#when i say the algorithm is algorithming!!!!!!

[inspired-lesson-plans]

Revisited &Revised

ELA or Social Emotional Learning, High School No specific learning standard.

Essential Question:

How come you aren't allowed to say certain words in school?

Do now:

Working alone or in small groups,

Students compile a list of all the words which, in your experience, you aren't allowed to use in school.

Each word should be written on an individual sticky note, with the first and last letters spaced apart by the appropriate number of underscores, like so:

F _ _ K

Class discussion:

Teacher reveals a display board with a big arrow on it, indicating a scale from "least inappropriate" to "most inappropriate".

After every student has had ample time to come up with as many as they can, they are called up to the board a few at a time to post their words where they think the words belong on the scale. Encourage students to justify their word placements, but do not let them say the words per se (since they're still in school).

Direct Instruction:

Note, most of this information is taken from Netflix's History of Swear Words (tpb link) and various episodes from the excellent podcast The Allusionist, but instead of doing pepper research I am simply writing from memory. There may be mistakes.

In the Western World, we have a lot of different ways of talking about inappropriate language. Cursing, cussing, swearing, making an oath, profanity, and most recently, "I don't want to get demonetized". As you can see, so-called "bad words" are usually those that would upset the gods and thus invite their retribution.

Odysseus paid the price for challenging Poseidon

The Bible says not to take the Lord's name in vain

YouTubers don't want to upset The Algorithm.

In Judaism, it's considered profane to ever utter the name of G-d. The reasons for this are complicated, but it basically comes down to the name being too sacred to be uttered under normal circumstances. He is usually referred to as Adonai (meaning My Lord), or Hashem (meaning The Name), as a stand-in for the textual YHVH name that I have never ever heard pronounced by any practicing Jew.

But this story really starts in medieval Europe. Christians in the second millennium CE were very, very concerned with Hell. This may feel weird coming from a modern perspective, where Christianity is mostly about finding God's love. Nah, this was a world lit only by fire. Mortal life was tragic, painful, and short; all you could do was hope for a good afterlife. That's why Medieval Christians were terrified by what felt like a very real threat of eternal punishment.

So try to imagine living with the knowledge that you, like everyone, is under the perpetual watch of an omnipotent God who might condemn (or "damn") someone's soul to eternal punishment because of something you said in anger. Hence, the script by a monk, complaining about the head of the monastery, self-censoring "damn" but unafraid to say "fuck".

This was a time when much less thought was given to impurities of the flesh, like sex and defecation. It's worth remembering that this was a time with no plumbing, so you either went into a pot (where the word potty comes from) and then threw it out the window, or you just went straight out the window in the first place.

By Shakespeare's time, it's clear that some words were never meant to be used in a public performance [citation needed]. There are many fun euphemisms (stand-in words), such as "zounds" standing in for "God's Wounds". But interestingly, we also see "forming the beast with two backs" as a colorful way of saying "two people having sex".

Speaking of which, do you think it's weird that Futurama named their second movie with a joke that's only funny if you read Othello?

The power of religious taboos waned as the Church's civil and political power waned. At the same time, sexual taboos had been growing in power. This reached its peak in the late 19th century with the peculiarly American belief that sexual activity drained one's vital force, and that sexual arousal was a base and bestial, not befitting the better bred and urbane (please look past the preponderance of prostitutes).

Ironically, by the 20th century, this very same taboo gave sexual language a kind of power, which made it very tempting to use those words... But please remember that this was also the first era of mass media. Radio, records, film, and finally television, allowed speech to be broadcast. And no broadcasting company would ever be seen as respectable if it were using such foul language. Especially in Hollywood, where the infamous Hays Code made it basically impossible to use any language that people would find insulting...until it didn't.

American culture had a major shift after the 1960s. There was a lot more cursing out loud. And the consequences didn't really happen. Music, movies, and eventually even television started cursing more and more until it just became part of casual language.

But there is one realm in which this language was never tolerated... advertisement. There has never been a "Coca Cola is the shit" ad campaign, even though it sounds like natural language today. Advertisers avoid anything that could be seen as offensive, because it could cause a loss in profits. It's really not that different from an ancient Grecian fearing to speak ill of the gods.

But this has become very strange in the age of TikTok. Fueled by advertisement revenue, online content platforms such as TikTok and YouTube are not particularly sensitive to most "traditional" swear words. But certain words (porn, pedophile, suicide, rape) which have always been safe to say even on network television, must now be partially censored or else replaced with euphemisms (corn, PDF file, unalive, grape), which remove all of the seriousness and perhaps even make it difficult to talk about them at all.

And there has even been one more wrinkle. Many people today believe that while it's not truly offensive to invoke sexual, religious, or ad-friendly taboos, it's actually offensive to use language that negatively targets minorities. What exactly this means is not widely agreed upon though, and it often reflects the politics of the individual. The word retard was once a polite term for individuals with developmental disabilities such as Down Syndrome, but the word started getting used more and more offensively to put people down, and now it is almost impossible to use the word politely. There is a case to be made that this word is actively harmful to some people and should never be used, but not everyone agrees.

This is a rich topic for discussion, and a teacher, let alone a class, could go on and on about it. So be careful to leave time for the following activities.

Modeled Activity:

Work with the class to rethink the "words inappropriate for school" display from the beginning of class (remember that? I didn't! I've been writing this thing for over a week now). Now that they know more about the history of offensive language, everyone should work together to refine a list of words that should absolutely not be allowed in class, followed by a list of words that generally shouldn't be used in class.

Higher Order Learning:

Instruct students to get in small groups, then create their own lists of what words are inappropriate for different social contexts, such as the following:

Home

Cafeteria / School-but-not-the-classroom

YouTube/TikTok

Places where there are kids younger than 10

The best notes written in manuscripts by medieval monks

Colophon: a statement at the end of a book containing the scribe or owner’s name, date of completion, or bitching about how hard it is to write a book in the dark ages

Oh, my hand

The parchment is very hairy

Thank God it will soon be dark

St. Patrick of Armagh, deliver me from writing

Now I’ve written the whole thing; for Christ’s sake give me a drink

Oh d fuckin abbot

Massive hangover

Whoever translated these Gospels did a very poor job

Cursed be the pesty cat that urinated over this book during the night

If someone else would like such a handsome book, come and look me up in Paris, across from the Notre Dame cathedral

I shall remember, O Christ, that I am writing of Thee, because I am wrecked today

Do not reproach me concerning the letters, the ink is bad and the parchment scanty and the day is dark

11 golden letters, 8 shilling each; 700 letters with double shafts, 7 shilling for each hundred; and 35 quires of text, each 16 leaves, at 3 shilling each. For such an amount I won’t write again

Here ends the second part of the title work of Brother Thomas Aquinas of the Dominican Order; very long, very verbose; and very tedious for the scribe; thank God, thank God, and again thank God

If anyone take away this book, let him die the death, let him be fried in a pan; let the falling sickness and fever seize him; let him be broken on the wheel, and hanged. Amen

[slattlicker]

college age schlatt i beg 🙏 like the proper nerdy computer science college student everyone seems to forget he was

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * no recursion without return ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ imagine: hot engineering nerd meets cute cs nerd. she needs help passing a required class. he needs someone who actually listens. one tutoring session turns into two... and then they build something together. ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

﹒₊✦ a/n: college schlatt is real, actually. nerds deserve romance too. i'm so so sorry if this is inaccurate,,, i am an english writing major (who used to be in biochem) so take everything stem-talk in this with the biggest grain of salt ♡

warnings: academic setting · lots of stem talk (cs + engineering) · mutual nerd crushes · slow-burn vibes · tutoring sessions · project bonding · lab flirting · light insecurity · soft & earned first kisses

✧✧✧

it starts with a room that smells like dry-erase markers and burnt coffee.

tuesday afternoon, 3:15 pm. you’re ten minutes early to the cs building’s third-floor lab—mostly because the alternative was sitting through another insufferably slow dining hall lunch, and partly because you weren’t sure if you’d find the place at all.

the whiteboard has a half-erased doodle of a mushroom in glasses. someone’s labeled it fungi with a minor in comp sci.

you snort, drop your bag onto the table, and slide into the nearest swivel chair.

you're not exactly struggling in the class—but you're also not thriving. cs230: data structures and algorithms. it’s mandatory for your minor, and you’ve been putting it off for two semesters too long.

the professor announced last week that office hours would be staffed by the department’s “stem peer guides.” you hadn’t planned on going.

but then the last lab nearly made you cry in the library bathroom.

so here you are.

you’re still tugging your laptop out of your bag when the door creaks.

he walks in backwards—wearing a hoodie that probably cost too much and socks with cartoon ducks on them, juggling two coffees and a laptop under one arm.

“hey—sorry,” he says, turning around and freezing when he spots you. “didn’t think anyone was gonna show up.”

he sets the coffees down. his glasses slide a little down his nose when he tilts his head.

“you here for cs230?”

you nod. “yeah.”

he blinks. then smiles—just a little. you catch the beginnings of smile lines.

“i’m schlatt,” he says. “stem guide. i did the class last year.”

you raise an eyebrow. “and survived?”

“barely.” he slides into the chair across from you and cracks open his laptop. “what are we working on?”

you pause. he’s surprisingly cute for someone who clearly color-codes his life. his keyboard has custom caps. his notes—when he turns the screen to show you—are annotated with little pixel cats.

you try not to show your amusement. “i think i broke my brain trying to write a recursive function.”

schlatt huffs a laugh. “you and everyone else.”

he takes a sip of his coffee, then pushes the other cup toward you.

“extra,” he says. “in case you need brain fuel. also because i got nervous and ordered two by accident and i couldn't tell them i didn't want the other one.”

you accept it without thinking. warm. lightly sweet. you usually take yours iced, but it's cold in this room, so you'll take it.

“thanks,” you murmur.

“no problem,” he says, already pulling up the assignment prompt on his screen. “let’s untangle some loops.”

✧✧✧

you’re twenty minutes in and already rethinking your life choices.

not because schlatt’s bad at explaining things. actually, the opposite.

he’s good. really good.

he’s got the kind of brain that makes metaphors on the fly—comparing recursive functions to russian nesting dolls, stack overflows to a laundry chair that’s reached critical mass, and call stacks to cabinets held open in sequence.

“okay,” he says, spinning the whiteboard toward you, “so imagine you're opening those russian dolls—you know, the ones that keep getting smaller?”

you nod, watching as he draws a series of half-circles nestled inside each other.

“each function call is like opening another doll. every time the function calls itself, it goes one layer deeper. but the only way to start returning values—to actually finish—is to reach the smallest one.”

“the base case,” you murmur, tapping the smallest doll he’s drawn.

his smile quirks. “exactly. once you hit that, you start putting them all back together. one by one, returning values up the chain.”

you tilt your head. “so recursion’s not about jumping around—it's about going in and then back out in the same order.”

“bingo.”

he pivots to his laptop and pulls up a short recursive function on the screen. you lean in.

“okay, next part—this,” he gestures at the lines of indented code, “is the call stack. think of it like trying to put dishes away.”

“…dishes?”

he nods, animated now. “you open a cabinet to put a plate in. then you grab another plate, but instead of closing the first cabinet, you open a second one. and a third. and a fourth. you keep opening cabinets without shutting the old ones.”

you raise an eyebrow. “sounds like how my roommate loads the dishwasher.”

he grins. “right? but the point is, each open cabinet is a function waiting to finish. they can’t finish until the one they just called returns. so when you hit your base case, you finally start closing those cabinets, in reverse order.”

you stare at the screen, tracing the indents with your eyes.

“so,” you start slowly, “the top function keeps waiting—holding its cabinet door open—until the one it just called is done. and that one’s waiting for the one it called. like a long hallway of open doors.”

“yes!” schlatt nearly bounces in his chair. “and that hallway is your stack. it fills from the bottom up—every time you go deeper. but if there’s no base case—or it’s too far down?”

“then the hallway gets too crowded.”

you glance up at him. “and the stack… overflows?”

he throws both hands up, mock-dramatic. “you get it!”

you laugh—really laugh—and shake your head. “it actually makes sense. which is annoying. because i was ready to just declare defeat and become a barista.”

he nudges his coffee toward you. “nah. baristas don’t use call stacks.”

you take a sip, smiling into the lid. “honestly? if you’d used metaphors in the lab handout, i might’ve passed the last quiz.”

“metaphors are how i survive,” he says, then lowers his voice in mock-conspiracy. “they trick your brain into thinking you’re doing storytelling, not math.”

you grin. “you are such a dork.”

“thank you,” he says, deadpan. “that’s the highest compliment in this lab.”

you roll your eyes—but you’re still smiling.

✧✧✧

you hadn’t meant to invite him.

it just slipped out—somewhere between scribbling return values and teasing him for his handwriting—your mouth said, “hey, i’m grabbing food after this. you want to come?” like it was the most normal thing in the world.

he blinked. just once.

then shrugged and said, “sure,” like he wasn’t surprised either.

now you’re sitting across from him at a corner table in the dining hall. your tray’s got a slice of pizza and a sad salad. his has a sandwich, two cookies, and three chocolate milks.

“you know,” you say, chewing thoughtfully, “for someone who talks like a grad student, you eat like a middle schooler.”

he takes a sip of one of the chocolate milks. “middle schoolers are onto something.”

you snort. then pause. then blurt it out—because you’ve been thinking about it since the cs homework started, and he feels safe, in a quiet, weird way:

“okay, don’t judge me, but i’ve been working on this stupid little side project where i’m trying to build a low-power prosthetic hand using recycled printer motors.”

schlatt looks up, mid-bite. “wait. seriously?”

you nod. “yeah, i’ve been salvaging parts from the e-waste lab and retrofitting them. it’s dumb and janky and probably not functional, but—”

“that’s so sick,” he says, with total sincerity. “like—you’re making that from scratch?”

you sit up a little straighter. “well, not the whole thing. i’m using an arduino as the controller right now, because i suck at microprocessors and writing drivers from zero is hell. but i’ve been wiring it to flex sensors, and i’m experimenting with these homebrew 3d-printed phalanges—”

you don’t stop.

not once you get going.

you talk with your hands, gesturing wildly, pulling up half-broken images on your phone, sketching quick shapes on your napkin with a pen in the side-pocket of your backpack.

and the whole time? schlatt just watches.

listens.

not just politely—but engaged. interested. like he wants to hear it all. like you’re not over-explaining, or rambling, or going on too long about a niche thing that keeps your brain lit up at 3am.

you pause somewhere around “wrist articulation via recycled watch gears” and finally look up.

his eyes are warm.

“you know,” he says, grinning, “i think you just activated my stem side quest.”

you blink. “what?”

“i wanna help,” he says. “i mean, if you’ll let me. i’ve never coded a servo system, but… i’m a fast learner. and i think it’s badass.”

you don’t say anything.

not right away.

because your chest feels kind of full. your face feels warm. and for once, your brain doesn’t immediately try to shrink you back down.

instead, you nod. just once. “okay.”

he smiles at you over his chocolate milk.

and you think, shit, maybe office hours weren’t the highlight of the week after all.

✧✧✧

the next few weeks settle into a rhythm.

it starts with tutoring.

once a week turns into twice. then three times. not because you’re struggling (anymore), but because he’s… kind of fun to talk to. at least when he’s not roasting your variable names or trying to explain recursion using empty cereal boxes.

he sits across from you at the library table, hoodie sleeves pushed up, laptop screen smudged from how often he drags his fingers across it to point something out. sometimes he forgets to eat. you learn to pack granola bars in your pencil pouch. he never says thank you—just steals one with a smirk and keeps talking.

you start getting better. grades creeping up. error logs shrinking. you don’t dread opening your ide anymore. the code starts making sense—not just his, but yours.

one afternoon, you casually mention a project idea you’d been playing with—something stupid, just for fun. something to do with hardware integration. you expect him to laugh.

he doesn’t.

he spins his laptop around and starts mapping out a database schema like he’s been waiting for you to say it.

that’s how the side project starts.

lunches get longer. office hours get later. one day you bring your soldering kit to the library, and he lights up like you just handed him a rare pokémon card. the whole table smells like burnt plastic for an hour. no one complains. but no one sits near you either.

you nerd out hard. unapologetically. you find yourself going on tangents—about conductive thread, or how weird the i2c protocol is—and instead of zoning out, he asks questions. good ones. thoughtful ones. he doesn’t just tolerate your rants; he builds on them.

and okay, maybe you start noticing things.

like how he mumbles to himself when he’s focused. or how his hands are always warm. or how he smiles at you—not in a big, charming way, but in a quiet, earned one. like you’re the only one who gets to see this side of him.

it’s nothing serious. just… a shift.

you brush it off.

but your code’s never looked cleaner.

and your heart’s never beat louder.

✧✧✧

it happens by accident.

you’re heading toward the back patio of the student union, iced coffee in one hand, a stack of circuits notes in the other, when you spot him.

schlatt.

at one of the outdoor tables.

not alone.

there’s a group of students—three of them, maybe four—leaning in. cs majors, you recognize them. they’re the type who ask three questions per lecture and answer five more that weren’t theirs. big voices. bragging energy.

you can’t hear everything, but you don’t need to. the body language’s loud enough.

schlatt’s sitting off-center. not really in the circle. elbows tucked in, voice low, like he’s trying to contribute. like he wants to. but they’re talking over him. dismissing. one of them even laughs—not the good kind. the kind you’ve felt in your spine before.

and you watch it happen:

the way schlatt’s mouth tugs tight at the corner. the way he adjusts his sleeve, like it’ll make him smaller. the way he tries one more time to speak, then gives up halfway through the sentence and shrugs it off, pretending it didn’t matter.

they keep talking.

he goes quiet.

you’re frozen in place, coffee sweating through your fingers, because it clicks.

he’s like you.

he is you.

all that time you thought he was the confident one—the one who belonged. the one who was already part of something. but he’s not. not really. not when it comes to this. not when it comes to them.

he’s just better at hiding it.

better at laughing it off.

but the look in his eyes, right then—small and a little tired—that’s a look you know too well.

no one talks about what it feels like when your brain lights up for something and everyone else treats it like a joke.

no one talks about what it’s like to be too much in the wrong direction.

and suddenly, all your late-night rambling about microcontrollers and e-textiles feels different.

because he listened. not just because he was polite. but because he got it. you don't think you've ever felt so fully understood until him.

you take a step forward. you don’t know what you’re going to say.

but you’re not about to leave him sitting alone in a conversation that doesn’t want him.

not when you know what that feels like.

so you walk over.

“hey, there you are,” you say, nudging your knuckles gently against schlatt’s shoulder. “i was looking for you.”

he turns, surprised—then relieved. “oh—hey y/n.”

“sorry,” one of the students says, hesitant. “uh, are we… interrupting something?”

“nah,” you say, easy. “just didn’t want to miss my favorite stem guide.”

schlatt’s ears go a little pink.

you glance at the table—some kind of project group, you think. their laptops are open, notebooks out, but their conversation’s turned awkward now. the vibe’s off. not hostile—just… cliquey.

“you guys working on something for fundamentals?” you ask, glancing at their notes.

“uh, yeah,” one mutters. “trying to figure out the recursion stuff.”

you smile. “then you’re in luck. this guy’s a recursion whisperer.”

schlatt huffs a little laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.

“i’m serious,” you say, looking at him now. “you explained it to me with like…those russian dolls. made it make sense in ten minutes.”

“you remember the russian dolls?”

“obviously,” you grin. “changed my life.”

he smiles, a little shy, but brighter now.

you turn to the group. “anyway, sorry to interrupt. i just wanted to steal him for a bit. we’re working on something together—well, more like, he’s doing the hard part and i’m nodding along and pretending to contribute.”

they chuckle. the tension eases.

“good luck, though,” you add, friendly. “you’ve got a good one here.”

you tap the back of his hand.

“ready, genius?”

he nods. stands up. follows you without question.

and once you’re a few steps away, you glance over and say, casually but soft:

“for the record? you’re way too smart to sit through that kind of conversation, with those kinds of people, and not say anything.”

his voice is quiet. “didn’t think they really wanted my advice…or any of my input, for that matter.”

"sucks for them," you bump his arm. “i do.”

he looks at you.

and smiles.

“you’re different,” he says.

you shrug. “nah. i just don’t have the patience for people who don’t know a good brain when they’re sitting next to one.”

he laughs under his breath—bashful, but warm.

“besides,” you add, nudging him again, “you’re the only guy on campus who’s ever made me care about code.”

“flattered,” he says, with a little bow of his head. “high praise.”

“it is,” you nod. “don’t let that go to your head, though.”

“too late.”

you both laugh.

and as you walk side-by-side down the hallway, something feels… lighter.

✧✧✧

the lab is mostly empty—just the hum of old fluorescents overhead and the rhythmic click of schlatt’s keyboard echoing off the cinderblock walls.

you’re both hunched over the prototype, wires splayed like spaghetti across the table, your laptop screen casting a pale blue glow over your notes. it’s late. not late-late, but late enough that you’ve lost track of time in that delicious, focus-hazed kind of way.

“okay,” you murmur, “i think that’s the last adjustment on the sensor matrix. wanna try running the loop again?”

schlatt doesn’t answer right away—he’s rereading your code, brows furrowed, mouth slightly open like he’s working through it out loud in his head.

you wait.

he presses enter.

the terminal blinks once more.

and then—

nothing.

the servo doesn’t twitch. the sensor reads null. everything is still.

you groan, letting your head thunk forward onto the table. “are you kidding me?”

“hang on,” schlatt mutters, already scrolling. “it’s not a full crash. there’s something—it’s just not hitting the output loop.”

“i swear,” you grumble, face still mashed into your notes, “if this is another semicolon issue, i’m throwing myself into a ditch.”

“nah,” he says, voice calm, reassuring. “it’s not your code.”

you lift your head just enough to side-eye him. “it’s not yours either, huh?”

he doesn’t answer right away.

instead, he reaches for the breadboard, fingers quick and precise as he repositions a single wire—green to yellow. it’s such a small shift you almost miss it.

“that,” he says, “was plugged into the wrong pin.”

you blink.

he presses enter again.

and this time, the prototype moves.

just a little—just a careful curl of synthetic fingers, one joint at a time, like a hesitant wave from a ghost hand.

your jaw drops.

schlatt stares too. for once, he’s quiet.

“…did we—?”

“yeah,” he breathes. “we did.”

you let out a half-laugh, half-squeak. “dude—”

you turn to him without thinking.

and he’s already looking at you.

and before your brain catches up with your body, you’re reaching out—arms around his shoulders, heart in your throat.

he stiffens for a second. then melts into it.

his arms curl around your waist, tentative at first, then tighter. his cheek brushes your temple.

“holy shit,” you whisper, still breathless. “we did it.”

“we really fucking did it.”

the hug lasts longer than it needs to. it shifts. softens. becomes something else.

your hands curl in the fabric of his hoodie. his thumb rubs slow circles at your back.

neither of you move to pull away.

but eventually—awkwardly—you both realize you probably should.

you shift first, just a little, arms loosening. schlatt mirrors you a second later, like he’s waiting for permission.

and then—

your foot bumps a loose cable under the table.

you stumble, just a half step, enough to make you grip his hoodie tighter out of instinct.

he catches you by the elbow—quick, steady—but in doing so, he knocks into the edge of the desk.

a pen clatters to the floor. your hip bangs against the chair. both of you freeze.

then, in perfect harmony:

“sorry—”

“sorry—”

you look at each other.

he’s flushed to the tips of his ears.

you’re no better.

his hand’s still on your elbow. yours is still in the front pocket of his hoodie. neither of you seems to know what to do with yourselves now.

“…so,” you say, trying to laugh it off, “we’re, uh—officially engineers now, right? or, mad scientists? mad engineers? built something that works and almost died doing it.”

“sounds about right,” he mumbles, eyes not quite meeting yours.

you step back fully, brushing imaginary lint off your sleeves. he clears his throat and bends to pick up the pen—just a little too quickly.

“we should, uh…” he gestures vaguely at the wires. “log this. before we forget what we changed.”

“yeah,” you nod. “documentation. good. yep. very sexy.”

he snorts.

and the tension cracks just enough for both of you to breathe again.

✧✧✧

friday lunch.

same table.

you’re there first, as usual—tray to the left, elbow room cleared, and your little “project napkin” tucked just out of sight beneath your phone.

it’s not schematics, not exactly. more like an outline of “natural” movements. lean angles. average post-meal proximity. potential trigger phrases that could ease the moment into something more than just eye contact and banter.

it’s stupid. it’s excessive. it’s so you.

but it’s not like you’ve kissed him yet.

and it’s not like you haven’t thought about it. a lot.

he slides into the seat across from you—slightly out of breath, hoodie slightly askew.

“hey,” he says. “sorry, i ran into a professor who wouldn’t stop talking about his cat’s gut biome.”

you snort. “sounds riveting.”

“almost kissed him out of pity.”

you choke on a bite of salad. “what?”

“nothing,” he mumbles, sipping chocolate milk. “just—brain fried. bad sleep. lots of… thinking.”

you nod. you get that.

you were up half the night replaying yesterday’s hug on a loop. you hadn’t meant to squeeze him that tight. hadn’t meant to say “good job, genius” like that. hadn’t meant for your fingers to linger on his hoodie hem when you stepped back.

but he hadn’t pulled away.

so.

so.

you both eat in silence for a minute. your foot brushes his under the table. once. twice.

neither of you moves.

finally, you say it. quiet. almost like a confession.

“i, uh… may have tried to engineer a perfect kiss scenario today.”

he freezes, sandwich halfway to his mouth.

“...engineer?”

you nod, cheeks warm. “like… ran a few simulations in my head. built a model. set parameters. i was…probably gonna initiate if you laughed three or more times by the end of lunch.”

his jaw drops. “are you serious?”

“extremely.”

he blinks. “because i wrote a whole conditional loop for this.”

“…what?”

he fumbles in his hoodie pocket and pulls out a sticky note. it reads:

python: if eyes_hold >= 3.5 and cafeteria_noise == low: lean_in()

you stare at it.

then back at him.

and burst out laughing. “we’re so stupid.”

“no,” he says, laughing too. “we’re scientists.”

“why can’t we just communicate like normal people?”

“who needs normal?”

he’s still smiling.

you are too.

and this time?

there’s no plan. no diagram. no if/then logic.

you just… lean in. and he meets you halfway.

your noses bump. just slightly. your knees knock beneath the table. it’s clumsy at first—uncoordinated, like every group project you’ve ever had to rescue last-minute.

but then his hand grazes your wrist. your mouth fits against his like it already knew how. like maybe, all along, this wasn’t something to calculate.

it just needed to happen.

and suddenly, none of it feels theoretical. not the way his lips press softly, then more certainly. not the quiet exhale he lets out when you shift just a little closer. not the way your fingers curl in the fabric of his hoodie like you’ve done it a hundred times.

no flowchart could’ve planned this.

it’s instinct. it’s connection. it's human.

it’s easy.

you pull back first. slow. breath caught somewhere behind your grin.

but before you can say anything—

he leans back in. less hesitant this time.

his hand cradles the side of your neck, thumb brushing just beneath your jaw. his mouth meets yours like a spark catching on dry kindling—familiar, but heady. deliberate. like he’s trying to commit it to memory. like he’s making up for every time he could’ve kissed you and didn’t.

your heart stutters. your fingers grip the edge of the table.

he tastes like chocolate milk and lip balm and something stupidly addictive.

when you part again—barely—you stay close, noses brushing, breath mingling.

“you’re gonna break my brain,” he whispers.

you grin. “then i guess i'll be the one to tutor you.”

his laugh is low and warm and very, very fond.

“deal.”

[fawnme1]

ALL THIS TIME arthur frederick .˚꩜ .ᐟ

summary; arthur surprises you with a dream getaway claiming it’s just a chance to relax, but he’s secretly planned something bigger.

an; in an arthurtv rabbit hole atm, i love this man

You weren’t sure what Arthur had been planning for weeks, only that he’d been suspiciously quiet whenever you got too curious.

“Just pack light, sunscreen, and something nice for dinner,” he’d said, that maddening half-smile on his lips that meant he was hiding something.

And now, standing at the edge of the Amalfi Coast, the Italian sun warming your skin and the salty sea breeze tangling in your hair, you understood why. The view was so beautiful it almost didn’t feel real, just like the man beside you.

Arthur looked over, sunglasses slipping slightly down his nose, brown curls tousled from the drive along the coast. “Well?” he asked, his voice light but teasing. “Worth the secret?”

You nudged him gently with your shoulder. “You planned an actual dream holiday. I feel like I should be suspicious.”

He grinned, tugging you closer. “You’ll see. I’ve got more surprises.”

The next few days were a haze of sun-drenched mornings and candlelit evenings. You swam in hidden coves, shared gelato on cobbled streets, and listened to Arthur attempt Italian with such confidence that waiters couldn’t help but smile, even when he got it wrong.

He filmed occasionally, capturing the pastel villages and glinting water, occasionally turning the camera on you when you weren’t paying attention. “For the memories,” he always said, but there was something more intense in his gaze every time he watched you through the lens. Like he was trying to freeze time.

You noticed he’d been acting slightly different — gentler, more thoughtful, often zoning out mid-conversation before blinking and saying, “Sorry, what were you saying?”

But you didn’t push it. You were just happy to be here, in this soft bubble of love and warmth that seemed to follow you everywhere.

It was your fifth evening there when Arthur insisted you dress up.

“Fancy dress code tonight. No flip-flops, I’m serious.”

You laughed, pulling on the silky sundress he liked, the one that made him stop talking the first time you wore it. He wore a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up, his usual casual air replaced with something almost nervy.

He took your hand as you walked through a winding path of lemon groves. The light was golden, casting a honeyed glow over everything.

“Where are we going?” you asked as he led you to a hidden terrace overlooking the sea.

“You’ll see.”

The table was already set. Fairy lights twinkled overhead, candles flickering in the warm breeze, and soft guitar music playing in the distance. It looked like something out of a movie, too beautiful to be real.

Arthur pulled out your chair for you with a crooked little smile. “For you, my love.”

Dinner was incredible — fresh seafood, handmade pasta, and chilled white wine. Arthur was quieter than usual, watching you more than talking, fingers nervously toying with the edge of his napkin.

You reached across the table, squeezing his hand. “You okay?”

He nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah. Yeah, just… give me a second.”

He stood up abruptly and walked to your side of the table. You blinked up at him as he slowly dropped too one knee.

Your heart stopped.

“Arthur…” you whispered.

He took a small velvet box from his pocket, the setting sun catching the edges of the ring inside. His voice was steady, but his hands trembled slightly.

“I’ve loved you since the moment you rolled your eyes at one of my video takes and told me I was being ridiculous. You’ve kept me grounded, made me laugh when I wanted to scream at YouTube algorithms, and reminded me what life feels like outside of a camera lens.”

He looked up at you with wide, vulnerable eyes.

“I don’t want to keep making memories without you. I want to film all the good stuff, with you in it. Forever. Will you marry me?”

Time stopped.

You nodded before your voice returned, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“Yes,” you choked out, laughing through the tears. “Yes, of course I will.”

Arthur stood, slipping the ring onto your finger, your hands shaking together, and pulled you into a tight hug, kissing the top of your head as you buried your face in his neck.

He whispered against your ear, “God, I’ve been rehearsing that for weeks.”

Later, back in your hotel room, you curled into each other on the balcony as the sea sparkled under the moonlight. Your hand rested on his chest, the ring glittering faintly in the dark.

Arthur pressed a kiss to your forehead. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

You smiled against his skin. “I think I do.”

His arms tightened around you.

“Good,” he whispered.

[mooningningg]

notes, yall are MESSYYYY

★ Roommate!Sukuna when a girl shows up on his TikTok feed.

It was supposed to be a chill night.

Blanket. Snacks. Background noise from some random Netflix docu-series you weren’t even watching. Sukuna was on the other end of the couch, hoodie on, phone in hand — scrolling, as always.

You only noticed because he’d gone suspiciously still.

Silent, except for the faint sound of a TikTok audio — some sultry remix of a song you’d heard way too many times.

And then? The tiniest grunt of approval under his breath.

You glanced sideways.

“What are you watching?”

“Nothin’,” Sukuna muttered, eyes still glued to his phone. Too fast. Too casual.

“…Sukuna.”

He smirked, thumb still scrolling. “Chill out. Just a TikTok.”

You leaned over, suspicious.

He angled the screen away by a centimeter — just enough to tell you everything.

There she was. Some very hot girl dancing in gym shorts and confidence. Not doing anything wrong. But you? You felt a flicker of something stupid and ugly rise in your chest.

Still, you weren’t about to let him have the satisfaction.

“Oh wow,” you said flatly. “You watch one video with a pretty girl and suddenly you're acting like she sent it to you personally.”

“She’s got rhythm,” he said, grinning. “Nice editing too.”

“She’s got high engagement, congrats to her,” you replied, arms crossed. “Meanwhile, your ‘For You’ page says more about your emotional needs than your search history ever could.”

He raised a brow. “The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means ‘For You’ really meant for your lonely ass at 2AM,” you said, tossing popcorn into your mouth. “Your algorithm is crying for help.”

Sukuna laughed — a full, throaty sound that shook the couch. “You’re jealous.”

“Of your attention span? Not a chance.”

He turned his phone around dramatically. “Alright, go ahead. Roast my feed. Here—oh, look! Another one. Damn, she’s flexible.”

“She’s gonna block you for breathing too loud through the screen.”

He snorted. “Relax. I didn’t even like the video.”

“That’s the bare minimum, king.”

He looked at you, smug. “So what I’m hearing is… you’re mad no one thirst-traps for you.”

You gave him a slow, patronizing smile. “Oh no, baby. People thirst-trap at me. I just have standards.”

“Which explains why you’re single.”

“Bold talk for a man who once accidentally liked a 2019 bikini pic and blamed it on a ‘glitch.’”

Sukuna scoffed. “That was a glitch.”

“You zoomed in.”

He grinned. “Research.”

“You’re a menace.”

“You’re hot when you’re mean.”

You grabbed a pillow and threw it at his head. He caught it easily, laughing again as he leaned back into the couch like he didn’t just spend three minutes getting verbally dragged.

And still — despite the jokes, the petty insults, the girl on his feed — he wasn’t scrolling anymore.

He was looking at you.

You didn’t say anything.

He didn’t either.

But his hand brushed your ankle under the blanket.

And you let it.

Taglist, @humeysaga @williamafton26 @aranisbaee @probablynotleahhhh @probablynotleahhhh.

[akriirose]

Part of the reason I stopped making videos on tiktok. I ran out of things to talk about. I was not about to keep opening my mouth about anything just to make videos. It was honestly exhausting trying to keep up with trends and hoping to catch the algorithm for attention.

When I was a kid, I only spoke when I had something to say. Apparently, that has changed.

really dislike having a content generation economy that incentivises people to come up with something else every time time it looks like theyve run outta shit to say and may have to finally shut the fuck up. I feel like maybe people would be less stupid overall if shutting the fuck up was a more neutral act thats healthy and respectable to do sometimes cuz for every poor twat aging 10x a normal rate from the stress of doing responsible scholarship for 3 to 4 essays a week we get 2500 dimfluencers and a good 5000 commoners with dreams of a higher station in digital serfdom just absolutely spitting whatever lazy bullshit seemed to get a response last time and sad for us that always seems to be an authoritatively stated and apparently sincerely held belief that the globe itself and all catrography for all of history has been a massive conspiracy to keep people from learning of the atlantean palace of telepathic whales with 100% aryian genetic material living just beyond the ice wall from game of thrones

[arkofangels]

Flushed with Emotions

Pairing: Jean Loo Pissoir x Reader – Date Everything!

summary: After losing your job to AI, your life takes a bizarre turn when you receive the Dateviators—enchanted glasses that reveal the true, dateable forms of your household objects. One of them? Your toilet.

a/n: sorry for the corny rhyme idk what to write

Your day started the same as every other since you got fired. You'd shuffled into the bathroom, bleary-eyed and barely awake, trying not to think about your rent or the way your boss had said “the algorithm just does it better.”

Now you’re standing in front of your toilet. And it’s talking to you. In rhymes. With a French accent. And a chain that holds a mic named Ballcock.

You blame the sunglasses.

The Dateviators, gifted to you by a trench-coated weirdo outside the unemployment office, are perched on your nose. And ever since you put them on, your apartment hasn’t been the same. Your microwave flirts. Your vacuum growls. And now—this.

“Bonjour, mon cœur,” the toilet purrs, tilting its porcelain face toward you. His plunger-hat leans rakishly to the side, as if it’s seen some things. “You look like a clogged soul… in need of a flush.”

You stare. “Okay. Nope. No. We’re not doing this.”

Jean Loo doesn’t miss a beat.

“You flush your feelings, bury them deep, But mon amour, the pain still leaks. Sit down, relax, let’s unclog this mess— The bathroom’s a church, and you came here to confess.”

Your eye twitches. You point at the door. “Out. No rapping in the bathroom.”

“I am the bathroom,” he says, arms out like he’s Christ on ceramic. “And the rapper.”

You groan and walk out, only for Jean Loo to follow. Somehow his boots make a flush sound with every step, and the toilet-seat shoulder armor creaks dramatically when he moves.

“I didn’t invite you into the living room.”

He shrugs. “Everything in this home is mine to access. Or are you forgetting who handles your… delicate situations?”

You want to scream. You want to laugh. You want to throw the glasses out the window. Instead, you flop on the couch.

“…You smell a little like bleach.”

He leans on the doorframe, arms crossed. “Merci. I shower in Lysol. Most find it… invigorating.”

You bury your face in your hands. “Why me?”

He suddenly quiets. You peek through your fingers and see something rare—earnestness.

“You looked sad. Lonely. Your eyes were heavy like a tank with no flush,” he says softly. “And I—Jean Loo—do not let my cherie rot in solitude.”

You lift your head. “Did you just say I’m like a neglected tank?”

“…Romantically, oui.”

You sigh, but it’s a little less hopeless now. Maybe a tiny part of you—some small, unhinged recess of your unemployed brain—likes having someone (thing?) around. Even if he does come with freestyles and flexible hoses.

You lean back. “Fine. You can stay. But no freestyling during me time.”

Jean grins. “But all time with you is mon temps préféré.”

“…That better not mean what I think it means.”

He winks. “Would you prefer a bidet pun?”

You hurl a throw pillow at him. He catches it with flair—bowing like you’ve just thrown roses.

[aalghul]

someone on twitter said they don't want to see jaybin be villainized and people are complaining about that. i guess it is now illegal to be upset at the possibility of a 10-15 year old being (once again) written as doomed to being a violent criminal because *checks notes* he was poor and homeless

[mylovesstuffs]

Anon.

Are you fucking serious right now?

I saw your message and I had to take a full-ass walk around my block because I was genuinely afraid I’d punch my goddamn wall.

Let me break this down for you very clearly, so even your AI-smooth-brained moral compass can process it:

You are not entitled to shit.

Not my writing. Not the ending. Not a single fucking word I typed out with my own fucking bleeding fingers.

You think you “need” closure?

Cool. I “need” eight hours of sleep, a functioning spine, and respect from strangers online. Guess what?

None of us are getting what we want today.

Fanfiction is a gift.

Not a product, not a service, not a series finale you paid for on HBO Max.

A gift.

You don’t throw a tantrum because the gift didn’t come with a bonus epilogue and a director’s cut.

Your entire ask is a monument to entitlement. You say “if you're not going to write it, I think it's fine to use Al?”

I did NOT write it for AI. I wrote it for human readers. For emotion. For narrative voice. For soul.

AI doesn’t have that. You want a soulless machine to mock my style and feed you a bootleg version of my work?? Which is, not to say but, the equivalent of a a knock-off Louis Vuitton sold from the back of a van?

Then don’t ask me. Just go to your shameful little corner and live with the fact that you’re the kind of person who disrespects art to feed your own dopamine addiction.

You wanted permission, so now you get the wrath.

I see in your other little asks, “AI is there to make things easier.”

At whose fucking expense? The thousands of fanfic writers whose fics are being scraped, harvested, mimicked and tossed into machine-learning hell so you don’t have to wait for an update?

Do you have any idea how many of us have had our fics [both in our caratblr and other fandom spaces] show up on AI mirror sites or been plagiarized by bots? Do you know how many real authors are losing book deals, commissions, or livelihoods because of this exact entitled logic?

Let me give you a basic fucking rundown since you clearly didn’t do the homework:

AI is not ethical – Generative AI is trained off data sets that include unauthorized, uncredited, scraped work from unpaid artists, writers, poets, journalists, bloggers, fanfic writers—fuck, even therapy forums.

Authors are suing OpenAI for ingesting copyrighted novels without permission.

Fanfic is already vulnerable – We exist in a legal gray area protected only by community ethics and mutual respect. You're breaking both.

You say “I won't post it anywhere, it's just for me.”

Oh, wow, thanks. So you only want to steal quietly. Like that makes it better.

You think the damage only happens when it’s public? WRONG.

Every time you plug an artist’s work into a machine, it gets processed, stored, used for training, forever.

You have no control over where it goes or how it’s repurposed later. You are feeding the beast and killing the creators in the process.

Don’t give me “I respect you but—”

If you respected me, this message wouldn’t exist.

You get your AI-stitched ending, it doesn’t scratch the itch, and you feed it another one.

And another.

And another.

Until the entire fucking archive is turned into a graveyard of replicas and you’re the ghoulish little shit dancing on the corpses of every writer you leeched dry.

And you say “I think I’m just entitled to a bit of closure”?

Entitled. You actually used the word.

Thank you for confirming what we already knew:

That you don’t see us as people.

You see us as content machines that owe you something because you liked our work. You don’t want closure, you want control, and you will NOT get it from me.

You’re entitled to a bath, a glass of water, and the air you breathe—not my writing, not my thoughts, and definitely not a fucking auto-generated Frankenstein mockery of my style you can jerk off your emotions to.

So here's your closure:

No, you may not touch my fic.

No, you may not feed it to a bot.

No, you may not engage with my writing, my blog, my friend's blog, or my community ever again.

Block me. Report me. Cry about it.

But know this:

Every time you open an AI generator to finish a story you didn’t write, you are choosing to destroy the very creators you claim to admire.

You should be ashamed, but you won’t be. Because parasites don’t feel guilt, they just suck and suck and suck until there’s nothing left.

I'll never forget this time and date.

I hope it was worth it.

Let this be your final fucking warning.

— Celeste.

[morgana-ren]

Mate, if you unironically say things like 'corn' instead of porn, 'spicy time' or 'smex' instead of sex, or anything like 'unalive' on here, you're probably too young or emotionally immature to be engaging in any sort of content or conversations around those topics.

[hauntingofhouses]

"why would you ship mizu and taigen together they're sooooo toxic ugh taigen is AWFUL and mizu should be with ME instead!!!"

of course they're toxic they're both deranged and terrible and that's why they're perfect for each other.

cuz like omg you think mizu would treat you well? mizu would abandon you. look at how she left ringo multiple times. ringo who treats her so well and is nothing but patient and caring and loyal. if you are insecure she will laugh at you because she has no social tact. look at how mikio said "it's a stupid dream" talking about his ambitions of regaining his honour and mizu straight up chuckles and tells him he's right because it IS a stupid dream. and at this point their relationship was cordial and she was even warming up to him!

like. arguably, taigen would be a better romantic partner (per the ideals of his time and culture of course), or at least he would be on paper. cuz i mean as a husband, as he is now, i think he'd be awful. but i'm talking about if you and him were dating or courting or just seeing each other romantically, he would be good to you. like we saw how he behaved with akemi and he was nothing but sweet and gentle. the very reason akemi wanted to marry him so bad was because she KNOWS without a doubt that he respects women and would treat her well. "oh but he cheated on her with the prostitutes while celebrating his engagement!" yeah but per the norms of the time and place, it was not considered cheating and akemi (as well as any wife or romantic partner of that period) would not have minded or even cared.

and yes taigen IS an asshole and he IS obnoxious but come on. so is mizu, if she is allowed to act like herself around you. mizu will tease you and mock you and challenge you and even poke at your insecurities (see:her goading mikio on even though he clearly did not view her teasing as light-hearted banter and took it all very personally). she would tell you to your face if she thinks you're being annoying (see:mizu rolling her eyes and telling akemi to straight up just "shut up" when she'd believed mizu had killed taigen).

mizu is not merely a hot and talented badass with a sword and the insane hyperfocus on her desire for revenge which literally drives her to withstand like, extreme amounts of damage and survive it. mizu is also flawed and the show does a good job at showcasing this, and showing us that she's not merely a victim but also a multilayered person. we see throughout that mizu is blunt and sarcastic and prideful.

oh what's that? oh right, very similar to taigen, who is also hot and talented with a sword and with insane hyperfocus on his desire to duel mizu and regain his honour. taigen who is also flawed (though, arguably, more so) as he is blunt and sarcastic and prideful.

the only thing that sets mizu and taigen apart is the fact that taigen is a man and is not mixed race, which thus affects their positions in society and how people perceive them. these are external factors. taigen being a boy who is not blue-eyed allowed him to easily mingle with the other kids in the village, all of whom were similarly fed the same prejudiced values which led them to gang up against mizu and bully her.

but take all that away. strip them down to the bare essentials. suddenly it's like they are the same person copy and pasted.

and that's what makes them even more interesting. yes absolutely they would be toxic. whatever souls are made of, mizu's and taigen's are the same (derogatory). and we literally see them fight all the time!!!! but the thing is they are both deranged when it comes to this.

do you get me. they both literally get turned on by sparring. mizu's whole spar with mikio was her way of flirting. just look at how she smirked at him and said "unsheathe it" like it's clear that this is an innuendo of not just unsheathing his weapon but also what's in his pants. then during the chopsticks fight with taigen in the snow, despite mizu literally being injured and taigen trying to attack her, mizu gets attracted to him. meanwhile taigen got a boner after wrestling with her in the forge.

taigen goes around saying he wants to kill mizu to regain his honour but he still literally risks life and limb for her constantly. mizu gives ringo stomach ulcers by going around flinging herself into near-death situations 24/7. she ups and leaves her beloved swordfather with barely a goodbye twice to pursue her batshit far-fetched quest for revenge (against people she doesn't even KNOW btw because she literally starts off with practically No Leads and not even knowing the NAMES of the white men who are her maybe-fathers).

these bitches are crazy and you know what good for them. that shit needs to be contained and quarantined though and that's why in that sense they would be good together.

i want to put them both in a jar and shake it very hard and see what happens. personally i think they will argue and insult each other while working perfectly in sync with each other to break out of the jar and then proceed to kill me and make out sloppy style over my dead body while they're both covered in blood.

like that's it that's the dynamic. send post.

[brutal-out-here]

One of my first big loves <3 I’m posting a bit late but happy May the 4th Be With You!! (also can be watched here!!)

[bvckbiter]

fandom pet peeve rant incoming: i hate it when people are like “im [obscure character]’s #1 fan” “you dont get them like i do” so on and so forth but then dont actually post or even repost/support any fanworks with said character like r u kidding me…

[caregivingchrysalises]

you don’t owe anyone material representation of your regression my love. your way of coping is always valid and worthy of love, care and respect dove. you don’t need to justify or prove your regression sweetheart. regression is as beautiful and unique as each and every star who engages with it. you aren’t stuck with the small age you share and it’s always okay to flutter through different ages, or be unsure of what age you are lovebug. you don’t need to conform to anyone else’s idea of what regression should look/sound like baby. you are valid as you are sweetheart. your royal prinx loves you so so much. there’s no “right” or “perfect” way to regress dearest one. you are doing such a good job my star, your buba is so incredibly proud of you darling. your regression is valid because it’s yours lovebug~ and you deserve to have your needs and wishes listened to honey.

{regression looks, feels and sounds different for every star~ and that is truly magical}

~you are worthy of so much love, your prinx

[yridenergyridenergy]

So, there's one type of AI art that's caught my attention: short videos of creatures juxtaposed into real-life settings. I'd love to be able to support real artists of the same type of art. The only thing YouTube and the likes recommend me is AI though. If anybody knows where I can find legitimate videos like that, please send me suggestions!

[alanide-arts]

I love your art so much!!

Especially your Mon hun stuff. Glad I'm not the only Werner fan 😭🙏

AAA thank you, this means so much!

This man currently lives rent-free in my head alongside the entire Astrum unit 😭 I'm glad people appreciate the things I scrawl out fjskzkbf

[idaten-jump]

Kyoichi in a more classic traditional vampire outfit! Alas, I'm still not entirely certain whether this was what was meant by a "vampire tuxedo" or not.

But I hope that this comes close to what @ishibo actually had in mind when asking for a Kyoichi in a vampire outfit! 🧛‍♂️