#which links to pro life bullshit

[quinnfabrayapologist]

Do you ever wonder how exactly there came to be such a transphobia problem in British feminism?

Not really. Pretty straightforward IMO.

Britain is highly patriarchal and pretty much just an oligarchy at this point, given the majority of people in charge were born rich and went to one of a handful of private schools. Fair amount of them are also journalists to some degree, or work with journalists on the regular, so when those pesky feminists wanted to dismantle their little boy's club, they stoked up a culture war to give them a new target.

A great example is the NHS. There's been issues lately with supply of oestrogen. I have a former classmate who is a raging transphobe and in her fifties. She's constantly on twitter talking about how the reason she can't get her hormone replacement therapy for her menopause is that trans women are taking all the oestrogen. Her source? A right wing newspaper linked to half of the current PM's cabinet. The real issue? The Tories have been systematically gutting and selling off the NHS since they came into power, which is causing shortages now, because the Tories want the NHS to fail so they can say 'see? NHS doesn't work. Time to privatise the whole thing' and make a mint doing it.

So basically, the minority we should actually be worried about - the 1%ers who have had everything handed to them on a silver platter all their lives, including some of the highest powers this land has to give, and are using that power to take our country apart for profit in the houses of parliament - have convinced a decent portion of feminists that a minority with basically no power is the root of all evil.

And so, using their institutional power (being the law-making elites) and their influential power (clickbait articles they've usually written themselves), they've convinced a portion of feminists that the upper-class, born-rich, bred for rule, blue-blooded bullies who thrive off the patriarchy aren't the problem, trans people are, and so the sect of feminists they've successfully turned against trans people are now fighting to uphold the patriarchy on behalf of the Conservatives and calling it feminism.

[centrally-unplanned]

The trick on the whole "Israel banning UNRWA" thing is that most militaries - like say the US in Afghanistan for example - directly provision aid. American soldiers would often be handing out food packages themselves, and even if they weren't the aid organizations would be directly contracting with the US government and the Department of Defense. You have a group in the military and the government that is like, okay, how do we feed people, let's hit those targets.

So if Congress decided to ban the United Nations Assistance Mission in Afghanistan in 2006 from operating in the country or whatever, that bill would say like "we hand over its mission to USAID, which has been allocated $2.1 billion dollars in FY-2005 to do X Y Z". It would probably be a dumb move that would create unnecessary friction and cost lives for political bullshit, but that is also life, people dying for political bullshit is a universal constant. It would probably be pretty small bore in the scale of things, like switching over contractors.

That isn't how Israel does things. I might be wrong about this, Israel is deliberately opaque about these things and I just gave this the ol' half hour of googling, I am open to being contradicted here. But my current understanding of net spending by the government of Israel itself on aid to Gaza is...$0. They do not provide aid. They permit aid from other organizations, funded by other countries, to be provided! But they don't take responsibility for the provision; meeting targets, outcomes, etc, none of that is their job. (I am sure it isn't literally zero btw, but I think you get my point)

It is really telling that when you look up pro-Israel statements by say AIPAC on aid, their headlines are:

Israel Facilitates Humanitarian Aid to Gaza as Hamas Continues to Attack

And they criticize the UN because the UN trucks aren't being delivered:

The United Nations and other international agencies are largely responsible for the existing delays in aid deliveries into Gaza. The U.N. has not been able to distribute aid at the rate that Israel is processing it, causing back-ups at the border crossings after Israeli inspections are completed. On March 3, the U.N. received 234 trucks in Gaza but only distributed 131 trucks of aid to civilians in the enclave.

If this was the US military, and the UN was getting aid trucks and failing to send them, we would send more of our own trucks? That we have? Because aid is part of the military operation. But Israel doesn't do that - because it doesn't have any trucks. Because aid isn't part of the military operation.

Which is why the bill banning UNRWA that is being passed does not mention aid provision to Gaza:

The international community has raised alarm over the legislation, which was passed without a plan in place for a humanitarian agency to replace UNRWA.

Again going off news sources here, link for the actual bill is currently down, if I am wrong will correct here, but I think it all tracks. So in the article above, you get statements from the government when people ask about aid, they reply, oh yeah these other aid organizations will fill the gap.

Then you ask the aid organizations themselves and they go, no, we won't fill the gap! We don't have the resources to do that! Which is logical when you realize Israel isn't funding those orgs. They don't know or care about their funding status. Hopefully someone else will figure that out - aid is someone else's problem. Those government remarks are just off the cuff, they aren't a plan.

Which I want to loop back around to the casus belli for the ban - UNRWA having ties to Hamas. That, to me, is one of those "uh duh, and?" things - Hamas is the government of Gaza. UNRWA runs schools there? And medical clinics? You think they do that...without contact with the government? This is just silly, the UN Mission in Afghanistan obviously had connections to the US Government! Government officials, working in both, par for the course.

But, and this is far more important, it is irrelevant. I completely agree that UNRWA has many people who are sympathetic to Hamas in it, because obviously they do. You want to ban it, dumb but okay. You propose a bill outlining the $2 billion dollars and the 5 partnered aid organizations and the 400 IDF trucks that will deliver aid to replace their work, sure. Whatever man, do your small bore politics bullshit.

That is not what they are doing.

Now, Israel has in fact allowed a bunch of aid in Gaza, I don't doubt that like USAID and the non-profit community and the governments of the UK and Japan and so on are gonna pivot funding to a bunch of organizations that will do herculean work stepping up operations and interfacing with the IDF checkpoint system and get aid in. Maybe they will do such a bang-up job that the cost in suffering won't be that high. Israel did give 3 months after all, they aren't the literal worst they could be.

But I do think at a certain point, the line between indifference and malice just ceases to matter. The UNRWA bill isn't some breaking point or big policy shift - it is just a highly revealing moment in the Israeli approach, why the war there has gone the way that it has. And it is, as the kids say, not a good look.

(h/t @loving-n0t-heyting as this was initially a reblog of their post, but they mentioned getting drama in the notes so I split it off; sorry to deny you the precious +1 internet point)

[darklinaforever]

https://www.tumblr.com/aryas-faces/759627378192465920/the-house-of-the-dragon-writers-are-so-jealous-of?source=share

Lol just lol

Wow. Reading so much crap at once should be banned.

The delusion that Aegon II took the throne for his family is reported by Eustace, a maester pro-greens and anti-Blacks / Rhaenyra, who spends his time whitewashing them as much as possible. What he says about the Greens is still highly questionable. Especially since this bullshit of only wanting to protect one's family as a motivation to take the throne can quickly be challenged when we see how different Aegon II seems to be with the crown on his head, ready to do anything to keep it for himself and absolutely not mischievous. Firing Otto and refusing the peace agreement proposed by RhaeRhaenyra which would precisely save his family, except his grandfather who... well that's good because he doesn't care! Not to mention calling Rhaenyra a whore as easily as he breathes when apparently before taking the throne he actually respected Rhaenyra saying what kind of brother would steal what belongs to his older sister ? A little common sense. Eustace's comments about the Greens / Aegon II taking the throne are not at all consistent with Aegon II's behavior after that.

Then, the same, the so-called great exceptional link between Syrax and Aegon II is propaganda bullshit. Did Sunfyre love Aegon II? Yes. Is the opposite true ? No. He saw it as a kind of replaceable accessory. As proof, when he loses Sunfyre, he says that he wants a new dragon which will be an even more efficient Sunfyre. That doesn't sound like someone who cares about their dragon. Unlike Rhaenyra who just says that her team just needs dragons otherwise they are lost to the war. At no time does she look for a better, more efficient Syrax. Also, if we really have to decide who seems to have a better connection with her dragon in a deep way, it is undeniably Rhaenyra with Sunfyre. I remind you that Sunfyre was hatched for Rhaenyra and that she rode him from the age of 7, making her the youngest dragonrider. Syrax also formed a mated paur with Caraxes, Rhaenyra's husband's dragon. But apparently, it is Aegon II who has an exceptional bond with his dragon ? My eye. Once again, we must differentiate between the words of propaganda and the facts in the book. Also, gold and yellow are almost the same color. When you put official images of Syrax and Sunfyre side by side validated by GRRM sorry but... Well Syrax is also golden from what we see. Honestly, who tells you that the maesters didn't just try to tone down the color of Rhaenyra's dragon to highlight Sunfyre and Aegon II ? See here for more development on the color of Syrax :

If the writers wanted to make Rhaenyra want to participate in the battles in HOTD, it's simply because they didn't know what else to do with the character and give her a false badass look. Not to show off her doing to Aegon II or make her as brave and selfless as him. This literally has nothing to do with your dear Aegon II here. It's just that the writers have no imagination. Then, sorry to shatter your dreams, but there's nothing brave about Aegon II going into battle. It's unconscious. A monarch generally does not go to the battlefield. Because life is precious because... well it's the fucking monarch ?! Sending him to death's door is stupid and counterproductive. Also, people seem to forget that Rhaenyra couldn't even fly a dragon in Fire and Blood when the war started, because she had just had a complicated stillbirth with Visenya. But obviously, no one is going to take all that into account. Let's forget the historical context and Rhaenyra's physical state to treat Fire and Blood's version as cowardly and selfish for not going onto the battlefield when there's no the fucking point here. All this to try to make Aegon II appear brave and selfless ?! Aegon II ?! He is neither of those two fucking words.

I remind you once again that no, the idea that Aegon II was forced to take the crown is bullshit, completely invented by Maester Eustace.

And no, Rhaenyra doesn't take the crown to protect her family in HOTD. She doesn't even have children when she accepts to be heir in 1x01. Rhaenys' words in 1x10 are just a classic fucking warning. Rhaenyra was already planning to be queen before this because she saw it as her duty and did not expect to be usurped the way the Greens went about it. So what are that person talking about ?! Rhaenyra even considers giving up her crown and her youngest boys (Aegon III and Viserys II) to the Greens to ensure the peace of the kingdom. So once again, what are you talking about ?! Rhaenyra didn't accept the crown at all to protect her family in this whole situation. Also, when you are designated heir, you accept and you keep quiet, that's all. Do you think 7 / 8 year old Rhaenyra was an aide to the throne or something ? Reading this kind of bullshit you might think that's what is being insinuated. To say that the Rhaenyra of the show is forced to have the crown is essentially saying that the 7 / 8 year old Rhaenyra who was named heir was completely on board and wanted it, when we're talking about a child who probably only accepted what was his duty in the first place, to then grow up always having this perspective in mind and having been educated for it, and then obviously considering the crown as rightfully his. Because it is. Quite simply. But apparently, with Green stans it's horrible... On the other hand, an impersonation if you have a dick is okay for them.

I also remember that in Fire and Blood, when Aegon II was crowned, the population demanded Rhaenyra...

On the other hand, I don't know in what universe this person lives to believe that Aegon II is the favorite of those who watch the show ? All the polls that are done on the internet simply prove the opposite. Yes, we all recognize the actor's performance on Team Blacks side, but he is certainly not one of our favorites and even less the favorite. Even some of the Greens Stans hate him... And yes, a large part of the Greens stans love an Aegon II that they fantasized in their heads, but they are not at all representative of the majority of the fandom. Again Aegon II is not a fan favorite in general in HOTD. This place is rather held by Daemon or then (to my great despair) Aemond (ironically because he is precisely a poor version of Daemon).

[roseaesynstylae]

Star Wars: Republic Commando: Triple Zero, Chapter 6

I had a nice vacation.

I visited family. I soaked up the sun. I created an AO3 account and have been collecting bookmarks and posting short fic, so when I feel confident enough to link it, there'll be something substantial. I began reading my way through the High Republic. I started refining OCs that I might post fic about in a year.

And now I'm coming back to this.

(Hand to God, instant burst of rage when I opened the book.)

"In five millennia, the Mandalorians fought with and against a thousand armies on a thousand worlds. They learned to speak as many languages and absorbed weapons technology and tactics from every war. And yet, despite the overwhelming influence of alien cultures, and the absence of a true homeworld and even species, their own language not only survived but changed little, their way of life and their philosophy remained untouched, and their ideals and sense of family, of identity, of nation, were only strengthened. Armor does not make a Mandalorian. The armor is merely a manifestation of an impenetrable, unassailable heart.

-- Mandalorians: Identity and Language, published by the Galactic Institute of Anthropology"

That right there is complete bullshit.

No culture exists that long and interacts with others without being influenced in some way. Whether intentionally or unintentionally, they would pick up something. I know Star Wars doesn't necessarily involve itself with the nitty-gritty of worldbuilding, but...

Part of this feels like I'm overreacting to something small, but over the course of my vacation, I have lost what little willingness I had to be nice to Karen Traviss, her Mando Sues, and all the bullshit in this series. I'm sorry, but I'm going to be a bitch going forward.

Anyway.

There's something about this excerpt that really makes me feel like it's lording its (unrealistic and impossible) linguistic "purity" over everyone else. This is a case of "If this were a different author/book/series, I wouldn't be bothered."

Mando-Shilling: 2

I haven't even gotten to the actual content of the chapter yet and I'm metaphorically throttling this book. This is a bad sign.

"'General,' he said. He paused to nod formally at Etain, which -- given Skirata's general contempt for anyone not in armor -- seemed quite an encouraging start, Fi decided."

We are not pleased.

"'In here, ma'am.' He could make ma'am sound like girl somehow; he could do the same with General. But as a Jedi she had no right to feel affronted by the lack of deference. She realized that she simply wished he would like her. 'Just a little chat and you can find General Jusik and catch up on events.'

Yes, Skirata gave the orders."

Okay!

This isn't lack of deference; this is just being an asshole.

Oh, he can make ma'am sound like girl? Well, I can make Kal Skirata sound like eat shit and die.

"'In urban operations, a woman is always useful, Jedi or not. Another aid to invisibility -- old di'kute like me and females like you.'"

I hate you so fucking much.

It's a Man's World: 2

Like I said above, I have lost all patience for this series' bullshit. I'm going to go look at some pro-Jedi/Bad Batch content (my version of touching grass) and possibly assemble romantic prompts.

My last comment on this chapter?

Jedi-Bashing: 9

Mando-Shilling: 2

It's a Man's World: 2

Shut the Fuck Up, Kal: 1

Deltas, Move Out: 4

Mird, My Beloved: 3

Is This The Bad Batch?: 2

Main Post

[bluemoonsystemrq]

Hey, your links in your pinned post aren't working for me, is it possible you can send them in an answer or in a DM? I'm trying to educate myself more. Thank you for reading my ask even if you choose not to respond.

Huh, they aren't? It seems to work for us. Maybe it's because Tumblr is Tumblr and we linked them using the mobile app, sorry. :(

Why we may have blocked link, need to make sure this is up to date tbh. Mainly us bitching about unsolicited donation asks:

Anti-contact rant:

Which links to this from MAP wiki:

Our personal thoughts on the idea of transitioning, the way it's normally used, TLDR tell us a way to use "harmful" transitioning, "harmless" transitioning, and "full" transitioning for non-gender transIDs in ways that do not also fuck over transgender people:

Thanks for asking/letting us know!

Added additional note: please send another ask if you meant a priv answer and we can delete and resend. You did not specify so we take this to mean a public answer is okay but we're also very aware transID community and rqc are both controversial communities generally.

[coopigeoncoo]

Pairing: Todoroki Shouto x Gender Neutral Reader

Rating: Teen+

Tags: Reader-Insert, Stalking, Kidnapping, Attempted Kidnapping, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Psychological Torture (There is a plot for a character to get kidnapped and assaulted, but it doesn't actually happen), Sex Toys, Happy Ending

---

A late night meal delivery to Pro Hero Shouto goes terribly wrong, leaving you trapped in a room together with no obvious means of escape. You find yourself holding out hope not just for a rescue, but also for Shouto to somehow stay oblivious to the massive crush you've had on him for months now.

With the outlook for you future growing increasingly hazy, one thing becomes pointedly clear:

You can't keep things bottled up forever.

---

"It's true we don't know what might happen to us," Shouto admitted, his mismatched eyes locked onto yours; intense and mesmerizing. "But we'll face it together, okay?"

"Okay," you swallowed thickly. "But I think you definitely pulled the short straw as far as teammates go."

"Really?" Shouto asked, his eyes shining as he stared at you. "I don't think I could have chosen anyone better if I tried."

---

Continue reading below or follow the link to Ao3!

Society is built on a series of white lies, little untruths we tell ourselves to make life seem more bearable. Things like how good will always prevail over evil, that hard work equates to success, and that your Quirk didn't dictate the direction your life took.

You had some increasingly strong suspicions about those first two platitudes, but the fact that you had a teleportation Quirk and had only ever been hired for courier work left you feeling very certain that the last one was absolute bullshit.  

Last month your boss had commemorated your third year of employment at Über Munch, a meal delivery service for Heroes, with a mesh bag half-full of dollar store candy and a keychain with the company logo on it in lieu of something you would actually appreciate.  

Like a raise. Or a day off once and a while.  

So you were feeling pretty unenthusiastic about work these days now that you knew how little your effort was actually valued by the suits down at the corporate office. You had never been this tempted to quit before and knew it would likely be a smart move to start sending out resumes and have something else lined up for when you eventually snapped, but it was hard to actually put forth the effort when you didn't totally hate your job most days.  

Your Quirk, Revisit, allows you to instantaneously travel to anywhere you've walked before. It made some aspects of your job easier, like quickly delivering meals directly to Hero agencies in the major metropolitan area; but it didn't make it effortless. Some orders were just more difficult to fulfill than others.  

A call from Fat Gum always requires multiple trips from a handful of different restaurants to fulfill, a task that left you winded and lightheaded from both the quantity of food you had to carry and overusing your Quirk. But he always tipped generously, which was more than you could say for other Heroes. Accepting an order from Vine would guarantee that you would end up dumped on the edge of some overgrown forest with a bag of vegetable samosas in one hand and a compass in the other, rewarded for all your trouble with an evangelical comic tract once you'd actually managed to track her down. 

But then there were the clients you didn't mind getting calls from. Mt. Lady never ordered meals, she just wanted someone to drop off a bottle of her favorite bargain brand rosé on her days off so she could focus on relaxing. She'd answer the door in an old pair of sweatpants with a clay mask pasted thickly across her face, a rom-com blaring in the background as she accepted her delivery. It was a charmingly domestic view of a woman most often seen splashed across the covers of beauty magazines.  

And then there was your favorite client of all, Todoroki Shouto. Every Tuesday and Thursday the same request would ping across the screen of your work phone: cold soba with extra ginger to be delivered to his agency precisely at eight thirty, which was when he took a break from his nightly paperwork. You'd started to become friendly over the course of your routine interactions, sharing courteous greetings and anecdotes from your respective work weeks. Shouto's stories were always more engaging than yours, but he was polite enough to laugh and offer commiseration at the appropriate points as he unpacked his dinner.

You tried to appreciate Shoto's companionship without interpreting his gentle smiles and welcoming demeanor as anything other than what they were; a show of kindness from a good man. But every time Shouto gifted you with a glimpse of his pearly whites you couldn't stop the sudden hitching of your breath, mind racing with snippets of impossible dreams you couldn't help but crave.  

It was easy to let yourself imagine being with him; waking up in a tangle of limbs as early morning light streamed across your bedspread from between the too-wide gaps in your blinds. Knowing your breath was sour from sleeping but kissing him anyway, too needy for his attention to wait until after you'd brushed your teeth.   

But you know life isn't like it is in the fairy tales. Princes don't marry peasants and pedigree Heroes don't end up with minimum wage service workers. You'd keep on delivering Shouto's noodles twice a week until inevitably, a year or two down the road, the tabloids would be saturated with news of his engagement to some super model or socialite. That was what was expected; what he deserved.  

But you could, and would, fantasize about what could have been if things were just a little bit different. If you were richer or more successful. If you hadn't been too scared to take the entrance exams for placement at a Hero School. If you existed in the same social stratosphere as each other.  

They were nice, those little flights of fancy you allowed yourself; the small sprinkles of sweetness that made the bitter taste of reality more palatable. You made time for one more brief daydream; a vision of gentle sighs and entwined fingers, before you dug your phone out of your pocket. Thumb swiping across the screen, you bring up your work app and see a new notification light up your screen: a request for cold soba with extra ginger.  

With a weary sigh, you clutched your phone to your chest, screwed your eyes shut, and disappeared in a shower of sparks. 

You'd become a regular feature around Shouto's agency, recognized on sight by the security guards and night cleaning crew. So the sudden appearance of a new receptionist next to the doors to Shouto's office was a jarring change in an otherwise predictable delivery routine. A sharp looking woman had replaced his usual assistant, the round-faced and rounder-bellied Mrs. Yamori; a devastatingly friendly and heavily pregnant woman with a heteromorphic gecko Quirk. 

Customer service smile firmly in place, you approached the desk, checking the gleaming name plaque set in front of her.  

"Hello, Ms. Yokubou!" You greeted cheerily, startling the receptionist who had been focused on sorting through a small pile of mail. "Did Mrs. Yamori go on maternity leave already?" 

"How am I supposed to know?" The woman snapped, carefully placing a small box at the top of the stack. "I'm here to help Shouto, not spread office gossip."

"Right," you coughed nervously in the face of her hostility. "Well, I have his dinner. So I'll just go ahead and knock."

"Dinner?" She hissed, swiveling her chair to face the monitor on the left side of the desk. "There isn't any mention of dinner on his schedule and I certainly didn't call you."

"I don't know what to tell you. I deliver Mr. Todoroki's dinner every Tuesday and Thursday at this time," you sighed, pleasant demeanor slipping as this conversation eroded what little was left of your patience after a long day.  

"Well, not today you don't," Yokubou sniffed, waving you away with a dismissive hand. "Shouto is simply too busy this evening. You may go."

"Listen, even if I wanted to go, Über Munch guarantees delivery to Heroes. That's sort of their entire business plan."

"I told you that your services won't be necessary!" Yokubou screeched, reaching her hand towards the receiver on her desk. "Don't make me call security!"

"Would you, actually? They know me down there and it seems like getting a third party involved might help speed things up a bit."

Yokubou's brow twisted as she pulled the desk phone up to her ear, but whatever sort of retort she had poised on the tip of her tongue evaporated the moment Shouto's office door opened and he stuck his head out curiously.  

"Shouto!" She crooned, rolling her shoulders back to push her chest further out, the top buttons on her fitted blouse struggling under the added pressure. "I'm so sorry to have disturbed you! But I have everything under control and-"

"There you are," Shouto sighed in relief as his gaze landed on you, pointedly ignoring the antics of his receptionist. "I was starting to get worried."

"Sorry I'm late," you said, holding the bag out for him to take. "This is normally the part where I would apologize for your food getting cold, but it was already cold to start with, so I'm just going to skip that bit."

Shouto accepted his dinner with an amused huff, fingers brushing yours as the bag changed hands.  

"Would you like to come in?" Shouto asked, pushing the door to his office open wider. "I need some help on today's crossword puzzle. There's a lot of pop culture questions that I don't know the answers to."

"You can't, Shouto! Not tonight! You're far too busy!" His receptionist said, shooting to a standing position and grabbing the pile of mail into her arms. "There's something important here that needs your immediate attention."

"Is there, now?" Shouto hummed thoughtfully, shifting the bag with his soba into the crook of his arm so he could accept the towering stack of mail.  

"And I'm sure you need privacy to open classified mail," Yokubou insisted, squeezing herself into the space between you and Shouto.  

"It'll be fine," Shouto assured her with a tight smile. "I'll just save all the top secret letters until I'm alone."

"But-!"

"That will be all for today, Ms. Yokubou," Shouto dismissed, reaching around her to place a palm between your shoulder blades and guide you into his office. 

"No! You don't understand!" Yokubou wailed, clawing at the stack of mail Shouto held securely to his chest, trying to pry the missives away from him.

"I understand that it has been a very long day and you must be exhausted. Go home and rest and we'll talk about your lack of professionalism first thing in the morning," Shouto said sternly, shutting the door quickly behind him and engaging the lock with one swift motion. He ignored the pounding knocks that shook the door in its frame and the repeated frantic cries of 'Shouto!' as he made his way across the room, depositing the contents of his arms down onto his desk before collapsing into his office chair with a bone weary sigh.  

"Well she sure is…something," you offer diplomatically.  

"Fired is what she is," Shouto laughed dryly, scrubbing his hands furiously across his face. "That woman has been an absolute menace since day one. I tried to give her a chance to settle in, but it's beyond obvious that this job isn't a good fit for her."

"She only started on what? Friday?"

"Saturday," Shouto corrected, prying the lid off of his dinner and happily sniffing the ginger-covered noodles. "And since then she's thrown away all my fanmail, canceled a joint interview I had with Creati, and she keeps finding excuses to barge into my office. I've had to start locking my door."  

"Yikes," you said, wincing in sympathy and a fair amount of second hand embarrassment. "How long is Mrs. Yamori supposed to be gone?"

"Too long," Shouto groaned, pulling out a set of disposable chopsticks and snapping them neatly in half. "Do you think I could convince her to come back to work early if I hire her baby too?"

"I'm fairly certain that's illegal. Child labor and all that," you laughed, pulling one of the guest chairs up to the front of Shouto's desk and spinning the abandoned crossword around to glance at the clue columns. "Plus, babies cry a lot. It would probably be pretty disruptive."

"It couldn't be worse than my current situation," Shouto grumbled, the faint sounds of Yokubou's wailing still audible in the background.  

"I suppose the dental coverage for a baby would be pretty cheap," you muse, penciling in the answer for number thirty-two down. "They don't have any teeth."

"I wonder what's in that mail pile that had Ms. Yokubou so wound up," you pondered, tapping the pencil eraser against your cheek thoughtfully. 

"Good question," Shouto said, using the cheap paper napkin to dab primly at his lips even though you were fairly certain he didn't get a single particle of food on his face with how carefully he ate. "I thought she had slipped a confession letter into the stack, but all that's here is official mail and a couple of packages."

"Maybe one of those then?"

"Maybe," Shouto mused, separating out the parcels in question. "But I am expecting some deliveries. My Mother's birthday is coming up and I'm having her gifts shipped here so she doesn't stumble upon them when she visits my apartment."

"I guess the only way to know for sure is to open them," you say, tossing your pencil down in defeat and refocusing your attention onto Shouto as he picked up an envelope mailer and ripped open the tab. Reaching into the envelope, Shouto pulled out a small paperback novel.  

"It's the next volume in her favorite book series," he explained, setting the book aside with a smile. "I pulled some strings and got her an advanced copy."

"The ladies in her book club are going to be so jealous!"

"I know," Shouto grinned fiendishly in delight, the mischievous glint in his eye making your stomach muscles clench wickedly.

"And uh, what's in the last box?" You ask, trying to focus on anything other than your misplaced desire for the man in front of you.  

"Let's see, shall we?" Shouto said, slicing open the packing tape with a large set of shears from his desk drawer. Carefully reaching in through the layers of tissue paper, Shouto pulls out a long glass bottle. It's overly ornate, with pink tinted glass and gilded edges, the sort of thing your grandmother would have proudly displayed on her vanity while smacking your small hand away for trying to touch it without permission.  

"It's lovely," you say, only half-lying as you watched the golden tassel tied around the middle sway back and forth. "What's it for?"

"Perfume, I think?" Shouto guessed, face scrunched up as he examined the bottle closely. "I ordered the type Fuyumi told me to, but I don't remember it looking like this on the webpage?"

"Maybe it's a limited edition?" You suggest. "Or they noticed who was ordering and upgraded you to the deluxe version with like, extra ambergris or something?"

"I hope not. That would throw the fragrance completely off balance," Shouto winced, viscerally imagining the perfume you described. "Better check and make sure this isn't the deluxe edition."

And with those words, Shouto grasped the stopper on the bottle and pulled; a plume of thick yellow smoke billowing out from the mouth of the bottle. Gasping in surprise, you accidentally inhaled the spreading vapor; skin prickling painfully as you lost control of your limbs and tumbled to the floor. The last thing you saw before your vision blurred and unconsciousness claimed you was Shouto reaching out across the floor towards your prone body; shirt pulled over his nose and mouth in an effort to filter out the unknown gas.  

Untold minutes passed before the smoke finally dissipated. And when it did, there was no trace of you or Shouto left. Just a shiny pink bottle with it's stopper wedged firmly in place, glimmering cheerily in the warm light of Shouto's office.  

You woke up suddenly, contorted into an uncomfortable position on the floor with your clothes clinging to your clammy skin. Head pounding and stomach churning, you take in a deep breath and then promptly regret it as you inhale a lung-full of incredibly potent incense smoke.  

"Ugh," you coughed, nose twitching as you got hit by another low-hanging cloud of patchouli. With one last sputter you shifted your focus to examine the room around you. The walls were an eye watering bright pink and every horizontal surface, from the tables to the numerous book shelves mounted to the walls, were stuffed full of flickering candles and arrangements of waxy-petaled lilies. 

"Are you okay?" Shouto asked, voice calling out from behind the other side of the circular bed frame you were laying next to. 

"I dunno'," you mumble, pausing to let out a tiny belch that seemed to help settle your stomach. "I think so?"

"Good," Shouto stated, voice still commanding despite its breathy quality. "Can you walk?"

"Let me try," you said as you went to roll over onto your side, only to discover that your body wasn't responding the way it should; your limbs dragging and heavy. Panic flooded your body, blood thrumming hotly in your ears as you once again tried, and failed, to roll. Exerting more concentrated effort than you ever had before in your life, you managed to slowly rock over onto your shoulder; body now facing towards the bed.

Whatever gratification you felt from your accomplishment was quickly forgotten as you realized that your heaving gasps of exhaustion were slowly pushing you off balance, sending you toppling face first into the shiny wooden bedframe. Your forehead landed with a dull thunk; the shock of the impact intensified by the headache throbbing sharply behind your eyes. 

"Ouch," you hissed through your teeth, sucking up the pain as best you could. "Moving appears to be beyond me at the moment."

"That's okay," Shouto said, his voice dropping a decibel or two into a more comforting timbre. "Wait there. I'll come to you."

The one good thing about your fall was that it positioned your head closer to the foot of the bed, so you could watch as Shouto grasped handfuls of the carpet in his fists, pulling himself slowly into view with great heaving breaths. His strength finally gave out an arms length away from you, his fingers creeping along the floor until they collided with yours.  

Tears prickled in the corners of your eyes, the embarrassing result of too many big feelings fighting against each other to be felt first- sadness and frustration and fear and utter relief when Shouto's fingers curled around your own. 

"You don't need to cry," Shouto soothed, his thumb rubbing small circles into the back of your hand.  

"I don't think I can stop," you sobbed, sucking in huge lungfuls of the incense-spiked air.

"That's okay, too."

"Yeah?"

"Mmhmm," Shouto hummed. "I'm told that crying can be very therapeutic. Do you feel any better?"

"No," you snorted, trying to downplay the telltale blubber of mucus collecting in the back of your throat.  

"Do you need to cry some more then?"

You nodded as emphatically as you could with the feeble muscles in your neck, and then opened your mouth and let out a piercing wail; tears streaming down your face and soaking quickly into the plush carpet fibers.

"Can you use your Quirk?" You sniffed, tears dried and tacky on your skin. You'd tried to wipe them away but only managed to poke yourself in the eye instead. "Because mine isn't working."

"No," Shouto growled in frustration, eyes narrowed at his hands as though they had personally betrayed him. "I'm hoping we'll regain control of them once our bodies recover."

"If we recover," you mutter dismally, shifting your gaze reluctantly towards Shouto when you felt him squeeze your hand tightly to gain your attention. 

"It's true we don't know what might happen to us," Shouto admitted, his mismatched eyes locked onto yours; intense and mesmerizing. "But we'll face it together, okay?"

"Okay," you swallowed thickly. "But I think you definitely pulled the short straw as far as teammates go."

"Really?" Shouto asked, his eyes shining as he stared at you. "I don't think I could have chosen anyone better if I tried."

At Shouto's insistence, you began doing little exercises in an attempt to kick start your muscles back into working order. You started small, with toe curls and rotating your arms in little circles. Everything was slightly numb and hard to control, a little like how your cheeks felt after you had a cavity filled at the dentist.  

"I'm scared, Shouto," you whispered as you lifted your forearm a paltry couple inches off of the floor. Shouto had already graduated to doing floppy bicep curls, but that was the difference in athletic ability between a Pro Hero and someone who's preferred marathon experience involved popcorn and a handful of movies. "Where do you think we are?"

"I don't know," he grunted from exertion, sweat beading at his temples. "But I have a couple of theories about how we got here."

"What're you thinking?"

"It's obviously some sort of Quirk at work," he gasped. "You're a Teleporter, right? Could it be something like that, do you think?"

"No. It's not teleportation," you groaned, arms collapsing limply onto the floor as you burned through the last of your energy. "I'm in an online chat group with a bunch of other Teleporters and we all have the same basic experience. And this is not it."

"Really?" Shouto said, pausing in his exercises to join your brief respite. "That's fascinating."

"Yeah. I guess rearranging all your atoms is a complex enough process there's just one way it works correctly."

Shouto huffed, staring up at your reflections in the large mirror that covered the entire ceiling. "What's it like? Teleporting, I mean?"

"I- it's sort of hard to explain," you say, wrinkling up your nose in thought. "So, like, imagine if people were made entirely out of sand."

"That sounds awful," Shouto grimaced. "Can you imagine what it would feel like if your tongue was made out of sand? Everything would taste gritty."

"It isn't literal," you huff. "You can imagine anything small. Rocks, sugar-"

"Rice," Shouto interrupted, nodding resolutely.  

"Yeah, sure. Rice. Imagine people are made out of rice. Teleporting is like, if every single one of those grains just scattered," you try to wave your hand around for emphasis but only succeed in making it flop on the ground like a dying fish. "But they aren't lost. I know where every single last one is, no matter how far away it wandered. And I can just pull them all back together again, wherever I choose."

"And it doesn't make you feel like all your muscles have atrophied?"

"No, not at all," you say, letting your head loll from side to side in an exaggerated shake. "I'm just- letting myself fall apart. I'm like ice when it starts to melt; shifting and warm."

"Oh," Shouto said, a sudden ring of clarity in his tone. "That's a nice feeling."

"Yeah, it is."

Eventually, you and Shouto progressed to being able to move around on the carpet. Shouto had worked himself up into a crawling position while you had adopted the much less elegant solution of wiggling around like a worm. You could tell by his puffed up cheeks and pointedly averted stare that he was barely holding back laughing at your expense. 

"Don't you dare laugh at me," you warned him, butt stuck up in the air as you wiggled your shoulders from side to side to achieve forward momentum.

"I'm- I'm not," Shouto lied, wheezing with every inch he crawled towards a distant dresser.

"Please," you scoffed. "I went to middle school. I know what it looks like to be laughed at. You could at least have the decency to do it to my face."

"Right, sorry," Shouto apologized, turning his head to look at you and promptly losing all composure; crashing to the ground as his laughter wracked his body and threw him off balance. He landed hard on his shoulder, still too uncoordinated to break his fall well.

"Ow!" He snorted out between guffaws, body shaking as he rubbed at his shoulder with limp fingers. "That- that hurt."

"Serves you right," you mutter peevishly, pushing your derriere further into the air to power your next creep forward. "I'm going to beat you to the dresser. That'll teach you to laugh at me."

"No," Shouto gasped, stumbling back onto his hands and feet. "I'm gonna- gonna get there first."

"Oh yeah?" You countered, summoning up your go-to school yard taunt like the paragon of maturity you were.

"Yeah," he shot back, the call of competition doing a lot to sober his demeanor as he rocked on his hands and took a shaky shuffle forward.

"Hey, Shouto!" You called, waiting until he was looking at you before you wiggled your butt from side-to-side as much as you could without toppling over. Shouto, not anticipating your underhanded maneuver, collapsed face first into the shag rug, the long fibers muffling his delirious cackling.  

"Cheater!" He cried out.

"Winner!" You laughed, sliding forward onto your belly and making a good headway towards the dresser, steadfastly ignoring Shouto's calls for a do-over.  

Shouto had predictably rallied and beaten you to the dresser like the finely tuned muscle machine he was, but you were proud to say you had given him a run for his money. The two of you now sat propped up against the dresser, bodies slumped against each other for an additional layer of support. You'd passed a fair bit of time by guessing how many flowers were crammed into each vase and then counting to see who came the closest.  

"Aaaaaand that's another round to me!" You proclaimed, nudging Shouto sharply. with your elbow when you heard him grumble discontentedly.

Todoroki Shouto, it turned out, was a very sore loser.

"One more time," he pouted, looking around the room for another cluster of lilies to tabulate. "Best fourteen out of twenty-seven."

"Yeah, I can agree to that. Because I've already won fourteen times," you reminded him smugly.  

"This game is silly," Shouto grumbled, managing to cross his arms across his chest petulantly on the second try. "I don't want to play anymore."

"Fine by me," you yawned, only slapping yourself in the face a little as you tried to cover your mouth. "I'm getting tired anyway."

"Go ahead and sleep," Shouto said, nudging your shoulder with his own until your head slid down into the cradle of his neck. It was wildly uncomfortable and far too intimate for your level of acquaintance, but you'd sooner eat your shirt than complain about it. "I'll take first watch."

"Watch for what?" You grumble, already well on your way to being unconscious. "There aren't even any doors."

"Or windows," Shouto added with a frustrated sigh as he dropped his head down onto yours, smushing your cheek into the hard edge of his clavicle.  

"Righ'," you mumble as your eyelids droop shut. "No win'ows."

"And I suppose if anyone was going to come in and kill us, they would have done that while we were lying defenseless on the floor."

Your eyes shoot open, all traces of exhaustion banished as you pry yourself away from Shouto and scramble into a more upright position.

"What's wrong?" He asked with genuine concern. "I thought you were tired?"

"I was, until someone started talking about us being killed," you laughed dryly, eyes darting around the room suspiciously, cataloging all the places a person could be laying in wait. There weren't a lot, but the privacy screen next to the chaise lounge was looking a little too sinister for your liking.  

"No, I specifically said that we likely wouldn't be murdered."

"Yeah, but you still mentioned the killing part! And now I can't stop thinking about it!" You babbled anxiously, trying to calm your rabbit-fast heartbeat with a couple of deep breaths. "This is probably the closest I've ever been to being murdered before, so a little bit of panic feels justified!"

"There is a strong correlation between kidnapping and murder," Shouto nodded.

"Do you- do you think that's comforting?" You screech, hysteria ratcheting up another few notches.  

"I- no?" Shouto said, voice pitching high in uncertainty. "But it is statistically significant!"

With a pitiful whine, you drop your head down into your mostly stable hands, doing your best to hold back another round of water works. Shouto, at a loss about what to say, drops his hand onto your back.

"There, there," he says, rubbing his palm slowly down your spine

"Now this- this is comforting," you sigh, arching your spine against his trailing hand.

"I'm glad," Shouto smiled. "This is how I pet stray cats, too. It's good to finally get some feedback on my technique."

"Now that we're back on our feet-," Shouto began, watching anxiously as you stumbled and were forced to grab onto a floor lamp for support. "-mostly, anyway. I think it would be a good idea for us to look around the room more thoroughly."

"Sounds good," you say, glancing at the lamp cord and wondering how far you explore while keeping your makeshift crutch plugged in. "Is there anything in particular we're looking for?"

"I'm not sure," Shouto said, setting his sights on the dresser drawers. "We know so little about our current situation that any information at all would be helpful."

"Right," you said, still unsure about what exactly to do, but not wanting to hinder Shouto's progress any further. You decided to inspect behind the privacy screen that had made you uneasy earlier. It was a tall thing that stretched far over your head, white wicker edges nearly scraping the mirrored ceiling. 

"Finding anything interesting," you panted over your shoulder as you took another baby step towards the screen, dragging your support lamp along with you.

"No!" Shouto yelped, slamming the top drawer he'd been staring into shut. "I mean, yes. There are things. But they aren't important. They're uh-," he paused to cough uneasily into a loose fist. "They're- intimacy supplies."

"Ah, sex toys," you nod, turning back to face your destination and give Shouto what little privacy you could to work through his embarrassment. "Say no more."

"I- yes. Thank you."

"But that opens up an entirely new realm of possible explanations," you grunt, tired but excited by your continued progress across the room. "Like, did we get knocked out by the gas from that bottle and dropped into a love hotel or something? As a joke?"

"A love hotel?" Shouto screeched.

"Yeah. They're normally all schmaltzy and themed like this," you explain, gesturing vaguely to the abundance of bright pink decor. "Normally that theme isn't Barbie Escape Room, but I'm not here to kink shame."

"I think you maybe should have taken on the dresser inspection. I'm completely out of my element here," Shouto lamented, holding up a large paddle for you to see. "I can't even begin to imagine why there's a cutting board in here."

"Oh, that's not-"

"Actually," Shouto interrupted, holding up a hand to halt your explanation. "I don't think I want to know."

Shouto continues to rifle through the drawers, utterly befuddled and horrified in equal turns when you finally reach your destination.  

"Alright," you said, mustering up the courage to peer behind the screen. "Let's see what's going on behind here."

You push the right side of the screen back slowly with your still weak arms, panels buckling at the hinges as it folded itself up like an accordion.  

"Any murderers tucked away back there," Shouto teases, weighing a comically large steel buttplug in his hand.

"Not a murderer, no," your voice trembling with mounting horror as you step out of the way, allowing Shouto to see around you for the first time. The wall behind the screen was full of pictures of Shouto, hundreds of them pieced together into a collage of obsession. Magazine covers, promo pictures, and selfies from Shouto's official social media accounts were all present in the mashup; but far more distressing were the inclusions of what had to be candid shots of the Hero.  

Blurry and over processed snapshots of Shouto shirtless that had been taken through his apartment window, spoon hanging from his mouth as he ate a cup of yogurt.

A far away street shot with him and a friend- you couldn't tell who it was exactly because they had been scribbled over with a pen so many times they had worn a hole in the paper; the bright pink of the walls visible through the missing space where a person should be.  

Classified photographs detailing the injuries sustained in the line of duty that had been copied from official Commission files; terrible, gruesome things of Shouto bruised and bloodied and at his most vulnerable.  

"You have a stalker, Shouto," you whispered.

"Oh," Shouto said numbly, the butt plug falling from between his fingers and hitting the top of the dresser with a loud thud. "Then this isn't a love hotel then," he paused and swallowed thickly, eyes glazed with an emotion you couldn't recognize as he stared at the wall behind you. "This is supposed to be my prison."

Things had only gotten worse from there. Now that you realized the purpose of the room, you were unable to unearth all sorts of hidden features that made your skin crawl. Hooks carved into the delicate filigree on the bed frame that were obviously made for handcuffs, a box of truffles with tiny syringe marks poked into the bottom, and a set of menacingly sharp sewing scissors tucked away in the bedside table drawer.  

Your stomach was churning painfully, but you couldn't tell if it was from hunger or fear.  

Not really knowing what else to do, you fumbled over towards the bed and collapsed onto it, nearly sliding off the slick satin duvet cover. A frantic scramble had kept you from dropping onto the floor, but it was a near thing. You watched as Shouto slid down onto the ground, a blank look on his face as he positioned his hands by his ears and began doing crunches.

"Are you- are you okay?" You ask from your sprawled out position on the bed. You'd tried to make eye contact with him through the mirror ceiling, but his gaze remained stubbornly averted to a blank spot on the wall you couldn't understand his interest in.

"I'm fine," he grunted through clenched teeth, forcing his shoulders up off the floor.

"You don't have to be."

"Yes I do!" Shouto bellowed, startling you as he threw himself down onto the floor, hands fisting in his hair in frustration. "You're trapped in here because of me!  It's my responsibility to get you out safely and I can't do it if I'm like this!" He said, waving a hand down at his sluggish body.  

"None of this is your fault," you assure Shouto, sliding to the edge of the bed and peering down towards him. "You're just as much a victim here as I am."

"You shouldn't even be a victim in the first place."

"Yeah, me being here obviously wasn't what your stalker had planned," you said, suppressing a shudder as you stared briefly at the collage of photos before reaching down and taking Shouto's hand into your own. "But I'm glad. I'm glad that it's me here with you, instead of- instead of them."

"I'm glad it's you, too," Shouto whispered, squeezing your hand tightly. "And not just because you don't have any plans to torture me."

"Being trapped in a room with me is torture enough," you joke, lazily swinging your interlocked hands back and forth in the air.  "There's no need to overdo it."

There are faint memories of some long ago humanities class echoing in the back of your brain; something about needing to have your basic needs met before you're able to consider any other, arguably more important, matters. So while you understood that you were likely waist-deep in mortal peril and should be very worried about your long term health and wellbeing, you were far more concerned about the fact that you really had to pee.

Like, right now.

"Hey, Shouto?" You clear your throat nervously, not entirely sure how to broach the subject of bodily fluids with the top-ranked Hero laying on the bed next to you. "I, uh- have something I need to say. But it's sort of embarrassing?"

"Oh?" Shouto asked curiously, turning his head to face you, your noses nearly brushing. "What is it?"

"Well, I just- I know that a lot is happening right now, and I don't want to burden you anymore than I already am, but I just don't think I can hold it in any longer."

"Tell me," Shouto whispered breathlessly, his eyes wide as he watched you nibble on your lower lip nervously.

"I-"

"Yes?" He said imploringly, face inching closer to yours.

"I really need to pee!" You cry out loudly, sending Shouto reeling back from the force of your sudden screech.

"Oh- uh," he stammers. "That's, hmm."

"God," you whine, covering your face with your hands. "This is so embarrassing!"

"There's no need to be embarrassed," Shouto rushed to assure you, grasping your wrists gently to pull them away from your face. "I'm sorry, I should have reacted better."

"It's fine," you mutter sheepishly as you peer up at him from under your lashes. "It's gross and uncomfortable and I shouldn't have just blurted it out like that."

"No, it's not that- I was just caught a bit off guard. I thought you were going to say something different," Shouto admits with a wistful sigh.

"Like what? That I need to poop?"

"No," he snorts, pushing himself to the edge of the bed and standing with relative ease. "Don't worry about it right now. Let's just focus on finding a place for you to relieve yourself."

"I'd suggest just picking a corner like animals do, but that doesn't seem like a viable option in a round room."

"We'll just have to get creative then, won't we?" Shouto smiled, lifting up one of the largest vases of lilies and flipping it upside down; water and flowers spilling onto the floor at his feet in a soggy clump.  

Shouto had originally set up your makeshift chamber pot behind the creepy stalker screen to give you some semblance of privacy, which was incredibly thoughtful of him. But the idea of peeing in front of one Shouto was hard enough, there was no way you could ever possibly bring yourself to pee in front of hundreds of little Shoutos pasted onto the wall. So the two of you combined your minimal strength together and managed to pull one side of the tall dresser away from the wall, creating a triangular little hidey-hole you hurriedly wedged yourself into.

"Don't look!" You called out over your shoulder, already pulling your zipper down before he could spin around fully.

"I won't," Shouto promised, staring dutifully across the room. With nothing more engaging to stare at, you join him in spectating the wall you were squeezed against. The pink paint had some sort of iridescent sparkles mixed into it that caught every flickering candle flame and created a hazy sort of glow that did nothing to help alleviate the headache you'd been nursing since you first woke up. The effect wasn't any less assaulting up close, so you were in the process of averting your eyes when the light behind you suddenly shifted; Shouto's dark shadow passing over you and catching on some strange divots on the otherwise smooth surface of the wall.  

Hesitantly, you raise your hand and run your fingers across the wall, watching the route your fingertips take as they follow the nearly invisible grooves.  

"Letters!" You gasp in excitement. "Shouto! There are letters on the wall!"

"Where?" Shouto demands, appearing over your shoulder in a flash, heedless of the fact that you were still mid-piss.  

"Ahhh! No peeking! NO PEEKING!"

"Sorry! I'm so sorry!"

After you had emerged from your commode and dunked your hands into a bowl full of lily water to cleanse them, you and Shouto set about moving the dresser further from the wall to accommodate both your bodies as you squinted thoughtfully at the letters.  

"They're really hard to make out through the shimmery paint," you grumble, waving a candle around to see if a different light position would make it any easier to read.

It didn't. 

"I think that's the point," Shouto hummed thoughtfully. "They used paint and a dresser to hide the message, so they really didn't want us to discover what's written here."

You both stared at the shimmery wall for a moment longer before inspiration suddenly struck. 

"I have an idea," you said, wobbling away to the other side of the room on stiff legs and returning moments later, the box of drugged chocolates tucked underneath your arm.

"Take one," you instructed Shouto as you pulled the lid off the box; selecting a dark chocolate truffle for yourself.  

"I know things seem bad, but poisoning ourselves isn't the answer. Yet," Shouto added grimly, staring down into the box with a deep frown.  

"I'm not gonna- ugh! Just watch!" You huff, placing your truffle onto the wall and smearing it over the letters with firm strokes. The chocolate transferred easily onto the wall, leaving brown streaks across the pink paint but skipping over the recessed grooves of the letters.  

"Clever," Shouto smirked proudly, a sight that you stared at for longer than was strictly appropriate; permanently etching every last detail of this moment into your memory.

Chocolates in hand, you and Shouto began scribbling across the wall like two poorly supervised toddlers, the message slowly coming into focus as the number of truffles in the box quickly dwindled. The message was much larger than you had originally anticipated and you were a bit worried that you were going to run out of chocolates before the message was fully revealed. But in the end you were left with half a truffle and a bit of doggerel poetry outlined in cocoa:  

A love confession you must tell, 

If you wish to break the bottle's spell.

Sweet nothings alone just will not do,

You're trapped until your words are true.

"Well, I don't know what I was expecting but it certainly wasn't rhyming couplets," you admit, rubbing your sticky hands onto a nearby tufted throw pillow.  

"The bottle," Shouto stated confidently, following your lead and wiping his hands on a decorative curtain. "The one I opened in my office earlier. The poem leads me to believe that we're inside of it."

"I- I suppose that makes sense," you admit, thinking back on the bottle you'd briefly seen. "You opening that bottle is the last thing I remember before waking up here."

"Removing the stopper must have been the trigger for the Quirk that trapped us to activate."

"That's why Ms. Yokubou was so insistent about getting into your office! She knew about the bottle!" You gasped, spinning to face Shouto. He didn't look too surprised by the revelation.

"She knew what the bottle did and likely intended to be here in your place," he nodded somberly. "Ms. Yokubou is definitely the most likely suspect."

"Really?" You scoff incredulously. "'The most likely suspect?' It's blatantly obvious that she's the one behind all of this."

"I took an oath to uphold the presumption of innocence. Ms. Yokubou isn't guilty unless she's proven so in a court of law," Shouto insisted with a sour look on his face, his morals at war with what he knew was true.  

"Well, I didn't take an oath," you informed him proudly, puffing out your chest and resting your hands on your hips. "So I'm free to say that she's a creepy, rotten, low-down, guilty, bitch."

"Yes, you certainly can say that," Shouto grinned brilliantly. You tried to return a smile with similar intensity, but considering how rough you looked in the ceiling mirror after a full day of work and captivity you're positive it's no match for Shouto's natural radiance. But from the small sparkle you saw appear in the corner of his eye, it seemed that Shouto appreciated your efforts just the same.  

"Are your hands starting to tingle?" You ask worriedly, staring down at the sharply prickling skin on your fingers.

"We need to wash the remaining chocolate off.  Now," Shouto ordered, shoving the vase you had rinsed your hands off earlier into your lap; dunking his hands into the water after yours.  

"I wonder what was in those truffles," you mutter in concern as Shouto's fingers worked defly over your skin, doing his best to scrub the chocolate residue off with firm strokes. You tried to return the favor, poking at the back of his hand with your clumsy digits, but it was growing increasingly difficult to will your fingers to bend.  

"Likely just a tranquilizer," Shouto assured you, pulling one of your hands out of the water to check on how clean it was before lowering it back into the vase with a frown. "Whoever put me in here-"

"Ms. Yokubou," you filled in.

"-seems to have wanted me docile, not dead."

You tried to focus on the muted feeling of Shouto's hand on yours instead of the red hot anger roiling in your belly. It was a testament to the strength of your ire that you barely registered Shouto's gentle caresses.  

Shouto had taken it upon himself to push the dresser out of the way so you could more clearly see the poem on the wall from a more comfortable position on the bed. The dresser had tipped in the process, drawers falling open and spilling their contents out across the ground; shiny new dental tools and lacy-edged corsets mixing together in a heap on the carpet. You had thought it had been an accident at first, Shouto simply underestimating his returning strength, but then you had seen the malicious glee spread thickly across his face and understood it had been a calculated act of wanton destruction. He dropped down onto the bed beside you, glaring at the mess he had made on the floor.

"Oops," he said unapologetically, kicking the pile of lingerie with a sneer. In a show of solidarity, you swept your arm across one of the bedside tables, sending an oil diffuser and a copy of the Kama Sutra crashing to the floor.

"Oh nooo," you said flatly, swiping at a teetering wine glass that escaped your first attack. "Clumsy me!"

Shouto's smile was a forced thing, too-fast and insincere compared to his normal grins. You watched as his shoulders slumped, head hanging down towards his chest as he ran his hands through his hair in frustration.  

"I hate it here," he admits after a long moment of quiet. "I can't stop thinking about what could- what would have been happening to me. And I- I just-"

His foot jostled one of the hooked dental probes laying on the carpet, both your and Shouto's eyes locked onto it as it skittered across the floor and hit the baseboard with a tinny clang.

"We need to get out of here," you swallow thickly, hand blindly reaching out for Shouto's across the bed. He squeezed your fingers too tightly, your joints aching in protest; but you didn't tell him to stop.  

"So, if we're interpreting this poem correctly then Ms. Yokubou-"

"The unconfirmed suspect," Shouto corrected.

"-the suspect intended keep you trapped in here and torture you until you were convinced you loved them."

"That seems to be the case, yes."

"That's so fucking awful, Shouto." 

He didn't respond, staring thoughtfully at the words on the wall with a furrowed brow instead.  

"Ms. Yoku- I mean, whoever did this obviously has some sort of feelings for you, but not really? They want you, but not the actual you," you ranted, the bubble of rage you had kept pushed down inside had finally built up enough pressure that it was spilling out against your will as you stomped around the room. You took a special sort of pleasure in grinding the discarded lilies down into mush with every lap you took.  

"They don't care about what you think or- or feel, they just care that they get what they want, even if it destroys you. I just- I don't understand? How can they believe that they love you when they're so willing to hurt you?" you whispered brokenly, furious and devastated on Shouto's behalf.  

"And I know that is an emotionally charged situation for you, but could you please say something?" You beg, sagging down onto the bed beside him, exhausted from your outburst. "If you don't, I'm pretty sure I'm just going to keep talking until I drive us both crazy. Which, admittedly, doesn't seem like it would be a very long trip at this point-"

"It can't be that simple," Shouto suddenly blurts out, putting an end to your rambling.

"What's not simple? Driving you crazy? Because I have some high school teachers with stories you wouldn't believe."

"No, not that," Shouto said, waving a hand dismissively. "I'm talking about the poem."

"What about it?" you asked, squinting at the rhyme inquisitively.

"It says that only a true love confession will break the bottle's spell and, presumably, set us free."

"Yeah, and that's sort of a huge issue? A forced love confession is just coercion," you explain. "You can't create genuine affection like that."

"Exactly," Shouto agreed, "And that would be a problem if the kidnapper was the one stuck in here with me. But instead, by some incredible stroke of luck or karma or kismet; I'm in here with you."

Between your persistent headache, bone-deep exhaustion, and the thick fog of panic blanketing your mind there was no possible way that you were interpreting Shouto's words correctly. 

"What do you mean?" you said, swallowing thickly as you braced your heart for the let down you knew was coming; the walking back of his words, the incredulous laughter once he realized what he was mistakenly insinuating.  

"I had a plan for this," Shouto sighed, a melancholy sort of sound. "There was supposed to be dinner. And music. And flowers. Not lilies, though," he rushed to assure you.  

"Thank goodness. I don't think I ever want to see another lily again for as long as I live."

"Same here," he laughed dryly. "But we would have had a good evening together. Better than this one, at least. And at the end of the night I would take your hand in mine, just like this," Shouto said, cradling your hand between both of his. "And I'd finally tell you what I've been too scared to tell you for weeks now."

"Which is what?" you whisper breathlessly, precariously hanging on his every word by your fingertips; moments away from slipping and plummeting down into something- some feeling that couldn't possibly be real. You weren't that lucky. You weren't that anything, really.  

"I'd tell you the truth," Shouto promised, his eyes shining with a soft sincerity that made your chest ache with longing. "That I am totally, irrevocably, head-over-heels in love with you."

You opened your mouth to respond- how exactly, you weren't entirely sure. Cheer, maybe? Cry? Ask him if he was serious? But the actual sound that came out was a prolonged scream as every muscle in your body twisted and burned.  

And then, all you saw was darkness.

You woke up suddenly, contorted into an uncomfortable position on the floor again. But there was one immediately noticeable difference between waking up in the bottle and now, and that was the fact that your limbs were hopelessly tangled up with Shouto's; the two of you twisted together like a fleshy pretzel.  

"We have to stop meeting like this," Shouto smiles down at where your head is pillowed on his chest, his heart thumping quickly beneath your ear.

"Nope, not allowed," you mumble in complaint, trying to push yourself off of his chest. You weren't able to make much protest with how loudly your muscles were protesting, so you just settled back down and tried to ignore how your heart skipped a beat when you felt his arm squeeze you tightly into his side. "I'm the funny one here. You're not allowed to have better one-liners than me."

"Apologies," Shouto said, your body rocking gently along with the quiet laughter that shook his chest. "I did have a bit of time to think of it though. It's taken you a little while to come around."

"You didn't move me?"

"No? Why would I?" Shouto asked, tilting his head to the side easily; obviously less inhibited by the soreness of his muscles than you were.  

"Well, we're out of the bottle now so I thought…" you trailed off uneasily, unsure of what words you could put together to push this conversation along. It wasn't like you really wanted to talk about what happened; to pop the bubble of happiness that was filled to almost bursting inside of your chest. But you knew that the longer you drew it out the harder it would be to face reality; to acknowledge that Shouto discovered a loophole, a convenient lie he could believe just enough to free you both from that bottle.  

Maybe he just loved you like a friend? Or worse, like a sister? Maybe that kind of affection was enough to have met the nebulous requirements for the Quirk to deactivate? The poem didn't have any footnotes that you could see, so maybe it wasn't quite as strict as you and Shouto had theorized. Maybe you could have gotten away with professing your love of Rock and Roll or sleeping in on the weekend?  

You wish you would have experimented a bit more inside of the bottle and maybe saved yourself the devastating experience you were currently thrust into: staring literal heartbreak in the face as you gazed helplessly up at Todoroki Shouto.  

"Thought what?" Shouto asked, the edges of his sweet grin slowly dipping down into the start of a frown.

"Well, we're out of the bottle now. So I don't expect- I won't hold you to anything you said. I know it was to just get us out. So, uh- thank you for that. But you don't have to keep pretending. It's okay," you assure him with a watery smile. You'd never been particularly skilled at lying and were even worse at it when you were emotional, and right now you were feeling very emotional.

But instead of looking relieved like you had expected him to be, Shouto looked positively exasperated; his face creased into a deep scowl.  

"You don't believe that I have feelings for you?"

"Well, I mean, not like you said- not romantically," you explain, panicking internally as his expression grew even more displeased. "Just- like a friend?"

"I see," Shouto huffed. You could practically feel yourself withering under the intensity of his disappointed stare. "Is that how you see me? As just a friend?"

"I mean, we are friends, right?" You laugh nervously, growing increasingly concerned that this conversation might just torpedo your entire relationship into smithereens.  

"Yes, of course. Very good ones I think," Shouto said, his hand coming up to cradle the side of your jaw gently to keep your attention firmly on him. "But is that all we are?"

"I wasn't aware there was any other option," you whisper honestly, your gaze jumping between each of his eyes, trying to see if one color was less intimidating than the other. But both gray and green burned with a deep intensity you couldn't fully comprehend.

"Really?" Shouto deadpanned. "I've been inviting you to stay with me in my office alone, after hours, for months now, and you didn't take that as a hint that I was interested in you?"

"I just thought you wanted some company while you ate," you admit quietly, still staring at Shouto much like a deer caught in a set of headlights. "And that you were like, really bad at crossword puzzles."

Shouto groaned miserably, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back onto the floor with a loud thunk.

"I didn't want just anyone's company," he sighed. "I wanted yours, specifically."

"Oh," you replied, stunned. "Then why didn't you, you know? Ask me out? Let me know that you were interested?"

"I thought about taking a more direct approach," Shouto says, staring up at the ceiling despondently. "But my friends told me it was inappropriate to ask someone out while they're working."

"That's true," you conceded. "So what was your plan then, exactly?" 

"I was trying to make you relaxed enough in my presence where you would feel comfortable asking me out," 

Shouto said, shifting uncomfortably at your incredulous expression.  

"You could have waited one thousand years and I still wouldn't have been able to muster up enough courage to ask you out," you laugh dryly. "But even if your plan had worked, I still signed an employee code of conduct when I started working at Über Munch. I'm not allowed to flirt with customers."

Shouto hummed thoughtfully, tightening his arm around you once more. "I guess maybe it's a good thing we got stuck in that bottle together then, huh?"

"Too soon," you chastised him immediately, eyes wide as you shook your head quickly from side-to-side.

"Right. Of course. Sorry."

Once you were able to move without crying in pain, you and Shouto had reluctantly pried your bodies apart and started acting like responsible adults. Shouto did his official Hero thing and reported your bungled kidnapping attempt to the police while you called in to work.

You'd ended up needing to use one of the Personal Victim Leave days you'd been accruing, which was fine. This was the exact sort of scenario you were supposed to use them for, but you still felt a little bitter because you had been hoping to cash all of them out at the end of the year to pay for holiday gifts for your family.  

The next few hours were a blur of commotion as you were interrogated by so many detectives you were pretty sure they had to be bussing them in from the surrounding precincts just to have the opportunity to interview Shouto. But the attempted kidnapping of a high-profile hero was likely a large enough case to elevate someone's career into the big leagues, so you couldn't fault them for their efforts; as self serving as they likely were.  

Eventually, you and Shouto had been escorted out of his office so they could start photographing the crime scene; officers delivering you down to a line of ambulances waiting to take you to the hospital for an After Quirk Exposure check-up. All you really wanted to do was go home and sleep for a week, but everyone had a story about some second cousin's friend who skipped the routine examinations and ended up turning inside out or something hours later.

Most of those stories were probably urban legends or some sort of Hero Commission propaganda, but either way they made you just wary enough to agree to climb onto the gurney and accept a juice box and pack of cookies from the paramedic without raising a fuss.   

You and Shouto were separated at the hospital, the attending physicians swiveling your gurneys off into separate wings. Shouto was whisked away to the private Hero section of the hospital while you were shuffled into the ER with the rest of the civilians, shoved into a curtained off nook and left to your own devices with a small cup of ice water and a dwindling phone battery.  

It was a testament to your exhaustion that you were able to fall asleep even with the cacophony of sounds from the ER filtering in behind your privacy curtain, waking only when the nurses arrived to wheel you around the hospital for one screening or another.  

You were on your way back from your third exam, some sort of organ scanning thing you had never bothered to learn the name of, when you noticed that the nurse had pushed you past the corridor that led back to your shrouded nook in the emergency department and towards the elevators.

"Am I going for another test?" You asked in confusion, watching as she swiped her key card across a scanner mounted next to the elevator control panel, selecting one of the numerous unmarked buttons after the scanner accepted her ID with a high-pitched beep.

"No, you're all done for now. We're just waiting for final results to come in," the nurse explained, pushing you out of the elevator doors the moment they opened far enough. "It's been requested that you be moved into a room for security reasons."

"I don't understand. Am I in danger-," your query was cut off as you were pushed into your new hospital room where Shouto was awaiting your arrival, neatly tucked into his own hospital bed. You could tell from the overcrowded cluster of monitoring equipment that they had shoved his bed closer to the far wall to make room for your gurney to be positioned next to his.  

"Ah, there you are," Shouto smiled in relief as the nurse engaged the locks on your bed wheels. "Thank you so much for your assistance, Nurse Yamamoto."

The nurse blushed tomato red under Shouto's direct attention, doing her best to hide her burning cheeks behind her clipboard. 

"It- ah, it was nothing. Just um, ring the buzzer if you need anything and I'll be back to check on you in an hour?" She stammered nervously, the end of her sentence pitching up into a questioning tone.

"That sounds perfect. Thank you again," Shouto beamed, flashing his teeth in a wide grin that stunned the poor dear so severely she attempted to exit the room by pushing on a door that had to be pulled to open. You grimaced internally in sympathy for her, knowing full well that she would replay that fumbled exit over in her mind every night before she fell asleep.  

Once the nurse was safely down the hallway, the squeak of her rubber soled shoes far enough away that you knew she wouldn't overhear, you spun to Shouto with a disbelieving look carved deeply into your face. 

"Did you just charm a nurse into letting us be roomies?"

"Please. I didn't just charm a nurse," Shouto scoffed, crossing his arms defensively across his chest. "I also lied a little."

"I can't believe you're this big of a menace," you laugh, flopping back as far as the stiff hospital pillows would allow. "Your PR team must be incredible."

"They better be, for how much I pay them."

You hummed in acknowledgement, looking around his room with a critical eye, noting the immaculate condition of all of the decor and medical equipment, as well as the humongous TV mounted on the wall opposite you; a muted nature documentary flashing across the screen. A large bouquet of blue and yellow flowers were laid next to Shouto's bedside, as well as a carafe of some hot beverage; likely coffee based on the small mountain of tiny creamer tubs stacked up next to it.  

"So there's no actual security risk then?" You mumble quietly, fiddling with the edge of your thin knit blanket, doing your best to swallow down the worried lump in your throat. "No sign of Ms. Yokubou or anything?"

"Nothing yet, I'm afraid," Shouto admitted, his face pinching tight with guilt as he examined your anxiously twisting hands. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to worry you unnecessarily."

"It's alright. I've just never been someone's potential target before. It's got me feeling sort of jumpy."

"Understandably," Shouto was quick to assure you. "I guess I'm so accustomed to this sort of thing I didn't really stop to think of how scary it might seem to someone less used to it."

Shouto averted his gaze to the TV for a few moments, flipping to the programming guide channel to allow you the illusion of privacy to collect yourself while you discreetly dabbed the tears pricking the corner of your eyes with the edge of your top sheet.  

"So, uh- what was your motivation for moving me in with you then?" You ask, trying to set the conversation back on track after your emotional derailment. "Did you already miss being stuck in a room with me that much?"

"Not quite," Shouto huffed in amusement. "I came to the realization that this was the first time that you and I were both off the clock in the same building. I thought it would be a shame to not make the most of this opportunity to legally fraternize."

"I'm…not sure I'm entirely following your line of thought here," you say, brow furrowed. "You want to what, exactly? Have a date in the hospital?"

"That was my intention, yes," Shouto admitted, rubbing at the back of his neck bashfully. "But hearing you say it out loud makes me realize how silly it sounds."

"No!" You say quickly, shooting up stalk straight in bed, startling you both with the ferocity of your cry. "It's not silly at all! It's kind of sweet, actually. That you can't wait to spend time with me."

"It's just- things are going to get really busy for the both of us now that we're tangled up in a criminal investigation. And I'm not sure when we'll eventually get the chance to be together again," 

"You're right. We should make the best of the time we have together," you nod, rolling onto your side to face Shouto more directly. "And I can say with full confidence that this is the nicest place you've ever taken me. There's a bathroom here and everything!"

"There is!" Shouto laughed excitedly, reaching over to pull the flowers at his bedside into his arms. "And I got these for you, too."

"Really? They're beautiful, thank you," You beam, tugging the collection of blue blossoms into your arms, running a finger softly across a fuzzy green leaf. You notice a card tucked in amongst the blooms and pull it with a quick tug; snorting in amusement at the cartoon stork carrying a blue-bundled baby printed on the front.

"Ughhhhh," Shouto groaned when you showed him the card, scrubbing a hand down his face in frustration. "I asked the gift shop for any bouquet without pink flowers or lillies and this is what they sent. Give it to me and I'll throw it away."

"No!" You cry, pressing the card against your chest away from Shouto's wiggling fingers. "It's mine now, you gave it to me. I'm going to scrapbook it."

"Please don't," he begged, leaning over the rail of his bed to make a closer swipe at the card.

"Or maybe I'll laminate it. Keep it in my wallet for good luck," you muse with a hum. "Would you sign it for me? That would really increase its sentimental value."  

"You want my autograph?" Shouto asked, arm paused mid-grab as he stared at you searchingly- for what, you weren't entirely sure.

"No. I want you to sign the card you gave me," you clarify, pulling the card away from your chest and sliding it into his hand. "That's just good manners."

Shouto pulled his hand back, eyes softer than they were just a moment ago as he opened up the side table drawer and pulled out a hospital issue pen.  

"You're right. I apologize for my oversight," he said, quickly scrawling on the inside of the card with a speed born from years of practice. You snatched the card back from him as soon as he held it out, excited to see the message he wrote.

'Congratulations, it's a boy!  

(The boy is me)

Love, Shouto'

"I'm definitely laminating this," you whisper to yourself, cheeks aching from the force of your smile as you tuck the card safely back into the bouquet and clutch it to your chest protectively.  

"So, what else do you have planned for our date?"

Dinner was up next, not because you were necessarily very hungry with the swarm of nervous butterflies you had fluttering around in your stomach; but because a member of the kitchen staff had let themselves into your room to take your meal requests.  

"You know, I sort of thought by how much fancier the Hero rooms are that you guys would get better food too," you say, spooning another mouthful of the thin vegetable broth into your mouth.

"All the hospital food comes from the same kitchen. The meals for Heroes aren't any better in quality, but we are permitted to have as much as we want," Shouto explained, prying the lid off of a pudding cup and giving it a tentative sniff. You decide to follow his lead and shift your focus to your dessert, a parfait that was mostly yogurt with a bit of granola sprinkled on top.  

"This is actually turning out to be a pretty good date," you say when the TV starts showing a commercial for a local refrigerator repair service.  

"You think so?"

"I do," you assure him. "We've even hit two of the major date features you mentioned before. We're having dinner together and you got me flowers. The only thing missing is the music."

"I can fix that," Shouto says as he reaches for the TV remote and punches in the code for a music channel. A music video starts playing; starring a man with bright green skin wearing sunglasses on the beach, flanked by a line of women in bikinis.

"Girl, I think your Quirk must be Twerkin', because your booty really knows how to work it-," The man sang, slapping the right buttcheek of the dancer closest to him.

"So romantic," you sigh, holding a hand to your chest dramatically.

"I'm changing the channel," Shouto grimaced as the camera panned away from the singer and zoomed in on the background dancer's wobbling butts.

"You can't! 'Twerkin' Quirk' is officially our song now, Shouto!" You laugh in delight, soaking in his misery like sunbeams on the first warm day of Spring.

"Everytime I think something else couldn't possibly go wrong, it does," Shouto lamented, a pained look on his face as they began spraying the bikini dancers with champagne while they gyrated next to a sports car with spinning neon rims.  

"It sure does seem that way," you agree, fishing out the lone blueberry from the bottom of your parfait. "I'm probably going to have to reevaluate my opinion of this date now."

"Has it finally sunk low enough to earn the 'Worst Date Ever' award?" He sulked, flinging the remote down onto the end of his bed irritability.  

"It's definitely cinched the nomination for 'Most Memorable'," you tell him with a smirk, putting your dessert cup down so you could reach across the space between your beds to offer him your hand. The feel of his hand in yours was already a familiar thing; your fingers at home twined together. "But I don't think any date could be bad, so long as you're with me."

"I think you're giving me too much credit, but I'll take it," Shouto grunts softly, deflating down into his pillows to watch the finale of the music video.  

"I'll let you take as much credit as you want so long as you take me on another date."

"Agreed," Shouto replied instantly. "And I promise, it'll be better than this."

"I don't think you'll ever be able to top this," you laugh brightly, heart thumping happily as you bury your nose into your flowers and watch as the singer on screen smears oil across his chest while a confetti cannon fires behind him.  

"But I can't wait to see you try."

[steadycoffeeflow]

I'm coming out of my cage and things are not fine, I'm screaming at NaNo "WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?!"

If you haven't already been made aware how borked NaNoWriMo is, in the past 24 hours they've released an endorsement of AI after partnering with an AI software program.

The problem is, much of what they're saying is outright bullshit, and I don't even need to get into the nature of belittling the very writers they claim they're sticking up for by talking over them. It's an exploitation of a community, using them as a PR meat shield.

Because it should be awfully apparent NaNo's goal isn't to foster a healthy writing community. If that were the true goal, their missteps for the past year following the child harm allegations wouldn't be happening. Rather, instead, it's more likely the reason every company has relentlessly pursued and pushed AI: $$$

I don't think I'm entirely off base to say money is the reason AI is mucking up much of our creative spaces. At the peak of this fervor, you could load up some listicle titled '5 Ways AI Boosts Your Side Hustle' or some YouTuber claiming to make thousands a month with their AI writing, as if it were that easy to make a living writing and silly authors have just been leaving money on the table.

The mad gold rush that followed impacted literary magazines and publishing spaces, such as Clarkesworld Magazine freezing submissions as they were inundated with poorly written nonsense. The people behind NaNoWriMo, however, apparently believe Clarkesworld Magazine is just being classist and ableist in their anti-AI stance. Yes. Certainly because of those reasons.

And not because their submissions jumped an untenable amount, almost 500% from their usual submission intake, and cost the lit mag staff untold amounts of mental harm (as well as a very real number amount of staffing hours and financial costs to combat this problem).

But to that, NaNo Org argues that AI is cost-effective, actually!

Which, we're back to the opening argument that NaNo is full of shit (in case you didn't realize that citation link was sarcasm and not evidence in support of NaNo's stance). It may be free to the end user to access AI, notwithstanding the many many models one can buy including NaNo's own sponsor, but the financial damages being incurred by the use of this tech is anything but. The fact NaNo glosses through this in three little bullet points is insulting.

But what really has gotten me to write off about this on a mostly dead Tumblr blog, is that I've worked in the publishing industry all of my adult life and I've been a part of the creative writing community about as long as NaNo claims to. Hell, part of my contract freelance work has been to go through slush piles and evaluate, by hand, if the submission utilized AI or not. Full transparency, that work has helped me get through medical bills this year.

Yet that's my point. Someone had to rearrange their budgets to hire many people like me to combat rampant AI-generated submissions, from college admission offices to literary magazines to other publishers. What could have gone toward the print run of a special issue or increasing the marketing budget of a debut author now has to go making sure illegal, plagiarized work isn't being unwittingly published and endorsed. It's not classist to take a stand against a technology that's disruptive enough to put people out of business, but NaNo takes aim and fires off some bullshit claim they're pro-indie authors.

You might be thinking, "But Steady, if the business can't adapt to the market, they shouldn't exist!"

And to that I say, not every single little thing needs to have a financial commodity price tag slapped onto it. Not everything needs to make money. Things have a right to exist without a price tag stickered on them. The onus of this situation is because NaNo partnered with an AI sponsor. They're outright seeking to make money out of this. Because they're well aware of the PR fiasco, they're high-grounding the situation by claiming they're sticking up for the little guys, while outright taking money from a harmful billion dollar industry.

Meanwhile, the little guy will find no publisher will touch their work, that their writing has no copyright protections attached to them, and they'll be blacklisted by those they stole the work from. NaNo claims this is unfair; sorry folks, that's just how it works. Stealing from your fellow writers tends to get those same writers to rally against you.

I don't need to be told that the publishing industry has issues, that fanfiction writers are made fun of and lambasted. But most of those issues stem from and feed right back into the very problem NaNo is claiming to stand against: The financial commodity of writing.

NaNo has everything to gain by you believing them and using their sponsorship coupon so you can generate works as a writer that have no copyright protections and likely violated the copyrights of fellow writers works in doing so (I can play the bolded words game too, you pricks (see their update in response to the massive backlash this stance has generated online)).

The final point I have to say, is that in NaNo's defense they claim their online workshops are just full to the brim! See the demand! Look, look with your special eyes how popular AI is!! You fools, this is the future at hand!!!

Except, I, an avid anti-AI writer and publishing professional, attend webinars about AI all the damned time. Mostly to understand what new angle or developments we'll have to defend against. Every single one of these publishing industry or writing webinars are, in the end, a sales pitch to get you to pay them rather than a fellow freelancer.

Notwithstanding, it's a marketing and sales 101 faux pas to mistake interest in a thing, eyes on screens and butts in seats, for tacit endorsement in said thing. Besides the obvious point that people most impacted by this tech would be interested in learning more about it, there's the very real possibility that the same crowd who drives clicks to Forbes and YouTube videos is partially the same crowd that flocks to these NaNo webinars seeking to make a quick, effortless buck.

So, in the end, NaNo isn't speaking to writers. They're speaking to people looking to exploit a blind spot in an industry in order to make $$$ in our Capitalist Hellscape. And in NaNo's rush to join that race, they're trampling over the community they've grown and fostered for over 20 years.

The insinuation of this entire statement is that NaNo is standing tall for the "little guy" that the writing community has just let wilt and suffer for years, neglected and unheard. And it's totally not that NaNo nuked their own forums, a free, accessible resource for such writers to utilize, and without warning fired all of their volunteer staff all because they dropped the ball in moderation and safety checks (I'm not touching on whether the groomer is still working for NaNo since that situation is tainted by rumors, sensationalism, and directly conflicting stories).

And topping this all off with a pithy little cherry on this shit sundae: "For all of those reasons, we absolutely do not condemn AI, and we recognize and respect writers who believe that AI tools are right for them. We recognize that some members of our community stand staunchly against AI for themselves, and that's perfectly fine. As individuals, we have the freedom to make our own decisions."

So not only does NaNo condone plagiarism and theft, they're quick to both-sides the issue, only to immediately say "we're all free to make our own decisions!" Not said is the heavy implication, "oh but if you stand against AI you're a classist, ableist dickhead!" Which, if it wasn't obvious, is so far removed from the truth it's insulting.

In short, fuck NaNoWriMo.

Also what the fuck does "further-proof" mean.

[teecupangel]

This is gonna be long, honey soooo… buckle up.

We have Desmond linked to the God of Wine, Dionysus / Bacchus with this fic (show some love and kudos this please, I adore this concept).

However, what if Desmond by chance ( Isu bullshit)  that he absorbed when he touched the Eye as he time travels back In the Renaissance before the Auditore family execution event, it manifested in him having demi-god traits but with two Gods I have in mind.

1. Aphrodite or Venus, goddess of love, beauty, pleasure and procreation. Accidentally becoming a matchmaker for people like Des incidentally shoved a man by mistake who the man then bumped into a woman, BOOM! the two madly fell in love at first sight and married with children or his charm increases, making people fall in love with Desmond. This adds angst if Desmond discovered this power,  He has low self-esteem and is severely traumatized (fuck you William for that). He would believe they really don’t love him especially the assassins and it’s just a illusion they do. Actually they do, the power only boosted his charisma but Desmond doesn’t know this shhhhh.

2. Eros or Cupid, god of carnal love. 16 year old Desmond with his newfound freedom after running away from the Farm. It’s no surprise he could be a sexually liberated man especially he’s a hot bartender to hook up in the back alley of Bad Weather. He might dabbled in BDSM, he’s a switch, but preferably doms. He also got a vasectomy to avoid impregnating a woman no Elijah in thishe believes that he shouldn’t have children, after having narcissistic father and possibly an emotionally neglectful mother can do that. An ability to sense lust or desires of a person in eagle vision could be possible.

With that being explained, regardless of which God, these abilities have pros & cons. Desmond when he is in the Renaissance, he’ll be low-key but he can’t stand out and without the currency to have a peaceful life, we needs a job. By some gift of the universe or it hates him. He ended up as a bodyguard of Rosa in Fiore by saving some courtesans from aggressive drunken men while in his clothes devolved in rags by the heat of the Eye when arrived, making him look like a beggar, good thing it was night time so his face wasn’t seen by the girls.

Its been weeks doing this job, Desmond have saved plenty coins but not enough to buy land far away and live his life maybe as a farmer or open a tavern. Lately, he been feeling unwell, no matter he drank to quench his thirst, his throat is dry as if he been in dessert with no water survive and started having hot flashes. It could just because of the clothes he donned, not a single silver lining of his skin is shown except the upper part of his face and hair but he was assumed it was if it were the fact he started having wet dreams, from memory of his many hook ups in New York or some constructed with people with no faces. He gets aroused, yes, but he has self-restraint but he also frustrated and losing his rationale.

“Dezmund~” Bianca, a courtesan who been attempting to lure him to bed. The other courtesans entertaining the patrons who had too much wine, too busy to notice the two, giving them a sense of privacy. “Bianca” he nodded with one brow raised at her. Bianca practically started to entice him with her usual flirting to him. You know what, fuck it, he thought, he proceeded to ———————

Subscribe to unlock full access reading

Yeeeaaaahhhh…i won’t be too detailed so it won’t be overbearing. So giving you the mental picture is that Desmond used his knowledge of BDSM, blindfoled and tied Bianca and used her mouth to empty his frustration while he is still completely clothed. He gave her sweet aftercare and realizing his symptoms are gone and his mind is clear and —- oh fuccccckkkkkk he unintentionally created a chain reaction after this event involving himself more to the Brotherhood, the Auditore family and Leonardo

Anyway, thanks for reading this till the end, mwah <3

======================================

Additions by teecup:

… that sounds like Desmond has the curse of an Incubus, needing to ‘unload’ his pent up energy to another person.

And you know who would be fascinated by it?

Leonardo Da Vinci.

Perhaps it was during one of the times that Leonardo went to a brothel to find ‘inspiration’. Maybe it was because he had been nursing a crush on Desmond who was unattainable to his eyes, a simple bodyguard meant to keep everyone safe.

He would see the complicated expression on his face. The frustration in his eyes.

And the flushed cheeks.

Oh, Leonardo would be smitten but he’d try to act like a friend, as any attraction he might have pales in comparison to his worries concerning Desmond’s wellbeing.

Desmond sees him and finds himself being unable to lie to Leonardo.

He needed to tell someone about his problems and he trusted Leonardo.

So Leonardo listens and…

Things start to snowball from there.

At first, it was simply Leonardo trying to help Desmond while studying his ‘affliction’.

Then it became more for the thrill and pleasure they would receive from one another.

Desmond becomes Leonardo’s muse and sometimes his model…

Maria Auditore saw Leonardo’s potential and started commissioning him…

Federico comes in to get one of the finished commissions and… finds Leonardo and Desmond in a very compromising situation.

Instead of leaving… Federico decided to join in.

And Desmond knew that Federico was hiding something but it would be a while before he realized that during this time, two years before the fated day that the Auditores would be executed, Federico was already on his way to becoming a member of the Brotherhood…

…

Also… maybe Leonardo and Desmond have an open relationship which will give us more option for Desmond to ‘partner’ up with (like maybe… La Volpe??? XD)

[animation-cartoon-fan-writings]

Chapter 7 of Book 1: Beautiful Ghosts is out now!!!

Summary: After sneaking off to practice her waterbending, Katara gets captured by Zuko. While in captivity, she begins to feel something new

Here’s an excerpt:

As Katara slowly began to open her eyes, she felt something was off. She tries to move but was unable to before realizing she was tied to a tree. She tries breaking free, to no avail. She was trapped. Looking around her, she quickly spots the two ships she saw earlier, with the pirates from the market crowding around it, now looking straight at her.

“Finally, you’re awake” she hears a familiar voice. Turning her head, she sees Zuko, followed by a whole team of Fire Nation soldiers. She looks at him with a mixture of annoyance and rage. At this point, Katara, Sokka, and Aang have dealt with Zuko and his soldiers four times. Following their first encounter at the South Pole, Zuko had tracked them down to Kyoshi Island before burning it to the ground, tried shooting fireballs at Appa while they were in the air, and attempted to capture Aang himself at Roku’s temple. But, right now, as he stood in front of her while she was tied to a tree with nowhere to go, this was the first time since their interaction at the South Pole that they stood face to face. If looks could kill, Zuko would’ve been long dead.

“Just tell me where he is, and I won’t hurt you or your brother” Zuko commands, doing his best appear intimidating. He probably expected Katara to beg for her life. “Go jump in the river,” she barks, not taking any of the bullshit he throws at her. Appearing to think for a second, his voice suddenly softens, seeming to try a different approach to appeal to her.

As Zuko speaks, he walks around Katara, using his soft tone like a prime master of seduction and desire. Although she didn’t quite understand it at the time nor would she have acknowledged it to begin with, but she was undoubtably feeling turned on by this approach Zuko was taking. “Try to understand. I need to capture him to restore something I’ve lost – my honor”. She jerks her head away from him, trying to appear unamused. She was hoping that by not looking at him, it would be easier for her not to immediately fall for his trap.

As Zuko got closer to her body, Katara could feel his breath on her neck as he spoke, which triggered an unfamiliar feeling in her body. While she appeared to keep up the appearance of being unimpressed, it was starting to take a lot in her just to keep it up. She was a fourteen-year-old girl who, at that point, never had a boyfriend nor even kissed anyone before. She never had another guy around her age show any interest in her like that. And here Zuko was, speaking like he was, trying to appeal to her sense of empathy, but was instead triggering something that she would’ve rather kept under lock and key.

Remembering her as the water tribe girl who knew his games and played them like a pro, Zuko deduced that treating Katara like an equal might serve him better in the end. He softens his voice even more, making even harder for Katara- who was mentally fighting her body’s new sense of desire- to resist. She bites her lower lip in attempt not to show him what he was doing to her. “Perhaps in exchange for your friend, I could restore something important that you’ve lost”. What the hell is this guy talking about, she silently mutters to herself, her brain still fighting against this feeling her body was experiencing for the first time. For a second, she thought Zuko was going to kiss her. Maybe she wanted him to.

Zuko didn’t realize it at the time, but Katara was so close to breaking. His soft, seductive tone and the effect it was having on her body was intoxicating. Had he just kept going like that, she probably would’ve given up and told him where Aang was within a few minutes. Perhaps if he even offered himself in exchange for Aang, she would’ve been more willing to comply.

If you want to read more, here’s the link:

Thank you so much for all the support! Next update will be up soon!

[danthepest]

Do you think Tenshinhan and Yamcha gravitate towards each other so much because they see themselves in the other? Like yeah, there’s mutual respect there, but maybe the respect is much deeper.

Tenshinhan probably sees he’d be just like Yamcha if he wasn’t so single-mindedly focused on training, loosened up and enjoyed life a bit more. He would also fall behind in his prowess, which he simply can’t allow. Tenshinhan has questioned how Yamcha can forgive Vegeta for what he did and probably thinks its a shame that Yamcha is so lax about life and martial arts as a whole. But he likely admires his easy going attitude as well. Without it, Tenshinhan wouldn’t have become part of the group in spite of Roshi’s efforts and Goku’s respect. Yamcha has a good heart and he’s willing to let by-gones be by-gones. He forgave Tenshinhan, he forgave Vegeta and he was kind and supportive of the people who wronged him at one time or another. And in spite of being one of the weakest links among the group, when the chips were down he went to help out against the saiyans, the cyborgs/androids and even Cell. That takes courage and Tenshinhan likely recognizes that. He sees that while Yamcha has given up the arts, he’s happy in his life and he can’t wish for more than that for his friend.

Yamcha, for his part, likely sees himself in Tenshinhan if he was more focused on training. He’d be much more powerful, yes, but he’d end up a recluse striving for a goal he knows deep down he could never reach no matter how hard he trains (unless someone pulls out the “the real super honest hidden potential unlock for real this time guys” power up out of their ass at some point). He’d miss out on all the time shared with Goku, Bulma, Oolong, Krillin, Roshi and the rest of the gang. To him, life is more than training in solitude to be the best. And while he might wish Tenshinhan were more social and lighten up, he admires the man’s tenacity, determination and drive to someday surpass Goku, no matter how impossible the task. In a world where Earth’s martial arts have become the equivelant to pro wrestling without the self awareness thanks to Mr. Satan, its good to have someone like Tenshinhan and Chaozu keeping the traditions and teachings alive. And there’s no one better than those two in all honesty. All the previous martial artists are either too old or too weak to do it. And Goku, Vegeta, Gohan and Piccolo are all pulling bullshit power ups and transformations out of their asses that no Earthling can really compete with. The current generation of Earthling practicioners are far too ignorant to be worthy of continuing the legacy like Tenshinhan is doing.

They’re polar opposites in how they think, live their lives and view fighting in general, yet they’re probably the only two people on Earth who truly understand and respect the other’s choices and mentality. One accepted his position in life and the other always strives to be better.

[runthepockets]

hi!! just coming into your inbox because i saw you posted about the show ramy & i also loved it & have nobody to talk to about it. i know ramy youssef said he might make a season 4 but it's not official and i can't stop thinking about what a season 4 would be...fatherhood? but also he still owes a bajillion dollars due to that diamond piece he lost, right? idk. i welcome any and all thoughts <3

Hey dudette! Thanks for the follow, I'm in a pretty similar position so I feel you lol. The girl who introduced me to the show was a girl from a dating app and we don't really talk anymore so I don't have a lot of people to talk about it to either, thanks for hitting me up!

If the series ended where it left off, I'd be down with that, but I also can't deny I'm curious as to where the Hassan family + their friends end up after the third season. Putting my theories under read more cus it's a lot.

Here's what I'm thinking: it takes a really long time for Zainab to come around, but by the last 1-3 episodes she kind of accepts that Ramy is the father of her kid and she can't deny that, nor take that away from her daughter, and she can only come to this conclusion after a lot of time spent as a single mother (which comes with pros and cons) and a lot material proof that Ramy is a changed man; yeah he's still got his vices and flaws, but we all do, and he's not fucking his cousin or doing deals for the Israel mob anymore and he's finally found a nice balance between being a peaceful, average American millennial and being the firstborn son of an immigrant, which is definitely not an easy pattern to break.

Dena gets married, for sure, but the majority of her character still revolves around her studies and her career. There's scenes where her fiancé (I forget his name) gently drags her away from her studies to go on cute little dates or to remind her to eat dinner or to take her to diners for breakfast and catch up and pray and all, flirting with her over text and calling her on Facetime every now and then and linking up on weekends and vice versa, and it's established pretty well that he has a life of his own and is doing pretty well with his roommates and stuff. He and Dena get married a little after she passes the bar.

Farouk and Maysa have to sell the house, and it's super bittersweet. Ramy and Dena help them move all their stuff into this cute little 2 bedroom apartment, the second room doubling as a guest room and as a room for when one needs space from the other. It's weird not having the kids around and it's a little closer to the city than they like, but it's got a lot of perks too. Maysa can drive for Lyft and make friends easier cus everything is Right There, Farouk actually finds his rhythm as a con man, which complicates things a little but also, we all know he's a good and smart guy and would eventually know the law well enough to skirt around it, so it's a start. Their marriage improves a lot too cus they're finally humble enough to talk to each other about real shit.

Uncle Naseem doesn't accept being gay fully till like, the last three episodes. Post retirement of course. Ramy finds some old love letters while helping him clean and move the rest of Naseem's shit from Jeweler's Row and just smiles and nods to himself, dropping aforementioned shit off at his apartment with nothing but a little extra bundle of cash; both as a way of saying "sorry about the bullshit" and "don't explain; I know." and it's cool. As a cherry on top, he might have even made up with that guy at the gym, or he might have found a new guy.

Shadi should meet up with Steve at some point and get into the DJ scene proper; it's hard for him when Farouk and Maysa have to move into a smaller apartment without him, but he finds a decent and diverse group of rave bros during a set one night and it saves him from having to spend the rest of his time in the U.S. on the street. He falls for a cute black hippie chick during one of his sets, and they move in together. It's a little small and cramped but he has her and her cat has already fallen in love with him so how can he have any more reserves? This is just where god wants him to be,

I can't speak for any of the minor characters, or the cousin that Ramy stopped fucking, but yeah. This is my take. If you wanna talk more, feel free to DM!

[theinfernalcollective]

Of course it's a Twitter link. The whole book isn't exactly free. But the screenshots make their position pretty clear. Also, your source is "my doctor says so, trust me."

But okay, you don't consider transgender sources to be valid. At least not compared to the statements from the weight loss coach who diagnosed you. (Nothing against her being a weight loss/life coach. It's a fine field. Just weird to dismiss an LGBTQ psychiatrist because you think they're less qualified than Dr. Candy Fox who doesn't specialize in dissociative disorders either.)

If you want the word of a DID specialist then have you checked the emails sent from Dr. Colin Ross to sysmedsaresexist?

https://www.tumblr.com/sysmedsaresexist/750286600085372928/changing-mindsets-from-a-real-anti-endo?

Here's the opinion of an expert who has studied DID for 40 years.

Dr Fox is also a psychiatrist for ACC sensitive claims. Which specializes in sexual assault and hence diagnosing people with PTSD and DID. If you link fucking tumblr or Twitter don't expect us to look at it. don't be a little bitch and hide away on anon pro-endo. Your source is transgender makes plurality. Get fucking real. Plus sysmed is a bullshit ass term - Apostolis

[jheselbraum]

zelda/link/sidon polyshipping fic where Link's fin'amor "when made public, love rarely endures" bullshit has led him to the conclusion that, after Zelda's first post-calamity appearance in the Zora court goes over fantastically well and much better than his own, the best course of action is to conspire with... Muzu probably to arrange Sidon and Zelda's marriage. In Link's mind, the pros of this are simple:

Sidon is a Zora, and the Zora are well known to be polyamorous, so it's not like marrying Zelda, who is Hylian royatly, would prevent him from having children or becoming king someday

Sidon marrying Zelda would do a lot to strengthen Zora and Hylian relations, which is one of Sidon's stated goals as Prince of the Zora

Zelda living in Zora's domain puts her in a location that maximizes wealth of resources, safety, and "having a climate that is actually hospitable to Hylians" (plus, a palace is so much better than Link's filthy peasant stink-house back in Hateno)

Zelda marrying Sidon would also give her more legitimacy when she eventually retakes the Hylian crown

Link gets to spend the rest of his days standing near both Sidon and Zelda as part of their guard! This is clearly the best possible outcome! It's win-win-win!

Muzu, like all Zora, is under the impression that Hylians are not only strictly monogamous, but also mate for life, so he's a little skeptical of this arrangement but when Sidon and Zelda seem to hit it off he's on board, mostly in an attempt to understand what Mipha thought was so special about having a relationship with a Hylian.

Meanwhile, since Link keeps leaving them alone together to go hide in the bushes (he's known to forage at any opportunity, neither Sidon nor Zelda question this at all), Sidon and Zelda both come to some very different conclusions.

Zelda sees how well Link gets along with Sidon, and upon hearing Sidon speak so highly of Link, out of a desire for Link to choose his own path in life, resolves to... Encourage Sidon and Link's budding romance, as much as it pains her, so that Link may finally be free of his duty and choose happiness for himself for a change.

Sidon, on the other hand, sees how well Link gets along with Zelda, and upon hearing Zelda speak so highly of Link, resolves to do everything he can to support his very best friend and his strange monogamous hylian ways! If Link has decided that Zelda is the only one for him then it is his duty to support them and bring them closer together!

Zelda and Sidon individually enlist Muzu for help in their endeavors.

[corrodedbisexual]

I blame @kenmoos for the Free!AU fanart (which is fucking amazing by the way go check it out) and @notasimp4joey for morphing that into a swimmer!Steve/rockstar!Eddie, and when I say blame I mean I am kissing you guys on both cheeks for the inspo and hope you are having a great Valentine's day, or just a good fucking 14th day of February 2023 if you're not celebrating (like me). 😘😘

Summary:

Gold Olympic medalist Steve Harrington decides to retire at 25 years old and become a newbie swim coach.

Eddie Munson, frontman of the well-known rockband Corroded Coffin, is also 25 when he realizes it's getting too embarrassing to be an adult who never learned to swim.

Technically, they are strangers. But not really. Not with the way they have secretly followed each other's careers over the years.

AO3 link

Steve's POV

To the great surprise and devastation of his coaching team, his parents and the general public who follow swimming, gold Olympic medalist Steve Harrington decides to retire at 25 years old. Officially, it's due to a shoulder injury; in reality, he's completely exhausted and sick of all the pressures and bullshit of pro sports, of waking up every day at 5am to train, of never getting to eat what he likes, of not remembering when was the last time he actually enjoyed swimming. Sick of feeling like if he lets himself relax for even a moment, his performance will slip and he'll disappoint everyone. Might as well just get the disappointment part over with, on his own terms. No more expectations, no more worrying about that every single minute he's in the water.

After pondering his further career options for a while, and turning down several prestigious pro coaching positions (after which, his father just stops calling), Steve settles for a job as a coach for newbies at a swim school. The school principal, Nancy Wheeler, makes him an offer without even pointing out that he's massively overqualified for the job. Later, as they talk over lunch, she explains that she knows what it's like, needing to make a drastic change in your life. Steve doesn't pry further, but he did catch a glance of a cute young woman's photo in Nancy's wallet as she paid for her coffee, and he thinks he understands. 

Steve absolutely adores his job. For the first time in forever, he's excited to wake up in the mornings again. Most newbies are kids, and he loves that he can teach them the joys of swimming without being the asshole who drills a child to swim 50 laps at 6 in the morning and scold them for so much as making an unnecessary splash, like his coach used to (god forbid pro swimmers have any fun during training). He also loves helping the occasional adult students who don't believe in themselves at first, like maybe if you don't learn swimming as a kid you never will, and seeing the excitement and glee on their faces when they can finally complete a lap on their own, without a kickboard keeping them afloat.

***

Steve's getting ready for a private lesson, putting away all the buoys and kickboards the kids he was teaching left floating around the pool despite him yelling after them to tidy up after themselves; in vain, because they no longer pay attention to him, babbling excitedly about some game they're going to play together as they head for the doors. He's not really mad at them, never could be. It's great that their group has become such tight friends over the past few months. Plus, it's actually kind of fun to swim around the pool, chasing the floating objects and throwing them towards the edge; no pressure, no timing, no roaring crowds. 

He wonders about his new student, another adult - Edmund Mason, apparently, is the name; must be some truly loaded guy, paid to have the whole pool to himself for all his lessons. Steve's just gotten out of the pool when he hears the locker room door open, and speak of the devil, the guy comes in. Black swim shorts, multiple tattoos on his broad chest and muscular arms, long curly hair up in a messy bun, a kind of deer-in-the-headlights look in his huge brown eyes - oh. Oh.

That was definitely not the real name he signed up under, and it makes sense why he'd book the whole pool. That, or Steve is having a very vivid hallucination, because no way did Eddie frigging Munson, of all people, sign up for Steve's swim classes. 

Steve was never really a Corroded Coffin groupie; couldn't afford to, with his lifestyle, between the training and trying to attend evening classes at college. He's never been to a concert, but he's followed their music from the start, buying all the albums and singles on both cassette and vinyl and then CDs as they started coming in, and never missing a magazine with an article about them. 

Because in addition to loving CC music, Steve used to have a massive, massively embarrassing crush on their frontman. The guy who not only wrote mindblowing tunes and lyrics, whose slightly growly voice sent shivers down Steve's spine, but who was also so unfairly hot. And cute, in a way you wouldn't expect of a rockstar. Steve's seen him giggle and give the dorkiest answers during interviews, goof around with his band onstage between songs, get down on one knee in front of screaming fangirls reaching for him and kiss their hands and call them "my ladies". There were rumors that he was queer, which he never bothered to deny, merely smirking at the interviewer and replying with his signature phrase, "I don't kiss and tell, sweetheart."

Eddie seemed to live his life completely uncaring about image and expectations and all that bullshit; Steve admired that and was, admittedly, always a bit jealous. Eddie was the real deal. And never in a million years did Steve expect to meet the real deal. And even if he did, he never expected Eddie Munson to look so fucking… nervous?

After a moment of just silently staring at each other, Steve silently scolds himself. The guy is just like any other adult who's come to his class. Maybe worried about getting in the water, maybe embarrassed that he has to take a class that's essentially, for the most part, designed for children. He really doesn't need Steve gawking at him like an idiot. So Steve lets his face slip into the most reassuring and welcoming smile he can muster, and he grabs a towel to dry his hair with one hand, steps forward to offer his other hand to shake.

"Hi. I'm Steve".

Eddie's POV

Eddie Munson, frontman of the well-known rockband Corroded Coffin, is 25 when he realizes it's getting too embarrassing to be an adult, living in LA of all places, who never learned to swim. Because of course he never did; a perpetually horny queer teen from small town Indiana, going into a locker room full of hot naked guys? A wet dream, in theory. In reality, a fucking nightmare. So it's not like it's his fault that now he cannot even approach a pool during parties, because people keep pushing each other into it as a joke and he might actually fucking drown from that. 

At least these days he's loaded with cash enough now to amend this unfortunate predicament while sparing himself the embarrassment of prying eyes. Making up his mind, Eddie finds a swim school closest to home and enrolls for private lessons under a fake ID he sometimes uses for anonymity. He really doesn't need a crowd of fans waiting for him outside the lockers every day. 

***

In hindsight, Eddie really, really should have asked for the coach's name in advance. He's heard the rumors, of course, that Steve Harrington had retired to become a regular swim coach at some school in LA. But he'd never imagined that fate would be so cruel as he exits the locker room (with private cabins, thank fuck) into the pool area, and sees the guy getting out of the water.

For a moment, Eddie seriously considers just turning around and quietly leaving and never coming back. But in that moment, the guy lifts his head, and well, Eddie's completely and utterly fucked. No way can he just act normal around Steve fucking Harrington.

It's not that Steve's famous; Eddie's been around a fair share of famous people. It's just that this is the dude whose magazine pics he stared at for longer than he'd ever admit, even back when Eddie was 16 and Steve was still in the junior league. His best friend at the time, Chrissy, used to buy them for him, because it was possible for a girl to buy magazines about swimmer boys and not get as much as a raised eyebrow. (It was a very mutual arrangement, since Eddie used to get her magazines that were acceptable for guys to buy.)

Those magazines were very much part of the reason for Eddie coming to terms with the fact that he did not want to kiss girls. And to be totally honest, that swimwear ad Steve did two years later, all dripping wet, running his hand through his gorgeous hair and grinning at the camera, was no longer just for looking at. 

Eddie's had a fair share of experiences after his music career unexpectedly took off, both with girls (which he wasn't particularly into, but he was 20 and touch starved as fuck, sue him) and later, as he gained confidence and learned to navigate the scene, guys (and he was really, really into that). But seeing the man he's had multiple wet dreams about, all hard muscles, dripping wet and gorgeous just like in that swimwear ad, nearly turns him back into an 18-year-old blushing virgin.

Steve's already noticed him, but maybe he should run anyway. But in the end, he doesn't, because Steve suddenly smiles and walks towards him, and Eddie's dragged forward by his feet like a moth to the flame, unable to resist; and Jesus H Christ, now he's standing in front of a shirtless and wet Steve Harrington - so much fucking chest hair, he must have shaved it all the time back when he was pro - who's casually introducing himself. Like he's a totally normal stranger. Like Eddie doesn't have his name burned into his brain along with the exact shape of his abs and pecs and everything that fit into that tiny swimsuit he used to perform in by some kind of miracle. 

The one functional braincell he's got left makes him grasp Steve's hand and shake it.

"Hey," he manages to somehow match Steve's casual tone. "Eddie. Nice meeting you."

__________________

I don't know if there will be a continuation. No promises. I WANNA TRY, but I am good with one-shots, terrible with multichapter WIPs bc inspiration strikes me once every few weeks and runs away the next day.

[lavelled]

frenching my athletes.

A stabbing in Southport, Merseyside, United Kingdom, near Sussex Road, left three little girls dead. Please don’t harm children.

Your handiwork, Henri.

Why not blaze a trail like Malcolm X, next to your bedhire wife, whom you don’t live with, and go console the mournful parents by pointing heavenward to declare pedos first and coax them to watch your bullshit interview?

An unasked-for televised event was your Oprah interview. It caused a self-made billionaire and media leader to plead, on air, to be chiseled free. It was where the wife, in scripted speech and zero cyber allowance, taught us that the Internet is the wild, wild, West and oppressive racism permeates on the corner of Lord Privilege Avenue and Barrington Court. Your new interview on online harm was that royal curriculum of sort of admitting yes you’re that leading hunched figure on the Internet posting internal messages of fenced-in childhood rape that spell disaster while your NDA-signed robot, paid to not look at media reports, feigns digital awareness concern. I’m supposed to flip the normal life lies, rat rationality, do-goodness, nope they’re pathologically evil. As if it were so easy.

You advertise Rachel’s homemaker show, for whatever reason, with a nod to rape culture so that even Martha Stewart equals a bowl of soup or starter course to you. You need to stop borrowing Martha’s domestic businesswoman identity. The Executive Summit doesn’t exist. You use repurposed photos to mislead the public. Hamptons is “mattress” and “stamped” and “knotted” toward an unconsenting girl. Your partnered lies result in self-harm and tragedy, but do continue.

Because we’re all so rapt, hemorrhaging sympathy for a life-stealing prince with access to media. One person not buying your shit is model and author, Stephanie Adams, who jumped to her death in NYC on the eve of your vanity wedding. She was holding her young son at the time.

A 2005 AP Archive birthday promotional video: Prince Harry Celebrates 21st Birthday On Thursday. 45 seconds—amidst a prairie grassland barns & noble—you talk of a roll in the hay. Your words: “Probably do something crude. Nothing worth mentioning on camera. We’ve celebrated other guys’ birthdays so far with cards, but, luckily, I think we finish exercise, so we may tuck into a beer or two if we’re lucky.” You’re Charlie demanding, in opposite Irish pro-bono terms, that you’re owed a girl after burying her into the earth. The old brooms that lean on green windows? You are trying to claim first cousin anatomical property in rape-like fashion.

In Xtinction, we’ve lifted digital camouflaging on Archillect, Murat Pak, Elon Musk, Piers Morgan, Spencer Morgan and Bill Ackman. You’re the main Twitterer for miles around. You controlled former President Trump’s page upon a time where you etched the garish: “Despite the constant negative press covfefe.” At 12:06 a.m. A morsel of non-words welded together for Tom.

Another endeavor of yours was tweeting insult-laden mapwork about Haters and Losers.

Loser is the world’s biggest action star who performs his own mountainside and flying stunts.

Hate means implicit cruelty and other trappings, but mostly girl-owner (philanthropist). You rearrange letters in Cheat. In 2003, you tried to play victim by pointing a finger or foot at an uncle jailer, wearing painted artistic bloodstains. Though, you’ve been presiding judge. Google: Prince Won’t Face 2nd Probe on Cheating Claims—NBC News.

Hate means 8. You linked, chained, harnessed, handcuffed my star cult. No small matter, it’s just the cult is being killed off by your wife and family. Evan Wright, Rolling Stone reporter and author of Generation Kill, which was a tv series. Suicide. Gun to the head. July 12, 2024. British fashion designer, Alexander McQueen. Suicide. February 11, 2010. Green Street, London.

You tweeted this gleaming passage: “I would like to extend my best wishes to all, even the haters and losers, on this special date, September 11.” That’s one way to use the World Trade Center inferno to tell America, the military, all humanity of your 911 policing job.

Smart.

K

[zoydraft]

Reflection: The Beauty of Games Chapter 3 "Operas made of Bridges"

Lucky Paper Radio is doing a book club episode about Frank Lantz's The Beauty of Games. I'm reading it.

"Operas made of bridges" is a damn good line, and I can't imagine the restraint it took to not make it the book title.

I have a story about my experience playing Journey that I wanted to start with, but explaining it would make it impossible for someone to have the same experience, so I'm putting it after the "read more" link.

I wasn't aware of this idea of beauty as something you know others would feel too. I don't know if that's true. Sometimes beauty is in the satisfaction of an experience that is so specific to you that you don't think anyone else could appreciate it in the same way. Maybe that is a universal kind of individualism—we all have those happenings—but I think that's kind of bullshit, because the beauty is partially derived from it not being communicable.

It's interesting to hear him mention data-driven design and how sickening it is when he worked for Zynga. It's not hypocritical, it's informed by experience. Id love to hear him talk more about that.

His broader tinkering with liberalism and colonialism, rationalism and the Enlightenment is all gently unobjectionable. Nothing profound or thought-provoking, but I appreciate that he approaches games as an aesthetic form that can (and should) have some kind of moral or pro-social ambition. We need more people (everyone?) who just want things to be good, and don't look at profit incentives as justifications for their actions.

Non-plot spoilers for Journey after the fold which would potentially prevent you from having a specific experience of the game.

In late 2019 I bought Journey under the vague promise that it was short and beautiful. I was unaware of what I now think of as its core mechanic. 

In the final moments, I trudged side-by-side with my companion, through the snow, into the light, not completely sure of what that meant, but with a dawning realization, scared to break off from them.

We—I very shortly afterward confirmed that it is a "we"—got a moderately rare achievement, stepping over that threshold together. That companion was another player, sharing that experience with me. Somewhere in the world. I will never know who they are or anything about them, but we had that transcendent moment together. Knowing they're out there somewhere, living an entire life fills me awe whenever I dwell on it. This simple little game gave me the experience of dispelling solipsism in a way I could see and feel over a couple hours. I don't think that was a revelation to me, but it has never been more focal and distilled.

It was more moving for the slow dawning, unconfirmed realization I was playing a multiplayer game. If you're reading this and haven't played the game, I think I've now made it impossible to encounter it with the innocence and ignorance necessary to authentically have the same experience, but maybe you can believe me.

That was an opera made of bridges.