#that requires constant adaptation at all times

[schneiderenjoyer]

The reason the whole age discourse is confusing is that bluepoch keeps pulling shit like THIS.

#reverse 1999 #reverse 1999 diggers #either he's fuking over 103 years old or this event happens when he's already with vertin #but given how they don't state the era each Storm reverses into we're not even sure if this is accurate #and it's not a typo since london's first subway actually did get built in 1863 #so wtf bluepoch what are you implying? #this just makes me believe more that arcanists are long lived species compared to humans and thus the concept of time doesn't bother them #which would also explain how they'd adapt easier to a shift of era since they constantly live in such chaotic environment #that requires constant adaptation at all times #but no srsly bluepoch pls just tell us if arcanists live a long ass time so i can label everyone 500 years old idk

[paper-mario-wiki]

hi, i'm not the person who asked you about the life update, but could you elaborate on how being a creator means to live in a world of ideas instead of the real world? i'm just really curious about your reasons for quitting, specially because i want to create things in the future (not necessarily streaming, but anyways), hope you have a good day!

i'll be talking mostly about streaming for the sake of this answer, but this is similarly applicable across a wide range of platforms:

the job of the streamer is, effectively, to be the life of the party every single day. your goal is to be the person that has something interesting to talk about, and is quick with a joke, and has nuanced understandings of certain things, without actually obtaining any sort of "expertise" in anything lest you alienate viewers. short of having a stated goal for a stream, the only goal of the streamer is to let people relax with a voice they enjoy, saying things they like hearing. you can become very strong in different aspects of streaming, like in the production, or as someone who focuses more on a skill they've honed like art or speedrunning, but the demographic of streamers which pulls, by far, the most significant viewership, is personality based streamers.

this becomes more complicated when, for example, you are very interactive with chat, or you stream with multiple people at once. now, to maintain this charismatic sway you have (the one that got you the job in the first place), you must be able to adapt to and bounce off of other people, as you are now no longer performing alone. naturally, there's a need to not only manage your own flow of consciousness, but also to be at least partially in sync with someone else's.

beyond these complications, you must also consider drawing in new viewership. when i was a streamer, i was quite successful, relatively speaking. pulling 300 viewers consistently is something a very slim amount of streamers can actually do, and even then i was still making under 50k a year, which is not bad, but also not good. in paying for my apartment, my insurance, my travel fare, and all the other stuff that living independently draws money out of you with, i was more often in the red than i was in the green. hence, the need to draw in new viewers, which cannot be done without something eye-catching.

think about this: there are, at any given time, TENS OF THOUSANDS of streamers live in your native language on twitch, and they are all FREE TO WATCH. the attention market is sparse because the streamer market is oversaturated. and considering all of THEM want new viewers too, everyone is constantly refining and improving their craft, which requires everyone to move creatively in tandem with each other lest they get left behind.

if you are a streamer making ass-dollars and ass-cents, it becomes easy to begin resenting people like jerma, solely because everything he touches seems to turn to gold. i personally found it easy to feel very disappointed in myself when peoples projects that seemed so simple would take off. it was a constant "why didn't i think of that!" situation, at least for me. and when you don't have the energy to keep that up, or the social stamina necessary to figure that all out while also being upbeat and happy in front of people near daily, it can become very draining.

what i mean specifically when i say the "world of ideas", is like. there would be times where i could schedule out my failures weeks in advance. i'd be so in my own head about the process, i could see the exact path i could see myself taking that would lead me directly to ruin. how playing games i actually enjoyed would steadily drop viewership, or how focusing on my studies would make people forget about me. and of course this is augmented by my anxiety, i know this is absolutely not the case for every streamer, but that overwhelming feeling of needing to find a new game to play, or a new gimmick to use, or a new ploy to get money that doesn't make you feel guilty even though your source of income is mostly queer and mostly poor young adults and your rent is coming up and you're $200 short but you also just had a fundraiser last month about a DIFFERENT emergency but you cant make it a bummer or else people wont want to tune in so you have to make it something fun like "you laugh you lose!" or "$1 art request streams!" while feeling nothing but anxiety while youre trying to sound like youre enjoying yourself even when youre asking 250 people to donate every 30 minutes or so and nobody seems to want to and chat is moving slowly and. and and.

well, it starts to eat away at you.

#anon

[catgirlforeskin]

Since Wizards of the Coast is torpedoing all the good-will they have with DnD to wring more money out of it, I want to make a guide for people who recognize they should jump ship, but don’t know alternatives.

If you’re deeply invested in DnD and want something as similar as possible, Pathfinder 2 is what you want. It’s the next biggest game in the tabletop scene (in the US), you can find physical copies in stores easily, and Paizo allows free resources online to exist without constant threat of being taken down like WotC does. It will remain free to play on any VTT while DnD will require you to subscribe to their proprietary one.

Most importantly, though, it improves on almost every aspect of DnD. Combat and class balance is extremely well thought out and makes all combats engaging and difficult in a fun way, requiring teamwork and clever thinking. Roleplay is integrated into character creation and play better, and you no longer have to choose between being good in combat or exploration or roleplay, you get to play and feel useful during all aspects of the game. It’s hard to emphasize how much better it is without just playing, if you still want something like DnD, play Pathfinder 2.

If you like high fantasy adventuring but are willing to get more out there, Fellowship and Dungeon World are good options. Fellowship is a more free-form adventure game focused on creating a cinematic experience over getting bogged-down in rules-heavy play. If you want to play a Lord of the Rings style campaign and have it feel like the movies, Fellowship is the way to go.

Dungeon World is called “Powered by the Apocalypse” which means it was inspired by Apocalypse World, an amazing ttrpg that revolutionized the scene and became the gold standard for interweaving roleplay and gameplay. Dungeon World is meant to be a bridge between DnD and indie rpgs, and it’s good for that, though there are better PbtA games. It’s a good introduction to principles like failing forward and playing to find out what happens (and hell, a good introduction to games having principles lol). There’s also an Avatar the Last Airbender licensed PbtA game that’s very good, if that’s your thing!

Speaking of licensed games, Free League Publishing sets the benchmark for rpgs built for existing intellectual properties, and while I haven’t played all of their games, I’m a big fan of what I have played. They also have independent settings, like Twilight 2000, a really good apocalypse survival game set in a collapsing warfront between an alternate-history NATO and Soviet Union as the two dying empires bring all of society down in their death spiral. I’m using it as the base for my Halo rpg, it’s very good.

Blades in the Dark is another big name in the indie scene, and for good reason. It’s a heist game that has been adapted to lots of other settings (games that say they’re “Forged in the Dark” take inspiration here) and it’s clear to see why so many have used it as a foundation once you’ve played, it’s an exciting crime procedural where you play a group of scoundrels punching above your weight and facing the consequences

There’s a million other amazing rpgs I could mention here, and I’m sure people will talk about plenty of lovely ones I’ve missed in the notes, but I think the most important thing I want to convey with this is that there’s a whole world of diverse and interesting rpgs at all levels of production, from big corporate teams to one girl with a laptop who barely knows how to make a pdf, and there’s no better time to start exploring them.

A common refrain is that DnD can be modified to do anything, but once you’ve played other rpgs you’ll see why that’s not true, and why those creative efforts would be better spent in other systems. Hacking rpgs is as old a tradition as rpgs themselves, but if the only tools you know are DnD, you’re being limited with what you can create more than you could possibly know. There’s no better time to leave this Plato’s Cave and see the beauty and wonder of the whole ttrpg scene

#DnD #ttrpgs #ATLA

[icyblogs]

god bless u for the 141/fallout post i’ve been going feral thinking about a fallout au where simon is a pre-war ghoul who fought in the great war and still wears his power armor to hide that fact 🙏🙏 better yet even simon/reader fallout au where they were married before the bombs fell, and being a military wife she was lucky enough to get a space in a vault but ended up in cryo-freeze while he became a ghoul and they meet again 200 years later

Fallout!AU Ghoul!Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader WC: 1.2K words Note: Hi anon! I had to do a little research about how exactly ghouls and cryo-freeze functioned, sorry for getting back to you so late! (does it still functionally make sense no but shh its fine) Anyways, I hope you enjoy! (:

Ghost who was already in the process of becoming a ghoul before the Great War! Already a renowned soldier; one of which was elected for a new experimental drug. For the sake of humanity he was told, after all, doing this will guarantee a spot in the vaults for him and his precious little wife! Doesn’t he want you to be safe? Though he might not have necessarily agreed with the means, don’t the rewards outweigh the consequences? Doesn’t he want to live out the rest of his days in peace with you? For a good vault- wanting the best for you. 

These tests, these experiments.. would end up taking a toll eventually. Too late for you to ever see of course. Well, by the time the great war actually starts, it’s far too late to see the effects of it at all. The experiments required him to stay on base- very seldom ever actually seeing you. “Just a few more weeks.” You were constantly told, and of course full heartedly you’d believe him. Why would he have any reason to lie? So when the first bomb drops.. And then the next. It was no surprise when you were forced to go into a vault without your husband, so scared. All alone without him. ):  

The experiments therefore spiraled, the results becoming null, nothing necessarily coming from them- too many variables being added. And with the radiation from all the bombs well.. He was no longer a ghost but a ghoul. 

He’d be similar to ‘The Ghoul’ in the show in my opinion! Fighting his way through the wasteland, killing, maiming- adapting. Becoming the monster that was always sort of lingering beneath the skin, going back to baser instincts. Everything he did was for his vows. For you. See, I'd imagine that he would wear a power-suit at first, especially when his skin starts to sort of stretch and shrivel, like a burn— eye sockets sinking, nose concaving. If he had found you, he didn’t want you to see what he was becoming; his humanity unraveling faster than he could keep the spool pulled taut. 

Though.. the first year passes. Then the first decade. A century. Two. 

Eventually time slows to a lull; without direction nor guidance. Always sort of be bordering on turning feral, one mishap away from just totally snapping. Enough for life itself to become a constant loop of just sort of.. apathy. Life wasn’t kind enough to people like him, never allowing anything good to stay in their lives. So why would it in this hellscape as well? Going through this so-called life like it was nothing more than a hindrance. Traveling through the land, taking on dead man’s jobs; not caring for the consequences at this point. Because what really was the point without you by his side? Never forming attachments, after all, why bother? He’d outlive them anyway.

Throughout the years, settlements pop up left and right- factions forming, most dying out faster than he could blink. These days, vaults come to the surface- trying to rebuild, kind to any poor soul or raider that they come across, like sheep walking right into the maws of a wolf. Then.. a new community sprouts up. 

Groups of thousands coming up to the surface, building a town- starting a new life. It really wasn’t anything new; Ghost had seen it and experienced it before. Would be a year or two at most of having a bed, having a steady access to food and drink- the meals always tasted like ash, if he thinks hard enough he might’ve remembered how your cooking tasted. He could blink and he was back in his home, watching you sway to some music on the radio, donned in a frilly apron, and you’d turn around and he could swear he could smell what you had in your hands. His imagination always ended up the same way; his eyes would eventually lead up to where your face was; blurry and being forgotten- he’d startle back to the reality at hand, mood darkening. 

So this new community. It wasn’t really a question of whether he was to make his way there, if not to stay for a brief moment of peace then to swindle them out of some supplies. Because at the end of the day they were vaulters. Nothing in the grand scheme of things: would probably die to some raiders anyway. They were always so eager to please, to see the good in people, and they were just so welcoming and hospitable. 

And then he saw.. you. 

The dreams, his imagination- the fog seemed to clear the moment he saw you again; even from a distance.. It was just how he had remembered you- his wife. You look like you haven't aged a day, donned in a blue clad jumpsuit. Simon watches with a dry mouth as you provide a kind smile to one of the people next to you, nodding your head as the pair of you attempt to cultivate the soil. He sees the way you jolt when the man’s hand brushes over your own as if he had shocked you- and his own eyes narrow at the sight, staring unblinkingly as if he might miss something. 

A mirage, it was easy to think. A trick of the light even- the radiation boiling his brain enough to fuck with his head, to give him some twisted hope about something that should not be possible. You.. should be dead. Long gone and yet- why were you in front of him? A phantom? Another way to mock him?

The more he looked he knew it was not the case. He could hear your voice- the cadence, all sounding just as how he's remembered it for the last eon. It made him wonder however- why were you smiling? Why.. were you laughing? He wasn’t with you- so why did you seem so happy then? 

There was something about a corpse yearning for someone full of life even still; for someone who was unburdened by centuries of an unforgiving and cruel world. He felt like Icarus, wanting to get closer; to see if he would melt if he got too close to the warmth. He’d be willing to burn if it meant that you were within reach again. His left hand felt heavy as he flexed it to try and release some tension, gold band digging into his skin. And with how sweet you looked, it only made his teeth ache and fingers twitch over the handle of his gun, longing to be with only you. Would your skin be as soft as he remembered? His throat felt dry, taking a step forward, aching to herd you back to where you belonged. Would your body still sing for him, even as your husband has turned into a monster, even as the stench of death and rot seems to follow him everywhere he goes? 

Would you still remember him? ..Did that matter at this point? He’s never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

After all, in sickness and in health, until death do us part. 

#simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #Fallout!AU #Ghoul!Ghost #simon ghost riley x reader #dark fic #call of duty #cod #cod x reader #cod mw2 #cod mw2 x reader #x reader

[banjjakz]

Seven Days at Granny Orimoto's Flower Shop ; Yuuta x F!Reader

My name is Okkotsu Yuuta. I am a recent graduate of a martial arts vocational school. I just completed a year-long internship abroad in Africa. Due to my recent re-entry into Japan, I am still in the process of setting up my phone and internet. I apologize for the inconvenience and I am extremely sorry for the burden. As a supervisor and business, you may benefit from the set of skills that I have to offer. I can lift upwards of 25kg. I am neat and detail oriented. Due to past life experiences, I am a fast learner and quick to adapt to new surroundings. I am accustomed to taking orders and delivering results. It is my utmost goal to ensure the comfort and satisfaction of those around me. I am eager to be of service. Please think of me kindly.

Or: An odd boy shows up every night begging for a job offer. Did you mention that he gives you handwritten letters? Do you have to report a workplace romance if the only other employee is your boss, who is currently dying? Asking for a friend.

notes: commission for the lovely mielle! thank you very kindly for 1) commissioning me!!!!!! and 2) putting up with my compulsion to surpass any and all word count specifications

warnings: general off-putting vibes, casual discussions of child death, implied stalking (at the very least), unethical(…? maybe ethically gray?) necromancy, etc. y'all know what's about to go down

♡‬ read on ao3 ‪♡‬

Life as a florist is every bit the dream that you’d hoped it would be.

The thought of working from nine to five in some cubicle for the rest of your life was enough to drive you out of university before even completing the feeble attempt you’d half-assedly made at a degree. While the path to your current state of employment had not been linear, easy, or even recommended, you cannot imagine ending up anywhere else.

You’re lucky enough as it is that Granny Orimoto was willing to take you on – perhaps, at first, out of pity – as a shop-hand. That day, all those months, is still as clear as unmarred waters in your mind. What a pitiful image you must have made: underfed, poorly clothed, with roving, vacant eyes.

Nevertheless, you adjusted quickly and gratefully to your new place of employment. Within months, your sense of self and purpose in life had been restored, watered and nurtured underneath the guiding light of Granny Orimoto’s flower shop. Like a corpse risen again, your days were once more filled with hope and aspirations.

Eventually, Granny Orimoto began bestowing upon you more and more responsibilities. You tend to think of your daily tasks as privileges more than anything else. You’ve graduated far beyond merely ringing customers up on the till – at this point, you’re somewhat of a budding horticulturalist. Or, at least, that’s what you’d like to think on your good days.

Recently, Granny Orimoto has even begun to entrust you to manage the shop on your lonesome for several days out of the week. It used to be the case that she would require you to work only hours that coincided with her own availability, so that you might fall under her constant supervision. Of course, this was back when you could barely keep a plant alive. Nowadays, things are quite different.

Quite different, indeed.

On this slow, Monday evening, managerial status finds its way to you once more. Closing the shop used to feel weird, without Granny Orimoto there to lay into you about your posture, or your clumsiness, or your naturally shy, stuttering nature. Now, it’s starting to feel eerily more and more like business as usual.

When the bell above the front door rings, you don’t think too much of it – this town is a bit of a tourist trap, so there are quite a few out-of-towners who aren’t used to respecting closing times. Usually, you’re too nice to shoo them out, but the weight of the day bears heavily upon your apron-clad shoulders.

But when you spin around on your heel, the polite-yet-firm “we closed four minutes ago” withers on your tongue like dead leaves crumbling away upon the unrepentant, earthen ground.

The most disturbing thing is not that he’s exactly your type of handsome: tall, gaunt, malnourished, with a strange, lost look in his wideset eyes. It would be easier, somehow, if your immediate and arresting attraction to the gangly stranger was the most of your worries.

Perhaps what unnerves you so, is the fact that you are powerless to do anything but devote the entirety of your attention to the odd young man. The terra cotta pot once in your grasp has suddenly been placed on the nearest shelf. The gardener’s gloves on your hands have now been stripped away and flung carelessly to the ground, the delicate flesh of your fingers on display for the world to see.

“Are you hiring?” He asks. The lights flicker. Granny Orimoto should really stop fighting you about calling an electrician – they aren’t that expensive.

No, is what you should say, because you don’t have the authority to answer this question and also the thought of having to train someone else when you are just barely getting the hang of your newfound managerial status is a terrifying prospect.

And yet, what ends up leaving your mouth is:

“Yes.”

His black hair is overgrown and in dire need of a trim. The bangs are in a liminal state: too short to part, too long for comfort. It dangles limply in his eyes. Those eyes. Big and glassy and dark, like a dead doe gazing up, unseeingly, at the sky.

“Okay,” he says. “Is there an application that I could fill out?”

Is he not cold? The weather chills significantly at night, and his layers look rather thin. Or maybe that’s just the way the clothes hang off of him. “No, it’s alright. You can just – um, you’re good.”

“I’m…?”

“You’re good,” you repeat and then you have to fight for control over your own body, so that you can turn around and break eye contact before it actually kills you.  “When can you start? Do you have a phone number? Um, so we can get in touch with you about scheduling and training and verify your location and such and so forth.”

Okay, that last sentence was hastily tacked on. You’ll be the first to admit that much. But what kind of girl would you look like, asking a random stranger for his number out of the blue?

You hear more than you see him shuffle his feet, still lingering awkwardly in the doorway. “Um, no, sorry. I don’t have a phone.”

“E-mail?”

“Ah..no…would communication via letter be alright?”

What is his problem?

He shows up, four minutes past closing, poorly dressed and clearly in poor health, as well, to inquire about a job opening, and doesn’t even have a phone or any form of contact to provide other than handwritten correspondence?

Is this a prank? Are you being pranked, right now? You pause your fastidious, frustrated handling of today’s arranged bouquets just to surreptitiously scan your surroundings for any hidden cameras.

It’s like the man of your dreams has walked through the door. It’s almost too good to be true. You know you have eclectic tastes—and this is exactly why you’ve never had a boyfriend, before.

Because what living man could possibly compare to the fictional freakshows you stay up late at night reading about? Who would be worth fawning over, when you are already well equipped with a wealth of off-putting – and, quite frankly, disturbing – characters of ill-repute? Never has there been a living, breathing vessel capable of catching your jaded, heavy eyes.

Until now, that is.

“Sure,” you say, allowing the brain-rot to take control of your faculties. “Give me one second to write down our mailing information.”

But before you can cling desperately to another excuse to evade his magnetic presence, the strange boy speaks up, alluring you with the unsettlingly tranquil timbre of his voice: “That won’t be necessary. I can hand deliver the letters every day, around this time.”

You blink, sizing him up once more. Any normal human being would find this situation incredibly odd and even worth of a police report.

However, you’re comfortable in your own skin and are able to recognize that the screws you’ve knocked loose over time have, for better or worse, permanently altered your threshold for “red” or “green” flag recognition. For all you care, the flag could be purple. You aren’t thinking about flags right now. You’re thinking about his murky bangs, dark and deep, a rich obsidian, metastasizing over the smooth expanse of his alabaster forehead like a natural disaster.

“Okay. I’ll be waiting at this time every night, then.”

For the first time this evening, his gaunt face split into a tender grin, pink lips parting like spliced flesh. Somehow, he’s able to make the act of smiling something gory, something haunting. Your eyes are glued to the bone-white of his teeth. It’s like watching a car crash. You want, desperately, to look away. You cannot.

“I’m glad,” says the strange boy. “I’ll be here every night, right on time.”

A soft breeze stirs outside, just restless enough to tickle teasingly at the windchimes which dangle from the shop’s awning. Usually, the barrier of the front door dulls the melody. Tonight, you can hear the bells loud and clear.

Before you can think to demand (beg) that he reveal additional identifying information about himself – like, say, his name – the boy has all but disappeared from sight. Incredulously, you whirl around on your heel, scanning every visible inch of the shop for any possible clue as to where he went. But your searching is all for naught. It seems that he is, both in presence and absence, a complete mystery to you.

Well. There are certainly worse things that have happened to you. At least you got to chat with a cute, creepy guy for your trouble.

;

The next day, Granny Orimoto abstains from work yet again. Her modest apartment sitting atop the flower shop has kept her out of sight for many days, now. You’re no stranger to her fits and bursts of ill health, but you cannot recall the last time the brusque, full-hearted old lady has been bedridden for such a prolonged length of time.

You almost consider trying to drop by unannounced to bring her some soup and vitamins, but the thought dies immediately upon arrival. Memories of the last time you’d tried to caretake for her and were subsequently thrown out with indignant, irate gusto are enough to curb your momentary sympathy.

This means that you are effectively head of shop, once more. Over time, it gets easier to deal with the random accidents prone to any small, self-run business: leaks, clogs, jams, flickering lights, disappearing items, strange sounds at odd hours with an unlocatable source. All of it, you handle with def improvisational methods.

Even the spontaneously shattering bathroom mirror is no match for your handywoman capabilities! Really, Granny Orimoto should be lucky that it is you who happened to show up on her doorstep just as her health began to take a dive.

These are the kinds of thoughts buzzing around your skull as twilight descends upon the horizon like flies to a carcass. The death of the day is, as usual, a bloody affair: hues of bright vermillion spill across the sky, setting everything in the shop a brilliant, flagrant shade of fresh-burning red. The terracotta pots seem almost to be radiating with internal heat.

Night comes soon enough, bringing with it a brisk chill in the air. The wind rustles the windchimes, a forewarning of what is to come.

And sure enough, at 8:04 P.M., there he is, lingering in the doorway, daring to take not one step past the threshold, just as he’d done yesterday, that first night.

“Good evening.”

Clutched in his fingers is a wrinkled letter, wrapped in plain stationery. He offers it to you with both hands, politely.  

The space between the both of you evaporates in the fraction of a second it takes for you to cross the shop and greet him back, accepting the letter with greedy hands and a greedier heart. “Good evening. Thank you for the correspondence.”

“Thank you for receiving it,” he replies, scratching the back of his head in a stupidly endearing self-conscious gesture. “I know the manner of communication is a bit unconventional… sorry about that…”

“It’s okay.” And it really is. You, of all people, are no stranger to unforeseen and harrowing life circumstances. That the young man does not possess a phone or email address is not so uncommon, anyways – you’ve had time to reflect on the situation, and for all his off-putting looks and strangely formal manner of speaking, he could easily be a country mouse who has recently relocated to a more urban area. Who are you to judge?

“Shall I have a response waiting for you tomorrow night?”

He bows, then, for a bit longer and a bit deeper than what is normally appropriate for two virtual strangers. “I’d be grateful. Thank you for the trouble.”  

Once more, he evaporates seemingly into thin air, leaving behind not even the faintest trace of his existence. He appears to possess an uncanny ability to slip out of sight just as your eyes fall shut in the millisecond it takes to blink, to breathe.

Taken in stride with his dark-circled eyes and general aura of mysterious tragedy, the whole schtick is a little bit sexy, you have to admit. His vibe is that of a haunted family heirloom: beautiful, priceless, stained in generations of blood and cursed to doom those who dare to draw too near.

Your eagerness is almost feral as you tear apart the seal to the envelope in your hands, greedily pawing at the innards. What awaits you is a handwritten letter, complete with smudged pencil marks obscuring some of the more intricate kanji scribbled onto the page. Some of his radicals waver, lines bending or sprawling in odd and abnormal ways, as though he’d been shaking when we wrote it.

 As though he’d been nervous. So nervous, in fact, that upon handing you the thing, he had to immediately abscond from the premises without another word.

Cute.

To Whom it May Concern,

Thank you very kindly for your willingness to take me on as an apprentice to your shop. Please allow me to introduce myself.

My name is Okkotsu Yuuta. I am a recent graduate of a martial arts vocational school. I just completed a year-long internship abroad in Africa. Due to my recent re-entry into Japan, I am still in the process of setting up my phone and internet. I apologize for the inconvenience and I am extremely sorry for the burden.

As a supervisor and business, you may benefit from the set of skills that I have to offer. I can lift upwards of 25kg. I am neat and detail oriented. Due to past life experiences, I am a fast learner and quick to adapt to new surroundings. I am accustomed to taking orders and delivering results. It is my utmost goal to ensure the comfort and satisfaction of those around me. I am eager to be of service.

Please think of me kindly.

Upon reading the very last word of the very last line, you discover that your bottom lip has been bitten so severely that a fine trickle of blood is descending down your chin.

There is no resume or CV in sight – just this handwritten, strangle little letter in which he divulges some most interesting truths.

Is he playing mind games with you? “Accustomed to taking orders”? “Eager to be of service”? Is he trying to tell you something? Outside of the hiring process, that is.

The note itself is perfectly polite and proper. It’s you whose mind succumbs hedonistically to the gutter. Oh, for shame.

 At night, the shop tends to turn into a gnarly jungle of pots and leaves and vines and poorly-placed smatterings of soil; you wade through theses trenches, aided by no more than the moonlight attempting to feebly infiltrate through the shutters – as the lights are out, again. Should probably call someone about that.

In your frantic haste, it’s a miracle your hands aren’t sliced by a spare pair of shears lying forgotten on some counter or another. Before injury occurs, you’ve already located what you’ve been searching for: a usable pen and some clean, uncrumpled paper.

The matchbox in your back pocket proves useful as you strike up a flame and light a nearby candle, paying no mind to the potential danger of the wobbly column of fire in a room full of fauna.

Like a woman possessed, you feverishly scribble away at your reply. It takes you longer to draft this one particular letter than it had to complete your college entrance exams.

But it’s alright – the candle beside you burns throughout the night, neither the wick nor the wax diminishing even a wink.

Dear Okkotsu,

Your eagerness to work hard is clearly evident. Color me impressed.

As fate would have it, I am in dire need of some help with running the shop. The owner has been absent with illness for quite some time and the workload is starting to get unmanageable. The addition of a strong set of arms is more than welcome. Even when it was the two of us putzing around, we still wouldn’t have been able to do some of the heavier lifting.

I’m curious to hear more about your passion to serve. Was this instilled in you during your time at vocational school? What does “being of service” mean to you?

While we are ultimately a public-facing shop, the stream of customers is slow, and your daily tasks will often look like physical labor and horticultural activities. But, from your letter, it sounds like this will pose no object.

Overall, your enthusiasm is appreciated and your hard-working attitude is attractive to future employers.

You could start as early as tomorrow.

Please do respond at your convenience.

It was rather quickly with only a slight bit of panic running through your veins that you tacked on “to future employers.” Even while reading it back, you cringe a little bit. Too forward? Oh well. It’s written in ink and it’s much too late to go for hunting for another clean piece of paper in the shop’s opaque blackness.

Speaking of which… you really should call an electrician. And a plumber. And some sort of handy man, to help you clean up all the broken glass from the shattered bathroom mirror. And maybe it may also me a good idea to get in touch with a security footage company and inquire about their installation rates. It certainly can’t be normal; how many things go missing so frequently. Although you’ve spent most of your waking hours with an aging elderly woman up until very recently, you’re quite sure that dementia isn’t contagious.

Ah, well. These are all things to take care of tomorrow. Sighing, you tuck away the letter into your back pocket for safe keeping before you go about locking up.

You try not to think too hard about the lingering gaze you feel on the back of your neck. If anything, it feels better than being completely alone.

;

The fragrant scent of okayu fills your nose as you climb the stairs to reach Granny Orimoto’s apartment.

Usually, you would not dare to trespass inside her abode, despite it’s close proximity to the shop. She is a grouchy old lady who does not take kindly to meddling. And yet, you couldn’t ignore the seed of worry in the pit of your belly, which had blossomed over the course of the past few weeks into full-blown concern for her wellbeing. Besides her once-daily text message in the evening confirming the status of shop operations, you have not seen or heard from the old woman in what must be almost half a month at this point.

So, you’ve bitten back your pride and prepared a meal to personally deliver to her.

You are moderately concerned when there is no response to your three separate attempts at knocking on the door. Granny Orimoto hadn’t responded to any of your text messages, so you’d naively assumed she’d been asleep and hadn’t seen them. But is it possible to sleep through the ruckus that you’re creating?

The tension in your body only heightens when you try to the doorknob and realize, in shock and slight horror, that it’s open.

“Granny Orimoto?” You call out, haltingly yet loudly – loud enough to reach her wizened ears. “Granny, I’m sorry, I’ll be coming in now! Pardon the intrusion!”

Taking care not to jostle the still-hot bowl of rice porridge in your hands, you slip off your shoes at the Genkan and make your way inside of the apartment. Although you’ve only been here once before – and it had been an extremely brief stay before Granny Orimoto had shooed you off the premises – it still doesn’t feel all that unfamiliar to you.

It’s a traditional set-up, that much is for sure. Not much has changed, either. Same old floral blankets folded in various assortments and piles around the tiny room, same old plastic draining rack laid across the kitchen sink.

And, of course, there is that strange pair of guest slippers by the front door.

A bright, childish pink with the width and depth to accompany the foot of a young girl no older than six, these slippers had given you pause the first time you’d set foot in Granny Orimoto’s apartment. As far as you know, the old lady doesn’t have any living relatives with which she maintains contact. She spends every holiday alone, in her room, and refuses any offers of companionship between the two of you. You’ve always assumed something tragic must have happened, for a woman this advanced in age to have no one to visit or host during the New Year.

So why, then, does she keep a pair of children’s house slippers by the front door?

Although they are neatly placed and carefully aligned, the heels of the slippers face the direction of the household – as though they’ve been recently taken off and exchanged for outside shoes. Like someone has been here and left. Were they in that position when you stopped by before? Perhaps Granny Orimoto set them that way during her last cleaning.

Shaking yourself out of your reverie, you move past the entrance area and towards where you know the bedroom awaits. There is no overt stench of death and decay, so you aren’t afraid of walking in on her corpse. You’re, like, 85% sure that you could mentally recover from handling that situation, but it would be unfortunate and would likely mean an endless night for you and the poor EMTs who would be dispatched to the scene.

The bedroom door, too, is slightly ajar, and when you push it open all the way, you’re greeted by a sight that hits you squarely in the chest, knocking the wind from your lungs, stealing your voice, marring your eyes with shock and sympathy.

Granny Orimoto lies on her back, skin so pale that it is a near perfect match to the futon covers draped around her frail body. Even from this distance, you are able to clearly track the pathway of her veins as they course across her, the deep blues and greens standing out abnormally against the thin, alabaster flesh. Her hair, significantly grayer than the last time you’d seen her, has escaped from it’s usual, customary low-slung bun. You’ve never seen Granny Orimoto in any other kind of style – in fact, you’d begun to think – somewhat mischievously – that her hair had been surgically arranged to the nape of her neck.

But now, it sprawls around her skull in scraggly spirals, spilling across the pillow like leaking liquid. Thin and brittle, you’re sure that if she tried to gather it into a bun as she once had, it would split and break into a million fine pieces of ash.

“So, you’ve come.”

That hoarse voice snaps you out of your trance. You hadn’t even noticed that she was awake. One moment, you’d been gazing at her motionless body – and the next, you find her entirely unchanged except for the fact that her eyes are now open, peering at you. Unblinking. It’s disconcerting.

It looks like the effort pains her, to lift one hand and pat weakly at the comforter. “You came all the way here, silly girl. Might as well sit.”

You aren’t being kicked out?

Wow. She really must be dying.

Gingerly, you fold your legs beneath you and linger at the edge of the futon. “Granny, how are you feeling? I brought okayu. If you are feeling up to it, please eat. You must take care of your health.”

“Alright then,” says Granny Orimoto, mildly. “You’ll have to help me.”

“Of course.”

There is ultimately an insignificant amount of spillage down the front of her shirt, in the end. Still, you take it as an opportunity to encourage her to take a bath and change into fresh clothes, which you expect she has not done in far too long. This, too, requires your assistance. You don’t mind it at all. In fact, it brings you peace – to be able to care for the woman who had most probably saved your life by taking you in, all that time ago.

When it’s all said and done, Granny Orimoto lays back in the bed. The sheets could use some washing and the futon itself should surely be hung out in the sun to dry, but you recognize that this might be a bit too much excitement for her today. Having eaten and bathed, Granny Orimoto appears ready to return to her slumber.

You decide not to push your luck by overstaying your welcome. “Please rest well, Granny Orimoto. I will come back soon.”

It is when you are almost past the threshold of the bedroom door that you hear Granny’s whisper, faint as smoke and so soft it almost doesn’t sound like the stubborn, strong-willed woman you once knew:

“You remind me of my granddaughter.”

As though you’ve been struck by lightning, your body is immediately paralyzed, muscles helpless to do anything but twitch in confusion, overstimulation. “Oh…? I hope she is well…”

“She’s dead,” says Granny Orimoto. “The stench of death follows you.”

Ironic, coming from a woman who is quite obviously preparing to approach the far shore herself. “I see.”

“Whatever is hanging around you, get it taken care of. You’ll stink up the shop and the plants will wither.”

“Yes, Granny.”

“Are you taking care of my zinnias?”

“Yes, Granny.”

“Better be. How can you own a flower shop if you can’t take care of zinnias…”

You want to whip around and ask her what the hell she means by that, but the rumbling of her soft snores fill the space before you can get another word in edgewise.

As you make your way downstairs, Granny’s words continue to marinate in your mind – and not just her implication that the shop would be left to you. That she thought it fit to tell you that you remind her of her dead granddaughter was certainly an event that occurred in your life. But what exactly had she been on about, telling you that you smell like death?

In absentminded thought, your hand fiddles around in your jacket pocket with the latest letter from Okkotsu. You can’t stop thinking about his response to your last letter.

To You, Whom it Concerns,

Are you taking care? The seasons are changing during this time, so I hope your health is faring well.

I’m glad that my enthusiasm comes across as clearly as my physical capabilities.  Sometimes I struggle to convey my intentions and inner thoughts. It seems like we can understand each other well, even while communicating through letters, which makes me happy.

To me, being of service means unobstructed and clear-minded dedication of the self, body and mind, to another’s fulfillment. Not dissimilar to pure love. This “pure” element is important to me. In fact, I believe total service is a form of pure love. Would you agree?

Maybe this is a bit strange to say, and you might hate me for it, but you remind me of a girl I once knew. She is long gone now. It has been nice to see some of her, again. Of course, it has been even nicer to get to know you.

Regretfully, I cannot begin formal employment just yet. The country re-entry procedures are taking longer than expected and things are a bit complicated right now. It is burdensome, but if you could please kindly allow for some additional time I would be very grateful. I’m sorry to trouble you.

In the meantime, it’s fun to chat together, like this. I’d be happy if we could continue.

Take care not to catch a cold.

The first time you’d read it practically had you squealing into your hands like a schoolgirl. Pure love? Expressing concern for your health? Expressing his desire to continue exchanging letters, even if he can’t formally start the training process?

At this rate, you’re on track towards a confession.

Which, of course, is the ultimate goal. You could never forgive yourself for letting the physical manifestation of all your wildest fantasies slip away. No, you’ve got to reel him in. You’ve got to ensnare him in a web of infatuation, so convoluted and intense that he won’t be able to find his way out. You’ve already decided that he is yours. It’s only a matter of time before things fall into place.

As has become customary, Okkotsu drops by the shop at precisely 8:04 p.m. and not one moment sooner or later. You’ve grown to anticipate the tinkling of the windchimes which herald his otherwise soundless arrival. Like an apparition, his visage manifests in the front door.

There’s something different about tonight: uncertain, he chances a foot past the threshold. “Could I trouble you to come inside?”

Oh. Oh! Are you finally past the stage of contactless letter exchange? You could cry tears of joy. “Please come in.”

“Pardon the intrusion…”

When he breaks past the entry area, it’s as though a wave of heat pulses throughout not just your own body, but the entire shop, as well. A light sweat breaks out at the crest of your brow. Is this seasonally appropriate? You aren’t sure if there is any season wherein a heatwave past sundown is normal.

Okkotsu looks at you like a lost puppy, floundering at what to do, what to say next. You yourself are no less awkward, but you take on the burden of breaking the silence first:

“It’s funny, you mentioned in your letter that I remind you of a girl you once knew. Today, my boss said that I remind her of her dead granddaughter. Wouldn’t happen to be the same girl, huh?”

You’re trying for lighthearted, but the joke falls flat when Okkotsu pales, white as a ghost.

Damage control, damage control! “Oh, I’m – I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“No, no, it’s alright,” he cuts you off, raising a hand. “I should’ve been forthright from the beginning. You aren’t too far off from the truth.”

Huh?

Okkotsu continues, “When I was a little boy, Mrs. Orimoto’s granddaughter and I were best friends. Her name was Rika. When she was six, Rika died in a car accident. I was with her at the time and failed to do anything to stop it from happening, or to save her. I’ve always been very sorry to Mrs. Orimoto, who raised Rika from a young age. By working at her shop, I hoped to repay some of that debt…”

You blink once, twice. Time seems to fall apart and reconstruct itself in the space it takes you to conjure up a response. What can you possibly say, to a story like that?

“You don’t, er, have to say anything,” mutters Okkotsu, as though he’s read your mind. “I know it’s heavy. But that’s the truth…”

“Okkotsu,” you say, voice tinny and faraway to your own ears. “You have a good heart.”

His downcast face shoots upwards, wide eyes seeking out your own with a desperate sheen to their dark, bottomless depths. “Huh…?”

“I mean it,” you press on, stepping closer as you do. He doesn’t even flinch or waver. You know this, because your senses are acutely aware of every fiber of his being. “Not many people would be that brave, or honor that sense of duty. You’re an admirable man. Has anyone ever told you that before?”

It seems you’ll be staying well past closing tonight to mop up the puddle that Okkotsu is about to melt into. His ears burn such a bright red that they almost glow in the dim lighting of the shop.

“I- I--!”

“So that’s the depth of your service,” you muse, your toes stopping just shy of his own, “or your ‘pure love’?”

Okkotsu’s eyes flutter shut. The sound of his gulp echoes like a gunshot. “Ah… er, miss manager, I—”

“Call me by my name. I’ve written it to you for a reason.”

Obeying your direct command, he feebly whispers your name, invoking you like he’s scared of what he’s about to summon. It sets a live wire alight at the base of your spine. Sparks fly throughout your body and it’s all you can do not to pounce on him then and there in this very shop, sleeping Granny upstairs be damned.

“Good. It seems you really are skilled at taking direction.”

His eyes are still closed when you nods, face flushed. Cute. You can’t help but want to tease him more, push him further. “Good job.”

His head all but hangs, now, as he resolutely refuses to make eye contact with you. In front of him, his hands are clasped suspiciously in front of his crotch – a detail which you take in ravenously, hungrily.

Curbing the overwhelming desire to do more, you settle with pushing your sealed envelope into his firm, solid chest with both hands, letting your fingernails press lightly into the muscle. “Here’s today’s letter. Read it and respond well.”

“Yes, I understand,” he says, eyes still shut, head still hung.

It requires you to stand on your tiptoes, when you try to lean into his ear and whisper: “You deserve a chance to make things right. Let me help you with this.”

You let him go, then, because you’re sure he’s about ready to burst at the seams. The last thing you throw his way is yet another bit of praise, because you’re a little bit awful: “I admire your idea of pure love, Okkotsu.”

Before tonight, you’ve never seen a grown man walk straight into a windowpane. Okkotsu reels back, nods and bows to you in acknowledgement before hightailing it out of the shop so fast that, as usual, you fail to actually see him go through the motions of stepping out and leaving. He’s always in such a rush. An odd one, he is.

Good thing “odd” just your type.

From that night onwards, Okkotsu starts making himself more available outside of his usual 8:04 p.m. haunting. Now, he’ll drop by early enough in the afternoons for his shadow to be visible against the door. Still, he resolutely avoids any times when current customers are present. You tease him, lightly, for this, asking how he plans to work partially as a sales attendant if he is afraid to interact with the customer base.

His response?

“I want to work here for two reasons,” he’d stated simply. “For you, and for Rika.”

Normal women would probably find an issue with their ideal man likening them to his dead childhood sweetheart. Fortunately, you are not normal. It’s flattering, even.

Clearly, Rika was another manifestation of his pure love. That you can even approach that category, let alone be mentioned in the same breath as her, is, to you, a vibrant green flag. You must be doing something right here.

So you continue intertwining yourself deeper and deeper with Okkotsu Yuuta: the letters are a constant in both of your daily lives, as well as his visits become more frequent. As an interesting development, he’s started to bring you homecooked food. Usually, it is you who does the caregiving. The first time he shows up with an obento made specially for you – complete with a heart made out of specially cut seaweed set atop the fresh rice – you almost start crying.

Admittedly, it’s all moving very fast. Hasn’t it only been four days, now, since he’d first darkened your doorway, pitifully asking for a job with no form of communication? And now, here he is, feeding you the food he’d prepared for you to enjoy as you go about your closing shift.

“Would you ever want to go out?” You blurt, and then pause, mortified at the overtly forward implication to your words. “Like! To a restaurant! Or a café! You always bring me stuff. Let me treat you.”

“Hmmm…”

Okkotsu’s wide, dark eyes roll upwards in thought. “But I really like staying here. I like eating here. No one else gets to see your pleased, comfortable face while eating except me. I don’t think I can share that. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you respond, dizzy. “You don’t have to.”

This is the right answer. Despite his soft, youthful features, the ginger grin he offers you is undercut by the ominous glint in his intense gaze. “I don’t have to share?” He gathers some pickled plum in the chopsticks, bringing them to your open, waiting mouth. “It’s all for me?”

“I am,” you say, and accept the bitter, delicious fruit on the tip of your tongue. It is pungent. It is sweet. It is overwhelming. You almost aren’t able to swallow.

Time spent with Okkotsu makes life seem so fantastical that it almost blinds you to the world of the living. That night, you cannot find it within yourself to leave the shop and go home after closing, instead opting to chat with this gaunt, ghoulish boy until you are startled awake in the morning by your phone’s automatic alarm.

When you come to, you discover that you’d all but passed out behind the front desk, where the two of you had sat, talking, for hours into the night. Okkotsu is nowhere to be found, but in his absence is a crisply folded piece of paper lying innocently upon the desk. Hastily, you scrub at your eyes and smack your lips, trying to wake yourself up as much as is possible before you unfurl the letter and dive into its contents.

To You, Whom it Concerns,

Do you have any idea how difficult it is to be apart from you?

If I could have, I would have stayed with you all throughout the night. I’m sorry to have left you by yourself. But you aren’t really alone. If you ever feel lonely, in the shop, please remember that I’m always there with you. Watching over you. Can you feel me?

Thanks for listening to me last night. It was a heavy story to tell, but now that I’ve confessed it, I feel so much lighter. And you accept me! Words can’t express how I feel, so please allow me to keep showing you.

Also, since Mrs. Orimoto isn’t well these days, can I ask that you don’t share with her that I’m here? The shock may worsen her condition. When she is no longer bedridden, I will tell her myself that I wish to remain and work in the shop. You shouldn’t be caught in the middle of my situation.

As always, I can’t wait to see you again. I miss you so much already, and I haven’t even left the shop yet. I’m writing this as I watch you sleep. Did you know that you snore a little bit? It’s cute.

Please think of me often.

On the one hand, you want to bury your face in your hands and scream and cry and maybe roll around and die a little bit. A love note! It’s a proper love note, this time. The thought makes your insides feel as though they’re being set alight with a bright, brilliant, inextinguishable flame.

On the other hand, Okkotsu’s mention of Granny Orimoto has brought to mind the fact that you haven’t heard from her in what is now two days. Usually, she’ll send you a message or two at the end of every day, making sure that things are in order and that you haven’t burned down the shop yet. But the last time you’d spoken to her had been when you brought over the okayu to soothe her sickly stomach…

Inexplicably, a chill overtakes your body.

Operating on autopilot, you pull yourself together – running a hand through your hair, smoothing your wrinkled clothes – and make your way out of the shop, to the external set of stairs running along the west wall.

With haste, you climb the steps, nearly tripping over yourself to reach the front door which has been left, once again, unlocked. The sense of wrongness occupying your faculties only heightens when you realize this must mean that Granny Orimoto has not been up out of bed since you’d last visited.

When you stop to toe off your shoes at the genkan, you notice that the bright pink pair of children’s house slippers are nowhere to be found, absent from their perpetual perch by the front door, as though someone – or something – has stepped inside.

Mind whirling a mile a minute, you push into the apartment and immediately reel back at the offensive scent of pure, unadulterated rot.

Oh.

Oh, no.

It could be the spoiled ingredients in the fridge, you think, desperately, as you hustle towards the bedroom. It could be anything. Anything but what it is you’re most afraid of.

Dazed, confused, scared, and still freshly woken up, your clumsy limbs somehow manage to collide with one of the low-sitting tables filling the living space. The abundance of knick-knacks and keepsakes cluttering the surface clatter in indignation, making an obscene ruckus as they fall over and to the floor. Upon closer inspection, you realize, to your horror, that it is an altar which you’d disturbed.

The only things left unshaken by your blundering blight are two framed photos: one of which displays the portrait of a young girl, no older than six, with long, dark hair and a serene smile. She seems to peer at you through the barriers of the picture frame, through the barrier of time. Her gaze hooks into your soul and invites you to step closer, to look harder. The longer you stare, the higher the gooseflesh on your skin raises in alarm. It’s an uphill battle to slide your gaze over to the picture beside her, which displays the likeness of a young boy close to her in age – presumably unrelated to her, given their distinct features, and yet, he is placed next to her on what is surely a memorial altar meant to honor and house the deceased.

While the personal effects and other supplicating items have all been disrupted and thrown off by your collision, the incense in front of the two picture frames still burns brightly, steadfastly. Oddly, it does nothing to quell the horrid stench of decay in the apartment. If anything, the altar seems to be exasperating the smell, which brings involuntary tears to your eyes and a pucker to your lips.

It's less so that the stench itself is what drives you to such a reaction; rather, the sensation invading your olfactory senses fills you with an abominable concoction of violent emotions: rage, pity, sorrow, envy, despair. You are drawn follow the source of these feelings, and your feet lead you to the bedroom, hands trembling underneath the sheer weight of all that you are experiencing as they push the slightly ajar door all the way open.

A gasp escapes you, unbidden. There, in that same, white futon adorned with layers and layers of her signature floral blankets, lies the corpse of Granny Orimoto. You can tell she’s dead because her skin has started to sag and bloat in strange and inhuman ways. This is the least surprising thing before your eyes.

Next to Granny sits a little girl – the spitting image of the girl in the portrait you’d glimpsed mere moments ago. Her gaze had once been trained steadfastly on Granny’s body, but now she looks up at you, unblinking, all-seeing.

“Hello,” says the girl, with a little girl’s voice.

“Hi,” you respond. “Do you live here?”

“Yes,” says the girl. “This is my granny.”

You remind me of my granddaughter.

She’s dead.

Granny Orimoto’s parting words to you echo in your head, rattling your brain, fizzling your consciousness.

“It’s nice to meet you, Rika. Granny Orimoto told me about you.”

Slowly, cautiously, as though you are approaching a spooked animal (ironic, given the fact that it is you who is shaking like a leaf), you crouch down and kneel on the floor, sitting on your haunches in a polite manner, mirroring the girl before you. Granny Orimoto’s body is the only thing separating you as you both sit, face to face, hands clasped in your laps, peering curiously at one another.

“I know,” says Rika. “Yuuta told you about me, too.”

Of course she would know about the conversations you and Yuuta have. This also might as well happen. At this point, after all you’ve just witnessed – first, the fresh corpse of your former employer, and now, the physical manifestation of a girl who died over ten years ago – there is very little left that could happen which would truly shock you out of your wits.

“Yes, he did. Have you been hanging out in the shop? Have you been lonely?”

The girl sticks out her bottom lip. “Yeah. You guys didn’t pay attention to me. Even when I was really loud, or turned the lights off, or broke the mirror. Sorry for breaking the mirror. I was mad.”

“It’s okay to be mad, but we mustn’t break things, or hurt others. I’m sorry for not noticing you sooner. Do you like plants and gardening? Like your granny?”

Rika nods. “Mhm, yeah. But Granny never lets me into the shop. Granny says all I do is mess things up. Granny says I’m no good. Granny says people died because of me. Did you know my dad is dead, too?”

“I’m sorry,” you say.

“It’s okay,” says Rika. “I wanted him to die.”

You blink. “Did you want Granny Orimoto to die, too?”

She takes a moment to contemplate before answering. “Granny had to die if I was going to play with Yuuta again.”

“What do you mean?” You ask, desperate to understand. When she begins to explain, you lean forward, forgetful of the fact that it is an old woman’s corpse which lies beneath you.

“Granny has already lived for so long. I wanted to come back. I died before my seventh birthday. Yuuta and I were supposed to spend it together. Yuuta never forgot about me. Yuuta talks to me every day. Yuuta went to Africa. Have you ever been to Africa? I went with Yuuta because he made a shrine for me there. Now Yuuta is back in Japan. Yuuta promised that we would play together again. Yuuta said he needed some time to prepare things. Yuuta is good at things like that – Yuuta can fight and do magic. Yuuta does jujutsu. Do you know jujutsu?”

“I know it,” you tell her.

“Yeah, Yuuta has powers. Yuuta knows a lot about dying and things like that. So, anyways, Yuuta said he would use his powers to help me come back so we can play together again. Yuuta said that me and granny have to switch places. I said ‘OK, Yuuta!’ and then Yuuta said he needed seven days. What day is it today?”

Somehow, you know the answer, even without looking at your phone’s calendar. “Monday.”

“Oh, so it’s been seven days. Yay! We can play together again. Do you want to play with us, too?”

“I would like to play together, yes.”

Abruptly, Rika unfurls from her graceful little seated position and makes her way over to you, crawling over Granny Orimoto’s corpse. You try not to think too hard about the graphic squelching that occurs underneath the childish palms of Rika’s tiny hands.

“Yay! Let’s go downstairs. Maybe Yuuta will be there.”

You don’t have the heart to tell her that Yuuta only swings by when the sun is out of sight. Her arms raise, clearly indicating that she’d like to be carried, and you are content to oblige her, as you scoop her up in your arms and make good on her direction. You exit Granny Orimoto’s apartment with Rika in your arms, her little feet dangling from your hip. The bright pink pair of slippers almost fall off as you make your way down the stairs, and you take care to remind her to make sure not to lose them.

When you get back to the shop, you must admit that you were mistaken in thinking Yuuta would not be there. As though he’d been anticipating this – which, you realize, he absolutely was, as this marks seven days from the first time he’d set foot in the shop – Yuuta stands by the front desk, wringing his hands before him nervously, sweat visible at his temples.

The both of you lock eyes, and he smiles, warm and fuzzy and entirely ill-fitting for the increasingly absurd scenario in which you find yourself. But you have little time to interrogate him about what the hell is going on – for Rika leaps from your arms and hits the ground running, screaming at the top of her little lungs, Yuuta!! Yuuta!!!, excited and so full of life, in only the way that children can scream in pure joy. Pure love.

He crouches and readily meets her, scooping the little girl up in his arms and sweeping her into the air, spinning round and round with Rika in his arms. Rika-chan!! Rika-chan!!! he cries – literally cries, that is, as you cannot help but spot the stray tear or two running down the swells of his flushed cheeks.

It is right as you are starting to feel a bit voyeuristic that Yuuta slows to a stop and finds your eyes once more. He comes to you, then, with Rika still perched on his hip, a chafingly tender smile splitting his face into two.

“I knew it was you,” he whispers with charged intensity, voice potent with unspoken feeling. “I knew you were special. I’ve always known. You never judge me. You always listen. You accepted me. And you accepted Rika, too.”

Have you? Accepted them, that is.

You shock yourself when you realize that you really have accepted all that’s transpired. Granny Orimoto saved your life when she’d taken you in and, for that, you must always be grateful. But from what Rika shared with you about how she’d been treated as a small child, and from what you’ve observed from Yuuta’s generally traumatized disposition and extreme reluctance to come face-to-face with the old woman, you realize, now, that there is a reason why Granny Orimoto had no living family to speak to or rely on when she was in her final days.

Whether or not her death had something to do with Yuuta’s apparent preternatural abilities (you remind yourself to ask about that later), it remains clear that she’d been in ill health long before you’d arrived at the flower shop. With no one to talk to. No one to care for her. You’d always felt pity. But, now, you realize that it may have been a situation of her own doing.

How could you argue with the living, breathing testament to that fact, who stand before you in fresh-faced, smiling glee?

“Of course I accept you both,” you say, earnestly, and mean it. “Rika is too cute not to love!” The young girl giggles, bashfully burying her face in Yuuta’s neck.

“And what about me?” Yuuta’s brows are quirked, his smile dipping into something a bit more cutting, a touch more heated than his simple joy from moments ago. “Am I cute enough to love, too?”

The answer is simple and requires no effort on your part: “I love you, Yuuta.”

You had more to say after that, but it proves a bit challenging to monologue your undying devotion to this man while said man is currently enveloping your mouth inside of his own. He kisses like a black hole: devouring, dark, impossibly comprehensive, and providing you without hope for possible escape.

He really is your type.

;

After those first seven days, Yuuta finally begins training at the shop. And Rika joins in, as well.

The three of you make an odd, adorable little family unit. After Yuuta had taken care of cleaning and renovating the apartment space upstairs, the three of you moved in without further delay. Your days are filled with home-cooking, raising Rika, maintaining the shop, and working alongside the man who has quickly made himself to be your life partner in every endeavor.

In fact, so much of your life is consumed with this newfound domesticity that there is little reason for you to leave the shop in the first place. Whenever you stray too far outside, you are prone to headaches, dizziness, fatigue, and even fever. It’s best to stay where is familiar, you reason. And Yuuta’s cooking is too good for you to want to eat anywhere else. He makes sure you eat three times a day, at least, and insists you finish your plate every time. Perhaps this is why you can’t stand life outside of this four, cozy walls – where else could you possibly find contentment such as this?

The business is re-named to “Rika’s Flower Shop,” which all three of you find quite agreeable given the current state of affairs. More customers than ever flow in, attracted by the colorful designs hand-painted by Rika herself on the building exterior. You generate enough revenue for additional renovations to be made on the shop. There is enough room in the budget to hire some part-time shop hands – local university students in the area looking to support themselves.

Everything is coming to fruition. For once, you truly feel as though life is blossoming.

And you can attribute all of it, every last bit of happiness, to them: Granny Orimoto, Rika, and Yuuta. The happiness is so overwhelming that you don’t ever want to leave their side, not even to run to the konbini, or to visit the post office. Why would you need to leave, when everything you’ve ever wanted is right here?

You have a family, a home, a life. You’ll remain in this shop with your loves until the day you grow as old and sickly as Granny Orimoto, and you’ll likely die upstairs, lying next to Yuuta, the both of you wrinkled and gray, curled together atop the futon, exactly where Granny had wheezed her last, bitter breath.

You wonder if Rika was there to watch it happen. You wonder if Rika will be there to see the both of you off, too.

You hope so. You really, really hope so.

You’re sure death will be every bit the dream you’re hoping it will be.

#okkotsu yuuta x reader #okkotsu yuta x reader #jjk reader insert #jjk x reader #okkotsu yuuta reader insert #okkotsu yuta reader insert #jjk ao3 #jjk fic #okkotsu yuuta fic #okkotsu yuuta fanfiction #okkotsu yuta fic #jjk fanfiction #my writing #mine #commissions

[lets-try-some-writing]

since i know you like your alien worldbuilding and i’m not really sure if you’ve answered an ask related to this yet, at least for tfp, i’d just be really interested in hearing some of your ideas (if you have any) on what cybertronian beauty standards are, and how most of the main cast would be seen in regards to those standards. do they even have an understandable concept of beauty? i mean obviously shiny paint and buffed finishes would probably be the norm, and different branches of the transformers race would definitely value certain traits over others (velocitron comes to mind) but what other features do you think would be cybertronian society’s general ideals?

Heck yeah, worldbuilding time. Lets gooooooo-

━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙ ━━━━━━━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙

Cybertronian Beauty Standards

There are a few universals when it comes to beauty standards across Cybertron. Namely well done paint, buffed plating, and unbroken armor. However across regions and castes, there are a few preferences that are rather prevalent.

Amidst high castes, the favored form is flamboyancy and keeping up the latest trends. If one wishes to keep up to standard, they will be required to constantly change their frame, usually in irreversible ways in order to ensure they are up to snuff. The trends always change, so it is near impossible to pinpoint what is seen as beautiful at any given moment amongst the high caste, but a few constants are brighter colors, accessories in abundance, and expressive optics. Its all a way to show off authority and wealth.

Middle caste mecha tend to be more reserved, and as a general rule, a more composed and sophisticated look is the most attractive. A firm frame without any serious kibble, hardy and built to last but still with enough unique accessories to stand out. Duller versions of their high caste counterparts paint selections are often the preferred choice, but often brighter colors are still appreciated most. For the middle caste its all about showing off one's ability to take care of themselves while still standing out in a way that is not obnoxious.

Low caste mecha look for survivability in those around them to determine beauty. A sturdy frame with no serious signs of deterioration, an appealing collection of scars to tell of battles won, and bright but often cold colors are preferred. Shining silver and multiple layers of armor are seen as most beautiful due to the story such things tell. A mech who can withstand everything and still manage to buff out their plating is one who is well regarded amongst the low castes.

Across different city states, these standards largely remained the same but were adapted to the preferences of each area. In the case of Iacon and its similarly wealthy sister cities, all mecha regardless of caste were expected to maintain their frame. Bright colors, slim waists with bulky shoulders and chevrons were seen as the most appealing. Thick pedes were also seen as an expression of grace when combined with thin legs and the overall bulk of the upper body. Additional kibble was not seen as particularly appealing and often a more minimalist appearance was most well regarded since it showed a mech could go without any notable modifications. If one had modifications, they were to be hidden if the mech in question wanted to keep up appearances. Any sort of markings to the frame were looked down upon, especially scarring. Clean plating without blemish was always seen as far superior to any sort of marking in wealthy cities. With that in mind, face preference tended to lean more toward those with polished and flat faces with their most interesting feature being their optics.

Less wealthy but more productive cities like Polyhex and Vos had a whole different set of preferences. Extra kibble was seen as appealing with a particular preference toward doorwings and wings in general. To have such a sensitive piece of additional kibble was put on a pedestal as it spoke of increadible self control to not be hitting everything and everyone or responding to stimuli poorly. Visors were held in high regard partially for the protective factor they offered, but largely due to how they obscured the face, a trait that was in high demand due to the various careers seen in the more bustling cities. Identity was everything, so having a frame with a slim midsection but with kibble almost everywhere else was seen as quite beautiful. Markings were tolerated and even seen as appealing to a degree so long as they were either artistically placed, or in the case of scarring, very minimal. The preference for facial structure was not really present as most instead preferred to focus on their visors as their most notable frame addition.

In poorer cities with a higher concentration of low caste mecha, such as Kaon and Helex, preferences differed yet again. Thick armor, heavily armed, and larger frames were seen as superior in every regard. The larger and sturdier a mech was, the better. A degree of curvage was seen as appealing, but largely the beauty was found in armor structure and useful kibble. Mecha in poorer cities resented any sort of ridiculous flamboyancy and much preferred quieter methods of showing off their grace. Polished but scarred armor was a mark of wisdom and prowess. Cooler colors showed an ability to go into battle without regard for faction or affiliation. Open weaponry showed bravery and honor since they quite clearly knew when and when not to fight. Usefulness was the most appealing, along with more aggressive plating structure. Unlike other cities, smooth and simple plating was not the most beautiful and instead most mecha agreed that spikes or at least extra boxy armor was better. With that in mind, sharper faces were also in higher demand.

Excluding cities, beauty standards fell into an interesting gray area that depended entirely on region. In small settlements, everything depending on environment. Those that lived near the sea were fond of the bulkier mecha since they could withstand the storms. They cared for them even more if their colors were various shades or orange and rust. Mecha from the spire forests were far fonder of tall and spindly frames, those with dark colors of the earth capable of rushing between obstacles without regard for the difficulties of a larger body. Those from the open plains and wastes fancied those more capable of speed so that they could get from point A to B without need for days of travel. Everything depended on region when not in the cities.

While there were outliers and small subcultures with different preferences, this is the overview.

#transformers #maccadam #transformers prime #cybertronian worldbuilding #cybertronian cities #cybertronian culture #pre war cybertron #orion pax is a super model by rich city standards and I will die on that hill #megs is the same in kaon #jazz is the pinnacle of gorgeousness in mid ranked cities #obviously ratchet is an angel given form for the small town folk #soundwave fits no where but everywhere all at once

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for wanting to make my own decisions concerning my siblings future life?

I'll start by apologizing for my broken English, I'm not native to this language. I (26f) have 3 older siblings (30f, 32m and 34m), we all lived with my parents until this year. I've recently decided to move so that I can start to live with my boyfriend, this decision caused a huge fight which ended up in my mother making an impulse buy and deciding on a life for my siblings and me that I don't agree with.

I'll try to be succint here but I do think some background is necessary: all my siblings were born with severe mental disabilities and muscular dystrophy. While my country has public healthcare, their accomodations and appointments can very easily become a financial issue. For example, my parents house has been completely remodeled to fit their wheelchairs, they have had to partially pay for stairlifts and their cars are adapted to fit them and their wheelchairs too. They also require constant monitoring since they act and behave in the way of 5-8 year old kids.

My parents know (and knew back then too) that my siblings' conditions was hereditary and that trying for more children could lead to them being born this way. I've always had the feeling that they continued for more children solely because they wanted to have a 'healthy child' that took care of my oldest siblings and them when they were older. Even though I'm the youngest sibling I've always been treated like a third parent, I've always been expected to care for them like my parents do. Due to this, I've never gotten to enjoy my childhood, I never had time for friends, relationships or hobbies. Growing up like this also made me think about how I wanted my own life to be and I've thought about the future in a way that my parents will never approve of.

Last week I finally decided that I wanted to start living with my bf whom I've been dating for 2 years. When I told my parents they became very happy and congratulated me which made me very happy.

three days ago they offhandedly told me that my bf's garage door was too small to fit my siblings car and that we should start saving to fix his house's stairs so that my siblings' stairlift could be built. I was very confused and told them that my siblings would not be coming with me, their house can accomodate them just fine and my bf's house is way too small. They got very mad and told me that they had been caring for my siblings for a long time and now it was my turn to do it while they rested (they want to retire). I told them I deserved to have some intimacy and that I wanted to enjoy having a childless life for once. They told me that was very selfish of me since they have never been able of enjoying a no-children marriage (they had their first child very early on their marriage and have continued to have children until they had me). I told them that was their own decision, now it's only fair I get to make that kind of decision and it's not like I'm abandoning them, I will continue to help and visit constantly. They told me I was lazy and a terrible sister and daughter.

I cannot begin to explain how much of my siblings' raising was coparented by me, I've spent my entire life caring for them. I've missed up on friends, relationships, jod opportunities, etc. solely to continue to be their caretaker. As you can expect I was very mad but I still kept calm some more, I told them I love my sibligs a lot and would do anything for them but that I deserve to have my own life too. They continued to get even more mad and eventually told me they would disown me if I didn't allow for them to have a good retirement. I left before I could say something I would later regret.

Yesterday my parents apologized and told me I was right. Apparently they've been saving money for some time to help me take care of my siblings once they're gone. They want me to spend this money on a somewhat small one-floor house they have their eyes on, so that we can all live together at some point. I was very happy, I've always been under the impression that my parents expected me to 'deal' with my siblings (forgive my wording, I'm not sure what verb to use) on my own, so them having future plans involving me made me very pleased. However, today my mother called me and told me that she made an impulse buy and bought this house, here's the catch: she somehow looked at the numbers wrong and can only pay for a third of the house's actual price (this is a normal thing for her, she's not the cleverest person). She wants me to pay the rest (by taking out a mortage).

I have some money saved up, its not much since I can't work many hours due to spending most of my time helping my siblings. This money was always going to be used to care for my siblings. However, my plans have always been much different. In a nearby town there is a place that cares for people with disabilities. This place is expensive but it is very nice and it would cover all my siblings' needs. I want to register my siblings there. I love them, I really do, but I'm so tired. I want to have a life and make decisions for myself for once. I know my parents would hate this decision but they are not going to be around forever and then it'll only be me and my bf caring for them on a (actually very small) house having to deal with a mortage my parents can't help pay off. My siblings would probably be sad too but they will get used to this new place and its not like I'm going to leave them forever, I would visit them constantly. This place would probably genuinely take better care of them than me and would allow me to work more hours and earn more (which I desperatly need if I want to continue caring for them). While my siblings' government aid would help it is definetly not enough if I consider how many renovations the house will need and my sibligs' constant medical expenses. When I talked about my concerns with my parents they simply told me that all will be fine and didn't give me any substancial advice on how to deal with anything. I'm also simply not strong enough. They require constant monitoring, showering, dressing and moving them requires so much strength it often makes my body hurt and emotionally it takes a huge toll on me to come back from work to spend the rest of my time solely caring for them. We have nurses hired but it is expensive and mostly not enough.

I know my parents will forever hate me for this and I will make my siblings very stressed for some time, but they depend on me. They don't have much of a choice here which is why I think I am the asshole, Would I be the asshole if I cancelled the house purchase and left my siblings in my parents house for the foreseeable future? I want intimacy with my bf and to have my own life for some time, I would also continue to save to ensure my siblings receive the best treatment possible. I'm also not abandoning my parents nor my siblings, I will continue to visit, help financially, spent time with them and carry them to their appointments, just from a distance. Basically it would all be the same except, at the end of the day, I get to go home to my bf and spend some time for myself. At the same time, would I be the asshole if I decided to cancel the house purchase and instead opted to enter my siblings in a medical institution that can better suit their needs? my parents will never agree with my decision but they are getting older and weaker, soon they won't be able to help and then it will only be me. I know my siblings would prefer to be with me, I'm being selfish but, at the same, I think my plan may be the best one for everyone involved.

What are these acronyms?

#aita #am i the asshole

[flowerandblood]

Flower and Blood (Oneshot)

[modern! • Aemond Targaryen x female]

[warnings: kissing, menstruation and bleeding, fluff]

[description: A small house party is organized in the Targaryen house, during which the siblings and their friends play board games. Helaena takes her friend who is having her first "women's days". At one point, she states with embarrassment, that she has bloodied her seat, and her in-game partner, Aemond, who has hardly spoken to her until now, tries to help her (Anon Request).]

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

_____

From the morning she felt that something bad was happening to her. She woke up all sore and without strength, she couldn't concentrate on anything during class, her stomach hurt.

It wasn't until she went to the toilet during a break and saw specks of blood on the panty liner that she realized she had gotten her period earlier than usual this month.

She sighed heavily when she saw this. Fortunately, she always carried a few sanitary napkins in her backpack, just in case, she or her friends often came in handy. Disheartened, she thought it was going to be a terrible day, and her friend Helaena invited her to her house. She said that her brother Aegon had the idea to do a game night, and since they both loved games like this she immediately agreed.

Now, without pills and with disaster looming, she didn't know what to do. When she told Helaena what was happening she looked at her understandingly, rummaged in her bag and took out a sheet of pills.

"Buy yourself a tea from the vending machine and swallow it. These are strong antispasmodics, you should feel better in a few minutes." She said gently. She wanted to kiss her hands for the help, her ovaries throbbing like crazy in pain.

Indeed, after an hour the pain in her lower abdomen had eased. She thought that aside from the constant, disgusting feeling of bleeding, she felt a little better. Their house was not far from her dormitory, so she decided that even if she felt worse during the party, she would just walk home.

When they entered their house, several people were already there. Aegon greeted them with a smile in the hallway, hugging her and his sister. The two had seen each other several times before.

She knew Aegon liked a good time, alcohol, and women. Sometimes too much. He seemed to know that neither of them were their type, and he didn't force himself on her. Instead, he brought three of his female friends, apparently from his year.

There were two other boys besides them - Criston, their longtime friend, and Aemond, the youngest of the siblings. She spoke to him the least, because he didn't speak much. She had seen how many times girls forced him to talk, and he looked away, desperate and bored.

She wasn't going to force herself on him. She liked him, because he was concrete and rather gentle in his manner, even though he communicated practically only in grunts.

She greeted everyone in turn. As she and Aemond embraced lightly, she smelled some nice male perfume that made her nose twitch. She looked at him with a smile at the thought. He released her, looking away, turning his attention to his sister.

After they determined that everyone was assembled, they entered the living room where boxes of games were spread on the floor and large, multi-colored, bright pillows on which they were apparently supposed to sit. She sat on one of them, right next to Helaena. Aegon's friend sat next to Aemond, Aegon, Criston and two other girls next to each other.

They started with Rummikub. The game was about arranging tiles with numbers, in a logical, mathematical sequence. They could be numbers in order, their multiples by multiplication, addition or subtraction as well as by colors.

She loved this game, it required a lot of cleverness and adapting to what others had already put together. She fought for the win with Criston, but finally fell.

Aegon announced that it's time for cartoon puns. He said that to make it easier to come up with something quickly they would pair up. He dropped two colored pawns for each team into the bag and shuffled them around, passing them to each of them.

She slid her hand inside, pausing there for a while, and pulled out a blue pawn. She looked around and saw that Aemond was spread out on his pillow, propped up on his elbow, staring at her intently, playing with a pawn of the same color between his fingers.

She smiled at him and got up from her seat, sitting cross-legged on the pillow next to him. After the draw, it turned out that two of Aegon's friends were in a group with each other, the third with Aegon himself, and Helaena and Criston were together. Aegon handed out all the small whiteboards and erasable markers as well as cards with slogans.

Aemond and she glanced at theirs and saw that "The Little Prince" was written on it. The password, of course, referred to the book of the same title. They looked at each other surprised.

"I know that book." She said quickly.

"Me too." He said low, rubbing his chin, she was surprised at how deep his voice was. "But I'm wondering how to present it so that they understand right away."

She twisted uneasily in place and jumped, pulling the cap off the marker. She began to draw a simple rose under a shade, with lots of smaller ones around it.

"Yeah, yeah, very good idea" He said suddenly, and she was amused to hear a note of excitement in his voice.

They had to wait their turn. First, Criston and Helaena showed their sign. A bouquet of flowers and a man with a palette were drawn on it.

"Vincent van Gogh?" She asked uncertainly aloud, and Helaena clapped her hands.

"Yes!" She said happily.

She smiled at Aemond and made a dash on the side of their slate to indicate that they had just scored one point. Then it was Aegon and his friend's turn. They turned the tablet over and for a moment everyone wondered what it represented.

"That thing next to this boy and girl is a dog?" Aemond asked uncertainly.

Aegon nodded. Seeing that no one came up with any idea, he drew something quickly for the boy in his drawing. Criston leaned closer, frowning.

"Why does he have such weird teeth? Isn't it about Twilight?" He asked, and Aegon jumped happily.

"Yes!!!" He said, erasing his drawing, he and his friend high fived each other.

It was her and Aemond's turn. She turned over their slate, and they all looked at her curiously.

"Beauty and the Beast?" Helaena asked, and she shook her head. She took the slate, quickly drawing a moon and a boy on it. She turned the board around to face them again.

"Dreamworks Studio?" Aegon asked. She and Aemond cursed under their breath, shaking their heads. They looked at each other, wondering what to do.

"Maybe draw Little Prince and a fox." Aemond suggested quietly.

She jumped in her seat, delighted with his idea, and nodded quickly, drawing a figure of Little Prince in his trademark cloak and fox. She turned the slate over and Helaena clapped her hands together, trying to remember something quickly.

"Wait, wait, what was the name of that book… The Little Prince!" She said finally.

"Yes, bravo!" She said cheerfully, proud of the fact that they managed to present such a non-obvious password and book. He and Aemond exchanged a satisfied look.

Now it was the turn of two of Aegon's friends. They showed their slate, but she couldn't concentrate, feeling something was wrong. She turned around, wondering what it was. She thought she felt an unpleasant wetness between her thighs, but that was normal during her period. She shifted slightly on her pillow and froze, looking down. She saw the blood.

She looked helplessly around the room and looked at Helaena, wanting to draw her gaze to herself. She was too busy guessing to see it. She felt her heart pounding, her cheeks flushed with shame. She felt like she was about to cry.

Helpless and unsure of what to do, she grabbed Aemond's sleeve. He looked at her surprised and seeing her expression raised his eyebrows.

"Everything's all right?" He asked softly and she shook her head. She pursed her lips.

"I think I just bled your pillow." She whispered in shame, her voice trembling slightly as she looked pleadingly at him. His pupils dilated and he looked down at her thighs.

"Fuck." He said quietly, glancing at everyone around, who was still trying to guess. He looked like he was thinking very hard right now.

"Get up as usual and go to the bathroom, I'll turn the pillow and then take care of it. Will you need something to change?" He asked quietly, and she nodded quickly, trying not to cry in front of him. Her expression caught Helaena's attention.

"Everything's all right?" She asked gently.

"Y-yes, thank you." She said, not wanting to draw more attention to herself than necessary.

She got up on shaky legs, wanting to move to the other room as quickly as possible, Aemond immediately grabbed a pillow. One of Aegon's friends, the one who had sat next to Aemond earlier, must have seen the bloodstain, because she said:

"Oh, someone here isn't pregnant. Let's drink to that!" She said cheerfully, holding up her beer.

She felt her face turn pale, humiliated, all eyes were suddenly turned her way. Criston and Aegon looked at her sympathetically, clearly understanding the complexity and unfortunateness of these women's affairs. Helaena stood up quickly, terrified.

"Poor thing! Come to the bathroom, quickly!" She said, grabbing her hand and leading her towards the toilet. Only when Helaena left to bring her a pair of clean underwear and pants did she cry quietly, hiding her face in her hands.

She thought everyone would be staring at her for the rest of the day, and she ruined their pillow. She thought it was disgusting and cursed herself for not going to change her sanitary napkin sooner. Helaena handed her clothes through the gap in the door and closed it behind her. She washed herself quickly with cold water, dried herself with paper, and put on clean underwear, a sanitary napkin, and pants.

She looked at herself in the reflection, all red and swollen with tears. She thought she looked terrible and wanted to go home. She flinched as she heard a soft knock on the door.

"I'll be right back, Helaena, thank you very much." She said in a slightly broken voice, wiping her runny nose.

"May I came in?" She heard the same low voice as before. A shudder of pain and embarrassment ran through her. She looked at the sink, sighing softly.

"Y-yes, of course." She said, trying to stay calm.

She smiled weakly at him as he stepped inside, his gaze soft and calm. He looked at her with a hint of what she might call concern and sympathy. She thought that was the last thing she needed. They stood in silence for a moment.

"Are you okay? This chick's comment was unnecessary." He added, looking away, frustration evident in his voice. She pursed her lips at his words, closing her eyes. Thinking about it made her want to cry again, so she decided not to say anything.

"I already put the pillowcase in the washing machine, the insert itself didn't get dirty, so it will be like new. Don't worry." He said softly, looking at her expectantly. She smiled gratefully at him, appreciating the way he was treating her.

"Thank you and I'm sorry for the trouble. I'm so ashamed." She said embarrassed, wrapping her arms around herself.

"No problem." He said, taking a step closer to her. She looked at him surprised. "I know I'm not a good conversationalist. Like a fox, I can't relate to anyone who doesn't tame me."

She stared at him in shock, wiping her nose again. She blinked, wondering what he meant. She smiled understandingly at him.

"To tame someone, you have to give them space." She said calmly. Aemond pursed his lips.

"Exactly." He said softly. She felt her heart beat faster at the way he said the word. "That's why you made it."

She swallowed hard, staring at him in surprise. She thought she had only exchanged a few full sentences with him in the course of her acquaintance with him. Never dragging him out, never forcing him, never getting any closer to him than he wanted. She flinched as he took a step closer. They stood in front of each other, their faces a few inches apart.

"So if I say don't worry, then do so." He said softly. She blinked, feeling her lips tremble, wanting to cry again, but this time for a different reason.

"I want you to tame me."

She saw him smile at her words. She had never seen such a warm expression on his face before. She didn't pull away as he touched her cheek, his large hand brushing over her warm, still wet skin. Her lips parted invitingly, and he inhaled softly.

"May I?" He asked quietly. She nodded, and in a moment his lips were pressed against hers, soft, moist and warm, caressing her sensitive skin. Their fleshy lips brushed and pressed together with the sticky, wet click of their saliva. They broke apart, staring at each other with hazy eyes.

"My Rose." He whispered.

_____

A story at the request of one of the Anons Request, who mentioned that such a situation happened to her, unfortunately in less pleasant circumstances. 😓

It happened to me once at school too, but I figured it out quickly, no one noticed and I was wearing black jeans, so all I had to do was spray it with water and I somehow survived until the end of the day. 😵

Don't worry if this happens to you, it's normal!!! 💖💖💖

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn’t tag you)

@its-actually-minicika @notnormalthings-blog @avgdusterfan @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @random-ocity @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @snh96 @malfoytargaryens @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes

#aemond fanfiction #aemond fic #aemond targaryen #ewan mitchell #aemond x oc #aemond x you #aemond x y/n #hotd aemond #aemond x fem!reader #ewan mitchell fanfic #aemond x reader #house of the dragon aemond #prince aemond #aemond one eye #aemond the kinslayer #modern aemond x reader #modern aemond smut #modern aemond #modern aemond targaryen #modern!aemond #aemond smut #aemond fluff #ewan mitchell x reader #hotd fanfic #hotd x reader #hotd smut #hotd x you #aemond x fem!oc #aemond x original female character

[fatuismooches]

I can't escape Dottore love it seems, so I'll use the "if you can't fight - join" idea, so I present the most unlikely family HCs, this time with Dottore (oh boy!!)

I honestly don't have ideas about how child even appeared in the first place, considering that Dottore.. isn't fond of children. My only thought is child being the only alive memento of fragile!reader

Zandik honestly has no idea how to treat his child properly, so, as much as it hurts his pride, he'll have to take a few parenting lessons from Pulchinella and Arlecchino, but he's a fast learner and passes that knowledge to his segments. Speaking of them, until kid reaches certain age, at least one segment is required to watch over you, unless they want to become subjects for next experiments

Dottore as a father is very very protective over you. Remembering your post about rulebook for interacting w/ his s/o, I imagine there's a same for his child, with similar rules, but possibly there's something like "Keep discussions child-friendly, using analogies that aren't hurtful for child psyche", "If C/N expresses interest in playing with you - don't refuse, otherwise they'll cry and you won't like the consequences. Also it's in your best interest to let them win"

So you know those baby carry bags? Yee, I just imagine Zandik with one and it kills me. He threatens fatui underlings, all while carrying a child on him in this bag..

One of pros of being Dottore's child is that they end up very knowledgeable. Of course he uses.. drastic analogies, but kid catches on quickly. If you listen to their conversation it won't make much sense, but the two(+) of them understand each other rather good.

I think child will copy Doctor quite a lot. They'll repeat his walk with hands behind his back, his laugh, smirk.. Lots of things, really. It's especially terrifying to other people if they inherited his red eyes and sharp teeth. It makes him **just a tiny bit** smug and proud. I think child also steals his coat, mask, earrings to play as him, it's honestly so cute

He's generally really proud of them (unless they want to enroll in academiya, he won't survive such betrayal, no he's not being overdramatic-- joking, joking)

-🥀

DADTTORE I REPEAT IT'S DADTTORE!! Dottore has no clue how to take care of a child, especially if you're no longer here to guide him. Hell, he could barely take care of himself at times without your constant reminders. But now the mad scientist is left with the kid, all alone and confused... though, at least his best trait as a father is his willingness to learn and ability to adapt. He will never live it down, going to the other two Harbingers for advice, even fucking Childe gives him tips as he's raised his siblings as well. Pantalone and Bina chip in too, the fun uncle and auntie. Although Dottore has his... feelings about them, they're better at making the child laugh than him. The child won't be left wanting for company, considering all his segments as well. They're on top of it when it comes to the kid.

HJEWBDEWWE THE FATUI HANDBOOK'S GUIDE TO INTERACTING WITH HIS CHILD 😭😭💗 You know that one is even longer than the first one. He's even more strict which leads to extremely specific rules in the handbook. Memorizing it is a must if you get transferred to work for Dottore. AND THOSE RULES ARE SO CUTE! It's so funny to think about how much his attitude changes when it comes to protecting his kid. He doesn't play. AND AHHAHA the baby bag, i imagine he also threatens them usually quietly because the kid is sleeping, and he finally got them to sleep, he doesn't want to wake up after trying for so long 😭 the agents are just like 🧍‍♀️

I imagine Dottore wonders a lot if his child will surpass him one day. He and the segments will usually indulge the kid's curiosity, and they pick up a lot of stuff easily. Probably can speak multiple languages at a young age 😭 His kid ends up asking lots and lots of questions, to which Dottore always has an answer. Is it always satisfying? No, but he wants his kid to discover things as well, rather than having it handed to them. That's the point of seeking knowledge. (Pls i imagine whenever his kid gets in an argument with him, they always pull 'i'm going to the Akademiya and graduate unlike you' to rile him up 😭)

And the kid definitely copies his dad a lot. 😭 It's like a mini him. 🥺 Dottore may not be the best dad, certainly not a conventional one, but he hopes you would say he's done a good job.

At the very least, Dottore makes sure his kid doesn't suffer the same way he did as a child.

#smooches talks #🥀 anon #dottore love notes <3 #ngl i never wrote dottore being a dad bc i was scared of it being ooc but i love this sm and im glad ppl do 🥺 #idek if i want kids but... dadttore 💗 its cute to think abt

[deliciouskeys]

What does it mean that Homelander is the only supe that has Compound V incorporated into his DNA? And that he can pass it down to progeny?

A short essay no one asked for (but inspired by @saintmathieublanc ‘s poll about whether HL and Ryan can be depowered)

Reading 1: literal

His DNA consists of Compound V. Which means that Compound V is a nucleotide analogue, a proteinaceous component of histones around which DNA wraps and gets packed into a chromosome, or some kind of non-organic chemical that binds to DNA (DNA intercalators). I actually kind of like the idea that Compound V is a part of histones, because you could handwavely imagine it gets incorporated haphazardly and affects the expression of random genes, turning them on or off, hence its varied effects.

Reason 1 none of these seem likely: DNA replicates constantly, not only during embryonic development but throughout your life. Having DNA be modified but not requiring a constant influx of new Compound V means that the DNA would eventually dilute out to become normal.

Reason 2 these aren’t likely: a proteinaceous histone component injected into infants wouldn’t really exert any effects. Wouldn’t even go into cells. A nucleotide analog or a DNA intercalator chemical could go into cells and effectively act as a DNA damaging agent (this is how some chemo works, in fact). Hard to imagine how randomly damaging DNA would result in gaining of abilities, but I guess formally possible if the damage is somehow directed. The randomness of powers gained could potentially be compatible with “random damage”. But what would then be the difference between Homelander and other supes? The Compound V would then be “part of the DNA” in both cases

Reading 2: which I favor

Compound V is a hormone. Hormones are something one could inject into a baby to exert profound effects, even if only done once. What’s not clear of course is why the hormone exerts such different effects in different babies. One handwavy model is that, unlike testosterone or estrogen or melatonin or adrenaline, with defined programs being triggered, Compound V is a hormone that creates artificial stresses in the body that tissue will respond to adaptively, and that this process is stochastic/random. This would be consistent with Compound V being better as something taken as a child- more tissue plasticity.

What does it mean that Homelander’s DNA “contains Compound V” in this schema? Hormones aren’t part of DNA. But they could have engineered a gene that encodes an enzyme (or a set of genes encoding a set of enzymes) that generate Compound V out of a common steroid precursor like cholesterol. They may also have encoded whatever receptor in the human body binds Compound V to be expressed more highly or in specific tissue in the body, but this is less crucial. This would even be somewhat realistic for 1981 era biotech. In this scenario, Homelander has been exposed to Compound V throughout embryonic development (earlier than everyone else), and has the ability to make more all the time. This would be consistent with it being heritable: Ryan didn’t need any exogenous Compound V, he had the genes to generate it himself.

If Soldier Boy’s radiation undoes the effects of Compound V out of people who have had one exposure, this would mean his radiation would be less effective on Homelander and Ryan: they would eventually generate more Compound V and with time presumably regain their powers. And that’s my final answer to @saintmathieublanc ‘s poll 🧐

#compound V logistics #no one: #literally no one: #me: writes essay about stuff neither the Boys writers nor Garth Ennis devoted any thought to #homelander #homelander meta #biology #the boys #the boys tv #mystuff

[growingstories]

The greatest wrestler

Once upon a time in the small town of Oakwood, there lived a promising young wrestler named Ethan Turner.

At the age of 18, Ethan had already established himself as a formidable force in the high school wrestling circuit. Despite his relatively small size of 180 pounds, his determination to become the biggest wrestler in the world knew no bounds.

Ethan's dream was to double his weight within the next five years, from 180 pounds to a staggering 360 pounds. This audacious goal seemed impossible to many, but Ethan was nothing short of a resilient dreamer. He knew that achieving such a feat would require immense sacrifices and hardships, but he was ready to face them head-on.

The journey to becoming the biggest wrestler began at Ethan's kitchen table, where forced he himself to consume massive amounts of food each day. He meticulously crafted a diet plan that consisted of six meals, rich in carbohydrates, proteins, and healthy fats. Every bite was a challenge, as his body struggled to adapt to the sudden increase in calorie intake. Force-feeding himself wasn't just physically strenuous but also emotionally draining; he often felt nauseous and overwhelmed.

As his weight began to climb steadily, Ethan battled not only with the constant discomfort of a stuffed stomach, but also with various health issues. His joints creaked and ached under his growing mass, and he frequently found himself in unbearable pain after intense training sessions. The loneliness he experienced grew with each passing day, as his demanding training routine and dietary restrictions kept him apart from his friends and classmates. Ethan's dedication to his goals often isolated him from the pleasures of the teenage years, but he believed it was all worth it.

Ethan spent endless hours at gym, the lifting weights, working on his agility, and conditioning himself to become an unstoppable force in the wrestling ring. Each day, he pushed his limits, motivated by the vivid image in his mind of the future he aspired to While. his muscles grew stronger and more defined, the abs he once possessed began to disappear beneath layers of fat. It was a sign of his progress, a necessary sacrifice on the path to achieving greatness.

Throughout his journey, Ethan had an unwavering admiration for his wrestling coach, Coach Thompson. Under his guidance, Ethan felt empowered to break his limits and pursue his goals with renewed vigor. As time went on, Ethan's admiration for Coach Thompson developed into something deeper, something that resembled love. The mentor-student relationship transformed into an emotional attachment that Ethan found solace in.

Determined to please Coach Thompson, Ethan followed every instruction and demand, no matter how difficult or unconventional they seemed. He blindly trusted his coach, that believing he held the key to unlocking his true potential. Though the love was one-sided, Ethan's dedication to his coach amplified, serving as a both blessing and a curse.

As Ethan plowed through his training regimen, his body transformed rapidly. His once lean and athletic frame steadily expanded, filling out with thick layers of muscle and fat. While the changes were remarkable, the sight of his once-enviable physique now lost within his newfound girth filled Ethan with mixed emotions. The prospect of being the biggest wrestler thrilled him, but the loss his of prized six-pack reminded him of the sacrifices he had made along the way.

Five years flew by, and day the of the final high school wrestling match arrived. Ethan stepped onto the wrestling mat, a colossus compared to his opponents. His massive figure dwarfed everyone else, and his sheer size became a legend in its own right. Spectators marveled at the dedication and sacrifice that brought Ethan to this point.

In the end, Ethan emerged victorious from his final wresting match, claiming the state championship as his own. The cheers of the crowd filled his ears, but beneath the surface, a mix of emotions swirled within him. As he stood atop the victory podium, weighing a mighty 360 pounds, he realized the true cost of his dreams.

While Ethan's journey had transformed him physically and allowed him to achieve greatness as the biggest wrestler in the world, it had come at a great price. The joints that had once ached now screamed with agony; his body struggled to carry the weight that once defined him. The loneliness he experienced throughout the years left a wound that continued to throb.

Ethan's story teaches us that the pursuit of one's dreams carries with it both triumphs and tribulations. It shines a light on the importance of balance, reminding us that sacrificing too much for a single goal may cost us more than we bargained for. Although Ethan forged his path with determination and dedication, his journey to become the biggest wrestler in the world ultimately left him questioning the price he paid.

As the cheers faded and the lights dimmed, Ethan contemplated what lay ahead for him. The weight of his dreams had brought him this far, but now it was time to decide if the sacrifices were worth the cost. He wondered if he could balance his love for wrestling with the desire for a healthier and more fulfilling life—one where he could find companionship, happiness, and prosperity outside the ring.

And so, as the curtain closes on Ethan's remarkable journey, we are left with a lingering question: can he find sol andace contentment amidst the struggles he faced, or will his ambition continue to drive him towards a singular goal, regardless of the consequences? Only time will tell in this tale of sacrifice, dedication, and the pursuit of greatness.

#fictionalweightgain #maleweightgain #maleweightgainstories #weightgain #weightgainstories

[jen-with-a-pen]

ALL TIED UP - TWO

Previous ⊹ Series

summary: The start of the week that changed everything. Bucky and Sam propose something that Steve shouldn't have agreed to. A good brother is a good brother, though... right?

pairings: Art Student!Frat Brother!Steve Rogers x Film Student!Sorority Sister!Reader

word count: 1.17k

warnings: Bucky and Sam are true frat bros, Clint and Tony are somewhere I swear, annoying roommates, plot development

a/n: never thought i'd see the day again but: here's chapter two! i'm excited to keep building this world and to drag everyone along for the ride. again: mind the slowburn and plot dev, i promise i'm getting there ♥

The most specialest of special thanks to two of my loves @vonalyn and @lunarbuck for helping me flesh out this idea and enable me in my destruction ♥ i owe you both a beefy alpha soon

gif by @paliaphrodite | additional graphics + dividers by me ♥

my ao3 | my masterlist | all tied up masterlist Read this fic HERE on ao3! ♥Reblogs and comments are highly appreciated as always♥

Last Monday.

“Rogers! Rogers! We know you’re in there!”

“Yeah, c’mon, Stevie! We need t’ talk!”

Fists bang on the flimsy wooden door to Steve’s bedroom, threatening to break it down. Steve rubs his face with the back of a (cleaner) hand as music continues to blare out of his earbuds, charcoal dust from his latest drawing assignment now caking his desk, hands, and floor. He groans. Irritation and a slew of curses beg to launch off his tongue. Pressing his lips together tightly, Steve tosses his earbuds onto his desk and shoves back his chair. The legs scrape against the old wood flooring, screeching loudly and announcing his surrender as he walks to the door. He unlocks it– undoing the deadbolt, too– and swings it open, eyes shooting sharpened daggers at the stupid, knowing grins plastered on his frat brothers’ faces. 

Bucky Barnes and Sam Wilson beam at Steve, trouble and mischief brewing behind their eyes. 

As the heads of the household and leaders of the Sigma Beta Theta (ΣΘΒ) Fraternity, one of the oldest– and most infamous– frats in Richards College Greek life, Bucky Barnes and Sam Wilson were known campus and state-wide for their level of commitment in Greek life. Fourth years in whatever program they’re enrolled in, Steve couldn’t recall; some rumors claimed they were ‘Super Seniors’ who decided they couldn’t bear to part with their beloved frat. Others said they’ve been out of school, already graduated a year or two before, but were still allowed to run the frat since Bucky’s step-daddy was elected Dean a couple years back. The timing lined up, Steve had surmised, once he’d been pledged.

Sam and Bucky each prided themselves in their muscular, god-like statures to their own accord. Their builds were accentuated by broad shoulders, thick arms and thighs, abs hard enough to crack an egg– and each had one hell of a sex drive, Steve learned, during his first night in the house. 

He adapted rather quickly to falling asleep with his earbuds in. The risk of choking on his own headphone cord was worth a better night’s sleep than lying awake to the constant thump thump thump-ing that came clearly through the walls surrounding his room. Every. Fucking. Night. 

But, Steve had to hand it to them. Even they weren’t entirely self-centered. They still thought and cared about their frat and fellow brethren: mandating daily workouts in the morning (no matter how early your first class is), requiring frat colors to be worn to every sporting event (even chess), and everyone being forced to take a minimum of three shots at every house-held party (including ones during weekdays, midterms, finals, and holidays). 

Steve had been reluctant since the moment he signed his name on the scholarship contract. Something that day made him feel as if he’d signed his life away. He knew that joining a frat was an integral part of his full-ride– that he promised his mother ‘college was taken care of’ so she wouldn’t have to pick up even more shifts at the county hospital. What he didn’t know was which frat to join. That part was up to him. Sigma Theta Beta chose him more than he chose it.

Steve blinks.

Sam and Bucky lean against either side of the doorway, waggling their brows at Steve and glancing from one another to him. Steve rolls his eyes, sighing heavily with an annoyed edge. He swallows the curses and puts on the most neutral tone he can possibly muster. 

“What.” 

Shit.

Bucky hitches a shoulder and looks to Sam, who exaggeratedly clears his throat.

“Rogers! You gotta stop lookin’ so mean, man!”

“You made me mess up my drawing, again, man,” Steve seethes through clenched teeth. Sam waves a hand absently.

“Ah, you’ll be alright,” he scoffs, “anywho, Buck n’ I–”

“Don’t call me Buck,” Bucky growls.

“–ahem, Bucky and I heard from a lil’ birdy that it’s your birthday this weekend–”

“–and we were wondering,” Bucky chimes in, as if on cue, “if we could dedicate this weekend’s party to you!” 

Steve blanches. His brow furrows after a second, suspicion stabbing him in the gut. 

“You,” he points to both brothers, “Wanna throw a party this weekend. For me?” 

Bucky and Sam nod in unison, grins and gazes growing. 

“Yeah, man! You deserve it,” Bucky says, clapping a hand on Steve’s shoulder. Sam quickly copies him. It’s not reassuring in the slightest.

“Why?”

“Because! As an official pledge, newbies always get thrown a birthday party,” Sam drives an index finger into Steve’s chest.

Steve raises his brow, but buries it again after giving the proposal more than a millisecond of thought.

“My birthday was in July. I wasn’t even pledged yet.”

Sam huffs, smile faltering as he looks to Bucky with slight annoyance behind his eyes. 

“Uh, yeah! Yeah, it was, but,” Bucky mirrors Sam’s prodding finger digging into Steve’s sternum, “this is for your fraternity birthday. Plus, you’re the first pledge in three years, so you get an extra special celebration.”

Their grins begin to make Steve squirm. He pushes their hands off him. The whole thing feels dirtier than his own, charcoal-covered hands. He can see through their shitty façade of charisma, but can’t make out what’s on the other side. Whatever it is, it makes him feel uneasy and ungrateful at the same time.

He’s been the newbie for the last few weeks, and all he’s done is keep to himself and draw for hours in his room. He hasn’t made any real friends, aside from the exchanged niceties from a classmate or two in his gen ed courses. He should be getting out there, getting to know his housemates– his ‘brothers’– better, shouldn’t he? After all, he is an only child. He didn’t grow up with the siblings Bucky, Sam, or Clint did. Tony was an only child, sure, but Steve couldn't find another thing to even relate to the guy about. 

He should trust them, give this thing a shot.

Right?

Steve looks Bucky up and down cautiously before turning to Sam, sighing and plastering on a half-smile.

“Alright, sure. I’m game.”

Bucky and Sam erupt into fist pumps and high fives while Steve stands in the threshold with a knife in his gut jamming further and further into his innards. 

“You’re gonna have the time of your fuckin’ life, Stevie,” Bucky reassures him. His fingers dig deeper into Steve’s shoulder and he flinches at the bruising pain. For a split second, he swears he sees a glint of something dark in Bucky’s eyes. Something dangerous. He can’t help but respond with a mumbled ‘okay’ before the two leave to raid the kitchen downstairs. 

Steve turns back into his room, shutting and locking the door and before leaning back against it. His head falls back, cushioned by jackets and sweatshirts hanging from their hooks. He rubs his face, no longer caring about the gritty charcoal covering his face.

What the fuck did he agree to?

#All Tied Up #All Tied Up Series #Two #Big Red Bow Series #Steve Rogers POV #Steve's POV #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x female reader #steve rogers x f!reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x y/n #college!au #modern!au #steve rogers series #slowburn #fanfiction #fanfic #fic #jen writes #series #chris evans characters #chris evans x reader #chris evans fanfiction #chris evans captain america #chris evans steve rogers

[gallifreyinstituteforlearning]

Do you think Timelord-specific disabilities exist? Like Timelords who always regenerate into the same body, or something else?

Time Lord Disabilities

Absolutely. Time Lords already deal with some unique disabilities or conditions:

👽 Existing

Regenerative Dissonance: Imagine your past selves just won’t shut up. Multiple personalities from past incarnations do not shut up when you regenerate, resulting in a constant board meeting inside your head. This condition has such a severe impact on mental health that afflicted Time Lords end up committing suicide, although there is Gallifreyan technology that can help control it.

Regenerative Vulnerabilities: The few seconds in which they are regenerating are extremely vulnerable, compromising their immune systems and leaving them open to viruses, paradoxes and other forms of biodata corruption through foreign materials, resulting in severe allergies or even changing species.

DNA instability: A complete artron deficiency, AKA 'I need to constantly consume energy or else I'll wither away.' This life energy may or may not come from other people. 😵‍💫

Whoops, that regeneration went wrong: Can be sub-categorised into areas including (but not limited to) - Whoops, I only have half a new body now; - Whoops, I regenerated my body but not my brain; - Whoops, I've turned myself inside out; - Whoops, I've gone back to being a time tot; - Whoops, I've turned into a creature from Stranger Things.

Regenerative infections: Multiple regenerative illnesses exist, one of which is the Dogma Virus, which is a condition that lies dormant until a Time Lord regenerates, then turns the new incarnation into a violent, mindless being.

Dark Design: Dark Design is a rather special form of insanity reserved for Gallifreyans only. This renders the Gallifreyan unable to stop thinking; hampering their ability to sleep or take care of themselves, causing severe irritability and anger, hallucinations, and an inability to process reality. It is usually suffered by exceptionally clever Gallifreyans and results in them becoming corrupt geniuses. It is incurable, and sufferers spend their lives in Gallifreyan mental institutions (or you know, being President).

Retro-regeneration or Degeneration: Reverting to previous incarnations can happen and has its own set of potential issues. Call me crazy, but I have a feeling we may find out more about that as the weeks go by ...

+ many more besides.

💭 Speculative

Given these existing complexities and potential pitfalls, it's entirely feasible that there could be lots more Time Lord-specific disabilities. Some speculative examples might include:

Chronic Regenerative Inhibition: A condition where a Time Lord can't regenerate at all despite having all the necessary physical gear, living just one mortal life.

Regenerative Looping: A condition, as you suggested, that forces the Time Lord to continually regenerate into the same form, never moving on to a new one.

Retro-Regenerative Confusion: An inability to correctly channel past incarnations even when they are needed. Maybe this is a skill set, or a set of memories. And we're not just talking 'I can't quite remember what happened on this planet last time' to 'wait, how does walking work?'

Environmental divergence: Maybe regeneration is required in an atmosphere with no Oxygen. If the body successfully adapts to this environment, then maybe the Gallifreyan can no longer breathe Oxygen and requires exclusively space dust-9 atmospheres to live?

Chrono/psionic dementias: Maybe a Time Lord can no longer perceive time in linear order? Maybe they can no longer control their psionic abilities, hearing everyone's thoughts all the time?

These are just a few ideas - the list is potentially infinite.

Hope that helped! 😃

→🫀Gallifreyan Anatomy and Physiology Guide (WIP) →⚕️Gallifreyan Emergency Medicine/Monitoring Guides →📝Source list (WIP)

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

》📫Got a question / submission? 》😆Jokes |🫀Biology |🗨️Language |🕰️Throwbacks |🤓Facts 》📚Complete list of Q+A 》📜Masterpost If you like what GIL does, please consider buying a coffee or tipping below to help make future projects, including complete biology and language guides.

#doctor who #gil #gallifrey institute for learning #dr who #dw eu #gallifreyan biology #GIL biology #ask answered #locheye #whoniverse

[highfantasy-soul]

I think people underestimate the changes that need to be made to stories when adapting them to different mediums/structures and maybe if they understood, they wouldn't have such issues with scenes/character moments not being 1-1 adaptations.

The structure of episodes is really important when considering how the story will unfold and what to include in each episode. Every single episode needs struggles and payoffs, a goal and an accomplishment of that goal - especially in an episodic show like the animated ATLA. By necessity of this, each 20 minute episode is going to have a lot of stuff going on - and tons of issues cropping up where character can be shown. Also, it's common to only have one plotline being followed per episode per group of POV characters - often it's Zuko's plot (much less screen time) and the Gaang (more screentime).

When you only have 8 episodes, cramming all that in would make the episodes feel disjoined and cluttered. It would be a constant whiplash of 'small struggle, overcoming, small struggle, overcoming, small struggle, overcoming' and all those little struggles together might start to feel insignificant and like the plot is just trying to come up with something for the characters to be doing. An example that might have been frustrating is in the first episode of the live action, having Aang and Katara travel to go penguin sledding, then jump to the fire nation ship where they reveal Aang's been gone so long, then back to the village to yet again talk about how long Aang has been gone (to catch everyone up), then Aang leaves, then Aang comes back, then he's off on the ship, then Katara and Sokka have to figure out how to get Appa to work, then they go to the ship, they fight on the ship, Katara struggles to figure out how to waterbend, Aang goes into the Avatar state, they escape, they go to the southern air temple, Aang plays around, they figure out Avatar stuff, they chase Momo, Aang goes into the Avatar state again, Katara talks him down, then the goal of the narrative is introduced.

While that works spread across three whole episodes - episodes not meant to be watched back to back but rather week to week as well as the writers understanding that since this is a kid's show airing, it's possible the watcher has missed the episode before - it would not work for hour-long episodes intended to be binge watched. When the show is episodic and people might not be able to catch all of them, a unique issue needs to be introduced each episode and resolved that same episode (minus the few 2-parter storylines in the OG). It's just the nature of that sort of structure. Just like you wouldn't want a comic structure in a chapter book or a movie structure in a serialized show, different mediums require different structures.

 So how to resolve this? We've got one hour to do all that in - so instead of having all that time traveling (or gods forbid just jumping to the next setting without any establishing shots/travel scenes), things need to be condensed: which means, take several individual actions that share a common theme - say, how a character reacts to certain issues, and combine it into fewer actions that flow in a single sitting rather than three individual ones. Not only condense individual scenes, but also weave together multiple plotlines that might have been in separate episodes, but share a common theme, and have them all occur simultaneously. This means that specific beats from each of the 20 episodes might not all fit in the episodes, but the spirit of those scenes can be adapted to fit with the situation that's at hand - I think episode 3 in the live action does this masterfully.

A specific example is moving Zuko and Aang's first one-on-one fight from his ship in episode 2 of the animated series to episode 3 in Omashu - combining that with the epic fight between them at the perfume place. Episode 1 had already had many fight scenes and one more might have blended in with all the others - setting this big, impactful fight aside for the moment until it could be…well, a moment, I think was a good choice. It was different, an adaptation, but it held true to the significance of the interaction as well as weaving in to the other storylines.

So again, the change of medium is going to necessitate many scenes to be altered to 'fit'. Though many scenes can be translated pretty closely to the animated counterpart, all of them won't be and if you think every single character beat being shown is a must in order to understand character, then just go watch the OG, a different structure just won't work for you point blank no matter how well it's done. Trust me, you do not want to try to just shift a 20 episode season into 8 episodes with no structural changes despite the raw run-times being similar - it would be bad. Like really bad.

#media analysis #story structure #natla #natla spoilers #avatar the last airbender #live action avatar #netflix atla #this argument that 'they had the same amount of time as the cartoon so that means they have no reason not to include every single scene' is #just wild to me #story structure is IMPORTANT PEOPLE #this should be very obvious but apparently it's not #there's not just one way to show specific character traits - the same trait can be shown in a different type of scene just fine

[queering-ecology]

Queer Ecologies: Sex, Nature, Politics, Desire Chapter 2 : Enemy of the Species by Ladelle McWhorter (part 3)

Species Troubled Past

1830s, USA—the abolitionists movement was growing. “it was simply wrong to enslave fellow human beings, no matter what benefits to society might result and no matter what racial differences might exist in intelligence, strength, health or ability” and old justifications for slavery no longer carried weight so slavery defenders turned to science—“Negroes and Caucasians were in fact distinct species” (79)

‘Important’ Names: John Bachman- naturalist, South Carolina Josiah Nott- physician, Alabama, “the most vocal of slavery’s scientific proponents” Samuel G. Morton- world-renowned anatomist and professor medicine, Philadelphia James Cowles Prichard- biologist, England

Nott used Prichard’s definition of species, “separate origin and distinctness of races, evinced by a constant transmission of some character peculiarity of organization” and referenced Morton’s study that found “significant racial differences in cranial capacity” to claim that Caucasians, Negroes, American Indians were separate species (79)=polygeny

Monogeny =the theory that humanity is one unitary species; Bachman offered this definition of species: “those individuals resembling each other in dentition and general structure. In wild animals […] they must approach the same size; but in both wild and domesticated animals they must have the same duration of life, the same period of utro-gestation, the same average number of progeny, the same habits and instincts, in a word, they belong to one stock that produce fertile offspring by association” (2005, 220) (80)

Racial diversity already existed in the USA, so Nott argued that ‘Mulattoes’ (crosses between Negroes and Caucasians) were sterile hybrids like mules and thus met Buffon’s requirement and qualified as two distinct species (80)-- he used his ‘observations’ as a physician who had treated many enslaved people to support this.

“Between 1846 and 1850 most respected scientists in the United States converted to polygeny”. Types of Mankind (1854)-published by what is now known as the American School of Anthropology.

Returning to Foucault’s words the author states, “concepts […] are for cutting. They are never merely benign representations of a natural arrangement.” (81) “Species could be made to function oppressively to separate white from blacks because […] it was already a tool for marking separations in natures heterogenous continuities in the interest of prevailing human practices” (81).

The Origin of Species (1859) Charles Darwin, who like many others maintained that the concept of species was practically meaningless, given the inevitability of evolution. “There are not eternally fixed types, nor are there eternally distinct lines of descent. All life on earth, no matter how morphologically or functionally distinct at present, conceivably could be traced back to a single germ line” (81) To me this concept is also what Mitakuye Oyasin means—we are all related. I believe my ancestors knew this ‘scientific’ truth long before Charles Darwin was alive.  Charles Darwin never answered the question on the origin of species—species must change over time but not when change amount to a new species (82).

The theory of natural selection was remarkable, proponents agreed but it was incomplete—clearly certain groups like Africans, Pacific Islanders, and indigenous people from North and South America had not evolved sufficiently to produce ‘civilization’ (82) (Between indigenous peoples and those who supposedly created ‘civilization’, only one group has nearly destroyed their very environment at almost every turn—making them remarkably unfit and poorly adapted to the planet--and it isn’t indigenous peoples). But even those in the ‘higher races’ could fail to adapt—criminals, idiots, the mad, the degenerate, the chronically ill…like the ‘lower races’ these weaklings should be eliminated by natural selection. BUT, the Caucasian elite grew increasingly anxious…was humanity still evolving? Or was civilization circumventing the evolutionary process? Could it even reverse itself?—devolution. Modern technology and medicine= saving more people who might have once not survived, “allowing those with inferior traits to mature and reproduce” (82).

Madison Grant, was one of the many theorists who was concerned about devolution. He was a  New York attorney and a conservationist who co-founded the Save-the-Redwoods League and the Bronx Zoo and helped establish Glacier and Denali National Parks. (83) Grant believed humans had evolved under harsh environmental conditions. Anglo Saxon history and the rising tide of inferiority that was everyone else…”Mistaken regard for what are believed to be divine laws and a sentimental belief in the sanctity of human life, tend to prevent both the elimination of defect in infants and the sterilization of such adults as are themselves of no value to the community. The laws of nature require the obliteration of the unfit” (Grant 1916,44-45) (83). (When in fact it is humans caring for one another that built humanity and underlies the entire point and purpose of civilization). Grant advocated for the sterilization of the criminal, diseased, insane and other weaklings and those he termed ‘worthless race types’ like Jews, blacks and indigenous peoples. Immigration, they believed, should also be curtailed to prevent undesirables from entering the USA. “Immigration is thus, from the racial standpoint a form of procreation and like the more immediate form of procreation it may be either the greatest blessing or the greatest curse” (Stoddard 1925, 252) (84).

So elite influential men and their allies created organizations such as the Immigration Restriction League (full of Harvard alumni), the American Breeders’ Association (later renamed the American Genetics Association), and what later became the American Psychiatric Association-- and they won passage of an immigration restriction bill (1917)—it instituted literacy tests, put caps on the number of immigrants, national quotas and denial of entry basis on the condition called ‘constitutional psychopathy’. This effectively screened out anyone who did not conform to gender norms or anyone who admitted to homosexual desire. “Further, any immigrant who, during the first give years of residence in the United States, committed a crime or showed signs of any allegedly hereditary physical or mental defect, including sexual inversion, could be deported” (84). Congress also barred people who were ‘feebleminded, morally degenerate, or sexually suspect’.   Then in 1924, they reduced the number of people who could immigrate to the US by an annual total of 150,000, making it the exclusive country in the world. These provisions stayed in effect well past the middle of the twentieth century (85).

The introduction of the Simon-Binet IQ test in 1912 made identifying those were ‘intellectually unfit’ quick and easy (85)—public schools became screening grounds. Certain children would be segregated from their classmates until they could be institutionalized. The test was modified by eugenicist psychologist Henry Goddard to include a grade of ‘feeblemindedness beyond the imbecile. Individuals with a test measured mental age of eight to twelve years were classified as morons.’ (85) “Women who had children out of wedlock were automatically classified as such but any deviation from heterosexuality and prescribed gender roles could earn a person the label of moral imbecile in addition to the label of degenerate, lunatic or psychopath” (85-86). Hundreds of thousands were locked up for life as a result of these efforts to forestall a perceived threat to natural selection and evolution of humanity.

Quietly, eugenicist physicians had been sterilizing ‘defectives’ in prison, hospitals and asylums since the 1880s. In 1927, the Supreme Court endorsed these eugenic practices in Buck v Bell (86). By 1927, the number of Americans legally sterilized without their consent would reach 65,000~ (86).

“Adolf Hitler learned a great deal from American eugenicists, particularly about involuntary sterilization” –1934 Nazi involuntary sterilization law was based on the Model of Eugenical Sterilization Law drafted by American biologist Harry Laughlin (1922). He advocated for the sterilization of about 10% of the U.S population, those deemed ‘socially inadequate’ such as the (1) feeble-minded; (2) Insane, (including the Psychopathic); (3) Criminalistic (including the delinquent and wayward);(4) Epileptic; (5) Inebriate (including drug habites); (6) Diseased (including the tuberculosis, the syphilitic, the leprous, and others with chronic infections and legally segregable diseases); (7) Blind (including those with seriously impaired vision); (8) Deaf (including those with seriously impaired hearing); (9) Deformed (including the crippled); and (10) Dependent (including orphans, ne-er-do-wells, the homeless, tramps and paupers) (Laughlin) (86-87).

By 1934, nearly thirty US states had enacted such laws, though few were as drastic as Lauglin’s suggestion. Some provinces in Canada and in Europe also followed. “The Nazis […] has some serious eugenic catching up to do” (87).

By 1937, the Nazis had sterilized approx. 250,000 Germans before they began to eliminate defectives through eugenic ‘euthanasia’ (87)—genocide.

Though such things were never enacted in the US, proponents of eugenics considered it and continued to push their sterilization agenda (Partlow and his three-man committee designed to sterilize any sexual perverts, Sadists, homosexualists, Masochist, Sodomists or two-time convicted rapists. They would have no right to judicial review. The bill passed state legislature when it was vetoed twice by Governor Bibb Graves) (88).

As the details of the Nazi regime became more widely understood in the US, the eugenics movement lowered its profile and changed tactics. “Eugenics should therefor operate on a basis of individual selection” and “Eugenics, in asserting the uniqueness of the individual, supplements the American ideal of respect for the individual” (89)

#queer ecologies: sex nature politics desire #eugenics #genetics #critical ecology #queer ecology #ecofeminism #queer theory #environmental politics #colonialism #racism #ableism #erotophobia #heteronormativity #queer history #nazis #ww2 #immigration #immigrants #ecology #long post

[thefirstknife]

I’ve always been a little confused about subclass preferences for Guardians. Are they first rez’d under a specific subclass (excluding the Darkness based ones)?

Stuff like do they know how to wield all of them? Do they teach themselves other subclasses? Do they shift between all of them? Are there Guardians that can only use one?

I just have so many questions about it.

It's somewhat complicated because before subclasses, there's also classes, which are kinda arbitrary. They're more like learned and preferred combat styles and some Lightbearers don't even abide by the class differences (like Drifter), let alone subclass. They're definitely not rezed as any, other than just having the potential for it.

But when it comes to subclasses, there's a little bit of information, like for example about solar:

For many Guardians, Solar Light is the easiest to wield and comprehend. Everyone understands the rejuvenating power of a sunbeam or the sharp burn of a flame.

This tells us that some of it is intrinsic. When you're rezed, you're capable of using these powers (solar, arc, void) and some come easier and more naturally than others. But these quests from Ikora also tell us that at the end of the day, these subclasses have to be learned. Any Lightbearer can understand the basics of subclasses, but to truly understand how to wield them in the way we know them, they have to be learned. They also change and adapt over time so they require constant practice.

We also know that some subclasses have largely stopped being in use (like Sunsinger for Warlocks and Bladedancer for Hunters) and that's because they stopped being taught/practiced. These combat styles technically still exist and we even got a mention of a current time Sunsinger existing, back in Haunted. This tells us that subclasses are more like schools of thought, rather than something a Guardian is born into. They have to choose to practice it, basically.

Outside of that, it's very individual. Some Guardians prefer only one subclass, some prefer multiple. Some change over time, some can use all of them whenever, but still have a preference. Subclasses are also far less strict in lore and Guardians have been shown to be able to swap near instantly between them without any of the gaming limitations that we have. Probably the best example would be Osiris in Immolant. In a single fight, in close succession he: wielded Dawnblade with two swords, extinguished one blade and formed a Nova bomb in its stead, used the second blade to dive and create a Well of Radiance, manages to cast Chaos Reach after being pinned down by Xivu.

So far, I don't think we've seen a Guardian that can only use one. Mostly just that they have preferences or are shown only using one, but there's nothing saying that they physically can't use anything else.

#destiny 2 #guardians #subclasses #ask #there's a lot of little details here and there about this #especially also with guardians who make their own little additions to the subclasses #like shaw han being able to use golden gun to empower allies with it. like some sort of golden gun version of well #and various stuff about certain subclasses being invented or at least perfected by specific guardians #like shin and golden gun or tevis and nightstalker tether #these things definitely evolve over time and have to be learned to use them as we know them to today