oddcatharsis

[oddcatharsis]

Dissociated and we got a whole canvas of my fav

[oddcatharsis]

Something I don't think we talk enough about in discussions surrounding AI is the loss of perseverance.

I have a friend who works in education and he told me about how he was working with a small group of HS students to develop a new school sports chant. This was a very daunting task for the group, in large part because many had learning disabilities related to reading and writing, so coming up with a catchy, hard-hitting, probably rhyming, poetry-esque piece of collaborative writing felt like something outside of their skill range. But it wasn't! I knew that, he knew that, and he worked damn hard to convince the kids of that too. Even if the end result was terrible (by someone else's standards), we knew they had it in them to complete the piece and feel super proud of their creation.

Fast-forward a few days and he reports back that yes they have a chant now... but it's 99% AI. It was made by Chat-GPT. Once the kids realized they could just ask the bot to do the hard thing for them - and do it "better" than they (supposedly) ever could - that's the only route they were willing to take. It was either use Chat-GPT or don't do it at all. And I was just so devastated to hear this because Jesus Christ, struggling is important. Of course most 14-18 year olds aren't going to see the merit of that, let alone understand why that process (attempting something new and challenging) is more valuable than the end result (a "good" chant), but as adults we all have a responsibility to coach them through that messy process. Except that's become damn near impossible with an Instantly Do The Thing app in everyone's pocket. Yes, AI is fucking awful because of plagiarism and misinformation and the environmental impact, but it's also keeping people - particularly young people - from developing perseverance. It's not just important that you learn to write your own stuff because of intellectual agency, but because writing is hard and it's crucial that you learn how to persevere through doing hard things.

Write a shitty poem. Write an essay where half the textual 'evidence' doesn't track. Write an awkward as fuck email with an equally embarrassing typo. Every time you do you're not just developing that particular skill, you're also learning that you did something badly and the world didn't end. You can get through things! You can get through challenging things! Not everything in life has to be perfect but you know what? You'll only improve at the challenging stuff if you do a whole lot of it badly first. The ability to say, "I didn't think I could do that but I did it anyway. It's not great, but I did it," is SO IMPORTANT for developing confidence across the board, not just in these specific tasks.

Idk I'm just really worried about kids having to grow up in a world where (for a variety of reasons beyond just AI) they're not given the chance to struggle through new and challenging things like we used to.

[oddcatharsis]

light study with cowboy Price

alt version + ref used:

[oddcatharsis]

faux sympathy is actually evil.

you’re ruining me, i’m shaking, barely coherent, and you have the audacity to say “i know, baby, it’s a lot, huh?” all sweet and condescending like yeah??? obviously??? but are you stopping? no :( you just keep going, all soft and sweet, acting like you feel bad while actively making it worse. it’s sick and i need more of it immediately.

[oddcatharsis]

sleepy ghoap!!

Sleepy Ghoap! I’d imagine Ghost would kiss soap on his head partway through but post mission sleepy cuddles are fun

[oddcatharsis]

USA people! Buy NOTHING Feb 28 2025. Not anything. 24 hours. No spending. Buy the day before or after but nothing. NOTHING. February 28 2025. Not gas. Not milk. Not something on a gaming app. Not a penny spent. (Only option in a crisis is local small mom and pop. Nothing. Else.) Promise me. Commit. 1 day. 1 day to scare the shit out of them that they don't get to follow the bullshit executive orders. They don't get to be cowards. If they do, it costs. It costs.

Then, if you can join me for Phase 2. March 7 2025 thtough March 14 2025? No Amazon. None. 1 week. No orders. Not a single item. Not one ebook. Nothing. 1 week. Just 1.

If you live outside the USA boycott US products on February 28 2025 and stand in solidarity with us and also join us for the week of no Amazon.

Are you with me?

Spread the word.

[oddcatharsis]

omg househusband ghost... soft and domestic and so feral for his hardworking wife. goes through his life like he's on a mission.

he wakes up way too early in the morning like it's a mission briefing. slips out of bed so it doesn't disturb you (but the way the mattress bounces back almost violently does anyway). will never let you get up a minute earlier than you have to, he will hold you down physically until you fall asleep again. makes a proper english breakfast (he's been taking cooking lessons religiously). he always has the same thing-beans on toast, black tea.

years of military discipline mean the house is SPOTLESS. he doesn't do it for himself, he does it because he sees it as a tactical operation. wants you to feel nice in a clean home. he has sixth sense for when something is slightly out of place, like you come back from work and he walks in the living room and he's like "that candle wasn't facing that way when i left the room". he folds laundry with military precision, and you're never losing socks. or wearing mismatched ones.

more about his cooking, well... he loves baking. he won't admit it to anyone but you, but he loves kneading dough to make bread. says it makes his hands softer. all his food just ends up tasting really good and is super nutritionally balanced even if it's simple, and he just downplays it by saying it's 'chemistry with better results'.

he loves going to the grocery store, and all the employees love having him there too. always keeps everything he picks up where he found it, and never wastes time. treats it like a recon mission. if some creep tries something with you while you're staring at the pretty plates, he just spawns behind you-looming and dark, all like "need something, mate?" will NEVER let you carry the heavy bags, thinks it's an insult to him. also he has one flaw, he is always gonna buy extra canned goods. military habits die hard.

talks to the neighbour's k9 like it's an old war buddy. saying things like "bet you'd be good in the field. steady, loyal. shame they put us out to pasture, huh?" while having a tea over the fence. he's secretly (not so secretly) feeding all the stray cats at night. won't admit to it, and he'll deny it even more vehemently when they all swarm him with loud meows in the daytime.

HE LOVES WOODWORKING period. mans is whittling in his spare time. anyway, he really likes being a househusband. something to work for that he actually loves (you). he never thought he'd get a normal life... because he thought he'd kinda just... fade away after retirement. i love househusband ghost <3

[oddcatharsis]

new street himbo in town

[oddcatharsis]

Pondering my orbs.

[oddcatharsis]

cw: mdni, erotic va!gaz, voice kink, 380 words

thinking about reader who listens to erotic audios. even has a nice rotation of voice actors they listen to often. one of those happens to be kyle "gaz" garrick

erotic va!kyle, who's built himself a small little community. a group of people who wait for a new audio every week

his audios are what you would expect hearing his voice. gentle, talks you through it, aftercare, the works. the perfect boyfriend experience

but every once in a blue moon, he releases something rough. bordering on mean sometimes, and that is what you're always especially excited for

one way or the other, reader and kyle meet. be it the bar, cafe, street. they end up in the same place and hit it off. well enough to exchange numbers and plan a proper date

reader always thinks that kyle has an attractive voice, but between that and the fucking great sex she gets from him, she doesnt really listen to audios anymore

when she asks what he does for work on the first date, he keeps it pretty vague

says that he's a voice actor (true), that he hasn't been in anything big but he's been in a few video games (also true)

he just fails to tell her that he also does erotic audios

erotic va!kyle, who doesn't bring it up until he's pretty sure things are getting serious

drops it on you one night he's at your place, a casual "probably should tell you this.."

and he'll act like its no big deal. that he's not nervous as hell, practically prepared himself for you to break off the precarious relationship the two of you built

instead, there's a moment of silence as you process everything. you're pulling out your phone, mumbling a "holy shit..." under your breath

you show him your phone, his account pulled up. his brain just. stops working for a moment

he isn't really sure if he should be flattered or embarrassed that you recognized him that quickly (he settles on a mix of the two)

long story short, when he leaves for a few weeks to visit friends and family back home, you're not really thinking about feeling pent up until he comes back home

he's only a few clicks away, after all

[oddcatharsis]

he wants that cookie so damn bad

[oddcatharsis]

is this anything

[oddcatharsis]

no thoughts...just simon discovering you sitting on the grimy curb outside a club and pretending to be your boyfriend bc of unsavory men being nasty towards you. (tw: men)

-

A chill lingered in the air as you sank down onto the curb, the cold concrete pressing against your thighs while your short dress bunched up around your thighs.

It wasn’t the wisest choice, considering you were just inches away from the road, but your aching feet and pounding head begged for a break.

And not only did you feel a mess, but you also looked it too.

Your eyes were bloodshot, and your eyelids heavy and sticky, weighed down by smudged eyeliner, mascara, and whatever glittery eyeshadow you had tossed on in a rush.

What had once been a carefully styled updo was now a tangled mess, with strands of hair falling haphazardly around your face.

You couldn’t be bothered to put it back up; even the thought of managing it made your head spin more than it already did.

Your friends were off somewhere, probably with people you didn’t know, and honestly, you didn’t care anymore.

You just needed to escape that stuffy club.

The lights were flashing so intensely and rapidly that it felt like you might faint.

Now, here you are, sitting on the grimy curb, your mind racing with anxiety.

You had hoped the alcohol would dull your worries, but all it did was amplify them.

Stressing about the rent that you can’t afford this month.

The difficulty of finding and keeping a decent boyfriend.

And let’s not forget about your terrible job that pays next to nothing!

On top of it all, your mother won’t stop calling and complaining about her new boyfriend, who you can’t stand.

“What a pretty girl you are,” a low voice calls out from behind.

His words feel distant, like an echo floating in your mind.

You turn your head slightly to catch a glimpse of the guy, vape in hand and hoodie pulled up, flanked by two friends grinning widely.

You roll your eyes, turning your head away, choosing not to engage with him or offer any response.

"Hey! I’m talking to you," the same voice calls out, its tone growing more assertive.

You turn your head again; this time, he’s closer than before. "Will you just fuck off?" You groan, your eyes barely hanging open.

"The fuck did you say to me.”

Okay.

Now he is mad.

And usually, you could take care of feeble men.

They touch you; they get a knee straight to their balls.

But, right now, you can’t even walk straight.

Let alone balance and swing your leg.

“Sorry—I,” you sputter, carefully standing and almost falling as he draws nearer.

“Think you can talk to me like that?” He snarls as he moves to stand right in front of you.

You look up at him.

His eyes are dark.

You feel your stomach churn.

"Sweetheart," you hear the deep British, gravelly voice before the man who carries it steps beside you. "Been lookin' for you.”

Your eyes dart to him in an instant.

He’s tall, like really, really tall.

Quite built, and looks intimidating as hell with an ominous mask covering his face.

And…fuck, he’s decked out in black and gray military gear.

You feel an odd sense of security, so you thread your arm through his and tuck yourself into his side.

“You yellin’ at my girlfriend?” His voice is so deep, and raspy.

The guy’s eyes nearly bug out of his head at the sound and sight of the man at your side.

“No, no,” the guy scramble. “I—I didn’t even know she had a boyfriend. I would have never—”

“Shouldn’t do it anyway, you pisshead,” the man next to you spat before turning to face you, voice softening. “You okay, sweetheart?”

“I’m—I’m alright,” your murmur, voice uneven.

The man next to you turns his head to face the guy, his eyes darkening at the sight of you upset. “Get on your knees and apologize to her.”

“Wait, wha—”

“I’ll bash your head in.”

The guy fell to his knees, desperately searching for the right words. “I’m sorry. Fuck—I’m really, really sorry. I shouldn’t have done that; I fucked up. I’m so, so sorry,” he word vomits, voice trembling.

"Thank you," you whisper, your eyes widening in surprise at how readily he complies.

Your gaze drifts down to catch sight of a small friendship bracelet adorning the wrist of the man beside you.

It looked so out of place on him.

The bracelet features a black-and-white pattern of beads, with "Simon" spelled out in gray letters at its center and two skull beads surrounding it.

"Simon," you murmur, simply glancing at the letters without much thought.

His head swivels to you.

“Yeah, baby?” He quickly responds, eyes on you in an instant.

"We should—we should get going," you manage to say, feeling another flutter of butterflies in your stomach.

He nods, his hand lingering near your waist. You shift slightly, allowing your hand to slip into his, where you intertwine your fingers effortlessly.

Simon leans in closer, lowering his head to hover near the guy's ear, and whispers so you can barely catch what he’s saying.

“If you ever yell at my girlfriend, let alone another woman again,” Simon’s voice goes down an octave, low and stern. “I’ll find you and crack every fuckin’ bone in your body.”

The guy's face drains of color as he frantically tries to escape—not just back to his friends, who are just as terrified but well out of reach.

"You’re so…tall," you manage to say, your words coming out a bit slurred.

He lets out a gruff laugh. “Come over here.”

Simon tightly grips your fingers, gently guiding you around the corner and away from the club.

“Shouldn’t be alone,” he utters. “You’re drunk.”

“I know,” you admit, a hint of embarrassment creeping in. “I just needed to get out of that crazy club. It was too bright and too hot and too stuffy!” You let out a dramatic sigh. “I thought the alcohol would help clear my mind, but it only made me more anxious, you know?” You look up at him and shake your head.

“My rent is overdue; I can’t get a stupid boyfriend, and, oh God, my mother,” you continue to ramble; you were drunk, after all. “I’m a mess,” you exhale softly, tears clinging to your lashes.

Had you been crying that whole time?

“Listen,” he urges, hand pressing onto your shoulder. “If you want, you could live with me. Been lookin’ for a roommate. Could be nice,” he adds with a casual shrug.

You sniffle, hand wiping your tears. “You—you would do that for me?” You ask, heart warm from his generosity.

“Eh, sure. Why not?” His tone is relaxed and straightforward.

You’re beaming as you pull him in for a tight hug, burying your face in his abdomen while repeatedly expressing your gratitude.

He doesn’t say anything, but he wears the stupidest grin under that mask.

He wouldn’t tell you, but he was so, so ecstatic at the prospect of you living with him.

He could use a few more friends, and you vowed to ensure he stayed well-fed.

Besides, it certainly didn't hurt that you were a hot little spitfire who had him straining in his cargo pants.

He would hold out for you.

Roommates now, husband and wife later.

-

author’s note: crazy how he’s the only man ever

[oddcatharsis]

to me it’s an inherent truth that ghost is socially “ugly”

scars that are uneven and pucker skin because he had hastily sewn lacerations together. burn scars on his back and hands, with skin that wrinkles like haphazard gills across his abdomen. blonde hair gene that makes his eyelashes and eyebrows near invisible. a crooked, broken nose that hardly works unless he brings whatever smells right to his nostrils.

and it wasn’t a sob story. he’s wasn’t insecure because to him it really isn’t all that important. at the end of the day the body he’s been put in sleeps, eats, and kills. fucks good, if it feels like it. that’s all he’s ever needed.

it’s not until you come into the picture, domestically enough, that he does start to care.

starts small, like checking if there was anything in his teeth, or smoothing out that one hair that likes to plant itself over his forehead.

the trivial, small details that furrow in between his ironed apathy.

then, insecurity blooms. found where one scar begins and the next ends. he stops lingering at the mirror, and wears thicker clothes because “london’s fuckin’ freezin”. keeps his eyes trained ahead when you shop downtown, so he doesn’t catch a glimpse of himself next to you in the store windows.

doesn’t realize how bad it had gotten until you, who had picked up on his lack of subtly and libido, asked him to take a bath.

with you.

and suddenly he’s rendered a quiet, awkward bastard in your flat bathroom, that is much too small for him.

you run the water to a boil and put relaxing salts in while he strips. he sits down with his mouth in a firm line because what the fuck is he supposed to say when his bird massages shampoo into his hair and hums a song that isn’t his favorite but becomes one when she kisses his cheek while at the chorus.

watches with wavering interest as bubbles form from the soap and the water begins to cool. hasn’t said a word since you started the strange routine that makes him feel raw and vulnerable in a way that he characterizes as childish.

“you’re so handsome, si.”

you’re swiping lotion onto his face. he hadn’t even realized you’d been staring.

“what?”

you laugh and swipe a thumb under his crooked nose, over the cleft lip. fingers trace the scar that runs up his cheek.

you hold his ugly in your hands. and you find him…handsome. he’s seen a liar and you can’t be one for the life of you. it disturbs him, that whatever comes from you lips isn’t just a compliment, but an observation.

what a foreign thing, to be given someone’s truth so easily.

the room gets quiet aside from the foam whispers and sputter of water when his legs shift.

“I said,” you kiss him gently, “I think you’re handsome.”

the apathy to his appearance never returns. however, the harshness is retired for however long you continue to hold him.

he will be whatever you want him to, and if that means he’s handsome, then a good place to start is believing you when you tell him so.

[oddcatharsis]

love to keep me warm

simon riley x gn!reader

cw fluff, barista!reader, simon's kinda a softie in this, ~1.3k words

The bell chimes, breeze sneaking into the tiny cafe before the door is swiftly closed. 

“Welcome in- oh.” You say, polite smile falling instantly once you see who walked in. You take in his appearance- tall, built, wearing a skull mask. You’re positive that those three things have never combined and had a positive outcome. You’re already reaching for the bat you keep by the register before he speaks.

 “A black tea.” He says bluntly, looking down towards you. “Right- I’m sorry about that.” You say, at least having enough sensibility to look embarrassed at your reaction. “That was rude of me, I’ll cover your drink for you.” You murmur, brewing the tea. 

“It’s fine,” He says, pausing briefly as if deciding whether or not to voice his thought. “Smart to be afraid- distrusting, rather.” He says, eyes watching as you place the lid onto his cup. 

“Still feels rude anyways,” You say, handing him the drink. “Enjoy.” You say, meeting his eyes for the first time. He grunts his thanks and makes his way towards a table towards the corner of the cafe. Some time between then and the lunch rush he makes his way out of the cafe, and that’s that.

He comes in the next week. And the week after. Always on Thursday. 11:40am on the dot. You’ve started to brew the tea just in time for his arrival, handing him his cup once he reaches the register. It’s nice, dependable. One of few familiar faces in a job where they constantly change and blur together.

The first time it happens is around 5 weeks into your new routine. You already have his tea brewed and he just.. doesn’t show up. You throw away the tea, figuring something must have come up. No big deal.

Until it happens again. And again. It’s not until a little over a month later that he shows up again. You glance up at the clock. 11:40am.

His balaclava is pulled over his head as usual, but it’s painfully clear that he’s exhausted. “Missed you here!” You hum. The same thing you’d tell any of your regulars, but this felt like it had more weight to it. “Was getting worried.” You admit sheepishly, wiping down the counter in preparation for the lunch rush.

“No need to worry, sweetheart.” He says, and oh. In the past month he’d been gone, it seems that you’ve forgotten the rough timbre of his voice. “A tea, please.”

You hesitate for a moment, eyes raking over him. He raises an eyebrow, your gaze assessing. “Alright.” You respond a beat later, pulling out Earl Grey instead of his usual. He hums when you hand him a London Fog, looking at you for explanation. “S’not what I ordered.” He says, no trace of irritation in his voice, just quiet curiosity.

“Actually, you asked for a tea.” You say, gesturing towards the cup. “It’s a tea.” You say, nervousness laced in your smile. A moment passes before he huffs out a laugh, shoulders imperceptibly lighter than when he walked in.

“Alright. Fair’s fair.”

“So, turns out I don’t actually know your name.” You say, passing him an iced chai. He hums in acknowledgement, taking a sip of the drink. “S’good.” He mutters, looking at the drink briefly before his eyes meet yours. “S’that a question or a statement?” He asks, rolling his eyes when you just shrug.

“It’s- I’m Simon.” He says, internally cringing at the way he stumbled over his words. “Well, Simon. It’s nice to meet you.” You smile, eyes moving towards the door when you hear its chime. “Lunch rush, shoo.” You say, swatting him away. He grumbles about rude baristas, a private smile finding its way onto his face.

The next week, he opts for a black surgical mask instead of his balaclava.

You’ve learned that Simon has a tendency to disappear sometimes. There’s never any warning, but one week he won’t stop in and that’s all the notice you need. One week always turns into more, and drags on until he comes back. He’s gone a month or two at a time, and you learn to prepare for it. 

“It’d be embarrassing to lean on a regular that heavily,” You reason, wiping down the counter. You chastise yourself under your breath when you catch yourself glancing at the clock, then the door. Embarrassing.

When he comes back, he picks up as if nothing happened. For some reason you can never place, that bothers you more than you know it should. Feels like he should be doing something, should be apologizing. You know he shouldn’t- that he doesn’t have to. He’s a customer, and faces come and go. That’s part of the job. Selfishly, you wish he would apologize anyways. Would stay longer. Existed beyond the four walls of your cafe.

It hurts more than the first time he left. You know him now. You know his name, can catch the way his shoulders shake ever so slightly at one of your jokes. His presence was a comfort in the moments before the lunch rush, someone who wanted to talk to you for more than a brief moment. You found yourself missing it more than you anticipated.

He’s gone long this time. By the fourth month, you’re convinced he’s ghosting you- go as far as to ask friends if that can even happen in real life. Secretly, you’re mad at him. Your prices aren’t even that high- and you thought you were good enough company. You have so much anger that you don’t know what to do with it until it hits you. You’re lonely.

Your routine is all thrown off, it has been for months now. It’s Tuesday, and you’re in the middle of your lunch rush.

“Jesus-” You startle, his imposing frame catching you entirely off guard. “Okay, fuck. Hi. Tea?” You choke out, already reaching for the black tea.

“Not today. Chat later?” He asks, and fuck, does it feel good. The way his voice borders on desperate, like he’d die without it. God, it felt good.

“Yeah, ‘course. Once I’m out of the shit.” You say, head nodding towards the line behind him. He takes the sign and moves, and you have to take a deep breath before pushing through the rest of the line.

It’s nearing 1pm when people start filtering out. Ever observant, Simon takes the cue and heads to the register. “Started to think you’d tired of me.” You say bluntly, words out of your mouth before you could even think them over. Simon at least had the wherewithal to look ashamed.

“I’m sorry.” He blurts out, standing up straighter. “Well- not really.” Before you can even cut him off, he’s rambling on. “Wouldn’t have happened if it was up to me. But I am sorry that I was gone without notice for that long.” He says, the silence heavy. “I know you worry.”

“I just- can I know why?” You ask, looking up at him. And his heart aches, because the look he was expecting was so much more anger. Instead, he finds a lot of hurt- he thinks that it’s worse than anything else.

“I’m military.” He says and- well, you’re not satisfied. You know there’s more there- have a lot of prodding you want to do- but you’re aware enough to acknowledge and accept a clear boundary being set. “Oh. So this is- it’s gonna be regular? Leaving?” You ask, sounding a world more pitiful than you wanted.

“Afraid so. I figured with how much I disappear on you, might as well just give you my number.” He says bashfully, suddenly finding the mop bucket in the corner terribly interesting. “To check in. That okay?” He tacks on, finally daring to meet your eyes.

“Yeah. More than okay.” You nearly whisper, looking entirely too pleased. “Great, yeah.” He stumbled, pulling out his phone. He felt his face heating up, entirely mortified at his demeanor. The way you look at him is dangerously close to tender, and he finds himself stuck staring at you.

In the light of the cafe, he thought you looked beautiful. If he looked a moment longer, he might even say you looked absolutely smitten- God knows he is.

[oddcatharsis]

You know, I see a lot of people asking for advice on how to improve their writing, being discouraged by a lack of engagement, but there’s a really simple solution I wanted to share that has worked to keep me motivated!!

Put on the amulet. That’s right. The one bequeathed to you by your very distant relative who recently died under mysterious circumstances. You have nothing to lose and everything to gain. Bear the weight of the amulet and become a king by its counsel and arcane powers. Put on the amulet. Those who tell you to lock the amulet away and never speak its name or cast it into the infinite inky depths of the sea are jealous of you because you have the amulet and its infinite wisdom and they don’t. Put on the amulet.

[oddcatharsis]

finally caved and bought mwii and alone is so much more stressful than let's players make it seem.... had to take several breaks to stay sane