#How to Remove Mould from Walls?

[buildware]

Are you searching for a solution to the problem of How to Remove Mould from Walls? If your home has mould due to condensation and humidity, it is critical to recognize that bleach and household goods are ineffective mould removal solutions. Mould is a microscopic organism that requires conditions like Any organic substance (for example, wood or paper), Oxygen, and Moisture to thrive. Mould eventually destroys whatever it grows on because it consumes and uses the material for nourishment. Mould releases small spores that spread through the air as it matures; in some species, these spores include mycotoxins and allergens. Mycotoxins and allergens are substances that can harm our health and induce allergic reactions.

[guummy]

YOU’RE HERE, THAT’S THE THING

pairing : jason todd ⠀𝒙⠀ fem!reader | words : 0.77k

request : “jason todd x reader where he’s all clingy after coming back from patrol”

contents. allusions to injury, mentions of death + fire

#. main masterlist. | dc masterlist. | jason todd masterlist.

JASON WAS ODDLY best at filling his life as a distraction from the thoughts that were incapable of escaping his mind. He was seemingly an expert at prying out criminals from the alleyways, intervening fights that could turn bloody and posing such a big influence that many were even scared to commit the smallest crimes when he was on patrol.

Lawbreakers were terrified of him, and he hated them.

Yet, what he hated more was leaving you as he had equally sworn himself to the protection of the city, to his oath to you. So, now that he was making his way through the open window you always left ajar for him, all he wanted was to crawl into bed with you and smother you with kisses: however, you were deep in slumber.

It was inherently selfish, but he looked forward to finding you awake, missing out on sleep because you were waiting for him as you help him take off his suit. Looking at you now, he saw how peaceful you were, how it looked when you weren’t worrying over him, how beautiful you looked when your mind was at rest.

The fact that he had to remove his clothes himself reminded me of a time when you didn’t exist in the comfort of his bed, when your clothes or toothbrush were never beside his. The soft thuds of his armour echoed through the room, the sound causing you to stir in your slumber.

“Baby,” you whispered, your voice soft with sleep as you propped yourself up against your elbows.

“Shit, did I wake you up?” He whispered, looking over at your peeping expression, your gaze watching him struggle to pull his sweatpants up.

“Are you hurt?” You asked, your curiosity suddenly hooked when you noticed his stumble.

“I’m okay,” he groaned, making his way over towards the bed, laying down beside you before resting his arm on your torso and his head in the crook of your neck.

The warm humidity of his breath ghosted your skin, causing you to let out a small laugh, resting in his touch when he began to kiss your neck.

“Someone’s clingy,” you teased, closing your eyes as you smiled.

“I’m not clingy, just missed you,” he corrected, pulling you into his hold, resting his chin against the crown of your head.

“What if I need to piss?” You asked, poking at the remaining strength he had to deal with your jokes.

“You can’t leave,” he replied, his voice low with sleep.

“What if there is an emergency? What if a fire starts?” You tried.

“Well, you’ll have to burn to death in my arms,” he replied, shifting his body as he held you tighter, pressing a doting kiss to the back of your head.

“How romantic,” you whispered, smiling though he couldn’t see in the hue of the dark room only illuminated by the lights of the city.

For a few minutes, between the four walls of your bedroom, there was no echoing sound but of soft breathing and quiet shuffling here.

In restlessness, you rolled onto your other side in Jason’s arm, your face barely inches away from his. Your eyes lingered open as you watched his tired expression whilst he attempted to fall asleep. Soon, you felt his hand shift down your body as he found yours, interlocking your fingers with his.

Shifted closer, you pressed a small kiss to his agape lips, letting out a quiet laugh at his drowsy mumbling.

“I can’t move,” you laughed, both your legs intertwined under the silk sheets.

“Too bad,” he replied, earning yet another kiss from you. Releasing his hand from your grip, he held the back of your head, his lips perfectly moulding around yours. He tasted of mint, and the lingering scent of his cologne invaded your senses as his hand roamed across your body, finally resting on your hip.

It was a lazy but passionate kiss, one that revealed how much he had longed to have you in his arms again. You knew that he wasn’t going to let you go either.

Parting from your lips, he let out a tired and deep sigh, his hands securing you once more in his touch as his palm cascaded across your bare skin.

You were now lying on your back, his arm against your stomach as his head was once again, in the curve of your neck.

“I love you, Jason,” you whispered, your voice barely heard. Perhaps in fear of embarrassment or simply your tiredness.

“I love you too,” he replied, sleep lulling over his aching, yet, comforted body.

[anbuselvi1]

Getting rid of moisture on the walls of the house

Getting rid of moisture on the walls of the house

Getting rid of moisture on the walls of the house Many homes suffer from the problem of moisture appearing on the walls of the house, and this is either due to poor ventilation or lack of ventilation in the house and the lack of sunlight entering it sufficiently, perhaps because it is in the basement, and sometimes because of the presence of a house in a coastal city where the humidity is high,…

[ace-turned-confused]

proud to be yours

marcus acacius masterlist | main masterlist

pairing: marcus acacius x f!reader summary: it's the first time you've seen acacius since he took your virginity, and he has plans for a different kind of training word count: 2,7k warnings: 18+ only, reader is able-bodied / shorter than acacius / very inexperienced, unspecified age gap, pet names, smut, vague references to past p in v & loss of virginity, cock & ball worship hooray! (blowjob & ball sucking), brief fingering, comeplay & come eating, spitting, praise kink, size kink, smidgen of corruption & innocence kink, dirty talk, possessive acacius extra info: subligaculum = underwear a/n: written for @joelmillerisapunk's PPCU body worship challenge! i asked for Big Gladiator Man + C, which very fittingly stands for cock :) this has the same pairing, teeny references to & carries on from mould me for ruin, but could be read on its own :) hugs & cookies to @morallyinept for reading this over <3 <3 <3

You haven’t seen Acacius since your last training session when he took you on the ground and claimed you for himself. He informed you he was busy, saying he’d find you as soon as possible. You weren’t sure what to expect when he sought you out today and led you down an unfamiliar path, still away from prying eyes but also your usual hideaway.

You wonder if he regrets what the two of you did and doesn’t want to train you anymore, if he’s changed his mind and is simply taking you somewhere he can let you down without an audience.

The sun is already well below the mountains, the sky like a painting of pink and purple with cirrus clouds like brushstrokes. Kicking the gravel as you walk, Acacius’ bulky frame towers alongside you. You watch his hand glide through the air, remembering how his touch had blazed across your skin.

“Where are we going?”

“You will see.”

“Why are we not heading for the forest?”

“Today’s lesson will be far more pleasant at my home.”

“Your home? Are you… are you sure?”

“Relax, my girl.” He stops and turns to you, steadying you by your arms. “You know I would not endanger you — even if I did, you have proven you are more than capable.”

“What are we doing?” You call out to him as he walks ahead.

“You have quite the… inquisitive mind, rascal. I imagine it gets you into trouble, hm?”

“I suppose I do ask too many questions… you're the only one who really listens to them.”

He turns and waits for you to catch up, head cocked to one side as you come to stand in front of him. You feel a strange sense of comfort around him, comfort that nobody else has time or energy to give you. Why would they, when you spend all day longing to chase your dreams?

“It is not too much, you are not too much. I enjoy listening to you. You are far more intelligent and witty than any soldier I’ve trained… Far more beautiful, too.”

He resumes walking with a soft smile and you follow in silence, trusting that you’ll be fine to do whatever he has planned, and fighting the heat that flows under your skin at his compliments.

-

Stepping through wrought iron gates, a cobbled pathway wound up to an impressive stone and brick home, the surrounding gardens neat and manicured. High arches tapering down towards mosaic-tiled floors as you head inside, it’s a spectacle compared to the cramped buildings of the town centre.

He led you through the open space towards the back of his property, dim lamps lining the walls as you reached his bedchamber. You stood in the doorway, unsure if you should have followed him inside. He assured you nobody would know your whereabouts, and if they did, he’d make sure they never spoke it, a menacing grip on his sword as he unsheathed it to place down.

Now you stand, watching him remove his armour, place his chestplate on its stand and hang his skirt. His chest is still just as broad, arms and thighs still just as thick even only in his tunic. You’ve never seen him like this, neither noble nor clad in armour — just Acacius, just Marcus. The lamplight flickers across his face, catching on the silver in his hair and the scruff of his beard.

“Still so eager to learn?” He chuckles as he drags his hand down your neck and across your collarbones, your eyelids fluttering closed as your skin rises in goosebumps.

“How will we train if you have stripped yourself of your armour? I… I do not wish to hurt you.”

“We are doing a different kind of training tonight, my girl. You did so well for your first time, I knew you were born to take me.” He steps into your space, one hand rising to cradle your cheek and you lean into his touch, still desperate to please him.

“Have you dreamt of me again? Touched yourself and seen stars?”

“Yes, General,” you whisper to him.

“It felt good to become mine, yes?”

You whimper as you think back to that night — your body ached as he pushed you down into the hard earth and split you open, pinned you beneath him so he could just take from you. He did take from you, something you can never get back but something you don’t want back, not now that he’s had you for himself.

“I assume you have not sought out another man.” You shake your head in response, gaze tracing over his features as he stares you down with a dark glint in his eyes. “No other man will have you how I did… I will make sure of it.”

“As you said, my body craves yours.”

“My good girl.” Acacius smiles down at you as he curls his hand around your waist, fingers digging into your side. “And my body craves yours, remember?” He takes your hand and guides it down atop his tunic, pressing himself into you.

“Do you feel just how much I still crave you?” You nod as you stare at your hand, feeling him for the first time through the rough fabric. “There are more ways you can be mine, and many more ways I can ruin you. On your knees, my girl.”

You sink down to the floor, the hard tiles digging into your kneecaps as you shift around and try to find a comfortable position. You look up at Acacius from the floor, about to voice your discomfort when he stops you before you can speak.

“Tonight I want to show you how to make a man — me — feel good.”

“Was it not… did you not feel good when, uh… when you…” You drop your eyes, feeling heated as you stumble over your words. Your brows knit in concern — did you do something wrong the other night?

“It was well beyond good, my rascal — a sweet girl like you, so pure.” He crouches down to level with you and holds the back of your neck. “Any man would feel good with you, but no other man ever will now that you are surely ruined.”

Looking away, you notice a white tunic laid out, a gold leaf pattern running along the shoulders and down the side seams. You wonder when he wears it, or who he wears it for, distracting yourself from the worries swirling in your head.

It’s as if he could hear your concerns before you voiced them — he grabs you by the chin to force your attention back to him. “No other man will have you, and I will not have any other woman. Now that I have you, why would I need someone else?”

He drops his hand and straightens up — you feel wet between your thighs as he towers over you. You clutch your hands together, unsure what you’re meant to do for him.

Your eyes flit between his chest and arms as he pulls his tunic off, smirking at you as you realise your mouth had fallen open. He wastes no time pulling his subligaculum off and your eyes go wide seeing him up close for the first time.

You don’t care what he thinks anymore as you stare at his cock instead — he takes himself in hand, stroking lazily up and down and reaches with his free hand to cup the heft of his balls. His skin looks soft, and the small pearls that grow from the tip of his length turn him shiny the more he fists himself. You lean back on your ankles as he lets go and holds his hand out.

Placing your hand cautiously into his waiting palm, he lifts it and wraps it around his cock. Your fingers just don’t meet — it’s not just his arms and thighs that are thick. You try pressing your legs together, that familiar nightly ache having returned.

“Are you wet?” You nod mindlessly as he starts moving your hand in his, mesmerised by the feel of him and watching the skin pull back and forth over the head. “Too bad tonight is not about you. Maybe if you are a good girl I can give you what you want so desperately.”

He uncurls your fingers and holds your hand open to rest his cock against your palm, hunching over as a trail of spit falls from his mouth and onto his length. He closes your hand around him again, a small gasp slipping from your lips as the cool, wet sensation covers your palm and fingers. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand as he instructs you to stroke him again, before dropping both arms to his sides.

You look at him curiously as his skin glides against your hand; you tighten your fist experimentally, feeling just how hard and heavy he is. He grunts above you and you let go immediately, looking up at him in question, worried you’ve already done something wrong. 

“Do not stop, my girl — all those noises you made when you felt good? Well, I make noises, too.” He winks at you and curls your hand around him again for you to continue. “You have always been such a curious girl — I want you to explore me.”

“But what… What should I do? And, what if you do not like it?”

“I would like anything you can do, my girl. You were fearless when it came to your combat training, I want that same fearless girl with me now.” You glance away as you consider what to do, your nerves clearly evident on your face as he starts making suggestions, “Stick your tongue out for me.”

You do, and he guides his cock towards your face, the tip prodding into your cheek before he drags it towards your waiting tongue.

“I want you to explore, with your hands, your mouth… I’m sure you will find you quite like this, too. Go on, taste me.”

You lean forward and lick the tip of his cock — he twitches as you do, and you taste the precome that’s been pearling since he took his clothing off. Looking at him again, he nods and it encourages you — you hold his cock up against his body, licking the entire underside of his length and he moans, his head lolling back as you keep eye contact.

“My sweet girl, I knew you would be good at this.”

You warm at his words, feeling your skin and ears go hot at his praise — you’ve only just started, and you still have no idea what you actually should do, but hearing how much Acacius is enjoying this only makes you want to do better for him.

You take his advice and flick your tongue across his tip again, breaking to stroke him and pepper small kisses up and down his length, peering up at him with a wide grin each time. Once you work up the courage, you take the tip of his cock into your mouth and try swirling your tongue around him — even barely inside you and it feels a stretch. His hips jerk forward when you push your tongue along his slit, sliding himself further into you.

It takes some time, but you work him progressively into your mouth, your boosted ego taking over as you push too far — coughing as you pull yourself off him, strings of saliva connect your bodies, one hand still around what you couldn’t fit in your mouth.

“Slowly, my girl. You do not have to win the war all in one night.”

“Can I…” You trail off, embarrassed by your inexperience and the vulgar thoughts clouding your mind.

“You can do whatever you want, my rascal. There is no need to ask — explore, remember?”

You nod, reassured by his guidance and stroke him languidly again. He’s even harder than when you started, throbbing in your hand with an almost permanent bead of precome leaking from him.

Your eyes drop to his balls — you watched how he held them, felt them earlier. Does that mean he likes that too?

Avoiding his eyes this time in case you make a mistake, you lift a hand to feel the skin — it’s soft, with wiry hairs littered across him. You roll your fingers over him and he groans at the contact, his hand squeezing the back of your neck.

Smiling sweetly as you look up at his face again, he looks gone, and your sweet smile turns cocky — you’ve rendered him practically speechless. You take in his unburdened features as you run through everything in your mind — he likes your mouth on his cock, he likes your hands on his balls…

You don’t overthink it as you duck forwards, eyes fluttering closed as you nuzzle into the crease of his thigh and take one of his balls into your mouth and suck him gently, one hand tightening around his cock, the other grounding yourself on his leg. He pulls you impossibly close to him and you giggle, the sound muffled but coursing through his whole body.

You keep stroking him as you switch sides, shifting your hand from his leg to scrape your nails through the coarse hair surrounding the base of his cock. He groans, a string of saliva connecting your bodies again and trailing down your chin when you release him.

“Can I, um… can we do this again? Not necessarily tonight, of course! But…” You ask timidly, your voice becoming hoarse.

“I am glad to know you take great pleasure in this.”

“Are you going to cover me like you did last time?”

“Keep going and you will soon find out.” He sounds breathless as he looks down at you, “I am close — you have done so well for your first time, you have been such a good girl.”

You clench your legs together as he showers you with praises again, hoping that he’ll let you touch yourself — or touch you himself — when he’s done.

“Take me again, my rascal.”

It doesn’t take long before his body starts stiffening, cords of muscle in his thigh tensing against your hand and his grunts become louder. You sink your nails into his leg as he thrusts forwards and knocks into the back of your throat, his cock pulsing as he spills into you. The sensation overwhelms you as you feel it settle under your tongue and thicken around your gums; Acacius is doubled over above you, his large and weathered hands borderline crushing your skull from how he pulls you into him and keeps himself upright.

Unsure what to do next, you wait. The tiles are cool and hard against your knees — much like the earth he’d pushed you into previously — and his cock is slowly softening, still kept in the wet warmth of your mouth.

Finally loosening his grip to stand, everything falls silent as you look up at him. He pulls himself out and grabs your chin, digging his fingers into your cheeks to keep your mouth open and angle your head back. He leans over you, all firm chest and broad shoulders, with that same wild expression you recognise from the night he first had you.

He spits into your mouth and you whimper below him. Sliding two fingers between your teeth, he presses them down onto your tongue and dips them into the mixture of his spit and salty come, pushing it around your mouth. You grab onto his wrist to keep him longer as you lick between his fingers and swallow.

“My perfect girl.”

Pulling his fingers from you, he crouches to level with you and wipes your cheeks with his clean hand — you’re not sure when the tears had streaked your face, overwhelmed by him filling your mouth and the now unbearable throbbing between your legs. He lifts your tunic and bunches it at your waist, huffing a laugh when he sees you’re bare underneath it.

Still caressing your cheek, he dips his sticky fingers between your folds, dragging them through your slick. You tilt your hips to grind yourself against his fingers; he pushes them into you when they catch on your entrance and he laughs, watching you work yourself higher and higher, your small whines growing louder.

“My poor girl, does it not feel good by yourself anymore, hm? Now that I have shaped you for myself… You are always so good for me, let me help you.”

tagging some pookies that left kind words on my wip wednesday snippets of this, lmk if you wanna be taken off <3 @burntheedges @milla-frenchy @sixhours @luxurychristmaspudding

comments & reblogs are hugely appreciated, forehead kisses to all 💜

dividers by @cafekitsune

[neosexuals]

— date night !

Mdni!

Pairings/warnings:: bf!jaehyun , non idol au , oral (f) , fingering???, unprotected (wrap itt). Nicknames (baby, slut…), couch sex, Jaehyuns a bit rough . Not proof read

Summary :: a cute date night turns out to be hellishly boring until jaehyun felt the need to entertain you

A/n: I had a lil fun with this one not proof read btw🧍‍♂️ @p-inkbunny

[🪟]

Jaehyun and you have been planning a movie date for weeks whether at your place or his and it finally happened but, the movie you two picked out to watch was not that interesting.

The both of you blankly staring at the characters moving their mouths yapping on and on, his hand wrapping around your waist mid movie which was probably the most interesting part of your night. His hand caressing your abdomen, pulling you to lay on his chest.

It turned you on a bit, but it wasn’t something you paid attention to a lot trying to keep your attention on the movie. His hands roam your body throughout the movie, distracting you each time. His hand now underneath your (his) shirt, squeezing the side of your abdomen.

“Baby” the nickname freeing you from your boredom (hopefully). You look up at him in response “do you like the movie?” His tone monotone, looking down at you.

“It’s okay...” Your mouth moulds into a pout, it’s okay was clearly,horrendous.Jaehyun's grip tightens slightly on your waist, pulling you closer into his chest as he chuckles softly.

“Well, if you're bored doll. I can suggest something more….interesting” his hands trailing from your waist to your thighs, using them as a leverage to move down, positioning himself between your legs,Your stomach sinks at the sight.

He looked back up at you, his eyes pleading for approval. You knew what this was going to lead to, but god you wanted it so bad, you nodded in response. His fingers were hooked onto the band of your shorts, bunching up your underwear along with it, getting rid of them in a swift motion.

“Awe so wet for me already?” His tone dripping with faux sweetness. His hands now planted on your thighs,holding them apart. Your eyes flew shut as his tongue met your wetness, licking a slow stripe along your folds.

You let out a frail cry of his name causing a smirk to form onto his face and he leans down, running his tongue along your slit before diving in, tasting your arousal. his tongue flicks against your clit, teasing and driving you wild as he continues to lap at you unforgiving.

Your moans only driving him causing him to increase the pace, alternating between licking and sucking on your clit. With the strong desire to see you , to taste you on his tongue, he pulls you closer, your ass sitting on the edge of the couch Causing you to squirm. Your moans getting louder as his tongue roams your pussy roughly, he was just as desperate as you. All you could do was grip his hair, moaning like this was the last time,Letting out frail curses.

jaehyun was enjoying this, the way you would squirm and roll your hips onto his tongue. Your moans only got louder when he introduced his middle finger into the mix, pumping his finger into you as he laps at your clit. You were close, your walls clenched around his one finger, your legs threatening to close around his head.

His tongue no longer lapping at your cunt, he inserts another digit into you. Your eyes watery begging to cum “it’s okay baby you can cum.” His tone much sweeter now ,his free hand caressing your face as he deviously increased the pace. Your eyes squeezed shut, unable to control how your body responds. Your hips bucking into the air as you find release, your arousal now coating his long fingers.

“So good for me” he whispers against your lips before locking them with his, the kiss passionate your taste still lingering on his tongue but you didn’t care enough.his fingers still slowly pumping into you as he helps you out your high, you let out sweet moans causing jaehyun to move away from the kiss and removing his fingers.

"you did so well" he whispered once more before picking you up on your feet, you knew what was coming next. Jaehyun isn’t always the sweetest during sex, he was rough. His arms wrapped around your waist making your stomach turn, his lips moulding with yours.

His body guides yours to the side of the sofa, bending down to sit on the handrest. Jaehyuns hands move to grip the leather, one remaining on your waist before he broke away from the kiss. "Turn around for me yeah?" His house low and husky, only adding to the arousal. Your skin sticking to the leather as you move around, trying not to laugh at the squeaky noise the couch makes under you. Your legs now dangling over the edge, ass on full display for jaehyun.

He lands a small slap onto your ass, kneading it as his thumb glides over your slit. You whimpered at him shaking your ass slightly in desperation earning a smack right on your ass "needy are we?" His voice thick coated in honey.

Jaehyun wasn’t short of mercy however, his cock long enough to spring up onto his stomach. He teased his tip sliding along the length of your slit, your whines moving in and out of his ears. His eyes plastered onto your pussy, the way he hissed at the sight of your arousal coating his cock.

“Please-” your pleads going in and out of his ears, right now all he could think about is your pussy devouring his cock as he pushed it inside “fuck baby look at you”

He instantly bottomed out, his hands caressing your hips moving up to your neck. His hands wrapped around it, using the pressure to push you into the leather of the couch. Thrusting his cock into you rather slow than usual, it was unbearable for you.

Letting out a long string of whines jaehyun, sooner than later, listened and moved at a rash pace. His balls slapping against your clit, along with his hand against your ass. His teeth gritted “fucking slut” you’ve never heard such profanity come from jaehyuns mouth before. But you loved it, your hands pulled behind,pinned behind your back.

Moaning louder as he pulls out leaving his tip inside before slamming back in, grinding into you. Balls deep at this point “god I love this pussy….” You clench around him hearing his praises “yeah? Like when I say that slut? You’re my slut yeah?”

The words he spew only tightened the coil inside your stomach, his cock hitting your sweet spot rougher each second. “Jae cum-” you could bearly finish the slurred messages you let out before jaehyun would move the hand, his thumb slowly inserting into your cunt, “shit- wait for me baby” slamming his cock into you over and over, groaning due to the friction created by the thumb. All you could do was moan his name into the pillow, his cock twitching inside you not to later.

You couldn’t handle it, milking his cock of all he had “cum” was all it took for your legs to get shaky from the orgasm, twitching as you feel his own thick ribbons of cum spilling into you. “Shit-”

Curses let out of his mouth as he realised he was…harsher than usual, his cock sliding out of your slippery cunt “so pretty….” He groaned looking at the mess he made, he was always messy.

Pulling you back into your feet, hugging you tightly, it was odd sure but sweet. “sorry baby” was all he said before pecking your lips.

“It’s okay I liked it….you should call me your slut more often” you giggled.

“Sure baby” kissing your forehead before leading you to the shower.

[disco-elysium-via-polls]

The following is a case file from Harry's ledger that seems to have been cut from the game. The text and audio is all still there in the game files, but the option to read it is inaccessible.

>Read a case file.

LOGIC - It takes about half an hour to piece one together, using the system you've devised. Which one do you want?

>COLLAPSING TENEMENT

DAMAGED LEDGER - This one's bad. Not that far from Precinct 41 -- in Central Jamrock -- there is an eight story apartment building with two hundred residents inside. It's the dead of winter, January. Snowing. Someone's beating their wife. It's half past midnight.

You get a complaint -- no one's there to take it. So you do call duty. The beating is taking place on the eighth floor. You take the elevator up. The building's creaking around you. Cold as hell. It's a run down old place. Concrete panels, rats everywhere.

And it's not pretty in the apartment either. By the time you arrive the husband's left. His wife has got her lip busted, face swollen. Eyes shut. Can't leave him, they're a *financial unit*. Enjoying this beautiful life in this beautiful tenement.

So anyway -- you take a leak before you leave.

In the apartment I got the call to?

DAMAGED LEDGER - Yes, cops do that. *While* you're taking a piss, you see a big crack in the wall. In the outer wall of the building. You can *feel* the cold air blow in. You take the elevator down, look up -- a big crack runs on the outer wall of the whole building.

Right from the foundation -- up to the eighth floor.

VISUAL CALCULUS [Easy: Success] - Oh god...

INLAND EMPIRE [Easy: Success] - No, no, no, no...

HALF LIGHT [Easy: Success] - Fucking hell.

The tilt is beyond the point of maximum deviation from the gravity bearing perpendicular. This means that the building is falling -- and will fall no matter what.

DAMAGED LEDGER - That's right. They trained you for this in cop school. Everyone has to pick a civil specialization so they can keep the city running: fire safety, first aid training, and so on. You took *building safety regulation*. And it tells you that this one -- is coming down.

+5 XP

Maybe not tonight. Maybe not even tomorrow. Maybe not the day after, but it's coming down. In a matter of days. It is physically impossible for it not to. And the two hundred people in there? They are all going down with it. The woman with the busted lip, the husband who beats her, their kids in the other room...

The drunk in the hallway. The girl in the elevator when you were going up. The youths on the stairs, laughing, smoking. The couple next to the apartment -- who made the call. They're all going to die.

But, you see, it's *freezing* outside. And there is no municipal government in Revachol. Nowhere to put these people. Two hundred people can't go to their *aunt's for a couple of days*. And above all -- there is no one to *tell* the building is coming down. No authority but you.

I'm gonna have to knock on every door and explain them how load bearing perpendiculars work?

I'm gonna have to go home and do nothing, not think about this ever again.

I'm gonna have to find my captain somewhere, first thing tomorrow. Maybe even *tonight*.

DAMAGED LEDGER - Bad, bad thoughts go through your head. So what you do is -- you call your partner. JV (only initials available) is up. He comes immediately. He didn't take building safety, but he believes you. He brings five more officers. Together you knock on *every door* and explain the situation.

The load bearing perpendicular. The maximum deviation. All of it... Some people believe you. Most don't. Some you have to *forcibly* remove. Some even pull guns on you. It takes 20 hours to evacuate the whole building. 200 people stand outside in the cold. Children cry.

Your captain puts them in a half-burned building 10 km South. It's got black mould and no roof, but hey -- it's better than death.

And then what?

DAMAGED LEDGER - And then the building doesn't come down. And it still hasn't. That was 52 days ago. BUT THAT IS NOT THE POINT. The point is -- it *will* come down.

+5 XP

Am I *absolutely* sure?

And when it does, everyone in there will die.

If it hasn't, it won't. I was wrong.

Oh god, I don't know...

DAMAGED LEDGER - 100000000000%

2. And when it does, everyone in there will die.

DAMAGED LEDGER - At the end of the day -- no one knows. The math says it *must* collapse. And the optics show that it doesn't. It's as if some kind of *evil spirit* is holding the tenement together, like the jaws of a trap. Luring the people back in. One by one. Already they're going... At least 40 of them are living there now.

As we speak. And you can't *keep* them from going back, because they all hate you. They despise you. They think you threw them out of their homes. Every day they despise you more -- and every day, more of them go back.

And every day is a day closer to the day the building will fall.

DAMAGED LEDGER - Exactly. These notes have been very clear. Seems you have been thorough with documenting this one. So -- which one of these do you want to read *next*? (Because there is nothing you can do about THE COLLAPSING TENEMENT).

[lostbetweenvampiresandmusic]

Changes chapter 7

< Previous chapter

Series masterlist

Max left the gardens, noticing the sun rising in the east. He made his way down the hall, to the spiralling staircase the student had pointed him to.

As he made his way down the stairs, noticing how most of the steps had been worn away over time, he could smell the faint scent of dried blood. Strange. The further down he went, the darker it got. The stairs went ln for a long time, and at one point, even Max had to stop and wonder why it was so dark. Even though he was quite capable of seeing in the dark, he still decided to use a lighter to light his way. One day, a couple of months ago, he had confiscated it from Paul when he was smoking a joint in his videostore. Now, he was beyond grateful that he had done so - because if someone wanted to come down, they'd see him and suspect nothing. It would be weird to see a man walk down these dark steps without a light, scary even for some. But a man holding a lighter since he didn't have a flashlight? Not that weird.

It took a good ten minutes before Max finally ended up at the bottom of the stairs. Attached to the wall was a gaslantern. Max took it, lit it up, and shone the beam around. He was standing in a dark, muddy hallway. There were small pools of water on the ground, and he could hear the irregular drip of waterdrops. The hallway smelt slightly off as if mould was growing somewhere. Along the walls were low filingcabinets, all of them chained together and locked. Max frowned, wondering why Lucien - or someone else - would have done that.

As he walked further down the hallway, he found that it ended leading to a single door. He pushed it open, stopping as he smelt the same scent of dried blood. Something had happened here.

He stepped further inside, placing the gaslantern on the desk in the middle of the room, and looked around. The place was a mess. The desk was littered with ripped pages, broken inkbottles, and broken cups of coffee. The carpet on which the desk stood had a dark brown dried spot on it, which was undeniably a spot of dried blood. On the wall next to the door stood a bookcase, but all of the books had been pulled out, laying scattered on the floor. At the two walls left and right in the room, the wallpaper was ripped, and framed pictures and documents had been thrown carelessly on the ground. Max looked further, stopping when he saw something that was out of place. A small, green chest. It was made of wood and could have easily been broken. And yet, it wasn't. The surrounding area was also free of any damages. Max frowned as he walked towards it, opening the lid.

The box was filled with papers, all sorted in envelopes and case files. Max flipped through them, stopping when he found Luciens name first. He read the latest entry.

Subjects 'mate' has successfully been removed from the playing field. Subject responds badly and refuses any form of nutrition.

So this wasn't Luciens room, then? This was - someone had killed his mate. And taken Lucien. Max flipped through the papers, hoping to find more, but he couldn't. Most entries he found were just distant observations to decide whether or not Lucien was a vampire. Max decided to take the file with him, just so he'd have proof. He looked through the other files, finally ending up on one titled Julie.

Max swallowed as he saw the thickness of the files. That poor girl, she had been through to much - he thought quietly as he opened it up - and he'd be damned if he let anything else happen to her again. She had been nothing but sweet, even when she'd been frightened beyond imagination. And even if she hadn't been sweet, even if she was the worst fledgling he had ever come across - even then did she not deserve any of the things she had gone through. No, Max thought bitterly. Just making sure Julie would heal and be safe wasn't enough. These people who had done this to her, they needed to go.

Max was about to take the files out of the chest, wanting to take them with him as proof - as a way to help Julie heal - when he heard footsteps. He froze, quietly closing the lid, hiding in the shadows of the room, behind the door.

"And you're certain he's still here?" A female asked.

"Yes, he never came back."

Max had to restrain himself not to groan in frustration. It was the student that had brought him here, that was now talking to this woman.

"I don't hear or see anyone, Danny. Maybe you just missed him."

"I didn't, I payed attention all-"

"Maybe you just missed him." The female said, much more ice cold force in her voice. Max could imagine Danny nodding, fearfully looking away. He could imagine the way the woman grinned, like a lioness playing with her prey.

He heard one pair of footsteps disappear. Then, after a moment, he heard the strangely infuriating sound of heels being clicked against the floor. He kept quiet, willing himself to be as invisible as possible, as he felt the woman step closer and closer.

She stepped into the room, looking for a moment, and then disappearing. Max waited for her to leave, hearing the distant taptaptap fade slowly away before he made his way out of this room. He quickly went up the stairs, grateful to realise he had some time left - not much - before the sun started to rise. He quickly made his way to the second floor, flying out of the window and back to his car - speeding towards Luciens crypt.

It was only after he parked the car and made his way inside the crypt that he realised he had forgotten the files with Julie's name on it. He sighed, closing the crypts entrance. Maybe he'd have another shot tomorrow. Until then, he'd have the time to clean up this crypt so he could sleep and to read through the files he did take.

Cleaning up the crypt took longer than he expected. Sure, the dozens of lose papers were quickly piled together and put aside, but the shrapnels of the broken coffin and the other broken pieces of furniture took longer to clean up. After an hour, Max just decided to give up his efforts and shove everything aside. He found a pillow that didn't smell terribly - something he was grateful for after spending the previous night in a bathtub - and decided it would do for that night. He went to sit down in the cleared corner of the crypt, lighting a candle he found between the debris. He then opened the file he found, hoping for some answers. The first seven pages were lists of observations. How the testsubject never appeared until dark, how they'd never seen the testsubject eat or drink anything - all observations were to answer the question if the testsubject was a vampire or not. Max flipped through them, seeing nothing interesting. He put them aside, looking at the next page.

The Company of Life (COL) is pleased to inform you that starting from November 2nd 1984, you'll be employed by us. We are certain that you'll fund your time with us enjoyable and that we will all work together for a better tomorrow.

Max frowned, looking at the paper. The Company of Life had a green branch with two leaves as its logo, with three red droplets falling of them. He'd assumed the droplets would be blue, indicating water - the source of life for almost everything. So why red? He put the paper aside, reading the next one. It was a newspaper article.

COMPANY PROMISES CURE FOR SEVERAL BLOOD DISEASES WITHIN FIVE YEARS

Miss Walker, director of COL, has announced this news this morning during the bimonthly press conference. "Our research teams are working as hard as they can, and the clinical trials have proved to be successful. We still have a lot of testing to go through, but for now, it does seem promising. Our goal is to eradicate all of these diseases to make sure the human race will flourish in the future.

When asked how they came to the discovery of a possible cure or how they are testing it, Miss Walker stated that those details would remain confidential until further notice.

He read the article another time, and then another time. If his gutfeeling was right, and he was sad to conclude that it most often was, it meant that this COL was using inhumane methods of finding a cure. A vampires blood, for instance, Max knew, could heal a human. It could heal diseases and eradicate anaemia in certain conditions. If a power-hungry doctor discovered that, there was no telling what to do. He sighed, placing the article next to him. Was this what Julie had been through?

SEVERAL HOMELESS YOUTH HAVE BEEN REPORTED MISSING - IS THERE A SERIAL KILLER ON THE RISE?

Ever since the discovery of the 17 year old John Doe in Berkeley Park, local police have been getting more reports from homeless people reporting friends and acquaintances gone missing. All reports state that the missing people are between the ages of sixteen and twenty-one, and that they didn't have any family members to look out for them.

Since there's hardly any information available about these people, we ask you to call this number ----- if you believe to have any information. Even if you have seen them weeks before they went missing, any piece of information can be vital in recovering these youths.

Underneath the article were eight pictures, all of young people. Max didn't recognise Julie in any of them, but he didn't know whether or not he should be happy about that. Still, seeing the several articles together, it seemed logical that COL was behind those disappearances. Still, he did wonder why this file held Luciens name. Did Lucien work for COL, and was he gathering evidence against them? Or was it something else? Max was about to put the folder away, deciding to go to sleep, when a small scrap of paper slipped out.

He took it, seeing an address scribbled in a messy handwriting he didn't recognise. Tomorrow, he decided, he would visit whatever was at the location first. Hopefully, this time, he would get some concrete answers.

Next Chapter >

[thevampiricnihal]

Catherines and Bogs and Transitions and Death

“We ran from the top of the Heights to the park, without stopping—Catherine completely beaten in the race, because she was barefoot. You’ll have to seek for her shoes in the bog tomorrow.”

(Chapter 6) (italics mine)

“The place of Catherine’s interment, to the surprise of the villagers, was neither in the chapel under the carved monument of the Lintons, nor yet by the tombs of her own relations, outside. It was dug on a green slope in a corner of the kirk-yard, where the wall is so low that heath and bilberry-plants have climbed over it from the moor; and peat-mould almost buries it.”

(Chapter 16) (italics mine)

“‘Eh, dear! Mrs. Dean!’ she exclaimed. ‘Well! there is a talk about you at Gimmerton. I never thought but you were sunk in the Blackhorse marsh, and missy with you, till master told me you’d been found, and he’d lodged you here! What! and you must have got on an island, sure? And how long were you in the hole? Did master save you, Mrs. Dean? But you’re not so thin—you’ve not been so poorly, have you?’

‘Your master is a true scoundrel!’ I replied. ‘But he shall answer for it. He needn’t have raised that tale: it shall all be laid bare!’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Zillah. ‘It’s not his tale: they tell that in the village—about your being lost in the marsh; and I calls to Earnshaw, when I come in “Eh, they’s queer things, Mr. Hareton, happened since I went off. It’s a sad pity of that likely young lass, and cant Nelly Dean.” He stared. I thought he had not heard aught, so I told him the rumour. The master listened, and he just smiled to himself, and said, “If they have been in the marsh, they are out now, Zillah. Nelly Dean is lodged, at this minute, in your room. You can tell her to flit, when you go up; here is the key. The bog-water got into her head, and she would have run home quite flighty; but I fixed her till she came round to her senses. You can bid her go to the Grange at once, if she be able, and carry a message from me, that her young lady will follow in time to attend the squire’s funeral.”

(Chapter 28) (italics mine) (I will forever wonder whether Heathcliff spread the rumor himself at the village he merely took advantage here of an already existing one).

“He turned abruptly to the fire, and continued, with what, for lack of a better word, I must call a smile: ‘I’ll tell you what I did yesterday! I got the sexton, who was digging Linton’s grave, to remove the earth off her coffin lid, and I opened it. I thought, once, I would have stayed there: when I saw her face again—it is hers yet!—he had hard work to stir me; but he said it would change if the air blew on it, and so I struck one side of the coffin loose, and covered it up: not Linton’s side, damn him! I wish he’d been soldered in lead. And I bribed the sexton to pull it away when I’m laid there, and slide mine out too; I’ll have it made so: and then by the time Linton gets to us he’ll not know which is which!”

(Chapter 29) (italics mine)

From Janet Gezari’s The Annotated Wuthering Heights

“Her father-in-law went up, held the light to Linton’s face, looked at him, and touched him; afterwards he turned to her.

“Now—Catherine,” he said, “how do you feel?”

She was dumb.

“How do you feel, Catherine?” he repeated.

“He’s safe, and I’m free,” she answered: “I should feel well—but,” she continued, with a bitterness she couldn’t conceal, “you have left me so long to struggle against death alone, that I feel and see only death! I feel like death!”

‘And she looked like it, too!”

(Chapter 30) (italics mine)

For both Catherines, bogs seem to signify a transition from one house to the next and the death caused by this transition. Catherine Earnshaw is literally buried in a bog. It is apparent that Catherine Linton’s metaphorical death is a manufactured fake one by the fact that she was never really lost in the bog, it was just a rumor probably spread by Heathcliff.

Just some thoughts I had ahead of reading @vickythestrange ‘s short story about bogs.

[mayhemchicken-varneyposting]

Varney the Vampire, Chapter 12: A Disappointing Lack Of Secret Passages

[Previous chapter] [Next chapter]

Charles sits in his room and broods for a truly impressive number of paragraphs. Eventually, he is distracted by the portrait on the wall, which is so lifelike that its eyes appear to follow you around the room. Charles carefully studies it and memorizes its features, in case they are helpful later in identifying the vampire. As he does this, he notices some of the moulding around the portrait is cracked, and comes to the conclusion that it must have been recently moved from the wall and replaced. What's more, it seems to be loose, and could be easily removed again with the right tools. While he ponders how to do this, he is interrupted by a knock at the door.

He calls for whoever it is to come in, but receives no response except more knocking. After three rounds of this, he gets up and opens the door, only to find no one there. Charles is starting to feel a bit rattled now, but refuses to ask for a new room because that's coward behavior.

The knock comes again, and he quickly flings open the door. Once again there's no one there, but he hears a strange sound in the corridor, a sort of groaning sigh, or perhaps sighing groan. He calls out, and Henry answers, having been awakened by the commotion. Charles tells Henry about the mysterious knocking, and also his theory about the portrait having been moved. Henry is willing to test the theory by removing the portrait, so he scrounges up some tools and the two of them set to work. Disappointingly, they find nothing behind the portrait except bare wall.

Suddenly, they hear a series of strange noises outside, and a figure appears at the window. Charles shoots it without hesitation. The rest of the household is awakened by the shot, and they proceed to search the area outside the window. Charles' shot left a hole in the window pane, but there is no sign of any intruder outside.

Marchdale advises that the Bannerworths pack their bags and move away. He then starts making gloomy and lurid predictions about Flora becoming a vampire and hunting her own children, which upsets Charles a lot. He tells Marchdale to shut up, and Marchdale is so offended by this that he threatens to leave the house on the spot. Hastily, Henry makes Charles apologize in order to keep the peace, and all ruffled tempers are soothed...for now.

Hoo boy this is an action-packed chapter.

A Theme, or at least a recurring subject, rears its head in this chapter, and is soon to become even more prominent. The characters in Varney are strictly bound by proper English manners, and are handicapped by them at every turn. This limitation, while troublesome enough in their dealings with each other, will prove to be a major source of conflict when dealing with the vampyre. More on that next chapter.

The first little mannerly stumbling blocks start to appear here. Charles restlessly paces his room, but stops for fear of disturbing his hosts. Harmless enough, but things will escalate later.

Charles' character is also fleshed out some. Charles, we have seen, is a bit reckless; now we learn his own bravery is an important aspect of his self-image. Charles will not be seen as a coward; he will never back down from a challenge. I'm sure this little personality quirk will never cause him any problems.

Charles proceeds to make a very thorough examination of the portrait, eventually coming to the conclusion that it was recently moved, and further that there may be something of interest concealed behind it. A secret passage, perhaps?

No time for that, someone is gently rapping at his chamber door. These early chapters, as we've seen, are full of weird spooky little moments like this one which are promptly forgotten about and never, ever explained. Presumably, the source of the noise is Varney, although jury's out on how he got into the house. I will say one thing:

There was no one to be seen; but, as he opened the door, he heard a strange sound in the corridor—a sound which scarcely could be called a groan, and scarcely a sigh, but seemed a compound of both, having the agony of the one combined with the sadness of the other.

Making a noise like this? Extremely in character for Varney.

I've talked before about how reading this book feels like unmedicated ADHD, and that extends to the actions of the characters. It's 2 in the morning, but Henry and Charles decide to embark on a little impromptu home renovation project, which: mood.

In a few minutes Henry returned, and although what he had succeeded in finding were very inefficient implements for the purpose, yet with this aid the two young men set about the task.

Evidently Marchdale's iron crowbar from a few chapters ago got misplaced. (A word on the crowbar: My dad recently pointed out to me that, when opening Marmaduke Bannerworth's coffin, Marchdale calls the crowbar "an old friend of mine" and says he is "much accustomed to its use". Just what exactly was he getting up to with that thing?)

To the disappointment of everyone, there turns out to be no secret passage, or even a measly secret chamber. It doesn't even seem like there's any kind of secret compartment in the portrait itself, which was my immediate first thought.

"I perceive as much; and the panel itself, although of more than ordinary thickness, is, after all, but a bit of planed oak, and apparently fashioned for no other object than to paint the portrait on."

Of course, perhaps the secret compartment is just very cunningly hidden. Still, this line of investigation appears to be at a dead end for now.

No time for that, the vampyre is here! Or at least, that's what Charles assumes, as he shoots it without hesitation. Imagine if it turned out to be Chillingworth again.

Varney has, at this point, been shot by every major character except George and Chillingworth. He is really determined to break into this house. Once again, though, shooting him does nothing to prevent him from escaping, and a search of the garden turns up nothing. Everybody is seriously rattled by this, and Marchdale proclaims, rather dramatically, that the only chance Henry and his family have at an escape from these horrors is to leave their house forever.

He then, seemingly for no reason, starts talking about Flora, and the horrible fate that surely awaits her as a vampire. And my god does he go ON and ON about the subject, adding WAY too much unnecessary detail. Charles has little patience for this.

"...oh, it is too dreadful to contemplate! Too horrible—too horrible!"

"Then wherefore speak of it?" said Charles, with some asperity.

He won't shut up, though.

"Mr. Charles Holland, if you wed, you would look forward to being blessed with children—those sweet ties which bind the sternest hearts to life with so exquisite a bondage. Oh, fancy, then, for a moment, the mother of your babes coming at the still hour of midnight to drain from their veins the very life blood she gave to them. To drive you and them mad with the expected horror of such visitations—to make your nights hideous—your days but so many hours of melancholy retrospection."

Dude, is this really necessary? Marchdale seems to think so.

"I will hear no more of this," cried Charles Holland.—"I will hear no more."

"I have done," said Mr. Marchdale.

"And 'twere well you had not begun."

"Nay, say not so. I have but done what I considered was a solemn duty."

A solemn duty!? Solemn duty to what, exactly? Touch grass, Marchdale.

Henry and Charles' respective responses to Marchdale's weird spiel are an interesting reflection of their characters. Charles is immediately confrontational, taking no shit from Marchdale and calling into question his motives. Henry, on the other hand, not only assumes good intentions from Marchdale, but that he, Henry, is in the wrong for getting upset.

"Under that assumption of doing duty—a solemn duty—heedless of the feelings and the opinions of others," said Charles, sarcastically, "more mischief is produced—more heart-burnings and anxieties caused, than by any other two causes of such mischievous results combined. I wish to hear no more of this." "Do not be angered with Mr. Marchdale, Charles," said Henry. "He can have no motive but our welfare in what he says. We should not condemn a speaker because his words may not sound pleasant to our ears."

Marchdale takes personal offense to Charles' remarks, and threatens to leave Bannerworth Hall, and at this point all of the klaxons are going off in my head. Marchdale is an old family friend; he presumably knows Henry quite well. This is an intentional manipulation tactic. And it works: Henry immediately urges Charles to apologize, in order to pacify Marchdale and keep the peace in the household.

Having known more than one Marchdale, I relate to Henry here; at the same time, I want to yell at him. Just let him go! You don't need his passive-aggressive ass! He is threatening to leave while your house is under active vampire siege because one of your friends was justifiably rude to him after he made a bunch of SUPER out-of-pocket remarks. He is not being the reasonable one here.

But Henry is in a desperate situation; he feels he can't afford to lose any allies. And, once again, we see the theme of characters being bound by manners. Marchdale is clearly in the wrong here, and yet Henry cannot call him out on it without appearing rude. It is a limitation whose effects will soon prove devastating to Henry.

Next: We meet Sir Francis Varney

[transmutationisms]

Re: babygirlification of Kendall, have you written anything abt how the show handles the archetype of The Addict? I've found Kendall really compelling bc of it, particularly from the dsm/psych diagnostic critique lens that sees capitalism as responsible for perpetuating addiction thru escapist consumption. Do you agree that that's something the show is doing intentionally?

wow thank you so much for sending this—i've been wanting to put together my thoughts on addiction in succession for a while now.

capitalism in the 21st century, and therefore also on succession, is neoliberal in nature. although the show makes reference to overtly disciplinary institutions (the psychiatric hospital; military school), the mechanisms of control the characters are subject to tend to operate on more insidious, subtle, coercive lines. waystar is not a factory with a strictly rule-bound production floor; it's a media corporation, operating across numerous social and political domains and selling propaganda. it operates not through overtly punitive measures, but through largely seductive ones: stoking and then satisfying people's desires, guiding them ideologically whilst making them believe they're making such choices freely.

there's an element of this type of coercive, yet often covert, control in logan's relationship with kendall as well. kendall is allowed to ride a motorcycle—clinging to the back of logan's bodyguard. he's allowed to go up to the roof—being surreptitiously surveilled, and then prevented from killing himself by the installation of a glass wall. he has access to virtually unlimited money—bearing in mind that most of it is tied up in things like stock options that are essentially under logan's control. on one level, kendall can go anywhere he wants; he can look down at the city from the literal apex of his father's empire; he's a billionaire. but, for all of this freedom and mobility, we can see that in fact his choices are constrained and his movements coerced. logan employed a more overtly disciplinary hand when kendall was a child, but as an adult the means of control tend to run more along psychological lines, manipulating kendall's desires and limiting his field of movement while making it appear that he's freer than ever.

this is very much in line with the mechanisms of control favoured in cyberspatial capitalism, which operates by addicting its users: to sensory stimulation, to pleasure, to the endlessly deferred rewards of endless self-improvement. certainly disciplinary institutions still exist, but in addition there are also more subtle methods of keeping people in line, often relying on the financial threat of debt and the reward of addictive pleasure, or at least removal of withdrawal pains. even as the child of a literal billionaire, kendall is very much a 'debtor-addict' in this mould, as his father wields financial control over him and uses kendall's endless desire for paternal approval in order to keep him hooked.

to me the connection to kendall's coke use is clear. cocaine is the businessman drug par excellance. kendall uses it when he's trying to step into this version of hypermasculine dominance, like in 'prague' when he decides to team up with sandy and stewy or in 'vaulter' when he's ordered to shut vaulter down. coke is part of his endless attempt to self-improve, to self-optimise and ultimately to gain both his father's respect and the material, financial rewards of success in the corporate world.

where cocaine is concerned, then, The Addict as instantiated in kendall is not an aberrant individual with a unique disease, but the logical outcome of the control society's demand for self-improvement and corporate profitability. kendall's coke use is pathologised because he does it excessively and potentially dangerously, yet the logic motivating this drug use is all around him and is considered normal and unremarkable. so wrt coke, The Addict on succession is merely an extreme expression of the psychology of the control subject, pathologised for this extremeness even as the underlying affective and structural demands driving this behaviour go unchallenged.

a more directly escapist form of consumption is kendall's use of downers (seeking ketamine in the first half of 'prague,' asking for weed and oxy in 'austerlitz,' etc). these drugs are not meant to enhance his business performance or masculinity, and don't speak to his addictive need for paternal approval except insofar as he may seek them out when he's particularly miserable and doesn't want to think about it. in regards to these drugs, The Addict represents a failure in the neoliberal system of control, insofar as his drug-taking does not enhance his productivity but hinders it. for kendall this is not his primary mode of substance use, obviously, because so much of his fundamental drive is about his desire to prove himself at waystar and ultimately to inherit.

in both types of drug usage, though, kendall's addiction is a direct result of the affective and material demands exerted by a neoliberal control society. capitalism encourages consumption generally, and specifically it encourages kendall's literal drug consumption as a means of endless self-optimisation when it comes to cocaine. although the other characters on the show perceive his drug use as an individual and pathological moral failure, the show is quite clear in drawing these links between capitalism, control mechanisms, and the logics of consumption that create and drive kendall's addiction.

[buildware]

Elbow grease is going to be an essential component for removing mould. Several treatments on the market promise to remove mould quickly, but to truly get rid of the muck, you will need to scrub. Get a nice scrub brush and start cleaning with the cleaner of your choice.

Bleach is frequently used in How to Remove Mould from Walls? Mould from grout. Although potentially effective, this practice is hazardous to the environment and the household. Before using harsh chemicals, take into account several safer, less expensive, and equally effective home cures.

[pigeonwhumps]

Retraining

Sanctuary masterlist

Taglist: @painful-pooch @i-eat-worlds @a-funeral-romance @rainydaywhump

@littlespacecastle @mirasmirages @flowersarefreetherapy @whumpinggrounds @cepheusgalaxy

Finn starts retraining Lea on her positions (with a Romantic focus).

1.7k

CWs: BBU, pet whump, creepy whumper, rape, stress positions, beating, electric shocks, mentioned gang rape, restraints, gag, blindfold, non-con nudity

Finn steps quietly into the little white room, watching its occupant with a smile. 436643. His acquisition. Finally. She's in a straitjacket and tight black shorts, and a leather blindfold. If his instructions have been followed correctly that should be a pecker gag in her mouth.

After seven years, he finally has the opportunity to train her.

After he's looked his fill, he crosses the room with measured footsteps, watching in satisfaction as his trainee stiffens. He can almost hear her heart rate rise and crouches down, pulling the blindfold away.

Oh, her eyes. So dark brown, so full of fear. He's getting hard already.

"Hello, 436643. I'm your new handler. I'll make you more comfortable." He pulls out the gag none-too-gently, and his trainee works her jaw a little.

"Thank- thank you, sir."

"So you have some manners. That's good. From your behaviour earlier I was beginning to think you didn't. Do you know why you and I are here?"

643 looks at her feet. "You're- you're going to train me to-to be a Romantic, sir."

"Very good. You've been very badly behaved up until now, but I'm going to turn you into the best slut here. Stop you from being so worthless that you're discarded at every turn. If you do well, maybe we can even find you an owner, which is what you want, isn't it 643?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. I'll start today by teaching you your positions. If you do well, I'll fuck you later. If you make a mistake you'll be punished. Trust me, 643, you'll prefer the sex."

"Yes-yes, sir."

Finn smiles. Break her first, then mould and shape her until she's begging for sex. Make it her greatest reward and then she'll crave it. This is why his trainees are always the best. You have to punish them hard enough that even if they're unwilling, sex is still better. And then you can work on the specifics. Reward sex has to be comfortable, too, it can't be more painful than the punishments (at least, not at first. You have to build up to that, because a prospective might want it). Not everyone gets that.

And if all else fails, there's always the drugs.

She whines slightly as he removes the straitjacket (revealing a tight, fitted t-shirt) and he slaps her cheek. "Quiet. Nobody wants a pet who complains." 643 bows her head. Finn fiddles with the remote in his hand, bringing a concealed projector down from the ceiling and turning it on to display an image of a pet in a perfect position one. "Head up and look at the screen." She obeys. "This is position one. I want you to copy this pet, and get into each of the positions they display quickly and accurately. Prove to me you're worth another owner eventually."

"Yes, sir."

"Good. And we'll begin. Position one."

His trainee (his trainee, god, he finally gets her, he can't believe his luck) scrambles to her feet, standing straight, hands by her side and feet shoulder-width apart. She's not as fluid as he'd like, but this'll do for now. He presses a button.

"Position two. Try to be more fluid in your transition this time."

He can see an attempt at it, but not enough. She kneels down, placing her bum on her ankles. She's pretty much sitting on them.

He sighs and presses his baton to the side of her bottom, then turns it on. She jumps and yelps.

"Silence. I'll not ask again. Place your bum there, don't sit." She obeys with a flicker of a scared glance at him. "Better."

And they continue. For position 21 he folds the metal bed down from the wall, and the whole way through he's making a note of what he needs to help her learn her positions.

"How is your muscle memory so bad?" he asks, slamming the electrified cane down on her shoulders for the fifth time in this position. The cane works better than the baton for this. "No wonder you were discarded. Shoulders lower, back straight, head right down."

She doesn't make a sound this time. She can't.

By the end she's black and blue and red, and Finn sighs heavily.

"You need a lot of work. We'll do some intensive focus for the rest of today's sessions. You didn't do well enough for a reward, but you need a demonstration, and I need to test you. Remember, this would be far better if you were a better trainee." He unbuttons his trousers. "Position 22."

643 kneels, sets her bum on her ankles (without sitting this time, finally, clearly the large welts are doing the trick), and opens her mouth.

Finn smiles. The urge to ignore her position training and just have proper sex is strong, but it'll be more satisfying in the end if she's trained properly first, he knows.

"You remembered. Good girl."

He slides his cock into her mouth and she takes it. No teeth, thankfully, and although she's not really very good at it he still cums, causing her to choke and splutter.

"I'll teach you. You'll still be the best slut here by the time I'm finished. Now, stay in this position, and I'll be back shortly."

He strolls out the door, leaving her still spluttering, and heads for the nearest supply closet. He pulls out what he needs.

"Hi Finn."

He holds back a sigh. It's not that he doesn't like his colleagues, it's just that... well, yes, it's that. But the better relationships he appears to have the more leeway there is and the more off-the-record perks he's likely to get, so he turns and pastes on a smile.

"Hi Kevin. How's it going?"

"Oh, good, good. Just putting the finishing touches on my latest trainee. He ships tomorrow. Going to work some fancy cruise ship." Ah yes, that's right. He's a Combination of Romantic and something-or-other (Finn wasn't really listening). Finn didn't partake (he doesn't go for men) but he knows Kevin's been teaching his trainee to entertain multiple people at a time. "What about 643?"

"We're doing intensive position training at the moment. She really needs to learn how to swallow."

Kevin smirks. "Have fun."

"Oh I will, believe me." She's going to be under his care for months, and he'll be watching every step of the way. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get this–"he holds up his tools–"to my trainee."

Kevin nods and walks away. Finn strides towards 643's room, smile turning genuine. His trainee is still in the same position when he enters, eyes watering, looking rather desperate now.

"Good girl."

_

"Good girl."

643 shivers. Her mouth aches from being open so long, and her chin is sticky, but the praise feels so good. She watches her handler, hoping for release even though she shouldn't.

"Back to neutral. Take your clothes off, this isn't a position your owner will have you dressed for. And have a drink of water."

643 works her jaw. She doesn't think she's ever had her mouth open for so long in a day before. Or maybe it's been more than a day now. She doesn't know in here.

It doesn't matter. She's a good pet, she'll always obey and it doesn't matter when or for how long. She's good.

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

He nods and is quiet for a couple of minutes, watching her drink.

"We'll start with position 34. Get into it."

643 lies on her back gingerly and takes one ankle in each hand, as lightly as possible to avoid pressing too much on the injuries. She bends her legs in half and spreads them as much as she can.

It's not far. She's never been good. Her handler sighs.

"As I thought. You need help. Let me make this easier for you." He holds some rope up and ties it around her wrists, tying them to her ankles tightly and then that combination to her thighs. It's silky rope but it presses and rubs on her welts and bruises, and she bites her lip so she doesn't cry out. That would be a bad thing to do, and she's good.

She's trying so hard to be good.

Then he brings over a metal bar with cuffs at both ends and snaps them around her legs, just above her knees. He twists the bar and pulls it, and her legs spread apart to as far as is just about comfortable, and then further. So far she thinks they'll break.

"That's better. And one last thing, because there's no point you being able to hold this position if no-one can use you in it." He takes up... something, her eyes are watering from the strain already, and she cries out as he inserts it into her vagina, pushing it up. It's an intrusion and she doesn't like it, it feels wrong, the shape's horrible, it needs to come out.

No. No it doesn't. Her handler's in charge, and that's that. It's fine. She shouldn't be thinking like this, it's bad.

"Quiet. You were measured, it fits, stop making a fuss."

643 just bites back a whimper.

"Now, you're going to stay like that. Don't move, don't make a sound, for as long as I say. We're going to do this until you're used to the position. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," whispers 643, everything too much to speak any louder. And then there's even more when the thing inside her starts vibrating.

She doesn't know much, after that. She doesn't realise how much noise she's making. She doesn't notice it when her handler gags her. And she doesn't even realise when he eventually gives up, turns off and removes the vibrator, too far gone in her own head to notice anything.

She certainly notices the beatings though, hours later. When her handler has removed the restraints but she can't move because she's been in the same position for hours. They hit her chest this time, mostly, and her legs, hard enough to cause welts and bruises.

She's a bad pet, she knows she is. However much she tries she's bad and she won't find another owner to give her a chance at this rate, and then what will happen to her?

Once her handler's left, leaving her with a blindfold, gag, and a short break before the next one, she can't help but cry.

[mielmoto]

I don't want to get too annoying about my exposition in any given thread, so I'm going to compile some references here of "how you should (roughly) picture Charmed Confections," by sharing a couple of the inspirations which are constantly bouncing around in my brain. beginning with, (to almost noone's surprise if you've ever looked into french confections for 0.5 seconds), La Maison Méert of Lille, France.

It truly does look like something out of a fairytale, with all the densely crowded treats lining each neatly-curated surface in sight: from baked goods to chocolates and caramels, to ornate sugar pieces and cakes, pies, and tarts of all sizes... and, most importantly, the coloring and material of it all feels a bit more homey, more lived-in and warm than the hyper-modern or surreally 'plasticky' modern candy shops with their bright splotches of color and stark white walls, floors, counters.

Honey's shoppe, no matter the iteration, is built on a base of warm-colored woods. In terms of the display surfaces, themselves, she avoids getting too carried away with any paint or solid decor-details, because the focus should always be on the products, themselves; which are usually more than colorful and ornate enough to carry the aesthetic weight. The main check-out counter, though, would get a little bit of extra flair, somewhere in the realm of the moulding and trim seen here:

Though the color palette would more reflect what she's known for: the gold filigree and details can stay, but it'd be gentler hues of purple, pink, and natural wood grains, with the occasional tiny highlight of white for additional softening and contrast.

A feature Meert lacks which I virtually always imagine in my mind's eye is captured well in Seoul's Hyoja Bakery, and that's the simple concept of a middle/island area posited into the center of the storefront, guiding the natural progression through the space as 'making a round' of the options, rather than touring up one side of treats then doubling back down the other side.

I also really appreciate some of the presentation being in baskets, not so distantly removed, so that people can pick up and admire a loaf of neatly wrapped bread or individually posited pastries. Sure, some delicacies remain behind the counter, and others need to be in a refrigerated/chilled cabinet, regardless, but avoiding pretention is very important to Honey.

Hers is supposed to be the kind of place where people feel comfortable and welcome to indulge themselves, not some pinnacle of luxury where everything has to be gawked at from afar like an art piece... but the colors and presentation at Hyoja err a bit too rustic. A bit too cottagecore/farmcore, rather than capturing some of the fairytale romance which is so core to her brand.

[hanasnx]

Ghostface!Indy

(Little long, I’m sorry, but bare with me. <3)

He’s got you pinned to the floor, blade pressed against your neck,  groaning each time his dick pushes down your throat, and he swears he can feel whenever the blade grazes your skin, almost bulging as he forces his cock deeper down your throat. 

He’s left you untied for now, your hands gripping onto his thighs, nails digging in each time you let out a little whimper, and he tuts, sliding the blade down towards the centre of your chest, nipping your skin, drawing more blood. “Careful, you can take it now. It’s my job to paint you red. Behave.” 

Your shirt’s in tatters from when he stalked you around your home, a deep gash down the back of it, forcing it to slide down your arms, leaving you bare for him after he pinned you down on the living room floor, ripping off everything else that was in the way. 

And since this time you could look up at him, all teary-eyed, with fear, chest heaving with every breath you took, he straddled your thighs, angling his phone to your face, and took a picture. He’d make sure to add it to his collection. 

He’s thought about how he’d take you for months now, ever since he chose you as his next victim. Had his own special book with notes dedicated to you, and when that got to be too plain, he took a more, well, direct approach – you really should be more careful.

He’d sneak in when you’re asleep, removing the covers off, hands sliding up the inside of your thighs. 

He wouldn't do anything much, he’s just getting to know you. Using his fingers, his tongue, curling them inside you to see if you could take him. He’d train you every night, until the day he finally showed himself to you – you couldn’t possibly complain about him not being able to fit, when he had personally trained you himself. 

And if he wanted release after that? 

He’d crawl over your sleeping body, stroking his cock, biting down on his shirt to keep it from getting in the way while he paints your face with his cum. And if he’s too tired to clean it up? he’ll aim for your chest, and lightly trace it over your perked nipples, marking you, scenting you as his. 

It’s cute you thought you could run away after he’d memorised, tasted every inch of you, poor deluded little thing. 

You feel a deep rumble against your back, as he looms over you, being finally test how well your body can actually take him.

“Quiet, doll, I’m trying to concentrate,” he’d push your head down on the couch, lifting your hips up, so he can have a better view of his cock sinking into you, the way your walls stretch around him. His groan sounds deeper – every sound he lets out, as he continues thrusting into you, settling on a punishing pace –  sounds deeper with the modulator he’s using.

He pinches your nipples, circling the perky buds with your blood. Why would he wear gloves on the job, when can just thrust his fingers down your throat and make you lick them clean for him? (He also gets to watch you choke on them, drool and your blood, coating the sides of your lips). 

He’s planned this moment out in meticulous detail, how it would go, how he’d use you, but, oh– 

But he’s mean.

His punishing thrusts, hitting your sweet spot over and over, his free hand between your thighs, pinching and pressing on your bundle of nerves, even as you try to buck away. He uses you for his pleasure. This is his reward after moulding you to take him. 

So when he feels your walls tighten around his cock, trembling, begging to cum, he pulls out, your whines muffled around his fingers. 

He flips you around on your back, fingers tracing over the bite marks, and cuts he left on your thighs, fingers rubbing over your red and trembling folds, coating them in your wetness, and slides it down over his cock. 

“Go on, pet. Taste.” He has you gagging on him again, hand gripping the back of your neck keeping you in place, looking down on you as you clean your wetness and blood off him. And when he tightens his grip around the back of your neck, pushing you to take his cock deeper, cumming down your throat, he’ll keep you on your knees, making you clean him up again. 

And as he coos mockingly, wiping away your tears, if you beg nicely, showing him how much you need to be filled, maybe, before he finishes what he came here to do, maybe he’ll fill you up. You’d just have to continue to peek his interest. 

I – yeah. Just going to leave this here before class.

-♥️

reading this before work like

i’m gonna be there doing shit and also thinking about this. how am i gonna concentrate this was so much fun to read

the face fucking, the stalking, the modulator, the fact reader wants more. this is delicious. i’m posting this so the other indy x reader smut fans have something delectable to consume before their daily toils today. thank you sm for your contribution anon <33

[talesofsorrowandofruin]

Manuscript Search Tag

Thanks for tagging me, @constellationandcompendium, @ahordeofwasps and @oh-no-another-idea! :D

Words: glass, taste, trust, held, cold, bold, fold, mould, ring, time, notice, force and piano. These are from Like Snow on Hungry Graves, The Power and the Glory, and Uneasy Money:

Glass:

Back then Hariye had accepted this explanation without question. He'd spent weeks being insufferably smug because he was more important than his brothers, in fact. Now, after being away from his family for almost a week, he looked back at that and began to wonder. What on earth was so special about him that he was treated like he was made of glass? And for that matter, how had he managed to sneak out unseen? It had seemed like extraordinary luck at the time but now made him wonder if his servants had just plain been sick of watching him all the time.

Taste:

The absurd part of his mind, the part he steadfastly refused to give free rein to because all his life he'd needed to be the only sane person in the entire family, suggested he should fake being sick. The much more logical part of his mind shouted that idea down before he could seriously consider it. The foreign doctor was Zi Yao's physician and no one else's. He'd just end up being poked and prodded at by all of the royal physicians. Anyway, it was in bad taste to fake an illness right after his cousin had died of one and while another cousin was still sick.

Trust:

"How do you know you can trust Ketevan?" she asked. "You said she keeps you safe from the pirates, but who keeps you safe from her?"

Held:

Running footsteps passed the cart. No one stopped to examine it. Hariye held his breath to keep from sneezing. The straw tickled his nose. He risked poking his head out of his hiding space. Then he dived down again, because two Peacekeeping officers were at the top of the alley.

Cold:

Without thinking he lunged forward and grabbed the necklace. It was cold. He could almost imagine it was wet with blood. He flung it at the wall with all his might. Then his stomach twisted and he fell to the ground retching.

Bold:

He finished the letter with a very emphatic "You idiot!" written in the boldest letters he could draw and underlined several times in case she somehow missed seeing them.

Fold:

Kitri scowled and folded her arms. The effect was ruined by the wind that kept blowing her hair over her face. No one could look menacing when they got a mouthful of their own hair every time they tried to speak.

Mould Seaweed:

The rope went slack. The boat stopped abruptly. It lay motionless for long enough to make Ketevan begin to wonder if the mysterious eel-like creature had left. She looked over the side. Black shapes moved beneath the surface. Then she realised they were only seaweed.

Ring (yes, this design is a Silmarillion reference! Feel free to imagine Ketevan's family as followers of Fëanor 🤣):

She removed her ring. It was stamped with the crest of Onomi, the lands always given to the queen's third child. To a foreigner it would look only like an ordinary metal ring with a design shaped like an eight-pointed star. The captain glanced at it, then looked again with more attention. Her eyes widened.

Time:

The voyage back to Vakaryan passed much more quickly than Ketevan wanted. She spent the whole time lost in thought. The most important thing on her mind was still the question of Hariye. Publicly reveal he was a mer? Have a special swimming pool constructed on her land and keep him in it? Take his scales or keep him safe from everyone who wanted them?

Notice:

And that was why Ketevan was out here on this boat in the middle of the sea. If anyone did cause trouble, the nearest kingdom immediately dispatched its navy to deal with them. Since in this case it was a group of pirates robbing merchant ships, a small battleship disguised as a trading vessel had been sent out as lure. Vakaryan's coast had long since disappeared behind them. They were sailing aimlessly in circles, waiting for the pirates to notice them. With each hour that went by it looked more and more like the pirates either hadn't fallen for the deception or had moved to a different part of the sea.

Force:

Ketevan lay so motionless that he strongly suspected she was also awake, waiting for him to make a move. He wanted nothing more than to jump up, stab her in the heart, then take the key and unlock the door. But he forced himself to do nothing. Ketevan was armed with a real weapon and she was much more experienced in using it than he was. Even if by some miracle he managed to kill her, he still had to run the gauntlet of all the guards outside who believed he was a criminal. No, he couldn't take action here. He had to wait until they left tomorrow.

Piano:

In the background Gilbert opened the piano lid. He played a series of scales as the argument continued. He struck up Handel's Dead March as soon as Eric stormed out.

Tagging @haunted-orange, @tabswrites, @kaylinalexanderbooks, @whatwedointhecraft, and anyone else who wants to do this! :D Can't be bothered thinking of new words, so pick whichever you like from mine!

[ehlnofay]

Summerfest Day 5 - FORGOTTEN

At the foot of the Statue of Akatosh, there is a crumpled linen gambeson. Its fabric is pale pearly grey, still smelling ever-so-slightly of sulphur; the place where the sides tie at the front is torn and stained brown with old blood, and the quilting is spotted with mould. Sewn onto the chest with meticulously jagged stitches is a black cloth emblem of a wolf.

Every so often – when the Imperial City’s humid air leaves everything damp with dew for days on end, or when the rain patters down through the smashed-up roof – Jeelius takes to the cloth armour with hot water and lemon juice and spells it dry. He hadn’t done anything to it at first. No-one had done anything to it at first – still reeling, trying to understand what had happened and what it meant. Every cleric that served in the Temple of the One had been raised with it – if not physically, they’d heard stories of it since they were children – and it was jarring to have it so literally ripped away and apart, returned chewed up and spat out. (Even if it was a miracle. Even though it was a miracle.) No-one knew what to do with anything at all. The gambeson barely registered, until it rained.

Nowadays, when it rains, the water floods the Temple’s fractured hall and runs down the marble steps into the street. Poor J’mhad is stuck trying to figure out how to dry it all every time, several of the priests trying ineptly to help or just pressing themselves against the wall, shivering. When it rains, the water cascades down the statue and pours over the steps of the dais. The gambeson, tucked away between the claws of its foot and the stump of a marble pillar, is drenched every time. It was harder to ignore when it stank of must and mildew. It was ruining the Temple air and making the visiting worshippers sneeze. So Jeelius washed it.

And he’s kept washing it since.

They’ve talked about more sustainable solutions – an acolyte suggested getting rid of it – but Jeelius couldn’t stand the idea. It felt – wrong, somehow. The gambeson is part of this place; a memorial to whatever exactly happened here, before the golden dragon killed the devil and cleared the skies. It’s important. It belongs.

Maybe he’s being sentimental.

(He remembers collecting that gambeson from its hiding place in the bushes. Then, he watched its owner sponge it down with a care that felt incongruous with their gruff voice and hard-eyed face.)

Regardless, neither he nor Tandilwe would hear of its removal, so it stays. He’s never tried to clean off the blood – that, too, feels in some way disrespectful – but he wipes it down in the fashion he remembers watching all those months ago, keeping it fresh and free of dust and mould. It’s comforting, in its way. Another new little ritual.

There are a lot of new rituals. It’s rather a lot to adapt to. Jeelius was drawn to priesthood for its stability, for the comfort he found in rites and traditions as unchanging as the Nine themselves; for as long as he’s been in this vocation he’s been performing customs centuries old. The world changes so quickly – history compounding, moving inexorably onward – but faith stays still, a single thread remaining through time as all others snap and fray. This, at least, does not change.

Until it does. The Temple of the One has no roof anymore; moss grows in the cracks of the flagstones, so thick and springy that he feels it through the soles of his slippers. They still maintain the braziers that held the Dragonfires, but now more care is paid to the statue – not so much to its maintenance, since it is newer than the braziers by millennia and larger by multitudes, but to its overwhelming presence, its implications, the necessity of restructuring the physical space and activities of the Temple around it. J’mhad is petitioning for gutters to be put into the floor of the halls so that the rainwater has somewhere to drain to. No-one is eager to alter an ancient structure – but J’mhad points out, not unreasonably, that it’s a bit late to worry about that now, and that this minor renovation would preserve the stone from damage and erosion that would be far worse in the long term.

It isn’t just the place, either. Nothing is the same anymore. In the immediate aftermath, people are scrambling – the priesthood included; Jeelius speaks to hundreds of people in those first few days after who still have the smell of sulphur and ash in their hair, who tell him about barricading their doors and hiding out through that final attack, who tell him about friends and family who weren’t inside when it started or whose walls and windows weren’t strong enough. Jeelius says soothing things, like he’s supposed to – leads them through prayer, like he’s supposed to – hides his shaking hands under the skirts of his robe and doesn’t look anyone in the face and doesn’t fixate on his own helplessness when other people are trying to talk through theirs, selfish, like he’s supposed to. When the people he speaks to aren’t seeking counsel – or once they’ve finished asking for help – they gawk at the statue, ask is it truly an avatar of Akatosh, did it really fight off the Daedra, are they gone for good? Did Jeelius see it? Does he know for certain?

He wishes they’d stop asking. He doesn’t want to think about knowing for certain; he wants the same easy belief he had before any of this. He wants, like everyone, to go back to normal; he knows that nothing ever will.

(He didn’t see it. He was in Tandilwe’s cellar. He doesn’t actually remember any of it – all he knows, all he’s been told, is that he had a knife and Tandilwe couldn’t make him let go. If he was going to die he was going to die quickly.)

He tells the ones who ask that he didn’t see it.

No-one seems to have seen it, not in its entirety. The Avatar itself, bright as the sun and screaming gold, is a common enough story, but there are no witnesses of whatever happened in the Temple in the chaos preceding its arrival.

(There’s only a gambeson left on the floor.)

But Jeelius doesn’t think about it, because in those early days the Crisis isn’t really over, no matter what the Council says. Everyone is still lost in the terror of it, trying to scrape out some path back to living, to understand how to keep moving. (Jeelius stops sleeping. Too many people need his help, and he’s scared to close his eyes.) Everyone is waiting with gritted teeth or bated breath for the next attack.

But instead they receive word that the Gates on the roads are closed.

People who had been away from home and terrified to travel begin to return.

No matter how long they wait, the shoe never drops. Jeelius won’t say it, but by all that is holy, sometimes he wishes it would. The Oblivion Crisis defined the world until it didn’t, and now everyone everywhere is living without it and he doesn’t know how to do that anymore. An artist sketches out the scene of the Temple battle as seen from the window of an insula a district over, and when it’s printed as a wood-cut in the Black Horse Courier Jeelius sees a looming statue and the winking of a blade in the demon’s ink-lined face and has to sit behind a pillar until he’s breathing again. After he takes up the self-appointed duty of maintaining the discarded cloth armour, he finds that breathing in the smell of cut lemons is the only thing that will calm him down.

The worshippers stop being desperate and start being curious. It’s easier to help them, now, regardless of his feelings about it. Then come the pilgrims, to pray at the site of Akatosh’s avatar, of his great victory, with endless more questions, none of which Jeelius feels he is answering to their satisfaction.

Did you see Martin Septim? they ask. Did you witness his exaltation? After the last of the Septims is named a saint, they come to pay respects to him as well as Akatosh. They speak of him in such reverent terms as make the ridge of Jeelius’ spine stand on end – though it could well be deserved; he doesn’t know, he never met the man.

(He remembers a letter he saw scribed in Cheydinhal. Dear Martin, I’m abandoning you for another priest I found…)

The pilgrims have a lot of questions, but no-one asks about her.

It’s – odd, Jeelius thinks. He supposes it’s the environment – the people who travel here are here to see the statue. The avatar. They’re here for worship, not gossip. Only he hears talk from the other priests. Hears talk in the marketplace when he goes to run errands. Reads the Black Horse every week and shares news with the others in the Temple and talks through the end of the Crisis in excruciating detail with almost everyone who visits, and it never comes up. No-one is worried. No-one even wonders. It’s as though the miracle has erased them from existence, as though the Divine saviour overwrote the human one.

There’s not even a note in the missives, a brief mention in conversation: no news of the Hero of Kvatch. Jeelius keeps an ear out but there’s never any news of the Hero of Kvatch. Just a bloodstained gambeson to wipe down with water and lemons.

No-one is worried. Why would they be? What is there to worry about now that the crisis is over and done? But Jeelius looks at the blood and thinks of red-stained robes and haemorrhaging in the abdominal cavity. Everyone else might gaze up in wonder at the statue of the Avatar – indomitable, irreproachable, something more than flesh and blood – and praise it as their deliverer, but Jeelius’ saviour stole a toffee apple in front of him and called him names and travelled with him back to the Capital because he said he was afraid.

Jeelius’ saviour was a child. And they’re missing. And everyone knows – they have to. They knew all about her before. But now that there’s a miracle in the Temple district and no use for a hero…

Out of sight, out of mind.

The pilgrims keep coming, and with them come travellers who aren’t here for worship – just to see the avatar for themselves. Someone asks, once, if it’s real.

Jeelius keeps performing his duties, as ever; wringing his comfort from them as best he can, despite how different it’s all become. Twice a week, more depending on the weather, he lays the gambeson flat and sponges it with lemon water, then puts it exactly back where it was.

He still doesn’t know why it feels significant, but it is.

Maybe he wants to make sure he has it on hand, just in case. Just so he can return it, if they ever come back.