My ideal MHA OC is just a regular lady.
occasionally subtle

JVL
art blog(derogatory)
KIROKAZE

Kiana Khansmith

Kaledo Art
Peter Solarz
almost home
Keni

No title available
styofa doing anything
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda

★
i don't do bad sauce passes
Claire Keane
DEAR READER
NASA

titsay
Show & Tell
Today's Document

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@desertrose244
My ideal MHA OC is just a regular lady.
Virgin All Might I will die on this hill. Cut contains some intimacy.
Doesn't feel great being lied to, even if it's... Understandable.
Fanfiction is insane. You can write porn so good you make friends.
Today I:
-Walked past a man talking to ChatGPT in public.
- Unfortunately caught the creepy cashier at a corner store who said 'beautiful' as I payed with his eyes on my tits.
- Took the wrong bus home, tried to be stubborn and thought it'd loop round to somewhere I know and ended up 30 min away from where I wanted to be
-Thought I'd get off at the bus stop outside the train station that I know links to the one beside my house but then:
- Got too scared to walk past a dog (I get nervous around them) and didn't look at the train platform I needed to be on until the train left. Next one is in an hour.
The trip home for me is 45 walking, 20 on public transport but it is going to take me 2 hours.
Like a good neighbor- Nolan is there!
The first time it happened, you assumed it was just what neighbors did.
You'd been wrestling with your garbage cans — the big ones, the kind with wheels that never actually worked the way they were supposed to — trying to get them to the curb before the truck came, when a pair of hands appeared from nowhere. They simply lifted both of them, one in each fist, and carried them to the street like they weighed nothing.
You turned around.
Your neighbor — the one from the brick colonial across the street, the one you'd waved at twice and spoken to exactly zero times — stood in your driveway in a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, looking at you with an expression that was almost aggressively neutral.
"Truck comes at seven," he said. "You were going to miss it."
"I — thank you, I had it—"
"You didn't." He looked at the cans, then back at you. "Nolan Grayson."
"I know," you said, and then immediately felt strange about it. "I mean — we've waved. I'm—" You told him your name.
He nodded, once, like he was filing it away somewhere.
Then he went back across the street and that was that.
The second time, two weeks later, you were on a step stool in your front doorway trying to change the overhead light bulb — the tall one, the annoying one, the one you needed three extra inches of height to reach properly — when you heard footsteps on your porch.
"You're going to fall."
You squawked and grabbed the doorframe, "what—"
Nolan Grayson was standing at the bottom of your porch steps with a reusable grocery bag in one hand, looking up at you with the same unreadable expression he'd had at the garbage cans. He had, apparently, materialized from nowhere. You were beginning to think this was just something he did.
"I wasn't going to fall," you mumbled sheepishly. "I was fine."
"The stool was wobbling."
"It was not—"
He came up the steps, held out his hand, and waited. You stared at him. He continued to wait, patient as geology. You sighed and put the bulb in his hand.
He reached up — easily, without any kind of stool — and replaced it in about four seconds.
"The fixture is loose," he stated flatly, examining it briefly. "I can fix that."
"You don't have to—"
"It'll bother me if I don't."
You opened your mouth, before thinking better of it.
He fixed the light fixture with ease. It took him ten minutes and he used tools he produced from his car with the quiet efficiency of someone who did not believe in being unprepared. When he was done he packed up, came back to the porch, and looked at you.
"Thank you," you offered softly. "Really. Can I — do you want coffee or something, I have—"
"I have to get back." He paused at the top of the steps. "But another time."
Even though it was such a small thing to say, you thought about it for the rest of the day.
The third time you stopped being surprised and started being something else entirely.
The faucet under your kitchen sink had been dripping for a week. Not badly — just enough to be audible in the quiet of the house, a slow metronomic drip that you'd been meaning to call someone about and hadn't gotten around to. You'd left your front door open on a Saturday morning while you moved boxes from your car, and when you came inside Nolan Grayson was crouched under your kitchen sink.
You stood very still in your own doorway.
"The washer was worn through," he said, without looking up. "I could hear it from outside."
"You could hear it—"
"It was bothering me."
You set your box down slowly. "Mr. Grayson. You're in my house."
"The door was open." He emerged from under the sink, standing to his full height in your kitchen, and looked at you without any apparent awareness that this was unusual behavior. He had a wrench. He had, apparently, brought his own wrench. "It's fixed. You should have called someone sooner — that kind of drip runs up the water bill."
You stared at him.
He looked back at you. Something shifted, just slightly, in his expression — not quite a smile, but adjacent to one. An awareness that he was being evaluated and a complete absence of concern about the outcome.
"Coffee," you said finally. "You're having coffee. I'm not asking."
A pause. "Alright," he agreed firmly.
He took it black, which surprised you for no logical reason.
He sat at your kitchen table like he'd sat there before, comfortable in the space, watching you move around the kitchen with that steady, unblinking attention that you were starting to recognize as just how he looked at things he found interesting. It should have been uncomfortable. Mostly it was just warm.
"How long have you lived across the street?" you asked.
"Twelve years."
"And you've never — we've never actually talked before two months ago."
"You didn't need anything before two months ago." He said it simply, no subtext offered, and wrapped both hands around his mug.
You leaned against the counter and looked at him. "Is that how it works? You only talk to people when they need something fixed?"
"Generally."
"That's a very lonely way to live."
Something moved across his face, there and gone, "It's a very efficient way to live."
"Mm." You picked up your own mug. "And you just — happened to notice my garbage cans. And my lightbulb. And my faucet."
"I pay attention to my surroundings."
"You pay attention to my surroundings."
He looked at you over the rim of his mug and said nothing, which was somehow a complete answer.
Your face felt warm. You looked out the window at the very normal and interesting backyard.
"Well," you started. "Thank you. For all of it. You didn't have to."
"I'm aware."
"So why—"
"You take your trash out in your socks," he stated flatly. "In October."
You blinked. "What?"
"The first morning. You came out in socks. No shoes." He set his mug down. "It was 48 degrees."
You had absolutely no response to that.
"I noticed," he said, in the same tone someone might use to report weather data, "that you do a lot of things without quite enough help."
The kitchen was very quiet.
"That's—" You laughed, a little helplessly. "That's either very sweet or very alarming, I genuinely can't tell."
"Probably both." And there it was — not a full smile, but the real version of that almost-smile, the one that changed the whole architecture of his face. It lasted about three seconds and then he picked up his mug again and it was gone. "The gutter on your east side is pulling away from the fascia."
"I — what?"
"I'll take care of it Saturday."
"Nolan—"
"Unless you have plans Saturday."
He asked it like it was a practical question about scheduling. He was looking at you like it was something else completely.
"I don't have plans Saturday," you answered slowly.
He nodded, satisfied, and finished his coffee.
When he left he paused in your doorway — your fixed, properly lit doorway — and looked back at you with that steady, unhurried attention.
"Lock up," he stated. "The deadbolt, not just the handle."
"How do you know I only use the handle—"
He was already down the porch steps.
You locked the deadbolt. You stood in your kitchen for a moment in the quiet of your fixed-faucet house and pressed your fingers to your mouth and tried very hard not to smile.
You failed.
Saturday, he arrived at eight in the morning with a ladder and fixed your gutter in forty minutes. You brought him coffee without being asked. He drank it standing in your driveway, looking up at his work with a critical eye, and then looked at you.
"The porch railing has some rot on the left post," he said.
"Of course it does."
"I can—"
"Nolan." You held out his empty mug. "You know, most people get to know their neighbors by introducing themselves. Maybe a wave. A casserole."
"I fixed your faucet."
"You broke into my house to fix my faucet."
"The door was open."
"Nolan."
He took the mug. He was doing that not-quite-smiling thing again, the one that made it very difficult to maintain a reasonable level of composure. "There's a hardware store on fifth," he offered. "They'd have the right lumber for the post. I know the owner."
You looked at him. "Are you asking me to go to a hardware store with you."
"I'm saying I need to get the lumber anyway."
"That's not a no."
"No," he said, "it isn't."
The morning was cold and bright and your gutter was fixed and Nolan Grayson was standing in your driveway holding your coffee mug with both hands waiting for you to put your shoes on.
Actual shoes this time, you thought.
You went inside to get your coat.
Found one Nolan X Listener NSFW audio and my life hasn't really been the same since
I miss the era when people would say “it’s photoshopped” instead of “this is ai”
“character who gained weight to show how they are healthy now” trope my beloved
"woah this is such a unique take on the character i wonder why is the character like that" >look inside character >it's the author's subconscious attempt to love themself
so wildly obnoxious when you agree with the starting point of someone's stance only for them to hard turn into things you DON'T agree with and now you have to defend the thing that was originally annoying you
"too many authors in the current market are focusing on selling 'spice' instead of telling interesting stories"
"oh yeah, i agree. i started reading one that i heard a lot about and it just wasn't-"
"and it's all of these women reading their fucking mommy porn out in public like FREAKS"
*through gritted teeth* "people should be allowed to read whatever they want, and actually these books should be left alone and you should shut up about it"
The crazy thing is, ninety-nine times out of a hundred, if you asked me on any given day "Would like to see a picture of some genitals?" my answer would be "😰 No, that's... No, thank you. I'm okay, actually." I have nothing but the utmost respect for people who do engage with the penis side of the internet, but personally, I've spent the better part of two decades doing all I can NOT to have pictures of dick and balls or sexy bikini babe buttcheeks blasted onto my retinas constantly. And yet... to be denied the penis? To have a jumped up pile of javascript tell me, a grown adult with an air fryer and an outstanding council tax bill, that I cannot be trusted to withstand the sight of a bare nipple unless I let it scan my drivers' license? I will move heaven and earth to see that fucking nipple, friend. I will walk a thousand miles barefoot on hot coals before I give you big brother bitches my passport number. A thousand miles through the desert with five VPNs just to press my face up against the glass and see the last uncensored picture of two My Little Pony Characters sixty-nining each other, and I don't even want! to look at it! But I will! I must! for the sake of our fucking democracy!
toshinori yagi when he has his hands on his hips
i could put my hands on his hips i mean whaaaat who said that
"google ai" "spotify ai dj" "ai assistant" "enhanced by ai" what if i just start beating people over the head with a rock
⚠️ GUYS! ⚠️
Do you guys think the hantavirus strain will become serious? I am ACTUALLY having a panic attack. If it does become bad, my mental health will actually fully deteriorate, and diminish… I CAN’T do this. I’ll probably… die.
WHAT DO YOU THINK?
Hi, Chilean here. That virus is endemic from this place.
I won't say that it's absolutely impossible, because I cannot know that for certain, but what I can say is that this particular outbreak is much smaller than what happens about twice in a decade here, and we haven't ever had massive epidemics of hanta every 5-6 years or so.
Let's start with the basic facts: the Andean hantavirus reservoir (the species in which the virus is common but aren't significantly hurt by it) is rodents, specifically the long-tailed and the long-haired mice, which are also endemic, and as small rodents, their diet is heavily based on seeds.
In this region there's also an endemic bamboo, called quila, which is extremely common in hills and slopes, and grows wherever there's disrupted soil and enough humidity. Bamboos, and particularly this quila, have a curious timing to their reproduction, as all the individual plants in a widespread region will flower, produce seed and die all at once, roughly one time every 5 or 6 years, in a rather unpredictable schedule.
Florece solo una vez en su vida, pero cuando lo hace, despierta el temor. Nos referimos a la quila, un grupo de bambúes nativos de Chile que
What this means is that, when the quila flowers in a region, there's no way to stop the mice from coming out, eating their seeds voraciously, and reproducing themselves in just a massive way. The flowering of the quila unleashes a frenetic and unstoppable chain of events, as a new generation of well-fed mice, that can be up to 15 times bigger than the previous one, depletes all the food in the hills, and descend over the valleys and fields, eating all the crops and the stored food they can find. Additionally, all the dead quilas are perfect fuel for forest fires, that force the mice to flee from their natural habitats.
And these are the mice in which the hantavirus thrives.
Country people in this part of the world are really skilled and resourceful to protect themselves from these episodes, called "ratadas", but there're always a few mice that can pass through, or places that don't get protected, and the conditions for contagion arise.
Contrary to what most people were commenting on the internet, the hanta doesn't go from nice to humans by eating mice feces in contaminated food, because hantaviruses don't target the digestive system; rather, they are respiratory viruses, and the way in which the virus enters the body is via aerosols: mice fecal pellets becoming dust and getting airborne when someone disturbs a contaminated place, sometimes even years after the last ratada.
Ventilating and cleaning uninhabited areas with water and bleach (not sweeping nor vacuuming) and using good face masks when doing so is crucial to avoid the most probable route of contagion, as well as keeping all food and all trash stored in containers that the mice cannot reach.
As I said in the beginning, these "ratadas" happen about once a decade, naturally, subjecting millions of people to a risky exposure to the virus, and yet when it happens it's only a few individuals who actually get sick. This is because the hantaviruses aren't actually very effective at getting into people, because it's a virus that evolved to thrive on rodents, that are constantly sniffing the ground in search of food. This virus is no flu either, and doesn't mutate crazily to evolve new abilities, so it's improbable that it could evolve to become more contagious in humans.
What hantaviruses are, though, is hard to identify and very aggressive, particularly the Andean hanta. I will spare you the grim details, but what's important to know is that, for the first 1 to 8 weeks when the virus incubates, the only symptoms are practically identical to a common flu: a sore throat, cough, muscle pain, fever, evolving into shortness of breath. If you have been exposed to an environment which can contain hantaviruses, you need to take these symptoms seriously instead of dismissing them as allergies or a cold, and go get tested: there's no effective antiviral treatment for hantaviruses, but symptomatic treatment, when done early, can spare a patient from most sequelae.
Also, and this is rather obvious; we are talking about a respiratory virus, so the typical respiratory virus measures are very effective: ventilating and avoiding close quarters with lots of people, using well-fitted and certified face masks indoors, filtering indoor air whenever possible, cleaning surfaces with water and bleach to disinfect without aerosolising droppings.
In short: it's most probable that we won't have a hantavirus pandemic, nor even a more localised epidemic in humans, but if it happens, we are very well equipped to stop it in its tracks with very simple measures we already learned during the COVID pandemic.
(me with fanfics except I keep writing them)
Seen two posts back-to-back with exact opposite opinions on whether canon should be a suggestion for fan work and I feel like I agree with both at the same time