#larson boats

[otwdfanfic]

@artinandwritin inspired me to rewatch curse of the black pearl and I immediately created the most out of pocket otwd au

[coimbrabertone]

Martinsville Cooked...Until It Was Cooked

Now, I will go ahead and admit this: I think I'm the polar opposite of a NASCAR boomer when it comes to tracks. I like most of the 1.5s, while I generally find the little bullrings like Bristol and Martinsville to be more demo derby than good racing. That being said...I think the Martinsville cutoff race yesterday delivered.

At least until the playoff shenanigans soured the end of the race.

One step back though, because let me set the stage for all this first.

I missed stage one of the race, ironically enough - I needed a bit of a break from racing after the Brazilian Grand Prix went from a chaotic wet race to the worst guy in the sport running away with it - but when I tuned in early on in stage two, it was already looking surprisingly good.

Chase Elliott was leading off strategy, Byron was gaining on him, but then behind them it was a pair of Fords battling with Brad Keselowski ahead of Ryan Blaney. Now, the way things were going, Byron could point his way into the championship four, as could Christopher Bell in the #20 Toyota, but...

Chase Elliott in the #9 Hendrick Chevrolet, Kyle Larson in the #5 Hendrick Chevrolet, and Ryan Blaney in the #12 Penske Ford were all heading towards a must-win scenario.

Thus, we had two Hendrick teammates battling and potentially knocking each other out of the playoffs, while behind, a pair of Fords were reeling them in.

Brad Keselowski was out of the playoffs, but he was racing for pride. He wanted to win at Martinsville.

Ryan Blaney, however, won at Martinsville the previous year to advance to Phoenix and won the championship that way.

Then Byron gets ahead of Elliott.

But...a caution comes out for Burton spinning, and it immediately breeds another when Truex also goes around. For a moment, I thought "ah crap we're getting into the short track nonsense part of the race" but no, not quite...instead, it led to a crucial strategic choice.

Byron and Elliott both pit off the Truex caution, Blaney and Keselowski stay out, along with Hamlin and Bell who are also sniffing the chance to advance.

And to add insult to injury, Elliott has a slow stop and drops to the back of the fresh tyre cars.

Keselowski gets out ahead and manages to win the second stage ahead of Blaney, Hamlin, Larson, Byron, and Bell.

This stage makes it official that Blaney and Elliott are must-wins, and Hamlin is more or less in the same boat. With non-playoff car Keselowski in the lead, as they run:

Logano is locked in from his win at Vegas.

Reddick is locked in from his win at Homestead.

Byron is 15 points above the cutoff line.

Larson is 6 points above.

Bell is 6 points below but can win tiebreakers off of previous results.

Hamlin is 17 below.

Ryan Blaney must win to advance.

Chase Elliott must win to advance.

Bell, however, can clinch a spot no matter what so long as he finishes 13th or above, therefore, Byron and Larson are in a points battle for the fourth and final spot. A points battle that becomes a moot point if any one of Hamlin, Blaney, or Elliott win.

Stage three is quite literally 200 laps long, so it turns into a bit of a lull for awhile as cars need to knock off laps, but then...Ryan Blaney begins his charge.

He overtakes Larson, goes hunting down Byron.

Catches Byron as William is lapping Shane Van Gisbergen, so Ryan Blaney bumps SVG up and into Byron, slipping underneath the both of them to take position. This is the kind of move that they say Martinsville is all about, bumping, banging, ruthless, but smart. All three cars continue.

Blaney again catches up to Keselowski but the #6 is a wily old fox and makes it hard to pass.

Fast forward to 117 to go, and it looks an awful lot like stage two; Elliott is leading after an earlier pitstop gave him the undercut, Byron is faster and is hunting him down, while Keselowski and Blaney in the Fords are also entering the picture.

A spin by Carson Hocevar gives all of them the chance to pit.

Meanwhile, Byron, Larson, Ryan Preece, and Austin Cindric stay out, making a play for track position.

The green flag comes out, Larson overtakes Byron, Cindric overtakes Preece, and the yellow comes out again as Kyle Busch lost a wheel on the restart. Byron is angry because he feels they shouldn't have restarted at all given a car lost a wheel, but NASCAR declares that Larson is the leader.

And in the following stint, things start to fall apart for Byron.

Elliott gets him off the restart, Blaney follows not long after, and even the likes of Cindric and Hamlin start pressuring him.

So at this point, it's Larson, Elliott, and Blaney the top three and each of them are in must-win scenarios given how Byron is running and how Bell has a points advantage.

Elliott forces his way inside of Larson to take the lead with 24 to go and completes the pass in turn one, keeping Larson out wide as Blaney grabs the draft and tries to follow him through.

Larson gets down in front of Blaney before turn three, but Larson is maybe a foot higher up in the lane than Blaney is, and that's all Ryan needs as he bumps Larson up in just the right way and then barges through to go side-by-side onto the start-finish straight, completing the pass in turn one.

Larson tries to bump Blaney up and retake the position, but Blaney keeps enough traction in the upper groove to come out ahead onto the backstretch. Now, he starts reeling in Elliott.

Ten laps later, Blaney sends it up the inside in turn three, gets a nose ahead through four, and comes onto the start-finish straight ahead of Elliott to take the lead with fourteen laps to go. Blaney restarted behind Cindric and Hamlin, overtook them both, overtook Byron, and charged through Larson and Elliott as well.

He literally moved through 3/4ths of Hendrick Motorsports to move into the lead. A hell of a drive.

Unfortunately...this is where the shitshow began.

Hamlin and Cindric moved ahead of the struggling Byron as well by this point, so Byron is sixth, the worst position he can be in and still advance. Ross Chastain, Austin Dillon, and Brad Keselowski are all behind Byron and are all faster.

Now, William Byron drives for Chevy, as do Chastain and Dillon.

Joey Logano, locked into the playoffs already, is a Ford driver.

Tyler Reddick, also locked in, drives for Toyota.

Ryan Blaney, about to win his way in, is in a Ford.

Larson and Elliott are out of it with Blaney winning and pulling ahead, while Christopher Bell with the points advantage is in 19th in a Toyota. Byron needs to finish 13 places ahead of Bell to advance, and 6 is exactly 13 ahead of 19.

If Chastain or Dillon pass their fellow Chevrolet, they'd be knocking their manufacturer out of the final four.

So instead, Dillon plants himself on the bottom, Chastain on the top, and they effectively block for Byron, keeping him in sixth place regardless of how slow he is.

So, Chevy is making sure that Byron doesn't lose points.

Now, what does Toyota do?

Well, Bubba Wallace starts reporting with three to go that he feels like a tyre is going down. He is off the pace, and Bell starts gaining on him, passing him in the final corner of the final lap.

Pause now, because what happens next flips the script.

At this moment, with Bell going around him, does Bubba Wallace really have a tyre going down? Technically speaking, it doesn't even matter, because he doesn't say he for sure has one, just that it feels like he has one. There's no penalty for thinking your car has a problem and driving accordingly.

And from his onboard, he does definitely seem to be struggling, and you can see cars going past him and establishing a gap.

That being said, as far back as ten to go, Bubba's onboard does show his spotter keeping him informed of the points situation between Byron and Bell.

And here's an interesting thing as well: at the start of the final lap, Wallace is forced high as Byron, Dillon, Chastain, Keselowski, and Logano, that whole group of cars, goes underneath him to put a lap on him. So he clearly sees the two Chevys behind Byron protecting him from the pair of Fords behind.

The #20 of Bell, also a lap down, tries to take the opportunity to slip under Wallace as well, however, he has a wobble in the middle of it, loses control, and hits the wall. Bell panics, throttles it, and rides the wall to the finish, crossing the line in 18th place.

This ties things with Byron, thus, Bell advances off the back of a tiebreaker.

The problem here is...you smell that smell? Yeah, that's the stench of bullshit.

You quite literally have two cases of race manipulation to gets drivers into the final four. Byron had two other Chevrolets blocking for him in a move which the fanbase has already memed as either Byron's Armada or the Chevy Motorcade - let me know which one you think is funnier in the comments - while with Toyota...

The generous interpretation is that Wallace had a genuine problem, was slow, and his spotter was keeping him informed on Bell just to keep one Toyota from taking out another.

The less generous interpretation is that 23XI informed Wallace that Bell was behind and needed one more point to advance, so they had Wallace fake a problem and deliberately slow down to make sure that Bell got through.

Bell did get through, however, he slipped on the marbles as it happened and wound up in the wall and decided to ride the wall to the finish. This is problematic, as the Martinsville wall ride was explicitly banned after 2022 when Ross Chastain used it to propel himself into the final four.

There is a bit of a distinction, in that Bell was initially attempting the corner instead of full throttling it into the wall, however, the end result is the same as Bell was full throttle against the wall at the end.

And that wall ride, I think, gave NASCAR an easy out as we unpause, because it makes what Christopher Bell did go from dubiously legal to definitely illegal.

You see, without it, you had Chevy definitely doing some race manipulation to keep Byron in the playoffs, while Toyota very likely had race manipulation as well to get Bell into the final four, so this was going to be a very sticky situation as NASCAR would have to figure out how to put an end to these manufacturer games.

Manufacturer games which have already flared up twice this season. First at Daytona, when RCR got pissed off at Parker Retzlaff for pushing Harrison Burton in an attempt to win the race, rather than helping Kyle Busch in another Chevrolet take the win.

Secondly, at Talladega, where Kyle Larson didn't push the Ford of Brad Keselowski to the win, instead allowing the fellow Chevy of Ricky Stenhouse Jr. to take the victory.

These races have decided who goes to the playoffs and who advances in the Round of 12, and now, we've seen two manufacturers manipulating the cutoff race for the final four.

And at least in the case of Chevrolet, we know for sure that there was a coordinated effort to help Byron.

Why? Well, remember Austin Dillon's spotter from Richmond? The guy who yelled "wreck him!" over a monitored radio channel as Dillon took a swipe at Hamlin to win the race? A bit of radio that caused NASCAR to strip Austin Dillon of a playoff berth?

Well, Dillon's spotter, henceforth known as Loose Lips, said the following things over the radio:

LL: "The #24 is two points to the good, if we pass him, he'll be out."

AD: "Does the #1 know the deal?"

LL: "Trying to find him to tell him...Justin, can you tell the crew chief also, clear off."

AD: "Does the #1 crew chief know the deal?"

LL: "Yeah, he should"

Like...Jesus Christ you amateur, watch what you say when you're doing something borderline illegal. You'd think he'd learn his lesson after the whole Richmond thing but evidently not.

So yeah, Chevrolet was definitely helping Byron, and as for Bubba Wallace, his car is currently being torn down by NASCAR. According to Bob Pockrass, the expectation is that there will be some sort of penalty if NASCAR finds nothing wrong with the car.

Oh and, because of how toxic the NASCAR fanbase is, I have to say this part: Bubba Wallace did what his team and his manufacturer expected him to do. The fact that he is black does not make him any more guilty than Austin Dillon or Ross Chastain.

Unfortunately, if Bubba Wallace is found to have helped Bell, I expect he'll receive the blunt of the criticism from a certain subsection of the fanbase. Don't be like them. Wallace is not the problem, Chastain is not the problem, Dillon, as dumb as he and his spotter are, is not the problem either.

Chevrolet wants a Chevy to win the championship, Toyota wants a Toyota to win the championship.

This is an inevitable result of the increasing amount of manufacturer alliances and tiered support.

So yeah, Chevy was stinking up the show, Toyota was probably stinking up the show as well, and that little wall ride by Bell gave NASCAR a way of ruling on the issue without addressing the core issue.

Both Byron and Bell benefitted from cars of the same manufacturer, so you can't punish one without punishing the other, however, Bell is the only one to benefit from a wall ride, therefore, NASCAR sends him to the back of the field based off that, and Byron advances to the final four with none of the manufacturer stuff addressed.

We'll see this week if NASCAR rules on either incident, but I'm not holding out hope.

NASCAR is not going to do anything that might piss off a manufacturer, not when nobody new has entered the sport since 2007.

Anyway, I feel bad for Blaney in all this, because he had this heroic drive to overtake all these other playoff cars and advance to the final four, getting the chance to defend his title. And instead of talking about that, everyone's just talking about this Chevy and Toyota drama.

So of the championship four: Tyler Reddick's team is suing NASCAR, Joey Logano is fifteenth in regular points and only got this far because Bowman was disqualified at the Charlotte roval, and William Byron advanced off the back of all this bullshit.

I really hope Ryan Blaney wins the championship, because anyone else would lead to an unbearable amount of offseason discourse.

[hasturs-fanboy-number-one]

ok so my friends and i spent a large amount of time discussing whether the invisible creature can pass the harkness test which led to a discussion of what other non-humans in the podcast can ethically be fucked which led to us categorizing stuff

so i present to you

malevolent fuckability tier list

full transcription, tier explanation and stuff below

MILFS tier - gotta pay respect to the lades: shub, the witch, mother darkness (will add lilith once she gets some action)

there are basically no not fucked up humans on this tier list cos it's a) boring and b) this is a creechurs, places and concepts tier list

everyone above grey area passes the harkness test so they can be ethically and consentualy fucked

onto the tiers!

KIY tier - he's a mandatory entry on everyones sex tourism, seeing as he's being fucked over for four seasons straight, also i'm biased towards my dear wife

FUCK YEAH tier - can give enthusiastic consent and be into it: larson, the moss cave from ep 15, horig, prison guards (if they can be employed they can be fucked), lorick, yorick, grand vizier from ep 40 (the tentacle-face thing that was parroting john), scratch, kayne, the three soldiers, mr faust, the dancers (mentioned in ep 20 as the kings heralds, same logic as the prison guards), malam, the creature from the labyrinth in ep 17, the hand of malevolence (can not speak but is literally a perfect toy and is an object), the trader from the dreamlands, that person that was hiding in the mines on the rafters in ep 27

ZOO BUT IT'S OK ACTUALLY tier - butcher is a dog but that won't stop anyone

HEAR ME OUT tier - it's hot if you're not a coward: the forest from ep 14, the dreamlands desert, the big cave, the ship in the desert from ep 15, the dreamlands as a whole, hyadies, greystone, blackstone, the sandstorm, the plateu, the a-frame ceiling from maries house, the wallussy (ep 41 and whatever glory hole in the tavern arthur was looking through at his past self when kayne was explaining the malevolent cinematic universe in intermenzzo), the fog from ep 8, the crystalizer of dreams

HARKNESS TEST GREY AREA tier - we could not determine if they'd be able to consent due to the states of awareness they're in being unclear: uncle (does not speak and seems to have a child-like behaviour at times), the invisible monster from the mines in s3 (can speak but poorly, might be larsons daughter, unclear if it retains speech once disconnected from the people it feeds on), the wraith from s1 (seems out of it mostly), the things arthur said were similar to the devils from the bible in ep 14 in the forest (not clear on what intelligence they poses), the eye tentacle monster from ep 9 (also unclear)

ZOO tier - creatures that have intelligence closer to that of an animal: the widow from ep 8 (she was a mindless ghoul at that point), the two policeman from ep 9 (and all policeman in general), the thousand young, the hound of tindalos from ep 5 (the fucked up fractal dog), the rats that chased arthur in the hotel in ep 10, the spider from that same hotel, thhe snake-electric eel thing from the boat in the dreamlands ep 15, the maggots (season 5), owlexander (he's sus but until further notice will remain in this category), the worm things taht burrowed in oscars arm in ep 37, the tadpoles from the river/lake from ep 11

NECRO tier - frank (more specifically his corpse in ep 18), mr faust again, the prince (dead and delirious). excluded from this tier were arthurs corpse and parkers corpse for the lack of screenshotable transcriptions

[cuffmeinblack]

2 for andrew or 8 for leander ehehehehehe

Last Chance

Andrew Larson x f!reader

“Let's ruin ourselves for anyone else.”

Tags: explicit | drug use | sex | admission of feelings

2k words

A/n: Unexpectedly confident Andrew? Sure, why not. I need to stop writing smut when I'm sick. Thank you for the request m'love <3

⤍ Andrew Larson masterlist ⤎

Quite how you found yourself in the boathouse on the last night of term wasn't clear. It had likely been the only unoccupied place in the entire castle grounds. The astronomy tower had been claimed, as had most of the classrooms and even the greenhouses—a flash of ginger and rustling amongst the dittany had you rushing out of there before you saw anything that would require scrubbing from memory. It was cool despite the hot weather, the spray from the lake soaking every inch of the worn planks underfoot that flexed and creaked with every tentative step. None of this mattered, though, once you met Andrew's warm chestnut eyes that seemed to draw you in, quite literally. He was so close, so warm and solid and tempting. Expectation hung thick in the muggy air despite the very innocent request that you'd prefer to find somewhere quiet to talk, away from the raucous parties within the castle.

When Andrew finally broke the silence it was with small talk. “I can't believe it's really over.”

“I know. It's bittersweet, isn't it?”

You pulled a small tin out of your robe pocket, the Honeydukes logo scratched and worn from years of use. Andrew watched, likely expecting an offer of a sherbet, but inside lay a healthy stash of mallowsweet, already rolled and neatly packed. “Do you want one?” you asked, expecting an emphatic ‘no’ from the straight-laced Ravenclaw, but to your great surprise he nodded. You smiled and offered the tin, his delicate fingers pinching a cigarette and holding it awkwardly as far away from his body as humanly possible. “Would you do the honours?”

Andrew blinked and then withdrew his wand, producing a tiny flickering flame from the tip. The first drag warmed your throat and filled your chest, the potent mallowsweet working wonders to calm your nerves that you knew had everything to do with being here with Andrew. The man himself spluttered a little but got the hang of it after a while. The quietly stifled coughs and the way he tucked his hand under his opposite arm and shuffled about as if he had no idea how to stand was so endearing you might have kissed him then. You'd been saying as such for over a year, and now…now it was too late.

“I didn't think you'd take me up on the offer,” you admitted.

“Well, it is our last night, and I don't know how many opportunities I'll have to do so working for the Ministry.”

“You’re right, my money's on opium.”

Andrew's eyes widened and you chuckled and nudged him playfully.

“Is there anything you'll regret not doing before you leave this place?” he asked, suddenly serious.

You blew a stream of smoke into the air and tossed your stub to the ground where it fizzled, flame dying beneath your boot. The question was innocuous enough, but it was as if he'd read your mind, or perhaps correctly discerned why you both stood in the dank boathouse on a warm Summer's night. The truth had seemed far too risky to speak until now. The friendship you'd cultivated with Andrew was special; a fragile and beautiful thing that you couldn't bear to lose due to one unrequited admission. Besides, he was to relocate to London and you…well, you would be sent wherever Gringotts deemed necessary, tracing old rumours of forgotten treasures. You'd made peace with the fact; the nomadic lifestyle you'd expect from your chosen career path. Until now.

“There is one thing,” you replied vaguely, watching him closely. He leaned back against a wooden pillar and gazed down at the lapping waters that swayed the row boats with a faint and rhythmic clatter. To hell with it. “I regret not asking for more between us.”

He swallowed hard, and exhaled heavily. You weren't sure if he'd expected the answer or not, but either way it had unsettled him. When he looked up through the strands of dislodged ashen hair, your heart momentarily stopped. His pupils were blown, cheeks flushed the softest pink you'd ever seen. Everything around him grew hazy and dreamlike.

“Me too. I've been a bit of a coward, haven't I?”

He stepped closer now, salt spray unable to mask the scent of mallowsweet and patchouli. Maybe a hint of citrus. 

“Maybe we both have been.” The mood suddenly shifted from awkward anticipation into something solemn and regretful. It really was too late. “We could have been good together, I think.”

Andrew sighed and slipped a hand around your waist, the movement sending a pleasant tingle up your spine. His nose brushed the tip of yours, lips parted and warm, shuddering breaths mingled for far too long. The tension was unbearable and your fingers were clasped so tightly into the cloth of his shirt it must have strained at the seams. He might have been considering his actions—how wise this was, the pros and cons of giving in, like a truly analytical Ravenclaw—or perhaps he was just too shy to close the distance.

“If you kiss me I don’t think I’ll want to stop,” you muttered. It might have been a warning, or maybe an enticement, but it was the truth. Another sharp inhale and a tighter grip, now Andrew’s lips hovered so close to your own there was barely space between to draw your own breath. There was something distinctly intimate about sharing each other’s air.

“Is that a promise?” His reply sent more than a shiver up your spine—it set your very nerves on fire, insides squirming and tension pooling. Your eyelids fluttered closed as you nodded, practically falling into the kiss that followed. Your back hit a wall soon after in the frantic and desperate entwining of bodies, as if a dam had exploded the moment your lips touched. One more chance to make a memory, one final hurrah. This was setting you up for heartbreak come morning, but none of that mattered now, not in this blissful moment when you finally got the answers to the questions of how Andrew tasted, what his body felt like pressed against you, how he kissed and touched and moaned (delicious, firm, enticingly, possessively, breathily). His mouth was at your throat and suddenly it was impossible to breathe. The way he encircled your waist to hold you in place, the gentle suction at your nape and the leg that slid between your thighs spoke of a confidence and experience you hadn’t expected.

“I can’t stand the thought of anyone else…,” you said before he slid you forward onto his thigh. The friction made you gasp his name, right into his waiting mouth.

“Don’t,” he breathed back.

His body had stilled except for the circles his thumbs pressed into your waist, and then he pulled back just enough to look at you. There was more than friendship, more than lust in that look.

“I wish we had done this last year,” you admitted.

“Would you still have taken the job as a cursebreaker?”

“I don’t know.”

He smiled sadly and brushed a stray lock of hair from your face. “If tonight is all we have, let's ruin ourselves for anyone else.”

The words elicited such a visceral reaction you almost whimpered and you pulled him firmly by his shirt to close the distance between you. Your hand found his hair and gripped him tightly, letting the last of your inhibitions melt away with his kiss. Tears of longing fell behind closed lids, the pain of time wasted and what could have been driving you closer. Your fingers fumbled at his shirt buttons, the last two ripped away in a desperate need to feel his skin warm against yours. Andrew had already shrugged off your top layer with deft hands and was exploring the slope between neck and shoulder with his tongue. Words weren’t enough, so instead you concentrated on the frenzied merging of body and soul.

A large hand kneaded your breast as he groaned against your skin, and then you felt the unmistakeable hard length grinding against your hip. His name fell unbidden from your lips in a heady haze of arousal and sweet pleasure. His other hand had found its way between your thighs and was gently caressing the fabric of your undergarments. It wasn’t enough to relieve the throbbing ache, not at all, no matter how much you ground your hips against his fingers.

“Andrew, please...” You pleaded without shame, dipping your hand below the hem of your skirt to pull at your underwear and wriggle free with his help. His hand came back up to meet bare skin, then pressed further to find you wet and quivering. 

“Fuck.” The expletive caught you off guard and was as shocking as Andrew having his fingers circling your clit. You let out a shuddering moan of relief as his slick digits began a rhythmic caress. You were vaguely aware of his cock nudging your hip again and his tongue sliding across yours between gasping moans. It was rather sloppy and entirely wonderful. Your fingers managed to unbutton his trousers whilst partially dazed and writhing with the sweet escalation of your climax. You felt the weight of him, his girth filling your hand. Then he let out an absolutely filthy moan once you started to stroke him.

“I need you inside me right now,” you commanded.

His fingers carried on their tight circles as he thrusted into your hand—as if he hadn’t heard you at all—until suddenly the pressure was gone and he retreated. As if he’d slapped you, your mouth fell open in shock and indignation until he spun you around, hands planted firmly against the wall. His cock slid between your cheeks whilst he spread your legs and pressed his chest against your heaving back, kissing every available inch of skin around your neck, jaw, forehead.

You braced yourself as you felt him nudge at your entrance, dripping wet against his twitching cock. Nails scraped the wall and gathered dirt beneath your nails and your head fell back against his shoulder as he pushed inside you. The stretch was gloriously satisfying, and once he’d filled as much as you could take, he turned your head to press his lips to yours. There was no time for second guessing, no question of turning back now.

Stars perforated your vision as soon as he started to move in earnest, withdrawing almost all the way before plunging back inside you, over and over again. He found your breasts again, massaging in time to each roll of his hips. Groans and gasping moans filled the cavernous structure, loud and completely unimpeded. His name, your name, begging for more and harder, faster, until you couldn’t stop the explosion that rattled your brains and turned your body to a limp mess. The orgasm tore through you, only barely aware of Andrew holding your neck as he pounded into you before shuddering and spilling his release, warm and wet and so copious it ran down your thigh. Your hand that looped around the back of his neck kept him close as the last pulses faded away. Not that he seemed interested in going anywhere; he held you tightly and murmured against your skin for quite some time.

It was so perfect you almost wept.

“Ask me to stay,” you said, quite unexpectedly.

A moment passed, silent.

“Stay. Stay with me.”

Perhaps it was the beautiful afterglow but when you looked back at your so-called friend you couldn’t say deny him. The thought of leaving felt unthinkable, the mere suggestion that you go your separate ways and love another was unacceptable. A great lump formed in your throat when you kissed him again, the terrifying truth that he meant more than the career you’d planned for yourself.

“Ask me again in the morning.”

“Will you change your mind before then?” he asked.

“No, but I like the illusion that it’s a hard decision.”

Andrew smiled, his shy demeanour returning despite still being buried inside you. It had started to rain, the gentle patter a soothing backdrop as you both cleaned up and dressed, slowly and with plenty of lingering gazes over one another. You saw warmth and affection reflected in his eyes. As he took your hand without question, you realised it was time to return to the festivities and revel in the fact that the entire trajectory of your life had just changed. Maybe it was reckless, but you supposed some things, some people were worth taking a chance on.

[boatmediatourney]

🌊Sad Soggy Boat Men Lineup🌊

in rough alphabetical order (excluding titles) and not in ranked position!

Aeneas (The Aeneid)

Captain Ahab (Moby Dick)

Blackbeard/Captain Teach (Our Flag Means Death)

Bootstrap Bill (Pirates of the Caribbean)

Captain Crow (The Sea Beast)

Captain Hiram Nightingale (Leeward)

Daniel Solace (1899)

Davos Seaworth (Game of Thrones)

Edward Little (The Terror)

Eyk Larson (1899)

Lieutenant Henry Le Vesconte (The Terror)

Henry Wellard (Hornblower)

Horatio Hornblower (Hornblower)

Ishmael (Moby Dick)

Izzy Hands (Our Flag Means Death)

Jack Rackham (Black Sails)

James Fitzjames (The Terror)

James Flint (Black Sails)

Jason (Argonautica, etc)

John Silver (Black Sails)

Joshamee Gibbs (Pirates of the Caribbean)

Krester (1899)

Minamitsu Murasa (Touhou Project)

Missouri Kite (The Kingdoms)

Noah (The Bible)

Odysseus (The Iliad & The Odyssey)

Orth Godlove (COUNTER/Weight)

Paragon (The Liveship Traders)

Patrick Sumner (The North Water)

Captain Edward Pellew (Hornblower)

Pip (Moby Dick)

Stephen Maturin (Master and Commander)

The Mariner (Waterworld)

Theon Greyjoy (Game of Thrones)

Tom Ripley (The Talented Mr Ripley)

Usopp (One Piece)

Voronwë (The Silmarillion)

White Jacket (White Jacket)

William Laurence (Temeraire series)

Zolf Smith (Rusty Quill Gaming)

[ioletia]

The midseason trailer of Agatha All Along came out. And I have thoughts. I guess spoilers?

Why directly spoil that Teen was Billy Maximoff?

We haven't even heard it in the show yet. It's implied, but unless you've been digging through fan theories, it wasn't 100% absolutely definitely certain. The trailer spoiled a big reveal. So, why?

Rhetorical. I know why. All the MCU bros fucking hated this show. I'd seen a few hot takes from the man-o-sphere about how the show was "terrible" and that we didn't need a show about some side villain from Wanda's story. Because, if you didn't know, the MCU's fan are historically and to this very day mostly misogynistic man-children who want their masculine men to shoot colored lights at each other while saying sarcastic one liners. Emotions? Trauma? That's for the women characters who rarely ever play a crucial role in defeating the big bad. So Disney, to save face, released a trailer that basically says, "HEY! That super hero ya'll wanted, the one that sets up the next phase of the MCU AND that's a man, is revealed here. So, you have to watch it if you want his backstory."

Hopefully, the queer sapphic shenanigans continue to an enjoyable conclusion. Hopefully, this show wasn't just a vehicle to get Wiccan into the MCU. Hopefully, Disney stops catering to the man-children within the fandoms- but considering they bullied Brie Larson out after her origin movie (which I liked), I doubt Disney will rock the boat anytime soon.

[youarebeingshaggedbyarareparrot]

Worse things happen at sea: Art in the Paris 2024 Olympic Opening Ceremony

So everyone has been sounding off about the Paris' Olympic Opening Ceremony. Mainly about the supposed 'insult to Christians everywhere' with the recreation of Di Vinci's 'The Last Supper'.

(I'd like to go on the record that 1. you pose any group of folk in a line facing the viewer with a barrier at hip height and it's gonna look a little 'The Last Supper'-y, 2. clearly the hand wringers had forgotten that the artist was Di Vinci. The man would be pointing and laughing at them and be living it up on that bridge between Nicky Doll and DJ Butch, and 3. Da Vinci painted enough portraits of Bacchus, he would have known what's up.)

Anyway, a lot of art was incorporated and celebrated but there's one piece that did featured that had me performing a mental emergency stop and NO ONE ELSE is talking about it so I need to know I wasn't the only one to spot this.

So, opening ceremony, we're following our mysterious torch bearer as they race through the the Louvre to the strains of 'Danse macabre', (French composer Camille Saint-Saëns). The eyes of the paintings occupants follow their progress until we see frames with empty back drops, the paintings' subjects having come alive to watch the festivities from the windows. But the last empty frame... my people...

Our mystery guide stands in front of this for nearly 3 seconds, at the 1hr 42min 11sec mark in the BBC coverage. Now, I can't make out the plaque at the bottom of the frame, but I am prepared to place good money that this is Théodore Géricault's 'Le Radeau de la Méduse', or 'The Raft of the Medusa'.

Completed in 1819, this piece is considered the best work of its' French artist and an icon of the French Romanticism movement. It's chuffing huge, over 16ft by 23ft, and it is stunning.

It also depicts one of the worst events in French maritime history.

In June of 1816, the French frigate The Medusa left France for Senegal on the west coast of Africa. At her helm was a captain who had not sailed in 20 odd years and got the post through connections and political clout. And he fucked it up royally. The Medusa drifted 100 miles off course and ran aground off Mauritania. After 3 days of failing to shift the boat, the 400 or so people aboard has choices to make. They were 30 miles from land and there were 6 boats, room for 250 people. Some stayed aboard the stranded vessel but at least 146 men and one woman boarded a jerry-rigged raft. The plan was for it to be towed by some of the boats, but after only a few miles it was turned loose.

For 13 days, exposure, mutiny, disease, dehydration and starvation ravaged the survivors, whittling nearly 150 down to 15. It was in my fact checking for this that I learnt the lovely little term ‘a custom of the sea’. In layman’s terms, cannibalising your crew mates to survive. They were spotted by chance, no search effort had been made by the French. A further 5 died in the days following rescue. British naval officers helped the survivors to return to France because aid from the French government didn’t appear and the captain, who had made it to land fine, was more interested in recovering the gold on board the Medusa. He was court marshalled and should have been executed, but in the end served 3 years in prison. He was the inciting incident for a law to passed that ensured that promotions in the French military would thereafter be based on merit.

Now all this came hurtling into my head because I remember reading a book called 'Severed' by Frances Larson, all about the cultural and historical fascination with decapitation. There's a section in the chapter of severed heads in art about how Géricault went hard on the research for this painting; visited morgues and hospitals, brought home specimens to watch decay rate, y'know, stuff that absolutely wouldn't blow your safety deposit. But yeah, I'm there with dawning horror and ice in my blood as we look at a very French painting, of a French maritime tragedy, brought about by the hubris and arrogance and incompetence of the higher ups who had no right being there, where comrades and crew turn on each other in a horrific fight for survival, with the spooky dancing bones classical piece playing in the background...

And not 20 seconds later we are rejoining the action of the flotilla on the Seine, 'Fraternit��' writ large over the boat with Cyprus, Columbia and Comoros waving excitedly and soggily at us.

Thomas Jolly, opening ceremony artistic director, I need to buy you a drink and we need to chat. I need to study you. I have been turning this over in my brain for a week, what are you trying to say?! Was I the only one to hear it?!

[sherbertilluminated]

There are some issues and discourses that Stan Rogers returns to, or at least that's from multiple points of view. We have The Field Behind the Plow and Lies (the agricultural plight from the respective POVs of a husband and wife), The Idiot and Free in the Harbor (young men going west and the towns they leave behind) The Mary Ellen Carter and The Jeannie C (the woman boat I love is gone! What do I do?), and Bluenose and Man with Blue Dolphin (sister ships!). But the most interesting juxtaposition of songs in Stan Rogers' discography, I think, is Northwest Passage and its lesser-known counterpart Take it from Day to Day.

Northwest Passage is one of Stan's most famous songs, and deservedly so: with its rock-quaking harmonies, references to British-Canadian colonial history and meditation on the sublime purpose of Rogers' own career as a traveling musician, the work produces a sense of longing that would be epic if it weren't so futile. While Rogers is ambivalent-at-most about the colonialism inherent in his historical perspective (read: The House of Orange), his choice to focus on the psychological journeys of "the first men through this way" makes projects like the Franklin Expedition sound like exemplary iterations of a universal human journey—these explorers are Just Like You, and their longing for the Northwest Passage is the same, and so is their suffering, so the project itself doesn't sound like an act of colonial violence in Rogers' song. Even the choice to perform Northwest Passage a capella underscores (hehe) the sense of profound isolation that Rogers describes.

But Northwest Passage is a song about captains: men who recognized "the call" to leave their homes for the not-uninhabited Artic expanse and whose journeys make it into the history books. But Take it From Day to Day approaches the Northwest Passage from the opposite direction. Literally.

The song is from the perspective of a common sailor on the St. Roch, the first ship to travel the Northwest Passage west-to-east. And instead of of being overwhelmed by the natural beauty of the Artic or the symbolic resonance of the voyage, he's contemplates more prosaic themes: namely, how much he misses his lover.

It's a little silly to think, as Rogers belts out the chorus—"I'm as far North now as I want to come/but Larson's got us under his thumb/and I signed up for the whole damn run/I can't get off halfway!"—how disappointing this perspective on Artic voyages proves compared to the unfulfilled longing of Northwest Passage. Instead, the unfulfilled longing of the anonymous narrator makes Take if From Day to Day into one of Roger's most sexual songs. I beg you to listen to it, if only to count the sensual metaphors and double-entendres.

But whether you have heard Northwest Passage and love it, or you're interested in a more down-to-earth perspective on Ice, I think it's a song you might enjoy.

[wonderfulworldofmichaelford]

Is It Really That Bad?

Women leading superhero films has a long and troubled history even before losers online decided to make it their life’s mission to bully Academy Award-winning actress Brie Larson for the crime of being in a mediocre MCU movie. 2004’s Catwoman is the film that is usually pointed to as the movie that poisoned the well in regards to superheroine blockbusters, but it takes two to tango; the following year’s Elektra is just as much to blame for the negative perception of these sorts of films.

And how could it not be? It was rushed into production, Jennifer Garner really didn’t want to do it but was contractually obligated, it was supposed to be rated R until more contractual obligations nipped that idea in the bud, and on top of everything else it was a sequel/spin-off to a movie that was already extremely unpopular (Daredevil vindication was a long way’s off at that point). With all that in mind, is it any wonder that it’s one of the lowest grossing films to ever be based off of a Marvel comic? The only films that did worse were Punisher: War Zone, Man-Thing, and The New Mutants. Even the Howard the Duck movie did better than this shit!

The career of director Rob Bowman as tanked because of this film, with his credits being relegated to TV. Garner, meanwhile, fared just as poorly, with her career cooling off and leading roles not being a thing for her after that point. But worst of all is the career of the poor boat house in this movie, as it ended up appearing in Fifty Shades of Grey. And obviously this film dragged down the idea of a woman headlining a superhero flick for about a decade until Genocide Barbie Gal Gadot stepped into Wonder Woman’s boots. And while Catwoman would receive better adaptations on the big screen, Elektra would get no such chance…

...Until it was revealed that Garner was reprising her role in, of all things, Deadpool & Wolverine.

While the film isn’t out as of the time of this review, the announcement of her presence in it really got me intrigued about the last time she donned the red ninja outfit. I’m a huge apologist for early to mid-2000s superhero garbage, so it only made sense to check it out in preparation for the massive Marvel crossover Deadpool was about to deliver. And you know what question I always ask when going in to an infamous film like this: Is it really that bad?

THE GOOD

This film is just hilariously corny when it wants to be. I think when it does stupid stuff other superhero films of the time did, it tends to do them at least a little better. For instance, like Ghost Rider it has a quirky miniboss squad full of boring flat characters who exist for Elektra to kill. But while the ones in Ghost Rider are completely forgettable and bland, this film at least has some striking visuals with Tattoo and hot forceful lesbian murder smooching with Typhoid Mary, something I’m sure awoke things in the five people who watched this.

Garner herself is really, really trying, and to her credit most of the action scenes she’s in are pretty ok when they aren’t being edited to death. As I watched the unrated version, the brief glimpses of insight into her backstory are nice, and I do love that bright red costume on her. If nothing else, she does sell how cool Elektra is supposed to be with how she carries herself, even if the writing isn’t doing her many favors.

The final act is where things really get fun, because we have a big stupid battle against magical tattoos, teleporting ninjas, and genuinely the funniest possible way to kill a villain ever. I legitimately burst out laughing when I saw this:

THE BAD

Unfortunately, no matter how funny Typhoid Mary taking a knife to the forehead after saying her only two lines in the movie, two lines that actually give her more character than every other villain in the film, it can’t really completely save the film from its two massive, crippling issues.

Literally everyone in this movie is a fucking moron. The biggest moron is easily Elektra’s buddy, who sacrifices himself so Elektra can escape from the bad guys… but his sacrifice is pointless because they pull the info from his mind with psyhcic powers. He would’ve been better off running away with them! But it’s not like the villains are much smarter; one of them chops down a tree, and then almost immediately forgets this and walks into its path before getting crushed to death. It is genuinely absurd how dumb these characters manage to get. The dumbest of them all, however, has to be Stick. I genuinely have no idea what the fuck this man is trying to accomplish at any point, because he is recklessly gambling with people’s lives here.

But hey, dumb decisions are fine in a trashy 2000s superhero movie as long as they lead to some enjoyably dumb scenarios, right? Well, about that… Barring a couple of ridiculously goofy action scenes, this film is pretty bereft of memorable corniness. Remember how I said the minibosses in Ghost Rider were not as good as the ones here? Sure, maybe it’s true, but no amount of murderous lesbian smooching makes this movie more memorable than Ghost Rider, which features over a dozen insane Nicolas Cage moments. But maybe that’s cheating, it’s not fair to compare a Jennifer Garner vehicle to a Nicolas Cage one… so how about Catwoman? As absolutely shoddy as that movie is, there are a bunch of cringey, campy scenes that have helped earn the movie at least a handful of ironic fans. There’s just nothing like that in Elektra. It’s trashy and stupid in safe, unimpressive ways for the most part, and it doesn’t do anything at all to really stand out from the crowd.

IS IT REALLY THAT BAD?

Yeah, I guess it’s bad, but the level of bad that it is is greatly exaggerated.

The movie I’d most compare this to is, of all things, Morbius. I love Morbius more than most people, and even I’m willing to admit it’s multiple bright spots of trashy charm are interspersed with the dullest shit imaginable, and Elektra has a similar issue. It’s just so goddamn unmemorable and dull for the most part, with only the final act being packed full of silly nonsense to latch onto. But even that comparison isn’t great, because Milo was sprinkled throughout Morbius and was genuinely hilarious the whole way through, while Elektra just plods along until it remembers to actually be a little cool for the finale.

I guess really the film is less “bad” and more “not good.” Like if you throw this on in the background as noise while you do something else, it’s not the worst you could do, though even then something like Black Adam would probably be better. If you want to watch a trashy 2000s superhero film, I guess it’s not unwatachably unpleasant, but why wouldn’t you watch Catwoman or Ghost Rider instead? It just is in such an unenviable position where it’s the bottom of the bottom of the barrel, the least engaging super-schlock ever made, a movie not good enough to be vindicated but not bad enough to deserve the hate it gets. Elektra is just a film that exists. That’s all there is to it and aside from the single funny death, I have no strong feelings about this movie. I think a solid 4 is where this belongs. Not good enough to be average, not bad enough to be awful, it’s just there.

All this being said, I’m honestly very excited to see Garner become a teleporting ninja assassin again. Every comic character who was in a crappy adaptation deserves a second shot, be it as a new character (Michael B. Jordan as Killmonger) or as a reprisal that improves on the untapped potential that was there (Jamie Foxx’s Electro in No Way Home). I’m rooting for Garner to get her due, and for Electra to get the respect she truly deserves… But I just don’t really think this movie’s going to be getting a reappraisal no matter how good she ends up doing.

[dathen]

I feel that whatever deal John made with Kayne, it was in exchange for himself and Arthur being shielded from going to the Dark World.

John is intensely uncomfortable whenever Arthur brings up the Dark World, but also strangely insistent that Arthur won’t go there. Compare this to Arthur dying on the boat: “I’ll see you there, friend.”

And given the nature of Kayne’s taunting, John’s “ulterior motives” must involve some benefit to himself as well. It could just be the deal was to return to Arthur, but I feel there’s more than that.

BUT regardless of what John traded for, there’s a very good chance Kayne wouldn’t give it to him anyway. We know for sure now that Yellow wasn’t “John without his memories,” he’s actually a separate being who now possesses Larson. Kayne’s deal with Arthur was just a lie through and through, and we can be sure his deal with John won’t be any more straightforward.

[malevolentcast]

Hello hello! It is I, once again! (sorry, you can't escape my novel length asks)

1) Apologies beforehand, this is gonna be a more wordy one than usual! At the start of the show you worked a lot of RPG things into aspects of the show and I know you don't really do that anymore but I'm curious if there are any aspects of Arthur's character building from Season 1 that still gets used in current seasons? I know John's death visions whenever Arthur touches a dead body has had a big effect on portions of the story (and their relationship) But I was curious about some of the smaller things like John noticing details that would've otherwise been missed. Or the fact that the other ability option would've been for Arthur to be able to lie better and not be as easily manipulated, do either of those characteristics (or in some cases Arthur not gaining those latter listed traits) still play into his character despite there not being audible queues in the show for when specific abilities were used? Or do you decide what should be noticed and when Arthur should be able to lie/be manipulated based purely on situation and story beats for what would work best? 2) I don't really expect an answer but….I am so curious what choosing "Spare" would have looked like in the "Kill/Spare" Larson poll. Considering the one Arthur went on to kill wasn't even Larson. Would it have ended his desire right then and there? Or would it have just gone dormant. Or would it have been Arthur stopping and realizing what he was doing was a mistake, like he mentioned, knowing what he was doing was wrong and that, given time, he could've been talked out of it. 3) So we know you get your sounds from a sound bank, I assume you do a lot of sound mixing/combining to get certain sounds just right. I'm wondering, what has been your favorite sound/sound you're proudest of mixing and what was your least favorite/hardest? 4) What is something you've learned from creating Malevolent that you hadn't expected? (whether that be fandom based interactions or new methods for doing things that you didn't know before?) And finally, I wanted to say thanks for the Patreon letter from the boys, it was lovely!! I'm so thankful to be part of the Patreon and this fandom. :) It's really helped me feel more creatively inspired for the first time in a while!

Yep they play into it but only when I'm writing. They've helped define the character(s)

He wouldn't have hit rock bottom and their relationship would be much more tumultuous then it is now

Early on the boat episode where the monster rips the dude in half... lately... I dunno. Probably a character in Part 30

That people enjoy my stuff. You're welcome!

[miss-tribulationperiwinkle]

How can you build a community from an island?

Lately, I’ve found myself in a place that I thought I had left some time ago. I’m standing again in the middle of this deserted island where no one speaks the same language I do and the mainland seems to be very distant, beyond a huge body of water that I cannot cross because my boat has sunk and it’s not time for a new one to come around and save me yet. So, here I am. Alone. Singing in my mind to keep my spirits happy, but crying because of the impossibility of reaching the land that carries my tune. 

And, as I let this island take the best of me, I think to myself, how can something you love be both your blessing and your curse? When I tell you what I am talking about, you’ll think I’m the embodiment of hyperbole. The most exaggerated person on earth. And maybe I am. But I’m stuck on this island, and if I don’t write about it, I’ll become the crazy person who talks to a ball with a face. 

My blessing and my curse is my love for musical theater. I wasn’t born loving it, but I’ve grown to love it with all my heart. I’m from a small town, where my island forms every so often, and where no one knows anything about musicals. No one knows who Rodgers and Hammerstein were, or Stephen Sondheim, or Jonathan Larson. They don’t know what a Playbill is or what magic place a Stage Door can be. Living on this island, I learnt to build different boats that would help me get closer to that mainland I longed to discover. My boats took different shapes, the Internet, Wikipedia, Youtube, Bootlegs (I know, sorry, but yes), Cast Albums! 

For a long, long time, these boats gave me hope and helped me create new maps that I could use to navigate the mainland once I got there. And one day, I did. I got to see the magic of Broadway with my own two eyes and, most importantly, I got to feel it. I felt so blessed that I knew I wanted to keep navigating the waters to get there.

But, the truth is, I live too far away from it. So, I designed a plan. I was going to build a bigger boat and I was going to reach the mainland and stay there for a longer time. And so I did. And I got there and for months I was able to spend my Saturdays crying and laughing inside theaters. Ah, there was that blessing again, I could feel it move inside of me. The joy, the happy tears, the sense of belonging. 

And then, a huge hurricane came. Everyone had to stay inside, no one could escape from it. No place in the world was safe from it. My boat came to get me before the waters were still. And once again, I was on my island. Hopeless, cursed.

But, you see, the thing is that there was the boat again. Once more, bringing hope and blessings to my life. And it took me again to the place where I belonged. We made a deal, if everything was fine, it would come and get me to take me to the mainland every so often. Once a year, for a couple of months. And then, it would bring me back to my island. 

These past years, that boat became my ally and my best friend, everything was working perfectly. Every time I returned to my house, I was happy to put my Playbills and memories away for a little while. I would listen to cast albums, but knowing that I had gotten the chance to experience the magic they told in person, surrounded by people who were moved by the same songs and stories. 

I never got a full sense of community. Even on the mainland, sometimes an island appears around me. Besides the fact that I’m very, very shy, how can you build a community when you know that a boat is coming to get you soon? I tried to build one, but it’s so hard to do when you know you come from an island they don’t know, an island where no one speaks their language and no one knows who Stephen Sondheim was. But even so, every time I got into a theater, I felt a bit of that community form around me. I was crying in the same room where other people were also crying because we were all reacting to the same story, even with our different backgrounds.

For a while, I started to think that maybe my island was growing and I wasn’t so far away from the mainland as I used to be. I didn’t feel so alone anymore, I could see the skyline from my island and enjoy my time while waiting for my boat to come. 

But this year, it changed. When I put away my Playbills, I knew there was a show that was going to start performances days after my return and that it would make me miss the mainland even more. I tried to ignore it. But then, Shaina Taub won two Tony Awards for it. 

I heard the Suffs cast album and the body of water around my island grew bigger than before. I started longing to have a community, to get to know people that are as excited about learning about the show as I am, but how can I do it when I’m stuck in the middle of my island? How can I get that sense of community if I’m sitting on my desk alone instead of breathing next to someone inside of a theater? 

Sometimes, I feel pretty lonely here. Sometimes, there’s a breeze that makes me feel hopeful. I just can’t wait for my boat to turn this curse into a blessing again. In the meantime, I guess I’ll have to figure out a way of building a community from an island. 

[my-chaos-radio]

Release: October 14, 2005

Lyrics:

Don't blame your daughter

That's just sentimental

And don't blame your mum

For all that you've done wrong

Your daddy's is not guilty

You came out a little faulty

And the factory closed

So you can't hold them liable

You come from an island

You're cutting diamonds

With a rubber knife

Your autograph's is worthless

So don't send me letters

And don't mail me cash

'Cause your money is no good

What's left in your mattress

Is holes and lack of love left

Some hair from a horse

And none of it is yours, man

You come from an island

You're cutting diamonds

With a rubbery knife

And the song you sing today

Wasn't always in your head

The words you try to say

Are the ones you should've said

They're glistening like diamonds

Go out and find them

But don't blame your daughter

Read me your tombstone

Tell me you're sorry

Fax me your will

You owe me something still

Blood is like water

The bath that you poured me

Has drained and is gone

Don't blame it on your son

And the song you sing today

Wasn't always in your head

The words you try to say

Are the ones you should've said

They're glistening like diamonds

Go out and find them, boy!

Songwriter:  Nathan Larson

The world is full of diamonds

Go out and find them

But don't blame your daughter

SongFacts:

"Don't Blame Your Daughter (Diamonds)" is a rock song by The Cardigans. It was released in October 2005 as the second single from their sixth album Super Extra Gravity.

The music video was directed by the Renck brothers: Johan Renck, who also directed Madonna's "Hung Up" video, and Martin Renck. It begins with a scene in which a woman sits at an old table and opens a music box. When she looks inside, a crystal ball can be seen on the table with an image of a séance with five people holding hands at the table. The next scene shows Nina Persson sitting at the table with a blonde, a redhead, a brunette and a black-haired woman in unusual clothing. The scene switches to the woman from the beginning (the brunette) carrying furniture through a forest. Back at the table, she disappears and is replaced by a male band member wearing similar clothing to her. As the video continues, the blonde can be seen driving through the forest in a carriage driven by a figure dressed in black with a hood, also disappearing from the table and being replaced by a band member in similar clothing. The same thing happens with the redhead, who is shown tied up like algae underwater, and with the black-haired woman, who appears to be in a small boat in a lake, calling for someone. The video ends with Persson sitting at the table with the rest of the band, all now male and the women gone, holding hands.

[moorheadthanyoucanhandle]

STUNTED DEVELOPEMENT

Now in theaters:

The Fall Guy--Beyond the title, this action comedy only borrows a little from Glen Larson's TV series, which ran on ABC from 1981 to 1986: the basic premise, the names of the main characters and the cornpone theme song over the closing credits. But it seems intended as a semi-throwback, a modern take on the easygoing car stunt movies and TV shows popular from the mid-'70s to the mid-'80s, not only The Fall Guy but Hooper and the Smokey and the Bandit and Cannonball Run flicks.

Directed by stunt veteran David Leitch from a script by Drew Pearce, The Fall Guy concerns a Hollywood stuntman with the perfect '80s TV name of Colt Seavers (Ryan Gosling) who drops out of the industry after an on-set accident. A noxious producer (Hannah Waddingham) persuades him to get back in the saddle, doubling for a putridly narcissistic star (Aaron Taylor-Johnson) on a sci-fi actioner being shot in Sydney. Mostly Colt goes because he's in love with the director, Jody (Emily Blunt). Before long, however, he realizes that he's been pulled into the project for more sinister reasons.

None of this is meant to be taken very seriously; the tone is near-farcical, though sometimes with a macabre edge. The plot is just an excuse for a string of spectacular car, boat, aerial and combat stunts, both in the movie-within-the-movie and in the external story.

The stars are strong. Gosling gets across some of the same addled, highly sympathetic goofiness that he showed as Ken in Barbie, and he seems to bring out the best in Blunt. Always capable, she has a delightful openhearted sweetness here. The villains--Taylor-Johnson, Waddingham and their brutish henchmen--are also on point, and overall, the movie goes down easy; it's not bad. It's a lot of movie to just be not bad, I suppose, but I certainly found it preferable to the modern iteration of the stunt movie, the humorless and possibly pernicious Fast and the Furious flicks.

[da-floof]

Hogwart’s Legacy models-extra student files.(SPOILERS!)

So I got a hold of a copy of Hogwarts Legacy and using F-Model (now deleted because my system kept picking it up as Ransomware and shut off access to my files) 

Anyway trying to get an actual completed model using it was a fucking disaster (They all seem to have been built using a modified version of the character creator and are broken down into heads-arms etc all scattered) BUT I did get the names of the student models heads-some of which are rather interesting.

So I’ve barely started the game and as such I can’t confirm every name on the first list. However a few things stand out.

Hector Weasley was seen in the previews for the game-he became Hector Jenkins. whether or not the model is different I know longer have the capability of knowing. (BTW if someone wants to advise me on a different way of accessing the model files please let me know)

Aesorpe Sharp YOUNG Is the next eyebrow raiser on the list-from watching playthroughs I have yet to see Sharpe looking anything but his older self. again I can’t access the model now but If someone else wants to give this a try go right on ahead.

Eric WEASLEY Is another annoyance-possible brother we have yet to see?

Ominis Gaunt mentions in idle dialogue he has THREE sisters currently at Hogwarts -we see NONE. EDIT: DISCUSSION OVER THE BACKGROUND DIALOG HAS HINTED THAT NEARLY ALL THESE CONVERSATIONS ARE RECYCLED AND A GREAT DEAL OF THE CHARCTERS DO NOT USE THIER ORIGINAL VOICE ACTORS WHEN SPEAKING. THIS PUTS INTO QUESTION THE ‘CANNONITY’ OF THESE LINES.

It’s a possibility that Garreth had a brother or two but they got cut (Hectors name change is a strong indication) and Ominis could be in the same boat however the idle dialogue is something they forgot to remove.

there's also several names that I can’t find on the wiki-the weird way that some of the students are labelled as a student and others are not (Leander, Everett) is another annoyance as they could simply be town based NPCS and until I stumble across them in game I wont know. However the HP Wiki has no information on:

Aasim pyre

Arthur siggs

Christopher Burton

Eric Lowe

Ernie Lark EDIT: Travelling musician.

Isko Abril EDIT :town person

Otto Dibble and Owen Wynn EDIT : ditto is a town person EDIT 2: Owen exists the wiki-just doesn’t mention him for some reason…

And HERE’S the next part of the mystery:

Amelia Larson-possible brother to Andrew Larson who’s practically a background character despite being a named student.

Diasy Abril EDIT: town person

Indira Wolf: EDIT shopkeep

Priscella Wakefiled (mentioned but house unknown) EDIT: ingame model confirmed. WIKI MODS WAT U DOIN!?

Grace Waldergrave: EDIT Grace Pinch Smedley original name? (bath Smedley who?)

Hilda Loddington (The wiki and game mentions a Hilda-this may be her) EDIT: Model exists in game.

So-I’ve now had a cup of tea after writing this list and every horrible damning explanation of what happened to these students has whizzed through my mind-I have a few theory's.

A. These are the names of characters who will appear in DLC.

B. These characters exist but are simply not named yet. 

c. whhoollee lotta cut content.

Along with Quidditch and the companion system answer C seems unfortunately the most likely.  

I could say a lot my how disappointed I am if C. truly is the answer but what can you do?

If you know of any errors or other information you've heard in dialogue PLEASE let me know.

Big edit: So it seems like It was merely the wiki people being slow-practically ALL these models exist in game-excuse me I’m going to go and see if I can get the wiki people to keep a better record.

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Regret - a Malevolent fic

Fine. The powers that be wanted this? Then he’d give them this.They should know by now that anything they asked for, he’d never say no

AO3

————

The dreams were expected. Sure, they were. He was in the Dreamlands. He was in the home of a god who specifically fucked with dreams. It all made sense.

But why did it have to be of her? And them? All of them?

Why?

#

It had to be the King in Yellow’s fault. That talk on the balcony… forcing those memories to return, things he’d shot in the head and buried decades before, things he had no desire to relive. But here they were, in his dreams.

And here they were, in his thoughts.

Faroe giggling as Hastur tickled her mid-breakfast, over nothing but general affection and closeness.

Arthur laughing in his music room, picking her up and swinging her in a circle, unaware they were visible through the open door.

Hastur rumbling with pride as Faroe stood before the Court, reciting a set of laws that had been violated, and passing judgment with a calm and wisdom far greater than her years.

And the quiet moments, at night, after dinner; moments he doubted they knew he’d overseen, just talking over nothing, or sitting together with some instrument (Faroe played the harp for Hastur, which soothed him, and brought to mind old stories of David and Saul), or just leaning on one another and reading.

It was a lot.

It was too much.

The memories wouldn’t go away.

Larson was beginning to really, really hate this place… but even if he had the chance, he wouldn’t leave.

#

Hastur, the King in Yellow, was taking over the Dreamlands.

Okay, it wasn’t that simple; there was a lot of land to conquer, and far too many powerful gods to simply take over, but Larson had been involved in wars and rumors of wars for many, many years, and knew what he was seeing.

Hastur was making peace and allies where before had been strife.

Hastur was making inroads and trade where before there had been antagonists.

Hastur was seeking out beings who wished him ill, and either calming things down… or returning in the morning covered in ichor and tatters, clearly not knowing anyone saw him, disappearing to his room and reappearing shortly after, pristine and glorious as if nothing had happened.

But it had. And so far, in all these matches, he’d come out on top.

Larson was a betting man. Filthy habit, absolutely, but he loved the thrill of that which he couldn’t control still granting such wins, as if he were meant for victory. If he had to bet right now, he’d place all he had on Hastur.

Hastur was driven. Whatever his reason was, he treated this with life-or-death determination, and that gave him an edge.

So, yes: Larson was sticking with this. He’d ride these yellow coattails as long as he could, and only jump off when the crash was imminent.

And he would get a handle on his useless, traitorous, sloppy thoughts.

#

“That’s it,” said Hastur, low, holding his daughter in his arms with her hand outstretched. He’d split the end of one of his tentacles into five and splayed them beneath her fingers. “Each digit can send part of this spell; your aim is important.”

Focused, she muttered in accursed Aklo.

The small red beam that came from each finger was barely visible, firelight in mist, but each sliced a hole neatly through the stone block Hastur had placed before them like some kind of special drill.

“Good! Good,” murmured Hastur, shifting her in his many limbs so she lay against his chest, against his hearts.

“I didn’t hit where I wanted,” she said, drooping.

“Not yet, but you will,” he rumbled. “We will try again. Precision is a matter of practice.”

And Larson flashed back.

#

A hundred years ago, it was more important to be able to fish, able to butcher, able to do the many things needed to keep oneself and one’s family fed, but that wasn’t really why he did this, took the boys, spent the day at the pond. Wasn’t really why Tristan and Lucian got mud on their overalls, and at one point overturned the boat, and everybody laughed soaking wet and glad for the cool water on this hot, buzzing day.

They only brought four fish back after all of that, but Beatrice knew damn well what shenanigans they’d get up to out there, and—

Faroe blasted the damn rock apart.

It exploded, enormous chunks hitting the marble floor with such force that Larson’s gasp was covered, and Hastur… laughed.

Laughed heartily, darkly, like some devil, but Faroe giggled and leaned in and hid her face against his yellow robe.

“Sorry!” she laughed.

“Not at all,” Hastur rumbled, and with the casual, thoughtless power of a god, repaired. Just… slid the chunks back together, erased the cracks, smoothed over the marble floor with a sweep of his tentacles. “Now, do you know what went wrong?”

Faroe considered, peering through her dark curls at the restored boulder. “I think my whole hand did it.”

“Correct. You didn’t diffuse the spell, so it was a hammer instead of needles. Shall we try again?”

“Yes,” she said, because he’d raised her to be unafraid of errors before him, because he placed his five-fingered limb under her hand again, outstretched, because—

“Sorry,” said Lucian, his hand bleeding, splinters all over, the piece of wood he’d been trying to carve as instructed having snapped.

“Not your fault,” he’d said, taking his son’s hand, removing the splinters one by one. “Made a mess here, though. Gonna have to apologize to your mother for gettin’ blood all over.”

Lucian had sniffled, and it hadn’t been real sorrow or fear or anything worse than the unpleasant pain of splinters, and they’d gotten his hand bandaged and adjusted his grip and this time, the chair rails took proper, symmetrical shape.

This had to stop.

Faroe gasped, and Larson looked up and paled. She’d done it: five perfectly spaced holes smoked, cut clean through that boulder, and it had been done so well that Larson hadn’t even heard it happen.

Fucking deadly. Deadly child. Deadly spell. Why would anyone teach a child such a—

“My precious one,” Hastur said, low, a constant rumble under his voice of pride and pleasure. “I knew you could.”

“I did it!” Faroe said unnecessarily (“I did it!” said Tristan, showing the rabbit he’d perfectly skinned and butchered, providing some dinner for all of them) and Larson had enough and went for a walk.

#

He missed Beatrice. That was… that had to be somehow forced.

He hadn’t missed her in so many years that he was shocked at the clarity of his memory. The slimness of her shoulders; her particular scent; the way her hair felt, just frizzy enough to tangle, and some evenings he’d brush it out for her in front of the fire after the kids went to bed, and some evenings that would lead to other things, wonderful things, close and slow and heated.

No. It did no good to think of this. What the hell was wrong with him?

He’d erased her over years of effort, erased these things because all they did was hurt, all they did was burn, and he couldn’t bring her back, couldn’t bring any of them back, so what the hell was the point of thinking about all this and remembering those lost days and wasted time and forgotten voices?

Damn it. Damn it.

He headed out to the water garden to walk this off.

Bored. That’s what he was, why his mind was drifting this way, and he could beat it if he just had something to do. He wasn’t trusted yet, but he understood that. It was harder to understand trust given to the others.

Lester had gotten in somehow (Larson highly suspected that girl had been traded for favor). The Saint (he sneered) had somehow wormed his yellow ass in with that yellow piece, which had to be based on some kind of pity—or maybe Yellow felt like a secondary citizen, too, given the company he was keeping.

Speaking of… they were in the garden, too—being lovey-dovey again, shameless and flagrant behavior. The Saint laughed at something Yellow said.

Ugh. No more of that, thank you. He went back inside.

#

He didn’t want to remember them. He kept remembering them.

He wanted power, had paid for power, had done everything right, but all of this was outside his control and he was being denied.

(His wife’s soft lips, tracing his collarbone, her face shadowed and warmed by the fire in their room.)

Funny thing, though, these thoughts being connected as they were, because Beatrice was the reason he had the power he did, the reason he knew what was waiting for him.

#

Tragedy took them from him, one hard and cruel winter. The croup, hand-delivered by that godsdamned neighbor McPherson, who’d sent his godsdamned son running over here to borrow flour for some stew they were making, and that little shit had been coughing, and wheezing, and making horrible noise, and it didn’t take long before Addi was, too.

She’d answered the door. She’d given him the flour. She’d always been too kind.

From her, it went to Tristan, to Lucian. From her, it went to him, then to Beatrice, who refused to rest but took care of everybody, though Beatrice was rasping air and barking coughs just like the rest.

And there wasn’t really a town, and no one to go to for help, because the mine was new and money was real but who would live out here in winter unless they had to? There was nothing to do but breathe through tight throats and wet phlegm, and wait for summer to come.

Lucian died first, and that maybe wasn’t the shock it should’ve been; he’d always been small for his age, and pale, no matter how much sun he got, and Larson tried to tell himself it was to be expected as they all wept, and coughed, and he rocked his dead boy before the fire and cried out to a God who did not care.

They had to put him in the shed behind the barn with snow on and around him. The ground was too hard to dig. That felt bad. He’d been afraid of the dark.

He wouldn’t be alone there long.

Tristan was a shock. Tristan had seemed in good spirits, better than the rest, able to hop up and grab things his mama needed, bringing them stew when no one had the strength to ladle it from the pot.

Then he just didn’t wake up. Was gone and cold by the morning frost, and this time, between the unrelenting coughing and the grief, Wallace cried so hard and so long that he blacked out from not breathing.

There was no one to help them. No way to ask for aid; this was before telephones, before powers, before anything. They had to put him in the shed, too, because the ground was still too hard.

Addi got better. By whatever mercy there was, she got better; but Beatrice got worse.

Losing her boys had taken something from her, some spark, and it seemed her breath got shallower every day when she wasn’t coughing. And then she wasn’t breathing much between coughs. And then she couldn’t wake up, either, though she was alive.

Wallace was better by this point; like Addi, he’d made it through, but he couldn’t help his wife.

Beatrice never woke up again. She died in his arms in the middle of the night, there one moment, struggling to breathe, and gone the next, and Wallace shouted her name until his throat fucking bled.

There were more cold bodies in the shed now than live ones in the house, and Wallace was… not okay about it.

They’d come here to make a way for their family, forever. They’d gotten this mine, done the hard work, found the right people, all for the sake of a legacy; and when Tristan, and Lucian, and Addi grew up, and made families of their own, they’d live here, too, and never want for food, or for clothes, or for any sweet thing that struck their fancy.

They weren’t supposed to be out in the shed, under snow and silent.

Addi moved as if in a daze, a dream, a drug, caring for the house as she’d been taught, staring into the fire at night and not even reading her bible. And he understood. Was there a point? Was there even a point?

He tried to help his little girl. He did; but he couldn’t fix her, couldn’t stop her heart from bleeding, couldn’t make her not think it was her fault for bringing the croup in. He tried; he held her. They cried together. He told her it wasn’t her fault, that St. Peter himself wouldn’t blame her for it.

She just kept sinking, slowly, like a boat with a leak.

Wallace… chopped wood. Cooked. And thought very dark things, very dark. He thought dark things about the neighbors who’d not meant them harm but sure as hell brought it, and about the people who moved here during the summer to dig and then just took off when it got cold. Then one night after Addi went to bed, when the full moon gleamed on the snow like the desert in day, he felt it call him.

What, he couldn’t say. Seemed it liked his dark thoughts, was the feeling he got, as he climbed the stairs to their attic room, to the space where they dragged the trunks and boxes from lives past and relatives gone, things that went with the family because that’s what you did with heirlooms.

And something up there wanted him to see it.

To this day, he doesn’t know why he went. His family, most were down south, but his mom’s side was from Appalachia, and he knew you don’t just go digging into things that call your name when you don’t already know what they are.

But he didn’t care that night. Maybe he hoped it would eat him. Maybe it was just something to think about other than how heavy Beatrice seemed when she died, as if her spirit leaving added iron to her bones.

The attic was dark and ignored his candle, but the moon was full and led the way, shadow from the single window cast along the floor as if to point with God’s finger at one, single trunk. Wallace liked that trunk; fine, fine woodwork it was, and fine, fine metalwork and leather, and you could just tell by looking at it some rich or royal person’d had it made, long in the past. It was Beatrice’s, from her family, which meant somewhere in Italy before the unification. Turin, maybe? He couldn’t recall; her great uncle (an old man with ridiculous mustache and impenetrable accent) had told some wild tales the night of their engagement celebration, but nobody else in the family ever had.

Weird, how the mind worked in moonlight and the absence of love: Wallace remembered now what that old and odd man said. About how the family was the true royal line, not going back to some Roman shit, but something to do with a land of dreams, and gods, and powers. How the things he was to be given (for Beatrice was the firstborn) must be guarded, and used only in emergency, only in dire need.

Sure, Wallace thought, and wrestled with the trunk.

It hadn’t wanted to open, and as he’d strained, boots braced, sweating in spite of the cold, crying out as he heaved those rusted hinges open, he’d known that it was a choice.

He could’ve called it a bad job and gone downstairs to make sure Addi’s stew would be ready for tomorrow, could’ve grieved like a million other widowers before him, then gone into the nearest town and found a young woman willing to marry the owner of a mine and live in the middle of nowhere, and built his family back up again.

Or he could do this, listen to whatever was calling, whatever liked his dark thoughts, and push.

He pushed. He got the trunk open. And whatever he’d thought it would hold, it wasn’t this. Books. Just books? After all that fuss, he half-expected crowns or fancy dresses or magical swords or something. Just books.

Just…

He dug out the one that called him, as if he’d known where it was all along, and the moment it was in his hands he knew it was real.

Weird symbol on the front, something that hurt his eyes to look at too closely, and the words were all in some language he did not know, but he felt the power in this thing like he could feel the rumble of distant locomotives, bringing workers to dig in his mine in the warmer days.

He took it downstairs, still listening to the book call him. He put it under his pillow, because that’s what the damn thing said to do. And in the morning, he knew where to go.

He woke in a sweat, shaking, a mess; woke and had to bathe (not always a great idea in the dead of winter) because sweat had soaked clean through everything. Woke… and then had to fucking wait.

He couldn’t travel this time of year. No one could. So he had to wait to go where the book said, and that meant months of trying to help Addi while powerless, months of heading out to ensure it was still cold enough to keep his family’s bodies preserved, months of waiting and thinking dark thoughts.

Months of weak-handed, blind-eyed, gutting-useless hell.

#

It’d been worth it. The Order of the Fallen Star had been waiting for him, had some kind of book that matched his, and when he showed up next spring (fresh from funerals in which he would not look at McPherson, no matter how kind that fucker tried to be), they helped him learn what his wife’s books said.

So there was power here. This wasn’t like the Appalachian legends of his grandfather’s day; this wasn’t just warnings and wariness, caution when you hear your name in the woods, fear of hearing screech owls at dusk or always remembering which door you came in by. This was about taking hold of the things that scared you and making them do as you say.

Wallace had been thinking violent thoughts for a long time when he took his first life. It wasn’t hard. He made sure MacPherson knew why it happened, too.

From there, it had been easy. Sacrifices. Rituals. Certain words in languages that hurt the throat until you got used to them, and all with the promise of power to get his wish.

To bring them back.

To give them back to him, whole and healthy as they were, so they could go back to life by the mine he owned and grow up and make families of their own and leave a legacy in their wake.

He could do this. He could bring them back. He would.

And nobody in the Order bothered to tell him that couldn’t happen until he was so far in that turning around wasn’t even a possibility.

#

Larson leaned on the balcony under two full moons and stared at the alien garden, filled with plants he did not know and beauty he craved as his own. It was magnificent here; the King in Yellow had good taste—which, funny enough, would’ve synced up pretty well with Beatrice’s ancestors, judging by that old trunk.

Come to think of it, he wasn’t even sure what happened to that thing. He’d managed to get it all the way to New York, to the Order’s headquarters, and then…

Funny. That thing, which had meant so much to the family, which had been for the most dire need, hadn’t been used in time, hadn’t saved anybody. In the end, he didn’t even know where it had gone.

He didn’t want to think about this. Didn’t want to remember. Damn this place. Damn the King. Damn—

Oh! It’s him.

Larson turned to find Lester there (and if Larson refocused his eyes, he could see the piece in him, see how big it was, and was amazed all over again that he’d ever thought that lickspittle Yellow was anything at all). “Evening.”

Arthur went so stiff.

Larson waited. That man was a lunatic; any day now, he was gonna snap, no question.

Arthur’s jaw worked.

Arthur? Said John.

Arthur spun on his heel and marched away.

Larson snorted. “Better run,” he muttered, and looked over the garden again. His balcony. Nobody else got to share it tonight.

Addi would’ve loved this view.

Fuck.

There it was. The thing he’d been not thinking of, the vortex he’d fought most to resist. Well, maybe that’s what this weeks-long trip down memory lane was about, after all; maybe it was part of his path to ascension, to relive it, to re-feel it, to go through that choice all over again.

Fine. The powers that be wanted this? Then he’d give them this. They should know by now that anything they asked for, he’d never say no.

#

The Order was good to him. Got him connections; welcomed him in, made him feel like someone, made him feel less like a desperate fool. Shared their stories, shared their prospects, and in time, shared their power. He’d never call them family, no; they’d have sliced each other’s dicks off without a second’s thought, but they were tight, and they taught him things he’d never even dreamed.

The town that grew around his mine would’ve made Beatrice so happy. They were flourishing; he was wealthy.

And all his hopes and dreams for his family were dashed, because they weren’t coming back.

So what’s a man to do when his one life’s goal is taken from him? Give up? Push on? Take a left and try a new road? Choices; it always came down to choices, and all of them had consequences that bit. He’d hated that summer, hated the wealth that poured in, hated the people who worked in his mine and thanked him for running a clean operation, hated his fellow members of the Order who seemed so happy and didn’t know grief.

He didn’t hate Addi. At twelve, she was the spitting image of her mother, and that hurt in a whole new way, but he didn’t hate her. He loved her. He really did.

That was why, when he was brought into the final, smallest circle of the Order, into the echelons of true power running the world, and he found out what the next step would be, it made sense that it had to be her.

#

Ascension.

Deification.

That was the goal, to rise above this muck, to become more than the flesh and blood and mud and bore humanity was bound to. To become as those things Beatrice’s great uncle had talked about, the ones who’d made these books and sewn these spells, who could create things at will, who could not die.

Who could repair boulders their careless children blew apart.

And at first, for a little while, he’d told himself the goal was to be a god so he could bring them back… but even then, he’d known that wasn’t true.

There was only one way out of grief, he knew that now. You wall up your heart, brick it good, and stop feeling shit. That was it. That was the only way, and by hell, it worked.

Maybe that was why Addi was such a good sacrifice, toward the end. He could still feel her; still loved her. Still smiled when she came in smelling of sun and gave him a daisy-chain circlet, or talked about some boy in town who teased her, or how Mrs. MacCready helped her figure out how to embroider this pretty new pattern in cloth.

It was a small town; four families and a handful of single men, working the mines and traveling away in winter because there was no income then. But it could be more. It could be so much more, and wasn’t that the goal, after all? Wasn’t that why they’d pooled all their goods, everything they’d inherited from those who came before, and made this purchase?

It could be more. It should be more. For Beatrice and the boys, for…

For Wallace. For him. Step one toward being a god was to act like one, and no god would be proud of four families and a dozen guys seven months out of the year.

#

It was a hunger, he realized, looking down at the fountain where Lester and John had sobbed like babies some nights ago. A hunger that would not be sated, and it grew and grew until it was all he could feel. He wondered, now, if that was always something in him—ambition, a marvelous thing—or if he’d caught it, like croup, from the books or his partners or who knew what else.

Did it really matter?

It did not. He knew the hunger, and he knew what the power wanted him to do, and he knew what was on offer.

And he knew what it wanted next.

The night he made the choice to make that sacrifice was… not the worst of his life. No, holding Beatrice dead had been the worst, because at least until then, he hadn’t had to go through it all alone. It’d been a we, not a him, facing whatever might come, and when she’d died, he’d been angry at her for leaving him behind, and that had made it worse.

“It wasn’t croup, anyway,” he muttered at the moonlight. “It was diphtheria.” Because that’s what happened when you became lettered, a man of the world, more educated; you could tell the difference between croup and diphtheria, and know the name that took your family away.

#

By the night of sacrifice, he knew what he was. This hunger was his own, had always been. This ambition was his own, had always been. He’d always been meant for this.

And he wept as his daughter died, he did; wept as things tore her apart, as things ripped her and shredded her and took their fucking time, and she begged for his help.

And it broke him, broke his heart, but that was the sacrifice needed, because these beings, these gods, these things so much greater than humanity, would accept nothing less.

It was sacrifice. In its purest form. And in return, they gave him power.

#

Different, the grief for Addie. Different, from the grief for the rest.

Tristan, Lucian, Beatrice; that grief was pointless, had nowhere to go, had served no master. It had just happened, meaningless, cruel, and done no one any good.

Addi’s death, now. Addi…

How many lives had been blessed by her passing? How many eyes had turned his way, impressed by the depth of his devotion? How many doors had that opened for him, now and forever, because he had proven his worth and his loyalty and his ambition in the realest way?

All of them. All the doors. All that mattered.

Addi… yes, it hurt. But it wasn’t the same. It was for something, meant something, and if he’d not done this and placed her low, she’d probably just have gone and died in childbirth or something, another useless and pointless death, not one to bless a hamlet and make it a town, not one to bless her daddy whom she loved and put him on the path to godhood, and she’d have wanted that for him if he’d brought it up first, he knew.

Besides. She missed her mama, anyway. This way, she got to see her again, and wasn’t that better for all?

#

Larson was crying. Weeping. Crouched down on that damned balcony and trying to muffle his sounds, and furious at himself, and clawing at his chest as if he could rip out his fucking heart and throw it over the side.

Just get it out, he kept telling himself. Get it over with. This is what they want, this reliving of the hard things, to prove I’m still who I say I am, prove my ambition still sings. That’s all. That’s all.

It’s all about choices, or it’s all about chaos. It’s either or, nothing between; either you let the chaos reign and it takes your family and does whatever the shit it wants and never pays you back, or you herd it, control it, be the one making the choices, and then you decide who dies, and you get the benefit.

There wasn’t another path. So. So.

No regrets.

Pain. Pain, offered like sacrifice, like a daughter’s screams. Pain, full-out, exposed and naked and bloodied.

And it would pass, and he’d move on, and take whatever next step they wanted, and prove himself worthy of more.

It was that or chaos. Chaos wasn’t having its way with him. Ever. Fucking. Again.

#

That’s an advanced spell, said John, sounding moderately awed.

Faroe looked smug. “Dad said it was.”

“She is, as always, well beyond her years,” rumbled the god-king.

“Just be careful, okay?” said Arthur, looking all worried and womanly and weary. “You’ll never forgive yourself if you accidentally hurt someone.”

“I’m careful,” she protested before taking up her great big not-at-all-breakfast-appropriate-sword and leaving the table. “Dis is waiting.”

“My daughter,” said Hastur in a fatherly tone Larson knew, remembered, hated. “You will not skip your arithmancy today.”

Oh, how that child’s face fell! “I really hate that class, dad.”

“I know,” he soothed. “Nevertheless, it is required. You must have a greater understanding of the power of numbers if you are to move on to sigils.”

She sighed as dramatically as Addi ever had. “Fine,” she said, and kissed her dad on the white mask (he leaned very far down), and kissed Arthur on his cheek (the scarred one, and she’d walked all the way around the table to do that, and Larson didn’t know why), and sort of eyed him then as though meeting John’s eyes with a nod. Then she left, running, with the boundless energy of youth and health and a body that had never known diphtheria and never, ever would.

“And what have you on your docket today, Wallace?” said Hastur out of nowhere as Arthur went stiff.

Larson froze, too, for one moment. It had been days since he’d been addressed. “I’m still lookin’ for ways to be of use to you, my lord.”

“I have had thoughts,” the god-king said (as Arthur scowled, shifting in his seat as though resisting the urge to leap over the table like a werewolf). “You are fluent in Th’balo, Aklo, Underground, and Lytha, correct?”

Larson sat up straight. “And passable in Cth’onik and Aeth’ral, as well.”

“I have no need for passable.” The tentacles moved, such impossible strength and power gracefully curling in the air like he swam through invisible sea. “But I could use some help translating. There are some books I have found other uses for, and I have had them copied, and literally translated, but they are… dense. I require a human mind to interpret them for the sake of my daughter, who will be reading both translations. It would be a good time to see how honest you can be.”

What the hell did that mean? “For you, my lord, I will always be honest.”

“What the fuck are you doing?” hissed Arthur Lester, as if he had the right to talk to god that way.

Hastur touched his back with one tentacle, and Arthur quieted. “You understand that I will be reading what you translate.”

Ah. “Of course.”

“If it is not excellent, and if it is not accurate, you will have lost your chance to be useful.”

“I understand, my lord.” Larson stood so he could bow low, bent practically acute.

“Report to the Librarian.”

Something to do! Some way to start this path again! Larson beamed, thanked him profusely in Th’balo, and then left just shy of a run.

“The fuck, Hastur?” said that disrespectful man behind him.

“He needs something to do, my own,” soothed the god, which was true, but also obviously a lie for that fragile man’s sake, because this was important, this had meaning for the god’s adopted (Stolen? Traded?) daughter, and that was about as valuable a path as he could hope for here.

Yes. He’d ride these coattails until the crashing cliff loomed, and he’d jump onto someone else’s. And by then, he’d be known, and have a reputation, and there would be places for him to go.

Grief was a lie. Power was truth. Pain was incidental and part of the cost.

He hadn’t thanked Beatrice for years, come to think of it; he used to, each night as he crouched over bloodied remains, labored over sigils he’d carved into the ground until his fingers were nearly torn to the bone. Thanked her, because without her books and her family connections, without that trunk in the attic, their deaths would mean nothing, his grief would mean nothing, and chaos would just eat them all in the end.

“Thanks, HoneyBea,” he murmured, pretty sure she couldn’t hear him (he knew more now), but who could tell, maybe she did, and he’d have to hope she would understand what he’d done. He'd taken chaos by the balls and made it his slave.

He'd made sure her death wouldn't stay pointless. That had to count for something. Right?