#there are 2 in relatively close proximity to me & the one I like more had like 90 minute wait times

[ringneckedpheasant]

had the second worst great clips visit of my life today but thank fucking gd my hair turned out Okay despite the other horrors

[cleo-fox]

Close Quarters

Part 2 of 2

(Part 1)

Summary: The thrilling conclusion to Part 1.

Pairing: Loki x Fem Reader

Warnings: Smut, 18+ (Minors DNI), dirty talk, praise kink, fingering, elevator sex, a hint of dom/sub, Dom Loki, Reader gets a little bratty, little bit of a sir kink, cunnilingus, blow jobs, filth.

A/N: I know I usually choose a Loki GIF but Thomas Sharpe seemed…more appropriate. I’ve got a couple more one shots with these idiots, so if you want to see more, lemme know.

Mercifully, the hallway is empty.

You imagine that your exit from the elevator looks as scandalous as what happened inside it. You are draped in Loki’s arms, still out of breath and a little glassy eyed from the two earth shattering orgasms that he’d given you only minutes prior. In contrast, Loki looks relatively put together and intently focused, like there’s nothing more important on this earth than getting you both back to your suite as quickly as possible. That thought gives you a bit of a thrill—the idea of you wanting him is not necessarily new or unusual, but the idea that he might want you just as much is utterly thrilling.

It occurs to you that you’re in rather close proximity to his neck and it seems like a shame to let that opportunity go to waste. You press your lips against the pulse point in his throat and lazily make your way along his jaw. His breath hitches when you catch his earlobe between your teeth.

“Are you trying to ensure that I take you in the hallway, Mrs. Pine?” he says, his voice dropping deep.

“I won’t be able to scream for you in the hallway,” you breathe into his ear, “and I kinda think you want that.”

“Minx,” he growls, picking up his pace just slightly as you resume kissing his neck.

“I take it that means I’m right,” you say. “Or that I’m in for it when we get back to the room.”

He chuckles. “Oh, it’s both, darling.”

You shiver and nip at his earlobe once more.

Loki drops the glamor as soon as the door to your room shuts behind you and while you like the cropped blond hair of Jonathan Pine, there is something about his natural long, dark locks that drives you wild.

“Let’s me make two things clear, Agent,” he says as he carries you into the bedroom. “First: there are no covers in here; I want you screaming my name when you come. Second—” he sets you down at the foot of the bed. “—I want to taste your pretty cunt.”

Heat and tension coil in your hips. “I can agree to both of those things.”

“Good. Undress.”

He watches as you slowly strip off your swimsuit, his eyes greedy and hungry. Once you’re completely naked, he gives himself a moment to look you over in full, unconsciously licking his lips when his gaze falls on your breasts and hips, his eyes devouring every inch of you. Finally, he nods at the foot of the bed. “Sit.”

You sit down on the bed and he begins unbuttoning his shirt. He takes his time and you watch, enraptured by the slow reveal of his well-muscled chest and taut, flat stomach. The shirt is discarded on the floor with your swimsuit. He undoes his belt, then the button and zip on his shorts.

He’s wearing black boxer briefs, which surprises you—you had assumed that his preference was likely to go commando. But honestly, the boxer briefs are so fitted that the effect is essentially the same: they cling to every dip and swell and leave absolutely nothing to the imagination. The material is taut across his thighs and his cock strains hard at the fabric. If pressed, you could probably create a reasonably accurate sketch based on this view alone.

You don’t have terribly long to contemplate this, though—he kneels in front of you, pulling you in for a slow kiss, his large hands cupping your breasts. His kiss is thorough and sensual, but the addition of his hands kneading your breasts and gently teasing and pinching the sensitive skin of your nipples may actually send you into the stratosphere.

And then he lowers his mouth to your breast and you lose the ability to form coherent thoughts. He strokes his tongue lazily on your nipple in slow circles, lightly teasing the hardened bud with his teeth and bringing another flood of slick arousal to your cunt. Your hips rock fruitlessly against nothing, seeking friction to ease the throbbing pulse of your clit.

You sigh, letting your eyes close and your head tip back, your fingers tangling in his hair. After a moment, you reach for his free hand and guide it between your legs. His fingers dip between your legs, collecting your slickness and gently rolling against your clit.

You moan and he draws back, eyes dark. “Lie back,” he says softly.

You recline on the bed and his focus shifts to you spread out before him. “Lovely,” he says. He is being sincere—and there’s a power in that that thrills you, that sends even more heat and slick to your aching cunt.

When he’s looked his fill, he brings both of your legs over his broad shoulders. He lowers his head to your cunt slowly, first dipping down to inhale your scent and then with one wicked grin, slipping the warm blade of his tongue between your folds.

Your exhale is shaky and turns into a soft whine in the back of your throat as he licks a long, broad stripe from your entrance up to your clit.

“Fuck, Loki.” His name falls from your lips unbidden. You prop yourself up on your elbows and drink in the sight of him between your legs, head bowed like he is worshiping at the most sacred and solemn altar.

In the elevator, he was determined to make you come as quickly as possible; now, though, in the privacy of your room, he seems intent on taking his time and building you up achingly slowly. His tongue laves over your clit at a leisurely pace, teasing and tasting and sucking until he finds the rhythm and movement that makes you try to press your quaking thighs together because it feels so incredible. He gently presses your legs back open, keeping you spread and fully at the mercy of the rolling waves of pleasure that his mouth is creating. One of his long and elegant fingers slides inside of you and curls, pressing against that sweet, soft spot that makes your hips buck and your eyes roll to the back of your head.

When a second finger joins the first a few minutes later, you know that it won’t be much longer. Loki looks up at you, lust-glazed eyes glittering like he knows that too.

You approach the edge slowly, your breath coming in rolling gasps, your hands gripping his hair. He watches you, his gaze both hungry and mischievous. You bite your lip, breath stuttering as you furrow your brow against that final ascent.

And then the tension finally snaps and your head tips back as you tumble off the edge and into your climax, your free fall as decadent and shiver-inducing as the beautifully slow buildup.

You don’t manage to gasp his name because the concept of words has fled you entirely and the only sound that escapes your lips is a sharp cry. From the glint in his eye and the low groan of approval offered against your clit, Loki doesn’t seem to mind at all.

The aftershocks roll through you in rippling waves that make your toes curl and it takes you a moment to catch your breath.

“I confess, I’m quite tempted to stay here all night,” says Loki, placing a gentle kiss on your clit. “You have the sweetest cunt.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls,” you say, your words slurred with pleasure.

“Hardly.” He licks you very slowly from your entrance to your clit and you sigh, running your fingers through his hair. He repeats the same circuit twice more.

“In fact,” he murmurs, placing another kiss on your clit, “I think I may need another taste.” Another lingering kiss, his tongue teasing your entrance. You suck in a shuddering breath.

“One more.” Another long stroke of his tongue and you shiver again.

“Darling, I’m so sorry—” a quick kiss to your clit, “—but I think I’m going to have to make you come again. I'm simply famished.”

Your back arches and you moan as his mouth once again envelopes your clit and his fingers slide back inside you, curling into that soft, sweet spot. You’re a little sensitive, but he’s moving with such achingly perfect precision that you can already feel another orgasm starting to build in your hips.

The ascent is much quicker this time, and you soon find yourself whimpering and panting, your hands tangling again in his hair. He groans against you and you swear you feel the vibrations shimmer all along your aching core.

“Please,” you moan. “Please. I’m so close. Please.”

He lets you ride the edge for a little bit longer, despite your pleas and your iron grip on his hair. But after a minute or so, he seems to take pity on you and he increases his pace just slightly. Your orgasm blossoms in your hips, your cunt clamping down on his fingers as you moan his name to the ceiling.

“That’s my good girl,” he purrs a moment later, as his fingers coax you through the aftershocks. He looks you over, licking his lips. “You’re gorgeous like this, you know,” he says, eyes dragging greedily over your body. “Naked and utterly fucked out. Perfection.”

You shiver and slowly convince your loose muscles to allow you to sit up. “I don’t think you can say I’m fucked out if you haven’t actually fucked me.”

His eyebrow arches, “Is that so?”

You scoot to the edge of the bed so that you can run your hands over his firm chest. You press a kiss just above his belly button, tongue flicking out briefly against his skin. “Seems reasonable to me.”

“Do you want me to fuck you, Agent?” he says, his voice dropping low.

“I mean, that’s what I was hinting at, yes,” you say.

His eyes are hooded as he gives you a sly, calculating smile. “But do you deserve to be fucked, Agent?”

Feeling a little bold, you place your palm flat against the substantial bulge in his boxer briefs, running your hand along the hard, thick length of him. Fuck, he’s big. “Yes,” you say.

“I’m not so sure about that,” he says, his expression and voice deliciously stern despite your hand on his cock. “You’ve been quite pert. Disobedient. Mouthy.”

You think you have an idea where this is going. “So am I getting punished or begging for you to forgive me?” you ask with a coy smile.

The hunger and delight in his gaze makes you ache. “Let’s see what your smart mouth can do to my cock and maybe then I’ll consider fucking you.”

You lick your lips and trace your fingertips along the sharp lines of his Adonis belt, pausing at the waistband of his boxer briefs. You hook your fingertips under the elastic and pull them down.

His cock springs free as the fabric falls to the floor. Between sitting on his lap and the unsubtle nature of the boxer briefs, you knew he was long and thick, but you’re still not fully prepared to experience the full effect of seeing his cock be hard and ready for you.

“Fuck,” you breathe. You take a moment to admire him, despite the fact that you know it’s likely only inflating his ego. 

“Do you want me, Agent?” he drawls with a lazy smile. “Do you want my cock?”

“I think you know the answer to that,” you say. “In fact, I’m certain you do.”

“Perhaps I like hearing you say it,” he says, bringing one hand up to stroke your cheek. “Would that be such a terrible thing?”

Impulsively, you get to your feet and pull him into a kiss. You can still taste yourself on him—salty and a little sweet.

“You like hearing me talk about how I want you?” you say, pressing your hips against his.

“Very much.” His voice is a low purr and you shiver in his arms.

“I’m aching for you to fill me,” you murmur, leaning in to kiss him. “I’m dripping just thinking about it.” You nip at his lower lip and he groans against your mouth. “But first, I want to get on my knees and worship your perfect cock with my mouth.”

There's a low, pleased rumble deep in his chest and you shiver as you draw away. “Sit down.”

He sits down on the foot of the bed and you position yourself in front of him, standing between his spread thighs and lowering yourself to your knees. You run your hands up his thighs, lightly dragging your fingernails along his skin, enjoying the slight hitch in his breath. You kiss the inside of his left knee and slowly make your way up the inside of his left thigh, dragging your tongue along his skin every so often. You continue this all the way up to the crease where his thigh meets his hip, close enough that he can feel the heat of your breath on his beautiful cock.

And then you lean back and begin the same process again on his right leg.

“What,” he says, his voice going deep and dark, “did I say about playing games, Agent?”

You tilt your head to look up at him. He’s staring down at you with a stern look that makes your cunt clench.

“You know, I came so hard earlier, I can’t quite recall,” you say, making your eyes as wide and innocent as you can.

“And if you want to come again tonight, you’ll find a way to remember,” he says. He’s stern and authoritative, and it’s ridiculously hot. “Now put that smart mouth to work on my cock,” he growls.

“Yes, sir.” The phrase just sort of slips out, but the way it makes your cunt ache and his eyes glitter is absolutely delicious.

“Oh, I like those manners, pet,” he purrs. “I want to hear more of that.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you say, pausing to lick your lips, “sir.”

“Good girl.”

His cock is flushed and so hard it presses up against his stomach. You wrap one hand around his shaft and you suck in a breath when your fingers don’t quite meet. He’s huge and the thought of having him inside of you makes you shiver and ache in anticipation.

You stroke him once and lower your mouth to the tip of his cock, placing gentle, closed mouth kisses on it.

He tolerates this for about thirty seconds.

“Agent.” His voice is laced with warning. “I won’t warn you again.”

Your lips curl into a slight smile and you flick your tongue against the tip of his cock, savoring the sharp tang of his pre-come. His eyes glitter down at you, still watching, waiting for you to disobey him.

“Am I not allowed to savor this experience?” you ask, intentionally licking your lips.

“I would urge you to consider that only good girls get to come on my cock, darling,” he says, his voice going dark and deliciously stern. “Choose your next moves wisely.”

The reality is that you desperately want to come on his cock and you wouldn’t put it past him to deny you. So, you offer him a sly smirk before you slowly begin to lick the tip of his cock, gradually opening your lips and bringing him into your mouth.

He groans softly. “You just need a firm hand, don’t you?” he says as you begin to move your head, stroking his shaft in a slow rhythm. His fingers card through your hair as he leans back on one hand, allowing himself to relax a little. “Or perhaps it’s that you want my cock more than you want to be a brat.”

You look up at him and raise an eyebrow. He’s not wrong.

He laughs low in his throat. “Oh, I think I’m going to  have you taking my orders by the time the week is up.” He reaches out to stroke your cheek with his thumb. “You have such a needy little cunt and I rather think that will prove to be an advantage for me.”

Your instinct is to let out a low whine, but you also don’t want to give him the satisfaction. You can’t fully stop yourself from reacting, though, and a soft whimper makes its way out of your lips.

He catches this and smirks. “You like being mouthy and talking back, but I think you also crave a little discipline. Being told what to do gets you off, doesn’t it?”

This time, you do whine and he smiles down at you, eyes hooded. “That works out rather nicely,” he says, his voice dropping deep, “because I quite enjoy giving orders.”

You shiver and he notices, running his fingers through your hair.

“Filthy girl,” he purrs. “We’re going to have so much fun together.” He watches you for a minute, eyes hooded, lips slightly parted. “You’re gorgeous like this, too, you know,” he says. “On your knees with my cock in your mouth like a good girl. I could watch this for hours.” You glance up at him and catch his lazy smile. “Though,” he continues, “I suspect you’ll also look gorgeous riding my cock. Or perhaps spread out and tied to the bed.”

This image is too much for you: a high pitched whine makes its way out of your throat before you can think better of it.

“Oh, you like that idea?” he says, not sounding very surprised at all. “You like the thought of being bound and completely at my mercy?”

Another embarrassing whine escapes you before you can stop it.

“We’ll have to explore that some time this week,” he says. “Though I am starting to develop a rather lengthy list of things I want to do to you.”

Fuck. You are caught between wanting him to keep talking and wanting him to shut up so you stop making such embarrassing noises.

Admittedly, the idea of making him feel so good that you render him speechless is also incredibly appealing.

You suck just a little harder, cheeks hollowing as you start running your tongue along the underside of his shaft, swirling it on the tip as you come up.

His eyebrows draw together, his lips parting slightly. “Fuck. That’s it.”

You pick up your pace just a little and he groans, his hand going to grip your hair.

“Yes—just like that.” His grip tightens on your hair. “If your cunt is even half as good as your mouth—fuck, yes, right there—I’m going to have a hard time leaving this room this week.”

You hum against his cock and he groans, his hips starting to rock toward your mouth. “Do you like this?” he asks, his voice husky. “Do you like being on your knees for me?”

You moan against his cock, sucking harder.

“You do, don’t you?” he says, his voice a little unsteady. “Barely an hour and you’re already such a slut for my cock.”

You moan again, bobbing your head up and down his length.

“Such a good girl,” he purrs. “A bit of a brat to start, but I think I’m going to have to reward you for this. Your mouth is too fucking good.”

Another moan slips past your lips. He groans and is quiet for a minute or two, his hips rocking toward you.

His breath is coming in shaky gasps now. “I’m close, love,” he says, his fingers flexing in your hair. “I’m going to spill myself in your pretty mouth and then I’m going to fuck you into the mattress.”

You can’t help but moan, which seems to spur him on. His lips part and you can almost feel how close he is.

He makes the most beautiful noise as he comes, a low groan that seems to reverberate in your cunt as he empties himself into your mouth. You swallow his release greedily as you continue stroking him, your head moving up and down his length.

You pull off of him slowly, licking your lips and you look up at him, your mouth curling into a smirk. “So, was that a proper enough apology for you?” you ask.

He growls low in his chest, eyes opening to look down at you. “You are still far too pert for your own good,” he says. “I suspect I’m going to have to put you over my knee at some point this week. You need discipline.”

You suck in a deep breath as your cunt clenches at the possibility.

“But right now, I need to fuck you.” He gestures to the bed. “Get up here. Now.”

You don’t need any encouragement to follow this command, but the way that he delivers the order and the way his green eyes get all steely is enough for more slickness to collect between your legs. You clamber to your feet, but before you can even try getting on the bed, he’s pulling you to him and flipping you onto your back. He rolls on top of you, caging you in with his body, his impossibly hard cock throbbing against your stomach.

He kisses you, tongue pressing into your mouth, hungry and claiming. “Do you want me inside you?” he purrs against your lips. “Do you want me to fuck you?”

“I need you to fuck me,” you say, spreading your legs and tilting your pelvis up toward him. “I want you to claim me.”

His smile is sharp and he drags the tip of his cock along your cunt, coating himself in your slickness. “Still so fucking wet,” he growls.

“I told you I need you,” you murmur.

He lines himself up at your entrance and ever so slowly begins easing into you. He presses forward, inch by glorious inch, until his hips are flush against yours.

“Oh fuck,” you breathe. “You feel so good.”

He smiles and withdraws just an inch or two before pressing back in. You arch underneath him and let out a soft moan.

“How about that? Is that good?” he asks.

You moan and nod.

He repeats the action. “And this?”

You offer up another moan and he grins. He repeats the action again, clearly teasing you. “What about this one?”

“Loki, please—”

“What is it darling?”

You’re not quite sure if you want to kiss or slap that smirk right off his face.

“Please don’t stop, please—”

“Oh, you want me to keep doing this?” he says, his brow furrowing in mock confusion. “You should have said something.”

“Loki, please—”

He chuckles quietly and begins rocking his hips against yours in slow, shallow thrusts. You sigh and wrap your legs around his waist, meeting his mouth as he kisses you. You can tell he’s holding back, though.

“I’m not going to break,” you finally say, tilting your hips to rock with his. “I want more. I want you to fuck me.”

He kisses you hard and his thrusts lengthen and deepen, his pace increasing just a hair, and you cry out because he’s now hitting that soft, sweet spot and he feels even better.

“You’re taking me so well, darling,” he says. “This snug little cunt was made for my cock, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” you breathe, arching your back. “Fuck, that’s so good.”

He wraps those long fingers around your ankles and brings your legs up so that they are draped over his shoulders, your body folded in half. He thrusts again and his cock presses even deeper, rubbing against that tender spot inside you. His thumb finds your clit and you whimper. Pressure is starting to build in your hips again.

“You’re getting close already, aren’t you?” he rasps, grinning at you like a devil. “I can feel you starting to tremble.”

You keen, your cunt clenching around his steadily thrusting cock.

“Are you going to be a good girl and come on my cock?” he growls.

You nod, words somewhere beyond you.

“I want you to soak my cock,” he purrs. “Let it all out. Scream for me.”

You feel yourself poised on the edge. So close.

“Come for me, darling, that’s it, let go, come for me, let me feel that sweet cunt milk me dry…”

You arch your back as your orgasm blossoms and unfurls. The sound that falls from your lips is a high pitched keening that would be Loki’s name, except there’s no space for anything besides this incredible feeling, his cock inside you, and the weight of him on top of you.

“Oh there you go, that’s it,” he murmurs. “You have the tightest, most exquisite cunt. I could fuck you for days.”

You moan, shuddering in the final throes, your cunt spasming around his thick cock. He withdraws for a moment and you moan at the loss, but he quickly flips you onto your stomach and slides right back inside you.

From this angle, his cock thrusts even deeper, pressing more directly against your G-spot. A few strokes in and it becomes glaringly apparent to you that you’re going to come again.

“You’re insatiable, aren’t you?” he pants, thrusting hard into you. “I can feel you starting to tremble already.”

You moan into the comforter, arching your back so he hits that spot again.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he scolds, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you up so your back is flush against his chest. “I want to hear every filthy little sound that you make. Every. Last. One.” He thrusts in time with those last three words and you moan.

“You love this, don’t you?” he growls, his hips thrusting hard. “You love me taking you from behind like a fucking animal.”

Your legs are shaking and you can feel your orgasm building. “Loki, I’m gonna come again,” you whimper.

“I know you are, sweet girl,” he growls. “I can feel your tight cunt trembling.” His free hand slides between your legs, fingers rolling over your clit in the same rhythm as his thrusting cock.

Your breath stutters and a low whine escapes your lips. You are deliciously close.

“Please.” Your voice is barely a gasp. You’re riding the very edge of that wave and it feels so good that you’re almost certain the oncoming climax couldn’t possibly feel better. Almost.

“Oh, you’re almost there, love, you can do it,” says Loki, his hand still moving with his hips. “You just need to let go.”

You whimper. You are almost there.

“Be my good girl and let go for me,” he rasps. “Come for me.”

It breaks quite suddenly, your whole body shuddering and your cunt clamping down hard on his cock as you come. The noise you make is animalistic, torn from somewhere deep in your chest.

“Fuck!” Loki is fucking you hard, hips pistoning against your ass. “So fucking tight, you’re like a vise when you come, fuck—” His speech gives way into either Asgardian or Old Norse—you’re not quite sure which, but the idea that you’ve made him feel good enough to abandon English is incredibly appealing.

You’re dreamily floating back down from your high when you hear him make that beautiful noise again, that low, deep groan that falls from his lips only when he comes. You feel his release flood your cunt, hot and thick, as his hips finally start to slow.

It’s another minute or two before he rolls off you, flopping down next to you on the bed. Before you even have a moment to miss him or the comforting weight of his body on yours, he’s wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you close.

You both lie there for a long moment, catching your breath.

You think back to your initial meeting with Fury, when you complained about being sent in with Loki. You’ve never been more pleased to be wrong in your entire life.

“So,” you say once you feel capable of speech, “you said you had some ideas for the rest of the week?”

If you thought his grin was devilish before, it’s nothing compared to what he looks like now as he pulls you on top of him.

“Darling,” he says, his voice dropping an octave. “I thought you’d never ask.”

[thechekhov]

Dungeon Meshi Quick Reacts: CH45

Slumber party!

Fair, but consider: She deserves a little murder. As a treat.

Kabru be like "IS THAT MY BACKSTORY???"

That sure is....a ship. With no one on it.

Ah, shit the Americans are here.

Two things: Toshiro being tended to like a pretty pretty princess is hilarious.

And also, the fact that they think the elves can kill Falin......... hmmm.... Pressing X to doubt.

............... oh. Laios. 😂

But also like. How was he MEANT to keep it silent? Put a little something in it? I thought since it was a magic bell you could code it to only ring when it's shaken with INTENT?

Fancy ass house.

Also, Namari...........are you hitting that yet? Both of that?

Oh, it's backstory time.

Okay one: that's fucking tragic, it sounds like the Elves are just forcing the dungeons closed with no regard for how the ecosystem compensates and what people suffer by being in close proximity......

And another thing: Kabru. Kabru, isn't that what YOU'RE after? Having all the power?

Why is this so much like that one meme where the girls at the party are looking at you.

It's the same picture.

Kabru that's. That's maybe not the way to go about it. you're going to give them MORE reasons to go in.

Nevermind the governor not being into this 'good boy, now sign' talk, Toshiro's kinda right. Ya fucked up Kabru.

No matter how far Laios runs, he cannot escape other people trying to tell him how to live his life. Poor guy. But at the same time...

Is this real? Or a red herring?

Laios' father and mother seemed to be living relatively pious lives. They clearly had a good house, but it didn't seem like they were extremely rich. Then again, perhaps he's just a cousin of royalty? Is that why his parents wanted him to have children?

They want to.... halt the growth of the dungeon? Is this another part of the natural ecosystem of things? Dungeons growing seems to point even more towards the idea that it's a gigantic, fleshpit-like creature instead of simply a construct.

Then again, constructs CAN be creatures. Like the golems.

Elves not understanding how old humans are continues to be hilarious because like.

As humans, we HAVE this same concept of variant aging. Like. Dogs. We understand that dogs live less than us, and mature a lot slower. But this is.... COMMON KNOWLEDGE. Most people do not make it into adulthood without understanding that dogs mature within 1-2 years of their birth.

The fact that elves, a species with FAR more time on their hands, who have lived alongside other races for AGES....... have STILL not got the general concept of aging down....means their education is atrocious. Or they're all not paying attention.

.......this. THIS is the most fascinating concept in this chapter.

The fallen.... turned into MONSTERS.

We know that dying inside the dungeon doesn't mean permanent death. But dying above-ground does.

We know that dying in the dungeon doesn't mean your body turns into a monster (aside from ghosts and ghouls?) ..... but dying aboveground.... DOES......?

WHAT'S THE TRUTH.

👁👁

Hm.

If Kabru and Laios fused, they could almost make one functioning human being.

Senshi just beginning to speak in the middle of his own internal monologue is so real.

...... what's going on there with the expression, buddy?

Bread.......are they STILL carrying around flour with them?! How are they getting bread?!

Also, it's awesome that the eggs are canonically hard to crack, because it makes sense that they don't break during their many fighting events.

Izutsumi really said ◉_◉

Don't tell me Laios, who is sensitive to ghosts has ALSO been seeing things?

Not gonna lie, that's highkey terrifying.

Props to that ghost that's been following Laios around, not ever giving up hope that it can bother him into acknowledging it.

And also - hey, it already saved them once! that means it's probably not evil!

That, or it's the king of the bloody dungeon. Wouldn't that be something!

[ranticore]

Chapter 3 - To Be Phocid [Qedivar's research]

It's that time again. Ishmael is a teenage boy, fair warning.

I'm posting this on mobile so I cba linking the previous chapters but go into the siren tag to find them.

x

Following these events, and at Maris’s insistence, Ishmael began to keep a journal. To the delight of this author, his writing was deep, introspective, and highly detailed. From now on, I no longer had to rely on pieced together scraps and reports, but from a primary source. As such, the way these events are related will shift a little, but that is only for events concerning Ishmael.

Cherta, unfortunately, did not keep a journal at this time and remains frustratingly opaque, given Ishmael’s somewhat biased recounting of their activities. Although one must concede to the difficulties of keeping a journal underwater, before the age of sub-aquatic writing systems, and with eighteen other overambitious adolescents in relatively close proximity.

Ishmael’s journal was recorded on a computerified device and was not written by hand, though his deep dream education had serviced to educate him in handwriting skills. This was tested when he was younger, as part of an evaluation to determine the extent of his dexterity. Although the notion of a form of writing which is stored in a purely hypothetical space is very odd, especially in its permanency, it has enabled us to access his thoughts at this day and age, whereas traditional aquatic knot-writing would have long since rotted away.

He wrote in the language of the Predecessors, which I believe to be the root of all air-speaking language families. The translation of these texts is what has taxed me more than any other part of this process, aside from the grievous bodily harm, and it has taken a fantastic span of time to achieve this translation. I cannot credit my sources for fear of implicating them but you can be assured that the finest minds of the Spire collaborated on this project. This Predecessor tongue is what is spoken in all of the videos, enabling me to learn it to a conversational level, though I am hardly fluent.

Some of the journal is rendered untranslatable due to it referring to objects or concepts which were considered common knowledge at the time, requiring no additional definition. These concepts or objects will be clearly marked. However, I believe much of the text to be familiar to many people, telling of the frustration and longing common and recognisable today. That said, I believe it is also important not to take for granted the relatability.

Ishmael is not always familiar to us and existed in a time we would find nigh incomprehensible. Do not take this as reason to doubt his interiority or personhood, and do not fall into the trap of believing that you would have done better in his place, that you would have seen clearly what he obviously did not (and had good reason not to). They may have been phocids, or the predecessors of phocids, but they were new. If you were the first of your kind, could you do better?

I will now present the text in chronological order, starting from the eve of his sixteenth birthday:

-

Entry 1 – I hate seeing that baby siphonid. It’s still moving. It drags itself around on the leg the researchers didn’t take. Now I’m just going to remember this forever, since I wrote it down. Great. I hate that fucking noise. Why can’t they just get it to shut up?

Thank [deity]. They took it away.

Update – it didn’t even taste good.

-

Entry 2 - Maris told me to talk more about my feelings. What does she know? Nobody understands me anyway. I don’t think they can feel all that on their face like me. The sipho noise kept touching me. The researchers are always talking about hydrofoils and antennae but I bet they don’t know what I do - how the siphos talk to each other. I told Callum and he didn’t know what I meant, even though he has a beard.

Talked to Lee again about sex since Dan said he wouldn’t tell me himself. I don’t think Lee told the truth about a lot of that stuff. The other kids sometimes joke around a bit too much, but it is kinda funny I guess.

Update - Dan shouted at me for asking, but now I have proof Lee was wrong.

-

Entry 3 – The phocids click at each other underwater with their tongues.

Dan got so angry after I pulled my face hair out. He made the interns [untranslatable] search my room for the hairs and they actually found them. They didn’t even do anything with it, just put it in a bag and sealed it away. Looks like nobody wants it at all. Dan says Atom spent 120 billion nua making me, so I think one face hair is worth a few million. If I started selling them to the people outside the lab, I could buy my own stake of land on Siren just like them. I wouldn’t let Lee in. My fingers are probably worth a couple billion each.

Should I

-

Entry 4 – Emer (the intern) looked at me like I did something wrong when she changed my pillowcases.

Spilled bile EVERYWHERE when they were testing me. I keep thinking about somehow saving it and trying to sell it. I’m supposed to be a digestive model for Siren food, so my insides are probably worth a lot. I should ask Dan when he calms down.

Callum came around to talk to Dan again. He’s getting really tall, he’s taller than me now even when I stand up straight. He’s so skinny, like the baby siphonids (I can snap one in half with just my teeth now). When Callum was there, he didn’t want to look at me, but I get it. They didn’t even cook the siphonid this time, it was raw and with the shell on. His leg is the same width as one of them.

Emer won’t stop changing my pillowcases. Is there a way to prevent them from smelling like that?? Callum hasn’t been around so I can’t ask. Maris thinks it’s just because people my age start getting sweaty but Dan specifically told me he made me not have sweat glands anywhere but my hands. Then he said the phocids do have sweat glands. I still don’t get the point of sweating if you’re already a stupid wet rat who lives in the

-

Entry 5 – I’m seventeen now. Since I’m an adult, I decided to stop being reticent around the phocids. I want to know if they found a comfortable way to walk without the skin coming off their tails. So I went to talk to them today for the first time. There is a window where you can do it, they let it open ever since the climate control got busted again last month.

Cherta is really weird. I knew they couldn’t stay in the pool for very long because they might have a seizure but apparently it can happen any time, not just underwater. They have a button implant that makes their muscles relax. Anyway, their tails have thicker skin than mine so that was useless. But it is still worthwhile, I think, to meet with the phocids. They remind me why I am a human, and they are not. I kind of pity them because all they're ever going to be is a bunch of test subjects in a tiny swimming pool.

Cherta told me that one of the phocids died a year ago. I don’t remember Dan ever talking about it to me, but they said it was a big deal. Apparently they got pressure sickness when climate control broke the first time. I think Cherta broke it the second time, they sounded too proud to mention it. I don’t get it. Anyway, breaking stuff in the lab is against the rules and I think I’m going to tell Dan about that.

-

Entry 6 – I made the right choice. Cherta got so angry when they found out I told on them that they had another seizure. The other phocids had to pull them out of the pool. Dan thought I did the right thing but I don’t think he liked me going to tell Cherta about it afterwards, told me no one likes a snitch. Well, then, what am I supposed to do? Just let it happen? I hope Cherta chokes on that gross pool water next time.

Dan suggested I go do something other than visit the phocids and I agree, they’re clearly not worth my time. I went to see Callum instead but he wasn’t in. He has a games console, I saw him show it off to Lee the other day. I wonder if he’d let me try it.

[End of Journal Entries]

-

It paints an interesting picture. As Ishmael mentions, Cherta suffered permanent neurological issues as a result of their birth mishaps. This was a point of contention within the lab, beyond Ishmael’s knowledge; the finance manager of the settlement questioned the wisdom of keeping a test subject in an aquatic locomotion study group who could not spend much time underwater. Every time, however, Dan Loris would respond that Cherta now provided essential information about phocid neurology and drowning mechanisms.

The phocid whose death Ishmael mentions was number seventeen, Ambla. It is highly likely that number seventeen’s death was accidental, but the circumstances were not caused by a failure of the lab’s climate system.

I have found the experimental notes from that day; Ambla was brought to an isolated chamber which was controlled by the climate system, with its own test pool, and the quality of the atmosphere was changed to match that of the Precursor home planet. The force of gravity was thus increased. What the Humans did not expect was Ambla’s sudden inability to swim to the surface. They inhaled water, which settled in their lungs and caused them to drown even after they had been pulled out of the pool.

Dan expressed grief in his notes, and surprise. He did not understand why such a thing would occur and blamed the climate system for somehow altering the test beyond his parameters. This is likely what led to Cherta’s misconception that the climate system had killed one of their friends, and their subsequent sabotage of the climate system every few months after that.

But any phocid or selkie reading this will intimately recognise the problem, and I believe the mystery of Ambla’s death may now be solved. The water taken to fill the pool was likely Tel!am’s Blood, a phenomenon all sea-faring people will know about. The Precursors, it seemed, were unfamiliar with it, and had pumped water in to the pool which nobody could swim in. But with the increased gravity, even the fittest phocid would struggle to rise in shallow water.

Regardless, there exists a substantial gap between that last journal entry and the next. Almost a year, in fact, when Ishmael did not write at all, and neither did he participate in Maris’s therapy sessions. I do, however, have a copy of Callum’s journal with me which provides at least half of the narrative, incomplete as it is.

[definitelynotshouting]

Hello again! My ADHD has decided that the Hunger AU is to be my newest hyperfixation, and as such I have some more questions/interpretations I'd like to push forward, if that's alright. As always, no pressure in responding, and I hope this ask is fun to read :)

First off, I was going through some of your Listener posts for Reasons and I noticed a little tidbit in one of them: Watchers cannot feed off of the emotions of Listeners. If this is still the case, why were Martyn and BigB in the Life Games, if Grian can't feed on them, and were their mindsets still adversely affected? Could Grian (or theoretically, any Watcher) tell something was Off about them this way?

Another thing I noticed was that all Watchers are essentially clones of each other. Passing by the question of ecological diversity (I might think on that a different time), this implies that Grian, or at least, the Watcher-larvae that got implanted in him prior to all the code-copying, is a copy of another Watcher. Am I reading this right? Because if so that has implications and I love it.

And finally the biggest thing that's been on my mind: the Void (or the in-between, I've seen both). The space between servers. This thing has vexed and fascinated me since I read chapter one of your fic months ago. I think I've come to my own interpretations on the space, but I'd love to hear what you have plotted as well. For example, you mentioned that Developer Crystals are sort of hubs for servers - considering how you talked about it, the number of servers they can support must be pretty high. I've come to think of it kind of like a galaxy - and elliptical galaxy to be specific. Is this a correct way to think about it?

You've mentioned that being out in the in-between is dangerous for those not prepared - how much training does it take to be a Voidwalker? How does inter-server travel for regular players work? Are there extra steps that need to be taken when traveling from one Crystal's hub to another?

And on a personal interpretation note, I interpret the Void as looking kind of like space (as you often refer to in your work), but also... not. Specifically, when you talked about Developer Crystrals, I imagined them looking kind of like the Paths from Attack on Titan, just minus the ground (and being a lot bigger).

One final question, since it's been bothering me for ages: how does the ground work in the Void? It's been killing me since chapter 1.

Sorry for the massive ask, but it takes a particular sort of worldbuilding for me to come up with so many questions. I'm really having a fun time working with these rules - so thank you for making them!

Heyo!! I finally got a chance to answer this, which ive been trying to do since you sent it but unfortunately real life had other plans 😂😂😂 but i have the time and brain now, so here are hopefully some satisfying answers to your questions!!! :D

1.) BigB becoming a Listener was relatively recent; he was still a Player when he got pulled into the life games. As for Martyn, i think that because Listeners are so new, he was probably the first one Grian had ever encountered (at the time of 3rd Life at least). So he didn't realize he couldn't feed off of Martyn's emotions-- all he saw, in that half-frantic frenzy of "i need to eat right fucking now," was hey, i know that guy, and he's also in close proximity to BigB, so Grian sorta automatically pulled him in.

Afterwards, I'd say once Grian figured out he couldn't feed from him, he still ended up pulled in the next two times because of the familiarity (and because for as much as Grian can't feed off of him, Martyn still causes a lot of edible emotions in other people). But yeah, any Watcher would be able to tell if someone was a Listener!! And Listeners are able to tell if somebody is a Watcher, although their Player usually won't understand what that means beyond "hey theres something Weird going on with that guy."

2.) Yep!! All watchers are structural-code and utility-code copies of each other; their memory codes and surface codes are the only things that differentiate them from one another. This does indeed have some very fun implications to ruminate on fjsbdkdnd

3.) I'm not sure if i would describe dev crystals as a "hub," if only because that sorta implies that they're habitable-- but they are indeed the center of each server cluster, and i would honestly say the description of an elliptical galaxy is totally spot on :] they can indeed maintain a high amount of servers, but if the count grows too high then they can overload and stop processing the flow of unraveled code as efficiently, which can then cause backups, which then make them blow up, which is. obviously, pretty not good akdnwkdjek

Think of the void between servers as the bottom of the ocean. Absolutely crushing depths, the kind that will kill you in an instant if you don't have the right protective gear. Voidwalkers are basically people who are so good at coding that they can keep their code from getting pulverized and walk right through it like they're taking a casual morning stroll. It takes a ton of effort and energy to do, and is very dangerous-- i would say you have to be EXCEPTIONALLY quick-thinking, an efficient multitasker, and have a lot of practical foresight to achieve it without dissolving. Hence why there aren't many of them, and I'd honestly say Xisuma is probably one of, if not the, best. The fact that he was able to take five people including himself into the in-between, and keep them all alive, is INSANE. Brother outdid himself truly

As for interserver travel, thats something im currently working on lore-wise (and will hopefully be able to post about soon)!!! But the basic gist im working off of right now is that there are servers that act as server hubs, or waystations-- basically servers whose only purpose is to act as an in between point to access other servers. I'm toying with the idea of special portals called launchers, and the concept of zip files/share folders + creating folds in the fabric of the Greater Code to cross vast distances within a short distance. If you've read A Wrinkle In Time, thats the sorta thing im thinking of. But unfortunately right now its all spaghetti in my brain, so im still working on straightening that out until i can explain my thoughts coherently 💀💀💀💀

I can say rn that travel between dev crystals and their server clusters is not possible just yet. The universe is fucking HUGE, and there are countless devs and server clusters within it; the ability to travel between them isnt quite feasible right now, but it'll get there eventually :] not within the scope of the main story, though-- all of that fully takes place in this single corner of the universe

For dev crystals themselves, i picture them looking a lot like giant end crystals!!! the thought is that end crystals are basically like. a mini version of a dev, and that the beams you see healing the ender dragon are bursts of raw code pulled in from the rest of the server. so yeah, end crystals except massive on a scale we can barely comprehend and also ten million times more explosive (and more capable of handling the stability of an entire server cluster so it doesnt collapse in on itself)

4.) LAST BUT NOT LEAST. I. will fully admit when i wrote the walking on the void it was, at the time, a purely aesthetic choice. But i am legitimately thinking now about the implications of that, and toying with a few concepts that i wanna noodle on more before i fully commit to them. Sorry for leaving it a mystery for now!!!! 😂😂😂😂 it'll probably get answered in the post i'll eventually make about launchers and interserver travel

hope these were helpful and continue fueling your brainrot!!! thanks for being patient while i wrangled my brain enough to answer them :]❤️❤️❤️❤️

[bluewinnerangel]

Harry's band still has 'Chicago' on their overalls. Harry set up a phone box so people could call him from Chicago 👀

Okay anon I had to come across some twitter threads to see what you were getting at and let's sum it up yeah, a list of coincidences, things to do with larry and Chicago. I'm probably gonna miss a bunch (and prob not gonna list a bunch of others- i barely see the logic in these being intentional already), soo its a bunch of things that are in the realm of chicago + bears + phones/calling + home coinciding? I guess? Anyway:

Obviously the main point that's making us talk about this is Louis releases the song Chicago. With lines like "if you're lonely in Chicago you can call me (baby)" (that's not whole the takeaway of the song but I'm bringing in TSBL in a later point so we're highlighting her)

Adding here he said its half based on real events half theoretical, and he does have an affiliation to Chicago:

To start off with your points, during Harry's Chicago residency in October 2022, there was a phone booth at the venue and llama Doris posted about it (they havent much since :( ), with a description about calling Home.

Harry's band wears overalls with names of cities they've performed at, since Chicago some have showed up on stage with the name on it, for instance Mitch yesterday (that is nov 25th 2022.). I don't know how often they wear what. The band was also wearing Chicago overalls (Sorry for shit pic) on Nov 9th 2022, but like again I have no clue what they wear every other night.

On that note, nov 9th 2022 was also when the Silver Tongues mv released, and the shirt Louis wore in it, the Englandy Homey one, he was last seen weaing innnnnn padapadapada Chicago! (Feb 2022) (He wore it on stage before in Indianapolis)

Sidetrack on recent music videos, somehow the Sushi mv features a dude wearing a shirt that says "LT HS SENIORS", from a high school in Chicago. Although I think the highlight here is LTHS idk how many LT highschools are there to pick from if we're going for intent here.

More sidetrack on the Silver Tongues note: first teased couple days before it via photoshopped phone (or was it even, unclear, maybe a ref to all the calling lyrics in FITF incl. Chicago, is the phone in the mv?, he just said have a phone via youtube xoxo):

During Harry's 2022 Chicago shows he did some ring related stuff ( pointing a sign out in the crowd) and posted that pic of him with a ring backstage that looks like he was making fun of all the peace ring talk lol

During Harry's 2021 Chicago show(s sept 24 and 25), this was I believe the only time (or one of the rare occasions) there were mentions of Home playing before the show - artists pick

In 2021 he also first played To Be So Lonely ("don't call me baby again - it's hard for me to go home - to be so lonely") at Chicago night 2, mind this is the 12th show of the tour and only then added it, and it was and continued to be bathed in bluegreen lights (but then he got bullied into playing it thr previous shows and especially chicago night 1 so that's most likely the reason eh... and also i hope the fans never do that again.)

During one of the 2021 shows he also found 2 people in the crowd in Chicago where he went off (paraphrasing, check link) YOU LOVE EACH OTHER? [out of the fking blue:] YOURE BEST FRIENDS?? GET MARRIED. Mind you this was a few days before a 4 day break including September 28 so I can think of better reasons than the place he was at if we wanna read into that fhfhdhd. This was also when we got those Louis spotted in uh relative close proximity receipts.

For Louis' 2022 tour the only exit song among the massive list of curated post show songs that still stands out to me (although yes I can place it in the list of songs-we-fucked-around-with-on-stage-during-1d like I can make it make sense still thematically it's a detour from the rest imo) is Ceelo Green's Fuck You, yepyep played in Chicago

Were going back in time now: Louis got his 28 tattoo in Chicago in 2015 (together with the buttpenguin which keeps being brought up in current interviews)

In 2015, 1Ds Chicago show featured these bears:

Like there's so much shit going on here there's a masterpost.

Basically the worst in terms of things to read into. Go read that post.

Again 2015 when the rainbow bears came up with this sign, borrowed from the Chicago Bears. (See the logo bottom right). Now that is the first sign you find on the Google when you try to find a sign about bears coming out so again seems coincidental, but still.

(Also green bay packers <> chicago bears? Eh? Eh.)

There was an attempt to get them points together tumblr. They're gathered from all over the place but instigated by anon as well as this thread woop credit.

Honestly I think we just notice more Chicagos now? They're just being their regular home calling rbbsbbs and also do that in chicago and thats it lol. On the other I do like to entertain the thought they for whatever reason have this connection with Chicago (also yes im very much aware of stunt related connections) and its showing in the quirky stuff they do beyond the obvious (being writing a song called Chicago huh).

Out of all this the one thing that does make me go OKAY THEN is Harry first playing TSBL in Chicago, 12 shows in, bluegreening, the idea Ls around at the time, and then a year later blep parallels Louis' Chicago.

Oh also I think getting the 28 tat in Chicago could be significant. He sure still knows that number dhdhdhss

[whentranslatorscry]

Chapter 1: Kakushidate Yakusuke Being Hospitalized (3/3)

At last, the puzzle pieces fell into place.

Kondou-san's request was to find out what exactly was the malaise he felt. He wanted to know "that feeling" which he himself could not articulate and I also could not sense just by listening to his account.  

Of course, if there was nothing, there was no way of knowing what to find out, and even if there was something, Kyouko-san might not necessarily be able to point it out.

After Satoi-sensei's case and then Sunaga-sensei's case, Kondou-san probably overestimates Kyouko-san's abilities more than necessary. She really just happens to be relatively better at strictly abiding by confidentiality agreements; she is not omnipotent.

Well, maybe Kondou-san only meant to smooth things over in his own way of doing things. He seems to be trying to play matchmaker between me and Kyouko-san at every opportunity. But he shouldn't have the leisure to be concerned about our idle affairs, with his circumstances.

"No no, Yakusuke. I know what you're trying to say, but I have my reasons too. It has to be Okitegami-san, no one else. Of course since this isn't something I want brought to light now, it's natural I want it handled in absolute secrecy, but the point I want to emphasize in particular this time is speed, rather than secrecy. And that's why I need Okitegami Kyouko. I mean to rely on Okitegami-san's talent as the fastest detective. As we're far too pressed for time."

"Pressed for time...? What do you mean?"

Yes, in addition to "the forgetful detective" Kyouko-san had another nickname: "the fastest detective." But why the urgent need for speed?

A week had already passed since the incident. I hate to say it, but at this point, no matter how fast we are, it may be too late.

"I'm aware that Fumoto-sensei is going through a tough time, but 'Verywell' is a weekly serial manga after all,"

Said Kondou-san, practical as always.  

He said he wouldn't stop an artist that really wants to quit, but as the editor-in-chief of the manga magazine, he seemed reluctant to let the artist he had high hopes for leave the industry just like that.

Just as a detective must keep secrets, he said,

"Manga artists, too, got deadlines to meet."

Chapter 2: Kakushidate Yakusuke Commissioning

1

"I'm Okitegami Kyouko, the forgetful detective. Nice to meet you."

The next day. As usual, even though it wasn't our first meeting, Kyouko-san appeared again with the same greeting and walked up to the bed in the center of the hospital room.  

"Oh."

She stared intently at my right leg—right thigh, specifically, where the fracture was and the cast was put on.

"K-Kyouko-san?"

I asked, baffled and anxious about her fixed gaze and our unexpected proximity.

"Nothing, pardon me,"

Kyouko-san straightened her hitherto hunched back.

"I fancy the idea of a broken bone. So I lose myself while inspecting one."

It was quite something to say in front of someone nursing broken bones. Well, I suppose it made for a suitable icebreaker for our supposed first meeting. Maybe breaking my bones was worth it after all.

Was it, though?

However, it didn't seem to be just a joke to close the first meeting distance. Because Kyouko-san said,

"Let me touch it for a bit!"

Without even waiting for my consent, and she touched the plaster cast on my right arm as if examining a patient, speaking as she did— huh, getting a cast makes you so popular, I felt like I was back in school.

Maybe it was the hospital setting, Kyouko-san— already with white hair— was dressed entirely in white. She wore an embroidered long dress with a coarse striped cotton blouse with long sleeves, and had a thin silk scarf wrapped around her neck—the only black item were her conspicuously dark glasses frames.

"My, how wonderful, how cool."

Why was she so fascinated with a plaster cast... She acted as though scrutinizing a piece of evidence that would crack a case, and I could only let her do as she pleased. 

Some people really have incomprehensible hobbies. 

I don't believe my plaster cast had anything to do with the case... Well, during the "Unreturned, Unprocessed" incident, it was by picking up the smallest threads of clues left at the scene that Kyouko-san succeeded in grabbing the culprit.

Regarding this middle school girl's attempted suicide case, perhaps from the two plaster casts on my body she really could dig up a truth that would make one's jaw drop— I didn't dare casually ask what she was doing.

Rather than compromise, I asked Kyouko-san this.

"Have you never broken a bone before?"

With no other intention than the literal meaning of the words.

"Never! That's why I'm so fascinated by it!"

She replied, not sparing a glance at me and continuously touching the plaster cast. I couldn't just blithely accept her answer at face value. 

Kyouko-san, being a detective who loved to put herself in danger, it was hard to imagine she had never been injured before—even if she thought she had never broken a bone, it was likely just that she had forgotten.

2

With Kyouko-san wholly absorbed in the plaster on my hand and leg, allow me to explain the defining traits of this forgetful detective. When I first commissioned her she was still a detective known only to those in the know, but lately the forgetful detective's fame has steadily risen; perhaps you have already heard of her. 

But with her being the forgetful detective, some may have already forgotten.

Okitegami Kyouko, chief of Okitegami Detective Agency. 

Though since it was a one-person company, she was both the chief and the sole employee, handling everything from business to PR to accounting by herself—a detective without a Watson at her side.

Such a lone wolf of a detective was a bit of a rare sight.

I understood even then that she was highly skilled, but the defining trait of Kyouko-san as a detective was not actually her abilities. As can be inferred from her nickname of "forgetful detective," the keyword for her was: forgetful.

Kyouko-san only has today. 

Her memories reset every day—sleep the night, wake in the morning, and everything that happened the day before is wiped clean from her mind.

No matter what kind of investigation she participated in or what kind of truths she uncovered—the client's affairs or the murderer's affairs, all information would vanish like smoke, without exception. 

All memories erased.

Strictly speaking, for a detective whose job implied prying into others' secrets and exploring the underbelly of society, this was an extremely advantageous trait. From a confidentiality viewpoint, there simply couldn't be a more stalwart assurance from any other detective.

It was indeed because of this quirk that Kyouko-san had also undertaken many commissions that delved into state secrets or international affairs. Even dangerous requests that could threaten her life if exposed, which most detectives would shy away from, she investigates fearlessly.

It's so miraculous it's more of a gift from nature than a quirk. Of course, such an advantage comes with its challenges.

Her memory resets daily— meaning no matter the case, it has to be solved within a day— because the evidence gathered and deductions made would be forgotten in a day.  

Be it intricate cases or impossible crimes, she is on the clock.

The Forgetful Detective, while maintaining an absolute seal of secrecy, must also abide by a time limit—otherwise she cannot complete her tasks. Thus was born "the fastest detective."

Being forgetful, she became the fastest— the fastest detective was none other than the forgetful detective.

The famed detective solving any case in a day— to be precise, when taking on a commission, "can it be solved within a day" was her criteria, and only when she was sure that it could be solved would the Okitegami Detective Agency take on investigating the case. In other words, the reason Kyouko-san took on this case—the middle school girl suicide case introduced through me by Kondou-san—despite it being a request that looked to the layman's eyes like it didn't even have a place to begin, was that she was convinced the tangled knot could be undone within the day.

3

"Ah... This has been most satisfying. Thank you." 

Kyouko-san said some incomprehensible words of thanks and finally let me off the hook. Due to my propensity to be wrongly accused, I've had the forgetful detective help me out of trouble several times, but I was beginning to genuinely worry whether I had simply missed opportunities in the past to realize this woman might actually be a dangerous character… So, her decision to spare me left me sighing with relief from the depths of my being.

By the looks of it, (it looked like she'd really had enough fun, so naturally) her frolicking with my plaster cast hadn't been her true purpose for this visit; Kyouko-san finally came to the point.

"As we're pressed for time, we best get down to work. You're Kakushidate Yakusuke, yes? Pleased to make your acquaintance."

Without even knowing who I was, she just felt her way over my broken areas in that very pressed time. Just what was her deal?

Also, just to reiterate, even though the forgetful detective had helped get me out of trouble multiple times, Kyouko-san had, predictably, forgotten all about those past instances. Be it the first or the hundredth time, to her I was always a first-time acquaintance.

Even if we forget her merits as the forgetful detective, the fastest detective, even if she wasn't at the apex of the field, Kyouko-san was still an exceptionally capable detective. But my hesitation to seek her help each time stemmed from my reluctance to endure this blow.

Hence I only sought Kyouko-san's help when I absolutely needed to 'forget' or needed the 'fastest' solution, or like this time, when someone had asked me to introduce them.

...Come to think of it, I hadn't even introduced myself yet, and Kyouko-san said "nice to meet you," so how did she know who I was? I did give my name when I called this morning to request her services, but she shouldn't know that the person on the phone was I.  

Perhaps my puzzled expression gave it away, and Kyouko-san pointed to the bed railing.

"Voilà."

More specifically, she was pointing at the patient name card attached to the bed railing— which had my name, Kakushidate Yakusuke, written on it along with date of birth and blood type.  

This observation may seem trivial—hardly what one would call the "observational skills required of a detective." But perhaps that's what deduction is, the accumulation of such minute discoveries.

"The time now is ten past ten."

Paying no heed to my admiration, Kyouko-san glanced at the clock placed by the hospital room window. As she said, the hour and minute hands formed a nice angle.

We'd agreed to meet earlier at ten.

In other words, Kyouko-san had spent exactly ten minutes playing with my broken bones despite the limited time. I regretted allowing her to waste ten of those minutes like this.

Despite the fault not being mine.

"A complex situation we are dealing with. We’ll have to coordinate our plans with both Kondou-san and Fumoto-sensei. Regardless, let's set our initial goal to solve this within the next twelve hours. That is to say, by ten tonight!"

"Wait… twelve, twelve hours!?"

I exclaimed in surprise at the revelation of such a specific timeframe. The fastest detective however considered this more than ample.

She had planned a meeting with Konodu-san and Fumoto-sensei that afternoon to discuss the details. Understandably, she meant to provide ample time for that.

"Firstly, allow me to pose a few questions to you. Though you haven't directly contracted me, you nonetheless seem involved in this case,"

With a decisiveness unimaginable from someone idly playing with plaster, Kyouko-san got straight to business with the utmost efficiency. 

"Ye-yes, I am,"

I answered. There was no denying my involvement as I'd been at the heart of the incident and nearly lost my life as a consequence.

She then persisted,

"Before we proceed, Kakushidate-san, is it safe to assume you hold no murderous intent towards the middle school girl?"

With a question that sapped all my strength away.

My hand and leg already broken, how was I supposed to go on living if I kept getting sapped like this— but if you said getting questions like these was normal, then so be it.

It appears Kyouko-san wanted to start by confirming whether I was "truly" falsely accused or not. This was not meant specifically for me; as a fundamental part of Kyouko-san's attitude as detective she seemed to have an unshakable creed that "the client lie."

It was a lonely but accurate truth.

In my eyes, a relationship where we'd known each other for so long yet were unable to build any trust, filled with unspeakable futility and emptiness.

Not unexpected that we couldn't get close to each other, her being the forgetful detective and all...

"Before I received the call and arrived here, I had already glanced through the contents. Some media reports referred to it in passing, so I wanted to reconfirm. Please don't take it to heart,"

Kyouko-san said. It was clear to me she was waiting for a response; she wouldn't gloss over it.

"No such thing ever happened,"

I said helplessly.

"I didn't know what happened initially. My mind was empty; I could not remember anything. All I remember was leaving work for home. I heard a cracking noise followed by a blackout. Next thing I knew, I woke up in a hospital bed, buried under an almost unbelievable reality— a girl had plunged from the top of a building on top of me. This preposterous fact, I only learned about later,"

I was beset with overwhelming woe, so much so I sighed to the heavens. As if my luck couldn’t get any worse, I became a prime suspect. The sprawling details that came later were enough to make me hang my head and weep.

"I see. It would be a long shot to calculate the exact time and place of her landing. Just catching her, let alone rushing forward to harm her, quite a stretch."

"Right, right? I can't fathom why they would accuse me."

I sent her a plea for help unconsciously, just like old times. Clearly it wasn't about clearing my name this time, but it seemed I had grown the habit of seeking her help whenever I saw her.

That being said, although I chose to ignore those reports soon enough, they were, just like Kondou-san said, lacking in authenticity. Therefore, the widely discussed reports began to die down the day before yesterday. Or perhaps they were preparing to sensationalize other trends; just the nature of media.

"But Kakushidate-san, didn’t you notice? If you had seen the middle school girl falling, you could've dodged,"

She asked this quite naturally.

If I had dodged, while I'd be unharmed, it wouldn't be the case for the middle school girl. She was gravely wounded and unconscious. She might have died instantly if I'd stepped away. From a detective's standpoint, it was a reasonable question. I wasn't saintly enough to assert I wouldn't have dodged if I had noticed.

Because I did not see it coming, it led to this misfortune.

On a side note, it’s rare for one to walk on the street and look straight up— who would anticipate a girl falling on them from the sky?

"I understand. I will choose to believe you,"

Said Kyouko-san, seemingly accepting my word. I gave a sigh of relief and the burden lifted upon her trusting me, but suddenly, she spoke again.

"Kakushidate."

Did she still have doubts about me? I felt disheartened.

But that was not the case at all; as she’d said, her investigation of me was finished. Because what Kyouko-san had asked next was:

"Since ‘Kakushidate’ is kind of a mouthful, may I address you as ‘Yakusuke’ from now onwards?"

4

Kyouko-san only has today. All memories of before yesterday, without exception, are wiped clean and reset to zero— but experiences remain. 

Since we've known each other so long, her body still remembers even if her mind doesn't, that's why she wants to call me Yakusuke— or was thinking like that a bit optimistic? Just wishful thinking?  

The real reason was probably just that Kakushidate is harder to pronounce than Yakusuke, or perhaps because the latter has fewer syllables and saves a bit of time— or maybe it's just based on the rationale of choosing the "fastest" option. It's also possible she just felt like it today (or maybe touching the fracture elated her), and the next time we meet, with her reset memories, she's sure to go back to calling me Kakushidate.

Just a trivial thing of this degree.

Such a trivial thing made my heart flutter yet Kyouko-sam herself didn’t seem to care in the slightest, carrying on as if I had already agreed.

“Yakusuke-san, when I got your call, I already heard the rough situation from you, but allow me to rearrange it.”

The fastest detective does not stand still. "Aside from the marvelous… oh, I mean, serious harm you suffered, this time I'm asked to investigate the reason for a middle school girl's suicide attempt, correct?"

Prev | Next

[taviokapudding]

I have another Genshin theory/thought but it’s controversial

Hear me out

Xiao could be Khaenri’ahn / Sal Vindagnyr descendant

1. The karma will eventually make him turn into a monster, similar to the curse of the Khaenri’ahns

2. The demons he fights tend to usually be corrupted hilichurls or monsters trained by the abyss

3. It’s implied the karma got worse after the Calamity & the celestial nail in the mines is identical to the one on dragonspine. Maybe Celestia uses a similar curse every time they drop a nail & that’s why Xiao has his karma that’s similar but not exactly the same to the hilichurl - whether it’s genetic or from being close enough to ground zero by the mines is unknown

4. he has Diamond shaped pupils that match Kaeya, Albedo, & Dainsleif more than Zhongli

5. all the Yaksha who wore diamonds in their designs turned into monsters that had to be put down- why were only they affected if they’re also adepti like Cloud Retainer?

6. we don’t actually know where he’s from nor if his master was a precursor to Durin but, since Xiao eats snow, we at least know he lived on Dragonspine before Morax freed him. Gold always returns to Dragonspine and may have tapped into a fallen god’s energy to create Durin - we don’t have all the information but just enough to open speculation since Khaenri’ahn ruins, irminsul ruins that match the material domains, and technology are littered all over Dragonspine

7. his karma acts up while he’s in the mines looking for answers- does his proximity to the celestial nail and remnants of Khaenri’ah hurt him and that’s why Zhongli kept him from searching for answers for so long?

8. during his burst, a female voice whispers to him- that might be the Goddess of Heavenly Principals

9. 2 of the remaining original 7 actively visit and treat his depression & karma - why do they continue to keep tabs on him & encourage him to remain alive in comparison to everyone else they know? Also why are they not affected by his corruption when by technicality they should be now that they lack gnosi

10. he’s about the same age if not 500 years older than Venti so there’s a very small chance he could’ve witnessed or had family who witnessed the end of Sal Vindagnyr

11. the fallen Knights of Khaenri’ah have similar black smoke to Xiao’s karma smoke

12. technically there’s never been confirmation that Khaenri’ahns were formerly humans and Gold is clearly using alchemy to prolong their age - adepti could be distant relatives or similar beings

13. all characters affected by a Khaenri’ah related curse/abyss corruption are able to find peace by being with the traveler in some form or fashion + respond to music positively

[trespeak]

wrote a thing about that one game and where my own head's at with it a few days ago. it's not meant to be a formal essay or anything (and 100% more of a personal perspective thing rather than a "here's why thing bad" read)

but yeah

My folks are probably going to play the Wizard Game.

I’m not mad at them for it or anything. It might be a bit disappointing, but they’re not in tune with these things, the way the people reading this probably are. I feel like it would be hard to explain to them the specifics of why supporting anything Wizard Universe-related these days feels like an indirect attack on some of the people I care about the most beyond my blood relatives.

I guess I’m also trying to be a bit more nuanced with the ways to handle things like these, where my own reaction to something isn’t always going to match up with that of others, even those I’m in close proximity to. My brother listens to a fair amount of artists I keep out of my own rotations (Kanye, Tory Lanez, XXXTENTACION, etc.) and I hear Chris Brown regularly when I visit my parents or my big sister. They know I’m usually not happy about it, but I’m not going to police what they’re into or anything.

When you look at the things I love these days, you’ll find that many of them are the pieces of media I grew up with. Adventure Time, Homestuck, HTTYD, The Hitchhiker’s Guide, list continues. One of my family’s shared interests I had growing up ended up being something I’ve found myself wanting to interact with as minimally as possible in my modern life, though. I think you can guess which one.

Even if Wizard Game ended up being a 10/10 GOTY contender, playing it would always have this undercurrent of discomfort going through the whole experience — and not the good kind, the intentional kind. It’s nestled in a world I once felt comfortable with but these days find myself isolated and disconnected from.

Every time I’ve engaged with the whole sorting business it’s given me the Badger House. The “everyone else we can’t find a defining trait for” group, sure, but the one trait that the house does have, its loyalty? You know, I guess I am loyal. To the family I was born into, sure, but to the family I’ve built over the years, too. If playing the game makes one of those families happy at the cost of the safety of the other, I’d rather not bother at all.

If we’re being honest, the Wizard Book was always more of a thing my older sister was really into first and foremost. I happened to have enough interest to keep it around, but I read so many other things growing up that it wasn’t ever on a pedestal for me. If I take a longitudinal look at every story I’ve ever enjoyed over the years, going back as far as my childhood, I’ve always been AWARE/mildly invested in mainstream fare, but the things that speak to who I actually am tend to exist more on the fringes. Box office failures that had to claw their way to cult classic status, sales disappointments on store shelves, shows that got two season runs before unceremonious cancellations. The weird shit.

(The more popular pieces of media I love sort of prove that point by being, for the most part, unabashedly themselves in feeling. People love Adventure Time because there’s nothing else quite like it. Spiderverse blew the roof off of modern CGI for a reason. Attempts to reverse engineer the Destiny 2 formula have resulted in expensive failure. You know the vibes.)

Which, I think, is why the Wizard Book has never been as much of a priority for me. Life would go on without it for me. It pretty much already does — minor bits like digging up my Redhead Wizard wand out of the closet or having a Badger House robe aside. (Neither of which I bought for myself, by the way.) It’s not a be-all-end-all for me, the way it can sometimes seem to be for them. My big sis interpreting my eventual lightning bolt tattoo as a Wizard Book thing is fine, I’m not going to stop her from believing that. I know it’ll make her happy to believe that. A bit of a white lie just to keep the peace, I guess.

I think if my folks ask me why I’m not playing the Wizard Game, I’m gonna be honest and say I’m more interested in the games that speak to my modern taste (without saying as much, granted — I think it might come as something of a shock to everyone if I said I wasn’t a fan anymore).

It’s the path that’s probably the most loyal to myself, too — I’m the same person I’ve always been. I think in terms of media, the foreseeable future of my gaming life’s going to be spent…

- catching up on the stuff I felt like I would’ve enjoyed from my childhood/adolescence but missed out on (like Dead Space)

- finding the new shit that’s cool and in my wheelhouse (Hi-Fi Rush :)

- and keeping in touch with the stuff I love now (Lightfall)

That’s all I got. Trans rights are human rights. All my homies hate TERFs.

[altheterrible]

I'm not very good at being loved, or loving back, but I'm going to keep trying gdi

I've spent most of my life completely detached from other people; up until 2012 or so, I even fit the diagnostic criteria for schizoid personality disorder. I'm just now learning what it feels like to touch someone else's soul and let them touch mine. Even with the friendships I've had for a decade, I have only recently begun to truly understand what it is to be loved and to love someone else. It's terrifying and beautiful.

I read about schizoid personality disorder when I was maybe 14 years old, and even then I thought it was an eerily apt description of what was going on in my mind. To clarify, the criteria for SPD from the DSM-5 are as follows (American Psychiatric Association, 2013)

A persistent pattern of disinterest from social interactions and a limited variety of expression of emotions in a close personal settings, starting in early adulthood and there in an array of contexts, as shown by at least four (or more) of the subsequent:

neither wants nor likes close relationships, counting being part of a family

almost constantly picks introverted activities

has little if any, thought in engaging in any sexual experiences

seldom derives pleasure from any activities

has no close friends other than immediate relatives

appears apathetic to the admiration or disapproval of others

shows emotional coldness, detachment, or flattened affectivity

This described me to a T. I wouldn't seek out relationships of any kind, and I put no effort into deepening or even maintaining the ones that formed incidentally through school or work. My favorite activities were those that didn't require socializing--playing the piano (as a soloist), reading, and video games (before online playing was a thing). I didn't care about sex and sexual relationships (still true; different reason). My only close relationship was with my sister, and even she didn't know 75% of what was going on in my head. I didn't care about other people's opinions of me, because I thought other people were completely irrelevant. And even the activities I liked best rarely made me feel any kind of long term pleasure because I was just so... disconnected. Dissociated. I felt completely hopeless constantly and questioned if a life like mine was worth living.

Things started changing a little bit when I got into writing fanfic and participating in fandom. That was the first time I found myself enjoying being part of any kind of community. I started to make friends with people in the same fandom circles as me, but they weren't just incidental friendships based on proximity--they were based on shared interests. For the first time, I had friends that I would actively seek out instead of being totally indifferent to whether they were around or not.

I started weekly therapy when I started grad school in 2015, then added various kinds of group therapy as time went on. And after the first 2 years of this, it became very apparent that I did NOT have schizoid personality disorder. What I had was abandonment trauma, chronic depression, and severe PTSD from my frankly horrific childhood. I had built walls around myself that were so thick that no one could hurt me. I was in a state of near-constant dissociation, fueled by increasingly severe self harm, to escape the incredible amounts of pain I'd suffered and had never been able to take the time to process.

Schizoid personality disorder has no known causes and no concrete treatment. When I thought I had that, I felt like I could never change, so there was no point trying to. I felt like I was damned to this kind of half life forever. But PTSD, depression, and abandonment trauma were things that I could change, at least I'm theory. That gave me hope. Maybe there was more to life, and maybe I could have some of it.

Once I realized all this, I started working on the long, slow process of tearing down those walls and finally processing the old, festering pain.

Friends, it has been a Very long, Very slow process.

Dissociating from the pain didn't make it go away. Tuning back in means that now I'm feeling it. It's not great, in fact, it's been pretty fucking terrible. I cry a lot. I'm angry a lot. I scream into my pillow a lot. I've cut down on self harm dramatically, but there are still times where being in my mind hurts so much that I get desperate enough to do it. Or desperate enough to knock myself out with drugs or alcohol. Because god, I went through some Bad Shit. I went through it alone. I went through it silently. And then I carried it with me for a lifetime as it slowly rotted into something more toxic and dangerous than the original pain. A cut on the palm of your hand hurts. But if you don't take the time to clean it immediately, it gets infected, and then it hurts a lot more. Then it leads to sepsis, maybe even to amputation or death.

I have come so close to death from this infection. Cleaning the wounds is slow and painful, but at least I'm no longer getting sicker. Now at least I'm starting to recover.

The defensive walls have been a little easier to work through, but not much. I often feel like an abused dog that learned to see all humans as equally and inherently dangerous. Like that poor dog, when I meet someone new, I'm afraid to take the chance that maybe THIS person is actually ok and not dangerous. How can I tell the difference? What if I'm wrong and get hurt again? What if I get hurt so badly this time that I can't recover from it?

But sometimes, somehow, I DO get up the courage to take that chance. I used to think it's because I'm stupid, but maybe it's because I'm hopeful. Fine line between those two things. But I think I'm hopeful.

I am hopeful because sometimes when I take the chance and let down my guard, I am rewarded with joy and...love? I am rewarded with feelings I didn't know existed. I am rewarded with something that makes me think that this life is absolutely worth living. I am rewarded with the things that I only barely thought possible.

Sometimes I do get hurt, though. And in those moments, I flinch back behind my walls. I castigate myself for being foolish and trusting people when I know all people are dangerous. But then, eventually...I let down my guard for someone else.

You see, I have to remember that I have never been hurt so badly by anyone that I couldn't recover from it. Even as a small, helpless child I survived terrible things. I survived everything they threw at me, even when I was powerless and alone.

And now? I am no longer powerless. I am no longer alone. I am no longer small and helpless. If I survived those terrible things back then, I can certainly survive anything now.

So I am hopeful.

[miniaussiemollie]

Blog #1  

I chose the Option 2 multi-dimensional culture because my life was impacted by two different cultures, and it remains prevalent even now. The cultures in my life are a combination of English and Midwestern.  My parents were polar opposites as my mother was English, from England and my father was raised in the Midwest, USA.  English culture is considerably stricter, had more rules and there were proper ways to always conduct yourself.  We, as children, spent more time at home with our mother so her influence was predominant.  My values are shaped by what she taught me, and I mean that in a good way.  I was raised to be polite, respectful, and considerate to others.  I was born in England but moved to a small town in Idaho as a baby and lived in close proximity to my father’s family.  I know my mother had difficulty adapting to the down-home lifestyle that my grandparents and father lived.  Midwest culture has a reputation for friendly people and a stress-free lifestyle that differs dramatically from English regions. (businessinsider.com, Midwest culture vs English culture) (Olivia Young, Oct 12, 2018)

  English culture tends to keep people an arm’s length away as they consider someone getting closer to be aggressive and a physical touch by someone not a close relative or friend is uncomfortable. (https://www.studying-in-uk.org/about-us/) My father’s family culture was one of greeting people with a hug, not a handshake and tend to treat everyone like a dear friend.  Living in a small town where most people know each other contributes to the more personal lifestyle.  My siblings and I were taught to be polite to everyone, especially our elders and address them with the respect they were due.

I believe that a combination of the two cultures contributed to my upbringing and I’m happy to have been raised this way.

[the-firebird69]

This would be our son at about 6 foot 3 and that's what he is and it's Tommy F on the right and yeah not the left. He's not gonna look like that at 6 foot and he's a little bit shorter it's like 5 foot 9 no he's 5 foot 7 and a son will look like that a little bit and we can find one but yeah. Almost the exact physique of our son is to the right really wide shoulders really big arms and big chest big legs and tall. There's a couple things difference his triceps would be out a little bit more. And they never are but it would be. And he would look a little different and his hands would be a little bigger and his wrists his waist is about the right size and his head is too small mean proportion. But if you took his head and made it a little bit bigger about one inch across an inch and three quarters upwards**** his triceps out a little make his hands a little bit bigger you would have very close proximity to what our son is gonna look like at only six foot 2 and a half or 6 foot three. Right now his shoulder width is only about three inches less than Tommy F right here it's just that he is pretty big compared to people already. His arms however are many inches bigger and legs and chest his chest is huge. My son would be huge if you worked out just a little. And that's coming up pretty soon there's gonna be a lot of blowing things up in radiation's gonna be around. And he's gonna start getting big

Thor Freya

I wonder what he'll do with his superpowers. And yeah they're gonna push me outta here it says thank God your **** stinks. Yeah that's fun. As I'll go to the circus where my relatives went my whole life and my mom I think might help me and she said you will and she knows how to do it better than they do and she can do like gymnastic or tumults and somersaults and yeah that's fun. And I wanna say that would be a great time. And that would be nice cause you can actually get people to get me there most people don't know what we're talking about about having a normal life at least part of one. Everybody can dream that there's something but sitting here being nothing is no fun at all in a regular part of your life it just does not make for a rounded life it makes for you being a prisoner of your own or someone else. And I agree with what he's saying his mom says she's gonna try and help that's great. If you look like this guy you'll track the tension he'll attract the attention and you can lift weights regular weights and fix dumbbells right not as effective as plates people can see the plates they can hear them you can hand them around and that's a good idea and this this dumbbells that are pretty solid and just the screw one ones and there's some others that are that work pretty good that I used and it's true too he had some pretty good ones and pretty big and heavy these days the callers are fixed fairly well so I can help you buy those and we'll do a whole routine and my grandpa wants to help too and I want him to help that's great and he he is into that stuff and knows where to get it and know how to do it. And he you could workout at home in a bigger place yeah with a rubber mat. That's good too it's hard to work out when there's that big all the time. I have some routines in mind. The dumbbell would be pretty big if you put£425 on one bar this is a 25 you can't really manage and it's true you have to put the tens you put like 10 on each thing that's two 100 lbs and these guys can't lift that at all and at that size you should be able to do it a few times and I need curls and it's impressive and you don't paint them gold or anything. And it's good to know he says I'd be messing up already. True. A lot of tricks and you do need money and you need a bunch and there's things that weight lifters use or strong men certain hats and certain clothing and you wear it in and you show people you're the strongman and you have someone towing your stuff. He says I just got the guy and he lists with his legs. LOL that is a fat **** I thought he was just making fun of you because you're heavy but holy crap. You'll slowly transform into your character and bring him into the business. And my what weird businesses is true he started him off to get him out of this rut and he has to make a beer we're trying to figure out which beer and he says you just make him more luck through they don't know how to brew and they admitted it and if he loses it who cares he loses all that stuff. But they won't be able to keep making it they don't have to call him back there is and we found out what bottle is and brown bottle is good he used to drink a lot of that. We know it's friends he could make 'cause we used to make a brand and they liked it I might get together with him and do that and it's a good idea they want to **** and it's funny to me....

ctd

[theghostpinesmusic]

Three-Fingered Jack (2/3)

Because of (relatively) short distances and long days, this was the rare backpacking trip where I didn't need to set an alarm for morning. Instead, I woke up the same way I do on most alarm-less trail days: screaming while melting alive in my tent a half-hour or so after sunrise.

Fortunately, outside the tent the air was still cool, and, as is usually the case in the western high country, nearby shady patches dropped the temperature another twenty degrees or so. I set up to make breakfast in one such shady patch while watching the sun light up Three-Fingered Jack's craggy face.

I was on my way back down the scramble trail to the meadows shortly after waking up. My main worry before the trip had been navigating this trail going downhill with a pack on: I remembered there being a lot of loose scree on my 2021 descent, and I worried that the extra weight on my back this time would make it not just slippery, but legitimately dangerous. As it turned out, though, this was all a matter of route choice: I was able to avoid the loosest parts of the descent simply by being a bit more careful about picking my way down than I'd been last time (and with the help of a few mountain goats who were napping in the sun near the top of the route, which forced me to climb a little lower to avoid disturbing them).

Below, in the meadow, the rest of my goat fam was waking up. I was hesitant to take the established trail too close to them, especially because there were a lot of baby goats in the group, but in the end I passed by carefully and slowly, and though the adults very clearly kept themselves interposed between me and the babies, they never seemed particularly agitated by my passage.

Mountain goats are quite possibly my favorite animal on earth, and so for me this was a moment the kids these days would (incorrectly) call "a core memory."

Pedantry aside, though, it was freaking awesome.

Once back on the trail, it was a straightforward hike back out of Canyon Creek Meadows and back to the main trail. I was sad to leave such a beautiful place (and the goats!), but the trail provides some amazing parting views of the mountain...and I certainly wasn't done with Three-Fingered Jack yet.

As you leave Canyon Creek, there are actually two trails you can take: I'd taken the sparser, southern one in from Jack Lake the previous day, but I took the northerly, more forested one on the way out, both for the sake of variety and because it saved me a little distance on the way to my next goals: Wasco Lake and Minto Pass.

Maybe it was just because I knew that I was heading back into the burn, but the last, heavily forested section of the meadows trail seemed particularly gorgeous in the morning light.

It's not actually that far of a hike from this trail intersection to Wasco Lake, but being out of the shade again, even in midmorning, reminded me that it was, in fact, going to be a very hot day.

Wasco Lake itself is great. It's snugged up nicely against a cliff face and circled by a bit of forest. It has a few excellent campsites, too, though they have already been occupied both times I've passed through, mid-week, likely because of the lake's proximity to the PCT. I like it just fine, I'm just not sure that I would ever choose to camp there knowing that Canyon Creek Meadows was only a few miles' walk away...

...sorry, Wasco Lake.

Minto Pass sounds more daunting than it is if you're used to scrambling around central Oregon mountains, but the slight climb deposits you up high on a ridge that provides some great, far-off-ish views of the mountain you're circling.

From here, the rest of my route would be on the PCT, heading south over Porcupine Rock and ultimately back to my car at Santiam Pass. I don't think there's anything in this second "side" of the hike that's nearly as gorgeous or evocative as Canyon Creek Meadows, but I still had a great time, and there are still a few notable sights worth mentioning.

The first few miles of hiking after the intersection with the PCT are all elevation gain. This is mostly burn territory as well (though there are a few little forested spots here and there), but for whatever reason it didn't feel as hot as the burn on the southeast side of the mountain did on the previous day. The "lack" of heat was more than made up for by the amount of blowdown on the trail through this section, though.

I tend not to complain much about blowdown, generally, for two reasons. First, I'm taller than most people, which usually (though not always!) makes navigating blowdown easier for me than for others. Second, most trails are cleared of blowdown by volunteer trail crews, or, at best, Forest Service employees who aren't paid enough for the backbreaking work they put in. With that in mind, whining about the fact that the trail is difficult to navigate because someone else hasn't fixed it for me feels a little...myopic, I guess?

All that said, the blowdown situation on this part of the trail was really bad. So it was slow going for a while. Thanks in advance to whoever clears this leg of the trail in the future!

Ultimately, I survived a few knee bruises and shin scratches to get to where the trail opens up and switchbacks upward to Porcupine Rock, the high point of Three-Fingered Jack's north shoulder. I love the views here, not just because they're expansive, but because you can also see back down into Canyon Creek Meadows from above, allowing you to see all the terrain you crisscrossed and camped in the night before. I even told myself that a few of the small white dots I saw among the grey rocks of the hills were mountain goats, though I didn't have any way to know for sure.

At the top of Porcupine Rock, I took a long break in a tiny patch of shade to eat and rehydrate, and then I started bombing downhill.

Downhill!

To be clear, I've very rarely ever disliked a section of trail I've hiked, but this loop post-Porcupine Rock definitely becomes less interesting, in my experience. You take the PCT south for seven more miles total, and though the views of the west side of the mountain are nice, and there are some pleasantly forested areas in contrast with the east side's burn, there's just something about this section that puts me in a "Push through and finish" state of mind. Maybe it's the vastly increased hiker traffic compared to the east side because of the PCT. Maybe it's just the knowledge that I'm almost done with the hike. Regardless, I tend to rush through this part, but it's not without it's beauty, especially once you get far enough around Three-Fingered Jack to start getting views of the surrounding lakes and (again) the Sisters and Mount Washington in the distance.

Technically, I had enough daylight to push on all the way to Santiam Pass and the car at this point, but I'd packed for two nights of camping, and had hoped to be able to find the elusive Summit Lake, a lake that I'd read a bunch about online before my 2021 trip, but somehow failed to find the spur trail to during that trip, necessitating a long day (and night) of hiking beyond what I'd planned that doesn't really deserve describing in detail here.

Fortunately, on this second and more recent try, I was able to both find the spur trail to Summit Lake and better understand why I'd missed it the first time. Basically, a huge tangle of blowdown that happened to fall right at the point where the spur trail leaves the PCT makes it difficult to find it at first, but by staying up high and pushing through the bush a bit, I was able to eventually spot the trail below me and drop down onto it.

Summit Lake was much more beautiful that I expected a somewhat tiny, somewhat random lake nestled in the shoulder of Three-Fingered Jack to be.

I got there around 1:30pm, too, which is about six hours earlier than I roll into camp on a normal day of hiking. I had time to compass the whole lake in search of the "perfect" camp spot, spread out my gear, rinse out some of my hiking clothes (and socks), take a swim in the lake (which was amazing and amazingly cold) and eat lunch and read a bit...before a guided group of eleven teenagers showed up and took over the opposite side of the lake for the night.

In all honesty, they were about as well-behaved as you could imagine such a group being: they were goofy and loud pretty much all afternoon and night, but promptly got quiet around a "normal" bedtime and woke up after me in the morning. There's just something about a place like Summit Lake that makes me feel like I "should" have it all to myself, so I was a little disappointed when such a big group showed up. That's a problem with me, though, not the other hikers. It's public land, after all.

Anyway, another pretty decent sleep in the books, the next morning I would wake up to take a short hike back to the car but then spontaneously tackle another mountain before heading home...

[rejectheaven]

cultural bingbong theory: a manifesto

by marcus leung

I am a white male. There exist no societal pressures that force me to consider my short-term safety, and as such I have the luxury of thinking abstractly. I am also a diagnosed schizophrenic (schizoaffective, but language is more a vehicle for communication than veracity). Here are three important things to consider before we start: 1. Everything has meaning. This is axiomatic, as in any set with objects that may or may not have meaning, the first meaningless object in the sequence would be "The First Meaningless Object In The Sequence", granting it relative meaning. It follows then that all things must be meaningful. 2. Man is a nothingless ape. He eternally clutches his expensive watch, trapped on a desert island -- the one place where both time and money are meaningless. Wait never mind everything has meaning. 3. Here's a joke: that same man sits down to write his life story, and never stops. When he runs out of paper, he uses his house. When he runs out of house, he uses the earth. When he runs out of earth, he uses the sky. When he runs out of sky he realizes he should have gotten a tattoo. That's why I don't have any tattoos yet, aside from the pale blue dot my friend left in my arm when he stabbed me with a pen.

I. FIRSTNESS

I haven't told you the beginning yet, but I will. It all started when nous (intellect) met Ananke (necessity). This harmony-cum-dissonance (hehe cum) is the whorl in which we all live, laugh, love, and buy the associated decorative merchandise. We weep and wonder and wend toward henosis, harming indiscriminately, confused as to why our loved ones are dying and not texting us back. How do we escape our shape? Hint: pull not others into the pit between you and the world, and be not the pit itself. It all started when God chose to contract His Ohr Ein Sof. This was not out of necessity, despite it being necessary. Had God not restricted His own infinite light, there would be no emptiness (ayin) to hold us. Once we understand that nothingness came second, we can start to trust in what came first. How do we feel once again the glow and the gleam on our spirits' skin ("Oh, it feels so good! Sun rays" - Tanemon, Digimon World)? Hint: treat impurity as an obscurantist, shading us from that real shit. More on this later. Just kidding, this is the end of the essay. It all started when it never started. The Buddha was once asked if the objects of our contemplation were separate from the contemplating mind. He replied that they were the same, as all was vijñapti-mātra (somewhere between "mind-only" and "representation-only"). "... Why? Because however I imagine things, that is how they appear." - Pratyutpanna Samādhi Sūtra How do we demarcate real from fake? Hint: the name is not the shape, the same way map is not territory. ("No matter how many names you learn, no matter what sequence you arrange them in, they will tell you nothing about the source or the end." - A. A. Attanasio)

II. THE WOUND IN THE WORLD AND HOW WE CAN KNOW IT

Time is only here to stop everything from crashing into each other. If we look at the present as a bardo state between past and future, where action meets will, we can begin to deconstruct our self-stultifying behaviours. So says this bard-o, at least. Here's another joke: a man (sorry these are all about men) buys a beautiful antique grandfather clock and for some reason decides to carry it home. Maybe he lives close by. He probably chose his house based on its proximity to the antique store. He's walking with this unwieldy thing and his gait is all goofy because the clock is so heavy. He's so distracted that he doesn't even notice another guy on his phone making a beeline towards him! The two bump into each other and the clock is dropped and shatters into a million pieces. Furious, the man yells "Why don't you watch where you're going?!" The other man, equally furious, shouts back "Why don't you just wear a watch like everyone else?!" This is a very funny and important joke if you are me. I'll be a little more concrete, and unconscionably political. The Mayans were correct: the world ended in 2012. We elected the same person we always elect, only this time he was Black. Obama's second term served more as emblem than force; we projected our continuously evolving set of morals onto him, went about our beastly business, and performed four years of autofellatio while the world and its once-worthy ways eroded before our very eyes. It, like much before and after, was one long slow-clap for the self. "History is over," we said, "and we're finally the good guys." If I had to describe 2012 in two words, I would be an asshole and use latin: terminus est. "This is the line of division." What changed in 2012 to make it so salient? Nothing. The answer is nothing. Our Sword of Damocles dangled just a horse-hair away, and we pretended not to see it. Plus, we were kings! Nothing bad ever happens to kings. "catch ya boi with the lascivious oeillade 2k12 and beyond" - James Arc, polyphasic duelist Gangnam Style was our omphalion, Grumpy Cat our trusty steed, and Carly Rae Jepsen gave us tentative permission to call her. The future looked bright, and those Ye-style shutter shades allowed us to peer directly into it. What peered back was then-unrecognizable, but we know now, don't we? I wanted to use a period there instead of a question mark to denote a rhetorical lack of inflection at the end, but it didn't look right.

III. DON'T GO FASTER, JUST GO MORE QUICKLY

Are you familiar with Bodhidharma? Maybe you've seen him on TikTok or something. He loved staring at walls for years on end, and he did it so much that his arms and legs fell off. Bodhidharma (probably named after Dharma from Dharma & Greg) loved walls not because of what they represented, but because they were free of representation. With the absence of both self and other, he was free to ponder the true nature of reality. What did he learn? Follow him at @bodhidharma to find out. This is a bit tricky to explain, but sometimes the things that we think are stupid are actually just fucking reality. The corollary to this is that sometimes what we think is just fucking reality is actually stupid. Look at the sentence "More people have been to Berlin than I have." It doesn't mean anything, but your brain tricks you into thinking it does. Imagine if the world was like that, where your brain tricked you into things without your conscious consent? Then imagine if everyone else's brain was also tricking you through the power of civilization and the behaviours it engenders? Haha. I like to look at this as one big dream. Billions of tiny dreamers, all dreaming in unison. Sometimes one dreamer's dream can be so powerful that it disrupts our agreed-upon reality. Those people are either clairvoyants or schizophrenics. Make sure you know which is which, or you might find yourself in trouble you can't get out of one day! "A hen is only an egg's way of making another egg." - Samuel Butler This feels like a good spot to start talking about what I call cultural accretion. The sheer volume of culture being produced presently is orders of magnitude grander than the totality of human experience beforehand. A big claim, I know, but it sounds pretty cool doesn't it? The landscape is accelerating beyond our wildest imaginations, and most of it is wasteland. I attribute much of this spreading rot to anomie, or normlessness. The fragmentation and clustering of modern discourse is our strange ally in this war against decay. Small subcultures popping up over shared interests in certain media has brought us back to our roots of 100-strong social circles. Aristotle (pronounced like Chipotle I think) argued that ethnic and cultural diversity undermine democracy, as disparate groups had disparate goals and needs. He was kind of dumb but it's okay, he didn't really understand the concept of a post-scarcity society the way we do. We do understand it, right? Is anyone there? If we can find and forge harmony in small communities, maybe those small communities could eventually harmonize with each other. Dismantling hierarchies goes much deeper than a lot of us like to think about. It involves defying some of our more basal and perfunctory human wants, but thankfully not our needs. Don't worry, need and want are probably opposites, as you can't truly want something if you need it for survival. Good thing we've evolved beyond most of that shit! Do you know the expression "blood is thicker than water"? A very clever Rabbi thinks that it's truncated from "blood shed in battle is thicker than the water of the womb", meaning that bonds forged through shared experience mean more than filial ties. Wouldn't it be funny if it meant the exact opposite of what people think it means? Wouldn't it be even funnier if everything was like that?

IV. REJECT HEAVEN UNTIL ALL HELLS ARE EMPTIED

If I were someone I would call myself a Ksitigarbhist. Everyone is up on Avalokitesvara's one thousand dicks, but Ksitigarbha (Jizō-sama if you're a weeb [or literally "EARTH MATRIX" if you're fucking sicky]) is holding himself back from enlightenment and his resultant Pure Land ascension until hell stops being hell. Remember in Mario Bros 3 when you get the Tanooki Suit (I know the animals are called tanuki but the suit is spelled with two o's, like the word goodbye) and you turn into that statue and bop enemies on the head? That statue is of Ksitigarbha. You're probably wondering why. I'm wondering why too. That's honestly why I wrote this essay. Ksitigarbha was once a maiden, if you can believe it. That maiden's name was Sacred Girl, and she was so sad about her mom's death that she prayed every day to spare her mom from hell-world. Eventually the Buddha let her visit her mother (katabasis appears in almost every world religion, I wonder why???), and it turned out that through filial piety and a bit of luck, the mother had ascended to heaven. While Sacred Girl was happy I guess, she was really shook by everyone else's suffering down there. This spurred her to spend the rest of her reincarnations helping others ascend too. When she was eventually reborn as a man named Jijang, he found a nice mountain to reach enlightenment on, and just posted up. The body of Jijang is still preserved to this day, check it out if you ever find yourself near Mt. Jiuhua. "The opposite of fact is falsehood, but the opposite of a profound truth may well be another profound truth." - Niels Bohr Ksitigarbha carries a staff that he uses to pry open the gates of hell. All he wants to do is save all sentient beings. What's stopping you from wanting the same except your ego? Maybe if you stopped talking so much shit about people you'd have a cool staff too. Maybe you even have a staff nestled deep inside you already. Don't wield it wantonly!

Buddhists have this thing called tathātā. It describes the suchness of things. Suchness is a very difficult concept, especially in a post-content world. Things are rapidly losing their suchness and becoming vehicles for content. This is a tricky thing to reverse! But let's say we could, and that the overwhelming totality of suchness starts tingling in your thousand-petaled self, what should you do? When confronted with pure suchness, you have two options: A) taint it by using language B) don't I recommend B.

V. WHAT ALWAYS WAS YET SELDOM IS I spent so long talking about Buddhists and their words for things that I barely touched on the unknowable infinite that is Ein Sof. We tend to look at things through the false dichotomy of materialism vs creationism, but there's a cheeky way to look beyond that. What if all things flow from an underlying and absolute principle or reality? What if each stage of emanation was further removed from said absolute, until all that remained were mere trappings of divinity? Don't worry, it's probably not like that. When you first look into Kabbalah you might be confused as to why there are only ten sephirot yet eleven emanations. Seems like a silly mistake, right? Keter, the sephira above all others, is the superconscious intermediary between us and God, and is not exactly a sephira in the way that the other ten are. Keter is called the crown, and the crown sits above the head. The crown is also the term used for the sahasrara, the uppermost chakra, that thousand-petaled lotus I slyly referenced earlier. Haha maybe they're connected! "Do not think... Do not speak... Do not hope... Do not... ..." - Pure Vessel, Hollow Knight Keter is the most hidden of all hidden things. If you look hard enough, you'll never find it. It's sometimes referred to as "the air that cannot be grasped", as opposed to regular air which is super graspable. Keter is the most exciting sephira to talk about because it's completely incomprehensible to humans and I love wasting everyone's time. Have you ever heard of Hebrew gematria? It assigns a number value to words based on alphanumeric ciphers. Each word is its own equation, and the sum denotes the numerical value of the word. This is great if you love words, and probably great if you love numbers, I don't know, I hate them. This allows for what are essentially numerical homographs, where many different words and phrases can have the same numerical value as many others. The name of the archangel Metatron, for example, has a value of 406. So too does the phrase "cannabis addiction". Haha maybe they're connected too!

VI. THIS IS A WINDOW, THIS IS AN ANIMAL

Diogenes was once asked what the difference was between life and death. "No difference," he replied. He was then asked why, if that were the case, he chose to remain in this life. "Because there is no difference." I think death is probably like living, only a little less. Don't let yourself die though, that's the most important thing. Think of how sad everyone would be if you were gone! Plus you've already gone through so much trauma, do you really want to be reborn without having worked through it? The hard part is already over, I promise. "This match won't light! How strange, it lit before." - a joke book from my childhood Trusting yourself to trust yourself can be very difficult, especially if you're wrangling with realities too tough to tame at the moment. If you're really having trouble, try bringing a friend a sandwich, or winking at the moon. If none of this works for you, you might have to get your hands a bit dirty. Sometimes you need to grab the bull by the horns and the rose by the thorns and the-- Also here's a playlist that might help with things. Ten songs of nothingness, ten and not nine, ten and not eleven. https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6VyAUtjwGVOVr6Zsh1Iwhl?fbclid=IwAR38mZrqjxiqSnl0zOCuDQ-Xmeq6G5fSeaQQEDnulrdktJuYaT_0xfV_XwM

Hey, it's okay! It's just light!

- Marcus marcus@rejectheaven.com

[sapphos-catpanions]

Sisters, some of you may lack experience evaluating scientific evidence, yet are confronted with TRAs saying “science proves trans people exist!” and providing links to scientific studies claiming to have found a biological basis for trans identity, or proof that transition is beneficial to trans people.

I’d like to outline a few concepts that may help you understand the problems with the science that has been conducted on the subject of trans people. I am not a scientist, so I’d much appreciate any feedback or corrections.

1. Begging the question

Here are some of the studies being held up as proof that trans people are “valid”:

A study of the brains of trans women, trans men, cis women and cis men, and the potential for gender-based differences: https://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2015/01/150107082133.htm

A study on the brains of some trans men, and some cis men and cis women, claiming to show that the brains of the trans men had more similarities to the cis male brains, relative the cis female brains: https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/abs/pii/S0022395610001585

You’ve heard it before, I’m sure. Are you ready to learn why these studies were giant wastes of time? And no, it’s not even because of the obvious problem right off the bat (How did they know there were no closted trans people in the “cis” groups? How could they be sure there were no future detransitioners in the trans groups?).

It’s because, if you want to do science, you cannot start by assuming what you are trying to prove. This is known as the fallacy of “begging the question.” They relied on the self-reports of trans people to sort them in a group apart from cis people. In attempting to prove the biological basis for the category “trans”, they assumed the category “trans” had a biological basis. This is what pseudoscientists do.

This fallacy comes up a lot in arguments with the devoutly religious: “The human eye is too complex to have evolved, it must have been designed. Therefore, God exists.” Sir, no…. you cannot assume that the eye is too complex to have evolved that way. You must prove that to me.

What they should have done, right from the start, is study the brains of self-identified trans people, and from there predict the future detransitioners. Or they could have studied the brains of self-identified non-trans people, and predicted which ones were closted trans people. That would have been real science.

“I am not convinced. After all, they found something that looks “female” in the brains of the trans women! Maybe their methods are flawed but they must have found something!”

Not necessarily. I think what may be going on is known as:

2. P-hacking

When I was a young child, I saw a History Channel Special that claimed to prove that the Bible predicted the JFK assassination. I think the letters of a certain translation were arranged in grid form, and certain words related to the JFK assassination were grouped in close proximity. Stupid, right?

But I was just a kid, so I told my dad “Dad! Did you know the bible predicted the JFK assassination?” And my father recognized that as an excellent opportunity to teach me about p-hacking.

“No,” he said, “those are just coincidences.”

“Dad, are you blind? What are the odds that those exact words would be found together like that?”

“Not very high. But don’t forget… they weren’t looking for evidence that the bible predicted the JFK assassination. They were looking for evidence that the Bible predicted anything, in the history of ever. It’s actually quite unlikely, using their methods, that you’d find NO uncanny predictions of anything that’s ever happened in human history. And you’d probably find a few uncanny predictions in the Harry Potter books, using this method.”

These researchers in the second study cited did not set out to find whether trans men had similar fractional anistropy levels in posterior part of the right superior longitudinal fasciculus to cis men. They were looking at whether the white matter patterns of trans men had any similarity to cis men (of course, in doing so they flagrantly beg the question, but I digress).

The brain is highly complex. When you conduct an MRI scan, you generate mountains of data. And if you set out to prove that a similarity exists somewhere in this mile-deep well of data you have generated for these individuals, you are going to find something that appears statistically significant. It’s actually unlikely that you will find no similarities between any two groups of people who have their brains scanned. And, if you are engaged in anti-scientific motivated reasoning, you will take this and claim to have found evidence for a biological basis for trans identification.

“Perhaps there is faulty science going on but you can’t argue with the results! Transition saves lives! Studies have shown that it makes people feel so much better!”

Well, there’s a problem with that, too.

3. The placebo effect

The neurological basis of the placebo effect has been extensively studied. We know, for example, that it can be augmented or dampened by certain drugs. We know that it exists even when you know you are being given a placebo. And we know that the more elaborate a placebo is, the more effective it is: so a surgery will be more effective than an injection, which will be better than a pill.

Do you see where I’m going with this? Have you ever heard of a more elaborate treatment than gender transition: surgery, hormones, clothing, hair, name, pronouns, every aspect of your life can change.

But transition has not been proven to be any more effective at treating gender dysphoria than some kind of equally elaborate placebo. That’s the piece that’s missing, that would usually be accounted for when studying any sort of medical treatment.

“But there are a lot of health benefits to placebos. If they help people, then they help people.”

This is true. There’s a problem, though. Transition is not tumeric pills or reiki or like… journaling frequently. In fact, it comes with risks of absolutely nightmarish consequences. Trans women are walking around, right now, with colostomy bags because of botched vaginoplasties. Trans men are stuck with chronic kidney infections from phalloplasties, as well as the risk of gangrene and lifelong weakness in their donor sites, as well as phantom pain and progressive tightening and sclerosing from their mastectomies. Puberty blockers disrupt brain development and put a child at risk of osteoporosis, sterility, and sexual dysfunction. Hormones cause powerful and systemic changes that have not been fully studied, but consider this: what happens when the cartilagenous valves on a male-sized heart become thinner and more flexbile under the influence of estrogen? What happens when the cartilage structures in a female sized brain become larger and tougher in response to testosterone? Do you know?

You don’t, because nobody knows. We aren’t studying these treatments. We are experimenting on human beings, just like they did in the Nazi camps, and for what: treatments that have not been proven to be better than a placebo, that are based on faulty science, and that don’t even hold up to common sense. Why would you amputate a healthy young woman’s breasts? Because she begged you to? Is that how medicine works?

“But why does the trans rights movement need to lean on junk science? Why don’t they do real science instead?”

Because it is a religion. That’s it, that’s the only explanation left. They believe that they have gender identities, that are at odds with their physical bodies. Theses gender identities have not been demonstrated to exist. These gender identities seem to want things of trans people, and they seem to be placated with certain rites (going to the beach after top surgery, standing to pee after phalloplasty) and certain prayers (compelled pronoun usage). Gender identities act similarly to the members of any polytheistic pantheon.

I have no problem with anyone’s religion. But it is time the scientific establishment, and the government, understand that in “affirming” trans people, while defacing the scientific method, logic and common sense, they are in fact respecting an establishment of religion. They do this to the ultimate detriment of trans people, who have come to them for help, for answers, and are made a mockery.

“Why do you care so much about trans people?”

Because they’re human beings and they deserve better than this horseshit. Because I used to be one. Because if not me, then who?

[tommyspeakycap]

Genuinely think your one of the best peaky blinders writers out there. Do you think you could write something about little toddler Shelby and Tommy. Maybe little Shelby is out in the rain jumping in puddles? Love your work!!!

Thank you!! That’s so kind of you x

Puddles

Polly shakes her head in something of dismay as she holds a cup of tea snugly in her hands, keeping them warm against the winter chill that whips in the open window in front of her. “Mind your sister, Finn!” She calls out it, waiting until she got a “Yes auntie Pol!” yelled back to her from the 11 year old who had become somewhat accustomed to keeping a watchful eye over his only younger sibling. His answer seemed satisfaction enough for his aunt to nod her head and pull that window closed to maintain some semblance of heat in the house, but not enough for her to move away from said window to keep her own eye on the youngest Shelby sibling.

She stands cautionary. She knows better than to trust that Finn will do much to prevent his very clumsy five year old little sister from wandering off and getting herself hurt. (y/n) is notoriously like Thomas is all sorts of ways. She’s always getting into things she shouldn’t, hearing things she shouldn’t, seeing things she shouldn’t. She seems to sit back and observe a lot of things. They’re trying to grow her out of it.

Polly attributes it to the majority of her life being spent in a country torn by war. She was only nearly two when her brothers left, so naturally she didn’t understand much of what was going on. Everything was up in the air and now the war was over, it seemed l to the youngster that a war’s not just over when the fighting ends. It has also become clear that Tommy is her favourite sibling, so her similarities to him can often be attributed to her spending the most time with that brother.

Alas, in all her likeness to Tommy, she is much softer in manner than he is himself. Little (y/n) is like Tommy was when he was her age, incredibly inquisitive. Except softer. She chatters away to herself as she does things and though it takes her time to warm up to people, once she starts talking it’s hard to get her to stop for anything. She’s so kind and so very loving too, she laughs just like Tommy once did and it makes Polly’s heart happy deep down when that little girl falls asleep each night with a sweet little smile.

“Alright Pol?” Tommy greets as he comes through the back of the house from the betting shop to see his aunt standing at the window still. Polly nods, “Just watching to see if that bloody brother of yours is watching your sister like i told him to not five minutes ago.” She sighs as she takes another sip of her tea. Sure enough, Finn had not noticed his younger sister wandering off up the street subtly without even noticing in herself that she was getting further and further from the relative safety in proximity of her home and the brother who was supposed to be watching her. It seemed as though the puddles that filled certain uneven surfaces of the Watery Lane streets were more interesting, and finding more deep ones had stolen her full attention away from her surroundings. Tommy stands next to his aunt, leaning over slightly to spot his youngest sister slowly going further and further away than she should.

“Bloody hell,” Polly curses, sitting her tea down on the table beside her and reaching her hand to the handle of the window, “Don’t bother Pol,” Tommy interrupts her from opening the window fully and yelling for Finn to run and bring you back. Polly looks at him like he’s grown a second head, wondering if he’s completely lost his mind. He would usually have been the one giving Finn a stern word about making sure his sister was safe at all times. He just offered her a smile and says “I’ll get her.” simply, brushing past and grabbing his coat on the way. Polly furrows her eyebrows and watches as Tommy does a slight jog up the street until he nears (y/n) and then stops by her.

Her heart is suddenly warmed when the pair don’t turn back around to head home, but Tommy extends his hand to the little girl and she takes it gleefully to lead him on to find as many more puddles as they could before it got too rainy, cold and dark. He’s been so busy lately it had been a while since she had seen Tommy just be the brother of the little girl he loved so much.

Tommy relishes the feeling of his sisters little hand in his as they walk towards their uncles scrap yard, jumping in puddles along the way. She soaks the bottom of his trousers in dirty puddle water, but his heart sings with her giggles. “Tommy look!” She squeals, jumping in excitement as she spots a huge one near the window of the Garrison. She’s off a few feet before he can do anything other than open his mouth to speak. “Come on Tom!” She calls to him, “you’re so slow!” The tease draws laughter from him that only she can cause. He stops only for a moment in some form of mock shock. “Me?” He gasps, “Slow? Alright then miss speedy pants, wait there and i’ll race you.”

(y/n) does just that, waiting excitedly bouncing on the balls of her feet for Tommy to reach her, both standing still a good few meters away from the puddle near the pub. The streets are pretty empty given the weather conditions and Tommy’s reputation had gone out the window of his thoughts long ago. “Okay then,” (y/n) breathes, “3...2...1!”

The pair take off at a run, the little girl stealing the lead immediately as Tommy runs slower than he probably ever has to allow the five year old to scuttle ahead faster than him. She giggles, elated as she knows she’s in front of her brother. “‘M gonna beat you Tom!” She puffs out, little boots splashing through the barren street as he laughs from behind her. “Not if i catch you first!” He calls back, speeding up his run as he heard the little girl screech in shock at the sound of him getting closer. He can see her putting her all into running from him, looking behind her over and over, laughing only when she realises he’s far enough behind her or screaming again if he’s getting close.

Inside the Garrison, Grace hears a child’s scream and what sounds very much like Tommy Shelby shouting that he’ll get her. It makes her immediately peer out the window just in time to see what most people in Small Health never expect from the gangster.

He runs up behind his little sister quickly, scooping her into his arms with complete ease as she squirms, squeals and giggles loudly. “Faster than me ey?” He snarls playfully, fingers digging softly into her sides to tickle hysterical laughter out of the girl. “No Tommy! Never!” She shrieks, knowing well enough agreeing with her brother was enough to stop his tickles and it clearly is as he places her gently back down on her feet, a sheepish grin overtaking her little features as she looks up at him in adoration. It was widely clear how much she loved her big brother.

Grace moves to the doorstep of the pub, arms crossed over her chest to keep her warm against the chill. “Having fun, Thomas?”

He whips around at the sound of her voice, subconsciously letting go of his sisters hand in surprise, almost as if he was always ready to put up a fight and defend her with everything he had within a moments notice just as reflex. She knows better than to assume he wouldn’t cut anyone who came near that little girl. “Suppose so,” he shrugs when he realises it’s just the bartender he had become rather intrigued by. “Thought i would-“

The sound of loud, proud giggling and the feeling of water hitting the backs of his trousers immediately makes him whip around again, spotting his small little sister grinning up at him like a cheshire cat and his very own devilish glint in her little blue eyes as she stands in the middle of the puddle after having splashed water up at him. “Oh you little buggar. I’ll get you for that.” He threatens, taking a moment to get over his shock as (y/n) laughs at him again but is joined this time by the light giggle of the Irish bartender. That little girl only widens her cheeky grin, her innocence still leaking through her cheeky nature as she looks behind her, knowing her brother would have to run through the huge puddle to get her.

“Only if you catch me first.”

And just like that, the hardened Birmingham gangster bids a quick goodbye to his bartender and is off running through puddles with a five year old little girl who very coincidentally melts his heart of stone down to a puddle each and every single day.