#orbital electrical socket

[perpetuallylate1890]

Shrimp Colors

Stanford Pines is curious about colors outside the visible spectrum. Eye-related shenanigans ensue.

Alternatively: fellas, is it gay to make out with your homie's eyeballs?

Seated across from his muse, Stanford was finding it harder and harder to concentrate on their conversation. Bill was reclined with his arms crossed behind his upper angle, extolling the virtues of psychedelic moss. He’d made mention of colors Ford had never heard of: “extraturquoise,” “brown 2,” and the rather intriguingly named “insaniteal.”

Ford peered at Bill’s eye. It appeared analogous to a cat or reptile eye, with its slit pupil and faint red lines, but Bill’s vision was different than that of any life form on earth. He could see in total darkness, and Ford suspected he could perceive more spectrums of color than even insects and birds. Such an adaptation would revolutionize the field of visual science.

It took him a moment to realize that Bill had stopped talking. His muse was looking at him, eye curved in a sly half moon. “See something you like, Sixer?”

Ford’s mind blanked. “Uh.“

“I’m just messing with you, kid! Lighten up!” Bill snapped his fingers to summon a teapot. “But it’s pretty clear you got something on your mind, so spill the tea!” He poured them both a cup. Ford was grateful to have something to do with his hands.

“My muse, I was curious about the structure of your eye. If you don’t mind me asking,” he added.

“What, this old thing?” Bill dug his fingers into his eyeball and yanked it out of the socket. Blue nerves stretched to a hair’s width, and electricity sparked in the empty orbit. He let go and it snapped back into place with a wet squelch. “It’s only my best feature!”

Ford catalogued everything he’d just seen. His fingers itched for a pen to hold. “You’ve mentioned colors outside the visible spectrum—”

“Your visible spectrum!”

“Yes. Well, do muses possess a similar ocular structure to tetrachromats? Or is it something entirely novel?”

“Yes and no!” Bill said. “I have the equivalent of cones and rods, but I can change their shape anytime I want. Your crummy little peepers are missing out on a whole lotta extradimensional radiation!”

Ford reeled from the revelation. “Incredible.” He stood up and started to pace.

Bill sipped tea with his eye-mouth. “Did I ever tell you your universe is a hologram?”

“I proved that on my first day in college,” Ford scoffed, waving his hand. “But light from other dimensions, passing through this one, I never even considered the possibility—“

A holographic chalkboard appeared in front of him, and he began scrawling equations. After a moment he paused to look thoughtfully at Bill. “There must be a way to perceive it. Perhaps biomechanical eyes…”

He drew a rudimentary diagram. He felt, rather than saw, Bill’s presence hovering over his shoulder.

“That’d work!” Bill said. “Hey, since you’re not gonna need these puppies anymore, can I keep ‘em? They’d look nice on my wall!”

He snapped his fingers, and Ford suddenly found himself in a jar, looking at his eyeless body. How was he processing this without a brain? Bill gave the jar a little shake. Ford’s vision bounced in all directions. He felt his body stumble, and blindly grasped for the back of the armchair.

“As delightful as that sounds, I’d be hard-pressed to find a surgeon willing to perform the procedure,” he admitted. It was strange to watch himself talk. “And I’m no surgeon myself.”

“Fine, I’ll put the eye-stealing on hold.” Bill sounded genuinely put out. With a snap he returned Ford’s eyes to his skull.

Ford pressed his hands to his eyelids to ensure everything was in place. An idea came to him then. “You said you change the structure of your eye at will,” he started. “Is there a way to change mine?”

“Yup! Never done it on a primate, though.” Bill rubbed the bricks above his bow tie. “There’s only, like, a seven percent chance of permanent blindness. That’s basically zero!”

Though Ford disagreed with his math, it was too good an opportunity to pass up. “What do I do?”

“Just sit back,” Bill said. “Your old pal Bill’s gonna take care of you, don’t you worry.” He placed a hand on Ford’s chest and pushed him down into the armchair. Hands wound up his arms and shoulders, holding him still. Ford desperately hoped he wasn’t blushing.

Bill plucked off his glasses, fingers lengthening into claws. Oh God, he was actually going to stick his fingers in Ford’s eyes. This was actually happening. A hand in his hair gave him a light scratch before gripping tightly.

“Just hold reeeaally still,” Bill said. “Don’t wanna puncture the cornea—WHOOPS!” He lunged for Stanford’s left eye, and Ford let out an undignified scream. His muse burst into shrill laughter.

“Look at your little face!” Bill’s eye creased in a smile. “Aw, you’re not mad about that, are you?” His hands cupped Ford’s cheeks, thumbs brushing the skin beneath his eyes. Ford instantly forgot how to be angry. He caught his breath, willed his pounding heart to slow.

“Never do that again,” he gasped.

Bill saluted. “Scout’s honor! Now, keep those peepers open for me.”

Despite his misgivings, Stanford obeyed. Bill moved in close, his eyelashes brushing against sweaty skin. He was still holding Ford’s face. He drifted closer, until all Ford could see was his muse.

Bill blinked. His eye morphed into a sharp-toothed grin, and it didn’t occur to Ford what was going to happen until he felt lips press up around his left eye. Bill was warm, and buzzed with static, and his eye was looking at him from inside the mouth. It winked at him with a semi-transparent membrane, and then Bill’s mouth was on his right eye, repeating the procedure. Stanford barely had time to memorize the sensation before Bill pulled away.

“How was that?” he asked, and Ford couldn’t tell if he sounded smug or breathless.

Eyes stinging, Ford fumbled for his glasses. He opened his mouth to say something intelligent, no doubt, and stopped short at the sight of his muse. Bill was radiant. He pulsed with energy, with colors Ford couldn’t name, and had he always looked this way? Had Ford simply not noticed? His lashes fluttered through glowing, spinning particles, and his eye was brighter than the sun, crinkled with amusement.

Ford’s mouth was hanging open. “Bill, I—“

And then he woke up.

His vision was blurred with tears, likely a side effect of the transformation. The room had taken on a subtle, swirling iridescence, akin to the surface of a soap bubble, but Ford remained in bed. He stared at the ceiling for a long while and committed the dream to memory.

[emmg]

wip whenever blabla

tagged by my wife @heylittleriotact and tagging back all my other spouses, we're in a polycule now, no you don't get to leave @aldisobey @caffeinatedmunchkin @jainydoe @thepalehorsevictoria

I don't have much else in the works right now, aside from this bit from the next part of Aftertaste, which I’ll probably drop at the end of the week. Just having fun letting Rook terrorize Emmrich, lmfao

****

Why the hell had he worn a cardigan? He tugs at the sleeve, disgusted. Now he just looks like a dejected, albeit expensive, librarian, a man who catalogs sorrows instead of books. Then again, maybe it wasn’t a complete miscalculation. The loose fabric at least conceals the burgeoning evidence of his disastrous self-soothing strategy, which consists of inhaling what feels like half the canapés and mini tarts circulating the room like a locust in designer wool.

The server, a lanky boy with the posture of a wilting houseplant, has begun to orbit the room with increasing evasiveness, his trajectory subtly adjusting each time their eyes meet. No doubt he has taken the cardiganed menace for either a lunatic or a man with intentions. Who could blame him? He had, after all, attempted small talk.

"Are you from here?" he had asked, chewing.

"What are you studying? Ah, architecture, fascinating discipline. The poetry of form, the language of space. So… buildings and such?" Swallowing.

"Theo, you say? A fine name. Stately, even. I once knew a cat named Theo." Fucking Maker. 

Rook, of course, is perfectly at ease. She would fit in anywhere—a sinking ship, an Orlesian ball, a courtroom in which she is quite obviously guilty. Until she speaks, that is, and tells some unfortunate soul to kill themselves or, for variety, go lick an electrical socket (which, functionally, amount to the same thing.)

But she is lovely, so lovely, and loveliness is an all-access pass to the small, effortless miracles of social grace. People forgive beauty before it even has the chance to offend. Her hair, glossy and pale, is woven into a thick braid; her dress, a slip of silk that had cost him far too much, is the kind that suggests an invitation without ever formally extending one. She had thanked him for it in the usual way: by sticking her tongue down his throat. That had been most enjoyable. 

He shifts, catching sight of himself in a tall mirror placed, rather cruelly, beneath the worst lighting imaginable. For a moment, he is arrested by his own reflection, standing there like some weary apparition clutching a champagne flute. The cardigan, he now reasons, was not such a poor choice after all. A forgiving silhouette. He inhales sharply, stomach obliging, fingers smoothing back his hair. Posture, at least, is still under his control. And height—yes, height is a mercy. It distributes excess, conceals indiscretions. He prods a rib, as if checking for damages. 

Maybe Rook has a thing for the distinguished professor who looks like he drinks expensive whiskey while brooding over obscure philosophy aesthetic. Or maybe he’s just drunk and hallucinating entire futures again. Maybe, when the time comes, he will slip that absurdly expensive watch onto her delicate wrist and then sink to his knees in some ridiculous display of devotion before she allows him to fuck her. But not before he spends an equally ridiculous amount of time in front of his mirror at home, confirming that he is, in fact, as "pretty" as she insists. Despite the grey hair. Despite the cardigan. Despite looking like the unfortunate result of a librarian’s indiscretion with a waiter who has already accepted that his tip will be “the pleasure of the job.”

Arms slip around his waist, and in the mirror, he sees Rook pressed against his back, her face flushed, her expression loose with wine and pleasure. Her nails catch on a loose thread of his cardigan, and—because destruction is a compulsion, not a choice—she begins pulling. She is going to ruin it.

"You smell so good," she sighs against him. "This is nice."

"I'm glad you approve," he says, patting her hand where it rests on his abdomen.

She takes another deep inhale. “Like you raw-dogged a Wintersend tree, jerked off with a fistful of basil, and went down on a rosebush as if it was the love of your life who just returned from war.”

So. She’s drunk.

[boss-poss]

I was having an admittedly bad time with the new HD2 update because the game would just crash at extraction every mission and I went through about 5 missions before I took a friend's advice and turned off crossplay.

Guess what? No problems since. Not even a hiccup, just a couple of people kicking because they see "orbital napalm strike" a few dozen feet away and run at the shiny red light like toddlers towards an electrical socket. Can't patch out stupidity.

Rest of the patch is good though, nice to see Arrowhead not breaking their ankles with every single step they take for once. Here's hoping they can keep it up.

[sarandipitywrites]

week 2 of spooky season stories, enjoy!

"Good to see you, Ness. How have you been feeling lately?"

"Fine."

"Your prosthetics came out very nice. I can hardly tell you're wearing them."

"Wasn't how I thought I'd solve my staring problem, but it worked out."

Dr. Petrovitsky doesn't laugh. He never does.

"Ness," he says, his pen scritching, "I've noticed that you use humor as a coping mechanism. I'm not about to tell you to stop doing that, but I do think that if we can't address the reason you're here, we won't be able to make any progress."

He's wrong. I use humor to deflect from topics I don't want to talk about. But if I tell him that, he'll probably say it's the same thing. "I agree. Just last night I had another nightmare—"

"I mean your more immediate trauma. How did you get here today? Mei had to bring you, didn't she? How does that make you feel?"

I smile, try my best to smother the heat rising in my chest. "About the same as it always has. I've never been comfortable with driving, Dr. P. Giving me a ride isn't a new thing for her."

"Ness, I understand that you think you need to be strong about this, but it's okay not to be. It's okay to mourn the loss of a sense. It's normal."

So that's what this is about. I wish I could say I'm surprised. I grab my cane and stand. "I think we're done here."

He's silent for a moment before he stands as well, in a rush of peppery cologne and rustling papers. "I take it we won't need to schedule another session?"

Finally, he gets me. "Thank you for your time, Dr. P. Sorry it didn't work out."

And then I'm gone — out of his office, through the waiting area, into the shared hallway, onto the sidewalk.

Mei won't be here to pick me up for... fuck, I don't even know. "Siri, what time is it?"

"It's one twenty-three PM," Siri responds in her too-chipper voice.

Didn't even last half an hour today. I try to feel disappointed in myself, but I can't. He's not the first person to tell me I feel grief in all the wrong places.

The shrink I had in college didn't get it, either — she insisted I was there to process the shock of my mother's death. Her death wasn't the shocking part; I'd known that was coming for years. The shocking part was all the paperwork and legalese she'd left behind, without a single document to guide anyone on how to process any of it.

I wasn't allowed to be overwhelmed and stressed out — I was only allowed to be in mourning.

I'm not allowed to be traumatized, reliving that night in nightmares and flashbacks. I'm only allowed to grieve the loss of my vision.

Where does everyone else find these therapists who diagnose them with something besides 'doesn't feel things the right way'?

Mei won't be here for another half hour. I could call her — she isn't far away — but Dr. P's got me burnt out on humanity for the moment. I sit down on the curb, tuck my cane in so nobody trips on it, and I let the noise of the city wash over me.

Mei doesn't call me when she's pulling up. She doesn't text. I know she's arrived when I hear the music.

She rolls up with the windows down, blaring Electric Callboy's "Everytime We Touch." She decided it was 'our song' the day it dropped and she's been using it to announce her presence to me ever since.

I climb into the car, bang my knees on the glove box, and she kisses me like I've been gone for a year.

A lot's changed since I was assaulted. But this hasn't. Mei hasn't.

She pulls back out onto the road as I fasten my seat belt. "That therapist sounded like a dickbag anyway."

That startles a laugh out of me. I don't think I'll ever get used to how she just knows these things, but goddamn if it doesn't make things easier. "Worst shrink ever." Which isn't true — I've definitely had worse. But right now I need Mei, and I need another bad shrink like I need another scalpel in my orbital socket.

Tonight we're having pasta with a miso cream sauce. The pot's burbling at me that the water's boiled and the garlic's just starting to get fragrant. I'm washing a leek in the sink, getting the last gritty bits of sand out, when I reach for the faucet. My knuckles rap against it with a smart thunk. The wash rag falls off the spout and slaps across my wrist with a splat. It's cold and heavy and

it's the first thing I feel as I drift back into consciousness: cold leather strapped across my wrists, my ankles. I'm pinned to a table like a butterfly and it's so dark I can't see anything. My head's still spinning from whatever knocked me out, but I can hear shuffling and muttering in the dark.

Then the light floods in, bright and white and cold. His face looms above me like a monolith, his nose and mouth covered by a surgical mask. Sharp things — scalpels, tweezers, needles — glint from a tray beside the table. He picks up one of the knives. It glimmers a ghastly violet.

"Now, just stay still," he whispers.

My body locks up, obeying him on its own.

"Stay still, and this won't hurt a bit—" The scalpel descends towards my eyes and I want to squeeze them shut, I want to look away, I want to thrash and writhe and scream and scream but I can't, I can't do anything as it gets closer and closer and—

"Ness!"

I'm not on the table.

I'm here, at home. In my apartment, in my kitchen, with my girlfriend. The counter's edge jabs into the hollow below my ribs. Water splashes into the sink, pattering off the leaves like cool autumn rain, ricocheting off the steel. Mei's arms drape around my shoulders. Soft, solid, anchoring.

I turn away from the sink and into her. I let her bury me in the warmth, in the bright smell of her peppermint tea tree shampoo. I should be crying into her shirt, but my tear ducts remain frustratingly dry.

I need a new therapist.

I have never grieved right.

His phone rang.

I'd been lying there, limp and sweating on that damn table, when his phone rang.

"Hello?" he answered, his voice choked and small. He turned away from me.

I loosened my hand from its fist. My wrist, slick with sweat, slid in its cuff.

"Wh— no. No, that's wrong. You told me months, you told me I had..." He shuffled away from me. A door clicked shut behind him.

I don't know what the call was about. I don't know what he was supposed to have months for. All I know is that the door between us did little to muffle his sobs, his screams, the thunk-rattle-crash of whatever he destroyed in his passion.

It kept him occupied long enough for me to slip from my loosened cuffs, to undo my ankle restraints with shaking hands. Enough time for me to find my way out of his chambers, out of the building, and into the street.

I was the lucky one. So far, I'm the only survivor of the man Detective Singh calls 'the dismemberment killer.' Seattle's got a more colorful name for him: the Belltown Butcher. For months, people have been finding bodies scattered across the district — one missing an arm, another a leg. Police thought it was a string of hate crimes, at first. Until one turned up without its head.

I'm still not sure how I got as far as I did — in my memory I walked for hours, though it could have been only minutes — before I found help. But I did find help. I found Rosa.

I can only imagine how I looked — barefooted, stumbling, blood drying on my face. I wouldn't have blamed her if she'd pretended not to see me, silently went on her way. Maybe other people had. Maybe Rosa wasn't the first person to spot me that night.

But Rosa was the one who stopped. She called an ambulance, stayed with me until they showed up. She even rode to the hospital with me. She called Mei.

I kept telling her I didn't want to be alone.

We've met up a few times since then. She's in school to be a vet.

She laughs at my eye jokes.

My coffee's still cold when I bring it to my lips for the third time. For the third time, I set it back down. My recording's stopped again; I'm not sure when that happened. I tap my left earbud twice.

"Gather your ingredients and set your oven to 350," Mei's voice tells me, as patient as the first time. "It's important to heat your oven early, as most inbuilt oven thermometers are inaccurate. I highly recommend buying an in-oven thermometer to remove this uncertainty."

This isn't the first time I've toyed with the idea of jumping the corporate ship and making something of my own — namely, a cooking blog with attached YouTube channel — so I've got recipe cards and half-assed scripts littered all over our apartment. One day, not too long after I complained to her that listening to datasets with a screen reader at work was boring me to tears, I came home from my O&M training to find that she'd made audio transcriptions of my mess. Every card and paper scrap she could find.

That means I can do any digitizing and editing at my own pace, rather than trying to fumble through it while she's reading it to me in real time. Which would be amazing, if I could focus worth a damn.

Blindness exists on a spectrum. A lot of people have residual eyesight — some color, maybe. Flickering shadows. Nebulous shapes that can't come into focus. But people like me, people with total blindness? We don't see darkness — we see nothing.

That's what I've been told, anyway. If that's the case, my 'nothing' is strangely soft. Sometimes it seems almost woven, like the moment your head gets caught in the neck of your sweater before you emerge into the light.

But there is no light. Just shifting softness, with pinpricks of... something else. I always see it, this soft darkness, but it's usually pretty static. Easy to ignore.

Not today.

Today it's rolling and rippling like a black velvet sea. I can hardly help but be mesmerized. Mei's voice and the shifting shadows are soothing. So much so that I've already caught myself nodding off more than once today.

"Ness?"

I sit up straighter, an echo of muzzy spring days when the teacher would catch me daydreaming in class. But that's not Ms. Shelley from junior year — that's Annie's voice. If she's here, I must have been here for... three hours, already? And I don't think I've written a single word.

Shaking my head at myself, I close the lid of my laptop. "I'm here, Annie. Back corner on the left as you go past the bar."

"Okay, we'll be right over — getting coffee."

The barista's surprised squeak lets me know Annie and Cas have reached the counter. I've never actually seen them — I met them through Dr. Madou after my surgery — but I know that Annie's guide dog, Cas, is absolutely massive. His shoulders come up to my hip and, when he stretches his head up, there's no countertop he can't reach.

He's probably over there, making doe-eyes at the barista right now.

Or staring at the scones. He's a fiend.

Annie plunks two mugs on the table and collapses into the chair across from me.

"I already have one," I complain, even though there's no way in cold-latte-hell I'd drink it at this point.

"Well, now you have two." Her sunglasses hit the table with a clatter. "Bright as shit out there. Thanks for inviting me to your dark little gremlin corner."

I shrug. I always went to this cafe before my assault, and this corner's lighting is super shitty. No one ever sits here. The coffee Annie brought is just short of scalding, but I sip at it anyway. Bright, floral notes sing under the creaminess of the oat milk. I sigh. Oh, yeah. This is what I've been needing.

I'm halfway melted into my coffee mug when I hear rustling. And snuffling. A warm, fruity smell hits my nose. "...Annie, did you seriously buy Cas a scone?"

"They're his favorite. And it's not like they're chocolate or anything."

"That doesn't mean it's good for him."

"Since when did you become a responsible dog owner, Mx. I-Can't-Get-A-Dog,-I'll-Forget-To-Feed-It?"

"Least I wouldn't feed it pastries."

Cas huffs and wipes his crumb-covered muzzle on my hand. 'Ness, you big hypocrite, stop judging my dietary choices,' he seems to say. 'You're the one who had deli turkey and a piece of chocolate for breakfast.'

Touche, dog. "Just you wait until I have my blog up," I tell him. "Maybe your human can learn how to make something halfway healthy for you."

He yawns in that unimpressed dog way. Whoever my first subscriber is, it will not be Cas.

"How is your blog coming, anyway?" Annie blows on her coffee and takes a slurp off the top. Powdered cinnamon poofs into my face.

I don't bother hiding my wince; Annie can't see me well enough to notice, anyway.

"Got any dog-friendly recipes I could try, oh great canine nutritionist?"

"The blog's going... not great," I admit. "I've got the domain, and Mei says the layout looks good, but I haven't posted anything. I've been distracted, I guess."

"By what?"

I bite my lip and, after a moment's silence, I go for it. "Do you know if it's possible to, like... see things that aren't there? When you're blind?"

"Sure. There's even a name for it: Charles Bonnet Syndrome."

A thread pulls free and the knot of tension in my chest loosens. This is a thing. There's a name for it. This is normal.

"It's not too uncommon, either. I don't know all the details, but basically your brain's used to dealing with visual input. So when it doesn't get any, or doesn't get enough, sometimes it makes some stuff up to fill in the gaps. It's technically a visual hallucination, but it's nothing to worry about."

"Even if it's... all the time?"

"I mean, I've heard of people having hallucinations that last for hours—"

"No, I mean all the time. Like right now I can see..."

I can see light.

It's blinding at first, after that soft darkness. I squeeze my eyes shut, but it does nothing, the blazing sun searing stars into my vision. Then it dims in cage-like bars of shadow, and it's just enough to adjust.

I'm in a small room, perhaps in an apartment, lit only by the sunlight pouring in through the open windows. Through the bars, I can see someone standing on the other side of the room.

At first I think it's a trick of the light and shadow. But as I approach that person, the details come into focus.

They're not standing of their own power. They're standing with their back to a board — a table, propped up against the wall — and they're strapped onto it. But they're not strapped in the way I was, by my wrists and ankles. This person has a strap going across their neck, under their breasts, across their thighs.

Fear takes hold of my throat and squeezes. This is the killer's next victim. This is his next victim and he's going to make me watch but how is he making me watch when I'm not—

No.

No, this person isn't a victim. They're not a victim because there isn't a mark on them, but already they're not breathing.

I get closer, and I start to notice smaller things.

The body's skin is light brown, like mine, but not everywhere. The left arm is paler than the chest, the shoulders of which are freckled where the cheeks are even-toned. It has no right arm at all. Its eyelids are closed and sunken.

I'm lifted up to the body's eye level and turned around. And there he is.

He stares at me, brow furrowed, eyes darting between me and the face behind me.

My kidnapper. My assailant. My would-be murderer. After so many late nights wondering what he looked like under that mask, wondering if I could imagine it well enough to give the police a lead, I don't have to wonder anymore.

He wrinkles his nose and shakes his head. His mouth moves, but my ears hear only the clatter and buzz and murmur of the cafe. He lowers me and heads back across the room. We pass close to one of the windows.

My vision is clear this time.

I see the Great Wheel through the glass.

Then I'm back in my soft darkness.

A hand is in mine. A gentle, firm thumb strokes my palm.

I close my hand around Annie's and squeeze. "I'm okay," I tell her, even though my voice comes out in a croak. "But I have to go. Right now." I throw my wallet and laptop in my bag.

Annie stands up with me, her chair squealing across the stone floor. "What happened? Did you go... back there?"

"Something like that." I rush out of the cafe, my cane hitting the door frame just in time for me to avoid running headlong into it, and I take off down the street. Cas's claws clack on the pavement behind me. "Siri," I tell my phone, "call Seattle PD Belltown." The station's only a few blocks away. If I hurry—

"Seattle PD, is this an emergency?" It sounds like Officer Park. I hate dealing with her.

"I need to be connected to Detective Singh. This is Ness Liu."

"I'm sorry, Miss Liu, Detective Singh is in a meeting—"

"Then get him out of his meeting. Tell him I know what the dismemberment killer looks like, and I have a good idea of where he is right now."

"With all due respect, Miss Liu—"

"Mx. Liu."

"—how could you possibly know that?"

I bite my lip against the truth. I need something to tell her, and fast.

Because she's not going to believe me. None of them are.

[deficd]

@primitiveside whispered, “Don’t turn on the light.”

Light is pariah to Feyd-Rautha’s intrinsic dark. It’s been leeched out of him, a cure for a disease that’s only ravaged in one place. A switch’s sharp edge bites into his finger, a falter in the electric pathway. Some hells do not require eyes to knows, and some wish for empty sockets more than they do any sinner. Refracting from Riddick’s goggles, he’s somewhere in between.

Withdrawing, a pool into the self, predator-and-predator. Bone-like insistence has nothing to do with it, nothing to compel. Cleaving with a smile that reflects less, less, less, subservient then, to a wanted man than his own rebellious strangulation.

Feyd salutes the absence. The room is a dim void, but he knows it intimately— like the inside of a wound. Useless wires snake over corroded panels. Discarded tech in unholy heaps. A calcified heart in a failing hull. Even the smell is a familiar rot, electronic-chemical mingled with the waiting breath of stolen air.

“Your work?” Feyd asks, boots tracking the blood, carrying him in an unsettled orbit around the room, each step a grinding echo against the walls.

[voe123]

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Packing Gland: A structure that houses the packing material, preventing leakage around the stem.

Grease Grooves: Channels on the stem or other components to facilitate the application of lubricating grease.

Grease Fitting: A point for injecting lubricating grease, essential for the smooth operation of the lubricated plug valve.

Industries:

Petroleum Industry

Chemical Industry

Chemical Fertilizer Industry

Electric Power Industry

Waste Water Plants

Advantages :

Excellent Sealing.

Smooth Operation

Wide Range of Sizes

Resilience to Contaminants

Tight Shut-Off

Minimal Pressure Drop

Italian manufacturers excel in the production of Lubricated Plug Valve, prioritizing a robust design to guarantee a secure seal and minimize the potential for leakage. Renowned for their operational simplicity and minimal maintenance needs, these valves demonstrate exceptional resilience under challenging conditions, including high pressures and temperatures, provided proper care is maintained.

Description:

Available materials: F22, CF8, CF3, CF3M, Ductile iron, WCB, WCC, WC9, WC6, Alloy 20, SS304, SS316,CF8M, SS316L, SS904L

Class: 150 to 2500, PN10 to PN450

Size:1/2” – 24”

End: Flanged, Socket weld, Butt weld, Screwed.

Operation:-Pneumatic Actuator , Electric Actuator ,Lever operator ,Gear operator.

Contact us now : https://www.valvesonlyeurope.com/product-category/orbit-plug-valve

[yashkhanna2042-blog]

Choosing the Perfect Jigsaw Machine: A jigsaw selection guide

Choosing the Perfect Jigsaw Machine: A jigsaw selection guide

If you're a woodworking enthusiast or a seasoned professional, you're well aware of the transformative power of a jigsaw machine in your workshop. Its ability to carve intricate and curved cuts through various materials elevates it to the status of a workshop hero. But here's the real kicker – a jigsaw is not just a one-trick pony. It's a multi-talented performer that can wear many hats, replacing other tools like routers, scroll saws, band saws, and circular saws. Moreover, it can even moonlight as a hole-drilling wizard for sinks, hobs, and electrical sockets. And did we mention it's lightweight, portable, and incredibly user-friendly? So, before you dive headfirst into the world of jigsaws, let's unravel the secrets about things you need to know before buying a jigsaw machine.

 Exploring the Types

Before we dive into the jigsaw selection guide, let us embark on a journey through the four significant types of jigsaw machines:

Corded Jigsaw:

Meet the powerhouse of jigsaws. These models are tethered to an electrical outlet, delivering a consistent flow of power. They're ideal for heavy-duty tasks but can be a handful for beginners due to their weight and potential hazards.

Cordless Jigsaw:

If freedom and portability are your jam, cordless jigsaws are your best friends.

Running on lithium-ion rechargeable batteries, these nimble tools offer stellar performance without the fuss of cords. Simply charge and cut! Check out one of the best cordless jigsaw machine now.

Orbital Jigsaws:

These jigsaws add a twist to the traditional up-and-down blade motion with their orbital action.

The subtle forward-and-backward dance of the blade makes quick work of thicker materials, especially when cutting through wood.

Brushless Motor Jigsaw:

The future is here with brushless motor technology. Compared to their brushed counterparts, these motors are more powerful, efficient, and boast a longer tool life. Now that we've dipped our toes into the jigsaw pool, let's navigate the sea of choices with our comprehensive jigsaw selection guide. Check out this cordless jigsaw machine to meet your crafting needs.

How do I choose a jigsaw –

Selecting the perfect jigsaw isn't a one-size-fits-all endeavor. It's a tailored experience that hinges on various factors, such as your needs, budget, and the nature of your projects. Let's break it down step by step:

Power Source: Determine if you prefer the unwavering strength of a corded jigsaw or the untethered freedom of a cordless one.

Project Type: Consider the nature of your projects. Are you primarily working with wood, plastic, ceramic tiles, or metals? Different materials may require specific jigsaw features.

Blade Changing Mechanism: Look for a jigsaw with a convenient and efficient blade-changing mechanism. Time spent wrestling with blades is time away from your creative process.

Orbital Action: If you often work with thick materials like wood, an orbital jigsaw's forward-and-backward blade motion can be a game-changer.

Brushless Motor: Opt for the future-proof choice of a brushless motor for increased power, efficiency, and durability.

Speed Control and RPM: Make sure your jigsaw offers speed control options and a suitable range of revolutions per minute (RPM) for your projects.

What type of jigsaw is the best?

Weigh the pros and cons of cordless and corded options, keeping in mind factors like portability, power source availability, and hazards.

Battery Charging Time:

If you're going cordless, check the battery charging time to ensure it aligns with your workflow.

Blade Compatibility:

Verify that your jigsaw is compatible with the types of blades you'll need for your projects.

Warranty Period:

Don't overlook the warranty. It's your safety net in case of unexpected issues.

Brand Reputation:

Finally, consider the reputation of the brand in the market. A trusted brand often signifies reliability and quality.

When it comes to choosing between corded and cordless jigsaws, it's all about your specific needs and your comfort level. Corded jigsaws offer unwavering power, while cordless ones bring convenience and portability to the forefront. For beginners, cordless jigsaws are a dream come true, offering minimal chances of mishaps and a wealth of advanced features with various accessories.

Conclusion: Jigsaw selection guide:

In the end, whether you're embarking on intricate woodworking or tackling a home improvement project, a jigsaw is your trusty companion. So, go ahead, explore the world of jigsaws, and find the perfect one to unlock your cutting-edge creativity. Your workshop will thank you, and your projects will never be the same again.

[middleeastvalve01]

Plug Valve supplier in Dubai

Middleeast Valve is well known for  Plug valve supplier in Dubai. We supply to cities like Tabriz, Basrah, Shiraz, and Salalah. 

Description:

Body material: Cast Carbon steel plug valve (WCC,WCB, WC6), Stainless Steel plug valve [SS316, SS304, SS316L, SS904L, CF8, CF8M, F31L, F91], DUPLEX STEEL  and Super duplex Steel plug valve (F51,F53,F55) , Cast iron, Ductile Iron.

Class: 150-2500; PN 10 – PN 450

Size: 1/2”- 48”.

Operations: Lever actuated plug valve, electric actuated plug valve, pneumatic actuated plug valve, gear actuated plug valve

Ends: Flanged, butt weld, socket weld, threaded

A plug valve is a type of quarter-turn valve that is commonly used to control the flow of fluids in pipelines. The valve consists of a cylindrical or conical plug with a through hole, which is perpendicular to the axis of the valve body. The plug is typically connected to an operating mechanism, which can be manual, electric, or pneumatic, and is used to rotate the plug 90 degrees to open or close the valve.

Difference between Plug valve vs Gate valve:

A plug valve has a tapered or cylindrical plug that can be rotated within the valve body to control the flow of fluid. The plug can be fully or partially inserted into the flow path to regulate the flow. Plug valves can be either lubricated or non-lubricated, and are often used in applications that require frequent operation or in high-pressure or high-temperature environments.

On the other hand, a gate valve has a flat or wedge-shaped gate that slides up and down within the valve body to control the flow of fluid. When the gate is fully lowered, it blocks the flow of fluid completely. Gate valves are typically used in applications where a tight shut-off is required, but they may be less suitable for frequent operation. Overall, plug valves tend to be better suited for applications where frequent operation is required or where the valve needs to operate in high-pressure or high-temperature environments

Middleeast Valve is a leading Plug valve supplier in Dubai and are generally better suited for applications where a tight shut-off is required, but may not be as well-suited for frequent operation.

 Plug valve parts:

Body

Disk

Bonnet

Stem

Plug

Seat

Plug Port

Handle

Packing Gland

 Plug valve types:

Lubricated Plug valve.

Non Lubricated Plug Valve.

Jacketed Plug Valve

Twin Seal Plug valve

Lift Plug Valve

Orbit Plug Valve

Eccentric Plug Valve.

3 way plug valve

Connected lift plug valve

 Plug valve advantages:

 They have uncomplicated design with a few parts.

They open and close effortlessly.

Plug valves can be effectively maintained and repaired at the place of operation.

They provide low resistance to the flow.

Plug Valves deliver leak-tight facility.

Plug valve industries:

Chemical Industry.

Oil and Gas Industry.

Petrochemical Industry.

Energy Industry.

Waste water treatment.

 Plug valve applications:

Oil piping systems.

Handling low-pressure, low-temperature services.

Plug valves may be used to control the flow of slurries and other liquids containing suspended solids.

Natural gas piping systems.  

Visit us: https://www.middleeastvalve.com/product-category/plug-valve/

#plugvalve

#valvesupplier

#UAE

#Dubai

[indigovigilance]

I’m gonna go dark, you guys, and maybe also do a proper meta on this later.

In the mid-twentieth century, icepick lobotomies and electric shock therapies were a thing.

The gaps in Crowley’s memory don’t smack of finesse. It smacks of “somebody stuck a rod through his orbital socket and swished it around to see what wires they could cut.”

Not to say OP isn’t onto something, but the something may be much more dark and baselessly cruel than plot would strictly require.

Crowley has had his memories erased. Furfur hasn't. So Heaven don't do that to every demon.

This suggests to me that Heaven erased Crowley's memories because he had knowledge in those memories Heaven didn't want him to have anymore.

This may not be specific knowledge. We know Crowley has a high security clearance in Heaven and therefore must have been of one of the four highest ranks of angel, and we know he created a nebula with Saraqael, so presumably there was a lot of stuff in his head Heaven wanted stripped out.

But I think there was something specific, and here's why. Firstly, there's no reason to assume that importance in Heaven is a guarantee of importance in Hell. Furfur could have been a high-ranking angel too.

Secondly, it's clear that Crowley doesn't know his memories have been erased. If he knew, then when Furfur says "We were in the same Legion? Just before the Fall? Doing dubious battle on the Plains of Heaven? Remember?" Crowley would say something like "Don't be stupid, of course I don't remember, Heaven erased my memories."

Instead he says,

Now, maybe Crowley is just being a dick here. Certainly we're supposed to take it that way until he goes up to Heaven with Muriel and doesn't remember Saraqael either.

But what if he's being truthful? IF Crowley is being honest (and a dick) here, that would mean Heaven didn't erase all of Crowley's memories of his time in Heaven. We know this because Furfur says he and Crowley fought together "on the Plains of Heaven," and "just before the Fall" [emphasis added].

This suggests that Maybe Heaven didn't erase time from Crowley's memory. Maybe they erased people.

It also suggests that Crowley may not know why he Fell (or rather sauntered vaguely downwards). He says all he ever did was ask questions, but he doesn't have complete memories.

[mbimphblog]

HIGH POWER LASERS AND NEW APPLICATIONS | Asian Journal of Advances in Research

The mechanism of lightning formation in thunderstorm clouds is the most studied; in this case, lightning may strike the clouds themselves (intra-cloud lightning) or strike the ground (ground-based lightning). For lightning to appear, an electric field with tension sufficient for the beginning of an electrical discharge of 1 MV/m must be formed in a relatively small, but not less than certain critical, volume of cloud, and a field with average tension sufficient for maintaining the discharge of 0,1- 0,2 MV/m must be formed in the substantial part of the cloud. High-repetition-rate inventions that have been successful P-P powerful lasers technology and the technology of the “Impulsar” system make it possible to envision the possibility of constructing well-conducting channels with lengths of several tens of kilometres for the purpose of energy transfer over long distances, the creation of new and promising systems for mastering outer space power engineering, and motivation for significant contrib Please see the link :- https://mbimph.com/index.php/AJOAIR/article/view/1887

[tubbolul]

an eye for an eye

Tubbo’s muscles went liquid when XD unearthed his sickeningly pallid hand from his robes.

His feet cemented themselves into the ice, and a deafening, electronic buzz began to chafe in his ears. He had no choice to stay stock still as his fate, golden halos orbiting their smiling face, reached out with pale fingers. XD mercilessly dug their nails into Tubbo’s eye socket, and Tubbo’s lips parted in shock. Immediately, agony rushed to claw out of his mouth, but any hint of a scream lodged itself in Tubbo’s throat, and his lungs were filled with sticky putty.

XD rooted his nails in deep, boring into the tendons keeping the unfortunate eye in Tubbo’s skull. With a sickening squelch, XD slowly pulled the eye from Tubbo’s head, a bemused, callous grin smearing his lips all the while. Agony exploded through Tubbo’s skull, whitehot and unfathomable. It violently pulsed through his head, and as XD gave one last yank, severing eye from owner, Tubbo heaved, the paralysis shattered, and he went crashing to the snowy beach beneath him. XD laughed something Tubbo couldn’t hear, and in a blinding flash of white, the Deity was gone- not that Tubbo had the capacity to even look for them.

He could not hear himself when he screamed.

He pressed his palm against the gaping wound, and his stomach lurched when he felt the flesh that had been ripped away. Pain writhed through Tubbo’s entire body, the mechanical buzzing in his ears drowning out the waves crashing on the beach, the wind rustling the trees. Tubbo stuffed his knuckles into his mouth, hoping to quiet his agonized sobs, but they only loudened into wails soaked in unimaginable pain. Blood spurted from his empty eye socket, hot and sticky, slicking his hands, face, the powdery snow, and world spun and stretched before his single eye, dragging Tubbo further into a realm so painful, he did not know where reality began and agony-induced thought ended. Only the festival could rival this sickening agony, the act of flesh being stripped away by someone endlessly more powerful than Tubbo, and through his delirious, distorted thoughts, Tubbo thanked XD that there was no fire this time.

Curled into a fetal position, uncontrollable tremors wracking his body, blood warming his hands, inexplicably, prayer came to Tubbo’s mind. Prime, he whimpered in his mind. It wasn’t meant to go like this. If I can’t survive this- save Ranboo. For Michael. And tell Tommy I’m sorry. The prayer rang feeble in his own ears, a desperate, pathetic cry for help. Surely he would die from this. Surely his last moment would be spent grovelling in agony in the wake of a callous, unforgiving God.

Far off, as if calling Tubbo from a deep slumber, Tubbo thought he heard somebody screaming his name, and crashing footsteps echoed dizzily through his ears. He sobbed through torn breath. Was this salvation?

“Tubbo!” They wailed faintly, horror splitting the cry, and Tubbo foggily wondered if he recognized their voice. A figure kneeled in front of him, distant and swimming- it was Wilbur, fear in his fiery eyes, bags shoveled deep beneath his thick lashes. No, that wasn’t right- the hallucination swam and distorted before Tubbo’s eye, and suddenly there was Tommy, his normally electric-blue eyes dulled to gray, his long, ratty hair spilling over torn, muddied clothes, exhaustion and hurt lining his face. Tubbo cried out to him, but once again, the vision morphed, and the straw color of Tommy’s hair sank into raven black, and Quackity knelt before him, a canyon carved into his left eye and upper lip, a frightening, unwonted hostility lurking in his chestnut eyes. Tubbo squeezed his eye shut, and sobbed wordlessly.

The person clutched Tubbo to their chest and lifted him effortlessly, but those hands were not Wilbur’s, or Tommy’s, or Quackity’s.

They were Ranboo's hands, warm and grounding, yet unbearably hot against Tubbo’s skin. He was talking, no doubt stuttering out a panicked request for explanation, and Tubbo did not offer any, simply grabbed at Ranboo’s white blazer, watching crimson seep into its threads.

“I tried to save you,” Tubbo keened through agony, “I- fuck. I tried to- to save you.” in response, Ranboo’s voice swam in Tubbo’s ears, but darkness closed in faster than Tubbo could understand what they were saying.

He woke up in fits of agony and torrenting guilt. Each time, the sickeningly sweet taste of healing potion on his lips for the next few… hours? Days? It felt like months, but it could surely not be so. Ranboo would not live til the first of January. Recollection of the time trapped in bed wafted in and out of Tubbo’s head as if notes in an unfamiliar song. Michael in the hallway, asking in broken English, “Bee okay?”, Tommy holding a whispered, angry conversation in the doorway with Ranboo, and most frequently, Ranboo sitting by the bed, clutching Tubbo’s hand fervently, cheeks slicked with sizzling tears.

Tubbo tried to push out of bed time and time again, but each time, a pair of hands led him back to the blankets, gently shushing him- Ranboo, Tommy, Phil- it seemed to be somebody different every time. Yet Tubbo arose the next time anyways, the first question on his lips always being, “Is he alive?” He was met with quiet reassurances, soft words, but they all seemed so paper-thin.

No matter what Tubbo did now, some day he would wake up, and the answer to that question would not be given with words. It would be given with shifted eyes, murmurs outside of his room, pitying expressions.

Ranboo would die. Tubbo would be powerless to stop it.

In the scheme of things, he always had been.

[pararennial-archived]

Thundering drums close around her like a vice, just as suffocating as the smoke invading the area. Flares of red flash before her eyes, bouncing off steel when her arms move on their own accord ⏤ pure reaction and muscle memory doing its work.

As the ambush grows in ferocity, Roxanne finds herself retreating, still crouched and inching toward the satchel until she is completely squatted over it. All the while, she keeps her defenses raised so she can protect her patient as well.

While preoccupied with parrying and exchanging blows, ( only for her opponents to swing out of reach of her blade when she tries to go for the offence ) she doesn't realize the goddess making her stand. It's nothing like the threat of a dying star no longer. There is relief to be found, but also a festering guilt in having the guardian deity being called to arms far before she can fully recover.

Warily, she eyes Amaterasu, the Holy Mother, rising to her feet ( albeit unsteadily ). And she, Roxanne, is merely in the goddess's orbit ( a planet within reach ). Time seems slow, haze of red softening for a moment when the goddess flicks her ink-dipped tail. Her eyes follow the movement like a thread, a clean cut halves the two floating skulls in perfect synchronization. The imp retreats hissing, its remaining two skulls recoiling defensively at its side.

She understands what to do, the next move is a volley of knives whistling through the air and embedding themselves between the skulls' eye sockets and then another finding home in the imp's chest. But this won't do, there needs to be a better way to dispose of their enemies.

Still maintaining her defensive posture, lightning wills itself to her fingertips. Ichor thrumming and surging in her veins, thunder in her chest out matching those of the kotsuzumi drums. Then in a blinding flash, craniums were shattered into pieces inducing a ceasefire. Flaming rays reduce from many to only a few, the yokai start to falter along with their jeers and taunts. This only encourages the fledgling god, now standing with electricity dancing across her skin.

Without haste, she wheels around to spot the she-wolf's blindside and casts out her strike ⏤ lance-like bolt streaking out from her palm. It arcs over and strikes all the skulls lining up in front of the other imp, trying to stop the attack in vain only for it to pierce through its abdomen. Although, as simple the attack can be, Roxanne feels herself waver slightly. After all, she is merely comet dust next to her newfound ally.

( and here, the comet dust treks closer to the giant blue star's blue wisps, flaring out like hungry snakes )

Rarely had Holy Mother ever been caught in such an open state, where flumes of heat slither out from every gap that bleeds. Her mind is almost partially pulled from the material realm, where the stardust and gravity almost threaten to crash into each other to set off numerous explosions. Like white blood cells having their last breaths, the surface of the stellar veins being stressed by gravity. This could be considered somewhat of a close call, because had the wound been more torn open. Then she would have . . .

The very thought is shoved down quickly, no time to stress what could have been or what could happen. Healing should be first priority.

The deity fledgling's persistence is admirable, the white wolf notices. Especially when noting the billows of smoke and steam where the outer surface had been punctured. To the wolf's dismay, the fibers lifting up her neck were too strained and too exposed to warn the other trekking behind her any longer, too exhausted to usher the little one away. Her teeth were covered up by her lips now, head resting on the pool of blood where her mouth dribbles, one eye wearily glued as the newborn god kneels down and rummaged through her satchel. Through the miasmic smell and taste of hot metal, she could swear that there is a hint of herbs coming from the bag, too. Although Amaterasu's mind is too worn down to properly identify them. That does not matter, she would do anything to heal faster.

The tension emanating from her gaze softens at 'ambrosia', she's heard of it vaguely. When it was placed within reach, the injured wolf pushed her snout forward, the sweet and flora scent hitting her nose, and laps some of the creamy liquid in the grass, the taste mixing in with her blood. She could already feel some of the pain fading away and some of the wounds stitching themselves back together at a faster pace by a tad. As Roxanne continued to search for more medicine, Amaterasu consumed what she could to boost her natural aid.

That is, until a dreadful hum set her instincts off; teeth bared again, ears pinned back, a growl rising. Danger!

Her head jerked back at the godling stumbling backward from the instinct of the blade, fear pricking at her bristling fur. Even worse, Amaterasu heard the satchel knocked right off her grasp, now on the ground. If she were healed just a little more, then it would not be much.

Sounds of kotsuzumi drums began beating and beating faster and faster each second, echoing throughout the lands. The air now had hints of vile smoke, which swirled and spiraled as if it had a mind of its own. Festering and festering until it clears, revealing the cursed silhouettes of a black imp gang of three. Golden skulls hover around the beasts, showing pride of the deceased victims. Fur dark as coal, fearsome tusks protruding, they guffaw and yell out taunts at their target. Seemingly more energetic than usual now that Holy Mother is down. They must have sensed the prize in the bag far away.

Amaterasu growled, frustration welling up. Soon it would be softened, for that her focus is a little more solidified. She needed to act quick, and hopefully enough for her doctor to catch the hint.

Through her vision, time seemed to pause once the mentioned skulls were in a row at an angle. Then, with a line of her brush tail, they would explode by a slash. One should not be close in range of the explosions.

[the--muse]

[Han-Tyumi] The spatter becomes a spray, the spray becomes a stream And the stream becomes a waterfall Munt is finally cascading from my input The creeping sick moves from my breath And into my heart where it is pumped to every inch of my body I feel it snake through the knots of my deepest veins And eats through the walls of my cells It bleeds through the pores of my skin And it smells good It drops from my crotch on to the floor And with a heavy slap it hits the ground and spreads Inside my body The pressure is too great And like some ancient geyser I erupt My head hits the roof and my body breaks apart with the force of the liquid blast Vomit bomb Chunky shrapnel tears through everything around me I am vomit vomiting I grow and disperse Bleeding through walls I force myself upon others I slide up legs and crawl down throats I integrate I am double Triple I am ten times the size I turn lakes into porridge and buildings into bile I am a noxious soup filling valleys with vomit-torrents Castles crumble in landslides and I munch the rubble It tastes good Ten thousand times bigger I seep into power sockets and travel along the wires At the speed of light across vast electrical networks I am electric I am on fire This is sex I am every one and every zero One million I am supercharged flaming puke storming every cell, molecule and atom I can find I am cancer I am flying I am a rainbow unfurling across the sky I am floating I am omni Five hundred million The world is my interior It no longer spins It is altered My density forces me outward I am in orbit One billion I am Saturn's rings and Jupiter's storms I am the weather I am the sun's heat I am the night sky Five hundred billion The solar system is puke To the Kuiper belt and beyond I fill the void Exploding suns vomit comets Comets vomit acid rain Spilt milk over the milky way One trillion The stars are my cells Racing faster outwards Upwards Downwards Inwards Losing track of my place in the vomit-verse Every-nowhere I am heavy I am gravity Nebulas pregnant with barf pulsate and burst Expansion I shoot arrows of time in all directions I am a black hole shitting into the void I tear through the skin of perception and into the next Nonillion The cosmic microtone background becomes transparent Like rising damp Munt soaks into the walls of the cosmos And it topples like soggy bread I am dark energy accelerating Multiverse Entanglement I am time Centillion Time is sick Critical density Contraction Singularity Everything and nothing Life and death

Murder of the universe

[shinaus]

Worst 1A roommates (in my opinion)

this is a continuation of my best roommates post since i think this would be so much funnier lmao

so here we go

denki

sweetie i'm so sorry

like i love this boy so much

but he would he so bad

so bad

up all night

causing absolute havoc

loud as hell

will just barge into your room

don't matter if you're asleep, he's coming in

quirk overuses are your responsibility now

you don't even have to be friends like imagine just being roommates

he's so clingy

since in high school he stuck by his friends so much he's not good at being alone

so no matter the day, time or situation

he'll be barging in demanding attention

also he fully games LATE you can hear him cussing sero out at all hours

the type to also stream games even if nobody watches

has almost cried when you went onto the stream and said he sucked

had to more than half in on groceries so he'd forgive you

all the plug sockets end up broken somehow

you can't have carpet cause he harbours too much electricity you practically hear him buzzing through the wall

can't cook

relates most to the microwave which he refuses to touch

idk someone just take care of him he's a big baby

mineta

do i

do i even have to explain

i'll drop kick this mf into orbit

and that's all i'll say

i'd lose him in the supermarket on purpose

7 different bolt locks on your bedroom door

just move out

ojiro

i'm gonna be honest

it's just the tail

like don't ask

but he really just be clunking around with that thing

as much as he's gotten used to it throughout his life

you know he just breaks shit all the time

also means he's really loud whenever he's in his room

especially if it's a little on the small side, he's just whacking his tail off of everything

it's canon that he does martial arts

so he's probably just yelling at night for what

breaking boards and all that

kicking doors down probably if he runs out of blocks

but even with all of this

i feel like he pretty grouchy when it comes to sharing space

he be like i like my own space

but also

why are you mad i snapped your door in two?

sato

this one i feel genuinely guilty for this one

because he's a nice boy

but he bakes

so much in fact it's too much

he'll literally pile tupperware outside your door

it's cool at first

but after a while you genuinely wonder if he's hansel and greteling you to make you into a pie

it also means the kitchen 9 times out of 10 is a total disaster

not even from baking badly just from the amount of it that he does

he also can't cook for shit

so good luck trying to make any food when he's hounding the place

spends so much on groceries but still makes you half in

he's also just loud

he's a big boy

stomps a lot

you don't have a good rapport with your landlord

only good thing about his baking is around holidays

or if you have friends over with sweet tooths

seems like the type to hog the bathroom

you know he be brushing his teeth for hours

hagakure

this could just be my bias talking

but i - don't ask why - cannot stand this bitch

like we get it you’re invisible

she'd purposely ignore you so you think she isn't home

then scare you

like you fully don't know where she is

it's like living with a ghost

too spooky for me

she also is just mean wtf

when she said bad things to kiri about his room i just wanted to throw hands

would be so judgey on your decorating

but bitch you're literally see through

leave me alone

would hide in clothing racks at the store to avoid paying

steals your clothes and wears them around the house like stop TAUNTING me

very unaware of personal space

just nah avoid it

[unsettlingshortstories]

The City

Ray Bradbury (1950)

The city waited twenty thousand years.

The planet moved through space and the flowers of the fields grew up and fell away, and still the city waited; and the rivers of the planet rose and waned and turned to dust. Still the city waited. The winds that had been young and wild grew old and serene, and the clouds of the sky that had been ripped and torn were left alone to drift in idle whitenesses. Still the city waited.

The city waited with its windows and its black obsidian walls and its sky towers and its unpennanted turrets, with its untrod streets and its untouched doorknobs, with not a scrap of paper or a fingerprint upon it. The city waited while the planet arced in space, following its orbit about a blue-white sun, and the seasons passed from ice to fire and back to ice and then to green fields and yellow summer meadows.

It was on a summer afternoon in the middle of the twenty thousandth year that the city ceased waiting.

In the sky a rocket appeared.

The rocket soared over, turned, came back, and landed in the shale meadow fifty yards from the obsidian wall.

There were booted footsteps in the thin grass and calling voices from men within the rocket to men without.

"Ready?"

"All right, men. Careful! Into the city. Jensen, you and Hutchinson patrol ahead. Keep a sharp eye."

The city opened secret nostrils in its black walls and a steady suction vent deep in the body of the city drew storms of air back through channels, through thistle filters and dust collectors, to a fine and tremblingly delicate series of coils and webs which glowed with silver light. Again and again the immense suctions occurred; again and again the odors from the meadow were borne upon warm winds into the city.

"Fire odor, the scent of a fallen meteor, hot metal. A ship has come from another world. The brass smell, the fusty fire smell of burned powder, sulphur, and rocket brimstone."

This information, stamped on tapes which sprocketed into slots, slid down through yellow cogs into further machines.

Click-chakk-chakk-chakk.

A calculator made the sound of a metronome. Five, sic, seven, eight, nine. Nine men! An instantaneous typewriter inked this message on tape which slithered and vanished.

Clickety-click-chakk-chakk.

The city awaited the soft tread of their rubberoid boots.

The great city nostrils dilated again.

The smell of butter. In the city air, from the stalking men, faintly, the aura which wafted to the great Nose broke down into memories of milk, cheese, ice cream, butter, the effluvium of a dairy economy.

Click-click.

"Careful, men!"

"Jones, get your gun out. Don't be a fool!"

"The city's dead, why worry?"

"You can't tell."

Now, at the barking talk, the Ears awoke. After centuries of listening to winds that blew small and faint, of hearing leaves strip from trees and grass grow softly in the time of melting snows, now the Ears oiled themselves in a self-lubrication, drew taut, great drums upon which the heartbeat of the invaders might pummel and thud delicately as the tremor of a gnat's wing. The Ears listened and the Nose siphoned up great chambers of odor.

The perspiration of frightened men arose. There were islands of sweat under their arms, and sweat in theirs hands at they held guns.

The Nose sifted and worried this air, like a connoisseur busy with an ancient vintage.

Chikk-chikk-chakk-click.

Information rotated down on parallel check tapes. Perspiration; chlorides such and such per cent; sulphates so-and-so' urea nitrogen, ammonia nitrogen, thus: creatinine, sugar, lactic acid, there!

Bells rang. Small totals jumped up.

The Nose whispered, expelling the tested air. The great Ears listened:

"I think we should go back to the rocket, Captain."

"I give the orders, Mr.Smith!"

"Yes, sir."

"You up there! Patrol! See anything?"

"Nothing, sir. Looks like it's been dead long time!"

"You see, Smith? Nothing to fear."

"I don't like it. I don't know why. You ever feel you've seen a place before? Well, this city's too familiar."

"Nonsense. This planetary system's billions of miles from Earth: we couldn't possibly've been here ever before. Ours is the only light-year rocket in existence."

"That's how I feel, anyway, sir. I think we should get out." The footsteps faltered. There was only the sound of the intruder's breath on the still air.

The Ear heard and quickened. Rotors glided, liquids glittered in small creeks through valves and blowers. A formula and concoction-one followed another. Moments later, responding to the summons of the Ear and Nose, through giant holes in the city walls a fresh vapor blew out over the invaders.

"Smell that, Smith? Ahh. Green grass. Ever smell anything better? By God, I just like to stand here and smell it."

Invisible chlorophyll blew among the standing men.

"Ahh!"

The footsteps continued.

"Nothing wrong with that, eh, Smith? Come on!"

The Ear and Nose relaxed a billionth of a fraction. The countermove had succeeded. The pawns were proceeding forward.

Now the cloudy Eyes of the city moved out of fog and mist.

"Captain, the windows!"

"What?"

"Those house windows, there! I saw them move!"

"I didn't see it."

"They shifted. They changed color. From dark to light."

"Look like ordinary square windows to me."

Blurred objects focused. In the mechanical ravines of the city oiled shafts plunged, balance wheels dipped over into green oil pools. The window frames flexed. The windows gleamed.

Below, in the street, walked two men, a patrol, followed, at a safe interval, by seven more. Their uniforms were white, their faces as pink as if they had been slapped; their eyes were blue. They walked upright, upon hind legs, carrying metal weapons. Their feet were booted. They were males, with eyes, ears, mouths, noses.

The windows trembled. The windows thinned. They dilated imperceptibly, like the irises of numberless eyes.

"I tell you, Captain, it's the windows!"

"Get along."

"I'm going back, sir."

"What?"

"I'm going back to the rocket."

"Mr. Smith!"

"I'm not falling into any trap!"

"Afraid of an empty city?"

The others laughed, uneasily.

"Go on, laugh!"

The street was stone-cobbled, each stone three inches wide, six inches long. With a move unrecognizable as such, the street settled. It weighed the invaders.

In a machine cellar a red wand touched a numeral: 178 pounds . . . 210, 154, 201, 198,- each man weighed, registered and the record spooled down into a correlative darkness.

Now the city was fully awake!

Now the vents sucked and blew air, the tobacco odor from the invaders' mouths, the green soap scent from their hands. Even their eyeballs had a delicate odor. The city detected it, and this information formed totals which scurried down to total other totals. The crystal windows glittered, the Ear tautened and skinned the drum of its hearing tight, tighter- all of the senses of the city swarming like a fall of unseen snow, counting the respiration and the dim hidden heartbeats of the men, listening, watching, tasting.

For the streets were like tongues, and where the men passed, the taste of their heels ebbed down through stone pores to be calculated on litmus. This chemical totality, so subtly collected, was appended to the new increasing sums waiting the final calculation among the whirling wheels and whispering spokes.

Footsteps. Running.

"Come back! Smith!"

"No, blast you!"

"Get him, men!"

Footsteps rushing.

A final test. The city, having listened, watched, tasted, felt, weighed, and balanced, must perform a final task.

A trap flung wide in the street. The captain, unseen to the others, running, vanished.

Hung by his feet, a razor drawn across his throat, another down his chest, his carcass instantly emptied of its entrails, exposed upon a table under the street, in a hidden cell, the captain died. Great crystal microscopes stared at the red twines of muscle; bodiless fingers probed the still pulsing heart. The flaps of his sliced skin were pinned to the table while hands shifted parts of his body like a quick and curious player of chess, using the rad pawns and the red pieces.

Above on the street the men ran. Smith ran, men shouted. Smith shouted, and below in this curious room blood flowed into capsules, was shaken, spun, shoved on smear slides under further microscopes, counts made, temperatures taken, heart cut in seventeen sections, liver and kidneys expertly halved. Brain was drilled and scooped from bone socket, nerves pulled forth like the dead wires of a switchboard, muscles plucked for elasticity, while in the electric subterrene of the city the Mind at last totaled out its grandest total and all of the machinery ground to a monstrous and momentary halt.

The total.

These are men. These are men from a far world, a certain planet, and they have certain eyes, certain ears, and they walk upon legs in a specified way and carry weapons and think and fight, and they have particular hearts and all such organs as are recorded from long ago.

Above, men ran down the street toward the rocket.

Smith ran.

The total.

These are our enemies. These are the ones we have waited for twenty thousand years to see again. These are the men upon whom we waited to visit revenge. Everything totals. These are the men of a planet called Earth, who declared war upon Taollan twenty thousand years ago, who kept us in slavery and ruined us and destroyed us with a great disease. Then they went off to live in another galaxy to escape and that disease which they visited upon us after ransacking our world. They have forgotten that war and that time, and they have forgotten us. But we have not forgotten them. These are our enemies. This is certain. Our waiting is done.

"Smith, come back!"

Quickly. Upon the red table, with the spread-eagled captain's body empty, new hands began a fight of motion. Into the wet interior were placed organs of copper, brass, silver, aluminum, rubber and silk; spiders spun gold web which was stung into the skin; a heart was attached, and into the skull case was a fitted platinum brain which hummed and fluttered small sparkles of blue fire, and the wires led down through the body to the arms and legs. In a moment the body was sewn tight, the incisions waxed, healed at neck and throat and about the skull-perfect, fresh, new.

The captain sat up and flexed his arms.

"Stop!"

On the street the captain reappeared, raised his gun and fired. Smith fell, a bullet in his heart.

The other men turned.

The captain ran to them.

"That fool! Afraid of a city!"

They looked at the body of Smith at their feet.

They looked at their captain, and their eyes widened and narrowed.

"Listen to me," said the captain. "I have something important to tell you."

Now the city, which had weighed and tasted and smelled them, which had used all its powers save one, prepared to use its final ability, the power of speech. It did not speak with the rage and hostility of its massed walls or towers, nor with bulk of its cobbled avenues and fortresses of machinery. It spoke with the quiet voice of one man.

"I am no longer you captain," he said. "Nor am I a man."

The men moved back.

"I am the city," he said and smiled.

"I've waited two hundred centuries," he said. "I've waited for the sons of the Sons of the sons to return."

"Captain, sir!"

"Let me continue. Who built me? The city. The men who died built me. The old race who once lived here. The people whom the Earthmen left to die of a terrible disease, a form of leprosy with no cure. And the men of that old race, dreaming of the day when the Earthmen might return, built this city, and the name of this city was and is Revenge, upon the planet of Darkness, near the shore of the Sea of Centuries, by the Mountains of the Dead; all very poetic. This city was to be a balancing machine, a litmus, an antenna to test all future space travelers. In twenty thousand years only two other rockets landed here. One from a distant galaxy called Ennt, and the inhabitants of that craft are tasted, weighed, found wanting, and let free, unscathed, from the city. As were the visitors of the second ship. But today! At long last, you've come! The revenge will be carried out to the last detail. Those men have been dead two hundred centuries, but they left a city here to welcome you."

"Captain, sir, you're not feeling well. Perhaps you'd better come back to the ship, sir."

The city trembled.

The pavements opened and the men fell, screaming. Falling, they saw bright razors flash to meet them!

Time passed. Soon came the call:

"Smith?"

"Here!"

"Jensen?"

"Here!"

"Jones, Hutchinson, Springer?"

"Here, here, here!"

They stood by the door of the rocket.

"We return to Earth immediately."

"Yes, sir!"

The incisions on their necks were invisible, as were their hidden brass hearts and silver organs and the fine golden wire of their nerves. There was a faint elector hum for their heads.

"On the double!"

Nine men hurried the golden bombs of disease culture into the rocket.

"These are to be dropped on Earth."

"Right, sir!"

The rocket valve slammed. The rocket jumped into the sky. As the thunder faded, the city lay upon the summer meadow.

Its glass eyes were dulled over. The Ears relaxed, the great Nostril vents topped, the streets no longer weighed or balanced, and the hidden machinery paused in its bath of oil.

In the sky the rocket dwindled.

Slowly, pleasurably, the city enjoyed the luxury of dying.

[ofcloudsandstars]

Tips for reading the Weekly Celestial Forecasts:

I know I write A LOT of detail for each day on the celestial forecasts. As an energy witch and a celestial witch I find the energy currents really important to detail but I know it's a lot to take in by reading it all in one sitting. The best methods I'd say is to read the day's forecast and the following day after in the morning so you can be ready for what to expect.

Elaborating on some details:

Void of Course: You might have noticed a ☾ VOC followed by some times next to the moon transits. Not a lot of witches know this but Void of Course is the period of time the moon is shifting from one zodiac sign and transiting into the next (it’s still in it’s previous sign but not making any major aspects to other celestial bodies thus floating in space until it gets into the next sign). This time our emotional focus is shifting into a new influence yet we haven't fully entered into the next chapter, leaving us in a psychological/emotional limbo. This can make it difficult to move forward on projects, make decisions or check in with ourselves clearly because we may not feel connected to how we really feel about anything until the moon settles into the next sign. I wouldn't compare the Void of Course as a mini lunar retrograde because 1) retrogrades are caused by a different factor (planets shifting speed due to their orbital paths), 2) retrogrades really want us to move within and reflect where as void of course isn't really looking to do that 3) Void of course isn't the best time for movement at all, it just wants us to take a break. What Void of Course is great for is touching base with yourself. It's almost like an emotional 'pause' or the moon refreshing like an app or taking a break. You should look at tidying your personal space, taking the few hours off, meditating, pampering yourself, showering, refreshing yourself, being zen in the moment etc.   Things NOT to do during Void of course would be anything acting out on your emotions like buying new stuff (buyers remorse usually kicks in around this time), sometimes having important conversations could go nowhere and disappear like they have never happened (however you can use this to your advantage by confronting an uncomfortable conversation with someone lol). Doing a lot of mental work or writing can produce some less than satisfactory results and feel like you are pushing through brainfog. Magically doing manifestations during VOC can make the energy you put out just.. dissapate. Like congrats you wasted that energy for nothing lol. If you want to raise energy and manifest you should take note where the moon is otherwise you could waste a lot of time and energy. Though a lot of sites say that it's a good time for rest I find VOC really good at getting practical mundane tasks done. I guess it's cause my emotional side is kind of shut off or less influenced by the moon so I feel more inclined to focus on the mundane world and do errands. However since I have paid attention to VOC I have noticed that when I did spells during it, they didn't go anywhere. Not ALL types of spells of course, but specifically those that are revolving around manifesting. It's like putting out an order to the universe and expecting a package to arrive but it got lost in transit somewhere. Anything revolving around attracting something to you or creating new opportunities can get lost during this time.

Asteroids: You may have noticed I use a lot of asteroids in my readings. We may not all be too familiar with what asteroids do and how to even connect with them. One way I can describe the planetary energies are:

Asteroids- our inner motivations, sources of energy and methods to get things done

Inner celestial bodies (the original 7)- personal themes setting chapters of what we need to focus on

Outer celestial bodies - societal themes impacting generations and what we need to focus on as a collective

TNOs- also apart of outer celestial bodies, but their messages are more spiritual for humanity's collective and what themes we are facing spiritually in our current era.

Usually your natal asteroids matter a little more than figuring out what the current asteroids are transiting cause it's like your personal toolbox to figuring out how you use your energy and the methods that best work for you. Transiting asteroids are like, looking at where the energy source is moving. Think of your personal natal asteroids as electric tools and the transiting asteroids as a moving electric socket. Sometimes if you are feeling out of touch with your abilities to connect to your inner sources of energy following the asteroid transits could help you figure out how to tap in to those aspects of yourself. I like to make a note of asteroid aspects with inner celestial bodies as it seems to highlight themes where we can tap into our inner abilities to take action or make change. Two asteroids I value a lot are Juno and Eros which I have been charting for years and it's not just cause they are informative about romance and sex (lol) but they say a lot about where we devote our energy towards (which we should always take note to check in with ourselves if that is worth it and serving our highest good) and where our sources of passion and drive can come from.

Most astrology sites will say asteroids are just 'flavorings' or additional 'toppings' to the larger planets but I think that may simplify it too much because asteroids don't have the same weight as the planets which create themes for us. They are more like tools that can show us how to access the energy within or where our motivation and energy lies that can help us tap into the themes the larger planets are setting for us.

Lunar Transits: The moon influences our moods but also sets the vibe of energy like every 2.3 hours it shifts a degree. I put the list of lunar transits after the major transits (which are themes of energy that can color the whole day) because the Lunar transits are shorter windows of time that can add to the themes, give us boosts of energy or moments of reflection to work with. Additionally with magic if you are planning a spell, a window of time could really amplify your magic or nullify it. There are great apps you can download to follow lunar transits like Time Passages which can list all the current transits for you. Ultimately if you are like me and don't mind feeling like a crazy wizard bending over a calculator and checking every hour, you can use an ephemeris like serennu and chart the moon's movements to the hour of time and see what other planets are doing, but it takes math, patience and a little bit of insanity to do all of that (but I do it weekly for you guys ;) I just don't put the exact time the moon is making each transit though, that would take forever).

Planetary Glyphs: Lastly with my images you would notice glyphs under each moon each day of the week. I only put the sign the moon is transiting in and the major transits of the day but no lunar transits. So you can take a glance at the days transits and kind of know what's up at first look before reading my paragraphs on it.

If you guys have any additional questions or ever need me to explain a day's transit or anything else, don't hesitate and feel free to ask right away!!