#i can testify i am one

[crackheadwithanbuckethead]

The golden rule of life is to *not* start shit with a teenage girl

[neonphoenix]

Hate the number of people I know who just want to leave the US because of xyz political issues that don't exist in the imaginary other country they hope to move to. Not One of these people ever puts in the leg work to make the world around them better (at least one isn't even registered to vote) and it is literally the height of privilege to think you can just go live somewhere else where someone else has made everything work without doing anything to participate in your community first.

[usopps-left-bollock]

Currently thinking about if they make a season 2 of OPLA, I get to cry at Chopper's backstory for the 9th time and my Dad will have to deal with me bawling my eyes out over a fictional reindeer

[sleepingfancies]

So if there was a hypothetical lavender-haired character, maybe with a tragic history? That'd be up your alley, right?

bastard

[britneyshakespeare]

I love my sister more than anything in the world

[swampthingking]

can’t study for my test because i’m having brain rot about neil accidentally getting super drunk and stumbling up to aaron like “andrew???” and aaron is like “wrong one” and neil is like “andrew.” and aaron is like “???? are you stupid” and neil goes to look for andrew but he stumbles into the table, and aaron has to catch him or he will get trampled for fucks sake, and neil just collapses into him in a drunk cuddly heap. and aaron is like “neil. you need to stand up” and neil is like “i am” and aaron is like “that’s because i’m holding you up” and they get neil to stand but neil kinda just flops into aaron’s arms again. and neil is like “i don’t hate you, i don’t, but it’s okay if you hate me” and aaron is like “ugh, ew are you really an emotional drunk???” and neil, to aaron’s horror, looks at him with tears in his eyes because you know when you’re too drunk and you kind of just get a little scared and you need help???? ya. and aaron is like … ok. and kinda holds neil until andrew comes back from the bar with more drinks. and he sees neil basically asleep on aaron’s shoulder, and aaron looking uncomfortable but accepting, so he kinda raises an eyebrow, an okay? and aaron nods and is just patting neil on his back

and tomorrow they’ll wake up and neil will toddle downstairs with his hand against his temple and aaron will have advil ready for him, and he’ll say “you’re annoying and you don’t know when to shut your mouth or mind your own business, but i don’t hate you” and the thank you for helping repair my relationship with my brother and thank you for testifying and thank you for staying goes unsaid but yeah

and that’s how aaron and neil became kind of friends

edit: vomited out a one shot for y’all (this will prob become a 5+1)

Aaron swirled his drink a few times, listening to the ice clacking against the glass.

Eden’s was packed tonight, courtesy of it being the end of the school year. College students and the regular patrons flocked to the bar, the dance floor, and all of the tables, leaving Aaron to reserve a high-top table, and his legs to dangle from the stool.

“Drew?”

Aaron ignored him in favor of the twinkling sound the ice makes in his glass. He’d already taken shots, danced, had another drink, danced again, and now Aaron’s body was heavy with alcohol and exhaustion.

“Drew,” Neil said again.

Aaron looked around their table and didn’t see Andrew. He remembered Andrew getting up and walking to the bar with their empty tray. Aaron found him a few seconds later, hands in his pockets at the bar. That and Neil, staring up at him, looking uneasy.

Before Aaron could tell Neil to get out of his face, Neil was speaking.

“Are you’nt having fun?” Neil frowned, blinking sleepy, hooded eyes at him. He leaned closer to study Aaron’s face.

“What are you doing?” Aaron grumbled, pushing Neil’s face away.

Aaron hadn’t even pushed him hard, he more removed Neil from his space rather than pushed him, but Neil wobbled like his world had tilted out of orbit. Aaron realized, quickly, that Neil was going to fall backwards. He grabbed two fistfuls of Neil’s shirt and pulled him forwards. Neil’s head lulled on his shoulders with the force, his chin hitting his chest then righting itself.

Aaron’s stomach lurched, sick with the thought that someone had put something in one of Neil’s drinks, as he would for anyone, but thankfully he’s never been put in that situation. Neil’s eyes were hooded, his face flushed. Aaron snapped once at Neil’s ear, and Neil recoiled immediately.

“Does your head hurt or anything?” Aaron asked. Neil shook his head, frowning.

“Are you dizzy? Follow my finger.” Aaron pushes Neil back so he can see his face, keeping one hand on Neil’s shoulder to hold him up. Neil follows Aaron’s finger as it moves back and forth, albeit a little labored, but not as if he’d been roofied. Aaron declares that Neil’s reaction times and responses are fine, but he still pulls the front of his shirt up and checks his belt, the button of his pants.

“What—?” Neil slapped a hand on his abdomen, stopping his shirt from being lifted any higher. Aaron didn’t need to see anything but his pants, but it was reassuring that Neil still had inhibitions.

His clothes were fine. His belt was still done, zipper up. No one had tried anything. Aaron relaxed.

“Sorry,” Aaron said. “Sorry, I just needed to…”

While racking his mind back to why Neil is this drunk, Aaron remembered Neil taking shots with Aaron, Nicky, and Kevin. Four shots. He’d seen Neil sip on another drink like the idiot had the tolerance for alcohol that the rest of them had.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Aaron said and released Neil. Neil attempted to step back, his hands raised in surrender.

“No?” Neil asked warily. Even drunk as fuck, he still respected boundaries. Andrew’s boundaries specifically, as it still hadn’t registered that he wasn’t talking to the right twin.

“I’m not Andrew,” Aaron said.

“Where’s Andrew?” Neil asked, turning his head pathetically in search. Aaron only had a good view of Andrew because they were seated at a high-top. Over the throng of taller people coupled with strobing lights, Neil’s view was obstructed.

“At the bar,” Aaron nodded in that direction.

Neil turned towards the bar. Well, he attempted to. He pivoted, lost his balance, and toppled into the table. He tried to right himself and started to fall to the other side. Aaron caught Neil before he could bust his shit and get trampled.

“Jesus Christ, Josten,” Aaron spat, righting Neil with hands on his biceps. Neil slapped a hand on the table and leaned his weight on it. The table quaked under such abuse, but held.

Neil turned slowly, grappling against the table as if he was standing in one of those spinning fair rides. In his excursion to simply spin 180°, his hand slipped off the edge of the table as he faced Aaron once again. He reached for the table, missed, reached for it again, missed, said, “Motherfucker,” under his breath, and finally gripped onto the edge. His eyes locked on Aaron’s again, and Neil’s useless hand landed on Aaron’s shoulder.

“Andrew,” Neil said. Aaron didn’t know if it was more a request or if it was just not registering.

“Wrong,” Aaron said, tense under Neil’s hand, but he didn’t push him off. He’d rather hold Neil up than peel him off the floor. “Aaron.”

“‘m very drunk,” Neil said, looking up pleadingly at Aaron as if he had a magical cure to shitfacedness, and all Neil had to do for it was look a little scared. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?” Aaron asked.

“I’m drunk.”

Aaron snorted. “That’s kind of the point when you’re at a bar.”

“But,” Neil said, taking a labored breath, “I’m…too drunk.”

This was beginning to feel exceedingly similar to speaking to a child. Aaron was annoyed, but not completely heartless, unlike the narrative of Aaron Neil had likely concocted. “It’s okay, Neil,” Aaron said. “You should sit down.”

Neil promptly sat as if there was a chair under him, but there was not. Aaron, still holding Neil vertical, got pulled out of his chair with the momentum. To avoid toppling to the ground—which did not get mopped as often as it should—Aaron planted his feet on the floor and hauled Neil up by his armpits.

“Help,” Neil murmured. His arms dropped to his sides as he yielded his dead weight to Aaron.

“Stand up,” Aaron grunted, readjusting to wrap an arm around Neil’s back. One of Neil’s arms flopped over Aaron’s shoulder.

“I am,” Neil complained.

“No, you are not.”

“I am.”

“Neil,” Aaron said through clenched teeth, “I am holding you up. You need to lock your knees.”

“Oh,” Neil said. He looked at his feet as if he needed to check they were on the ground.

To be fair, Neil did lock his knees, but he also leaned all of his upper body on Aaron, arms still hanging limply at his sides. He tucked his head into Aaron’s neck with, what seemed, every intention to make a home there for the night.

“Neil,” Aaron said, frozen against the hair tickling his cheek. “God dammit.”

“And…ron,” Neil spoke against his shoulder.

“Yes,” Aaron said sarcastically. “That’s me.”

“Can I j’stay here?” Neil slurred.

From what Aaron had seen of Neil’s dynamic with his brother, he knew Neil would get off if he said no. He could place Neil into a stool or pull up a chair with a back so he wouldn’t fall out and concuss himself. He could shove Neil off and make him fend for himself. He could pawn him off to Andrew.

At the moment, those other options seemed like far too much work.

That, or maybe it was the med student in him, the intrinsic urge to heal and help and nurture that smarted at the thought of pushing Neil off.

Aaron didn’t push him off when Neil readjusted and tucked an arm into his chest, the other gripping Aaron for stability. He didn’t when Neil asked again, a quiet, “Aaron.”

“Okay,” Aaron conceded. He rubbed a hand up and down Neil’s back placatingly, but also because Neil seemed like he needed it. And he came to Aaron for it. Well, he came to Andrew and got Aaron. But he didn’t push Aaron off, and Aaron hasn’t done the same.

And they just…stood like that. For what seemed like a long time, but it probably was only a few minutes before Neil spoke again.

“Aaron,” Neil said.

Aaron hummed in response.

“I don’ hate you.”

“What?” Aaron asked. “What the fuck are you talking about, Neil?”

“I don’t hate you.”

“What?” Aaron said again.

“I don’wanna fight.” Neil lets out a colossal breath.

“We haven’t fought in a long time,” Aaron says, his idea of agreement. Acceptance.

Neil was quiet, because it was true. Neil seemed content to lay in Aaron’s arms, and Aaron didn’t have another stool next to him. He sure as shit wasn’t giving his up for Neil, but Neil was genuinely so unsteady on his feet that Aaron couldn’t let him go.

He trembled a bit, and Aaron was almost amused that after everything Neil had been through, being a little too drunk is what finally did it for him.

But Aaron had felt that way before. Inebriated and scared in a crowded room of strangers. Neil, however, has people he knows. How can Aaron be upset at Neil for wanting the comfort that he also craved? How can he be upset that Neil feels safe enough with Andrew to ask for help? That his brother finally feels safe with someone too?

“Aaron,” Neil said.

“What,” Aaron said.

“It’s okay if you hate me.”

“Oh God,” Aaron groaned, “Ew. Are you really an emotional drunk?”

Neil pulled back and, to Aaron’s horror, there were actual tears in his eyes. His lip trembled as he bit it, holding the tears in. Aaron hated how much of himself he was seeing in Neil tonight. The harrowing fact that maybe they are quite similar.

“Oh God,” Aaron said again, mortified. He grabbed the back of Neil’s head and shoved it back into his shoulder, effectively hiding Neil’s teary face.

He cast a desperate look to Andrew, who was finally on his way back to the table. He patted Neil on the shoulder, like one would burp a baby when they have no idea how to do so.

“Andrew.”

Andrew didn’t need prompting to look. His eyes were trained on Neil and Aaron from the moment he turned around. By the nonchalance of his movements and his lack of alarm, Aaron guessed he had been watching their interaction.

Andrew set the tray down on the table and cast a significant look between them, settling on Neil’s intoxicated form keeled over on Aaron’s shoulder.

Andrew raises one eyebrow, a silent question, an okay?

Aaron finds himself nodding, and unsure why. All he knows right now, a few drinks in, is that he doesn’t hate this. And he doesn’t hate that Neil doesn’t hate him.

-

The smell of coffee set Neil’s feet moving like a Pavlovian response. He was half awake already with a pounding headache, like his eyeballs were beating his closed lids to death.

Neil toddles down the stairs with his eyes closed, a hand pressed hard to his temple, stabilizing his brain.

Aaron was standing at the counter already, facing the sputtering coffee pot. His arms were crossed, hair ruffled from sleep. At the sound of footsteps behind him, he turned.

The memories from last night played past Neil’s mind like a sped-up movie. He grimaced in embarrassment, and felt a little sick at how drunk he was. How stupid he was, to drink that much. He should have known his tolerance isn’t matched with the rest of them. He could have gotten hurt, could have said something—

Fuck.

“Fuck,” Neil said, covering his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Aaron said. He turned back to the coffee, though his posture was rigid.

Neil grabbed a glass of water. He noticed Aaron watching from the corner of his eye, but Neil chose to ignore him, figuring that’s best. He sat on the counter with his water, sipping it slowly while he and Aaron waited for the coffee to finish brewing.

The silence was thick, but they were both too stubborn to leave the kitchen. Usually, they preferred to wait and pretend the other wasn’t there.

That’s what Neil thought, at least. After a painful few minutes, Aaron huffed and grabbed the bottle of Advil from the drawer next to the sink. He shook two pills out and sat them next to Neil.

Neil stared at them until Aaron cast a pointed look at the pills, then physically gestured to them with raised brows. Neil took them while Aaron watched.

The coffee pot beeped. Aaron made a split second decision, grabbing two mugs and pouring coffee into them. He slid Neil’s across the counter. It sloshed over the side, but Aaron wasn’t capable of caring at the moment. His mind was busy, and he knew Neil had noticed his lack of eye contact; the analytical fuck.

“Look,” Aaron said. He did not look at Neil to say it. “You’re annoying, and you never know when to shut your mouth or mind your business. Most of the time, I’m convinced you have a death wish, and a lot of the time I find myself resenting you. You complicated our lives, put us all in danger, didn’t give a shit.”

Neil’s chest hurt. He didn’t know if it was anger or guilt. Aaron started talking again before he could figure it out.

“But I don’t hate you. I can’t, really. I can’t even fault you for the shitty things you did, because it all worked out.” Aaron glanced quickly at Neil, looked away. His cheeks were red.

The thank you for helping repair my relationship with my brother and thank you for testifying and thank you for being good to Andrew went unsaid, but Aaron hoped Neil wasn’t obtuse enough to force him to say it out loud.

Neil must have understood, because he nodded. Aaron figured that was as close to a reconciliation they were going to have, so he leaned against the counter and pretended everything was normal.

For the first time, they drank their coffee in silence without animosity orchestrating it.

Neil’s mug was half empty when Andrew joined them. He paused in the doorway, squinty eyed and mussed, looking between the two. Neil on the counter, Aaron leaning against it. Their silence, but lack of tension.

“This is weird,” Andrew finally said, his voice gravely from sleep.

“Yeah,” Neil and Aaron said simultaneously.

Neil glanced over his mug at Aaron, the corner of his mouth twitching. Aaron regarded it, but looked away, because something like contentment had made its way onto Andrew’s face.

Aaron smiled at that instead.

[mashkaroom]

Translation thoughts on the greatest poem of our time, “His wife has filled his house with chintz. To keep it real I fuck him on the floor”

It’s actually quite tricky to translate. Because it’s so short, each word and grammatical construction is carrying a lot of weight. It also, as people have noted, plays with registers. “Chintz” is a word with its own set of associations. Chintz is a type of fabric with its origins in India. The disparaging connotation is from chintz’s eventual commonality. Chintz was actually banned from England and France because the local textile mills couldn’t compete.

Keep it real” is tremendously difficult to translate -- it’s a bit difficult to even define. It means to be authentic and genuine, but it also has connotations of staying true to one’s roots. Like many English slang words, it comes first from AAVE. From this article on the phrase:

“[K]eeping it real meant performing an individual’s experience of being Black in the United States. As such, it became a form of resistance. Insisting on a different reality, one that wasn’t recognized by the dominant culture, empowered Black people to ‘forge a parallel system of meaning,’ according to cultural critic Mich Nyawalo...The phrase’s roots in racialized resistance, however, were erased when it was adopted by the mostly-White film world of the 1970s and ’80s....Keeping it real in this context indicated a performance done so well that audiences could forget it was a performance.This version of keeping it real wasn’t about testifying to personal experience; it was about inventing it.”

One has to imagine that jjbang8 did not have the origins of these phrases in mind when composing the poem, but even if by coincidence, the etymological and cultural journeys of these two central lexemes perfectly reflect the themes of the poem. The two words have themselves traveled away from the authenticity they once represented, and, in a new context, have taken on new meanings -- the hero of our poem, the unnamed “him”, is, presumably, in quite a similar situation.

Setting aside the question of register, of the phonology, prosody, and meter of the original, of the information that is transmitted through bits of grammar that don’t necessarily exist in other languages -- a gifted translator might be able to account for all of these -- how do you translate the journey of the words themselves?

In my translations, I decided to go for the most evocative words, even if they don’t evoke the exact same things as in the original. The strength of these two lines is that they imply that there’s more than just what you see, whether that’s the details of the story -- what’s happening in the marriage? how do the narrator and the husband know each other? -- or the cultural background of the very words themselves. I wanted to try and replicate this effect.

Yiddish first:

זייַן ווייַב האָט אָנגעפֿילט זייַן הויז מיט הבלים

צו בלייַבן וויטיש, איך שטוף אים אופֿן דיל. zayn vayb hot ongefilt zayn hoyz mit havolim.

tsu blaybn vitish, ikh shtup im afn dil

This translation is pretty direct. There is a word for chintz in Yiddish -- tsits -- but, as far as I can tell, it refers only to the fabric; it doesn’t have the same derogatory connotation as in English. I chose, instead, havolim, a loshn-koydesh word that means “vanity, nothingness, nonsense, trifles”. In Hebrew, it can also mean breath or vapor. I chose this over the other competitors because it, too, is a word with a journey and with a secondary meaning. Rather than imagining the bright prints of chintz, we might imagine a more olfactory implication -- his wife has filled his house with perfumes or cleaning fluids. It can carry the implication that something is being masked as well as the associations with vanity and gaudiness.

Vitish -- Okay, this is a good one. Keep in mind, of course, that I’ve never heard or seen it used before today, so my understanding of its nuances is very limited, but I’ll explain to you exactly how I am sourcing its meaning. The Comprehensive Yiddish-English Dictionary (CYED) gives this as “gone astray (esp. woman); slang correct, honest”. I used the Yiddish Book Center’s optical character recognition software, which allows you to search for strings in their corpus, to confirm that both usages are, in fact, attested. It’s a pretty rare word in text, though, as the CYED implies, it might have been more common in spoken speech. It appears in a glossary in “Bay unds yuden” (Among Us Jews) as a thieves cant word, where it’s definted as נאַריש, שרעקעוודיק, אונבעהאלפ. אויך נישט גנביש. אין דער דייַטשער גאַונער-שפראַך --  witsch -- נאַריש, or “foolish, terrible, clumsy/pathetic. not of the thieves world. in the German thieves cant witsch means foolish”. A vitishe nekeyve (vitishe woman) is either a slacker or a prostitute. I can’t prove this for sure, but my sense is that it might come from the same root as vitz, joke (it’s used a couple of times in the corpus to mention laughing at a vitish remark -- which makes it seem kind of similar to witty). I assume the German thieve’s cant that’s being referred to is Rotwelsch, which has its own fascinating history and, in fact, incorporates a lot of Yiddish. In fact, for this reason, some of the first Yiddish linguists were actually criminologists! What an excellent set of associations, no? It has the slangy sense of straightforward of honest; it has a sense of sexual non-normativity (we might use it to read into the relationship between the narrator and the husband) -- and a feminized one at that; it was used by an underground subculture, and, again, the meaning there was quite different -- like the “real” in “keeping it real” it was used to indicate whether or not someone was ���in” on the life (tho “real” is used to mean that the person is in, while “vitish” is used to mean they’re not). It’s variety of meanings are more ambiguous than “keep it real”, which can pretty much only be read positively, and it also brings in a tinge of criminality. Though it doesn’t have the same exact connotations as “keep it real”, I think it’s about as ideal of a fit as we’ll get because it’s equally evocative of more below the surface. I also chose “tsu blaybn vitish”, which is “to stay vitish”, as opposed to something like “to make it vitish” to keep the slight ambiguity of time that “keep it real” has -- keeping it real does< I think, imply that there is a pre-existing “real” to which one can adhere, so I wanted to imply the same.

The rest is straight-forward. “Shtup” is one of a few words the Comprehensive English-Yiddish Dictionary (CEYD) gives for “fuck”, and I think it has a nice sound.

Ok, now Russian

женой твой дом наполнен финтифлюшками

чтоб не блудить с пути, ебемся на полу

zhenoy tvoy dom napolnin fintiflyushkami.

shtob ne bludit’ s puti’, yebyomsya na polu

In order to preserve, more or less, the iambic meter, I made a few more changes here -- since Russian, unlike Yiddish, is not a Germanic language, it’s harder to keep the same structure + word order while also maintaining the rhythm. I would translate this back to English as:

“Your house is filled with trifles by your wife. To not stray off the path, we’re fucking on the floor”

So a few notes before we get into the choice of words for “chintz” and “keep it real”. To preserve the iamb, I changed “his” to “your”. This changes the lines from a narration of events to some outside party to a conversation between the two men at the center. Russian also has both formal and informal you (formal you is also the plural form, as is the case in a number of other languages). I went with informal you because I wanted to preserve the fact that his wife has filled his house not their house, as someone pointed out in the original chain (though I don’t think that differentiation is nearly as striking in the 2nd person) and because it’s unlikely you’d be on formal you with someone you’re fucking (unless it’s, like, a kink thing). I honestly didn’t even consider making it formal, but that would actually raise a lot of interesting implications about the relationship between the speaker and the husband, as well as with what that means about the “realness” of the situation. Is, in fact, the narrator only creating a mirage of a more real, more meaningful encounter, while the actual truth -- that there is a woman the husband has made promises to that he’s betraying -- is obscured? that this intimacy is just a facade? Is there perhaps some sort of power differential that the narrator wishes to point out? Or perhaps is the way that the narrator is keeping it real by pointing out the distance between the two of them? there is no pretense of intimacy, the narrator is calling this what it is -- an encounter without deeper significance?

Much to think about, but I actually think the two men do have history --  i think the narrator remembers the house back when it was actually only “his house” and was as yet unfilled with chintz. We also don’t know what they were calling each other prior to this moment. This could be the first time they switched to the informal you. 

Ok moving on, I originally translated it as “твой дом наполнен финтифлюшками жены”. Honestly, this sounds more elegant than what I have now, but I ultimately though removing the wife from either a subject or agent position (grammatically, I mean) was too big a betrayal of the original. The original judges the wife. She took an active role in filling the house. If she were made passive, that read is certainly a possible one -- perhaps even the dominant one -- but it could also read more like “we are doing this in a space filled with reminders of his wife and the life they share” -- the action of filling is no longer what’s being focused on. Why do I say the current translation is inelegant? I feel you stumble over it a little, because it’s almost a garden path sentence. This is also an assset though. “Zhenoy tvoy dom napolnen” is a fully grammatical sentence on its own, and it means “Your house is filled by your wife” -- as in English, the primary read is that the wife is what the house is full of. If the sentence makes you stumble, perhaps that’s even good -- we focus, for good reason, on the relationship between the two men, but in a translation, the wife is able to draw more attention to herself.

Ok, chintz: I chose the word “финтифлюшки” (fintiflyushki), meaning trifle/bobble/tchotchke, because it, allegedly, comes from the german phrase finten und flausen, meaning illusions and vanity/nonsense. Once again, I like that the word has a journey, specifically a cross-linguistic one.

Keep it real: this one, frankly, fails to capture the impact of the original, in my opinion, but allow me to explain the reasoning. “Stray off the path” implies, again, that there is some sort of path that both the narrator and the husband were on before the wife and the chintz -- and one they intend to continue taking, one that this act is a maintenance of. It brings in a little irony, since the husband very much is straying from the path of his marriage. “Bludit’“ can also mean to be unfaithful in a marriage (as, in fact, can “stray”). The proto-slavic word it comes from can mean to delude or debauch -- they want to do the latter but not the former.

As for register -- “shtob” is a bit informal. I would write the full version (shto by) in an email, for example. The word for fuck, yebyomsa, is from one of the “mat” words, the extra special top tier of russian swears, definitely not to be said in polite company (and, if you are a man of a certain generation or background, not in front of women; it’s not that the use of mat automatically invokes a male-only environment, but if we’re already thinking that deeply about it. But while we’re on the topic, i will say that in my circles in the US, women use mat much more actively than men (at least in front of me, who was, up until recently, a woman and also a child).)

Ok i think that’s all the comments i have!

[yuwuta]

PEOPLE TOLD ME ABOUT THE FLAMES, I COULDN’T SEE THROUGH THE SMOKE — MEGUMI FUSHIGURO

cw some kind of college au/boarding school au? this used to be for rodeo station and now just... exists on its own, friends to lovers, megumi has toji and satoru as father figures so are we surprised that he’s a bully and doesn’t really grow out of that phase… anyway, apologies to muta and miwa, 1.3k words

Nobara makes a poor effort to stifle her laughter as Kokichi stomps up to stand in front of you, hair and clothes drenched in chocolate milk, shoes sloshing with each step, and the bandage on the side of his cheek peeling from the wetness.

When you look up at him, you’re unimpressed, and unsurprised, so you resume annotating your lecture notes as if you weren’t interrupted. If Kokichi wanted to stand in a puddle of dripping milk, then so be it—you should have finished your notes yesterday, and you couldn’t get through your other tasks without catching up first.

“Look, I already said I was sorry. I shouldn’t have kept bothering you for your number when you’d already said no,” Kokichi starts, wiping dripping milk from his chin, “Now, will you please call off your guard dog.”

You don’t reply immediately, focused on finishing the last paragraph of the page, much to Kokichi’s dismay, and Nobara’s amusement. He huffs at your silence, frustrated and humiliated, but there’s nothing for him to say or do until you respond. Maybe that’s something he should have considered when he kept trying to talk to you in class. Still, even now, you’re not ignoring Kokichi to embarrass him or string him along; you just want to finish your godforsaken anthropology homework.

“You seem to be under the impression that I can make Megumi start or stop doing anything,” you sigh, put your highlighter down, and tiredly look up at Kokichi, “But I regret to inform you that you’re wrong.”

Kokichi’s nose scrunches in disbelief, an angered hand coming to wave in front of his face, but his dripping clothes result in splashes to his face—and further laughter from Nobara. He sighs out of frustration, trying to put away his pride, but Nobara’s giggling and your nonchalant attitude are really making it difficult for him to take this in stride.

“Okay, you’re fucking with me—and I deserve it, alright? But, Todo already gave me a fucking lecture, Mai won’t look at me, and Megumi is going to rip and stain every single shirt I own at this point.” 

“That sounds like your problem,” Nobara snickers, rolling her eyes when Kokichi gives her a glare. 

“I'd love to help, Muta, but this is out of my control,” you loll, capping your marker, “Maybe try apologizing to Megumi instead of dripping chocolate milk over notes and shoes.”

“Eh? The hell am I apologizing to him for?” 

“You’re the one who pissed him off—how should I know?” you sigh, sliding your pens and markers into your bag, and closing your folder. 

Nobara pipes in to taunt, “You’d better figure it out soon, though. I hear they’re serving spaghetti tomorrow, and that definitely stains.” 

You swear you hear Kokichi growl, but it only makes Nobara laugh harder. The two of them together is a bad combination—Kokichi is easily aggravated, and Nobara easily aggravates. You’re certain that if Megumi weren’t already on his ass, Nobara would have stepped in to bully him just for the fun of it.

Still, you’d rather not have to testify on either of their behalf, so you bid Kokichi a goodbye, offering him your best advice about cleaning milk stains out of white shirts, and drag Nobara by the arm before she can make another quick quip to finally make him snap. 

She’s still laughing at Kokichi’s expense all the way back to your dorm, “As much as I like seeing Megumi pummel Muta, he’s definitely gonna get written up, at the very least, if he keeps it up. Just tell him you’re not mad about it anymore, and he’ll piss off.” 

You stuff your hands into your pockets, “I don’t control megumi. I didn’t tell him to egg Muta’s car, and pour milk all over him. ” 

“Like hell you don’t,” Nobara scoffs, “Kokichi was right about one thing—Megumi’s a doberman on a leash and you’re his owner.” 

“I didn’t even tell him that Kokichi kept asking for my number. I’m pretty sure Todo told Yuuji, and Yuuji told Megumi.”

“Yeah, that’s almost worse,” Nobara huffs, “He’s just moved to protect you out of undying loyalty—it must be nice to have a knight in shining armor. Does he call you ‘my liege,’ when you’re alone? He might as well bow down and kiss your shoes with the way he worships the ground you walk on.”

You know Nobara is teasing. The rhetoric that you have influence on Megumi isn’t new to you, but it’s always confusing for you to hear. You’ve known Megumi since grade school, and one thing you’re certain of is that he does things of his own conviction, and when he’s decided something, there’s little anybody can do to convince him otherwise. He’s the true definition of steadfast, and sometimes you wonder if his beliefs have inadvertently made him gain masochistic tendencies, because you’ve seen Megumi suffer in pain just to prove a point. 

“Megumi’s his own person, and he’s not easily influenced,” you chuckle, “If anything, he’s more of an attack dog—he bites whenever he sees something he doesn’t like.”

“In any case, he’s your dog,” Nobara shrugs. She pauses for a moment, skipping to catch up to you with a scrunch to her face, “I change my mind though, he’s definitely not scary enough to be a doberman. What are the puffy ones—the really small ones that yap a bunch?” 

“Pomeranians?”

She lights up—“Yeah, that’s way more fitting! Plus, he’s got spiky hair like those little mutts, a really bratty, spoiled one too. Gojo probably kept him in his Birkin as a kid.” 

You giggle as Nobara searches for an image to compare to one of Megumi. She goes as far as to make a collage and send it in your group chat for approval, instantly getting a rave reaction from Yuuji, and predictably, no response from Megumi.

Nobara walks you back halfway to your dorm, leaving you on your own to head to the gym to meet up with Yuuji. When you get back to your room, you’re not surprised to already see Megumi inside, sitting snugly on your worn-in couch with a book in hand. It’s Wednesday, so he only had morning classes, and prefers to spend his afternoon studying in solace, usually taking advantage of your larger, empty room to get his work done. He gives you a small wave, enraptured in his reading, and you know better than to try and disturb him, so you take your place on the opposite side of the couch with the remainder of your notes in hand, finally having the peace and quiet to finish your annotations. 

Megumi finishes his chapter before you’re done, but he waits for you, quietly scrolling on his phone so as not to interrupt you. You don’t face him when you speak, keeping your eyes on your notes, and simply stating, “Kokichi apologized.”

You hear him hum. you know he’s looking at you, but you don’t meet his gaze, and do your best to bite back a smile before he asks, “You forgive him?”

You finish your annotations with a final asterisk at the bottom of your page, so you cap the marker, and finally turn to face Megumi. He doesn’t ask a second time, even as you silently observe him, even if your smile is confusing to him.

“I wasn’t ever really upset,” you explain, “It was annoying, but he wasn’t harassing me or anything.” 

He hums again, but it’s not agreeing. “Tsumiki is gonna get mad if you get suspended.” 

Megumi calls your bluff with his hum this time, and you sigh. Tsumiki won’t get mad, because Megumi would never get suspended, not as long as Gojo is around as headmaster.

Megumi turns his body inward, raising an arm to rest his elbow against the cushion of the couch. He lolls his head to rest against his palm, cheek squished, and almost mischievous glimmer in his eye. In this light, you see Nobara’s argument—with sleep-tousled hair and expectant eyes, Megumi looks an awful lot like a puppy waiting for a command. 

It’s cute, until you realize that Megumi is awaiting your command. Is he?—why would he, he’s never been known to listen, and yet, you’re tempted to see if you truly do have him on some proverbial leash, like everyone else seems to believe.

“Megumi,” you call, softly, “He’s learned his lesson, and I’m fine, alright? Leave him alone.”  

Megumi blinks slowly. His features soften, only for a moment, before he’s turned away from you to pick up his book again. He doesn’t respond verbally, doesn’t touch on the topic for the rest of the evening that you both spend studying in your room, but the following day, you walk past Kokichi and Miwa heading into their chemistry lab, and notice a distinct lack of milk or food residue on his clothing or in his hair, so there isn’t anything more to be said.

Megumi is waiting outside of your lecture hall after your last class of the day, offering you a carton of strawberry milk—unopened, and un-thrown. You accept it, reaching up to ruffle his hair as a thank you, and you’re surprised when you feel him move into your touch. He dips his head down a bit further, gently knocking it against yours before straightening up with a sly smile. He nods his head, wordlessly, and turns towards your dorm, ready to walk you back. 

You follow, dazed, as you stab the straw into your milk. You’re a half-step behind Megumi, head clouded with confusing new daydreams about the boy in front of you, and now you can’t help but to wonder if you’re the one left to follow Megumi’s whim, or if he’s just pulling you by his own leash. 

[tarot-archives]

please imagine laios who just came to the island. no connections. no background. he has his sister, a few coins in his satchel, and a dream. but it wasn’t easy. finding a job is tough. most of the time, it’s falin the other parties want, not him. they don’t have money to spare for extra weight.

laios the big brother. laios the supposed provider can’t even feed his sister proper food. he does odd jobs outside the dungeon for a good meal then they sleep under the stars. feeding was hard enough so a room was out of the question. they eventually joined the wanderers who sleep in tents and was kind enough to spare him a blanket.

in his job hunting, laios can’t help but be distracted from the inviting smell from one of the inns. his nose leads him to a dark alleyway, thinking that maybe if he ate his hard bread while smelling the aromatic food, his meal might be better mentally.

laios spots a dog from the back door. the puppy was had a rope on its neck as a leash to keep it tied. he couldn’t help but smile. laios squats down and plays with the puppy, a reminder of his past with having so many dogs and a cat. the black puppy enthusiastically barks and barks. it’s happy to have someone to play with after a while of staying in the cold. laios had the urge to steal him away. no one should leave a small thing like him in the dark.

the frequent barks caught your attention. it might be an intruder or your puppy was causing trouble so you had to go and check. your eyes land on a man, thin and possibly malnourished, playing with potchi, your dog. you don’t miss the way this strangers shined once the light hit his eyes at first. he quickly stood, towering over you in fact. despite being a tall-man yourself, your smaller height doesn’t testify your race.

this man was apologetic at first, then enthusiastic as the conversation continues. he talks about your dog, then about his experience with dogs, then he lectures you about dogs. needless to say you were interested. he was a walking archive, knowledgable and charming in his own way. he seemed harmless compared to the men who frequent the inn. big, burly guys with a bad attitude just because they can enter the dungeon and kill monsters.

his eyes however doesn’t meet yours. you followed his stare to the plate of food you had at the table. and on cue, his tummy rumbles.

“are you hungry?” you asked. he doesn’t deny his hunger and immediately says yes. his actions were like potchi during his meals. he’s cute, endearing, and excited. if he had a tail, he would be wagging it. “here, as thank you for the dog information.”

you bring him a plate of hot food (a bit of extra from todays pot) and he gobbles it up. save for a good portion he says it’s for his sister.

cute, endearing, excited, and thoughtful… he has this appeal. and goodness! don’t you know not to entertain men who play with puppies and have bright eyes. too much of those heart felt romance books warn about men like him. but you shoo your thoughts away.

“listen, you can finish up your plate. i can give you another serving for your sister,” you offered.

“thank you. you’re so kind… er…” i scratched his head. “i don’t even have your name.”

you tell him your name as he told you his. laios… you test it on your tongue. you don’t know why your heart is at ease just speaking his name out loud. you say it again with an offer this time, “come to the inn tomorrow, at 4 am if you can. we need extra hands to bring in new items. i’d pay you with food though, will that be fine, laios?”

he smiled brightly for a man previously starved. a new excitement bubbles within him with the promise to meet you again tomorrow.

“bring your sister too okay? food is better served hot after all,” you smiled. laios took you hand as he shakes it. his energy seeping into you through his hold, but the coldness of his fingers concerned you. “tell me if you need anything okay? us tall-man have to stick together.”

laios wanted to hug you. wrap his arms to show his appreciation, but he knows when to stop. he’s not that clean after all. so he settles with a hand shake, noticing how warm you are body wise and not just through your personality. “thank you! i’ll be here on time! i promise.”

soon after, you waved a final good bye to laios. excitement blooms within you as you wait for tomorrow to come as quickly as it could.

requests? open.

[rajaagaza]

Can you reach us 3.000$ within 2 days?🆘️🇵🇸🍉

How can your donation protect my family?🕊🚨

Let's get to know Rajaa more..

Who is Rajaa?

I am a mother of a one-and-a-half-year-old child. I am in my 26th year. I am a medical analysis specialist.

Since my graduation in 2019, I have been striving to develop my skills at work. As everyone testifies, I have excelled in my work. I aspired to complete postgraduate studies in the field of genetics. I specialize in genetic molecular research. I love this section of analysis and I worked in it for my graduation research. It was a special research in which a friend of mine named Wafa participated with me. She was as passionate as I was about this science and we aspired to work in our own laboratory. But she was martyred in this war. How painful it is for me to lose her.😭😭😔😣

What is our message to the world?

Stop this war..🛑🆘️🚨

Due to the current situation and there is an opportunity to travel to Canada, where my aunt lives, it has become necessary for us to move to a safer location to protect my family. I wish we weren’t in this position, but the reality has forced us to take urgent steps. 😩😫

You are the ones who can help us secure the travel costs we urgently need. With your support, we can make the move quickly and get the protection we need. We appreciate any donation or sharing of this campaign. 🥺💔

Your donation via PayPal will enable us to meet basic needs in light of the interruption of the source of income and the high prices

Thank you for your support during these difficult times.❤️🫂

Donate if it is $5, believe me, it will make a difference and protect us

Lets get the travel costs for one person of us, which is 6.000$. We are about 3.000$, meaning we need you all to donate about 3000$ here

????Can you reach us 3.000$ within 2 days????

[five-rivers]

Cracked Clay Cup

for @greatbigolhampuckjustforme

“Are you awake?”

Until he heard that question, the answer to it would have been a resounding no.  However, he was awake now, so he pried his eyes open to squint at whoever had interrupted his sleep.  

“Maybe,” he mumbled into a fluffy pillow.  

“Excellent.  Then we can start the questionnaire.”

In his opinion, it was far too early for a questionnaire.  On the other hand, the creeping feeling that something wasn't quite right was creeping its way up his spine.  He levered himself out of his blanket cocoon and into a sitting position.  Then he retrieved his blanket, wrapping it around his shoulders.  He wanted to be cozy.  

“Questionnaire?” he asked.  

“Indeed.  It’s not long.”

“Um, okay.  What are you doing in, um…”  This… wasn’t his bedroom.  He was pretty sure this wasn’t his bedroom.  Or any place he’d seen before.  

He also didn’t think he’d seen the ghost before, which added an air of surrealism to the whole situation.  

“Who are you?” he asked, looking the ghost up and down.  He was tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in purple, with a hooded cloak thrown around his shoulders.  There was a rectangular hole in his chest, and in the hole was a pendulum and clock face.

“That is, in fact, one of the questions I have to ask you.”  The ghost showed him the back of a clipboard and produced a pen from thin air.

“Um, that, um.”  He frowned.  “Who am I, or who are you?”

“Yes,” said the ghost.  “But let us start at the beginning.  Do you know who you are?”

“Well, yeah, sure, I’m… Um.  I’m.  I…”  It should have been an easy question.  It should have been a question he didn’t even have to think about, which is why he didn’t.  But he didn’t even have the echo of an answer.

“I will mark that down as a no.”

“Wait, wait,” he said, “what’s going on, who am I?”

“I have to go through the whole questionnaire before I answer your questions, I’m afraid.  Those are the rules.”

“I… okay?”

“Do you recognize me in any capacity?”

“Nope.  Am I supposed to?”

“Excellent.  Next question, do you know where you are?”

He shook his head.  “Somewhere in the Ghost Zone, I think.”

“Do you know what year it is?”

“Um.  Two thousand five?  Or, uh, six?”  He shrugged.  Something like that.  It was a little blurry.  

“How old are you?”

“Teenage?”

“Can you describe yourself?”

“Um…  Forgetful?”

“Physically,” clarified the ghost.

He looked down.  He was covered in blankets and therefore unable to see so much as an inch of skin.  He crossed his eyes to look at his nose.  “White,” he said, finally.  “Probably.  And a guy.  Is that a physical thing?”

The ghost made a note on the clipboard.  “And how would you describe your parents?  Your family?”

“Uh.  They probably… exist.”

“Very good.  Favorite band?”

“Dumpty Humpty.  Why do I know that and not my name?”

“Please hold your questions until the end.  Favorite food?”

“Milkshake.  Kiwi fudge.  That’s weird.  That’s weird, isn’t it?”

“No weirder than a cheese puff and bacon milkshake.”

“Huh.  Is it weird that I want to try that now?”

“Somewhat, but not horribly so.”

He gazed at the ghost silently for several long seconds.  The ghost gazed back.  This was already an awkward situation, but it was getting worse by the second.  

“So… what’s the next question?”

“That was the last question. As you can doubtlessly tell, I am now answering your questions.”

He probably should have noticed that, actually.  He leaned forward, eager.  “Great, so, uh, what’s going on?  Why don’t I remember anything?”

“Your memory was removed in preparation for legal proceedings.”  Was it just him, or did the ghost seem… displeased about that?

“Uh… that seems sort of backwards, doesn’t it?  If I’m supposed to testify or defend myself, shouldn’t I at least remember what it is I’m doing?”

“That would be true if you were testifying or defending yourself.”

“Okay…  So…  What am I doing?”

“You are the subject of an extensive custody dispute.”

“And… that means I need to get my memory erased why?”

“We ghosts have a different method of settling custody disputes.  We prefer it if the child in question decides who to be with.”

“I kind of feel as if that’d also be easier with my memories.”

“On the contrary, memories can often lead to people choosing to stay in unpleasant situations.  For example, memories might create a sense of debt, sentiment, or honor that would prevent an objective decision based on current reality.”  The ghost said this as if he was reciting the phrase from rote memory.  

“That seems… wrong, somehow.  Like, there’s a missed assumption or something.”

“Be that as it may be, it is how we do things.”

“‘We’ being ghosts.”

“Correct.”

“Am I a ghost?”  This felt like another of those things he should just know, but, as before, he just didn't. 

“An unusual kind, but yes.”

“I'm dead?”  

“You died, yes.  Whether or not ghosts count as dead is a matter of scholarly debate.”

Well.  Okay, then.  He didn’t know what to say to that.  He sort of thought being dead would have more impact, but maybe it was hard to mourn for a life he didn't remember.  Or maybe he'd been dead for long enough that he'd already processed all the implications, and that had stuck around subconsciously.  Like the name of his favorite band.  

That was still weird.  

“So… What happens now?  Do you lead me out into the courtroom, see who I run to?  Do some kind of genetic test?  What are the rules here?”

“On the contrary, we have taken measures to keep your biological family from having an unfair advantage based on resemblance.  No.  What will happen is that, as a trial, you will spend a few days with each group that put themselves forward as potential guardians.  They have acquired housing appropriate for a young ghost, and have been… reviewed… to prevent abuses or other troubles.  You may leave their temporary guardianship whenever you choose.  However, once you leave, you will not be able to return to them until and unless you choose them at the end of these trials.  Between the potential guardians, you will stay here with me.”

There were so many troubling things in that explanation that he didn’t even know where to start.  

“So… the courtroom thing, but drawn out.”

“I suppose so, if you choose to look at it that way.”

“Right.  So, um.  What’s my name?”

“It’s Daniel.”

“Great.  Okay.  Cool.”  Daniel rubbed his eyes.  Despite all the heart-attack inducing things he was learning about today, he was still half-asleep.  Maybe it was a memory-wipe side-effect.  “You know, this is kind of messed up.  Some kind of weird reverse fairy tale kind of thing.  Like that story where someone has to pick the right girl when she’s been turned into a flower and there are two other flowers.  Why do I know that?”

“Unfortunately, I am not allowed to give you that information.  I am here to tell you the rules and make sure you are… able to do this.”

“To make sure you guys didn’t nuke my brain, you mean?”

“To some degree, yes.  But this is also frequently rather emotional, at least that is my understanding.  You are handling it remarkably well.”

“Oh, I’m just delaying my breakdown until after I see what I look like.  Better to have some idea of what my body is capable of in terms of punching walls and all that.”

“Wise,” said the ghost, with a small smile.  “There is a bathroom just through that door if you wish to examine yourself physically.”

“I’ll do that, in a bit.  But, first, um.  You keep saying we and us.  Who is that?  Who’s doing this?  I mean, ghosts, sure, but more specifically?”

“The legal system of the Ghost Zone.”

“Which is… Who?  Exactly?  The Observants?”

“You remember that.  Interesting.  But, yes, they are, for better or worse.”

“And you?  What's your position?”

“I am merely a neutral monitor selected by the Observants.”

“Monitor, huh?”

“I feel as though it would be misleading of me to call myself an observer under these circumstances.”

Daniel nodded.  “I can understand that.  I guess.  Is that, um, your usual job?  Taking care of kids like this?”

“I’m afraid not.  I work for the Observants in another capacity.”

“What capacity?”

“That would be one of the things I am not permitted to tell you.”

“Okay, and what’s up with that?  Why can’t you tell me things?”

“I am not allowed to give you information regarding your own past, including contextual information.”

Daniel frowned at the ghost.  “That sort of implies that I knew you, though, doesn’t it?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny that.”

“Cool,” said Daniel.  “That’s helpful.  You’re not in the running for my… whatever I should call this.  My guardianship?”

The ghost nodded.  “That is an acceptable term, but I must remind you that I am a neutral monitor.”

“Sure.  Right.”  There were other questions he could ask, other questions he should ask, but his brain felt fried.  Did he have a brain, being a ghost and all?  Or was he just, like… goo?

Yeah, no, he wasn’t going to ask that.  He was going to go do something more… concrete.  Bathroom time.  He was sure it would be just as harrowing, especially with the implication that his appearance had been changed somehow, but he could be brave.

He shuffled to the edge of the bed and swung his legs over.  He frowned at the cold floor and decided to take the blankets with him.  Then, he realized one of his questions had gone unanswered.

“Hey, um.  What’s your name? You never did say.”

“You can call me Clockwork.  And when you are done in the bathroom, I have breakfast waiting downstairs.”

Daniel heaved himself up and went to the bathroom, looking over his shoulder at Clockwork as he went.  

This was just… really weird.  Should he try to escape?  Like, even if Clockwork was telling the truth about everything, this wasn’t exactly what he would call a good situation.  But if this was the lie, then what was the truth?  The truth was always worse, when people were lying like that.

… Not that Daniel could come up with any specific examples of that.  It was more of a feeling.  

Soft lights came on in the bathroom as he stepped in.  It was… a bathroom.  He was sure he’d been in other bathrooms before.  This one had a purple-on-lavender color scheme and a large bathtub.  The fixtures were brass.  In other words, it resembled Clockwork to a surprisingly high degree.  Daniel wondered if he lived here normally, or if he’d just been the one to decorate.  Or if someone with a sense of irony had decorated it for him.  

Whichever.  Maybe he’d ask Clockwork about it and see if he answered.  It was harmless enough, compared to some of the questions he could ask.  

There was also a mirror.  He stared at it.  

His skin was a sort of tan pink, awash with freckles.  His hair was white.  His eyes were glowing and green.  His ears were long and pointed, curving up around the sides of his face to sit on the top of his head.  The blankets were also purple, funnily enough.  Huh.  

He leaned closer, squinting.  What kind of ears were those, anyway?  He had to assume he didn’t have them when he was alive and human.  Cat?  Dog?  Fox?  It wasn’t an automatic ghost thing, either, since Clockwork didn’t seem to have them, although that hood could likely hide a lot.  

If he had animal ears, did he have anything else?  Maybe some cool slit pupils?  He leaned even closer, over the counter.  Maybe?  They might be slitted?  He alternately blinked and widened his eyes, trying to make his pupils change sizes.  

Yes!  They were slitted!  Cool!

Which put better odds on this being a fox or cat thing than a dog thing.  Dogs had round pupils.  

Next question: did he have a tail?

He swung the blankets off his shoulders and folded them up so he could set them on the counter.  He was, surprise surprise, wearing purple pajamas.  But he also had a large, fluffy tail.  He petted it.  It was very fluffy.  

Excellent.  He’d always wanted a tail.  Well, he’d wanted one for the few minutes he’d been aware there was a possibility he could have one.  Very nice.  Good feeling.  Soft.  

It also seemed very unfamiliar.

Precautions.  

Right.  

The smile slid off his face.  Well.  On reflection, he didn’t think Clockwork was lying to him, but he really needed to know more about him to make a real determination.  Just like he needed to make a determination about his potential ‘guardians.’  

This was giving him real adoption scam vibes.  Which was weird, because he’d’ve thought that’d be one of the memories they’d erase if they wanted to do that.  Maybe memory erasure was just… really inexact.  That sounded like a possibility.  Maybe there was some other weird scam going on.  

Only one way to find out.  He washed up, then left the bathroom and navigated towards the stairs.  

The stairs were also purple.  

Daniel was definitely leaning towards this place being decorated by someone with a weird sense of humor.  A non-Clockwork someone.  There weren’t nearly enough clocks for this place to have been designed by someone named Clockwork.  You had to be really into clocks to name yourself Clockwork.  

“Welcome,” said Clockwork, smiling at Daniel from the center of the purple kitchen.  “There are pancakes.”  He gestured to the table.  “And the file next to them has the names of your potential guardians.  Why don’t you read through them and see who you might like to stay with first.”

“You want me gone so soon?” asked Daniel, sliding into his seat.  

“You are welcome to stay here for as long as you want, but then you won’t get your memories back.”

“I can get my memories back?” asked Daniel, looking up sharply.  

“Yes, they will be returned after you make your choice,” said Clockwork.  He turned back to the stove.  “Hashbrowns?  Eggs?  Sausage?”

“Um,” said Daniel, who was gradually realizing how hungry he was.  “All of them?”

“Of course.”

Daniel turned his attention back to the file folder, then flipped it open.  Time to see who he was being… adopted by?  Was that the right term here?  

The first page had seven groups of names, bullet pointed.  It was also done in calligraphy, which was certainly a contrast to the plain manila folder it was stored in.  

“Anyone catch your eye?” asked Clockwork, setting down a plate with eggs and sausage on it.  

“Does it matter which order I do this in?”

“Not at all.”

“So I could start at the end.”

“Indeed.”

“Great,” said Daniel.  “Then let’s start there.  After breakfast.”

[desperate-gay]

can you do an Alexia one. Where they Are married, reader is pregnant and alexia takes care of reader just pure fluff or reader goes to alexias game

Mama

Alexia Putellas x fem!reader

It’s well past 2 AM; the only things that can be heard are the waves crashing outside on the beach. Alexia is sound asleep next to you, but unfortunately for you, you’re wide awake because a certain someone keeps kicking. That someone not being your wife. You’re 6 months pregnant with a girl.

Both you and Alexia have talked about having kids during your relationship, so a little after your wedding, you followed through with IVF. It took a few times, so trying to get pregnant involved a lot of crying, disappointment, and anxiety about never being able to have a baby, but throughout the whole process, you and Alexia stuck together and became as close as you could possibly be. So when you began to feel nauseous and your period was late, you took a pregnancy test. You both had sat in the living room with the stick still facing down, too scared for it to be another negative, but after a while, you sucked it up, took a deep breath, and flipped it over. Two lines. Your wishes finally came true.

Now here you are, in mild discomfort and craving vanilla ice cream, but you don’t want to wake up Alexia. She’s been under a lot of stress due to all of the Spanish Federation, continuing to play football, testifying in court, and worrying about you and the baby. The last thing you want to do is disturb her sleep just because you can’t.

You move the blankets to uncover your body and roll out of bed. As quietly as you can, you tip-toe out of the room and head into the kitchen to browse the pantry for something that could satisfy your hunger, even if it’s not ice cream. You decide to settle for the graham crackers that have been sitting there for a while, and you walk over to the sink to look out the window at the beautiful view of the beach. The moon reflects off the water while the waves move up and down the shore, distracting you from the footsteps approaching you.

The feeling of hands slithering around your waist causes you to jump and let out a quiet squeak. “What are you doing down here, hermosa?” Your wife whispers, setting her chin down on your shoulder and swaying the both of you slowly. Your left-hand reaches behind you and cradles her head, pulling her even closer to you.

“Our daughter decided it was time to do some karate while I was sleeping. I couldn’t fall back asleep because she wouldn’t stop, and I was hungry.” Alexia moves back and turns you around.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” She frowns while her eyebrows furrow, making creases in her forehead. You place your hands on each side of her face and rub your thumb over the wrinkles, allowing her face to relax a bit.

“Because you’re under a lot of stress lately, and you need your beauty sleep, baby. If anything was wrong, I’d wake you up immediately.”

“But I’m your wife, and you’re carrying our baby. I’m supposed to help you with these things while you just worry about resting and taking care of pequeña.” You know Alexia will drop whatever she’s doing to help you. It doesn’t matter if she’s in the middle of a press conference or even just taking a shower; she would run to you in a heartbeat. All you want is for her to be able to take care of herself, even if it’s just sleeping without being disturbed.

“Ale, I’m okay. Our pequeña is okay. You have been taking care of us these past 6 months, and we are nothing but grateful for that, but I can tell you’ve been struggling. There was no need for me to wake you up just because I was awake and hungry. Sometimes you need to think about yourself too, baby.” Alexia tries to object, but you place a finger over her mouth, forcing her lips to stay closed. “Now, we are going to go back to bed, cuddle, and go back to sleep. We’re both tired and who knows what the day will hold.”

Your thumbs rub over the apples of the taller girl's cheeks, while hers rest on your hips. She gazes down at you with nothing but a loving look in her eyes and a soft smile, only for you to see.

“I love you.” She says softly.

You pull her face down a little and angle your head up to meet her lips. It’s a soft kiss that still tends to make you swoon. “I love you always, Ale. I can’t wait to extend our family with you.”

[fangirlfrom-hell]

How Many Detectives Are Needed To Sleep A Baby? || Jay Halstead x reader!

Cute and fluffy Jay, wife and baby + babysitter detectives

*re-posting this because I'm stupid and accidentaly delated my blog 🫠

Summary: Intelligence unit takes care of Jay's newborn baby while he and his wife are in court. Turns out it is the most difficult case they have worked on.

-"You can't go in there". Platt muttered in a scolding tone to Adam, who wanted to go into the coffee room.

-"Why not?" He asked strangely.

-"Shhhhhh". Kim gave him a punch on his arm. -"Keep it quiet, you're gonna wake her up".

-"Ok, alright". Ruzek kept his voice low. -"What the hell is going on, girls?"

-"Halstead's baby is sleeping in there. Don't you dare to interrupt her sweet dreams, bro". Kevin said from his desk.

-"Look at her. You can see her smile even from here". Hailey said, peeking through the window.

Trudy and Kim followed her.

-"She's so lucky she didn't get her father's mad face". The Sergeant enquired.

-"What do you think she's dreaming about? She looks so peaceful".

-"What's going on? Where's Jay? Where's her mom? What is she doing here all alone?" Adam was losing it, increasing his voice volume once more.

-"She's not alone. We're taking care of her!". Hailey frowned.

-"Adam, please". Voigh silently got out of his office and rushed towards him whispering. -"Would you keep it down? I can hear your voice even with my door closed. Let the baby rest, she's only weeks old and already has seen too much".

The detective opened his arms in a defeated gesture. He had just arrived and didn't understand anything.

-"Y/N is testifying right now, we couldn't avoid it. She and her colleagues published the investigation under their names, so...I couldn't stop it. Jay is by her side. The baby is here for protection".

-"She really is a hell of a journalist". Upton mentioned with admiration.

-"And a very brave woman. We owe her a lot in this case". Hank stated.

-"You know? You would have known about this if you had arrived in time to work". Burgess teases Adam.

-"Is there any news about the trial?" Platt wanted to know, worried about you.

-"Not yet, but Jay said he'll be in touch". The boss stated. -"You know these trials take time".

They weren't conscious about it, but the whole Intelligence squad looked hilarious talking with whispers and walking in tiptoes as they went back to their workplaces.

Time passed and the girl was still sleeping safe and sound, until Adam decided to stand up to stretch a bit and stumbled with some cables on the floor. Naturally, the clatter woke up the little baby.

-"It had to be you, right?" Kim mocked her husband as she helped him stand up.

Hailey and Kevin ran to the coffee room as if they were running a race. It was him who got there first and held the baby girl.

-"There, there. Uncle Kev is right here". He tried to reassure her. -"I had siblings and took care of them when they were babies. I can manage another one".

But after a few minutes, she was still uncontrollable.

-"Ok, it's my turn". Burgess got into the game and took the baby off his partner's arms. -"I'm the only mom here, the only one who has a real daughter. I know how to do it".

-"What are you talking about?" Trudy Platt laughed. -"Makayla was already a grown up when you adopted her!" And she grabbed the baby to accommodate her in her chest. But the crying did not stop.

-"Oh, no. What are they doing to you, sweetie?" Upton grabbed her and laid her in her arms. -"I am her godmother, she knows me better".

The baby Halstead slowed down her crying, but she was still restless.

-"Well, how many detectives do you need to sleep a baby, hum? You don't know anything". Hank Voight gasped. -"Give her to me, I'll show you all". But as soon as she was in the arms of the boss, her crying increased. -"Oh. I've lost touch!"

Jay and Y/N were already at the bullpen, waiting in the stairs. They got in time to witness the fluffy scene.

-"Hey, guys? She's not a rag doll, you know?" Jay said laughing at the scene and his friends turned around with surprise. -"She just needs her daddy's arms''. He took his daughter to stroke her and almost immediately she calmed down.

-"That's not fair". Platt crossed her arms.

-"We brought you coffee". You smiled, leaving the box you were carrying on one of the desks. -"There's not enough caffeine when you take care of a newborn. There's one for each of you, just as each of you like it. Look for your name in the tags".

-"Geez, thanks!" Adam said gladly and balanced the table. -"I was denied entrance to the coffee room the whole morning".

-"I'm sorry". You turned red.

-"Don't listen to him". A chorus of detectives said.

-"She's really calm, it was no problem". Kevin asserted and everyone else agreed.

You approached your husband and as soon as you were in your daughter's sight, the baby started to smile and giggle, throwing little kicks into the air.

-"What? Why are you laughing so much, baby?" You raised your hands and freed Jay's arms. -"Come with mommy, sweetie".

Everyone stared at the scene with tenderness, especially Kim, whose eyes started watering.

-"You wanna hold her?"

She just nodded and took the opportunity.

-"How was the trial? Are you alright?" Platt inquiered.

-"Yeah, I mean it was really scary, but I think it went fine". Y/N hands started to shake a little bit, but she was fast enough to hide them in her pockets. Nobody noticed, except for Jay.

-"She did a great job". He hugged you by the waist, trying to secretly ease you.

-"I have no doubt about it, she already showed us how much of a badass she is". Hank smirked.

-"I will just be more comfortable if you stay in here at least until the Jury deliberates, or as soon as I can go home with you. It's just a precaution, I'm not being paranoid or something".

-"Yes, I agree". Voight followed the idea.

-"Sure. Whatever you think is better".

The baby yawned and stretched herself so adorably, that she caught everyone's attention again.

-"I should put her down to sleep".

-"Alright. Take my seat, Y/N. We don't know how much we're staying here". Jay pointed out.

-"C'me on, Kim. Give the baby back to her mommy".

-"If you need help with the baby or you get bored of these people around, I'll be downstairs". The desk Sergeant winked at you and you smiled back at her back.

-"She won't be bored. She has me here". Hailey pulled a face.

-"I'll take provisions just in case the little one takes the coffee room again". Ruzek rushed to the kitchen.

Everyone else rolled their eyes in a funny way.

[fanby-fckry]

You know what, I’m just gonna say it. I think that Alastor being aroace is part of the reason he’s so shippable to me.

Before you come at me, check the flag in my pfp; I’m aroace-spec.

Maybe it’s me projecting, maybe it’s because I love exploring relationships through an aroace lens, but goddamn. I ship him more than any other character and every time I do, his aroaceness is a major component in the ship.

Examples below the cut because it’s gonna get long:

📻🍎 || RadioApple:

There are so many versions of this dynamic and I am here for all of them.

We have the pre-canon kinky QPR that I show in UH3. I could talk about that all day, but to summarize:

Aroace x genuinely respectful allo is a dynamic that heals my soul.

Lucifer is less tied down by human constructs like amatonormativity, having never been human himself.

The Devil values consent.

Kinky cannibalism, kinky cannibalism, kinky cannibalism, kinky ca- *I am removed from the stage with a comically large hook*

Then we have the Evil and fucked up QPR dynamic:

And of course, trying to get along for Charlie’s sake and eventually bonding over their shared love of dad jokes and musical theatre, both being violinists (yup, Alastor plays violin too, check the wiki) with niche hobbies/interests (ducks, furby organ) and accidentally winding up in a loving, healthy QPR.

📻🕸️ || RadioDust:

There’s something about an aroace and a sex worker who very rarely falls in love.

Angel would know that Alastor isn’t with him for sex, would know that he values Angel beyond his body.

With greyro Alastor, Angel and Alastor would both be inexperienced with romance, but in wildly different ways. Angel has never had a healthy romantic relationship and therefor tries not to fall in love. Greyro Alastor has probably experienced romantic attraction like less than three times in his 100+ years of existence.

And if Alastor never gains romantic attraction for Angel, that’s a whole other level to the dynamic.

It’s got some great angst potential with Angel wondering if he’s not good enough to love romantically or Alastor feeling guilty or confused as to Why It Hasn’t Happened Yet when he cares for Angel so deeply, and eventually it gets resolved with the two of them accepting that their attractions don’t have to match up for them to love/appreciate/care for each other and they smash the amatonormative relationship hierarchy as queer platonic partners.

Or, Angel’s just totally cool with it from the start because he’s spent decades in the kink scene and has potentially been exposed to more relationship anarchy than Alastor.

Kink and queerness have a great deal of historical and cultural overlap, and that includes aroace queerness. Because Angel’s had way more canon exposure to both, it’s possible he knows more about Alastor’s orientation than Alastor does, and I love the idea of Angel introducing him to terms or just being super chill about not labeling things.

📻♥️ || RadioHusk:

Drawing like 90% from pilot dynamic and headcanon on this. They’re just two old men. They get drunk and cuddle. Alastor is one of the few people who knows Husk can purr and takes advantage of this fact. Alastor considers Husk a friend in a fucked up, possessive way. Husk considers Alastor a pain in the ass, but does care about him on some level.

It’s Fucked Up and Evil QPR: Remix Edition.

And the versions where the author puts them through fanfic couple’s therapy and actually gets them into a healthy point in their relationship? One where Alastor no longer owns Husk’s Soul? *chef’s kiss*

📻🌹 || RadioRose:

For me, personally, this is an exclusively nonsexual, non-romantic ship. They’re besties; they’re QPPs. They’re married for the tax benefits and so that they cannot be forced to testify against each other in court.

Rosie knew Alastor was aroace before he did and rather than sit down and explain it to him, she decided to make ace puns.

📻🖤 || RadioSiren: [edit, context here] RadioFemme

Ok, so this is entirely based on non-canon-compliant Lilith. Or, I guess, non-series-compliant Lilith. More of the old WOG stuff from the pilot era, with a healthy dose of headcanon for flavor.

I love the idea of Lilith and Lucifer having an open marriage; I love the UH3 style polycule dynamic.

Lilith being the original seductress and Alastor being aesthetically but not sexually or romantically attracted to her is very near and dear to my heart.

I’m an aroace with a voice kink who is aesthetically attracted to Lilith and I think Alastor is an aroace with a voice kink who would be aesthetically attracted to Lilith, ok?

📻📺 || RadioStatic:

I’m gonna be real with you, 90% of my interest in RadioStatic is in the one-sided version where Vox is a pathetic little incel simp and Alastor is either oblivious, mildly annoyed, or finds the whole thing hilarious.

Whenever there’s any reciprocation on Alastor’s part, I always imagine it being in a very aroace, very Alastor-esque way. He needs to be get something out of it completely unrelated to sex/romance. And he needs to be manipulative and sadistic in the process.

Whether that something is kink-related, a business transaction, or simply the quality entertainment provided by Vox being a cringefail TV-headed little bitch, I love to see it.

[simpingforstardew]

i will come back

pairing: sdv elliot x reader

synopsis: elliot comes back from his book tour one week early, and it's safe to say you've missed each other... a lot ♡

warnings: 18+ smut (minors dni). body worship / praise kink, pwp, reader is described as having a vagina, oral sex (reader receiving); penetrative sex. no protection / contraceptive described. not proof-read !!

word count: 1.4k

Elliot has been on a book tour for more than a season now. Although you are proud of your husband, his absence has made time stand still. It feels like the valley is holding its breath, waiting for his return.

Loneliness permeates every corner of your home. Without a partner holding you together after long days on the farm, you feel yourself falling apart. You wear nothing but a white cotton t-shirt of his, hugging you loosely— not as tight as he would, but the aquatic scent that lingers on the garment is a soothing comfort.

Your fingers trace the pages of his latest masterpiece. The words etched upon them testify to his literary brilliance and the romanticism that consumes him.

As enthralling as Elliot’s writing is, it's not the same as your husband being with you.

You miss him.

You miss holding him in your arms; laughing with him about some meaningless inside joke; kissing his soft lips to shut him up.

Just as swiftly as a whisper in the wind, the front door swings open; Elliot appears in the doorway, framed by the fading light of dusk.

“My love, I’m home—”

You rush into his arms before he can finish his sentence, dropping the novel on the floor as you hold Elliot tightly as if afraid he might disappear once more.

“But you… you said you wouldn’t be home until next week?” you whisper, looking up at him through misty eyes.

“The tour ended earlier than you expected, your love,” Elliot squeezes you just as tight, nuzzling into your neck. “I didn’t want to waste a moment longer being away from you.”

With a gentle touch, you place both your hands on the sides of his face, looking deeply into his eyes.

"Did you miss me?" you already know the answer, but need to hear him say it.

Elliot nods, and you can tell he wants to kiss you— the way he keeps trying to bring his lips to yours; the way his eyes flicker to your lips as you speak.

“Say it,” you whisper, resisting the urge to kiss your lover for just a second longer. He can’t fight off a smile at your request; still, as always, Elliot obliges.

“As much as the sun misses the flowers in winter, dear. I adore you,” he trails kisses down your throat to punctuate his praise, “Like nobody has ever loved anyone before. I worship you and I am yours entirely and completely, my muse.”

You feel his hands in your hair, gently pulling your head back as he continues to murmur in incessant worship, his tone soft and intimate.

Desire spills down your spine as you arch against him and realise he’s hard, pressing himself into the juncture of your thigh. You bite your lip and reach out, burying your hands in his long auburn hair— it's just as soft as you remember. Elliot leans into your touch.

As his eyes flutter closed he presses his forehead against yours while his hands dance along the curve of your waist, fingertips tracing a path along your spine.

His fingertips always ignited goosebumps in their wake.

With his hands closed over your wrists, he glides his lips against yours, laying a feather-like touch along your sides, your ribs, and up your arms.

Elliot groans, the sound tinged with an inhuman growl, as his cold hand closes over your wrist. As he pins you to the front door to close it, you’re certain you’ve never been so aroused in your life. You whine, tugging at the grip he has on your wrists as his free hand slides under your shirt, icy fingers splayed wide on your stomach, and you instinctively arch back as Elliot’s slender fingers begin to dance mindlessly across your chest.

“Now it’s your turn to tell me something,” He whispers against your neck, his breath ragged and warm. “Tell me you want to fuck me.”

“Please.” The whimper that escapes your lips is desperate— you both have been for months. As you nibble against his lips he grins savagely into your mouth, your hands fumbling at his belt to wrap a hand around his shaft; Elliot gasps at the coolness of your touch as you draw your thumb over his tip.

You barely have time to protest as he pulls back, hooking his fingers into the collar of your shirt and tearing it apart like a page from a book. The t-shirt falls to the ground, exposing you to the chill of your farmhouse.

Elliot leans back to take in every inch of you, and you shiver under his gaze. He kneels before you, trailing light kisses down your sternum before pausing to look up at you, evergreen eyes gleaming.

“You’re fucking divine, my love.” His praise makes you squirm, a morphine-sweet tug that leaves you breathless. His soft kisses on your thigh cause you to buck your hips, as he whispers sweet nothings so quietly you’re almost convinced the words are unintentional.

“How I have missed this… Missed you,” Elliot's kisses wander further up your thighs, “So perfect for me, always so gorgeous... You look divine. Every inch of you looks like poetry in motion,” he continues, massaging your shaking thighs. “I’ve missed touching you like this— your warmth; your gorgeous sound; your perfect taste…”

Before you could beg for more, or hide away from the attention, you feel Elliot’s soft lips kiss your aching clit. You stood pressed against your oak door, kept there by Elliot’s hands possessively squeezing your hips.

“I want you to tell me when you feel like you’re going to come,” he says.

“Okay,” you say, your voice small as you shake with anticipation.

Elliot’s tongue laps up your wetness; his moans vibrate through your core. You feel his hands reach around to grab your ass, pulling you closer to his mouth. Elliot’s tongue urges you closer to orgasm as his fingers stroke over your folds; slowly pushing into you— just an inch at first, and then working deeper in smooth, blissful plunges. He adds a second finger and the sense of fullness is exquisite; Elliot’s thumb massages your sensitive clit in firm, delicious circles.

“Elliot, I— Please . . . I can’t— I-I’m gonna come," you moan, the words rushing out in broken gasps.

Just as suddenly, Elliot’s mouth freezes, leaving you trembling as you perch on the brink of release. He withdrew his touch; you whine at the loss.

“Already, pet?” Elliot smirks, placing another kiss on your sensitive heat before rising from his knees. “Well if you are, it should be on my cock, don’t you think?”

The question was entirely hypothetical, you realize, as Elliot picks you up. Shuddering with anticipation, you wrap your legs around him before he sets you down gently. As you sink into the soft plush of your bed, you wrap your arms around Elliot's neck, pulling him into a frenzied kiss.

“I need you, darling” he says hoarsely, eyes blown wide with lust, “I need you now.”

You reach down, freeing Elliot's erection and positioning his shaft towards your opening. It is almost dizzying to hear Elliot's slow, seductive moan as he enters you.

Ever the romantic, he had intended to take it slow, but after gazing into your eyes, seeing how they roll back in utter bliss, he can't resist slipping inside.

“Don’t stop,” you moan. “Please.”

“N-never… Oh, my—” he groans, his composure faltering.

As you move together, you grasp his shoulders and hold on tightly, feeling waves of pleasure coursing through your body.

“Elliot,” you whine, your body responding to his with increasing urgency. You feel like you're losing control, being carried away by the intensity of the moment; far sooner than you would have liked, with a moan that echoes through the house, you burst into ecstasy.

As he collapses on top of you, he holds you close. His lips brush against your temple as he whispers, "Lie down with me."

You comply, quickly burrowing under the duvet. As you drift off to sleep, you feel a sense of peace for the first time in over a season.

Unbeknownst to you, Elliot remains awake, gently stroking your hair as he watches over you. The last thing you hear before slipping into dreams is his voice, whispering gentle praise against your skin.

[pikahlua]

I hope this will be short.

I guess this line is the fandom drama of the chapter?

I understand a lot of you are really passionate about the accuracy of the English translation. I just want to encourage you to try to engage with the official translation in good faith.

Ojama shimasu literally means "I am disturbing you/I will get in your way." It's often spoken as a greeting where the "apology" is implied (hence the brackets in my translation), but as usual context is everything in Japanese. Izuku is saying this line in defiance of Tomura's wishes. It basically comes across as Izuku plugging his fingers in his ears.

Me personally? If I were the official translator, I'd have strongly considered translating the line as "I'm coming in whether you like it or not."

The purpose in my pointing out the "common greeting" nature of this line was to demonstrate Izuku's sassiness. This is Izuku doing his "meddling where you don't technically have to" thing. The level of formality in Izuku's speech doesn't necessarily translate to actual politeness (check out @bakuhatsufallinlove's excellent post on that here).

Does "You will let me in," mean the exact same thing? Technically no, but it's the sentiment that counts. From an official translator's point of view, "You will let me in," is shorter, punchier, fits in the speech bubble a lot easier, and still conveys the general idea of what's happening in the scene.

I don't know. I wanted to talk about this because I guess a lot of people are concerned about Izuku's characterization and how it reflects on Japanese culture and how the official translation may be misrepresenting Japanese culture to the English-reading audience, and I just...can I ask that everyone take a step back a minute? Horikoshi isn't writing his story for an English-reading audience. He's not considering at all how any of this sounds to English speakers. That's the translator's job, not just to translate what is said but to translate that into the context of who is reading it. Localization is not a dirty word--it's an important aspect of translation. And the notion that Izuku is being polite and respectful here as a Japanese person is just such a...take. Izuku is being hella rude here lol. Japan itself, not just the MHA Japan but REAL WORLD Japan, notoriously has a bystander problem where people will ignore others who are being harassed because they don't wanna get involved. They won't step in to help nor will they even testify as a witness against others for fear of what it means to speak out and break from the pack. Izuku is quite obviously Horikoshi's direct answer to that phenomenon. He's meant to be an example of the morally correct thing to do, which is to be "rude" in these cases.

So I mean, sure, we can talk about what is lost in translation by the line, "You will let me in." But to me what's lost may just be grammatical and pedantic (like the passive voice that switches the onus of action onto Tomura instead of Izuku and what that may do to the focus on Izuku's rise to action here). In any case, it's not a BAD translation that changes Izuku's perceived politeness, just one that may prompt new discussion--and I don't think that's a bad thing.