#Short sell treading

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Farmer's Daughter 9

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Walter Marshall

Summary: You notice a peculiar change in a family friend. (short!reader, sorry size kink is out)

Part of the Backwoods AU

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

After the tense morning, you don't speak to Walter again that day. Or the next. When he arrives, he stays outside with his thermos of coffee and waits for Timothy. At the end of the day, he gives your brother an excuse about chores at home. Maybe not an excuse. He has been spending a lot of time around here.

Nearly a week after it happened, after everything changed, your mother appears in the kitchen with a crease in her forehead. You offer her a cup off coffee as she rubs her eyes. She yawns and and shakes her head.

“We'll grab a cup at the hospital,” she says, “you're father has a check-up. Timmy's taking us.”

“Oh?” You pour yourself a mug and lean on the counter, “I forgot.”

“Lots going on,” she sighs, “can't blame you for being distracted.”

“Uh, yeah, I guess,” you shrug.

“I called Walter, left a message,” she checks the clock hung above the door, “wouldn't be too bad if he did swing by, huh?”

“Hopefully he doesn't waste the time,” you grumble.

“Honey,” she chides playfully, “you know, I think your dad would approve… if he could. He always liked Walter.”

“Mom,” you frown, “please, I have enough to worry about.”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” she whines, “I'm just… looking for a little sunshine through the clouds.”

You wince, a pang of guilt between your ribs, “I'm sorry, mom, I just… Walter's nice. He helps so much and I think… I think maybe it's too much.”

“Don't I know it.  He is so generous. I gave him some money and I found the envelope in my purse,” she tuts, “you could do much worse. He… he could take care of you.”

You exhale, “mom.”

“Just listen,” her tone turns dire and her eyes gleam, “your pa can't. He's not gonna be able to ever again. I already know what the doc's gonna day and you shouldn't fool yourself. Walter won't help forever, not for no good reason. And next year, your pa won't be back on his tractor…” she sniffles and dabs her nose, “those days are behind us.”

“Ma, you don't know–”

“I do,” she utters solemnly, “I see the man I married but he's hollow. He's… a shell, honey. He's there but he's not really.”

“Oh, ma–”

“I'm just saying… we need to weigh our options. I'll look into selling if we gotta and Timmy, maybe he can go work with Walt–”

“Aren't you getting ahead of yourself?” You cross an arm around your middle.

“We shoulda been talking about this a week ago,” she shakes her head.

“Well, I can apply at the grocer or–”

“You do that,” she says, “but you think real hard. You got options,” she steps closer and cups your cheeks, “you're a pretty young thing. That doesn't last forever.”

You don't say a word as her greyness seeps into you. She draws away and you bow your head. You wait for her to go as you stare into the black depths of the coffee. You take a sip to try to chase away the ice in your veins but it only sends a shiver through you.

🌾

Your parents go off with Timmy in the truck. You set to sweeping the porch to keep yourself busy. Your mother's words ring in your ears. She can't be serious, there's more out there than the farm. Pa always said as much and you don't think he meant Walter.

As you get to the steps, the distant rumble of an engine rolls over the ground. You turn as gravel grits under treads and Walter's large truck lazily rocks along the bumpy road. You still the straw broom and grip the handle as he pulls up. Did he not get your mother's message?

He lingers in the truck as you squint against the sunlight. His door pops open and he jumps down, sending up a cloud of dust. He goes around the bed of the truck and opens the back.

He slides out a sheet of wood and drags it towards you. You watch in confusion as he stops and leans it against the side of the porch. His eyes meet yours and his brows furrow.

“Morning,” he checks his watch, “barely.”

“Morning, Mr. Marshall,” you eke out.”

His eyes flash and he nods. He turns and marches back to the truck, pulling out several planks before carrying them over. You watch him as you lean on the broom.

“What are you doing?” You ask.

He stops and looks up at you. He points to your feet and flicks his finger up, “building a ramp. For your dad.”

You look down at your slips flecked in dirt and stray strands of straw, “oh? Didn't ma call–”

“She didn't ask,” he says bluntly. 

Your lips slant and you tilt your head, “that's real nice.”

“Yeah well, I'm a nice guy,” he huffs and spins on the heel of his boots, stomping away once more.

He goes back to the truck and retrieves his toolbox. His agitation roils off his tense shoulders and the stone set in his jaw. You're too afraid to ask but you do need to. He has been avoiding you.

“Well, I'll stay out of your way,” you lift the broom and back up the stairs. “If you need anything–”

“Not in the way,” he says curtly as he takes out a measuring tape.

“Oh, I know but I wouldn't wanna bother–”

“I don't mind,” he shrugs as he steps onto the stairs and measures the angle over them.

“Right, of course, do you need anything? A glass of water or–”

“Seems like I'm the one bothering,” he stands and lets the tape retract harshly.

“No?” You bat your lashes at him, “I didn't say that, Mr.--”

“Walt,” he growls, “you know what I like best in a woman. Honesty. So why don't you be honest and tell me what you really feel?”

“I…” you gulp, “Walter, er, Walt, I… I'm just… confused.”

“Don't act like a child. We both know you're not,” he crosses his arms over his broad chest. You've seen him angry before but it's never been aimed at you. 

“I… I don't know what to say. I'm sorry.”

“Sorry. Okay,” he shakes his head and unfolds his arms, going back to measuring, “I'm open to talking when you wanna be an adult.”

You flinch as you watch him. He grits his teeth, ignoring your presence as he focuses on his work. You turn, hiding the hurt deep in your chest. You never meant to hurt him but you really don't know. As much as you try to wade through your feelings, you only feel as if you're drowning in them.

[mingyusfool]

Something to Believe In: Prologue Part Two

Pairing: n/a, this section will just be a backstory for newsie!reader.

Prompt: Newsies inspired Seventeen fic

Warnings: Violence and bullying.

Release Date: September 19, 2024

Summary:

You find yourself out of work and are looking to secure a new job working as a newsie for the largest newspaper printing company in the city: The New York World. Daunting as that might be, you head to Newsies Square early to beat the other newsies to the stand to buy papes and hopefully impress them. However, luck is not on your side and your day ends up quite differently than you planned...

Prologue Part Two: Welcome to Newsies Square

You tread across the cobblestone path as you clung to a small bag thrown over your shoulder. In it, a collection of your personal belongings that you decided to take with you. The rest, you’d given to the other newsies who seemed to need it more than you. An old slingshot that you enjoyed when you were younger but no longer found use of, you’d given to your youngest, hoping she’d enjoy it just as much as you had. A couple of articles of clothing that no longer fit you, you’d given to some of the others who were a bit smaller than you, and they’d repurposed their old clothes to those who were smaller than them too. It was something you’d always instructed everyone to do, to make the best use of your resources, but it was especially important now that you wouldn’t have each other to rely on anymore. 

You ensured everyone found a new job before the GG was shut down, whether that was as a newsie working for a different company, in a factory, as a shoe shiner, or something else of that nature. You needed to make sure your people were safe and taken care of. So much so that you’d barely thought about yourself. You’d saved up enough money to survive a couple of weeks on your own but you didn’t want to spend those weeks by yourself on the streets. You needed to find work fast which is why you found yourself in this particular part of town, staring up at The New York World Building. 

It was the tallest of a couple of structures that were responsible for writing and printing the most popular selling newspaper in the whole city. If you had your choice, you’d love to take a shot at writing for them, but you know they’d never let you with your lack of experience. You’d never written like that for anything. You’d only ever written short stories in a journal you kept, occasionally reading them to the younger newsies as bedtime stories. Though you lacked experience, your stories had gotten good reviews, even from a couple of the older ones who swore they were only listening because it was impossible to turn off their ears. 

The place you stood in now was entirely different from Gramercy. You were only used to your small group, your tight knit family who hardly left your side. Gramercy was quiet, full of trees and nature; your little peaceful oasis away from the rest of the city. Now you were surrounded by skyscrapers and you felt an unmatched energy all around. You could picture these streets during the day, flooded with newsies, as they would be within the hour, you were sure. However, you’d gotten there early, before anyone else in fact. You knew with there being so many newsies living around these parts that it was the only way you could make your coin for the day. 

You managed to find the window where the papes for The World were sold and were greeted with a middle aged man who flashed you a smile. He smoked a cigar as he counted a couple stacks of coins before him. 

“Tough morning, kid?” he asked, looking you over. 

“Not particularly…” you asked, furrowing your eyebrows and fishing in your pocket for your coins. “I’ll take five stacks of papes.” 

“We don’t got five stacks,” he told you, taking a puff on his cigar. 

“How long until you get the papes for the day?” you asked, not wanting to be caught up here for the whole morning. Surely The World was just finishing up their printing for the morning and the papes would be released any moment. No one could afford being late in this business. If the papes weren’t released to the newsies at first light, then the newsies wouldn’t be able to sell them to anyone on their way to work, and The World wouldn’t make any money. And one thing was for sure, you were never late. 

“You’re about an hour too late,” he told you. 

You stared at him in disbelief. You had gotten up extra early that morning so you could be certain you would get to the news stand before everyone else. You knew you needed to buy my papes and beat them to the streets so you could make your keep today and prove to the Manhattan newsies that you would make a good addition to the team. Now that plan was ruined but there was still plenty of the day left to make decent coin. 

“I’ll take whatever you have left,” you told the man. He promptly slammed one stack of papes on the counter and you sighed. Then you paid him and left the news stand. 

You made your way out of Newsie Square and took to the streets of the city, taking a quick look at the headline at the top of the news. It was another political story, which luckily everyone wanted to read about. You quickly thought of a much more interesting headline than the one that was written and began shouting “Political Brawl in Queens!” to try to catch the attention of anyone passing by. You managed to catch the attention of a couple individuals, selling them papes and moving on down the street. 

As you continued shouting, you were approached by two younger gentlemen, both dressed in matching bowler hats. 

“You look lost, kid,” one of them said to you with a snide smirk on his face. 

You looked up at them. You were not in the mood to play games with men like this. “Do you boys wanna buy papes or can I be on my way?” 

“Don’t you newsies usually travel together? Ya know, to keep each other out of trouble?” the other man said, crossing his arms. 

“And to protect the weaklings…” the first man frowned, mocking a pout. “Just in case something like this happens!” 

Suddenly, he slapped the stack of newspapers you were carrying out of your hands and onto the ground. And of course with your luck, they landed scattered across a mud puddle. The two men laughed and you glared at them. 

“What are you going to do? Cry about it?” the second one cackled. 

You needed to escape these schmucks as soon as possible and you knew what you needed to do. While the one man was cackling you stamped as hard as you could on his foot. He screamed in agony and awkwardly hopped away on one foot. As the other man approached you, you spit directly in his face as a diversion and started running in the opposite direction. 

However, as soon as you turned around you ran face first into someone’s chest. The force knocked you back onto the ground and you landed right in the mud, with the two men not far behind you now. 

“Are you alright?” 

Whoever you had just bumped full force into extended a hand in your direction. When you looked up, you saw a young man, dark eyebrows furrowed with concern. He wore a white tank top that clung tightly to his skin, leaving his arms out on full display. His tan trousers hugged his thighs and were held up by a pair of suspenders. And atop his dark hair sat a tan newsie cap. A couple of other young men stood behind him, their outfits similar to his. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you replied, taking his hand and allowing you to pull him up with ease. 

“Good,” he said, then he stepped to the side to face the two men who had been bothering you. “Well if it isn’t the Delancey Brothers. I knew I smelled an unpleasant aroma. I don’t know how many times I have to tell you boys to leave my newsies alone.” 

“Well your newsie was sellin’ us a fake headline,” one of the men said, glaring at you. 

The newsie looked at you. “Is that true?” 

“‘Course not. I only glorify the headline, like every other newsie. I don’t make up entirely new stories,” you told him. 

“Ya heard it here boys. Us newsies only speak the truth! Now why don’t you go and find a real job instead of botherin’ us folks? Must be hard for you now that everyone knows you got fired from The World,” the newsie said with a smirk. 

One of the men suddenly pushed the newsie back a few steps but he held his ground. He was much bigger than both of the men. 

The newsie chuckled, “C’mon Oscar, is that really the best you’ve got?” 

The man, Oscar, came at the newsie again, but this time he was prepared. He sidestepped and Oscar flew forward, losing his balance. On his way toward you, you managed to trip him and he fell onto the ground, face first into the mud. 

The other man swung at the newsie but he caught his hand, skillfully twisting his arm behind his back and locking him in place. 

“If I ever find you messing with my newsies again, there will be no place in this entire city where you’ll be able to show your face again and not end up with it unrecognizably smashed into the pavement. Have I made myself clear?” the newsie growled at them. 

After confirming that they understood, he let both of them go, watching as they did, making sure they didn’t come back. You finally got a chance to clearly observe all of the newsies before you. These were the newsies from the center of the Manhattan borough. They were tough, there’s no doubt about that, but not nearly as tough as the Brooklyn newsies. It’s safe to say that everyone felt a little uneasy when it came to the Brooklyn newsies. But you knew these Manhattan newsies were no joke either. These were the ones who were responsible for the start of the strike about a month ago now. These were the ones who took charge and created their own union, demanding fair working conditions from the chief editor and publisher of The World: Joseph Pulitzer. It’s thanks to these newsies in particular that all of us have those fair working conditions now and it’s thanks to them that we’re not just looked over as if we were scum. All newsies owe it to them, which is why you felt a bit anxious standing there as they all perceived you. 

“I was doing just fine on my own-” you began turning to face the newsie who was seemingly the leader of their group. 

“Fine, I’ll watch the Delancey Brothers ruin your pretty mug next time,” he spat. 

“You didn’t let me finish,” you said to him, deciding to disregard the fact that he just called you ‘pretty.’ “I was doing just fine on my own but I’m glad you were there to help me stop them. And don’t let that get to your head.” 

“Too late,” you heard one of the other newsies call out, though you weren’t sure which one. 

“They call me Coups… Leader of the Manhattan borough.” 

“I’m y/n, leader of- Well I used to be the leader of the Gramercy Newsies. We just got shut down a few days ago which is how I found myself here,” you explained. 

“So now you wanna work for The World?”

“Listen, I loved working for a company like the Gramercy Gazette but I can’t take that chance anymore with all these smaller companies getting shut down,” you told him. 

“Can I ask you somethin’?”

“Shoot.” 

“Why be a newsie?” Coups asked. “There’s plenty of other jobs in the city. Prob’ly better payin’ ones too. Why spend your time sellin’ papes?” 

You’d never thought about it before. You just did the job because that’s all you’d ever done. Of course you’d grown to love what you do… but why? 

“I suppose… I suppose it’s ‘cause I like stories. I like to know what’s going on in the world and I like reading about it. I think there’s a lot to learn from reading the news, and reading in general. Everyone deserves to know what’s going on in the world and everyone should stay updated when it comes to the news. Not saying the news is completely factual, but staying updated on the news unifies the world a little by little each day. It brings us together. And I like to be one of the many people helping to get that news out there.” 

Coups looked you up and down, then looked around as the other Manhattan newsies. 

“I like that answer, y/n. It will be good to have someone like you on the team who cares about this job as much as the rest of us do,” Coups smiled at you. “Now why don’t you stick with us for the rest of the day. I’m sure you could use a couple people on your side right about now.” 

He raised his hand to his mouth, spit in it, and offered a handshake. 

“Friends?” 

You hesitated but after he assured you that “it’s just business,” you did the same, spitting in your hand and shaking his. 

Author's Note:

Okay part 2 is finally done and thank you for reading it! I think this part of the story was a lot more interesting than part 1 and it's only going to get more interesting from here. Finally some of the boys have been introduced AND Scoups got in a little fight for you hehe. Can you tell I'm blushing through the screen? Of course I had to include the Delancey Brothers and if you're a Newsies fan you'll get it! I should be getting out part 3 a lot faster than I got out part 2; my life has been a little crazy over these past few weeks. Hopefully you'll stick around to see where this story goes! Thanks again and I'll see ya in the next one! :)

[20dollarlolita]

The process of how I bought my wheelchairs.

Someone's asked for help on this, and I've written a couple of really thorough posts that I never published, but here's the short I intended this to be short, but it's not version.

IMPORTANT DISCLAIMER: This is not medical advice. I cannot provide medical advice. I am sharing my own experience, and it should not be used as your only research for this issue. Any time I am saying, "you," please note that it is a style choice to use the second person, and not an indication of giving advice.

Quick note: if your doctor prescribed you a chair, make sure you know what kind of chair was prescribed, and why. The best chair in the world is still awful if it doesn't do what you need.

Also if your insurance will cover a wheelchair then, once you've made sure that your insurance will cover the chair you need, make the smart choice about where you'll buy these things.

The first time that I was using a wheelchair full time, I was borrowing this one from a friend. This chair is about $500, so when I was buying my first chair for myself, I was looking at that price point. If a chair I was considering was notably more than $500, I knew I could just get my own copy of this chair that I was already comfortable with. The chair that I was borrowing was three years old and had been heavily used, so I was confident in this model's lifespan.

The other big advantage of this is that it ships free with Prime, which meant that it was easy to send to a friend when I was tired of watching her use a inexpensive chair to get around the Disney parks.

But then I went on ebay and learned about the magical world of secondhand wheelchairs. The short version of the story is that a wheelchair can outlive someone's need for it, and so it's not super uncommon to see someone selling an older wheelchair for much less than the chair is new. A lot of the time, these are custom or modular chairs. Instead of a basic chair that's set up to one-size-fits-probably-most, modular and custom chairs have 10+ pages of options to select from in their order form. When you're buying a new custom chair, you pick every option to make sure it's perfect for you. When your goal to buying a used chair is to just get one that's better for you than a Drive Super Sport one-size-fits-hopefully-you chair, the secret to buying on ebay is to find out what features you absolutely need, and then to check the other elements of the chair and see if they will work for you.

Quick note, at the time that I was buying my wheelchair, I actually already owned a wheelchair, and had decided it wasn't going to work for me to use full-time. This is an Invacare Tracer and it was, according to the tag, stolen from a wheelchair rental place in 2010, and according to my mom, stolen from my neighbor's to-be-burned pile in 2019. So if we don't count alleged crime as a cost, this wheelchair was free. This is a great example of a chair that's set up to be one-size-fits-no-one-perfectly.

This wheelchair would be better than nothing, but it's heavy, the wheels are really far back, and it doesn't really fit in my car. The tires have no tread and are pretty worn, so they don't do great for outdoor offroading. All detachable parts of this (armrests, foot rests) had been lost a decade ago, and they're not cheap to replace. I already knew what kind of budget I was willing to spend, and I felt that just using this as my main mode of movement wasn't going to be worth the saving of the $500.

I do still use this wheelchair a LOT in my house, because it's a pain to get my real wheelchair out of my car and into my house (because stairs), but I wouldn't feel confident taking it out on the town unless I have someone to push me.

So the secret to buying a wheelchair on ebay is a three step process:

Determine how much money you're able to spend. The best wheelchair in the world isn't going to do you any good if you can't actually get it.

Determine what main features you want in a chair, and look for those.

When you find a chair that has those features at that price, check to see if everything else in the chair works for you.

(Secret step 4: be lucky enough to have someone listing the chair you need).

So I picked this chair (Which is a Quickie 2 Lite) mostly because the Medwarm wheelchair had been a bit too wide for me. This chair was narrower and had a lot of the traits of the Medwarm chair that I'd liked. It folded, had 24" wheels with tread, had feet plates that didn't stick way out in front. I didn't actually know how any of that felt until I had it, because I didn't have experience with multiple wheelchairs. My inexperience gave me a superpower, which was that I didn't need to get so critical of certain traits, because I had no idea what any of that meant.

Shipped and with tax, this was $400. At the time, I just went, "hey, this is like the wheelchair that I want, but without the negative trait of being as wide, and it's $100 less."

The main this about this chair that I learned that I love is that the center of gravity is farther forward than on the Medwarm chair (I believe it's set to +1"). This gave me a lot more power pushing myself. When I was using the Medwarm chair, it wasn't uncommon for me to ask friends to push me long distances. I very rarely needed that in the Quickie2.

But I did have to replace it.

Short version of a long story was that when I went to being a most-time wheelchair user, the seat of my chair got smaller relative to my body. I'd picked a narrower chair because it was easier to navigate the world, but I'd actually picked a chair that was becoming too small for me to fit my Kitten Holding Legs into. I looked into getting a new chair.

So let's talk about the wheelchair that I bought and couldn't use. We learn from our wins and our misses.

This is a 19" Catalyst 5. There's a few problems with this one for me, but they all sum up to (for me personally) that it had more negative (to me) traits than the Medwarm one, but also was more expensive. I'd picked this one because it looked like it'd be more like my Quickie2 than like the Medwarm, but it just wasn't good for me.

My Quickie2's narrow, so I could put my feet right next to each other. This was the most comfortable way for me to sit. The way that KI measures a Catalyst frame and the way Quickie measures a Quickie 2 frame are different. My 15" frame Quickie 2 had a 14" wide seat, and this 19" Catalyst 5 had a 22" wide frame. The first time that I unfolded it, I knew that it was just too big for me to use comfortably. In addition, I didn't like the solid low-profile tires. I didn't like how far away the wheels were. It also had a really nice quality back, but the back had to be removed to fold the chair, so it was another step to take in and out of my car. It was also about 2" shorter at the seat than my old chair, and I already deal with being too short for my store's counters, so I didn't like losing that height.

So this was a case where I looked for traits that I thought I wanted: folding, wider seat. Then, instead of checking to see if the rest of the traits of the chair were things that I wanted, I just assumed it'd be okay. Personally, it just wasn't the chair for me.

I ended up learning that selling a used wheelchair on ebay is actually pretty easy as well, so the money I lost on this purchase summed up to the cost of a roll of bubble wrap to pack it up to send it to someone who would benefit from it.

When I was looking for my next wheelchair, I had changed what I wanted out of a chair. I knew that I wanted tires with actual tread on them, instead of solid poly smooth tires. I knew that I wanted a wider seat, but not too wide. If it didn't come with a little bit of camber on the wheels (that's where they slant towards the top of the chair), I wanted to be able to add it. I also wanted it to be a minimum of 17" high seat. But the biggest change was that I'd decided that I didn't really need it to be folding.

I drive a hatchback with back seats that can fold down, and I pretty much never have passengers. I decided fuck it, if I'm not driving people, I don't need to keep the seats up, so I could get a non-folding chair and just shove the whole thing in the back without breaking down. Without breaking down the chair. I could still break down. Life is tough sometimes.

So this is a Quickie GT, which is an old, discontinued model. According to the serial number lookup, it was made in 2009. The good news is that it immediately passed the Cat Test.

When I was looking at this chair, I saw that it was designed for people who push themselves, and would probably be less good for someone who needed other people to push them. This wasn't an issue for me, because I hate being pushed.

(same chair plus two cans of spray paint)

This chair was over the $500 budget (it was $670 with shipping and tax), but this time I'd done enough research to be confident that it'd be a lot better for me than the Medwarm chair. I stuck with Quickie as a brand because I felt like I better understood how they size their seats. The serial number lookup said that this chair was 17" wide, so I was ready to get a 16" seat, and that's what I got. It's got pneumatic tires, which don't just have tread but also roll along the ground like bicycle tires. I love this chair. Instead of two separate foot rests, there's just the one, so I'm a lot more comfortable with how I sit.

It does have the downside of this is the smallest it gets without taking off the wheels. The wheels come off easily and so it's not a big problem, but it's more steps to get it into the car if I don't want to fold back my seats. Also, the front plate doesn't flip up or go away, so if I want to propel myself with my foot I'm a lot more limited.

Once I don't need this anymore, I'm also going to need to either sell it or figure out where to store it. I can keep a folding wheelchair in the back of my closet in case I need it again, but this one will be taking up some space.

For all of the chairs that I got, I was really only searching ebay for a couple of days before the right one at the right price showed up. This is somewhat slanted based on what I need, because certain things do show up more often than others, and at different prices. Wider chairs tend to have less selection and be more expensive, while 12-14" wide chairs are really plentiful.

Let's get together and look at some ebay chairs. We're going to search "wheelchair" and set condition to "used". If you plop the sort system into "price+shipping: lowest first" and then start scrolling until you get past all the wheelchair parts and all the "free local pickup: <location that is in another country>" and into the actual wheelchairs that can ship, you can start checking out the market.

I immediately eliminate anything that doesn't have all the parts, that is too expensive, that is only available for pickup, that doesn't have foot rests, or a few other things. The first one that I saw that I didn't elminate was this.

The most important thing from this listing is where they post the serial number.

And that's because KI, Sunrise, and Permobil all keep databases of all the serial numbers of all the chairs they have sold.

You can now go onto a site that sells that chair and look up what all those things mean. Spinlife sells the Catalyst 5Vx, and if you click "help me choose" on an item listing, it'll usually give you pictures of the different options. For me personally, the draw of this one would be that it's a really good price, and it's roughly set up the same as my default Medwarm chair. I don't like the tires but I do like the side guards and arm rest combo.

This was on a listing for a chair where the serial number wouldn't pull up. I wouldn't consider this one since I can't tell the width or depth when the seller won't list it and Sunrise doesn't have it. I'm just dropping this screenshot because "SELLER NOTE TO SELF" and "BUTT PAD NOT INCLUDED" both made me laugh.

As a quick final note, this is not going to be cheaper than getting a really basic wheelchair off Amazon. However, as someone who has used really basic wheelchairs, getting something upgraded has a whole lot of value. One of the reasons why I really like lolita fashion is that we treasure used things that still have use, and so it's also got some value to me to see if I can get something used that still has use. In my experience, things got better when I tried to get something used. If you do want a really basic chair, it might still be worth it to check if they're available for nearby pickup. Plopping my location into "free local pickup within 30 miles" offers me a basic Drive chair for $20. It's reusing something instead of having to throw it away, and it's also $20. Can't argue with $20.

Anyway, that's half diary entry and half possible advice.

[bonzos-number-1-fan]

TMAGP 28 Thoughts: Spooky Scary Skeleton

We're in the final stretch now. I'm curious to see exactly how things will wrap up but I have a feeling we might see it all unfold in the same night now. As an episode though I've got mixed feelings. Mostly because I'm not really sure I needed to hear much of what happened in this episode's statement. It'll be an episode that will either get better or worse with context for me. If there is a compelling point to this beyond exposition that will shape my feelings on it more than the episode in isolation.

Spoilers for episode 28 below the cut.

This will be a short one, I think. There truly isn't much to comment on IMO. Very explicit and mostly pay offs to a few bits that have happened before.

Trevor is exactly what I was expecting him to be. I've seen some comments about how shockingly different he is but I'm not sure I see it. Sure, his background is different. He's well off now. He's not a better person though, he's still just a ruthless grouchy old man. A treat to have him back. His issue with the contract is a little interesting though. Because, if anything, that proves the opposite of his claim. Presumably Ink5oul didn't actually sign that contract and so isn't actually employed in any capacity but the OIAR. It's not a good look certainly but it's not actually

The data processing and amalgamation tools are locked into a 24-hour cycle

This isn't quite the explanation I was expecting but it makes about as much sense as anything else does really.

It's nice to see Gwen selling out Lena and fulfilling part of her character's promise. Her introduction is basically "I'm going to take your job, Lena" and it's nice to see that's not been forgotten in all the trauma. Personally, I'm most interested in how it all relates to Klaus. He's not likely her major source for all the dirt she's got but he is a character I'm very interested in. He was a large part of the ARG and some of the more interesting background detail of the show.

Sam's run in the not one and only Archivist is pretty straightforward. There aren't really many details in the encounter nor the statement itself I think need picking apart. The bits I think are interesting are mostly things I've covered before too so I won't re-tread much of that. Firstly, the tests Sam talks about are a series of developmental and ethical surveys. We're actually fortunate enough to not only know what tests he was subjected to but how he did on them thanks to the ARG. During that we found CHDB which is a spreadsheet of exactly that. Test results from a lot of kids that the Magnus Institute was conducting. I have the whole thing on my masterdoc which can be found here and each column contains and explanation of what the tests are. Gerry and maybe Alice is on there too. Although I hope Alice isn't.

Next up it's Dr. Welling. A character who's shown up a fair bit but we know very little about. He was first mentioned in episode 17 as the namesake of the Welling Mutare Materia research centre that Darrien 3 got locked up in. In episode 21 he's mentioned through as the PoV character complains a lot about him. We don't really know much more beyond this though and I'm expecting he'll play more of a role in season 2.

Finally, it's just the yellow light to talk about really. This is one of those classic alchemical things that we know very little about these days, most source for it are terribly cited, and extant documentation from the era is either vague or treats it as common knowledge so little rigorous explanation exists. There are basically two things this could be, if it's anything, and that's a reference to sulphur or to citrinitas/yellowing. Sulphur is, well, sulphur. In the alchemical context it's part of the tria prima and as such represents the soul. The soul in this context is the Greek psyche rather than an Abrahamic conception. So it's more about emotion and desire. Citrinitas is one of those bits we know incredibly little about. What we do know is that it's one of the classical 4 steps to create the magnum opus, AKA the great work, AKA the philosopher's stone. Often you'll see people talk about a solar light, or a light from the soul, in this context but, again, we don't really know much about it and I'm not sure I've ever seen someone cite a historical source for that.

Outside of that I'm pretty sure everything is pretty clear. Sam's got some fucked up skellington trauma. What's interesting is what this implies about the other compelled statements we've seen. This one is undeniably Sam's own experiences from his own PoV. That didn't appear to the case with Drowning Victim, as the PoV character seemed to die and then they died. It was hard to tell with the autopsy statement but it didn't seem to be the case as they were, y'know, dead. Which seemed to make the inference that when Gwen had her run in that what she was talking about were someone else's experience. Especially when the context of that statement didn't seem to really match her upbringing. With this one being obviously and undeniably Sam's experiences that one could have been Gwen's and might warrant a little more examination.

Also, just to throw this one out there. I wonder if this Archivist represents the rebis.

leaving the tape recorder to flounder in the rain and stop.

That's a fun, albeit strange, visual.

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

Incident/CAT#R#DPHW Master Sheet and Terminology Sheet

DPHW Theory: 2578 is a fairly uninteresting set for this incident. Which is good but there is little to comment on.

CAT# Theory: I've still not sat down and worked through a few of my ideas on these. CAT2 is another of those very strange picks if it's Person/Place/Object. Even if the place itself is supernatural in some capacity there are some more obvious things it could be and so that makes this another mostly useless data point.

R# Theory: B seems about right for my ideas.

Header talk: Transmutation (Human) -/- Ceremony (Academic). They're doing it on purpose. I can feel the malice on these now. I'm attuned to the negative vibes. However, this—even more than Gwen's encounter with Ink5oul—raises the question of how this was filed. Metatextually we've had Alex talk about how the headings are written by these characters but this one doesn't seem to be the case. So this is either meta information or there is someone else filing these.

[larsisfrommars]

The Light Won't Die (Part 3)

Halsin x Tav

Rating: E for Everyone

Chapter: 3/??? (<- Prev Chapter • Next Chapter)

Word Count: 1401

Genre: Adventure, Hurt/Comfort

Content: Halsin x Tav, Male!Tav, Fighter!Tav, more grappling with PTSD, someone let Shadowheart have too much wine, hc Karlach is Tav's 2nd in command, cliffhanger

"The group was ready to move on, save for one Druid. He knelt, staring intently into the empty eye sockets of the tragic traveler. As if searching for something, recognition. As if he could reconstruct a familiar face from the contours of the humanoid skull."

———————✨🌿✨———————

“Stay close to me! Keep your torches lit!” Tav commanded, the party obliged as their crew band of eight tread carefully through the beginnings of Shadow Cursed Lands.

They were every bit as grim and grueling as the Druid had warned. Still they were well warded against the gnawing darkness. Between two strategically placed Daylight spells cast upon weapons courtesy of Halsin and Shadowheart, and The Blood of Lathander which bolstered their torches. Even when Wizards with bad knees straggled behind or overeager Barbarians bounded ahead.

Still, it did not eliminate the possibility of attack. With Moonrise Towers looming gloomily in the distance as a constant reminder. Though perhaps it did leave room for some curiosity.

“Something over there.” Tav muttered signaling the rest of the group to follow.

It was the scraps of a campsite, a very old one at that. A failed solitary venture into this accursed place. The skeleton was completely bare of flesh, any weapons or armor it had carried long since picked over or shredded, despite the unsettling lack of living animals in the area. Still, perhaps there was something worth scrounging for by way of torches or provisions, maybe even some magic if they were lucky.

And so they were, to a degree, they made short work of sifting through old rotten rations and scraps of cloth to pocket a modicum of coin, tools, even a few potion ingredients. Not that’d there’d be a place to sell such things for a while yet.

The group was ready to move on, save for one Druid. He knelt, staring intently into the empty eye sockets of the tragic traveller. As if searching for something, recognition. As if he could reconstruct a familiar face from the contours of the humanoid skull.

“You alright Halsin? I’d say let’s Speak With the Dead if you’re curious but uh, I hear it doesn’t work well on skeletons.” Tav called back from a pile of freshly emptied crates.

“This is true.” Halsin replied absently “Perhaps we shouldn’t dawdle. I suspect there may be Blights about, if memory serves.”

The great elf stood up, pocketing the small tattered book that laid beside the remains. Ready to move forward, Tav noticed but said nothing. Halsin had asked for no share of the pickings, the Druid was entitled to a bit of light reading. Maybe he would glean something from the text they could not.

It was not too much longer before a weariness worsened by the curse bade them make camp. Torches around every tent, and a fire at its heart. Tav hoped it would be enough, it seemed every edge of the camp had something shadowy skittering just beyond his line of sight. It was unnerving, he prayed it was just the stress of the day.

They ate and drank well; wine, bread, sausages, fruit, and so on. However, normal fireside chatter was dampened by the warning their first encounter with a shadow curse victim bore. Save for that of one particular party member.

“I know it’s rather, intense” Shadowheart continued, after perhaps a little too much wine. “but you cannot deny there is a certain beauty to the depth of silence here, the weight of the shadows. The Mistress of The Night has total control here. She has blessed me with the ability to walk safely through it, to ease you all safely through it. The Lady of Sorrows will guide us towards the answers we seek, I’m sure. She rewards all who appreciate her dark embrace.”

“Well, at least someone’s chipper.” Karlach muttered in a mixture of amusement and exasperation, finishing off the last of evening’s rationed bottles.

Most of the group chose to humor or to ignore her, politely listening or getting distracted among their own conversations. Tav strove to be the former, hoping for some nugget of truth or doubt in her recitation of words that did not seem like her own. Yet he found himself capable of neither. For he wasn’t the only one who could neither sit and listen to her impromptu sermon, nor bring himself to make conversation.

Was Halsin… scowling? The Archdruid had been withdrawn, brooding even, ever since they’d left that body behind. Flipping through the pages of that book he’d found on the day’s hike toward Moonrise. Perhaps he should say something about it to him.

Perhaps it was too late.

“If it is all the same to you. I think I have heard enough of the virtues of Lady Shar for one evening. Good night.” Halsin growled sharply.

Though he had not raised his voice nor spoken to the Cleric directly. The rest of the party was shocked into silence. Even Shadowheart had snapped out of her wine-addled religious reverie. Her expression soured into an ineffable wall of inner turmoil. The Druid had given no inkling of his distress to anyone save for Tav… until now.

“You alright bear man?” Karlach asked gently.

Halsin’s expression flickered with the faintest hint of regret before hardening into frustration. Unable to form a reply, he gave a heavy sigh, and meandered away to his own tent.

Tav couldn’t bring himself to leave well enough alone. He shot Shadowheart an exasperated glance, and Karlach an apologetic one for leaving her alone with the tension. Still, finding himself uncaring as to whether either were received as his feet willed him towards Halsin’s tent for the second evening in a row.

This time he’d knock, given what happened last time he approached the Druid’s tent unannounced, especially now that they were in this wretched place.

“Halsin? Can I come in?”

No answer, better if he’d leave then.

“Please.”

Halsin’s voice betrayed a mountain of emotions so grand Tav could not possibly name them all.

So once more Tav’s reflexes won the day as he near instantly slipped inside. In Halsin’s lap was the tattered journal he had found. It was open to what seemed its final passage, damp droplets smearing its last writings somewhat.

“His name was Saryn.” Halsin rumbled, his voice thick with grief, as it had been in the Mountain Pass.

Everything snapped into place, the book, the body, the concern over Blight presence, the outburst by the campfire. It was all so painfully obvious in hindsight. That sorry sight of a corpse was one of the Halsin’s own. He felt stupid for not seeing it sooner.

“I pleaded him not to come to this cursed place, not alone. I warned him of its danger and still he left. He was barely an initiate at the Grove… I could have stopped him. I had it in my power.” Halsin let out a ragged sigh, opening his clasped paw to reveal a tattered emblem of Silvanus. All that remained of the fallen’s long since decayed armor.

Tav wanted so badly to touch him, to be of some warmth or comfort in this terrible place. A place that brought this man more pain than any magic could neither inflict nor heal. He’d draw it out of him with his bare hands like poison from a wound if he could. But he feared any attempt would break the spell of Halsin’s confidence in him in this fragile moment.

“It takes an old fool to make as many mistakes as I have. Too many times now have I been made to abandon those in most need of me… but no longer.” Halsin’s fist tightened around the emblem once more, broad shoulders trembling with barely bridled emotion.

Halsin opened his eyes now, agitated, gold skittering across hazel-grey. Not quite ready to look upon his abiding and quietly watchful companion. Who had since come to kneel beside him.

He let out a deep, slow breath, back straightening. His rigidity from the past few nights having melted away into something much more familiar to Tav from the Archdruid, confidence.

They’re eyes finally met, a warmth there where once there’d been a wall of painful memories.

“But I have allies now.” He concluded, “Greater than any I had before. A pocket of light against the darkness, and a welcome one. I fear I could not survive without it.”

The first genuine smile Tav had seen bloom across the wood elf’s face since they’d approached this awful place felt enough to banish any lingering affects the Shadow Curse could or would ever befall Tav again. He reached to take Halsin’s hands in his own.

“Shit!”

Fun Fact!: The inciting incident is not only the inspiration for this entire fic but it's something you can actually find in Act 2 and I just thought of how mortifying it would be if Halsin could've been with you when you find it!

[dabiconcordia]

Love's Millionaire

Within my little cottage Are peace and warmth and light; And loving welcome waiting When I come home at night. The polished kettle's steaming, The snowy cloth is spread— And close against my shoulder There leans a smooth brown head! Her eyes are lit with laughter (They light the world for me) — "For how much would you sell me? Now tell me, sir!" cries she. 'Tis then I answer, somehow, Between a smile and tear, "Not for all the gold in Klondike! The gold in Klondike, dear!"

When the cosy tea is over, With many a frolic fond, I sit and read my paper; And from the room beyond I hear the clink china, The tread of nimble feet, And broken bits of singing That somehow ripple sweet. I hear a rush and rustle Behind my easy-chair; Short, chubby arms enclasp me And choke me unaware! Into my arms is tumbled A crinkled, golden head, A ball of fluffy whiteness That ought to be in bed. She asks her mother's question— I kiss the answer clear; "Not for all the gold Klondike; The gold in Klondike, dear!"

In dim and dusky office I dig my bits of gold; I suffer not with hunger, Nor perish with the cold. My nuggets needs be tiny (I dig them with a pen), But the Yukon's golden gravel I leave for other men. by Florence May Alt

[mcalhenwrites]

Cal's commissions

Due to financial circumstances, I will be opening up commissions. I can proofread at $2 per 100 words I can write short stories at $2 per 100 words, 5000 word limit. I will not write others' OCs or fanfiction for legal reasons. I will make up OCs specifically for a brief scenario. (Example: "A short story about an automaton cat that carries messages for disabled people." Oh shit, that's a cute idea...) I mostly write consensual situations, and all smut must be between adult characters. I retain rights to the writing itself and the characters within, I'll name them and develop the story. I will not post these on AO3 for legal reasons. All stuff on AO3 is free. (This is mostly a tipping system. Alternatively, once my banking situation in this state is all figured out, I'll be opening tip jars if you prefer that. I'll also be selling books so hey! Lots of goodies there.) I can do sketches, generally pencil and paper, and can mail it. Prices will range $15-25 (you've seen my art), not including S&H to send it to you. For this, no sexual content, but I'll happily draw OCs. Love to draw others' OCs! \o/ I'm also kind of bitterly gonna have to take crochet commissions, but I'd prefer not to. This is desperation, though. I will only take small commissions (amigurumi, hats, etc), and this is $20/hour, NOT INCLUDING material costs or S&H. (I have fibro, I'd rather write, if you've been around before 2019 you also know crochet is an actual trauma trigger for me these days, and I'm barely getting over it. So tread carefully if you ask for this. Did I mention disabilities make this harder?) And depending on the fandom, I will not crochet anything from certain IPs. I reserve all rights to refuse a commission for any reason, be it the fear of getting sued, content I'm not comfortable with, shipping restrictions, etc. Thank you! Payment is via paypal invoice. Examples:

[primordialsneeze]

Is anyone else really.. disappointed with Critical Role wearable merch? Idk if it's an unpopular opinion or not but I just do not like 99% of the shirts and clothes they put out. There's like maybe 3 shirts that I like, and the Cadeucus cardigan, but the rest of it feels... boring? Like it's something I'd find in hot topic, or something that 12 different etsy sellers are getting off a third party website. So many of them feel weirdly familiar as well which is disappointing bc it makes everything feel so unoriginal which is the exact opposite of everything else to do with CR.

I think it's that they seem to have this fixation with minimalism and incognito stuff. I get that for a long time Dnd was a huge nerd thing that would get you ostracized and it was all very "if you get it you get it", but that's just not the case anymore. And even though they have to tread carefully and only sell CR things rather than Dnd (WotC) themed stuff I feel like they're missing SO MANY opportunities.

One of my biggest beefs is with the Gilmores Glorious Goods shirt. It's so WORDY. Which to me does NOT feel like Gilmore. The insignia on the Gilmore robe is better, but it's still so SIMPLE. Where's the flamboyance? Where's the pizzaz? Not in that shirt, that's for sure.

Another one is the Imogen denim shirt. I'll admit that it def has Imogen vibes, but it feels like it was made for one of those modern AU cosplays or something. I mean, Imogen has lightning trailing up her arms, and we're not going to do anything with that? We're just going to ignore the possibilities of lightning tiddies on a shirt? The shorts and sheer dress combo sparks NO ideas??

And what about jewelry? The Imodna ring? Laudnas rock chisel hair stick? Eyes of nine earrings or cuff links? A Sarinrae pendant? Change Bringer pendant, or Dusk Maven mask? (All of them changed in the same way they did for Sarinrae in TLoVM). Trinkets "pokeball"? Vox Machina's communication earring? A little Keychain of Ashtons hammer even? Please I am BEGGING for something that's not a graphic tee, or minimalism "If you know you know".

[laurfilijames]

Admit It...

Pairing: Fili x female reader

Words: 2,044

Warnings: Rated E, 18+. Oral sex (female receiving). Masturbation (male). Unprotected intercourse.

Summary: After being away on Royal duties for a fortnight, Fili returns home later than promised to find you busy in the kitchen, and you make up for lost time on a meaningful day.

A/N: Surprise! I did my best to bang out something short for one more contribution for the Deano Bingo, so I hope you enjoy! My final fic will be posted tomorrow evening.

Prompts used were Kitchen Sex and "Admit it, you missed me."

(In this fic Fili and reader live in a small cabin just outside Erebor, cause you know, why not.)

---

Dough and flour coated your hands as you listlessly kneaded the forming pastry on the wooden countertop, your thoughts not at all focused on the favourite dinner you were carefully constructing, but rather on the dwarf you craved who loved it.

Having not clapped hungry eyes or needy hands on Fili in a fortnight now, your heart ached for him, missing him wholly and with every part of you that lived and breathed, and although today was not necessarily a monumental anniversary, you longed for him impossibly more.

A faint smile tugged at your lips as you recalled the day that was not all that long ago; his fingers weaving your hair into a courting braid, each passing of your strands signifying his love and devotion to you, claiming you as his One with the mark of the sigil on his bead that secured it but not more than the way his body proved so time and time again.

Sighing as you wiped your brow to try to erase the flush that was quickly reducing you into an inferno, you glanced out the window to see the quickly approaching darkness, and you wondered if you would get to see Fili at all today as had been intended when he left.

Knowing that discussions of contracts and settling on agreements took time and his royal duties were both grueling at times and chiefly necessary, you took a deep breath and prayed for patience to grace you, aware that he would be eager to return home and never purposefully neglect a day that meant so much to you.

Night soon took over what was left of the day, and after having meticulously cleaned the kitchen and did your best to keep dinner warm with still no sign of your love, hope drained from you as much as the fire had that you worked at stoking, the embers coming to life again slowly to lick at the new logs set upon them.

Wind howled against the walls of your small home, the protection of the Lonely Mountain not able to shield it from the direction it blasted, and you wondered if Fili would be caught sleeping out in the elements for another blustery night.

Heavy footsteps tread hurriedly up to the door, and in an instant his wind-burnt, reddened cheeks and tousled blond hair burst through, his smile warming you despite the cold that followed him in.

"You're late," you chided, the seriousness in your tone dampened by the grin that pulled the corners of your mouth upward, your eyebrow hooking high on your forehead to aid in selling your feigned disappointment.

Fili gave you a playful look of warning, his own eyebrows raising on his head to show his amusement in your audacious greeting. His boots and coat remained on him as he strode through to you, capturing you in a heated kiss that forced your back against the countertop and made you arch into him. Finding your face with his chilled hands, he deepened your kiss, effectively stealing your breath while making your legs feel weak, and in turn you pawed at the layers of leather that hid him from you.

With a low growl he broke the seal of your lips, his eyes dark as he looked at how he had already made your lips swell from his kiss and the roughness of his beard, your body clearly forgetting how to handle him.

"What am I late for?" he asked, squinting at you with exaggerated curiosity.

"Oh, nothing, I suppose," you drawled, shrugging your shoulders as you shifted your eyes to the left where his dinner sat waiting under a towel.

Fili tucked his lip in his teeth as he removed his hands from your face and lifted the covering to reveal what made his mouth instantly water and stomach growl with forgotten hunger.

"You made this for me?"

"I had, yes, but seeing as you were late…"

He gave a hearty laugh that made your heart leap in your chest, the realization of just how much you missed him settling heavily in your bones.

"Would you care to know why I was late?"

His head tipped to the side as he looked at you with a playfulness in his eyes, and you knew even if you were truly upset with him, that feeling would be impossible to hold on to.

Fili reached into the pack that he had carelessly discarded on the floor beside him, retrieving a fair-sized package wrapped in a material you immediately recognized that was sealed with a twine bow.

You took the parcel from him as he held it out for you, not missing the prideful, and partially smug look on his face as you carefully unwrapped it; the sight and scent of your favourite dessert awakening your senses.

"So, am I forgiven?" Fili asked, his pupils dilating as he watched you swipe your finger through the sticky topping and bring it to your mouth where you sucked it clean with an appreciative moan and closed eyes that no doubt mimicked something else.

Opening your eyes, you slowly licked your lips, seeing how your display made Fili's pulse hammer in his neck and blush rise up his chest that was visible where his tunic sat open at the top.

"I'll have to think about it," you quipped, your grin stretching across your face as he shook his head and started to remove his jacket while kicking off his boots.

Wearing just his trousers that he had already opened the laces on, Fili stalked toward you again, his hands bracing on the countertop to cage your body between his, his lips ghosting beside your ear.

"Do I need to remind you how much I love you?" His lips pressed against your neck and made you shudder, your breath hitching and heat rising through you at his proximity, and yet you stayed determined to keep your hands to yourself for now. Nuzzling your soft skin with his nose, he inhaled your scent before continuing in a raspy voice that displayed his vibrant lust for you. "...How much I missed you?"

You squirmed when he rubbed his hardened front against your core, and pulling his head away from you slightly, he peered at you with a look in his eyes you could no longer resist.

Giving him a nod that made him chuckle with amusement, you took the opportunity to soak in the sight of him, feasting your eyes on the hairy chest you could never forget, how his belly rounded out slightly just above where his trousers hung loose, able to see down them now that his cock stretched them out to reveal the hairs that darkened the further south they went.

His dimples flashed beneath his beard before he placed a quick kiss on your lips, doing his best to coax you out of your pretend bitterness.

"Admit it, you missed me," he purred, his eyes flickering over your features, effectively making you crack. You gripped his face and pulled him against you, crashing your mouth onto his where he eagerly matched your fervor, and before long you were naked and lifted up to sit on the counter. Dishes and jars of spices were knocked over as he carelessly swiped them out of the way to make room for you, the one he was truly ravenous for, making a point to kiss, suck and lick at every portion of your body from your mouth down to your center that was spread before him.

Looking up at you with heavy-lidded eyes as he reached your aching core, Fili kissed your bud gently, then slowly pulled it into his hot mouth, his tongue joining in to alternate swirling licks and agonizing sucks that made you fly your hands back to find anything to help ground you.

More items were tossed about as you were forced to lay back on the counter, including the dinner that crashed to the floor, neither you or Fili paying it any mind as he pressed his face into you even more and feasted on your slick flesh appreciatively.

You rocked your hips against his mouth desperately, your high bubbling up through you wildly due to his talent and the amount of time since you were last given such pleasure.

Fili dove his hand into his pants that were now loosened so much they were being held up only by his stiff member, and taking it out, he let them fall to pool around his feet, a loud groan resounding through you as he pumped himself and smeared the oozing precum over his sensitive head.

With a few more strokes of his expertly working tongue, your orgasm ripped through you, coating his beard with your abundant wetness, causing Fili to cry against you as your release edged him closer to his own, his hand beating his cock furiously but stopping just before he came undone.

He growled ferociously as he emerged from between your legs and licked his lips, his expression feral and unabashed while his chest heaved with panting breaths. Clasping his strong hands under both of your thighs, he dragged you off the counter, your hands sweeping a mug and plate off with you, the sound of ceramic smashing against the wood floor mixing with your laughter.

Your feet carefully landed on the planks between bits of broken items, and you smiled against Fili's lips as he crashed against you in a heated kiss, his arms snaking around your back to hold you as close to his needy body as he could get you.

"Turn around," he whispered roughly, helping to guide you to a spot that was clear of your accidental destruction, his cock bouncing against your bum when he kicked a bowl out of the way with his foot.

He bent to line up with you as you leaned forward to give him better access, his hands spreading your cheeks to make you whine longingly. His cock slammed into you, stretching your tight, temporarily unused walls in one fluid motion, wasting no time in starting a mind-numbing rhythm with his sharp thrusts.

Your breasts bounced and your whole body jostled from his force, the smile on your lips changing into an open gape that allowed your unhinged cries to pour out, the assault he put on your deepest parts building another blissful peak within you.

Fili's hands roamed your body as he bucked into you, smoothing and massaging the parts of you he had missed so much in loving caresses before finding a place on your hips to settle on hanging onto as he set to finish his barrage.

Pulling you back onto him with as much power as he slammed forward into you, he wrecked you both, sending you into screaming bliss at the same time he filled you to the brim with his reserved seed, his unbridled cries muffling against your back as he collapsed forward to cover you with his weight.

He was quick to pull out of you and spin you back to face him, lifting your legs up around his waist to seat you back on his cock that remained hard, and stumbled over to one of the chairs beside the fire.

Collapsing in it with you still encasing him, he buried his face in your neck, peppering you with kisses that spoke his silent words of desperation; the vacancy he had felt in being apart from you for too long replaced by an overwhelming sense of fullness.

"I did miss you," you admitted genuinely, carding your hands across his warm back while placing tender kisses upon his crown.

"I knew it," he chuckled, rubbing his face back and forth against your neck to tickle you until you joined him with your own sated laugh.

You turned your head to glance over at the state of the kitchen and ruined dinner with a wince, and looked back at Fili apologectically.

"I'm sorry!"

He continued to laugh, and placing a kiss on the tip of your nose and then your lips, he hummed. "I think the dessert was spared. I'll be more than happy to share that with you…but it must be in our bed and you must stay naked."

---

Taglist:

Everything: @guardianofrivendell @midearthwritings @cassiabaggins @lilith15000 @trishthedishofreis @linasofia @unbeatablecurlgirl @the-poldarkian @lathalea @enchantzz @blairsanne @legolaslovely @middleearthpixie @i-did-not-mean-to @sketch-and-write-lover @jotink78 @medusas-hairband @feeweeeee @missihart23 @fortheloveofdurin @i-am-still-bb @roobear68 @ichoosechoasandbeingqueer @legolasbadass

Fili: @shethereadinghobbit @ragsweas @faeriefics

[dendro-dragon-apep]

Dvalin stood in his human form with wings in front of the giant barrier that separated the desert from the rest of Sumeru. He had a medium-sized box in his hand as he patiently waited for Apep to appear. He did not know if he needed to look for her or simply wait. Caravan Ribat was bustling with merchants selling their wares and travelers seeking respite after completing their journey in the desert.

An ancient presence of Dendro was approaching rapidly, Apep in human shape travelling amongst a band of Eremites.

It was quite easy to pick the ancient sovereign amongst the incoming travellers; with black and sand toned scales running throughout their body, unkempt and wild colored hair, and clawed hands holding a particularly large crate with ease. Her frame looked willowy, and her face was somewhat uncanny when next to a group of humans.

It didn't help that what Apep considered appropriate clothing was what was the bare minimum in human standards; a thin dark grey sheer silk robe, faded beige cloth bandages covering her upper chest and part of her shoulder, and a pair of loose canvas shorts. She had even forgone wearing shoes or coverings whilst treading the desert sands when the sun has reached its zenith.

All in all, Apep did not seem to bother hiding her draconic traits. The Eremites did not seem to mind their presence, and simply went about their business as Apep approached Dvalin.

"Ah, it seems that my plans have once again proceeded accordingly. Hello again, Dvalin, Erstwhile King of the Skies. I thank you for accompanying me on today's itinerary, which I have researched being called 'going shopping' and whatnot," Apep answered, placing the crate down as she was face to face with Dvalin .

[tobiasdrake]

So I need to meet the pirates at the--

Huh. When we swim, the reflection of our hair in the water makes it look like we're wearing pool floaties. Valere's fades in and out but Zale's is ever present.

Garl, meanwhile, is the most bouyant motherfucker ever to exist. He doesn't even swim. He kicks his legs a little bit to propel himself but he doesn't tread water like Valere and Zale do; He hangs onto his backpack and floats there.

Garl, what do you have in your backpack counterweighting all of that cookware? Tell me your secrets, you unsinkable bouncy man!

...what was I doing? Right, harassing townsfolk.

888 G!? CHOKE ON MY STAFF YOU--

I may have overreacted. And I apologize if anyone was upset by my entirely warranted outburst of violence.

Having been calmly and civilly persuaded to stand down/dragged from the room by Garl and Zale, we are now pursuing an alternative strategy.

The plan was to cook food and then sell it for profit. We are here in the mole mines because we have a merchant at the campfire ready to sell things hot off the pan.

However, we've run into a bit of a snag. That is, after crunching the numbers, we've found that there is no monetary value added to food by cooking it. We can get the same results by selling the raw ingredients. So we trekked up here for nothing.

And after overturning Garl's entire bag into the mole merchant's hands while he pleaded with me to stop, we're still short 50 G.

*deep breath* It's okay. That's on me. It's my fault for agreeing to pursue a peaceful solution, rather than the time-tested and proven standby.

Wanton violence.

It's done. A lot of skulls were cracked to make this purchase happen. Consider it a gesture of my infinite mercy that yours wasn't one of them.

Oh, and in case anyone asks why the Coral Cascades are red now, just tell them it's probably fine and I'm sure it will go back to normal in due time.

I should burn down the dock you're hiding under. >_<

I should burn down this whole city.

You know, where I come from, people weren't this fucking uppity, greedy, and rude. We were a small village with some weird practices but people took care of each other and were respectful of other people's--

Oh shit, people in Brisk leave valuable goods out on their rooftops. I'm stealing everything that isn't nailed down!

90 GOLD to cheat at a rigged spinny wheel game? I just spent nearly every cent I had on Yomara's Eye! What kind of sucker do you think I--

I. Don't. Want to hear it. Zale.

...hey, does anyone remember what we were supposed to be doing in this-- OH SHIT

I was doing my hair.

I still don't know why we're doing this instead of simply trading quest for quest, but okay. Not to brag but I'm pretty sure I can arm-wrestle anybody under the table. And by "I", I mean Garl.

Aww, what a delightfully sycophantic way of saying "I'm the guy with the muscles so this should probably be my job."

You don't need to blow smoke up my ass but I appreciate you all the same, and I agree wholeheartedly. Go get 'em, Garl.

What.

WHAT.

NUH NUH NUH Don't just shrink back down and mysteriously regenerate your torn shirt, I demand an explanation for what the fuck that just was. Quartermaster Broly needs to come clean right the fuck now or I'm going to start hitting every single person here.

Oh. That makes sense. I apologize. Quartermaster Venom, then.

You know, I was wondering how the shirt regenerated but I wrote it off as cartoon shenanigans. I shouldn't have made assumptions about the physics of our universe. That's my bad.

Well, I guess we're going to help you go look for the Vespertine, then. That's fine. I wanted to do that anyway.

Okay, that will be the other wizard. Back when he was cryptically spoiling the plot, Archivist mentioned there'd be two of them that we have to face on this island.

Are they required to accept it? Or do you have to have a pre-existing financial transaction going on, and then you slip it in there like a hidden clause in the Terms of Service that nobody reads?

Does it still count as his ship after his crew mutinied and hurled him overboard? I feel like it's not his ship anymore. You're planning to cheat and swindle him out of his rights to a product he has no true ownership of. That's like buying an NFT with counterfeit currency. Who's scamming who in that scenario?

Bag must be getting pretty tight. You sure you can carry all that, Garl?

Good choice. I wouldn't want to be crammed in with all those people either. We'll come by and pick you up once we're done, uh....

Okay, after that last wizard, I'm genuinely not sure if we need to hit this one with a stick or talk about their feelings. But I have my stick and I have my Garl so I'm all set for either.

I mean. I know technically we're just going there to rob but I'm sure we'll meet the wizard along the way. These things don't tend to go smoothly.

You're pirates; I expect a bit of sleight of hand from people like you. But I appreciate the new minigame all the same.

You should probably go tell Captain Cliche, as I've been informed it's pronounced, that she won't be hearing from us for a while.

[morwensteelsheen]

migrained out my nut so posting this and then dipping back to my sick bed like the Victorian waif that I am, but I’ve spent the last few months (actually, Ulysses says it’s been since July of 2022) pondering a Farawyn Rogue One AU. I’ve been chipping away at it whenever the urge takes me, but here’s an early and incomplete draft of what may become the first chapter

Tank treads are archaic on all planets except uncontacted ones. Shuddering, loud, and expensive to produce, corporate guilds stopped using them centuries ago when they realised they didn’t need to damage their goods in transport. Every civilised entity in the galaxy uses some combination of repulsorlifts and good old fashioned thrusters to transport cargo hither and thither, totally unmolested.

That Éowyn is currently being beaten to shit in the back of an Imperial prison transport, then, is purely an ideological choice.

She hears the treads whine and judder as they traverse the rough terrain of Wobani. Her seat restraints rub her skin raw through the coarse material of her uniform, and beside her a prisoner, a Devaronian with docked horns, has fully cracked, mumbling something incomprehensible into the tense half-silence.

Today will be a bore—unless the Devaronian decides to put on a show and harass the guards—just like each of her previous 94 days in this camp. They’ll break rocks in the quarry for between eight and twelve hours depending on what mood the watch wardens are in, then they’ll be carted unceremoniously back to the blocks, where Éowyn will spend the night dodging unsavoury looks from her Trandoshan cell mate who has a serious problem with boundaries.

A little naively, Éowyn tests the tensile strength of her binders, waiting until they go over a particularly large bump to mask the sound of steel clanking against steel. No luck: despite her best efforts, she has not developed superhuman strength in her sleep.

“Playing both sides—th-they were playing both sides!” The Devaronian slams both feet into the transport floor, the sound ricochets. “Selling clones to the Republic and collaborating with the Separatists!”

“Will you shut the fuck up?” Éowyn doesn’t need to look up to recognise the harsh growl of the Corellian on the far side of the cabin.

“J-just because you don’t care doesn’t mean it doesn’t matter! They manufactured a war to keep us all—”

The rest of his diatribe is lost. A blast erupts somewhere—everywhere and nowhere all at once—blowing the doors wide open. Light and smoke and the bitter scent of melted ozone fill the compartment. The troopers who guard the transport are in disarray, she can hear how far ahead they’ve cruised on their speeders, now desperate to recoup lost ground.

“Haleth Haladin!”

From the cloud of dust and smoke emerges a man, tall, dressed in nondescript military fatigues. He’s holding a holo of her face, and she’s in no rush to figure out why.

He bends down in front of her, squinting at her as if she isn’t the only human woman on this transport. “Do you wanna get out of here?”

She nods, then doesn’t flinch as he smashes through her restraints. His distraction is all she needs: she leverages her weight against the jumpseat, pummelling both of her feet into his chest and sending him into a crumpled heap on the ground opposite her.

He’s brought friends, but they’re easy enough to dispatch with; a sharp elbow to the nose immobilises one, and a shoulder check sends the other flying out the splintered metal door.

Just a few short feet separate her from freedom. She’s not sure how she’ll make it to the edge of the camp, but once she’s there the planet is desolate enough that the Imps won’t bother searching for her for more than a couple clicks in any given direction. She’ll keep taking her chances from there until she can get off this rock; and if those chances don’t come through for her, better to die with dignity than in the clutches of the Empire.

Her chances are spent quicker than she’d hope. She’s no more than two feet into the air, arms bracing as she takes her leap to freedom, when something hooks around her ankles, slamming her into the hard ground.

She’s breathless—not just breathless, completely incapable of breathing she’s hit the ground so hard. Adrenaline courses through her, her body’s last ditch attempt to save itself. The dirt around her flutters, a sympathetic shockwave. It does nothing to lift her up. The panic starts to set in as she realises she still can’t move her arms and legs.

An astromech looms over her—not an experience she ever thought she’d have—its visual sensors lighting up in what feels a little too close to smugness.

“You are being rescued,” it beeps. “Please do not resist.”

Her head spins. Her vision tunnels. It’s not, she bemoans as consciousness escapes her, the most glorious way to die.

•°

She’s hauled out of the freighter on a planet she doesn’t recognise, in the shadow of a temple that at once pierces the atmosphere and looks utterly at peace with the surrounding jungle. She glares at the man who takes ownership of her restraints, but doesn’t squander energy resisting her march her across the landing pad.

“Your ship is junk,” she sneers. “Things must be dire if that’s what you’re sending out into the galaxy.”

The man doesn’t bother to acknowledge her jibe, and she bristles. It doesn’t stop her from cataloguing every detail of the temple and its labyrinthine tunnels. She counts the number of people walking around, how many of them carry weapons, how few ships are parked outside and in. She keeps track of how many left turns they make, how many doors they pass until they take their first right, which corridors dead-end and which don’t.

She’s heard about the nascent rebellion, of course, she’s not a moron and she certainly hasn’t had her head in the sand for the last five years, but she hadn’t imagined that they’d be quite so organised. They’re operating with almost as much surety as a genuine state, and they’ve clearly got plenty of resources to back them up, if the reams of equipment they’ve got laying about in the open is anything to go by. Still, they’re not flawless, and their security flaws are numerous, enough that it’s clear to her they’re not yet thinking like a government-in-waiting, no matter how much they look like one.

By the time her guards stop forcing her around the compound, she’s halfway to her escape plan. That they’re now forcing her down into a steel chair and hooking her restraints to the floor is not an ideal development, but she’s worked bigger miracles in worse conditions.

A man stands from behind an enormous, clunky, and remarkably dated holodesk. He’s a general, based on the repurposed Republic insignia—it might even be his own Republic insignia, if his age is anything to go by.

“You’re currently calling yourself Haleth Haladin, is that correct?” He does not pause to allow her to answer. “Possession of unsanctioned weapons, forgery of Imperial documents, grand theft auto, aggravated assault. Escape from custody. Resisting arrest… Imagine if the Imperial authorities had figured out who you really were, Éowyn Éomundsdottir.” Setting the holopad he was ostensibly reading from down, he waits just long enough for the dramatic effect to take hold. “That’s your given name, is it not? Éowyn Éomundsdottir? Niece of Théoden Thengelsson, renowned starship manufacturer?”

She frowns, squinting at him sceptically to mask her surprise. “What is this?”

“We think you might be able to help us.”

Another man steps forward from the shadows. She realises he’s been there all along, half-cast in neon glow. He’s tall, with raven dark hair tied in a messy braid, and she might have called him young if in her soul it didn’t feel so inaccurate. Something in his air throws her immediately, like he’s been pulled through from a different universe, or a different time.

“This is Captain Faramir, Rebel Intelligence,” says the general.

The newcomer hardly acknowledges his introduction, his attention so keenly focused upon her. “When was the last time you were in contact with your uncle?”

“15 months ago.” She answers it before she can think, as if she’s incapable of answering him with anything less than the truth. It frightens her.

“Any idea what he’s been doing all that time?”

The room narrows to the endlessly tiny tunnel of attention that connects her to him. “I like to think he’s dead—makes things easier.”

“Easier than what? That he’s been a useful idiot for the Imperial war machine?”

“Why does it matter to you what I should think of my uncle’s business prospects?”

“One of your uncle’s pilots is being held at the Imperial prison in Dxun; he’s claiming the Empire is developing a weapon with the ability to destroy planets. The pilot says they’re using your uncle’s fighters to defend it.”

“Captain Faramir’s mission is to authenticate the pilot's story and then, if possible, convince your uncle to renege on his contract,” interjects the general, adding a thin veneer of professionalism to her jailbreak and kidnapping. “If we can cut off their supply of fighters, we may yet buy ourselves time to destroy the weapon before it is finished.”

“Given the gravity of the situation, and your relationship to your uncle, we’re hoping that you’ll help us bring him to his senses.”

Her heart thuds unnaturally in her chest. She has no inkling as to the state of her uncle’s affairs, to the state of her uncle at all. She had forsaken her home to do what he would not: to stem the rising tide of the Empire, to defend the Galaxy; but she has no desire to discover which side of that fight he has landed on.

“And if I do it?” She looks only at Captain Faramir as she asks, though it is clear it is not his decision to make.

“We’ll ensure you go free,” he answers, and the thrumming energy enveloping his words says it is the truth.

•°

The transport they’re shipping out on is not much better than the battered freighter they’d used to bring her in. Still, with one Astromech at the copilot’s console and another in the stern engineering bay, it’s at least marginally better equipped.

“I am M-RE, and I’m glad you’re being sent with us,” beeps the droid, and she recognises it as the reason there are two searing rub-burns around her ankles.

“I remember you,” she answers, with no love lost.

“That’s P1-PN in the back, he’s a reprogrammed Imperial droid.”

“I have nothing against you either,” the black and red liveried droid chirps.

“You say it like I should be surprised.”

“You should,” it says, extending a spike arm to connect to the ship’s navicomputer. “Faramir thinks you’re a liability.”

Anger bubbles up inside her. A liability? Her? She’s crossed half the known galaxy entirely on her own, faced down battalions of Stormtroopers near single-handedly; what right had a footsoldier of a foundering political farce have to call her a liability?

With alarming precision, the captain chooses that moment precisely to re-appear at the boarding ramp, two battered backpacks in his hands. He offers one to her. “You met Merry and Pippin?”

“They’re very informative.”

“A generous description.” He sidesteps her with perfect formality to continue up the gangplank. Unbidden, a single word enters her mind, enough to stop her dead for the second time today: Jedi.

Before he slides into his pilot’s seat, he turns to look at her, grey eyes meeting hers in what she can only make sense of as an acknowledgment. But how he could know what thoughts came to her, let alone what it would take for those thoughts to be true—it’s so unlikely it hardly warrants consideration.

Yet the longer she looks at him, the more probable the unlikely becomes. He carries himself like the warriors of legend, and the grave tenderness that was said to be all but extinct in the last Jedi of the Old Republic shines brightly in his eyes. Maybe the Jedi have not all been exterminated, maybe—

He turns away, lowering himself into the seat with preternatural grace. “Let’s get going,” he says to the droid, and her momentarily-halted upset at him returns.

[nearly-wonderland]

ヲズワルド WOZWALD - Niru Kajitsu - English Translyrics

The whispered folklore tales in the middle of the night Were said to be what gave us mermaids, right? Self righteous high of a junkie, or a braindead fame-seeking monkey We’re weaving lies on a dime to appease all their eyes Praising, 'til the rumours arise

Hey you know that guy, what was his name? He seems a little used to praise, so hey, You just be the very first to put your name to fame And all his work will be yours to claim, hoo-hooray! If you hate a monk you'll hate his robes the same A pseudo-pioneer Buddha's fake flame

Q. E. D.*

Lights off, and yet Let's turn them on again. On and on again Make it right so we can Tread on and on I'll lay claim to it all Let's fall, sarusa, saru sa Bai.

Leave it be, oh, leave it be Don't let that sort of contrary burn into me. They'll gather and Scatter to the wind And drown inside the pond of your happy facades. Oh, try and breathe Breathe without me Get lost within the fake face you try and portray

It sickens me Love's withering This cult-like rotting fame, will I Ever escape?

A thought, take a shot of half decay, half a fickle pride that rots away A wash of sewage brewing through the water you take Sugar melting our brains Can no longer escape Defects, vice bets,** rejects Reveling in all of their selfish wants And they're always spewing out greed, little tea party That's corrupted all I can see.

Already fled, you tiptoe again, like a bird expecting the end. Already heard your worth read from an unknown person, but you still believe it and Go on, and do whatever you want Sell them, drag them all through the mud. Just to feel the pain, though you know you shouldn't, you'll still touch the plate lit by burning flames. 

It’s morning again, and can’t roll out of bed "These sheets are messing with my head," The words you say them, you say them but The more you try to excuse The more the truth you drown blue Until it’s now all that you knew.

Oh, if you age, You rot away, Your money left behind pads your pockets next life.***

Suspend in grief Lost to the weeds Your cares of what they see, never of the real thing.

Such revered art, Bidding from the start, This awful sort of dark lit by a glowing theme park

Once love is dead, What more is left? Hey, tell me, can we live without a god to project?**** Hey, you know that guy? Don't have a clue,  He seems a little used to shame, how cute. So just be the very first to put his name to use, and everything you make is pseu~do (no way)***** If you love a monk, you'll love his robes the same— A pseudo-pioneer sinning blindly.

Come and find me, Come and find me, Come and find me.

Come and find me,  Come and find me, Come and find me.

Come and find me, Come and find me, Come and find me. 

Leave it be, oh, leave it be They follow and to flee, havens built of their dreams. They'll gather and Scatter to the wind And drown within the pond of no-longer facades. 

(Oh, live and breathe, Live without me.) Look longingly to die, you continue your life. Reveal your grief, Love's withering A signal to the adults we leave. ————————————————————————

*"Quod erat demonstrandum", "which was to be demonstrated."  [used to convey that a fact or situation demonstrates the truth of one's theory or claim, especially to mark the conclusion of a formal proof.]

**The original line reads "in-app purchases", which I equate to gambling, a common vice people bet on. Hence, 'vice bets' to make for a better flow. ***Based on the Buddhist belief that your karma carries over to and affects your reincarnated life. ****”Project”, as in projecting one’s thoughts or beliefs onto another, not as in a long-term goal or work.  *****Pseudo is drawn out here to fit for the flow of the song, transitioning directly into the "no way" instead of leaving a short pause between the lines. Specifically made use of the word pseudo to play into the next set of lines.

[mariacallous]

On February 21 and 22, 2023, the United States Supreme Court is scheduled to hear arguments in cases involving the content moderation practices of social media platforms. The Court has also indicated that it could later address the First Amendment issues involved in conflicting Court of Appeals decisions regarding content moderation laws passed by Texas and Florida. The February oral arguments will, no doubt, be revealing. At this point, however, the fact that the Court has bifurcated the content moderation issue into questions of platform behavior and state authority could be telling as to the intentions of at least some of its justices.

About two percent of appeals to the Supreme Court are granted certiorari and heard by the justices. That the February cases have made it over that hurdle suggests at least some members of the Court might have something to say on an issue that has become a fixture in the culture wars (and the trigger for the Texas and Florida laws).

Although only one of the February cases explicitly mentions it, at the heart of the content moderation issue is Section 230 of the Communications Decency Act. For almost 30 years, Section 230 has been the foundation governing expression on digital platforms. The provision was enacted in 1996 at a time when the online experience was dominated by America Online (AOL), Prodigy, Compuserve, and similar services that ran commentary bulletin boards. The goal of Section 230 was to protect online platforms like these from liability for the third-party content that they distribute. In the intervening decades, technology has changed online experiences dramatically, and the U.S. Congress has failed to re-address existing and emerging policy issues considering those changes. It now falls to the Supreme Court to grapple with the statute based on the practices of 21st century social media.

Famously labeled “The Twenty-Six Words That Created the Internet,” Section 230 did not “create the internet” but rather allowed for the creation of the economic model of social media platforms. What the statute “created” was the protected monetization of users’ personal information through the application of software algorithms to target both advertisements and information and to sell access to those targets. This is a legitimate online activity. The question is whether technology and marketplace changes, since 1996, have also changed what society has a right to expect from the online platforms engaged in that activity.

The Section 230 Life cycle

The societal effects of Section 230 have gone through three stages. The original intent of Section 230, according to its authors, was to clarify the liability of online services for material published by others on their platforms. As online services evolved from bulletin boards to social media, however, the new social media companies took advantage of strict construction judicial interpretations to turn Section 230 from the protection of speech to the protection of a business model that profited from unfettered controversy. In its third phase, Section 230 has become a fixture in the culture wars.

Particularly when it comes to the culture wars incarnation, federal elected officials have used Section 230 as a tool for performance politics, but have done very little substantively. Concurrent with the lack of congressional action, the rigidity of Section 230’s black letter law has been interpreted by courts to short circuit the judicial capability to assess the application of common law principles, such as liability in light of new developments.

The Supreme Court appears primed to go where Congress and lower courts have feared to tread – and to do it in a bifurcated manner.

The February Cases

Scheduled for February arguments are two cases in which private citizens are challenging the behavior of social media companies. Both February cases involve social media’s relationship to terrorist activity.

In Gonzalez v. Google, the family of Nohemi Gonzalez alleges Google was complicit in the November 2015 ISIS attack in Paris that killed 130 people – among them Ms. Gonzalez. The plaintiffs submit the Google-owned service YouTube was used by ISIS to recruit and radicalize combatants in violation of the Anti-Terrorism Act (ATA) and Justice Against Sponsors of Terrorism Act (JASTA). In addition, they allege that, because YouTube sold advertising on the ISIS videos and shared the revenue with ISIS, the platform provided material support to terrorists. The Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals dismissed the suit, finding that Section 230 protected YouTube from liability for videos produced by someone else, and that the sharing of revenue was simply the normal course of business and not in support of a specific group or ideology.

In Twitter v Taamneh, relatives of Nawras Alassaf, who was killed in a 2017 ISIS attack in Istanbul, take a related, but different approach to assigning culpability. They allege that by allowing the distribution of ISIS material without editorial supervision, companies such as Twitter, Google, and Facebook (now Meta Platforms) aided and abetted ISIS’ activity in violation of the ATA and JASTA. Interestingly, the issue of Section 230 is not a part of the Taamneh appeal. Although it was raised by the companies, the lower court never reached a conclusion and thus assessment of Section 230’s applicability was not part of the Ninth Circuit’s decision. The Taamneh plaintiffs did raise the shared revenue issue, however. The appeals court reversed the district court’s dismissal, finding that Twitter (along with Google and Facebook) could face claims that by failing to identify and remove the ISIS video, their actions played an assistive role.

The decision of the Supreme Court to hold the state action cases in abeyance while moving forward with the cases dealing with online behavior perhaps suggests a judicial strategy. Specifically, will the Court seek to deal with the topic of online content in a manner that is orthogonal to the absolutist debate that habitually surrounds Section 230?

Do Algorithms Change the Nature of Liability?

It is asserted by the Gonzalez and Taamneh plaintiffs, and the United States Department of Justice in its brief, that the Section 230 assumption that the “provider or user of an interactive computer service” is simply transporting the work of a third-party does not reflect how the companies have utilized advances in digital technology.

In 1996, at the time of Section 230’s enactment, online platforms such as Prodigy or AOL operated bulletin boards that hosted information posted by third parties. Today, the major online platforms have built their business around algorithms that utilize data collected from each user to select which postings to share with which users. This algorithmic recommendation, it is argued, transforms the platforms from a Section 230-protected “interactive computer service” to an unprotected “information content provider.” The platform companies argue that “recommending” is actually “organizing” and there is no other way to present information to users. The co-authors of Section 230, Senator (then-Rep.) Ron Wyden (D-OR) and former Rep. Chris Cox (R-CA), filed an amicus curiae brief with the Court in which they, among other things, assert that Section 230 anticipated recommendation algorithms and the ability to “filter, screen, allow, or disallow content” as well as “pick, choose, analyze, or digest content.” The authors explain, “[r]ecommending systems that rely on such algorithms are the direct descendants of the early content curation efforts that Congress had in mind when enacting Section 230.”[1]

The brief of the United States Department of Justice argued that the recommendation constitutes the site’s own conduct and is thus outside the protections developed for third-party content. “If YouTube had placed a selected ISIS video on a user’s homepage alongside a message stating, ‘You should watch this,’ that message would fall outside Section 230 (c)(1),” the brief argues. “Encouraging a user to watch a selected video [e.g., by placing it on the “Up Next” sidebar] is conduct distinct from the video’s publication (i.e., hosting).”

Whether or not algorithmic promotion changes the nature of an online platform, and thus its liability protection, will no doubt be one of the major issues addressed by the Court in the Gonzalez case. While there are credible arguments on all sides, one thing is certain, that such recommendation within a closed and controlled platform moves today’s online activities away from the metaphorical open public square.

Such algorithmic promotion also differs from the idealized public square in that it is a compensated service. The internet per se is a public square in which anyone can set up their soapbox and in which all the world’s information and opinions are readily available. In contrast, social media, although constructed on an open platform, is a closed business in which algorithms are programmed to maximize revenue by selecting points of view and targeting their audience. How such construction affects the liability protections of Section 230 will, no doubt, be a major question before the Court.

[imitation-steamroller]

If you're still doing the ask game, could I please have Hank?

Oh god, is he gonna try and sell me propane?

1.Hank isn't a typical K4. He's a smaller model built to fit the British loading gauge. That being said, he's still plenty big.

2. He's not part of the NWR. Hank belongs to a private owner on the mainland, but he had an overhaul on Sodor and worked there for a short while before returning home.

3. Hank's owner is a big fan of American engines (Hence why they paid for someone to build an undersized K4). They've actually been trying to convince Hatt to part ways with Porter.

4. Hank has never set foot (Tread wheel?) on American rails, so nobody is sure where his accent comes from. The running theory is that his owner has him fake it for authenticity.

5. Like nearly every engine to visit Sodor, Hank did not leave without incident. During his final week on the railway, he came into the yard too quickly and smashed several trucks to pieces. Word spread about how easily he had wrecked them, and the rest of the trucks behaved even better than they do for Oliver.

[cosmicanger]

You almost never hear about the yellow fever outbreak of 1793. Wealthy slave owners brought it to Philadelphia that year, fleeing revolutions in the Caribbean. During its peak, a hundred people were dying every day. Back then Philadelphia was a city of 50,000 people. The city government collapsed under the pressure, and almost everyone evacuated. Doctors thought it was spread by rotting vegetables. They were wrong. It didn’t end until a cold front came through in October, killing off carrier mosquitoes. The death toll settled to 20 or so a day, and people began to return. In the end, the epidemic killed more than 5,000 people.

It was 10 percent of their population.

You hear this a lot: Apparently humans have lived with germs and diseases for millions of years. There’s no need for masks or vaccines. Nobody needs clean air. Natural immunity works just fine.

It’s wrong.

It couldn’t be more wrong.

We’ve never been able to live with diseases, not like we do now. Most westerners have no idea. Before medicine, life looked different.

You couldn’t even drink the water.

As an article in Scientific American points out, “water was unsafe to drink for most of human history.” According to Paul Lukacs, humans had to drink wine. It wasn’t fun, either. Ancient texts describe wine as “wretched, horrible, vinegary, foul.” The only thing worse was plain water. You often had no idea if it was safe to drink. For thousands of years, humans opted for beer and wine instead. There was just enough alcohol to kill germs. Even coffee had antiviral and bacterial properties, so it became a preferred beverage in other parts of the world.

When Jesus turned water into wine, he wasn’t throwing a party.

He was killing germs.

Scientists and historians from all disciplines agree on this point: For most of our history, our lives were short. Average life expectancy remained well below 50 for millennia. We didn’t get eaten by tigers.

We got eaten by plagues.

When you look at the last 2,000 years across the world, you see the same thing. About half of all children died before reaching adulthood. Scientists confirm this trend all the way back to the stone age. As Oxford scholar Max Roser says, “Whether in Ancient Rome, in hunter-gatherer societies, in the pre-Columbian Americas, in Medieval Japan or Medieval England, in the European Renaissance, or in Imperial China, every second child died.”

Epidemics have upended countless civilizations, from Rome to the Akkadian Empire. These societies didn’t just live with it. Death and grief played a central role in their cultures, because it happened all the time. It was a different world that most people today can’t wrap their heads around.

They didn’t shrug it off.

They chased answers.

History is full of doctors and scientists who devoted their entire lives trying to treat and cure diseases that plagued us. It’s also full of quacks and charlatans who made fortunes by selling fake miracle cures. There’s a reason why historical novels and movies feature apothecaries and snake oil salesmen. Almost everyone was sick or scared of getting sick and dying.

They got desperate.

Doctors even tried bleeding their patients. Women often bore several children to offset the astonishing infant mortality rate. Despite that, global population growth remained close to zero.

It was flat.

Politicians and billionaires complain about declining birthrates now. Well, that was the norm before modern medicine.

Societies didn’t grow.

They treaded.

Historians say we’re probably underestimating child mortality. During certain periods, it was higher than 50 percent. Every few years, an outbreak of disease drove infant deaths upward to 75 percent.

During the 18th century, big cities like London actually shrank due to awful sanitation and living conditions. More people died in a given year than were born. They relied on a steady stream of gullible migrants from the countryside. Raw sewage frequently contaminated the drinking water. Garbage rotted in the streets. Rats and fleas nested practically everywhere, even in rich homes. Graveyards overflowed. The city buried their excess dead in “poor holes” next to homes and businesses. If you lived anywhere near a cemetery, decaying corpses could leach into your wellwater and poison you. Nobody really understood how disease spread. Doctors operated with dirty surgical instruments and unwashed hands.

These conditions persisted through the 19th century.

In the 1830s, a series of especially bad outbreaks of cholera, flu, and typhoid ravaged London. Social activists and public health experts pushed for sanitation. The city finally started listening in the late 1840s. They passed laws and formed a board of public health. Even then, it took several more outbreaks to motivate investment in a modern sewer system. Politicians waited until the stench of human waste became unbearable in every corner of the city.

The 19th century was a brutal time.

As city populations grew, diseases flourished and wiped out millions of people. Most of them died in agony, without medicine or painkillers, literally puking themselves to death. The world spent decades fighting endless pandemics. Mortality rates for a disease like cholera ranged between 3 and 10 percent. At any given moment, there were three or four major killers circulating.

Before modern medicine, there was a good chance you’d die from plague, cholera, smallpox, typhoid, malaria, polio, flu, tuberculosis, or scarlet fever. Every single one of these diseases terrified people. Without treatment, you might as well flip a coin as to whether you’d live, die, or wind up with lifelong illness. In many places, life expectancy hovered around 40.

Diseases have always hit the poor worse than everyone else. Throughout history, the rich have invested in sanitation for themselves first while leaving everyone else behind and blaming them for their own deaths. According to an article in Science, “the mortality rate from infectious diseases among nonwhite people living in the U.S. was a shocking 1,123 deaths per 100,000 people.” That’s more than the death rate for white people during 1918 flu pandemic. As one sociologist says, it was like living through the 1918 flu, every year.

The last 100 years changed everything.

We’ve developed vaccines and treatments. We’ve learned how diseases spread. We’ve educated the public on sanitation. We’ve done it despite resistance from a vocal minority who thought it wasn’t necessary or couldn’t be done. They wanted us to keep watching half our children die every year.

We made major progress.

Now we’re backsliding.

Life expectancy is falling. Infant mortality is rising. Vaccine skepticism grows by the year, egged on by sociopaths in politics and media who think they’re practicing their free speech. We face crucial shortages of antibiotics and other drugs, with predictions we’ll run out later this year. Healthcare workers are quitting. ER departments are closing over staffing shortages. Everywhere you look, the healthcare systems we spent generations building are falling apart.

That’s not fear talking.

As history shows, we’ve been here before. We’ve seen life without vaccines and masks. We’ve seen life without clean air and drinkable water. That’s how humans lived for 95 percent of our existence.

We hated it.

Humans invested in public health and sanitation because they got tired of dying from diseases. They dragged their leaders kicking and screaming into public health, after it became painfully clear there was no alternative.

Well, here we are again. It would be nice if we could pay attention to history instead of constantly repeating it.

We don’t have to speculate about what our dystopian future looks like. It’s a return to the 18th and 19th centuries when life expectancy hovered in the mid 40s and deadly outbreaks of diseases shut down entire cities and civilizations. The only difference is that many of us will remember a brighter past.

A massive reinvestment in public health would stop this, but it can’t be just for rich people. It has to be for everyone.

We’ll see.