#desperate to know which block they busted

[marisatomay]

netflix putting their own direct-to-streaming movies under the “blockbuster” heading is actually so funny like. is it. are you sure.

[tritoch]

i know a lot of people (very understandably) dislike the paladin job quests in ffxiv, particularly HW, but i do think it's fun that, now that the pre-ShB MSQ revamp is complete, paladins now have a very cool and thematic in-game storyline that happens without a word being spoken: the development of passage of arms.

none of the below is directly stated in the script, but imo it's a fairly obvious gloss on what the game presents, if you assume a paladin warrior of light. spoilers for all expansions through the end of 6.X.

in the new version of steps of faith, as vishap breaks through each ward protecting ishgard from attack, lucia mounts a final desperate effort to hold him back, with a very familiar looking animation:

but even lucia can't hold back vishap's flame alone, so the temple knights surge forward to assist her. their efforts make the shield visually more powerful and larger. the temple knights here band together in defense of ishgard, and their knightly resolve to protect their home is the difference between victory and defeat.

lucia and the knights do ultimately succeed in defending the last ward, as you have to defeat vishap before their shield falls or you lose.

later in heavensward, obviously, we will get ffxiv's most famous (failed) attempt at blocking something with a shield.

this moment can be read as fairly impactful on the warrior of light's development; as i've noted elsewhere, after the trauma of watching haurchefant bleed out in their arms at level 57, at level 58 paladins learn to channel their magic into healing (and it's called "clemency," or mercy. mercy for whom? who was guilty?), and as someone pointed out on that post, at level 58 dark knights used to get "sole survivor", letting them heal in response to a marked target's death.

for a time, you literally carry haurchefant's shield with you, and 3.3 very much literalizes in genre fashion the idea that even when you are standing alone, your fallen friends stand with you. you don't need to call any allies to stand at your side and raise their shields with you because they are already there, in spirit.

stormblood marks a pretty important turning point in the warrior of light as a combatant, in my opinion, and the text makes this clear in several ways. first, in pretty much all your jobs, you've now far exceeded your trainers and are pioneering new techniques. this is no less true of paladin, which for 60-70 abandons any trainers at all for you to show off your peerless skills in a tournament.

second, stormblood is straight up a story about you getting stronger. at level 61, zenos kicks your ass. at level 70, you kick his ass. why? because you fought and got stronger and developed incredible new techniques and became a one-man army.

for a lot of classes, this story lines up nicely with the big rotation changes or flashy new finishers on the way from 60 to 70. SMN is now busting out bahamut and casting akh morn; RDM gets verflare and verholy; DRG starts harnessing nidhogg's power directly through dragon sight and nastrond.

the tanks are divided in two: warriors and gunbreakers get huge damaging upgrades at 70 in the form of inner release and continuation, each of which lets them hit the same button many times for lots of damage and satisfying animations. paladin and dark knight get more protective abilities; dark knight gets the blackest night, and there's been plenty said about that already by pretty much everyone.

paladins get passage of arms. instead of a relentless new attack (and you get requiescat at 68, which is a way bigger deal for your dps rotation), your big reveal at 70 for zenos in your fight in ala mhigo is a superior way to protect your party, a shield that lets you stand for your allies so they never have to fall for you again. it's lucia's same shield, except you need no allies' shields to reinforce you, proof of your martial prowess and your ability to transcend limits, and perhaps in truth a reminder that you never really stand alone.

in many respects passage of arms should really feel like a paladin signature move to you now if you are playing it at this point, because you should be popping it in pretty much every fight (you are using your mits, right...?). basically every FFXIV fight has at least one big AOE with downtime that warrants passage of arms usage, usually after the mid-fight add phase with slowly filling bar. since that AOE usually drops during downtime, there's no reason not to pop passage of arms (which otherwise restricts your movement and actions), and even on normal, sometimes every little bit counts on a damage check even if it means dropping DPS (thinking here of harrowing hell P10N on release, which was...less consistent for a lot of roulette parties than you might hope).

so from 70 onward, passage of arms is in a sense a paladin warrior of light's signature move, and certainly the one a player gets to most actually enjoy (since if you're using it, you're by necessity not doing anything besides moving your camera and admiring your sick animation). it doesn't have any competition in terms of spectacle until confiteor, and those you're usually throwing out in the middle of movement.

it's such a signature, in fact, that the only other person shown using your one-person version of passage of arms is your greatest admirer, who studied your legend for over a century.

and it's when he fails (should've popped arm's length, bud) that the warrior of light decides they can't let their friends fall for them, and sends them away with the transporter beacon. this is all wrong: you were meant to die for them, not the other way around. yours is the shield that stands between your allies and defeat. it is you who will win this passage of arms and break your opponents lance. and you do.

and then later, when they need to quickly establish zero's domain as a place of fallen grandeur, the home of someone who once believed in heroes but is now a cool and cynical vampire hunter d, what do they use? a decayed statue of someone in the paladin endwalker gear doing the passage of arms animation, of course.

from a visible instantiation of knighthood as a joint effort to defend what is sacred, to a tribute to the fallen friends whose memories stand by you and animate you, to a symbol of the wol's power as emulated by their allies or darkly mirrored in other shards.

not bad for a mit button you hit once per fight and otherwise never think about!

[chestharrington]

🌝 hi im back hehehehe a steve harrington fic where you’re teasing him (grinding at a bar????????? mayhaps?????) and then you turn around to him just 🤠 bc he 100% came in his pants thank u mamas

Heyyyy sexy <3 This is short (sozz) and I took liberties pls forgive me. But the heart of the matter is the same: Steve Harrington WILL bust in his pants. AMEN!

Rating: E (18+) Kinda

Warnings: Drinking (which shouldn’t be a warning. GROW UP!), making out, premature ejaculation

~~~~~~~~~~

Steve had been clinging to your side like a baby duck the entire night, never wandering farther than arm's length. A warm hand on the small of your back as you made your way through the crowded frat house, a warm lap to sit on when your feet started aching and the ugly leather couch started calling your name.

“You don’t have to babysit tonight,” you murmured after you sat down in the , pressing a soft kiss on his jaw.

“I know,” he replied. His hand was warm on your inner thigh, protective and comfortable. His thumb rubbed soothing circles on the plush skin as he looked at you. “I trust you, I just don’t trust these college guys.”

“You’re so adorable when you’re all protective,” you teased, poking his side. “Are you even having a little fun?” His guilty expression and lack of response said all you needed to know.

You stood and pulled him off the couch with a scheming grin. “We’re going to go slam a beer, and then you’re going to dance with me to whatever shitty music they have playing. Then we’re going to try the jungle juice, dance a little more, and after that we’ll bail and go make out in your car.” You raised a brow. “Any questions?”

“No questions. But you’re really sexy when you boss me around,” he said, leaning down to place a chaste kiss on your lips. You grinned at his words and guided him through the packed house to find the nearest cooler.

Things were going pretty well until your first cup of jungle juice. There was definitely some sort of mixer there, but, by taste alone, you would’ve guessed it was just food coloring to turn all the liquor red.

“We’re gonna have to call Robin to drive us home,” Steve shouted over the music as he downed the last swill in his red solo cup. You nodded and poured a little more in your cup, which you easily chugged down.

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand and stood on tiptoes to press a messy kiss to Steve’s lips. As soon as you pulled away, a smile spread across your lips. “Let’s go dance! I love this song!”

Despite the crowd, you managed to pull him through the crowd on clumsy footing. Everyone was in similar states of carefree and giddy drunkenness, so no one really cared if you bumped into them. You guided him until you were practically back to back with the sound system and started dancing.

You really didn’t love this song. You didn’t even think you’d heard it before. But there was a good beat, and Steve’s hands were warm on your exposed skin, pulling your back right against him.

He was planting clumsy kisses along your jaw and throat as he held you tight, letting you move and sway against him. You relished in the feeling of his fingertips toying with the hem of your shirt just itching to slip beneath.

Your hands settled atop his, guiding them to your hips as you moved. You spared a glance back and felt your heart flutter at the sight of him— hair plastered to his forehead, cheeks flushed.

A few songs later, his hands were back under your shirt and you were itching to escape the crowd. Which is how you wound up down the block in the backseat of the Beamer.

Warm hands splayed across your ass as you straddled his lap, lips barely leaving his except for very necessary gasps for breath. He tasted like jungle juice, but you didn’t care.

“See?” You gasped between kisses. He held you firm on his lap, guiding you as you ground against him. “Told you that we needed to get out for once.”

“Mhmm.” He nodded, chasing your lips, tongue licking into your mouth with a needy desperation. Occasionally, passing cars would light up the interior, but you were both too drunk on each other to care.

Distantly, you could hear the bass shaking the frat house off the foundations, and cheers as someone broke the keg stand record for the night. But after a while, the sounds of Steve’s lips smacking against yours, and soft moans slipping past his lips when you moved against him took over your entire brain.

It could’ve been fifteen minutes or an hour. Time got a little fuzzy when you both got drunk and touchy. His hands were so tight on your hips that it might have actually left bruises, which would’ve been a problem for tomorrow.

You had only just started toying with his hair when he pulled back from the kiss with a muffled whimper, panting softly.

“Did I pull your hair too hard?” You asked sheepishly, giving his scalp a soothing scratch.

“No! No it felt nice,” he insisted. His cheeks were a burning pink, which matched his kiss-swollen lips. You leaned in and gave one chaste kiss, before leaning in to start up the make-out session again. You rolled your hips against his briefly before he grabbed your hips in his hands, keeping them still. “Can we just take a… I dunno… five minute breather?”

You raised a brow and moved your hands between the two of you, only to find a wet patch on his jeans. You bit your lip in an attempt to hide your grin, but it was too late. “Aww… you came from a bit of kissing?” His cheeks flushed impossibly deeper, as you pecked kisses along his cheek. “That is… surprisingly sexy.”

“It’s so not my fault,” he insisted, practically pouting until your words registered. “Wait— it is?”

“Mhmm…” You replied as you began stroking him teasingly over his denim. “Actually… I kind of want to make you do it again.”

[roseonne]

in your favor

Ran's always been the more favored Haitani. Or so Rindou thinks.

first offering for the tr fandom ! ( ao3 link )

︶︶︶︶︶︶︶༉‧₊˚

Rindou's down.

Back flat on the ground, limbs unironically feeling numb and limp from all the kicks he's thrown and punches he's blocked, chest heaving heavily up and down as every ragged breath from his strained lungs becomes yet another, more alarming battle for his own existence that he must desperately prevail over.

But, goddamn it.

He's losing this fight, too.

"RINDOU!"

The familiar voice of his annoying older brother rings frantically in his ears. Despite already struggling so much to keep his mere consciousness intact, Rindou still manages a weak click of his tongue in disbelief.

"Too loud... Big bro."

"Shut it, Rindou!" Ran snaps as he appears by his brother's side in an instant, hastily sliding a gloved hand underneath his bleeding head and propping him onto his arm

Having now held his precious younger sibling close to his chest, Ran finally notices the number of cuts, size of the bruises, and depth of the wounds scarring almost every part of his body. All of which have been freshly inflicted, making Rindou's injuries perhaps a dozen times more fatal.

"We need to get you to a hospital. Quick!"

Rindou, meanwhile, has to squeeze his eyes shut for a solid minute (or two). His visionーwithout his glassesーisn't any good to begin with, so the sudden movement and shifting of his position sent his mind spinning into a deep, heavy spiral. Unfortunately, the moment he blinks his eyes open, he meets Ran's gaze locked onto him.

Great. Now he gets to have all the credit of saving the day for himself.

Rindou's had enough of this vicious, never-ending cycle.

Especially when it should've been him. It should've been the name of Rindou Haitani who the spotlight shines brightly upon.

Since it had always been him setting the tempo and dictating the outcome of the fights he and his brother got themselves into back in the day. Locking his enemies' joints and breaking them is his specialty; and that specialty is what earned him the title of one of the charismatic kings of Roppongi.

What remains of the job is to deal the finishing blows. Evidently, here is where Ran's sole duty starts, and ends.

"Rindou."

He flinches at the sound of his name.

"Keep it together, you idiot."

In hopes of repressing his growing irritation at the constant yapping in his ears, he forces his free hand into a feeble fist.

"RINDOU!"

But the switch has been ticked.

"I FUCKING KNOWーURGH!"

And with every word from his busted lips, more of his warm, Haitani blood comes splattering forth, tainting not only his uniform, but also his pride as a promising top delinquent.

...Shit.

It's all Ran's fault.

He wouldn't be lying so humiliatingly on the ground right now if his brother had not dragged him out of their flat earlier that day. He wouldn't be in this current state of a mess if only he had the guts to go against him once and for all. He would never have had his entire life on the line if he just wasn't his brother's younger brother.

At least, that's what Rindou thought he'd feel.

For even if Ran seems to be the more favored Haitani...

Rindou can't bring himself to hate him.

Ran is his family. The only one he's ever known, and the only one he'll forever be stuck with. They've been at each other's throats, yet also got each other's backs for as long as he can remember. And, although he hates admitting it, he won't have his life any other way.

So when the opportunity to 'protect family' presented itself to him, Rindou willingly jumped toward it; and his reward for such a chivalrous display of what normal people of normal families call 'love', is a lone, stray bullet straight into somewhere between his stomach and lower left rib. He's had his right palm pressed onto that area of his body this whole time; but the bleeding hasn't stopped. Even though Ran also has his own hand already placed on top of his.

"You're so stupid, Rindou! We both know you could've easily dodged that," Ran hisses, tone stern with fear, and white, blood-stained gloves unable to conceal the trembling of his fingers.

Turning his head over to the side, Rindou spits even more blood out of him and replies, "but I chose not to." 

"And that's what pisses me off!" Ran remarks in utmost frustration, gritting his teeth. "What has gotten into you, man!?"

Rindou smells the sweet scent of provocation and decides the luxury of a playful tease is worth every ounce of strength left in him. "Heh~ Seeing you all worked up isn't like you at all, big bro."

"Of course it isn't!" Ran hysterically agrees. "Damn it, Rindou, you know I can't lose you!"

The little sibling is taken slightly aback, but chooses once more to feign ignorance for the time being. "Why not? You've always been the more favored one between us, anyway."

With a small roll of his eyes, he adds, "so you can do anything you want now."

Grabbing him by the chin, Ran forces Rindou to set his pair of purple eyes back at him. "What the hell are you going on about!? The Haitani brothers wouldn't be the Haitani brothers anymore without either of us, you know!!"

Rindou must have gone mad. Truly mad. This could possibly be the first that Ran has ever spoken of his feelings out loud. Feelings of concern, regret, and despair for no other person but him. (Would be nice if he does this more often, though.)

"And besides," the expression on the older sibling's face softens drastically as he tries to repress an overflow of emotions threatening to stream down his cheeks from both his eye sockets. "I favor you more than anything in this shitty world, my li'l bro."

"Heh~"

Rindou flashes a closed-eye smile. He seems to have lost the pain his body's covered all over with, and his vision's becoming a bit too static for his liking; but there's no way he's letting Ran find out. This moment's way too beautiful to ruin. The least he could do to return the cheesy-ass sentiment...

"Then... I'm glad."

The skies above have turned a deep gray. Big, thick clouds that carry multiple streaks of lightning begin filling the endless expanse with a burst of various colors, one after another. It's only a matter of time before the rain finally pours. Too bad Rindou doesn't have much of that left to witness it.

"Thanks, big bro."

...Is the last he heard from himself, before all else belonging to his world inevitably succumbs into an uncharted, pitch black darkness.

︶︶︶︶︶︶︶༉‧₊˚

Rindou's up.

He pushes for his consciousness to awaken, forcibly prying his eyelids open despite the undeniable heaviness of slumber and lethargy weighing them down. Blinking once. Twice. And squeezing his eyes closed one, last time, a yawn worth a full night's sleep escapes freely from his o-shaped mouth.

A shit-ton of things seem to puzzle him all of a sudden, but one thing's for sureーpressing his fingertips across the area where his lower left ribs areーhe's proven his existence. At the very least, he's made himself certain that he, Rindou Haitani, graciously is still alive.

Oh, thank god...

Having been sprawled on the sofa for god-knows-how-long, with a languid arm over his forehead and a leg hooked above its backrest, Rindou recalls summoning a couple of guys over for drinks. But judging by the lack of sunlight entering the room through the slightly parted curtains draping the windows, and cases upon cases of empty beer bottles scattered around the floor, the fun must have ended quite some time ago.

"But what a weird-ass dream that was..." Rindou's mind jumps back to replay bits of the terrifying scene he witnessed only a mere several moments ago.

Well, it's more like a nightmare, if he must say so himself. Although he's had similar ones recurring every now and then, that recent horror truly feels the clearest, realest, and most alarming of all.

. . .

Nah, that shit ain't happening.

He tosses himself to his other side, wanting to get up at last, stretch his aching muscles, and soothe his nerves and worries away. But doing so too abruptly turns out to be an extremely bad idea, for a splitting headache smacks him wide awake the very moment he attempts to properly sit upright.

"Ow..."

The evident struggle to remain seated and steady not long later sends him completely falling off of the sofa with a loud thud. Landing on his lower back, Rindou lets out a painful grunt.

Shit!

In haste, he covers his mouth with his own hand to suppress any and all possible further outbursts. Verbally and physically.

I can't let this wake big bro!

"Rindou?"

Speak of the devil, and the devil shall make itself known.

Ran shows up in an instant, head peeking out from behind the sofa, a brow raised high in wonder. "You okay? What happened?"

"Big bro," Rindou says almost absent-mindedly, a little shaken at the series of misfortunes coming upon him at once. "You're up early."

Ran glances at the old wall clock hanging in the middle of the room.

5:26 P.M.

"Hm... I guess I am."

Although the time signals the conclusion of sunset, the arrival of nightfall is truly when the Haitani brothers kickstart yet another brand new day (or night) of nothing but pure delinquency, chaos, and style.

Granted that, both of them are in good shape to drag their asses out of their humble abode.

Ran tilts his head a little over towards one side, a pair of squinting purple eyes meticulously examining his younger brother from head to toe; much to Rindou's displeasure.

"You seem to be in a lot of pain," Ran observes. "Another hangover, perhaps?"

Rindou clicks his tongue bitterly, and Ran's older brother instincts immediately pop off. Snapping his fingers in affirmation, he then makes his way to the kitchen.

"Knew it before I even saw you all over the place." Ran sets a glass of water down on the tabletop. "Here, to sober you up."

"You don't have to keep treating me like a child, big bro." Rindou rolls his eyes, despite already seeing the world around him swirl uncomfortably in every direction. "I can take care of myself."

He wishes to reclaim his spot on the sofa, one hand firmly grasping the armrest, and the other on the center table for support. A big, bold attempt to stand is all it takes for him to lose his footing once more and stumble disgracefully backwards. Thank goodness the older brother manages to pull him up on time, and return him to his beloved seat.

"Not a kid anymore, huh?" Ran scoffs, dropping as well onto the sofa, and occupying the space right beside his younger brother. "Geez, this is why I told you not to bring strangers in here, Rindou."

Rindou presses his thumb and middle fingers to his temples in hopes of somehow easing the pounding in his head. "I wouldn't even have anyone come over if only you wake up on time for once to drink with me, big bro!"

"Uhm..." Ran sighs, "8:00 A.M. doesn't sound like the time for beer and alcohol, though?"

This conversation isn't going anywhere and is rather more so worsening Rindou's condition. If he could only take his big bro down in one shot, he would've been done by now. Too bad he's physically incapable of executing such a tempting deed at the moment.

It's... just all the same as ever. Ran acting all high and mighty when he fucks up. Doesn't he ever realize he's never had the right to say anything, as he himself is a walking streak of problems too?

"You can lean on my shoulder if you want," Ran offers from out of the blue.

"WHAT!?" Rindou yelps, quickly scooting a good few inches away from him. "Nuh-uh, no way!"

"Why not? Here, don't be shy now."

The kind of torture Rindou Haitani's been enduring since his rise from his ungodly slumber is beyond what he imagined is possible, and beyond what he can normally tolerate. Being unable to go against his brother's will, Ran is able to successfully prop Rindou's head onto his shoulder, as he so pleases.

The so-called nightmare he experienced earlier? Might have to take that back as an insult, for what he's facing now seems like a much more horrifying encounter.

"Hey, Rindou?" Ran asks, holding the glass he earlier filled up with water close to his brother's lips.

Rindou groans remorsefully, in between his small sips. "What now?"

"Don't leave me alone, yeah?"

"Huh?" The little brother is taken aback, almost spouting out his drink. "The hell's this coming from, big bro?"

"Hm... Dunno."

"Heh~ And you're telling me I'm drunk? Look who might've gotten a couple drinks himself."

"I guess I did have a few." Ran looks up, scratching his temple in thought. "Seriously though, don't leave, okay? I'd be really sad if you do."

"Stupid, big bro." Rindou turns his head away, the pain magically subsiding little by little, the corners of his lips curling upwards into a smile he cannot seem to hide any longer. "I ain't going anywhere without ya."

"Promise?"

"Gross. But, oh well. If it'll make you shut up then sure."

Ran lets out a laugh so full of relief and carefree, one might have mistaken him worthy of replacing the sun at day, the moon at night, and the millions of stars at twilight.

"Thanks, Rindou."

Of course you won't want me to leave, the younger brother prides to himself internally, I'm what you favor more than anything in this shitty world. Right, big bro?

As Ran gently combs his hair, detangling the knots in them with his fingers, Rindou can't help but share the exact same sentiment. 

[sadhours]

scumbag blues • battery acid

gator tillman x f!original character

previous chapter • masterlist

cw: 18+minors dni, unsolicited dick pics/videos, mean texts, drinking, kind of smut??? Gator tries

Daisy’s depressed. She’s been turning away clients left and right. The money from Roy keeps the bills paid but it’s tighter than before and her pops has noticed. Says something about it when Daisy’s cooking him lunch.

“I don’t know why things have taken such a turn, Daisy,” he sounds stressed. “We haven’t had a single guest in two weeks.”

“It’ll turn back around,” she assures him, “always does.”

Her mothers voice rings in her ears. Same mantra about how women have to take care of things. How women have a magic money maker between their legs and they’d be fools not to take advantage.

Her phone vibrates in her pocket, she pulls it out and looks down at the notification. Gator. Hasn’t had the guts to block him like she should. She slides it open and is met with a photo of his cock. Hard as hell. He’s on his bed, she can see his cargos bunched up around his ankles and his combat boots. He’s sent You can’t quit me, baby along with the photo and she hates the way it ignites a flame in her stomach. She locks her phone and shoves it back in her pocket, resuming the can of tomato soup she’d been heating up. She wishes Gator would just give it up. There’s plenty of other women for sale in this county. But she knows he likes her. Their sexual chemistry is undeniable. And she’s certain Gator hasn’t been with any other woman. Yet, she doesn’t even know how many men she’s been with. It’s unfair. She can’t quit this. And that’s what Gator deserves, so she’ll have to quit him.

She butters up the bread for grilled cheeses, determined to get out of this funk and start taking clients again. Her mother would tell her she’s pathetic. Gator’s always been a client, he started out as such and it’d be laughable to think they could be more. It’s a god damn pipe dream and they both know it.

—

When Daisy reads his message but doesn’t respond, Gator gets furious but his cock is still hard. The arousal mixed with the anger facilitates in a bit of harassment on his end. He records himself jacking off, mumbles about how he knows she wants him. How she’s gonna watch it later and play with her pretty pussy. Which he fully believes. Records himself cumming, muttering, “Wish I was cumming in your tight hole, baby.”

Again, Daisy opens the messages and doesn’t respond. And now that Gator’s cock is softening, the anger takes over and he sends a handful of messages.

Whatever, bitch. Ur not even pretty. Just fucking easy.

Ur used up.

Probably should get tested. God knows ur fckn infected. Nasty slut.

Fuck u bitch

Then, Gator realizes these won’t help his case in any way so he sends another.

I’m sorry. Just miss u and I ain’t good at controlling my temper

The last message never delivers and Gator’s feeling like a pathetic loser with his cum drying on his stomach. Cleans himself up and grabs his keys. He needs to get as drunk as humanly possible. Fuck, he doesn’t care that it’s only noon. This pit of dread filling him needs to be released and alcohol can dull it. The Esquire Club opens at 10 am. He’ll be with like minded company. And well, if it’s two blocks from the Inn, that’s just a coincidence. He isn’t hoping that Daisy’ll wander in desperate for money. Definitely not.

The place is dead when he gets there aside from a couple of dudes rambling about sports. Gator doesn’t keep up with football anymore. Too bitter about high school. He would’ve been scouted, out of this shithole and never would’ve touched Daisy Way if that prick hadn’t busted his ankle. Swears if he ever sees that fucker again, he’ll kill him.

The hours drone on, Gator filling his belly with cheap whiskey and countless beers. Is absolutely stumbling around when the sun goes down. There’s girls in here tonight. Ones that know Gator’s the sheriff’s son, girls that touch his biceps and ask if he’s ever had to shoot anyone. He tells grandiose stories, fibbing on the extremities. Yeah, he sees a ton of action. Yeah, Gator’s a fucking badass. He’s a fucking winner.

He gets one of the girls in the bathroom, a brunette with heavy makeup and a short skirt. Has her leg propped up on the graffitied toilet. Limp dick in his hand as he tugs it, pleading internally for it to fill out but it just fucking won’t. He knows it’s the whiskey, his whole body is fucking numb. But he can’t help but think that if this were Daisy bent over for him, he’d be hard as a rock. It’s pathetic and it’s weird, but he grabs hold of the girl's hair and tugs her head back so he can grunt into her ear.

“You want me to fuck you, Daisy? Huh?” he laughs, “Want me to stretch you out so bad?”

“My names not Daisy?” the girl replies, confusion dripping in her voice.

“Shh,” he hisses, pulling on his cock and focusing on the fantasy, trying to will his dick to life. Nothing. He balls his fist up and slams it against the stall, “Fuck!”

He shoves his flaccid length back into his cargos and barrels out of there. Leaving the girl stunned and exposed. He’s a fucking loser. If he goes by the Inn, it’ll be pummeled into his head what a fucking loser he is. Somehow, he winds up at Faye’s apartment building. Hits the buzzer. Over and over until he hears her sleepy voice.

“Who is it?”

“Faye, it’s me— er,” he hiccups, “Gator. Can I come up?”

“Gator, it’s the middle of the night,” she sighs, “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Please,” he whines, hates how pathetic he sounds, “I have nowhere else to go. I won’t be fucking weird. Okay? I just… please, Faye.”

A beat of silence. Then the buzz and a green light. Gator tugs the door open and stumbles inside, looking down the hall until a door opens. Faye steps outside, rubbing her eyes and she’s wearing a long, flowy nightgown. She lets him inside and because of his intoxicated state, he clings onto her and fucking cries. Like the pathetic loser he is. But she wraps her arms around him.

“Gator, what happened?”

“I’m… I’m such a fucking loser,” he sobs, “I ruin everything.”

Faye squeezes him tighter, rubs his back soothingly. “Oh, Gator…”

She pulls back and puts her hands on his face, “I’m gonna make some tea. Sit on the couch and we’ll talk about it. Okay?”

She’s so good. So pure. So sweet. Gator hiccups and nods, moving to rub his fists against his teary eyes. Then he trudges to her living room, waiting for her to return.

[changingplumbob]

Knightstone Household: Chapter 9, Part 3

After completing his column before work Adam was taking some time to play his guitar while Silas used his mum’s computer to play arithmetic attack.

Silas: Have you written any songs dad

Adam: Have I? Ah, no, no. You need to be super good to write songs. That's why I like art, anyone can have a go at painting

Silas: What’s 4 times 2

Adam: Son you won’t learn if I tell you

Silas: Can’t you give me a hint

Adam: What’s 4 plus 4

In the bathroom Pollock is making a right mess...

Suzanna: I’m not sure how the puddle ended up quite so far from the potty... the glitches in this game I tell you

Pollock: Mummy I make... pud del

Suzanna: Yeah you did make a puddle! Next time we’ll try get it in the potty though okay

Pollock: I make... not pud del

Suzanna: Don’t worry Moondust, you’ll learn

Pollock toddles over and throws his arms up for a hug. Laughing Suzanna pulls him close.

Suzanna: What should we do now

Pollock: Mummy I... ap... na...

Suzanna: Nap?

Pollock: YES

Suzanna: Okay but kisses first

Suzanna heads out to tend the garden which needs some desperate attention. The trees are mostly okay but...

Suzanna: Stupid plants reverting bug... and actual flying bugs as well... seriously?

There are a lot of bugs to spray and most things need watering. Luckily Suzanna has high enough gardening skill to bust out a weed vaccum though!

After his nap Pollock feels energised and starts searching through the toy box for something to play with. He’s busy with a triceratops when Silas comes to find him having had enough of the computer.

Pollock: SILAS

The toddler rushes over and hugs his brother.

Silas: Did you learn my name huh?

Silas: Do you know your name

Pollock: I... I... Moo du

Silas: Nope *pulls funny face*

Pollock: *giggling*

Silas: You’re Pollock remember? That’s what Daddy calls you

Pollock: I Pol?

Silas: Close enough

The two boys play for a bit, with Pollock showing off some of his favourites, before they move to the lounge. Silas spends some time with his doctor playset and Pollock tries to stack some blocks. When Adam gets back from work he passes them and says hello before heading to the kitchen to make dinner.

Suzanna: Alright, dinner time Moondust

Silas: Mummy you have to call him Pollock or he won’t learn his name

Suzanna: I’m sure that’s not true, Daddy calls him Pollock

Pollock: I Pol

Suzanna: Ah ha, there we go

Silas: Yes but I taught him that

Silas: Will he eat what we eat yet

Suzanna: Soon. Applesauce for now

It soon became apparent that Pollock was now a messy eater. Very messy. Throws food on floor unintentionally messy.

Suzanna: How did that get-

Pollock: Yum yum

Suzanna: *sighs* I suppose you are eating at least

Previous ... Next

[republicansaredomesticterrorists]

The Republikkkans have been covertly funding minor 3rd party candidates for decades. The RepubliKKKlans are a vocal “numerical MINORITY.” To be successful, which they are more often than the Dems, they must pull out all the stops and do everything possible to siphon votes away from the Dems. They suppress black votes, or any group or geographic region which tends to lean blue. They also fund the “my vote doesn’t matter” and “both parties are the same” propaganda that keeps people who would have other wise voted blue from voting at all. At the local level the often fund someone with a similar name to their Dem rival. They encourage Kanye in the hopes of diverting black votes and they are pushing RFK junior in the hopes of diverting uniformed Dems. RFK Jr is the black sheep of the family and shares No Democratic values with his strongly Democratic family but many people don’t know that.

Putin and the GOP oligarchs channeled money into Jill Stein in 2016 and again this year. The Green Party always siphons off votes from the Dems since they both support the same ideals. The “Bernie or Bust” movement was pushed heavily by oligarch political operatives to siphon off first time voters from Hilary. Many of those voters didn’t understand the primary process where you first vote the person who most represents you before rallying around the party in the general election. A low-level Republican operative even claims to have started the Bernie or Bust movement although this is debatable.

Ralph Nader has said that had he known he would cost Dem Al Gore the win in 2000 that he would not have run. That blunder doomed us to two terms of dumb ass George “Dubya” Bush/Darth Cheney, which in many ways was worse than Trump. Those two clowns (Cheney was literally the shadow president) gave us the forever wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Those wars turned the entire Muslim world against us and strained relations with our NATO allies, cost us trillions, led to tens of thousands of American soldiers being killed or maimed, and raised the deficit to unheard of levels. They also caused two energy crises,one before 9/11 and one after Katrina, that led to record high gas prices that were higher than pandemic levels in many parts of the country. They also allowed a major city, New Orleans, to be wiped off the map and forcibly relocated its residents its poor and minority communities across the country at gun point.

Republikkkans win because they always vote as a solid block in every single election and they do it as if their very lives depended on it. Now some might rebut this by bringing up the Libertarian Party. This lunatic fringe party is basically the same as the Republicans. Most of them in the general election will end up voting GOP but an insignificant number spread out nationwide.

The Dems need to stop trying to claim every single group out their and desperately need to help recreate their union base which Republicans, starting with Reagan, have been killing off. The Dems claim both the Jewish and Muslim people but both groups largely vote Republican. The Dems try to claim all immigrant groups but many don’t vote, aren’t citizens yet, or lean to the autocratic Republican Party because it reminds them of the strongmen of their home countries. The Hispanics are claimed by the Dems but fully one third of them are registered Republicans with the rest going either way. How many elections have the south Florida Cubans cost us with their unyielding support of Republicans wanting to endlessly punish the Castro brothers in Cuba?

The left needs to realize the Hispanics are not a solid block and need to launch a massive outreach program to those who could be swayed left. A disproportionate number of Hispanics are white or white passing and heavily favor the racist Republicans. The letting go of unions and the failure to recruit Hispanics are the two biggest ongoing mistakes of the Dems. But the Dems aren’t as organized or as well funded as the GOP which has unlimited dark money from neo-Nazi autocrats. The legions of dumb ass Evangelicals and racist alt-right groups also help in bringing the Dems down and that’s something else entirely that needs to be addressed. We can’t win playing the game of division. We need to win over voters in massive numbers and do it asap. Dem leadership needs to convince the rank and file that the GOP only supports the wealthy, the religious fringe, and the deplorable racists.

[homestuckreplay]

dropping a soda into the kernelsprite to create spritesprite

(page 176-193

This is the most desperate I've been to know what happens next after any update. What's going on in the sky?? Looking back at p.162 now it seems like obvious foreshadowing, with John remarking on how there's nothing in the sky - but I'm sure there's a dozen other moments that could be foreshadowing, but actually aren't. Unless they all are. I guess time will tell.

Some things that could be in the sky:

weird bird

helicopter

moon in the day time

hot air balloon

nuclear missile

Mothman

Sburb logo to match p.82's Homestuck logo

comet named after John Egbert

Dad's car, which can fly now

another perfectly generic object

cloud shaped like Matthew McConaughey

ghost that needs busting

new game construct TT deployed that's about to fall and wreck some shit

Some sort of attack kinda feels plausible? We know that John's on a countdown, and originally I thought the cruxtruder itself was going to blow up since it's already been shown to have things inside - but I could believe that something is coming to damage the house, whether an object or a monster. This would mean John's and TT's first objective is to build a shield to block whatever's incoming, and the game becomes a defense game. John becomes increasingly 'homestuck' as he continues to reinforce the walls against outside threats.

So, this kernelsprite! John's worst nightmare is probably a clown (sorry, harlequin) that follow him everywhere, but that's what he's got. On p.184, the kernelsprite 'speaks' in a language of indecipherable squares, which I can't help but link to the cube of the Perfectly Generic Object. Then, on p.187 once the harlequin has been Tier 1 prototyped, the sprite 'speaks' in fleur de lis, a shape reminiscent of the harlequin's hat. This suggests to me that a cruxite dowel could also be combined with an object somehow, and that would change its 'language' - the alchemiter can 'read' the dowels, and their data is stored in the Atheneum.

Kernel made me think of popcorn first, but after a quick search - 'The kernel is a computer program at the core of a computer's operating system and generally has complete control over everything in the system.' So this is a really crucial part of the game engine. I think destroying the kernelsprite somehow is what leads to a game over state - the house can potentially be built back up if destroyed, it'll cost resources but it can be done, but there's only one kernelsprite and it's irreplaceable. As it follows John around, it'll be in danger whenever he is, unless he can protect it somehow. My big question is what its function is, and how it changes mechanically based on what it's prototyped with.

[yeahspider]

THE INTRO

Ve’s note - the first installment in the sdp interlude series featuring yang jeongin !! mentions of alcohol and weed . nsfw mdni . barely proofread (this is my first time writing in chapter form so bare with me bees ) ik this is a lil short but it’s just the prologue !! enjoy !!

as usual you regret coming to this party . some random hookup of yours invited you to his dorm for "the party of the year" or whatever he quoted it as . you knew he just wanted another night with you . but you weren't one to hit a block twice . a firm believer in been there done that . not even the shots of tequila you've knocked back could make you want to mess with him again .

you’ve already scoured the party looking for your next one nighter, but no one here was quite up to your taste. so for the time being you were stcuk with loverboy trying his best to seduce you. unless you went home but that would be boring. its Friday night and ut would be against your nature to spend it at home. plus you had a reputation to protect .

just when you think this night was gonna be a bust you see him . yang jeongin . the only other person on campus whose reputation could rival yours . not that either of you necessarily slept around a lot but its more of the reviews of your nights spent with people that made its way around campus . two years together on the same campus and you've yet to approach him . its not like your paths didn't cross, they frequently did with him majoring in music and you in film. but something in you always held you back . but tonight you were determined to change that .

jeongin hated parties . okay he didnt actually hate them it's just he hated running into old lovers, the campus only being so big . but he really needed someone tonight . it had been a while since his last tally was added to his body count . he desperately needed release . he could've easily hit up one of his one-nighters but the thought annoyed him . seeing someone twice was against his .... nature . he didn't have it in him to be consistent . entering the part of the house where the kitchen was he ran into a familiar face . you ..... and some guy you didn't seem all too thrilled to be talking to . in fact, you looked like you wanted to be anywhere but beside him . jeongin watched as the guy, whose name he could not remember for the life of him, bent down and whispered something in your ear which caused you to roll your eyes . he let out a laugh at that . a little louder than what he meant from the looks of it, considering you looked up and caught eyes with him . you raised a brow at him, wanting to know what was so funny . he just saluted in your direction and walked to another room in the house . he was never one to cockblock plus he had a blunt or two to smoke and it would be a shame if they went to waste .

you couldn't believe he laughed at you . or you guess more at the situation he found you in . you couldn't blame him much though because the fox-like smirk that crossed his face as he nodded in your direction stirred something in you . an itch begging to be scratched.

not wanting to waste another moment on the loser to your left you excused yourself to the bathroom with promise to return . you were lying of course . considering you had spent night here you knew your way around fairly well so you headed to the living room where you saw jeongin step into . you had found your mark for tonight .

[imhereformysciencefriends]

@mcyt-yuri-week Day 7, Free day!

Niki/Lady Death for this one, read on AO3 here

MCD but that's like, the premise

Niki was drugged and drunk for it, at least. Hazed into a stupor where she really couldn’t feel anything but floaty, tangentially aware of the hooded and robed figures around her, the torchlight, her own vulnerability, but untouched by it. Like watching it happen to someone else, in third person. The chanting people sent prayers down to Death, and Niki was urged to lay out on a stone plinth. Her flesh prickled at its coldness, but that, too, she barely felt.

The knife they used was sharp. She barely even felt it.

A butterfly landed on the plinth next to her, beautiful blues and blacks and dark purples, and Niki swore she heard it laughing.

Acute awareness hit her like a minecart, but not any pain. In fact, as she glanced down at where the hole in her chest should be, she found herself dressed in her favorite sweater and overalls, no worse for wear. There was an almost… iridescence to her, though, fiery pinks and oranges and reds.

She was somewhere entirely unfamiliar, the clover and flowers beneath her feet all a uniform, night-sky blue. The sky itself was only just a shade darker, barely keeping off black. It stretched out for miles in each direction, the landscape unbroken save for the occasional tree which was also that midnight blue, leaves rustling in nonexistent wind.

The air was unnaturally still here.

Niki realized she wasn’t breathing.

Well, she had just died. It only made sense.

The horizon changed, a massive, black shape taking form so far away Niki at first didn’t see it. But then the form grew closer, and Niki recognized Her Ladyship.

Lady Death wore the wide brimmed hat and veil she was always depicted with, the high-necked dress and long sleeves, the lacey gloves. Much of what she wore was sheer or see-through fabric, providing a beautiful view to her ample bust, the soft curves of her thighs and calves, the warm roundness of her hands and arms.

The nonexistent wind blew her veil just barely open, and Niki caught a glimpse of the picked-clean bone of her skull. Lady Death was soft bodied and long haired and rounded only where her clothing covered her. To glimpse her true form was to see the skeleton only.

Her painted lips were round and soft and black. She smiled at Niki.

Niki hadn’t even realized she’d dropped to her knees.

“I don’t know why you silly humans keep sending me sacrifices,” Her Ladyship said, voice lilting and giggling faintly. “You all will come to me eventually. My power does not depend on your worship like lesser gods.”

Niki realized that this was a conversational beat where she was supposed to respond, but her empty mouth hung open and silent when she tried. Her thoughts themselves were void of words, much less her speech.

Death giggled.

“I do tend to have that effect on people.”

Niki blinked, and tried desperately to get herself to say something. Even something stupid that would embarrass her! Anything to make it seem like she wasn’t ignoring The Literal Goddess Of Death.

But Lady Death was patient (as a goddess of her nature would have to be, most certainly) and let Niki struggle through the mental block of bearing witness to divinity.

“Hi,” she managed, quite stupidly indeed, and Lady Death gave a full belly laugh, her cheeks scrunching up against her eyes and her hair shaking with the bellows.

“Hello, little Niki! It’s nice to finally meet you!”

“Nice to meet you,” she said, her voice very very small, very quiet. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the goddess who’d seated herself next to her, but she didn’t need to blink, so.

“How are you feeling?” Lady Death asked warmly. Niki felt the words in her… body(?) like a physical warmth.

“Shocked, I think.”

“That’s fair. Most people feel that way, even when they knew that this was coming.”

Niki felt a little better at that.

“It’s… an honor to meet you,” Niki tried, angling for polite.

Lady Death giggled again, cheeks warm with a subtle flush and lips curved mischievously. Niki felt a shiver strike through her, clean down her spine.

“The pleasure is all mine, little Niki,” the goddess said, and if Niki had a heart she was certain it would be suddenly pounding. Lady Death reached forward and cupped Niki’s face in two warm, soft hands, the lace of her gloves faintly ticklish against Niki’s now-sensitive skin. Her lips parted, but like before, she was too stunned to speak. Particularly as her Ladyship bent in, face close to Niki’s, the fluttering of her veil so close Niki felt phantoms of its touch against her nose.

“You are so lovely. You know, I’m really not supposed to do this, it isn’t fair to everyone else. But I have been known for being quite the rulebreaker, when it comes to my favorites.”

“Your—” Niki stuttered, now flushed full red. Favorite? But Niki had only just now died, and they’d only just met?

As though reading her thoughts, Lady Death continued, “It’s alright, sweet little thing. You’ll have plenty of time to get to know me later, once you’re all done.”

All done? And what was this about breaking rules, too!?

“Um, Lady Goddess…” Niki started, but the proximity of their faces once again had her at something of a loss for words. “What do you, what do you mean?” she asked, hoping the question wasn’t so vague that she couldn’t answer it.

Lady Death giggled again, then reached one hand up to touch her veil. She parted it—just barely—and Niki would’ve gasped if she’d had any breath, when she leaned all the way in and kissed her. It was the touch of gleaming white teeth to breathless lips, and for only a fleeting moment also, but to Niki it was a kiss more intimate than any she’d ever received in life.

Then Lady Death was pulling back and giggling at her again, catlike and smug, her veil replaced so Niki saw soft flesh and round, plush lips.

“I mean you’re not to be mine—just yet. Not in full, little Niki. Though I do hope you’ll remember this, won’t you sweetheart?”

Niki wasn’t sure she could ever forget, but before she could answer, or ask any more of her thousand questions she sat so blankly on, the goddess was fading from her view, and so was the dark blue place. And so was her consciousness. And her existence altogether.

She gasped awake, hands folded neatly over her belly, in the middle of a flower field, dappled sunlight barely making it through the leaves of the tree she “slept” under.

Niki sat up slowly, examining herself. She was breathing. Her heart pulsed in her chest. She was no longer in that in-between place. The fiery pinks and oranges that hazed around her were gone.

Had it all been—no, it couldn’t have. She yanked down the neckline of her dress and found a massive scar where they’d cut out her heart, and fingers pressed to the tissue reassured her once again that her heart was beating there.

What had happened? Why was she alive? She had passed into the domain of the Goddess of Death, the eternal garden from which no soul was ever meant to return. How was she back here, in the domain of the living?

She raised her fingertips from her heart to her lips. She could not feel the cool press of bone against them, but in her memory, she was able to summon the phantom of it. The sensation of kissing Lady Death.

Niki’s freshly forged heart skipped a beat.

[sonicasura]

The situation couldn't have gotten anymore dire then it had gotten. Iharu was wounded in a vital area around his heart, and his left arm was almost completely busted at the shoulder. Reno knew Iharu didn't have much left to give for a fight and Reno himself wasn't doing much better. Powerful shots ripped at his left leg, right torso severly cutting his movement capibilities. The culprit who dealt these greavious wounds was the same humaniod Kaiju that attacked Shinomiya at the exams.

The one that was close too taking both Reno's and Iharu's lives. Both rookies gave it there all, which culminated in a final desperation attack. Reno had given it his all however

It just wasn't enough

No.9 brought a wall of corpses to completely block the attack and to add to the terror, the wall grotesquely opened showing No.9 ready to unleash there own deadly volley.

To Reno and Iharu it seemed that Reno's life was about to be snuffed out like a candle.

* CRACKLE*

It was then a large crackleing sound stopped everyone in there tracks.

No.9: Hmmm what is that soun-

No.9 didn't get to finish that sentence as they were hit dead on with a powerful Aura Sphere, which flung them a good mile back. The duo stood there in shock at what had just occured and when they looked in the direction the Aura Sphere, only for it to further there shock as they both recognized the figure that stood there admittely for different reasons.

The Blazing Fighting Avian Himself

Blaziken

Tune in next time for the epic fight between No.9 and Blaziken who will come out on to-

We all know it will be Blaziken no question, bet my limited Edition Malzeno Amibo on Blaziken kicking No.9 ass to the next galaxy.

Blaziken is definitely gonna win. No use betting a good Amiibo on it.

[cyanomys]

I'm not a "Person With An Illness"

Talked with my therapist today about emotionally growing to grieve and accept my illness. She's worried about me overidentifying with my illness. Suggested I think of myself as a "person with an illness" and not a "sick person."

I know she means well -- and she suffers from some chronic conditions herself so she's no stranger to this, and maybe thinking about it that way does help her -- but also this reeks of the "person with disabilities" discourse.

I'm generally guilty of black and white, all-or-nothing thinking, so I can see why she would be worried. But for once in my life I'm actually choosing a middle path. Being sick is not my whole identity but it is finally becoming a core part of my identity and not my enemy. I am "Cyan, the GM, Vegan, Wife, Friend, Dog Mom....and sick person."

For most of the last two years I saw my illness as something "outside" of me, which caused me to:

anguish helplessly over my "affliction"

believe I can "power through it" as if it is a simple road block I can bust through

feel hatred towards my failing body and my failure to be healthy

set goals that are physically impossible for me to reach

naively plan for a near future where my illness has magically disappeared

desperately seek validation and labels from medical professionals to tell me that the invisible enemy inside me is real -- of which they could never provide enough.

There is a difference between seeing yourself as helpless in your illness, or seeing yourself as an active participant. I am a sick person because I have to take care of a sick body. Because I have to work within limitations and deal with a particular sort of suffering that other people don't. I may have limited control over that but I do have control over figuring out how to live my best life with my illness.

And the first step to that is integrating my sick parts as part of me. My body is not my enemy, it's my vessel. The problems with my body are my problems. My body is me. I am my body. We have to work together the best we can.

Of course accepting that I am sick comes with grieving. Who would not be disappointed at all the lost dreams and hopes now inaccessible, in a life where you will likely have to deal with suffering and discomfort you never wanted. But within the sadness there is so much peace. I'm not fighting it anymore. For the first time I am whole. I am sick. And that's okay.

Now I can move forward. I can take responsibility for the things I can change. I can try exercises meant for disabled/elderly people without judging myself, because that is the condition my body is in right now. I can pace myself throughout the day so I don't give myself a fever and chills and migraine from overexertion. I can make myself a meal plan to get enough nutrients, especially protein, without too much effort. I can make adjustments to my plans -- like last weekend, I tried to go out to see a movie with friends but couldn't because of my health. We rescheduled for this weekend, but instead they're going to come over and play board games because I'm in a health flare up and my body is more capable of doing that right now. Because I accepted my illness, I still get to see my friends, even if I don't get to see Dune. My illness might not get better, but I can get smarter and stronger and kinder.

And, I can understand disability rights now through the lens of being disabled. I can use my knowledge to educate my friends about disabilities, be visibly invisibly disabled, be unashamed, be proud of not just surviving but LIVING with my disabilities. Maybe someday I will even get good enough at managing my body to do real work to help other disabled people (or maybe I wont, and that's okay too.) Taking away my identity as a disabled person takes away my pride, my righteous anger at the injustice of our society and my motivation to change it.

I am not a person who is sick. I am a sick person.

[writinggoesgreen]

any story where you have an excuse to make everyone strong as hell and very sweaty is perfect to me. here are some quick inspo ideas for my most beloved au type.

commercial chain gyms have a pretty standard array of equipment (cardio machines like treadmills, rowing machines), resistance machines, mats, and free weights, and will usually focus on having a lot of machines to sustain a larger, diverse clientele. they also probably run a pretty diverse selection of classes. they may also have callisthenics and body weight training areas.

body building gyms usually look pretty different to commercial gyms - they might be smaller, and a little less shiny, for some reason. as a specialist gym, they tend to be a little smaller in terms of number of stations available. if they're targeted towards strong man competition style working out, you might even have crazy things like huge truck tires to hit with a hammer or throw around. i went to one once that had a busted fiat 500 for people to lift. i dunno. go wild.

boxing/martial arts gyms will vary depending on what martial art they are teaching. they may also teach a variety, or just one kind, depending on the trainers. a boxing gym might have punch bags and a ring, but somewhere that teaches jiu jitsu, which fights on mats, probably wont have a roped ring. there might be some overlap in what is taught (muay thai, kickboxing, and mma have similar skillsets, for example) so they might run different sessions for each. a lot of places run kids and women's classes, too. if you aren't a practitioner of the martial art you're writing, doublecheck things like if they are graded, if there is often a sparring element to training, or if there is a specific uniform, as these things vary massively.

i have never been to a women's only gym but they function pretty similarly to most standard gyms, with the general equipment you would expect. it's only really the people using it that seperates it.

yoga studios can be very small, or very big. they will usually have soft floors and mats, as well as things like yoga blocks, straps, and balls. if they also teach pilates, there might also be some pilates machines. there might also be seperate rooms, for different classes, or meditation spaces.

similarly, dance studios can be any size, and like martial arts gyms, can specialise in a single style, or multiple. maybe it's run by a single dancer who only teaches tap, or maybe there are a few instructors who teach a variety of styles. what it looks like will vary massively depending on that.

swimming pools will usually have... a body of water. they may also a sauna, a shallow pool for kids, and depending on the pool, a play area. these also tend to run classes.

here is a suggestion list of different classes a gym might run, sorted into categories. these have been pulled from as diverse a group of gyms as i could find in my area, for a more realistic selection:

cardio: body combat, spin, zumba, circuits, body conditioning, bootcamp, HIIT. strength: learn to lift, absolute abs, kettlebells, upper body blast. dance: here is a school in london with a huge variety of dance classes for inspo. martial arts: self defense, boxing for fitness. i wont list every kind of martial arts here because it's pointless, so here is the wiki page for it. note: some of these are closed cultural practices, and would not likely be taught outside of where they are traditionally practiced. misc: personal training.

after moving to a new city, character a joins a gym class at random in a desperate attempt to make some new friends.

character a starts a new job at a local gym as a personal trainer, and isn't counting on the yoga instructor being quite so... flexible.

after an injury, character a starts doing some physio work at the gym. character b is in charge of their recovery.

character a takes their kid to a swimming class every week, where character b is the instructor taking the class.

despite knowing what a cliche it is, character a develops a humiliating crush on their personal trainer. it can't be helped - character b seems to exclusively wear obscenely tight t-shirts to work.

character a is a lifeguard at the pool where character b swims every morning, and quickly becomes a very strong motivation to getting up at 5am every day.

character a works at a family-run gym, and their bumbling crush on one of the regulars, character b, is becoming increasingly difficult to hide from their nosy siblings.

working on entering their first competition, character a works with character b in some one-to-one sessions, only to find them sitting in the front row come competition day.

character a returns to training after an injury in their last fight shattered their confidence. character b, their coach, helps them get back on their feet.

[iluffyouxo]

ᔕTᖇᗩᗯᗷᗴᖇᖇY ᑕIᘜᗩᖇᗴTTᗴᔕ || 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗

stray kids — bang chan x black, female oc

“Moon? Moon? Are you even listening to me?”

The question was met with an annoyed sigh as the person it was directed at looked over at them through the corner of their eyes. “Yes, Chan, I hear you loud and clear.”

Moon returned her gaze back to the mirror in front of her, taking in her beat up state. Her nose was busted, her right eyelid was slicedㅡbut thankfully her eye hadn’t been damagedㅡand her left eyebrow had cuts all throughout it (not including the intentional cross that ran through the middle).

The multiple sources of oozing blood was tainting her hazel skin, and all she had was a giant black band-aid with wolf heads on it to cover her nose with. She wrapped smaller brown band-aids around her blooded tattooed fingers but she only had enough to wrap around a few cuts since she had already given some to Chan. She placed one on her index and two on her middle, the others were left opened to the infectious air but, that was the least of their worries.

Moon exhaled shakily and leaned against the graffiti battered, mildewed wall of the male's public restroom the two were occupying in some abandoned restaurant they always hung out in with the rest of their friends.

Moon groans as memories of the night's previous events began flashing through her mind.

The two had lost so much in such a short amount of time.

As tears began welling in her big honey colored eyes, she pulled a pack of strawberry cigarettes and a giant clear lighter out of the pocket of the oversized black Fila hoodie she had stolen from Chan months ago. A puff of flavored smoke ran through Moon's puffy lips as tears finally escaped her red rimmed eyes.

A sympathetic sigh slipped through Chan's heart-shaped lips as his own bruised hands found their way around Moon's torso. His pale fingers ran through her long raven coils. The cigarette rested on the tip of her mouth as she hugged him back, tears flowing freely.

Instantaneously and ever-so slowly, the yellowed bathroom lights began flickering and a distorted figure flashed in the mirror. The friends pushed each other away in urgency, a knowing look glittering in their eyes. Moon threw her cigarette to the ground before the two dashed out of the bathroom and into the city lights.

“Bloody hell,” the Australian growled, “Why are the streets so empty in this neighborhood?”

Suddenly, a vivid image of one of their friends getting gutted alive hurtled through their minds, followed by a high pitched scream echoing down the hollowed roads and glowing white eyes. The pair slid to a halt causing Moon to trip over her black rose boots and stumble against the cracked concrete, earning her a few new scars. She sat up, balancing herself on one knee, and looked around. They didn't know where the screeching had come from nor did they know which direction to run in.

“Let's head towards the hospital, it's just a few blocks away, I'm sure we'll make it,” Chan suggests as he offers his hand. Moon took it and hummed in response, running hand in hand with him down the street.

Another screech sounded, this time louder and so much more closer. “Dammit, dammit, dammit,” Moon hissed as her ankle began throbbing. “She's gaining on us, we need to find somewhere to hide real quick.” Chan pointed towards a large blue truck, “Let's hide under there.” They slid under the car and waited until they were sure She had disappeared for the time being.

Once they had slid from under the truck, however, Chan was met with glowing white eyes with no pupils, red tears and a sharp-toothed grin. Before he could react a porcelain hand wrapped itself around his neck and he found himself dangling meters off the ground.

Then, he was falling.

Moon shouted out his name through uncontrollable tears. In a moment of desperation Moon ran under Chan's fallen figure to become his cushion. He dropped on top of her seconds later, both collapsing to the ground. Once again the pair was awarded with more wounds but nothing severely damaging.

Moon pulled him close. “Oh, thank God...thank God!” She sobbed. “We have to go, we have to go now.” Chan and Moon stood back up and started off in a sprint towards the hospital.

Throughout the desperate try to get to safety, they were cut by Her cawls, pierced by nails in gates, tripped in puddles, pushed against brick and concrete—anything to cause more physical pain and injury.

Chan's heavy breathing was becoming uneven and Moon was now limping due to her swollen ankle. “I don't...I don't know how much more I can take,” Chan spoke, “We haven't ran into Her in a while...I feel like She's toying with us. It's only a matter of time before She gets bored and kills us off.” Moon looks up at him and gripped tight to his hand. “I know...I'm tired too...but, it's not like we can kill a ghost or whatever She is.” Chan opens his mouth to say something but is interrupted by an echoing of Ring Around The Rosie. A shiver goes up Chan's spine, “I hate that fucking song.” Suddenly, the glowing figure pops up in front of them. “Shouldn't have said that.”

The ghost opens Her mouth wide and was about to take a bite out of Chan but instead Her teeth soak into Moon's hoodie clad arm. Moon screams before snacking her arm away then, she runs off again, Chan in tow.

“Oh, God, is your arm okay?” He panicked, trying his hardest to check her arm. Moon only shooed his concerns away. “We don't have time to worry about that right now. The Emergency ER is right there!” Chan whipped his head back around to find that she was right, the 24 hour ER was glowing as it sat right across the street from them. How close they were only encouraged their erge to run faster and faster and faster.

A car whipped past causing them to come to another abrupt stop. The two had made it to a wide street with no crossing from what they could see. Moon looked behind them. There was no sign of their torment...that in itself was a bad sign. If they didn't cross now, they were going to be doomed. She looked back at Chan who held a desperate look on his face. “We have to cross now.” He looked at her slowly and shook his head. “We can't. What if this is apart of her plan? What if one of us gets hit?”Moon stares at him. She hadn't thought about those possibilities.

“Even so, those are still 'what ifs'. We at least have to try. And if we die, at least we died fighting together.”

And for the first time that night Moon smiled at him.

It was gentle and small but a smile nonetheless. Chan inhales before nodding and giving her hand a tight squeeze. “Whatever you do, don't let go of my hand...please,” He requests weakly. “Of course.”

A truck was zooming passed the speed limit as the pair made their way across the street. The sound of the truck's horn inched closer through the huffs and puffs of the exhausted couple. A determined look was painted on Moon’s face while a horrified look graced Chan’s features. “Just run a little faster,” Moon wheezed out through strangled breath. “But, what if we don't make it?” She looked back at Chan. “We're going to make it.”

A few steps later and they were both standing on the sidewalk, dangerously close to the street they had just zipped across. Moon smiled over at Chan as they walked hand in hand inside the ER. “See? I told you we'd make it.” He nods, a sigh of relief escaping his lips as he placed his head on her shoulder.

The sun was just coming up overhead. Halloween night had finally come to a close.

[mariacallous]

A revolution in weight loss is apparently underway. It started in 2021, when the FDA approved the diabetes drug semaglutide for weight loss. The weekly injectable—sold under the brand name Wegovy—can help users lose 5 to 10 percent of their body weight, leading commentators to describe the drug as both a “medical breakthrough” and a “silver bullet” for obesity. Elon Musk says he’s taking it, Kim Kardashian is rumored to be using it, and everyone from Hollywood to the Hamptons reportedly wants a prescription. 

Soon, there will be a new weight loss medication on the block—and it’s even more potent than its peers. Last fall, the FDA fast-tracked the review process for using tirzepatide as a weight loss drug after a clinical trial showed that people with BMIs labeled “overweight” or “obese” lost a staggering 22.5 percent of their body weight on the highest dose. If all goes according to plan, that will make Mounjaro the latest in a fast-growing biomedical sector—spanning everything from bariatric surgery to deep brain stimulation for binge-eating—that aims to combat, if not cure, the problem of “excess” weight. 

For pharmaceutical companies, the race to market is financially motivated: Wegovy and Mounjaro cost more than $1,000 a month. Weight loss drugs are rarely covered by insurance, but people who can afford them have proven they’re willing to pay. And the market seems effectively limitless: Despite an ongoing “war on obesity,” more than 1.9 billion adults globally are considered overweight or obese, and the number of prospective users is growing every year. Now doctors—desperate to treat what is widely seen as an “obesity epidemic”—are coming on board. In January, the American Academy of Pediatrics recommended such medications for kids as young as 12. 

The victorious narratives gilding drugs like Mounjaro are already being positioned as a direct challenge to fat activism. For decades, the movement has pushed for social and economic opportunity for people of all sizes through civil rights, fat pride and liberation, and biomedical evidence itself. Thanks to prominent voices like Audrey Gordon and Michael Hobbes, many people now know that “lifestyle changes” like calorie restriction and exercise fail to produce sustained weight loss for 97 percent of people and that many dieters end up gaining back more weight than they lost. But what happens to the strength of these arguments when a weight loss drug seems to work?

Like other purported weight loss solutions, Mounjaro promises “to fix weight stigma by making you thinner, instead of removing the stigma,” says Susanne Johnson, a fat activist and family nurse practitioner in Pennsylvania. In so doing, these drugs and surgeries further exacerbate anti-fat discrimination. Instead of criticizing people in larger bodies for their perceived lack of willpower—that old “calories in, calories out” adage—people can now blame those in bigger bodies for something more akin to a techno-pessimist, or even anti-science, stance: “Just take the miracle cure!” 

The history of the weight loss industry is more akin to prospecting for gold or investing in crypto than transplanting organs and developing antibiotics; less a story of scientific progress than an endless cycle of wild speculation, where boom inevitably gives way to bust. Fen-Phen was a miracle until it was linked to heart valve damage. Intermittent fasting was going to fix what caloric restriction couldn’t until researchers showed the two produce exactly the same results. And then there’s the complicated case of bariatric surgery.

From their inception in the 1950s, operations like gastric bypass (which reroutes food away from the stomach, inducing malabsorption) and gastric sleeve (which involves partially amputating the stomach so it holds less food and produces fewer hunger hormones) have been sold as a potential panacea, says Lisa Du Breuil, a clinical social worker at Massachusetts General Hospital. While fewer than 1 percent of people who qualify actually undergo bariatric surgery, those who do can lose up to 70 percent of their “excess” weight (or the weight above a BMI of 24.9). 

But Du Breuil, who specializes in eating disorders and substance abuse disorders, has seen some of the worst of bariatric’s side effects. People can develop dumping syndrome—wherein sugar-rich meals leave the stomach too quickly, causing sweating, dizziness, rapid heart rate, and vomiting. Gastric bypass in particular raises the risk of postoperative alcohol abuse. Rates of suicide and self-harming behaviors also rise in the years after bariatric surgery. And even when people follow strict post-operative diets, malnutrition, tooth loss, gout, and new or resurging eating disorders are possible. “It can be really challenging to get a full picture,” Du Breuil says. She learns about new side effects all the time.

Semaglutide and tirzepatide—both part of a larger family of GLP-1 receptor agonists—were developed for diabetes management at lower doses. When pharmaceutical companies noticed their trial participants were also losing weight, they realized “if we can turn the volume up to 11, we can really enhance this side effect,” says Johnson, the nurse. “That means you’re also turning up the other side effects.” 

The primary complaints from users of Ozempic, Wegovy, and Mounjaro sound like the kind of thing you can fix with a bottle (or three) of Pepto Bismol: nausea, upset stomach, diarrhea, and what one patient called “power vomiting.” But these might be less like classic “side effects” of a drug than a mechanism of weight loss itself, as The Guardian recently reported. By making the feeling of eating (and, in some cases, even hydrating) actively disgusting to the user, the drug curbs their consumption—similar to the experience of bariatric patients, who can only fit a few ounces of food in their stomachs at a time. 

The list of complications doesn’t end there. For example, both GLP-1 receptor agonists may increase the risk of thyroid cancer—one of the many BMI-linked diseases that supposedly makes weight loss absolutely imperative for people in larger bodies. And there’s good reason to believe that other side effects will reveal themselves in years to come, as the number of long-term users grows. 

The biggest surprise for many prospective patients is that long-term weight loss isn’t guaranteed—a reflection, perhaps, of the faulty assumption that people are obese because they overeat. Current estimates suggest that the average bariatric surgery patient regains 30 percent of the weight they lost in the 10 years after surgery. One in four regain all of their weight in that time. And 20 percent of people don’t respond to surgery in the first place. 

The same is true for GLP-1 receptor agonists: If you stop injecting, the weight returns. 

In case it wasn’t clear by now, biomedical weight loss interventions often mimic the deadly logic of anorexia, bulimia, or other forms of disordered eating, says Erin Harrop, a clinical social worker and researcher. Harrop would know. At the height of their own eating disorder, Harrop wished they could fill their stomach with air instead of food, or cut their stomach out, or wire their jaw shut. Later, they learned these things exist—in the form of gastric balloons, gastric sleeves, and even a magnetic jaw trap. 

It’s no surprise, then, that some people who undergo bariatric surgery experience a resurgence of a preexisting eating disorder, or develop a new one. Frequent vomiting, never knowing what foods will upset your stomach, and feeling pressure to maintain a post-surgical weight—“you can create an eating disorder that way,” Du Briel says.

But semaglutide and tirzepatide promise to fulfill an even stranger fantasy: eliminating appetite itself. While a drug like Mounjaro works on numerous fronts—including preventing the body from storing fat and “browning” existing adipose tissue—it’s the feeling of being untethered from desire that seems to fascinate patients and physicians alike. People for whom the drug works often say, “I forget to eat,” says Fatima Cody Stanford, an obesity medicine specialist at Massachusetts General Hospital’s Weight Center. 

If doctors really believe that obesity is the greater of any two evils, then this approach makes sense. When it comes to bariatric surgery, for example, a review of the medical literature suggests it is, on balance, associated with a reduction in all-cause mortality—or death of any cause*—*compared to patients with high BMIs who don’t go under the knife (though such studies are profoundly limited, as they often do not control for social factors, like income or education). Many hope that semaglutide and tirzepatide will one day prove just as vitalizing.

But eating disorders kill too. In many contexts, sustained hunger is considered a travesty. And desire—for food, or anything else—is a great way to know you’re alive. “It’s wild to me that we see no appetite as a positive thing,” says Shira Rosenbluth, an eating disorder therapist who works with people of all sizes. Anna Toonk agrees: “I realized that there are worse things than being fat,” she told The Cut last fall. “The worst thing you can be is wanting to barf all the time.” 

Ultimately, the proliferation of drugs like Mounjaro means medicine is not only in the business of dictating “normal” weights (a thing it still hasn’t quite figured out), but “normal” appetites. What was once an intuitive process, in which your body tells you what it needs, became a dictate under diet culture: You tell your body what it can have. Now medicine promises a radical reset: With the right drug, your body will hunger for nothing at all.

Weight loss technology can’t be stopped entirely—nor should it be. Everyone has the right to choose what they want to do with their bodies. But informed consent is built on information, and we may not have enough. Mounjaro was fast-tracked by the FDA based on studies designed to observe weight loss over just 72 weeks, a small fraction of the time real patients will be on the drug. At the very least, patients should be informed that in the first years after a drug hits the market, they are participants in an ongoing experiment. 

As biomedicine’s war on obesity continues, people must work harder to combat anti-fat bias—not on a technicality, but as part of the expansive vision of justice fat activists began articulating more than 50 years ago. For semaglutide, tirzepatide, bariatric surgery, and their ilk are neither miracles nor cures. There have always been fat people, and there always will be, whether they’re “non-responders” to treatment, refuseniks, or languishing on the waitlist. Notably, even those who experience dramatic weight loss after surgery or on injectables may still be overweight or obese, depending where they started. 

Perhaps most importantly, the American weight loss discourse must move away from a reflexive scientism, which has enabled biomedicine to subject the entirety of human experience to its single-minded scrutiny. Weight, like almost every aspect of embodiment, is not an exclusively biological phenomenon or a clear-cut medical “problem” to solve. It is shaped by countless factors, like power distribution in society, personal psychology, and that most frightening of forces: the desire for more.

If you or a loved one is struggling with an eating disorder, the National Eating Disorders Association Helpline is available at (800) 931-2237.

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Cloud City, Chapter Twelve - a Malevolent AU

You are taking the biggest fucking risk.

“The biggest fucking risk, Hastur, was choosing to trust you after I learned what you did.”

Hastur is silent.

“I still hate you for it,” Arthur says. “But… I trust you. I’m making that choice. And now, I need you to make that choice, too."

AO3 || Masterpost

-------

And south they go, again. It’s deeply weird for the city to be so empty even before they get to the flood zone. Arthur is beyond nervous. He keeps playing with the strap of his bag. He clenches and unclenches his fist. He keeps forgetting to breathe.

Asenath skitters ahead, but not too far—shockingly red in the normal gloom of the city, maybe even glowing a little in the dark of the night. He could almost swear he sees afterimages around her—trails of that red, kissing the air, then evaporating like smoke. Or maybe his remaining eye is just busted, and he’s not seeing anything, really.

Or maybe she’s doing that to ensure he can see.

He wonders if it’s costing her. He wonders if she’s running out of whatever remaining power is here. He wonders…

Arthur? Breathe. You stopped again.

Arthur exhales with a woosh.

This is not good for you. Let’s try this: tell me a story.

“What?” says Arthur. Whatever the witches did, it’s more than just keeping people home. Not a single light shines in any window; there’s not a voice, not a hint of cooking food. For a moment, he wonders if anyone is even conscious.

Hastur reaches across and grips his right wrist. You are old enough—you were here when Dagon’s ritual failed, yes?

Boy, is that turning the clock back. “Yes.”

Tell me about it. How old were you?

Asenath keeps skittering along, heading apparently straight for the sea; it’s still many blocks away.

Fuck it. “I was two.”

What did you know about it?

“Not much, other than it’s the reason I lost my parents.”

You never talk about them.

Arthur swallows. “That’s because they killed themselves. I really don’t like to talk about it.”

I can imagine not, but I’d like to hear about it now.

“Fine. Who else am I ever going to tell?” His throat tightens again. “They weren’t involved with that Dagon mess, but they were among the people who lost everything when it went so wrong.”

Yes… as I recall, a Mass Summoning?

“Yeah. They never work. Summoning one great being into multiple people? It never works. Always goes wrong.”

You sound very sure of that.

“I am. My parents tried it four years later. It’s how they died.”

The bugdog makes a sad, buzzy flutter.

Why would they do such a thing?

Arthur sighs. This section of the city has been abandoned all of Arthur’s life, but it's worse than further north where things are simply boarded up. The windows here are entirely covered with some kind of mold, fuzzy and green. The doors are completely missing, and he knows better than to go anywhere near those openings.

Probably there are no monsters squatting there. But if there are, they’d get him—and ocean-monsters are so much worse than monsters from the Wastes. At least if they’re from the Wastes, they’ll just kill you and eat you. Things from the sea keep you, and though you’re never seen again, it won’t be long until someone with your face and something else’s heritage comes shambling into the city, smiling and smelling of fish.

Asenath has reached the lowest point in the street where an old, ruined sign sits at the crossroads—just a pole and a couple of boards, painted, narrowed at one end to say what and which way.

She takes a moment to let him catch up. Talking, apparently, slowed him down. Or maybe he slowed because he’s just afraid. “Because they were desperate, and we had nothing but debt. I do remember that.”

Tell me.

Arthur sighs. “When that stupid Mass Summon went wrong—one god into fifty-five people? Please—it didn’t just kill them. It did… something to the ocean. But you know that.”

Tell me anyway.

Asenath peers up at him.

“You’re so ugly, you're cute, you know that?”

Flap-flap-flap. She wriggles her rear at him this time, then turns right, heading west along the street, only one block of buildings out of sight of the water.

Hastur waits.

Arthur sighs. “So those people tried their Mass Summon. Fuck if I know why. They failed, and when they did, it’s like the ocean itself got mad at them. It rose… it wasn’t a wave, but just… swallowing, engulfing, taking the city.”

Flap-flap.

“Yeah, I guess you were part of that resistance, weren’t you?” he says to her. “I know the witches saved us; did… something that calmed the sea, that maybe appeased the god behind it, or whatever. The ocean rose up there—” he points back the way they came—“all the way to eighteenth street. When it retreated back down again, not a single living thing was left in any of the buildings. Even the people who’d gotten onto their roofs disappeared.”

Quite horrible.

“Am I wrong? You guys saved us, right?” Arthur says to Asenath.

The bug-dog somehow looks absolutely pleased with itself, then scurries on.

Arthur follows.

And your parents?

“Won’t let that go, huh? Well. they lost everything. Their business was down here somewhere—I have no idea where. I’m not even sure what it was, but I do know that when the waters went back down, they had nothing. They got into debt; whatever they did for a living apparently was so damn specialized they couldn’t start again. Dad tried to get work, and so did mom, but… everyone was struggling to do that. I mean, it threw everything off. Shipping was fucked. We were cut off now by not just the Wastes, but the sea—and it had never exactly been friendly.”

So they chose Summoning to save themselves?

“Neither of them could… manage a Summon on their own, so they talked about it. Planned it out. They were going to dual Summon, then use whatever power they got to pull us out of the hole. Well. Like I said. Those never work.”

And so you were orphaned.

“Yeah. So I was orphaned.” Arthur shrugs. “Had all kinds of plans before that. Even wanted to be a sailor. Crazy, I know.”

Do I hear longing in your voice, Arthur?

Asenath took a left, heading down again down an alley.

“I wanted to see the world,” Arthur admits, following her.

A very dangerous career, Hastur purrs.

Why that pleased him, Arthur has no idea. “Well. Sailing was the best way to do it. See lots of cities and lands. Get out of this place.”

Do you still want to see the world, Arthur?

“I’ll never see the world now, so what does it matter?”

It matters.

“Sure.”

Would you, if you could?

“Hastur, I deserve jack shit. But if I could… I would. I’d go further than I even knew it was possible to go.”

Asenath stops. Ahead of her is a single door at the end of the alley. Unnervingly, the wall isn’t that high; beyond it, Arthur hears the weird, surging shush of sea on shore, and though he knows he’s safe, he shudders at the thought of how close he is to things that could take him.

The bugdog does its whispery, wing-chatter bark.

The door is locked. “Figures,” says Arthur, and picks it. “How the hell is Parker going to find this place?”

Oh, he’ll find you.

“Ominous.” The door opens, and Arthur is briefly dizzied.

It doesn’t open onto the beach. Instead, he’s facing a wide, dust-mote-filled room—high ceilings, distressed wood floors, and brick walls like a warehouse. The only things in here seem to be at the far end by the single, tall window: a long wooden table with a few odds and ends on it, and a tall, gilt-framed mirror.

Why, witch… you do have a black mirror!

A sharp, rude set of flaps.

I certainly am. This simplifies everything.

Chitter-flap.

Hastur laughs, low and wicked. Oh, I think I’ll be doing that no matter how this turns out, don’t you?

Arthur sighs. “Focus.”

Mmm… yes. This is it. Close the door behind us.

Arthur does with a gulp. “Is that where he’s going to come through? Should I lock it?”

Hard to say. We’re on the opposite side of the city now—by the docks, near the Lake. When he comes—and he will come, when he knows where you are—he could choose any number of avenues.

Arthur looks out the window. It’s covered in grimy film, and he can make out no details, but a surprising amount of light still enters; he can clearly see the room, the table, the mirror. The things on the table. “What are those?”

Flap-flap-flap.

Tools. You’re going to have to do some magick.

Arthur reaches up and touches the onyx taper in his earlobe. He’s down to his last protection; his last barrier between Hastur just burning him out, like a used piston. “How did those rings work, anyway? They weren’t attuned to me.”

They were attuned to me.

“To… to you? What did you do, have them on standby?”

They were a gift. You’re getting distracted.

“Sure.” He looks at the mirror, then at the bugdog.

Asenath’s little spirit-bug is looking… faded. If he squints, he can see through her to the boards.

“Oh, no,” says Arthur, breathing fast. “Oh, no! Oh, no!”

Shhh, Arthur, calm down.

“Fuck! She’s dying again! Fuck!”

Arthur, this is a piece. It was never going to last. It’s going to go join the rest of her in the Wood. Calm down, or you’ll waste all the effort she put into leaving this here for you.

Arthur stops as if slapped. “I can’t keep losing people tonight. I can’t.”

Arthur, that—

“I can’t!” Arthur yells it, bending at the waist, putting his whole being into the words.

The bugdog flies up to eye-level. Here, lit by the window, she is definitely see-through, and it’s dizzying to watch her hovering there. Arthur stares.

She licks his nose.

He laughs, or maybe cries, or something else, wiping his face, wiping his eyes. “You sure?”

A whispery, weird bark.

Arthur sniffles and straightens. “Okay, okay. Okay.” He reaches and just rubs the top of her head with his finger.

Are you? says Hastur, sounding very dubious. That’s all it took?

“Can you get that her not suffering matters to me?” says Arthur. “She’s… she’s really all right with this. So I guess I will be, too.”

You poor thing. Yes, indeed, she is.

“Roses on my grave, remember.”

I remember. A low, weird purr in that voice.

Arthur ignores it. “Talk me through this. How do we show Parker where we are?”

Arthur, we don’t have a plan yet.

“I do.”

A pause. Do you.

“I do.”

Well?

“I’m not telling you what it is because he can hear you, and I need you to… react honestly.”

Another pause. So you expect me to be upset. Arthur, that isn’t making me terribly confident in this plan.

“Too bad. That’s all you get.”

Asenath lands. Her wings buzz. And Arthur knows, without a doubt, that she is laughing at Hastur.

Arthur laughs, too. He blows his nose. And then he’s done. There's no more time for self-pity. He's getting what he deserves, after all. “Show me what to do.”

Are you sure?

“Yeah. I had my fucking cry. Let’s get this bastard before he hurts anyone else.”

Hastur’s hand touches his lips again, and Arthur startles. Remarkable.

“Will you stop being weird and tell me what to do?”

As you wish. On the table, you will find a feather, a living frog, three small diamonds, a complete fish skeleton, and a knife.

“Oh, this is gonna be fun,” Arthur mutters, and doesn’t mean that at all.

#

Asenath’s spell works. After it’s all done, and the frog—decorated wildly with diamonds and bones and Arthur’s blood—leaps into the mirror and disappears, Arthur is almost unsurprised to see its dark surface shimmer like a puddle in the rain as it reveals Parker's office.

Parker, on the other hand, looks stunned. He’s staring directly at them; seated at his desk, phone to his ear, dressed for a normal day of work and not murders and rot-gods. On his desk are piles of paper and a couple of boxes of evidence, odds and ends in small bags, and two coffee mugs, one fresh, the other looking unpleasantly old.

Arthur has spent time in that office. He knows its smells, knows the weird little bump in the carpet that makes it a pain to move the chair around, knows exactly how the electric lights sound overhead as they flicker. He’ll never be there again. Of all the things he’s saying goodbye to today, this one, he’s just fine losing.

“What the fuck?” Parker says, standing.

Arthur knows he’s quite the sight. His taper blew out toward the end of the spell; blood patterns that side of his face, and he’s seated on the floor. He can barely move. “Hi, Parker.”

Parker’s mouth is open, but his eyes are active; he’s clearly trying to figure out where Arthur is. “How are you doing this?”

“Favor. Last favor, from Asenath, before you fucking killed her.”

“She struck first, Arthur,” he says.

Arthur doesn’t believe him. “Probably,” he says with a shrug.

“Where the hell are you?”

“That’s why I’m reaching out.” He starts to lift his hand to his ear, seems to think better of it, drops it. “I’m done.”

Parker goes pale. “Done? Are you—fuck, you’re injured. What happened?”

Arthur wishes he could believe that fuck was on his behalf and not some wicked god’s. He sighs slowly. “John knows who killed my daughter.”

“Good?” says Parker, slowly. “Where are you, asshole?”

“He’s known for five fucking years.”

Parker stares.

Arthur, says Hastur. What are you doing?

“The whole time?” says Parker.

“The whole time. Within the first week.”

Parker stops looking at the room and looks at him instead. “You look real fucked up.”

“I am.”

“What happened?” His eyes narrow. “You go to all the trouble of fucking escaping, and here you are, doing whatever this is?”

“I’m done, Parker.”

“You said that,” he says slowly.

Arthur shakes his head. “I’m tired. I… John hurt me. He…” His voice cracks. None of this part has to be faked. “He fucking… I can’t do this.”

Arthur…

“Do what?”

“Let him win. Let him get me. He set some stupid shit up so whoever killed my daughter will get caught no matter what,” Arthur says, “but he still hasn’t told me who it is.”

Parker looks deeply wary. “How… would he have…”

“I don’t know. I was unconscious, okay?”

“Fuck,” says Parker, low. “So he’s really powerful, then.”

“He serves that fucking King in Yellow. The one who made people kill themselves.”

Arthur. Hastur’s tone is warning. I know you have a plan, but this—

Parker has gone so very still. Then he does something Arthur doesn’t expect: he smiles. “That explains a whole hell of a lot.”

“Does it? Great. I’m done.”

“You said that. What do you mean by it?”

“He. Lied. About my daughter’s murderer. Fuck him. I won’t do it. He protects his ass with whatever that setup is, but then he strings me along for five years? No. No.” Arthur’s louder, and his voice is haggard, rough. “He doesn’t get to Harvest me after what he’s done.”

Hastur inhales. Tell me this is the plan, Arthur. This is part of your plan.

Parker’s eyes lid. “Really.”

“I fucking mean it. The one thing that matters to me, the one gods-damned thing, and he….”

Arthur!

“Where. Are. You.”

“You know the warehouses on the strip between the Lake and the Ocean? I’m in one of those. John’s told me a lot of weird things about what you want to do. So has Asenath. I have one question, Parker: if you do it, if I let you do whatever this is… will it hurt him?”

Arthur!

“Will it hurt… your Summon?” says Parker, and he’s not able to hide his delight, he’s already grabbing things from his desk, he’s snatching his jacket. “Oh, yeah. It’ll hurt him. Bad. Especially now that we know who he serves.”

“Fine. Then come get me. I don’t care.”

Arthur! Fucking… Arthur! Will you listen to me?

“Which warehouse?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t… I don’t have the strength to go back down.”

That gets him upset. “Shit. I’m coming. Shit.” Anger flashes over his face. “You better not be fully fucked up. You better not, Arthur.”

Arthur shrugs.

“You can walk? The asshole doesn’t have the rest of your body, right?”

“Just the eye and the hand. I’m just… I’m tired. I haven’t eaten. This magick thing? This favor from Asenath? It took it out of me. I’m not good with magick, you know that.”

“Okay. Okay.” Parker calms a little. “I’m coming. Don’t you fucking move. I’ll find you.” And he leaves.

Arthur finally releases the will keeping that connection open, and falls onto his back with a sigh.

The frog hops back out, shakes off the feather and bones and jewels, and hops off into the gloom. Arthur can’t be bothered to watch.

Arthur, what the fuck was that? He’ll bring backup!

“No, he won’t. There is no backup right now.”

How the hell do you know that?

“Did you see what was on his desk? City map. He had pins where the witch streets were—and  I recognized the colors he was using.”

And?

“Green means under control, problem solved. Yellow means in progress. Red means emergency, not enough officers, or maybe none at all. Guess what, Hastur? All but one witch street was red.” Arthur grins at the ceiling. “Anybody he has is already out there, and I don’t think he’s going to take time to go around picking people up.”

You are taking the biggest fucking risk.

“The biggest fucking risk, Hastur, was choosing to trust you after I learned what you did.”

Hastur is silent.

“I still hate you for it,” Arthur says. “But… I trust you. I’m making that choice. And now, I need you to make that choice, too.”

To trust you.

“This is going to be ugly. Trust me. That’s all.”

Hastur sighs. If this doesn’t work—

“Curtains. I know. I know.”

Asenath toddles over. Her little bug form is almost completely invisible now, only legs, spots, and parts of the face visible. She presses her cold nose to his cheek.

To his surprise, he can touch her, and does, stroking her buggy back for a moment. “I know. You’ve got to go. It’s all right. You’ve done… everything. Thank you. Not just for this. For all of it. Thank you, Asenath. You can rest now.”

She makes a little sound— whispery, oddly sweet—and touches her nose to his cheek one more time. Then she’s gone. Just gone.

He feels the absence. Maybe he’s crazy, and the true loss of someone that special doesn’t really make a difference, but he swears he feels it. The world’s lesser without her. He’s sure. He hopes the stupid goat god (or whatever the Mother is) appreciates what it just gained.

Arthur sighs. “He’ll be here in about twenty minutes. Can you wake me in ten?”

Sure, Arthur. I can do that.

“Trusting you.” And he’s out. He’s out the moment he closes his eyes, and he absolutely does not dream.

(chapter thirteen)