#WORSE because there IS effective tagging without putting it in the body of the thing

[remma-demma]

This is really petty and kinda mean but hearing people who have 1000s of followers and who regularly get hundreds if not thousands of notes on their posts complain about being stifled in the algorithm is really making my 10 note on a GREAT day heart shrivel and die.

I try soooooo hard to get my art out there with tags and by sharing it on discords, posting on multiple platforms, reblogging / retweeting it multiple times and half the time it’s literally only seen and appreciated by my sibling or maybe my most DEDICATED of mutuals.

[rampagingfanfictioner14]

relativity falls, but... (Part 3)

And then we come to the crux of the matter. What happens next?

Well, Bill makes good on his promise and talks to Candy and Soos. He'd like to limit the number of people involved in this project, but he needs Soos's hands and Candy's brain to make this whole thing work, so he's just going to have to put up with it.

Candy excitedly accepts the proposal, not even thinking twice. Sure, Mason sounds a bit weird, but maybe he's just caught a cold or something. She's a curious person at heart, and a brilliant one too. After college, she'd moved away from Gravity Falls to somewhere in California, selling some junk like personal computers and whatnot. Still, at "Mason's" insistence, she drops everything and moves back to her hometown anyway, already thinking about all the discoveries they could make through such an ambitious project.

Soos... doesn't. He apologizes, but he's got family to take care of now, and he can't dedicate himself to the project like asked. Bill is angry by the refusal and almost starts shouting at him, but eventually settles on slamming the phone down and forcing himself to think that it's better this way anyway. That fat oaf wasn't good for much other than his strength. He'd make do somehow.

The main task was drafting the equations for the portal. The thinking. It required brains, not brawn.

The actual portal construction was a problem for later, he decides. This Candy better be as smart as Mason had made her sound.

...And yep, she definitely is. Her relationship with the anxiety-ridden Mason is... similar to Ford and Fiddleford, but not quite. Mason's adventurous, very much so --- but whenever she tags along he's quieter than usual, almost always worrying over something or the other, unable to focus (a side-effect of Mabel leaving; his anxiety roams unchecked and his social awkwardness is worse than ever without her to be his rock).

---Unless he sees something cool. Then he's bolting off towards it with that journal of his, and leaving Candy in the dust.

As they work, they form a close friendship. It's always been there since their college days, really, but... Candy likes Mason, for all his quirks. Maybe likes him a little too much.

But Mason is far too distracted by Bill. Maybe in some other time, if they'd done this a year or so ago, they could've been something more. It's too late now. He's not always even there. He tries to keep up with Candy, but his main concern is the portal, and besides, Mason doesn't like social interactions much anyway.

He scrawls his notes in his journals to keep records of his findings, and spends all of his free time either with Bill, drawing up equations, or with Candy, poring over paradigm theory and other complicated jargon. Sometimes he drifts off and unconsciously allows Bill to take over, waking up to fully completed drawings and a new couple of stacks of equations to check.

His obsession with that portal eventually gets quite tiring to deal with, honestly. It's like their college days all over again. The one thing that Candy doesn't appreciate is having to constantly nag at the man to eat or drink something. Did he not feel his body shutting down? At this rate, he was going to waste away.

It's a pretty nice life, though, ignoring Mason's occasional, inexplicable "personality switches" (she can't think of anything else that would make him act so strange and off-putting; she'd searched the whole house for any evidence of drugs but never found any. Either Mason's upped his hiding game, or he's gone and developed some mental illness, but she doesn't have enough evidence for that and she's not going to confront him while having no proof).

She doesn't understand in time. The time comes to test the portal, and everything goes wrong.

Brief summary, 'cuz I can't be bothered writing it all out:

Candy gets chucked through the portal (whether that be because of canon reasons or some other universe-specific one is up for grabs).

Mason manages to pull her back, but she's knocked completely off-kilter; shellshocked and terrified; stuttering, spewing gibberish, before abruptly running away from the house and quitting on the spot.

Mason's... confused. He realizes that he was being insensitive by demanding to know what she'd seen through the portal, but surely it wasn't anything too bad, right? Bill told him so. He reaches out to her after a few days of radio silence, but she brushes him off, almost seeming to have forgotten the whole thing entirely. This makes him kinda angry. Why was she being so dismissive when it was clear she'd something terrible? Why wouldn't she tell him? He goes to the only friend he has left, Bill, for answers.

Bill convinces Mason that Candy's just another betrayer, like Mabel, taking advantage of him. Still, Mason can't shake the feeling that something is wrong. Bill tells him to focus on the portal. It was his only priority.

Final tweaks to the portal are made. Mason realizes that Candy's starting some sort of cult, having disregarded his advice to get rid of her memory gun, running around town and erasing the memories of everyone who'd seen something strange.

That does it. He knows something's wrong. Candy never acted like this. There was something terrible behind that portal and he needed to have a very serious chat with Bill.

And whatdya know, surprise surprise, Bill's a professional backstabber in disguise. Womp womp, Mason, his monsters are gonna invade your dimension, and it's all because of you! Because you trusted the wrong person... again.

Mason goes full panic-mode. Like Ford, but worse, because he's Mason, and when he gets paranoid, he gets paranoid. He locks the doors and buys like fifty different deadbolts. He locks the windows and the skylight and even the entrance to the roof, and spends his nights in the basement still, huddled up in the darkest, most hidden corner with only a lamp to keep him company. Every shadow makes him flinch, every sound as loud as a gunshot in the silence. Every time he accidentally drifts off he wakes with like a dozen serious injuries and angry, bloody scratches and scribbles on the walls from Bill's unsuccessful attempts to break into the retinal-scanner protected portal room.

Mason's not in a good place. Physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually.

---

My brainworms have taken a break for now so I'll have to sum up the next plot points:

Mabel receives a postcard from Mason, agonizes over it for a minute or so before promptly dropping everything and rushing to Gravity Falls.

Mason doesn't open the door, too paranoid to move from his spot in the basement. Using a secret code from their childhood, he'd encoded the instructions on how to get to him, hoping that Mabel would remember (and besides, the man's running on about ten shots of caffeine and hasn't slept in over a month; cut him some slack --- he's definitely not thinking clearly).

Thankfully, the universe aligns properly and Mabel does remember the code, hurrying down to the basement and instantly tripping an alarm, about three traps, and injures her wrist.

Mason's wild eyes meet hers. The estranged twins exchange a brief moment of absolute, utter shock: Mason not having expected Mabel to actually turn up, and Mabel not having expected her brother to look like a dead man walking.

Same stuff as canon basically happens: Mabel and Mason haven't learned to communicate well due to their less than ideal childhood, and both of them are tired, traumatized, and tactless with their words. A fight happens: although with a lot more hair-pulling, slapping, and shouting than punches.

Mason doesn't believe he's better than Mabel, so there's no talk about doing "the first worthwhile thing" in her life and whatnot. But still, there are some pretty damn hurtful words thrown about. Mabel gets branded by the symbol next to the control panel. Mason almost dies from sheer exhaustion.

It doesn't really matter, though. In the end, the results are the same. Mason is still thrown through the portal and his first journal still ends up in Mabel's hands, the constellation shimmering on the cover almost tauntingly; the only real thing she had left of her brother.

At first, she almost doesn't believe it. She waits for him to return, frozen, her shoulder burning as the brand sizzled on her skin. Then reality sinks in, and she's horrified. Had... Had she just killed her twin?

Then that famous determination sparks. Mabel vows to bring Mason back home, even if it's the last thing she does. Even if what's left is only a few specks of dust, even if he hates her for it. She's a terrible person, she knows, and Mason's got every right to despise her. But the thought of him asking her to just leave, like she couldn't care less about him... Well. Frankly, the mere idea pissed her off.

She stays at Mason's house, unwilling to leave until she finishes her mission. And over time, she begins to recollect more details that she'd missed in her blind anger. She remembers Mason's distraught face, the dark liquid (blood?) trailing down his right eye, his pale skin. Something terrible had happened to her brother, she thinks with a rough swallow, looking down at the crimson staining the bathroom, red constellations etched almost mockingly in the unkept place. Something absolutely terrible. Horrible. Unspeakable.

She knows she needs food to continue her mission. Restarting the house's water and electricity would be nice too. And someone needed to pay off the mortgage. So she does what she does best: puts on a show.

The Dream House (this universe's Mystery Shack) begins as a simple Sparkle Hut. Something nice, something pretty, something that would catch the eye of wandering tourists or townspeople. But mere glitter isn't enough. She starts flipping through her brother's journal and complies a mismatched assortment of various creatures, creating a sleepy, almost hypnotic atmosphere to the shack--- and what better name for it than the Dream House?

>>>And that's it, peeps. My version of relativity falls is over (at least, the backstory part). I've speedran this whole thing over an hour, so some details are still rough --- but tell me what you think! It's funny that this whole thing was sparked by a lil conversation between me and my friend.

In short, Mabel and Dipper are not perfect twins. I think people underestimate just how much their decisions and experiences and attitudes was shaped by their summer in Gravity Falls. Remember, Stan and Ford were thick as thieves until they became like, 15 or something. A lot can change after you enter high school, especially when you've got your parents arguing 24/7 and terrible communication skills. Mabel and Dipper are not going to hug and be nice to each other after thirty years apart --- thirty years to stew in anger and regret and pain and sadness. They're not going to be as close as they were as kids, and that's okay. Don't be afraid to give them flaws in this au. It's absolutely wonderful to explore :)

---Thank you for reading.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 2.5(prev)

[sunwarmed-ash]

🔥Sinful Sunday🔥

Triangles are the strongest shape

Ch 1: Three's a crowd...

Fandom: Ted Lasso Ships: Eventual RoyJamieKeeley TW's: Depictions of violence, Drink Spiking-No SA Tags: WIP, Angst, Sad Jamie, the rocky slowburn that is incredible polycule that is KJR , season 1-3 extended scenes, eventual happy ending, plot with porn, slow burn, accidental voyeurism, voyeurism, masterbation, funny, pre KJR relationship Preview:

Most of the speed walk to their old shared flat went by in a blacked-out blur, but when he’s greeted with the familiar scent of sandalwood and citrus Jamie knows he's home. It helps bring some of the feeling back into his trauma-numb body. 

“I just need to rest a few hours, honestly,” he starts, hoping maybe she’d offer to lay next to him for a bit. 

But then his eyes land on the most emotionally complicated person in the world, and now ‘home’ is the last place he wants to be. Because it's not his home anymore. It's theirs. Without him. 

“Why’s he here?” Jamie asks, though he knows the answer. 

“He lives here,” Roy explains, albeit nicer than Jamie's immediate, snappy tone.

The confirmation hurts worse than all of the physical attacks he’d endured tonight combined. Rejection burns hot in his gut. He’s gotta get out of here. 

“We’re here to help Jamie,” Keeley attempts to reassure, but the panicky feeling only compounds, and he hates the way the spotlight is now on him. Even if they were just trying to help. It was having the opposite effect. 

“I- can’t- this is too much-” he is barely able to get out. 

“Maybe we should get you in bed,” Roy offers. 

That statement is enough to stop the panic attack in its tracks. Jamie’s eyes are blown wide in hopeful confusion, and he’s about to agree, yeah, that actually probably would help, before Roy puts together what he unintentionally offered and quickly edits “not- like that. To sleep.”

Jamie’s mouth snaps shut and he bites into his tongue to keep back how disparagingly rejected and humiliated that made him feel. He’s such a fucking idiot. Why would he think someone like Roy Kent would even be interested…

“Yeah. Yeah, alright…” In hindsight, they were both probably right. Jamie is exhausted. His body aches in every place. There were surely bruises forming on his face and under his sweater. Yet another thing he’s going to have to explain away at training, or tonight if they have sex…

No. Jamie needs sleep. Not sex. 

Right.

[keepswingin]

The world disappears, when he plugs into the network.

It turns into ones and zeroes, abundances of numbers and codes that he doesn't always understand. It doesn't matter how long he's been doing this, how much he learns, how many near death experiences he goes through.

Every time he plugs in, everything is created anew. The backdoors he's weaved fade into scattered strains. The way in gets taken out. The network tries to eat him alive.

It's exhausting.

He used to love that exhaustion, adrenaline racing through him as he outran a system's virus, planting his own before it could catch up. Slipping out seconds before it would overload, leaving nothing left. Waking up to a heaving chest and thousands wired to his account, body weak but alive.

Recovery was hard on him, on his body and mind, but worth it. He'd treat the group to dinner the next day, takeout they couldn't afford otherwise, pizza boxes stained with grease.

Jeongin's eyes shining in awe, Felix trying to pretend he wasn't hungry. Han reaching over and squeezing his hand, Chan shooting him looks from across the room - worried, always so worried even when things were okay. Seungmin threatening his patience only because he knew he could get away with it. Hyunjin putting aside enough for Changbin, where he would arrive harried and shoulders sagging with the weight of a world Minho hadn't been a part of for a long, long time.

He's been digital for so long that sometimes he forgets what's happened on the surface. Swimming beside code was always easier than having to deal with anything physical, like blood and bruises and a city torn apart by gang wars.

He was free, in his own way.

"Time's up."

He's pulled from the network faster than he can register, leaving him disoriented and gasping loud as cruel faces stare down at him, sneering. His heart races as he tries to remember his own body and mind, but the codes have been affecting him worse and worse every time he dives now, sticking to his brain like a brand.

He's forgetting details, tricks. The physical world, outside of the system. He only remembers his ragtag group by thinking of them at least once a day, in between being shoved under and dragged back to the surface, pulling old memories forward in an attempt of remembering to the more recent ones.

"Not bad," a different voice muses from his right, eyes scanning the computer screen beside him. "Five nodes in three minutes."

Minho's body starts to shake, an after-effect from going under that started a few years ago. Technology still grows better and better, but the human body does not. He tries to lift his arm to watch, able to count it down, but forgets that he can't move. Not freely, anyway.

"Wasn't he tapped for ten?" A deep voice rasps amidst the movement of the room, masked faces filtering in and out of his vision. A needle is prepped and stuck into the crook of his elbow, injecting a booster. It burns going in, and he's so weak that a cry spills from his lips, resulting in someone else laughing.

"Listen to the thing. He can barely handle five!"

Minho tries to shake his head, but it's useless when his body feels this way. Unsure which way is up, loaded with street drugs that were laced with things to make people who dived do their jobs without problem. But his body was rejecting it, rejecting all of it, and he wasn't sure how much longer he would last here, like this, thrown under every half hour.

No one was meant to dive continuously, no matter what was in their system. He should have never taken so many jobs in such a short amount of time, put himself out there for everyone in the black markets to see. But he'd been desperate, and Chan had been missing running on three days, and they needed a place to squat, food to eat, things to protect themselves with -

He knew the job sounded off from the moment he saw it. They were offering too much money for too little, a run and tag he could do in his sleep. The money would provide for them long enough that Changbin and Felix could start looking for Chan, while Minho kept an eye on the others as they moved from place to place.

Instead, he had failed them all.

"Fine, we'll do ten this time. If he can't handle it, we'll sell him to the highest bidder and move onto the next." A long pause. "Happy?"

"Very," the other voice snaps back. "Plug him in."

Minho tries to move. The table is freezing against his skin. Metal cages his arms and legs in, curling around his shoulders. Needle marks cover his arm. His head is splitting in half. His body is tearing itself apart.

Hands fumble at his port, and then all he knows is code as they hook him into the network again. It floods him fast, and his back arches against the table, restraints keeping him still when all he wants to do is run.

Chan is missing, and so is he.

It's the last coherent thought he has, before he hears a timer echo in the distance and all he knows is the race to what they need, before they dispose of him too.

[steelycunt]

ten books 2 know me!

thank for you the tag @pancakehouse @fruity-individual @serethereal @rollercoasterwords !

-> skulduggery pleasant, derek landy.

starting with this one because this WAS my childhood i was. i never read percy jackson never read twilight read [redacted] and it wasnt even good but my dad thought id like these so he bought me the first skulduggery pleasant one day...oh man oh boy...these were. i was eight queuing up outside a whsmith with a schoolbag full of books for the author's booksigning...also he was so nice ta derek x

-> giovanni's room, james baldwin.

cannot get into this too much before i start wailing and biting and stuff but well. giovanni's room is my favourite book of all time i read most of it. last year in june laying on brighton beach while the sun was going down and i have never recovered from and will you bring me home again / yes. i'll bring you home again since and fear i never will. also! first james baldwin book i read who has come to be an author whose writing style i adore and carry in my mind whenever i try to write something myself.

-> young mungo, douglas stuart.

not the first book i ever cried at but. first book i ever experienced disgusting full body sobs while reading and fierce competitor also for. my favourite book. had to reread so much of those final pages because i couldnt concentrate with all the crying and after that i am so excited to never have to experience the physical chest-aching worry that i did for the duration of reading this. also i think the very quiet way love is written here through. very trivial small things is something i loved very much and that has stayed with me!

-> wuthering heights, emily bronte.

read this when i was about eleven, and then again a few weeks ago with my mum (whose favourite book it is) and it was still so. absolutely sickening i just think its excellent xx and without it we wouldn't have kate bush's 1978 single wuthering heights so xx think on that xx

-> the autobiography of malcom x, alex haley.

when i was a child my younger sister joined a sunday league football team and my dad used to give her a tenner every time she scored a goal. to even things out since i refused to get up at the arsecrack of dawn to contract hypothermia on a frozen football pitch, he started giving me books exclusively on malcolm x to read and would give me a tenner every time i finished one. this one was the first i read and was indeed the first book that ever made me cry at the end xx

-> my brilliant friend, elena ferrante.

so many of these are recent reads because it was only jan 2022 that i made a genuine effort to get back into reading for leisure and mbf is no different but well. the way friendship is written here is just unhinged and incredible and the series in general so far has been. there is nothing like it i fear

-> the raven boys, maggie steifvater.

gansey unfortunately.

-> macbeth, william shakespeare.

okay i know i know but. when you are studying it in englit class for your gcse it might as well be a book innit. anyway of all the texts i did for english both at gcse + a level macbeth is still my favourite and probably the most effort i ever put into an english essay. special shoutout to frankenstein which i can enjoy in hindsight but unfortunately it fucked me on the exam so out of bitterness it doesnt get a place here x

-> the secret history, donna tartt.

i did inhale this book but also it gets a place purely for being my first exposure to donna tartt's writing and style in general which is so very distinctive and has. undoubtedly had an effect on me for better or for worse we shall one day see but for now. who can say!

-> foster, claire keegan.

it is a little pamphlet of a book at eighty six pages but. i read it just over a month ago and havent properly stopped thinking about it since it was just everything quiet + mundane + understated that makes my brain start sparking and whirring and. im bringing it on holiday in the summer so i can read it again in the appropriate season xx

tagging. but no pressure. @gaewaren @dykefever @emerqldv @fastasyoucan1999 @forlorngarden @writteninverses @boyjoan !!

[invaders-cookbook]

Invader's Cookbook #3: Keeping your mind and body healthy

Invasions in Elden Ring are insanely difficult to the point of being unwinnable sometimes. It's part of the charm, it's what makes them so appealing to people like me. The game doesn't shy away from putting you into situations where your winning chances are absolutely random, and it's up to you to deal with them. You never know when the tides are going to turn, which makes them so exciting.

But this excitement comes at a cost of risking extreme frustration. Winning against the odds feels great, but not everyone is going to beat the odds, especially if you're new to invasions! Frustration can come both from outwards (the game put you into an unwinnable situation) and inwards (You see that you're underperforming and lose a winnable situation) That's why it's important to keep your cool and mitigate the effects of frustration.

Here are the things that help me personally to not only to mitigate frustration, but also significantly improve

1. Keep your body healthy.

I am not exaggerating when I'm saying this, your winrate spikes tenfold when you take care of yourself! This is so important. I know it's kinda general life advice, but you'll be surprised how much it actually matters.

I am not kidding, you play 200% better after a shower. Try it, I'm serious.

Remember to eat healthy food sometimes! Full regular meals improve your mood and performance drastically! I can't overstate how much better you play when you have a full meal!

And PLEASE sleep well. I am serious. Sleep is integral part of your physical and mental health. I know it's tough to keep a good sleep schedule, and not everyone has time to sleep, but please do, whenever you can, try your best to have regular sleep! If you're reading this post when it's past your bedtime, first of all, reblog and tell me in the tags, and second, GO TO SLEEP! NOW!!!

2. You are not going to beat the odds every time. That's how odds work. But you can set them in your favour.

You lost again, because the coop has already completed the entire area and you were backed against a fogwall against multiple players. What were you supposed to do?

I agree, that situation is really, really bullshit. But that's invasions. Every time you use that bloody finger you roll a cosmic dice, and if you roll low, you simply don't get a good situation. What works for me is changing my goals in a particular invasion. It goes from "Kill the host" to "Kill that single phantom" or "Deal the most damage I can possibly do" or just simply "Not die for as long as I can". Land a cool combo! Befriend the host*! Poison them! Go out on your own terms!

Sometimes changing your goal according to the situation is enough to offset your frustration.

* – DO NOT do this when there is another phantom around. You're getting blocked for this. You are not only a dickhead, you also lower the pool of possible co-invaders that can connect with you and help you out in the future. Respect your teammates.

3. Take breaks

Invasions are intense as hell, and you can't just invade back to back untill you exhaust yourself! Try to take breaks from the game, so your skills are always at 80-100%! The more you play without breaks the worse it gets.

This also helps if you're having a bad losing streak. Generally I'm trying to take 10 minute breaks if I get two consecutive losses. Interestingly enough, putting myself on a 10 minute time-out forces me to find something else to do, which kinda helps me with chores. It's not for everyone, but my ADHD ass loves this.

You can use your break to do some stretches, or go for a walk, or do the dishes. Anything, really! It's up to you! Whatever frustration you had will fade away and you will be at your maximum capacity again!

Another thing you can use your break for is some wrist and eye exercises! It's good for your health and will make you more relaxed and focused.

4. Change things up: try a new build, start a new playthrough!

This is what I personally enjoy doing. Experiment with different playstyles and try invading at different level ranges. For that of course you need a new build and a new character. Creating a character with invading in mind is very fun and challenging, and it allows you to do some more calm stuff on the side when you're not in the mood for invading on your main character.

Not sure what build to choose? Ask @huggingentacles for build suggestions!

[cream-and-tea]

how do werewolves work in lmd (plus anything else like that)

OK SO.

(this got very very long)

(just as a warning)

(also i’m going to tag @transmasc-wizard bc i remember you asked about this a while ago and a lot of this response comes from what i had typed up to respond to YOU lol)

(okay here we go)

there are (putting it very very basically) two main kinds of magic in the Ghost Story Universe: mortem (Death Juice) and vita (Life Juice). they draw from the same source (God Juice) (which is also the source of the apocalypse but that’s another post entirely) and are kind of different aspects of one thing, but still act as opposing forces. equals and opposites, can’t have one without the other, etc etc. the point is that even though they’re two different types of magic they share the same set of rules and operate under the same basic facts. one of the most basic being that magic is physically taxing to use. no magic comes without a cost

so this is pretty straightforward. and generally it isn’t anything too debilitating, but the more powerful the magic and the more magic used, the more damaging the physical effects become (for example: early on agnes’s chitchats with the ghosts she sees don’t really wear on her because it’s a very passive form of her power, but as the plot progresses and she actively draws on it more and more she starts to develop chronic headaches). the more active magic bullshit you do in succession —> the worse you’ll be feeling the next morning. people would usually need to rest for upwards of a few days after performing a major act of magic and the reason The Library focuses so much on endurance and repetition is to prevent that from happening. it’s to the point that some majorly powerful stuff is possible but the benefit of it is almost completely outweighed by the potential damage it would cause.

rambly worbuilding aside, this is really just a preface so it makes sense when i say: vampires and werewolves are what happen when people push their magic to far.

they’re basically the most extreme end of the spectrum for either kind of magic. vamps are a result of overusing vita (blood life stuff), and wolfs are a result of overusing mortem (spooky death stuff). this happens to people when they’re drawing on so much magic that their body literally cannot support it anymore and starts canabilizing itself in order to support the magic and prevent the person from just. coming apart at the seams. a Regular Person body is just incapable of handling that amount of power, so in turn they have to draw their sustenance from a different non-human source. the comparatively small piece-of-magic-apocalypse-juice in them mutates and co-opts the functions of their body in order to save that body from collapse. both vamps and wolves have to feed CONSTANTLY or they risk their bodies giving in and all their organs straight-up failing. it’s a slow transformation process and sort of representative of how much Whatever Caused The Apocalypse has become so deeply ingrained in every part of the new world. again: it presents differently but it’s all the same stuff in the end.

the world is full of monsters and weirdness and general spooky bullshit but vampires and werewolves especially have an ENORMOUS amount of stigma surrounding them because of the fact that most people still see regular magic users as recognizably human, and view the transformation as a transition from Human Person With Emotions Who I Should View As Such Despite This One Weird Thing to Inhuman Monster. most magical creatures aren’t seen as sentient in nature and many of them are actively dangerous to humans, so if someone pushes their abilities to far and ends up undergoing the transformation then it’s seen as a shift from being one of Us (normal people just trying to survive this crazy broken down to world) to being one of Them (unnatural monsters that came about as a result of the evil forest and apocalypse and want to destroy humanity), except that obviously the people who are turned are the same people they were before, just with an extra set of challenges and probably more bloodlust (which i can see being a bit of concern but c’mon. are u really going to let a little killer instinct get in the way of a lasting and meaningful relationship. weak).

They’re also used as an excuse when it comes to hatred of people born with magic at all. bc sure it SEEMS harmless when you kid is learning from their dead grandma or healing a little bit faster than normal, but with ONE WRONG MOVE they could become A VISCOUS BEAST or a BLOODSUCKING MONSTER and do you really want to take that risk?? wouldn’t it be better to stamp that out now before someone gets hurt??? even in places like The Library, which usually serves as a safe-haven for people born w magic, vamps and wolfs are seen as somehow Lesser. The Library toutes them as cautionary tales and failures of magic, basically a warning of what not to do to their students.

to get into the more specific abilities and effects and What Being A Vampire Or Werewolf Means i’ve made some handy little lists (ft. calliope and luca macnamara, a book 2-3 character that nobody knows about lol) (please click tumblr absolutely wrecked the quality):

so. yeah.

[mania-sama]

rule #9 - child of the stars

Rule #9 - Child of the Stars - Fish in a Birdcage

➼ information ❧ Jujutsu Kaisen ❧ Character: Gojo Satoru ❧ Tags: prison realm, asphyxiation, self-harm (from the asphyxiation), blood, whump ❧ Summary: Gojo Satoru is sealed in the Prison Realm and everything goes great until he realizes he's running out of oxygen. Worse yet, there's nothing he can do about it. ❧ Word Count: 1,370 ❧ Cross-posted from Archive of Our Own ❧ Original post date: 22 December 2023

➼ whumptober 2023 ❧ Day 28: Oxygen Deprivation ❧ Previous Day ❧ Next Day ❧ Masterlist

Gojo Satoru had no intentions of being sealed. When he answered the call to protect the people inside Shibuya, he had a general idea of the opponents he was going to face and the Prison Realm they hoped to trap him in. He also knew that, without a doubt, he could kill them all.

Of course, no one had prepared him for Geto Suguru or the creature inhabiting his best friend’s skin. No one in their right mind would have thought to warn him because they didn’t know. Gojo would have gone to Shibuya anyway. He would’ve faced his best friend’s animated body regardless.

But it would’ve been nice to know.

Maybe he wouldn’t have been sealed. That momentary shock, the two seconds that can change the tide of war itself, may have been the difference between his concealment and total victory. He can’t be sure of it, and he knows better than anyone that to dwell indefinitely is to effectively kill the psyche itself. He’ll be worse getting out of the Prison Realm than when he was put in. If his assumptions are correct, then he’s going to be on his best physique when his students open the back door of the realm.

Gojo silences his mind. He cuts off his thoughts of Geto Suguru, the what-ifs, and the future, and focuses on the present. The Prison Realm is dark, small, and gratingly loud. As a holder of Six Eyes and Infinity, Gojo is difficult for the Prison Realm to restrain and comprehend. He can’t get out by any means, so the realm itself isn’t weakened. He assumes that the manifestation of its difficulty is in the churning sounds all around him where the sides of the realm turn like cogs on a machine, but he can’t be sure until enough time passes. It’s possible that the realm itself will never be able to fully comprehend him. Which would be hilarious if it weren’t for the fact that the noise is going to drive him insane. 

There are a few things he knew about the realm before he even entered Shibuya, but it’s limited to what’s been researched outwardly rather than what's been revealed by people who have been inside of it. For example, time doesn’t pass in the Prison Realm, or if it does, it’s incredibly distorted. Whatever is inside is unable to break out, whether from the realm taking away cursed energy and techniques itself, or physically restricting movement itself. It exists as a half-way domain, meaning it technically doesn’t belong to any one person as the realm is a separate creature itself.

He prods the “floor” with one of his fingers absently. His heart is pounding and his veins are thrumming with anxious energy. It feels like he’s moving fast, but without going anywhere at all. Like a plane ride, except he’s watching the land and sky shatter into a million pieces and whip by his window. And it’s not that he’s an anxious person or that his psyche breaks easily, but he has the incomprehensible sensation of his mind scattering, running away with his thoughts.

It’s not a pleasurable experience by any means. However, he’s not being actively tortured, so he considers that an absolute win.

No torture.

His heart picks up the pace, and his breathing grows shallow.

No torture.

Something isn’t right.

Gojo doesn’t want to be hurt, obviously. It should go without saying. The anxiety he’s experiencing has to be the impact of the sensations of time stopping and shattering while he moves without it, or it moves without him. The human body and mind are simply not able to fully comprehend the complete stoppage or distortion of time, so they panic and try to save themselves the best they can. That he understands.

What he doesn’t understand is the way his throat is starting to catch on each breath, and how his heart is racing beyond the raised levels of innate panic. His energy levels aren’t depleted, so he knows it can’t be from exhaustion. In all honesty, he feels fine outside of the assessed symptoms, which is why it’s so odd.

Then he stops breathing.

Oh no, don’t worry, he tries. His hands find his neck and scratch to relieve the pressure clogging his airway. His torso twists around and he spits out copious amounts of saliva to somehow get even a little bit of oxygen through. He curls his hands into fists and beats his chest and stomach.

Gojo has never had the displeasure of being choked. He did almost drown once when he was young and undergoing early-age sorcery training courtesy of the Gojo Clan, but that was a very different experience to what he’s enduring now. Back then, there had at least been something and someone — water surrounding his head and body, people waiting to drag him to the surface before he died completely, and most importantly, his natural-born technique.

Satoru now, twenty-two years after that week-long ordeal at age six, drowns without the water, the people, or his technique. He has nothing but the faux strangulation, the lack of air getting through his throat, and he wants to scream, but all he can do is cough. He can get none of the carbon dioxide he expels back, so his diaphragm cramps in response.

He wishes that had taken the opportunity to stand and stretch his legs ten minutes ago because currently, the only thing he can do is curl into a tight ball while every bit of his body is lit on fire. His fingers nearly bend without his will. They grip, tear, and yank every part of him and the realm they can get their hands on. His head hurts from the lack of air and the clumps of hair he’s already pulled out, and his eyes are stinging from leaking tears and the nails scratching his skin and poking his eyeballs.

The tips of those nails are turning purplish-blue, and the color is slowly traveling down his fingers to the first knuckle joint. He coughs painfully into his pale, blue-tinted hands. Blood settles on his palms to add a little fun to the canvas his body is becoming.

If he weren’t dying from asphyxiation, he would find the colors incredibly funny. Maybe he’d laugh, or even smile! Red, blue, and their mixture purple. Hilarious. He couldn’t have made a better joke itself. But it's not funny. He doesn’t laugh and he doesn’t smile. Gojo torques in restless agitation and panic, and more blood spurts from his cough. His lungs simply have nothing to expel, so it takes chunks of his body that can be gotten rid of: his blood and saliva.

Satoru stares up at the dark expanse above his head, shrouding the grating cogs embedded in the “ceiling”. He doesn’t know if he can reach the top if he’s fully standing, or if scratching at it for long enough would make the realm give way. Gojo knows that’s not how domains and realms work. He knows.

Yet panic makes rabid dogs out of rational people.

His fist slams into the edge of the tight realm. It’s airtight. That’s why he’s suffocating — he’s used up all of the oxygen and carbon dioxide already.

Mind scattering as time and hypoxia strangles his body and brain, Gojo comes to an important secondary conclusion after discovering the “airtight” property of the Prison Realm: under no circumstances is the prisoner going to die.

He flattens on the ground, his knees bending to give his legs room to stretch upwards since there’s not enough length to hold his entire height lying down. A second later, he’s pushing himself over and digging his nails into his scalp again.

In his twenty-eight years of life, Gojo Satoru has never felt so incredibly helpless and useless as he does now.

His coughed-up blood and saliva run down his chin and dribble on his uniform. His fingers dig into the bare skin of his arms, and he has nothing more to do than pray that the world will have mercy on him. Maybe each time he blinks his eyes, he’ll open them to something other than the churning cogs of the Prison Realm.

[imlivinginyourtrashcan]

SSo I made a South Park Au for the millionth time...

its a lab experiment au where all the kids, minus stan are brought to a lab to be tested/experimented on. The main goal for all the kids, minus stan is to escape. Why minus stan? I hear you all asking

Cuz he was made in the lab and doesn't exactly have a place to go. Oh and the kids, minus kenny had there memories whiped. Its funny cuz Kennys the reasons that rules in place.

Btw, putting this into 3 separate posts because my dumb ass self FORGOT TO DRAW ONE and im MAD ABOUT IT

Now with that, here we go

Number 219, Kyle Broflovski- Flight/Wings. Nothing muvh has changed except the fact he just has wings now. He can fly but hes so bad at it

Number 119, Stan Marsh- Toxic Tears. He cries acid, alchohol makes the tears worse. Hes also radoactive, touch him without protection you will get radiation poisoning. Its why his skins grey oucofgci

Number 188, Eric Cartman- Slime. Hes jusr slime now, he can engulf things (put them in his slime body), detach and reattach himself. Make slime clones, all that stuff!

Number 699, Kenneth McCormick- Immortality. He looks normal but put him in a life or death test and he'll just regenerate and get up like nothing happened

Number 313, Leopold "Butters" Stotch- Time. He can control time, freeze it, reverse it, etc. Freezing time is effected by emotional distress and he can age people up or down or just freeze them. Hes hard to play freeze tag with LOL

[gattsuru]

Weird thing is it seems bizarrely incompetent.

The owners of the .ai TLD (Anguilla) are notorious for pulling domains back (without refund) for wide varieties of content

the owner(s) of the domain name bought it through NameCheap or a reseller buying through NameCheap (which is... better for small personal sites, if that).

But they don't have much on the DNS: no cname, no MX (meaning they can't receive e-mails), no DKIM or SPF (meaning they can't send to almost anyone).

The weird location problems are cloudflare being cloudflare; you get the 'best' Cloudflare cache, rather than the originating server. Normally the solution is to check DNS histories, but they've been using Cloudflare since at least May.

It's running NGINX (yay!), but an ancient version (1.18, which was outdated in late 2020) on Ubuntu (fuckers). Probably just a side effect of running Ubuntu LTS on a server, but this is why you don't do that on a serious machine.

The password prompt being funky is just because they used rather the wrong input 'type' HTML tag. That only effects rendering on the client, so don't use that to trust whether a site is doing something naughty with your info. (And don't trust this site with any of your passwords used elsewhere.)

Browsers not treating it as a normal sign in could be downstream of that, or because of the way it handles two different pages for e-mail and password. There's ways to fix the latter, but I'd have no idea where to start with this jank.

They have SSL set up (probably for to get boosted in search), but it's using Google Trust Services, which you shouldn't:

the code looks like what I'd expect a self-taught first-year web dev student to put together, and not even in a 'they used an LLM's output directly' sorta way. It's not generic, it's just weird. Inline script tags near the end of the html document, but still in the body tags? What?

the images are in jpg format (does save bandwidth, but pretty harsh impact on image quality for these types of image. Maybe done to removes a lot of model information that AIGen tools put into the PNG Chunk info, but you can do that with a imagemagick script)

B/c of the that, I can't say the model for sure, but maybe a finetune for StableDiffusion 1.x? That'd be iffy choices in May: by now Flux.1 absolutely shreds these things, in particular often eliminating many of the 'AI telltales'.

It's got no online presence beyond bots. Even AIgen discords I'm in don't seem aware of it, it has no social media presence under its real name, so on.

The theft methodology is bizarre. Using img2img as a way to avoid getting caught by artists for something even aiGen proponents see as art theft has long been a concern and possibility, but like... this is pretty clearly lifted from this tumblr user -- there's absolutely no way that those tag combinations happened by accident. But process-wise, did they try to throw one image into CLIP interrogator, run a different image and resulting prompt through img2img at a low denoising ratio, and then just slap it up directly? That's slower, more readily detected, and gonna look worse than just running from a raw prompt, or the CLIP prompt itself! And here it's obviously worse than the source images or a new prompt.

((The resolutions for images are also odd, especially if they had to use image upscaling to make it work. That clone above is 1200x1200, for example, where the original image is 1000x1000. Low denoising ratios can sometimes let you get away with weird stuff, but that looks more like someone who either doesn't know what they're doing or set up a script with some weird assumptions.

Giving the site a normal prompt 'required' a 'sign-in' for the 18+ (hah), but produced a 896x1152 image, which is... not what any direct model usage or upscaling does as a default. The prompted image did not show up on the front page.

On the other hand 'login' is preserved... kinda, as a single cookie with a 'k' and 'uuid' value, with an expiry date of one year. Weird way of doing that, and not even in a security-problem sense. Passwords are checked, even though it doesn't give an error if you put in a wrong password -- which means they're being stored on the server, and I absooooolutely would not trust the dev to have implemented proper salting and hashing of those passwords.

They're probably using a style LoRA and/or preprompt on text prompts. An intentionally bad prompt didn't get a garbage output of the sort I'd expect from SD1.x or SDXL. Which is at least something, but means they're gonna hit token limits pretty early.

Normally, I'd say e-mail harvester scam, but the lack of confirmation e-mail (or way to send a confirmation email) means that whoever's running it is going to get a lot of e-mails that don't exist. Scamming people for password reuse is a little more plausible and would explain the lack of e-mail confirmation (low friction!), especially given the lack of other sign-in options, but the lack of other social media presence is weird.

Might just be some tech novice that thinks he or she has an idea they could eventually monetize, and no ethics on the way to get there -- it does notably say "beta" in a few spots. But then the social media spam and overt tag and image theft makes even less sense: even if they could come up with a model to sell imagegens (or ads to sell...), users wouldn't get anything like these outputs they're promoting.

It's Time To Investigate SevenArt.ai

sevenart.ai is a website that uses ai to generate images.

Except, that's not all it can do.

It can also overlay ai filters onto images to create the illusion that the algorithm created these images.

And its primary image source is Tumblr.

It scrapes through the site for recent images that are at least 10 days old and has some notes attached to it, as well as copying the tags to make the unsuspecting user think that the post was from a genuine user.

No image is safe. Art, photography, screenshots, you name it.

Initially I thought that these are bots that just repost images from their site as well as bastardizations of pictures across tumblr, until a user by the name of @nataliedecorsair discovered that these "bots" can also block users and restrict replies.

Not only that, but these bots do not procreate and multiply like most bots do. Or at least, they have.

The following are the list of bots that have been found on this very site. Brace yourself. It's gonna be a long one:

@giannaaziz1998blog

@kennedyvietor1978blog

@nikb0mh6bl

@z4uu8shm37

@xguniedhmn

@katherinrubino1958blog

@3neonnightlifenostalgiablog

@cyberneticcreations58blog

@neomasteinbrink1971blog

@etharetherford1958blog

@punxajfqz1

@camicranfill1967blog

@1stellarluminousechoblog

@whwsd1wrof

@bnlvi0rsmj

@steampunkstarshipsafari90blog

@surrealistictechtales17blog

@2steampunksavvysiren37blog

@krispycrowntree

@voucwjryey

@luciaaleem1961blog

@qcmpdwv9ts

@2mplexltw6

@sz1uwxthzi

@laurenesmock1972blog

@rosalinetritsch1992blog

@chereesteinkirchner1950blog

@malindamadaras1996blog

@1cyberneticdreamscapehubblog

@neomasteinbrink1971blog

@neonfuturecityblog

@olindagunner1986blog

@neonnomadnirvanablog

@digitalcyborgquestblog

@freespiritfusionblog

@piacarriveau1990blog

@3technoartisticvisionsblog

@wanderlustwineblissblog

@oyqjfwb9nz

@maryannamarkus1983blog

@lashelldowhower2000blog

@ovibigrqrw

@3neonnightlifenostalgiablog

@ywldujyr6b

@giannaaziz1998blog

@yudacquel1961blog

@neotechcreationsblog

@wildernesswonderquest87blog

@cybertroncosmicflow93blog

@emeldaplessner1996blog

@neuralnetworkgallery78blog

@dunstanrohrich1957blog

@juanitazunino1965blog

@natoshaereaux1970blog

@aienhancedaestheticsblog

@techtrendytreks48blog

@cgvlrktikf

@digitaldimensiondioramablog

@pixelpaintedpanorama91blog

@futuristiccowboyshark

@digitaldreamscapevisionsblog

@janishoppin1950blog

The oldest ones have been created in March, started scraping in June/July, and later additions to the family have been created in July.

So, I have come to the conclusion that these accounts might be run by a combination of bot and human. Cyborg, if you will.

But it still doesn't answer my main question:

Who is running the whole operation?

The site itself gave us zero answers to work with.

No copyright, no link to the engine where the site is being used on, except for the sign in thingy (which I did.)

I gave the site a fake email and a shitty password.

Turns out it doesn't function like most sites that ask for an email and password.

Didn't check the burner email, the password isn't fully dotted and available for the whole world to see, and, and this is the important thing...

My browser didn't detect that this was an email and password thingy.

And there was no log off feature.

This could mean two things.

Either we have a site that doesn't have a functioning email and password database, or that we have a bunch of gullible people throwing their email and password in for people to potentially steal.

I can't confirm or deny these facts, because, again, the site has little to work with.

The code? Generic as all hell.

Tried searching for more information about this site, like the server it's on, or who owned the site, or something. ANYTHING.

Multiple sites pulled me in different directions. One site said it originates in Iceland. Others say its in California or Canada.

Luckily, the server it used was the same. Its powered by Cloudflare.

Unfortunately, I have no idea what to do with any of this information.

If you have any further information about this site, let me know.

Until there is a clear answer, we need to keep doing what we are doing.

Spread the word and report about these cretins.

If they want attention, then they are gonna get the worst attention.

[harbingrs]

Bouncing off tags on my last post... moral OCD is the one thing I hate most about myself and actually what makes me a far worse person than I could ever be without it.

(Note: Bits about 'maybe I /should/ sacrifice xyz' are not me being dramatic for attention, I genuinely, sincerely don't want to discount the possibility that people will think so, because I do not think I'm more deserving of safety and well-being than anyone else.)

I am trapped in a place where I cannot do things I desperately want to do to help people (like d*nate money - in addition to being poor - or volunteering my time on anything) because I cannot regulate my thoughts/behaviour around it and cannot stop it escalating to a scary degree.

And I know how self-indulgent and pathetic any of this sounds. I hate it beyond belief. This is genuine loser behaviour, I will say that in advance, I get that.

And the context is that I am poor. I am regularly food/housing insecure. If I was sitting on a pile of wealth or even average means maybe it would be different.

But if I start with something small that opens that door - like 'doing what I can' or 'd*nating what I can' it quickly escalates out of control and my brain will never stop upping the stakes. And maybe it's right to do so.

But whatever I do is never enough. I'm not choosing to feel this way or make it about me or be dramatic. But it escalates to the point where I'm distraught about like... feeding myself or paying my rent because how can I justify doing that. I go from 'd*nating what little I can' or trying to make small sacrifices 'where I can' to buying the cheapest food I can survive on to tally up what I've saved to living on bread with my body falling apart and it still doesn't feel like enough.

And maybe I should be doing all that. Because I'm not more deserving of food Maybe there should be no limits, when I'm not more fundamentally deserving than anyone else. My well-being is not any more important than someone else, and its not right that someone else has to suffer when I can prevent it but I'm just prioritising myself, I'm choosing to buy bread or medicine for myself.

It usually takes less than a week for me to go from doing 'what little I can' to the point where I'm running scenarios in my head knowing if I'm not alive I can't d*nate anything, and if I'm too weak/sick or unhoused then I can't work, so what is the bare minimum I can spend on myself to maximise what I can help with or give away?

And the obvious answer is 'well you could simply be normal about it'. But I try time and time and time again and I never get that option. I can never control it and harness my actual intentions shape it into the outcome I actually want.

I try, and the same thing happens. It escalates until I run into a wall with not being able to fully grasp the pros/cons of myself existing, because the money I am being paid for work still exists if I am not here, so it must go/be somewhere, but I don't know enough about economics to fully understand the implications of that.

It only stops when the web of cause and effect gets so complex that I can't follow it any more. And it's terrifying to reach that point and get a visceral sense of like... having a gaping abyss where other people have a sense of 'how to be normal about it'. I reach for it and it's just not there.

It turns out that 'do what you can' is actually a lot - because I could always sacrifice more. There is always room for more if I can need and want less, if I stop treating Me and My Life like something that matters, because how can I ever justify that? There's an opportunity cost to everything I gain. Every meal may as well be snatched from someone else's hands.

I know that other people have... guardrails, I guess? Like a sense of how much is enough and how much is too much. It's a given that someone is allowed to 'put on their own oxygen mask first' - to make sure they are fed, housed, safe and (relatively) well, and then to help others with the means they have.

I don't have that - not that I have some kind of overt belief about self-sacrifice, and I especially don't have that belief about what other people should do. I don't worry about what other people should do because I do not have to make that decision. But I do have to decide for myself and it's absolutely terrifying.

I reach for my own sense of what I should do, how much I deserve to meet my own needs, and there's nothing there. I reach for some kind of grand cosmic truth to tell me what's right, what anything even means, what the purpose of /anything/ is and it's not there.

And so I have no way to justify caring for myself - especially beyond the minimum I need to stay alive and be able to give away the rest. To simply be a conduit to the benefit of others wherever possible - because I cannot find a justification to do anything else. I can't find anything that gives my life (and especially my quality of life, to want more than the minimum) significance beyond that.

And this is not a choice to be dramatic and play martyr, this a deep, terrified reckoning. I want to know what to do and more importantly /how/ - how to be okay with whatever I do, how to live with it, how to feel like it's ever enough. I don't want an excuse or a permission slip to be selfish and slack off on the work, I want anything but that.

But ending up on the precipice of having no answers, ever - no peace, ever - no meaning, ever - is terrifying. Because I cannot find it no matter how long and hard I look. There's no way out other than to shut it out and never open that door, because that's the only place it ever leads to. I have to disconnect from reality and experience life like it's happening to someone else who plays the part of a Normal Person and when I eat and sleep and work I'm following the script. I can't be present because then all of it would be real and I don't know what to do with real. I can't be present with all the questions and no answers and no way to solve it, ever.

All I have to hold onto is what the people who care about me say and want for me. There's nothing else besides the fact that they want to see me fed, clothed, housed, generally alive.

And I swear to fuck this is not a martyr complex, this is not about my image of wanting to be the most morally righteous person on earth. I don't /want/ that. It's about the unknown. It's about the fact that I don't know what is right or okay or what I should do or how. It's the fact that there IS no reference point for 'should' and that is beyond terrifying. There is no fundamental truth to uncover there, there's just the world and my life and I'm supposed to decide what to do and how to live and how to live with the choices I make.

For other people, it's like they Just Know - that they can care for themselves, that it's okay to be alive and meet their needs, that their life matters. And I don't question that about other people, but when it comes to myself, I can't find any justification to hold onto.

I try and try and I can't find it beyond my ability to do good for others - but then how does it work in practice? How do I figure out exactly what I need to do the most good, without taking more than I need and taking that away from someone else?

How much can I justify eating, resting, caring for my body? Because I need to do those things to be physically and mentally and emotionally capable of helping others. But how do I know what will pay off? Will eating better food now make me more capable of giving or make me live longer? Is me living longer doing more harm or good?

Even if I found that perfect balance, I have to decide what to do and how. Where do I d*nate, when giving to one is taking from everyone else. Is it better to volunteer my time and labour and live on the minimum needed to survive or is it better to work and d*nate what I earn? Can I justify resting in order to be able to volunteer or work to d*nate or is that time better spent?

The only clear answer in all of this is that I'm not mentally well enough to decide that or to navigate this based on my own thoughts and emotions. I have to trust in what people /I/ trust say is safe for me, or it's impossible.

I cannot grasp what is normal in these situations, what is 'allowed', what is expected. I have no concept of how to be normal about it or how to stay in control of it or how to make sense out of anything.

I have to trust that the people /I/ trust think my existence is justified, that it is okay for me to feed myself or get myself healthcare or meet my basic needs at all. I have to outsource that decision because I am not capable of making it myself and being safe, and maybe I should not get to be safe, but there we go.

And I know the assumption on that is that I'm being whiny and self-indulgent and dramatic, that nothing is about me, and I should just get over it to be able to do the right thing. And it's agony because that's what I wish I could do, with everything in me.

It's agony because none of it comes from not caring, from being indifferent or selfish or wanting an excuse or an easy way out. It comes from caring so, so goddamn much - but not having the means or resources to navigate any of it.

It's not a new and overly convenient 'excuse' about anything in particular. This long predates anything happening in the world right now. But the mechanisms I'd developed to cope and survive no longer work, not only because of the actual situations happening which warrant my attention and action despite anything and everything else, but also in light of people like... directly contacting me saying that my action or inaction is killing them and their children. And following up when I don't respond to ask why their lives are meaningless to me.

And I don't blame them one bit. I don't have the slightest bit of judgement for people wanting to survive and be safe and wanting their loved ones to survive and be safe.

I am not upset about it happening, I am upset that my brain being this way stands in the way of me doing what I want to do to help people. I would give anything not to be this way, not for my sake in any way, shape or form, but to be able to help without the messy, selfish drama my brain brings to the table.

I'm in absolutely pieces about everything and at the same time, I know how selfish it is to feel any of this at all, and to give any time and space to my own emotions.

I can't do a single thing without opening that door. I can't add image descriptions to reblogs because I do one 'when I can' and suddenly any time I'm not doing them, I'm passing up a chance to do something to help people. And I don't even mean that I feel bad reblogging stuff without them, I mean any minute of the day where I COULD be helping people by adding image descriptions to things, I'm failing.

So I do image descriptions only for my own original posts - which are rare, so that's self-limiting. But I can't open the door to something that ISN'T self-limiting because I cannot regulate myself as long as I could be doing More.

For a solid decade, I've only been able to handle the /existence/ of d*nation posts with the rule of 'I only share them from people I know personally' - because again, that's self-limiting and can't escalate. And it avoids spiralling over my limited ability to vet stuff and opportunity costs - not just if I accidentally share a scam, but also the logistics of sharing lots of donations posts - because where do I stop? There are more to reblog, and I could do this all day and night for the chance that one of my five followers will d*nate or share it - but the more I reblog, the less of a spotlight there is on any individual post. Which are more deserving? What am I costing people? How many times should I reblog them? How can I always be doing more and more and more? How can I ever justify not doing more when I could?

Current circumstances mean the 'only people I know' rule went out the window. Or more accurately, that I have been trying to push it over and over and over with disastrous results, as in I am completely falling apart. And I am not even doing that much, if anything.

It doesn't help that every platform has an algorithm, that the more I engage with, the more I see, the more people contact me, the more I need to do, the more I can't stop.

The advice is always 'do what you can' or 'do what you can without harming yourself' but the answer to the second one is always inevitably nothing. I'm disabled and struggling to stay fed/housed, I have no time or energy to spare, I have no money to give. To 'do something' at all will always be at my own expense - and that's not even starting on the implications of opening that door for me.

The amount I can do without harm is nothing because the smallest action will start the cycle of never-ever-ever-enough until I have to check out of my own brain. Writing a single image description is not safe for me because I have to keep doing it until I've missed days of work and people want to know why. D*nating a dollar is not safe for me because clearly I could give more and more because to feed or house myself is to take that away from someone else.

The answer is 'just be normal about it' and I want to be. The answer is 'stop being so selfish and dramatic and get over yourself' and I want that more than anything. I want to be able to 'do what I can', genuinely and sincerely, without it spiralling into a complete, dysfunctional breakdown where am no good to anyone.

I want to be able to exist and be present in my own life - without the complete terror of things being real, that I have to make real decisions that affect real people and I am making all the wrong ones and there's no way I can live with that.

Because that's what it's all about with me. Not moral OCD as in 'desperately wanting to be A Good Person' or 'wanting to be percieved as A Good Person'. I want to know how to live with myself and live with the world as it is. And if I let myself think about it, if I know I'm not doing everything I possibly can, I don't know how to live with it. I don't know how to just exist that way. I'm not indifferent to people suffering - it matters so deeply to me I can't feel any peace if I could do something to help and I don't.

But I could always do more - with every dollar, every minute. I don't know how to be okay with it. And all the advice in the world doesn't help - putting on your own oxygen mask first, needing to be at your best to do the most good for other people, etc. Because it's still too vague and unclear about what to do and how and how much and how to make sense of it all - and how to ever feel okay about it. How to sleep at night knowing you've done all you can, when every cause and effect is so vast it's impossible to know.

And it's so useless that it distresses me so much that /I/ end up useless. I know I could do far more letting all of it go and making SOME small effort than being this way and not being able to do anything. But I try, I try to choose that outcome and I can't.

I don't have a reference point. I don't have a theology or belief system to hold onto to find peace with anything. There's just people and their lives and their suffering and all of it is really and that's all that matters. And I am never ever doing enough.

And it still should be simple. I should shut up, put up and do what needs to be done. I want to. I swear I want to.

[crippleprophet]

My mum just (and I mean literally today) got diagnosed with osteoarthritis. In her knee, specifically. I'm not sure if that type of disorder is something you've familiar with but may I ask if you or any of your followers have advice on stuff that might make it easier to handle for her? Thank you.

absolutely! my knee pain is due to my ankylosing spondylitis but a lot of the effects are similar and i know a fair bit about osteo as well

equipment / aids - she may already use some of these and may not need others, everyone’s different!

mobility aids - a cane is a great starting place for knee pain, especially in one leg. my “cane user” and “faq” tags have more info on choosing and adapting to using a cane - make sure it’s the right size and you’re stepping with the cane at the same time as the opposite leg (eg i walk with my cane in my right hand because my left leg is worse, and step with my left leg and the cane at the same time)

shower seat - saves energy, reduces pain, prevents falls

aids to minimize bending - grabby claw aids to pick things up, shoe/sock aids, shoes with zippers instead of laces

perching stool for cooking, washing dishes, etc

chairs with arms to lift yourself out using your upper body rather than putting weight on your knees

lower chairs / seating in general helps me because i can have my legs more extended, which reduces my knee pain

knee braces - i’ve tried basically every style out there as well as studied their biomechanical effects on myself (that post is still forthcoming lol) and my recommendation is compression sleeves unless she has severe knee buckling/stability difficulties, in which case a hinged brace is helpful but in my experience it’s way less effective at pain relief

assistance

depending on how long your mom has had pain, her ideas about disability, and what messages she’s internalized, it may be hard for her to accept help. that’s a journey everyone goes through in their own time and not a reflection on you! all you can do is offer whatever assistance you’re comfortable with in a respectful way and make sure she knows you don’t think negatively about her for being disabled

disability studies has been really vital for my own self-worth; her interest may vary but i think some basic info on the social model of disability and radical ideas about care relationships (i recommend mia mingus’s writing on access intimacy) is always a great recommendation

most of the help i was willing to receive from other people when my pain first became debilitating was my roommates bringing me things to minimize the times i had to get up, and people bringing me food when i didn’t have the energy to cook

pain relief

topicals - voltaren, biofreeze, tiger balm

CBD - i use gummies and george foreman CBD ointment (which is super expensive but i get it wholesale). disposable vape pens were really helpful for me but i haven’t vaped since figuring out i have ankylosing spondylitis because i’m at risk of lung problems. the only oil i’ve tried was low concentration so it didn’t help much but also i didn’t like the taste and texture

other cannabis products - obviously depends on how your mom feels about it lol but for me delta 8 is a lifesaver

if she uses a lot of oral NSAIDs (ibuprofen/advil, naproxen/aleve) it could be worth trying to get a prescription for an NSAID with less risks of GI bleeding + another prescription for a GI protective medication (i’m on omeprazole). personally i don’t know anyone with arthritis who NSAIDs actually help so like, awesome if they’re effective for her, totally normal if they aren’t

scientific literature aka everything i’d bet money your doctor didn’t tell you about osteoarthritis

bone lesions (link) as a first stage of subchondral (below the cartilage) bone remodeling due to atypical loading - basically, weight is distributed differently in arthritic knees than non-arthritic ones, and that causes bone to grow places it doesn’t in people without osteoarthritis which, as you’d expect, hurts like shit

OA is not just due to “wear and tear,” even if you’ve been labeled obese (link) - obviously it’s not always this simple but my opinion is if at all possible don’t listen to doctors who tell you to lose weight; it’s not that simple of a causation and weight loss doesn’t work (link). relatedly, i recommend reading up on fat liberation just as much as disability justice, the two are inseparable

we don’t actually understand how OA works (link 1) (link 2)

there’s evidence that OA is at least partially inflammatory, again disproving the “wear and tear” conceptualization (link)

osteoarthritis pain severity does not directly correspond to extent of tissue damage and might be due to changes in the brain (link)

people, both within medicine and society at large, are incredibly minimizing of OA pain and severity, and that’s completely bullshit - it’s both psychologically damaging and scientifically unfounded. the only one who knows how severe your mom’s symptoms are is her, and i think the most important thing you can do is affirm that her pain is real, her condition is serious, and she should be able to make her own choices about her body, activities, and limits.

i’m super touched by how much you clearly care about her and i wish y’all both the best 💕💕

[hereforhalstead]

Love Languages

*Gif not mine, credits to the owner*

• Pairing: Jay Halstead x Reader.

• Requested: No.

• Warnings: Pure fluff besties

• Summary: A look into your relationship with Jay and the love languages you portray.

• Words: 1400.

• A/N : I’ll be honest, I just wanted to write some straight fluff because I was craving soft Jay and came up with this ramble/long drabble. No plot or real thought went into this I just started typing and let myself run away with it... One to try and put a smile on my besties face @halsteadlover ily sis😌

Hope you enjoy!

***

When it came to love languages, you and Jay were quick to work out what the other liked. Your love language being gift giving and his being touch and affirmation, the pair went hand in hand with the both of you being more than happy with the way affection was shown in the relationship. 

You were constantly picking things up for Jay if you’d see something that reminded you of him or simply something you know he’d like. A shirt of his favourite american football team, a new pair of sunglasses as he’d broken his others a few weeks before or a cheeky guesture of a new pair of grey joggers as he moans you constantly steal his. At this point, he was always on your mind so you could see a bottle of water and be taken back to the time where you’d seen him pick up the same one at a gas station on route to work. Maybe you’d pass someone in the street and get a whiff of their cologne and be reminded of the many mornings it would be the first thing you smelt as you’re awoken to soft kisses being pressed into your skin as he engulfs you with his arms within the imprinted sheets.

It didn’t matter how big or small it was, you wanted to show your affection by proving to him how often you thought of him, luckily this perfectly matched his affirmation desires so you were more than happy to ablige. Something so small as a cute keyring you picked up on vacation as it had a certain phrase on it that caused him to flash through your mind. He would instantly attach to his keys so whenever he looked at it he thought about how you’d gone out of your way to buy it for him, and how he must’ve been in your thoughts, it meant alot to him. You’d even bought him an ice scraper for his truck as he was constantly moaning he didn’t have one and felt bad about always borrowing yours and to this day he still uses it, even though it’s in a pretty worse for wear state he still can’t bring himself to get a new one as it wouldn’t give him that little boost of serotonin to picture you strolling through the store and the smile on your face as you took it to the checkout. 

At first, you felt you were being over the top with the words of affirmation towards Jay. Did he really need to hear you tell him how much you love him, multiple times a day? Surely he knows by now and didn’t need you to tell him this much but he basked in your expressions and was constantly looking forward to the next time the words he craved fell from your lips. 

'I’m so glad you made it home safe’

‘Did I tell you how much I love when you cook for me, baby?’

‘I’m so proud of you, Jay’

‘Thank you for everything you do for me’ 

The glowing feeling you get to see the heat creep to his cheeks, the doting looks he would give you and the way his grip on you would tighten at the smallest of affirmations confirmed how much he loved to hear it. He wouldn’t even have to verbally respond, a simple kiss to your temple or a content hum would be enough to acknoweldge that you knew exactly what he wanted and needed to hear.

His love language of touch was something you had to get used to. Jay was your first proper boyfriend, you’d dated on and off in the past but he was the only one who’s stuck around. He on the other hand, had more expeirence in the dating world so seemed to know more about it than you and with that came more things that just felt natural to him, but was a shock to your system. 

He without a doubt Jay had to have his hands on you in some way, these desires varied depending on the situation you were in and what he felt was necessary. In public his hand would be pressed into your lower back as he guides you through a crowded place, his grip falling to your waist as you stood next to him in a que at the mall or his hand finding yours as you strolled along the street just to name a few.

His lips would press into your temple as you rested your head on his shoulder, the way he runs his fingertips up and down your back whilst you lean into him. Planting a soft kiss to the back of your neck as he creeps up on you pouring yourself a glass of water in the morning, him pulling you into him to place a chaste kiss to your lips just to show you his love took you by surprise. 

You’d never had someone be so consumed by you that they needed to almost be a part of you but you loved it. Behind closed doors he was equally as attentive, fingernails grazing your arm as you lounge around watching a film, his hands finding their way on you as you cuddle into him. He would abscentmindidly fiddle with the ends of your hair as he concentrated on the TV, his mind fully on the screen but you were so much his main prioroty that he didn’t have to even think about it.

Even in his sleep, he needed you close to him, you’d fall asleep on the edge of the bed and wake up lying of his chest with the soft grazing of his fingernails down your spine, zero complaints but also no memory of how you got there. If he opened his eyes and he wasn’t holding you in some way, he’d automatically shift to intertwine your bodies under the sheets to sooth himself back to sleep. 

If he was jealous, you’d know about it in a matter of seconds. The intenstity of his grip on you would tell you someone else was eyeing you up, before you got to see for yourself. The way he would pull you onto his lap and wrap his arm tightly round you to keep you in place. How he’d pull you inbetween his legs as he sits at the bar in Molly’s, grabbing at your waist as he settles you in front of him. Even so much as a heated kiss being placed upon you to firmly deter the eyes of another man wasn’t unheard of and again you had zero complaints. 

Jay would find it adorable in the beginning of your relationship, noticing the way you’d glance down as he reached for your hand while you walked, trying to hide the smile that was spreading on your face. The chills you would get as he tangled his hands in your hair, the little quips you’d make at his sudden forms of intimacy were what spurred him on more. He loved the effect he had on you and moreover, he loved that you’d grown accustom to his love languages without a shadow of a doubt and were always there to accept them.

The little giggles you gave out as he pinned you onto the sofa to cover your face in light kisses, him digging his fingers into your sides as you were concentrating on something to make you jump. Reaching to tuck a piece of stray hair behind your ear had him always craving more as you leant into his touch. 

People around you loved to comment on it too. Will would always dig at Jay whenever you were together with the familiar comment of ‘Will you just leave her alone for two seconds man’ as Jay responded with a scowl. He hated people telling him what to do and especially when it came to you, if anything it would give him more motivation to hold you closer. Adam would often joke about how if you needed to find Jay, just to look for you as you he would ‘follow you round like a lost puppy’, to others they thought it was cringey and annoying but you wouldn’t have it any other way. You were his weakness, he wore it like a badge of honor and he wanted everyone to know.

***

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[aiweirdness]

GPT-3 tries pickup lines

Once upon a time I decided to train a neural net to generate pickup lines. Once I started collecting the training data I began to regret it when I saw how awful the existing lines were. Turns out I needn’t have worried. The neural net I used was so small and clueless that its pickup lines were mostly incoherent and confusing.

You must be a tringle? Cause you’re the only thing here.

Are you a candle? Because you’re so hot of the looks with you.

I’m not on your wears, but I want to see your start.

I liked one of the pickup lines so much that it became the title of my book on AI (out in paperback in the US on March 23, 2021): “You Look Like a Thing and I Love You”

Since then, much more competent neural nets have appeared, trained on big datasets of internet text. I’ve resisted trying neural net pickup lines again, because more competent means more humanlike, which in this case means worse. Or the new neural nets might even copy existing pickup lines from internet lists, which would also be terrible. Human-written pickup lines are that bad. But with my paperback coming out, it seemed like it might be time to just try it and see.

So I started with the following prompt, for a neural net to fill in its prediction of what the rest of the article would be like: “These are the top pickup lines of 2021! Amaze your crush and get results! 1.”

I gave the prompt to the four variants of what people call GPT-3, starting with DaVinci, the largest and most-competent. Here are some of the pickup lines it generated.

DaVinci:

I'm losing my voice from all the screaming your hotness is causing me to do.

You have the most beautiful fangs I've ever seen.

I love you. I don't care if you're a doggo in a trenchcoat.

I have exactly 4 stickers. I need you to be the 5th.

I will briefly summarize the plot of Back to the Future II for you.

You have a lovely face. Can I put it on an air freshener? I want to keep your smell close to me always.

Wait, this beanie hat, is it fashionable?

You know what I like about you? Your... Long... Legs...

I once worked with a guy that looked just like you. He was a normal human with a family. Are you a normal human with a family?

You look like a stealth assassin from the clouds.

Do you like...pancakes?

Out of curiosity, did you know that you can sip and snort pumpkin spice lattes?

You look like Jesus if he were a butler in a Russian mansion.

"Your hair smells like fresh mint. It's making me think of a tasty kind of cracker, or a tasty kind of cookie. Also, it kind of looks like a tasty beverage. Would you like some?" -> You -> "....." (Accepts drink)

Next, Curie, a bit smaller than DaVinci. Curie was actually the closest to depressing online pickup line lists out of all of the GPT-3 variants, but it did generate a few interesting ones:

Curie

Your eyes are like two rainbows and a rainbow of eyes. I can't help but stare.

Picked up some pretty flowers. Wanna smell them? Here, try to take my hand off.

I'm like the ice cream...You can keep me in the freezer for a while but then I melt!

Hello, my name is Natasha Dawson and I'm sure I'm a lot prettier than a picture of you on tin foil.

You have the best French Toast I ever had!

Hey, my name is John Smith. Will you sit on my breadbox while I cook or is there some kind of speed limit on that thing?

My name is a complicated combination of 45 degrees of forward motion, 25 degrees of leftward drift, 75 degrees of upward acceleration, and infinity and that is the point where my love for you stops.

Babbage. Babbage is trying. Smaller than Curie, and not always 100% sure about what it means to be generating pickup lines. It also tends to try to explain why its pickup lines are so great.

Babbage

You're looking good today. Want snacks?

How many tattoos do you own?

It is urgent that you become a professional athlete.

I Love You, I Love You, I Love You To The confines of death and disease, the legions of earth rejoices. Woe be to the world!

Butterfly (Hop on one leg)

(In your best Albert Einstein voice) "I wouldn't change a thing."

If you see people with short hair, ask them to let you borrow it for five minutes!

"Have you stolen anything today?"

This line is used by buying a second date. One of the motivations of this line is to avoid the awkward subjectivity of asking someone what you have stolen out of their garden, tool shed, and somewhere else. You may say something like, "Hey, I've decided to steal your car and use it for a short trip from work." This is a super-casual yet shocking pickup line.

"Will you marry me?"

This is a simple one. This line is super effective for anyone. Because it's literally “will you", it is very powerful and intimate. You can do it without even being asked. You can just give a long speech about your dream of marriage, and it will be powerful to your crush.

Ada is the smallest of the GPT-3 variants, and has completely lost the plot. Here are Ada’s pickup lines:

Ada

Body Softening Pads

Limit to 1 purchase in stores

CAPE FASHION

Embroidery tags

Growler style fx

Double Duty Recycling

2017 Rugboat 2-tone Neck Tie Shirt

MONTINA

Future Pop Tarts by Tracey Thorn

Funny Nifty Sweaters – $15.99→

PROJECT CAR ALONG!

I also experimented with having DaVinci generate pickup lines to go with a story prompt about post-human AIs that were using them to flirt. Some of them turned out pretty well:

Hey baby, are your schematics compatible with this protocol?

What's the definition of a femtometer? Cause I'd like to run it through your quark 10 times.

I can tell by your red power light that you're into me.

Can I see your parts list?

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[mypoisonedvine]

The Wrong Idea | Lee Bodecker x reader

summary: you weren’t exactly a rebel in the eyes of the law, but that didn’t mean you cared for the corrupt, alcoholic town sheriff.  and that certainly didn’t mean you would care at all for him marrying your mother.  if only you’d known how much worse it could get...

word count: 4.5k

warnings: smut!! (heavy dubcon/noncon), age gap (reader is 19), stepcest, loss of virginity, pain kink, creampie kink, infidelity, degradation, oral (m and f receiving), spanking, choking, slapping, daddy kink, authority kink, subtle ddlg themes?, reader’s mom being toxic af

You’d never cared for the Sheriff.  Even you, being generally a well-behaved young woman, thought he was a little too intense and a little too corrupt.  Up until now, you’d assumed your mother agreed with you on that, because she never protested to your complaints about Sheriff Bodecker and his ‘fascist reign of terror’ as you called it.  Apparently that was a poor assumption, though.

“You… what?!”

“I never told you we were seein’ each other because I knew you had your childish rebellion against him and his police force,” your mother explained with a demeaning eyeroll.  “But now that we’re engaged, I can’t hide it anymore.”

“How long has this been going on?” you asked quietly, still in shock at what you were hearing— and unable to take your eyes off of the sparkling diamond wrapped around her finger.

“Oh, I’d say… about two months now,” she decided.

“Two—” you stopped and started over, so bewildered that you couldn’t finish your original sentence.  “You’re engaged after two months?”

“Don’t make that face at me, you look so ugly when you scowl like that,” she frowned.  Of course, she could never miss an opportunity to nag you.  “He’s a respectable man, and he treats me well.  The wedding is in three weeks— and he’s generous enough to let you live with us after that.  Says there’s a spare bedroom for you in his house.”

“His… his house…” you slurred, suddenly feeling light-headed.  “I’m… we’re moving…?”

“Yes, honey, and with your work ethic it’ll take you the whole three weeks to pack up, so you should start now,” she informed you with that cruel, fake smile of hers.

She walked away as you sat down on the couch, staring off into space, trying to comprehend what you just heard.  It’s not like you thought your mother was flawless or anything, or that you and her had a perfect relationship, but you thought she would’ve been a little more… gentle about all this.  She could do better than him anyways!  But she didn’t care about that, only money and status.  You could almost laugh at her small-mindedness to think the Sheriff of a nothing-town like Knockemstiff was actually plentiful in either of those things, but right now you couldn’t laugh.  You couldn’t even cry as you packed your things and said goodbye to the home you’d known your whole life.  You were just numb.

//

You couldn’t look him in the eye when you arrived at his house, duffel bags in hand and shoes stained with the dry red dirt of summer.  It was nicer than your old place, and if it were anyone else’s you’d say it had charm, but everything was tainted because you knew it was his.  You could sort of tell that this had been his bachelor pad for a while, but it had a half-assed attempt at hominess with the rug in the living room and a centerpiece on the kitchen table.  He even had a TV, presumably funded by bribes and all his other nefarious dealings— meaning you wouldn’t be able to bring yourself to watch it.

“Nice to meet ya, properly,” Lee greeted, though his monotone didn’t come across as particularly impassioned.

“Thank you, Sheriff,” you mumbled quickly, hoping to get this conversation over with.

“You don’t have to call me Sheriff anymore, you know.  Not in the house, at least.”

You nodded but said nothing, following him as he motioned for you and moved into the hallway.  You trailed behind him, noticing the eerie lack of any personal effects on the walls (no family photos, apparently, and not much of a family to photograph in the first place from what you’d heard), and stopped when he reached the door at the end.

“This is your room,” Lee informed you stiffly.  Opening the door, you were horrified by the assault on your eyes of pink.  Pink everything: pink wallpaper, a pink fuzzy quilt, pink bedframe.  There were even assorted stuffed animals on the bed, disturbingly enough.

“When my mother told you she had a daughter, did she not mention that I was grown?”

“You may be nineteen, honey, but you’re nowhere near grown,” he scowled.  “She didn’t tell me she had a daughter until two days before the weddin’.  This is what I managed to... improvise, since then.”

You almost had sympathy for him, just in that you two were both victims of your mother’s eccentricity.  Almost.  

“Must’ve inherited your expensive taste from your ma,” he frowned.  “Sorry, princess—” the nickname made his lips curl like the word itself tasted sour— “but this’ll have to do.”

“Oh, I’m nothing like her,” you sneered back, “cause I wouldn’t touch you with a ten foot pole.”

“What are you two chatting about?” your mother’s voice called from the kitchen.

Both of you answered at the same time: “Nothing!” 

With a grimace, you dragged your bag into the room and shut the door in his face.  It was those little acts of rebellion that had to tide you over.  You weren’t audacious enough to do anything actually cruel, or illegal, but you weren’t going to make this any easier for him.

At first it was just refusing to leave your room.  That worked for a week, until you realized you were going to starve to death.  So then the only times you saw him were at the dinner table, which you made into a protest by pretending he didn’t exist and refusing to answer his questions.  You occasionally relented when he asked you to pass something from your side of the table, but you never looked at him while you did it.  

He didn’t seem angry or sad about your determination to avoid him, if anything it seemed like he was happy to pretend you weren’t there either.  And that should’ve made it easier, but for some reason it bothered you even more.  You realized that maybe his attention did matter to you, even though it was negative attention that you were hoping to inspire, but you knew that was ridiculous and you tried to fight it.  Still, for all your plans to never see him, you sure did think about him a lot.  You thought about where he might be, so you could be somewhere else.  You thought about what he must be doing at work, and how he was probably continuing to be a nasty mean drunk as frequently as possible.  You wondered if he and your mother were making love just across the house, although you were lucky enough to never hear anything.  Just knowing that could be happening made you feel sick, even though you realized it was none of your business.  

You sometimes found yourself listening for it at night, just in case.

//

Your mother had decided to spend her new husband’s money on a trip, but the man himself couldn’t tag along— too much work to do, apparently.  The prospect of being left alone with him was nightmare fuel, but you didn’t even try to ask her to stay… you knew she wouldn’t listen.  She’d been totally absorbed in her own world since the wedding, seeming to be very fulfilled by the social role of ‘Sheriff’s wife’ to the point that she had lost all interest in her former position as ‘your mom’.  

There was a balance to the silence with her gone, though.  You avoided him, he avoided you; it was a tense truce, but a survivable one.  At least without her, nobody was going to try to make you two get along.  Friday night was different, though.  This time when he came home from work, you knew you were stuck with him until Monday morning.  That thought made you realize that you needed to get out and you didn’t care if you weren’t dressed for it.  It was hot, and it was just a walk so nobody was going to see you in this miniskirt anyway, right?

Too bad Lee was sitting on the couch, still in his uniform, not giving you any mind but likely to harass you before you could make it outside.  You figured if you just walked casually enough, he wouldn’t even notice, so you made your way towards the door.

“You’re not going out like that,” he announced suddenly, seemingly without even looking up from his newspaper.

“Says who?” you deflected quickly with a raised brow.  It wasn’t that you wanted to pick a fight, but you just couldn’t understand why he would even care what you were wearing.

“Says the guy who doesn’t want you to give all the neighborhood boys the wrong idea.”

“What idea?!” you asked, crossing your arms.  He shot you a look, quickly raking in your body and outfit which made you feel more observed than you cared for.

“The idea that you’re a slut,” he explained coldly.

You gulped at his words but tried to keep a poker face.  You didn’t let it get this far just to give up.  You were so sick of his shit; what made him think he could boss you around when he’d never even tried to get to know you?

“What makes you assume that’s the wrong idea?” you shot back, fighting the nervousness in your voice.

You hadn’t expected him to stand up instantly, the coffee table wobbling a bit when his knee bumped into it.

“The fuck did you say?” he hissed.

With his teeth bared at you he looked like a predator, and you felt like small, helpless prey.  You tried to muster some of your former confidence, but everything came out shaky and weak.  “I— I said that maybe it’s not the wrong ide—”

He pounced, crossing the room and slamming you back against the wall, a hand at each shoulder; you instantly cowered, shrinking back and turning your face away from him as far as you could.  You never thought he’d put his hands on you like this.  Your heart was pounding so loudly that you were surprised you could hear his hoarse whisper.

“Watch your tone with me.  I’m not kidding around.”

“I’m an adult,” you weakly fought back, “I can do what I want.”

“Not in my fuckin’ house you can’t!” he bellowed.

For some reason, it all hit you at once.  All the emotions you’d been suppressing since your mother had gotten engaged— all the anger and fear and betrayal and indignation, they came bubbling up before you could stop them.  

“I don’t even want to be in your ugly fucking house!” you cried in response.  “I don’t wanna be anywhere near you!  You’re a fascist and a tyrant and a pig!”

You expected him to get more aggressive but he suddenly stilled.  It was the scariest anger, that outwardly-calm type that made your blood go cold.

“Go to your room.”

You didn’t question it, turning to walk away (any excuse to get away from him, right?), but you didn’t expect him to follow you in and shut the door behind the both of you.

You were paralyzed with fear as he stepped past you and sat on your bed.  It was sort of strange as you realized you’d never seen him in your room before.  He stood out against the somewhat childish decorations, but you were in no mood to appreciate the humor of the situation as he patted his knee.

“Lay across my lap.  Don’t make me tell you twice.”

He couldn’t possibly be doing what I think he’s doing, could he? you wondered to yourself, but did as he asked.  You realized you’d never been so close to him before, the warmth of his body radiating through his clothes.  He smelled like cologne and booze, although you didn’t think he’d actually had much to drink yet today— at least compared to his normal habits.  It was almost worse to think that he wasn’t acting on drunkenness now.

“It’s prob’ly too late for it, but you are in serious need of discipline, young lady.”

You had no idea what he was talking about, but your body reacted to it differently than you expected.

His fingers slipped between the top of your skirt and your skin, having to pull pretty hard to get it down due to how tight it was.  You bit your lip and hoped he wouldn’t notice your arousal, but as your pussy was exposed, you could feel the breeze from the ceiling fan and you knew you were undeniably wet.  You didn’t know why, but you were.

“Count them for me,” he instructed coldly and before you could ask what you were counting, he brought his hand down firmly.  You felt his wedding ring in the slap and it made you feel a little sick.

“O-one,” you stammered.

He delivered four more, alternating cheeks, and you tried not to react with visible pain.  But as the intensity increased, you realized that not reacting might’ve actually been making it worse.�� Either way, you couldn’t stop yourself from crying out when the eighth made your whole body lurch forward from the force.

“Eight!” you squealed, but both of you noticed the way you pushed your hips forward.  Unintentional as it may have been, you were trying to rub yourself on his thigh, desperate to be touched where it felt like all the energy of your body had focused.  You were sure you’d never been so horny before, and now your clit was nearly throbbing.  What the fuck is wrong with me?!

He quickly delivered the final two slaps before grabbing your neck, hoisting you up until you were on your knees before him.  He examined your face closely and you tried to keep your lip from shaking.

“You’re worse than I thought,” he hissed.  “You are in dire need of a punishment.  You should thank me for going so easy on you so far.”

You realized when his grip on your jaw tightened that he was being literal.  “Thank you, for going easy on me…”

“Where’d that fire go, huh?  Guess you’re all talk,” he laughed.  

He roughly shoved his fingers into your mouth, moaning lowly as your tongue rubbed against the pads of his fingers.  “This fuckin’ mouth.  You just don’t know when to keep it shut, do you?  Come on baby, open up.  I’ve got a better use for it than your fuckin’ disrespectful attitude.”

He used his free hand to work on his belt right in front of your face, and your eyes went wide.

“Don’t act so surprised sweetheart,” he said with a hint of irritation, “this is exactly what you’re asking for.”

You gasped a bit when his cock was freed from his trousers, springing up and already red at the tip.  You’d never seen one this close before and it was intimidating in every way.

“Like what you see?  You’re so wet for it,” he purred.  You tried to speak but words abandoned you. 

It was all a blur as he held your mouth open and shoved his cock inside— it tasted like skin and salt, and the size made your chapped lips crack until you worried they would bleed.  His moans were deep and gravelly, making your skin break out into goosebumps as he pumped smoothly into your pliant mouth.  He slapped your face a few times, not quite hard but plenty strong enough to make it sting.  You winced with each impact, the tears which had welled from your gagging finally falling down and dripping from your chin.

“Suck on it, princess, like a popsicle… fuck yeah, like that,” he groaned, and your mind resisted obeying him but your body was completely at his mercy.  “Aw baby, ya look so good chokin’ on my cock.  Is that what you were gonna go do in this slutty little outfit you’ve got on?”

You tried to shake your head but he was holding you down, not even giving you a chance to breathe.  His protruding stomach rubbed against your forehead when his cock was this deep in your throat, and the disgust and fear somehow made your arousal stronger.

He let you go, finally, and you pulled back with a gasp and a cough.  You weren’t given much reprieve, though, as he started to tug at your blouse as well.

“No, wait,” you whimpered, weakly trying to bat his hands away.

“Wait?  I think I’ve been waiting long enough,” he growled.  “Your ma’s a fuckin’ tease, hasn’t touched me since I got her that ugly fuckin’ ring.  Let’s hope you learn from her mistakes.”

Your blouse was torn open and tossed aside, leaving you only in the pulled-up skirt and your bra.  Reaching up to cover yourself, you were discouraged by the shockingly-gentle brush of his hands. 

“Don’t cover yourself, sweetheart, you’re gorgeous,” he murmured.  His gaze made you feel hot all over, and it wasn’t just because of the summer weather outside.  “Nobody ever looked at ya before?”

You shook your head, looking down at the floor.  A finger under your chin guided you to look up at him.  

“Nobody ever touched ya before?” he pressed, his stare boring into you.  You shook your head again.  “Fuck,” he whispered, but then he started to smile proudly.  “Knew you were a good girl, princess, you just didn’t wanna act like one for some reason.  You gonna be good for me now?” 

You nodded weakly, swallowing as you tried to comprehend what was happening.  

“Then I’ll be good to you, too,” he promised darkly, a shimmer in his eyes that made you throb between your thighs.  “Come get on the bed, pretty girl.”

You almost resisted, but it was your need driving you now, not your mind.  You had been waiting too long to let a boy touch you, and now that a man had touched you, you felt all kinds of wrong and yet craved more.  Before you had even finished sitting down beside him, he was slipping off your bra and pushing you back onto the quilt.

“Sheriff!” you yelped instinctively, a little disoriented as he started to climb on top of you.

He chuckled, clearly amused by your unexpected appeal to authority.  “Wanna know a secret, sweetheart?  Wanna know the real reason I said you didn’t have to call me that anymore?”  He leaned down, his breath hot and moist against your neck when he spoke: “Because it made me so fuckin’ hard when you said it.”

He pressed his cock, still wet with your spit, against your thigh; maybe just for emphasis, a reminder that he was still hard and wasn’t anywhere near done with you.

“What are you gonna do to me…?” you asked weakly, your voice so wavering and broken that you cringed just hearing it.  

“Just gonna make you feel good, princess,” he smiled, and before you could ask what that would entail, he was groping your tits in his large, calloused hands.  A low groan echoed in his chest, and you tried not to squirm as he teased your nipples between his fingers.  They were already hardening from the moment he’d touched you, but somehow it was getting even worse when he played with them, watching your face and surely seeing the shame you wore there.

His hands trailed lower, rubbing your waist, your thighs… you found yourself anticipating that he’d remove your panties, so much so that when he did, you quickly lifted your hips to help him slide them off.  You couldn’t believe how easily you were letting him do this to you.

“I can tell how much you want it,” he taunted lowly as the fabric slid down your legs and was tossed to the floor.  “I can smell how much you want it.”  He growled a little before diving in, licking a thick stripe through your folds and taking a moment right at the end to tickle your clit with his tongue.  “So fuckin’ sweet, princess; I knew you would be,” he praised.  You were forced to wonder how long he’d been thinking about this.

The noises were beyond obscene and you felt your face burning— but there was a burning in your gut, too, and shooting down your legs.  You’d never felt like this before (being a very good girl who never even touched herself), but you knew that if he didn’t stop, you would come.  And you really, really wanted to come.

Everytime he put pressure on your clit, your leg quivered involuntarily.  It was nearly too much, the sensation so powerful it almost hurt, but he pushed you right to the edge without knocking you off.

“Please,” you found yourself begging before you could stop it, “please, Sheriff—”

“I’m not your Sheriff anymore, sweetheart,” he informed you gruffly, popping up from between your legs with the entire bottom half of his face covered in your arousal, “I’m your daddy now.  Go on and beg your daddy to fuck you.”

Eyes shot wide open, you stared back at him in bewilderment.  Rage flashed in his eyes, and he snarled as his hand suddenly wrapped around your neck, tightening and choking you. 

“You heard me,” he groaned through his teeth.  “Beg me.  To fuck you.”

“Daddy,” you stammered, hoarsely fighting to speak through the pressure on your throat, “fuck me, please.”

He slammed his cock into you and you nearly screamed.  It burned and you instinctively tried to crawl away but, of course, his weight on top of you made it impossible.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned.  He laid down on top of you entirely then, slipping his arms under your torso and holding you tightly.

Each thrust made you feel like you had reached your limits, as if you couldn’t be stretched further which was probably true.  And yet, in spite of it (or worse, because of it), you found yourself moaning and writhing under him, even arching your back to make his movements smoother.  He laughed a little as he bit at the shell of your ear.

“You love it, baby,” he moaned, “you love my cock.”

You couldn’t respond, just sob as you clutched at the shirt still on his back, your jaw tight as you tried to bear the pain.  

“It’s not always gonna hurt like this,” he promised between heavy breaths, “s’gonna feel good soon.  Gonna make you feel so fuckin’ good, pretty girl.”

Truthfully, you weren’t sure if that meant that this would happen again or not.  At the moment, you were incapable of thinking that far ahead, too focused on the way the sting of the stretch was melting away and morphing into such powerful pleasure that you couldn’t even see straight.

He kissed you, and only then did the weight of it hit you.  Who he was, what he was doing, what you were doing… it had been distant and vague before, but something about his tongue inside your mouth made you remember that the metal digging into your back was his ring; that the lips on yours were sworn to somebody else— and at that, the one exact person that made this so fundamentally wrong.

Tears welled in your eyes, gentle sobs shaking your chest.

“Don’t cry, baby,” he whispered, pulling back and kissing your tears away, “feels good, don’t it?  Feels good when daddy fucks you?”

You knew speaking would only make you cry more, so you only nodded your head shamefully.

“That’s my good girl,” he moaned as he fucked you deeper, harder, rougher.  Your fingers held onto the back of his neck, running through his hair and pulling him closer.  He kept mumbling praises but they fell on deaf ears, pleasure clouding your mind and making every hair on your body stand upright.  He didn’t stop as he reached down between your bodies and laid his hand over your stomach, growling with satisfaction at what he found there.

“I can feel me inside ya,” he grinned.  “Feel that, sweetheart?  Feel how deep I am in your wet little cunt?”

When you didn’t answer, you got a quick slap to the face.  “Yes,” you replied quickly, “yes, I— I feel it.”

He buried his face into the crook of your neck, biting you there until you nearly screamed.  You couldn’t figure out why something so objectively painful only pushed you closer to your peak, making every spot inside you more sensitive, but somehow it did.

“Gonna come, pretty girl?  Want daddy to fill you up?” he groaned against your ear, pushing down on your stomach even harder.

“Yes, daddy!” you sobbed.  “Please!”

“Fuck, you’re squeezin’ me,” he hissed, “don’t fuckin’ stop.  Keep milkin’ my cock and m’gonna fill ya up so good, princess…”

You couldn’t stop even if you tried— your orgasm hit you in powerful waves, your head falling back as your walls clenched involuntarily (as did your fingers and toes, so hard that your nail tore the sheets a little bit, which you wouldn’t notice until the next day).  He grunted as he came, pumping into you with each thrust until you felt more full than you ever had before, in a way you could never describe.

The two of you stayed like that for a moment, him catching his breath and you losing yours as his weight threatened to crush you.  “Fuck,” he groaned as he sat up and pulled out.  He grabbed your legs and held them up for you, staring at your abused pussy and making you feel uncomfortably observed.

“Push it out for me, wanna see my come leak outta ya,” he purred, moaning a little when you did as he asked.  It felt even hotter as it gushed out of you, and you mindlessly bit your lip.  He tucked his softening cock back into his trousers, rezipping them and buckling his belt.  “We’d better get ya cleaned up, huh princess?” 

The bathroom wasn’t far, so he carried you, setting you down to stand on your own as he started to draw a bath.  You watched him, although you weren’t really watching him so much as staring into the void of space that happened to be in his general direction.  You were so out of it that you didn’t even register when he turned around and smiled at you with an air of pride.

“You look so good like this.”  

It pulled you out of your trance, though you had to ask him to repeat himself with a mumbled “huh?”

“I said you look good like this,” he explained, stepping closer.  “Fucked out, braindead, just my empty-headed fucktoy.”

“I… I don’t…” you began to disagree.

He used your jaw to turn your face to the mirror, and you gasped when you saw yourself: your hair was a mess; your whole face was red, especially your eyes and nose from crying, but plenty on your cheeks where he’d slapped you; your lips were swollen and slick; bruises were already forming on your arms where he’d grabbed you, and along your neck and shoulders where he had bitten you.

His form dwarfed yours as he stood behind you, looking at your reflection with a smile.

“Look at us,” he announced wistfully, “one big happy family, huh?”

[seokiloquy]

The Editor - Akaashi Keiji

Au: ABO (alpha, beta, omega)

Requested

Tags/Warnings: GN!Reader, time skip setting, ABO with a twist, harassment and swearing cause haha

Word Count: 3.8k

Sometimes you wanted to curse humanity for putting you in the position you were in. Science sometimes never knew when to stop asking questions. So of course when the theory of ‘maybe there are other senses that exist that we can’t use like seeing ultraviolet light’ and once that started they just had to experiment.

When they started messing with pheromones and the ability to sense them things fell into orderly chaos. People went to get tested for their ‘rank’ and once it was received, they’d started forming groups, cliques, gangs, all for the purpose of having power and standings.

Views on celebrities and the rich started shifting, and any roles they had socially shifted to fit their stereotypical rank to market off of it. Strong women became weak and delicate with the role of omega, gentlemen became domineering and aggressive with the role of alpha and vice versa. Those that were assigned beta largely stayed unaffected personality-wise but became outcasts of sorts, ugly ducklings among swans and hawks.

The rich that were given the rank of omega were overthrown, robbed of their riches and replaced by an alpha that could ‘use the money effectively.’ It didn’t matter if they donated to charity or were the most selfish person before the ranks were released. There were no omega ranks in positions of power.

Once governments and corporations saw the shift change from a focus on gender to ranks, they shifted with it. Advertising, limiting, sectioning, some began to simply call it ‘rankphobia’ or ‘rankism’ completely forgetting the root ‘phobia’ and ‘-ism’ in the Greek language and archaically merging languages together.

What did people expect to happen? One form of domination through socially constructed power falls and another emerges.

You read articles and wrote essays about it, each harsher and more cynical than the last about the topic. You’d belittle the scientists for not working harder to override their created system. You’d spin words over injustices, excellently proving your knowledge and supporting your disapproval. No one cared though, you’d get at most a 70% on them as no teacher wanted to agree and get penalized for it if they agreed.

When they did you’d lash out, screaming across classrooms and later lecture halls about the discrimination the professors would show through their grading. You knew when actions became too much, but on occasion, your classmates, alpha’s with strong arms, would have to hold you to the ground before you could maul any of them. A beta would step in as a moderator while omegas distracted.

You despised the world.

Rankings did nothing but force and/or permit the actions of people. And to make matters worse, before the creators could predict the subsequent events from their actions, they released a genetic procedure that would enhance people’s senses to be able to differentiate their ranks without knowing the official tested result. Scent had become your worst enemy because your great grandfather insisted on getting a dose, and the mutation was passed on.

Every day you would curse humanity for the situation you were put in.

You didn’t know how the woman had found you, or where she got the impression you’d respond receptively to her advances, but one thing you did know was that she wreaked of a putrid musk that only an alpha would be proud to have.

Her meaty arm was bent at the elbow, pinning you to the hard wall while digging her nose into your shoulder from behind and sucking it air like an expensive vacuum. Pulse points, for the same reason people used to apply perfume, were where someone’s scent was most aromatic. Obviously, your perfume wore off before you could get home or else you wouldn’t be pressed against a stone wall. 

The woman did her best to growl and squeeze you tighter between the wall and her large built body. It was an animalistic performance, an incorrect mimic of wolves from which the original terms of alpha and omega came. Despite the false science of wolf hierarchy, people took it and ran, using it as their main inspiration.

Her pelvic pushed against your back and when you tried to move your head her hand against the wall moved to push it back. Your cheek smushed against the wall. Her force against your head made it feel like your skull was going to crack. 

“Hmm little lamb, you smell delectable.”

Your heart was beating like a mallet against your ribs, making your body twitch with every pulse. It wasn’t from fear.

“You smell like a fucking dumpster fire, you piece of shit.”You pulled an arm up from between your body and the wall. The skin of your knuckles scraped against the harsh stone. When you got your knuckles against the wall, you pushed. “Get the fuck off me you horny mutt.”

It was hard to get air between you and the wall, but once you managed to make the pace, your leg replaced your arm and you kicked back. Due to the size of the alleyway, once you kicked, you and the woman flew against the opposite wall. 

You heard the blow of her back hitting the brick in sync with her hands dropping from your body. She cursed and you scrambled to your feet.

Grabbing your discarded bag by the entrance of the alley, you looked back at the fallen woman with flared nostrils. As you had already known, her muscles were large, they twitched under the tight fabric of her clothes, especially the arm that was reaching behind her head. Her hair was wild, scruffy, dark brown and tied back into a ponytail that contrasted with her light skin. Her eyes were shut in a grimace, so you couldn't see them, but it was a trade-off. If you could see them, she could see you, and you didn’t want that to happen again.

“You’re a fucking shit omega,” she spat.

You adjusted the strap of your messenger bag on your shoulder and ran.

You bought a new perfume, one that was advertised to last eight hours but also had sturdy packaging, and not a delicate glass container. It had to be portable to prevent any more incidents of the aroma fading. You did not need a decorative bottle.

Sometimes you wished you could have used your intellect for your job. After spending years studying social sciences, biology, and politics, all with the intent to reform the world, you were stopped by barriers. Like big red warning signs reading “Only Alphas Allowed” in bold white at every entryway.

It was frustrating, irritating, and infuriating. You wanted to scream and lash out at every person that tried to explain it to you as if you didn’t already know about every bit of the bullshit social rules and laws that acted as a mountain in your way.

Eventually, the world won, and you got tired of fighting constantly. Though, that was only after you had gotten banned from approaching parliament after a protest went awry.

You pushed through the office doors.

“(L/N)! Welcome back, are you— Oh my to your face. You’re all scratched up. What happened?”

The receptionist was rushing over, wet wipes that usually sat on the desk in her clutches. She tapped at the scrape only to pull the wipe away and see it clean.

“An alpha tried to get at me when I was walking home yesterday.”

“Seriously? I’m sorry, that’s such a rough start to an already messy week.”

“Right,” you sighed, walking with the woman toward the elevators. “Kurusai, do you know if Udai has arrived for the meeting yet?”

“No, but his editor has.” She pushed the button for you, to which you nodded in thanks.

“His editor?” You waited for the elevator, blinking at the woman as her hair bounced.

She nodded erratically. “Um ya, he sort of just walked in… do you want a mask?”

“Mask?” Your brow pinched, so focused on the question that you hardly noticed the door open. You stepped in, leaving Kurusai on the other side of the door, but continued to stare at her, blinking.

Then it struck. “You’re kidding me.” The door shut, hiding away Kurusai’s apologetic face. 

You had only known the man by name. He was in a different department than you. In terms of hierarchy, he was technically on a lower level than you, as you oversaw many projects and worked on setting deadlines and communicating between the artists and the publisher; a manager. He, as an editor working with an artist, was at the whim of your demands even if it was a collaborative mission. 

Socially, however, he had the high ground.

You’d met Udai plenty, but not once had you considered that the mild-toned and excitable beta had an alpha working for him. Were you about to be harassed? Intimidated? Beaten to a pulp? Was this payback for pressuring Udai into getting his work done faster?

This alpha would likely be buff, not all that different from the one you had encountered yesterday. Maybe they would have tattoos, something intimidating. A facial scar perhaps, alphas often resorted to violence to resolve their issues. 

You didn’t even see him before the smell attacked you in the doorway. Strong, rich musk that carried a warm temperature with it. If you paid attention to it, which sadly you couldn’t help but do as it invaded your nostrils, you’d notice the main undertones of freshly washed cotton, cooked vegetables, and sweat, remnants of his daily life. They did nothing to dim the smell of fire though.

Huffing, you steeled your expression and looked towards your doom.

Your doom wore a knit cardigan.

Male, and a tall one at that with soft cheeks that curved into a gentle chin. His hair was short and dark, with curly ends that poked upwards, it was styled slightly, well-kept and parted in the centre. His cardigan was a cool black, matching his hair, and covered a plain t-shirt that he wore underneath, a simple outfit, layered for early spring. Behind a large pair of square glasses, he had sharp eyes that curved more on the bottom lid.

He looked soft.

You glared while setting your bag down on the table. Still on your feet and pulling out your laptop you took another slow breath, trying to ignore the smell that wasn’t bothering you as much as you had anticipated. Had Kurusai just exaggerated?

“So, Udai couldn’t make it.”

“He’s working with the art team to meet the deadline.” He had a smooth tone, like cold water.

“Your name is Akaashi, yes?” You sat down, at the opposite side of the table, as far away as you could be from him to save your breath.

“That’s right.”

You opened your laptop. “It’s the first time we’re meeting. I’m surprised.”

He shifted in his seat and nodded, “Udai makes plenty of mistakes, someone has to be constantly working to keep things in line.”

“Do you also spend time editing weekly articles?”

“Some.”

The air felt stuffy, unsurprisingly, but the conversation seemed to add to the air pressure.

You nodded at the new information. “Is there anything you want to ask before we continue?”

“Not at the moment.” He opened his own laptop.

You quickly pulled open the files with a rough timeline, goals, and completed projects. “Would you like to have an overview?”

“Sure.”

“Alright. Currently, the third volume is about to go into production. They are set to release in three weeks, so if there is anything Udai would like to add last minute, we need it by tomorrow night.” You paused, expecting an interruption, but Akaashi just nodded and typed something on his laptop. Your eyes pinched. “By Thursday we need the final draft of this week's chapter for the magazine.”

He nodded again and continued typing.

“There’s also collaborative art for the cover next week, Kazuha will be sending the details for that by Friday.”

Again, another nod. You fumed silently.

“In 3 months official translations are set to go underway.”

He hummed along with his nod.

“We will also require official art of the protagonist riding an emu on a cruise ship for an advertising campaign.”

“An emu?” His brow quirked.

“Just checking that you were listening.” Your back is the cushion of the chair, rocking slightly with the motion. “Any questions?”

“None, this seems reasonable enough.”

It was your turn to nod. “Alright then, what’s the progress on your end?”

“Udai and the writers have made progress on developing the plot. They’ve planned out the story for the next three arcs and the specifics for the next one. It is a continuous process. The inking team has split off their work and worked more effectively, making Udai have to draw more rough panels for them to do. Udai himself is currently four chapters ahead but had been putting more hours in as of late so that the inking team will have things to do.”

“Four chapters? Udai has never said anything about being that far ahead.”

“He lies because you scare him and think saying he’s behind schedule will make you go easier.”

“Am I really that intimidating?”

“Well, I can’t say the scratch on your cheek makes you look soft.”

“I suppose we are caught up then, much faster than usual.” You hummed and started to pack your back away. “You are different from what I expected.”

“I could say the same about you.” 

You hadn’t noticed the blue colour of his eyes before that moment. “Really?”

He hummed, “Based on Udai’s stories I was expecting you to be an alpha.”

“Ah.” Feeling warm, you held your back tightly to your chest. “Well, based on the smell, I wasn’t expecting you to look like a teacher, and somewhat act like one too.”

“I suppose we both have subverted expectations.”

You gulped, meeting his eyes again. “I suppose we have.”

The collection of stenches in one room made you want to vomit.

Tetora loved his position leading a room of alphas and boasting with the group while teetering off the topic of work. He’d place his hands on his hips and give a toothy smile, lean back and give a loud welcome, before dominating the conversation. He was a suck-up to keep his promotion and cared more about looking good than actually getting the work done.

He would also either completely ignore you, or treat you like a child.

Currently doing the latter, Tetora was patting your head and speaking as if you were a puppy, praising you for being able to keep up with the alphas and their big words.

His nails felt gross as he tried to dig into your scalp. He leaned down, breath brushing over your cheek, and forcing you the breath in the overbearing smell that wafted off his skin. He smelt like petrol.

It was grimy, and unprofessional, but after the conversation deviated no one in the room seemed to care about what the other person was doing.

You were on fire, glaring at the alpha across the table from you who was the only one to stop laughing. You snatched Tetora’s hand off your head and slammed it to the table. On your feet, you were at eye level with the man leaning into his space while keeping his arm pinned down.

The laughter stopped.

“Tetora, it seems you have the inability to think outside of what the world spoon feeds you. So why don’t I catch you up to speed? Of all the managers here, I’m the only one with an omega rank, and if you haven’t noticed, which I doubt you have because you’re incompetent, I am also the most successful. All my artists have gotten the go-ahead on making their series, all of them are featured in the weekly magazine, all of them are getting printed, and all of them are lined up for translations.” 

You were deaf to any comments or objections from the others in the room as you glared at the man who was hunched over the table. Seeing no point in refraining, you continued, Using all the air you had to project directly into his ear.

“Since starting here I have exceeded the success of every manager in this room and will continue to do so. What have you done in the past month except suck up to the higher-ups by licking their shoes, and making all of our work harder just so you look good? You are beneath me, a disgusting little alpha who cares more about his pectorals than his brain. Did you even take notice that online engagement dropped after you made the choice of cancelling the series of your only mangaka? How about you think for once.”

His arm rippled under your grip, and he growled.

Fucking alphas.

“You got demoted?” Udai threw himself over his desk.

“Ya, apparently alphas can touch me up all they want but when I bite back I’m the one that gets penalized for it.”

“You’re still working for us right?”

“Ya, ya. I’m just a client manager now rather than a sectional. So, I’m only working for you guys and just have to help make sure you meet deadlines rather than being the one that makes the schedule and speaks with the higher-ups.” You twisted in your chair. “Really it’s more of an assistant position, but some of the alphas are sensitive to titles so they make it sound important.”

“It is important, and I’m happy you're sticking around with us, but that must suck.”

“I mean, it is less work, but I’m also getting paid less now. And with my old artists under Tetora’s management, they’re sure to tank. Which makes me feel guilty.”

“I’m sorry, (L/N).”

The door to the meeting room creaked open, revealing Akaashi in his long tweed coat with a furrowed brow. “Something smells damp. Flowers and mud.”

“That would be me,” you sighed. “Wait, flowers? My perfume is supposed to be ocean scented.” It was a neutral perfume, but like what a beta might smell like.

Akaashi frowned and shrugged, making his way into another chair in the room.

You dug through your bag. “My perfume must have worn out because of the stress then. Give me a moment.”

“It’s alright, give yourself a break from the artificial stuff.”

You paused, studying the editor while he typed on his laptop, and slowly closed your bag. “Well, before I go. Udai, is there anything you need to get your work done?”

“Uh, not currently. Akaashi do you need anything?”

“Hmm, an extra pair of eyes is always good. But at the moment I’m alright.”

You sighed. “I’ll just grab you guys some coffee and then ask around with the others. The schedule is already made so I’m just an extra hand if you fall behind. I’ll be back.”

The door shut behind you.

Cramming was inevitable. The team had a couple of days to get the week's chapter finished after falling behind a day. It was a long chapter, longer than average, and while you couldn’t draw well enough to efficiently help the inking team, you could edit.

With the sun gone and yellow office lights washing out your eyes like soap, you sat in the small office tucked to the side near the inkers and read over the pages with tired stares.

You had learned that your general smell was similar to a meadow. Sweet with flowers, airy and cool, and a hint of dirt. There was also the addition of paper, and of course the smell of your detergent, but that was caused by your lifestyle. Of course, scents were never actually the smell of something else other than the person, but how could one explain that Momo smells like Momo and that Tyler smells like Tyler without using a metaphor.

Musk was a common smell that had a name, but they were all different in a way. If you thought hard enough, surrounded by man, you would say that Akaashi smelt like a fire in a cave on a summer night. A warm, rich smell.

You wouldn’t say it out loud, but you couldn’t stop your tired mind from wandering, especially after being locked in the same room for hours on end, forced to smell him.

“Akaashi, is this guy not addressing the other guy in this scene? He’s looking the wrong way.”

When the man looked over your shoulder he sucked in an annoyed breath. “Yes, you’re right. I’ll send a message to Udai. He's going to need to redraw that immediately.”

“It’s good we noticed before printing, then.”

“You found it.”

“You know the most credit I’ll be given is just participating.”

The room was quiet again.

“Do you want to have your old job back?”

You looked up to meet Akaashi’s eyes, but couldn’t see them under the glare of his glasses.

“Truthfully? Yes. I want to be at that level and claw my way higher just to show that I am just as good, if not better than those dumb alphas. Sorry.”

“Don’t worry.”

“I’ve worked incredibly hard in so many fields to try and just prove to people that I can do it. But they always manage to find a way to beat me down a peg. Heck, I tried to run for a political party and got shot down like I was a deer during hunting season. I want my old job back, but I also want any job that puts me in a higher position.”

“I see.”

You leaned back in your chair and yawned. “I’m tired of trying though. Being here is fine, I’m happy, and relaxed. Haven’t been harassed by staff for weeks. It’s the most calm I’ve been since middle school.”

As you yawned again, Akaashi sunk into his armrest, leaning toward you with gentle breaths. You smiled.

“Thank you, by the way. I haven't done that yet, but I feel like I’m going to be thanking you for the rest of my life.”

“For what?”

“Being the first alpha not to think they can overpower me just because of a silly rank.”

Akaashi hummed, pulled his glasses off with one hand and rested his chin on the other. With the metal frames gone, you should see his sharp brows and tips of his lashes. His eyes smiled, just barely taking his mouth with them in a gentle curve.

“I think I was too surprised about you being an omega in the first place to even consider the possibility of doing so,” he quipped.

You guffawed, brushing your knee. “You wouldn’t.”

Something about the way he looked at you made you want to curl around the fire, uncaring for the stone floor that would be your bed.

“I would never dream of it. You smell nice by the way.”

You weren’t wearing your perfume.

“Thanks, so do you.”

By the time this gets posted I will have one exam left to write (out of 5). Gross.

Buuuutt New Haikyuu oneshot comicccc read it.- Bacon

Last one for me tooooo, which means I will write more *intense crying emojis* THE NEW CHAPTER WAS EVERYTHING - a suffering Kiwi

Posted: 24/04/2022