#emergency tax code

[fvckwithmefamo]

Emergency Tax Code: What to Do When You're on It

Today we’re chatting about something we all hope we never have to deal with, but need to know about just the same: the emergency tax code. This is one area of the UK tax system that can often lead to confusion and, potentially, overpayment on tax, so we’ll cover everything you need to know about it. Understanding Tax Codes So, let’s start with the basics: tax codes. These little alphanumeric…

[artcalledoddities]

Material Militerial Material Militerial over marginal And rump T this week speaks After written words were whirled in lost In lost vision no words to be founded! Or dumbfounded and better than a yeti cooler than something on the insiders or rather out power outsiders like after a tornado you helped push into US in the new found lands of Tornadic Tells tales grills thrills moving on N Eastern Railway billowing winds Uh ah ha moving on That would mean? Global warming is here! The chillies only over come after heat exhaustion when sunny outside Your body tried to resuscitate you Pronounced sweat and you collapsed like a thrown sandbag and an officer! You fell down before the recruits the fill in’s simple sorta speak for this scenario Tells tales grills thrills moving on N Eastern Railway billowing winds Uh ah ha moving on That would mean? Global warming is here! After hails and ninnies succumbed by conceding cries Tells tales grills thrills moving on N Eastern Railway billowing winds Uh ah ha moving on That would mean? Global warming is here! Third Verse! Third Verse? Not with one not with thee other vs third! That’s sportsmanship conduct on the contrary read the rules 50/50 love for evol So pick that grander one! Some person can play grander than a roar of a lion keys kept that voice in silent Let’s hear a story of a lady Strange dragon tattoo That soul performing above a lion’s roar Multiplease- grandeur Material Militarily This intervectionado Smashed avocado don’t make guacamole Nor does pressing upon sour grapes And some spices go along ways with just in finger tips rather than container pour! Ray said On Maher Reach out and touch both ones Haven’t we all That’s not this sports story…….,,,,,,,,……. You should have called me! Or answered my questions?! Dear convicted Former ****Blitz Hail Marry Walls****

[pukefactory]

Theoretically can u do autistic ena and also autistic reader

•☽────✧˖°˖ ON THE SAME PAGE ˖°˖✧────☾•

★ Summary: A Compilation Of Headcanons Featuring Autistic Salesperson ENA X Autistic Reader

★ Character(s): Salesperson ENA (ENA: Dream BBQ)

★ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

★ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

★ Image Credits: @crepeurie

☆ You and ENA have your sacred rituals: Tuesday breakfast is always toast with melted neon butter and the 11:34 AM infodump session. Salesperson will perch like a bent gargoyle on the countertop, frantically gesturing with a spoon as she info-dumps the entire economic structure of the frog-based currency system while you quietly eat your food. Meanie interrupts once to scream “You think you’re better than me because you memorize timestamps???” before crawling under the table and sobbing. You assure her no one is better, only indexed differently.

☆ Crowds and fluorescent lights mean sudden shutdowns, but you and ENA have devised a flawless system. If one of you starts to overload, the other throws a glitter bomb (figurative or literal), yells “Emergency business evacuation, this is a false meeting!��, grabs the other’s hand and vanishes into the nearest quiet alley or liminal bathroom. No questions asked. Afterwards, you both stim together with a random ball she seemingly pulled from thin air and share two cold fries.

☆ When you’re both in the zone, it becomes a cascade of vocal stims and overlapping lectures. ENA starts explaining the metaphysical implications of cashier counters (“Are they cages? Are we the animals or the currency?”) while you recount the full history of an obscure children’s cartoon from 1992. Suddenly she switches voices mid-sentence and yells “YOU FOOL! HOW DARE YOU EXPLAIN THINGS MORE EFFICIENTLY THAN ME! I AM THE ANOMALY!” before biting a pillow and then praising your memory. You both agree you’re geniuses and resume the info-dump like nothing happened.

☆ There’s no need to pretend. You don’t force eye contact. ENA doesn’t try to keep one tone of voice. In fact, some days you both speak in binary or whale noises, just because it feels better than pushing your throats into “normal.” She once said, “To mold myself into acceptability is to betray the blueprint of my soul.” You said, “Same.” That was the first time either of you cried with joy.

☆ Neither of you are great with sudden contact, but you’ve devised a system of color-coded Post-it notes. Blue means “safe for cuddles,” green means “high-five me or I will scream,” yellow means “only touch my hair, not my arms,” and red means “DO NOT.” ENA wears them like a business badge. Salesperson treats it like customer service and makes announcements like “Due to recent software updates, my hug policies have changed! Please check the chart before approaching the asset!”

☆ Your happiest moments are silent, side-by-side chaos. ENA is furiously scribbling a business plan to buy the sky while you’re solving a 2000-piece puzzle of a brightly coloured brick. Neither of you talk, but occasionally she throws a plush at you or mutters, “You’re my favourite co-worker in crime.” Meanie occasionally screams at a spreadsheet, but you offer her a sticker shaped like a frog and she gently mumbles, “…acceptance level restored.”

☆ When ENA has a breakdown, the landscape might glitch. Buildings will hum. Skies go plaid. Her cap floats off like a soul. You hold her hand, quietly narrating her favorite facts about clouds and the sound whales make when they mourn. When you melt down, she slips into her salesperson voice and sets up a faux customer service booth where you can “file a complaint with GØD.” Afterwards she quietly places a sticker over your heart and says, “Return to sender: all love, no judgment.”

☆ You both speak in riddles when you’re emotionally flooded. You once told her you were “a slushie machine trying to pour magma.” She nodded gravely and said, “Understood. I, too, am a tax form in a washing machine.” Sometimes it’s more honest than literal language ever could be. You understand each other best through the absurd—because neurodivergence is absurd, and it deserves poetry, not precision.

☆ Together, you accidentally created an “Autistic Mutual Aid Multiverse Hotline” where people can call in and receive personalized coping affirmations, stims, or frog-themed business plans. ENA’s Salesperson side handles calls with “Let’s customize your coping mechanisms like a solid investment portfolio!” and her Meanie side threatens to bite the caller if they say something self-deprecating. You record gentle breathing loops and trivia about sensory-friendly textures. It gets five stars. No profits. Just peace.

☆ You’re not good with big words. Neither is ENA, not when it comes to emotions. So instead, you both plan a “Business Picnic of Non-Capitalist Affection,” where you bring a spreadsheet titled “Reasons I Like Being Alive When You’re Around.” ENA wears a hat made of receipts and reads hers aloud in two voices: one reciting stats, the other singing strange off-key poetry. Her final line is, “You’re my favourite variable in the cosmic data sheet.” You press your foreheads together and agree to keep doing this forever—quiet, weird, wordless, real.

[sunarryn]

DP X Marvel #3

The thing about being seventeen and King of the Infinite Realms is that nobody prepares you for the paperwork.

Sure, Danny thought there’d be some responsibility when he accidentally overthrew Pariah Dark and inherited an ancient, eldritch realm full of undead beings and chaos entities. But this?

“This” being a five-hour council meeting about whether the Blob Ghost could legally marry the Ghost of a Haunted Taco Bell.

Danny slammed his forehead into the obsidian table, sighing. “Can someone remind me why this is my life again?”

Fright Knight, sitting to his left in full spectral armor, replied without missing a beat. “Because you claimed the Throne of The Infinite Realms by Rite of Spectral Conquest, my liege.”

“Right…” Danny muttered, dragging his crown—which looked less like a crown and more like an aggressive mass of bone, metal, and green flame—off his head and onto the table. “That. Cool. I love my life. I’m living my best afterlife.”

The Ghost Zone’s politics were a nightmare. The Council of Wailing Scepters argued in riddles. The Ministry of Temporal Loops wouldn’t stop trying to undo Danny’s birth “as a preventative measure.” Ember was unionizing musical ghosts. Skulker demanded hunting permits. Box Ghost somehow had diplomatic immunity.

And let’s not even talk about the Realms’ economy.

“Have you ever tried to make a tax code for entities who don’t obey time?” Clockwork once asked with a deadpan stare.

Danny had not. Danny did not want to.

And all of that was on top of being a superhero, a public figure, a full-time student at Midtown, Tony Stark’s ghost consultant intern, and, most critically, Peter Parker’s boyfriend.

The one bright spot in his entire liminal, half-dead, legally dubious existence.

Peter was the only reason Danny hadn’t exploded yet. Or accidentally declared war on Canada (long story, don’t ask). Or gotten exorcised by a rogue Vatican unit (longer story).

When Danny phased into his boyfriend’s bedroom at 2:43AM wearing royal armor, covered in ghost slime, with a ghost octopus clinging to his leg screaming, “LONG LIVE THE GHOST KING,” Peter didn’t even blink.

He just put his book down and said, “Do you want hot chocolate or a sedative?”

“Both.” Danny croaked.

“Got you.” Peter said, already moving toward the mini kitchen.

Danny melted into the couch, dropping his crown on the floor. It rolled slightly, then hissed at the furniture. He kicked it under the table.

“I hate everyone.” He muttered. “The fire ghosts are trying to annex the Library of Screams again, the Spectral Senate is debating if time travelers have souls, and a councilwoman called me a fleshling with trauma issues.”

“Well,” Peter called out gently from the kitchen, “she’s not wrong.”

“Peter.”

“I’m just saying. You did try to punch Death last week.”

Danny groaned. “It was a misunderstanding!”

“You called them a dusty crypt bitch.”

“They insulted my hoodie!”

Peter returned, holding two mugs. He handed one to Danny, kissed his forehead, then sat beside him.

Danny leaned heavily against him.

Peter didn’t complain.

“Y’know,” Danny said after a moment, sipping his cocoa, “sometimes I forget I’m still seventeen.”

Peter chuckled. “Babe. You’re seventeen, King of a spectral empire, on the Avengers’ emergency contact list, and still get detention for being late to gym. You’re living like six lives at once.”

“I died once,” Danny muttered. “That should’ve been enough.”

Between ghost attacks, council drama, interdimensional skirmishes, and Midtown High exams, Danny hadn’t had a full night’s sleep since�� well, since before dying.

The living world had opinions too. America couldn’t decide if he should be considered a minor, a sovereign leader, or a health hazard. International ghost regulations were passed in his name. He had diplomatic immunity in over a human countries and was banned from a hundred others. There was a conspiracy subreddit entirely dedicated to the theory that he was an alien hybrid bred by the government to replace the Queen of England.

Danny’s response to that was, “Do I look like I want to colonize anything?”

He still had math homework due tomorrow.

Sometimes he phased into the UN to yell at their Interdimensional Defense Committee. Sometimes he missed bio class because a ghost war broke out on the edge of the Dreaming Isles and he had to teleport to stop Nocturne from invading people’s nightmares.

Sometimes, Peter would find him sitting on the floor of their shared dorm shower, still glowing, muttering, “I am the King of Everything and Nothing and I can’t figure out mitochondria.”

“I’ll tutor you,” Peter always offered. “And also get you a nap and a cookie.”

Peter was… everything.

Unflinchingly patient. Wickedly smart. Constantly worried.

He patched up Danny’s wounds, whispered jokes during council meetings when Danny looked five seconds from screaming, brought extra snacks when Danny forgot to eat.

He held Danny after Danny woke up screaming from ghost-fueled nightmares.

And when the burden got too heavy—when Danny stood on the balcony of his palace in the Infinite Realms, overlooking a kingdom of madness and memory, time fractals and ghosts whispering in languages lost to the living—and said, “I don’t think I can do this anymore,” Peter kissed his knuckles and said, “Then I’ll do it with you.”

The other ghosts hated it.

A human, dating the King? Scandalous. Blasphemous. Soft.

Danny told them all to choke.

Peter? Peter told them to submit a formal complaint in triplicate and then kissed Danny in front of them just to be petty.

They ruled together, in a way. Danny signed the decrees. Peter corrected the grammar. Danny banished tyrants. Peter took notes and organized his calendar. Danny fought for peace. Peter made sure he didn’t forget who he was fighting for.

Once, Clockwork pulled Peter aside and said, “He will burn out without you.”

Peter just nodded. “I know.”

And yet, through all the madness, they found joy.

Danny giving Peter flying lessons. Peter webbing Danny’s locker shut as a prank. The two of them building a spectral stabilizer out of Tony’s spare tech, laughing hysterically when it turned the floor into a trampoline.

They shared ghost patrols, movie nights, star-watching on top of the Empire State Building.

Peter calling Danny “Your Majesty” in a ridiculous accent until Danny threatened to drop him into a lava lake.

Danny threatening international leaders by day and then cuddling with Peter by night, wearing fuzzy socks and a hoodie that said “Half-Dead, Fully Tired.”

Sometimes, Danny just stared at him. In awe.

Peter, who knew the truth. All of it. The weight. The loss. The terrifying power clawing beneath Danny’s skin. The fact that Danny was the anchor between dimensions, balancing the afterlife and reality like a tired high schooler with PTSD and ghost fire.

And still loved him.

Still said, “You’re doing great.”

Still held him when it all came crashing down.

The Realms called Danny a King.

To Peter, he was just Danny.

Sometimes, that was all Danny needed to be okay.

Just… Danny. Human. Ghost. Hero. Boyfriend.

King of the Infinite Realms, sure. But also a seventeen-year-old who just wanted to pass his math test, kiss his boyfriend, and maybe get five hours of sleep.

With Peter by his side?

He could do it all.

Even the haunted Taco Bell marriage negotiations.

[windixie]

the perfect pair ⟢ ch. 1 broken cd

satoru gojo x reader ꒰18+꒱ smut, angst, fluff

⟡ pairing . college au soccer player! gojo x alt! reader

› summary . in which opposites actually attract. you're not the kind of girl who seeks validation from anyone as your world is surrounded by indie films, music, and clothing. meanwhile, satoru lives in a completely different world from you. the campus soccer star who practically radiates confidence and popularity. but that doesn't stop satoru from attempting to throw himself at you, with his playful grins and teasing but loving comments. but before you can accept his advances, a certain party exposes who he truly is and now he is left determined to change himself for you.

› warnings ⓘ tags . 18+, fem! reader, smut, angst, fluff, college au (have syracuse university in mind), friends to lovers (reader hates him, he thinks otherwise), slow burn, jealousy, some suguru x reader because he doesn't respect bro code or wtv.

› wc . 1.1k

⟡ taglist . @unreleasedlana11

cd's are actually expensive.

well at least for you actually, only because you happen to listen to artists that are no longer active and have to buy discontinued cd's through sketchy websites that definitely overcharge. you couldn't judge though, easy money for the seller. your bank account disagrees.

you promise yourself that this will be the last cd you buy - till you're financially stable again. the disc nearly cost you 60 bucks plus taxes and shipping, 80.99. that greedy seller. regardless you were happy especially when you got the notification from the app telling you that your order has arrived.

at your college you had to walk all the way towards the front where the school mailboxes were located. the second you stepped foot outside your dorm, which, thankfully you had all to yourself because for some reason you weren't assigned a roommate, you are hit with the sound of cheering. the soccer team has just returned from a tournament.

including satoru gojo.

you knew of the boy. you knew he was the most known player in the school. and i'm not just talking about soccer. in each frat party he has to get in at least two bodies. he has a whole line of girls patiently waiting for their turn to warm up the white haired boys bed.

he's everything.. you hated in a guy.

how do girls go crazy over him? he's deadass the most basic boy you are sure each college in the state has. but you couldn't help but stay a bit to watch as all the boys make their way through the applauding crowd. a new face emerged from the bus, all looking proud. they must've won.

you were pulled away from your thoughts when his face appeared. suguru. he was best friends with gojo. you can't help but stare. his piercings, long hair, style that was different from the rest, just like you. it's hard to not notice him.

you almost don't realize who's looking at you instead. your eyes meet with satoru for a brief moment before you continue making your way to the central mail room, not allowing your brain to even process the eye contact.

as he made his way out the busy, satoru is met with a crowd of students cheering. he smirks as he kept the conversation going with his friends. he knows how attractive he is. not every one is 'blessed' to have a body count of half the schools girl population.

he knows how good he is. so why is it that when his eyes land on you, his heart skips a beat. he's never seen you before, why now? why does he like the way your hair frames your face so beautifully and the way your outfit compliments your body so well?

he felt his world stop for just a second when your eyes finally met his. a split second.

you unlocked your assigned mailbox after reaching the central. other students were there as well looking at letters from their family back at home or the same reason as you, a package. your eyes lit up as you took out the perfectly wrapped cd. .

not wasting one more second, you carefully unwrap it. here it is, finally in your hands after a month of waiting and two days worth of hard labor. the light reflected like heaven itself shining upon you from the glossy surface. you flipped it over, reading through the track list as you locked your mailbox once again not even bothering to check if there's any other letters in your box.

right as you turned, you bumped into something hard, causing your cd to slip from your hands, the sound of it hitting the floor haunting you.

it broke.

and so did your heart.

no. no way.

a month of waiting. money wasted. just for the cd to slip right out your hands.

okay you're being dramatic, it obviously didn't break. but the impact caused the case to open once it fell on the floor. the cd might just have a few scratches. one scratch is one scratch too many though.

"shit, sorry about that."

you lifted up your head to look at the one responsible for this.

satoru.

the satoru himself was in front of you giving you another reason to dislike him. he looked at you with his eyes widening a bit. its you. the girl he saw from earlier. he crouched down, placing his bag on the ground next to his feet to pick up your disc, carefully placing it back in the case. definitely not a band he was familiar with.

he handed it back to you, his hand touching yours slightly.

"here pretty, am sorry again."

your eyes narrowed. "It’s fine," you said, trying to keep your cool. "Not like you can fix it."

his eyes watched you push past him and they trailed past you until you were out of his view.

he finally got the chance to talk to you which he's been wanting to do since he's know you which was only like 20 minutes.

he couldn't help but smile to himself as he opened up his own mailbox, stuffed with fan mail.

a few scratches as you suspected. it shouldn't affect your listening experience.

you placed the now damaged disc in your cd player which was gifted to you by your parents on your sixteenth birthday. the music filled up your room in a nice and warm space.

you sank down on your mattress closing your eyes to enjoy the listening experience. no amount of scratched could ruin this.

they did.

your eyes shot open as the cd started to tweak out not even three minutes into the track list. guess the damage really was done. its all his fault. satoru gojo.

"no..please.." you begged taking out the cd to look at it again seeing that you missed a crack running right through it.

it was all his fault. you barely knew him but now that you had your first ever encounter you had all the reason to despise him. there's no way you will be able to listen to your 80.99 worth cd with there being glitching every other song.

you couldn’t shake the image of satoru standing there, his awkward attempt at helping, the way his gaze had softened for a brief moment. you'd make him buy you a new one, that being if the discontinued cd was even out there anymore.

what if you bought the last one ever?

you groaned into your pillow.

that's it you're throwing a bf.

a bitch fit.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

UK publishers suing Google for $17.4b over rigged ad markets

THIS WEEKEND (June 7–9), I'm in AMHERST, NEW YORK to keynote the 25th Annual Media Ecology Association Convention and accept the Neil Postman Award for Career Achievement in Public Intellectual Activity.

Look, no one wants to kick Big Tech to the curb more than I do, but, also: it's good that Google indexes the news so people can find it, and it's good that Facebook provides forums where people can talk about the news.

It's not news if you can't find it. It's not news if you can't talk about it. We don't call information you can't find or discuss "news" – we call it "secrets."

And yet, the most popular – and widely deployed – anti-Big Tech tactic promulgated by the news industry and supported by many of my fellow trustbusters is premised on making Big Tech pay to index the news and/or provide a forum to discuss news articles. These "news bargaining codes" (or, less charitably, "link taxes") have been mooted or introduced in the EU, France, Spain, Australia, and Canada. There are proposals to introduce these in the US (through the JCPA) and in California (the CJPA).

These US bills are probably dead on arrival, for reasons that can be easily understood by the Canadian experience with them. After Canada introduced Bill C-18 – its own news bargaining code – Meta did exactly what it had done in many other places where this had been tried: blocked all news from Facebook, Instagram, Threads, and other Meta properties.

This has been a disaster for the news industry and a disaster for Canadians' ability to discuss the news. Oh, it makes Meta look like assholes, too, but Meta is the poster child for "too big to care" and is palpably indifferent to the PR costs of this boycott.

Frustrated lawmakers are now trying to figure out what to do next. The most common proposal is to order Meta to carry the news. Canadians should be worried about this, because the next government will almost certainly be helmed by the far-right conspiratorialist culture warrior Pierre Poilievre, who will doubtless use this power to order Facebook to platform "news sites" to give prominence to Canada's rotten bushel of crypto-fascist (and openly fascist) "news" sites.

Americans should worry about this too. A Donald Trump 2028 presidency combined with a must-carry rule for news would see Trump's cabinet appointees deciding what is (and is not) news, and ordering large social media platforms to cram the Daily Caller (or, you know, the Daily Stormer) into our eyeballs.

But there's another, more fundamental reason that must-carry is incompatible with the American system: the First Amendment. The government simply can't issue a blanket legal order to platforms requiring them to carry certain speech. They can strongly encourage it. A court can order limited compelled speech (say, a retraction following a finding of libel). Under emergency conditions, the government might be able to compel the transmission of urgent messages. But there's just no way the First Amendment can be squared with a blanket, ongoing order issued by the government to communications platforms requiring them to reproduce, and make available, everything published by some collection of their favorite news outlets.

This might also be illegal in Canada, but it's harder to be definitive. The Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms was enshrined in 1982, and Canada's Supreme Court is still figuring out what it means. Section Two of the Charter enshrines a free expression right, but it's worded in less absolute terms than the First Amendment, and that's deliberate. During the debate over the wording of the Charter, Canadian scholars and policymakers specifically invoked problems with First Amendment absolutism and tried to chart a middle course between strong protections for free expression and problems with the First Amendment's brook-no-exceptions language.

So maybe Canada's Supreme Court would find a must-carry order to Meta to be a violation of the Charter, but it's hard to say for sure. The Charter is both young and ambiguous, so it's harder to be definitive about what it would say about this hypothetical. But when it comes to the US and the First Amendment, that's categorically untrue. The US Constitution is centuries older than the Canadian Charter, and the First Amendment is extremely definitive, and there are reams of precedent interpreting it. The JPCA and CJPA are totally incompatible with the US Constitution. Passing them isn't as silly as passing a law declaring that Pi equals three or that water isn't wet, but it's in the neighborhood.

But all that isn't to say that the news industry shouldn't be attacking Big Tech. Far from it. Big Tech compulsively steals from the news!

But what Big Tech steals from the news isn't content.

It's money.

Big Tech steals money from the news. Take social media: when a news outlet invests in building a subscriber base on a social media platform, they're giving that platform a stick to beat them with. The more subscribers you have on social media, the more you'll be willing to pay to reach those subscribers, and the more incentive there is for the platform to suppress the reach of your articles unless you pay to "boost" your content.

This is plainly fraudulent. When I sign up to follow a news outlet on a social media site, I'm telling the platform to show me the things the news outlet publishes. When the platform uses that subscription as the basis for a blackmail plot, holding my desire to read the news to ransom, they are breaking their implied promise to me to show me the things I asked to see:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2023/06/save-news-we-need-end-end-web

This is stealing money from the news. It's the definition of an "unfair method of competition." Article 5 of the Federal Trade Commission Act gives the FTC the power to step in and ban this practice, and they should:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/10/the-courage-to-govern/#whos-in-charge

Big Tech also steals money from the news via the App Tax: the 30% rake that the mobile OS duopoly (Apple/Google) requires for every in-app purchase (Apple/Google also have policies that punish app vendors who take you to the web to make payments without paying the App Tax). 30% out of every subscriber dollar sent via an app is highway robbery! By contrast, the hyperconcentrated, price-gouging payment processing cartel charges 2-5% – about a tenth of the Big Tech tax. This is Big Tech stealing money from the news:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2023/06/save-news-we-must-open-app-stores

Finally, Big Tech steals money by monopolizing the ad market. The Google-Meta ad duopoly takes 51% out of every ad-dollar spent. The historic share going to advertising "intermediaries" is 10-15%. In other words, Google/Meta cornered the market on ads and then tripled the bite they were taking out of publishers' advertising revenue. They even have an illegal, collusive arrangement to rig this market, codenamed "Jedi Blue":

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jedi_Blue

There's two ways to unrig the ad market, and we should do both of them.

First, we should trustbust both Google and Meta and force them to sell off parts of their advertising businesses. Currently, both Google and Meta operate a "full stack" of ad services. They have an arm that represents advertisers buying space for ads. Another arm represents publishers selling space to advertisers. A third arm operates the marketplace where these sales take place. All three arms collect fees. On top of that: Google/Meta are both publishers and advertisers, competing with their own customers!

This is as if you were in court for a divorce and you discovered that the same lawyer representing your soon-to-be ex was also representing you…while serving as the judge…and trying to match with you both on Tinder. It shouldn't surprise you if at the end of that divorce, the court ruled that the family home should go to the lawyer.

So yeah, we should break up ad-tech:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2023/05/save-news-we-must-shatter-ad-tech

Also: we should ban surveillance advertising. Surveillance advertising gives ad-tech companies a permanent advantage over publishers. Ad-tech will always know more about readers' behavior than publishers do, because Big Tech engages in continuous, highly invasive surveillance of every internet user in the world. Surveillance ads perform a little better than "content-based ads" (ads sold based on the content of a web-page, not the behavior of the person looking at the page), but publishers will always know more about their content than ad-tech does. That means that even if content-based ads command a slightly lower price than surveillance ads, a much larger share of that payment will go to publishers:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2023/05/save-news-we-must-ban-surveillance-advertising

Banning surveillance advertising isn't just good business, it's good politics. The potential coalition for banning surveillance ads is everyone who is harmed by commercial surveillance. That's a coalition that's orders of magnitude larger than the pool of people who merely care about fairness in the ad/news industries. It's everyone who's worried about their grandparents being brainwashed on Facebook, or their teens becoming anorexic because of Instagram. It includes people angry about deepfake porn, and people angry about Black Lives Matter protesters' identities being handed to the cops by Google (see also: Jan 6 insurrectionists).

It also includes everyone who discovers that they're paying higher prices because a vendor is using surveillance data to determine how much they'll pay – like when McDonald's raises the price of your "meal deal" on your payday, based on the assumption that you will spend more when your bank account is at its highest monthly level:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/05/your-price-named/#privacy-first-again

Attacking Big Tech for stealing money is much smarter than pretending that the problem is Big Tech stealing content. We want Big Tech to make the news easy to find and discuss. We just want them to stop pocketing 30 cents out of every subscriber dollar and 51 cents out of ever ad dollar, and ransoming subscribers' social media subscriptions to extort publishers.

And there's amazing news on this front: a consortium of UK web-publishers called Ad Tech Collective Action has just triumphed in a high-stakes proceeding, and can now go ahead with a suit against Google, seeking damages of GBP13.6b ($17.4b) for the rigged ad-tech market:

https://www.reuters.com/technology/17-bln-uk-adtech-lawsuit-against-google-can-go-ahead-tribunal-rules-2024-06-05/

The ruling, from the Competition Appeal Tribunal, paves the way for a frontal assault on the thing Big Tech actually steals from publishers: money, not content.

This is exactly what publishing should be doing. Targeting the method by which tech steals from the news is a benefit to all kinds of news organizations, including the independent, journalist-owned publishers that are doing the best news work today. These independents do not have the same interests as corporate news, which is dominated by hedge funds and private equity raiders, who have spent decades buying up and hollowing out news outlets, and blaming the resulting decline in readership and profits on Craiglist.

You can read more about Big Finance's raid on the news in Margot Susca's Hedged: How Private Investment Funds Helped Destroy American Newspapers and Undermine Democracy:

https://www.press.uillinois.edu/books/?id=p087561

You can also watch/listen to Adam Conover's excellent interview with Susca:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N21YfWy0-bA

Frankly, the looters and billionaires who bought and gutted our great papers are no more interested in the health of the news industry or democracy than Big Tech is. We should care about the news and the workers who produce the news, not the profits of the hedge-funds that own the news. An assault on Big Tech's monetary theft levels the playing field, making it easier for news workers and indies to compete directly with financialized news outlets and billionaire playthings, by letting indies keep more of every ad-dollar and more of every subscriber-dollar – and to reach their subscribers without paying ransom to social media.

Ending monetary theft – rather than licensing news search and discussion – is something that workers are far more interested in than their bosses. Any time you see workers and their bosses on the same side as a fight against Big Tech, you should look more closely. Bosses are not on their workers' side. If bosses get more money out of Big Tech, they will not share those gains with workers unless someone forces them to.

That's where antitrust comes in. Antitrust is designed to strike at power, and enforcers have broad authority to blunt the power of corporate juggernauts. Remember Article 5 of the FTC Act, the one that lets the FTC block "unfair methods of competition?" FTC Chair Lina Khan has proposed using it to regulate training AI, specifically to craft rules that address the labor and privacy issues with AI:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3mh8Z5pcJpg

This is an approach that can put creative workers where they belong, in a coalition with other workers, rather than with their bosses. The copyright approach to curbing AI training is beloved of the same media companies that are eagerly screwing their workers. If we manage to make copyright – a transferrable right that a worker can be forced to turn over their employer – into the system that regulates AI training, it won't stop training. It'll just trigger every entertainment company changing their boilerplate contract so that creative workers have to sign over their AI rights or be shown the door:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/13/spooky-action-at-a-close-up/#invisible-hand

Then those same entertainment and news companies will train AI models and try to fire most of their workers and slash the pay of the remainder using those models' output. Using copyright to regulate AI training makes changes to who gets to benefit from workers' misery, shifting some of our stolen wages from AI companies to entertainment companies. But it won't stop them from ruining our lives.

By contrast, focusing on actual labor rights – say, through an FTCA 5 rulemaking – has the potential to protect those rights from all parties, and puts us on the same side as call-center workers, train drivers, radiologists and anyone else whose wages are being targeted by AI companies and their customers.

Policy fights are a recurring monkey's paw nightmare in which we try to do something to fight corruption and bullying, only to be outmaneuvered by corrupt bullies. Making good policy is no guarantee of a good outcome, but it sure helps – and good policy starts with targeting the thing you want to fix. If we're worried that news is being financially starved by Big Tech, then we should go after the money, not the links.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/06/stealing-money-not-content/#content-free

[robertreich]

Socialism Fear-mongering is Bananas 

Don't get scared. I'm going to talk about something that’s caused a lot of fear mongering.

You see, advanced countries, like the United States, pool resources for the common good. How? Well, governments enact taxes and then spend that money on things that benefit everyone. Think of national defense, schools, highways, healthcare, unemployment insurance — basically government spending that protects the well-being of the people.

But since some folk, like your conservative Uncle Bob, think ANY pooling of resources for the common good is…socialism.

And since socialism is apparently so terrifying…

I'm going to use a different word to describe this taxing of individuals for the common good.  Let’s use.. I don't know.. How about…Banana! That's not scary, right? 

Great. So, there are essentially three purposes for which governments banana.

First, social insurance against the possibilities of misfortune and neediness, such as unemployment, poor health, disability, and so on.

Second, public goods that we all benefit from, such as parks, highways, public health, and national defense.

Third, public investment in our future, such as basic research, education, and efforts to address pollution and the climate crisis.

Whether we’re talking about Sweden, Spain, or Slovenia or the United States — all countries in capitalist economies banana to benefit the common good.

And bananing is how societies grow their economies, become more prosperous, and ensure a better life for their people.

It’s also how countries aid people in hard times — or when emergencies arise, like a global pandemic.

To simply call any government banana’ing “socialism...”  Oops, sorry I used the word.…Well it distorts our ability to think through how we banana and what we banana on.

And, it ignores the fact that the United States bananas LESS than most developed nations.

We’re among the worst when it comes to bananaing to reduce poverty, especially child poverty.

And pandemic aside, we banana less on unemployment insurance than nearly every other country.

Of course these countries generally have higher taxes than the United States to support all their bananing.

But they get more in return — better jobless benefits, better health care outcomes, debt-free education, more support for child care and elder care, and more generous retirement benefits.

And we could banana a lot more without having to raise taxes on middle or low-income Americans if the rich paid their fair share. Unfortunately, the tax code in the U.S. has been rigged so that the rich and powerful often skirt what they owe and get away with lower tax rates than regular people.

And the rich have done such a good job convincing people that any increase in banana’ing would be… you know, that S word ... that we just accept things as they are.

The only banana’ing they don’t seem to mind is on the military, where we banana more than the countries with the next 10 biggest militaries combined. That’s bananas!

All of this is a major reason why America has such staggering levels of inequality and poverty.

Whether bananing is “socialism” or not is a useless argument. Every country bananas. Capitalism requires banana’ing to ensure a degree of fairness and stability.  

So the next time your Uncle Bob decries any pooling of private resources for the common good — or bananaing — as “socialism”... share this video with him.  

And give him a banana.

[adhdnojutsu]

ALL SHOP ITEMS 15% OFF thanks to a Nazi!! Keep reading for the code. Valid on Ko-Fi and Gumroad until February 15th! I just fixed the issue of being unable to add the coat at checkout on Ko-Fi. Sorry about that!

On October 14t 2023, a week after October 7th, a dude on Facebook felt the urge to tell me we Jews deserved "it", his choice of words being suspiciously close to the illegal "Jedem das Seine" (to each their own) phrase from the Buchenwald extermination camp.

Keep reading... but yes, marvel at this marker drawing of Nanami first. Because he is among the discounted items. Mosaic not included *rrrrr*

The German constitution & the criminal police I reported him to didn't think that was funny. And now, finally, we got our court date on Feb 13th. Already prepared an opening statement (in case they let me do one, dunno how it works).

Also, get this OOAK Shiita drawing while it's hot!

BUT! My mother is in rehab following her heart attack and took the car. This leaves me with a 2 hour bus ride there, but no bus back because this village is what it is. Cab fare is 45 Euros one way. Friends? Not locally (as 1 of 2 immigrants lol). I have another court date this month for my appointment as mediator, so it's gonna get real costly.

So everything in my Ko-Fi shop is temporarily 15% off with the code NUREMBERG2025 so I can make cab fare, because the court letter arrived just after I spent or planned away my monthly budget & my therapy horse added to it with a very untherapeutic medical emergency.

This also applies to the Gumroad Shop where you get NSFW, dakimakura covers and more!

Please help me get his ass?

Lady Helen for tax:

[madelynraemunson]

CALL ME WHAT YOU WANT 𓆩♡𓆪

(Book 1 of the Hellfire Gentlemen's Club)

(strip club owner!eddie x fem!exotic dancer!hargrove! reader)

𝐌𝐎𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐍 𝐀𝐔 18+ MINORS DNI

006: The Eddie Special

Rent is paid, food is on the table, and Max finally has a YMCA membership! All because of you. But just when you think you've got your two lives under control, Robin and Vicky show up to Hellfire for date night — and see you dancing center stage.

* = somewhat smut

** = smut

↳ chapters: 001, 002*, 003** , 004**, 005 , 006 , 007* , 008**, 009, 010, 011, 012* , 013**, 014**, 015, 016**, 017, 018, 019, 020*

word count: 5.2k words

warnings — eddie being an asshole again but also very sweet, mutual pining, angst, yearning, profanities, power imbalance, double standards, smoking, alcohol, sexual harassment, health issues/disparities, trauma, pedophilia, incest, name-calling

“A compromise would surely help the situation.”

♡

“Hey, stranger.”

Robin flashes you a “good morning” smile as you’re washing the dishes. Scooting to the side, you continue to scrub as she leans against the sink with her back, munching away at her breakfast sandwich that Vicky had prepped for her the night before.

“Morning,” you grin in return.

“Funny,” she says. “We live under the same roof now but our friendship still feels long distance.”

“Sorry… ” you frown. “Work’s just been a lot.”

So is living a double life. To shake off the guilt that constantly gnawed at you, you dry your hands and proceed to make yourself some coffee. When you scan the fridge, the only creamer you can get your hands on is...

Hazelnut. Just your luck.

There’s a tinge in your chest as you dunk it into your mug. You stir aggressively. Robin notices how tense you are and walks over to you.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, my guy,” she says as she pats you on the back. “Healthcare is tough. I dated a travel nurse once and that poor woman had back problems for days.”

“Such a physically and emotionally taxing job,” Vicky adds as she emerges from their room. “I don’t know how you do it, Hargrove.”

“Good morning, baby.”

“Good morning, sweetheart.”

Smooch.

You chuckle to yourself as you sip your Eddie-coded coffee.

“Yeah. I don't know how I do it either…”

The wooden stairs creek and crack as a pair of Vans stomp against them. Max is awake. This morning is an exciting one. After many, many overtime shifts at Hellfire, you've accumulated enough tip money to pay for Max's membership for 12 months. On top of that, rent had already been paid so you had a hefty cushion leftover for leisurely expenses.

You can hardly contain yourself. Seeing the surprised look on your sister's face is sure to be the highlight of your morning.

Max stares at you in shock when she sees you in the kitchen.

“Whoa,” she says. “She’s awake.”

You only ever see Max in passing when she comes home from the skate park. And that's right when you leave for work. From what she tells you she hasn't made many friends, but her main priorities right now are her hobbies and preparing herself for college classes in the Fall. Sometimes Max will tag along with Robin and Vicky to run errands, but you can tell she misses spending time with, and seeing, her sister.

“Shocker, right?” you sigh. “Thought I'd catch you before you head out.”

With your hands behind your back, you stride over to Max to give her her well-earned gift.

“What’s this?” she wonders.

“Your ticket to the Y,” you explain. “A band and a quarter, should last you a year.”

"Whoa!" Vicky exclaims.

"Holy shit! Look at that!" Robin cheers.

Max's eyes widen as she takes the money from you. “ $1200?! What bank did you have to rob to get $1200?”

“No bank,” you shake your head as Max counts all of the Benjamins. “Just the pockets of old, retired folk.”

You grin from ear to ear as you watch Max get bombarded with hugs that she is reluctant to accept, but does regardless. Vicky and Robin hoot and holler and squeal and cheer, reaffirming to Max that she deserves it the most.

“You’re really giving the elderly a run for their money,” Max says as the celebration comes to an end.

You watch in amusement as Vicky and Robin take turns counting Max's money.

“Yeah well it’s the least they can do for me,” you sigh. “My body feels like it’s aged 10 years.”

Max excuses herself from your roommates and throws herself onto you this time. You do your best not to cry. You've really missed her hugs.

“Thank you,” she says. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

Seeing how happy your sister is makes all your struggles worth it. Anything for Maxine.

———— 🔥 ————

“I don’t know who you think I am, but I don’t really give a damn right now.”

The past couple of weeks at Hellfire have been nothing short of awkward.

Eddie only really comes to you when he needs something, which — now that you've taken off those rose-tinted glasses — pretty much fits the bill of who he is as a person.

But he still lingers. For example, when you and Chrissy go on breaks together, there is always something for Eddie to do in close proximity. Table needs wiping? Eddie is there. Aisle needs sweeping? Mike, go help in the back. When you're dancing on customers, Eddie comes out from doing paperwork in his den to greet the regulars. And whenever you would turn to look at what Eddie’s doing, his gaze is already fixed on you and what you’re doing.

Like cat and mouse. But of course, he does it with all his dancers. Right?

A part of you wants to confront Eddie and his behavior, but before you even can he's out the back door to go on a "smoke break" with Argyle after closing, which usually is a short jump to him leaving. So you try to act unbothered by it by staying just a while longer with Henry… just in case he does come back.

But Henry puts you to work when you stay. He typically has you make sure all doors are locked, all chairs are stacked, and that any stray garbage is thrown away. You two play music while you work alongside one another, talking shit about customers and about how every day is starting to look the same.

You’re aware of how you openly contradict yourself, saying the days all bleed into one another and how you miss your bed. Yet you’re still at Hellfire. Way past closing time. Henry for sure has caught on to your odd behavior, but he doesn’t seem to mind because he enjoys your company.

It’s like clockwork now, this ritual-slash-routine.

Today is different for some reason.

"Hey!" Eddie calls out. “Shy Girl!”

You’re alone eating in an isolated part of VECNA’S LAIR when Boss Man makes his way over to you.

You’re frozen in your spot as he approaches you…willingly. Although you could care a lot less about his presence, the gesture still causes you to sit up a little straighter and blot-dry any remnants of your food with your napkin.

Eddie sets down new laminated prints of his menu in front of you. Plop.

"New item on the menu,” he gloats, very amused with himself. “Waffle fries. What do you think?"

Annoyed, you huff.

"Sure."

Two weeks of barely uttering a sentence to one another. Two weeks of avoiding eye contact and possibly one ‘excuse me’. Two weeks of being a background character in Eddie’s life and his icy shoulder making sure you knew it.

Now you’re more than an extra today. Because today Eddie decides you’re something of value, and that just for today your input actually matters. It's pathetic. It all makes Steve and Nancy look like best friends.

Your eyes travel to his firm hands. His silver rings. You hate to admit that you miss how they felt against your skin, especially since your skin seemingly isn't the only one he grazes. I do this with all my dancers. Your hands ball into fists. How can someone be so okay with using someone the way Eddie did with you?

"So we'll do regular waffle fries and the crinkle cuts will be our sweet potato fries from now on,” he explains.

“Mhm.”

“And eventually,” Eddie booms dramatically. “We’ll introduce the concept of different types of fries. Cajun fries, cheese fries, chili cheese fries. Then we'll introduce new cuts like curly fries... wedges..."

Not a word from you.

"Then we’ll do animal style fries like how you Californians do it at In-N-Out. I’ll call it ‘The Eddie Special’. It’ll be amazing!”

"You call the shots, Eddie."

Like he always does.

Eddie finally gets the message. You watch as his shoulders droop as he surrenders.

"Are you okay?" he dares to ask perplexedly.

"Never better!" you exclaim.

You grab your finished meal and dart past him, not even bothering to pardon yourself when your shoulders brush his slightly. You hear Eddie exhale, super displeased as the taps he makes on the table with his fingers render themselves fast and impatient.

“You don’t wanna stay and chat?” your superior demands sharply.

“I have to clock back in,” you answer coldly. “Sorry.”

“K then,” Eddie quietly mutters, returning the energy.

You try to look busy, so you pull out your phone and pretend to check something. Luckily, a text message from Robin pops up for you to reply to.

ROBIN BUCKLEY ☀️🤍

Date night with Vicky tonight. Breakfast/lunch/dinner waiting for you in the fridge when you get home 😁

You smile.

You da bestest 🩷 thank u

Buzz.

ROBIN BUCKLEY ☀️🤍 loved “You da bestest 🩷 thank u”

“Hey, Hargrove?” Eddie calls out to you.

His voice sounds a lot softer and apologetic. With the optimism that your tactic worked, you spin around to face Eddie with eager eyes. Maybe today is the day things go back to normal again.

“Hm?”

“No going on your phone when you’re clocked in, k?”

A blow to the chest. Bitter and agitated, you shove your phone into the back pocket of your booty shorts. Yes sir, you mutter to yourself mentally.

After thanking you, Eddie struts to the kitchen, using his own phone to pull up Dio on Spotify. He and Argyle like to head-bang and fuck around in the kitchen when they’re together. Messing around is only okay if Eddie does it, you assume.

To make matters worse, Eddie then proceeds to use his stupid phone to send someone a text. You scoff at the irony. Fucking prick.

Another trigger of yours? Power imbalance and double standards.

Attempting to be drama-free, you ironically make your way over to Steve and Jonathan, who are posted up at POTIONS.

“Hey Shy Girl,” Jonathan nods.

"Hey Johnny," you greet him.

You turn to the literal love of your life.

“Sup, Steve.”

"Hey, Hargrove," Steve nods. "How'd you do on tips last night?"

"Stellar," you answer. "Fucking love Fridays."

You and Steve are still casually hooking up. But just as you predicted, things aren’t quite the same. The problem this week is that Steve is struggling to finish, and you start to feel discouraged and insecure when he softens up inside of you.

Steve always used to finish. Now when you look up at him his gaze is fixed on something else, his strokes are less enthusiastic, and he mistaked one of your kinks for someone else’s once. But you pretend not to notice. A part of you even feels like you deserve it.

Steve is struggling with the eye contact today. You kick at the floor, trying to find a way to make your presence relevant in this corner of Hellfire. Knowing very well what you’re doing, Steve holds up a French fry from his red picnic tray as a supportive gesture.

"Would you like some?"

You beam at him and open your mouth so he can feed you. Steve obliges.

“Thanks boo,” you say to him as you chew.

He blushes. “Welcome.”

“You guys are cute,” Jonathan smiles as he wipes his hands with a hand towel. “I gotta run to the restroom, you mind watching the bar for a bit, Hargrove?”

“Not at all,” you oblige. “I’ll be here. Eating Steve’s fries.”

“Great,” Jonathan says, excusing himself. Then he halts. “Oh! If you open the register, Eddie has something for you underneath. Code is 0-1-1.”

Eddie has something…for you?

You turn to Steve and he just shrugs. As if it weren’t already obvious, you and Eddie weren’t exactly on friendly terms. What could that man possibly have for you?

It’s a termination notice, you can feel it. Bracing yourself for the absolute worst, you punch the code in.

0 - 1 - 1.

CHA-CHING! The register pops open. You lift the till that housed the cash and coins to unveil a pile of cash joined together by a small paper clip. There is a tiny note that was written onto a ripped piece of paper.

You pick it up. This couldn’t be for you, you think. But the sloppy handwriting with a partially bleeding pen says otherwise.

‘Hargrove: $600 — YMCA MONEY’

----- ❤️‍🩹 -----

“She the devil, she a bad lil bitch, she a rebel.”

Tonight you’re doing private dances with customers and also doing tip rail. But you wish you were just doing tip rail 'cause tonight’s clients were ballsy.

One patron said you look like his daughter. But it’s okay because ‘she’s married and out of the house’. Another said you look like one of his students. But it's totally okay because he teaches at the community college, therefore almost every pupil there is ‘at least 18’. It still doesn’t make it any better. All you could think about is your 18 year old baby sister — someone’s daughter and someone’s someone — someone who will also be walking the halls of Hawkins Community College later this month.

This customer, however, takes the cake. After guiding his hand away multiple times during the lap dance, he always manages to find the straps of your bra again. Upon strike three, you lose all patience.

“Yo, can you not do that?” you hiss, your inner Cali dude coming out to play. “I moved your hand away many times.”

The man is almost appalled. “It’s a strip club, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but I strip on my terms.”

"I paid for your services," he spat. "So I'm sure I get to do what I want, hoe."

“Don’t call me that!”

“I'll call you what I want,” the customer insists. “It’s what you are anyways if you’re in this job right?”

He takes out another dollar and tucks it into one of your cups. You could only stare in shock. The audacity of this guy.

“Here,” he says degradingly. “Looks like you really need it. Now let me see those tits. Please.”

Anger consumes you. Whatever amount of the Neutral Wolf you had left in you has now melted away. The Big Bad Wolf is taking over now. You give the man a shove, hoisting yourself off his disgusting body.

"What the FUCK is your deal, bruh?" you bark, a piece of Billy coming out of you more than you intended. "You want a piece of me that badly, don't you?"

Your words cause a scene in the surrounding area. Not even phased by it, the patron decides to push you further.

“Easy, easy,” he rolls his eyes. “If it’s that much of an issue I’ll just take my money back.”

He yanks the dollar back from out of your bra. His knuckles just grazed your tits.

“What kinda strip club is this anyways? Theme is janky as fuck. The STRIPPERS don’t even strip. They’re RUDE, and they’re butt ugly. The owner should be ashamed. Oh and by the looks of it, you don’t have much tits to work with after all.”

“Pull up your shirt,” you quip. “I think I found ‘em.”

This poor man. He didn't know you're a Hargrove.

And soon you’re throwing shit. His money. Your shoes. Every curse word in the dictionary, both traditional and urban with the exception of a few. You’re seeing all red now, and you’re pretty sure if no one stopped you, you’d have ripped the guy’s head off.

“If I don’t have tits, why you trying to get at me?” you roar. “You like little boys or something, bitch?!”

“HENRY!” Eddie shouts.

You turn in the direction of Eddie’s voice. He had been watching. Through your furious, free-falling tears, you can see in his dark eyes, closed fists, and flared nostrils that he is angry as well.

“On it, boss!” Henry shouts as he scampers on over. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, asshole?”

The friendly bouncer swoops you off to the side and asserts himself between you both. Lucky for the guy, no dislocated limbs were in the cards today. All it took was another person with a penis to get this fool to back down. He tries to reason with Henry but it’s far too late. Henry’s already pushing him towards the door.

“I’ll be coming BACK to have my way with you,” the beast growls and spits. “Fucking SKANK!”

“I HOPE THE FUCK YOU DO, MOTHERFUCKER!” you challenge him. "I'll be right here waiting!”

A calloused hand lands on your lower back. Thinking it’s another customer, you turn aggressively, fist winded up. As quickly as you lunge, a large palm catches it mid-air.

It’s Eddie.

Worry washes over your boss’s face when you two lock eyes for the first time. After what seemed like an eternity. He looks at you with the utmost concern. You almost see a tear glistening in his eye. A portion of his hair falls over his face in attempts to conceal it.

"Are you okay?" Eddie asks again, genuinely.

You nod, gulping.

You aren't okay, that's the thing. Not when Eddie looks like that. And not when he's looking at you, like that. Suddenly, Hellfire melts away and you're back in his van, fighting back every urge to fall into him and his musky, pine aroma infused with nicotine, weed, and beer. Just like home. Eddie feels like home.

Papers beat rock. Slowly, Eddie lowers your fist with the palm he had draped over you. The pulsing music and blinding strobe lights trickle back into your system.

"It's okay if you aren't..." Eddie starts. “You know... alright.”

"Eddie," you stop him. "Please. I'm alright."

“That was a lot.”

“But it's nothing new to me.”

He studies you. Doesn’t speak for a while.

“It's true!” you insist, attempting to diffuse Eddie's concern. “It kinda reminded me of the frat parties in San Diego I used to go to. You know what I’m saying?”

You try to laugh. But Eddie doesn’t. Henry and some dancers come to check up on you, especially Chrissy, to ask if you're okay. They even try to start a petition to jump the guy. You repeat the very thing you've been saying since it happened — yes, you are okay — and thank them for their concern. Then it's back to you and Eddie the moment they all disperse.

"Want a break?" he offers.

You shake your head. Dancing it off would help more, actually. And besides, if his offer is just another attempt to get you alone in his car and fire you up only to extinguish it all again in one sitting, you'll pass.

"Wanna go on stage now then? Get a break from individual dances?"

You smile and nod. "I'd love that."

The night can only get better from here. Eddie offers you his hand and helps to hoist you onto the stage. The DJ announces your name, and you’re back in business, putting on your million dollar smile and batting your seductive, little lashes.

Your song comes on and you start to shake your ass. Lost in the trance of the song, you become one with the pole, climbing it and gliding along it, twirling from it, and hovering with it, twerking and spreading your legs whenever you saw fit. The audience revels in it.

It all feels so good. Yes you are being provocative, everybody and your brother's worst nightmare -- but you're the one in control. No one can ever take your body autonomy away from you. Never again. Not anymore.

You do a death drop to the floor and quickly ease into your splits. The crowd goes wild as you roll your hips to the song, allowing yourself to get showered by the dollar bills that were raining down on you like a storm.

To thank everyone for their overwhelming support, you spin yourself around to face the crowd. But your heart nearly stops.

“Oh my god,” you gasp aloud.

Nothing could ever prepare you for what... or who rather... you see in front of you.

“Oh…my god,” Robin repeats, face sheet-white like a ghost.

Vicky is right beside her with the same shock on her face. Of course, your roommates have acknowledged this place before, so it wouldn't be a surprise that they eventually made this place their date night.

Your mind short-fuses and all you can do is crawl away backwards. Luckily, no one in the crowd seems to suspect how thrown off you just became. Your body quickly calls on another dancer as your mind races. And soon Emmy is taking your spot at the tip rail.

You look over at Eddie, who was in the corner leaning against the wall, but now he is standing upright and confused. Throwing on your cloak, you thank everyone for coming out and run out to the back alley.

"Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit," you mutter to yourself, as your heels click against the cold floor. Your cover is blown. What do you do now? "That's what you get for working local, Hargrove."

You find an area in the alley to rest and hit your dab pen ferociously. As you pace back and forth, you start to develop your exit plan. Nothing new, you develop these plans all the time.

Eventually Robin and Vicky find you. Clumsily spilling out the back door comes Thing 1 and Thing 2, assessing your body language and emotional well-being before finding the right words to say. It’s uncomfortable for everybody.

“Well this is quite the nursing home,” Robin remarks.

“Babe!”

“What?!” Robin exclaims. “I’m trying to lighten the mood.”

“Yeah but that can kinda come off as witty and sarcastic.”

“Well I don’t mean for it to.”

“Just because you don’t mean for it to, doesn’t mean it won’t come across that way.”

“Well knowing Hargrove I would hope she knows it’s not meant to come across that way.”

“GUYS!” your overstimulated self shouts.

All is quiet on midwestern front. Vicky and Robin switch between looking at you and back down at the ground while you resume your stress-filled nic break.

Finally, you speak after exhaling.

“So how’s everyone’s niiight?”

Robin gets straight to the point. “Why didn’t you tell us you work here?”

“I was protecting Max.”

“From what?” Robin wonders. “Ass and boobies? Extensions and falsies and freakishly high, high heels?”

“Doesn’t sound like nightmare fuel to us,” Vicky shrugs.

“It is when you consider the women Billy’s brought home.”

“What does Billy have to do with any of this?” asks Vicky.

“A lot, actually,” you answer.

You shove your pen back into your cloak pocket.

“Look,” you say. “I really needed the money. And I needed it fast. With my server and dancing background, I figured being a stripper was the best way to make it. And I was right. It’s quick money, but it’s sure as hell not easy. It’s draining for the most part, but—”

You stomp at the ground in frustration.

“My sister is fed and she can go to the Y and go to school and she’s away from Billy anditsallthatI’veeverwantedokay? That’s why I did it.”

“Okay, but I don’t see the point in coming up with this elaborate story that you work nights at a nursing home,” Vicky squints in thought. “Come on Hargrove, we are the least judgmental house in the boonies. I mean look at us.”

“Art Hoe Lesbians in a red state,” Robin points out. “I’m sure exotic dancer is a very mild offense.”

They did have a point. And it's not like Max is the type to slut-shame either. But you wanted Max to live as normal of a life as possible. Having a stripper sister also didn’t seem like the best conversation starter in Hawkins.

"I guess I'm just used to living a lie," you admit exhaustedly. "And running away... I also know Max would be worried sick for me."

"You only live lies if you tell 'em," Robin points out. "But as long as you're here with us, you're free to be your true and authentic self."

"Your job right now is to provide," Vicky adds. "And you're doing a wonderful job."

You beam. "Yeah?"

They both nod, yes. Sometimes you forgot what a support system is like. It always used to be everyone for themselves.

"Thanks guys."

"You're welcome," Vicky grins. "For now we'll keep our lips locked. We did not see anything."

"But you are going to have to tell Max eventually," Robin scorns.

"I know," you sigh. "I appreciate the stall."

The three of you hug. That's another thing you've been needing these past few weeks. A warm, authentic hug.

"Nice ass by the way," Robin compliments you.

"And tits," Vicky adds.

"Thanks."

———- ❤️ ———-

“I’ll kindly take you up on that Eddie Special, please,” you mumble.

Eddie had last-called everyone 15 minutes ago, but deep down you hope he had enough room in his heart for you. It’s been a dumpster fire of a shift.

Sure enough Eddie caves, judging by the way he starts up the fryer again after having shut it down right before you got to him.

He grins warmly. “Coming right up.”

As the fryer starts to bubble, Eddie loads in the last of the crinkle cuts. He waits close by with crossed arms.

Eddie’s first to break the silence.

“You seemed to know those customers,” he comments, referring to Vicky and Robin. “Judging by how fast you ran from them. In pumps too.”

“They’re my roommates,” you reply. “My best friend and her partner. They didn’t know I work here.”

He raises the eyebrow at ‘best friend’. “Even they didn’t know you work here?”

“I don’t know what they’d do with this information,” you utter defensively. “I guess it’s just hard for me to trust people.”

“Is it really, Miss Flight Risk?”

He’s referring to moving in with a girl you met online. You shoot him a look. The “I-didn’t-really-have-any-other-choice” look. He quickly digresses.

“I’m kidding,” he surrenders. “Okay? I understand that there are some things you gotta keep secret.” Eddie wriggles the basket full of fries around in the fryer. “…Even from your loved ones.”

Something tells you he speaks from experience. You shrug it off, ensuring he’d elaborate if he wanted to eventually.

Meanwhile you just decide to hit him with some small talk.

"How’s Chef Lucas been doing back here?"

"Fine and dandy," Eddie breathes. "For the most part. He burnt some things a couple of days ago, but that's part of being an apprentice, right?"

"Totally,” you nod. “Mistakes are bound to happen."

"Ohhh yeah," Eddie mutters, almost to himself. "Lots and lots…of mistakes."

"Trial and error, if you will,” you pitch in.

"Yup,” he draws on. “Seeing what works and what doesn’t. Testing the waters..."

Your eyes meet again. Briefly at least.

Eddie struggles to hold his gaze and instead resorts to clumsily playing around with a cloth nearby while whistling a tune. You can feel it getting awkward again so you find a way to keep the conversation going.

“Thank you for being there,” you attempt. “And helping out with my sister’s membership. You didn’t have to.”

“But I wanted to,” Eddie insists. His back is towards you so you can't read his expression. “You’ve been working very hard.”

“That’s why you don’t have to,” you say as-a-matter-of-factly. “It’s already paid off.”

Eddie chuckles. “Okay, then use it to buy yourself something nice. You deserve it.”

A hoot sounds from the opposite end of the hall. It’s Henry making his way over with some keys.

“Alright Babyboy, I’m out,” he announces. “I can lock up if you’d like? Not like I have anything to do.”

“I can take it from here,” Eddie insists. “Sweet dreams, Mr. Creel.”

Henry makes his way over, narrowing his eyes.

“Thought you normally go see Wayne after this.”

“I do,” Eddie replies. “But he had company earlier and I’m sure he already put himself to bed by now. I’ll stop by for breakfast.”

Henry’s eyes shift between you and Eddie. There’s a small smirk but he tries to conceal it. You’re staying late again, huh?

“Your words not mine,” Henry says. “Goodnight you two.”

You both bid Henry goodbye and he sees himself out. Eddie proceeds his periodic check-ins with your taters.

"You've uh, been appointing Henry a lot," you point out.

"Hell yeah, like clockwork," Eddie shrugs. "This industry is predator central. Just hate when dickheads think they can disrespect my girls. I don’t play that way.”

My girls.

“Not his first time doing shit like that,” Eddie adds, referring to the customer. “I regret giving him another chance. I should just get Henry or Jim to print a picture of his face and plaster it all over the walls. DON'T LET THIS ASSHOLE IN.”

You laugh. Eddie laughs at your laugh and then goes to melt the cheese for your dish.

“Yeah,” you say. “You give a man another chance and all he does disappoint you.”

Eddie sighs and nods timidly. “Yeah… Men ain’t shit huh?”

It falls silent for a bit. Eddie slowly stirs the melted cheese concoction he had going on in his pot while eyeing the time. You fiddle around with your cloak out of habit. Eddie speaks first again.

“You know what Shy Girl, I’m gonna do it,” he says. “Gonna broadcast his face and I’ll have you sign off on it.”

“Really?” you say.

“Of course,” Eddie shrugs. “You know how I am. I don’t play when it comes to you.”

The rasp in his voice sounds like melted butter. For a fraction of a second, you start to wonder what you were even mad about earlier.

You really missed talking and bantering with Eddie. Aside from whatever the hell was going on between you both, his companionship was not something you felt was fake.

Eddie begins mixing some sauces, and when he's done he hands you what you assume is your tips that you forgot to collect. You know, when you bolted off the stage.

"Already tipped everyone else out," he explains. "Rest is yours to keep."

You thank him and count all your bills. Now you have $600 of reallocated YMCA money and tips from tonight to pay off your bills and splurge.

You haven't had this much money since your waitressing job. You are forever grateful.

“Is there...anything I owe you Eddie?” you question. “Like at all? You’ve done a lot for me lately.”

“Ehhh you’re in the clear, I guess,” Eddie sheepishly smirks. “Lucky for you I’m a sucker for flattery.”

The fries are now cooked to a golden crisp and Eddie adds the components needed for The Eddie Special. He spends a decent amount of time to perfect the presentation before sitting down in front of you. In true Eddie fashion, he takes a bite of his own creation.

"HOT," he comments, trying to blow on the fry that's already in his mouth. "Hot, hot, hot. Fresh out the fryer."

Judging by his face, however, he approves. You can’t help but giggle over and over again. He gestures for you to try some.

It’s love at first bite.

"Mhm," you coo. "Thank you, Eddie."

"You're welcome," Eddie says. He grabs a washcloth to clean up the area. “Now… when you’re finished, how about I treat you to a real dinner?”

-------

author’s note: school has been taking over my life but i’m so glad i got to crank out this chapter for you guys 🖤 i’m excited to see how y’all are gonna react to shy girl’s orientation dinner…. 👀

tag list: @changemunson , @the-fairy-anon , @ali-r3n , @corrodedcoffincumslut , @bebe07011 , @mmunson86 , @eddiesguitarskills , @chelebelletx , @imonhereforareasonsadly , @eddies-trailer-babe @hideoutside , @motherfckerrr , @jxpsi , @munson-magic , @lindseyj23 , @sidthedollface2 , @manda-panda-monium , @elvendria , @micheledawn1975 , @hereforshmut , @siriuslysmoking , @nymphetkoo , @m-chmcl-rmnc , @holabeans00

[a-bit-of-writing]

18/30 - History

Fandom: Boku no Hero Academia 

Characters: Izuku Midoriya, Shoto Todoroki 

Words: 854

Summary: In the quiet after the battle, Midoriya and Todoroki reflect on the cost of victory and the kind of history that never gets written down.

The first sirens had faded into a weary hush, leaving only the rasp of settling debris and the distant buzz of generators that powered makeshift flood-lights. Their cold glare painted the ruins in sterile whites and aching shadows, as though the entire battlefield had been frozen between heartbeats.

Izuku Midoriya stood at its center - a lone silhouette amid the skeletal remains of buildings that had once been convenience stores, apartments, dreams. His costume hung off him in ribbons; One For All still crackled beneath his skin, but the adrenaline was gone, leaving each pulse of power to scrape raw against bone. Smoke and copper tangled in every breath.

They’d call this afternoon a triumph. Papers tomorrow would headline ​HEROES TURN TIDE in thick, triumphant font. Historians would chart strategies and Quirk match-ups, pin red threads between databank screenshots, use words like decisive and inevitable.

No archive would mention the little boy who had reached for Izuku’s hand moments before the last blast came down. Izuku could still feel that small, desperate grip sliding away.

The memory punched the air from his lungs. He sank to one knee beside a broken streetlamp, palm splayed on the asphalt to keep from falling farther. His glove was gone; gravel dug into tender flesh still humming with residual power.

I failed him.

The thought rang louder than the distant sirens.

A chunk of masonry shifted nearby, and Shoto Todoroki emerged from behind a crumbled storefront. One side of his uniform was scorched, the other frosted with a rime of ice that steamed in the evening air. He walked with a hitch but refused to limp; stubborn dignity clung to him like the burnt smell clinging to everything else.

Without a word, he crouched beside Izuku and placed a bottle of water at his feet. They listened together to the gentle plink-plink of cooling metal and the soft hiss where Todoroki’s thawing ice met the hot pavement.

Izuku’s voice broke the silence, rough as gravel: “Do you ever wonder how the textbooks will describe today?”

Todoroki’s heterochromatic eyes slid over the devastation. “Probably with a diagram.” He exhaled a humorless breath. “An overhead map. Color-coded circles for casualties.”

Izuku swallowed. “A green circle for the ones we saved… black for the ones we didn’t.”

His gaze drifted to the cracked fire-hydrant across the street. A thin trickle of water escaped the valve, carving a glistening path through ash until it vanished into a storm drain—like history washing evidence underground.

“You’re thinking about the boy,” Todoroki said, statement, not question.

Izuku’s shoulders folded inward. “He trusted me,” he whispered. “I had his hand. Then-” Words fractured, sucked dry by guilt.

Todoroki leaned back on his heels, wincing when the motion tugged at a bruised rib. “My father calls losses ‘the tax heroes pay for victory.’” He glanced at Izuku, jaw tightening. “I hate that expression.”

Izuku managed a fragile laugh - more breath than sound. “Endeavor always did frame everything in economics.”

“History isn’t numbers,” Todoroki continued, tone low. “It’s the stories behind the numbers. Who remembers them decides what they mean.”

Silence drifted. Somewhere a medic shouted for more saline. The launch of a stretcher’s wheels rattled against uneven ground.

Todoroki reached inside his shredded jacket and produced a charred, dust-coated notebook. The elastic band had melted half-through; soot smudged the familiar label: Hero Analysis for the Future – Vol. 13.

“Found it near the west perimeter,” he said, offering it like fragile treasure. “Figured you’d want your history back.”

Izuku stared. The cover was warped, but inside - when he opened trembling pages - scribbles of statistics, sketches of allies, and hopeful phrases in green ink survived beneath ash-stains. One margin held a childish doodle of the first years cheering, drawn weeks ago after a training victory he could barely remember now.

Tears blurred the ink. He pressed his thumb to the page, leaving a muddy streak. “This feels like it was written by someone else,” he confessed. “A kid who still believed effort alone could save everyone.”

Todoroki’s injured eye narrowed with a gentleness Izuku rarely saw. “You’re still that kid. But the world’s bigger now. Which means your heart has to be, too.”

Izuku’s breath caught. From anyone else, those words might have sounded like hollow encouragement. From Todoroki - stoic, brutally honest - they felt like truth hammered into steel.

A low rumble shook loose more dust; both boys tensed, ready, until they realized it was only a passing train on the elevated tracks beyond the ruined block. Instinct eased, leaving weariness in its place.

Izuku closed the notebook carefully, as though sheltering the dreams inside. He rose - slow, wavering - and Todoroki mirrored him. Ash drifted down like gray snow.

“I can’t promise I’ll ever be able to smile like All Might did,” Izuku said, voice steadier. “But I can promise I’ll remember every name, every face. I’ll write their history, not just mine.”

Todoroki offered a hand: scarred, frostbitten, alive. Izuku clasped it, and together they walked toward the portable flood-lights where stretchers queued and evacuees waited. The cape of smoke parted overhead to reveal a thin sliver of evening sky: bruised violet shading to the first hints of star-light.

[necrosemancy]

TIMING: Last Night SETTING: The Codfather PARTIES: @necrosemancy + @bladesandtrades SUMMARY: Rosemary is on a tremendously boring first date. Then she has the brilliant idea to send an SOS text to the most intimidating person she knows. Owen is less than pleased with the entire situation.

Rosemary had to admit it. She sure knew how to pick them. 

And by that, she really meant had horrendous instincts and should not be allowed to say yes to dates without running the prospect by someone with far more discerning taste than she had. 

The perfectly lovely smile that was plastered onto her face through the power of lipgloss and spite was rapidly disappearing, melting like a snowflake on the surface of the sun. This guy was easily the most boring person she’d ever had the displeasure of sitting out to dinner with. 

Why the hell had she agreed to dinner? Drinks, sure maybe. At least at a bar she could make conversation with the bartender or whoever was sitting next to her if the date went badly.  Or if they’d gone dancing, at least the music might have been loud enough to drown out any conversation, and she could have focused on the fact that he was at least decent looking. Rosemary nodded her head as though she were actually listening to her date as he kept rambling about the tax code.

Peter had been so charming when he’d asked her out. He’d been in the line ahead of her at The Black Lagoon, and he’d told the barista to put her coffee and anything else she wanted on his tab. And, of course, he just had to have a nice smile. Damn her stupid brain for falling victim to a nice smile. They’d chatted, and he’d invited her out to dinner. If only Rosemary knew what the fuck had possessed her to say yes. Maybe it was the perfectly awful winter she’d had that had made her brain take this total stranger asking her out as some sign of the goodness and warmth of spring coming to thaw the ice of the utter shit the past few months had been. She should have known better. 

He was in the middle of rambling about something accountant-y (she was never asking anyone what they did for a living ever again) when she felt herself on the verge of snapping. “That is so fascinating. I never knew that much went into filing a tax return.” Nor had she ever cared. “I’ll just be right back.” The witch’s smile fell the second her back was turned, and she made a beeline for the restroom. 

She scrolled through her contacts as she tried to decide who would be a good person to rescue her from an awful, boring as hell date. Alistair? No they were with Tommy. Eve? No, if anything she owed Eve a favor, not the other way around. 

Her eyes fell on a contact that she’d renamed around the holidays. Now that wasn’t a bad idea. He was definitely intimidating enough. He’d probably give her so much shit for it, and it would undoubtedly be an invitation for criticism on her love life, but desperate times called for desperate measures. She opened a message to the contact named Stupidly Tall Swede, and fired off a few messages. 

Owen?

Owen I need your help. 

Like right fucking now. 

SERIOUSLY LOOK AT YOUR PHONE THIS IS A FUCKING EMERGENCY. 

SOS

Rosemary sent a pin with her location before dropping her phone back into her purse. That ought to do it. 

She strolled back to her seat, a more genuine smile warming her face now that she knew she hopefully only had a few more minutes of accounting hell before Owen came barging in. Or he’d leave her to get axe murdered. It was really a 50/50 chance. 

—--

Owen rarely expected his personal phone to make much sound these days - funny how that worked when you’d successfully pushed away anyone who might have thought to personally contact you. The same couldn’t be said for the phone entirely dedicated to work, one of two phones actually and Owen already hated both of them, useful and necessary as they were. He hated them almost as much as the indecipherable shit Cecil tried to pass off as paperwork (what the fuck was wrong with using a computer, anyway) and Owen was deep into trying to make heads or tail of what was essentially a useless filing system when one of the bastards pinged. Pushing away papers with a huff to reach one of the phones, Owen found it void of notifications, followed by the second. 

By the time he found his own mobile, more pings had come through, revealing a series of texts from ‘witch bitch’ ranging from annoying to mildly worrying. She hadn’t properly contacted him since Owen told her in no subtle form to fuck off as a nice Christmas present so suddenly reaching out to him of all people, claiming an emergency, couldn’t fucking bode well. He blinked at the location she’d dropped, somewhere downtown, fingers tightening around the phone. There was no reason to drop everything, because he had shit to do, and go see whether the necromancer with the big mouth really had gotten herself into trouble. Even if Owen tried to rationalize it with the usefulness of knowing a necromancer, there were a couple of others saved in his work phone and both were most likely more skilled than Rosemary. Less annoying, too. There was no reason for it yet Owen still snatched up his jacket, cursing colorfully as he went. 

If Rosemary wasn’t knocking on death’s door right at this moment, she fucking would be when Owen showed up. 

Surveying the front of what looked like a very boring, very normal restaurant no less than ten minutes after the frantic texts, Owen wondered what the hell kind of SOS emergency could be taking place in there. Finally, gaze moving over tables and tables of couples and friends sharing a very non-life threatening dinner, Owen spotted a familiar head of blonde hair. Very much not in a fucking emergency. Probably. This town was a fucking nightmare and he couldn’t be damn sure and since he was already here, Owen double checked which weapons were within reach (from stake to cold iron) and entered the restaurant. 

Without pausing for the woman asking if he had a reservation, Owen made a beeline for Rosemary’s table, just in time to catch the witch fake a polite laugh. “Hi, there,” Owen cut in, silencing the unremarkable man sitting opposite the witch and holding up a finger when it seemed he wanted to open his mouth again. “This better be good,” he told Rosemary under his breath, resting one hand on the back of her chair with a forced grin plastered on his face. The other hand lingered in a way that would make it easy to grab for a weapon. Just in case. Not that the cutlery on the table wouldn’t do in a pinch.

__

After an interminably long amount of boring one-sided conversation later, Rosemary watched the man with a permanently pissed looking expression walk into the restaurant. She had to swallow down an audible sigh of relief. She forced her smile to crinkle the corners of her eyes and she forced out a laugh at whatever he was saying. She really hoped he wasn’t telling her a sad story- she’d have hated to seem rude. 

It was a good reason to call him. At least it had been in her opinion he was scary looking, and despite the fact that he could be an utter ass, she had a gut feeling he'd come through to help her out. And now that he stood with a hand gripping the wood of her chair, she knew she was right. “Hey what’s up, is something wrong? You look like you have bad news.” She asked, looking up at him with such innocent wide eyes. This was about to be an Oscar winning performance. 

Rosemary’s hand shot out and grabbed onto Owen’s shirt, tugging him down so it looked like he might be quietly whispering some information into her ear. “Fucking go with it.” The witch hissed between clenched teeth. When she let go of him, her face morphed into an expression wrought with grief and distress. She may have been selling it a little too hard. 

“Great Aunt Mimsy? She’s dead?” She asked in mock dismay. “Peter I’m so sorry- this is my brother-“ she wracked her mind quickly for a name. Sticking with the theme of stupidly tall Swede, she disguised her hesitation behind fake tears. “Sorry, this is Sven. We’ve had a bit of a family tragedy, I’m sure you understand. A hundred and three, god she was so young. A woman in her prime.” She wiped her napkin by her eyes to collect tears that weren’t actually there. “I’m sorry we have to cut this short.” She stood up abruptly, and to her dismay, her date stood up as well. “Oh I’m so sorry- stay, please. We can have a drink to Great Aunt Mimsy.” He seemed to study Owen for a moment, likely looking for a family resemblance that he’d never find. 

Rosemary’s eyes darted to Owen, pleading silently to him to bail her out. 

—---

Oh, how Owen wanted to push her chair back, watch the witch in her nice dress, face all made up for what was apparently a shit date, fall flat on her ass. The thrum of an emergency, a fight, still pounded against his chest and Owen found himself with literally nowhere to put it, a flame choking on a lack of oxygen because this was just a nice restaurant and tempting as it was, he wouldn’t deck Rosemary in the face. Probably. Fuck. 

Her eyes were surprisingly convincing in their fake innocence and Owen’s own narrowed, the attempts to burn a hole through Rosemary’s head only undermined when she yanked him down. It was tempting to not give in but she wasn’t fucking around and Owen wouldn’t put it past her to put a hole in his damn shirt from the ferocity with which she pulled. Her voice was desperate in his ear and Owen stole a sideways glance at her date, seeming to grow more confused by the minute. For a second, her desperation made Owen wonder if there actually was more to this than just a shitty date, if the man at the table had made any threats against Rosemary and the rush of intensity from before returned. If that were the case and she wouldn’t let Owen break the fucker’s nose then Rosemary really had no business calling him. 

Straightening out, Owen couldn’t help the suspicion that had settled on his face while looking at this Peter, letting Rosemary have her moment in the spotlight. God, the fucking dramatics of it all. It was all he could do not to choke on the fake name provided to him, as well as the ridiculous notion that the two of them could be siblings. Thank the fucking lords, Rosemary didn’t seem keen on dragging this scene out, getting to her feet. Owen snatched her jacket off the back of the chair, placing it on her shoulders and giving them a squeeze that was quite a bit tighter than it needed to be. An emergency, huh? Fucking Sven? Before he could leave bruises on Rosemary, the intensity of Peter’s stare distracted Owen, who wrapped an arm around the witch’s shoulder instead. Her pleading gaze dug holes into the side of his face. 

“Look, Peter, you seem… anyway, this is a family thing. None of my sister’s flings allowed. It’s a very important rule, she gets around, you know how it is.” There wasn’t much room left for an argument as Owen practically manhandled Rosemary to turn, half tempted to leave her in this damn mess she’d created herself but that would mean he wouldn’t be able to bite her head off for the false 911. “I’m sure she’ll call you, hot shot,” Owen threw over his shoulder, leaving Peter and the bill behind, shoving Rosemary through the door with quite a few pairs of eyes watching them leave. 

“Delete my number,” Owen insisted the second they were outside because the tightness hadn’t left his chest and this was a fucking waste of time and he shouldn’t have come here. 

—-

It was abundantly clear, to Rosemary at least, that Owen wasn’t happy to be there. Not that that fact surprised her in the slightest. She imagined when someone like Owen received several all caps texts saying HELP, he would likely expect for there to be something to stab when he arrived. And Peter, while impossibly dull, did not strike Rosemary as stabable. 

She barely subdued a cry of indignation at Owen’s form of helping. Even if she didn’t like the story he’d decided to go with, it was still a story that was helping her to leave the restaurant, and Peter, faster. Owen wrapped an arm around her shoulder and forcefully turned her in an about face before practically shoving her toward the exit. 

“No, why the fuck would I do that?” She asked as soon as they were outside. She sucked in a deep, relieved breath, enjoying the night air filling her lungs. “God, that was fucking horrendous. Do yourself a favor, Owen, do not go out with someone who’s entire personality is their job. Especially if that job is accounting.” No sooner had Rosemary imparted the sage words of wisdom than the aforementioned accountant burst out of the door of the restaurant behind them. 

“Rosemary- Rosemary, wait, was it the talking about Roth versus regular IRA’s?” The witch hid her cringing at the man’s stubborn reappearance with a fake sob and leaning against Owen. Jesus Christ, Peter, take the hint. Instead Peter came closer, reaching out to put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry Rosemary, but a hundred and three is pretty old.” She shrugged his hand off, the facade of tears flickering out into annoyance. “Not for our family.” She said indignantly. “We’re very long lived. Our great Aunt Tessie has the Guinness record. Lived till a hundred and twenty three. Right Sven?”

—--

Owen’s body was tense with a looming threat which apparently, was fake, yet that did little to relieve any of the tension and now he had nowhere to direct it to. He could portray anger due to annoyance to the witch deciding now was a perfect time to argue with him but the cold sweat on the back of his neck spoke of a different kind of tension, one left as a parting gift from when there really was a constant threat looming over plenty of people, Rosemary included (only that threat had turned out to be fake, too). “Shut the fuck up,” he growled, needing her silent to focus on the much too heavy beat of his heart. Just a few seconds of her not yapping to get his head straight, then delete his number from her phone. “Shut up and give me your–”

The door to the restaurant swung open and his hand jerked towards his back, towards one of many concealed blades but it was just fucking Peter. Now anger really was the dominating emotion because this idiot was not taking the hint, lucky for Rosemary who wasn’t instantly shoved off when her dramatics resumed. Maybe Owen should bring out the knives, it would definitely make this whole encounter end quicker. Not in the way that left the witch’s boring date bleeding out on the sidewalk, obviously. Although… Owen’s eyes narrowed at the offending hand reaching for Rosemary but she shrugged it off quickly. Owen shifted his weight, which also worked to shift Rosemary a bit further from Peter, who still had an odd fucking look on his face. Prick. 

“Hundred and twenty three and a half,” Owen deadpanned, willing to take part in Rosemary’s bit if only to get rid off this stain of beige who couldn’t tell when to give up. Probably should have given up around kindergarten in Owen’s opinion, what a lost fucking cause. “So how about you and your IRA’s kindly fuck off, yeah?” 

Owen’s smile was tight and it was lucky that Rosemary was standing between the two when Peter gave a condescending smile back. He would definitely be more interesting if he was missing a couple of teeth and Owen could easily do the man a favor and deck him in the fucking face– 

“I’d like to hear it from Rosemary, actually.” 

___

Rosemary gritted her teeth as Peter persisted. God, why couldn’t this guy just give up? Annoyance began to replace the fake tears she was desperate to conjure. Granted she had taken the cowards way out, faking a dead relative and a rescue by a fake sibling to let the man down easy. But simply saying I’m sorry, I don’t think this is going to work out felt icky, and she had a perfectly good cranky man relatively at her disposal to play the role of pissed off brother. Though, after this stunt, she very much doubted he’d come running to an sos from her ever again. 

Peter’s smirk made something twist in her gut. What was wrong with this guy? Rosemary huffed out a sigh and stood up straighter. She supposed she’d go about this like an adult instead of playing pretend. At least, more than she had been. “Peter, look, you’ve been very nice, but like my brother said, I have to go- have a nice night.”

The witch turned on her high heel and started to march off when a hand closed around her wrist and she jerked to a halt. Seriously? She scowled as she turned around, blue eyes narrowed on Peter’s hand that had snagged onto her before she could get too far. “We both know Ow-Sven isn’t your brother. You two don’t even remotely look alike, and he has an accent. And no one lives to be that old.” 

Now she was pissed. Rosemary yanked her arm away, rubbing at her wrist to wipe away the feeling of being held hostage. “He’s adopted.” She said through gritted teeth. “Calling people liars isn’t a very good way to secure a fucking second date, Peter.” 

—--

It was a good thing that Owen was pissed off to the high hells, at Rosemary, at himself for breaking so many traffic laws getting here and definitely at Peter. Without the steady flow of anger, his focus might have settled on the inadvertent position of guard dog he had taken behind Rosemary, fists clenched as he looked down at a head of blonde hair, waiting to step in. Like he’d never faltered from the position in the first place. It was also a good thing that the power of shoving things the fuck down into their boxes was something Owen was (usually) good at. 

Owen had turned when Rosemary did, figuring he could resume his yelling at her once they’d ditched the damn accountant. Only the witch wasn’t right behind him and he was a couple steps away when he realized, looking over to his shoulder to a sigh that finally felt like it justified all that anger that had nowhere to go. In his rush to get back to the pair and maybe (most likely) break the man’s wrist, Owen almost missed the slip of the tongue. Almost. 

Rosemary had snatched her arm away as Owen stepped up next to her, a different kind of darkness having settled over his features now. She hadn’t noticed it the way Owen had, Peter’s barely there mistake, matched with the way he’d looked at the slayer in a way that betrayed knowledge. It was easy to place the look now, in retrospect, but where Rosemary fit into all of this made less sense. Owen intended to find out. 

“Yeah, Peter, I’m fucking adopted,” Owen told the man right before he surged forward, snatching at Peter’s wrist and yanking on it, pulling him off balance before twisting. Peter’s body crumbled to the ground under the pain of the wrist lock, knees thudding against the concrete as he cried out. Owen pressed a bit harder, pushing the joint to its limit, teeth gritted. The streets weren’t entirely empty but they’d be done here by the time anyone got the police to respond. “Seems you know more than you’re letting on so talk now and talk fast or I’m only going to start by breaking your wrist.” 

A pause and Owen directed his next words, which almost sounded like a warning, too, at Rosemary. “You can go now.” 

____

There was a shift in the air. The evening air went from a sense of relative calm to supercharged. It was as though everything had touched upon a live wire. Rosemary waited for lightning to strike, and didn’t flinch when Owen went from her side to launching at Peter. 

She resisted the instinctual wince at seeing someone’s arm being held in such an uncomfortable position. She figured from the whimpers of pain emitting from the accountant that whatever Owen was doing was not pleasant. But based on the fact that he’d felt the need to grab at her, Rosemary wasn’t feeling particularly merciful. 

There was some facet of the situation that hadn’t fully been made clear to her. Sure, Owen was pretty aggressive kind of guy, but she would have figured he’d punch him in the face and call it a day so they could both get on with their lives. This felt... Personal? 

“Please- ah! P-please Owen- fuck, Sven!! Sven, Sven, your names Sven right? This is all- ow, fuck! A big misunderstanding. So sorry about your aunt, please just let me go, okay? I won’t bother you anymore.”

An eyebrow arched higher on her head at the new information. He knew Owen. That was interesting. She let an expression of detached curiosity frost over her features as she shook her head. “No, I think I’d like to know why he was so keen for me to stay.” The witch said icily. It wasn’t a request

—---

It couldn’t possibly have happened that fast, that Owen had already made enemies from the job passed down to him by Cecil? Most of the shit that went down there wasn’t even supposed to have a direct connection to him, much less to Rosemary who Owen hadn’t seen after becoming aware of Cecil’s existence. “Jesus fuck, shut your fucking mouth if you’re not going to say anything useful,” Owen hurled at the pathetic excuse for a man, finally sparing Rosemary a glance when she spoke. She didn’t look bothered at all, expression mostly neutral but there was no hiding a flicker of something Owen recognized all too well in the witch’s eye. Fine. Maybe that would help solve the puzzle faster. Speaking of fast… 

Glaring at a woman standing at the door of the restaurant, clutching a phone to her ear and speaking rapidly, Owen let go of Peter with a forced laugh. “All good here, just a misunderstanding.” With no effort, he pulled Peter to his feet by the lapels of his jacket, giving his back a hard pat and leaning in to whisper. “I’d rather cut out your trachea in public but if you know anything more about me than my name, you probably know I will if you force my hand.” 

Taking Peter’s rapid blinking as a sign that he understood, Owen threw an arm around the man’s shoulder and waved at the onlookers before flipping them off. Leading him forcefully around the corner to his parked car, where there were mercifully fewer onlookers, Owen popped the trunk. Before a sound of protest could be made, Owen gently helped Peter settle into his spot for the ride. If this was any sorter of shifter or fae, they most likely would have revealed themselves before being manhandled into a car trunk. Probably just a human who knew too much but Owen was still on edge. 

Getting behind the wheel, Owen was unsurprised to find Rosemary settling into the passenger seat. He didn’t meet her gaze as he started the car. “Where the fuck did you find this piece of shit, then?”

—--

Of fucking course there had to be witnesses. 

Rosemary flashed an apologetic smile at the woman who seemed to be calling someone - the cops, probably. Super. “I’m sorry, my date is just. So drunk, and honestly talking pretty crazy right now.” She called over, injecting as much sheepish charm into her tone as possible. “ My brother’s just helping me get him home. Sorry for the ruckus, have a nice night ma’am!” Owen was saying something to Peter- not that she could hear what it was over her own damage control. 

The second Owen started walking off in the direction of his car, Rosemary turned heel and scrambled to chase after him. There was not a chance in hell she wasn’t getting to the bottom of this with him. She wanted to know why Peter was so pushy about their date continuing, and more importantly, she wanted to know why Owen had had such an adverse reaction to the man knowing his name. 

The man was being locked in the trunk just as the witch clambered into the passenger seat. “At a coffee shop I frequent,” she sighed, buckling in. “He bought me a coffee, laid on the charm, and asked me out.”  Rosemary shrugged. “In my defense he was far more interesting at the coffee shop. He was squirrelly and only talked about his fucking job at dinner, which could have been interesting if he wasn’t a fucking accountant. Talking about filing taxes is like. The exact opposite of sexy. I think if he kept talking, I would have knocked on the nearest convents door and asked if they were taking applicants.” 

—--

Seeing as she had to be quite secretive about her hobbies, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise how willing Rosemary was to lie to bystanders or that she was quite decent at it. Owen had seen her talk shit just for the fun of it but to diffuse a situation? That was hardly one of his talents while she seemed to have a little bit of a knack for it. Just lucky that she wasn’t trying to diffuse the whole situation as that would not have gone as well in her favor. Apparently the morally gray hues of being a necromancer stretched into letting your date get kidnapped by a slayer. 

The car peeled off and hearing the body in the back thunk against the interior brought Owen just a tiny bit of satisfaction. He’d wanted Rosemary to explain how this date had come to be as a pure coincidence, through some dating app or because she had fucking book club with his aunt - anything other than what sounded like her getting very deliberately picked out. Obviously the witch was pretty and charming but Owen didn’t believe in coincidences and having someone who secretly knew who he was seek out one of the few people he didn’t actively hate in this town? “Whether or not you want to fuck the guy is the least of my goddamn worries right now, alright?” Owen snapped. Rosemary didn’t understand the possible gravity of the situation, how could she with literally none of the necessary information, but fuck if Owen could listen to her moan about how boring her date was when the possibility that he’d missed one of Rosel’s friend was a very real one. 

He didn’t have the patience to take them very far, pulling up next to the treeline to the woods, making sure there were no stragglers. “Stay in the car,” Owen demanded, knowing Rosemary wouldn’t fucking listen anyway. The trunk popped and Peter made a pitiful attempt to kick out, leg immediately caught by Owen. His other hand grabbed at Peter’s jacket and he yanked the man out, tossing him unceremoniously to the ground. “How did you know my name, hmm? You been watching me?” 

Peter was struggling to get to his feet, a mission made harder when Owen’s foot made contact with the man’s chest, sending him sprawling back again. “What do you want with her?” Before Peter could make another attempt to get up, Owen caught the bastard’s hand under the heel of his boot, giving it a good bit of weight. “You’re going to answer anyway, might as well do it with all your bones intact.” 

___

“No shit. I thought you’d want a dissertation on why I wouldn’t want to sleep with someone who talked about taxes and tried to grab at me to get me to stick around.” The witch said with mock surprise. There were definitely bigger issues at play. The first of which was why he felt the need to get her to stay. The second of which was why Owen seemed to be so squirrelly about her being on a date with someone who apparently knew who he was. 

Rosemary interpreted stay in the car as a suggestion, and hopped out of the car after the hunter. She made it around the side of the car just in time to see Owen yank Peter from the trunk and toss the man onto the ground like some sort of beige rag doll. Peter looked somehow both terrified, and as though he were still in the middle of fabricating excuses that would spare him from whatever wrath Owen would unleash if the hunter didn’t like his answers. Watching him? Why would an accountant be watching him? She observed quietly while Owen kept asking questions. 

Peter’s eyes, wide and frantic, swiveled past Owen and locked on Rosemary who stood a few steps behind the hunter, her arms crossed. He opened his mouth like he was about to ask her for help but she held up a finger. “Don’t fucking look at me. What do you think I’m going to do? Stop him? I’m not going to help you, especially since you’re not helping yourself. Answer his question.”

Peter was squirming, trying to wrench his hand out from under the unrelenting weight of Owen’s foot. “I’m sorry- I’m sorry! Fucking Christ- okay, okay, okay! Shit- I was, I was just curious okay? The others all made sense- I looked into them- professional curiosity. She didn’t make sense- I wanted to find out more. Fuck- please just let me have my hand?!” Rosemary’s eyes narrowed and she stood a bit taller. What the fuck was this guy talking about?

—--

Rosemary’s presence was jarring and it was only the fact that she looked unsettled instead of amused that kept Owen from sinking into the past, slipping into the role of an attack dog like a familiar winter coat. This bout of aggression wasn't because anyone told him to and not even to protect anyone other than himself - Rosemary was just… a collateral fix. Owen had partly wanted the witch to stay in the car to avoid any interruptions, to make sure that no aversion to violence would stop what needed to happen here. Seemed that had been a pointless worry as Rosemary encouraged her date to spill his guts. Owen respected the woman just a smidge more than he had before. 

As Peter tried to pull his hand away, Owen lay on more weight and decided to up the stakes, procuring a knife that had been stashed against his back, hidden under the jacket. Finally, the combined threat of the blade and the pain of each delicate bone in Peter’s hand starting to give way did the trick in loosening the bastard’s tongue. Owen’s eyes narrowed menacingly the more the words spilled out - the others. What fucking others? Peter couldn’t be talking about the only group of people that connected Rosemary to Owen because the slayer had taken care of every loose end (except the three he couldn’t bring himself to)... right? 

Owen did give Peter his hand then, stepping off it only to deliver a swift kick to the accountant’s (if that even was his real job) face. His nose gave a satisfactory crack and blood spurted out instantly, making everything Peter now said sound pathetic and nasally. “Why the fuck were you looking into them?” Owen demanded, Rosemary’s presence an afterthought now that his worries seemed to be getting confirmed. If there was one loose end, who was to say there weren’t others? An undetermined amount of people, humans or otherwise, walking around with with nuclear fucking codes. He was on the ground now, slamming Peter’s back into the concrete, knife coming eerily close to slicing through skin. “What do you know? Why was she talking to you?” 

—-

Rosemary made a mental note to stay on Owen’s good side. Not that she really knew if he had a good side. She assumed he had a mildly less irritated side, though, and she’d rather be there than on the side of Owen that Peter now found himself. 

“Fuck- Okay, please just don’t kill me, please.” The man’s voice shook in fear as Owen pinned him to the concrete. “We met at a bar and bought me a drink one night and… fuck she’s gonna kill me.” The man let out a shaky sob, and paused as though he was weighing who was scarier- the man with the knife to him, or this unnamed she that seemed to be a thread connecting Owen to Peter. “Rosel, she told me about the people in town, and asked if I could get any info on them. Said she’d make it worth my while- how could I say no?” Peter cried, trying to put as much distance as he could between himself and Owen’s knife while the man had him trapped. “And- and- Kane’s accountant works for the same firm as me so her’s was the easiest information to get to, so I got curious you know? What’s a nice girl in Oldtown got to do with all this? So I started looking into her to find out more about her- I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have followed her- I’m sorry-“

The man continued babbling, but it had turned into a dull roar for Rosemary. A wave of nausea swept over her as she began to put the puzzle of his tear filled rambling together. “Mother fucker, you were fucking stalking me?!” She hissed before surging down to the ground beside them both. The hunter may have had him pinned, but that didn’t stop the witch from shouldering past him long enough to grab Peter by his collar before she pulled her fist back to punch him in his already very broken nose. 

The blow hurt Rosemary more than she’d anticipated. It probably wasn’t the best idea to throw a punch with an arm that had only just healed. Not that she cared that much- the screech of pain that emitted from the man on the ground seemed worth the small price of a hand in pain. Okay, maybe not that small a price. As quick as she’d appeared, the witch retreated, shaking out her hand as she whispered a litany of curses, questioning why it felt like she’d punched a brick wall. 

—--

Hunters notwithstanding, Owen hadn’t killed a human in years, not even by accident (even though he might have come uncomfortably close to it at a point or two) so hearing one pleading for their life was a bit jarring. It would have been more unsettling if there was space for anything other than the rising anger in his chest, encompassed by a constricting sense of panic. Of course she had charmed some poor fucking idiot into doing her dirty work - that was her entire M.O after all and as one of those fucking idiots, Owen should have known. Perhaps he’d overestimated her in thinking she wouldn’t stoop to the level of using a regular old human. Probably not that many slayers that she could have messed with as easily as him. 

“She’s not the one you need to be worried about,” Owen snarled, which was the truth. Her name fell from the poor bastard’s lips and it was still a gut punch, even after so much time, even after she’d been completely decimated, only alive in haunting memories. Peter was scrabbling and Owen yanked him back, closer to the knife, closer to the cloud of fury surrounding the slayer. This motherfucker had looked into the people in town, into Owen’s people and handed that information over to a sociopath. Information that had given Rosel’s threats weight, even though they had been empty. Had given her more shit to lord over Owen, to make it easier for him to slice his way through the hunters in town. 

Before Owen could continue with the aggressive interrogation, Rosemary made her presence known with a sudden burst of anger. Most of what Peter had rambled most likely didn’t make sense to her (and Owen had no fucking intention of explaining any of it) but she was smart enough to pick up on what mattered for her - looking into, following… Owen could have stopped Rosemary from intervening but seeing the determined anger in her eyes had him backing off, just for long enough to let the witch get in a hit of her own. A shit one, her fist not curled up tight enough, her wrist too limp, but it hurt plenty with the damage Owen had already done to the man’s crushed nose. Even if Owen hadn’t seen how sloppy her punch was, it was obvious by the colorful cursing she was doing behind him. A shame that Owen couldn’t even enjoy the hilarity of that, the moment bogged down by Rosel’s name and the fact that Owen had missed on, maybe even more. 

“Come on, man, if anyone knows what she’s like, right?” Peter tried and the poorly placed attempt at camaraderie was the straw that broke the slayer’s back. The knife in Owen’s hand clattered to the ground, leaving his fist free to connect to Peter’s face. Again and again, finally shutting him up. Owen needed him quiet now, had the information he had wanted (except he would have preferred the information to be anything but this), and really he needed this fucker quiet permanently. By some miracle, Owen had actually foregone the knife but it wouldn’t matter much if Peter’s airway got compromised, which is the direction it was heading in as the force of yet another punch broke the man’s fragile jaw. So fucking fragile. Rosel’s face had needed so, so many hits to start to give in under the barrage but this bastard was already cracked and bloody after only a few. Owen’s ears rang with the white noise of a memory, the smell of smoke filling his nostrils as his bloodied knuckles made contact again. 

___

Whatever this was, this wasn’t vengeance on her behalf. Rosemary knew better to think the situation was anywhere near as simple as that. 

There was a name that had slipped out in Peter’s confession. She wasn’t familiar with any Rosel, but apparently Owen was. She had no clue as to why a woman named Rosel would have cause to look into her. Maybe she was related to someone who had come to Alistair for help, or worse, was related to the only person she’d ever killed. But that didn’t seem right. There was no connection to Owen there. Rosemary cradled her hand to her chest as Peter said something, and Owen snapped. 

There was so much blood- not enough that she thought the man was dead, but enough to know he was definitely injured. And Owen showed no sign of letting up. It was like watching a finely crafted machine that’s sole purpose was utter, devastating violence. She heard a crack. From the way the now unconscious man’s mouth was hanging open as Owen continued his blows, his jaw was definitely broken. Peter wouldn’t survive much more of this. Rosemary didn’t know if she wanted Peter dead. In jail? Fired? Definitely. But dead?

Against her better judgement, she carefully moved closer to Owen. She squatted down beside him, ready to dive out of the way if his ire should turn on her. “Owen?” Rosemary hesitated before reaching out a hand to touch his shoulder. “Owen, I think he’s had enough for now.”

—-

The outside presence didn’t reach the bubble of violence that enveloped Owen - the man currently suffering the brunt of his wrath barely registered, either. There was only the repetitive motion, the familiar sounds and the sharp smell of blood mixed with the memory of ashes and flames. A soft touch to his shoulder stilled his arm, raised in preparation for the next blow, and the next… The ringing in his ear quieted some, allowed for the sound of his own name to slip through the barrier, weakened by Rosemary’s hand penetrating it. Owen’s arm had stilled and a drop of blood plopped to the ground, adding to the puddle underneath Peter’s face which now looked all crooked. 

In one fluid motion, Owen was on his feet, putting distance between himself and the unconscious form on the ground, the worried expression on Rosemary’s face. His legs didn’t feel like they should have supported him but they did and Owen sniffed, watched the man with the broken face until his chest clearly rose and fell, allowing Owen to breathe, too. The hand not covered in blood dug into a pocket, procured an old mobile phone which he tossed to Rosemary. “Should probably call him an ambulance. Leave the phone when you’re done.” His voice betrayed him, stoic but so clearly strained. Without looking at neither Rosemary nor the man who had been stalking her, Owen moved to pick up his discarded knife. Slid it comfortably into its place on his back. 

While she called, Owen moved back to the car, lighting a cigarette with slightly trembling hands. Peter would know better than to rat him out. His job, and honestly his life, were on the line if he gave up Owen’s name. He’d need to make sure no one in Peter’s vicinity had been involved. Needed to go through this fucking town with a fine toothed comb to make sure no one else had slipped through the cracks. The thought of someone else tailing the people on that list, someone more dangerous than Peter… The smoke burned and Owen embraced it, breath shuddering just so on the exhale. 

—-

The witch let out a small, relieved sigh as Owen stilled. Peter was still breathing, which boded well for them. Death may have been a fixable issue, but Rosemary would not risk dangerous magic on a man that had been following her around and watching her. Especially not when she wasn’t sure if she would be able to bring him back without the spell doing damage to her instead. And if he had died, they’d have had to get rid of the body, or run the risk of a murder investigation. 

Rosemary caught the phone, silently wincing at the realization that her fingerprints were now on something they’d be leaving behind. She supposed the excuse could be she’d been on a date with the man and had borrowed his phone. She quickly dialed, giving the emergency line operator all the information they needed as her focus remained on the hunter. He seemed shaken, and that fact was scary enough on its own. 

She dropped the phone near Peter’s hand and turned to head back to the car without giving the bloodied man another glance. He’d deserved what he’d gotten, and Rosemary refused to feel sorry for him. She walked up to Owen, ready to get as far away from this scene as possible. She reached out a hand in a silent request for the cigarette. She didn’t smoke, but something about this situation called for it. Desperate times, or whatever the saying was. “They said they’d have an officer on scene in ten. We should get out of here.” 

—--

As soon as Rosemary approached, Owen moved to kill the cigarette, ready to get the fuck out of there. Instead, the witch reached for it and, given the circumstances, he complied without any of the pushback she might have encountered otherwise. Let her have a smoke, wondered if it would help her any more than it had helped him (fuck all) and rounded the car towards the driver’s seat. His jacket was already covered in splattered blood so Owen wiped his hand on it, used the cleaner of the two sleeves to drag across his face. A glance over his shoulder before getting into the car confirmed that the dumb bastard was still breathing. Stuck somewhere between ‘good riddance’ and ‘have you tried controlling yourself, you absolute fuck up’, Owen started the car. 

Knowing Rosemary, she’d open her mouth eventually. It wouldn’t work to just say nothing and hope she kept her trap shut. Maybe after the overblown display of violence, she might have some reservations about pushing too hard but she had gotten in the car. Clearly a part of her trusted that Owen wouldn’t turn his explosive anger on her. A part of Owen trusted that too but the part that had just finished beating an accountant half to death whispered doubts. “You don’t have to worry about this,” Owen spoke before she got the chance to, picking words that would undoubtedly leave Rosemary feeling… well, still very fucking worried. “It doesn’t really have much to do with you, fucking mix up is what it is. I’ll take care of it. Maybe you stick to dating through the apps for the next few weeks while I tie up some loose ends.” 

His eyes were glued to the road, the angry red of his knuckles still visible in the periphery, the blood splatters up his sleeve. “Also, where the fuck am I dropping you off?” 

—-

She took a drag from the cigarette, letting the smoke fill her lungs. She tried to imagine breathing all her current fears out with the smoke so she could watch them dissipate into the night. Unfortunately, she’d never been good at visualization, and she felt just as wound up with the cigarette as she had without it. Rosemary handed him back the cigarette before climbing back into the passenger seat. 

Owen was covered in blood, and the witch said a small prayer that they weren’t pulled over before he could get cleaned up. She watched him try to wipe away some of the blood, ending up with a smear across his cheek. Rosemary pulled her purse into her lap, grabbing out a packet of alcohol wipes from her in case of emergencies pouch. It would do a better job of getting him cleaner than an already bloodied sleeve would. 

Rosemary glanced at him, surprised that he was the first to break the silence. “I mean…” her brain cycled as she tried to put a sentence together that didn’t sound like shit and answered all her questions at once. “If anyone asks about it, he’s just a guy I went on a shitty date with. I don’t know anything past that.” But the way he suggested that there would be other loose ends to tie up left a pit in her stomach. “Take me home… I’ll pick up my car tomorrow.”

They drove on in silence as Rosemary fought to keep the questions that tried to claw their way out of her down. They were at a stop light when she realized that there was a very real chance that if she didn’t start the conversation about what the fuck had happened right then and there, Owen would shut down any future conversations on the matter. “You said loose ends… do you think there are other people,” she hesitated, reluctant to say stalking for fear of riling him up. “Looking into me?” She continued. “Why would he be looking into me?” She added the second question more to herself then it was to Owen. 

—-

Curiously, Owen glanced over at what had been pulled from her purse, barely resisting a laugh at the sight. A fucking pack of wet wipes. He was reminded of the time Rosemary had helped him clean off the skeleton makeup she herself had put on his face not even an hour before removing it, when he’d ran off like a lapdog to do Rosel’s bidding. Owen couldn’t remember now what exact job he’d gone off to, all of them blurred together like a muddled nightmare, even if he still very much remembered the face of each and every hunter. No move was made to reach for one of the helpful wipes. 

It was a relief to find that Rosemary would lie for his benefit. She damn well better - who fucking knew what might have happened if this guy had been a little more interesting, if she’d decided not to call the cavalry and let him take her home? Granted, Peter hadn’t seemed very murderous but the proximity to Rosel made Owen fill with unease all the same. “Good,” Owen nodded, hoping it wouldn’t even come to any questioning. If Peter had any sense, he’d make up a story that would in no way implicate the two people in this very silent car. 

Silent until Rosemary broke it as apparently, Owen’s curt explanations hadn’t quite settled her nerves, who could have fucking guessed. She had every right to ask, she really did, but Owen’s heart was still pounding from the overabundance of adrenaline and not snapping at the witch was proving very hard. As in he only half succeeded. “I told you not to fucking worry about it,” he hissed, taking a deep inhale after in a lame attempt to reel it back in. “Fuck,” Owen exhaled, fingers clenched around the steering wheel. 

“There shouldn’t be others,” he started slowly, voice measured but still clipped. Still coated with the anger of what had happened no less than five minutes ago. “The person he was talking about, the one… causing this fucking trouble, is gone. I’ll make sure there aren’t any loose ends, like I said.” 

—-

The witch didn’t flinch. She may not have known Owen well, but she knew him well enough that she could anticipate that he’d lash out. The man was still practically a live wire of anger and frustration and, if she didn’t know better, likely fear. Rosemary would rather take on a raging hunter than someone who matched her own eerie calm when she was mad any day.

 “I know you did. And I won’t. Because I trust you.” She zipped her purse back up, focusing on the small action to keep herself calm as she set the bag back on the floor of the car. She kept her own sentences as short as he kept his. Rosemary figured lengthy questions or worries wouldn’t bode well with the man at that moment, and she didn’t want to push her luck and wind up ditched on the side of the road. 

She let a few more minutes pass, hoping the time between questions allowed his jumbled up nerves to start to calm down. “You don’t have to tell me who, Owen. I trust you when you say they’re handled. But I want to know why I was interesting enough for someone to look into me. Why was someone having me, and apparently other people, looked in to.” Rosemary’s calm demeanor didn’t match the storm of questions that circled in her head, but she figured she’d take them one at a time. If she got past this question , that was. 

—-

Owen was tempted to laugh, to ask Rosemary just who had fucked her up bad enough that she felt like she could trust someone of his caliber. If the sharp sting of wondering ‘what if he’d missed someone actually dangerous’ made laughing, even of the forced mocking kind, seem like too much of an effort. Rosemary could trust him to make sure no one else stalked her because of his fuck up but as for anything outside of that scope… Owen had torn through the town to answer her 911 text, hadn’t he? Idiot. So he clutched the wheel even tighter, swallowed thickly and let the silence fill the car again. Why couldn’t she have lived a bit fucking closer? 

Unsurprisingly, she spoke up again. This sort of not knowing would have killed Owen if the roles were reversed, he’d provided an excellent example of how far he was willing to go for information just a few minutes earlier. Rosemary was smart enough not to ask about the name she’d heard, the person Owen promised was long since taken care of. If only there wasn’t another question any sane person would want to ask and Owen had no fucking longing to answer. Why? Yes, why fucking indeed? 

“Long fucking story,” he bit out, stalling. His brain was too frazzled to come up with a convincing lie, especially one that Rosemary would believe. Blonde and pretty, yes, but not an idiot. Not entirely at least, a part of Owen thought she should have picked up on Peter’s psychopathy vibes way earlier but then again, people weren’t regularly trying to maim her. “Can we talk about it later?” Posed as a question but with the tension in his body, his voice, it was clear that Owen was only accepting one answer. Maybe less clear, the fact that he had no intention of ever broaching this subject with Rosemary again. Owen pushed harder on the gas pedal, hoping they’d reach her house before she mustered enough courage to make a third attempt at some actual answers. Good thing they were almost there as he only gave her about a minute or two before the next try. 

—--

She figured that much was true. It probably was a long story. She doubted anything fucked up was ever simple. And based on the fact that Owen still looked as though he’d rather do anything except fully answer her questions, Rosemary decided it would be for the best if, just for now, she left it alone. 

“Yeah,” the witch said gently, settling back in the car seat. “Yeah, okay.” Owen hit the gas so that they sped along the little side streets as they approached her house. Whatever it was, whoever it was, it bothered the man so much that he’d nearly killed a man over it that night. 

Despite the fact that she’d likely be on edge the rest of the night, Rosemary could take comfort in one part of this whole ordeal; at the end of the day, he’d shielded her from whatever it was. If Owen had known he was in danger from whoever it was, he’d made certain that she was kept safe from it. And again, even though he’d been pissed off, he’d come to her rescue again. Owen may not have been a soft person, or a kind person, but damn if he didn’t care. Rosemary stayed quiet for the rest of the ride home. 

When they finally pulled up in front of her house, she gave Owen a half smile and patted a hand against his arm. “Thank you for coming when I texted you. Get home safe, okay?” The witch slipped from the car without another word before locking herself safely away inside her house. 

[kadextra]

q!Bad’s list of rules if he gets elected president, and the punishments if you fail to abide by them:

Do not kill, hurt or otherwise harm an egg. If you do, life in prison. (rip code entity)

NINHO hotel is mandated to use for egg parents to keep the kids extra protected. If you’re a parent and you choose to not utilize it, and then your egg dies as result, life in prison.

Don’t litter. Or life in prison

If you go on a dungeon raid, especially with an egg, place a red sharestone for others to come help if you get in a bad emergency situation. If you don’t put this safety of you and others first, life in prison.

Placing mines around the server is prohibited, they’ve destroyed things and nearly killed eggs. Doing so is punishable by life in prison. (rip vegetta’s prank)

Bring enderchests back into use. If not, life in prison (rip cucurucho)

Furniture tax. Supply 2 pieces of furniture weekly for the “defense of the island.” Or life in prison

Eggs get more than 2 totems of undying again. If not, life in prison (rip code entity again)

[usgovsummary]

January 20, 2025

POTUS:

Retracted 78 previous executive orders, most regarding COVID-19 actions to ensure public safety, federal DEI programs, several EOs that held the executive branch accountable, climate change, immigration, and healthcare. Full list here.

Announced Cabinet picks: here

Required all federal employees to terminate remote working

Declared a national emergency on the southern border

Removed the US from WHO and the Paris Climate Agreement

Pardoned rioters from the January 6th Insurrection

Imposed new trade standards, supposedly prioritizing America: here

Declared a national energy emergency, ignoring many environmental regulations to lower the cost of energy and promote energy production

Gave the president the ability to remove Career Senior Executives who are deemed to have "failed" the president

Bolstered the death penalty

Signed an EO to stop birthright citizenship

Signed an EO to redefine the two sexes and stated the federal government will not recognize gender identity

Implemented the Department of Government Efficiency (DOGE)

Allowed natural gas fracking and drilling in Alaska again

Several EOs were signed to prevent immigration from the southern border

Temporarily ending offshore wind farm projects

Redistributed foreign aid

Ended government DEI programs and insist the government will be hiring on merit

Federally renamed the Gulf of Mexico to the Gulf of America and Mount Denali to Mount McKinley

Designated international cartels as global terrorists

Ended national emergency that imposed sanctions on settlers invading the West Bank

More details and the actual policies can be found here

SCOTUS:

The Supreme Court was closed

Congress:

2 bills were introduced: One meant to repeal the Protecting Americans from Foreign Adversary Controlled Applications Act. The other deals with a nuance finance issue.

Passed the Laken Riley Act, requiring aliens who are being charged with theft in the US to be taken into custody

Confirm the nomination of Marco Rubio for Secretary of State

Debate began on the Born-Alive Abortion Survivors Protection Act in the Senate. The law is meant to prevent healthcare professionals from failing to provide proper care in case a child survives an abortion

In the House of Representatives, 12 public bills were introduced: 5 were regarding the Internal Revenue Code of 1986, which deals with taxes. One was to advance the US strategy in the Pacific Islands. H. R. 563 is meant to discontinue the collection of records for discontinued firearms sales by the federal government. Others dealt with the law banning TikTok, residency requirements of officials, air pollution, labor representation, and funding for law enforcement to deal with auto theft

Further details can be found here

[phoenixyfriend]

CALL YOUR FEDERAL REPRESENTATIVES TODAY 2/7/24

VERY IMPORTANT, CALL AS EARLY IN THE MORNING AS YOU CAN, AS THEY WILL PROBABLY BE VOTING TODAY, POSSIBLY TOMORROW

HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES:

VOTE AGAINST: H.R. 7217: Making emergency supplemental appropriations to respond to the attacks in Israel for the fiscal year ending September 30, 2024, and for other purposes.

VOTE AGAINST: H.Res. 863: Impeaching Alejandro Nicholas Mayorkas, Secretary of Homeland Security, for high crimes and misdemeanors. REASON: it’s a baseless political move meant to flex on their opposition. If your rep is republican, tell them off for focusing on litigating against the Dems instead of focusing on policy.

VOTE AGAINST: H.Res. 994: Providing for consideration of the bill (H.R. 7160) to amend the Internal Revenue Code of 1986 to modify the limitation on the amount certain married individuals can deduct for State and local taxes, and providing for consideration of the resolution (H.Res. 987) denouncing the harmful, anti-American energy policies of the Biden administration, and for other purposes. REASON: Loses billions in tax revenue and explicitly targets green energy.

SENATE:

Senate Republicans are looking like they’ll vote down the budget that’s been negotiated for MONTHS despite ostensibly getting everything they wanted. Tell them to stop being cowards and backing out of something they promised to their constituents just because Donald Trump told them not to. He’s not even in the government right now.

DO tell them that you still aren’t happy with the bill because it’s too focused on anti-immigration policies and that you’d be happy if they bent on that one, and on Israel’s military funding. Better if they focus on (cause of your choice that needs more funding).

[collapsedsquid]

Which is what happened – in the thirty or so years since Agricultural Land Relief was brought into the tax code, the price per acre of farmland has gone up roughly fourfold, and according to credible numbers I’ve seen, there are plenty of farms which, considered as businesses, are earning a return on assets of less than 1% (£35,000 of annual profit on a farm valued at £3m is apparently pretty good going). In that sort of situation, you have to value the tax shield separately – what the yeopersons of Olde Englande actually own might be a farm worth about £700,000, with a mortgage on it, and a £2.3m tax asset.  So if the tax position changes, the value of the farm should be expected to plummet, and they go from being asset-rich-cash-poor to just poor. And this matters a lot for the reason I hinted at earlier.  The asset value of a family farm, although it’s for the most part not realised or consumable wealth, is potentially a big part of the contingency reserve of that family against uncertainty.  If things get really bad, either in a business context or some other family emergency, you can borrow against the value of the land or, in extremis, sell off a few acres. There’s a lot of uncertainty in farming!  If the backstop of being able to sell bits of tax-advantaged assets isn’t there, then rather than being gradually eroded over four or five generations (which seemed like the natural outlook for the small farm sector), you’re likely to see lots of them wiped out suddenly in the next drought or foot & mouth disease outbreak. 

Saw the british farm protests in the news today

[lacewise]

Oh we’re doing that thing again where we pretend business degrees are useless so that way if (when) corporations commit serious crimes or influencers commit serious ethical violations we can all be like “lol they didn’t know anything business school only teaches two+2!”

Meanwhile the textbook lays out the exact scenario as what NOT to do in week 2. In a textbook that, weirdly, no businessperson ever cites. Despite it being almost universally taught in classrooms and lecture halls. Sure.

It’s almost like people are pretending there aren’t regulations to learn in hopes that they’ll go away…

And the general public making those jokes are falling for it…

But of course the jokesters you like would never lie to you so it must be something else! Surely they’ve learned nothing about the tax code to exploit loopholes! They definitely haven’t learned any dodgy marketing practices! They’d have to go to a class for that! And business schools only teach… 2+2.

Remember this: people on the internet will lie to you for money. Never believe anything without fact checking and ascertaining they don’t have a vested interest in lying.

If you believe this, you have fallen directly for a dodgy marketing tactic.

We can do this right now: think of every influencer you know in a research-heavy niche who is known for or suspected of cutting serious research corners. Now think of influencers you know that make jokes about how business degrees are useless. I suspect a pattern might be emerging.

Fashion merchandising, accounting, and marketing are all business majors. We literally have not finished the reckoning of how marketing uses psychology and sociology to manipulate people. Please, let’s pretend to be just a little bit serious. You are nodding along with “accounting majors? They don’t know how to do math!” (And keep in mind… we all have to take basic accounting classes. A lot of jokes made about business majors and business school are only specifically applicable to one type of MBA student.) Use your brains. Don’t let weirdos you don’t know making a living on the internet lie to you.

I just watched a YouTube video where everyone was laughing at the students and neither the host or the comments put together that teaching comprehensive business ethics is an avenue for teaching the more cynical students a roadmap on how to disregard ethics and get away with it. Why? Because the host implied either the students weren’t paying attention or the professor was lying about the coursework, and the audience believed him.

If you see someone doing this: click off the video. Immediately. They are not a trustworthy source of information.