#i've often answered asks that don't even get a 'like' from the person who asked in the first place

[moping-hours]

My friends don't hate me, they're just busy.

My friends don't hate me, they're just busy.

My-

[marshmallowgoop]

(Previous DCMK-game anon) That was exactly what I was looking for! Thank you so much, you are was so helpful and so kind to take time out of your day to respond! Hope you've been well :) ❤️

[Game ask]

Aww, Anon 🥺 I'm glad I was able to help! I love talking "niche" DetCo content—there's a lot of fun stuff out there that I like bringing more attention to!—so I love asks wondering about that kind of thing. Gives me an excuse to ramble!

Thank you for such a sweet ask!

[inkskinned]

i have chronic pain. i am neurodivergent. i understand - deeply - the allure of a "quick fix" like AI. i also just grew up in a different time. we have been warned about this.

15 entire years ago i heard about this. in my forensics class in high school, we watched a documentary about how AI-based "crime solving" software was inevitably biased against people of color.

my teacher stressed that AI is like a book: when someone writes it, some part of the author will remain within the result. the internet existed but not as loudly at that point - we didn't know that AI would be able to teach itself off already-biased Reddit threads. i googled it: yes, this bias is still happening. yes, it's just as bad if not worse.

i can't actually stop you. if you wanna use ChatGPT to slide through your classes, that's on you. it's your money and it's your time. you will spend none of it thinking, you will learn nothing, and, in college, you will piss away hundreds of thousands of dollars. you will stand at the podium having done nothing, accomplished nothing. a cold and bitter pyrrhic victory.

i'm not even sure students actually read the essays or summaries or emails they have ChatGPT pump out. i think it just flows over them and they use the first answer they get. my brother teaches engineering - he recently got fifty-three copies of almost-the-exact-same lab reports. no one had even changed the wording.

and yes: AI itself (as a concept and practice) isn't always evil. there's AI that can help detect cancer, for example. and yet: when i ask my students if they'd be okay with a doctor that learned from AI, many of them balk. it is one thing if they don't read their engineering textbook or if they don't write the critical-thinking essay. it's another when it starts to affect them. they know it's wrong for AI to broad-spectrum deny insurance claims, but they swear their use of AI is different.

there's a strange desire to sort of divorce real-world AI malpractice over "personal use". for example, is it moral to use AI to write your cover letters? cover letters are essentially only templates, and besides: AI is going to be reading your job app, so isn't it kind of fair?

i recently found out that people use AI as a romantic or sexual partner. it seems like teenagers particularly enjoy this connection, and this is one of those "sticky" moments as a teacher. honestly - you can roast me for this - but if it was an actually-safe AI, i think teenagers exploring their sexuality with a fake partner is amazing. it prevents them from making permanent mistakes, it can teach them about their bodies and their desires, and it can help their confidence. but the problem is that it's not safe. there isn't a well-educated, sensitive AI specifically to help teens explore their hormones. it's just internet-fed cycle. who knows what they're learning. who knows what misinformation they're getting.

the most common pushback i get involves therapy. none of us have access to the therapist of our dreams - it's expensive, elusive, and involves an annoying amount of insurance claims. someone once asked me: are you going to be mad when AI saves someone's life?

therapists are not just trained on the book, they're trained on patient management and helping you see things you don't see yourself. part of it will involve discomfort. i don't know that AI is ever going to be able to analyze the words you feed it and answer with a mind towards the "whole person" writing those words. but also - if it keeps/kept you alive, i'm not a purist. i've done terrible things to myself when i was at rock bottom. in an emergency, we kind of forgive the seatbelt for leaving bruises. it's just that chat shouldn't be your only form of self-care and recovery.

and i worry that the influence chat has is expanding. more and more i see people use chat for the smallest, most easily-navigated situations. and i can't like, make you worry about that in your own life. i often think about how easy it was for social media to take over all my time - how i can't have a tiktok because i spend hours on it. i don't want that to happen with chat. i want to enjoy thinking. i want to enjoy writing. i want to be here. i've already really been struggling to put the phone down. this feels like another way to get you to pick the phone up.

the other day, i was frustrated by a book i was reading. it's far in the series and is about a character i resent. i googled if i had to read it, or if it was one of those "in between" books that don't actually affect the plot (you know, one of those ".5" books). someone said something that really stuck with me - theoretically you're reading this series for enjoyment, so while you don't actually have to read it, one would assume you want to read it.

i am watching a generation of people learn they don't have to read the thing in their hand. and it is kind of a strange sort of doom that comes over me: i read because it's genuinely fun. i learn because even though it's hard, it feels good. i try because it makes me happy to try. and i'm watching a generation of people all lay down and say: but i don't want to try.

[beanarie]

Tommy isn't sure why he answers the phone. He's aware that he kind of hates himself, but this is a level of self-flagellation he doesn't often reach.

"I cannot believe I used to think you were smart," the other person says.

"So," Tommy says. "This is what it takes to hear from the elusive Eddie Diaz."

Eddie sighs. "Grow up, man."

"Hey, you're the one calling me to, what? Rip me a new one? For what purpose exactly?"

"I can yell maturely. You're an idiot who needs to get his head out of his ass. There, see? Didn't even raise my voice."

"Have you ever heard the phrase 'the lady doth protest too much'?"

"Have you ever heard the phrase 'I like tacos not hotdogs'?"

Disgusting. Tommy really missed this asshole. "I've seen you together and I've seen good friends. You two are not-"

"Most friends haven't watched each other almost die enough times to fill up the fingers on one hand. It doesn't mean we want to bang."

"I know you don't," Tommy says.

"What."

"Adhering to bro code this closely even though said bro didn't even ask is the most heterosexual guy behavior I've ever seen."

"Tommy, for the love of-" Eddie groans. "I have had my own shit going on." Sure, whatever. "The last thing I needed was to set Buck off into a betrayal spiral once he found out we were still friends. He was already the biggest sadsack in SoCal and that was before I decided to move."

"What are you talking about?"

"It would have made Buck even more pitiful to know I still got to see you and he didn't? What's not clicking?"

That makes no sense. Evan wasn't pitiful.

"Tommy."

Tommy rubs the back of his neck. "He said he's been fine."

"Do you mean to tell me you got snowed by Evan Buckley? Evan "my face is literally just a direct screen to my brain" Buckley?" Eddie scoffs. "Jesus Christ, you deserve each other."

"So," Tommy says, tentatively. "So he-"

"Lost his freaking mind over you. I was legit worried about his safety for that first month or so."

Nothing has ever made less sense.

"Idiot," Eddie continues. "At least now I know it was mutual. God, you know what? Don't get back together actually. You both give me heartburn."

Tommy lets out a weak laugh. "Goodbye, Eddie."

"Ask him about the baking," Eddie says, cryptically, and hangs up before Tommy can even begin to think of a response.

[pineconepie]

This was an ask I got a while back, but either I can't find it or accidentally deleted it. But to the anon who asked for a scenario like this, here you go! :D

TW: Amnesia, parental/platonic yandere, forced infantilization, drugging, implied kidnapping, manipulation

"Help! Please help!" you cry, running as fast as you can throughout the dense forest. Branches and sharp brambles scrape your cheeks and catch onto your clothes.

You stop for a brief moment to pick the twigs out of your disheveled hair. The small cuts sting horribly but it doesn't deter you from pushing onwards.

Sweat beads down your forehead and you wipe at it furiously. Your chest is heaving, desperately trying to take in more oxygen.

"(Y/n)! Stop!" His booming voice echoes throughout the forest.

He's getting closer to you. You have to keep running, keep moving, keep—

Something hits you, something cold and metal. You barely have enough consciousness to realize it was a car, on the dirt road path. Your vision swims, and your head feels ready to burst.

Your ears ring incessantly. All you can hear is that horrible noise, but it doesn't completely drown out him calling for you.

And suddenly there are strong arms around you. "Oh! My baby! What have you done?!" Someone picks you up. They yell to someone else, but their voice is fading out.

Your vision fades to nothing.

...

When you wake up, there's the sound of something beeping. It's a comforting constant rhythm, steady and predictable. You think you know what it is, but your head feels all muddled and foggy.

Something cool and soft presses against your forehead, and you lean into the soothing touch.

"That's right, honey. Nice and easy," a voice speaks above you. Its light, with a subtle hint of an accent you can't recognize. A thumb gently rubs at your temple, massaging it with care and ease. "That must've been a pretty bad fall you took. Don't worry, I've got you."

You open your eyes. Hovering above you, is a man with long messy brown hair, light brown eyes, and a slight stubble of facial hair. He looks to be in his early to mid forties or so.

There's something familiar about him. You should know who this person is... but your brain cannot come up with a name.

"There they are!" the man coos. The corner of his eyes crinkle. He has crow's feet around them. You think those mean someone smiles often. You stare blankly back at him, mind still groggy from what happened earlier. He hums a melody, and gently brushes his fingertips along your arm.

"What..."

"Hush now, don't talk just yet," he murmurs. His other hand is behind your head, propping you up in its palm. "Had quite a nasty fall there. Scared me half to death!"

"Where am I?" You blink, still slightly disoriented.

"Shhh..." He kisses your bandaged forehead. "You're here in the hospital, sweetie. Just got done doing x-rays on your head." The room around you is stark white. There are various machines around you and one is beeping at a constant rhythm. It smells of chemicals and medicine. "I know you hate being scolded, but (Y/n), you know better than to play in the forest so late at night..." He scrubs a hand over his face tiredly.

You squint at him, trying to jog your memory as to who this guy even is. Is he perhaps someone important? Someone you're supposed to know?

As hard as you try, no answers come to mind. And now that you're thinking about it, you really can't remember much at all besides your name and general sense of self.

"I'm sorry, who are you?" you awkwardly ask.

The man freezes. His eyebrows raise up in surprise before furrowing with concern. "Wh—(Y/n), sweetie," he looks at you. "Can you tell me who I am?" You shake your head. He stares at you for a moment, like frozen. Only when you awkwardly look down, does he do too. "The doctors mentioned possible memory loss, but..." He looks so torn; eyebrows twisted up sadly. You almost want to reach out and hug him.

The only thing that stops you is the IV, and the fact you don't know him, despite what he says.

"What's the last thing you remember, baby?" he asks again.

You wrack your brain. "I don't know. I know my name... and that's about it."

A flash of pain shoots through his gaze, though he seems to keep himself collected. "Okay. So, sweetie... I'm your dad." He reaches out to clasp your hands. "My name is Hugo Harrison. You're (Y/n) Harrison."

"You... don't look very much like me..." You realize that might be a rude thing to say. "Sorry, I didn't mean that in a mean way."

Hugo chuckles. "It's okay, there's not a mean bone in your body, kiddo." He pauses, like contemplating his next words extra carefully. "I'm your adoptive dad. Now, we could go into a lot more detail, but let's not strain that noggin of yours for today, hm?" He tenderly touches your wrapped forehead. You must have injured it severely, which explains the splitting headache and memory loss.

"Oh, that makes sense," you murmur. You take in his appearance more. He has a tattoo peaking from below his collar shirt, and looks a bit rugged, with muscular arms that have a few scars. He even has an eyebrow piercing on his left.

Despite that, he seems so... sweet.

"Do you have any photos of us?" you ask. Part of it is genuine curiosity, but mostly just because you don't know what else to say.

His eyes soften, and he pulls out his phone to immediately show you his lock screen.

Sure enough, there the two of you are, smiling at the camera. It doesn't look like it was too long ago. You're both indoors, wearing some kind of brown and periwinkle uniforms.

Noticing your confused expression, he explains, "I own a cafe, sometimes you help out. That's where this photo is from. One of my favorites."

He scrolls through his camera roll and shows another picture of the both of you. In this one, you're sleeping on his lap, his hand covering the side of your face in an apparent attempt to block you from seeing the flash.

You nod mutely, trying to soak it all in. All you know of this man is from these two images.

So far, there's nothing overtly suspicious. Nothing that triggers alarm bells or raises red flags. At this point, you have no reason not to believe him.

So why do you feel so unsettled?

"How are you feeling, by the way?"

"Not good," you mumble, bringing a hand up to your head, cringing from the pain.

He presses a kiss to your hair, holding it for several seconds before pulling away. "Oh, sweetheart..." His voice wavers with emotion. "I'll talk to the doctors again. For now, you rest up, okay?"

With such a splitting headache and sore body, you have no trouble obeying his commands. Your eyes flutter shut, and the last thing you hear is a sigh coming from him, as well as something about wanting to take you home.

...

"Easy," Hugo soothes, letting you lean on him heavily as he walks you to his house. Everything hurts from your body to your head. The medication from earlier wore off halfway to his home.

Speaking of his house, it looks pretty much like a standard home, if not kind of cute, almost reminiscent of a cottage. It's beige with dark brown trimmings. Ivy climbs around the windows.

Flower beds line along the pathway to the front door and a vegetable garden sits near the shed in the back. There's wind chimes hanging near the entrance.

"I wish I could remember any of this," you mutter as he situates you on the couch. "Sorry."

"No, no," he reassures, rubbing your upper arm. "Don't apologize, okay? It's not your fault that this happened."

"What was I doing out in the forest, anyway? You mentioned something about that... is that something I typically do?" you ask.

Hugo looks confused for a moment, then nods. "Ah. Well, it was something you'd usually do, but hopefully that will be the last time. Sometimes you get... impulsive. You do things that are reckless. That's why I'm so protective of you. This isn't the first time you got injured like that." He shakes his head and laughs. "Stubborn kid you are..."

"I see." What else can you say, really? You wish your brain would hurry up and recall something. Right now it just feels blank. All you have to go off of is Hugo. "I know I can't remember, but I'm still sorry. For what I did. Or, uh, do."

His gaze softens even more, looking like the definition of fond. "Like I said, sweetie, you don't need to worry about a thing. It's all in the past now. What matters is that you're here now, safe with me. How about I take you up to your room? You can get a nap in while I make dinner. Sound nice?" He brushes his thumb over your temple.

You wordlessly lean against him. He chuckles and helps you back up, mindful of your injuries, and leads you upstairs.

Again, it looks like a completely normal household. Nothing stands out to you besides perhaps the large number of photographs littering the walls.

Your bedroom has pastel blue wallpaper with stars decorating the top half of the wall.

There's a bunch of stuffed animals lining the bed, as well as pillows with galaxy themed pillows. The carpet is plush and your feet sink slightly in them.

"This was... mine?"

"Yes!" He seems less happy about it when he sees your expression. "Do you not like it? You decorated it yourself..."

"Isn't it kind of, uh, childish? Nothing wrong with that, of course, just doesn't seem like something someone older would want," you lamely explain.

Hugo takes another moment to mull over his words. "Well... you've always been a bit childish for your age, sweetie. I think it's adorable, and you seemed content with this room before... but if you really want to change it up, I don't mind at all." His strained smile tells you that he does, in fact, mind it.

"That's okay. I think I do like it, now that I've seen it longer," you reassure him. Part of it might be because you feel bad. You hobble over to the bed with his assistance, and watch him choose a cutesy beige pajama set. The sleeves are longer than your arms and the pants are covered in sheep patterns. "Do I normally wear that to bed?"

"More like just your typical lounge wear," he answers. "Do you need help, or can I leave you to it?"

"Um, you can leave me to it." You watch him open the door to leave. "Oh, by the way... what do I call you? By your name? Dad? Papa?"

A large smile stretches across his lips. "You call me 'Papa', but really anything works with me. Just want you to feel comfortable, bud. Oh, and dinner'll be ready soon. Tomato, chicken noodle, or cream of mushroom?"

You look down at your lap, where your pajamas lay. "What ever I liked most, I guess."

He hums in affirmation. "Sounds good."

Before long, you've changed and situate yourself on your bed, the stuffed toys huddled around you like a cocoon. Though everything seems fine and cozy, it all feels too new, too strange, for it to feel exactly right. It's supposed to be yours, you know this. And yet, it feels so... foreign.

This should make sense. Logically, it does. But your intuition keeps whispering doubts, despite Hugo giving you nothing but warmth.

...

Two weeks pass, and go by pretty uneventfully. He cares for you like you are a toddler, but he assures you this is how he used to act around you.

Still, your memory seems stubborn in recovering, and each night you pray for the morning to finally reveal a clue as to your past.

So far, nothing has shown up.

And being confined within the house doesn't help, either. Hugo refuses to let you go outside unsupervised, claiming how he wouldn't be able to forgive himself if you wound up in danger again.

And really, who are you to refuse him? You don't have any memories, any other friends (he's told you they've moved away years ago), and you have no money to sustain yourself. He's all you have.

"Where are you going?" you ask one morning, to see him slinging on a jacket. His hair is also tied up, which you've gathered he only does when he's going out somewhere.

"The cafe," he replies, though you can tell something is off by the way he smiles. "There's leftovers in the fridge if you get hungry, okay? Stay inside, and I mean it."

"Can't I go with?" you suggest. Maybe seeing the place could bring back some recollections. Plus, sitting alone all day isn't fun at all, especially when there's nothing to distract you with besides watching TV or reading. Neither of those interests you that much, not to mention a majority of the books and shows catered to people less than half your age.

"Not with those injuries," he chuckles, but there's some firmness in his tone.

"I feel fine! My ankle isn't sprained anymore, and my ribs hardly bother me," you counter. Your face isn't bandaged anymore, either. Instead, only faint scars remain.

"Honey, the answer is no."

"I just want to leave the house!" you blurt. His eyebrows raise up at your outburst. "It's boring staying cooped up all day! I don't want to watch cartoons again or read a comic book or play with action figures."

He purses his lips. "But you love doing those things..."

"Yeah, sure. I don't doubt that I like those activities. But maybe sometimes I'd like to do something more, I dunno, mature." It's not that you hate the stuff Hugo's given you, but you aren't mentally ten years old or whatever age he's assuming you are. So reading picture books and playing with kiddie games get dull real fast. "Please? I don't have to do any physical labor, just wanna get outside the house..."

"(Y/n)..."

Maybe it's a tad bit manipulative, but you've found it works pretty well on him. "I just wanna spend time with my papa... if I can't remember old memories, I was hoping we'd have more time to bond..."

Hugo looks torn for a split second, before giving you a gentle grin, reaching out to pinch your cheeks. "Allllriiight," he drawls. "Wear something warm. It's chilly out."

"Why not my uniform?"

"Because I don't want you working, silly."

The drive there is an hour long, and has you wondering how on earth he makes these long treks there and back five times a week.

By the end, you're yawning and leaning against the window. He laughs, shaking you awake, helping you walk inside the cafe.

In the break room, he situates you on the couch. "I'll get you something to snack on soon. Banana bread, blueberry muffin, brownie, or chocolate chip cookie?"

You weakly smile. "What ever was my favorite?"

He snorts. "Gotcha. I'll be back soon. Don't leave this room, 'kay?" He doesn't wait for a response, quickly busying off towards the counter, throwing his apron back on.

When he's out of view, you try to relax, but as time passes on, you get bored with the things he's given you.

A coloring book, a children's storybook, and crayons litter around you. Sure, they're fun for a little while, but then you're back to square one.

You briefly contemplate if this is the reason why you kept running off to the forest often.

If he's been anything like this normally, you can imagine why you've been searching for more fun things to do.

You peak your head from the break room, to see him tending to another customer, making conversation.

"Oh, (Y/n), that you?"

You look to see one of the customers. He's a person about your age, smiling at you like you guys are friends. When you return the look awkwardly, it morphs into confusion.

"Hey, you alright?" he asks, walking closer to you. "Don't tell me you're working. Hugo told me you had a nasty fall, dude."

"Oh, I'm just here while he works," you shrug. "My memory is a bit weird, still. Who are you...?"

He blinks. "Oh. I'm Weston. We're friends. You must have it pretty bad if you can't remember me."

This is all so confusing. Hugo told you that you didn't have any friends... "Oh. Well, I'm just in the break room while Papa works." You cringe at your own wording. Still feels a bit weird, despite having grown more accustomed to calling him that now. "After he's done, we're probably just gonna go home."

Weston frowns. "Your dad? Are you talking about Hugo?" When you nod, he gives a dry laugh. "(Y/n), he's not—"

"What are you doing?" The deep voice startles you both. You turn around to see Hugo staring between the two of you, jaw tensing with some suppressed emotion. He forces a smile at Weston. "Hey, Weston, sorry, they're going through a lot as you can tell. Still in a state of constant confusion. Sorry. Did you want your usual? Croissant and cappuccino?"

He takes a small step back, but is still clearly defensive, like he's waiting for something to happen. "Yeah, no worries, Mr. Harrison. I know they hit their head hard."

Hugo nods. "I'll get started on that in a sec." He drags you back to the break room, almost slamming the door shut behind him. "Kiddo. What did I tell you?"

"I didn't technically leave... I just poked my head to see if you were busy, and that guy... Weston, I think, recognized me..." You realize his breathing sounds labored. "He said he's my friend."

"That kid?" he says incredulously, laughing. It doesn't sound humorous. It's dry and cold. "No, no, no. Sweetheart, I know everyone in this town and he most definitely isn't friends with you. (Y/n), look, you really can't trust your judgment right now." He grips your shoulders. "You gotta understand that you're hurt. Your head's not working correctly. Okay?"

You wish you could let it go, but something else he said makes you anxious. "He sounded like he was about to say you aren't my dad..."

"He's misinformed. Don't let him fill your head with lies. Now, I gotta get back to work."

"But—"

"For the love of God, just shut up, will you?" he snaps. "I barely let you come along! I should've followed my instincts, why do you have to make everything so damn difficult?"

The glint in his eyes scares you. It reminds you of something terrible, even if you can't remember. You flinch so hard you fall off the couch.

As soon as Hugo's anger came, it dissipated when he saw you trembling, backing up. You shield yourself away with your arms, expecting him to explode.

Even though you have no memory in your head, it's like your body remembers, judging by the way you recoil away from him. It's all instinctual. Even when his expression turns from angry to worried, to guilty.

"Oh no..." He kneels beside you. "Oh, I am so sorry, baby. I don't know what came over me. Here, take my hand," he offers. You reluctantly take his calloused, scarred hand. "Shh... I know, Papa can be scary, huh? I shouldn't have yelled like that. It's just that you made me so mad, scaring me like that... he's a bad person. This town is filled with them. That's why I'm so protective of you."

He's always making up excuses.

"I just wanna be left alone," you rasp. "Please."

"Okay. That's fair. If that's what you want." You expect him to fight it, but instead he gets up slowly and leaves after mumbling one final apology. After the door closes, you exhale, burying your face into your hands.

Something about what happened triggers a flashback.

"You just never know when to stop, do you? How many times have I asked you not to hang out with them?"

"Hugo, come on, you can't dictate who I hang out with. I can handle myself just fine. Now please, let me just do my job. People are staring."

"Keep up with this attitude, (Y/n), and we'll have problems."

"If you're going to fire me, might as well do so. I'm close to quitting myself."

You don't remember anything after that.

But whatever it was, it couldn't be good.

The ride home is relatively silent. Not that it's much different from his normal quietness, but it's a different kind of quiet. Deafening. Tense.

All because he lost his cool earlier. Your shoulders hunch as you try to avoid eye contact.

Finally, Hugo speaks. "Still upset?"

"Why do you care?" you mumble.

His fingers tense against the steering wheel, before relaxing. "Of course I care. I care about you more than anyone else." His eyebrows furrow with concern. "Just because I got a bit snappy back there doesn't mean I love you any less. If you weren't so reckless... but even then, I shouldn't have lashed out at you like that." He sighs deeply. "I'm sorry."

Something tells you if you don't forgive him now, he'll give you hell about it later. "It's okay."

That seems to quell his stress immensely, and he breathes out shakily, like a huge weight was taken off him. "Thank you," he murmurs. "We'll do something special tonight, okay? Movie night, maybe a pillow fort?"

"Sure." You're too tired to argue.

...

The next day, he leaves to get groceries, taking another day off work. You take that as an opportunity to snoop around, for the two hours or so he'll be gone.

Maybe something is fishy about Hugo; the way he keeps trying to keep you restrained from leaving the house is suspicious enough. And the lack of communication to the outside world, even before the fall.

No computer, internet access, cell phone... maybe your memories won't have to return for you to discover some clues.

Searching his bedroom provides nothing useful, so you continue towards his desk area.

Opening drawers, there's lots of random papers inside, which you flip through and scan through as carefully as you can.

That's when you realize one of the letters is a letter of resignation... from you, addressed to Hugo. The date isn't too long ago; in fact, it's the day before you remember having the accident.

You read through it, each sentence causing you more and more distress, until the paper is trembling in your grip.

Hugo,

I appreciate everything you've done for me since I first started working with you, but unfortunately our differences are causing more trouble than it's worth.

The incident last week truly opened my eyes. I didn't realize how toxic and controlling you were. You have isolated me from society, refused to allow me freedom, and tried to control who I hang out with and what I do.

You're my boss, but you insist on acting like my father, despite how many times I've told you that is crossing a boundary of mine.

Therefore, I regretfully inform you I will no longer work with you. This will be my two weeks notice. I'm sorry.

(Y/n)

The paper flutters to the ground. You're sweating. Isolating, controlling, manipulative behavior... it fits to a T of what Hugo's been displaying to you since the accident. Except it started long before that.

You glance around the hallway, suddenly feeling like you're in enemy territory rather than your home. But can you even call it that anymore?

All's you know, is you need to get out of here.

Running back downstairs, you begin planning what supplies to bring with you, but movement from outside catches your attention.

Rushing to the window, you see a familiar figure walking up the driveway. Your blood runs cold.

It's Hugo, carrying bags from the grocery store.

You must've lost track of time. You stumble to your room and pretend to be asleep.

Listening carefully to the noises coming from downstairs, he brings in the bags and rustling follows.

Now that you know the truth, every tiny noise causes anxiety. Why is he doing all this? Was this really all an elaborate lie, this entire situation?

And the most chilling part... was he responsible for your accident? Has it ever been an accident in the first place? As these thoughts race in your mind, your ears strain to listen to what he's doing below you.

Footsteps approach the staircase. Your heartbeat quickens and you burrow further underneath the covers. They ascend slowly.

Eventually they're right in front of your bedroom. Then, it sounds like they turn and head towards his room instead. You have to stifle a relieved sigh when he doesn't enter your room.

The relief doesn't last long.

Did you put everything away where you found it? Did you shut the drawers properly, did you cover up your tracks?

A few minutes go by, until there's a knock on the door. "Sweetheart, I'm getting started on dinner. How does mac 'n cheese sound?"

"Sure," you say, so quiet he almost doesn't hear you.

You wait until you hear his footsteps descend, then sneak into his room to make sure you put everything up.

To your relief, it looks like it, so you shuffle back downstairs, trying to put on the best neutral expression you can manage.

The last thing you'd want him to suspect is that you're onto his twisted game.

"There they are! Come sit at the table. Almost ready." He ruffles your hair gently when you take a seat. It takes everything in you not to squirm away from his touch. To keep pretending that you're blissfully oblivious. "How long were you napping for?"

"Not too long." The less you talk, the better.

"That's good." Hugo serves you a bowl full of macaroni and adds a glass of juice next to it, sitting across from you. Something about his demeanor seems different. You're sure that's just the anxiety talking. "Is something wrong, buddy? You're quieter than normal," he notes.

"Just... still kinda tired." You pick at the macaroni, hoping he doesn't press on about this.

"Awww... well, eat up, okay?"

Despite the lack of appetite, you force down the food. Every bite tastes like mush.

But if you don't finish it, you have the sinking feeling he'll know something's up. So, you force everything down, as well as the juice, which washes it down easier.

Within moments, a sudden wave of dizziness washes over you. "H...Hugo..."

Hugo gives a lopsided smile, somewhat apologetic. "I'm sorry, kiddo. I didn't want to do that, but found you messed with some of my stuff. My fault, I've been putting off getting locks for it. I swear, I'd lose my head if it weren't screwed on!" He laughs. It borders on hysterical. "All I want is to be your dad... for you to let me care for you." He reaches out, brushing hair from your sweaty forehead. "But no need to worry. I doubt you'll remember any of today, anyway."

"No..." You try to stand, but end up collapsing forward. In the haze, you register being pulled upwards.

"You just can't help but be stubborn," he chastises. "Guess you got it from your old man."

"You aren't..." Your tongue begins to feel heavy, just like the rest of your body. "Not my..."

"Sleep, baby. Sleep. When you wake up, this will all just be a silly nightmare. Papa's got you. He'll always have you."

And despite your desperate attempts to stay awake, sleep eventually claims you, as black engulfs your vision.

The last thing you sense is your head being tucked underneath his chin, and hearing him hum the same melody he hummed in the hospital.

[chocobje]

How I like to characterize Sprout is that he’s great talking with the ones he’s close with (Cosmo, Astro, etc.) But incredibly socially awkward with others. He comes off as brash, but he’s trying his best.

What guidelines do you try to follow when writing Sprout? I’m just curious.

Thanks for giving me the opportunity to yap about one of my favourite characters hehe..

You asked for guidelines I gave you a character analysis instead.

(Don't mind the images I didn't want this post to look naked)

ALSO NOTE THAT AT THE END OF THE DAY THIS IS MERELY MY INTERPRETATION OF HIS CHARACTER. EVERYONE HAS THEIR OWN!! Don't take my post as a mandatory guide to follow.

Let's talk about what's canon:

I like checking the Wikipedia for his dialogues every now and then to make sure he's not too out-of-character.

Sprout comes off as blunt, he does not sugarcoat his words when he has something to say.

Not even an excuse or a reason as to why he doesn't want to join Teagan for tea; It was straight up a "no" until Teagan told him Cosmo will join them too. (Also I want to point out he doesn't immediately say yes when he's told Cosmo will be there, so for all we know he'd still decline even if his best friend's joining Teagan).

Dandy's dialogue when you purchase Sprout. I think about it a lot. Out of all the character dialogues, the one with Astro is what I feel like is an example of his overprotectiveness coming across as "pushy".

He'd definitely be the type to scold his friends. Especially after Gardenview's shutdown with all the Twisteds wreaking havoc and whatnot. I don't think Sprout is fond of going on runs, but only does so he can watch over everyone and keep them safe. He makes sure everyone is focused and on high alert, he doesn't want anyone to be reckless.

He prioritizes safety over answers. His dialogue with Rodger shows that. Maybe he's also curious as to what has happened, because in Vee's dialogue he tried talking to Dandy only for Dandy to walk away. I assume Sprout just wanted to check up on him rather than knowing what's going on with Gardenview and the Twisteds.

Another thing I don't really see often is how Sprout is actually pretty forgetful and impulsive.

For a Toon who's constantly keeping watch on everyone he surely does not apply the same kind of attention to himself.

He talks before thinking about his words, but once he realized that he immediately apologized to Vee. I don't think he always notices when he comes across as rude though.

I actually think he's actually quite reckless when he bakes. I obviously can't show it in this post but if you look at that animation with Cosmo and Sprout baking they're not even measuring the ingredients. I mean what. 😭

The way he bakes feels so impulsive and it just looked like they were winging it. Somehow despite that their baked goods still end up great and that's honestly impressive.

Okay now for that dialogue between Bobette and Sprout, I was getting there-- I've never made a gingerbread house but from what I've seen from other people it requires a lot more patience and carefulness.

Sprout is neither.

According to him, his gingerbread house fell apart immediately and then he stopped trying afterwards. It's honestly funny.

I feel like this also shows through his stats. Both his extraction speed and skillcheck is 2 stars. His stamina and speed is way higher. He prefers running around, probably to make sure he can watch over everyone during their runs. That or because he has long legs.

Anyway to recap; Sprout in canon is blunt, pushy, overprotective, and impulsive. But he genuinely has good intentions and means well. He cares for his friends, which is why he scolds them because he wants to make sure they're safe.

Now for some headcanons:

Okay this is the part where I make stuff up. So it's just my take;

• He has ADHD.

I'M STARTING WITH THE NEURODIVERGENT HEADCANON.

This is not a unique headcanon. I've seen so many people who headcanons this too so it's relatively popular. Personally, I only see him with ADHD. (I'm projecting).

He's forgetful, impulsive, and quite socially awkward in a way aswell. He's easily distracted. He keeps forgetting about the oven. He's impulsive when baking. I'm a very impulsive and reckless person myself, I constantly make mistakes when I draw, yet somehow they end up okay 😭. When I'm not able to draw something right, I give up immediately. (I projected this onto the gingerbread house thing earlier).

• He comes across as intimidating.

You know in Kids' birthday parties when there's a mascot a lotta kids go run and hide? I based it off of that. I remember when I was like, 6 or 7, when a mascot came in I cried and hid under a table. They were tall.. <\3

I feel like there was a concerning number of kids who were actually afraid of him, despite how friendly he appears both in person and in the show. Maybe it's the RBF when he's not smiling..

I also like to think he's taller than some of the kids who comes to Gardenview which plays a factor to the whole "intimidating" thing. The way Sprout deals with this is giving the kids cupcakes or other sweets. Once the kids actually talk to him they're immediately comfortable.

• He was one of the very first to become "Twisted".

I don't have a concrete idea on how the story of the game goes, but I always imagine the Mains being the first victims. Sprout is a healer and he keeps an eye on everyone, so he had to go first.

–

Okay, I think that's all now. If you read all of that wow thanks, this took me hours to write 😭. I love overanalysing characters.

[nkjemisin]

Fiction is not reality

Got three or four asks lately about an old Le Guin-inspired short story, "The Ones Who Stay and Fight." Did somebody post an article or something? I haven't gotten any alerts that would explain the sudden interest. (Did see one annoying AI-written summary that hallucinated new characters into it and said I'd written it in 1973, when I would've been one year old. Don't use AI for lit crit, folks.)

Anyway, rather than answer them individually, I'll post this as a collective response.

All of the asks were about the story's meaning, in one way or another, so I'll start there -- but. Y'all. The author is usually the worst person to ask about what their work means; haven't you heard that the author is dead? We're too close to our own work to do good analysis. I can tell you what inspired it, or what I was thinking while I wrote it, but that doesn't mean I put all that into the story, or successfully got across whatever did make it in. Pretty often my writing doesn't mean anything; it's just something I need to get out of my head.

The asks seem to center on whether I actually intended Um-Helat to be a utopia, and -- no. I thought it was pretty obviously a dystopia, actually, like Omelas... but then I constantly run into people who describe Omelas as a utopia, so maybe the problem lies with people's definition of "utopia." (Personally I don't believe utopias are possible IRL. Anytime you've got more than one person in a society, their respective visions of an "ideal" society will vary, and sometimes conflict.) I was exploring my own struggle with envisioning a society free of bigotry, and Le Guin's narrative -- which gently pokes at the reader's skepticism and jadedness -- spoke to me in that moment of need. So I decided to do some poking of my own, from a different angle, to see if that helped clarify anything for me. I liked the result enough to publish it in How Long Til Black Future Month, tho it's since been reprinted in many places.

That said, a couple of the asks went to a weird place, and I feel like I need to address it. You folks do know that a story's narrative voice is not the same as the author's voice, right? So for example, in "The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas," the omniscient first-person narrator of the story is not Le Guin. What that narrator believes is not necessarily what Le Guin believes, or vice versa. She didn't tell you about the abused child in Omelas because she thought it was A-OK to abuse kids as scapegoats/representations of the evils of the world. Likewise, I didn't tell you about the traumatized child in Um-Helat because I think it's A-OK to stab possible bigots. The narrator is another part of the story. It's fiction, not an essay, or a confessional.

It feels weird to have to say this, because it seems so obvious to me... but we are on the "piss on the poor" site, after all, in a time when critical thinking is under literal attack from The Powers That Be, so I guess I gotta. I do not stab people, not even bigots. I am not pro-stabbing or pro-childhood trauma. I am somewhat pro-transdimensional-travel, but that's neither here nor there.

Oh -- and sidenote, but I've been ridiculously busy lately, and I'm working through the backlog of asks very slowly. If you've sent in something, I will hopefully get to it within a month or two. Hopefully.

[nonotnolan]

Swap Caste

People often ask me if ever resented being born into the Swap Caste, but honestly… when you grow up around it, you just sort of internalize it as a normal part of life. Growing up, I’ve always known that my body is not my own. I’m taking care of this body for its eventual owner. The better I care for this body, the more money I will get in exchange when it is sold. Sure, sometimes I daydream about what it might be like to have been born into the Ruling Caste— who doesn’t daydream about a perfect future? But even at an early age, I knew better than to go down any sort of self-defeating or destructive trains of thought. Nothing would change except for maybe my body depreciating in value. Maybe after someone buys this body, then I’ll have time to be an activist.

I always get a bit hard when I look at myself. Why wouldn’t I? I look damn good, and I know it! Today, though, today is a potential sale, so my nerves are through the roof. I put myself on market last week, and when I got this body appraised it came out to 32.7 million dollars. Far from an all-time record, but the average sale price is only 14.2 million, and this is currently the eight most expensive body on the market right now. It feels good to have all of the hard work I put into this body validated, but every potential sale still makes me question if it was all worth it.

Will they think my face is worth the price? Is it too masculine? Is it too youthful? Will they be scared away by amount of upkeep these muscles would take? Post-exchange investment depreciation is a huge risk for buyers, so a lot of men who are looking to buy a new body intentionally avoid the more expensive options.

Which, that’s the other part of the equation— whoever buys my body will give their body up to me. Society expects people to be close to my age when they buy a new body, but people are starting to wait until their 30s or 40s to buy a new body. How many years of my life am I going to lose? What sort of health conditions am I going to inherit? How many pounds am I going to have to lose in order to get back down to a healthy weight? As a member of the Swap Caste, I don't have any say into the answers to those questions. I'm expected to live the rest of my life in their discarded body regardless of the complications.

Plus, today’s buyer is rumored to be… pretty weird. My buddy Vince, he’s the number twelve body on the market, he told me that there’s a real eccentric businessman going around shopping the market. He started at the most expensive, and apparently he’s working his way down the list in market order. He arranges in-person visits, and then leaves after five minutes. No one knows what he's looking for-- usually people with enough money to afford the best just buy the most expensive body they can. And while all buyers have the opportunity to see the body in person, most people just choose from the portfolio photos they make us take.

My reverie is interrupted by the sound of the doorbell. I open the door to my flat to invite him in. Seeing him standing in the doorway takes my breath away. I'm not surprised to see him wearing clothing that costs more than my monthly stipend, but am I surprised to see that his skin is well cared for. Usually people in his Caste don't bother to take care of themselves because they know they'll be buying a new body once they enter adulthood. I wasn't expecting him to be so young or so handsome, and I certainly wasn't expecting him to be physically fit.

"Sorry, where are my manners?" I say, realizing with a jolt that I've just been staring slack-jawed at the man. "My name is Ashton. Please, come on in. Let me know what I can do to help you see the merchandise in action."

He smirks at me, and my heart flutters a bit. I hope he likes what he sees. "Charmed," he says, following me inside. "You can call me Kamil. I'll start by feeling up your muscles, if you don't mind." He starts to pace around me, drinking in every aspect of my physique as he occasionally runs his fingers down my back or across my nipples.

The sexual tension is unreal. Will it bother him if he notices that I'm a gay man? We're not required to disclose it-- sexuality is in the mind, not the body. Besides, no one in the Swap Caste has sex before the sale. Keeping your body's virginity intact for the buyer is the easiest $100,000 you'll ever make. Or, I thought it was, until the most attractive buyer I've ever seen decided to see my wares in person. God, imagine if I got to claim that ass while showing Kamil how impressive his new cock would be. Shit, I was sprouting a raging hard-on in front of this guy! "I see you are interested in my muscles! Please, let me show them off for you," I blurt out, hoping to distract attention from the tent in my sweatpants.

He smiles at me. "There's no need for that. Believe me, I already like what I see. But before we proceed with the sale, I want to explain what else I'm looking for out of this arrangement. It's... why I wanted to meet with you in person. I would be paying extra to put a 10 year rider onto the contract. Officially, you will be employed as my personal trainer so that I can keep my new purchase in top condition. Unofficially... I would take you as my lover."

I can hardly believe what I'm hearing. "I... your lover? But I'm just part of the lowly Swap Caste!" At any moment, I'm expecting someone to burst through the doors and tell me this is a prank. "You're one of the highest tiers of Business Caste, our kind doesn't... this sort of thing just isn't done!"

"Well, that's true," he says, placing his hand on my shoulder. "I'm supposed to marry a woman from a comparable Caste and have 1-3 children to carry on my social standing. The thing is, I'm a gay man. So if I'm going to defy social norms just by existing, I may as well go all-in on defying cultural expectations. I'm not just looking for a new body, I'm looking for another gay man to call my own. We can look into harem arrangements if you don't want to have a relationship with me, but... well, that's my offer."

My heart is hammering in my chest, and I'm pretty sure my cock is starting to leak through the grey sweatpants that I'm wearing. Everything about his shopping behavior makes sense now that I know his secret. I can't blame the other guys for turning him down-- maybe he didn't even make them an offer if he could tell they were straight-- but this offer is beyond my wildest dreams. "I accept. I'll do it, yes. A thousand times yes!"

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

"Good morning, love. If you're here to make sure I squeeze in my morning workout, I'll do it after I finish steaming my clothes for the week. I have to make sure I'm looking good for my man." I couldn't help but roll my eyes as he smiled at me. I had never even heard of a clothes press before he purchased my body, but he insisted that it produced better results than an iron. Personally, the only difference I noticed was the cost of the two items, but I was finding that to be true with a lot of the home appliances he took for granted. It took me three weeks to figure out how to use his all-in-one barista monstrosity just to make a simple cup of coffee, and it tasted the same to me.

I still couldn't believe this was my new life. Just being hired as residential staff to someone in the Business Caste was an incredible opportunity for someone in my place. The fact that Kamil treated me as an equal? It was an unthinkable decision, and even some of the activist circles we were in thought it was a step too far. It was the scandal of the neighborhood, and we relished every moment of that notoriety.

"Don't think I'm letting you get off easy this morning," I said, crossing my arms. "Today is Saturday, you're doing a full length workout. You already skipped last Wednesday for a work meeting. If you start falling out of the habit, it's going to be a bitch to start up again."

Kamil let out a dramatic sigh. "If I had known you were going to be such a ruthless personal trainer, I would have hired someone else. You know Robert only has to work out three times a week?"

I couldn't help but laugh at that one. "Your friend Robert, the guy with 20 pounds of beer gut that he's trying to pass off as a dad bod? The one who I thought hadn't purchased his Caste Body yet? Yeah, I think his results speak for themselves."

"Harsh, but fair," he said, laughing with me. "How about we make a deal?" Kamil stepped close to me, rubbing his hand along the hem of my bathrobe. "I'll do a full length workout, but we start the morning off with some bedroom cardio." He squeezed my ass for emphasis before retreating to our bedroom. He didn't even turn around to see if I was following him. I was, of course-- I had an intimate knowledge of just exactly how much his body was packing, and he knew all of the tricks that would make my body feel good.

People still ask me if I resent being born into the Swap Caste, knowing what I now know about all of the pleasures and luxuries available to the higher classes. I just smile and shake my head no. It's what lead me to my Kamil, and I wouldn't change it for the world.

[itsrlymine]

Hey it's me again ♡

Remember when I said I'm manifesting a husband/wife that will spoil me rotten? I got one!

Kinda, lemme explain. Long story tho.

I'm like super introverted and a homebody despite being a shopaholic lol, so if I wanted someone, they'd have to literally appear from the sky because all my socials are private, I have like 2 friends, I don't like going out often and the area I live in now is bougie so people don't really walk around.

I even downloaded dating apps thinking I could help speed up my manifestion (how silly of me 😔🙄), and yeah I got a ton of matches and likes but no one fit my list to the T, so I just deleted the apps and waited.

One day I received flowers. The security that delivered them had told me someone had sent it to me but didn't say who they were. Obviously now I'm confused because the only people I know who would send me flowers are my glucose guardians and they told me it wasn't them so...

A few days later I'm sent expensive ass chocolate and a number on a card. I call the number and I kid you not when I say the voice that answered back had me 😳🫠

He asked me out on a date, and obviously I said yes, at this point I already knew he was who I was manifesting, I mean look at the circumstances.

I met him officially and he was a dream. Every single thing I wanted physically and personality wise was all there, which is crazy because I scripted very specific details down and he checks all my boxes. Wealthy, sweet, gorgeous, tall, a nerd, british, respectful, long hair, loves legos, etc. The only thing that I never specified was gender.

Here's the crazy part.

He told me he saw me while I was grocery shopping and couldn't get me out of his head ever since. He followed me home and asked the security at my place to give me the flowers he bought.

Is that creepy? Absolutely.

Do I care? No.

When I say I like mine obsessed, I mean it. I don't recommend, because to each their own, but to me this is the bare minimum. I want my partner to be straight out of wattpad. Yeah it could've gone horribly, but I know how to manifest, so how the hell could it go wrong?

We've been on some dates and he is the one. He spoils me rotten, treats me like a queen, speaks to me like an equal, gives me tons of affection, asks me to tell him what I'm wearing out so he can match with me and sends me pics of the lego sets he's built because he wants compliments. He's so cute istg.

He also wants me to call it off with my glucose guardians because he wants to be the only one providing for me (as he should) 🤭

It took me a while to manifest this one because I've wanted to marry someone but wasn't sure if that's what I really wanted, or what my family expects of me. But after everything else I manifested, I thought why not try it out? If I don't want to anymore, I'll just manifest them away or whatever.

We're not married nor engaged yet, but trust that I'll send you an invite to the wedding if you want to come. It's gonna be glamours so you gots to be there babes. Like seriously, I don't mind dming all the deets if you wanna be there.

um babes you know I will def show up omg. I love this omg yesssss ugh it's so easy and fun omg. all you have to "do" is decide it's already done and it is. heavy on if you don't want them anymore, they can just go back to wherever they came from fr. no need to put pressure on yourself. LMAOOO Is that creepy? Absolutely. Do I care? No. I'M CRYING OMG PLSS. Just be safe my love but period!

[remlionheart]

up against the wall

୨ৎ MDNI. this is the first fic i've really posted that's come with a caution sign, but dark content ahead, you have been warned ♡ this was originally an oc x dazai but i converted into dazai x fem!reader for all of you who wanted to read it ♡ a bit yandere on both dazai and reader's part. full submission. degradation and praise. gunplay. dom!dazai ((fucking yum)). lemme know whatcha think, luv you ♡୨ৎ

take me, take me back to your bed i love you so much that it hurts my head. say I don't mind you under my skin i'll let the bad parts in, the bad parts in... ─★ now playing: degausser

You had always known what and who Osamu Dazai was. The parts of him that he’d given you and the parts of him that he tried to hide– they were both engrained into your mind. Clawed and carved into your heart no matter how much he attempted to conceal off pieces of himself that he didn’t want you to have access to.

He'd learned pretty early on in your relationship that there was no such thing as avoiding you, not just because of your Mind Glimpse, but because of who you were as a person. The sheer lengths that you'd go just to get to him were hopeless and absolutely devoid of all logic. 

At 16, you'd tattooed his initial on your forearm when Mori tried to put an end to your relationship. Nearly killed yourself a couple of years later when you somehow managed to teleport all the way from Port Mafia to his apartment, collapsing in his living room from overusing your ability all because he wouldn't answer your calls. There was no obstacle or barrier strong enough to stop you from gravitating towards him the way you did and the worst part was, Osamu... liked your earth-shattering devotion to him.

He'd never experienced love before and he'd certainly never experienced… whatever it was between the two of you before either, but there was something about your raw and unapologetic honesty that captivated him. He’d spent so much of his life being conditioned to lie and manipulate to get others to bend to his will and yet, you... would happily break yourself for him just because.

You'd do anything, really. Any request, no matter the cost. Any command, no matter the risk. Any hoop, no matter the height– you'd always find a way, finishing the task with with wide eyes and a smile. “Like that? Was that good?” You might as well have been a puppy with how you obeyed him so thoroughly. It was equal parts amusing and… something else entirely. Something that Dazai wasn't quite ready to face.  

The nickname “little ghost” that he'd gifted you expanded well beyond your ability to vanish, it rang true in all aspects of your relationship. You were his shadow. His mirror. Your curiosity just as relentless and unwavering as his own. Your determination and shamelessness just as dangerous when it came to getting the things you wanted and he was always the thing you wanted most.

You saw him, even when he didn’t think you did. Not just the flippant exterior that he presented to the outside world. Not the hollow cut-out version of himself that he used to blend into crowds. No, you saw him– the full scope of who he was and who he pretended not to be, and you still clung onto him like your life depended on it. Craved him. Haunted him. Trusted him. And worst of all, loved him. Really, sincerely, desperately loved him.

In your first year at Port Mafia, Dazai had written you off as entertainment. A fun, fragile little toy that he could pick up and dissect whenever he got bored and he got bored a lot. But you were happy to oblige, often catching him off guard with how excitedly you would offer parts of yourself up to him without him even having to ask.

You were an enigma in your own right. Something he’d never really seen before. So starved for attention but so infuriatingly stubborn when it came to letting yourself receive it. So obsessed with the idea of love but so tragically clueless when it came to actually being able to identify it. So in-tune with the emotions of everyone else around you but so completely unaware of your own. You were dangerous– Mori’s worst migraine and Dazai’s best asset with the way your ability would spiral out of control when your feelings became too much for you to bear.

Dazai was hardly solid, made up of nothing more than loose-leaf ideas and questionable personality traits that he’d stolen from others and pieced together for himself over the years. But to you, he was so much more. He was the very foundation beneath your feet, the gravity that kept you standing and upright most days, never letting you float too far into your mind. He was the only thing that could stabilize you and not just from his nullification, but from simply being there. As Chuuya had pointed out so many times, the two of you were “a match made in hell”, but you both seemed to find more comfort than threat in the flames you created together.  

Four years ago, if you would’ve asked Dazai how it happened– how your relationship with him had morphed into something that bared such an eerie resemblance to that of trust and understanding, he would’ve dismissed it, but now…

His eyes narrowed, amusement flickering across his face as you circled him in your makeshift training room. “Careful. I told you I’m not gonna let you win this time.”

A spark of silver and blue electricity cracked into the air, your small frame vanishing from where you had been standing across from him, only to reappear right beside him. Your breath hot and tantalizing against the shell of his ear, “Be rough with me then, I can take it.” The smile in your voice was palpable and then– gone.

Now… there was no denying how much he loved chasing and breaking you, his favorite little toy.

He let you have your fun for a few more minutes, folding his arms over his chest with a smirk as you teleported across the abandoned warehouse with precision, pressing soft kisses against his cheek before disappearing into a snap of iridescent energy.

You hid behind a crate, concentrating as your gaze locked onto one of the heavy industrial light fixtures before pulling it down from the rafters, letting it crash next to where Dazai was standing.

"Wow," he mused, giving you a fake clap. "Had I been 12 feet closer, you might've actually gotten me."

He didn't have to know where you were hiding to know that he'd struck a nerve, a smaller lightbulb bursting in one of the overhead lights indicated that you heard him.

"Come here," he said, his voice softening a bit as he rolled his shoulders and shifted his weight. He barely had to side-step to dodge the tire that had been hurled his way. Your emotions were erratic but always predictable.

"Baby, c'mon. It's not my fault you have terrible aim. That's why we're here anyway, remember?"

There was a crackle of energy, another flash of steel blue before you finally reappeared in front of him, a pout that he was all-too familiar with looking back at him.

He bit back a laugh watching you sink into yourself.

"Look, it's about focus, okay?" His tone transitioned into something more serious as he took a slow step towards you. "As long as Mori sees you as his own personal project, I need you to be prepared for anything. You're gonna start getting sent on higher ranking missions sooner than later and I need to know that you're ready for that."

There was something about the way he said it– about the genuine concern coating his words that made your chest tighten.

You let your eyes meet his again as you nodded. "Okay," you breathed, the bratty rebuttal you had lined up promptly dying on the tip of your tongue as you took in his features. "What do you want me to do?"

"Teleport to me, we're going to go over intuition and reflexes."

You drew in a sharp breath before closing your eyes, electricity dancing along your skin as you accidentally snapped yourself directly in front of him so that you were chest to chest.

"Surely you wouldn't get this close to an enemy," he smirked, "but for argument's sake, let's say you did. Let's say you landed right in front of them, just like this and they –"

Without any time to think, Dazai had already reached into the inside of his coat pocket, the cold metal of his Beretta suddenly resting easily against your temple. “What now?” He whispered, looking down at you with provoking curiosity. "What are your instincts telling you to do?"

It wasn't the first time you'd had a gun drawn on you, but it was definitely the first time you'd had a gun drawn on you this... intimately. Your body betrayed you, displaced warmth migrating to your cheeks as you blinked back at him through heavy lashes. Your instincts were certainly there, they were just... all wrong.

Dazai caught your reaction immediately, the fleeting but unmistakable flicker of lust that washed over you.

"Oh?" He quipped, leaning down while pressing the barrel further into your delicate skin. "What’s this, huh?" His stare was equal parts predatory and incredulous as his eyes trailed over you, zeroing in on every small, subtle shift you made. The way your breathing had slowed, the goosebumps that decorated your arms, the way your hips couldn't help but tilt towards his ever-so slightly. "You like it, don't you? Like the way it feels when your life’s in my hands?”

"No, I'm–" You faltered, your words completely stolen by the knowing smirk that had cut across his face. "I'm just– thinking, is all."

"Thinking” he echoed, his other hand gently cradling your jawline as he forced you to keep your eyes locked with his. “And what exactly are you thinking about? Please, enlighten me.”

You had to bite back a smile, trying your best to mask your flimsy composure though you knew he could already see straight through it. "Strategy." You lied, jutting your bottom lip back out in faux innocence.

Dazai couldn't help the laugh that escaped him as he tilted his head towards yours, closing the already small gap between you. "Is that right?" He mused, his lips just barely grazing yours. "My diligent little ghost, always so focused."

You nodded back at him helplessly, his grin razor sharp as his hand trailed from your jaw to the back of your neck, grabbing a fistful of hair and forcefully cocking your head to the side.

It earned him a yelp as he continued to hold his weapon to you. "You're a terrible liar, you know that?" His breath fanned across your skin, leaving a delirious static in its wake while his body pressed against yours, pinning you between him and a metal crate. "Your eyes give you away every time."

"Dazai..." It wasn't quite a moan, but alarmingly close to one as his lips found the nape of your neck, his teeth lightly sinking into you.

"This opens up all sorts of doors for us though, doesn't it?" His curiosity was reaching new heights, dangerous ones that he'd always tried to keep at bay, but now... the glazed over eyes staring back at him were giving him all the confirmation he never needed to keep going.

You nearly moaned into his mouth when he finally kissed you, your hands desperately tangling into the collar of his shirt as you pulled him in closer. Your movements urgent and beyond your control.

"Spread for me." He said between breaths, using his leg to coax yours apart. "I wanna see something."

You were so lost, so needy and overtaken by the feeling of him that you merely whimpered in response, not caring about anything else except for the feeling of his lips back on yours.

"Good girl," he exhaled, hiking your skirt up as he slowly began to slide his gun down along your face. "You trust me, don't you?"

“Always.” You said despite the way your legs were trembling, your nerves dancing with a vicious mix of excitement and fear as he traced the barrel of the gun over your puffy lips.

He angled his knee just right, giving your clit a much-needed brush of friction while you gradually parted your lips for him, welcoming the cold metal into your mouth.

Dazai had never been one for big acts of commitment, but watching you moan into his loaded Beretta made him realize that maybe he did need to know your ring size after all. Just in case.

"Look at you," he groaned, nearly losing himself to the sight of it. "So fucking gorgeous when you're at my mercy like this."

The praise went straight to your center, your body humming with dizzy want and unrelenting need as he carefully retracted it, his mouth dropping open watching the trail of spit that connected you to it break and drip graciously down your chin.

You were fulfilling fantasies of his that he thought he'd only ever get to dream of as he leaned into you again, letting you cling onto him tighter. The two of you worked in perfect feral synchronicity, him pulling the thin fabric of your underwear down over your thighs to help you step out of them before you kicked them out of reach.

"Osamu..." Your voice had been reduced down to a heady plea, one that he'd do anything in his power to satisfy.

"I’m right here.” He lulled, his grip tangled straight back into your hair while his mouth returned to yours, his other hand working on something much more... nefarious.

"Relax for me,” his voice was soft but commanding, laced with something that made you trust him though you knew you shouldn’t. “That's right. Just like that.”

Your pupils doubled in size as you felt the harsh metal begin to slip between your sensitive folds, your words suddenly eviscerated by the way he was staring down at you through dark, clouded eyes. How completely and utterly lost he looked as he spread you apart, a sense of desperation that you'd never quite seen from him before radiating off of each move he made.

"Oh...my god," Every last bit of logical thinking you had was gone, your mind and body both succumbing to the foreign sensation as he kept up a firm but gentle pace, running it uppp and dowwnnn in a way that made yours legs threaten to buckle.

"Dazai," you whined, your nails tearing into his shoulder for support as the motion became more fluid, your arousal acting as a shameful lubricant. You were almost embarrassed by how noticeable it was, how easy it was for him to glide it across you and how loud you’d gotten as you tried to bury your face into his chest.

Dazai, on the other hand, was on cloud nine. Only ascending further into the heavens with each lewd, begging little whimper that spilled out of you. "Do you have any idea how perfect you are?" He soothed, kissing and nipping at your collarbone while you started to find a rhythm, the steel still sending chills down your spine each time it brushed across your overstimulated clit. "I don't think you do," he groaned, "I really don't think you fucking understand what you do to me."

Getting praised by him to any degree always had a way of bringing you to the edge, but this... this was a type of euphoria that you didn't even know existed.

“You know the safety’s off?” He purred against your neck, his heart slamming into his chest as he watched the pouty, pleading look that had taken over you. The same one he’d seen so many times before but never quite like this.

Your slick was practically dripping onto his fingers the more he taunted you, your center greedily searching for release as your hips rocked up towards him.

“All it would take is one little slip, you know.” He was tortuously intoxicating, bringing you to your breaking point by whispering the most infernal little nothings. “With how soaked my fingers are, it’s almost like you want me to. Like you’re just begging for me to-”

Your entire body shook by his last threat, your brows knitting together while you frantically pulled him closer, repeating his name like a prayer in the small space between you. In all his time with you, he'd never seen you this undone before, this fucking beautiful and pathetic. There was something about it, about knowing that he was the only one who would ever get this type of blind obedience out of you that made something inside him ache.

“Dazai ~!”

The whine you let out was so heavy your eyes nearly crossed, more incoherent obscenities bouncing off the concrete floors.

Your cunt was pulsating, absolutely desperate for something to fill it as the orgasm hit you in waves, the rigidness of his gun still sending shockwaves through your thighs. There was a sense of pride and awe that crept over him at how well you responded to him, how overwhelmingly easy it was to break you.

"You're so pretty." He whispered, pressing a gentle kiss against your forehead as he meticulously drifted the weapon back up over your stomach with a small grin. "Fucking insane, but so, so pretty."

You smiled breathlessly back at him, the loaded gun against your body completely forgotten by the weight of his compliment. “You think so?"

“Oh, I know so,” he smirked against your neck, freeing himself from his pants as his teeth sank into your skin. "You just came to the idea of me killing you and now you're all heart-eyed asking me if I really think you're pretty or not." He let out a semblance of a laugh, propping you up to wedge you against the crate again while your legs wrapped around him for support, his Beretta now resting tenderly under your chin. "My sweet girl... you're almost as deranged as I am."

The pink that swept across your face only added to the long list of reasons you were able to hold his attention. You were innocence mixed with sin. Naivety mixed with lust. He was holding a loaded gun to your head and you were all but saying “thank you.”

Your blush deepened as he prodded at your entrance, your eyes glazing over at how thoroughly his tip stretched you. “Dazai –” you whined, both of you reeling from how faithfully your walls sucked him in.

“What is it, angel?” His tone was thick with mockery, his finger resting lazily on the trigger as your nails met his back again. “Feel good?"

You nodded back at him, lips parting the deeper he went. “So good,” you exhaled, your back arching to invite him in more as he thrusted into you. “So fucking good.”

He watched you intently, his dark eyes nearly burning holes into your skin with how fervent his movements had become.

He was drowning in you, both physically and mentally– sinking further and further into the way you welcomed every part of him, both the good and bad. Even with the possibility of death looming over you, your only focus was him. The rest of the world, the threat of your life ending with one easy slip of a finger– none of it mattered as long as it was him that pulled the trigger.

"You'd let me, wouldn't you?" His voice was venomous, gentle enough to subdue you but still poisonous enough to seep into your veins without detection. "You'd let me be the one that to make that fragile heart of yours stop beating."

The answer was written all over of your face, evident in the way your core clenched around him the further he pushed.

You were soaking him, letting out the most gorgeous fucked-out noises he'd ever heard as he continued to wrap around your mind like the serpent that he was, robbing you of the last bit of dignity you had left.

"Say it." Dazai commanded, his thrusts becoming more punishing. "Let me fucking hear, it baby." He was just as lost as you were, riding a high he'd never experienced before as his hips met yours with untamed urgency.

"I –" Your vision blurred, your thighs trembling while his tip relentlessly slammed into your sweet spot. You could barely form a thought, let alone a sentence, his dark stare the only thing keeping you tethered to the room. "I– would." you finally choked out, almost drooling from how deep he suddenly was. "Dazai please, I'd– let you. I'd let you do anything, any... thing."

It wasn't the first time that he'd had someone beg while under the scope of his gun– some had begged him to spare their lives. Some had begged for him to just end it altogether. But no one had ever begged out of... love.

The noise he made was guttural, primal as his lips crashed into yours, his resolve crumbling entirely. His forehead pressed against yours while your walls spasmed around him like a vice, your core unravelling in a way that made him forget all of his senses.

You were smothering him, your nails tearing into his skin as your broken voice sang out his name like he'd trained you to do.

"There it is," he almost wasn't sure if it was you or himself he was saying it to as he began to twitch inside you. "There it– is, baby. Keep going. Don't stop." He was falling straight into the same abyss you were, the two of you tumbling hand in hand into a seemingly never-ending void of bliss.

"You're mine," he promised, letting his body seal the vow he was creating as he watched a desperate kind of sincerity settle over your features.

"Yours." you repeated softly, eyes full of conviction.

His chest heaved as he buried the last of his logical thinking and carnal desires into you at once. A damning warmth suddenly coating your walls while he slowly retracted the gun away from you and replaced it something much more sinister– affection.

His fingers gently traced over the side of your cheek as your uneven breathing mingled together. "Deranged." He panted with a faint smirk, "Certifiably insane."

You merely smiled as he pulled out of you, carefully getting you back to your feet. "And yours." You reminded him.

"Yeah, yeah," he teased, kneeling down to grab your discarded underwear. "Just stay still for me." He was tentative as he helped you redress, adjusting and smoothing down your skirt while stealing proud glances at the mess he'd left dripping down your leg.

You quietly admired him, noting the tenderness in the way he handled you as you stood perfectly still, only moving when he’d guide you.

Your brows furrowed slightly when he stood back up and pulled his Beretta out of his pocket again, opening the chamber to let a bullet fall into his hand. "Here," he said, offering it to you, "a little keepsake. Maybe you can turn it into a necklace or something."

You held it up to the light like it was a precious stone, your jewelry box back at Port Mafia suddenly calling your name as your brain danced with ideas of how to turn it into something even more beautiful.

Dazai couldn't help but grin as he watched you twirl it between your fingers with all of the delicacy in the world, your eyes wide with wonder.

It was fitting, he thought, the way you were able to make art out of even the most broken things.

⋆.𐙚˚

[luveline]

Okay, I would love to see an Aaron Hotchner x anemic bombshell!reader (lmao) who gets randomly faint and Aaron freaks <3

“This is oh so difficult,” you say under your breath, a sing-song tone to your voice. You often talk in juxtapositions, unhappy words in silk, cheerful worrying. “This is… stressful.” 

“You don't look stressed,” Spencer says. 

You elbow at him affectionately. “Do I ever? Sweetheart, there's nothing ever so stressful as to wear it on your face. Now come here, you have a pen smudge on your cheek.” 

Hotch could pinch the back of your shirt to stop you, but Spencer holds out a hand to brace you away from him like a disgruntled younger sibling while you laugh and reach for him. 

“Cut it out,” Gideon says. 

“Yes, boss.” 

Hotch turns away from you both to hide his smile. The case is long (as always), difficult (as always), and getting more and more serious as days pass. There hasn't been much time to pause and take stock, and so your playfulness comes at a great time —you need moments of fun like this to stop the weight of the inevitable dragging you down hard.

Your playfulness is unfailing. “So,” you say, quieter now to avoid Gideon’s attention while you lean into Hotch's personal bubble, “what will you make me for dinner?” 

“The same thing I've made you for the last four days.” 

“Ah. Nothing, then.” You tip your head to one side. 

“What?” 

“Nothing. Just feeling kinda weird. I really am hungry, handsome, and you aren't very gentlemanly in letting me starve.” You share a smile. You say everything so particularly, it only serves to endear you to him more and more. It's like… you're just sure of yourself, and in love with the world, and at least a little in love with him. Having you here with him makes the job easier. 

“You're hungry?” he asks, standing up. He expects no answer, nor for you to stand, but you clamber onto your feet quick as anything with wide eyes. 

“I was only–” You pause. 

Hotch can see the moment you lose sight of where you are, that far away gloss to your eyes, the rapid blinking that follows, and your hand thrown out to his too quickly. You grab at his arm roughly and he's crueller in his reaction, grabbing you under the arms with a startled, “Hey.” 

“Is she alright?” Spencer asks, his chair smacking the desk as he stands. 

Your lips pull down into a frown, eyes squeezed closed. He's startled —Hotch didn't even know you could frown outside of a joke. You're feeling that heavy, sudden wrongness that comes with being faint, he'd guess. 

He rides it out with you, holding you tight. After a few moments your eyes peel open, a spark of upset about you that quickly lends to sheepishness. “Oh, sorry,” you say softly. 

“Don't be.” 

You gather your bearings. Hotch moves his hands to a more amicable place on your arms, more to comfort than to hold, while Spencer stands and offers you his bottle of water. 

“She good?” Gideon asks Hotch. 

That perks you up. “I'm always good, sir,” you say, sending a smile at your boss from over your shoulder. “Just flirting with Agent Hotchner.” 

“Did you take your medication?” Hotch asks, cutting the fat of the conversation clean off. 

“Yeah, I never miss it.” 

He is admittedly more concerned about you than one coworker would be for another after a dizzy spell, but you aren't just a coworker. Hotch cups your cheek quickly in his hand to gauge your temperature and deduces from there that it isn't a sickness. 

“You weren't exaggerating about being starved,” he decides. Your iron pills do so much, and you have to do the rest. “Reid, what foods help with anaemia?” 

“Anything rich in iron. Red meat, pork, poultry, dark greens, especially spinach. All kinds of beans,” Spencer reels off. 

“Any of that sounds good to you?” Hotch asks, giving your arm a gentle squeeze. 

You meet his lowbrow with softer eyes, nodding your appreciation. Your lips part to answer him, but you're cut off. “Be quick about it,” Gideon says, glasses slipping down his nose as he turns back to his case file, “we have a lot to do.” 

Hotch buys you a burrito for the iron and a smoothie because you deserve it. You kiss his cheek, and apparently he deserves that for being ‘such a sweetheart’. He doesn't bother pretending he doesn't want it, or the second or third kiss that comes after.

[mayoi-inu]

Surprise surprise, this translation is wrong

As many of you already know I’m in a crusade against bad translations. I see this panel going around very often but the translation makes me cringe so bad everytime. I'm sure many people are already aware of the mistranslation but I have never seen it explained anywhere so I decided to do it myself.

Disclaimer, English is not my native language.

Let’s start from the previous panel, because ✨context✨ The order is Japanese -- the fan translation I found -- and the official translation.

I will write down the literal, weird, almost word for word translation for comparison purposes:

判った　答える　答えるから近くに寄らないでくれる？連れだって歩いてると思われたくない

Understood I’ll answer. I’ll answer so, could you not come any closer? I don’t want it to look like we are walking together (I don’t want it be thought we are walking together)

はっ　心配すんな　俺もおもわれたくねえから

Ha, don’t worry. Because I don’t want it either (I also don’t want it be thought)

うふふ　気が合うねえ

ufufu ki ga au nee

Ok first explanation needed. First, the Japanese definition of ki ga au

気が合う -- 考え方や感じ方が通じ合う (kangaekata ya kanjikata ga tsuujiau)

way of thinking and feeling mutually understood.

"Ki" means mind, spirit, "au" means to meet. The English definition in many dictionaries and google is “to get along” and that’s what the fan translation uses (friendly reminder to ALWAYS use a monolingual dictionary once you reach a level high enough), but the "so well" comes from nowhere. The official translation uses "to see eye to eye". IMO it's more accurate in this context than to get along. But the “glad” also comes from nowhere.

Anyway, now you get the feeling of what it means. I think it's more like Dazai commenting how Chuuya shares with him the same feelings about the situation.

“fufu you agree, I see…”

そんな君が大好きだよ

sonna kimi ga daisuki dayo

And we got to the important part.

We have "sonna" that means “such”, “that kind of”. It's a spoken synonym of "sou iu" ("such, like that, that sort of"). As a pre-nominal adjective that goes with kimi, "sonna kimi" it means that you. It has a nuance of surprise when used in sentences like this.

And then "daisukidayo" that of course means I like so much, I love.

What does he loves? "sonna kimi", that is, a specific Chuuya, the Chuuya who is of the same mind that he is about not wanting people to think they were walking together. Or maybe simply the Chuuya that agrees with him, generally speaking.

In both translations the concept is all wrong. It’s presented as if loving Chuuya was the fact and Dazai was explaining the why. But in Japanese, Dazai is singling out the kind of Chuuya he likes/loves if you wish.

Now ask yourselves why specially the official translation chooses to make up the dialogue like that. I'm sure the translators knew enough Japanese to understand it correctly and I don't think it's a matter of cultural adaptation because it never justifies chaging the meaning. The correct answer is fanservice, sales and money 😭

If I had to translate it, I would say “oh I love/like so much that Chuuya!”.

It’s VERY in character for Dazai to say that. And the protest that follows is VERY in character for Chuuya.

うわ……やめろ！気色悪くて死ぬ！

Uwaa… stop it! It’s so disgusting I am going to die!

僕もだ

Me too.

Yes, Dazai sounds crestfallen.

This is getting too long, so my personal non-grammatical opinions under the cut

I have two, even three theories.

First case, Dazai was honest when he said that.

But he didn't register that's not something you go saying around like that, and he was hit with Chuuya's reaction. Because Chuuya had lived with other kids, so he understood social interactions. But Dazai didn't understand.

I've seen infinite analysis about Dazai and ND, mentall illnesses but not even one analyze this scene. So what if he really loved when Chuuya agreed with him, expressed it without any filters and recoiled when he was met with Chuuya's reaction and realized "that was not a normal thing to do". Remember the scene when he shoots the dead soldier? He seemed to be taking notes of what is and isn't normal. This option breaks my heart.

The criticism would be that what Dazai says doesn't sound so honest. This theory would fit better with the English translations but in Japanese he's very clearly informing Chuuya of the kind of Chuuya he likes, which is a twisted thing to say in any language. So maybe Chuuya's reaction is a response to both the nasty observation and the words chosen.

Second option, Dazai knew what he was doing

He used daisuki to provoke Chuuya, to mess with him and make him angry.

That's something 22!Dazai would do easily but I don't know if 15!Dazai was already so good at it. Anyway in this case the surprise would come from the genuine disgust in Chuuya's reaction instead of the expected anger. Chuuya is Chuuya, and he is immune to Dazai's manipulation schemes, except Dazai didn't know it yet. Also once he said it, daisuki was so cringe (and he was 15 😂). Absolutely in character for both of them.

Third option. Dazai said he wanted to make Chuuya his dog.

Dazai was a very messed up kid at that point. The first thing he thinks when he meets another (very powerful) boy his age is to dominate him and make him obbey his orders as his dog. The way he says that to Chuuya can sound very domineering, oh you agree, that's the Chuuya I love. That's a good boy 🐕. And then he felt down when Chuuya rejected that praise with disgust. In the manga it really looks like this option, with a very close and pushing Dazai and an uncomfortable looking Chuuya. I hate that vibe.

Or... possibly it's a bit of all three because after all, nobody knows what's in Dazai's mind 😌

[doberbutts]

The rise of acceptable anti-blackness is everywhere, and leftists have insidious way of positioning black bodies and black communities as regressive, monsterous, and in need of guidance. I'm finding it works the exact same way as the neo-nazi pipeline. They ask "genuine questions," that ultimately serve to gather an audience, shift through the ramble for supporters, and fan the flames of fascism. All their questions already have a (bigoted) answer. It's a recruitment strategy:

"Why are black southerners homophobic, but vote Democrat?"

"Why is rap music so sexist?"

"Shouldn't black people know better than to be sexist/transphobic/homophobic?"

These are actual questions I've seen. I'm stumped at what to do about it.

It comes, unfortunately, with being a hypervisible marginalization.

Black people are not allowed to just be. We are required to do so much more than just exist in order to get basic respect and acknowledgement as fellow human beings.

My new manager (a black man) and I were just joking about this- he was complaining that my clinic which is now majority white due to some serious workplace drama (previously was majority Puerto Rican) had some very drying soaps and chemicals we clean with but an ancient mostly empty bottle of hand lotion and how he'd have to fix that. I made a joke about being ashy and we had a giggle about making sure to moisturize the hands, knees, ankles, and elbows especially in a customer-facing job where you are expected to look presentable, clean, professional, well-groomed, always wearing crisp and freshly laundered clothes, and of course your best customer service smile and polite language.

And it's not to say that that isn't true of everyone who works there- but I do find it interesting that one of the white women who work there can show up with frizzy hair and be fighting with the humidity all day and be fine, but I have been Spoken To in this profession for my hair looking "sloppy" and "dirty" while wearing it in a natural style, freshly done up and with products in it. Not at this specific job, but within this career.

Our margin for error is much narrower than others- and our ability to be seen as individuals instead of as a hive mind is even less. Every single person asked me about the Kendrick Superbowl thing- I don't watch football and I don't listen to Kendrick as a general rule (if I'm listening to rap 99% of the time I'm listening to black women and not men because often I like their sound and lyrics better) so it took me several days to even watch the thing. But every white person out there made sure to ask me how I felt about it.

I'm always willing to discuss the Problems in the black community in an open and honest light, but I find I'm less willing to discuss them if I don't feel like the question is coming from a place of wanting to understand and more like the question is coming from a place of ignorance and/or racism. I talk about these things with my white friends sometimes- my white friends who have never given me weird vibes about race and who often are of marginalized experience themselves (and sometimes highly visible marginalized experience such as my Jewish friends and my trans fem friends!) - but a random ask I am less inclined as I do not think that person is actually wanting to understand the answer to such a short question with such a nuanced and complicated reason.

[melodyreads]

Matchmaker

hamzah x reader

summary: The reader's friend has been trying make a move at Hamzah ever since she started seeing his online personality. While the reader tries to be a supportive friend, her feelings seem to be getting in the way of things. What if he feels the same?

this came to me in a dream, hope y'all enjoy

---

"Oh my god I can't do this"

It had been like this for almost an hour now.

You and your friend Holly were in the bathroom of Mandy and Martin's apartment. Music echoed in the background as Y/n leaned against the bathroom door tapping her foot as she started to get impatient.

"Seriously girl, just go talk to him. It's really not that deep, you're making it harder than it needs to be."

Y/n didn't care if she was being blunt it was what her friend needed to hear. She had always prided herself on being a good friend. Always offering to be the DD. Always listening to the boy's problems no matter how often she recommended the friend should just break up with him. So after Holly begged her to try and hook her up with Hamzah, the answer would obviously be yes. Why wouldn't it be? Being straightforward and honest came easy, so why did she feel she was holding something back.

She gripped the door handle once more, "Just follow my lead, it's all gonna work out."

Holly let out a sigh of relief, "Seriously Y/n.. what would I do without you."

Y/n flashed her a reassuring smile before turning with a more serious expression flashed her face. Y/n knew that this was Holly's first time actually meeting Hamzah, but it definitely wasn't hers.

Hamzah had been talking to Y/n over Instagram DM's for months now. From casual replies to story posts to sending each other random memes, it was easy to determine they would get along once they finally met each other at a party.

It was almost intimidating how well they got along, Y/n admired all the effort he put into his channel and how well he managed it all. Turns out, thousands of girls felt the same way.

With Holly's hand in yours, you searched for a familiar face through the crowd until you ran into Mandy.

She turned around looking surprised, "There you are! I've been searching everywhere for you two." Mandy pointed behind her, the boys have been so obsessed with that karaoke machine, I should have never purchased it."

Y/n looked past Mandy to see Hamzah and Martin singing karaoke together as if it were a competition on who could make the most noise. Hamzah wore a pink colored shirt that fit him a little too good with a hat that allowed his dark curls to peak through.

"That's a inappropriate way to describe your friend" she thought silently.

Y/n thanked Mandy before walking up to the boys with microphones. As she approached them she could feel a slight tug on her arm as she turned around to meet Holly's worried expression.

"Don't worry" she mouthed as she continued her way over to the duo. Her heart seemed to beat harder as she reached out to touch the arm of curly-haired boy. Probably due to him being the subject of the night.

As he turned to look at you, Hamzah's face practically lite up at the sight of your face.

"Y/n! Where have you been?" He reached down and hugged you with his one free hand and still held the microphone in the other. "I kept asking Mandy about where you ran off to." Y/n chuckled into the embrace. "I wasn't even gone that long,"

"Felt like ages." He muttered. Y/n tried not to think about how just one arm completely wrapped around her waist and how his fingers dug into her hips just right.

Holly cleared her throat.

"Shoot" She almost forgot why she was here.

Y/n released Hamzah with a jolt as she stepped to the side to introduce her friend, "I wanted you to meet Holly. Holly this is Hamzah, Hamzah this is Holly."

"You said that already" Holly said softly.

"Did I? Well... you get my point." Y/n looked back to Hamzah to see him he was staring back at her almost in disbelief.

Hamzah blinked, as if suddenly snapping out of a daze. His usual easygoing smirk returned, and he turned to Holly with a friendly nod.

"Hey, nice to meet you," he said, extending his hand.

Holly hesitated for a second before shaking it, her grip noticeably stiff. Y/n could feel the tension rolling off her friend, and she silently begged Holly to just relax. This was what she wanted, right?

"You too," Holly replied, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Y/n talks about you a lot."

Y/n’s breath caught in her throat. Did she really? Before she could gauge Hamzah’s reaction, he chuckled, looking between the two girls.

"All good things, I hope?"

Y/n forced a laugh, ignoring the way her palms suddenly felt clammy. "Mostly," she teased, hoping to lighten the mood. "Except for the part where you butcher every song you sing."

Hamzah gasped dramatically. "Excuse you, I was putting on a performance. It’s about passion, not pitch."

Martin, who had been silently watching the exchange with an amused grin, finally spoke up. "Man, you’re gonna pretend like you weren’t just screaming into the mic?"

Hamzah shrugged. "I was creating a vibe."

Y/n rolled her eyes, but she was grateful for the slight shift in energy. She glanced at Holly, who still looked nervous but was at least smiling now. That was progress.

"Speaking of vibes," Hamzah said, tilting his head. "You’re acting different tonight."

Y/n’s heart skipped a beat. "Different how?"

His eyes searched hers, as if trying to figure something out. "I dunno," he admitted. "Just... different."

Holly laughed, breaking the moment. "Probably because she’s been hyping me up for this conversation all night."

Hamzah raised an eyebrow. "This conversation?"

Y/n winced. So much for being subtle.

"She thinks you and Holly would make a great match," Martin chimed in, completely oblivious to the way Y/n’s stomach twisted at hearing it said out loud.

For a split second, something flickered in Hamzah’s expression—too fast for Y/n to catch. Then, he smiled. "Oh yeah?"

Holly nodded quickly. "I mean, yeah. You seem cool. And I think we’d get along?"

It came out more like a question than a statement, and Y/n resisted the urge to bury her face in her hands. She wanted to help, but something about this whole situation felt... off.

Hamzah glanced at Y/n again before turning back to Holly. "Well, I appreciate the intro," he said smoothly. "But I gotta admit, I didn’t expect this."

Y/n frowned. "Expect what?"

He hesitated, then grinned. "You playing matchmaker."

Her stomach dropped. There was something in the way he said it, something that made her feel like she had completely miscalculated. Before she could respond, Hamzah lifted his mic again.

"Anyway," he said, turning to Martin. "We got a song to finish."

And just like that, the moment was over.

Y/n watched as he walked away, laughing as Martin passed him the next song choice. Holly exhaled beside her.

"That wasn’t terrible," she murmured.

Y/n nodded numbly, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something had just shifted. And she wasn’t sure if she liked it.

--

The night continued as if nothing had happened. Holly chatted away, occasionally stealing glances at Hamzah, and Y/n did her best to stay present in the conversation. But her mind was elsewhere.

She kept replaying Hamzah’s words in her head. You playing matchmaker.

Why did it sound like there was something more behind them?

After a while, Holly got up to get another drink, and Martin was too busy butchering the lyrics to some 2000s throwback to notice the way Y/n was zoning out.

That’s when she felt someone slide into the seat beside her.

"Hey," Hamzah said, voice lower than usual.

Y/n turned to him with a surprised look plastered on her face. "...Hey."

He exhaled, drumming his fingers on the table. "So... Holly, huh?"

Y/n forced a smile. "Yeah. She’s great, right?"

Hamzah tilted his head, studying her. "She seems nice."

There was something careful about his tone, something measured. Y/n suddenly felt exposed, like he could see right through her.

"You don’t seem convinced," she pointed out.

He let out a soft chuckle. "It’s not that." He paused, then shook his head. "I just—I need to ask you something."

Y/n’s stomach tightened. "Okay?"

Hamzah leaned in slightly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Why are you trying so hard to set me up with someone else?"

Her breath hitched. Feeling as though she had just been accused of murder. "What?"

"You heard me." His eyes searched hers, serious now. "Is it because you actually think we’d be good together? Or because you’re trying to convince yourself of something?"

Y/n’s pulse quickened. "That’s not—"

"Because if it’s the second one," he continued, his gaze unwavering, "then I need you to tell me right now."

Y/n swallowed hard. The air around them felt heavier, charged. "Hamzah, I was just trying to—"

"To ignore this?" he interrupted.

She froze.

Hamzah ran a hand through his hair, as if frustrated with himself. "Look, I wasn’t gonna say anything. I thought maybe I was imagining things. But then you tried to push me toward Holly, and all I could think was—why would you do that? Unless you were trying to avoid something."

Y/n’s heart was pounding now.

Before she could react, he reached out, gently taking her hand in his. It wasn’t dramatic, wasn’t rushed. Just quiet, steady.

"Tell me I’m wrong," he said. "Tell me there’s nothing here, and I’ll drop it."

Y/n opened her mouth, but no words came out. Because she couldn’t say it.

"What would Holly think?"

As if he could read her mind Hamzah sighed and spoke again, "Can you please stop thinking about what everyone else wants and just tell me.. what do you want?"

Y/n felt a pang of guilt matched with a sudden urge to jump on top of the boy in front of her.

Hamzah exhaled, his grip tightening just slightly. "Y/n, I like you."

The words settled between them, heavy and undeniable.

She sucked in a sharp breath. "You—"

"I like you," he repeated, softer this time. "Not Holly. Not anyone else. And I think... I think you feel the same way."

Y/n felt like the entire world had just shifted.

Because, for the first time, she couldn’t run from it.

But she was done running.

Y/n placed her hand on the side of Hamzah's face and pulled him in for a kiss that made her forget about every person that could be watching around her.

He matched her vigor as their lips moved against each other with fever. His free hand grabbed at her waist as if it would disappear if he let it go for too long while his other hand softly ran up and down the arm still cupping his face.

Y/n broke the kiss with a shaky breath as she finally spoke, "I like you too."

The moment the words left her lips, something in Hamzah’s expression shifted. Relief. Something deeper.

"You do?" he asked, as if he needed to hear it again to believe it.

Y/n let out a breathy laugh, shaking her head. "Yeah. I do."

A slow, lopsided smile spread across his face. "Then why were you trying to set me up with Holly?"

Y/n groaned, covering her face with her hands. "Because I was just trying to make everyone happy. I thought... I don't know, I thought the two of you might have got along and I figured that was more important than what I wanted."

Hamzah chuckled, tugging her hand away from her face. "You really thought that would work?"

She shrugged, feeling suddenly shy. "It was worth a shot."

He shook his head, amused. "Y/n, I’ve only ever had eyes for you."

She felt her breath hitch at these words.

"From the moment we met," he continued, his voice quieter now, "it’s always been you."

Y/n felt her heart squeeze.

And as he laced his fingers through hers, Y/n realized she had been waiting too.

[mcflymemes]

AS SAID BY ALISTAIR THEIRIN - PARTY BANTER *  updated version - assorted banter from dragon age: origins

they say you can get anything here. i once got pick-pocketed.

i don't know if i should take you seriously... but you scare me sometimes.

i locked myself in a cage once when i was a child. for an entire day. ahh... good times.

why do they call it a brothel? there's no broth. or is there?

couldn't you crawl into a bush somewhere and die? that would be great, thanks.

leave me alone.

i know where babies come from!

what would you do if someone told you that they loved you?

food shouldn't be frilly and pretentious like that.

we take our ingredients, throw them into the largest pot we can find, and cook them for as long as possible until everything is a uniform grey color. as soon as it looks completely bland and unappetizing, that's when i know it's done.

we're not going to be mobbed, right? that's not something they do here? mob people?

do you get the feeling things are just getting worse as we go up?

now that's just unnecessary.

i don't think we're alone. i really don't think we're alone.

is it just me, or did i do really badly back there?

excuse me while i begin projectile vomiting.

maybe she was ugly. maybe she had buck teeth. how would we know?

what is that smell? fish? and something else. oh... more fish.

uh-oh. i'm terrible at puzzles.

let's try not to get lost here. places like this can get you turned around.

i think there's something ahead. something big.

i don't even want to imagine where that leads.

you could be an utter moron, for all we know.

it used to get so quiet that i would start screaming until someone came running. i would tell them that i was just checking. you never know, right?

there's a certain allure to danger, isn't there?

i will never get over how quietly you are able to move.

i heard you often seduce your targets.

don't you wish you could have stayed there? to help more people, i mean?

i've never been very good at that. the steeling myself part. i find it better sometimes to just be a little weak. i'm all right with that, really.

i just wanted some advice.

what should i do if... if i think a woman is special...

i am not lost.

do i have a choice?

you find that curious, do you?

that's directed at me, i take it?

have you really been thinking about that all this time?

so let's talk about your mother for a moment.

why do you always go on about how stupid i am? i'm not stupid, am i?

it hurts my manly feelings, you know. all one of them.

you're not even listening to me.

you're joking, right? a five year old could answer that question.

so what's the deal with you and him, anyway? dare i ask?

that... is a ridiculous question.

i figure you'd be the sort who knows all about deception.

it's moments like this when i truly appreciate the difference between you and me.

you're... you're drunk, aren't you?

how do you manage to be constantly drunk? are we even carrying that much alcohol with us?

i guess a romance between you and i is completely out of the question.

you know a lot of big words.

you wouldn't understand.

don't you ever talk? you know, make polite conversation just to put people at ease?

i spy with my little eye... something that begins with... "G"

are you talking to me?

are we under attack?

i don't have to prove anything to you.

we're not exactly traveling in the lap of luxury here.

can you mend it? when we get back to camp?

i might catch a cold.

that's... one way of looking at it.

i have a hard time believing that.

it's not an outlandish question.

you know, of all the mages i've met you have to be the first one i can honestly say i've really liked.

why are you smiling like that?

i wasn't looking at... you know her... hind-quarters... i gazed. glanced... in that direction, maybe, but i wasn't staring... or really seeing anything even.

i hate you. you're a bad person.

i'm not an idiot. well, not most of the time.

you didn't answer my question.

if you aren't telling me, there must be a reason.

do you mind if i ask you a personal question?

have you... had many women in your time?

how do you... woo them? is there a technique?

i like my hair the way it is, thank you.

we aren't talking about this, are we? did i hit my head?

is that a smirk? are you smirking at me?

well aren't you just chock full of useless trivia today.

i suppose you don't care.

so when this is over, what do you intend to do with yourself?

[shanastoryteller]

why isn't shanastoryteller's tumblr writing on ao3?

i've been asked this before, and i've gotten asked this a handful more times in just the past week, so

i'm going to link this post in my pinned post so it hopefully comes up a little less. i'm going to go through my answer in a detailed way that isn't necessarily all directed towards anyone who has asked some variation of this recently or ever, i'm just trying to be thorough to answer this for the (hopefully) last time

first there's the issue of formatting. there's pretty much no way to move what's at this point about 2,000 prompts over to ao3 in a way that isn't deeply annoying to myself, other users, and anyone who's subscribed to me. i'm not interested in making a new "chapter" for just a couple hundred words, i'm not going to tag 100 fandoms on one work, i don't want have to go to ao3 after every prompt cycle and copy and paste the prompts into the fic, whether that be as a new chapter or just editing a story to contain new material. the masterlist and updating the google doc already takes a decent amount of time and having to do this on ao3 would be both finnicky and time consuming and there's no way to set it up that i wouldn't find myself irritated with the prompts being on my profile period

however, most importantly, it just doesn't jive with how i use each of these websites

ao3 is an archive and dumping all my random prompts on there is an appropriate use for it. however. it's not how i personally prefer to use each site and just because something can go on ao3 does not mean i'm required to put it there

tumblr is my sketchbook and ao3 is my art gallery

the prompts and snippets and random crap i post here isn't thought out, don't necessarily have an overarching plot, or any real substance to them besides the scenes. they're fun, they're usually low effort, and they're things i work on without any real expectation that they'll spawn into a full, fully plotted story or at least not one i'm committed to writing out. i don't like having unfinished works on ao3 and i try really hard not to. if i'm posting something to ao3, that's me making a commitment to eventually (EVENTUALLY!!) completing it and having all my random, messy, incomplete prompts and scraps on there would 100% stress me out

like how sketches often become full pieces, it's not uncommon for a prompt series or random writing to turn into a full fic that gets fleshed out / expanded and put on ao3

The Great Puzzle, wing bones touching, Snakelet, Here Be Dragons, Become Tomorrow, shrine or scar, that is a door, Cartwheels in Cloud Recesses, Ghosts Shouldn't, Little Lion Boy, and Despite the Abundance all started on tumblr

but even in cases where i found a big chunk of the tumblr writings usable and worth keeping, it's not a matter of just copy and pasting it over and calling it a day. a full fic and and a series of random prompts or whatever scenes i've written on here isn't necessarily how i would choose to tell a longform story, so transporting them over always entails a fairly large amount of work on my end

in the case of the great puzzle, i used all that i'd written, it was just the commitment and plot to writing the story through. for wing bones touching, i'm using most of what's already been written, but there's a lot of connective tissue and build up to earn the payoff that i hadn't bothered to write when it was just a prompt series that now has to be put in

there are some series where this is easier than others. the azula and zuko series, for example, would have to be written almost entirely from scratch. it encompasses a huge amount of time and action and earns pretty much none of it - because the format means it doesn't have to.

living blood is one that i'm thinking will probably end up on ao3 at some point because i've written a lot of the connective tissue and build up into it already so it's not such a huge effort to polish it up

"but you don't have to polish it up!" i can hear you saying. "you can just post it as is!"

i said it above and i'll say it again: i could. but i don't want to

i'm saying this with all the kindness and appreciation for your interactions and your comments and your readership but: not everything is about you

i link all the previous prompts in the most recent one. i make a masterlist after every prompt cycle. i have every prompt linked out in the google doc

i'm not opposed to making things easier for your guys, and have spent a lot of time doing so, but i'm completely uninterested in moving my prompts and random writings over to ao3 for all the reasons laid out above, and being asked repeatedly isn't going to change my answer

if you think those reasons are stupid and inadequate and it makes you mad, the good news is this: you don't have to follow me and you don't have to read my work. you're completely and totally free to opt out of this experience

if you find navigating prompts as i have them laid out to be too cumbersome and difficult then, kindly, don't read them

i'm not a professional, a company, or a celebrity. this blog and my writing is neither a product nor a service

the point where prompts are more stressful and irritating than they are fun, the point where sharing scraps of my writing becomes something that turns into an obligation or a drag or too much work, is the point where i stop doing it