#which saw his coins drop in value

[gravitysgone]

Thanksgiving at the beach house was going wonderfully until Chad took over the Bluetooth and jumped up on the table. To let his family know he too raged against the machine. They were flabbesrgasted. Except Uncle Pete who was three glasses in to a Johnny Walker Blue buzz aided by a couple of Percocet and a weed gummie. Uncle Pete as usual had no idea where he was and nor did he care.

[mariacallous]

One night in May, Mikol Ayala stood in an empty parking lot in Florida with his arms out to his side and legs akimbo as two people covered him in isopropyl alcohol. “Get ready to put me out,” Ayala told them. Then the fireworks began.

The scene, illuminated by a pair of car headlights, was being livestreamed on X. The aim was to promote Ayala’s crypto token, Truth or Dare. “Don’t get FOMO, drop a bag on $DARE!” read a graphic layered over the feed. Ayala had been filming himself performing stunts all week—drinking bong water, smashing up his TV, and so forth—but this one went too far.

Ayala dodged the first volley of roman candles fired in his direction, but soon his entire torso was engulfed in flames. “Oh shit,” said a voice from behind the camera, having apparently not considered this possibility. The group threw water over Ayala, but it quickly ran out. He buckled onto a patch of grass and began to scream.

Meanwhile, the price of the $DARE coin pitched upward, reaching a total combined value of $2 million the following day. The denizens of the Internet, it seemed, were pleased with what they saw.

Ayala had suffered third-degree burns on a third of his body, he was later told by doctors. But from the hospital bed, he continued to promote his coin in videos on X, promising to return to stunting as soon as he was able. “I’m the most spontaneous wildcat in the fucking world,” he said. “You tell me let’s go, I’m there.”

Ayala agreed to an interview, but only if he would be paid. WIRED declined.

Though hardly believable to a normie ear, Ayala’s story is not unique in the world of so-called meme coins, in which marketing stunts now routinely range from ridiculous to dangerous to sexually degrading.

This year, to put their coins on the map—as chronicled by crypto media outlet Decrypt—one creator filmed himself getting punched so hard in the face he lost a tooth, another blacked out after smoking drugs, a pair of creators rubbed up against one another in their underwear, and another group detained a person in a purported kidnapping.

Some creators promise to perform specific acts after their meme coins reach certain milestones—a little like funding goals on Kickstarter—thereby incentivizing onlookers to buy in. One creator promised to pour milk over his supposed mother’s breasts, but only once his coin reached a $300,000 valuation.

Meme coins have been around since 2013, when Dogecoin was released. But this year, the number of these coins in circulation has ballooned courtesy of Pump.Fun, a platform that lets people release new coins almost instantly, at no cost.

By some metrics, Pump.Fun is the fastest-growing crypto application ever, taking in an estimated $100 million in revenue—as a 1 percent cut of trades on the platform—since it launched in January. Two million unique meme coins have entered the market through Pump.Fun, Ayala’s coin among them.

The vast majority of these coins never get off the ground. Others attract early attention, then tank after the creator sells off their holdings without warning. A minority of the coins hold value over a longer period.

Meme coins serve no strict purpose other than to act as a vehicle for financial speculation. Fluctuations in their price are therefore a reflection almost entirely of the attention they attract—a collective belief, on whatever grounds, that the price will either rise or fall.

The forces behind the meme coin boom are similar to those that propelled the meme-stock craze of 2021, says Albert Choi, a law professor at the University of Michigan who has published research into meme stocks. Back then, amateur investors on Reddit began a short squeeze on the stock of GameStop and other out-of-favor companies; whereas in 2024, the circulation of viral posts in crypto circles on social media leads meme coins to surge in value. “As [people] recognize momentum building on social media, the strategy is to try to get on the wave before the surge actually takes place,” says Choi.

The potential gains and losses are amplified in crypto, says Choi, because meme coins float free of any fundamental value. Unlike stocks, whose value is in theory tied to the performance and prospects of an underlying company, meme coins have no anchor to prevent a free fall in price. “The problem with crypto is that, if we don’t know what the fundamental value is, what is going to be that opposing and corrective force?” he says.

Previously, the complexity and cost of development were the limiting factors preventing people from flooding the market with meme coins on the off chance they might become rich. But Pump.Fun has flipped that equation. “With platforms that allow individuals to launch meme coins with no coding expertise, the barrier to creating supply is basically nil,” says Kahlil Philander, an assistant professor at Washington State University who specializes in gambling. “Now, the ability to create awareness is what has gotten more expensive.”

The need among small-time meme coin creators to peacock for attention became even more acute when celebrities piled in. In May and June, Caitlyn Jenner, Andrew Tate, and Jason Derulo all released coins of their own.

Around that time, rapper Iggy Azalea put out a coin through Pump.Fun: MOTHER, which reached a $200 million valuation within two weeks. Azalea has promoted the coin relentlessly to her 7.7 million followers on X, through a flurry of provocative images and meme posts.

“I just say whatever I want to say and think is funny,” said Azalea, speaking to WIRED in June. “Part of my strategy is to stay in the conversation. I do like to bait, to troll, to say things that are a little provocative. I like to say things and move in ways that I know can be memeable.”

In a market crowded with hundreds of thousands of coins—including those belonging to Azalea and her celebrity peers—meme-coin creators are being driven to stunts of an ever-escalating lunacy to try to get people to choose their coin instead. “The stunting behavior and use of celebrity accounts is almost exactly the same thing,” says Philander. “It is a source of attention.”

Even the celebrities are struggling to hold the attention of meme-coin investors hungry for the next spectacle. MOTHER is now trading for a quarter of its peak price, despite Azalea’s attempt to create utility for the coin, which is now accepted as payment by a telecom startup in which she has a stake.

Meanwhile, Ayala is quietly plotting his comeback. The $DARE coin has long since lost any gains it made in the immediate wake of the accident, so he needs a way to revive interest in the project. His followers are counting on him.

“Mikol, what are the plans moving forward?” asked one member of the Telegram channel for the coin in August. “Take us to the moon.”

[zenkor123]

Katniss saw what Peeta’s back looks like

October 5th 75 DD. As guard she was outside the bathroom, Peeta found his uniform to be a heat sink, and got an insect bite, he took off his shirt. Katniss saw the back which was filled with warts and scars, dotting his back like someone with psoriasis. They included burns, scars from puncturing, scars from slashes, atrophic scars from starvation and a form of torture that destroyed fat, bite marks, stings and keloid scars Peeta was about to enter the sink enclosure and didn't notice her. It horrified her,she put her hands on her mouth and she ran off then returned to the other side of the restroom door as Peeta applied water to the insect bite. Peeta dropped his journal and it was open to "Peeta Mellark ???-75 DD t shows Peeta with a Snake's tongue and eyes and a train of lovers in the d12 meadow. Her self hatred was magnified.

at the bottom read a eulogy, no a death warrant Peeta had written

"Was old Peeta really worth fighting for? This runt! If I had continued I would have spent the rest of his life having episodes, being treated like a charity case, mooching District 13's resources like a parasite, for the lie that I could become Peeta, with his memories and identity who does not spend the rest of his life in a hospital bed. Who really cared about Peeta anyway? Why am I so pathetic, with my back that looks like the surface of mars, hallucinations from hell, a mind empty of identity living on false hope that the destroyed identity would return, a person without a real past? I am useless! Johanna and Delly had called me a mutt and I wish I was one, I would have a purpose I would be needed. I don't want to be used, never again! But if I have no past, in a sense that makes me a mutt, because do mutts have a past like humans do? Everything about me is wrong. Restoring Peeta had given me a purpose, and a delusion that everything was fine I just needed to work on recovering memories of the quell, that this wasn't real. I have done all this work in the name of restoring Peeta for what? My memories are mine and don't affect anyone else. Katniss who was mentioned all the time in the memory restoration efforts clearly didn't care, she has everything whatever happens to me in the hospital wing does not affect her. If the treatment was done for the star crossed lovers how pathetic was that! She does not give a fuck about me and never did, I am just a mere threat at this point, that's all I am to her, and if all my memories of her are false doesn't that make her a stranger? It made it all the more sad that I did work she never could imagine, for someone who had everything and would just laugh at me for being so stupid and then put an arrow in my head. I was glad that Coin has finally ended this sham. I requested my doctors "destroy" the Capitol transplants, so my mind could be my own, so I stopped being a living tombstone, so lies that are disrespectful not just to Katniss but to me, that I was forced to believe, would be wiped out, which they refused to do. A corpse or ruined city has value apparently. A person without a past has a clean slate for the future. The Capitol must pay! It's time to stop this self pity, well its a warrant for the burial of the late Peeta it isn't  self pity.  America when it fell became Panem so too will time let the Old Peeta rest. Thanks to 13, Hope is not yet lost, amidst the thundering storm clouds a ray of light is present, red white and blue, the colors of 13. I will not give up on living, from Peeta's corpse something even better will emerge. Even after all the Capitol threw at me I'm still alive and kicking."

When she was on the rotation for Annie she saw a back that looked similar to Peeta’s but it wasn't as horrifying as seeing Peeta's back. Peeta using illogic considered them to be physical features of a mutt thinking how most people didn't look like rainbows but he did, and compared himself to a leopard he thought of decorating his scars with paint. In September prior to his funny ideas the scars had given him tremendous shame even to look at them. Peeta told her this and Katniss wanted to puke. Her mind would revisit the image of the debased back, and would make her wince it was a disturbing image it appeared in her sleep and was an intrusive image in her mind.

As Peeta ran to the bathroom after being stung all his therapeutic drawings fell to the ground it included depictions of his time in the capitol. Katniss picked up after him after she visited Peeta’s symbolic grave. Katniss could not hold it in anymore and sobbed. She picked up all the other drawings of various topics related to his time in the capitol, the insides of the capitol torture avoxes fighting for their lives,"plumpy Avoxes being served" Darius and Lavnia, "overcooked food"burnt bodies, mutts of all different kinds. An avox was shown feeding them human flesh, feeding him Darius with Annie eating his flesh. The subtitles usually have black humor, "yummy human steak" The doctors who destroyed Peeta are also shown with their names written. Dead bodies abound everywhere, and President Snow beating Annie with a Cane is seen in another drawing, there are over 66 drawings in total all dropped pn the floor as Peeta ran to the bathroom. Nobody wanted to pick those dark photos up so it fell to Katniss. There are numerous drawings of the torture machines and President Snow overseeing it. The hijacking is also shown with films, hijacking equipment, tubes with venom, and shiny bubbles The last one is a drawing of a pill marked "mind breaker-Killer of Peeta Mellark." Without any attempt at humor. She puts the postcards back in an envelope that is in the front of the book, which Peeta named "Happy times in the capitol for therapy" with a yellow smily face in front of the envelope.(☺) Peeta leaves the bathroom, Katniss quickly puts the book down. "What the hell happened to you?" Peeta asks Katniss decides to be honest otherwise Peeta is going to think well .... "I saw your drawings of your torture in the capitol" "right my happy times in the capitol" Peeta laughs. Katniss just stares him she leaves out seeing Peeta's symbolic grave. .

[yuriririnnie]

Someone Great

A/N: I haven’t written fanfiction ever since I temporarily gave up hardcore fangirling a couple of years back. I’m so out of touch, but creativity has been creeping onto me lately because law school is eating up most of my life.

Do you wanna guess who she'll end up with? :)

Prelude and part one under the cut! ❤

—

PAIRING | Park Jongseong (Jay) x reader

WC | 1.6k

GENRE | fluff, angst, slice of life

WARNINGS | explicit language

SYNOPSIS | I was told that I was going to love six boys in my life before I meet the one I'm going to love forever.

—

PRELUDE

Seven boys. I am going to love seven boys in this lifetime.

I went to a Chinese temple once when I was 10 because my mother was a hardcore fortune junkie and believed in these superstitions. She made (forced more like it) me come with her to see if I was going to grow up rich or something and while I myself didn’t believe in it, I let her do what she wanted because really at that point in life I never saw myself as anything or anyone once I reached my twenties. 

Not sure if they still have this now, but I inserted a coin in what looked like a gacha machine and pulled out a piece of paper (I vividly remember that I pulled a number 15) which supposedly contained my future and how life would be like for me in terms of health, wealth, love, and everything else. 

It said that I would meet and love exactly six men in my life before I meet the one for me. Back then I never obsessed on boys or the idea of dating in general, but as a young girl, it sparked my interest because the concept of love was something new. I kept that single piece of paper until I graduated college. 

—

ONE. THE FIRST.

Everyone remembers their first. First crush, first date, first hug, the first hand they’ve ever felt, and the first pair of lips they’ve ever touched with their own. 

His name was Park Jongseong. We called him Jay. 

Jay was the perfect first love. He was handsome, kind, lit up the room whenever he entered, valued his friendships, and was the ultimate momma’s boy. I met Jay when I was 13. He was 14, an only child of a business man, learned how to drive at 16, and was the boy of my dreams. 

He was tall, slender, had jet black hair that was often pushed back to show his sharp, manly features. He had a small scar at the top of his nose in between his eyes, and often had a cut in the middle of his lower lip. At first it made him look like a bad boy, someone your mother wouldn’t dream of you ever end up dating. But deep inside, he was kind, caring, and really embodied my love language (which is of course, acts of service). I dedicated literally every Taylor Swift song to him and thought that I was going to love him forever. 

I vaguely remember the day we met, but I do remember the first time I went out with him. I was so impressed by how much he spent on me considering we were just kids and didn’t really get much for a weekly allowance (at least that was the case for me). He was every boy a girl could ever hope their first love would be. He treated me to lunch, held my hand in the movie theater, and I even got my first kiss when he dropped me home that one day. 

“I’ve never done this before.” Because I really hadn’t yet. The closest form of intimacy I’ve ever had were hugs and hand-holding, and most of these didn’t even come from certain “significant others.”

“Just close your eyes.” He seemed experienced. 

Was I supposed to feel embarrassed for not knowing where to put my hands? When should I open my eyes? Should I say thank you afterwards?

See, these are the things I wished they taught us at school. 

And then, in the midst of all this overthinking, our lips touched. 

My first kiss was memorable because we laughed it off immediately after. He asked me how it was and I replied with, “Felt like a rough wilderness, but I guess it’ll feel better later on.” He never let that go because it was the object of literally every inside joke we have among our friends. 

Jay took care of me a lot. He made sure that I ate during lunch and that I received gifts every “monthly anniversary.” He took me to the movies, drove me around, even taking the long ways to places just so we can spend more time sightseeing. He would hold the door for me, carry my heavy bags full of high school necessities, and wipe the sweat off my forehead after cheerleading practice.

We had a lot of fun dating throughout those years, but when I turned 16, I got more and more exposed to school activities, boys in general, and learned more about myself and what I loved doing. Jay was extremely supportive in the things I did, and even if I didn’t get along that much with his mom, he continued to love me as though I was the only woman in his life. 

One fateful morning, I woke up after a busy day at school (we stayed up until midnight for a runway where I had to represent my class and model for the students who helped design clothes based on a theme) and I’m not sure if it was due to exhaustion or the gradual turn of events between Jay and I, but this was something I will always remember even up to this day. 

It was the day I realized that I was no longer in love. 

Going back to that very day, I was so angry, frustrated, and even disgusted with myself for even thinking about dumping my dear boyfriend. My dear, sweet, caring, Jay who treated me like I was glass. But the hardest part of it was accepting the fact that I no longer felt the same. I no longer felt the heat of the sun in my body whenever we touched. I no longer felt the sweetness in the laughs that we shared. I no longer felt the butterflies in my stomach when in fact it used to feel like there was an entire amazon in there. Everything just felt so empty. Was that how it was supposed to feel like? 

I forgot when and at what point I stopped loving Jay, but I knew that he did not deserve me the very moment I even started to doubt my feelings. The night before I finally admitted to myself that I no longer loved him was actually NORMAL. He picked me up from school, we laughed, shared stories, held hands, and even kissed before I hopped off the car when I reached home. Yet, I knew I couldn’t keep these feelings away from him. I couldn’t hide them in the depths of my young heart. I was just too small, and the feeling only grew more as I made every little thing that he did for me a big deal. 

“Did I do something wrong?” He choked. I felt the shock from his voice. He sounded like he felt every kind of negative emotion all at once. 

I took a deep breath and said, “I just don’t think I feel the same anymore.” 

“All of a sudden? Have you been feeling like this for a while?”

“I don’t know.” I really didn’t know. I just knew that even if I was still so young at the time, I spent three years of my young age with Jay. It was my first time ever sharing a huge chunk of my life to someone else. Back then, it felt like a mini-forever. 

It was a 23-minute phone call. 

We broke up that night, and I cried myself to sleep for the first time. 

It was my first heartbreak, and it wasn’t even for a guy who hurt me. He didn’t even try to hurt me. 

Jay lingered for a while. I understood why he held such as a special place in my life and I knew that he was someone my young heart had to experience to know what it was really like to reciprocate a feeling. He was my first leap of faith, my dip in the pool before I dove in, the sweet sensation at the tip of my tongue before I took a bite. I still so clearly remember how he held me the first time we hugged, and the scar he had on his lip when we first kissed. 

I was his first love, and he mine. 

[vendettamuses]

@unrclypirxte SAID: A "meeting" had been called at the compound, and any and all privateers could attend; the subject was a mystery, but Hoyt always promised a good show. So, a crowd had formed in the courtyard, and a good ten minutes after, Hoyt came out to greet them. He did his usual spiel, giddy as always, before gesturing to the doors behind him. They burst open, followed by a sizeable group of juggernauts. Then, thrown to the floor as far as they could make it, was Beth. Bloody, a little bruised, and gasping for breath.

"Which brings me onto the next topic: favouritism! I get accused of that a lot with her," Hoyt gestured to Beth as she tried to stand, promptly getting kicked back down by one of his men. She wheezed. "But that isn't the case, as you can see! Now! This is an important lesson in trust. But! Any questions before I continue?"

⚔️ Random Asks // ALWAYS ACCEPTING! ⚔️

Piper's was never fond of gatherings. Not on Rook anyway. Any and all "group events" typically featured one thing: torture and death. Hoyt ruled by fear, and to maintain that image often meant using someone as an example. A sacrifice. This place was a god-damned cult at times, with individuals sharing the same ideas about the value of life being counted in coin and the use of brutality to ensure "efficiency." She hated it. The whole place was practically and Mythic Pain Farm.

But what else was there to expect from Rook Island?

As much as she hated it, Piper had managed to develop something of a stomach for it all. The gore, the guts, the blood, the torture, the death and the suffering. Her prey side had always demonstrated a strong aversion to it in the beginning. But the predator side had been all too easy to adjust to it. Enjoy it even. A natural, instinctual response that she had been fast to squash.

It was bad enough that she worked on this wretched island, she was not becoming an Instinct Criminal while she was at it.

But in that moment, everything seemed to blank out. The tolerance, the restraint, the small modicum of composure she'd managed to scrape together in order to avoid losing sanity, her very self to the instincts she kept buried deep within her. All of it flew out of her and into the jungle the second she saw Beth's body hit the ground. Her jaw dropped. Her eyes widened. Her mask slipped and her whole expression became awash with horror.

Without thinking, she rushed forward and screamed BETH's name. She slammed through the crowd, pushing the men that towered over her aside in a mad dash to get to her companion as she was kicked to the ground. The sight had undoubtedly given Piper the fright of her life. But all that fear, that horror - it boiled into a white, hot, vengeful anger as one of the juggernauts caught her arm and pulled her back. She turned and snarled at the bastard with a sharp.

"LET GO OF ME YOU BLOODY BASTARD!"

Somewhere outside of her own pulse in her ears, there was laughter as another grabbed her other arm and helped pull her back to watch. She struggled against them, kicking and flailing against their iron grip. They had her up off the ground, ears pinned back and snarling like a wild beast. She glared at Hoyt, teeth bared and teeth rattling with a positively feral sound. No words.

Only the silent promise that she'd slaughter them all if he didn't let Beth go right this instant.

[blockinsider]

Bithumb and Upbit Listing Propels MOCA to Soar by a Whopping 370%

Key Points

Mocaverse’s primary token, Moca coin (MOCA), saw a 370% surge in value following its listing on South Korean crypto exchanges Bithumb and Upbit.

Despite the initial surge, the coin is now on a cooldown path, mirroring the broader digital asset space.

Moca coin (MOCA), the main token of the blockchain ecosystem Mocaverse, developed by Animoca Brands, experienced a significant increase in value, soaring by up to 370% in a single day. However, it is now experiencing a cooldown, similar to the overall trend in the digital asset market, which also turned green with Bitcoin hitting a new all-time high at the $106,000 price level.

The surge in MOCA’s value can be attributed to the listing of Korean won trading pairs on leading South Korean cryptocurrency exchanges, Upbit and Bithumb. Such listing events are typically bullish for altcoins as they open up to a wider investor base. However, it’s worth noting that some listings have resulted in significant price drops as early investors use the event as an exit strategy.

Listing Details and Reactions

Upbit has confirmed that its users will be able to trade MOCA in KRW, BTC, and USDT pairs, with trading commencing at 14:00 KST on December 16th. However, it’s important to note that MOCA deposits and withdrawals via networks other than Ethereum will not be supported, according to the listing announcement.

Similarly, Bithumb has also announced that its customers can trade MOCA with a listing base price of 136 won. Both exchanges have renamed the token to Mocabus to align with the regional market.

Following these announcements, Animoca Brands’ co-founder Yat Siu expressed his gratitude to Upbit and Bithumb for their proactive measures, which allow their customers to gain exposure to the Web3 space. He believes that the tech-savvy and pro-crypto South Korean community will help expand MOCA’s presence throughout the country.

MOCA Price Analysis

As of writing, MOCA is trading at $0.2224, having increased by 154.74% in the past 24 hours and reaching a daily high at $0.4261. This peak represents a new all-time high for the altcoin, which had earlier rebounded from a daily low of $0.08642. CoinMarketCap data shows that the digital asset has a market cap of $344.33 million and a massive trading volume of $1.21 billion.

The Relative Strength Index (RSI) for MOCA’s price trajectory is currently at 85.63, indicating that the altcoin is overbought. This suggests that a price correction may be imminent. However, the upward trend of the RSI line also suggests the possibility of higher prices.

The MACD indicator in the daily chart confirms that MOCA just witnessed a bullish divergence with the MACD line (blue) breaking above the signal line (red), resulting in a bullish histogram. It’s worth noting that skyrocketing prices might reach their peak once buyers start taking profits, so all positions should be opened with caution.

[veryflirtytransportalate]

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"What? No honor among thieves?" - Hancock, a mayor who dresses like a guard

More fun in Goodneighbor, which I've discovered has no space in the name. Today, after spending an evening having Piper take salacious photographs of me on a camera but it's rusty with a bunch of random garbage glued to it, you know, a post-apoclypti-camera, everything in this place is designed like that, but anyway, after we did that and snoozed and got a snack and went back to Sanctuary and then took another nap, I made a timely trip to Goodneighbor's underwhelming mayor's office. The mayor wanted to talk to me, which everyone in town made seem like it mattered. Last time I saw him, I was standing under a balcony, thinking about how great an opportunity this would be to loot the entire town, and he was actually the guy on the balcony at the time. He said I was a cool guy for breaking into but not robbing his big "supply cache", which I gotta be honest, I totally did rob his supply cache! Opened every crate and box in the joint! The man collects garbage so valueless that a person who's inventory has a tab for JUNK could make no use of it. Whatever was of value in that room was a mystery to me, but because I thought he had trash taste, his... assistant? Friend? Who even is this chick to him? Whatever, look, I went and talked to him on some fuckos behest (the huge gun she threw me was an excellent bribe, and risky, considering I'd already once turned Goodneighbor upside down and shaken out all the coins), and Mr. Handycock just keeps going on and on and on: "I used to be cool. Now I'm not cool. I'm still cool, right?" And I'm like, "Dude, you are one of the worst dressed people I've ever met - but you're hot with ripping sideburns, so stop complaining, do a drug, and go funk someone!" He didn't listen to me. It was like everything I said went in one ear and was translated to, "Yes." So, since he is a collectable, I said he could totally party with me, and he literally dropped everything, I mean guy hardly catches his breath before he goes out on his balcony (which I guess is as close as this place gets to a news room), and just starts telling everybody that he loves them a whole lot. How they're a cool town. It had the vibe of a manager being like, "Who's the best Dunkin' in Fremont? We are! Everyone cheer together now!" Some dude is like "oh I love you" so I guess they like being treated like that, I don't know, I wasn't paying much attention (I had accidentally slipped off the rail and cracked my ankles on the ground, so I'm pounding back Stimpacks this whole time like OH MY LEGS and shit). Then, when the crowd is dispersing and my legs work again, I wander back inside and he's just like, ready to go. Doesn't have to... talk to anybody. Get any stuff. Just, ready to rumble.

I told him to go to the Red Rocket where I keep Strong Mad and McGravy. Look, I don't even think this guy is really the mayor, he just seems like a weirdo with friends who don't know how to break the news to him. Apparently his brother is a mayor. Hm. I see. Doesn't that explain the whole thing.

Great bar though. Third Rail is probably like, top bar in the whole of Boston. I guess it's his bar? Does this town have ownership laws? I mean I went to steal his shit and the response was, "Please don't." Can I just take the Fatman by the robot who wants to funk me or will that robot really funk me? You know, to death. The robot can totally funk me not to death, but I do wanna stretch first.

(Outfit credits, my thoughts, and a few more shots below the cut.)

I could take pictures of this outfit all day - the earrings are from iamtenspeed's Earrings of the Commonwealth (opens in new tab), and the choker is from BlunderFury's People Collars (opens in new tab).

Digital photography in Fallout 4 can be a real slog sometimes because of the body shapes. I'm vaguely aware that they have shapes and presets and... look. Fallout 4, by default, has two bodies: male and female. As a non-binary, you can imagine my frustration. The bodies aren't as sexist as they could be, but you get the impression that if this game had traditional stats all women would get a -1 to STR. If it was a spectrum it's halfway between "everyone is a genderless mannequin" like character creation in Demon's Souls and "are these even the same species" like the line up in League of Legends. I'm... kind of stuck like that to be honest. Two bodies to work with. Very few sliders. Makes The Sims 4's impressive suite of customization features look like a far off dream.

So, you go online to get mods, but ah! You will stumble into the same rabbit hole I have! The outfits are almost all based on CBBE! And if you thought vanilla could be bad, you haven't seen some of the things people will put on the Internet. However! It comes with Body Slide, a tool that allows us to customize the included retextured body to be a bunch of different shapes! Tons of sliders! So you can just customize the bodies, right? Issue solved? Well... sort of? It's really dense: there are what feel like thousands of options to tweak and touch and pinch and at some point you feel weird staring intently at a naked body on the screen, especially when you try a preset and it turns out to be... I'm going to have to go with a really deep frown and a quietly hissed, "exaggerated." Plus after you save it, you have to basically write the body slider positions to every new item, and a problem you run into is that outfits are designed with certain body shapes in mind: usually you notice this because the boobs on the outfit will be honkytonk nonsense, or the waist is nonexistant, or both. I do the best I can to offset this, but when you're interested in this rowdy and rough pin-up & glam rock inspired aesthetic it becomes tough to find things that don't make you feel kind of gross about the entire affair.

So! That is the reason I'm so into the Handmaiden set I've featured in so many pictures - just look at Sizz'el! She's got actual muscles! A body! Arms! Do you know how hard it is to give a woman in these games some funking arms?! It's far from perfect, but I'm finally getting somewhere with this! I should really rebuild the outfit and make it her default. Not... BodySlide rebuild like I explained before, I mean, like, she should put her shirt back on if she's gonna go get shot.

[yhwhrulz]

Today's Daily Encounter Thursday, February 22, 2024

Favoritism Forbidden

"If you really keep the royal law found in Scripture, "Love your neighbor as yourself, you are doing right. But if you show favoritism, you sin and are convicted by the law as lawbreakers. For whoever keeps the whole law and yet stumbles at just one point is guilty of breaking all of it."1

Vending machines have come a long way over the years. It used to be you slid in a couple of coins and pulled a lever and down would drop your snack or drink. Now there are lights, levers, cranes, codes, and chutes that make the purchase a production of its own. But one of the greatest advances in vending machine technology was the ability of the machine to accept bills rather than just coins. Especially as prices increased, it came as a relief not having to search the car seats for that extra quarter - now you just slide in a dollar bill or two and you're ready to snack. That is unless your dollar bill is rejected! What a terrible feeling. You watch your dollar get sucked into the machine and then it spits it back at you. You check the little picture to make sure George's head is facing the right way and try again. If you're rejected again, you do that little ritual that you saw some other guys do - you take the bill and rub it on a corner trying to take out any possible crease in the bill. You unfold any turned-up corners and hope your bill is good enough. If you still find your bill rejected, you're now ready to take the machine on - that's why they put those machines behind metal bars!! "What's the deal," you think. A dollar is a dollar, after all, whether it's fresh out of the mint or if it's been folded, wadded, washed and taped. Why should this machine accept a good-looking bill but reject an old, worn out one? A clean, fresh bill is of no more value than a worn-out one, right?2

As much as we would hate to admit it, we can be much like these vending machines. Many times, we have the tendency to accept the people who seem to have it all together and are less accepting of people who have been folded, creased, washed, or taped. People in the second category often find themselves rejected, or "spit out" due to our favoritism much like those old dollar bills in the vending machine.

However, in James chapter two we are told clearly the type of behavior we should exhibit as Christians. James gives the example of a man wearing fine clothes walking in, and at the same time a poor man in filthy old clothes also coming in. The rich man is shown special attention and given the best seats, but the poor man is not invited to sit at the same seat, but instead told to "stand there" or "sit on the floor by my feet."3 In verse one James tells us, "My brothers and sisters, believers in our glorious Lord Jesus Christ must not show favoritism."

All kinds of people, many of whom had been rejected by society, found themselves welcomed and accepted by Jesus. Jesus saw past the flaws that others focused on, and saw the worth in every individual. Let us imitate His example.

Suggested prayer: Dear God, thank you that you came to seek that which was lost. You came to the broken people like me who had many times been rejected or fallen short of society's expectations. Help me imitate your example of acceptance and love to all – without showing favoritism. Thank you for hearing and answering my prayer. In Jesus' name, amen.1. James 2:8-10 (NIV). 2. www.sermoncentral.com 3. James 2:2-3.

Today's Encounter was written by: Crystal B.

NOTE: If you would like to accept God's forgiveness for all your sins and His invitation for a full pardon Click on: http://www.actsweb.org/invitation.php. Or if you would like to re-commit your life to Jesus Christ, please click on http://www.actsweb.org/decision.php to note this.

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[joywindsong]

The Seductive Bandit Pt 5

Booty Bay is filled with travelers, sailors, pirates, and soldiers from each faction. Alyarus puts the hood on her cloak up as they enter through the tunnel and motions for Vontez to do the same.

"You don't have a bounty do you?" Vontez questions as he raises his hood.

"No, but it's best to keep a low profile. There are lunatics around here who will strike you down just for the thrill of the kill. Which is why we need to keep moving."

Alyarus says keeping her pace across the boardwalk towards the inn. A blood elf in ranger's gear trots past and Alyarus pulls her hood closed.

"You also don't want to risk being recognized with how many people come through here."

They move steadily with Moosehead towering over them.

"Why doesn't he keep a low profile?" Vontez asks pointing to the tauren.

"Because I trust the Earthmother has already decided my destiny. Alyarus is also just used to skulking around and thinking of worst case scenarios. That also makes her a good leader for these assignments, so just follow her lead." Moose says patting a large hand on the Paladin's shoulder.

They enter the inn. Dwarves, goblins, orcs, and gnomes, all different races are yelling and jeering at the bar. All sorts of languages being shouted out. Alyarus leads the group upstairs to where things are much quieter. A forsaken man with a slack jaw and clumps of hair missing from his scalp sits waiting at the end of the hallway. He makes eye contact with the group and stands up. His shoulder dislocates and relocates as his posture adjusts. His leather tunic and pants have holes rotted through to show his bones popping out of his skin.

"Zug." He simply states.

Vontez reaches for his shortsword.

"That's our guy. We'll wait out here." Alyarus states with a hand on Vontez's arm.

Moose follows the man into one of the rooms and the pair can be heard speaking orcish to one another. Vontez relaxes.

"You seem a bit trigger happy around Horde for someone who isn't a fan of the Alliance." Alyarus paces over to the adjacent wall to look at the bounty board across.

"There's the Captain." Alyarus points as Vontez joins at her side.

The poster reads:

"Mad Whale Shark

WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE

For crimes against both Horde and Alliance

50,000 GOLD REWARD"

"Only 50,000?" Vontez asks.

"I'm not sure it's adjust for inflation. You know how it's been recently. New treasures from Outland, now Northrend. The value of gold is dropping like crazy. 50,000 was a lot more when he got that." Alyarus explains.

A goblin walks into the hallway with a sheet of paper.

"Damn drunks! They don't pay me enough..." He climbs up onto a chair in front of the board and pins a new flyer before hopping off and storming back downstairs.

"Why do the goblins speak common?" Vontez asks.

"Most people do. There are even a lot of Horde who know it but choose not to use it. For example-" Alyarus stops midsentence catching sight of what the goblin just posted.

That was her face.

"The Seductive Bandit of Gilneas

WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE

For the murder of Fiz Silverbolt

45,000 GOLD REWARD"

"Shit! Don't tell me these are already posted around town!" She keeps under her breath, walking across the hall to pull the poster down and inspect it closer.

"What do we do?" Vontez looks to Alyarus for direction.

Alyarus contorts her mouth to the side scanning the hallway and looking over to the room where Moose can be heard loudly laughing. She storms over to the doorway.

"Moose!" She holds up the poster. "Wrap it up. We need to get out of here."

Moose nods in understanding. He turns to the forsaken and hands him a coin purse in exchange for a small package that he promptly places in his bag. Alyarus turns down the hallway to see a pair of shady figures. Two men, one night elf one gnome.

"I'm telling you, I saw a blue eyed elf come up here." The night elf muttered to the gnome

"You're delusional! What kind of idiot would have a bounty like that and even think about stepping foot in booty bay?"

Vontez looked over to Alyarus. She pulled her hood down and slipped behind Moosehead as he walked out of the room. Walking down the hallway Alyarus grabbed Vontez by the hand as they passed.

"Move!" She told him as quietly as possible using the two men as cover.

Moving down the stairs they slipped through the crowd unnoticed. At the doorway they stopped just outside of the inn.

"Alyarus, you will be less noticeable without a hulking man in metal and an 8 foot beast with you. Let's split up now and we'll meet you on the other side of the tunnel." Moosehead instructs Alyarus.

"Your safety is the most important part of this mission!" she protests.

"That was before you got a bounty on your head." Moose snaps back.

"Fine! Other side of the tunnel, move quick and make sure tall dark and handsome doesn't start another fight with any Horde!" Alyarus says in a panic.

Alyarus slips into the shadows watching her comrades trot across the boardwalk. Faces pass by as she hides behind barrels and boxes. She slips up the ramp to the top level decks. A crowd of adventurers push past each other, clinking of chain and plate armor against each other. Horde and Alliance shoving one another out of the way. Alyarus tries to use the commotion as cover.

"Watch where you're going!"

Alyarus feels someone stumble into her with force, probably after being shoved. She falls to the ground.

"Are you alright Miss?" A plate armored hand reaches down to help her up.

"I'm fine!" She slaps it away before looking up.

It's a blood elf with long sky blue hair falling over his plate armor. His neon eyes adjust and then widen.

Alyarus' heart jumps up into her throat. She throws down a smoke bomb. Commotion breaks out with yelling and cursing as the crowd is blinded. She slips through the crowd and sprints off of the deck and onto the grass towards the tunnel.

Stopping for a moment to collect herself behind a rail post. She looks back to see the crowd frustrated in the smoke. Taking her dagger, she stabs the top of the wooden post to pry off a chunk of it. Measuring where the guards are positioned she chucks the wood chunk at the top edge of the tunnel.

"What the hell!?"

The goblins preoccupied don't notice Alyarus slip by. On the other end of the tunnel she sees Moosehead pointing the guards towards the wild with Vontez at his side. Vontez makes eye contact with her and taps Moose on the back.

Moosehead waves a hand dismissively.

"Ah! My old eyes must be playing tricks on me! I apologize for the mistake." Moosehead loudly tells the guards.

The goblins return to their post shaking their heads.

The trio reconvene just up the trail.

"Now that we're out of there, would you mind explaining: what did you do!?" Moosehead says to Alyarus in his deep booming voice trying not to be too loud.

"I did what I had to do for the crew! How was I supposed to know they'd track that pervy goblin's death back to me!?"

"He's a famous engineer! You thought he wouldn't have surveillance for them to piece things together!? This is not a mistake I'd expect from you Alyarus!" Moosehead can't help but raise his voice.

Alyarus is clearly fighting back tears, overwhelmed by everything happening.

"Are you alright?" Vontez says sheepishly.

"I'm fine! Let's just get back to the ship. Our work here is done." She wipes a single tear from her face.

"Aly!?" A deep familiar voice calls in the distance.

The sound of hooves galloping up the trail grows louder. Alyarus turns around slowly, her face white as a ghost. Light flashes with a winny before the clunk of plate boots hit the ground, then start walking towards the three.

"You know this man?" Moosehead asks looking across the way.

A tall blood elf with long sky blue hair stands on the trail wearing a full suit of armor. The tabard of the Horde on his chest and a Sin'dorei longsword on his back, splattered with still drying blood. Moraliuen's eyes meet with Alyarus. Her heart is beating out of her chest.

"Alyarus... You should be dead."

[giancarlonicoli]

Real Estate Legend Sam Zell Dead At 81

by Tyler Durden

Thursday, May 18, 2023 - 04:55 PM

Sam Zell, one of the most honest and outspoken people on Wall Street, not to mention a real estate and investing legend, has died. He was 81.

Zell, who called himself “the Grave Dancer” for his bets on distressed assets, including a losing wager that drove the Tribune into bankruptcy, passed away today according to Equity Residential, the company he founded. Its announcement didn’t give details.

As Bloomberg writes in its obituary of the billionaire, "Zell cut an elfin figure and cultivated a rebellious persona, with displays of salty language, a penchant for motorcycles and frequent media appearances. The Chicago-born son of Polish refugees, he built a fortune in real estate and a hodgepodge of investments that included radio stations, drug stores, parking lots, mattresses and Schwinn bicycles. He amassed a net worth of $5.9 billion, according to the Bloomberg Billionaires Index."

Zell built up his empire with a series of successes built up over a lifetime of investing in real estate; his ventures, which he managed through his Chicago-based Equity Group Investments umbrella group, included the largest owners of office properties and apartment buildings and the biggest operator of mobile home parks. Zell’s Falcon Building Products was the top domestic supplier of air compressors for home-improvement use. His American Classic Voyages Co. and American Hawaii Cruises, were first in riverboat and Hawaiian inter-island cruises, respectively.

Not all his ventures were successful: his highest-profile venture ended badly. In 2007, he sold one of his units, the Equity Office Properties Trust, to New York-based Blackstone for $39 billion, then the largest leveraged buyout. The cash helped him orchestrate an $8.3 billion leveraged buyout of Tribune Co., owner of the Chicago Tribune, Los Angeles Times, Newsday, the Chicago Cubs and a portfolio of television and radio stations.

As Tribune CEO, he slashed 4,200 workers to make the Chicago-based media company more profitable. He took the company private in 2007 and used a little-known strategy to limit its taxes. Even with that edge and selling the Cubs and Newsday to raise cash, Zell got caught in the Great Recession and had to file for bankruptcy protection in 2008 as his leveraged debt became unpayable. He lost more than $300 million (then again, nothing can survive in Chicago).

As Bloomberg also reminds us, with a remarkable record of wins on his investments, Zell had another defeat or sorts when he lost the bidding for Rockefeller Center’s 12-building complex in 1996, losing out to a coalition led by Goldman Sachs Group Inc. Undaunted, he moved on, eventually becoming the largest US office landlord before selling to Blackstone a decade later.

Some more from Bloomberg's obit: Zell dusted off a modestly used vehicle, the REIT, and used it as a vehicle to go public, funded by investors large and small. After years of guaranteeing deals with his own assets and worrying about how liquid and vulnerable he was, Zell saw the wisdom of using others people’s money through REITs. From this experience, he coined one of his maxims, which he called Sam-isms: “Liquidity equals value.”

Zell laid out his investment philosophy in a 1978 article titled The Grave Dancer, published in Real Estate Review. “I was dancing on the skeletons of other people’s mistakes,” he wrote.

He was an opportunist whom critics called a vulture capitalist. “It’s the situation, not the long-term trend, that interests us,” he told the Chicago Tribune in 2006.

Other Zell rules: Don’t covet trophy properties. Don’t buy at an auction. Don’t buy outdated office space.

His risk-taking spilled over to his personal life. He had annual motorcycle rides with a group he called Zell’s Angels, leading his pack down dangerous roads around the world. He also was first down the slopes on black-diamond ski trails on outings he arranged for his staff.

In 2017 Zell published Am I Being Too Subtle?: Straight Talk from a Business Rebel.

Samuel Zell was born Shmuel Zielonka in Chicago on Sept. 28, 1941. His parents were Jews who had escaped the Nazi invasion of Poland and made their way to the US through Japan in 1941. Zell’s father, born Berek Zielonka, changed the family name to Zell. Berek became Bernard, as he made the transition from being a grain dealer to a wholesale seller of jewelry before investing in conservative real estate transactions. His wife, Ruchla, changed her name to Rochelle.

The family initially lived in the Albany Park neighborhood before moving to the wealthy North Shore suburb of Highland Park, where Zell graduated from high school. An early entrepreneur, he sold used Playboy magazines to classmates before getting into managing campus real estate at the University of Michigan, where he earned a bachelors’s degree in 1963 and a law degree three years later.

He worked briefly for a law firm but decided he preferred real estate. He opened his first solo office in Chicago in 1968. Robert Lurie, who had helped him manage apartments at the University of Michgan, joined him, rising from a 15 percent partner to an equal until his death in 1990. Zell, who had relied on Lurie as his operations chief, worked without a partner after that.

Zell married three times. He had a son, Matthew, and a daughter, JoAnn, from his first marriage and adopted a daughter, Kellie, during his second. His third wife, Helen, was active in Zell’s charitable work, which included donations to museums and to his alma mater in Michigan.

[paulroberts316]

Bathroom Backrub

There are few things that disappoint me more than walking into a public bathroom and seeing a bathroom attendant. There seems to be no consistency for where I will find an attended bathroom, which is why I am always surprised when I find one. Some attended bathrooms are simple set-ups with a stack of paper towels (right next to the dispenser where you would normally get one), a bottle of hand lotion and some mints, while some are extravagant displays of anything a person might want to purchase after relieving oneself, such as colognes, combs, condoms, mouthwash, snacks and more. The one common denominator for all attended bathrooms is the attendant, who invariably has an eager desperation about them that one would expect from a service professional working for tips in a room where people pee and poop.

I am sure the experience is worse for me than others as I am a shy introvert who often feels awkward meeting random people in public. I find it uncomfortable getting undressed in a changing room when I am trying on clothes, and I find it embarrassing when another person comes into a private bathroom right after I’ve done a stinky, so combining those dynamics in a public place is the double whammy of unpleasant feelings.

I really hate interacting with people in a public bathroom. If I ran into Paul McCartney in a public bathroom, the person on earth I want to meet and talk to more than any other, I would probably say ‘hey’, look away and leave as quickly as possible. So combine my disdain for social interaction in a public bathroom with another thing I dislike, unsolicited, face-to-face, salesmanship, and you see where my disappointment with seeing a bathroom attendant come from.

I will say that in abstract I admire bathroom attendants for doing a dirty job to make a living. That is admirable and deserving of respect. But, man, I feel sorry for them.  Bathroom attendants have a serious work environment problem.

Imagine my disdain when I opening the door to a bathroom in an upscale restaurant in Beijing, China and saw a bathroom attendant. There is one thing that will make a bathroom attendant experience worse: throw in some cultural ambiguity, which was in full supply on this occasion. Do I have any Chinese currency on me? Do I remember the exchange rate? Is it horrible to not tip anything?

The fact that I am 6’ 6” and over 300lbs makes it is impossible to do anything in Asia without attracting a ton of attention. Whatever I do when in Asia will be noticed and probably remembered forever by the people around dme. In this case I was the only person in the bathroom besides the attendant who was exhibiting the expected eagerly desperate demeanor (mixed with the shock many Asians get when seeing someone my size for the first time). I had no way of knowing this particular attendant would create the most uncomfortable, yet memorable public bathroom experience of my life.

I made my way to a urinal, after pretending to ignore the attendant, with the plan of taking my time to figure out how I was going to handle the departure. I assessed what money I had on me to use as a tip (some coins of uncertain value would have to do). Then I visualized walking over to the sinks, washing my hands, taking the towel from the attendant, declining the offer to be spritzed with cologne, dropping the coins in the bowl, saying ‘thank you’ in Mandarin (“shi shi”) and making a quick departure. Ok, this won’t be too bad. And then my plan was destroyed.

The attendant had silently come up behind me while peeing. I was in my own mental cocoon and didn’t notice. He put his hands on my shoulders and started to massage me. Standing in a public bathroom with your genitalia hanging puts one in a compromised position. Having a stranger intimately rubbing your body while in this position is a bit traumatizing. The fact that it was a man was irrelevant, I would have had the same reaction if it were a woman. The shock I experienced was three dimensional: I couldn’t figure out why this was happening, I didn’t know the words in Mandarin to ask him to stop, and I couldn’t turn around and make him stop. Surely this wasn’t a normal thing to do in Chinese culture as I had been to China several times and had never seen it. But that didn’t matter, it was happening.

I had to wait until I had stopped peeing and zipped up my pants to end the impromptu massage and make a hasty escape. I beat him to the sink and quickly washed my hands and grabbed a paper towel off of his stack, breaking all attended bathroom decorum, and made for the door. I didn’t want to say “shi shi” to him as in my confused mind this would have acknowledged his shoulder massage was appreciated, so I said something like ‘hey-oh’ as I pushed the door open and left without looking back. I laughed to myself as I made my way back to my group thinking ‘wow, what the hell was that’.

[honyakuninakunaru]

A Sorcery Class With Two Peculiar Teachers // Mithra SSR Card Story

CHAPTER 1

(Lake of Reflections)

Akira: ("Oh, is that...")

Faust: "As expected, this is no longer of any use."

Mithra: "Really? It looks pretty good to me."

I stumbled upon Mithra and Faust discussing something by the lakeshore.

Akira: "Hi, you two."

Faust: "Oh, hello, Sage."

As I got closer, I noticed Mithra was holding something in his hand.

Akira: "What's that?"

Mithra: "Some golden dust and a silver coin. I found them while ravaging the lake earlier. I thought I could use them as an intermediate for sorcery, so I picked them up. Though the lake's curse has been lifted, these have been here for a while now.”

Akira: "I see... The golden dust is understandable, but what was the coin doing in the lake? Could someone have dropped it on accident?"

Faust: "I suspect it's an offering of sorts. The residents of this village appear to have performed a ritual to bless the lake. Perhaps offering something of value helps increase the effects of it."

Akira: ("So it's something like a monetary offering?")

Mithra: "I still think I could use it for minor summonings."

Faust: "Although it doesn't look like it would last... It could suffice as a stalwart for sense enhancement. For example..."

Akira: "..... (Wow, I don't think I've ever seen them say more than five words to one another...)"

As I thought that to myself, Mithra turned towards me.

Mithra: "Are you interested in sorcery too, Master Sage?"

Akira: "S-Sorcery?"

Mithra: "It's alright, don't be shy. I'm going to try this coin out for a little something right now just for you."

Faust: "... Were you even listening to me earlier?"

Mithra: "I‘m only going to call upon the local spirits and wildlife. Nothing special."

Faust: "..... If possible, stay close to me, Sage."

Akira: "A-Alright..."

Heeding Faust's warning, I followed closely behind when he suddenly turned to face Mithra, standing opposite him.

Faust clapped three times with his hands, after which Mithra drew a summoning circle with a wooden stick and sprinkled the dust over it. Finally, he placed the coin in the centre of the circle.

Faust: "<Salliuqnart Mullcredo>"

Mithra: "<Arthim>"

Akira: "Wow, the coin is shining! ....Aw...?”

However, almost immediately, the light dispersed without any further reaction.

Faust: "Hmm, perhaps it's not suited for this type of summoning."

Mithra: "... How curious."

Picking up the coin, Mithra chanted his spell once again. Then, he abruptly shoved the coin into my hands.

Mithra: "Do you feel anything coming from it, Master Sage?"

CHAPTER 2

Akira: "Am I... supposed to?”

Faust's eyes widened the moment I took the coin from Mithra.

Faust: "You-! You enchanted it, didn't you? You should know better than anyone that people with no resistance to magic shouldn't hold such things!"

Mithra: "It's fine. I'm here if anything happens."

Akira: "Um, is this thing... dangerous?"

As I nervously looked down at the coin in my hand, I noticed something flickering in the corner of my eye.

Dragging my gaze in its direction, I saw a giant reptile-like shadow on the surface of the lake.

Akira: "..... Hm?!"

Mithra: "It really didn't work, huh."

Mithra took the coin as if to confirm its sterility one more time, and just then, the shadow disappeared.

Akira: "...Huh?"

Faust: "Are you alright? You don't look too good."

Akira: "No, I... I'm fine."

Faust: "...That's good to hear. And for my next question, Mithra, what would you have done if your magic had affected them?"

Mithra: "Why does that matter? They're fine, and that's the most important thing. God, you're such a worrywart."

Akira: ("They don't seem to have noticed the shadow... What was that anyway...")

(Time skip)

After some time, I made my way to the lake once more.

Akira: "Nothing..."

The lake in front of me was a perfect mirror, only reflecting the beautiful scenery surrounding it.

Akira: "I was just seeing things, huh. Then again, it could've been Mithra's mag... ic...?"

Suddenly, the surface of the lake rippled lightly.

(Splash)

And just when I had taken a step back, something emerged from within the lake.

Akira: "Eeek—!"

Mithra: "Why must you always scream like that?"

Akira: "Mithra! ...Phew, you scared me... Are you diving for things again?"

Mithra: "Yes. I thought I'd look for something else to use as an intermediary since the coin was useless. Why are you so surprised?"

Akira: "Sorry... I was on guard, you could say..."

Mithra: "On guard?"

Akira: "Yeah, I forgot to tell you earlier because I was bothered by something, but... When you gave me the coin, I saw a shadow in the lake. Around this big, and it looked like some kind of... beast."

Mithra: "..... Where exactly did you see it?"

Akira: "...Umm, over there, I think."

As I pointed out the location, Mithra grabbed me by the arm.

Mithra: "Alright then, come with me."

CHAPTER 3

(At the bottom of the lake)

Akira: "...Ah!"

Before I could say a word, Mithra plunged into the lake once again, dragging me down with him.

Reaching its depths, I was prepared to struggle for air but found out I felt just fine.

Akira: ("Must be Mithra's magic...")

Once we came closer to where I had pointed, Mithra used his gaze to ask me if this was the right place.

Akira: ("I think it was here...")

When I nodded, Mithra didn't waste a second spelling out his incantation.

Mithra: "....."

As the sand at the bottom of the lake whirled up, something shiny came into view.

Akira: ("It's the dust Mithra picked up earlier. There are more coins and even jewellery... Ah, something’s glowing at the bottom...")

Mithra: "....."

Akira: ("... A hand-mirror?")

(Back ashore)

Akira: "Cough—!"

Mithra: "Oho...?"

Coming out of the lake, Mithra immediately began examining the mirror.

Its border was decorated with something ivory in colour. Despite the workmanship not being anything special, the material was used well, giving it an overall rough look.

Mithra: "Did the shadow you see look like a dragon? Big and with a long neck?"

Akira: "Y-Yeah, pretty much."

Mithra: "I knew it. I think what you saw was the dragon whose bones were used to make these ornaments."

Akira: "Its... bones?"

Mithra: "Yes. It was quite the behemoth. It's already extinct, but I will always recognise these curvy bones. They must've reacted to the spell Faust and I performed, but only you saw it since you were the one holding the coin."

Akira: "I see... Wow, that was quite the experience. So the coin wasn't useless after all."

Mithra: "I suppose so. But the real deal is this thing over here. Who knows, perhaps it's some fortune-teller's long-lost commodity."

There's a subtle look of satisfaction in Mithra's eyes; he's like a little boy brimming with joy over the secret treasure he's just found.

Mithra: "Come on, Master Sage, let's go."

Akira: "Go where?"

Faust: "To see Faust. I want to show him what we found."

Akira: ("He seems happy to have someone who shares his interests...")

Seeing my dear friends get along with each other truly makes me glad. Smiling, I nodded in response to Mithra's proposal.

Sorcery Talk // Card Training Episode

(Manor staircase)

Akira: "I've been seeing you a lot with Faust lately, Mithra. How do you find his company?"

Mithra: "Well, he seems to hold a lot of grudges. He's also very gloomy and bitter."

Akira: "Honest as ever..."

Mithra: "But, indeed, we have been talking a lot as of recently. Mostly because he's quite knowledgeable about sorcery."

Akira: "He is a maledictor, after all. So, what do you usually talk about? I don't know a lot about sorcery, but I feel like you two practice different kinds..."

Mithra: "We discuss techniques and tools and how to use them. We have a lot of topics at our disposal, even if the intentions we pick them for may be different. But I must say he's overly wary when it comes to handling charms. It's painful to watch him."

Akira: "Really?"

Mithra: "Yes. He's constantly going on about how he doesn't want the others to get hurt and such. He's thrown similar remarks at me as well for some reason. No charm is unfamiliar to me, after all."

Akira: ("So this is what gets them talking, huh...")

—————

Big thanks to MelllowD for providing raws for this story and making it happen!

[snifflesthemouse]

This morning, I read an article titled “I went undercover in the sinister world of Meghan Markle hate accounts" posted to Refinery 29. The title gives the impression of a journalist disguising one’s self as a “Meghan Markle hater” for the sake of getting to the bottom of something. However, the content of the article is nothing like its title.

Before I go further, let me stress the importance of perspective. My post isn’t an attack on the article’s author. I’ve never even heard of the author before now, and I’ve no right or reason to attack a perfect stranger because I vehemently disagree with the content of their work. Making assumptions about someone solely on what they write is lazy and sloppy in my opinion. I may be lazy and sloppy, but a hypocrite I try not to be. Therefore, go forward remembering my issues are with content, not creator.

The article starts out explaining the origins of the term “Megxit”. It continues with other hashtags, conspiracy theories, and so on. The article even mentions various media platforms “attacking" the Duchess, as well as crude posts witnessed by the author.

Then the name dropping begins. First with Murky Meg, then Sue Blackhurst, then According2Taz, then Skippyv20 on Tumblr, then Yankee Wally. Eventually, names of Royal Rota journalists are dropped. Then people like Angela Levin and Omid Scobie get mentioned, with interviews from the latter. Instead of an undercover sting, we get a “Who’s Who" of Megxit, a few anonymous Sussex Squad quotations, and Omid trying his best to be fair.

What this article accomplishes is very little when it comes to objectivity. The title is a misconception, and the content essentially paints targets on the backs of the people the author carelessly considers “Meghan Markle Haters". The article reduces anyone who disagrees with Meghan’s behavior as racist, misogynist, conspiracy theorist nutters. So, not only is the content of the article sloppy and lazy, it also lacks originality. We’ve all heard this sad song-and-dance number a million times.

I guess at face value, it becomes very easy, effortless really, for outsiders looking in to reduce an entire group of people with similar views to the basic stereotypes as old as time. It takes very little thought, consideration, or critical analysis, to assume things because they seem to correlate. But correlation is not causation. Just because some people opposing of Meghan Markle’s behavior happen to be racist doesn’t mean every single opposing person is also racist. Again, lazy and sloppy.

Just like assuming every single Meghan Markle fan is also vegan, anti-monarchy, feminist, woke warriors is downright sloppy and lazy. This author has personally interacted with and found common ground with Sussex Squad people many times. Some even became social media friends. They believe what they do, and I believe what I do. We do not agree with most things regarding Harry and Meghan, but we do agree to disagree and be civil.

So, contrary to the article, not all people “hate" Meghan Markle just because they detest her behavior. It’s important to remember extremes exist for all spectrums. Every topic, especially those politicized or made popular by media platforms, have extremes. There is no denying the fact that there are people who hate Meghan Markle because of her ethnicity. Those extremists who hate Meghan for her ethnicity ironically do not discriminate, though. If they hate her for her ethnicity, they hate ALL people of that same ethnicity.

On the flip side of this coin, is the other extreme. The face is the same on each side because the face represents extremism. There is no denying the fact that there are extremists who see anyone opposing Meghan as racists. Extremists who, by default, view every issue in the world through the lens of racism. While racism is a serious problem that deserves no place in society, assuming racism is the root cause of every conflict is also lazy and sloppy. And the same could be said that these extremists do not discriminate, either. If they see race as the only issue for why people “hate" Meghan Markle, they see race as the only issue for most everything.

The problem with both extremes is when everything and everyone is reduced to racial identity, racism only continues to exist. A racist using skin color as a disqualifier perpetuates racism. Assuming racism is the only reason behind disdain for someone only perpetuates racism. Focusing on race or racism allows no room for content of character.

Especially when people defend Meghan Markle being the victim of racism with a racist rule. When opposing critics say “I didn’t even know she was Black" or suggest her physical features, her Hollywood CV, or past involvement with Black causes were nonexistent before she became a duchess or stepped down from being a working royal, the extremists on the other side often resort to the One Drop Rule.

Which means their defense for calling Meghan Markle “haters" racists, even though they might have never knew she was mixed race, is a form of racism. The One Drop Rule was borne from the Reconstruction Era post-Civil War. The “rule" essentially said anyone who appeared to have Black features were considered Black.

The One Drop Rule was the precursor and eventual backbone to Jim Crow Laws of the South. It was used to oppress and segregate Americans based on physical appearance. Considering most people who never heard of Meghan before Harry came along were ignorant to her mixed heritage, it seems grossly negligent to assume race is the real issue. How can one be racist toward Meghan when they didn’t know she was mixed race? This author wasn’t aware of Meghan’s ethnicity prior to it being pointed out (by her and Harry. Repeatedly.), mainly because this author didn’t care.

Like so many, when I first saw Meghan and Harry together for the engagement interview, I was more excited about a fellow American joining the Royal Family. After learning she was biracial, well it was even better. It represented change and progress. Does that mean I saw the Royal Family as racists beforehand? No. It means I saw them as exactly the opposite. Had they been racist, she’d not be a duchess. Her being American and divorced was more a shock to me than being mixed.

The point of all this is there are extremists on every spectrum. For a journalist to say they went undercover, when in fact they did not, to expose the true motives behind Meghan Markle “haters", only to find they did very little to really understand the other side was disappointing. Not surprising, just disappointing. This could’ve been an excellent opportunity for someone to take the reigns and make bridges between two very passionate factions. Instead it became nothing more than a hit piece.

The article fails to acknowledge the possibility – no, the probability – that most people who object to Meghan Markle do so because of how she behaves. The article only considers one possibility behind this “hate". And by calling the objections “hate", the article in turn defines all criticisms as hate speech. Again, unoriginal, sloppy, and lazy.

So here we have it, yet another article grouping and stereotyping anyone who disapproves of Meghan and Harry as racist haters. Yet again, another article name dropping people “deemed racist haters", essentially painting even bigger targets on the backs of those people. Like they didn’t already have enough hate mail. Yet again, another sloppy, lazy, article that never digs below the surface to understand why instead of assuming it.

This isn’t new, it’s just another slop drop from the sensationalism machine that has replaced fair, legitimate journalism. It would be different if there weren’t so many questions surrounding the births. It would be different if Meghan Markle actually lived by the example she so vehemently preaches. It would be different if Meghan Markle would make amends with her own family before telling the world how they should treat people. It would be different if Meghan Markle were a strong woman instead of claiming to be one.

But it’s not different. She hasn’t spoken to her father since two days before her wedding three years ago. She denies the family connections that existed before her fame. She ghosts people once they are no longer of benefit. She preaches equality and universal service while using her title every chance given. She and her husband criticize the “family she never had" while naming their second child after that family’s Matriarch. All of those are behaviors that incite strong emotional responses. Behaviors. And behavior has no racial identity.

A final note… hypocrisy is the main reason people have issues with anything. When one group of people tells another group to stop attacking a public figure, while using assumptions as their crusade call, it’s hypocrisy. One cannot say “if you can’t take the heat, then shut up!” to another without being a hypocrite. When that happens, don’t be surprised when the same exact thing is said back. If Meghan or her fans can’t take the criticism, they shouldn’t participate in it. We all have the right to choose. Just like if I couldn’t handle the criticism, I’d not be writing this.

Life is not fair. The world is a dark, cruel place. When we expect the world to bend to the will of a few, we are setting ourselves above the majority. A strong woman would know this. A strong woman fighting for others would also know that the only person responsible for how one feels is one’s self. External feedback isn’t responsible for internal turmoil. Internal feedback is. That is all.

REFERENCE:

Amoako, A. (2021 June 11). I went undercover in the sinister world of Meghan Markle hate accounts. Refinery29. Retrieved from: https://www.refinery29.com/en-gb/2021/06/10518195/megxit-meghan-markle-anti-fandom

[hercleverboy]

the waiting room

spencer reid x fem!reader

summary ↠ the three times Y/N waited for spencer, and the one time he waited for her. (based off of this blurb)

category ↠ angst

warnings/includes ↠ mentions of death as a result of potential illness, spencer’s headaches, mri scans, swearing,  indefinite ending. 

word count ↠ 2.9k

dedicating this one to two of the literal loves of my life, @voidsfilm + @ellesgreenaway ♡

“What is stronger than the human heart, which shatters over and over and still lives.” — Rupi Kaur

Spencer had always hated hospitals.

He found it so conflicting, how a place could hold so much hope for life and promise for the future, and yet also hold so much heartbreak and despair and agony.

The strong disinfectant smell wasn’t his favourite thing, either. He hated how the bright lights always irritated his eyes, and how the hallways all just looked the same, so bleak and lifeless.

Most of all, he hated the waiting room. 

The navy-blue carpet that lined the floors, wooden chairs that were always, without fail, extremely uncomfortable to sit in. The way that nurses and doctors would walk past the room, eyes full of pity and sorrow. With his job, he’d seen more waiting rooms than he would’ve liked. He spent more time than he wanted to in hospitals, talking to victims’ families, and even sometimes having to witness them receive such heartbreaking news. On one or two occasions, he’d even had to be the bearer of bad news himself, the one who had to tell expectant family that their loved one was gone. It only added to the list of reasons why he despised hospitals.

Then there was the other side of the coin. He took frequent trips to the hospital, but unfortunately more oftenly as a patient than an FBI agent. He wouldn’t say he was reckless, but he didn’t exactly put much value on his life. Or at least, he never used to. He figured it was because he was the only one on the team without a family to come home to, without people who were dependent on him. And so, if it came down to it, he would willing take off his Kevlar vest and put down his weapon while talking down a gun-wielding unsub. Of course, he’d get the third degree from Hotch later, but he could live with that. And then he met Y/N, and he realised that now he had someone counting on him, someone waiting for him to come back home to them, he couldn’t afford to be so careless in the field.

Though sometimes, despite Spencer’s best attempts, things still went wrong. Y/N had seen the inside of the hospital waiting room more than most, often because she’d get called by one of his team mates to alert her that he’d been injured in the field. And without him ever asking, she’d drop everything to be there for him, even if it was his own stupidity that had landed him in those situations. 

The first time was after he’d been shot in the knee. Y/N had been midway through her workday when she’d received a call from JJ telling her that Spencer had been injured. She knew that it was only a leg wound, that he would be absolutely fine, but that didn’t stop her from being worried. She’d been sat in the waiting room, waiting anxiously for a nurse to come by and update her. 

As soon as she got the all clear to see him, she’d breathed out a sigh of relief and made her way to his room,  catching his attention as soon as she entered.

He gave her a tight-lipped smile, grimacing slightly at the pain shooting through his leg. “Hi.” 

She chuckled at that, moving to stand at his bedside. “Hi baby, how are you feeling?” 

“I’m ok.” He smiled, reaching up to tightly grasp one of her hands in his. “You didn’t have to come all the way down here, you know.” 

“Oh, stop.” She mumbled with a smile. “You know how much I worry about you.” 

He grinned at that, the warm feeling that he always got when he was with her spreading through him. He used the grip he had on her hand to pull her down to him, so his lips could meet hers in a sweet kiss. “Hotch has demanded I take some time off to rest, or whatever.” He murmured against her lips. “So, I’m all yours.” 

“Hmm, and what you mean by that is that you need someone to take care of you at home for a few days?” 

“Well, I did get shot in the leg, you know. Taking down the bad guy...” He gestured to his bandaged-up knee, a pout on his pretty pink lips. 

She let out a laugh at that, amused. “Alright, Superman. Let’s get you home, shall we?” 

The next time Y/N found herself in the hospital waiting room was a year later, when Spencer had been suffering from painful, unexplainable headaches. 

Initially, Spencer hadn’t wanted her to attend his MRI scan appointment, but it didn’t take much convincing for her to assure him that she wanted to be there for him. He’d held her hand in a vice-like grip on the drive to the hospital, only letting go when the nurse called his name to tell him they were ready for him. She’d kissed the back of his hand before he’d left, a whispered promise leaving her lips before he went, “I’ll be right here waiting.”

She looked around the empty waiting room, took note of its greying walls and stained carpet, and how awfully uncomfortable the chairs were. She thought of anything and everything that could distract her from the way she was feeling at that moment- knowing how scared her boyfriend was that there was something was wrong with him. 

Spencer came back to the waiting room an hour later, both relieved to see that his girl was indeed still waiting for him but frustrated with what little the doctor had told him. 

“Hey!” Y/N sat up straighter, putting on a smile for the sake of her boyfriend. “How’d it go?” 

Spencer just shook his head. “He says there’s nothing physically wrong with me. He suggested I should consider that it’s something more mental, but he’s wrong- he’s wrong, Y/N.” He sat down in the chair next to her, seeking comfort in her arms as he whimpered into the crook of her neck. “I’m not- I’m not crazy, am I?” 

And the truth was, she didn’t know. She was so afraid for him, worried that he was sick, dying, perhaps of something that the doctors hadn’t detected yet. It terrified her. Her hands ran up and down the expanse of his back, attempting to soothe his weeps the best that she could. Spencer grabbed fistfuls of the back of her shirt and breathed in the scent of her hair as deeply as he could to try and ground himself.

“I’m scared, Y/N.” 

That broke her heart to hear, but all she could do was nod in understanding, hoping her words would offer him some form of comfort. “I know, I know. We’ll figure this out, ok? Everything is going to be alright.” 

The next time Y/N inside of a waiting room was on what she could only refer to as the worst night of her life.

There were no words that could encompass the plethora of emotions she went through when she’d received a phone call from JJ, “Spencer has been shot. It’s- It’s pretty bad, Y/N. You need to come quickly.” 

When she got to the waiting room, she saw JJ and Alex sat opposite one another, a worry that made Y/N’s stomach sink on both their faces. She hurried towards them, tears blurring her vision. “Have you had any updates? Is he ok?” 

JJ looked up, shaking her head sadly. 

“What happened?” Y/N asked, her voice wavering. 

“He got shot in the neck. He pushed me out of the way.” Alex sighed, as though she was still in disbelief that he’d done that to save her. 

Y/N stared ahead in shock, dropping down into the seat beside Alex. Of course, of course, Spencer would risk his life to protect Alex. Y/N knew how fond he was of his colleague, how he idolised her, saw her as a sort of mother figure, even. 

Eventually JJ got called back to work, with Alex insisting that she’d stay with Y/N and wait for Spencer to wake. 

Y/N was so sick and fucking tired of the waiting room. Before, she hadn’t minded it, it had even bought a sense of comfort to her- because she was in a hospital, where they saved lives. But now? The familiar walls and dull navy-blue carpet made her feel nauseous. Not knowing whether her boyfriend was going to live or die was incomparable to any other time she’d found herself waiting in the same four walls. She was feeling everything and nothing all at once, she wanted to cry and scream, curse the universe for once again hurting a man that had done nothing in his life but protect others. Hell, part of her even wanted to laugh- laugh at the absurdity of the situation. If he died, - god, if he died - the world would’ve robbed him of a lifetime with her, the chance to live the life that he deserved.

She barely registered that Alex had left her side to bring her a coffee until she sat back down beside her. Y/N looked over at her, giving her a small smile as she gratefully accepted the coffee. 

Y/N brought the cup to her lips, relishing in how the hot liquid brought her a sense of warmth, and she wondered if she’d ever feel Spencer’s warmth again. She sucked in a shaky breath, speaking the first words she’d said in all the hours they’d been waiting. “You know he wants kids?” 

Alex looked over at her, sad smile tugging at her lips. “I do.” 

Y/N nodded, sniffing. “He’d be a phenomenal father.” 

“He would.” 

Y/N let out a small cry, trying desperately to hold herself together. “What if I never get the chance to give him that, Alex?” She cried, body finally giving in to the painful ache that consumed her entire being. 

Alex placed an arm around her, allowing the younger woman to lean on her shoulder for support. “You’ll get the chance. Spencer is strong, he’ll pull through.”

And sure enough, Alex had been right. When Y/N had been told he was awake, she couldn’t describe the relief that flooded her. After meeting Penelope in the hallway and being given a much-needed hug, she took a few deep breaths before walking into Spencer’s room. When her eyes landed on him, she felt the tears start to well again. She had to remind herself that despite the bandage on his neck and the numerous machines hooked up to him, he was there, and he was alive. 

She came towards him with the best smile she could muster, and he looked up at her with a drowsy smile.

“Hi.” She whispered, standing beside his bed. 

He grinned up at her, reaching out for her hand just like he always did. “Hi.” 

She squeezed his hand gently, reminding herself again that he was ok, though she couldn’t prevent the tears that began to tremble down her cheeks. 

Spencer’s heart throbbed at the sight, and he allowed himself to imagine the pain she must’ve been through, having to wait for hours to see if he was alive. He wouldn’t wish that on anyone, especially not the woman he loved more than anything else. “It’s alright, sweet girl. I’m alright.” He promised, wishing more than anything that he could pull her into his arms and soothe her, though the pain in his neck prevented him from doing so. 

“I could’ve lost you.” She whimpered, her other hand coming out to delicately trace the side of his face. 

“I’m right here.” He gave her hand three squeezes just to emphasise his point. 

She leaned forward, pressing a light kiss to his forehead. “You can’t ever scare me like that again.” 

Spencer chuckled lowly, nodding. “Yes ma’am.” 

“Promise me?” 

And though it was a promise they both knew he couldn’t keep, he granted her the reassurance that she craved. 

“I promise.” 

Y/N knew that wasn’t the last time she’d be sat in the waiting room, scared and anxious and hoping that the love of her life was ok. She knew there would always be a ‘next time’, no matter how many self-serving promises she asked Spencer to make. What she didn’t plan for, was that the next time she saw the inside of a hospital, it would be her fighting for her life. 

It had been a slow day at work for Spencer, with him managing to complete a majority of his withstanding paperwork. He sat at his desk, focused on how he twirled his pen between his fingertips, willing the clock to move faster so he could go back home when his phone rang, Y/N’s name flashing across the screen. 

He answered eagerly, though all eagerness was wiped away when it wasn’t her voice on the other end of the line. 

“Hi there, I’m looking for a Dr Spencer Reid?” 

Spencer’s mind raced, and he swallowed thickly before squeaking out an answer. “That’s me.” 

“I’m calling on behalf of Y/N Y/L/N, you’re registered as her emergency contact.” 

“Is she ok?” He croaked out, begging and pleading internally that all the worst-case scenario’s running through his head wouldn’t come to fruition. 

“She was involved in a severe road collision. You’re going to want to come down here-”

Everything past that was drowned out by the sound of Spencer’s heart beating quicker, so loudly he could hear it. He hung up, gathering his things together as quickly as he could and rushing toward the doors of the bullpen- running directly into one Derek Morgan. 

“Woah, easy there, kid. You got somewhere to be?” He joked at first, but erased all hints of a smile from his face when he saw the tears filling the younger man’s eyes. “What’s going on? Talk to me.” 

Spencer couldn’t form a sentence, only managing to splutter out a few barely strung together words. “It’s Y/N, she’s- she’s been in an a-accident and I need, I have to get to her.” 

Morgan’s eyes widened, nodding in understanding. “Alright, ok. You’re in no condition to be driving, let me take you.” 

Spencer wasn’t about to argue, already making his way toward the elevator. 

*

Spencer had always hated hospitals. 

But he’d also decided that he really fucking hated the waiting room. 

The doctors didn’t have any updates for him, no matter how many times he asked. So, he’d been forced to sit in that damned room and wait. 

He thought of how cruel the concept of the waiting room was. Waiting for either good or bad news, waiting to hear the words that would either fill him with relief or dread, signify the start of his life or the end. How cruel was it that people had to sit and wait, with the weight of the world on their shoulders and just hope their loved one was ok? 

With the first hour brought Spencer’s upset, tears trembling down rosy cheeks and whimpered words of disbelief that he could lose the woman he loved. He’d sat in the uncomfortable blue chair with his head in his hands as sobs wrecked through his body, with Morgan sat next to him, a comforting hand on his shoulder. 

The second hour brought with it a slither of hope, as a doctor came out to update them. Though it wasn’t good nor bad news, just that Y/N was still in surgery and was expected to be so for the next few hours. Spencer had again buried his head in his hands, his thoughts racing. The rest of the team arrived, joining the sombre atmosphere of the waiting room. 

The third hour saw Spencer grow agitated, angry with himself for not being with her, for not protecting her, despite how many times the team attempted to reassure him that there was nothing he could’ve done differently. They brought him cups of coffee with gentle reassurances, empty promises that Y/N would be fine, that she would pull through, but how could they possibly know that? 

In the fourth hour, Spencer sat staring blankly at the wall. He reminded himself of the future he’d dreamt of time and time again, and how he couldn’t imagine himself having that life with anyone else but her. He recalled the location of the velvet purple box he’d bought just a few months prior, hidden amongst pairs of his mismatched socks in the second drawer of his nightstand. What if he never got the chance to propose? To give her the life that he’d promised her time and time again when it was 3am and he was holding the love his life as close to his chest as he could get her. After all he’d done, the years of his life he’d given to helping to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves, this was the thanks he got? What a sick twist of fate that was. 

By the fifth hour, he was exhausted. His eyes drooped but he fought to keep them open, choosing to ignore the pitiful looks JJ shot him when she saw him fighting sleep. He would wait for her, just like all the times she had waited for him. He recognised how the way that he felt must’ve been how Y/N had felt after he’d been shot the year before, and the thought almost made him sick. He ran over all the possible outcomes in his head, allowing his eyes to close for a single moment as he mentally calculated the statistical probabilities of each outcome. He despised how helpless he felt. For a man whose job was to help others in need, he’d never been a position before where he didn’t have the answer, where he couldn’t come up with a solution. His heart ached as the realisation that he could very well lose her settled over him, the statistic he’d calculated of her survival being a number that was way too low for Spencer’s liking. 

For the moment, he had no choice but to wait. 

It was all he could do. 

*

permanent taglist: @beyonces-breastmilk​ @pinkdiamond1016​ @itsmyblogandillreblogifiwantto​ @thelovelyrose​ @averyhotchner​ @cynbx​ @calm-and-doctor​ @reidyoulikeabook​ @katexrichardson​ @jemimah-b99​ @muffin-cup​ @shadyladyperfection​ @rigatonireid​ @amoeebaa​ @mggsprettygirl​  @alltooreid​ @s1utformgg @awritingtree

spencer reid taglist: @reidtome

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

Fever Dream

(Written for @sicktember prompt #1 - Fever! I finished it in time for the first but didn't have the energy to edit.)

--

Angels didn’t get sick, precisely

They didn’t have bodies that were, strictly speaking, physical, and therefore couldn’t harbor any of the illnesses that plagued mankind and other earthly creatures.

An angel could, however, burn through enough of his own grace that his corporation began to malfunction.

He would then, as it were, fall ill.

This happened to Aziraphale far more often than to other angels.

A weak constitution was the general explanation; too much time mucking about on the strange old planet, not enough time bathing in the glorious healing light of the celestial sphere.

When he was down on Earth, he was always prying, poking, trying new things, many of which had never been approved, could have any manner of ill effects. He knew he should show some proper restraint, withdraw a bit more from the world, but he couldn’t help himself.

And when he did return to huddle miserably in a recovery ward, waiting for the chills to pass and his temperature to stabilize, Gabriel would always visit, dropping broad hints about the pressures of fieldwork and the under appreciated glory of a solid administrative career. Offering all kinds of advice as to what, exactly, a proper angel would cut out of his life if he wished to better focus on his ordained duties.

And so, when the symptoms next came upon him—muscle aches, irritability, sweat and chills until he didn’t know if he was hot or cold—Aziraphale decided to wait it out on Earth. It would only take a few days to recover and, anyway, he had business to attend to. Important business that could not wait.

“Angel, are you sure you’re alright?” Crowley demanded, a glint of gold just visible between black lenses and furrowed brow.

“Yes, I’m perf—” he turned his head to cough lightly, but an odd spasm came over his throat, transforming it into something deep and hacking that left his ribs aching and his brow dripping with sweat. “…tickety-boo,” he muttered, turning back to his mug.

“Keep it down,” hissed the demon, glancing around the common room of the inn. Perhaps one or two people had glanced over, but nothing out of the ordinary. “People will think you have the plague.” The last two words he barely mouthed.

“My dear fellow, do be serious. I have hardly any symptoms of the plague.” Only the last part sounded more like sybtobs otha blayyyg.

He cleared his throat and tried to sniff, which started a complicated chain reaction that ended with a mouthful of what he hoped was spit.

As Aziraphale’s eyes went wide with alarm, Crowley quickly pulled out a deep red handkerchief, which the angel gratefully spat into. Unsure what to do next, Aziraphale folded it over and offered it back, but Crowley leaned away, face contorted in horror.

“Oh, ah… thank you, then?” He took a quick glance inside and immediately wished he hadn’t, grimacing at the color of what his body had produced.

“Just… just eat your soup,” Crowley muttered, waving a hand at the bowl he’d been toying with until it was hardly above room temperature.

Aziraphale had ordered it thinking a bit of warmth would be lovely, as he’d been shivering fit for midwinter morning. But after one mouthful, he’d found himself sweating, tugging at his collar to relieve some of the heat. Now he could feel the shivers coming on again, but he couldn’t warm it back up. Until the illness passed, any miracles would just make it worse.

“Right,” Crowley said as Aziraphale poked at something that might have been a parsnip. “I’m going to be out of town for the next few weeks. Temptations all up and down the continent. Might take the rest of the season. Unless…” Using that lilting voice that suggested a coin flip might be imminent.

“Mmmh.” Aziraphale looked mournfully into his beer, finally hazarding another sip. The taste of hops struck him at the back of the throat and he quickly expelled the rest back into the mug. “Sorry, m’dear. Not this time. I got…” he waved his hand, waiting for the rest of the words. They didn’t appear to be forthcoming. “Things,” he finally said. “In the city. Until at least…” He rubbed his forehead, but it was hard to think when it was so cold. He pulled his heavy coat back on, bundling up.

“Oh, well. Things. Obviously can’t take you away from things.” Aziraphale nodded miserably, trying to focus on his bowl. “Angel, look,” and as Crowley leaned close, there was something new in his voice, something that sounded rather like concern. “You sure you’re alright? I mean, there’s nothing… nobody…”

Aziraphale blinked, his eyes feeling… sticky. What was Crowley getting at? He should really be more direct, clever Serpent, it was hard enough to think in all this heat. He struggled out of his coat, dabbing uselessly at the sweat on his forehead.

“Oh for Satan’s—are you cursed?” He hissed the last word even softer than he’d said plague.

“No,” the angel said, resting his head on his hand until his neck recovered enough strength to hold it up again. “M’not. S’just… things!”

In his attempt to gesture with both hands, Aziraphale forgot one was already occupied and very nearly wound up face-first in the soup.

“Azir—!” Crowley rounded the table in an instant, tugging him upright again. “What has come over you?”

“S’rry. People staring? S’not… not… proper.”

“Angel, you’re—you’re burning up!”

“Not. S’cold.” Then an icy hand touched his forehead and cheek, and Aziraphale groaned, trying to pull away.

“What the Heaven is going on?”

“Toldya. Things. Illness. From… from…” he tried to gesture with one arm, but it weighed too much to lift. “Being a… bad angel…”

A heavy sigh. “C’mere, you.” Crowley hauled him to his feet.

Aziraphale was pleased to find he could stand, just that his spinning head and aching limbs made it unpleasant. He couldn’t remember where he was supposed to go, but there was something solid nearby to lean on and a hand on his waist, guiding him forward.

It wasn’t until they reached the stairs that he realized something wasn’t right. “Crowley! This is—we—we can’t—where—what are you—”

“I’ve got a room upstairs.”

Aziraphale squinted dimly towards the upper floor. “Yes…?”

“Yes. And you, Angel, are in need of a bed.”

But.

But it was improper! Scandalous, even, talking of rooms, and beds, or rooms andbeds, or any combination thereof, particularly in the singular form. What if someone saw? An angel and a demon, bad enough, but two allegedly respectable gentlemen?

Or, wait, was one of them currently presenting as a woman? Likely not Aziraphale, though he sometimes lost track, but Crowley, well, that could also be hard to tell, but he seemed to have a good amount of jewelry and no facial hair, so there was a chance.

Still, male or female, angel or human, there would be rumor, gossip, talk about the town! It would get back to Heaven! This was worse than being thought weak and improper, Gabriel would think him some sort of reprobate!

Crowley paused, one hand on a door. “This is me. Um. I’ll go back down if it makes you feel better.”

What? And have all the rumor with none of the satisfaction? The shame of spending a night in a demon’s bed without the pleasures—oh, he knew what Crowley got up to. One of the Seven Sins that was, and Aziraphale would not be tempted into joining. No, not he!

“Right. Nh. Going to help you out of some of these layers, then I’ll go.”

Go? Go?After Aziraphale had come all this way, come so very close? No, he’d spent centuries imagining how it would be, and he’d never be truly satisfied until he had a reality to compare it to. Aziraphale very much wanted to know what Crowley looked like while he slept.

Yes, Crowley, Sloth is one of the Seven Sins, a demon should know these things.

And while Aziraphale had the general idea clear enough, he still had questions. Did Crowley snore, or did he breathe softly? He certainly would sleep on his side, curled up, but how heavy would his head be, pillowed on Aziraphale’s chest? If they talked, would his words become slurred as he drifted off, or would he listen quietly while Aziraphale spoke, running his fingers through bright red hair?

Come to that, how did his hair feel, or his cheek, or his lips? Aziraphale hadn’t thought much about lips, generally, but now that Crowley was always hiding his eyes, well, they had become the focus of his face, and that presented fascinating possibilities, ones that Gabriel certainly wouldn’t approve of, but he’d always been too curious for his own good. And really, what was a harmless little experiment between—

Oh, good Lord, was Aziraphale talking out loud?

He clapped his hand over his mouth, eyes wide with horror.

But Crowley chuckled, resting a hand on his shoulder; in only his undershirt, he could feel it so clearly—ice cold, but not unpleasantly so. “Your secrets are safe, Angel. Lay down.”

Too embarrassed to object, Aziraphale crawled into the bed and let Crowley pull a blanket over him. “Keep that on, yeah?”

“S’hot,” the angel whined. His voice sounded very odd, slurred, weak. Perhaps that meant Crowley hadn’t understood his rambling before.

“I know. Just try.” Something cool and damp wiped his face and Aziraphale sighed with relief. “Has this happened before?”

“Mmmh. Over an’over an’over.” In Heaven, they would assign him a recovery room, to sit alone and reflect on what he’d done to earn himself the illness, on what he could do to better serve in the future. Gabriel always had good suggestions.

The being alone. That was the worst part. Hated that.

Crowley was talking. Something would be right there, beside the bed. That was probably important, but the angel was already asleep.

In Aziraphale’s dream, Gabriel told him over and over that he’d failed again, that this was his own fault, that he was a terrible angel who didn’t deserve… something.

Possibly anything.Again and again, the Archangel took everything he valued—his books, his sweets, his day at the theater, the beauty of the sunrise, the way humans smiled at each other after many days apart, and something else, something far more important, but the name was forbidden—

Again, something cool pressed to his forehead, his chest. Fingers raked through his hair, helping the sweat to evaporate. “See?” A voice murmured. “Better already.” But everything was getting grey and distant again.

Now Aziraphale was in a room, an enormous room, empty but somehow still cluttered. All the things he loved were here, hidden, and Gabriel ordered him to find them all or they’d be destroyed. He searched frantically, among endless piles of brown packages, and found most of them—books and smiles and sunrises—mixed in with kettles, mittens and (for some reason) cat whiskers. But the last thing, the final thing, the important thing was still missing, and the room grew hotter and hotter—

“Try this now.” Something supported Aziraphale’s back as he sat up, leaning against… a thing… a thing that meant warmth and safety. A mug pressed to his lips. He wasn’t sure what he drank, but it felt good. “Now let’s get you settled again.”

He didn’t go down easily, though, reaching and writhing, somehow grasping the safe thing, pulling it close. If he let it get away, Gabriel would destroy it.

“I see. Alright. You stay there.” Fingers through his hair again, more resting lightly on his shoulder. “I got you. Nothing’s going to—”

Reality tumbled away and he was falling, possibly Falling, the voices of Gabriel and Michael and Uriel all around him, insulting him, taunting him, asking him why he hadn’t filed form HX-3 in triplicate. He clung desperately to the thing he needed as the temperature rose, more voices joining in, every voice. The Hellfire licked at him, even as he trembled and shook uncontrollably. This was the end, he would die here, he’d never said—

“Crowley!” He called, desperate. “Crowley don’t—don’t leave me!”

The thing he held shifted, and now there were arms wrapped around him, protecting him. “There we are. Not going to leave.”

It was too hot to bear, but still he burrowed closer. “Crowley, please. I can’t—I—I need you!”

“Not going anywhere, Angel. Not ever.”

“Crowley!” The Hellfire burst within him, a flash of heat up and down his body, his limbs, his soul—

And then he was… exhausted.

The shaking faded, the heat and cold gone, though he still found himself covered in sweat. Nothing remained but a strange sense of calm.

Still clinging to his lifeline, Aziraphale drifted off into a proper restful sleep.

He opened his eyes to find the late evening sun slanting through an open window. The blanket was largely twisted around his legs and the bed below him was oddly hard and lumpy, even if it was nice—

“You’re looking better.”

Aziraphale scrambled up in horror to find that the thing he’d been laying on—clinging to for dear life—was six feet of rumpled, uncomfortable-looking demon. A demon he vaguely recalled saying some very revealing things to…

“Oh, good Lord.” Aziraphale’s face burned again, but not from fever. He covered, his eyes turning away. “Crowley—you—you—how—”

“Gah! M’sorry!” He heard Crowley push himself upright, sliding away. “I—I—I shouldn’t have—didn’t mean—”

No of course not. It wasn’t as though Crowley shared his strange desires, his secret obsessions, his awful curiosity. Crowley was a—a perfectly normal demon who would have no interest in prolonged contact, particularly with a most clingy, damaged angel…

“What must you think of me?” he moaned.

“Stupid, stupid demon,” Crowley grumbled. “I saw you panicking but I didn’t know—shouldn’t have assumed—”

“What is wrong with me?”

“Crossed a line, and—and now look—”

“I’m a terrible, foolish, needy…”

“Didn’t want to take advantage—I’m sorry!”

“I’m sorry! Wait…” That wasn’t right. Aziraphale cautiously lowered his hands to see Crowley sitting frozen with the glasses halfway to his face. “You’re sorry?”

“Mnh. Yeah. Cuz… cuz I’m the one who…” his eyes dropped. “You seemed upset. Scared. I just… I made it worse, didn’t I? Shoulda known you wouldn’t want…”

“But…” Aziraphale swallowed, trying to recall anything clearly. “I… I seem to remember… propositioning you. Repeatedly.”

Crowley’s face turned red, but he smiled. Not his confident swaggering smirk, but something awkward and genuine that Aziraphale hadn’t seen since Eden. “Not… repeatedly. N’I’d hardly call it… besides it was… you know. But!” His fingers twisted on the metal frames of his glasses. “But, look—I don’t—you aren’t responsible for—for the things you say when you’re sick, ‘specially things you don’t mean—and I—s’my responsibility not to—” He ducked his head even further. “Just wanted to help. Shouldn’t have assumed… that you meant… what I wanted…”

“What…” Aziraphale reached out but couldn’t quite touch him. “What you want?”

“Um.” Golden eyes flicked up. “You’re… not the only one who wondered about… the sleeping stuff. Who doesn’t like to be… alone.” He cleared his throat. “Or, at least, I thought—”

“I believe I told you I needed you.” His hand hovered over Crowley’s shoulder. “I meant that. Precisely the way you took it. I—I meant most of it.”

Crowley’s eyes blinked, very slowly.

And the next moment, they were swept into each other’s arms, Aziraphale once again clinging to his friend like a lifeline. “I don’t think you’re stupid,” he managed.

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale pressed closer. “Thank you for staying.”

When they broke apart, Crowley was as bright red as Aziraphale had felt at the height of his fever, glasses back in place, staring fixedly at his own legs. “So. Mmmmh. Now what?”

Aziraphale considered that question more carefully than he’d ever considered anything.

“I think… I’m recovering…”

“S’good.” Crowley shifted as if to stand.

“…but still very tired. I should probably rest another night?”

“Yeah. Um. Yeah. Do you—I can go?”

“Do you have somewhere to be?” His heart started to fall, until Crowley shrugged.

“I do, but… not urgently.”

“If you have the time there’s… there’s something I’m curious about.”

“Well. Big fan of knowledge, me.”

Aziraphale carefully lay down again, keeping his arms wide. A moment later, Crowley took a deep breath, set aside his glasses and joined him.

It turned out that Crowley’s head on his chest was the perfect weight. That he did indeed curl up, though in the most convoluted ways. That in his sleep, Crowley’s breaths were gentle and soft, much like his hair, and he tried very much to keep talking on the edge of consciousness even when he didn’t have much to say.

As for the kissing, well—certain observations did not need to be made public.

(AO3 link later today...)

[hiswhiteknight]

Unbelievably Outlandish– Part 10

Summary:  Before starting down a new crossroads, the Reader goes onto an adventure of literary traveling. Suddenly tossed into an unbelievable story that has swept the world, The Outlander Series itself. How will a twenty first century woman survive?

Note: I own no characters, except reader, clearly this is based off the lovely book series Outlander by Diana Gabaldon and tv show. This follows more the tv show, but it’s far from accurate. I’m going to try to get better with using less proper English, but who knows maybe I’ll get into Scottish slang.

Pairing: Jamie Fraser x Female Reader 

Words: 1400

Warning: Angst, playfulness, cursing, slow start, obvious fighting and violence, mention of suicide

*I’ll be honest, this chapter is more of a fuller, substance chapter. If you wanted to be added to the tag list, please send me a message or chat. Thank you for everyone’s patience!

The hunt still left you plenty in your thoughts. It should be on helping in whatever way you can, but you kept thinking on your role here and how you clearly will never belong, no matter how to try to be kind and open to the culture, no matter how much you push away your own values and morals for these people. It will never matter. Rupert yelled your name, catching your attention. A man got hurt and you help mend what you can before instructing Rupert to bring him back to the village. Another scream, a different type of scream caused you to be pulled from you own thoughts of now and into the times of wartime. You charge to the scream, you found a man losing blood quickly, and a shot pulled you from your thoughts. The boar that did this must have been shot, “Mistress Y/L/N, am I going to die?”

 All the pressure and anger you felt subsided, “Hold of Geordie, let me look at you,” several clansmen surrounded you. Dougal showed up to hold Geordie as you tried to patch up his leg. Dougal and him were exchanging words when you saw the wounds to his abdomen. Dougal made eye contact with you and you knew he knew what you were saying. You pulled off the tourniquet, and grabbed his hand, “Geordie, the pain is going to be go soon, but while we wait, I have a bet with Angus.” Geordie looked at you the way many men have looked at you before in the Marine. You had to bring him peace in the time of his panic, “I bet Angus that the colonies had more beautiful sites than Scotland. Tell me about your home, what’s it like?”

 Georgie perked up as he told you about his home and you gripped his hand with all your might and continue to stroke his hair to help sooth him. And soon he was gone, you quickly got up and made your way to your horse. Before you knew what you were doing, you made your way to the castle. You needed some busy work, like stitching up the leg of the man who was also attacked by the boar. Afterwards, you walked outside to see the men playing field hockey, which you played for a few years in high school. This was far more barbaric, and you could see Dougal taking his rage out on Jamie. He could cope in anger, but if you did this, you would be gutted.

 You wondered who would win in a fight and you had no doubt Jamie would win. When you saw Dougal on the ground, a young girl from one of your lessons tugged on your arm, “Well hello Molly dear, you enjoying the gathering?” There is no reason to take your rage on children, they didn’t do anything wrong. Honestly, teaching them defense things and survival tactics was the most time you felt at peace, well except when you were with – never mind that thought.

 “Aye mistress, very much,” you smile down at her, “I heard about your ill-wish and I know who made it. They did not know it was intended for you when they gave it to the girl.”

Guilt hit your chest again, someone was scared you were going to hurt them for being an accomplice. You were letting the harshness of one person hurt your relationship with the majority, “You know who put it under my bed?”

 “Aye mistress,” she whispered, “You wouldn’t be telling my mother, would you? She wouldn’t be wanting me to get into others business.”

 You bent down to her level, “Tell you what,” you pull out your coin bag with most of the money you made for yourself while staying here – your escape money, “I’ll tell your mother you helped me collect supplies for the gathering, which is why I paid you all this. And you tell me who put it under my bed?”

 “Mistress, I don’t need your money. Girls aren’t allowed to learn the things you are teaching. You don’t deserve any ill-wishes. You’re lovely,” you smile up at her.

 You pass her the bag, “You’ve earned it dear, I keep my word. Give me the name and the money is yours.”

 “Laoghaire,” she whispered. You shot up, looking around completely shocked.

 “Alrighty lass,” you pat her on the shoulder, “If you don’t mind, I have business to take care of.”

 “Be careful, please,” she urged after you.

 You had a hyper focus again, you intended to kick her ass, like you reported. And you found her socializing where most of the clan put up tent for the gathering. You passed Murtagh and Jamie, taking off your sling bag off and your dagger from your waistband and handed it to one of them, “Murtagh, could you mind this for me?”

 “I’m not your errand boy, lass, and where you going that you won’t need this,” he questioned.

 “You’re a pretty face, Murtagh, you ask too many questions,” you sass to him, looking at your target. Jamie and him stopped leaning on a post, both putting their drinks down. They could clearly tell you mean business. “Hey, Laoghaire, you two faced, toxic bitch, I got your gift earlier and I would like show you my appreciation.”

 She had the audacity to give you a glare, before she realized she was in real danger. She started to step backwards, and the crowd started to grow around you as you moved closer to the girl, “Leave me alone, wench.”

 “Oh, you do have words now that you can use. I thought you might be too stupid to speak up and say something since you chose to instead use this voodoo bullshit to get at me. You want to bring me pain lady, let’s go at it,” you finally were within three feet of her. Before you could make a grab at her, she ran in another direction.

 You were about to put your running skills to work, when Murtagh gripped your arm, “Come on lass, you made your point let’s get you back to the surgery.”

 “You know what, I’m a little busy right now. But I’ll meet you in the kitchen in a few, we can have some tea to cleanse our spirit, la de da and all,” you keep her in your eye sights. You were about to start your chase when you were tossed over a shoulder. Murtagh was carrying you back as you banged on his back. You were mad in this moment because you gave your dagger away to this meathead or he would have suffered from a few, no lethal jabs. He dropped you in the surgery room, “Damn it, Murtagh what the hell is wrong with you?”

 “With me, you were about to put a big target on your back. You’re a guest here lass, they don’t take too kindly to guests attacking one of their kin,” he leaned against the counter.

 You started to cry, and you usually do not cry, “Does it mean nothing I didn’t start it? Her action deserves a consequence. I watch all men here fight over nothing and here I am fighting against an injustice and my life is at danger. Do I not matter to anyone where? Should I just go to the tallest tower and jump?”

 “Don’t be so dramatic, an ill wish is nothing,” he urged to you. He didn’t seem too phased by the fact you were crying, though he did soften his voice to show sympathy, “I know you don’t believe any of nonsense. You are a smart woman.” You started to toss things about the surgery, organizing all the stuff you brought out for the hunt. Murtagh walked over to you and stopped you by gripping the top of both your arms, “Y/N, you matter more than you know. Stop this behavior, you’ll get accustomed.”

 “Murtagh, why do I always have to be the one to change? What do I have to do to feel like I belong here, how long will it take for people to believe I’m not an outsider?”

 He took a deep breath again, “I know it doesn’t seem it now and I don’t know how, but you do belong here. It’ll come in time. Until then, stop picking fights.”

 “Yes father,” you rolled your eyes, “Where is Jamie, I assume he has my bags and things?”

 “Aye, right now he is taken care of Laoghaire, so you needed be worrying about her anymore,” he said, making his way to the stairs.

 “Unless he has killed her and hid the body, I’ll keep to worry about her and her no good deeds, thank you,” you shouted at him. “And make sure Jamie brings back my things sooner rather than later.”

 And before Jamie could drop off your things, Dougal Mackenzie came down to share you would be journeying out to collect rent from the clan who wasn’t able to make it.

PART 11

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