#it's their fucking automated suggestions i can't opt out of

[bomberqueen17]

disturbing

I was writing a post and at the end I was adding tags, as I do, and I typed the singular first person pronoun, I, and a list of tags popped up as suggestions that took me the fuck out. It was so disturbing I took a screenshot.

[image ID: a list of suggested tags, screenshotted. It's titled "popular" and the list is "I want to [star emoji]ve" "i wanna lose weight" "i sell content" "i love him"]

I wanna star-emoji-ve???? Well there's some pro-ana shit for you.

I don't know if the kids these days remember this but back in Livejournal around the era of strikethrough (the '07-'09 time period is where I remember noticing it) there was a movement to censor pro-self-harm blogs, that were support groups mostly supporting one another in more and more extreme anorexic/self-destructive/eating-disordered behaviors.

This is absolutely that. And they were like "it's self-expression" and everyone else in the world was like "it is actually a toxic encouragement of self-harm" because they were like, concretely instructing one another and recruiting vulnerable people to join them in ways to literally starve to death, they were support groups for killing yourself more or less, and so those tags would occasionally get banned or delisted or removed from search or whatever, but remember this was very early in the history of such things, and there was no algorithm. But people did use the browsing of blogs' "interests" to find one another, it was a feature of how Livejournal worked, and there wasn't a lot of moderation but the deactivation or delisting of those self-harm-encouraging tags were a hotly-contested bit of debate.

And so they got more creative, and found other ways to find one another, and people starved to death or otherwise irreparably damaged their bodies and their mental health and so on. I cannot emphasize enough, this was not fiction. These were not fictional stories depicting fictional scenarios that weren't happening, these were real people posting stories and encouragement and photographs of their real selves, showing off how much damage to themselves they were doing, concretely encouraging one another to do the same. This was not fiction.

But they kept finding new ways to talk about it so it couldn't be censored.

And then LJ deleted blogs for posting about fiction instead, and we all kind of forgot about it and moved on.

Highly displeased to find that it's all alive and well on Tumblr, to the point that it's the number one suggestion when I type the fucking first-person pronoun into the tag field, and I can't opt out of seeing that. COOL.

[sirthisisa-wendys]

I heard u were a FELLOW benkei SIMP and this is been on my mind but like

beauty and the beast au? i

it's just feels right to me IDK why

thank you

lol

And I'm about to answer your request with a series.

Tamed (Part 1): Keizo Arashi x Fem!Reader

synopsis: being hired as a caretaker isn't all it's cracked up to be. Especially when the person you're a carer for doesn't want to be cared for.

a/n: This series will be loosely inspired by The Beauty and the Beast. Thank you to @thehypestdeano for helping me flesh this out and for helping me revise revise revise and giving great suggestions.

wc: 1.1k

tw: some violence, little angst?

masterlist ⏩ next chapter

song recommendation:

"Arashi is down for the count! His opponent has been disqualified but--"

Fuck.

Keizo's stomach and head throb mercilessly as he stumbles into his corner of the ring, trying desperately to get the gloves on his hands off. Fuck.

"What's going on?" Mouth is full of cotton; eyes are full of tears.

"Redcliff, can you hear me?"

Blurred colors, flashing lights... Bright, bright, bright ass lights and loud noises cloud his thinking, muddle his mind, make him nauseous. Everything he's ever eaten bubbles up in his gut, and the giant leans forward to let it out. The residual splash is unmistakable and nasty and foul and Keizo imagines he'd throw up again if he could. And it's all because of a single rabbit punch; the kind of move that could send a man to his grave if it landed in the right spot.

"I need a fucking medic!"

Keizo feels his body slump backward onto the mat, but he can't control it. He can't control anything. He can't.

Is this it? he wonders, his blurry vision and the feeling in his toes fading.

"Is this it for the great Redcliff?"

_____________________________________________________________

Ding-dong.

Your finger presses against the automated doorbell with a click, then you step back, waiting patiently for someone to answer.

Caretaker Wanted.

The job listing is nestled neatly in your purse like your golden ticket, somehow placing you in front of the mansion door awaiting an interview.

Selective and private client seeks caretaker for live-in help. The client is paraplegic but has use of a motorized wheelchair and use of his arms and upper torso. Will require lifting of up to 25 lbs...

The door creaks open, and a purple and blonde-haired man peeks outside, his violet eyes darting up and down your figure.

"Interviewing for the caretaker position?" he wonders, and you nod quickly, putting on your best smile.

"Yes, sir."

"Don't call me sir," the man mutters, opening the door. "Call me Wakasa." You nod again, stepping past the threshold of the house excitedly. But when you're met with the sight inside, your face drops immediately.

Dishes are piled everywhere. A few shirts are scattered about. Even the table in the entryway is piled with envelopes that read "past due" on them in red letters. The man ahead of you walks past the mess without apology, his hands shoved into his black pants, and you follow, your eyes widening.

"This place is a shithole," Wakasa mutters, taking a seat on the couch across from where you stand. "But that's one reason why you're here. Please, have a seat." You try to find a clean place to sit and opt for the square of the couch that isn't covered in a spot or what looks like coffee stains. "Tell me, what makes you think you'll be a good caretaker?"

"Well," you begin, looking around the living room. "I've taken care of someone with disabilities before. My brother was wheelchair-bound, so instead of my parents working their jobs and taking care of him, I chose to do it."

"What did you like most about it?" You think back to your brother, his brown eyes and gentle smile wrenching your heart in two.

"I liked being close to him. I think the companionship really made things easier for the both of us."

"And the worst part?" Wakasa shifts, tossing his arms over the back of the couch and crossing his legs.

"Having to say goodbye."

"Ah." The man quirks his lips, then looks down at his feet. "Keizo's been on his own for quite a while - with me to help when I can, of course. He insists on being independent, but I don't think that's how he needs to be living, especially with his leg injuries. I mean," Wakasa looks around sheepishly. "You see how he's living."

"How did he get injured?" Wakasa looks up at you suddenly, eyes laser-focused on your face.

"I'm not allowed to talk about that."

The sound of a car driving up the driveway makes both of you angle your head toward the front door, and you hear something mechanical and laughter erupting as the door swings open. A man with black hair and a scar appears, chuckling with someone right behind him. Well, rolling right behind him.

"And I said, holy fuck, man. I can't walk, but I'm not blind!" The laugher continues for a moment more before the black-haired man notices you and Wakasa on the couch.

"Oh, hey, Takeomi."

"Yo; who's this?" The man points to you, and you offer him your best smile, opening your mouth to introduce yourself, but Waka beats you to it.

"This is y/n, Benkei's new caretaker." So I've been hired, you think, trying not to smile too widely.

"Oh, boy," Takeomi mutters, sitting down on Waka's side of the couch and leaning forward on his knees. "Ready for the rage, y/n?"

"The rage?" you wonder, but Takeomi just shakes his head, and Wakasa groans.

"Who is this?" You look around and see a stern-faced man in a wheelchair, his eyes caught on your face before you even say a word.

"Y/n. She's your new caretaker, Keizo."

"Caretaker?" the man snaps. "What the hell?"

"Before you go off, remember - I told you this--"

"Waka," the man grunts, rolling closer. "I told you what I thought about caretakers."

"And I'm telling you that I'm sick of your attitude. Have you looked at this place recently?" Despite the terse conversation, the tone of both of the men is incredibly calm. Too calm. These two have been friends for a very long time, you reason. Wakasa leans back on the couch and crosses his leg again. "It's shit, Benkei. Now, you're going to be cared for properly, and you're going to like it. No more arguing."

"You talk to me like I'm five, Waka," the man mutters, rolling away. "By the way, you're fired, miss."

"Mr. Imaushi employs me, sir," you call out. Keizo stops, turning his head toward you slowly. "I'm sorry, but you can't fire me. Only he can." The glare he gives you is enough to make you turn into stone, but you stare back defiantly, angling your chin a little higher as a sign of confidence, even though you feel anything but that right now.

"You'll quit before the end of the week," Keizo mutters. "I'll make sure of that."

"I'm sure you'll try." Keizo curls his lip up at you, but when he rolls off down a hallway, you let go of a breath you didn't know you were holding. When you turn back to Waka and Takeomi, they're both staring at you with open mouths and raised brows.

"What?" you reply, frowning. "Did I say something wrong?"

"No one's ever spoken to him like that except us," Waka explains and Takeomi's mouth raises into a grin.

"I like this one," the scarred man laughs. "Would you like to stay for dinner?"

"He means to say: would you like to stay forever?"