I’m afraid we’re from the sexual crimes division, ma’am.”

“Sexual crimes?” You whisper in shock. “Wh-what?”

“We’ve received reports that Kyle has sexually harassed and stalked multiple women over the past year.”

“No, he-he wouldn’t-” you argue, shaking your head as your hands start to tremble ever so slightly, so you hold onto Chan’s hand tighter with both of yours to try and cease the shuddering movements. “You’re wrong.”

“I understand that it’s hard to hear these things about someone you thought you knew, but we have to follow up every lead we have to get all the information we need to press charges.”

“He’s in a hospital bed!” You baulk and let out an incredulous laugh. “You want to charge a man who might not even wake up? What kind of a person are you?!”

“It’s not our choice, ma’am. We’re just doing our jobs and trying to get justice for the victims.”

“I’m not having any part in this. I have nothing to say to you. He never did a thing wrong to me. Get out,” you insist, pointing to the door. “I’m not going to let you bring these accusations into my home without proof.”

“We have proof,” the other officer speaks up, earning a slightly disapproving look from his partner, but he isn’t stopped. “We saw proof ourselves; photos of women taken from outside of windows and other positions that clearly show a lack of consent. And a hidden, digital diary alluding to the acts that match up with statements we received from victims.”

“Photos?” You repeat disbelievingly.

“Yes ma’am, and I’m afraid you were in some. Based on the angle and quality, we believe the photos were taken from a roof into what we can only assume is your own bedroom.”

“My bedroom?”

“Yes ma’am. May we see your room and take photos for comparative purposes?”

“My bedroom…” You can only repeat, too in shock to do anything else as you stare dumbly at the two uniformed men in front of you.

“I think she needs a moment,” Chan says while putting his arm around you to support your gradually weakening body.

“Of course, we’ll wait right here,” Seungcheol agrees in a gentle tone and nods understandingly.

Chan carefully takes you to the living room to sit you on the couch and kneels in front of you. “Baby, breathe, come on,” he encourages softly as he holds your face. “You’re going to have a panic attack if you don’t copy me, come on.” He starts to take exaggerated breaths; big inhale, hold, slow exhale.

You blink at him unseeingly for a few of his breaths before your eyes drop to his mouth and you naturally copy the man who has helped you level your breathing more times than you can count the past year.

“That’s it, that’s my girl,” he praises. “A few more for me, you can do a few more for your Channie, right?” You nod so he smiles and takes a handful more deep, steadying breaths, each of which you obediently copy. “Good, well done.” He leans forward and kisses your head. “I’ll deal with the cops, okay? You just sit here and let your Channie handle it all. You just relax, angel.”

There isn’t a single part of you that wants to face the officers and their accusations again, so you simply nod and let Chan tuck a blanket around you as you curl up against the back of the sofa, before he turns on the TV just loud enough that when he goes back into the hall to talk to the two men, you can’t make out their low murmuring voices.

Throughout the remainder of the visit from the two officers, you don’t move, just sit staring blankly at the cushions in front of you as your mind whirls.

You don’t know what to believe. When Kyle had visited you that day, you really did believe him. Even now, there’s a part of you that struggles to believe the sincerity in his eyes and voice to be nothing more than a clever act to fool you. He has never laid a hand on you, never forced you to do anything or kicked up a fuss if you rejected his advances. Kyle was good.

Or maybe not.

If the police aren’t lying to you, then they have proof; more photos, even though you took the ones you found that time and burned them all, and witness accounts, or well, victim’s statements would be the correct term.

You know it’s possible to spend your entire life with a person and never truly know them, but you truly had thought that you knew Kyle. You had been so close to falling in love with him; that’s why it had hurt so much. You truly had believed that one day, you’d fall mutually in love with him, with a good man, and have a happy life together.

But all this; the accusations, the proof you had found yourself even if you still struggle to accept it at face value, it just goes to show that you never really know a person.

“They’re gone,” Chan’s voice breaks you from your thoughts. You turn your head to watch him cross the living room to sit at your side and invite himself under the blanket. He puts his left arm on the back of the couch in a silent offer that you readily accept, shuffling closer to tuck up under his arm and settle when it’s around you securely.

“Was it my room?” You ask, not really sure if you want to know the answer. But you need to.

Chan lets out a breath that sounds like a reluctant sigh. It’s almost answer enough, yet you need to hear it. “Yeah, angel, it looks like it was your room. They took photos and are going to go to the roof of the motel opposite to take a photo from there to see if it matches. I’ve given them my number to keep me updated and so they contact me if they need to, not you. I told them about the photos you found too and that you burned them so no-one else can have them.”

“Should-should I have reported him then?” You wonder, suddenly worried that you had potentially endangered women by not stepping up.

“Maybe,” he replies in a way that you just know means he thinks you should’ve, but he doesn’t want to upset you.

You curl up smaller and turn your face into his shoulder to let the familiar, soothing scent of his cologne and laundry detergent ease you.

Chan tilts his head on top of yours and holds you that bit tighter. “At least he can’t hurt anyone else anymore.”

The words are supposed to be comforting, but they don’t comfort you at all.

The news comes only a few days later.

It didn’t take long to gather evidence to support the accusations against Kyle. The warrant for his home turned up the photos and a hidden memory stick containing a written diary with documents matching dates of some of the statements, though many more entries without a woman to match to the words. The police just had to confirm the evidence and talk to some people before moving forward with it, like they did with you and Chan.

If it wasn’t for Kyle’s condition, the case would’ve been closed only two days after the police visited you, and he would’ve been sent off to prison. As it is, the man still hasn’t woken and the doctors aren’t confident that he ever will, so he can’t really be held accountable for his actions.

When Chan tells you the news, you feel bad that for the first time, you’re glad that Kyle is unconscious and likely to never wake up; at least this way, he won’t have to face the accusations which a part of you still can’t believe are true.

What you are finally letting yourself believe though, are all the times Chan called you naïve.

“Delivery for the cutest baby angel to have ever existed,” comes the greeting from behind the massive bouquet of flowers almost shoved in your face the very moment you open the front door of your apartment to see who has been insistently ringing the bell.

“That is an obscene amount of flowers,” you murmur while eyeing the bouquet.

It lowers and your best friend’s head appears as he pouts at you cutely. “Don’t you want it?”

“Gimmie,” you encourage, making grabby hands. Chan grins and hands you the bouquet, which is literally three times bigger than your head, before stepping into the apartment while you wander off, happily admiring and sniffing the multitude of flowers.

It’s not unusual for Chan to bring you flowers at all; rather, it’s unusual for your home to not have flowers gifted to you from your best friend. Even if he can’t visit you he sends you flowers at least weekly, and the ones he sends tend to always be more extravagant as if he’s making up for not giving them to you in person.

Every single bouquet is always handpicked by Chan; he always chooses which flowers to give you, not based on their colour or scent but for the meaning.

One of the things that helped you and Chan bond when you first met was your shared love of flowers and their meanings. You both know the meanings of a vast array of flowers, and he always includes yellow roses in his bouquet to symbolise your friendship.

Today is no different; there is an abundance of yellow roses in the bouquet, but there are a mixture of other flowers often in yellow themes, as it seems rather common for yellow flowers to symbolise friendship and happiness.

But sometimes there’s other colours; a little pop of pink tulips to show he cares, white carnations with a cheeky wink as he calls you baby angel, fragrant lavender to remind you of his loyalty to your friendship. Every bouquet is carefully crafted as a message; to tell you that Chan is your best friend and will always be there to love and support you.

And today, right there amongst the usual flowers, a handful of light pink roses.

You run through your mental list of flower meanings. Pink roses tend to mean grace, dark pink for gratitude and light pink has a few meanings just like many flowers. Many of the flowers Chan gives you have multiple meanings, but when put together the bouquets he gives you all mean the same thing. However, light pink roses aren’t used to symbolise friendship, innocence, or care. They mean youth, energy, passion, desire. None of those really blend with the rest of the bouquet’s meaning and it throws you for a loop.

“Did they put in the wrong flower?” You ask, pointing to the light pink roses as you look over at Chan puzzled. He walks over to peer at the bouquet and where you’re motioning, before shaking his head. “But they don’t mean friendship,” you mumble confusedly and look at the flowers again as you try to decipher their reasoning.

Chan doesn’t say a word, just leans his left hip against the counter, left palm on the surface and right hand fiddling with the unused belt loop on your jeans as he waits.

“Wait!” You turn to face him while pointing an accusing finger at him. “Is this you calling me a baby again? Light pink roses for youth?”

Chan chuckles and shakes his head, sliding two of his fingers into the loop now you’re facing one another and letting his palm settle against your hip. “No, it’s not that, though that’s a good one, I should’ve thought of that.”

“Then what?” You tilt your head a little, pouting naturally with your innocent confusion.

“You know. I know you know this one, angel,” he encourages and tugs you closer.

“Joy of life?” You offer, too used to him leading you around and being physically affectionate to really register how close he has you, or how his thumb is gradually tugging at your t-shirt where it’s tucked into your jeans.

“No.”

“Well it’s certainly not energy, you always say I lack energy. Or are you trying to like, manifest energy for me?”

“No, but once again, that’s good, I’ll make you a manifestation bouquet one day soon.”

“Then what? I’m confused, Chan.”

“Want me to tell you?” You nod in confirmation. “What if I show you?”

“What?”

He smirks a little, then pushes off of the counter and cups your jaw with his left hand. “Should I tell you, or show you, baby?” He murmurs, voice pitching low in a way that sends shivers up and down your spine. He leans in closer, brushing his nose against your cheek and nose in a teasing manner, but he doesn’t do anything more. “Well?”

It takes a few seconds for you to react; your heart is racing with anticipation, and you need to swallow a few times. He pulls back and notices your gaze slide down to his lips. “Show me,” you say in a voice so soft and shy it’s practically a whisper.

Chan doesn’t need to be told twice; he darts forward to slot his lips against yours for the first time. There’s no hesitance in his movements, no gentle teasing and dancing as he eases you into it; he kisses you passionately from the first moment, guiding your head to tilt in the perfect angle to deepen the kiss to a filthy degree when he coaxes your mouth open only seconds after his lips touch yours.

You never expected this from Chan; never imagined he’d kiss in such a manner that you feel like he’s consuming your heart and soul in the best of ways. He’s only been kissing you for a few seconds, yet your knees are weak, and you have to cling to him to keep yourself upright.

The moment your hand grips the back of his neck, Chan groans in pleased approval against your mouth and pins you roughly against the counter; his hips pressed against yours and his right hand giving up being subtle about his wants as he yanks your t-shirt out of the waistband of your jeans so that he can slide his hand underneath and run his palm against your bare skin.

Of course, a kiss that passionate can’t go on for too long, you especially need to catch your breath as you hadn’t been prepared at all for the intensity and keep forgetting to breathe as your lips and tongue move with his.

Though when you press against his chest and turn your head aside slightly to try and catch your breath, Chan doesn’t stop kissing you, he just relocates his focus, leaving a trail of hot, open mouthed kisses over your jaw and down your neck.

“Wanted you for so fucking long, angel,” he admits, voice thick with arousal and sounding unfairly in breath even if his chest is heaving too. He drags his teeth over the crook of your neck making you gasp and grip him tighter. “Driving me crazy, ‘m so hard. Can I have you? Can I take you to bed and drown in your pussy? Fuck you so hard I owe you a new bed?”

“Fuck,” you breathe out and grab a handful of his hair to drag him back up. His eyes are so hooded that you’re not certain he’s even looking at you. He looks so far gone and it does dangerous things to you. “Y-you do so much for me, Chan.”

“What?” He blinks away some of the lust dazing him to peer at you confusedly, and a little offended and the out of place comment. “What are you talking about all of a sudden? I’m trying to take you to bed, and you say that? You can just say no, not do some weird speech.”

“I’m not doing that,” you assure and move your left hand off of his shoulder, down his torso and under his oversized t-shirt to find the button of his jeans. He looks down in surprise, then back up at you with desire flooding back into his expression and eyes as you skilfully get his jeans open. Neither of you care that they immediately drop to the floor around his ankles with the jangle of his keys in his pocket, as you get your hand in his boxers. “Let me do this for you.”

“Fuck, yeah, yeah, whatever you want angel,” he approves before leaning in to seal your lips back together.

After your tryst in the kitchen, which lead to half of the bouquet getting destroyed when Chan bent you over the counter chest first into the flowers, sex is suddenly on the table for the two of you. Often literally. It seems as if that encounter opened the floodgates of a year of repressed desire from Chan and alerted you to the fact that his passion is more than just a little reciprocated.

Of course, you’ve known for a while now that you’re attracted to Chan; ever since the realisation that day in the store thanks to the leather jacket, which he is often prancing around in, especially since he’s realised how much you like him in it. Sometimes he’ll even turn up at your apartment, open the zip of his jacket and reveal that he’s wearing nothing but your marks underneath, leading to you pinning him to the closest surface to expand on the collection.

What you hadn’t known is just how deep your attraction runs. That at some point within you, the lust starts to morph and before it reaches your chest, it turns to a love which squeezes your heart a little every time he slows down to press a soft kiss to your lips, or you find him looking at you with eyes sparkling with adoration.  

You never imagined that you would fall for your best friend, yet here you are, weeks into your relationship turning sexual, and falling asleep naked in his arms more often than not while not wanting the morning to come because you know he’ll leave before you’re awake so that he can go home and get ready for work.

There’s a part of you that has, on more than one occasion, almost blurted out that he should just bring his work clothes over; you’ve already made space in the wardrobe to hang his shirts and space in the drawer for his trousers. But you don’t.

As much as you’ve come to understand and accept that the love you feel for Chan is no longer purely platonic, you aren’t ready to move on from your ex. There’s still a piece of your heart in Kyle’s hands, even if they are limp in his hospital bed and your heart should’ve been released back to you months ago.

You’ve tried to move on; you thought it would’ve happened naturally thanks to your recently developed feelings for your best friend and the regular sessions of getting fucked dumb into various surfaces by the man.

Still, Kyle remains, and you don’t understand why your heart won’t let you love Chan entirely.

You hope that Chan is happy with this; that he’s content to spend spare moments between your usual hangouts and your thighs. You don’t want to have to tell him that you’re not over Kyle; you know that Chan doesn’t like the man. Although he never voices his displeasure in you still visiting the Kyle in the hospital, you can always see it in his eyes when you leave and how he fucks you that bit harder when you return.

Hope, it seems, is still stubbornly stuck in the bottom of the box, and has no place in the real world, especially not yours.

“You have a key,” you point out flatly when you open the door having expected the takeout you’ve ordered for dinner for yourself and Chan, yet find the man himself on the other side of the door with his hands behind his back and still wearing his work clothes. “What’re you hiding? Please tell me it’s dinner; I thought you’re the delivery man you know?”

“It’s not dinner,” he chuckles, then brings his hands around to reveal this week’s bouquet. Tulips; red, yellow, and orange. Love.

“Chan…” you trail off, not sure what to say and expression downturned when you look up at him. You can practically see the moment you break his heart.

“Oh, I guess I misread this,” he smiles embarrassed and awkward, even with the pain evident in his eyes. “I thought that you might return my feelings finally, but I guess not.”

“You’re not wrong,” you confess softly. “I just…I’m not over Kyle.”

“What?” His features scrunch in bewilderment. “You’re not over the man who would be arrested for sexual harassment and stalking right now if not in a coma? Am I hearing that right?”

“I still can’t connect that to the man I knew.”

“He really fucked with your head, didn’t he?” His arms lower defeatedly.

“No, he didn’t. He was just…good to me.”

“He cheated on you, angel, he wrote about it in his diary and other women have said as much too. What’s it going to take for you to accept that and move on?”

“I-I don’t know, Chan. I’m sorry but I just can’t do that. I’ve tried to get over him, but it hasn’t happened.”

“Well…I’m not going anywhere,” he declares and steps forward to offer the bouquet. “You may not be able to love me and be with me the way I want, but I still love you, with everything in me and I’ll be here for you all the same.”

“Won’t that hurt you?”

“Baby,” he chuckles and tenderly cups your cheek in one hand, the other still holding the tulips you’ve yet to accept. “I’ve loved you since the moment I first laid my eyes on you; I’ve been by your side through all of the assholes you gave your time to, even if they didn’t deserve it. This one will pass too.”

“What if it doesn’t?”

“It will,” a flash of determination appears in his eyes as he smiles at you. “You’ll be mine soon enough, I promise you that, angel.”

At first, you had been cautious with Chan after his confession. You don’t want to hurt him and make him suffer at your side, so you pulled back on the affection and stopped the sexual aspect of your relationship entirely. Chan hadn’t been very happy and pouted at you when you turned him down the first time, but he didn’t push it and accepted it. Though he still reaches out to pull you close to hold and well, you don’t really want to quit him truthfully, so you let that happen.

After a few weeks, it’s as if the month of mind-blowing sex never happened and you and Chan are back to being nothing more than best friends. He keeps to his word and remains by your side as he always has, with no pushing or attempts to get you to reconsider and accept his love wholeheartedly.

Maybe that’s why one day when you’re laid side by side on a picnic blanket looking up at the stars with the snacks and drinks, which Chan supplied for the stargazing session, contently settling in your belly, you look at him and for the first time, you don’t feel as if your heart is missing a single piece.

“What?” Chan asks, side eyeing you amusedly when you’ve been staring at him instead of the sky for a few seconds too long. “Are you about to tell me that the stars in the sky don’t sparkle as bright as the stars in my eyes?”

“Where do you even come up with this stuff?” You laugh and nudge him playfully before sitting up. “Whoa,” you murmur when your head spins, eyes slamming closed and hands flying out to try and balance yourself.

“Angel, what’s wrong?” Chan’s hands are on you in seconds as he sits up to support you.

“M wobbly,” you slur, trying to look at him as your hands grip him tight. “Channie,” you start to panic as the dizziness doesn’t subside at all, if anything it feels like it’s getting worse as he starts to multiply before your eyes. “S-something’s wrong.”

“Shh, it’s okay, Channie’s got you, lay down angel, Channie’s got you,” he soothes, gently laying you back down on the blanket and propping himself up on his right elbow as his left hand cups your cheek. “You’ll feel better soon; just close your eyes and let your Channie look after you.”

“Chan…” You’re finding it harder and harder to move your body with every second. It feels as if your muscles are turning to sludge and bones rubber. You try to lift your arm from where it flopped to your stomach when he laid you down, yet you can’t lift it.

Chan watches the panic fill your eyes and strokes his hand over your head, then back to your cheek again. “You’re okay, my love, I’ll never let anything happen to you. Your Channie will always look after you.”

You can’t even open your mouth to respond. A choked sound leaves your parted lips as your vision starts blurring darkly around the edges.

“I will do whatever I need to, to make sure that nobody can ever hurt you again, my angel,” his voice is taking on a strange otherworldly quality, fading in and out every other syllable.

It feels as if you’re becoming one with the ground under you. It’s still hard against your back, yet it feels as if you’re melting into it, like every point of contact is rapidly ceasing to exist as you fight to keep your eyes open.

“Close your eyes, baby,” Chan’s warped voice meets you. He says something else, but a buzzing appears, overlapping his muffled words until the high pitched sound is all you can hear.

You feel something touch your forehead and brush down gently, forcing your eyes closed. You don’t have the strength to open them again.

It’s pitch black, only the ringing for company until suddenly, it leaves.

There’s barely time to register the pure silence before your consciousness melts into the ground to join the rest of you.

Everything comes back to you all at once.

Your body jerks awake as your eyes fly open. The soft, natural light around you is too bright on your sore eyes and the gentle sound of the birds outside singing their morning song pierces your sensitive ears. Instinctively, you close your eyes and lift your hands with the intention of pressing your palms to your ears to block out the noise, but something stops you from raising your hands more than a few inches.

Panicked, your eyes open and look down to find thick, padded straps around your wrists and buckled in place with a chain connecting each to the wooden frame of the bed under you. You tug, but they don’t give. You try to move your legs, but your ankles are bound in the same way; even if you don’t look at them to check, you just know you’d see the same binds there.

“Breathe,” the voice is familiar, is the one that you’re so used to listening to that you find yourself listening and taking some deep, stabilising breaths without even thinking about it. “Good girl.”

After a few seconds, you realise that Chan is in the room; the strange room where you’re cuffed to a strange bed. You have no idea where you are; the walls look wooden and it smells kind of musty, like it hasn’t been used in a while, but the familiar scent of Chan’s laundry detergent meets your nose from the soft, clean pillow under your head when you turn your head to try and find the man.

He’s sitting in a rickety old rocking chair near the closed door of the small room.

There’s nothing else in the room; no curtains on the window on the wall, which the right side of the bed is pushed against; the window is cracked open, letting in fresh air but even from where you’re laid, you can see bars on the outside. There’s a bulb hanging from the centre of the ceiling emitting a redundant, soft orange glow. And nothing else.

Just you, the bed, the chair, and the man you thought was your best friend looking at you as he gently rocks back and forth, back and forth, the chair creaking with every movement.

For tense moments, minutes maybe, you just stare at Chan in horror. This is not the man you’ve spent the past almost two years side by side with. This is not the man you had been seconds away from telling that you finally loved him with everything in you.

Your Chan is beautiful inside and out; with bright eyes always shining with mirth and adoration when they find you, and a smile that could weaken the toughest of hearts. He was love and happiness. Your love. Your happiness. You don’t know where that’s gone.

This Chan terrifies you. His face is flat, no smile, no sparkle in his eyes. He’s looking at you with an expression so dark and haunting; something similar to the way he looked when you told him that Kyle turned up at your apartment building all those months ago in the café, yet somehow so much worse.

For the first time since meeting Lee Chan, you look at him and you want to be as far away as possible, and then further. This isn’t a man you want to be near. Yet, you’re left without a choice.

“Wha-what’s going on, Chan?” You stammer.

“This is your fault, you know,” he informs matter-of-factly. “If you had just said yes to me that day, if you hadn’t held onto that fucking asshole, then this would’ve never happened. We could be at home, in bed; I could be buried deep in your pussy and filling you with cum again and again until you’re round with my baby. We could’ve been happy; had our family, gotten married,” he huffs a dry laugh and abruptly stops rocking. “We could’ve had the perfect fucking family, baby! We could’ve been perfect. But no! You had to cling to that asshole!” He gets to his feet, flinging his arms up in the air as his lips start to split into a disbelieving smile.

He doesn’t even seem to notice that you flinch and try to move further away from him as he steps closer. He seems entirely caught up in his own monologue as he starts to pace the short length of the room to your left.

“I’ve done everything I can to win you over! I studied you for fucking months before showing myself to you. Changed my hair, changed my style, even changed my fucking interests to suit your tastes!” He wheels around and stalks closer to put his right hand on the headboard above you while he stares down at you with eyes wide. “I fucking hate flowers, you know? Hate those stupid fucking things, yet I read every fucking book I could find to learn about them. Learned how to grow them from tiny little seeds all for you,” he points at you. “And what thanks do I get?” He laughs and pushes away from the bed to turn and take a few steps away. “Nothing! Okay, no, no, that’s not fair to you,” he concedes.

Chan turns to face you with his hands and features settled so suddenly into something so placating that you wonder if you had imagined the unhinged mess he was seconds ago.

“I got to taste that pretty little pussy and feel it around my cock, your mouth too. Fuck, baby, I could’ve held out longer if you hadn’t ended that but you, you little cock tease, had to give me a taste of heaven and rip it away from me.” He tuts disapprovingly and gives you an exaggerated pout. “You’ve really broken my heart, you know?”

“Th-then let me go and you never ha-have to see me again,” you try to reason, but he laughs; a full, loud, rolling laugh while leaning over with his hands on his knees as if you’ve told the best joke he’s ever heard.

“Oh, angel!” He exclaims as he straightens up, clapping his hands amusedly. “That’s good, really good. You’re so funny, baby, it’s one of the things I love most about you. You’ve always made me laugh.”

For a few seconds, he looks at you so tenderly that he looks like your Chan again; the Chan you fell in love with, the Chan you wish you had realised was a trick from the start. It makes sense that he always called you naïve when he knows from experience how easy it is to fool you.

“You’re mine now, ‘till death do us part and all that. Sorry I don’t have a ring for you, I’ve never been one for accessories.” He lifts his bare hands to wiggle them at you.

It’s only now that you realise he isn’t wearing a single piece of jewellery, something you thought wasn’t possible for your Chan. His clothes aren’t baggy and hiding his form, and hair no longer shaggy and in his eyes. He’s wearing blue jeans like usual, but these ones are straight legged and show off his thick thighs and ass; his plain white fitted t-shirt is tucked into his jeans neatly, showcasing his slim waist and strong upper body; with his hair neatly styled back in a casual, yet neat, manner. You’ve never seen him like this; he looks older this way, less playful.

It's another reminder that he’s not your Chan. He never truly was.

“I wish it didn’t come to this; you know?” He comments while walking over to sit on the edge of the bed by your waist and brush the back of his fingers over your cheek, entirely ignoring the way you flinch away from this touch, even if it is painfully tender. “You’re so beautiful; I’ve wanted you from the moment I first laid eyes on you, even if you never saw me.” He sighs dramatically and gets up to stand beside the bed. “Even back then you looked anywhere but me. It’s funny though,” he muses, pacing a little as his lips start to lift and bring back that manic smile he earlier wore.

It scares the shit out of you.

“You never once questioned your bad luck,” he quotes your own words with a mocking tone, trying not to laugh as he does so. “Or how it only appeared once I came into your life. You really are fucking naïve, baby.”

“What did you do?” You whisper, horrified at the realisation that Chan had been the reason that all of your relationships have failed.

Now that you think about it, he had always warned you away from them all for some reason; some kind of claim of a bad feeling, a rumour, seeing them kissing another woman. You never questioned how he always had something to say about every single man you showed interest in, or seemed to know things he shouldn’t really know. You put too much trust in the man from day one and now it’s come back to bite you in the ass.

“Whatever I needed to. It was all so easy too, like you wanted a reason to leave them all. I really thought it was because you wanted me,” he laughs darkly and pins an equally as dark look on you as his smile drops. “And then Kyle came along. Fucking Kyle. Perfect Kyle with his clean record and respect and giant, squishy heart. Well, it’s extra squishy now I pushed him off the road,” he laughs, eyes lighting with twisted delight.

“No,” you choke out. “You- no- you didn’t- tell me you didn’t do that to him, Chan,” you plead desperately.

Chan laughs and walks over to lean over you again, his left hand braced against the headboard and the other playing with the strands of your hair on the pillow beside your head. “If only you had believed me. If you hadn’t let him talk to you that day; if you had just kicked him out and come right to me like you were supposed to, it would’ve never happened, angel. You had me right there waiting for you and you picked that asshole and now guess what?” He looks at you with a bright, manic smile, eyes wide and shining with mirth you wish doesn’t exist. “He’s never fucking waking up, baby!” He beams, looking so proud of himself. “I made sure of that!”

You feel sick to your stomach.

It must show on your face because Chan’s own falls and he frowns at you. “Don’t look at me like that. This isn’t my fault.” He scoffs and backs up from the bed as that terrifyingly haunting look returns to his features. “I didn’t think I’d have to go this far; I thought you’d accept all those rumours and evidence I spent so much time, money, and effort planting. I bribed and blackmailed so many people the past months. Got the asshole fucking convicted and you still refuse to pick me.”

Chan sighs heavily, as if it really does pain him, before he pivots and walks to the door to open it, though he turns just enough to look back at you.

“I can’t tell if you’re too smart to believe all that or fucking stupid to still want to be by his side after all the accusations. Maybe he did brainwash your naïve little self.”

He stares at you for an unnervingly long moment as if he’s trying to figure you out and wondering what exactly Kyle did to earn your loyalty, and how exactly he can mimic it to make you his.

“Oh well,” he decides with a shrug, making you jolt at his sudden voice. “Not that it matters anymore because I’m not letting you leave here. If you’re not going to be mine on your own terms, we’re doing it my way.”

He closes the door after him, and you break with the sound of the lock clicking into place.

Tears roll down your cheeks and temples, soaking the soft pillow under your head as sobs tear from your chest. You keep tugging at the binds holding you down, yet they don’t budge.

You’re stuck here.

Even if you somehow escape your binds, there are bars on the window and a lock securing the thick wooden door.

You’re stuck here. For good.

Forever.

Stuck with the man you had trusted to look after you, to be by your side for a long time. You just never expected it to be like this. You as his prisoner; his little plaything to do with as he pleases until he gets bored of you and then… you don’t even want to think about it.

The sun slowly rises higher and higher into the sky and finally, you stop pulling at your binds, stop crying; out of energy and tears with your whole body hurting, yet nothing in comparison to the pain in your heart where it’s stomped into the wooden floorboards and covered in Chan’s footprints.

You dread the moment he returns. Dread having to live your life like this.

But you know you don’t have a choice. You’re his now, to do with as he pleases. You no longer have a choice in how your life goes.

The click of the lock disengaging sends fear racing through your tired body, adrenaline pumping, yet there’s still nothing you can do as Chan steps into the room with a tray in his hands and a smile on his face.

“Hi baby, it’s time for food! I made your favourite.”

As you watch him approach wearing that same cute smile that first drew you to him, all you can do is curse yourself for being so fucking naïve.

Don’t forget to reblog if you liked to help spread the story and let others read it too! And don't be shy to leave comments or send an ask so I can see your thoughts 🥺 💖

Permanent taglist: @okiedokrie @variety-is-the-joy-of-life @tusswrites

[wingedshadowfan]

⚠️arcane s2 act iii spoilers // caitvi ending commentary ⚠️

the difference between the last individual scenes of vi and caitlyn, and the one they shared actually made me sob, so here's my analysis of what it all meant

caitlyn is at home, in her family mansion in piltover. her monologue seems to be a messege or an archive for the kirammans or historians after her; she's also looking at the kiramman house files, a family heirloom, a symbol of her legacy and her station, a connection to her mother. she's perhaps searching for something needed in order to start rebuilding the city, perhaps checking if jinx could still be somewhere out there, maybe even seeing what ekko saw about the undercity's vents and water ducts. she still seems to have purpose, or to be in search of one for herself.

vi is also in caitlyn's house in piltover, but she's not with caitlyn. in a city not her own, in a house not her own, it seems she's chosen to sit in a room alone with her thoughts, staring at the fireplace. we hear her humming the tune to a song her mother used to sing, the same one jinx was humming when we first saw her this season - vi's small comfort, the faintest memory from those before her, and nothing to leave to those after her. no roots and no legacy. she's grieving everyone and everything she's lost. stripped of will and void of purpose.

caitlyn is excited to hear vi humming a song. we don't know how long it's been since the war ended, but this implies she hasn't been doing much other than sitting by herself in silence in quite some time. she's become a shell of herself, and caitlyn is worried - she's there for her but doesn't want to push her either. she asks her if she's "still in the fight", and this is a loaded question that i can see two main meanings in - one notably sadder.

1) are you still in there?

what part of you is left, and is it strong enough to keep fighting this state you're in? do you have it in you to keep going? do you have the will to live in spite of it all? is there any fight left in you? are you still with me, or are you just in the room?

and i feel like caitlyn knows the answer but wants to hear it from vi, check in on her and encourage her to open up if she's feeling ready to. because she heard her humming to herself.

and when vi says she's the dirt under caitlyn's nails, she doesn't mean it in a cute, flirty or romantic way. she means it in a self-deprecating "i know i'm not being easy right now" kind of way.

i'm not fun to be around, to have to take care of and wait around for. i'm making things harder for you and i'm holding you back by not cooperating and just getting better. i can't help it.

and she adds onto this, "nothing's ever gonna clean me out"

you're stuck with me. i'm a nuisance to you but i can't leave you because you're all i have left. i think i'm lost and broken beyond repair. i'm crooked. i think i'll never be okay again.

2) have you given up on zaun?

are you still in on fighting the system? have you given up on trying to make others see your people for who you are? do you still have hope in the dream for unity and freedom for zaun?

it sounds like caitlyn does, and she's still up for it, just like she was in the latter half of the first season, before jinx kidnapped her, tried to get vi to kill her, and blew up the counsil building just as its members were about to vote for zaun's sovereignty, killing caitlyn's mother. but caitlyn can't do it on her own - it's vi's home, vi's people, vi's identity - and she needs to know if vi still believes they can change something.

and when vi says she's the dirt under caitlyn's nails, she doesn't literally mean caitlyn, or herself. she means the opposing poles they represent - piltover and zaun, oppressor and oppressed, a pristine policewoman and a crooked criminal. until piltover's view of the undercity and its people changes, zaun will always be a torn in its side, fighting it, defying it, trying to free itself from its clutches. small, perhaps insignificant, an inconvenience, but a part of it that it can't get rid of or erase. it'll always be there, it'll always fight back.

and when she says nothing's ever gonna clean her out, she means she'll never be bent out of shape and lose that part of herself - the ugly, dirty, raggedy part that grew up on the streets of zaun and was raised among all the tragedy, misery and poverty of the undercity. a product of the system. she'll never let that be "washed out" of her, she won't forget her origin or her goals. this is who she is, her identity - not just in the eyes of piltover, but in her own heart - a zaunite.

EDIT: i also saw this interpretation on tiktok if you're interested. to summarize: there's a spanish saying "like nails and dirt" which is used to refer to two people who are inseparable, so this is a testimony of vi's love for caitlyn having given her reason to keep going and stay by her.

[noxiatoxia]

I don't know if this is common knowledge, but Komaeda's talent in Japanese is not "Ultimate Lucky Student". It is "Ultimate Good Fortune" (or good luck).

I know the word "lucky" has connotations with being good luck, but "luck" itself seems neutral to me at least.

I think the fact Komaeda is praised for, and has his talent be centered on, his good fortune is a very important nuance. People only see the good that happens to him. People keep telling him what happens to him is "good luck". His parents dying and getting kidnapped end up being called "good luck" in the end. I think this reinforces his pattern of thought more than people just saying he has extraordinary luck (good and bad). It's a minor difference, but it adds a lot. I have been thinking about this for a little bit now.

Because of the fact it is good luck specifically, I wanted to find parts where Komaeda specifically talks about bad luck. Lines such as "my awful luck/dreadful luck..." doesn't make much sense in the context of his Japanese talent. It made me wonder if those English lines even existed or if it was a "Luke, I am your father" situation. I don't have either the English or Japanese script memorized.

I checked the Freetime Events because of this, and found an interesting thing. There's a number of mistranslations, or simply translation choices I don't really agree with.

The freetime events heavily misrepresent how often Komaeda uses the word "luck". He uses both 不幸 and 不運 an equal amount I'd say. Maybe the former more. The former means "misery" "sorrow" or "misfortune". The latter means "bad luck" or "ill-fortune".

Likewise, 幸運 means good luck, but it also means good fortune. It's the word used in his talent as I described above.

Now, that's not to say I think Komaeda's "talent" should not be referred to as luck, nor am I saying he should never use the word luck. I think good and bad luck is a perfectly apt English word to describe his experiences. I just think the English translation overuses it. It wouldn't have killed them to make him say "isn't that just awful" or "what a tragedy, right?" instead of "isn't that such bad luck?" every conceivable moment. Maybe I'm just nit picky.

Now, onto the free time events. I want to talk about them.

I'll be talking about them in order as they appear. Also, I am only going to talk about the 3rd event onward, after Komaeda's chapter 1 reveal.

Freetime event 3

A minor nitpick, but "friends" is not the word I'd use here. It's true you can translate it that way, but considering everything else about Komaeda, at this point in the game, he wouldn't readily call Hinata his friend. Especially considering the connotations that holds for him.

That's precisely likely why he, in fact, doesn't say "friend" in the Japanese text. He uses 仲間 which like I said, while can and does translate as friend when used in that way, it just means people of a common thread. Like, a group, I guess.

My TL:

Because we both share the common goal of seeking out hope!

Freetime event 4

This is a really bad translation IMO. Hope is never said once in the original dialogue. I don't know why they put it there.

My TL:

Hinata: It's pretty ironic that you got wrapped up in this shitshow considering your "Ultimate Good Luck". Komaeda: It's not ironic at all! This is no doubt just the beginning of the good things to come my way! Komaeda: Um, let's just say the "good luck" I was born with is a little less straightforward [than the name would suggest]... Komaeda: once this is all over, I'll be rewarded with good fortune of the highest caliber.

And though this next one isn't much of a "mistranslation", I want to offer an alternative translation that highlights my criticism of "overusing the words good/bad luck".

My TL:

Komaeda: The greater the misfortune I experience before hand...the greater the good that comes my way afterwards! It completely cancels out everything before it!

Freetime event 5

I sadly cannot find in-game pictures of this since it's one of the wrong dialogue choices, so here's the script file text for it instead (sorry)

I remembered this line in English specifically because I always thought it sounded weird for Komaeda to say - "It's rare to hear you give such a half-assed answer".

While not a mistranslation totally, I think the tone is a bit off.

I would write it more as, "Ah ha ha! That's quite the answer, Hinata-kun!"

It literally translates as "for Hinata-kun, that is a very suitable answer!" but it's clearly supposed to be teasing/sarcastic. So he means to say "oh, wow, Hinata-kun, you're answering with that?" but in a lighthearted tone.

Freetime event 6

Almost didn't include this because it's the mistranslation we all know and hate, but it's worth mentioning in case people don't know.

My TL:

Please, just one last thing...don't ever forget...that from the bottom of my heart, I love y...I love your hope that sleep dormant inside you.

Though he does just say "please, don't forget", he uses どうか which is a pretty polite turn of phrase for Komaeda. It also is a way to emphasize a request, as in please do this to the benefit of me.

He backtracks pretty heavily. The verb comes at the end in Japanese sentences, so giving an exact one-to-one would be hard, but I'll try to explain it.

ボクはキミを... キミの中に眠る希望を心から愛していると。

Boku wa Kimi wo... Kimi no naka ni nemuru kibou wo koko kara aishiteiru to.

の/no = possessive. Such as, "Lucy's cat" "David's car".

を/wo = verb particle. There's no real English equivalent but you use it to signify some verb is being done onto something. Such as, "I kicked the ball" ("ball wo kick") or "I pet the cat" ("cat wo pet").

は/wa = topic particle. Commonly translates as "is/am" but that is NOT what it means. It just signifies everything that comes after it relates back to what comes before it. It's most accurate to think it as "as for the topic of..." Such as, "my damaged car wa had to go into the repair shop." After wa, "had to go into the repair shop", you ask, "what had to go into the repair shop?" you can find the answer in the topic, which is before wa: my damaged car. (or... me no damaged car.)

So, with this knowledge, let's break down the sentence.

Boku = I/me.

Kimi = you.

So this would make Boku wa Kimi wo in it's most literal form: as for the topic of me (aka, speaking for me), I, onto you...

Then he trails off. wo becomes no.

I, onto your hope sleeping inside of you...

and then we return to wo:

from the bottom of (one's) heart, love [the hope sleeping inside of you].

One could easily see it as Komaeda quickly changing the wo to no to add extra steps to not make the confession so head-on. Because if we remove everything after no and just continue where the wo leaves off, we get:

Boku wa Kimi wo koko kara aishiteiru to.

As for me, I, from the bottom of my heart, love you.

Now...one could also read it as him not backtracking, but adding. Saying I love you and the hope that lies dormant within you. Both are equally plausible. Listening to the audio it can go either way, but the way he quickly and softly drops off when he gets to the first wo makes me feel like it's a backtrack. Or maybe the background music is just too loud haha.

Well, that's all I got for now.

[therealagustd]

Suguru fluff for the soul (and because we all miss him)(ft. Satoru):

You wore his clothes

Suguru is the type to see you wearing his clothes, then smile and say, "It suits you." Maybe you were cold, and it was close by, so he'd leave an extra hoodie or jacket around after that.

Just in case.

And if Satoru saw, he'd be dramatic as hell about it and put his own jacket over you and say, "There, now you're properly dressed." and Suguru would be like, "It's not a competition, Satoru" and Gojo would be like, "It's always a competition, Suguru".

He caught you dancing

Suguru's the type to cross his arms, smile, and lean against the doorway. If you noticed him, he'd laugh and go, "Do continue, I believe you were just getting to the best part?". If you asked him not to tell anyone? "...I dunno, Satoru might need to see this..."

Festival prize winning

Suguru would see Satoru trying to win you a prize, being his dramatic self and telling Suguru to sit this one out because he's already the best and "not to embarrass himself" (Gojo messes up the first few times.)

Meanwhile, Suguru easily finished the festival game in a swift move, and he just hands you the gift with a smile and says, "No theatrics, just results. Enjoy."

Amusement park bumper cars

(Okay, this one's kinda self indulgent. Have you ever been to an amusement park, but you hate or can't handle the big, dramatic rides? Same.)

You're in a bumper car, Suguru's in one, and so is Satoru. And here comes Satoru, trying to smash his car into Suguru's, yelling about "This is for all the times you rolled your eyes at me!" or something similar. And during the whole speil, Suguru's effortlessly making sure you don't get bumped and you eventually team up against Satoru and chase him in the bumper cars until he's screaming about betrayal.

Claw machines

Alright, Geto's on the move. You've failed at least 10 times with this thing, and it's not even a payout one!

But before he can, Gojo swoops in and takes over, boasting about how he's the best at these.

And in his rich boy energy, he's trying over and over, promising you that stuffed creature inside.

"Alright, this is how a pro does it. I've got the precision, the timing and... oh come on! This is clearly rigged."

And because Gojo is Gojo, he spends way too much money on the machine until he wins you a prize and is all smug and says, "All in a day's work - I'll accept my repayment in the form of snacks."

Meanwhile, Geto calmly walks to the machine and wins a prize in the first try.

Trying to fight back a laugh at Satoru's expression, he hands you the prize and goes, "It's about angles and patience. That's all."

Gojo's telling him that he had just gotten beginner's luck.

You keep both prizes on your bed.

Painting together

You agreed on a painting session. You and Geto were supposed to be doing it together, but of course Gojo had to come and crash the party.

So now Satoru's boasting about his painting (a self portrait), and how he made a masterpiece.

And you check on Suguru, and he's painted the most beautifully detailed purple flower, and he smiles at you before gently tapping your nose with the handle end of the brush so you'd snap out of it and go back to painting.

And you do.

He's glancing over at you and your painting, happy that you're by his side.

[jellyskink]

The Tooth And The Following Headache. (A cringey crackship)

"Alright Pines, you're good to go now. You remember where the exit is yeah?"

(Geez, the more I see this guy the MORE I find myself needin' to buy another pack of cold ones for the week.)

The day was about as fun as you'd expect it to be with "him" around. I was just about to have a good day too, of course things would go wrong as soon as I was about to relax and finish up work.

Ford Pines had his monthly appointment with me today, an appointment that I was booked with because of Oleander's meddling probably.

"Yes Dr.Ibis, I remember. H-How is everything looking if I may ask?"

(Horrible, if I was presented this during dental school I'd probably have thought it was the BEFORE photo, not AFTER.)

"Eh, I've seen worse. But you're doin' better than last time."

(That was a lie and a truth both in the correct order. Geez what HAS this freak been doing? The first time I saw him I was surprised he hadn't kicked the bucket or passed out at the very least from what problems he was dealing with. It was almost like I was checking off everything in the book on what was wrong with this guy. I mean, damn if I didn't know better I'd assume this guy was eating glass for fun or something.)

"R-really? Oh my Muse will be so pleased! The care you and Dr. Oleander have been providing me has been astronomically wonderful! My muse certainly knows how to find the best people to introduce me to!"

(Ugh, here we go again. "My muse" this, "my muse" that. I wish he'd can it about that damn triangle, the problems that kindergartner art project looking thing have been causing have been one of my biggest headache bringers to date.)

"Yep, he sure does. Now can we get along to the part where we just schedule your next appointment? I'm a very busy man you know, patients to see and all that."

"Of course! I'll need to run it by my Muse before it's finalized, but I can certainly get the word to him!"

"Sure thing bud."

(Thank god, this is going quicker than I thought. I really hate having this guy ruin the mood in my office with his... everything. What did Irene even see in this guy? This wacko clearly didn't have a personality besides being a sad clingy puppy dog whose entire being was dedicated to his "Muse".)

(Irene was pretty secretive about certain things regarding that guy whenever we ended up talking over the phone or the occasional coffee. Which for a normal doctor that'd be expected, patient confidentiality and all that. But Irene crossed that line long ago as soon as she took him on as one of her patients.)

(The guy wasn't extremely interesting to my knowledge outside of his extra fingers. If anything he was boring or weird, sometimes both at the same time. The guy wasn't particularly charming, he did LOOK handsome, and OCCASIONALLY wasn't the worst to be around, but geez I hated everything else about the guy.)

"Ah Dr.Ibis before I forget, I have something for you."

(OH GOD NOT THIS AGAIN.)

Before I even had a chance to react any further, Mr.Triangle lover quickly reached into his bag and pulled out something small with reddish-brown fur and held it out to me.

(What even is that? Is that a hamster? No, it was a vole. He brought me a freaking vole. It wasn't even alive. And he was holding it out to me with that stupid smile of his.)

I don't know what came over me, but the next thing I knew I slapped the dead rodent out of his six fingered hand. As it smacked the ground, I saw my patient flinch and begin to step back from me.

"GET YOUR DAMN ROADKILL AWAY FROM ME!"

"I-I'm sorry for upsetting you Dr.Ibis, I only wanted to-"

"What? I don't want to hear about how your "Muse" gave you dead rats as gifts again! It's disgusting! I can't stand dead animals! I don't want you to act like your dramn crazy mu-"

I wasn't even able to finish the sentence before I felt myself getting pushed against the wall with enough force to knock the wind out of me. I winced from the surprise as I began to process what happened.

It was that... that... Six fingered psycho!

(What the hell!? What is he doing??)

I was always kinda worried about this guy being the reason why someone ended up hurt, I never expected him to be the literal reason for it!

"DR. IBIS."

An unexpected tone shift from what I was used to from the guy, his voice was now booming and gruff.

(OKAY I'M REALLLY NOT USED TO HIM BEING SO LOUD OR AGGRESSIVE.)

"PLEASE... WATCH WHAT YOU SAY... ABOUT MY MUSE..." His tone lowered into a raspy hiss as the words fell from his mouth.

I really wanted to respond to him, to fight back, SOMETHING. And yet I found myself frozen with fear.

The next thing I know, I felt a rough, trembling hand tilt my head up. My field of vision focusing on the unhinged man in front of me.

"BAD THINGS... HAPPEN TO THOSE W-WHO UPSET HIM..."

(I-is he? Crying? What the hell?? Why is HE the one that's upset here? He was the one who flipped out on me!)

I didn't have much time to process everything as he moved away from me. I heard a loud crunch from the side of me as he did.

(THE HELL?? Did he break something??)

I glanced to the side of me instinctively, there was a hole in the hall next to me.

(Okkkaaay. Well it definitely wasn't the first time the office drywall got punched or broken. Whether that was ever by me at times was something that was a secret I wasn't going to tell any higher ups anytime soon.)

"Hey... Mr.Pines?"

"..."

The guy slowly walked over to the wall at the opposite side of the room, a blank stare on his face, a crimson fluid leaking from one hand onto the floor as he held it to his side, while his other hand clutched his creepy locket to his heart.

Before I could continue speaking, he began whisper to himself while facing the wall.

"i'msorryi'msorryi'msorryi'msorryi'msorryi'msorryi'msorryi'msorryi'msorryi'msorryi'msorryi'msorryi'msorryi'msorryi'msorryi'msorryi'msorryi'msorryi'msorryi'msorry."

His head banging against the wall with eerie tempo as he spoke in a whispered voice, his tone now monotone.

"Mr.Pines??"

(What the hell? I knew this guy was probably insane but this was taking it a whole new level!)

"I'MSORRYI'MSORRYI'MSORRYI'MSORRYI'MSORRYI'MSORRYI'MSORRYI'MSORRYI'MSORRYI'MSORRYI'MSORRYI'MSORRYI'MSORRYI'MSORRYI'MSORRYI'MSORRY."

The horrid tempo was now picking up speed.

"STANDFORD STOP IT!"

"..."

(He finally responded?)

The room was eerily silent as I tried to process what had even happened. After what felt like an eternity of sitting in awkward silence, the unhinged man I was watching turned around to face me again.

"U-um Dr.Ibis? Forgive me, I spaced out while we were about to finish our conversation earlier. W-what were we speaking about?"

A pretty nasty bruise was now starting to form on his forehead.

(THE HELL DO YOU MEAN WHAT WERE WE TALKING ABOUT??? WTF WAS THAT???)

I did my best to collect myself. I vaguely some of the info Oleander shared with me about her patient. I think she mentioned how he had certain traumatic triggers or something?? Damnit now I wish I had paid better attention to her phone call that day as she yammered on.

"It... wasn't important. Just...if you're going to leave me dead animals, do ya mind if perhaps you wrap them up before handing me them or something?"

"I-it isn't traditional I suppose, b-but I'll check in with my muse if I could be given grace to do that sort of thing. Forgive me, I don't mean to screw up showing my thanks to you..."

(Geez and now we're back to another episode of watching the saddest man ever. Ick, Oleander I swear you owe me big time for all these bones I'm throwing your patient.)

"Listen I appreciate it, in a way... I just prefer.... live animals? And I don't like rodents very much."

"I-I see... well I can't promise my muse will be happy with any changes, but I'll keep note of that."

"Listen Stan-"

"StanFORD."

"Stanford. Why don't we just pretend today didn't happen? I'm pretty tired today, and it looks like you could use some rest too."

"I... suppose my muse might not mind that. I don't think I can rest, but I know what you mean."

"Thank you Stanford. Now... why don't I drive you over to Oleander's office for a sec? I think she needed to see you for a second."

(Pleasedon'tputupafightohgodIdon'twantyoudyinginmyofficeIdon'twanttodealwiththepaperworkoranyotheraxhahstingproblemsthat'dcomefromthathappening!!)

"I-I suppose it wouldn't be too much trouble as long as we don't take TOO long. My muse seems to trust some of her judgement a lot..."

"Yeahh... well I'm just going to close up shop now.

"Of course Dr.Ibis."

(Irene I swear to god you owe me big time on top of a LONG conversation about what's the plan for your patient in the long term. If I'm going to be dragged along with you on your quest to be the queen of bleeding hearts I don't want to end up sinking with you.

Geez I need a drink after this, guess I'll be needing to buy TWO packs of cold ones from the store after this "fun" work day.)

Unfortunately for future me, one of the new "gifts" I'd start to get from Standford FREAKING Pines were eyebats. Live ones. And they were just as annoying as him. Easier to get rid of though...

(AHH I HAD SO MUCH FUN WRITING THIS. I thought I'd gve it a go with writing in a more first person style when it came to a Dr.Ibis focused fic.

Yes I was possessed by a 14 year old girl harnessessing wattpad, ao3, and tiktok as I wrote this, but the idea of these two having a genuine friendship/relationship sounds hilarious to me.

I hope you liked my attempts at channeling Yusuf energy! Unfortunately he does have the tsundere curse a bit because this is a enemies to lovers kind of fic lmaoo. Hopefully the Ford energy wasn't the worst either??

I totally loved your fic other anon fanfic writer! With Jellyskink's permission we should definitely team up and write many cringey and wonderful fanfictions for this au!

Speaking of which, I'm glad once again people liked my silly little Oleander and Calamari fic! The little trickster kitty is now one of my favorite things about the au!

I love that Calamari was in the cat show Ford lost in! I'm guessing she might've won?

Either way, totally looking forward to the rivalry between Ford and Calamari lmaooo!!)

OKAY I LOVE THIS

Ibis is like "why are the hot ones always crazy"

Thank you for writing for my sad dumpling again!!! 💖💖

[isatling-husbandry-guide]

Hello!

Some friends of mine recently stumbled upon what they believe is a “weird” variant of a Siffrin however I’m pretty sure it’s not. It’s a lot more aggressive compared to a normal Siffrin (Even one that’s been neglected) and also appears completely lightless for some reason? It also sometimes has this very weird shade on it as well?

I’ve tried looking into it but have reached a dead end and what little information I could find sounds like those “scary” stories kids would tell.

I’m just worried that if this is another species it won’t get the proper care it needs or if it truly is a Siffrin it’s previous owner didn’t care for it like at all and it’s extremely sick (We do have a doctors appointment scheduled for them at the end of the week).

Any ideas? Closest I’ve gotten is seeing the name “Mal Du Pays” thrown around on the forms but no real information or anything to confirm or deny it sadly.

Information on Mal Du Pays is pretty scarce depending on your area- though they’re not an absolute myth like some people believe. They’re invasive & incredibly destructive, and are difficult to spot if you don’t know when and what to look for. Mal Du Pays are characterized by their fully lightless appearance, sudden switches in behavior, whispers and laughter, and their single unblinking spiral eye.

They may also have an unusual shade that can cause headaches. Current theories about this align with “Colour Theory”, and it is believed that Mal Du Pays holds the ability to show colour as a means for self defense, or to signal danger to other Isatlings. Some caretakers report that when they’re stressed (such as during exams, hospital treatments, family losses, and so on), their Mal Du Pays will show colour until the stress passes.

pictured: mal du pays, eating.

It doesn’t help their reputation that Mal Du Pays are difficult species that, unlike Loops, don’t really get “easier” to handle with time, thus making them rather unpopular. They’re aggressive, escape easily, and spend most of their time standing still or resting, giving them the unfortunate reputation of “boring and irritating”. These features also can be pretty scary to many people, which is where so many of those myths and horror stories come from.

Despite this, Mal Du Pays- like any other Isatling- make wonderful companions. With a patient and attentive caretaker, a Mal Du Pays will be passive much more often than they are aggressive. They like to hide in dark corners and crevices, or curled up in your pocket. They can be very playful if attached to their caretaker; they greatly enjoy having things to destroy with their dagger (food & wood chips are particular favorites), are fond of curling up in places their caretaker frequents (your pillow, favorite chair, laptop, etc), and benefit from stargazing.

Mal Du Pays are also semi-aquatic! They’re a bit frog like sometimes, enjoying being spritzed with water and swimming/sitting in water dishes or ice baths, and require saltwater somewhere in their enclosure. Their diet consists of high-sugar foods and raw seafood. (You may notice your Mal Du Pays does not have a mouth- so how do they eat? Scholars are still debating about this: please give them more time to research.)

There’s some debate on what catagory Mal Du Pays fits into, making it tricky to know for sure what works best for your Mal Du Pays. Planetariums in particular have a lot of information on them, so I suggest you check with your local one, or any online.

[pubes-xxx3]

i haven't written fanfics in forever but this came to me in a dream after seing more and more Tom Taylor/Cregan content.

i'm not a native speaker and i'm not willing to go to length to write proper english, so this is all i can offer.

this fic is loosely inspired by my own backpacking trip where i was stuck in a train somewhere in austria and things would've been so much better if they ended up like this:

A Game of UNO

everybody has had a crush on a stranger on public transport, right? this is a story about how briefly meeting one of the most handsome men ever has turned your life upside down (always wanted to use that cringe sentence somehow lol)

warnings: a bit of smut, fingering, cunnilingus, handjob, blowjob, semi-public 'sex'

words: ~8.5k

this is set in the modern world, somewhereon the tracks of eastern europe.

also loosely inspied by this story from toms insta because if that man was sitting in front of me in a train, i would forget myself

https://x.com/tomtaylorfiles/status/1832120778034237528?s=19

you struggled as you tried to squeeze past multiple other patrons trying to find an empty seat, your backpack getting caught on door handles or in tight spaces as you tried to be as little of a nuisance as possible.

it was only your second week of backpacking, yet you already had enough of it. currently traveling from croatia to slovenia, you were already struggling with the scorching august heat.

it was hot.

you felt sticky.

your travel-buddy injured himself and had to cut your backpacking trip short.

the last thing the universe could grant you was a decent seat near an open window, preferably without anyone getting into close proximity to you.

just as you finished that thought you reached the end of the train wagon.

an annoyed sigh left your lips as you tried to shimmy around, your backpack trapping you once again in the narrow hallway leading past the secluded compartments of the train.

once you managed to make a 180° you were met with blue eyes from the other end of the hallway.

most people managed to find some place to sit, so you were able to get a clear view of the tall brunette smiling at you.

“no seats?” he asked, and you shake your head. “nothing available i fear…” you said as he approached you, double checking the seating-situation through the glass doors of the compartments on his way over to you.

“i guess we’ll have to take the floor then” he said as he hauled his own backpack off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor with a thump loud enough to make you fear he put a hole in the floor of the old train.

you eye him carefully as he opens one of the many zippers of the backpack to pull out some random cardgame “you know how to play?”

by now it’s obvious that he does not plan on enjoying the train ride separately, so much for nobody getting into close proximity.

you shake your head.

“i only know mau mau…” you admit ashamed.

his confused eyes met yours as he was about to settle on the floor, his lips pulling into a smirk.

“what, like a cat’s noise?”

you sigh again as you struggle to take your backpack off, “no… I mean it does sound like it, but it's a lot like UNO. just with different cards.”

as you finally managed to let your bag fall to the floor, you let out an annoyed huff before you dropped to the floor yourself, propping your back against your tightly packed luggage.

“i would show you how to play but my brother took the deck of cards with him”

“where is your brother?” the strange man asks as he sits down as well, and you couldn’t help but notice how his muscular thighs bulged under his linen shorts.

“had to take a plane home.” you tell him

“we wanted to backpack through the EU together to celebrate his graduation but the idiot broke his foot on a hike not even a week after we left home.” you keep on rambling.

while you were talking the guy in front of you started to dig through his backpack without lifting his gaze from yours.

“well, i’m sorry to hear that. hope he’s having a quick recovery.”

you can only nod as you watch random stuff from his bag fall in his lap as he’s going deeper into it.

“i’m y/n by the way, sorry for blubbering around.”

“it’s fine. i’m cregan” he answers as he triumphantly pulls another cardgames’ box from gis luggage before placing it between you on the floor “nice to meet you!”

as you realized what he’d searched his bag for you couldn’t help but smile “i thought since you knew a game like UNO, might as well try the real thing.”

nodding and smiling at him, you grab the deck and start shuffling the cards while he stuffs the few stray items back into his backpack.

“may i ask where you’re from? i’m guessing the UK but i’m not sure… i’m not that great with accents” you say as you lay out the cards for each of you.

“well, i guess its not that hard to tell in my case” he laughs “i’m from northern england”

“so scottish?”

“not that far up north”

he smirks at you and you can’t help but laugh, his eyes wandering over your frame as you’re distracted with sorting your cards. he does the same, laying down a red 7 on the foundation card.

“your turn”

“IN WHAT UNIVERSE ARE YOU ALLOWED TO PUT TWO BLACK CARDS ON TOP OF EACH OTHER?”

his loud voice erupts through the train. it’s not the first time either, so at this point a few other travelers peak through the glassdoors to glare at you.

“what do you mean?” you laugh, acting innocent as he rambles about rules of the game you “clearly didn’t know or at least didn’t care about”

by now you were at the sixth round of the game and you had multiple disagreements about certain rules. the first few times were accidental, as you really did play a bit different than him, but by now it was out of principle.

the way his eyebrows carved into a deep frown each time, his hands frantically flapping around as he explains how fundamentally wrong you are with no real vigor to it: it was endearing to watch.

“i’m sorry cregan, but that's how i was taught to play” you shrug “it’s just like last time”

his lips are pressed into a tight line as he looks up at you again “it’s alright” he sighs as he puts down his last card “because i would’ve won anyways”

your mouth falls open as he snickers to himself, collecting the cards from the floor and plucking your remaining stack from your hands.

“one more round? i have to get off in two stops” he asks as he shuffles the deck once again

“sure” you smile, even though you would prefer it if he stayed.

the next stop comes and multiple people get off, as this is the last stop before crossing the border to slovenia.

a frown forms on your face as the first fat drops of rain hit the windows and the sky darkens considerably.

the rails snaked themselves through the scenic mountains of the balkans for quite some time now, but the sudden change of weather made the rocky slopes loom over you scarily, as if the sky was trapping you in and crushing you in the valley of two mountains.

the rain got heavier as you left the last town behind and it took only a few minutes before the first thunder erupted from the skies.

UNO was the last thing on your mind right now and cregan seemed to notice your change of mood.

“hey, it’s just a bit stormy. no need to worry.” he smiles at you as he reaches over to reassuringly grab your hand, squeezing it lightly to get your attention.

as your eyes met, the train came to an abrupt halt in its tracks.

the lights flickered for a moment and you held onto his hand tightly as you waited for someone to tell you what was going on.

soon enough the train attendant came by and tried to explain what was going on, the only thing you understood was that there was some rubble covering the tracks and that you had to wait.

great.

cregan reassured you that it would be fine and probably just take a little time, but after almost an hour passed you started to grow restless.

“listen, i know you are worried right now, but maybe we should try and get your mind off of this.”

as he spoke, he rose to his feet and offered you his hand once again. a blush crept up your neck and covered your cheeks at the suggestive tone in his voice.

you grab his hand quickly, letting him pull you up and standing a bit closer to him than really necessary.

“what do you have in mind?”

“you not hungry?” he asks through his mouth full of soup.

your eyebrow twitches as you sip your tea from a flimsy plastic cup “no, thanks for the drink tho”

apparently his idea of getting your mind of a thunderstorm rocking the still train was a lot different than yours.

as he pulled you to your feet in the hallway of the train wagon, you had realized how most of the compartments were empty by now. he had taken your backpacks, hauled them into the luggage racks of one of them before turning around smiling.

a chill went down your spine as he stepped closer, taking your hand in his once again before shooing you out the door again.

“let's get something to warm you up. your hands are freezing.” with that he started to lead the way towards the dining car.

you can’t help but feel a bit disappointed.

was it like you to just fuck a random stranger on the train? no.

did the last two hours of playing and laughing with cregan convince you that you actually liked that strange british guy? absolutely.

the way he talked to you, his laugh vibrating in your chest every time you used a proverb the wrong way while trying to seem savvy, his gaze always holding yours but scanning over you every time you looked away.

it made you crazy about him.

you also couldn’t help but notice that his thick thighs weren’t the only enticing thing about him. his choppy brown hair and stubble framing his face nicely, his shirt tightening around his chest every time he straightened his back and shoulders, and most importantly: the way he listened to everything you had to say with a look of genuine interest while staring you down.

it made you tingly all over again, thinking about the intense eye contact you held with him (something you usually struggled with).

your thoughts were disrupted by the noise of cregan's plastic spoon scraping up the rest of his suspicious looking soup.

you watched as he liked the spoon clean before tossing it away with the rest of your disposable cutlery, as you were also finished with your tea.

“can i do you for another one?” he offers, considering he had paid for your first drink already you just shook your head.

“thank you though. i think we should get back to the compartment, i don’t wanna leave the luggage alone for too long”

“fine, you can go ahead. i’ll get something for myself and then i’m right behind you”

by now almost two hours had passed since the train stopped. two hours you spent with the sweetest young man, telling you about his family and his travels.

you can’t help but sigh again as you reach the compartment, trying to think of the least awkward way to ask him for his number.

the inside of the train had cooled down considerably over the past few hours and you shiver as a draft brushes over your bare shoulders. trying to reach your bag to cover up was to no avail, as cregans considerably larger backpack was blocking yours.

you struggle as you try to free your sweatshirt from the bag one more time as the door slides open.

“need any help with that?” cregan asks as he shimmies past you to place a glass bottle down on the little desk below the window.

“yes please… it’s freezing and i can’t turn down the AC in here.” “here let me…”

he reaches past you and you duck, shying away last minute as his chest brushes your back.

he throws you a dark gray bundle rather than handing you your luggage. you frown at first before realizing he gave you a piece of his clothing to cover up.

you don’t comment on it, just pulling the soft half zip sweater over your head to not draw any further attention to your very prominent blush.

your nose is flooded with his smell, a nice combination of pine-scented deodorant and his personal musk. the soft wool of the sweater warms your skin quickly and you smile as your hand brushes over the small wolf emblem resting over your left pectoral.

“thank you…”

you smile down at him where he sat down next to the window, but before he could reply you frown at the beverage he brought with him from the dining car.

“is that… red wine?” you ask bewildered “what, were they out of any hard liquor?” you mockingly ask him as he takes the bottle to unscrew the cap.

“no, well… the train attendant came in as you left and informed us that because of the thunderstorm they can’t do any work on the railway. we’re gonna be here for a while so i thought we might as well get cozy” he smiles at you sheepishly.

you can’t help but roll your eyes at the news as you plop yourself in the seat next to his “maybe you should’ve started with that” you sigh before reaching over to grab the bottle from his hands

“it’s a nice idea though, let’s get comfy…” you smile at him as you take a swig from the bottle, the sour taste of cheap wine flooding your tongue.

“cheers!”

the compartment is filled with giggles and laughs as you finished half the bottle together, passing it back and forth between you.

“so, wait… you’re telling me you realized it was a musical after you had to audition for it with a musical number?” you spurt out as you wipe a tear from the corner of your eye.

apparently, cregan stark was a theatre kid. you also learned that his last name was stark, and that he comes from a family of gifted sportsmen, him being an aspiring ice hockey protege apart from his gift for theatre productions at his university.

“it wasn’t supposed to be a musical when i first got the script, i swear!!” he laughs as he takes another swig “who would expect a pop-musical production of King Lear?”

you shrug as you take the bottle from him again “i don’t know man, but still…” trying to remember what witty remark your drunk brain had prepared for him you look past him out the window, watching the rain pour down and forming small streams down the rocky side of the mountain.

“what was your favorite play? like, were you ever the lead or something?” your eyes find his again as you try to keep the conversation going, hazily reminding yourself that there was still something you wanted to ask of him.

“i was romeo once, in freshman year” he smiles shyly “don’t even know why i got the part, i was to nervous to remember any lines”

“they probably just wanted a handsome face for their lead” you giggle “the story wouldn’t make any sense if romeo wasn’t smoking hot”

“that's not true…” he says before taking another swig.

“yes it is, i mean come on… they were super young, they were basically told that they could be with anyone but the other, and they had to be super hot to find it enticing to run off with each other instead of just carrying on with their families rivalry”

you ramble along, remembering the lecture you held about this english class back in highschool

he looks confused as you carry on with your lecturing before putting a hand on your arm to pause you “no, that makes total sense and stuff, but i meant the part about my cast.”

now it’s your turn to look confused, partially because you couldn’t follow him but mostly because the warmth of his hand seeping through his sweatshirt was a welcome distraction

“i wasn’t cast because i was handsome”

“are you fishing for compliments now?”

“what? no!” he frowns at you “i looked like an egg back then, had a buzzcut and all that…”

he leans back in his seat comfortably as he holds the bottle out for you “but thanks for saying i’m hot anyways” a grin spread over his lips at your flustered expression.

“you really are” you tell him as you reach for the bottle, cregans fingers brushing yours. instead of pulling away he holds the bottle between you, nudging his fingers against yours and squeezing your arm where his hand still layed.

his eyes scanned over your face before he spoke again “you would make a nice juliet yourself” “are you calling me pretty?”

he scoffs “now you’re the one fishing for compliments” “i’m not! i just wanna hear you say it” you laugh, leaning a bit closer.

cregan leans in as well, and you’re sure he can smell the cheap wine on your breath

“you’re very pretty” he mutters as his gaze flickers to your lips, “especially with the wine staining your pretty lips”

you lick your lips out of reflex before you meet his gaze again.

“can i kiss you?” he asks at the same time as you, resulting in a snort from both of you

“i’m taking that as a yes” his lips met yours, his hand leaving your arm to cup your cheek delicately.

he pulled away almost as quickly as he pressed the kiss onto your lips, which left you confused

“that was only a peck… you gotta kiss me!”

before you could complain any further he came onto you again and this time, it felt like a real kiss.

his hand on your cheek guided you towards him and your lips met again, at first only moving carefully to try and find a comfortable rhythm until you slotted against each other perfectly.

he kept pulling away just to reconnect your lips quickly, only taking a second to breathe before filling your body with warmth again.

you don’t remember who incorporated tongue first, you just know that he had the most delicious taste to him.

the more heated the kiss got, the closer you tried to get to him. the bottle of wine was long forgotten on the floor of the compartment as you finally took a leap and broke the kiss for a moment to climb into his lap.

you barely manage to straddle his thighs in the narrow seat, so cregan quickly flips up the armrest to make some room for you.

considering how hesitant you were earlier to even play cards with him, you certainly changed your biases quickly as you scoot up in his lap until your chest grazes his.

he looks up at you through his lashes as his hands find their place on your jeans clad thighs “is this okay?” you ask him nervously as you push some of his hair back

“i can get off if i’m to heavy, i just thought-” he cuts you off by pulling you even closer, his chest now pressed to yours and his hands wandering up to grab your hips.

“you’ll stay right where you are, understood?” you can merely nod before cregan pushes another kiss to your lips, this time there's no hesitation to push his tongue into your mouth. the faint taste of cheap red wine making you dizzy.

your hand pushes into his hair once again, this time to grab it as your other finds its way to his waist, ghosting over the hem of his shirt before dipping your fingers underneath to feel his hot skin.

you can feel him shiver beneath you as you push yourself even closer, your nails skimming up and down his side. his hands started wandering as well, first lighty massaging your upper thigh before he resorted to plainly grope your ass.

it was a welcome surprise to feel his fingers indentations on your flesh even through the thick fabric of your jorts, his initial roughness soon turning into soft guidance of your hips against his pelvis.

as the kiss you share turns more and more desperate, whimpers and grunts being swallowed by the others mouth, your hands keep wandering all over his upper body. you couldn‘t decide whether you wanted to map out his entire body with your fingertips or just hold him impossibly close.

at some point, cregans left hand had slipped underneath your (his) sweater to hold you even closer by your lower back, your core being held in place while his right continued to guide your hips in a leisurely paced grind over his hardening length.

feeling the compartment heating up, sweat forming beneath his broad palm pressed to your skin, the desperation on his tongue being thrust into your mouth, you decide you need to take a breather before things get on to well to quickly.

reluctantly, you pull your head back and with that, leave cregan to desperately pant into the crook of your neck where he rests his head. you look up to the luggage rack above you, trying to focus on anything but the delicious burning sensation the drag of cregans hardened cock against your vulva has left in your lower belly.

your regained focus is ripped from you almost immediately as cregan slowly pulls down the zipper of the half zip to latch onto your pulsepoint.

a hand quickly shoots to his disheveled hair, grabbing the brown strands tightly. the whimper passing his lips is almost pathetic, his eyes closing tightly at the pull of his hair.

it took all your willpower to actually hold him back by the hair on his nape instead of just crashing your lips on his again, his mouth reddened and shimmering with the remainder of your combined saliva.

cregans eyes meet yours, glossy and pupils blown wide from excitement.

“i think…“ you whisper „i think i need a moment“ at this point your hips have stilled completely, yet cregan still held you tightly by your lower back and arse

“alright sweetheart…“ he pauses for a moment, trying not to focus on the throb coming from both his hair being pulled and your thighs tightly trapping his hips in place underneath them

„i didn‘t push it to far, did i?“

„no, you actually pushed it just right, probably a bit to well…“ you chortle as you loosen the grip on his roots, having calmed your breathing just enough to settle comfortably an cregans lap without feeling the need to restrain his burning touch.

a big smile stretches over his lips at your words and almost immediately, his hands start to wander again. you roll your eyes as he tries to shake your regained composure from you. with a smile on your own lips you lay your hands on top of his.

cregan hesitates for a moment, thinking you‘re asking him to pause his movements again. to his surprise, you do the opposite:

you slowly guide his hands to the slope where your thighs meet your hip, his fingers spreading over your hipbone and his thumbs resting comfortably on your lower stomach, perfectly framing your little pouch beneath your bleach washed jorts.

“i think we can take it a bit further now… only if you want to of course, i don‘t wanna pressure you to do it if you don‘t feel like it!“

you start to ramble again, nervous to ask for such intimacy from someone you met mere hours ago. cregans thumbs slowly start to caress where they can reach, inching closer to the zipper of your pants, wiping any doubt from your mind as your eyes meet once again.

“stop worrying so much“ he tells you, the sweetest tone to his voice „i want this just as much as you do, so please…“ his hands grip your hips tightly as he easily maneuvers you off his lap to sit on the seat next to his „do me a favor and take of your pants.“

he says it so matter-of-factly, you almost feel stupid for not starting to undress on your own accord. worry clouds your mind for a moment as you glance towards the glass door to your compartment, but as if he had read your mind cregan was already on it, closing the blinds and lowering the curtains of the small windows next to the ‚isle-seats‘ facing the hallway of the train.

you quickly loosen the button and pull down the zipper of your pants, wiggling out of the thick fabric and purposefully ignoring the damp stain on the inside of your pants‘ crotch-area as well as the wetness tracing between your thighs.

cregan also takes notice of your newly revealed skin, watching hungrily as you nervously press your knees together. technically, you want nothing more but to get the buff man in front of you between your legs.

practically, you can‘t help but think about how dirty the seats must be and how little contact you want your bare skin to have with the dusty upholstery.

“why don‘t you sit down?“

too embarrassed to admit your squeamishness concerning the hygiene of public textiles, you spew out the next best excuse that comes to mind

“i don‘t wanna leave a stain“

cregan snorts as he watches the deep blush creep up your neck and cheeks, hands clasped tightly in front of you

“don‘t worry about that“ he says as he pulls his shirt over his head to place it over the middle seat for you to sit down on.

as he stretches his arms upwards to free himself from the fabric you can feel the flame in your lower belly rekindle. you knew what to expect from the way his clothes hugged his bulging muscles, yet you didn‘t imagine him to be this beefy. his muscles laid bedded underneath soft fat, yet could still be made out clearly whenever he moved. a trail of coarse dark brown hair spread over his pectorals and down to his navel, the soft happy trail disappearing under the band of his boxers peeking from his shorts.

the sight of him made you salivate a little, trying not to think too intensely about what it might feel like to have his front rut against yours.

as if he was trying to stop your train of thoughts, cregan guided you backwards slowly until you sat down atop his discarded shirt. you could feel the remaining warmth of his body heat through the thin fabric of your slip, the gusset most certainly soaked through with your arousal and leaving a moist print on the fabric.

practically vibrating with excitement you followed his every move with your eyes as he slowly knelt in front of you, his hands reassuringly rubbing up and down your plush thighs to coax them to open up to him.

you did as instructed, slowly spreading your legs only to draw in a sharp breath as he slips between them, his waist nestling neatly between them to keep them spread.

“i want to try something… do you trust me?“ he asks, his breath ghosting over your face, drawing you in to lean closer

„yes“

lips are pressed against each other once again, desperately clinging to another as if kissing was their only purpose.

carefully, your hands start to explore his now naked upper body, enthusiastically roaming his back only to rake down through the thin layer of hair towards his navel, not missing the opportunity to grace over his nipples to cast gooseflesh over his body and draw a breathy moan from him.

the thought of cregan being so sensitive to your touch filled you with excitement, slowly starting to inch your waist closer to the edge of the seat to connect with his pelvis again, your core desperately clenching around nothing.

cregan didn‘t keep you waiting much longer, slowly trailing his lips from yours towards your neck, continuing to suck a dark mark into the same spot he tried to claim not to long ago.

this time, your hands found their way into his hair to try and bring him impossibly closer. the welcome throb of his hair being pulled send thrills down his spine, only spurring him on to let his lips wander and map out the skin of your neck, marking every sensitive spot with a loving bite as well as an apologetic lick over the forming bruise.

you don‘t know how much time passes until he detaches from your neck completely, your mind hazy with the way his touch seemingly has left permanent marks on your skin.

without a doubt, you could still feel his lips trailing your neck, his hands going from massaging your thighs to ghost over the hem of your knickers before finding your chest, his palms perfectly resting on the swell of your tits with an occasional flick of your nipples with his thumbs.

cregans previous touches were all but forgotten when he pressed one last peck to your lips before leaning down between your legs, now resting on his hunches.

he eyed the wet spot between your legs with a soft glimmer in his eyes, now on the same level as your soaking cunt as he was leaning down. his broad shoulders nudged your legs apart even further, his arms circling them from underneath to gain further control as well as softly caressing the outside of her thighs soothingly.

slowly getting the idea of what he wanted to try so desperately, your breath grows quicker.

his eyes found yours again as he started to trail stray kisses along the insides of your thighs, nipping at certain spots just as he did on your neck. you try to clench your legs to chase the friction you try to chase so desperately, but he restrains you from doing so.

his shoulders keep your legs propped open as he finally lowers his head to press his open mouth to your covered vulva. an excited gasp leaves your mouth as his tongue pushes forward to add to the wetness of the fabric stretched over your middle, tasting your arousal through the cotton.

„fuck“ is the only thing you manage to utter as he laps on you over the fabric once again, this time accompanied by a pleased hum.

„can i take them off? please…“ his desperate eyes seek your gaze again, pleading to finally expose yourself fully.

the thought was tempting, but the little voice of reason in the back of your head did not want to shut up. this was already a far more intimate situation than you ever thought yourself capable of, but you couldn‘t seem to fully let go.

you slowly shake your head, worry clouding your mind about how he might react to the rejection. „can i keep them on please?�� you don’t even know why you were asking, it was your decision after all. yet you still felt relieved when he nodded in agreement.

“totally fine by me. is it okay if i keep going?“ he asks with his cheek rested on your thigh, his hands stroking your calves soothingly.

“yeah, please keep going“ you basically repeat after him

it doesn‘t take cregan long to get back into his previous position, his hand coming up between your legs to assist his mouth by you pulling the gusset of your panties to the side before diving back in.

the first contact between his hot tongue and your glistening lips was electrifying. he started of with a broad lick right through the middle, parting your lips with it as well as gathering your sticky wetness on his tongue.

“you taste so fucking good“ he mumbles as he closes his eyes for a second, letting your flavor melt on his tongue before diving back in and tracing his tongue upwards again, slightly gracing your clit before closing his lips around it.

you hold onto the armrest for dear life as he starts suckling on your engorged bud, swiping his tongue over it in a harsh rhythm that soon becomes too much too quickly, forcing you to stretch out your hand, grabbing his hair once again.

“careful!“ you tell him „i‘m- haa… a little sensitive“

as you push his head back a little he mumbles an apology before placing a parting kiss on your clit. cregan lays his tongue flat against your hole, the new sensation making you gasp his name aloud.

picking up on the signals your body gives him, the shiver running up your spine as well as the gooseflesh covering your legs, he starts prodding his wet muscle into you slowly, careful not to overwhelm you.

pushing himself into you with slow, languid moves while the crooked bridge of his nose softly nudges your clit is what really sets you off. you can‘t help but grind your pelvis upwards slowly, matching the slow strokes of his tongue against your inner walls.

your breath shudders with every swipe and press, his hands found their place between your thighs once again as he uses his left to keep your slip out of the way and his right to carefully assist his tongue.

as the knuckle of his pointer finger breaches your hole you yelp loudly, as you were not used to the sensation. you faintly remember asking your ex to perform cunnilingus, only for him to laugh and explain how dirty women were down there (obviously complete bullshit).

cregan didn‘t seem to think you were dirty in any way. his movements got bolder and more intense, chasing after your pleasure just as intensely as you were doing yourself.

an occasional moan , often followed by some slurping sounds, passed his lips as he eagerly swallowed each wave of wetness gushing out of you.

his tongue was soon joined by a second finger, and as cregan kept pressing against your g-spot while slowly scissoring you open your legs came up to press against his ears, locking his head in a shaky hold as your moans grew louder by the second

“you have to keep quiet” he whispered, momentarily parting from your pussy

his fingers kept prodding against the rough spot inside of you while he looked up at you, watching as you nod slowly.

“i’ll try…”

cregan smiles and gives your mound an awarding peck before he dives in again. his tongue laps at your clit once again and you’re back in your throes of pleasure, pressing your thighs together again to keep him there.

he picks up on the hint immediately, matching the strokes of his tongue with the pumping of his fingers.

your eyes roll back as you bring your hand to your mouth, trying to keep yourself from moaning out loud again, reducing your pleas for him to finally have mercy on you to muffled whimpers

the air grew tense with your approaching climax, with cregans tongue drawing continuous whimpers from you.

he must’ve felt you growing more tense by the second and before you could protest again, he went from one broad lick over your clit to sucking it between his lips gently.

it was enough to finally push you over the edge, your orgasm hitting you hard as you felt the familiar warmth rushing down your spine, pulsating between your legs. you kept your legs closed tightly around his head, fingers trembling in his hair as you spurred him on to keep sucking, your pelvis grinding against his face roughly in order to ride out your orgasm as best as you could.

cregan complied gladly, keeping his lips closed around your bud as well as his fingers pressed to your g-spot. he was breathless, with his nose pressed tightly into your mound and his mouth still occupied.

he enjoyed himself, the noises of the occuring thunderstorm being muffled by your luscious thighs and your juices coating his palm, slowly trailing down his arm.

the constant pressure slowly became to much for you to handle and your hips stilled, your hand pushing cregans head back from where he was still latched to your core.

the moment your eyes met, you couldn’t help but smile at his flushed state.

cregans stubble was sticky with your arousal, his lips swollen and puckered as he breathed heavily.

“was it good?” he asked teasingly, his cheeks bright red from the heat.

“the best” you reply, still a little breathless. “you did so good baby” you tell him, his shoulders tensing at the praise while a soft hand brushes back his hair.

“keep calling me that…” cregan says as he slowly pulls his fingers from you, licking them clean as he raises to sit next to you once again.

you weren’t sure whether it was the slight buzz from the red wine, or the pleading look in his eyes that encouraged you to straddle his lap again, but you did so swiftly.

your lips crashed against his instantly, giving you a taste of your own arrousal as his tongue immediately found yours.

without a second thought you brushed over his prominent bulge with your knuckles, earning yourself a whimper from the brunette.

“can i touch you baby?” you whisper against his lips, your fingers teasingly slipping under the waistband of his shorts

“hmm… fuck, yes…” cregan answers breathless, your hands immediately fussing with his pants to pull them down enough to finally get your hands on him.

the desperation in his voice only spurred you on as he was pleading for you to touch him, whimpering loudly as you freed him from his confines and took him in your hand carefully. “please…” he croaked as your cool fingers sent electrifying shocks down his length, but you were too occupied with the sight between the two of you to decipher what he wanted, needed.

as expect from a guy his size, he was big. not neccesarily the longest, but definitely girthier than you were used to with a beautiful pink tint to the weeping tip.

dreamily, you brush a thump over his slit, smearing the precum he already leaked and earning another low moan from cregan.

you started to stroke him, the soft skin moving under your fingertips as you mindlessly wondered how beautiful his color would look on your lips, glossed up with makeup in the same way his tip glimmered with cum

“so pretty…” you whispered as he throbbed in your palm, urging you to speed up your movements while adding a little flick of the wrist to it.

as his moans grew louder you shut him up with a kiss, lips and tongues sloppily crashing together as cregan started to thrust into your fist, your hand barely able to close around his dick.

he was gripping your hips tightly, pulling you closer again until he could feel the bottom of his tip pressing against your mound, a beautiful hot sensation of thrusting up into your closed palm while grinding against your pubic bone, his moans resonating in your throat as he kept your lips on his by the back of the neck.

despite his efforts you pulled away slightly while keeping your ministrations on his dick up.

“do you wanna cum baby?” you ask softly, his eyes never leaving yours as you could feel him throb again, precum trailing down your fingers with how much he was leaking

“yes, please..!” he urged you on, his hands gripping your sides as he pressed another messy kiss to your lips “can i come in your mouth? please sweetheart, please put your mouth on me”

you couldn’t help but coo at his begs, adding some speed to the movement over his length.

his pleas were answered by actions, not words as you pressed a parting kiss to the corner of his mouth before you climbed off his lap, his hips straining from his efforts to hold back his thrusts into your fist.

your chest tightens as you look up at him, his cheeks are flushed red with his chest raising and falling rapidly.

you give him a few more strokes until he looks ready to cum, his skin tensing beneath your touch and his moans of your name growing louder with each stroke.

“look at me baby” you tell him, and his eyes find yours in an instant.

slowly sticking out your tongue, you press it to his throbbing tip accompanied by a delighted moan as the taste of him spreads over yout tastebuds.

his face contorts with pleasure as you carefully wrap your lips around his dick, gliding down until your lips meet your hand.

your mouth stretches over his girth and it takes a few attempts for you to comfortably start bobbing your head, the prominent vein running down his underside pulsating against the press of your tongue.

his hands find your head and reluctantly prepare to get your face pushed further into his lap. instead you find yourself delighted by the gentle caress of cregans fingers on your temple, his knuckles brushing some loose strands from your forehead before he runs his fingers through your hair.

as you look up at him through your lashes, sight slightly hazy with the remaining tears of your orgasm, you find him staring at you.

the intensity of his gaze as well as the comforting weight of his palm resting reassuringly in your hair elicits a low moan from you.

cregans eyes widen with surprise as you moan around his cock, the low vibrations in combination with your tongue gliding over his tip once again send familiar shocks through his lower abdomen, he feels his lower back tingling as he realizes his release is approaching rather rapidly.

„hold on-“ he tries to warn you, but with the way you hollow your cheeks and make an effort to swallow his dick completely, there is no way he can manage to form a coherent sentence.

you feel your pussy clenching with excitement at the sound of cregans pathetic moans, a new wave of arousal slowly dripping down between your thighs as you close your eyes again. concentrating on not gagging, you give it your best to take all of him in, imagining the way he would feel inside your cunt as his tip hits the back of your throat at the same time your nose burrows itself in his stomach.

his happy trail tickles your nose as you swallow him down completely with a delighted moan, cregans grip in your hair tightening slightly as he closes his eyes with a loud moan.

his orgasm crashes down on him and without a chance of holding back he softly grinds upwards into your mouth as his cum spurts down your throat. your hands hold onto his thighs tightly as you meet his shallow thrusts with the bop of your head, eyes closed with concentration as you try to drag this out for him as much as you can.

it doesn’t take long for him to slowly guide your face away from his dick, his chest rising and falling quickly with heavy breaths.

“guess you really wanted to return that favor, huh?“ he teases as your eyes meet once again, your chin glistening with the remains of your spit and the bit of cum you didn‘t manage to swallow.

„i did…“ you whisper quietly, voice hoarse from the strain on your throat „did you like that baby? did you like eating me out so much for you to cum this quickly?“ you tease as you slowly get up again, pushing yourself up by holding onto his thighs to stand in front of him.

the blush on his face darkens as you use that nickname again, seemingly having a rather intense effect on him

„thank you“ he whispers, his hands coming up to rest on the back of your thighs. you step closer to cregan, your knees pressing against the seat between his legs as you brush his hair out of his sweaty forehead.

you as you look down on him, your eyes scanning over his still-sticky face, his big eyes glistening with remaining tears of pleasure, his chest still darkened by a deep blush, the weight of reality starts to set in with you.

did you really just do that, get down on you knees in front of a stranger after he ate you out like a man starved?

but he wasn’t really a stranger to you, was he? after how much you talked, laughed and played around together?

cregan seemed to notice the panic settling into your stomach, his eyebrows drawing together with worry as your eyes dart around the compartment.

“what’s wrong sweetheart?” his hands reassuringly rub the sides of your legs, trying to calm you down as he tries to meet your gaze

“i’m just…” you bite your tongue as you think about it for a second “i think i’m just a bit overwhelmed is all… we just did this in public, and without protection-”

“i’m clean if thats what you’re worried about”

“it’s not, but thanks for letting me know”

cregan looks a bit helpless as you keep brushing your fingers through his hair to calm your nerves.

“i’m not the type to do something like this out of the blue, which probably sounds super cheesy but i’ve truly never done something like this, and i never thought i would do it with some stranger on the train”

nodding slowly as he tries to follow your train of thoughts, cregan leans to the side to kiss your wrist without breaking eye contact

“do you regret it? i didn’t want to pressure you, i swear! i just thought that we got along so well and then we made out-” you stop him by pressing a kiss to his hairline

“i never said i regretted it, it was great!” a smile stretches across your face “i’m just a bit surprised by this whole situation, thats all. i really enjoyed this…”

“i’m glad to hear it” he sighs as he leans back in his seat, tucking himself in and closing his pants before reaching his hand out

“now- why don’t you get dressed and come sit down again? i think we’ve still got some wine left, and you still need to finish that story about your theater play in highschool” you smile brightly at cregans words as you gather your pants and the one shoe that came loose throughout your snogging session and put them back on while he stuffs the soiled shirt from the seat into his backpack to exchange it with a clean one.

you’re glued to his side immediately as he sits back down, one leg thrown over his and your arms hugging his tightly.

cregan laughs at the sight of you, slowly caressing your leg while you rest your head on his shoulder, looking up at him through your lashes.

the evening goes by faster than you had anticipated, but with your laughter filling the compartment, neither of you realized how quickly time flew by.

you were in the middle of another make out break, cregan slotted between your legs as you tussle his hair some more, when the train suddenly recoiled. his head shot up immediately, trying to see anything out the window despite the darkness limiting his sight.

as the train suddenly jerked forward and started taking up tempo, you realized that the rain had stopped. the sky outside the window was as clear as ever and with a heavy sigh, your eyes met cregans.

“you’re getting off at the next stop?”

“yes…”

“oh… you should get ready then, it can’t be that long until we’re there” you mumble, trying to force a smile as you push yourself up and cregan out of your lap.

the realization hits you that this whole afternoon, the idea of you two being so intimate with each other and possibly forming more than a physical bond was over now.

cregan raises from his seat reluctantly, avoiding your gaze as his bubble was burst well.

“i think i’ll go to the bathroom, be back in a second…” he sort of tells himself before leaving you behind in the compartment.

it feels cold to be left behind like this, even though he hasn’t even gotten off the train yet. as cregan returns to you you start taking of his woolen hoodie, only to be stopped by his hands resting on your shoulders.

“keep it. please.”

he looks down on you sternly and before you can protest, an announcement over the speakers tells you that the next stop is coming up.

you tear up immediately and press yourself face first into cregans chest, hugging him tightly around the waist while his arms wrap around your shoulders.

“thank you for today” you say, muffled by his pectorals.

“no, thank you sweetheart. i had the best time with you today.” he whispers into your hair before pressing a kiss to your forehead, the train slowly coming to a halt.

“i guess i’ll see you around?” cregan asks hopefully.

“maybe… goodbye cregan.”

“goodbye…” as the train fully stops you sway lightly in his embrace.

you let him go without hesitation and step aside so he can take his backpack, with one last look over his shoulder he waves at you before squeezing out the department and towards the exit of the train.

you close your eyes for a second taking a deep breath while trying to calm yourself down.

this is so stupid you think to yourself as you gaze around the empty department, until a flash of color catches your eye:

cregan hat forgotten his UNO deck.

in a second, you scurry to find a pen and hastily scribble something on the cardboard box.

you can hear the doors opening and before you know it, you push open the window and lean out on the platform, scanning the crowd for the tall man.

“CREGAN!” you yell out as you spot him, cigarette and lighter in hand, his nose and eyes suspiciously red.

he scans the platform for a second before he strides towards you quickly, the doors already closing after the waiting passengers boarded the train.

before he can catch his breath or ask any questions, wasting the little time you had left, you pull him towards you by the neck and press a quick peck to his lips.

the two of you part with a smack as the train picks up speed and you toss over the little red pack of cards, which he catches against his chest.

you simply grin at him as his confused figure gets smaller and smaller in the distance, slowly backing away into the confines of the train, smilling as you let yourself fall into your seat.

cregan stands at the platform, looking after the train as it passes by and slowly disappears into the night.

confusion is clear on his face as he looks down on the little cardboard box in his hand, turning it in his palm.

“fucking hell…” he laughs out as he stuffs it into his backpack, finally lighting up his cigarette as he makes his way towards the exit of the platform, smiling ear to ear at the message you messily scribbled down.

call for a rematch :) xxx-xxxx-xxxx

will there be a rematch one day? who knows. but i hope you enjoyed this as much as i did while writing it.

love ya

[gabessquishytum]

(Part 1/2)

For that "defining moment of 2024" picture you posted: Cow Hob! Yes! Please! And some grave, highly serious and methodically considered thoughts about the Cow Hob AU we need - - Is Dream the absolute best, kindest, most humane and knowledgeable stable-hand for Hob? Yes. Yes he is. He knows everything there is to know about cows. How to groom them, how to care for them. What makes them happy, and what makes them feel safe. What kind of treats they can have and what kind they absolutely love, but can have only a very little bit of. - Does Dream milk his cows by hand? Yes. He absolutely does. Milking machines are far too clinical. Cows aren't just lactating machines, they deserve appreciation and respect for all they contribute. Dream milks all his cows by hand, even though it's more time consuming that way. It's much more comfortable for them. His cows are much happier that way. - Plus, milking is like bonding time. It's a reward for all the hard work cows do. They put in so much effort, carrying all that milk. Dream could be efficient and task-oriented, even milking them by hand, but he isn't. He makes sure he's extra gentle with them. He takes his time, making sure they're calm before and throughout. Then he pats and even combs the coat of each one after, so they end the milking session relaxed, shiny and happy. - Because he's so thorough and methodical, approaching milking time like a full on check-over, instead of just going in and getting what he's there for, Dream has caught many an early symptom of illness, strain, or disease, simply by taking his time to observe their coats, eyes and hoofs. Any cow knows that if there's a problem with them, Dream will catch it almost immediately!- Do the cows love Dream? Yes, they definitely do. They're in so much better shape since Dream was hired onto the farm. The other stable boy, Corinthian, is crude and rough and doesn't treat them all that well. Luckily, he's been given some other chores, so Dream works more with the cows. Dream doesn't have much time because he's so busy, running other errands and chores in the stable, but whenever the cows can they'll be bounding up to him, trying to get scratches and pats and treats. Hob is the cow who loves Dream most of all, and is always trying to get him to himself, but honestly, he's kind of a big guy who can't squeeze into small spaces, and that dainty little white cow with a stupid non-cow name, Shakespeare, always gets all of Dream's attention just because he's the smallest and can squeeze between all the farm equipment to follow Dream around easily! What a chore! - Luckily for Hob, he's also the cow on the farm with the shiniest horns, the longest hair, and the largest volume of the creamiest, most magnificent milk. This means that Dream has to spend the most time milking him and grooming him. Unlike dainty Shakespeare, who, alright, doesn't take up much space, but doesn't give very much milk either!

Cow Expert Anon. I am now christening you Cow Expert Anon, I hope you don't mind. This is wonderful and meticulous. I am going to add the other parts that you sent here, as screenshots, because I think everyone should be able to read the whole thing at once. Bear in mind that you may need to zoom in a fair bit to read.

I'm so obsessed with cow Hob just being the goodest, sweet little cutie but also leading the cows on a rebellion because he is NOT a pushover and he wants his Dream back!!! Also the Endless family becoming a cow/animal rehab ranch cooperative is the most wonderful thing and I just KNOW that Death would be the gentlest kindest milkmaid (although Dream is still Hob’s favourite, of course).

Dream is very much in his element, still hyperfixated on his beloved cows, still talking to them - hell he brings them inside the Endless mansion if they ever get sick or under the weather. If Dream ever gets the hints and Hob ever does end up having a calf, Dream practically moves his beloved cow into his own bedroom for the whole process! Hob has never been more spoiled, but he sure does deserve it. He's still trying to figure out how humans sleep in beds, though.

The milk and cheese produced by the Endless cows isn't exactly a huge amount, and they wouldn't turn a profit, but that's not the point. They're part of Dream’s family, now. He loves every one of them, and everything that they give him tastes sweeter than anything he's ever tasted before.

And yes, Hob’s calf is the cutest ever. Not quite as cute as Hob himself, if you ask Dream. Shakespeare is soooo jealous of course, but there's nothing he can do! Dream's heart belongs to Hob’s shiny horns, shaggy hair, and adorable brown eyes. No matter how much his family laughs at him, he'll be Hob’s best friend/beloved forever and ever <3

[sideprince]

When I tell you I'm tired of this "but Snape was mean to children and that's unforgiveable" shit. And it's always from anons.

I had a lot of awful teachers in school. Like the one who overwhelmed us with work and then tried to sabotage my grades at my next school after my parent told her off for it. Or the teacher who failed half the class because he was racist, and it was known around campus that he was racist but the administration did nothing about it except make him head of the department. Or the other teacher who tried to fail me because she just didn't like me (and when I went to the administration with a complaint, they made her recalculate my grade and it turned out I had earned over an entire letter grade higher than what she wanted to give me). Or the elementary school teacher I had when I was SEVEN who used corporal punishment and abusive language. Or the high school teacher who only allowed white kids in her honors class to take the AP test at the end of the year, and not the hispanic or black kids.

And yet somehow when I read Harry Potter for the first time, Snape didn't stand out to me as a particularly abusive teacher. Because in the landscape of 90s education, he wasn't. I found Fake Moody/Crouch disturbing because of how much he enjoyed watching Neville suffer during the Cruciatus demo and how wildly manipulative and sociopathic he was with zero administrative oversight. I hated Lockhart because he reminded me of the teachers who, despite being grown adults, were more interested in personal validation from a bunch of teenagers, and our grades and test scores suffered for it. But the teacher who stood out to me as particularly vile and reprehensible was Umbridge - because I knew teachers like her. Teachers who exploited adminstrative policies to feel powerful because they were small, unimaginative, stupid people who were unqualified for their jobs and they knew it. Teachers who were emotionally stunted and felt the need to assert their personal like or dislike of literal children by affecting their transcripts forever. Teachers who thought that if they disliked a student enough they could justify using corporal punishment against them. And you know what I did? I put together petitions and got every student in every period to sign it who was taught by the teacher the petition was about. I went to the administration and invoked my rights as a student - sometimes they said there was nothing they could do, sometimes they took action. One teacher ended up getting fired. One administrator's contract wasn't renewed. And I don't feel bad, because they failed in their responsibilities to their students. And because I actually did something, instead of sitting around and complaining. And if I'd been born later and this had happened more recently, I would have done the same things, instead of venting my frustration online at random strangers on the internet over a piece of fiction.

So I have a question for every one of the "Snape was mean to kids and Snape fans excuse it" people, who never seem to ask themselves why they get so riled up over this character but not about Umbridge. Because I've had teachers like Snape. And when I look back on them, I don't feel traumatized by them. I remember hating them at the time. And I also remember everything they taught me. Because they were good teachers. And tbh, we were little shits, and the attitude check they gave us was socially acceptable at the time, so they weren't exploiting their power because they could - the way an Umbridge does - they were just mean. Sometimes people are mean. It's not OK, but it's also not the irreperable heinous crime some people make it out to be. There's a lot of nuanced grey area between those two things. And what I was left with by those teachers is the knowledge it was their job to impart, and did so successfully, and I have no hard feelings - to the point where when I looked one of them up I was sad to find they'd passed away because I wanted to reach out and thank them. The same way as the ones McGonagall reminds me of, who was also mean to kids and made them unsafe. But when I think back on the teachers Umbridge reminds me of, my stomach tightens. My blood pressure goes up. I get angry and feel helpless. Especially the ones who weren't just teachers, but were administrators who abused their power and affected kids' entire lives and academic careers. I want to look them up too - so I can shout at them and tell them how vile they are. And I'm glad I can't do that, because for all I know they've learned and grown as people and changed for the better. Because they're real people and not a fictional character.

So here's my question: why are you @-ing strangers on the internet about fictional characters and are you doing anything in your actual life about the Umbridges of the world? Are you on your local school board? Are you someone your kids or nieces/nephews/niephews can talk to if they're struggling with someone abusing their power? Are you still a student and if so are you doing anything about these teachers in your school? Organizing with other students, going to PTA meetings to bring up these issues, starting petitions to bring the administration's attention to the fact that the student body has issues with a staff member? Are you actively involved in any way, or have you been at any point, in trying to protect students from teachers like Umbridge, or do you just go around sending anons to Snape fans because stamp collecting was too boring a hobby for you and apparently you slept through the section in Lit class when you learned about how to spot when an author uses a biased narrator as a literary tool?

Do you actually care about abusive teachers as a real social problem, or do you just like to argue about fiction from the comfort of your couch and feel superior to strangers on the internet you actually know nothing about?

Grow up. Do something constructive. And stop thinking you're the first person to come up with this asinine argument because it turns out,

okay, yes, snape suffered a lot but he also made his students suffer a lot. do you know what it must have been like for all those kids to be constantly humiliated??? if you like comparing with real life so much, what would you think of a real adult who abuses their power to feel better at the expense of children??? snape fans always come up with all kinds of excuses, but when it comes to the topic of his abuse towards his students, you always stay silent, and that's because it has no forgiveness.

Severus’s role as a dysfunctional adult is honestly pretty amusing to me, especially because while I never experienced bullying from peers or equals, I grew up in an environment full of wildly dysfunctional adults. On top of that, I now work on legal cases involving even more dysfunctional adults. And, to make it even better, while my classmates never gave me grief, attending a private Catholic school in the 2000s meant teacher-on-student violence was pretty much a daily occurrence. Not just at school—I've also had some truly awful professors at university. So, I get firsthand what it’s like to have authority figures who are supposed to guide and protect you but act like an absolute pack of jerks.

Here’s an unpopular opinion: if I compare my personal experiences with dysfunctional adults and terrible teachers, Severus is practically a lamb. I’ve witnessed some insane things. There was a case at my school where a teacher bullied three siblings (in different grades) so badly that their dad came to the school and physically beat the teacher up. And honestly? The guy deserved it. I’ve seen old-school priests handing out slaps. I’ve had a teacher in his late 30s openly flirting with 17-year-old students. I’ve had teachers who didn’t just throw out a sarcastic remark—they flat-out called us “idiots,” “morons,” "dickheads", "assholes", “worthless,” or said things like, “You’re all going to end up mopping floors because you’re useless pieces of crap.” Fun times with Mr. Antonio.

There was one teacher who made students stand up one by one so he could critique their outfits in front of the entire class, piece by piece, like he thought he was Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada. Another handed out nicknames that were humiliating and outright cruel. Or that elementary teacher who also taught catechism and would call up children who were not going to take their First Communion (this happens at 8 or 9 years old) to the front of the class and publicly ask them why they didn’t want to embrace Jesus Christ. She would even ask if they thought their parents didn’t love them because they weren’t letting them do the same as their friends. Or the second-grade teacher who called a boy up to the board because he didn’t know a multiplication table very well and started singing a mocking song in Spanish that goes, “Fulanito tururú, que no sabe ni la u” (basically calling someone slow-witted).

Then there was the fourth-grade teacher (9-10yo) who had a particular grudge against one of my classmates and kept threatening to lock him in places or scaring him by saying he was going to throw him out the window. The English teacher, who, when we were 14 years old, locked us in a classroom, made us skip lunch, and kept us there without eating until 5 PM. The technology teacher, a 50-year-old man with a very hands-on approach towards the girls in first and second year of secondary school (12-13 yo). And I could go on and on.

So yeah, I’ve seen some wild stuff in classrooms, and trust me, you don’t need to explain the trauma bad teachers can cause—I’ve had my share of them. And none of it is going to make me like Severus any less. If anything, the stuff he does in the books feels like 1% of the madness I’ve seen play out in real life.

[teecupangel]

It's me, the ratatouille AU anon again djjshd

The only thing that would make this even better is that Desmond hears US, the player, also. The amount of times I called him babygirl, or pretty little angel, or my special little boy. He'd be both horrified and flattered.

Also calling Juno a gnarly ghost lookin-ass bitch. I'm sorry Desmond, I know this is serious business but I can't look at her for longer than 5 seconds.

Hello, Ratatouille AU nonny! For those unfamiliar with it, here’s the post where Desmond’s ancestors can hear Desmond as he ‘controls’ them.

“Let me get this straight…” Shaun rubbed the bridge of his nose as he tried to understand the Bleeding Episode currently plaguing Desmond this time around, “You hear voices that’s not your ancestors or anyone they might have known. And you know they’re talking to you because…”

“They call me babygirl.” Desmond said calmly.

Too calmly.

Like the calm of a man who had given up all his sanity and has reached a zen state of craziness.

Rebecca furiously looked over all the documents they have about the Bleeding Effect that Lucy had given them.

Shit.

How accurate were these anyway considering Lucy’s true allegiance? 

These could all be fake or some of the important stuff could have been omitted like…

Desmond’s current situation.

“And… what do these voices tell you?” Shaun asked, curious enough to continue even though he could feel a migraine already coming.

“Uuuhh…” Desmond tilted his head slightly before saying, “Dad’s the worst father in these games and I should just beat the crap out of him… Juno’s a gnarly ghost and wants to enslave people after killing me… uuuhh…”

“Wait, wait, wait, what ‘games’?” Shaun asked.

“Oh.” Desmond blinked, looking like he actually just forgot to tell them that big bombshell, “We’re apparently game characters of this franchise called Assassin’s Creed and… uuuhh… I’m their bestest boi in the modern day setting.”

“Modern day setting…” Shaun repeated before asking, “Are you telling me that our entire existence is… fictional? We don’t exist? We’re just characters in this… video game franchise?”

“Oh crap.” Rebecca mumbled, realizing that Shaun was on the verge of an existential crisis. 

Fuck.

Of course the conspiracy theorist would latch on to that idea almost immediately!

“Shaun-”

“Pretty much.” Desmond shrugged before adding, “If it makes you feel any better, you and Rebecca are pretty much the only regulars of the modern day setting.”

“Oh, so our very existence have already been taken care of then? We’re just little puppets-” 

Rebecca sighed and ignored Shaun’s rant to ask Desmond, “So? Did these voices tell you anything at all on what’s going to happen after we save the world?” 

“Oh, yeah, about that…” Desmond turned to look at Rebecca as he said, “They told me to let the world burn… just to see how it goes and…”

“... as a treat.”

(Let’s be honest, guys, if we were given the ability to talk to Desmond, we’ll be such capricious ‘gods’.)

[caeslxys]

I’ve mentioned this elsewhere but it feels relevant again in light of the most recent episode. Something that’s really fascinating to me about Orym’s grief in comparison to the rest of the hells’ grief is that his is the youngest/most fresh and because of that tends to be the most volatile when it is triggered (aside from FCG, who was two and obviously The Most volatile when triggered.)

As in: prior to the attack on Zephrah, Orym was leading a normal, happy, casual life! with family who loved him and still do! Grief was something that was inflicted upon him via Ludinus’ machinations, whereas with characters like Imogen or Ashton, grief has been the background tapestry of their entire lives. And I think that shows in how the rest of them are largely able to, if not see past completely (Imogen/Laudna/Chetney) then at least temper/direct their vitriol or grief (Ashton/Fearne/Chetney again) to where it is most effective. (There is a glaring reason, for example, that Imogen scolded Orym for the way he reacted to Liliana and not Ashton. Because Ashton’s anger was directed in a way that was ultimately protective of Imogen—most effective—and Orym’s was founded solely in his personal grief.)

He wants Imogen to have her mom and he wants Lilliana to be salvageable for Imogen because he loves Imogen. But his love for the people in his present actively and consistently tend to conflict with the love he has for the people in his past. They are in a constant battle and Orym—he cannot fathom losing either of them.

(Or, to that point, recognize that allowing empathy to take root in him for the enemy isn't losing one of them.)

It is deeply poignant, then, that Orym’s grief is symbolized by both a sword and shield. It is something he wields as a blade when he feels his philosophy being threatened by certain conversational threads (as he believes it is one of the only things he has left of Will and Derrig, and is therefore desperately clinging onto with both bloody hands even if it makes him, occasionally, a hypocrite), but also something he can use in defense of the people he presently loves—if that provocative, blade-grief side of him does not push them—or himself—away first.

(it won’t—he is as loved by the hells as he loves them. he just needs to—as laudna so beautifully said—say and hear it more often.)