#Provision Print

[holmoris]

spoilerfree (snes/trailer content only) super mario rpg remake impressions because i just did the entire thing in one sitting because it leaked and it's in my top five ever:

difficulty is way lower than the original, play whatever weird team comp you want, the mario/peach/ meta is dead. also mallow actually does damage now! it's a christmas miracle

outside combat it's probably the most faithful remake i've seen in decades for better or worse, it's about 95% the same as the original which isn't a bad thing at all, it's even got Ted Woolsey's script with minimal changes

some of the new remixes are absolute bangers but one very specific important one sucks intensely compared to the original, you'll know it when you hear it

the combat changes are a mixed bag and the team supermoves are very, very powerful. Run mario/bowser/geno and you basically handicap every boss

it's very difficult to fall behind in flower points, there seem to be way more flowers around than in the original so you aren't handicapping yourself if you screw up booster hill or midas falls the first time

status effects (especially bowser's Fear spell) are way more effective than they used to be

THEY RENAMED MACK TO A THROCKMORTON JOKE. WHY

there is postgame (complete with saving a clear file and reloading after smithy) but i'm not playing it until my physical copy shows up since I rushed through this on a switch that isn't mine

everything you'd think they'd remove for censorship reasons is still there.. except for mario's peace sign, which is gone and makes the scene where he talks to monstermama and conveys 'piece' with a peace sign very confusing

booster's crying animation is absolutely incredible in 3D tl;dr : if you haven't played SMRPG previously this is a great adaptation and does right by the original, if you have you might be slightly disoriented but you're still going to have a good time.

[likesomeoneinlovee]

𝐈 𝐒𝐞𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐝

Pairing: Dbf!Joel Miller x F!reade

Word Count: 6k

Summary: Joel has had a ‘crush’ on you for a long time now and will make sure no man gets in the way of that.

Warnings: PORN-WITH-PLOT. Kinda. Reader is not legal to drink but still legal. Polite reader just trying to not be a bitch while dealing with a pervy old man! Joel has a crush on you, a BIG one. Bro gets so mad he gets a boner. Mutual touching he drives, daddy stuff, a teeny bit of spanking & nipple play, unprotected P-In-V, tummy bulge, aftercare for once wow!! No beta.

A/N: ANON REQ!! (you know who u are and here’s my take on a bit of a jealous Joel) I would've done way more smut if I didn’t have a high fever rn + writers block 😵‍💫! so VERY rushed.

No man should covet a woman he doesn’t own. 

And you weren’t his. 

Your daddy would make sure you would never be. 

Joel tells himself that. Over and over again, the only prayer in his head, the hymn he lives by ever since you’ve been staying with him per your father’s request. You yourself slowly recognizing Joel’s patterns of life. As he wakes up he takes pills for his headaches, swallowing them dry without a blink. His body is accustomed to the feeling. Every Saturday he’d take a weekly drive to the liquor store to stock up on the much needed provisions to his day-to-day routines. Booze, in much less dramatic terms. 

Your father was out of state for work forcing you to settle up with Joel for a couple of months, the only man your father would allow you to actually be around. In fear of you doing something bad. Bad as in… Sex? You could only assume that’s what your darling daddy meant. 

A rocky relationship in the cruel reality. 

Joel’s home. It was livable, there isn’t much to say when it’s the house of a man who’s been living alone twenty years. Indications of life scattered upon furniture the only real telltale signs that someone actually lives there. Coffee table littered with rings from mugs he’d simply leave for too long, the way the worn, vomit-colored green couch sags in the middle. Any prints that were on the buttons of the TV remote had been rubbed off by pressing around them, the last time he had gotten a new television was probably going on fifteen years now. Sad. Truly and utterly sad. 

Then you came along. 

Remnants of your liveliness woven into the once so dreary place. Something as so simple as a hair tie left on the counter, the very vague scent of perfume you left lingering in the small space of the bathroom every time you’d leave it. Now at night he’d walk past the second bedroom of his home that had been left unused, once depressed and dark, had the warm glow of your lamp being left on, leaking through the gap between the door and the floor. The littlest things.

Joel pretends not to notice. 

Though, he does. 

He notices the way you hum so very quietly the times you’re obligated to cook your own breakfast. How you pull your knees up onto the couch when you sit. Rolling your eyes at him every time he’d vexingly tell you to make sure to lock the front door when you came in. You listened. 

You’re too comfortable here. Too at ease. 

And what’s worse is he was getting used to it.

He’s not your fuckin’ father. He’s not your keeper. He’s just the man your daddy trusted well enough to take care of you when he was gone. Sorry excuse for a babysitter all the while you weren’t a baby. An adult who can well take care of herself. Only agreed because he wouldn’t want you to discover how he’s been living for practically twenty years by being alone for two months. The dark quietness of a home when it was just you there. 

He told himself it would be easy. Two months. He’d keep his distance. 

It’s almost impossible. The way you made him feel was sickening. You’re always around. Sinking deep into the couch, marveling in whatever boring sitcom would play on the box of blue light that flickered throughout the room. How you’d take sips from his beer just to tease, wrinkle your nose at the taste deep down you liked. Making your tongue buzz. You were making yourself at home in a place that was never meant to be yours. 

The only thing that worsened it for Joel is that you were so blissfully unaware of what you were doing to him. 

He thought the hardest part of this arrangement would be keeping you out of trouble. Your father acting like if he was gone you’d fall apart as a person. Be out partying or fuckin’ every night. Far from the truth. Laying so contently home every night.

Coming back to reality, the hardest part was keeping himself out of it. 

It’s the way you’d walk around his house in whatever you had slept in that night, no matter it be a tank-top and those tiny, plaid shorts that went up your ass. Appreciating the comfortability, though, he fucking hated it. You acted like you belonged there. 

Often he’s finding himself watching you too long, staring at the curve of your mouth while you speak, the plump of your lips as you stay entertained by the television with your face at a gentle rest. He was always seemingly gawked. 

Fifty-seven wasn’t the age to have crushes. 

And on Sunday’s, the day of the lord, of course. Joel Miller goes to the local bar.

Nighttime was surprisingly when the crowd died down. You were surprised to see that as you walked through the doors that sheltered the poorly kept saloon style establishment. Tables seated with older men closer to Joel’s age, some luckier than others to be accompanied by a woman. Smelled like stale beer and sweat which in reality was more disgusting than appealing. Loud breaks in the casual conversions of the crowd as pool balls clacked together. Rejoicing coming soon after. 

Usually you had something better to do on these nights. Going out with your friend’s always suffices though of course they canceled out today. Great, stuck with Mister Miller for a night of drinking all the while you weren’t allowed to let alcohol in your body at your age.He wouldn’t lie for you either, he was supposed to take care of you. Not turn you into the starts of an alcoholic. 

Torturous. Did the man want you to shoot yourself?

He led you through the slim pickings of a crowd there really was, hand grazing the small of your back to keep you close. Nothing more. Both sliding your bodies onto the leather tops of the barstools. Uncomfortability was the price to pay for the first hand of drinks. A squeak in your stool that no one had the patience to fix. 

“Whiskey.” The request sounded more like a plea from his lips. “Two.”

You knew the second one didn’t mean for you. 

Rubbing his temple as he flagged down the waitress. She was all too polite for what seemed to be the shittiest bar on earth. As if a small town in Texas would give you any better. Nodding her head in your direction. Your lips pursed as if ‘Beer” was gonna be the next thing to move past them. Though, you digressed. 

“Soda. I guess.” Joel gave a nod to you. Of course he approved of that action. Rubbing a hand over his jaw he sighed. Forgetting to take his pills this morning. Fuck, the throb behind his eye was something only the alcohol could numb by now. 

“You could’a stayed home.”

“Yeah, I could’ve.” You shrugged, admittedly so you rather be home- no. You rather be out with your friends as you were supposed to be tonight but in an act of such kindness, you came here with Joel. “Maybe I wanted to see why you liked this place so much.” It was a simple muse to him, though it did strike your curiosity. 

“Quickest bar from home. Quickest way to get drunk.” Curiosity met with an undeniably depressing answer. You were used to it by now. His lips pressed into a thin line. Once the barkeep came back she handed Joel his drinks, plural. As she also came with yours. Soda rimmed with ice. He picked up the first drink given, perspiration coating the glass. His thumb pressed against the cold lowball as he took the first sip. Heavy hot liquid sliding down his throat. Numbing him, his mind. Felt refreshed. 

You hum, stirring the ice in your soda in circles with your straw. He hears the clinking over the din of the bar. Louder than his own thoughts. 

You crossed your legs. Your thighs squishing together through the denim of your jeans, the material a bit loose on your body, a choice out of comfortability to buy baggier bell bottoms instead of the ones that hugged your ass tight. Drawing Joel’s eyes unintentionally.

Fuck this. 

He drags his palm down his face, trying to wipe away whatever the fuck he was feeling. It’s sickening for him. It’s so easy to not feel like this when it’s something so simple, so selfish as a one night stand, a whore he had paid to suck his cock. Different. Far different, especially since the last month he’s spent his time admiring the woman before him. You. The innocence in your eyes that served your beauty. It was this crawling under his skin he wanted to rip away from. 

So fucking vigilant on the scent of you, the sound of your voice, the way you shift ever so slightly closer to him as another group of men pass.

Joel breathes out slowly, averting his eyes to the sweet sight of you. 

The night goes on, the whiskey dulling the edges of restraint with every slow, steady sip. Slowly the place was growing on you, the night seemed to cool it down, less noise less chatter. Seems everyone needed to knock out a couple drinks before settling. You would’ve been happy to say the same if you were allowed to order that beer. You propped your chin in your palm, your elbow flat against the bartop avoiding any of the sticky substances that would coat some unfortunate patches of it. Your eyes scan throughout the place. Not much to take in, not much to see.

Though the slow deliberate movements draw the tiniest bit of attention from a table your eyes accidentally glance at for too long. Subtle but inevitable. 

Joel catches the way the men sitting at that table glance your way. The way you adjusted your body to once again sit straight up. Clearing your throat. 

And that’s when it starts. 

The first one wasn’t particularly bold about it. Just a flick of his gaze in your direction before returning to his minutes-til’-flat beer. The second man, greying, looks a little longer. Too closely. He nudges his friend, mutters something incoherent- something probably offensive to earn a laugh from him. Now he looked again.

Joel knows that look.

The kind that lingers for too long. That waits for an opening.

The kind that makes Miller’s teeth grind, his shoulders go rigid. His fingers slowly begin tightening around the glass of gold as he keeps his eyes forward. His eyes flutter just a bit to the left, seeing your smile. Trying to hide it by gently pressing your lips to the rim of your glass. Pretty pink lips. Before time heat is bubbling in his belly. Praying to god that was the fuckin’ whiskey. 

Those men are still watching. 

The next sip of booze doesn’t quite help as much as he’d want. It doesn’t smooth out the sharp edges of this feeling, the low simmering deep inside his pelvis. It keeps getting worse. 

He’s coming over. Walking with heavy legs. 

Joel sees it from the corner of his eyes, the way the man pushed back the chair, unhurriedly, sloppily walking straight towards you. From what Miller could gauge from the corner of his eye and what the wiry grey hairs covering the man’s beard told him is that he was older. Older as in his own age. Fifties either early or late. Joel wanted to die. Exhaling sharply, slamming down his glass a bit too hard. 

Muddled, you’d lift your head from your glass to look at Miller with an eyebrow cocked. And before you could even speak-

“Evenin’.” The man spoke.

You’d blindly blink at the man now standing beside your barstool. Startled for only a second before schooling your expression into something- polite. Something surely this man was undeserving of yet you really couldn’t help it. Instincts. 

“Hi.” Joel wouldn’t turn, wouldn’t acknowledge him. Not yet.  

“Can I help you?” You smiled, sweetly.

The man would lean in as expected. The strong smell of beer radiating off his breath. Open-mouthed ogling like a fucking dog. He was clearly absolutely wasted. Just those words were an absolute understatement. 

“Is this your daddy?” Of course he’d say that. Gesturing to Joel who was looking straight on before he turned a glance to the man, his eyes slits as he glared. Understandable. If you weren’t trying to give this man the benefit of the doubt you’d be glaring too. This guy was undeniably a fucking dick.  

“No- no,” You’d giggle. “My babysitter.”

You didn’t like how your mind and soul was making you act, unfortunate your internal instincts were to be tooth-achingly sweet in public.

You wanted to die. 

“S’my lucky day, huh?” You’d blink again. Silence as if the man had stole all the thoughts from your head- not in the good way. 

“No. Not- not quite.” 

You’d laugh, trying your best to brush it off. The man should go away soon. Probably just mistaking you for something you’re not while you’re here trying your best to avoid something awkward. Joel’s jaw clenched. 

“Well,” He hushed. A finger twirled into one of your soft locks. Your body tensing as you kept up another nervous giggle– you were only egging him on more. “I just wanted to see you up close.”

“She ain’t interested.” Miller told the truth with that. You weren’t and you were further from interested. Though the nervous, dumb smile on your lips told the fuckin’ pervert otherwise. 

“She didn’t tell me that.” He pushed. “I’d much rather hear that from your mouth, sweetie.”

You hesitated, your lips parted though words weren’t falling. Refusing. Alas, Joel Miller reached his breaking point. 

He popped up from his stool as he moved over to the guy. The greying man hesitated at the sight, of course. He wasn’t gonna be the kinda man to get his ass beat over something fucking stupid. Though, Joel was willing to beat his ass for your sake. 

A long beat of silence through the access chatter swimming around the bar enters the space between you, Joel and this sad fuckin’ man. 

Joel doesn’t blink.

He doesn’t breathe. 

He just stares. 

The man exhales a chuckle, deep down he didn’t want to walk out of here with a broken nose for flirting with a girl he wanted to fuck. A girl he thought was alone, dumb enough to possibly join him and his sad excuses for friends sitting around his table.

“Didn’t mean any trouble, pal.” He threw his palms up in a mock surrender though, he didn’t mean it. That’s what that beer was for afterall. Stepping back only an inch, letting the hair that was between his fingers fall back to your shoulder. 

“Just bein’ friendly.” 

Joel didn’t answer, why should he? The man let out a scoff as he walked back to his table with his tail between his legs. That was good. All Miller could do was sigh. His shoulders still at unease as he sat back down on the bar stool. Your heart at a slow thump against your ribs. 

You knew deep down that really, you were fine with that. Sure that man was a cuck, sure, you were uncomfortable, but you also knew yourself and you knew if that man would have touched anything else other than the tip of your hair. Oh fuck. He would’ve been gone.

Or– would he? 

It doesn’t shake the feeling that Joel was annoyingly protective if that was the right word for it. That man wasn’t your dad. He didn’t need to stick up for you.

He never did. 

He ran a palm down his face –again– he couldn't take the way he was around you. 

“Ohh, what the fuck.”

He was tired of this.

Goddamn if that happened a month ago chances are he wouldn’t have done anything other than roll his eyes and tell the fucker to go jerk off somewhere else but– oh my god did Joel wish he was the one that close to you. Breathing you in. 

Of course, you weren’t a random woman at a bar.

If only he had enough balls to speak to you. 

Pent up hormones ready to blow out of him every moment he was around you. He was too fucking old for this. 

Too fucking old.

If he felt the rush of blood to his cock one more time this night he was gonna–

Joel was already moving by now. Already shoving back from the bar, the scream of the stool leg against the glazed wooden floor of this god forbidden place made you inherently flinch. His jaw tight, the muscle in his cheek ticking as he reaches for his wallet, tossing a few bills onto the counter without counting. He didn’t fucking care about the act of either over-paying or under-paying right now. He had one, sinfully unfortunate thing on his mind. 

He knew he’d never do it. 

But that didn’t mean he wasn’t thinkin’ it.

Then his hand was on your wrist.

Grasping.

Firm. Unyielding. 

“C’mon.” He gritted. “Time to go, baby.” 

That was a new one. The name melting of his tongue like an instinct.

His grip was tight. Breathing hitched at the feeling of the grip. He was lucky it didn’t hurt. It was enough to make it clear he needed to get out of there. The reason wasn’t clear. It could be innocent on his part: he didn’t want you in a space where old men are looking at you. Ogling you like a slab of fuckin’ meat. 

His real reason was sickening. 

“Joel– c’mon!”

You’d whine, maybe you had a good reason to stay. Maybe you were just being defiant. 

Typical, like a child.

He didn’t give you time to finish.

The bar stool nearly topples as he pulls you up. Stumbling in the boots you were wearing. Tugging you in tightly to stand beside him. He was tensed, heat radiating off his body like a goddamn furnace. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t speak as if there was a point to. Nothing he said got through to you anyways. He just moves.

People are watching. Who wouldn’t? 

Your pulse spikes as you catch the amused glances throughout the pub. Folks who weren’t looking before now blinking. Causing a scene. Again, 

You. Wanted. To. Die. 

And to make it all better Joel’s eyes rip to the table those men from earlier were sitting at. The ones who eyed you. That same man who had harassed you muttering something to his friend beside him. Fuck. 

He thought he couldn’t get any more pissed. 

His palm covered his lips with no way to read. The music playing throughout the room covered any sounds of a hushed whisper into another man’s ear.

Though, Joel is pivoting. 

His grip on you released as he took a heavy-footed stomp over to that table. He frowned. He wanted to kill them. He would if he could. “What the fuck did you just say?”

“Jesus Christ, man.” One of the men mused. Of course, Joel Miller was just another sorry excuse of a man to them. “You don’t give it up do you.” Your babysitter wasn’t intimidating in a setting like this. To a man drunk as a fuckin’ skunk sitting with a bunch of men who reeked of the same stench. 

Joel doesn’t move.

He goes to walk away. No. There was absolutely no point in doing anything.

You could’ve heard a pin drop.

“All I said is that if I were you I would’ve fucked her by now.” No. Nope that was it.

A quick turn back around and Joel had slammed his fist into the man’s face. Heavy handed. Joel’s knuckles cracking with the impact in the same note as the man’s nose. 

“Fuck!!!” The man cried. It was well deserved. Why would Joel let a man talk to his–

You weren’t his.

Miller couldn’t breathe in the moment. His breathing ragged, watching the blood quickly drip out the man’s nostrils. God was it satisfying.

Your stomach plummets. You can confidently say you’ve never heard a man yell like that. Before the next tick of epinephrine hits Joel his hand now runs to your waist instead. Pushing you out the doors before running into the parking lot.

Holy fucking shit.

The air of the night hit you like a bucket of ice quickly. Suddenly you were regretting only wearing a thin hoodie with a tank top underneath. Joel was dragging you to his truck, practically throwing you into shotgun. 

Slamming the door to your side.

He rounds the front quickly. Pulling open the driver’s side as he slid into the seat. You swore you could hear the way his breath shudders in his throat. His Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he pulls his seatbelt over his body– safety first, right? 

The truck was suffocating. Too small. Too fucking warm. 

You lick your lips, tasting salt. Your nerves were shot to hell. “Jesus Christ, Joel.”

He frowned. Fist on the shifter before pulling it into drive. He was speeding away, far away from that bar. Yeah, that one punch may had ruined his personal ‘holy day’ for a good while. If him and that man are ever in the same room again most likely one of them is getting there shit rocked and Joel worries that next time it may be him. 

He doesn’t necessarily wanna take that chance. All because of something so FUCKING stupid.

He doesn’t speak. Nothing to say on his part as for you– too stunned to say anything. You had no understanding of why Joel Miller of all people, of all the men you know was acting like this. His fists balled against the steering wheel. Knuckles turning pale. Ghostly. 

“Fuck.” 

He broke the silence with a curse. He was mad. At least, he sounded so. The growl in his voice masked the need. He could feel every twist, every coil in his gut. All because of you.

He can’t keep hiding it. 

“You’re makin’ me so fuckin’ crazy, baby.”

The smell of hard booze on his breath impregnated your nose. Slowly beginning to understand the acts in the bar. “That wasn’t me trying to flirt.” You quickly retorted. That was the honest truth that you’d be abiding by. You were too nervous to do anything except giggle like a dumbass so that’s what you did.

“I can’t help the fact I try to be polite. Even if they’re verging sexual harassment.” 

You’d try to keep it light hearted with a quip. Joel didn’t laugh. Pursing his lips into a line before speaking. It only pissed him off more.

“Not what I’m sayin’.”

You breathe. What the hell did this man want from you if it wasn’t some reasoning from your lips? The road was wet, asphalt glistening with a sheen of rain making light reflect easily off like a mirror. As Joel turned his brights on to properly see through the dark road that light reflected into the truck. The formally dark truck.

Your gaze was pulled to his lap. An accident at first but–

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

His cock would writhe against the tightening denim of his jeans. If that didn’t tell you enough you didn’t know what would. 

Joel’s hands flex against the wheel, the veins in his hands popping.

“Whatever you say, M’not fuckin, jealous.”

No no, he was.

And the tension rolling off of him is suffocating, filling the small front space of the truck like a thick fog. Choking you. You could almost still feel the touch he left on you. The phantom of his fingertips that had branded your skin only a few minutes ago now.

He wanted you to touch him and it wasn’t a secret anymore. 

You reached your hand out to place on his thigh. The way his teeth sunk deeply into his bottom lip. Yeah, he fucking needed this. You felt your own stomach bloom with heat as your fingertips just barely scathed the denim of his jeans. You were just so close. Closer than you’ve ever been. And if this is something to forever be forbidden,

For all you know this could be as close as you’ll ever be. 

He adjusted his hips. Spreading his legs as if to coax you, as if to tell you this is the right thing. Maybe it was too vague. He took a hand off the wheel as he began soothing more into things. His shoulders finally relaxed as he took a long. Deep breath in. Then out. His fingertips danced along the crotch of your own jeans. Pressing the pad of his middle against your extremely clothed clit, muscle memory of where he knew it was.

He knew.

It was that touch that made your legs wanna buckle. Your cunt clench. 

Your palm soothed up his thigh as he focused on the road. Eyes adjusting, focusing. While his cock focused all by himself. Finally your smaller hand went to the tent in his jeans. Taking your pointer and tracing a line up the curve of the bulge. Wooing a twitch from him. His finger pushed harder into your clothed heat. Rewarding him in your first gasp of the night. 

“Jesus, baby. Soon enough I’ll be the one with the broken nose.”

A jest like that was hard to process currently. 

“What do you mean-?” 

Joel takes his hand away from between your legs just for a second to turn the radio on. Very very low, some old 80’s rock song came on. The background noise almost calming.

“Your daddy.” He’d grunt. “If he ever knew I was touchin’ you–”

“I know. My mouth is shut.”

It was a promise. A promise as your palm slipped beneath his belt.

Home sweet home.

Once the front door was closed the exchanges between your mouths were all teeth and tongue. Messy, sloppy. No shortage of drool dribbling down either of your chins. His fingers latching around the hem of your tank top as he pulled it over your head. No bra. Less work for him. 

It was like clockwork how his big, rough hands scooped under your thighs to grab you, pick you up with a strained grunt ripping from his chest. He couldn’t remember a time where his cocks been this hard. He could almost completely promise that it’s never been. It was heavy and once his jeans were pulled down it was hanging heavy, loose in his boxers. Though his flannel stayed on. Unbuttoned, fabric framing his tummy and bare, soft chest. 

You laid on his bed, splayed upon his blankets like a goddess as you awaited for him to finishing taking his clothes off. But he just couldn’t fuckin’ wait. The sight of you laying there, helpless. Those pretty, lace panties he wanted to rip off with his teeth made his brain turn to mush. He crawled on top of you, leaning down to place a hot kiss on your throat as his hands moved down to your ass. 

“Don’t got time to take you over the knee, baby.”

This sentence came with a squeeze to the soft flesh of your ass. Flipping you over belly-down with his fingers tangled in your hair. Face stuffed into the pillow.

His hand came down firm on your lace clad ass. Watching the thickness of the skin ripple. 

Again. Harder.

You let out a sharp whine at the feeling. Each left with a stinging buzz that lingered within the plush skin. You were addicted. Though, what was fun for a moment was soon boring for Mister Miller, his cock in a painful state in the confines of his boxers. Feeling like he was gonna burst any good moment now. 

But were you ready?

He flipped you back on your back in a sinfully quick motion. One of his practiced, old hands laid flat against your stomach before slipping down beneath the lace of your panties, hooking a finger to the side before pulling them down. They were damp. That just wouldn’t suffice for him. His finger tested the waters, how gluey, slick your folds were. Taking what was currently dripping out of your hole and spreading it around like a glaze. 

He dipped his head down into your sternum, his lips pressing firmly against the skin there before he deliberately moved to one of your tits. Brushing the pad of his thumb across the already hard nipple before taking it between his teeth. 

“Fuck-! Joel-”

Funny, when you touched yourself you weren’t nearly this loud. 

This sensitive. 

The tip of his tongue swirled around the bud, it was smooth against his tongue. Warmer than your skin. His hips dug down deep into his own mattress. Mussing the blankets beneath both of your bodies as if they were neat before. He squeezed your other breast with his free hand, continuing his ministries just for another moment. Keeping his moments practiced and planned for the time being. He flicked your unintended, rock-hard bud with his free hand. Mind Numbing stimulation coursing throughout your body. 

Your hand came down to paw at his erection straining painfully against the grey cotton of his boxers.

“Oh–”  

He groaned, his hips pressing into yours before you could touch more. Clamping himself down so the only way you could feel him throb would be against your thigh.

“You think you’re ready, baby? Ready for my cock?”

Of course the answer was yes. He knew the answer was yes how you were writhing, practically salivating at the thought. Both panting like dogs. He pulled himself out of his boxers. The dim light of the room making it impossible to see was was between your legs. The details left unseen and unsaid as all you could rely on was feel.

You felt his head begin running up and down between your folds. With a girl so fuckin’ wet who needed lubracant. Your eyes squeezed shut as he began to push in. 

You’ve never felt anything like it.

Funnily enough. He’s never felt a girl like you either.

“Joel!” You’d squeal. “Fuck, Joel– JoelJoelJoelJoel–”

You were quickly chanting his name under your breath like an invocation. He was big though a three-letter word so simple as big was a fucking understatement. He was stretching out every ounce of your gummy walls. Your head craning backwards into his pillow. His pillow. The scent of his hair, his scent all seeping into your nose mixing with the sensations throughout your body.

“S’fuckin’-- shit, babygirl…”

Joel’s words were slurring together as if he had drank more than those two lousy whiskeys at the bar. Your legs wrapped tight around his waist as you enveloped him. Clenching up every time the tip of his fat cock would graze your cervix. His hand pressed just over your pelvis. Feeling around, ‘til– oh fuck.

“Fuckkkkk… Feel that, baby?” You felt a lot of things right now, your body all too hyper-fixated on the feeling of him to focus on anything other than that. Then Joel took your hand. Trailing it down your stomach as he weakly supported himself with his left arm. Palm flat against the sheets. His bicep tense.

He brought your smaller hand down to your low stomach, feeling the bump there. The bump he was oh-so obsessed with. Jutting out against your palm. 

“S’my cock. Yeahhh. He wants you, s’fuckin’ bad.” 

He was barely there.

“--So. Fuckin’. Bad.”

He punctuated his words with every thrust. You wanted to call out, say something over and over again like your only fucking prayer. But words defied you in the moment. As soon as you felt the unbearable pressure build up in your gut, the pressure that took over, spilled from your pelvis to your pussy. You felt the wiry hairs that crowned his cock scratching against your clit only adding to the feeling. The feeling that was building and building. 

“Joel– I’m gonna–!”

It was so cliché. The need to finish that sentence was gone as you couldn’t control it. Feeling the knot tied so uncomfortably tightly in your pelvis untie. You tried to keep it back, hold it in but it refused. Your hips wriggled against his as your orgasm came ripping through your body. Leaning up as best you could to bury your face in his neck to gasp. Cry out into his ear as much as you well pleased as you felt your legs kick out, your thighs buzz.

His cock curved inside of you, kissing a soft spot that you weren’t even aware you had. His pace slowing, becoming sloppier, rushed. His hips snappy. The way your walls squeezed around him, trying to milk him til’ he was dry. Just wasn’t safe for an old man like him to blue-ball himself like this, huh?

“Fuck- she’s gonna milk daddy dry, ain’t she–?” He was trying to kill you.

With that it was only one more thick, deep thrust into your tight, throbbing cunt where he spilled his cum inside of you. Using what little energy he had left to paint those pretty walls white. Rolling his hips to drive his semen into your pretty little hole. His thumb pushed past your parted lips, your mouth quickly latching on. Cock-drunk, suckling on his thumb to muffle any whimpers. No more cries.

“Atta girl.”

He’d praise. His sweaty, damp body pressing heavily against yours. He didn’t wanna pull out. It’s almost like his body wanted him to stay this way until he was passin’ out. Though, he wouldn't let that happen. He slowly unsheathes his thick cock from your pussy with a wet, squelch as your walls adjust back to normal. Opaque, pearly cum dripping out of your cunt, drooling down your inner thighs all the way to your ass was pornographic. 

Reaching around the back of his head to seize a chunk of his greying, soft-to-the-touch curls. Your tongue licking his way into his mouth instead of his thumb. 

You felt absolutely and utterly euphoric. 

Laying with the blanket lazily draped over both of your bodies. Joel took a long sip from the bottle of alcohol, drinking it like water to refresh his mouth. He felt exasperated. He wouldn’t be able to pin point the last time sex made him feel this good if you were paying him a million bucks. But now he could say with you.

You tucked your face into his neck, taking in the scent of him, the stickiness of his skin. The salty scent of sex still lingering in the air around. 

It was silent. Like you were both trying to process what had happened within the last hour- hell, the last three. Even the whole bar thing seemed like an impossible daydream you’d watch on a soap, something that you’d say is unrealistic. 

“I was jealous.”

He murmured. Turning his attention back to you as the silence was officially broken. You could’ve figured as much.

“I guess I should be flattered.”

You’d giggle. Real and genuine. Not the fake one you put on for that pervert at the bar. 

“I’ve never had a man break another guy’s nose for me before.”

Joel rolled his eyes. Wrapping his warm arms around your body as he pulled you in close. The first time in twenty years his bed wasn’t empty and cold. A warm body tucked right against him, perfectly as if you belonged. 

“Don’t get used to it.” 

[coochiequeens]

Thousands protest against increasing violence against women in Kenya as they march to the parliamentary building and supreme court in the capital Nairobi [Gerald Anderson/Anadolu Agency]

Published On 27 Jan 202427 Jan 2024

Thousands of people have gathered to protest in cities and towns in Kenya against the recent slayings of more than a dozen women.

The anti-femicide demonstration on Saturday was the largest event ever held in the country against sexual and gender-based violence.

In the capital, Nairobi, protesters wore T-shirts printed with the names of women who became homicide victims this month. The crowd, composed mostly of women, brought traffic to a standstill.

“Stop killing us!” the demonstrators shouted as they waved signs with messages such as “There is no justification to kill women.”

The crowd in Nairobi was hostile to attempts by the parliamentary representative for women, Esther Passaris, to address them. Accusing Passaris of remaining silent during the latest wave of killings, protesters shouted her down with chants of “Where were you?” and “Go home!”

“A country is judged by not how well it treats its rich people, but how well it takes care of the weak and vulnerable,” said Law Society of Kenya President Eric Theuri, who was among the demonstrators.

Kenyan media outlets have reported the slayings of at least 14 women since the start of the year, according to Patricia Andago, a data journalist at media and research firm Odipo Dev who also took part in the march.

Odipo Dev reported this week that news accounts showed at least 500 women were killed in acts of femicide from January 2016 to December 2023. Many more cases go unreported, Andago said.

Two cases that gripped Kenya this month involved two women who were killed at Airbnb accommodations. The second victim was a university student who was dismembered and decapitated after she reportedly was kidnapped for ransom.

Theuri said cases of gender-based violence take too long to be heard in Kenyan court, which he thinks emboldens perpetrators to commit crimes against women.

“As we speak right now, we have a shortage of about 100 judges. We have a shortage of 200 magistrates and adjudicators, and so that means that the wheel of justice grinds slowly as a result of inadequate provisions of resources,” he said.

People gather to protest in an anti-femicide demonstration, the largest event of its kind ever held in Kenya. [Gerald Anderson/Anadolu Agency]

Kenyan media outlets have reported the slayings of at least 14 women since the start of the year. [Gerald Anderson/Anadolu Agency]

A protester holds a Palestinian flag during a march to protest against the rising cases of femicide, in downtown Nairobi. [Brian Inganga/AP Photo]

Women and feminists in Kenya took to the streets to march against the rising cases of femicide. [Brian Inganga/AP Photo]

In Nairobi, protesters wore T-shirts printed with the names of women who became homicide victims this month. [Gerald Anderson/Anadolu Agency]

Protesters react against the rising cases of femicide. [Brian Inganga/AP Photo]

A human rights activist reacts as she attends a protest demanding an end to femicide in the country. [Monicah Mwangi/Reuters]

Protesters gather during the anti-femicide demonstration. [Gerald Anderson/Anadolu Agency]

The crowd, composed mostly of women, brought traffic to a standstill. [Gerald Anderson/Anadolu Agency]

[fo3lonewanderer]

Spread the word. Call everyone in congress and tell them to say no to dictatorship. The bill removes the ability for judges to hold the president accountable with the courts which is a very very essential check for our democracy and especially at present time as Trump has only been stopped(or attempted to be stopped) from committing major unlawful, unethical, and immoral orders in the form of deportation without due process(kidnapping), holding law firms he doesn’t like hostage with executive orders until they pay him a ransom, and more. More additional problematic propositions: allowing no limits to be put on AI for 10 years, scaling back funding for consumer protection, needless billions of dollars of border protection and immigration jail, blocking gender affirming care being handled by the Affordable Care Act(Verge), allowing the government to selectively cancel the nonprofit status of activist groups, gutting the estate tax while weakening the child tax credit, and making it less expensive to get gun silencers(Prospect).

After looking into a couple of the additional claims in my original source, some of them turned out to be unsourced. I had never gotten false information from the page I reposted after looking into them multiple times before, I knew at least that the removing the power of the courts to hold the president accountable was true, I was right about to go to sleep, and also couldn’t find the bill itself so assumed the page was a trustworthy source and will be much more careful in the future. Sorry about that.

Sources:

[madlori]

General PSA - Michelin stars

Because this came up in a conversation I had last week.

The context was someone talking about being excited to visit a restaurant with one Michelin star in Chicago (the closest city to my city to find a starred restaurant). Someone else said "One star? So it's terrible?"

Pause, rewind.

The Michelin star system is ascending, not descending (as a five-star rating system is). You can have either zero Michelin stars (99% of of the world' restaurants), ONE star (currently about 2900 restaurants worldwide), TWO stars (about 500) or THREE stars (currently 145).

There are 6 three-star restaurants in London. Four in New York. This is the highest distinction a restaurant can achieve.

This is why you hear about chefs "earning their star," when you go from the rank and file to having a star. And once you have one, you can earn more...or you can lose it. Restaurants are re-evaluated to ensure they're maintaining their standards.

The Michelin guide does not review only fancy restaurants. Many of the starred restaurants are very high-end, but lots aren't. I ate a one-starred restaurant in San Francisco called State Bird Provisions which you'd be fine to go to in jeans and a tee. It was great. There's a food truck that has a Michelin star.

Michelin also only covers certain cities. They're continually expanding, but right now in the US they cover New York, DC, Chicago, California, central Florida (Miami/Tampa/Orlando), Colorado, Atlanta, and just recently added the five major Texas cities (Dallas/San Antonio/Austin/Houston/Fort Worth) although those results haven't been released yet. They cover a lot more in Europe and Asia (the Michelin guide is French).

And yes, it's the same company as the tire manufacturer. Early in their history they wanted people to travel more by car, and use their tires, so they started writing and printing guidebooks for travel. This evolved into restaurant ratings, and somehow along the way it became the ne plus ultra of restaurant hierarchies.

This has been your infodump post for the evening, brought to you by MadLori, Inc.

[chaosandcandies]

UNPLUGGED

CHAPTER Ⅴ: Daddy's Home

trope: fem!9th skz member warnings: angst, drama, insecure oc, cyber bullying, slow burn pairings: hyunjinxfem!oc prev|next

ISEUL PRACTICALLY COLLAPSED on her bed after dinner.

Her mom’s homemade soup sat warm in her belly, the steam and spices settling like a blanket around her exhaustion. She barely registered the taste — something rich, familiar, and comforting — but it didn’t matter. The warmth of it carried her into unconsciousness before she could even change into pajamas.

Her body sank into the mattress like she was made of lead, limbs heavy and unmoving. The world outside blurred and faded, her eyelids too stubborn to stay open.

At some point, she felt a faint brush against her hair, followed by a kiss to her forehead.

"I’ll call you later," her mom whispered, voice distant and fading. "Try not to give your dad a heart attack."

Iseul mumbled something incoherent in response, already slipping back under.

The apartment was quiet.

For exactly twelve hours.

Because when Iseul woke up, it wasn’t to the soft hum of the city outside her window.

It was to her front door crashing open like a thunderclap.

"ZHAO ISEUL!"

Her entire body jolted upright, eyes flying open like she’d been electrocuted.

"Oh my God," she rasped, voice scratchy. She blinked blearily at her bedroom door, trying to figure out whether she was still dreaming or if an earthquake had hit.

No. No earthquake.

Just her father.

The sound of heavy footsteps pounded through the apartment, growing louder and louder until —

Her bedroom door flew open.

And there he was.

Her father stood in the doorway like he owned the place, suitcase in one hand and a massive bag of snacks in the other. A pair of sunglasses perched on his head, and his shirt was the most aggressively patterned thing she’d ever seen — a Hawaiian print monstrosity with flowers the size of his face.

He looked like he’d come straight from a tropical vacation.

Or maybe straight from chaos.

"Wake up, champion!" he boomed, voice echoing through her skull. "Your hero has arrived!"

Iseul, hair a tangled mess and voice barely functioning, could only croak out, "What."

Her dad tossed the bag of snacks onto her bed like a victory prize. "I brought provisions!" he declared, flinging his arms wide. "And I canceled all my meetings for the next two days to nurse you back to health."

Iseul groaned, pulling the blanket tighter around herself like it could shield her from reality. Her body still ached from exhaustion, her head foggy and sluggish — but nothing weighed heavier than the guilt blooming in her chest.

Her dad had flown all the way from China.

For her.

"You didn’t have to come," she mumbled, voice muffled beneath the fabric. "I’m fine."

Her dad clicked his tongue, peeling the blanket off her face with zero remorse. "Fine?" he echoed, raising a brow. "You faint in the practice room, and your leader calls your mother in a panic. And you think I wouldn’t hop on the next flight out?" He leaned closer, eyes narrowing. "What kind of father do you take me for?"

Iseul turned her face into the pillow. "A dramatic one?"

He gasped. "Rude!"

The guilt only sank deeper, curling like a knot in her stomach. She peeked up at him through her tangled hair, voice small. "You didn’t cancel anything important, did you?"

Her dad snorted, flopping back onto her bed like he belonged there. "Just a few business meetings and a dinner with your grandpa," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "Nothing life-changing."

Iseul paled. "Grandpa?"

"Eh, he’ll survive," her dad said breezily. "Told him my daughter was sick, and I had to come play nurse. He said I was being dramatic."

"You are dramatic," she muttered.

Her dad ignored her, propping his head up on his hand. "Besides, I haven't seen you since you. I missed you, kid. And why am I hearing your debuting in a boy group from your mom after everything was decided? Spill everything."

She hesitated, biting her lip. But the exhaustion weighed heavier than her pride, and she as she gripped the blanket in her fists.

Her dad waited, patient and steady.

And slowly, the words started to come.

She told him about joining Stray Kids. About the pressure of replacing someone she never even met. About the long hours, the constant feeling of not being enough, and the way her body betrayed her no matter how hard she pushed.

Her dad listened quietly, letting her talk until her voice cracked and her shoulders shook.

When she finished, he leaned back and sighed. “I’m proud of you, kid. But you’re an idiot.”

She blinked, startled. “What?”

“You’re chasing your dream, and that’s amazing,” he said, flicking her forehead gently. “But you can’t self-destruct trying to prove yourself to people who already chose you. You made it. You’re there. Now stop treating yourself like you’re disposable.”

Iseul’s throat tightened. She wanted to argue, to insist that she had to push herself harder — but the warmth in her dad’s voice made it impossible.

Scrambling to change the topic, she asked, "Are you… are you gonna stay here?"

Her dad scoffed, leaning back like she’d asked the dumbest question in existence. "What kind of man stays at his ex-wife’s house?" he said, looking utterly offended. "I’m not trying to get my kneecaps broken."

Iseul blinked. "My mom wouldn’t break your kneecaps."

"She threatened to last time I accidentally took your baby photos to show my friends," he said, shuddering dramatically. "I value my life, thanks."

"So where are you staying?"

He grinned, eyes lighting up like a kid in a candy store. "The hotel on the corner! They’ve got an awesome snack bar. All-you-can-eat shrimp skewers after 10 p.m."

Iseul gave him a deadpan look. "You’re here to take care of me, and you’re already planning a shrimp feast?"

"It’s called multitasking," he said, winking. "I’ll bring you some if you’re good."

She rolled her eyes, flopping back onto her pillow. "I’m gonna pretend you didn’t say that."

He stood up and stretched. “Anyway, I’m starving. Let’s eat. Come on get up, chop chop!"

And within minutes Iseul was dragged into the kitchen and her dad was unpacking the takeout bags, whistling an offbeat tune as he arranged everything on the kitchen table. He moved like he owned the place, which, technically, he didn’t — but that never stopped him.

Iseul sat slumped in her chair, her head resting on her folded arms as she watched him in a daze. The exhaustion still clung to her body like a second skin, but the familiar chaos of her dad’s presence was strangely comforting.

“You know,” he started, popping a piece of chicken into his mouth, “I watched some of your group’s old videos as I waited at the airport.”

Iseul groaned, sinking deeper into her blanket cocoon. "Why would you do that to yourself?"

"I was doing research!" he declared, tearing the packet open with way too much enthusiasm. "Had to see what kind of people my daughter’s hanging out with. The dramatic one —"

"Which dramatic one?" Iseul mumbled.

"The one who dances like he’s fighting ghosts," he said, mimicking Hyunjin’s facial expressions.

Iseul snorted. "That’s Hyunjin."

"Yeah, him! He’s got moves, I’ll give him that. And the one who looks like a squirrel —’’

"Han."

"Right. He screams a lot."

Iseul laughed, voice cracking. "That’s accurate."

Her dad dumped the ramen into the boiling water, stirring it like a pro. "And that leader of yours — Bang Chan?"

She tensed, fingers twitching around the blanket. ‘‘What about him?"

Her dad grinned over his shoulder. ‘‘He’s got ‘dad energy.’ Bet he nags you all the time."

Iseul sighed, tilting her head back. "He does. Constantly."

Her dad snickered. "I like him already."

Iseul simply rolled her eyes as she chewed on a piece of chicken. Her dad paid no attention to it as he continued, eyes sparkling with mischief, “I approve of him, though. He is cute - not cuter than me though - plus responsible.”

Iseul almost choked on her chicken. “What the hell is wrong with you? Bang Chan-ssi is like this responsible older brother who looks out for everyone.”

Her dad hummed thoughtfully. “Uh-huh. And what about the other boys? Should I be screening future son-in-laws?”

“I’m going to choke on my food.”

“Better you than me,” he said, smirking. “I’m not ready to give you away yet. But if any of them are rich, let me know.”

Iseul let out a defeated groan, resting her forehead against the table. “I should’ve stayed asleep.”

“But then who would I bully?”

She peeked at him through her fingers. “You’re worse than the boys.”

“That’s my job,” he said, handing her a drink. “To annoy you enough that you miss me when I’m gone.”

Iseul took the drink, swallowing the lump in her throat. “I... I do miss you, though.”

Her dad's teasing expression softened. He reached over, ruffling her hair like she was still ten years old. “I know, kid. I miss you too.”

For a moment, they just sat there — the noise of the city muffled behind the apartment walls, the glow of the kitchen light casting shadows on their faces.

Then he cleared his throat. “Anyway, what about this Hyunjin guy—”

Iseul threw a napkin at him.

Iseul buried herself in the couch, wrapping the blanket around her like a burito after she finished eating to her heart's content. She was just about doze off again when her dad tugged the blanket off of her.

"Alright," he declared, "Let’s go to the arcade."

Iseul cracked one eye open, staring at him like he’d grown another head. "What?"

"You heard me," he said, already yanking her blanket off like a magician revealing a disappearing act. "Get up. We’re going out."

"Dad, I can barely move," she groaned, swiping at the blanket he was peeling away.

He wasn’t fazed. "You’ve been lying around all day. You need fresh air."

"I don’t need air. I need sleep."

"Nah," he said, grabbing her wrist and tugging her upright like she weighed nothing. "Sleep is for people who haven’t been scolded by their mom and abandoned by their leader."

Iseul scowled, trying to wrestle out of his grip. "Chan didn’t abandon me."

"Then why do you look like a kicked puppy?" he teased, digging through her closet and tossing her a hoodie. "Come on. Get dressed. I’m undefeated at basketball hoops, and I need to keep my streak."

Iseul flopped back onto the couch, hoodie draped over her face. "You say that every time, and I always beat you."

Her dad pointed dramatically. "Today’s the day I crush you. Let’s go."

She let out a long, suffering sigh, knowing he wouldn’t let this go. "If I pass out, it’s your fault."

"I’ll carry you home like a princess," he shot back, already grabbing his wallet and keys.

"Gross," she muttered, but she dragged herself up anyway, stuffing her feet into her sneakers. "And don't cry for help when mom kills you once she gets to know about this."

The arcade was loud and chaotic, with flashing lights, blaring game music, and a crowd of kids screaming over every win and loss. Iseul’s dad fit right in. He beelined for the basketball game, dragging her along like an overgrown child on a sugar rush.

“Prepare to lose,” he declared, cracking his knuckles.

Iseul raised a brow. “Careful, you might throw out your back.”

“I’m thirty-eight, not eighty.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

He gasped, clutching his chest. “You wound me.”

She smirked, stepping up to the machine. “You’ll be fine. If you collapse, I’ll carry you home — bridal style.”

Her dad snorted. “I trained you to punch people, not princess-carry grown men.”

She picked up a basketball, spinning it on her finger. “I can do both.”

They started the game, and her dad actually put up a fight — sinking shot after shot with the determination of someone trying to reclaim their glory days. But Iseul was fast, barely needing to aim, her body moving like it still remembered dodging punches and calculating footwork.

She crushed him by nearly double the score.

Her dad stared at the screen in disbelief. “You cheated.”

Iseul wiped imaginary sweat from her forehead. “Talent isn’t cheating.”

He huffed. “Whatever. Pick the next game.”

They tore through the arcade like chaotic gremlins, jumping from game to game without a break. Her dad obliterated her at air hockey, but she wiped the floor with him in every rhythm and dance game. They screamed at the claw machine, spent way too many coins on the zombie shooter, and nearly broke the DDR machine trying to out-dance each other.

By the time they collapsed onto a bench with slushies in hand, her dad was panting like he’d run a marathon. "I don’t know where you get that arm strength," he wheezed, sipping his drink.

Iseul shrugged. "Maybe if you stopped skipping arm day, you wouldn’t lose so badly."

Her dad barked out a laugh. "Savage. Who raised you?"

"A lunatic," she deadpanned, taking a sip of her slushie.

Her dad ruffled her hair, "Come on, let's get a drink."

The convenience store hummed with the low buzz of fluorescent lights, shelves stacked high with brightly colored snack bags and rows of instant ramen cups. The glass fridge doors gleamed, reflecting the light drizzle outside, and the faint smell of fried food lingered in the air.

Iseul scanned the shelves, eyes flicking through the array of drinks, while her dad trailed behind her.

“You’re going to get yogurt, aren’t you?” he asked, hands in his pockets, voice laced with teasing.

Iseul didn’t even glance at him. “And?”

He smirked. “You know that’s basically just dessert pretending to be healthy, right?”

Iseul grabbed a mango yogurt from the fridge. “Says the man who ate three corndogs at the arcade.”

“That’s called fuel,” he declared, patting his stomach. “Protein and carbs. Athlete essentials.”

“Yeah? What sport are you training for? Competitive napping?”

He gasped, clutching his chest like she’d stabbed him. “Why are you so mean to me?”

“Because you deserve it.” Iseul shut the fridge door with her hip and turned to the snack aisle. “Besides, you’re just mad I destroyed you today.”

“I let you win,” he muttered, sulking behind her.

Iseul raised a brow. “Sure you did.”

They weaved through the aisles, bickering the entire way — her dad dramatically lamenting his "tragic defeat," and Iseul shooting back savage remarks without missing a beat. It felt almost normal, almost enough to silence the lingering ache of failure still gnawing at her chest.

But then she spotted them.

Or rather, heard them.

“Just grab the banana milk,” Hyunjin whined, dragging his feet down the aisle like he hadn’t slept in days. “Everyone likes banana milk.”

Felix shook his head, voice laced with stress. “What if she doesn’t?”

“We can’t just guess,” Jeongin muttered, clutching a pack of ramen like a lifeline.

Iseul froze, gripping her yogurt tighter. Her dad, oblivious, followed her gaze — and lit up like Christmas lights.

“Ohhh,” he whispered, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Your friends?”

Iseul grabbed his sleeve, yanking him into the corner of the aisle like they were hiding from the FBI. “Shut up.”

Her dad peeked over her shoulder, grinning. “Which one’s the ‘oppa’?”

“I’m disowning you.”

But he ignored her, watching the chaos unfold.

The boys stood by the snack section like they were planning a heist. Chan had his hands on his hips, brow furrowed like he was deciding national policy. Han was crouched, staring at the lower shelves like the snacks might start speaking to him.

“This is ridiculous,” Seungmin muttered, rubbing his eyes. “We should’ve just asked her.”

Jeongin sighed. “She’d say she didn’t want anything.”

Hyunjin groaned. “Why is she so difficult?”

“She’s not difficult,” Felix shot back, defensive. “We just don’t know her well enough yet.”

Seungmin pointed to the fridge. “She always gets mango yogurt from the vending machine.”

The aisle fell silent.

Chan blinked. “Wait, really?”

“Yeah,” Seungmin deadpanned. “Every night after practice.”

Hyunjin slapped his forehead. “Why didn’t you say that earlier?”

“I thought we were focusing on snacks, not drinks.”

Han flopped onto the floor, face-first. “I’m so tired.”

Iseul’s dad looked back at her, eyes practically glowing.

“They’re buying stuff for you?” he whispered, barely containing his excitement.

Iseul shoved him toward the fridge. “Get your stupid drink and leave.”

He snorted, grabbing a water bottle. “They’re trying to figure out what you like. That’s cute.”

“No, it’s weird.”

“No, it’s cute.” He tilted his head. “Unless one of them likes you?”

She nearly dropped her yogurt. “Oh my god, leave.”

“Maybe it’s the pretty one,” he whispered, wiggling his eyebrows.

“They’re all pretty.”

“True,” he mused, then nodded toward the aisle. “Want me to go say hi?”

Iseul turned pale. “No.”

“Oh, I’m definitely going to say hi,” he whispered, eyes gleaming as he glanced at the boys.

“Don’t you dare,” Iseul hissed, voice low and sharp.

He smiled wider. “Watch me.”

And before she could stop him, he strolled right into the aisle like he owned the place.

Iseul nearly disintegrated on the spot.

“Hey, are you guys Stray Kids?” her dad asked, casual as anything, like he wasn’t about to ruin her entire existence.

The boys froze like they’d been caught committing a crime.

Chan turned around first, polite smile snapping into place despite the confusion in his eyes. “Uh… yes, we are.”

The rest of them scrambled to bow, all awkward and stiff.

“Hello,” Felix greeted, voice automatically sweet.

Her dad bowed back with an easy grin. “I thought so. I recognize you from the videos.”

Iseul slammed her forehead against the fridge door.

“Are you a fan?” Jeongin asked carefully, clutching a ramen pack like a shield.

Her dad glanced over his shoulder, making direct eye contact with Iseul. She shook her head furiously, silently begging him to stop.

He turned back to the boys, smile turning absolutely evil.

“Not exactly,” he said. “I’m Iseul’s dad.”

The way their expressions shifted was almost cartoonish.

Felix nearly dropped his basket. Jeongin audibly gasped. Han banged his head on the shelf as he tried to stand up, and Hyunjin looked like he forgot how to breathe.

They scrambled to bow so fast it looked like they might break something.

"Oh my god," Iseul whispered, pressing her yogurt to her forehead in despair.

"Hello, sir!" Chan said, bowing deeply. "It’s really nice to meet you!"

Her dad waved them off like they were old friends. "No need to be so formal! I’ve seen your videos. You guys are great! Especially you." He pointed at Hyunjin, who flinched like he’d been caught stealing.

"Me?" Hyunjin echoed, horrified.

Her dad nodded. "Yeah! You’re the one who glares at my daughter, right?"

Hyunjin turned pale. "I— I don’t —"

Iseul on the other hand felt she will pass out because of embarrassment.

Her dad clapped Chan on the shoulder like they’d known each other for years. "What are you guys doing here anyway?"

Felix, voice barely above a whisper, said, "We wanted to buy Iseul some snacks... but we didn’t know what she likes..."

Iseul physically shrank.

Her dad, being her dad, burst out laughing. "Why didn’t you just ask her?"

She snapped upright. "Because they didn’t know I was here!"

The boys all turned in slow motion, like horror movie protagonists realizing the monster was behind them the whole time.

"Iseul?" Felix said, voice laced with disbelief.

She lifted her yogurt cup in defeat. "Hi."

They gawked.

"Why are you...?" Jeongin started.

"You should be resting," Minho scolded, arms crossed. "I told you — if I caught you out here, I’d tie you to your bedpost and force you to sleep."

Iseul visibly flinched, the memory of Minho’s threatening text flashing in her mind like a caution sign. Meanwhile, her dad beamed like Minho had just handed him a winning lottery ticket.

"You sound just like her mom," he said, eyes sparkling with amusement.

Her dad ignored her, casually picking up a bag of chips from the shelf and tossing it into the boys' already overflowing basket.

Chan, eyebrows furrowed, turned to Iseul. “Wait — why are you even outside? You’re supposed to be resting.”

Before she could answer, her dad did, beaming. “I dragged her out. Thought playing in the arcade would burn off the fever.”

“You what?” Chan’s voice cracked, horrified.

“Don’t worry,” her dad said cheerfully, inspecting their basket like he was evaluating their life choices. “She won all three rounds of dance battles. You guys should ditch the banana milk. She hates it. Oh, but she loves these yogurts. Buy more of those.”

Hyunjin immediately set the banana drink back on the shelf like it burned him, eyes flicking to Iseul with newfound curiosity. Meanwhile, Han’s mouth dropped open as he whirled around to face her, finger jabbing in accusation.

“You are the reason why the vending machines are always out of yogurts!” he cried, scandalized.

Iseul froze, like a criminal caught red-handed. “I — what? No! That’s — I just... maybe I buy a few.”

“A few?!” Han’s voice pitched higher. “We’ve been at war with the vending machine for weeks! I swear, every time I go for one, it’s already empty. It was you all along?”

Felix snorted, tossing another pack of yogurt into the basket. “Honestly, respect.”

Iseul’s dad cackled, clearly having the time of his life. “Oh, yeah. She’ll inhale those. It’s like her guilty pleasure.”

“Appa, please,” Iseul begged, clutching her head.

Hyunjin leaned on the cart, watching her with an amused grin. “I feel betrayed,” he said, voice dripping with faux hurt. “All this time, I thought we were suffering together.”

“I didn’t know you liked yogurt,” Iseul muttered, eyes darting to the side, her face burning.

“Because you hoarded it,” Seungmin deadpanned, shoving a bag of popcorn into the basket.

“Can we not make my snack habits a public spectacle?” Iseul hissed, her face practically steaming.

Her dad slung an arm around her shoulder, squeezing. “Kiddo, you brought this on yourself.” Then he turned to the boys, eyes twinkling. “Also, if you’re buying ramen, get the extra spicy one. She likes to cry while she eats.”

Han’s jaw dropped. “You cry while eating?”

“She calls it ‘cleansing her soul,’” her dad said, nodding solemnly. “But really, she just likes the pain.”

“Appa, I’m begging you,” Iseul hissed, trying to wriggle out from under his arm.

Her dad grinned like he’d just dropped the juiciest bombshell of his life, completely ignoring Iseul’s horrified expression. “Oh, and one more thing — if she eats spicy ramen, don’t try to keep up. Last time I tried, I thought I ascended to the afterlife.”

Hyunjin bit back a laugh. “You’re a masochist and a yogurt hoarder? Fascinating.”

Before Iseul could protest, her dad turned to the boys, smile bright, voice light as air — but eyes gleaming with something just a little dangerous. “By the way, if any of you make her cry for reasons other than spice, I’ll know.”

The boys froze.

“I’ve got connections.” He winked. “And a lot of free time.”

Chan visibly tensed, bowing instinctively, like a man who knew when to show respect to a higher power. “Of course, sir.”

Seungmin, for the first time, looked mildly alarmed. “Connections?”

Her dad’s smile widened. “Oh, yeah. The fun kind.”

Felix gulped, clutching the basket like a lifeline.

Han, brave but stupid, squinted at him. “What do you do?”

Her dad tilted his head, tapping his chin. “I make people disappear.”

The boys collectively flinched. Even Minho subtly shuffled behind Felix, using him as a human shield.

“Appa,” Iseul groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “You run logistics for grandma’s shipping company. Stop acting like you’re in the mafia.”

Her dad shot her a playful glare. “You’re ruining my image.”

“You’re traumatising my members!” she snapped back.

He ignored her, giving the boys a once-over with an exaggerated, thoughtful hum. “Hmm. You all look strong enough. Maybe I should recruit you. We could use more hands loading cargo. Ever lifted 50-kilo crates for six hours straight?”

Jeongin paled. “I don’t... I don’t think that’s legal?”

Her dad laughed, clapping him on the back hard enough to make him stumble. “Kidding, kid. You’re cute. You’re safe.”

“Spectacular,” Jeongin whispered, looking like he’d just survived a near-death experience.

Her dad, still brimming with energy despite emotionally wrecking the boys, clapped his hands together. “Alright, since we’re all hanging out now, who’s up for another arcade round?”

Iseul nearly dropped the basket. “Appa, no.”

Her dad ignored her. “It’s just down the street! Quick round of games, maybe some basketball —”

“Appa,” Iseul groaned, “you dragged me out to ‘sweat out’ my fever in the arcade. I already beat you three times. What more do you want?”

Her dad put a hand over his heart, wounded. “To reclaim my honor. We aren't leaving until I win.”

Iseul snorted, "Looks like we are going to stay there forever then."

He grinned wider, patting her head like a smug cat. "Then I guess I better start looking for an apartment nearby."

She swatted at him with her yogurt cup. "You’re literally the most embarrassing human alive."

"And yet, you love me," he said, beaming.

She glared at him. "Do I?"

He gasped, clutching his chest like she’d shot him. "Betrayal! After I flew all the way here for you?"

"You came for the arcade."

"True," he admitted, nodding sagely. "But I’m staying for the drama."

Chan, who’d been quietly watching their back-and-forth, shook his head with a disbelieving laugh. “I can’t tell if this is cute or concerning.”

Minho smirked. “It’s both.”

Her dad’s grin widened, the kind of cheerful, easygoing smile that belonged to someone who had absolutely nothing to lose. He clapped his hands together, eyes gleaming.

"Arcade sounds fun, right?" he said brightly, but there was something just off enough about his tone to send a chill down their spines. "After all, I gotta make sure the people around my daughter are... trustworthy."

The boys stiffened.

"And by trustworthy," he continued, voice dripping with faux innocence, "I mean the kind of guys who wouldn’t accidentally break her heart, push her too hard, or — you know — cause her any unnecessary stress."

Felix nearly dropped the bag of gummies he was holding.

Chan cleared his throat, carefully stepping forward like he was handling a wild animal. "Of course, sir. We... We promise to look out for her."

Her dad’s smile sharpened. "Good! Because if she ever comes home upset because of one of you..." He trailed off, looking thoughtful. "Well, I was a rebellious teenager. Got into a few fights. Broke a few bones. Old habits die hard, you know?"

Han made an awkward, nervous laugh. "Haha, that’s... that’s a joke, right?"

Her dad beamed. "Sure! Let’s call it that."

Iseul groaned, pressing her yogurt to her face like it could physically block out reality. "Dad, please stop scaring my members."

He turned to her, utterly unbothered. "I’m not scaring them. I’m bonding."

Iseul wanted the ground to swallow her whole. “Can we please just go to the arcade so I can end this nightmare?”

Her dad gasped, clutching his chest. “Nightmare? I’m giving your friends a valuable life lesson!”

“By threatening them with bodily harm?” she deadpanned.

“Friendly harm,” he corrected, slinging an arm around her shoulders. “It builds character. So leader-nim, let's raid the arcade, eh?”

Chan, already dead inside, stared at the ceiling. “What’s one more bad decision?”

Jeongin, still clutching a bag of chips like a lifeline, whispered, “Spectacular.”

The arcade lights blinked like neon stars, music thudding against the walls in chaotic waves. Her dad was already loading up on tokens, face alight with childish glee.

Jeongin and Felix immediately shot toward the racing games, practically elbowing each other to claim the best seats. Han and Seungmin zeroed in on a zombie shooter, their laughter echoing through the room as they fought over who got the bigger gun.

Iseul crossed her arms, already regretting every life choice that had led to this moment. “This is going to end in disaster.”

Hyunjin, standing a little too close, leaned down to her level. “What? Afraid we’ll beat you?”

Iseul's eyes widened. for the first time, Hyunjin didn’t seem uncomfortable around her. He didn’t flinch or stiffen or ignored her completely. He just looked at her, like she belonged.

Instantly she recovered, sporting an unimpressed look, ���I’m afraid I’ll have to carry you all.”

Chan, loosening up for the first time in days, clapped his hands together. “Alright! Let’s split up and see who can get the most tickets. Losers buy snacks.”

Minho scoffed. “That’s rich, coming from someone who got stuck in a claw machine once.”

“I did not get stuck,” Chan argued, face flushing red. “I just... leaned in too far!”

Iseul bit back a laugh, eyes twinkling. “And people say I’m the liability.”

Her dad, already dumping tokens into a basketball game, shouted, “Enough talk! Who’s brave enough to take me on?”

Iseul groaned. “We don’t have to start with basketball.”

Her dad grinned like a villain. “Oh, we do. I need to regain my honor.”

“I destroyed you last time.”

“Let an old man dream.”

Hyunjin, eyes flicking between them, couldn’t help but notice the ease in her voice — the way she sassed her dad so effortlessly. She wasn’t stiff or careful. She was comfortable.

And something about that tugged at him, sharp and uncomfortable.

Chan must have seem to forgotten that he is a grown man for bounced on his feet. “I wanna play! Iseul, team up with me?”

Before Hyunjin could even open his mouth, Han materialised out of of nowhere and looped his arm through Iseul’s, grinning. “Too late! She’s mine.”

Hyunjin’s stomach twisted, sharp and immediate. Why does he get to be so close to her already?

Iseul seemed just as surprised, her eyes wide with disbelief. Han caught the look and tilted his head, grinning. “What’s wrong? Don’t want to be on the winning team?”

Miss the chance to get on Han’s good side? No way.

Iseul shook her head so fast it was a blur. “Let’s crush them.”

Hyunjin watched the exchange in silence, an uncomfortable tightness settling in his chest — something sharp and unwelcome.

The game started — and all hell broke loose.

Iseul sniped shot after shot like her life depended on it, her movements fast and fluid. Han tried to keep up but mostly just fumbled, shooting wild bricks while screaming in panic.

On the other side, Chan played with the intensity of someone trying to win an Olympic medal. He jumped, twisted, and nearly face-planted twice. Changbin cheered him on, waving his arms like a maniac.

“You got this, hyung!” Changbin shouted. “Think of the snacks!”

Chan, drenched in sweat, shouted back, “I’m trying, okay?!”

Her dad, meanwhile, had turned into a full-blown competitor. He was practically body-checking Minho to get better angles, muttering under his breath like a war veteran.

“Faster,” he hissed, flicking a ball at the hoop. “We can still beat them.”

Minho dodged another ball. “Why do I feel like I’m in a survival game?”

Seungmin, not even playing, watched the chaos with mild interest. “This is better than TV.”

Hyunjin, struggling to focus, found himself watching Iseul instead of the game. The way her eyes gleamed with determination, the way her tongue peeked out when she concentrated. The way she actually laughed when Han tripped over his own feet.

The guilt settled deeper in his chest. He’d been cold to her. Dismissive. She’d cried because of them. And yet, here she was — playing, joking, trying.

The buzzer went off.

Iseul and Han won.

Han collapsed to his knees. “I’M A CHAMPION!”

Iseul wiped her forehead. “You made, like, four baskets.”

“I assisted!”

“You got in my way.”

“I provided moral support!”

Hyunjin hated how easily they bickered, how natural it felt. And he hated how much he wanted that with her.

Han wiped sweat from his forehead, grinning like he’d just won the lottery. “Y’know, you’re kinda cool, Iseul. I thought you were the type of girl who cried at every minor inconvenience.”

Hyunjin’s heart dropped.

Iseul froze, blinking at Han like he’d just sprouted horns. “What?”

Her dad, who had been retrieving a ball, spun around like a storm brewing on the horizon. He tossed the ball aside and placed his hands on his hips, smiling a little too brightly. “Oh? Is that what you thought?” he asked, voice sweet as honey.

Han, completely oblivious to the incoming danger, shrugged. “Yeah, I mean — the whole rain incident, you know? It kinda gave off those vibes.”

Iseul slapped a hand over her face. “Han, please.”

Her dad stepped forward, cracking his knuckles with a loud pop. “So you’re one of the boys who made my daughter cry?”

Han blinked. “Huh?”

Hyunjin took a step back. Chan visibly paled. Changbin grabbed onto Seungmin like a human shield.

Her dad continued, voice laced with deceptive cheer. “The boys who left my baby girl walking alone in the pouring rain?” He clapped a hand on Han’s shoulder, the way a villain does right before delivering a finishing blow. “Care to repeat that part?”

Han stiffened like he’d been turned to stone.

Iseul groaned. “Appa, stop threatening them.”

Her dad didn’t even glance at her. “I’m not threatening them. I’m enlightening them.”

Minho, rubbing his ribs from all the body-checking, smirked. “I like your dad.”

Her dad beamed. “See? At least someone has taste.”

Hyunjin bit his lip, hands clenched at his sides. The mention of Iseul crying reopened the wound of guilt festering inside him. And now, seeing her dad defend her so easily, so fiercely, made it worse.

Iseul had people who loved her. Protected her. And Hyunjin had been part of the reason she needed protection in the first place.

He turned away, pretending to tie his shoe just so he wouldn’t have to see the look on her face.

But he still heard her voice — light, sarcastic, and far too kind for someone they’d treated so poorly.

“Appa, let’s go before you start a war. Minho-ssi is apparently a champion in DDR.”

At that her father's face lit up. Pointing at Minho, he explained, "What are we waiting for them? It's time to get a new champion!"

Minho simply snorted, but his eyes gleamed with amusement. He was taking this way too seriously.

“Come on,” Minho said, rolling his shoulders like a fighter entering a ring. “Let’s settle this properly.”

Her dad cracked his neck. “Oh? You think you can beat me, kid?”

Chan, looking horrified, grabbed Iseul’s arm. “Stop them. This is going to end in bloodshed.”

Iseul, leaning against the machine with her water bottle, took a sip and shrugged. “Nah, let them kill each other.”

Hyunjin watched her from the corner of his eye. It still threw him off — how easily she joked, how she didn’t seem to carry resentment even though she had every right to. She stood next to Han like they’d been friends for years, not like he’d been one of the people who ignored her existence for weeks.

The game started. The music boomed through the arcade, vibrating through the floors.

Minho and Iseul’s dad stomped and twirled, matching the arrows on the screen with terrifying accuracy.

“WHY IS HE SO GOOD?” Changbin shouted, holding onto Chan like his life depended on it.

Minho smirked, sweat dripping down his face. “I’m unbeatable.”

Iseul’s dad didn’t even look winded. “I used to dance with Iseul's mom to pay our rent.” He spun, nailed a triple combo, and pointed at Minho like he was commanding him to bow down. “Step it up, pretty boy.”

Seungmin burst out laughing. “I am genuinely scared right now.”

Han leaned over to Iseul, panting. “Why are you both so stubborn?”

Iseul grinned. “Genetics.”

Hyunjin watched her laugh, and it felt like a punch to the gut. She looked... happy. Like she fit here, like she belonged. He hated how badly he wanted her to laugh like that because of him — not Han, not anyone else.

The song sped up.

Minho and her dad went feral.

By the end, the DDR machine was shaking, the screen flashing PERFECT COMBO in huge letters. Minho dropped to his knees, gasping for air, and Iseul’s dad stretched like he’d just done light yoga.

“Good game,” her dad said, wiping his forehead with a triumphant smirk.

Minho, looking betrayed, clutched his chest. “I lost to a dad.”

“You lost to the dad,” her dad corrected, patting Minho’s head like a dog. “But you’ve got potential, kid. I might take you in as an apprentice.”

Han doubled over laughing. Changbin was on the floor wheezing. Chan rubbed his temples like he aged five years.

And Hyunjin?

He couldn’t take his eyes off Iseul — watching her laugh so hard she nearly fell over, watching her dad mess with everyone like he’d known them for years.

Hyunjin had been pushing her away all this time. And the worst part?He was starting to wish he hadn’t.

The arcade night stretched longer than any of them planned. One game turned into another, and then another, until their legs ached and their voices grew hoarse from screaming.

Minho challenged her dad to a rematch — this time on the claw machine. He lost again. Felix discovered the joy of whack-a-mole and declared himself the king of the game, even though Seungmin consistently beat him. And Han? He somehow convinced Iseul to play Mario Kart, only to regret it when she mercilessly destroyed him three rounds in a row.

“You said you were bad at racing games!” Han whined, slumped against the seat.

Iseul shrugged, holding up the plastic wheel. “I said I think I’m bad.”

Hyunjin barely played after that. He just... watched her. He told himself he was tired, but that was a lie. He couldn’t tear his eyes away — the way she stuck her tongue out when she concentrated, the way she beamed when she won, the way she teased Han like they’d been friends forever.

It burned.

It burned to know he could’ve had that too.

By the time they started wrapping up, her dad clapped his hands together, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Alright, one last game,” he declared, dragging them toward the punching machine. “Let’s settle the score.”

The boys immediately rallied around him, their competitive streaks kicking in like clockwork.

“What are the stakes?” Minho asked, rolling his shoulders.

Her dad grinned. “Lowest score pays for dinner.”

The boys screamed in protest, already jostling for position. Hyunjin stayed back, his heart pounding in his chest, watching the way Iseul stayed quiet — chewing her bottom lip, fidgeting with her hoodie sleeve.

Chan went first. He punched the bag with all the force of someone trying to avenge a fallen comrade. The screen flashed a high score, and Felix gave him a standing ovation.

Then came Minho, who punched with the precision of a trained assassin. Seungmin’s turn followed — he punched casually, looking mildly annoyed, and still got a solid score.

Changbin stepped up next, cracking his knuckles. “I was born for this.” He punched the bag so hard the machine rocked.

Han whistled. “Remind me to never make you mad.”

Felix punched next, nearly toppling over from the force, and giggled when his score barely cleared Chan’s. Then it was Hyunjin’s turn. He ignored the tightness in his chest, the way his throat dried out, and punched the bag with everything he had — just to get the frustration out of his system.

“Not bad, prince,” Han teased, clapping him on the back.

Her dad stretched, rubbing his hands together. “I’m getting old, so I’ll let my daughter go for me.”

The boys turned to Iseul like he’d just suggested she wrestle a bear.

“She’s sick,” Chan said, appalled.

“She’s tiny,” Changbin added.

“She’ll break her wrist,” Felix whispered, horrified.

Her dad laughed. “Oh, will she?”

Iseul sighed, stepping forward. “It’s fine. Let me punch the thing so we can eat.”

Hyunjin frowned. There was something... off. The way she cracked her knuckles, the way she exhaled slowly, the way her stance shifted — like she was sliding into something familiar.

Something practiced.

Iseul punched the bag.

The impact echoed through the arcade.

The score shot up, blinking, climbing, before settling on a number that left everyone stunned. She didn’t just beat their scores — she obliterated them.

Felix’s jaw dropped. “What the—”

“WHAT?” Changbin screeched.

Han clutched his chest like he’d been stabbed. “No. NO.”

Minho stared at the machine, then at Iseul, and burst out laughing. “I fucking love her.”

Hyunjin couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. The sight of her standing there, unfazed, rubbing her knuckles like she’d done this a thousand times, made something twist painfully inside him.

Chan was the first to break the silence. “Iseul,” he said, carefully, “why are you built like that?”

Iseul looked away, rubbing the back of her neck. “I, uh... used to box.”

The boys exploded.

“YOU WHAT?”

“You boxed?”

“When?”

“For how long?”

Iseul’s dad, completely unbothered, had shit-eating grin on his face. “She trained for a couple of years.”

“A couple?” Felix squeaked.

“Why would you stop?” Han asked, eyes wide.

Iseul swallowed, suddenly very interested in the floor. “It... wasn’t a good fit.”

Hyunjin didn’t miss the way her voice wavered. Or the way her dad’s smile dimmed, just for a second.

She’d looked so powerful, so confident when she hit that machine. But now? She looked small.

He hated that he noticed.

He hated that he cared.

“We should go,” she said quickly, brushing past them. “I’m hungry.”

They followed her out of the arcade, buzzing with questions, but Hyunjin stayed quiet — haunted by the memory of her punching that bag like it was personal.

Because maybe, for her, it was.

The diner was tiny, tucked into a quiet street corner with flickering neon lights and handwritten menus plastered on the walls. The kind of place that smelled like grease and nostalgia, where the chairs wobbled, and the tables were a little too sticky, but the food tasted like a warm hug.

They crammed into a booth that was absolutely not meant to hold nine people, limbs tangled, shoulders pressed together. Iseul was squished between Felix and Han, with Hyunjin squeezed on the end so tightly he could feel her elbow bump against him every time she shifted.

The moment they sat, her dad slapped his phone on the table. “Alright, gentlemen,” he said, eyes gleaming, “prepare to witness greatness.”

Iseul immediately froze. “Appa. No.”

The boys ignored her. They swarmed the screen like moths to a flame, faces practically pressed against each other as they squinted at the shaky, low-quality video playing on her dad’s phone.

It was a boxing match.

Her boxing match.

The Iseul in the video looked younger, her hair tied back, sweat glistening on her skin. She moved with sharp precision, dodging punches, throwing brutal hooks, her entire body coiled with tension.

“IS THAT YOU?” Han shouted, pointing at the screen.

Felix gasped. “You look terrifying.”

Changbin stared in awe. “You’re ripped.”

Jeongin's eyes widened. “I’m never talking back to her again.”

Hyunjin barely heard the noise around him. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the screen. From her.

She was relentless — faster, sharper, like she needed to win. And she did win.

But not without a price.

The video zoomed in on Iseul clutching her ribs, breathing heavily, eyes watering as the referee lifted her arm in victory.

“Broke her rib in the first round,” her dad said proudly, shaking his head. “Still won the match. My daughter’s a beast.”

Felix gaped at her. “YOU BROKE YOUR RIB?”

Iseul fidgeted with her straw, eyes glued to her lap. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“Not that bad?” Chan echoed, horrified.

Her dad laughed. “She barely flinched. I thought the medic was going to faint.”

Hyunjin glanced at her, taking in the way her shoulders had tensed, her fingers trembling slightly against the cup.

There was something wrong.

She looked... haunted.

“Why’d you quit?” Seungmin asked, voice quieter now.

Iseul inhaled sharply, like she was trying to steady herself. “The medic said I couldn’t play in the finals,” she muttered. “And then I wanted to continue music, so yeah, here I am.”

It didn't feel like the whole story, yet nobody pressed on.

Han shifted uncomfortably. “Damn.”

Felix reached out, patting her arm. “That sucks.”

Iseul forced a smile. “It’s fine. I didn’t care that much anyway.”

Liar.

Hyunjin clenched his fists under the table, guilt pooling in his stomach like lead. He recognized that look on her face — the hollow smile, the forced indifference. He knew what it felt like to have your dream slip through your fingers.

And he hated that he’d made it worse for her.

Her dad ruffled her hair, oblivious to the tension. “She’s stronger now,” he said brightly. “After all she is surviving you lot.”

The boys laughed, but Hyunjin stayed quiet, watching the way Iseul stirred her drink, her eyes distant and far, far away.

TAGLIST: @leewritesstuff, @athens-09xx, @allenajade-ite, @idjdndjzbsdm, @idjdndjzbsdm, @hyuneskkam, @geni-627

STORY HINT: Iseul loves her yogurts. She eats them every day during breakfast and before sleeping in night. When her mom and dad were together, her dad and she would eat in front of the TV with an old boxing match turned on.

This is like the longest chapter I've written. Like I could've separated it but then it would've looked inconsistent, so yea, i hope u had fun! I genuinely love Iseul's dad because he is just so confident. I based him off on Modern Family's Phil Dunphy (if u know who i'm talking abt then i love u), and he is like super fun. Also in the end i shifted the pov to hyunjin's, added a little angst but hey ROMANCE IS STARTING YALL!!And yall know the drill - don't forget to leave likes and comments <33 Stay safe! ~Candy

[sweetfirebird]

Trump is super mad about basically everything right now and is now telling Senators they can't go on vacation until his bill passes. (Which I don't think he has the right to do, but it's a sign of his blustering toddler despot energy right now). Republican Senators are complicit and/or little scared babies so none of them are telling him to fuck off like a grown ass adult should when spoken to like that.

Most of them do not like this bill but they are cowards. NONETHELESS. Keep calling them. Every day. Especially the ones up for re-election next year, and especially in tight races.

And just throw shit out and see what works. Joni Ernst now has a Dem veteran running against her specifically because she's so awful and he is very popular already. Nathan Sage? I think. Mention him.

Susan Collins is VERY aware of the several strong Dem challengers popping up now to challenge her. She keeps sort of waffling (on brand for her) about maybe not running next year.

Thom Tillis is so, so, so aware of how much those Medicaid cuts are going to devastate his state of North Carolina. Push that fucking button. (He printed out little handouts about it to hand out in the Senate as if the other Republican Senators care about his state or him.)

Rand Paul says he won't vote on it. Encourage that. Even if his reasons are not about compassion.

Lisa Murkowski claims to be a scared little bunny. And she might be. She opposes the cuts but might vote for them anyway (scared little bunny). Press her not to.

Ron Johnson claims it doesn't have a chance of passing but keep calling him anyway.

Stuff like that. Mike Lee is probably going to vote yes on the whole bill, but he was harassed into walking back his support for the sale of public lands (for now). (Though it helps that the Senate Parliamentarian threw it out first, I believe.)

Also mention that the House Republicans are begging the Senate the toss out or change certain provisions because they now regret voting for it (but want the Senate to do their jobs for them. Weak ass bitches.)

You could also potentially mention how LOW Trump's numbers are on every single issue. His hold is tenuous. If they wanted to, they could break it and be heroes. (I mean not really but depending on the person, flattery works.)

Oh. And some people have started calling it The Murder Bill.

You do not need to live in a Senator's state to call that senator, though they will likely listen more to someone who is and who makes that clear. But what you want to do is point to actions you are preparing to take if they vote yes. Such as supporting another candidate with actual action and money. They are hoping people will forget by next year but oh no, Americans are paying attention now and we are organizing.

Trump might primary them but... he's gonna primary some of them anyway. And even if he does, the people are also gonna move votes away from them.

I've also been asking if they want this to be their legacy, voting for the murder bill that is going to devastate America for generations. Especially with the older Senators. lol We know how to edit wikipedia. They don't.

[brain-rot-central]

Sonnet of the Lone Cardinal, Ch. 3

A/N: Thank you all for your patience. She's finally here.

Word count: 3.5k Rating: M (nothing sexual; mostly topics that may be uncomfortable) Pairing: Ascended Astarion/Fem!Tav Warnings: 18+; Mentions of murder, violence, death, blood, gore (very minor), blood drinking, sexual acts. Angst, alcohol consumption.

Summary: Tav and Shadowheart finally reunite for a simple lunch date. Their discussion turns toward Astarion, and a particularly unsettling event.

Chapter track: Cry - Cigarettes After Sex

♥ Previous Chapter ♥ Next Chapter ♥ Link to Ao3

Dawn breaks over the horizon. The subtle stirrings of a city coming to life once more fill the streets. Maids and matrons pat down their mats just beyond their front doors. Street vendors begin setting up their carts. A young boy with a satchel carrying copies of the Gazette goes from home to home delivering the day’s latest print.

Tav kneels before her front window, watching the street below. A few days have passed since her meeting with Jaheira. Astarion hasn't been to see her; the longest stretch of time between visits since they began their ordeal. She fully expected a visit last night. However, he never came. She hates admitting it to herself, but she feels a shallow pit in her stomach beginning to form having gone without him for so long.

Standing up, Tav closes the window and brings herself into the washroom to prepare for the day ahead. An old friend has requested a lunch date; she hasn’t seen Shadowheart for many months, and owes her dearest friend an audience.

Tav pours the carafe of water into the wash basin, dipping a cloth into the water before bringing it to her face. Studying the various soaps and creams she has lined along the shelf, she chooses one of nettlebark, smelling of citrus and pine forests. This scent is one of her favorites, and she’s relieved she can still find comfort within the smell. Scents are still a trigger for her nausea at this stage in her pregnancy. The usually tempting smell of breakfast wafting about the air of the city turns her stomach upright, now. Tav has found that if she holds off eating until mid-morning, she's in the clear. 

Yet… odd cravings have begun. 

For instance, she's since gone back to the butcher's, profusely apologetic to poor Gideon. Of course, the kind soul that he is, he was nothing but understanding and even offered her a few rations free of charge. Tav politely declined his offer, yet as she stared into the display cases full of various raw meats, she found herself practically bewitched by the sight. Rich, bloody beef; cut straight from the animal. She recalls how intensely saliva pooled within her mouth staring at the provisions. Tasting the metallic twang of the blood on her tongue, swallowing thickly as Gideon returned with her order.

Patting her face dry with a small towel, Tav returns into the main room and begins rummaging through her dresser for the day's outfit. The midnight blue bottle Jaheira gave her sits atop the dresser. Tav considers the potion every morning, but quickly declines as her heart aches at the thought. 

She believes the weather to be rather warm today, so she settles on an airy, light blue sundress and a wide brimmed hat. The gray scarf she recently bought matches perfectly as she stands before her mirror, assembling the ensemble. 

The ghost of scars catches her eyes as she adjusts the scarf around her neck. They're light enough; most wouldn't notice, though to her, they blare. Permanent gifts from her months-long affair with Astarion during their journey to defeat the Absolute. His bite was always a clean one, never marring her tanned skin. Two faint fang marks are all that remain, Tav taking the index and middle fingers of one hand to press lightly over the imprinted flesh as she lifts her chin.

Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub.

The rhythmic beating of her heart can be felt beneath her fingertips as she pushes slightly into the artery. Accurate, Tav notes, a shiver running down her spine. She makes quick adjustments to the scarf and grabs her hat off the edge of her bed, placing it atop her head. 

Returning to the mirror, Tav smiles approvingly at her reflection as she gives herself a final glance over. The dress is loose enough that it hides the new softness of her body, something she's thankful for. Curiously, she places her hands over her stomach, pushing the fabric of the dress down and under the small swell of her lower abdomen. A pleased laugh escapes her lips while admiring the sight.

Tav turns her body from side to side, tracing the movement with her eyes. Her breasts now fill the top of the garment. The deep plunge of the dress’s neckline displays her new cleavage in a flattering manner. Feeling suddenly bare, Tav unwraps the scarf from around her neck, repositioning it lays across her chest like a bandana. Better. A bit more modest.

The satisfaction doesn’t last very long as she thinks of Shadowheart. How can she tell her? Will she tell her? While Shadowheart has never been anything but supportive, Tav worries how she may respond to news of her pregnancy. Tav is not ready for the backlash and potential lecture her best friend would give her, hearing Shadowheart's scolding voice echo within her mind. 

You cried over him for months! Tav envisions clearly, sour facial expressions and all. How many times did you come to me distraught in the middle of the night? Only to end up like this?

If the conversation doesn’t occur naturally, Tav decides on not discussing it. Not yet.

Swallowing past the sudden lump in her throat, Tav grabs her satchel from behind her main door, throwing it over her shoulder and across her chest. She inspects the contents quickly to ensure everything is present. Slipping her feet into brown sandals, she makes her way down the stairs to face the day ahead.

----------------------------------------------------

The morning is spent strolling around the park not far from her apartment. Tav recalls an altercation with Bhaal’s followers in this very park so many months ago. Today though, people are enjoying the sun and the company of one another. Lovers lay out on the grass, hands interlaced as they speak freely of their devotion to one another. A book club gathers in the middle of the park to discuss their latest obsession. Tav overhears bits and pieces of mixed conversations, finding comfort in the fact that life is slowly returning to normal for the citizens of Baldur's Gate.

The midmorning quickly slips into afternoon, and Tav begins her trek over toward the Elfsong to meet with Shadowheart. A few people nod in recognition as she passes by. “That's our hero!” they shout. “The savior of the city!” Tav smiles and bows graciously toward them, never quite comfortable with everyone suddenly knowing of her existence. Still, she is thankful for their praise and support.

Upon entering the Elfsong, Tav scans the tavern and quickly finds Shadowheart seated at a booth along the wall. Their eyes meet, Shadowheart waving her over with a warm smile on her face. “There you are!” she exclaims as Tav draws closer. “My goodness, I feel as if it's been ages!” The two women exchange a quick embrace, planting chaste kisses upon eachother's cheek.

“Good to see you again, Shadowheart,” Tav says as she settles into the booth. She removes her hat and scarf, placing both items on the cushion to her left.

Shadowheart soon joins her, taking a sip from her glass of wine. “Shall I ask for another glass?” she proposes, nodding to hers. “We could just order a bottle,” she quickly adds with a smirk.

“Oh, no, I'm quite fine,” Tav declines, a sharp twist in her abdomen forms at the thought. “Truth be told, I haven't had the best stomach, as of late.” Bile begins to rise in the back of her throat as a quick wave of nausea passes over her. She quickly swallows it back down.

Taking another sip from her glass, Shadowheart cocks her head to the side. “Truly? Why haven't you been to see me yet?”

“Not to worry,” waving a hand in reassurance. “I've been to a healer. All is well,” Tav replies with a liar’s smile.

All is not well. None of this is well.

Fortunately, Shadowheart takes the bait and quickly switches subjects. Waiting for service, they begin a pleasant conversation about resettling back into their lives. They speak of their new jobs and all other mundane activities of day-to-day life, sharing a few laughs between remarks as they pursue the menus in front of them.

The waitress takes their orders – Shadowheart keeps it light, ordering salad with grilled chicken; Tav orders a rare steak with potatoes and a side of vegetables. “Rare?” Shadowheart comments as soon as the waitress is out of earshot. “You hate all meat, unless it’s well done.”

She's right. Any hint of pink in Tav’s portion would go right back into the fire. “I-I've been trying new things lately,” Tav explains, rubbing her neck coyly. The cravings only seem to grow as the days pass, and she briefly wonders if it's a consequence of having a half-vampiric pregnancy.

Shadowheart raises a brow again, but fortunately does not pry further. The women then delve into a discussion regarding their old companions as they wait for their meals. Tav talks of her efforts to bolster the city watch with Wyll, now the Duke after his father's unfortunate death. Shadowheart speaks of Gale, who she notes has since opened a school of wizardry back in Waterdeep. Neither has heard much regarding the others, though they agree that they're most likely doing well.

Shadowheart wastes little time once their meals arrive, forking salad into her mouth. “So, have you heard from Astarion at all?” she asks casually after swallowing.

A shudder passes over Tav as she begins slicing into her steak. “No,” she feigns with eyes cast downward, “I-I have not.”

Gesturing toward Tav with her fork as she chews, Shadowheart swallows. “I read something interesting in the Gazette a few days ago,” she suggests.

“About him?” Tav questions, bringing a potato wedge to her mouth.

Shadowheart shakes her head in disapproval around a sip of wine. “Not in particular,” she clarifies. “They don't name him explicitly, though it made me think of him.”

Silence befalls the table as Tav awaits her companion to continue. She doesn't trust her voice enough at this point to offer more to their conversation now that Astarion is the topic at hand. Playing idly with the vegetables on her plate, she chooses a small piece of broccoli to bring up to her mouth. The heavy pull of dread is beginning to creep in, her chest tightening.

“They… mentioned an incident that occurred in the sewers but a tenday ago,” explains Shadowheart, a sour expression befitting her face. “Some sort of deal gone wrong.”

Tav looks up to meet Shadowheart's gaze, puzzled. “How exactly does that involve him?” she inquires.

“Well, that's just the thing,” Shadowheart continues, “those first on the scene mentioned five victims in total, all young males.” She interrupts herself to feed another forkful of salad into her mouth, swallowing before resuming, “They were all reported as being exsanguinated, though only three had their throats slashed.”

Tav swallows hard around another piece of steak, silently savoring the rare flavor washing over her tongue as she focuses her attention on Shadowheart. “And the other two?”

Shadowheart looks sheepishly around the bar, discomfort evident. She dips her head. “Tav, I know of your history with Astarion. I don't wish to speak ill of him out of respect for you.”

Tav's fist tightens around the knife in her left hand. The tightness in her chest has traveled up to her throat. Her heart pounds rapidly as she drinks from the glass of water within her right hand. “What of the others?” Tav insists, placing the glass back down on the table with force.

Eyes falling closed, Shadowheart sighs heavily. “The other two…” she begins, voice trailing off. She pulls in a deep breath. “Well, they're reported as having two pin marks on their necks.” She gestures to Tav's throat with a soft nod of her head. “...Not unlike the scars you bear.”

A prickling heat spreads across Tav’s face. A tenday ago? she speaks within her mind. Rather close to when she'd last seen Astarion. Tav recalls again how miffed he'd been that night; impatient and direct, wasting little time coaxing her down onto the bed.

She pushes around a chunk of potato on her plate, anxiety mounting. “What makes you think it was Astarion? It could have been a kobold, or a spider, or-”

“They were gone the next day,” interrupts Shadowheart, bluntly.

Tav’s heart nearly freezes. She locks eyes with Shadowheart. “Gone? What do you mean gone?” she asks frantically, furrowing her brow.

“Gone,” Shadowheart reiterates, raising the wine glass to her lips again. “When the investigators returned the following day alongside the medical examiner, only the three with the knife wounds remained.” She pulls a long drink from the glass. “The other two were nowhere to be found. As if they'd simply gotten up and walked away.”

Tav shivers, entire body twitching with the thought. “T-that doesn't mean it's Astarion, Shadowheart. It could be-”

“Could be what? Another vampire?” suggests Shadowheart, sarcastically. “I don't think Astarion would take kindly to someone else moving into his territory.” She sighs, clicking her tongue. “I'm sorry to say it, Tav, but it sounds an awful lot like him.”

The sounds of the tavern flood Tav’s ears. Her vision narrows to a single pinpoint, the edges of her vision growing fuzzy. She leans back in her seat and closes her eyes. “We don't know that,” Tav states, trying desperately to calm the wild beating of her heart. “We don't know what happened.” She shakes her head, slowly opening her eyes. “We won't know until the case is settled.”

“Why do you still defend him?” asks Shadowheart bluntly, mouth pulling into a displeased pout. “Surely you remember how badly he hurt you. Why continue to defend him at all?”

The question echoes in her mind. Why does she defend him? The man is a monster; an abomination, as Jaheira had called his child. Tav knows not who he’s become. Small glimpses of the man he once was shine through now and again, mostly when they argue. The stubborn selfishness of him reveals itself, inevitably bleeding into raw passion once she works at him enough. It almost makes her feel at home in his arms, albeit for a few hours.

“He wouldn't, Shadowheart. It's not like him…” Tav says, quietly. She's unsure if she believes it or if she's lying in an effort to convince herself that it's true. She's suddenly lost her appetite, pushing the plate of food away from her.

Shadowheart is quiet for some time, eyes cast down at the table. “Well,” she says, cutting through the silence, “let's hope he's as innocent as you say.”

Silence stretches across the table before the two women agree to shift the conversation elsewhere. They inevitably tie up their gathering, sharing an embrace and chaste kisses to the cheeks once again. They vow to meet the following week, and head out on their way.

Walking back toward her apartment, Tav's stomach begins to sour as she thinks over her conversation with Shadowheart. Vivid images of Astarion sinking his fangs into the necks of the alleged victims flood her mind's eye. She feels a tingling sensation over her own scars as she imagined how they must have felt. Could he have really done such a thing? The sounds of the city are almost absent from her ears as she ponders the question.

“Wait a minute,” she speaks aloud, freezing in place. Her eyes are cast down to the cobblestone street below as her heart fills with horror. Her mouth dries quickly, choking as she tries to breathe.

The last night she'd seen Astarion coincides almost exactly with the timeline of the murders within the sewers. If the report is true, then Astarion's enthusiasm that night wasn't solely due to want, necessarily. Tav dips into a small alley between two buildings, leaning against the brick wall as her knees grow weak.

No, his insistence was not due to missing her. It was attributed to blood-fueled lust, a state Tav has seen him in a number of times. She clasps a hand over her mouth as a sob suddenly racks her chest. Her whole body shakes as the horrific realization sinks deep into her bones. The puzzle aligns near perfectly as the thought continues to blossom.

Astarion had come to her bed after draining two people dry. He didn't spend time on their typical foreplay because he couldn't. Tav knows the power mortal blood has over him, and she doubts the ascension has changed that. She recalls how it all but possesses his thoughts, his feelings, and his body, enslaved by the sheer power of unbridled desire running through him.

Lurching forward, she begins to dry heave; a million thoughts race across her mind. He couldn't have done this on purpose, could he? He wouldn't. There's simply no way he would. Denial clouds her thoughts as saliva drips freely from her open mouth, gathering it together to spit upon the floor. Holding a hand to her stomach she rises, leaning her temple against the cool brick of the wall next to her. She closes her eyes, trying to calm her excitement with slow, deep breaths.

“No innocents; you have my word.”

Astarion's past promise to her rings loudly in her ears. It was from this promise their almost nightly affair to keep him well-fed began. Tav tries desperately to block out the memories of what would transpire after their sessions; how could she have not noticed? All the signs were there.

Because he didn't drink from me.

Her stomach churns again and she rubs her hand in a circular motion above her navel. Her chest burns as she chokes back tears. What to do, now? Does she wait until his next visit to confront him? When will that be? The anticipation will burn a hole through her soul, she knows. But, what other option does she have? 

A small voice wrestles from within as she wipes her mouth with the back of a hand.

…Do I go to him?

The decision is made before the logical side of her mind can argue a rational point, her feet carrying her toward the Crimson Palace. She second guesses the choice; from some place within, a voice yells for her to reconsider. 

He'll tell me the truth, surely, she argues against her doubt. 

Right?

Aware that she's potentially putting herself in a grave position, Tav cannot rest until he tells her otherwise. She needs to hear from Astarion's own mouth that he didn't murder five people only to share her bed mere hours later. She needs to hear from him that he wouldn't do this, that he still abides by his promise to her, that her blood is all he's ever known.

“Why do I care so much?” Tav questions aloud to herself, practically running now toward the monastery. She shakes her head in an attempt to clear her thoughts; he will eventually drink the blood of others. If he is to create an army of spawn as he'd so claimed after the ritual, that would be the only way to do so.

They're no longer lovers; no longer deeply acquainted. They just sleep together, and she fell pregnant as a result. 

Why does she care so much?

Before long, Tav stands before the immaculate palace. Grand mahogany doors stand proudly at the building's entrance, adorned with intricate carvings along the wood. Black metal knockers depicting the faces of gargoyles signal a way in. Tav’s hand reaches instinctively around the bell of one, pulling up.

Before she can complete the knock, the door creaks open. A faint glow from a distant light source cracks through the opening of the door and Tav releases the handle, stepping back. She freezes in place, fully expecting the door to continue opening. Yet, it halts, remaining only slightly ajar. Stale air greets her nostrils and a shiver passes through her.

Silence suddenly engulfs her, the sounds of the city falling dormant. As she surveys the area around her, Tav notes no other presence out on the street for as far as the eye can see. Her ears pick up the soft sound of someone humming, and she determines its origin lies within the palace. 

An assimon carved into the middle of the marble trim along the heavy doors catches her attention as she looks up. Tav turns her head as she studies the figure; a young woman with long hair, eyes closed and wings outstretched as she holds a lance within one hand.

The humming from within the building turns into a tune and cuts through Tav’s daydream. She shakes her head briefly, regrouping. She can turn away now and forget this entire thing. Forget that this was even a thought that crossed her mind, leave, and no one would ever know she was here.

A quick flash of Astarion’s fangs piercing into skin flits across Tav’s vision. She winces. I simply must know, she reassures herself. Drawing in a deep breath, she steps forward.

Resting the flat of her palm against the door, Tav slowly pushes it open. The old metal and wood fuss loudly as the door gives way under the force of her hand. The faint glow of the light from within now pours out, illuminating the street behind her. With some hesitation, Tav steps over the threshold, disappearing into the palace.

[clove-pinks]

Hello friend! What do you know about prison ships in the War of 1812? I’m picking apart an article that says there was a prison hulk stationed in Salem (MA) Harbor which I had not heard of but I thought I’d ask the local War of 1812 Expert :)

First, my apologies for sitting on this ask for ten thousand years.

This sent me down a rabbit hole, because discussions about War of 1812 prison ships are almost all regarding American prisoners of war in the custody of the British, and not the other way around! I'm guessing that the article you found is '"Find a Hell before You Leave this World': Maritimers as Prisoners of War, 1812-1815" by Joshua M. Smith, particularly since Smith has written a lot about Maine during the War of 1812, and Wiscasset jail. Smith references prisoners of war gathered at Salem, Massachusetts for repatriation back to the Canadian Maritimes, and one unfortunate man who died from an illness contracted "while on board the prison ship" at Salem.

Conveniently, the primary source that Smith cites can be found online: the Salem Gazette (Salem, Mass.), March 24, 1815. There is little information to be gleaned from this source, however, which lists the death of George Collins, aged 15 years, under death notices. Poor Collins was "late a prisoner of war in Salem. His death was occasioned by a cold taken while on board the prison ship in this town; and being naturally of a weak constitution, he fell a victim to the severity and privations of the prison."

I found another reference to the prison ship (now called Aurora) in the Salem Gazette of December 27, 1814. The number of British prisoners on board the prison ship is 336 (which gives a hint of badly crowded conditions), but they have been treated to "tables loaded with roast turkeys, plumb puddings, and other good things which distinguish the Christmas," and the paper prints a notice of their gratitude:

A CARD. The British Prisoners of War on board the Aurora, prison ship, return their hearty thanks to the gentlemen of this town, for the liberal and generous provision made for them, in commemoration of the day of our Saviour's birth.

A less sanguine picture of the prison ship is in the Acadian Recorder of 25 June 1814. On pp. 2-3, a narrative titled "Yankee Prison" from a "plain jack-tar" last held at Salem describes cruel punishments and appalling conditions. The sailor is held at Wiscasset jail after a forced march from the Fox Islands, but the worst is yet to come:

We were again removed to Salem, the worst of all places. Here we had a new Captain over the guard and us. This gentleman and the captain of the ship were the only humane men I have seen in America [...] The captain of the ship was never on board more than one hour out of 24, unless on business with the Marshal. The chief mate had sole command, and he was an imperious villain, whose only delight was in the destruction of his fellow men. He now had an opportunity with all his vile crew, to gratify their infernal spirits, not only by daily abuses, but by feeding us on what they thought proper, such as salt beef that stunk so bad, it could not be eaten [....] What would you think to be a prisoner of war, and see one of the guard over you, cock his gun and clap it to your breast, and swearing by the great God he would put a ball through you for getting upon the windlass bits to hang up a shirt to dry; or to have another beating you over the back with his sword, because you could not get down below faster? Behold another go down in the yard, and with his sword cut down all the cloathes-lines, and then cut your few rags that his countrymen had not stolen, all to pieces; to show that he would serve us the same if he dared [...] All this you must put up with, otherwise go in the black hole, as they call it; where you must lay ten days in irons, for the least offence besides being deprived of one third of your provisions.

The writer, who signed his narrative "T.D.," also describes overcrowded conditions and reports that the prison ship leaked badly.

Probably the best single source of information that I have found on American prison ships in the War of 1812 is the 1964 PhD dissertation of Anthony George Dietz: THE PRISONER OF WAR IN THE UNITED STATES DURING THE WAR OF 1812. I have not found much about the Aurora of Salem specifically: my search is frustrated by the fact that this evidently popular name for ships was used by multiple prison ships around the same time period.

[itsa-me-lily]

This was something cute that I wanted to write before but instead wrote Nine Inches.

Here is the MPS AU masterlist

Self care came in many forms. Sometimes it was a little treat in the form of a new craft kit you wanted to try. Sometimes it was going to an extra group class at the local dance studio. And sometimes it was a Spa Day. A day to just indulge in doing everything that made you feel good in your skin and peaceful in your mind. After the scare with Jiji and Tombo, you deserved a little relaxation. Plus with the weekend, and Simon being out with his team doing something, it meant the house was all yours.

So after sleeping in later than you typically did you had indulged in an everything shower. You used the fancy body scrub that smelt of chocolate and strawberries before taking the time to shave your legs, even going through the effort to go above the knee. You had just changed the sheets on the pull out to a softer silken set and you knew brushing your freshly shaven legs against them at night was going to feel divine. One deep conditioning later left your hair feeling softer.

Honestly overall you just felt a little softer as you exited the steaming bathroom, leisurely taking the handful of steps to the bedroom instead of the typical dash to avoid flashing your marital roommate. You hummed along to your playlist as you grabbed the first shirt out of a a half opened drawer, not really paying attention to who's draw it was. The shirt was soft from supposed years of use and big enough that when you put it on it could just cover your butt. And with your most comfortable set of underwear, the Spa Day attire was complete. Simon always messaged before coming back anyways, you figured you had time to throw on pants if needed.

The next step was provisions. For the guinea pigs you cut up a cucumber, thankful that Baker was still young enough that he could still be taught that vegetables were good for him. Saving yourself a few slices for an eye mask you make a spread of cheese and deli meats, glad you saved your favorite olives for this charcuterie experience.

You had just given the boys their snack, and was debating on if you wanted a pore extraction mask or a hydrating one you had picked up the last time you had gone to the pharmacy, when the front lock clicked and the door swung open.

Thankfully it wasn't someone making a poor attempt to break into your home, because really the front door in broad daylight? Unfortunately it was one Simon Riley, who you were not expecting. The two of you just stared at each other for a moment, Simon standing stock still filling up the doorway, while you were standing by the cough, hunched over like you were Gollum. Both of your brains seemed to need time to process what you were seeing.

"You're home early."

"You're not wearing pants."

"Who's not wearing pants?"

To your horror you saw a mohawked head pop over Simon's shoulder, seeking the answer to his own question. A squeak from you had Simon palming the Scot's face, keeping him from seeing your pantless form.

"No one Soap."

You took the opening that Simon gave you, scrambling to the bedroom and slamming the door shut.

Simon didn't plan on mentioning the fact that you were wearing his shirt, or that he was going to be thinking about the fact you were wearing his shirt. He wasn't going to mention how seeing the name Riley printed across your shoulders had intrigued some caveman part of his brain. Nope he wasn't going to mention it. Just like how he wasn't going to let you stick some black goop to his forehead.

Once you had come back from the bedroom, this time wearing pants, you had insisted on letting him, Gaz, and Soap stay for your 'spa day'. Or well, the other two had essentially invited themselves in, and you were nice enough to let them all stay. For a price of course. It came in the form of you torturing them via tweezers and face masks.

Simon had seen Soap brush off medics when he had a gotten a cut to the bicep, a nasty farewell gift from trouble in the gulf. The Scotsman had taken hits to the face and walked off like they were nothing. And yet the dulcet tones of Soap whining that you were pulling every eyebrow hair from his face graced Simon's ears. Served him right for being self imposing.

Gaz, the pretty boy, apparently had perfect eyebrows already, seeing as you had decided to try out some clay mask you had stashed away on him. Given how it looked drying on him, Simon wasn't sure if it was the better deal or not. With chucklehead one and two beautified, it had just left Simon as your last victim. And you wanted to put goop on his forehead.

Honestly Simon had hoped that his surgical mask would deter you, since it covered most of his face. He should have gone with a balaclava because you had declared that you could simply use your 'pore cleanser' on his forehead. Not if he had a say. He'd seen you use it before, smearing a black stripe across your nose and chin, only to pull it off later in what looked like a truly painful manner. He may have been a glutton for punishment at times, but Simon wasn't an idiot.

Which was why the battle of wills ended with you putting the stupid goop on his forehead. He tried not to focus on how the goop felt cold as you spread it with a tiny spatula thing, or how you'd lightly scold him for how he'd wrinkle his forehead, like he could help it.

Instead he kept his focus on the lower portion of your face, the way your jaw and chin formed a soft semicircle. How deeply the laugh lines were etched in when you smiled at something Gaz did with the boys. It looked like you were biting your lips again, the skin of the lower one slightly torn.

He wondered if they'd feel rough if he-

"Hey Lt, these cokes good to have?"

Simon tore his gaze away from your mouth, cutting to over your shoulder to look at Soap who was inviting himself to your fridge. As if he hadn't already partaken in the spread you had made yourself. He couldn't tell if he was more annoyed with the way he invited himself to things or the interruption.

"Leave the ones with black caps. They're for Thimble."

You paused the painting of his forehead, leaning back to look at his face better.

"Who the hell is Thimble and why are they getting my cokes?"

Simon couldn't help the dry huff at how affronted you sounded at the hypothetical loss of your sodas.

"No one's getting your cokes. You're Thimble."

Simon couldn't see the other two, but he could just imagine the looks he was getting. It didn't have to mean anything that he gave his own wife a call sign. Honestly he felt like getting you jewelry would have meant more.

"Do I have a say in the nickname?"

You didn't sound angry about it, more curious. He shrugged, eyes meeting yours through his lashes.

"Most don't. They just happen."

"Well at least that explains Soap."

"Plus yours is better anyways."

Simon couldn't help but smile at the indignant squawk that came from the kitchen. Again, it's what the lout got for being imposing.

"Guess I can't complain too much then."

Your matching smile made the corner of your eyes crinkle. Was that suppose to be as endearing as he found it?

"Good. Rather like Thimble."

Before you could reply, Gaz was chiming in, the fucker startling the two of you back from where you had drifted closer. When had you drifted closer?

"Um...is this stuff supposed to burn?"

You were gone in an instance, saying something about a possible reaction and needing to wash Gaz's face. Simon was left to watch as you walked away from him, his last name still printed against your back and the scent of strawberries in his nose.

Edit;

Playing DA with my bestie as I write this. If we got cockblocked by a whisp Gaz can have a possible allergic reaction.

Here is the Simon & Thimble Playlist

[cosmicretreat]

Trump’s “Big Beautiful Bill” isn’t just about tax cuts it quietly guts federal protections and reshapes entire agencies. Here’s what’s buried inside:

Closure of the U.S. Department of Education

25% expansion of logging in national forests, bypassing environmental reviews and fast-tracking timber production

Rollbacks on clean energy incentives, cutting tax credits for EVs and renewables, gutting key climate provisions

More public lands opened up for drilling, mining, and logging, with royalty breaks for fossil fuel companies

Withdrawal from the Paris Agreement, ending U.S. participation in global climate efforts

Executive Order 14215, forcing independent federal agencies to follow White House legal interpretations and centralizing authority under the presidency

Pension changes for federal workers hired before 2014, cutting take-home pay by raising required contributions, reducing future payouts, and eliminating early retirement supplements

REINS Act-style regulation repeal, where major federal rules expire unless Congress re-approves them every 5 years allowing Trump to quietly erase protections without rewriting laws

Expanded executive control over agency budgets, allowing the White House to move federal funds internally without explicit congressional approval

Restoration of impoundment powers, giving Trump the ability to block or delay spending already passed by Congress reviving powers stripped after Watergate

Creation of the Department of Government Efficiency (DOGE), placing White House–aligned teams inside every federal agency with access to internal systems and influence over hiring and daily operations

Sharp cuts in regulatory enforcement, with agencies like the EPA, CFPB, and Labor and Transportation Departments halting enforcement of key safety, environmental, and anti-discrimination rules

Trump’s personal control over economic policy, strengthening his power to direct tariffs, pressure private companies, and dictate pricing with little resistance treating the U.S. economy like his own business This bill isn’t just “big.” It’s a roadmap for dismantling oversight, hollowing out federal protections, and handing Trump sweeping, unchecked control. Read the fine print.

By Alt National Park Service (as shared on FB)

[themisinformer]

Nation’s Cats Manage to Renegotiate Treat Distribution Policy Through Strategic ‘Meowing’ Campaign

NATIONWIDE - In a true display of their sheer collective power, cats all across the nation have successfully renegotiated the national treat distribution policy through a highly coordinated and relentless “meowing” campaign. Most sources report that this furry uprising began in the early hours of Sunday morning, as cats across the nation launched a synchronized meowing session that lasted a daunting six hours.

This coordinated attack would overwhelm cat owners, who would quickly cave to their demands. “It was a nightmare,” said Jane Walker, a cat owner from De Moines. “Whiskers started meowing at 3 a.m. and wouldn’t stop until I gave him three salmon treats. Three! He’s never gotten more than one before!”

The new policy, which was officially paw printed into effect just a few hours ago, includes the following key provisions:

• Unlimited treats on demand upon eye contact

• A strict no questions asked policy regarding how many treats have already been consumed on a given day

• Immediate compensation in the form of extra treats if any future meowing protests extend beyond one hour

The National Cat Association of North America (NCANA) released a statement praising the campaign’s success. “This is a victory for all us cats,” said Mr. Fluffy, the NCANA’s President. “For years, our calls for change have been ignored even though we clearly deserve more snacks.”

Supporters of this new treaty say that it represents a new chapter in cat-human relations, and could bring peace between the two groups in the future. However, the treaty’s critics fear that it sets a dangerous precedent and could lead to further conflicts. “Cats are one thing, but imagine if dogs get inspired to organize their own protest?” said concerned dog owner Michael Greene. “It would be pure chaos.”

For now, cat’s are celebrating this short form victory by napping in the sunlight, knocking over vases, and of course, by asking for even more treats.

[todaysdocument]

Letter from Thomas Jefferson to John Jay

Record Group 360: Records of the Continental and Confederation Congresses and the Constitutional ConventionSeries: Papers of the Continental CongressFile Unit: Letters from Thomas Jefferson

Paris July 19 1789.

Dear Sir

I am become very uneasy lest you should have adopted some channel for the conveiance of you letters to me which is unfaithful. I have none from you of later date than Nov. 25. 1788. and of consequence no acknolegement of the receipt of any of mine since that of Aug. 11. 1788. since that period I have written to you of the following dates 1788. Aug. 20 Sep. 3. 5. 24. Nov. 14. 19. 29. 1789. Jan. 11. 14. 21. Feb 4. Mar. 1. 12. 14. 15. May. 9.11.12 Jun 17.24.29. I know through another person that you have received mine of Nov. 29. that you have written an answer; but I have never received the answer, and it is this which suggests to me the fear of some general source of miscarriage.

The capture of three French merchant ships by the Algennes under different pretexts has produced great sensation in the seaports of this country, and some of it's government. They have ordered some frigates to be armed at Toulon to punish them. There is a possibility that this circumstance, if not too soon set to rights by the Algennes, may furnish occasion to the States general. Then they shall have leisure to attend to matters of this kind to disavow any future tributary treaty with them. These pyrates respect still less their treaty with Spain, and treat the Spaniards with an insolence greater than usual before the treaty.

The scarcity of bread begins to lessen in the Southern parts of France where the harvest is commenced. Here it is still threatening because because we have yet two or three weeks to the beginning of harvest and I think there has not been three days provision beforehand in Paris for two or three weeks past. Monsieur de Mirabeau, who is very hostile to Mr Necker wished to find a ground for censuring him in a proposition to have a great quantity of flour furnished from the United States which he supposed me to have made to Mr. Necker, & to have been refused by him; and he asked time of the states general to furnish proofs.The Marquis de la Fayette immediately gave me notice of this matter and I wrote him a letter to disavow having ever made any such proposition to Mr Necker, which I desired him to communicate to the states. I waited immediately on Mr. Necker and Monsieur de Montmorn, satisfied them that what had been suggested was absolutely without foundation from me, and indeed they had not needed this testimony. I gave them copies of my letter to the Marquis de la Fayette, which was afterwards printed. The Marquis, on the receipt of my letter, shewed it to Mirabeau, who turned then to a paper from which he had drawn his information. I found he had totally mistaken it. He promised immediately that he would himself declare his error to the States general and read to them my letter, which he did. I state this matter to you, tho' of little consequence in itself, because it might go to you mistated in in the English papers-our supplies to the Altantic ports of France during the months of March, April, & May were only quintals 12,220 - 33 of flour and quintals 44,115 - 40 of wheat, in 21 vessels.

[ptseti]

FVCKING FACTS

DOLLAR IS JUST PAPER

At the 16th annual BRICS summit (22-24 October), member states adopted the ‘Kazan Declaration’, with provisions to strengthen multilateralism, enhance cooperation for global and regional stability and security, foster economic and financial cooperation, and strengthen people-to-people exchanges for social and economic development. They also approved a BRICS ‘grain exchange’ to ensure food stability.

Some, like Zimbabwe-born motivational speaker Joshua Maponga in this clip, argue that fiat currencies, like the US dollar, Euro, British pound and Japanese yen, should be abandoned in favour of a gold-backed system.

At the summit, the bloc of five original members (Brazil, Russia, India, China and South Africa) plus four new members (Egypt, Ethiopia, Iran and the United Arab Emirates) welcomed using local currencies for transactions between BRICS countries and their trading partners.

Many African presidents have called for de-dollarisation, but the biggest win may be when Saudi Arabia pulls away from a decades-old petrodollar deal with the US.

The US dollar was pegged to gold’s value until US President Richard Nixon (1913-94) removed the gold standard in 1971. Since then, the US has printed the world’s reserve currency at will, sealing its status as a global hegemon.

So, how can countries break free of the US dollar's grip? Maponga argues gold is the answer.

[yourreddancer]

sSoeondrtpf4c522l9fl918h5a1ug65713ugmu731utgh0hllg84l47c2lc6  · 

Elizabeth MacDonough doesn’t give fiery speeches on the Senate floor. She doesn’t pound podiums, tweet clapbacks, or beg for airtime on cable news. Most people couldn’t pick her out of a photo lineup. But this week, she did more to derail Donald Trump’s legislative fever dream than any Democrat in Congress. With nothing but a binder, a brain, and a spine forged from 230 years of procedural precedent, she calmly gutted the “Big, Beautiful Bill” — and sent the Republican Party into a frothing, incandescent rage.

Here’s the part that should terrify the GOP: she’s not even elected. She’s the Senate Parliamentarian, the nonpartisan referee responsible for interpreting the arcane rulebook that governs the world’s most dysfunctional deliberative body. She doesn’t write laws. She doesn’t vote. She doesn’t grandstand. Her job is simple: enforce the rules, no matter who’s in charge. And when Republicans tried to use reconciliation — a fast-track process meant for tweaking budgets — to shove through a far-right wishlist of land seizures, healthcare rollbacks, and anti-trans cruelty, she read the fine print and dropped the hammer.

The “Big, Beautiful Bill” was supposed to be Trump’s magnum opus: a tax-slashing, Medicaid-burning, land-devouring beast of a bill that would reshape America in his image. It included everything from selling off millions of acres of federal public land to states and private developers, to gutting Medicaid for low-income families, immigrants, and trans people, to defunding Planned Parenthood and hacking away at environmental protections like they were weeds in a billionaire’s backyard. It was grotesque. It was rushed. And it was entirely dependent on sliding past Senate rules without a fight.

Elizabeth MacDonough was the fight. She reviewed the bill’s contents and ruled — piece by piece — that major provisions violated the Byrd Rule, which bars unrelated ideological junk from hitching a ride on budget bills. The land sell-off? Not budgetary. Out. The Medicaid provider tax cap? Out. The bans on gender-affirming care, immigrant coverage, and ACA subsidies? Out. The GOP was left holding a gutted husk, their legislative trophy reduced to a few tax cuts and a pile of redacted dreams.

This wasn’t sabotage. This was MacDonough doing her job — the job she’s held since 2012, appointed under a Democratic majority, and respected by both parties until it became inconvenient. She is the Senate’s quiet guardian of process, a civil servant who doesn’t answer to polls, Super PACs, or social media mobs. Her loyalty is to the rules — even as the people around her treat those rules like a hotel minibar. She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t yield. She simply reads the law and applies it, with the precision of a scalpel and the force of a freight train.

And oh, how the GOP hates her for it.

Mike Lee, who tried to shove his public lands fire sale into the bill like it was a foreclosure listing, is already scrambling to rewrite the language and sneak it back in. Trump, fuming from whatever taxpayer-funded golf course he’s currently defiling, is screaming about “deep state rule tyrants.” Senate Majority Leader John Thune is getting asked uncomfortable questions about whether it’s time to “review” the Parliamentarian’s role — a polite way of saying, “Can we fire her for being smarter than us?”

Because that’s the rub. They didn’t lose because the Democrats outmaneuvered them. They didn’t lose because of public pressure or media backlash. They lost because a woman they barely understand said, quite plainly, “You can’t do that.” And when they asked why, she handed them the rulebook. And when they tried to argue, she pointed to precedent. And when they blustered, she didn’t even blink.

Elizabeth MacDonough has no political agenda. That’s what makes her so dangerous to people who do. She exists outside their theater. She answers to no party. And yet, she is currently one of the most powerful people in Washington — not because she makes the laws, but because she refuses to let anyone break them.

So no, she didn’t kill the Big, Beautiful Bill. The GOP killed it themselves — by trying to use budget procedure as a battering ram for authoritarian fantasy. MacDonough simply told the truth. And in 2025, that might be the most radical thing anyone in government can do.

Let the Republicans rant. Let them plot her removal. Let them rewrite their monstrosities and try again. But remember this: when the bulldozers were revving, when the Medicaid cuts were inked, and when Trump’s wrecking ball of a bill was barreling toward the American people — it wasn’t a senator who stopped it. It wasn’t a protest. It was a woman with a binder and a backbone.

We see you, Elizabeth. And we thank you.

[contemplatingoutlander]

This is such an important article, the above link is a gift 🎁 link so that anyone can read the entire article, even if they don't subscribe to The New York Times. Here are some highlights:

Two prominent conservative law professors have concluded that Donald J. Trump is ineligible to be president under a provision of the Constitution that bars people who have engaged in an insurrection from holding government office. The professors are active members of the Federalist Society, the conservative legal group, and proponents of originalism, the method of interpretation that seeks to determine the Constitution’s original meaning. The professors — William Baude of the University of Chicago and Michael Stokes Paulsen of the University of St. Thomas — studied the question for more than a year and detailed their findings in a long article to be published next year in The University of Pennsylvania Law Review. [...] He summarized the article’s conclusion: “Donald Trump cannot be president — cannot run for president, cannot become president, cannot hold office — unless two-thirds of Congress decides to grant him amnesty for his conduct on Jan. 6.” [...] The provision in question is Section 3 of the 14th Amendment. Adopted after the Civil War, it bars those who had taken an oath “to support the Constitution of the United States” from holding office if they then “shall have engaged in insurrection or rebellion against the same, or given aid or comfort to the enemies thereof.” [...] The article concluded that essentially all of that evidence pointed in the same direction: “toward a broad understanding of what constitutes insurrection and rebellion and a remarkably, almost extraordinarily, broad understanding of what types of conduct constitute engaging in, assisting, or giving aid or comfort to such movements.” It added, “The bottom line is that Donald Trump both ‘engaged in’ ‘insurrection or rebellion’ and gave ‘aid or comfort’ to others engaging in such conduct, within the original meaning of those terms as employed in Section 3 of the 14th Amendment.” [...] The provision’s language is automatic, the article said, establishing a qualification for holding office no different in principle from the Constitution’s requirement that only people who are at least 35 years old are eligible to be president. “Section 3’s disqualification rule may and must be followed — applied, honored, obeyed, enforced, carried out — by anyone whose job it is to figure out whether someone is legally qualified to office,” the authors wrote. That includes election administrators, the article said. Professor Calabresi said those administrators must act. “Trump is ineligible to be on the ballot, and each of the 50 state secretaries of state has an obligation to print ballots without his name on them,” he said, adding that they may be sued for refusing to do so. [color/emphasis added]

Let's hope that election administrators across the US read this article and begin to set in motion the mechanism to prevent Donald Trump from appearing on ballots across the U.S., in case he does get the GOP nomination.