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

[make-nice-trapezoid]

People love to also say it's "because of the Algorithm on platform XYZ" as if The Algorithm is some mystical force and not something programmed by humans that humans change the parameters of all the time.

a) There's no actual evidence that saying words like "murder" directly limits the reach of what you have to say on ANY platform at the moment. I do find it plausible that a social media platform has done this before but there is no evidence that these restrictions are put in place by any social media platform regularly.

b) Even if/when these restrictions are in place, why would you choose to say "unalive"? What these restrictions amount to is the social media platform saying "We don't like it when you say the word kill and so if you say the word kill we will not show your post to as many people". You are being threatened with being mildly inconvenienced. If someone came up to you and said "if you say the word kill I won't be friends with you any more, you have to say 'unalive' instead" you would laugh at them. Why would you choose to so significantly alter the way you speak so a social media platform can make more money from advertising? Why is that even considered a reason? "Yes I know I hate the word unalive as well but TikTok would censor me if I said kill so it can't be helped" Yes it can!! Simply say NO!! Your account isn't going to be banned, all that will happen is slightly fewer internet strangers will see your post.

Once when I was a kid my dad told me to “stop being a you-know-what”. And we’d done the whole song and dance enough times that I knew he meant “bitch”, so I told him: That’s cheating. You know what you mean, and I know what you mean- you’re just stepping around it so you can pretend you’re on the high ground. So if you’re going to call me a bitch, at least have the balls to actually say it.

And it’s been about fifteen years since then but I’m just now figuring out that that’s the same feeling I get hearing shit like “grape” and “unalive”.

If your audience knows what you mean, you might as well actually say it. Otherwise you’re just fucking hiding

[itoshiabi]

The Life I Didn't Know I Wanted

Summary: When you casually mention wanting a future with Rin, you voice the very dream he has never dared to admit. And before he knows it, Rin is imagining baby names, hoping that maybe he's allowed to want a forever with you.

It's one of those lazy, golden evenings where time feels like it’s moving slower just for you. You're laying on your stomach across the living room rug, chin propped up on your hand, a magazine open beneath you. Your fingers flip pages absentmindedly, more out of habit than interest. The window is cracked, and a quiet breeze drifts in, rustling the curtains just slightly.

Above you, Rin is  lounging on the couch—half-sitting, long legs stretched out, one foot brushing your ankle now and then. There's a book in his lap but he hasn't turned the page in twenty minutes. His eyes are on the words, but his mind is somewhere else. Somewhere closer to you.

You're talking, just nonsense.....

"If you were a dog," you ask suddenly, voice laced with amusement, "what breed do you think you’d be?"

Rin doesn't even blink. "I'm not answering that."

You grin. "You'd be a Belgian Malinois. Super serious. Hyper-focused. Kind of terrifying."

He lowers his book just enough to look at you, unimpressed. "You think you're funny?"

"I think I'm right," you reply smugly, turning the page with a flick.

There's a pause. One of those comfortable silences you only share with someone you love—quiet, but full. His thumb absently rubs the edge of the book, yours brushes a stray crumb off the rug.

Then you say it.

Softly. Absentmindedly. Not even looking at him.

"I know I'll be a great mom someday." Your voice is warm, lazy. "And you'd be a protective dad. Kind of distant, maybe. But you'd care a lot. The kind who watches quietly but loves fiercely."

Rin goes still.

But you don't notice. Not right away. You keep talking—flipping pages, half-laughing. "You'd totally scare all the boys away if we had daughters. And if it's a son, you'd pretend not to care, but secretly train him until he cries."

Silence.

You blink and glance up.

He's staring.

You frown. "Rin?"

His eyes haven't left you. His book hangs loosely in his hands, forgotten. Jaw tight. Shoulders rigid.

"What?" you ask, sitting up a little.

He doesn't speak.

Just stares.

And then, finally—he looks away, eyes dark, unreadable.

"You talk too much," he mutters under his breath.

But his voice… it's hoarse. Quiet. Like it caught on something in his throat.

You narrow your eyes. "Wait—are you blushing?"

He shifts, reaches for the glass of water on the table beside the couch, gripping it like it might anchor him.

You laugh, but it falters slightly. "What's going on?"

He shakes his head. Looks away again.

"Don't say stuff like that if you don't mean it," he says.

Your heart pauses in your chest.

You sit up straighter. "I do mean it."

His gaze flicks back to yours. Searching. Hesitant.

"Then don't take it back," he says quietly.

And that's when you realize, he wasn't just caught off guard.

He's shaken. Like you cracked open something he's kept buried for years. A dream he never let himself have. Not out loud.

You give him a soft smile. 'I won't.'

➽──────────────❥

A few days pass.

You didn't think much of what you said. Just a fleeting comment. A whimsical thought about a future that felt distant and hazy.

But Rin? He changes.

So when he calls you one evening, you didn't expect that you'll catch him watching a video titled "Most unique baby names"

"Are you… watching a baby name video?"

You stop mid-step as the door closes behind you, staring at the glowing TV screen.

Rin stiffens like you have just seen him naked for the first time.

He scrambles for the remote, nearly knocking over his water. The screen goes dark with a loud click.

"No," he mutters.

You raise an eyebrow. "Rin. It said 'Top 10 Unique Baby Names. You can't even lie properly."

"It autoplayed," he mutters, refusing to look at you, ears already pink. "Was watching a match analysis. Algorithm's broken."

You cross your arms. "Sure. Next up: '100 ways to swaddle your newborn like a pro.'"

He glares at you— faint pink around the ears darkens, jaw clenched like he wants the earth to open and swallow him.

You drop your bag on the couch and sit beside him, shoulder brushing his.

"Did you like any?" you ask gently.

He doesn't respond.

You press. "Names, I mean."

Still nothing.

Then, after a beat—

"Ren," he says.

You turn to him. "Ren?"

"For a boy."

Your breath catches, but you keep your voice soft. "And for a girl?"

He swallows hard. Looks away.

"Aoi."

The silence that follows isn't awkward. It's delicate. Sacred.

You slip your hand into his. His fingers close around yours immediately—tight, almost desperate.

"Were you thinking about it because of what I said?" you ask.

He exhales slowly. "Maybe."

You rest your head on his shoulder.

"I wasn't joking, Rin," you whisper. "I can see that life with you."

He swallows again, like the words are heavy.

"I never let myself think about it," he says. "A real future. A family. I always thought about soccer and soccer only......"

You stay quiet, letting him speak.

"But when you said that—about being a mom, about me being a dad—I could see it. Like I'd already lived it. On a weekend, you in the kitchen, humming. A kid holding onto your leg. Another baby in my arms. Our home."

His voice breaks a little.

"And I realized I want it. All of it. With you."

You lift your head, eyes searching his.

"You can have it," you say, firm. "You deserve to have it, Rin. And I want to give it to you."

He turns to you slowly, like he's afraid this is a dream.

"You'd really want all that with someone like me?"

You cup his face in your hand, thumb brushing his cheek. "With exactly someone like you, who loves me like I'm the only girl existing in this world."

His eyes close. His forehead presses against yours.

And in that moment—quiet, steady, and full of something unspoken—Rin Itoshi falls in love with you all over again.

Only this time, he doesn't try to hide it.

[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.”

[fotibrit]

peter making an AI of tony in a desperate attempt to understand why he would willingly walk into his own death. peter having FRIDAY use all footage of tony’s private lab in order to create the predictive algorithm that will build AI TONYs speech and actions, so they’re most accurate to how tony thought and behaved.

when peter finally gets it running, he sets it to act the way tony acted when he was alone - not how he acted in front of people.

So, when Peter finally can talk to TONY, Peter’s first thing he says is “i’m sorry you died”. and TONY immediately responds “i’m not. I finally did it.” and when pressed further, TONY elaborates that the point was always to die in his suit.

and an increasingly distressed Peter talks to the first fully honest version of Tony he’s ever encountered, and only then does he find out that the Iron Man suit stood for safety of everything outside the suit - not the man in it.

[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

[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.

[incloudcity]

didn't catch your name | mb13

requests are open summary: when mat steps in to save you from your ex, pretending to be your boyfriend, the lie works. but what do you do when the rest of the night feels way to real

You hadn’t wanted to come out.

Not really. Not after the week you’d had. Not after the past year.

Not after Ben.

But your best friend had looked at you with that you’re-too-young-to-die-on-your-couch expression, shoved a black dress into your arms, and said:

“You need to put on mascara and pretend to care for at least one night. For me. For your dignity. For your dating app algorithm.”

So here you were. Back at the bar where you used to meet Ben for drinks on Thursdays. Different crowd. Same shitty lighting. And the exact same pit in your stomach you thought you’d left behind.

You clutched your glass a little tighter.

It wasn’t that Ben ruined the bar. Or the gin and tonic. Or the entire concept of dating.

It’s that he ruined your idea of what love was supposed to feel like. Warm. Steady. Safe.

With Ben, it had started that way. But then it twisted. Became controlling. Hot one day, cold the next. Full of backhanded compliments and disappearing acts. Always reeling you in just close enough to doubt yourself.

When you finally ended it, he acted like you had broken his heart.

And of course — because karma had a dark sense of humor — that was him across the room. Laughing with some guy in a grey beanie. Looking like the exact memory you were trying to drown in citrus and ice.

You turned your back.

You weren’t here for him. You were here for you. To feel normal. To feel like someone who could flirt again. Like someone who could move on.

So when your friend disappeared toward the bathroom and the bartender came over with another round — on the house, apparently — you nodded and offered a half-hearted smile.

That’s when you heard him.

“Y/N?”

You closed your eyes.

Turned slowly.

Ben.

Of course.

“Hi,” you said flatly.

He grinned like nothing had happened. Like you hadn’t spent a year learning how to un-love him.

“You look good.”

You stared at him. “What do you want?”

He raised his hands like you were being unreasonable. “Relax. Just saying hi.”

You took a sip of your drink. “You’ve said it.”

“I’ve been thinking about you.”

You laughed — short, bitter. “That’s not comforting.”

“Don’t be like that.”

“You mean don’t have boundaries?”

He blinked, surprised. You were surprised too. Old you would’ve softened it. Would’ve said it with a smile. But you weren’t that version anymore.

He tried again. “Come on. Just talk to me.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ve done this. I’ve lived this. You show up, act sorry, say the right things, and then—"

“That’s not fair—”

You were just about to turn away when someone stepped up beside you — warm, steady, close. You didn’t even get the chance to look before his hand settled gently on your lower back.

“Hey,” the voice said — low, calm, confident. “Everything okay here?”

Ben bristled. “Who are you?”

The stranger didn’t flinch. “I’m her boyfriend.”

The words hit the air like a match on gasoline. Your heart jumped.

You turned your head slightly — just enough to see him. Tall. Dark messy hair. Black shirt. Sharp jaw, softer eyes.

He didn’t look at you. He kept his gaze on Ben. Steady. Measured.

You played along instinctively. Let your hand rest lightly on his chest. “It’s fine,” you murmured. “He was just leaving.”

Ben looked between you. “Seriously?”

The guy — your guy, apparently — tilted his head slightly. “You heard her.”

Ben scoffed. “Whatever.”

He stalked off.

You let your hand fall. “Thank you.”

The stranger finally looked at you then. Smile lazy, voice easy. “You okay?”

You nodded, a little off-balance. “Yeah. That was…”

“Weird?”

“Yeah. Weird.”

“I saw him bothering you. Figured I’d try to help.”

“You did.”

“Good.” He paused. “I’m Mat, by the way.”

You blinked. “Mat…?”

“Just Mat.”

You raised a brow. “Mysterious.”

He grinned. “Keeps things interesting.”

You ended up staying by the bar with him, mostly because it was easier than rejoining your group — and because he was the first man in months who didn’t make you feel like you were performing.

He was charming, sure. But not in the rehearsed way Ben had been. Mat leaned on the bar like he’d been here a thousand times. Talked to you like you were someone worth listening to. His humor was dry, his timing good. He liked dogs. Hated olives. Had a weird fear of elevators.

But when you asked questions — simple things, like what he did, where he was from — he dodged.

“I travel a lot.”

“Oh? For work?”

“Yeah.”

“What do you do?”

He took a sip of his drink. “Boring stuff.”

You raised a brow. “Come on. That’s a cop-out.”

He smiled but didn’t elaborate.

You tried again later. “So… you from here?”

“Not really.”

“Okay, man of mystery. You’re not a spy, are you?”

He laughed. “Wouldn’t be a very good one if I told you, would I?”

You smiled, but a small knot formed in your chest. The kind you only notice when it’s already tightened.

He was being nice. Funny. Easy to talk to.

But something was off.

He wasn’t sharing anything.

You suddenly felt like you were auditioning again. Like the warmth you’d started to feel was one-sided. You weren’t sure why it hit so hard, but it did.

You sat back a little. “You don’t have to keep talking to me, you know.”

Mat blinked. “What?”

You shrugged, trying not to sound bitter. “I’m not trying to get anything from you. You did your part. You rescued the sad girl from her ex. You’re off the hook.”

He stared at you for a second. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

You didn’t answer.

He leaned forward, arms resting on the bar. His tone changed — gentler, more serious.

“I’m not trying to play anything off. I just don’t usually… start like this.”

You tilted your head. “Start what?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Ran a hand through his hair.

“I’m not great at talking about myself,” he said finally. “People usually have expectations. Or opinions. It gets messy.”

You softened, just a little. “You’re being cryptic again.”

He smiled — a little tired this time. “I know.”

You watched him for a long beat.

You could’ve let it drop. Could’ve thanked him again and walked away.

But you didn’t want to.

“Okay,” you said quietly. “Then just tell me one thing.”

“Yeah?”

“Why did you step in tonight?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“Because you looked like you were done saving yourself.”

[blahblahbih]

my new laptop finally came in and now i have a working keyboard so you know what that means

why I love lando norris

an essay by a certified yapper

grab a snack i'm gonna be here for a while

ok backstory on how i got into f1 (it's very butterfly effect-y)

i was driving my uncle around and took a turn really fast and he goes "woah easy verstappen" and i'm like huh? and he goes you know f1, i'm like no, then obvs because algorithms are a thing my entire tiktok feed becomes du du du du max verstaaaapppennnn, i binge dts in like a week, and barabingbaraboom here we are

my first love is immediately daniel, oh the charm, that man cast a spell on me, and then by proxy i started to learn about max and how in reality he's the sweetest cutie patootie but can also be a deliciously written villain, so maxiel becomes my og first love they're the reason i got into the sport

then i start looking at the different teams and learn about the different drivers and who's killing it with their social media and youtube presence? a very particular papaya team

note: i am truly devastated that they don't post as much stuff with their drivers anymore mclaren unboxed you are so dearly missed

and then a particular set of ocean blue-green eyes and a laugh so incredibly contagious stumbles into my life, grabs a chunk of my heart, and goes this is mine now

now let's get into it

out of all the drivers, lando feels the most..... for lack of a better word.... normal?

this is both a great thing and a detrimental thing. out of all the drivers on the grid, lando is the easiest person to develop a parasocial relationship with because it feels like he doesn't have a persona, it's just him, he's just a guy. he gives so much of himself to his fans, he involves us in so many things. his merch, landostand, quadrant, his streams, his jpeg, we get to see him interacting with his friends inside and outside f1 through social media and streaming, he's so expressive with his words and facial expressions, he's weird and a little annoying sometimes, he has no filter, he gives so much of himself that i can't help the feeling that he feels so familiar, i feel like i know him, i care about him, i care for him, he feels like a friend. this is both the key to his popularity but also one of his fatal flaws. unfortunately, having a persona as someone in the public eye is a means of protection before it is a reflection of an ego or anything of that sort. it's important when we are consuming content from celebrities that there is some sort of barrier (whether we like it or not), a wall they put up to let us and themselves know that we are strangers at the end of the day. lando doesn't do that, for the most part at least. he speaks to the media the same way he speaks to his friends. he wears his heart on his sleeve, he lets his emotions show when he's angry or frustrated or unhappy, his face never hides what he's truly thinking, he sees what fans say and do online and interacts with them. on one hand this makes him arguably the most sincere and genuine person on the grid, but on the other it makes it very simple to not like him. it hurts my heart so much when people say he's egotistical because he's really not, he just speaks to the media the same way he speaks to his friends, which IS a mistake on his behalf because the media is absolutely not your friend and the consumers of that media are most definitely not your friend. HOWEVER, as a fan of his, i eat this up, i want to see his face scrunch up into a million emotions, i want to see him snap when he's unhappy and light up like a firework when he's happy. i want to watch his streams and his vlogs and his insta stories and jpeg dumps and youtube vids, because that's how i see my friends.

2. he is so loved

ohhhhh the way my heart flutters when i see him happy with other people and more importantly when i see other people be happy around him. why are you friends with your ex-teammates dad, why are you invited to your rival's step-daughter's birthday party, why are you at your friend's private birthday dinner with family, why does every single driver on the grid speak highly of you, why do you got these retired drivers and world champions in a chokehold talking to everyone who would listen about how good you smell. omg he is so lovedddddd, it brings me so much joy, it makes me love him so much, idk the psychology behind it

3. i relate to him on an unhealthy level

this is where it gets kinda parasocially

i find that a lot of drivers' struggles or flaws over the course of their careers are quite....... cinematic? like they're pain is oddly poetic. lewis, max, charles, daniel. obviously we can relate to them on one scale or another but with lando...

his fatal flaw is essentially: i care too much about what people think of me

and guess what my biggest struggle in life is

and guess what a lot of people's biggest struggle is

it's so easy to relate to his pain because i'm drowning in it. no matter how much i achieve or how much i think i built up my self-image and self-worth, i crumble under the fear of perception and judgement. i care too much about what people think of me, i stumble on my words and say dumb things and then beat myself for it endlessly, i tell myself these are where my weaknesses are and here's how i can address them but time and time again i make the same mistakes and wonder when i'll ever be good enough... like the people around me, the ones that are naturally smart and talented and always say the right thing and not let the pressure get to them and learn from their mistakes and become better

so when i see someone else struggle with the same exact thing

it becomes so easy to be drawn to them, to root for them, to wish for them to overcome their struggles and live vicariously through them in hopes that one day i too can overcome mine

it makes me furious to see people use his openness as a stick to beat him down with. sometimes i wonder if he wishes he never spoke about mental health, if he kept it to himself and just tackled it with his family and friends instead of laying out his pain on a public stage for everyone to judge and shame and project their own insecurities. i wonder if the pride he gets from knowing he's helped people with their mental health outweighs the pain he feels on the daily from everyone (the media, his rivals, his haters, even his own fans) using his pain to their advantage. i hope he doesn't regret it, but deep down i think he does. i also think that ironically this discourages other men and specifically male athletes from being open about their mental health because they see so clearly that it can and WILL be used against them.

ok that got really serious i'm sorry

4. that boy is hilarious

i see his face and immediately break into a huge stupid smile. sometimes he's witty and says random jokes, sometimes he just acts so weird, sometimes it's just incoherent babblings followed by a hysterical laugh. anytime i'm feeling down he pulls me right out of it. he's gotten me through some rough times. i'm emotionally attached

5. his driving is impressive

he's really good at his job, last season i was on the edge of my seat the entire time. yes the lows are low but the highs??? when he won his first race i was screaming running around my house and treated my family to lunch to celebrate. singapore, abu dhabi, australia, MONACOOOO, his last race and fighting against oscar??? idc that he crashed he was driving phenomenally before that. he's proven his talent time and time again and i can't wait for him to get back to his normal quali pace because i just know he'll be a beast.

6. his voice

while he can be very loud and chaotic, his quiet, gentle, soft spoken voice tickles my brain like no other. i love his accent, i love how he sometimes stumbles over his words, i love when he's speaking softly and quietly it's so comforting and intimate and afosfdlewdpwqejtpiejfdhewqr

7. he's gorgeous

i'd be a big fat liar if i didn't include the fact that THAT MAN IS SO BEAUTIFUL to the list. his eyes, his eyessssssss, lost in them and no plans of coming back, his perfect tan, his hairrrrr (RIP the mullet i'm never losing hope that he'll bring it back one day), his beauty marks, his lipsss, his pointy ears, his hands, omg his hands, ahhhhhhhhhhhh

8. his relationships with his teammates

I mean where do i start. him and carlos were such an iconic duo that i think they're lowkey the reason f1 started to push the narrative of teammates being best friends and subsequently forcing into existence the whole "pr friendship" thing. it's hilarious. singapore 2023 you will always be famous. him and daniel are one of my favorite duos in f1 period. so much chaotic energy, so much character development, so many iconic moments. landoscar, ohhhhhh my sweet babies, the way i watched them go from awkward coworkers to now fully confessing their undying love on live tv despite the horrors™. seeing lando be a part of such different teammate dynamics and coming out of all of them with a healthy relationship is so refreshing. i love this lil munchkin

9. He’s such a sweetheart 

Like seriously he’s so sweet and gentle and can get shy and mumbly when people praise him and he geeks out about the things he loves omg have you seen him with kids????? The most adorablist cutie patootie. He’s so gentle, so thoughtful, so wholesome!!!! The way he interacts with fans and gets flustered and how he can get along with literally anybody. The way he melts into his parents’ hugs. His friendship with max is so dear to me. I’m so happy he got to keep his bestie and have someone who truly understands and loves him.

Now for a few of my fav pics of lando (tell me if you notice a pattern lol):

ok i hope you enjoyed

i might do this for other drivers too idk

[taggedmemes]

LOVE FAME TRAGEDY / WHEREVER I GO, I WANT TO LEAVE change wording as desired, etc.

she said i was the best.

i got annihilated and dm'ed one of your friends.

just because i fucked up doesn't mean i've got no heart.

some days aren't so pretty.

sometimes you wanna change when you know you can't.

good news never seems to catch on fire like that bad.

just know that we can never be apart.

i wanna make mistakes.

i want it all.

is it such an evil thing just to want it all?

do i sink or do i float now?

temptation occupies my head.

i decline the truth and all the words you said.

i do this every time.

i shouldn't've let you in.

i'd rather black out than care.

there's an echo in the space my heart should be.

the pills don't work anymore.

i've never fucked up like this before.

here comes the hostility.

why don't you love me the way that i love you?

just let me motivate ya.

you're as lawless as a pack of teenage boys on drugs.

i don't need my feelings or the thoughts in my head.

i don't want your bullshit charm.

we don't play well with others.

possess me more.

i know the worst is yet to come, but couldn't it be fun?

i don't need to know the truth.

my head's a little bit fucked but i feel fine.

you were all i need, so give me what i need.

don't wanna be cloudy with a chance of rain.

my chest's a little bit tight but i feel fine.

you're destructive. i need insurance for you.

when all of my moves fall short, tell me what else i can do.

i feel you drilling down to my core.

you're a bad trend.

i'd walk that plank and dive off if the dive off of that plank led to you.

do you want more or do i have to watch you float away?

i hear the scream in the starry night ring out.

all these problems i never thought of.

everything affects me now.

another straw on a broken camel's back.

i'm impressed that you think i'd care.

i did so many beautiful things.

an algorithm taught me how to choose.

good on paper with a poor technique.

won't somebody help me, help me shake the loop?

you take the fun out of everything.

you take the fun out of me.

they've taken something, maybe you should too.

an algorithm threw me out to sea and maybe i should've stayed.

are you sure you don't want to make me another ex lover?

there's a fire in your eyes.

should i be afraid of you?

darling, please don't murder me.

there's something not right with this.

lately i've been emotionally offline.

i can feel it in my spine.

been thinking about is all the time.

you only want me when i'm stuck in your head.

you're playing the victim again.

i only want you when i'm lonely as hell.

is it worth it to break our necks for this?

it's just another moment in time.

there's nothing to talk about.

i die just a little inside.

everything i do is keeping me and you oceans apart.

you know that i've tried my best.

i've had enough of this mess now.

it's not unlike me to evaporate when polite conversation heads my way.

we met between the pages of the things i didn't wanna learn.

i've got so much more to say.

we make a pretty good b-team.

just keep on giving me good feelings.

all my shit and still you say that you're mine.

my lucky star is a black hole.

i'm swimming way off the deep end.

i need your love to be mine.

my favorite dreams come in daylight.

it's a beautiful view.

i've got something to say before we're taken away.

sometimes you're talking and i'm just thinking about myself.

maybe it's better to find a way to intervene.

maybe it's best to let nature do its thing.

i want to live in your pocket with a glass of wine.

i'm kinda bored of swimming 'round the bottom of oblivion.

it feels like i'm a bit undone.

some feelings go but most find their way back in.

SSRIs keep the molly from working.

i need your body.

i'm in the yard and the milkshake tastes bad.

don't you wanna get away for a little while?

the sea is deep and the world is wide.

she likes role models and men who are not afraid to step up the plate.

she likes me drunk but not when i'm out of control and lost in my head.

was it me or was i just mislead?

strap me in and send me nowhere.

i can change.

i'll commit to the struggle.

i can hunt, i can gather, i can be your mate.

she likes it when i'm dark but no when i'm really, really dark.

i think i'm running away.

did i push you to the limit?

did i go too hard?

did i throw a rock at your car?

it's always fun when you're lost in it.

i really thought you'd call me.

can we restart?

manners and decency never came easily.

we'll figure out a way to buy a brand new brain for me.

there's little to nothing i can do.

we're becoming a break-up song.

[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