#architects apt.

[oberynmaartell]

Retaining Walls - Contemporary Landscape

This is an illustration of a sizable modern stone landscaping.

[jellitchi]

artist au... smiles

more under the cut

artist au where grian and scar are both artists. they met in college coz they both were assigned each other as a roomie and they both just really clicked🙊... anyways got a place tgt, now they js live tgt. this au is just them being domestic sorry its very boring😭...

grian is a freelance artist, looking for work. he mostly works with acrylics and oil paints but has been kinda stumped recently n has been rly into pottery. hes trying sculpture but its kinda difficult for him to get the hang of it. mostly likes using the pottery wheel. he helps out as an assistant in art classes at the college he graduated from sometimes, sometimes does figure drawing art modeling whatever thats called when asked? shrugs

scar is an architect (act surprised) who has like a legitimate Talent for art. this kinda pisses grian off (competitive) coz grian does study after Study.... and art js doesnt click for him the way it seems to click for scar and it frustrates him. They still r esch others motivation and inspiration (CORNYYYY) anyways back to scar hes mostly does like Ideas / drafts... he rly wants to do landscaping but he js has a knack for buildings- like apts, shops, office spaces yeah... Like Ideally he wants to do theme park stuff Then landscaping- but he has a stable career working as a building architect so he just is content. he mostly works from home, most of his work is online so a lotta his colleagues r js like Via Zoom And whatever so he rly like getting out when he can

grian usually is like Im going to go sit and draw in the Rose Gardens. and scar joins him they do parallel play or whatever

Btw theyre not tgt theyre just heavily pinning (Theyve been pinning for the last 5 yrs.

[estimatey]

Buckinghamshire Retaining Walls Landscape

[hometoursandotherstuff]

$1.985m is pretty cheap for an iconic home like the 1894 Winslow House, Frank Lloyd Wright's first commission as an independent architect. Located in River Forest, IL, the 5bd, 3.5ba, 5,000 sq ft home already has a pending sale after only 17 days on the market. And, the current owners recently did over $1m in renovations- so it's really a bargain, if you're rich. Let us peasants take a look inside.

How about your own tunnel? Actually, it's a porte cochere, and look at the platform so you can enter and exit the vehicle comfortably.

Lovely carved oak front door.

This is so different, and a little more elegant, than Wright's later designs. Would this be considered an Inglenook?

The living room looks very formal and tailored. Look at the large built-in seat by the window. I like how they did the walls.

The windows are lovely leaded glass. If you were short of funds after buying the house, you wouldn't have to worry about buying seating for awhile, at least.

The library. Wow, there are so many built-ins in this home.

Isn't this a gorgeous entrance to the dining room? I have to say, this may be my favorite Wright house.

Nice ceiling, more built-in seating, and look at the columns. Very unlike Wright's usual style.

He really went bonkers with the built-in seating.

This is an enclosed sun porch. You can see the outer brick walls of the house.

I guess they redid the kitchen, and I can't decide how original it is. The only thing that would be original are the high upper cabinets, but I don't know about anything else.

It has quite a large pantry that's very pretty.

Nice everyday dining area.

Guest half bath has a vintage sink and new toilet.

The stair railings remind me of a harp.

The bedrooms are plain. They have nice moldings, though.

They renovated the baths.

Most older homes don't have walk-in closets like this.

Maybe this is the primary bedroom.

Original fireplace in the family room up here.

Finished attic is more of an office area, but it could be anything, really. I like the nook that the desk is in.

Lovely grounds.

Two patios.

The garage has a separate residence.

Could be a guest apt. or rental.

It has a cute outdoor area, too.

Look at the path around the garden. The lot is .67 acre.

https://www.redfin.com/IL/River-Forest/515-Auvergne-Pl-60305/home/13325458

[maluuizaa]

About Episode 7 - MCL New Gen (Jason’s route)

• First of all, why would a famous architect build her own house with only one bathroom?? Like wtf, somethings on the story just don’t make sense at all, just like Danica’s babies being cats on the last episode. Dude, the house has a pool but a second bathroom would be too much? I get it that they wanted to make up something that would bring Ysaline and her sister/mother to disagree on, but they could’ve come up with something else, like Tasha stealing clothes from Ysa’s closet or something like that. Anyway, that bothered me so much because even my tiny house has two bathrooms and just doesn’t make sense at all;

• The moments with Jason satisfied me so far, even if it was a short episode, I think it added more layers to their relationship and to Jason’s character, showing a softer side of him, almost sweet, when he apologizes to Ysaline and jumps to defend her immediately;

• Also, when we spot him on the street and he senses that something’s off and immediately asks if the real estate agent is bothering Ysa. Sir, I just know you are down bad haha;

• Our boy is jealous af confirmed, he mentioning Roy and asking why we don’t ask him to help, saying that he would be willing to do it. I just know he IS the possessive type.

• And also, when Ysaline left the apartment after their argument, we see that he starts a negotiation with the agent to try to get her the apt anyway. I don’t doubt that he could literally buy the fucking building as an apology to us, but I guess they would go for something a little less drastic haha. But I do feel like he is the type to try to fix everything with a gift of some kind.

• I love me some little angst to build things up, what can I say.

• Overall I got to see protective Jason, jealous Jason, fake boyfriend Jason (even if he was a jerk about it) so I guess i’m satisfied (for now);

• And now we have to wait another month to play que next one 😭

[mage-ical-character-person]

Architect Sanctuaries and Storage.

So! I feel like we don’t talk about the Sanctuary caches from Subnautica enough as it relates to Below Zero.

Like. First of all, Al-An, where are you going, your people are here. You’re not gonna check to see if anyone else is trapped in a sanctuary with failing power like you were? Granted, I think the Sanctuaries in The Crater are probably Hooked up to the Alien Thermal Plant so they’ll be fine as long as the lava zone continues to be hot. Probably why Ryley wasn’t getting any alien distress signals. But the threat of Kharaa has more or less passed, and these Architects were part of Al-An’s research team, you’d think he’d do something.

It’s recommended to put them in a compatible medium as soon as possible, you said it yourself get down there and fabricate more bodies!

Also. On the “factory reset” point. I feel the need to point a couple things out.

First of all, in the Dunes Cache, you can download this from the alien terminal

(Side note this entry specifically is so revealing about Architect society and stuff. PLUS entire other Architect character like I have so many thoughts. Might get its own post at some point I dunno)

It seems like they were storing the memories like… separately from the individual. They were probably also backed up on the network if Al-An’s comments in the whole “How do humans cope with the loss of memories” conversation are anything to go by.

I think the memories just end up feeling less like something the Architect actually experienced personally and more like something they heard about. Like they lose some personal connection to the events.

but still. I think if the Architect’s technology had a flaw like that they’d be working to fix it. And that leads me to a theory on why the Sanctuaries in the first game are so different to Sanctuary Zero where we find Al-An.

I think that with Kharaa meaning Sanctuary sites more vital than probably ever, improving the technology behind them would’ve probably been a priority. I think Sanctuary Zero is perhaps some sort of prototype for improved Sanctuary technology. Sanctuary Zero is bigger, despite storing only one Architect, while the Sanctuary Caches in the first game are implied to store multiple. It’s got this big bulky Architect Containment Cube to put Al-An in, and the PDA makes a point of noting that whoever’s stored inside is able to remain fully conscious with “whole brain emulation” something we don’t seem to see in the first game’s Sanctuaries.

I think the Network decided to stick Al-An in this instead of a normal Sanctuary both because they needed to test it anyway, and after what he did it’s possible they didn’t really care if it went wrong and he was lost in the process. If it did work, he’d have to continue to carry that emotional weight even if he got a new body, and he’d be forced to be awake, thinking about what he’d done in the thousand years before then. I think the Network would’ve found that to be an apt punishment, without it being only for punishment’s sake, but also part of Sanctuary research. More efficient that way.

[littlerosetrove]

I think the show is going to start doing better by Eddie in upcoming episodes, and I desperately hope I’m right. Some critical thoughts incoming because I just want better for Eddie.

My focus of this post is about Eddie being in a romantic relationship, although there are absolutely so many potential storylines to delve deeper into with Eddie. Trust me, I know. 

I do get why Eddie was with Ana, I do. That man was still repressing so much trauma for starters, and (even now) Eddie was also feeling pressured by society and his upbringing to “give Chris another mom.” It was something Eddie felt like he should do. And hooboy does Eddie still need to work on issues surrounding things he often feels like he “should” do. We all know that Eddie stuck it out with Ana far longer than he should have (Ana is guilty of this two, cause it takes two to tango). An apt description for Eddie is that he’s “the architect of his own misery.” ← Idk who originally said this phrase, but I got it from @yramesoruniverse, and it’s true. 

Speaking of misery. No matter how the show tried to paint it as something cute and good, there is nothing actually good about Marisol and Eddie. Let me explain and bear with me. 

Let’s be real. The show during 6B treated Eddie’s loneliness and his subsequent desire to date as a joke. Maybe not 100%, but even 1% is too much. That montage of Eddie going hiking, playing golf (??), and hanging out at a fucking country club (?????) to find a date? That was played for laughs. 

Now at one point, Eddie had a genuinely great heart to heart with Bobby. I can’t recall their conversation exactly right now since I haven’t rewatched season 6 since it aired, but I know Bobby basically said Eddie should find someone who will sit with him during the hard times (please correct me if I’m wrong).  

But then the show tried to frame Eddie running into Marisol - someone he met on a call - as this spark, this magical moment. Let’s remember that in season 6 Eddie was wistfully reminiscing on his and Shannon’s beginning and called it magic. And so again, the show tried to say, “Hey look! Eddie bumping into Marisol (no last name) is meant to be. This is magic!” Then we jump into season 7 where we’ve gotten no development on Marisol still, and zero development on their relationship, unless you want to call Eddie admitting to using Marisol as a babysitter as some development. Hell, we don’t even know how Chris feels about her. With all of this in mind, to me this just looks like Eddie had grabbed onto the first person he could so he wouldn’t be lonely. If the show wanted us to care an iota about Marisol or their relationship in any capacity, they would have. But they haven’t. And that’s just heartbreaking for Eddie. All they’ve given Eddie is a surface level, nothing of a relationship. 

It’s clear Eddie and Marisol are going to break up in 7x7 at the latest, and… for what? 7x5 will definitely have to do some backfilling on where and why their relationship isn’t going to work (it doesn't appear Marisol will be in 7x6). Even still, what was the point of it all?? Before anyone says it, yes Eddie is allowed to date, even casually, but GD there’s been nothing to grasp onto, you know? No reason to feel even remotely excited or happy that Eddie’s dating, specifically not with Marisol (and the actress is a shitty person) who ffs doesn’t even have a last name. Just having two attractive people in the same room does nothing for me, sorry. 

To try and conclude this, this *gestures at everything I just said* is why I want better for Eddie and Ryan. I really really hope we’re going to get something of substance for Eddie as a character. Yes it’s been great to see Eddie so much happier in season 7 (thanks to therapy, though he needs more, and Buck and Tommy lbr), but, and to stick with the relationship aspect of it all, I want better for Eddie. Idk if Eddie will have or needs someone like Tommy for himself, or if Eddie is just going to work on himself before the next relationship he’s in will be Buck. We’ll have to wait and see, but yeah…. Eddie just. deserves better. 

(this post was inspired by a recent conversation I had with @elvensorceress)

[adis-is-hades]

PJO x DC concept: Lantern Corps Demigod(s)

Disclaimer: I haven’t actually read any GL comics so everything I know comes from fanfics and various other sources (Google)

We know that the human GLs tend to have some sort of engineering background, which is why they got the hang of the ring’s constructs pretty quickly. So think about a child of Hephaestus or Athena with a Lantern ring. They’d go feral to have the ability to create stuff with a single thought.

I also just think it’s kind of funny (especially with other kids). Humans can come across as feral to most aliens, and demigods (mostly Greek) are even more so. I can see the GLs (or JL/TT/YJ if the demigod is on a team) being sent in a diplomatic mission that somehow fails and they get dropped into a death tournament. The demigod is absolutely willing to fight tooth and nail, even without weapons. They are taking off fingers (ooh carrot mentality) and tearing skin from muscle and bone. With their prior training (and maybe war experience) they’re wrenching joints from sockets and placing their opponent(s) into submission locks, barely even breaking a sweat.

I think if every demigod got a ring, most of them would have green. All of them qualify for green. The will power it takes to fight and survive as long as they have. That’s a lot. Will to live is such a defining part of many of our canon characters.

Getting more specific:

Percy could possibly have blue (and not just because it’s his favorite color). Blue symbolizes hope. His refusal to release Elpis—hope—to signal surrender is a huge moment in his development in “The Last Olympian”. He could potentially qualify for indigo which symbolizes compassion. He doesn’t kill Iapetus after the Titan’s swim in the Lethe in “Sword of Hades”, instead renaming him Bob and getting him a (relatively) honest job in Hades’ palace. He befriends Damasen in Tartarus. And the pain he feels when he has to leave them behind is tangible.

Annabeth could be orange—greed. Her desire to build a new world is a prideful, almost greedy aspiration. She tries not to let it control her, so perhaps it’s not the best match, but it’s an option. I think she is more apt for green. The will to not let her pride control her (especially after meeting Percy), he will to pursue her dream and become an architect to build a new world is very admirable.

Will I think could qualify for both black—death—and white—life. He canonically has affinity for Apollo’s domains of both healing and plague, so it’s not that far fetched. He could also be indigo. I imagine healing accident prone demigods over and over again takes a lot of compassion.

Nico has the obvious of black, but I think it would be ironic if he had a white ring. The black ring comes from being the son of the god of the dead, but I think that just puts life into perspective for him better than most. He knows the ins and outs of death to the point that he knows that life is sacred and something everyone should get to experience. And think he’d have the opposite of Will’s ring if they had them at the same time, like a yin yang. Nico could also be red, rage, for the fact that his fatal flaw is holding grudges. He holds his anger for months between “The Titan’s Curse” and “The Battle of the Labyrinth” until he finally gets to speak to Bianca and get “permission” to let go. Indigo is yet another option due to his actions of bringing Hazel back to the living world. (If I recall correctly, he was originally looking for Bianca, to offer another chance at life to her, but stumbled on Hazel when he couldn’t find Bianca).

Clarisse is most likely red. Rage is a big part of the Ares kids, and Clarisse is often always angry. She could also be violet—love—or indigo for her acts regarding Chris and Selena.

Rapid fire! With no context and in no particular order:

Piper: red, green, blue

Leo: yellow (fear), indigo, blue

Jason: yellow, blue

Frank: indigo, green

Reyna: green, indigo

Thalia: white, blue

Chiron: green, indigo, blue, violet

Sally: violet, indigo, blue

Feel free to add on!

[vintagelasvegas]

Landmark Hotel & Casino

Landmark tower, unfinished, December 1963. Photo by Bernard Gotfryd.

‘60: Frank Caroll & Sheldon Sandler purchase the property from Las Vegas Convention Center; break ground on Landmark Plaza and apt. complex.

'61: Tower design by architects Moffitt & Hendricks; groundbreaking in Sep. with expected opening date Nov. '62; Landmark Plaza and apts opened in Nov.

'62: KVEG AM station opens at Landmark Plaza in Feb; opening date moved to '63.

'63: Construction halted in Feb.

'64: Financiers Appliance Buyers Credit Corp (ABCC), subsidiary of RCA-Whirlpool, foreclosure of the property

'66: Caroll secures funding from Central Teamsters Pension Fund; Plaza Tower (Caroll & partners) buy the property from RCA; new designs by architects George Tate & Tom Dobrusky; construction resumes in Aug.; Landmark Plaza demolished; Caroll’s gaming license revoked in Nov.

'67: Top of the tower “L” sign installed, 11/19/67

'68: Interior design by Leonard England; Landmark completed in Spring; Caroll arrested for assault on England; Cessna 180 crashes into the tower on 8/2/68; Plaza Tower bankrupt in Aug.; Sold to H. Hughes in Oct.

'69: Hughes subsidiary Hotel Properties Inc created to control the Landmark; Grand opening 7/1/69

'77: Gas leak, 7/15/77 – one dead, over a hundred injured. Fire on floor 22, 10/22/77.

'78: Sold from Summa Corp to Mark III Corp (Wolfram, Tickel, Yelverton) in Apr. Casino closed Apr-May, reopened under license to Modica.

'83: Sold to W. “Wildcat” Morris in Oct.

'85: Landmark files bankruptcy, remains in bankruptcy though closing.

'90: Closed 8/8/90; Bought through foreclosure sale by Lloyds Bank in Dec.

’93: Bought by LVCVA in Sep.

'95: Tower demolished 11/7/95

Sources include Above Them All (2018) by Marc Wagner. Updated 7/1/2024.

[omi-papus]

Concept I pulled out of my ass while trying not to pass out in the micro:

A couple of fanon interpretations of the architects have the idea that they have genetic children, (whether by insemination, something about spores I think, and literally just raw DNA depends on the creator) but they don't give birth, and they don't have partnerships between the parents, they also don't care for their children themselves. That's left to specific qualified caretakers and essentially no member of the equation knows who it is they shared genes with, neither do they care

Now. Present day. No architects save for one are left. Robin and Al-An have been traversing the home world for years and have yet to find sight of any survivors. They find records of what was apparently an evacuation effort to get as many of the children out of the planet as possible, apparently not all were able to be boarded, and they learn that one child was intentionally left behind. The file is too corrupted to get the explanation as to why. They assume said child has already dead, and Al-An is too afraid of facing any more disappointment, but Robin pushes him along, encouraging him to try and find it.

And above all odds they do. Its consciousness is stored in a faulty terminal and it luckily they can get a body for it rather quickly, but due to time and resource availability. They are forced to give it a body that's much smaller. Smaller than even Robin. Al-An claims it to be a couple of decades old, around 98, and to Robin it appears to hold the mannerisms and behavior of a twelve-year-old. It's initially scared and untrusting, and it only begins to trust them somewhat when it seems that they made it a body and that it has nowhere else to go. It can't speak any human languages, being far less apt than Al-An, but it can speak some architect. Both Al-An and it can communicate, and he senses that there'is something it's not telling him. The network is gone, so these two cant read each other's thoughts, so they are stuck as they are. This is why the brooding doesn't actually recognize Al-An in any meaningful way. It can tell he's an older architect, but nothing more. Al-An recognizes this insecurity and, after a long period of trust building, mostly between him and it, Robin being a presence he feels uncomfortable with. Al-An decides to sit it down and explain to it who he really is. Why things are the way that they are, and why he is here now. 

The broodling remains frozen for a second and without warning emediatly attacks him. Al-An has no problem stopping him. And begs for its forgiveness and in the midst of it screaming and crying, falling over its own legs, repeating itself in its rage induced misery, tells him “It is your genes that made them choose to leave me here!” Before running off.

Al-An doesn't understand. He stands there still for way too long, and it's only when Robin shakes him to get out of his stupor, that he manages to whisper.

“That is my offspring…”

He can't face it. Al-An has never even thought about this being before, and cant believe the chances of ever meeting it like this. The guilt swallows him whole as he realizes that his failure was not only known throughout the network, but that they deemed his very being so repulsive that they left an innocent child to die only in the name of culling his bloodline. He does not expect it to forgive him, and he is terrified by the very notion of being a genuen father. He was never meant to be. He doesn't even know who the mother was. It was just something all architects where instructed to do at one point. He's scared and remorseful and yet, even now more than ever before, so desperate to hold it close, to keep it safe and tell it he loves it more than anything. But he can't bring himself to follow after.

And Robin does not plan to let that stand. She's going to get those two back together if it kills her. And she isn't going to tell either of them… but she doesn't want to think about Al-An having a family with somebody else. She deep down wants the kid to accept her too.

[suburbancockroach]

SPOILERS FOR THE POPPY WAR BOOK 3

It's been a while since I finished this series and regardless of the criticism going around about the third book feeling rushed, I have to say that the resolution of Rin and Sister Petra's arc is, in my opinion, one of the most well executed revenge arcs in,,,, really all of fiction. Walking into the series finale, I was completely prepared to see her burn, and still R. F Kuang managed to deliver something way more satisfying, and in a way, more cruel. The fact that Sister Petra's entire devotion to the cause was based on her faith in the Divine Architect and had that faith physically ripped out from her, therefore forcing her to face the reality she's been denying, is nothing short of apt. This was one of the most appropriate uses of a protagonist's abilities I have ever read and proves the damage a person can do to another by simply shaking what they believe in. Chef's kiss.

[bloomingcockroaches]

holding my hands out to you like a starving cold orphan boy fairweather friends directors commentary Perchance I reread it again and it still drives me craaaaaaaazy

anything for you of course!! i'm so flattered that you have returned to this fic so many times 😭 i'm very proud of it!!

Fairweather Friends by bloomingcockroaches (babilonium)

Rating: Explicit

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: M/M

Fandoms: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies), Pirates of the Caribbean: The Price of Freedom - A. C. Crispin

Relationship: Hector Barbossa/Jack Sparrow

Characters: Jack Sparrow, Hector Barbossa

Additional Tags: 5+1 Things, Pre-Canon, Drunk Sex, May/December Relationship, Developing Relationship, Hook-Up, Explicit Consent

Words: 5,904

Summary: Five times Barbossa had Jack against a wall, and one time on the floor OR Five times Captains Sparrow and Barbossa crossed swords, and one time it was strictly business.

Director's Commentary

-> the little epithets at the opening of every chapter come from Everything Goes to Hell by Tom Waits, which is the song that first inspired me to start writing this fic. like most Tom Waits songs it has a very sleazy/tragicomedic kind of romance to it, which is exactly the vibe i wanted to capture in this fic. lots of tom waits songs have made their way on my sparrossa playlists over the years because this vibe in general is very apt for them.

-> the name of the clipper 20-year-old jack has spent 8 months serving on, the Daedalus, is from greek myth. Daedalus was Icarus' father and also the architect of the labyrinth that housed the minotaur.

Jack finds him leaning against the bar at the One Eyed Crow, tapping a tune against the hilt of his sword with his fingers. He is forty if he's a day, tall and wiry, his face weathered by a lifetime at sea. He wears his hair down to his shoulders, pulled back from his face, and a gold hoop in each ear. Despite the modesty of his origins and the butchery of his profession, he has an aristocratic bearing, and amid so low a den of thieves he is positively debonair. Jack approaches him with all the unearned confidence that youth and beauty can afford, with a tankard of ale in each hand.

-> i'm still very fond of this description of a younger barbossa, i think it's accurate and evocative. also a fun fact that i'm not sure if anyone picked up on is that i made barbossa twenty years jack's senior, making him exactly double his age when they first meet. going by actor's ages, in cotbp, jack is just shy of 40 and barbossa is 50. but barbossa has been dead for 10 years, meaning that he was 50 ten years ago when he marooned jack on rum runner's island. so, in reality, he is 60, but spent his last 10 years not aging at all.

i love this detail both because i love 20-year age gaps and because i'm obsessed with the impact it would have on their relationship that jack is "catching up" to barbossa in his age. they went from having a 20 year age gap to a 10 year age gap. i'm sure it rubs jack the wrong way (he's vain and terrified of death, his age is a sore and delicate subject) and amuses barbossa greatly.

"Welcome to the Caribbean, lad," he hisses in his ear, and leaves him weak kneed and bleary eyed to hold up the tavern wall on his lonesome.

-> this is one of my favorite little tidbits in this fic because it's what jack says to elizabeth on rum runner's island when she's heartbroken and disappointed in him

giving that line this particular backstory felt and feels so gross, i love it... that jack would think of meeting his own hero in that moment of their own first intimacy... [prolonged wicked cackling]

this is also a great time to point out that jack and elizabeth are exactly twenty years apart when they meet as well :^)

-> i did a lot of research into the locations for this fic and looked at a lot of 17th century maps to determine where they might bump into one another. idk if that sort of thing really matters to people, because idk the overlap of people reading sparrossa fanfiction in the 2020s and people who are familiar with 17th century colonial place names in the caribbean sea, but it helped me get a solid sense of time and place while writing and imo makes the world feel more concrete and developed.

Jack doesn't mind being on his knees, not on the worst of days, but there's an edge of victory to being on his knees here, now, in front of him. Myth and legend go a long way on the sea and among sea faring folk; there's something tantalizing about meeting the men behind them in the flesh.

-> more of the parallel between jack/barbossa and elizabeth/jack that i really liked exploring here, especially because elizabeth is smarter and more guarded than jack was at her age, and jack is just not as good a pirate as barbossa is at any age, though he's built an equivalent (if not larger) mythos for himself

"Heard you've called yourself Sparrah," he sneers, "Jack Sparrow, is it?" Jack can't take his eyes off his mouth. "Aye," he says. "What was it I heard the harbormaster call you? Horatio? Horace? Hornby?" "Hector," he growls, "and I'll thank ye not to get too familiar. Lest ye forget yourself." "God forbid we should become friendly." "God forbid."

-> i'm very pleased with how i stylized barbossa's accent in this fic, because i think we all agree that spelling someone's pronunciation out phonetically for every word is extremely annoying. i also have always held that jack named himself "sparrow" and the stupid backstory they gave him for that name in potc5 made me irrationally angry... i mean everything about that movie made me really upset but that was a highlight for sure. it felt good establishing this here! especially because jack was using his given surname, Teague, until some point between chapter 1 and 2 of this fic

The third time finds Jack skint broke, rum soaked, and lovesick, on St. Mary's Island.

-> this is the first sentence i ever wrote for this fic! chapter 3 was the first section i wrote, and probably my favorite

"Unfortunately for that funny little man what left me strung up and left for dead, I am a hard man to kill," says Jack, "to the eternal torment of those what might wish me otherwise." (...) "She was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen, Hector," he says at some point, between one application of his mouth and the next, "and she's gone isn't she? Took 'er just because he could." "Aye, and I'm a poor substitute I'd imagine," says Barbossa, and flips him on his belly. "No, you're just what I needed, mate," says Jack, and presses his face down into the poor excuse for a mattress, lest he think too long on his bonny lass, resting at the bottom of the sea, looking up at the underside of the waves.

-> i knew i wanted to include the backstory with beckett and the wicked wench, and i like how i did it in this chapter. subtle enough that if you didn't already know what i was referencing, it probably isn't that obvious. but very clear if you already know!

jack talks a lot about being in love with the Pearl, and i liked playing with this pillow talk in a way where barbossa could easily assume jack was talking about a woman when he was talking about her

"You make a lot of enemies, Ja - aaa - ack," says Barbossa, the vowel stretching like a cat in the sun, "'s no way to live." "Hasn't been a way to die just yet."

-> this description of how barbossa stretches out jack's name was a random snippet i wrote in a notebook somewhere many many years ago and it was so great finding a real place for it after all that time

"Insolent little chit," says Barbossa, "Alive enough to smarm means alive enough to settle your tab, which settles the first and last of my concern over the matter."

-> i chose this insult specifically because it refers to a defiant/brash young girl, and i like the idea of barbossa talking down to jack in that specifically gendered way, both because of his "womanly airs" and his youth ("womanly airs" here used in the specific historical context)

"Charming company you are," says Jack. "Not one that's bein' forced upon ye," says Hector. He sounds tired; weary in a way Jack never would have expected of him. He bites his tongue against the feeling in his chest that might resemble worry, but not before a shade of it runs past his lips. "I heard about the Cobra, mate, I'm sorry," he says, looking out into the common room at anything that isn't his tablemate. He'd planned on returning the courtesy paid to him on St. Mary's and avoid mention of Hector's misfortune almost entirely, but his mouth had run on ahead of him before he could catch it. "Spare me your pity." "Wouldn't worry about that, Hector, you don't even have my sympathy," he says as the barmaid drops off his ale and his stew (which he doesn't fail to notice is mostly broth) before running off again. "Found myself with business in the neighborhood, is all."

-> another piece of tPoF lore that i was happy to include here. again, vaguely enough that it could mean nothing to you, but if you know you know! i really love the juxtaposition of both these men coming to find one another when they had lost their ships and their captaincy.

being a ship's captain in potc-verse is very far removed from any historical reality in that every captain owns his own ship, mans his own crew, etc. but it's a huge part of every captain's identity in each case, and it's clearly established in the series lore. i liked exploring how these two would show up for one another at their lowest points. because of course barbossa did very pointedly go looking for jack after he lost the wench. i also like that jack is trying very hard to offer him the kind of support that he was offered just a few short years ago and he fails.

Lean times don't suit Barbossa, if only that Jack doesn't care for how he wears them. There is a troubling hunger to him now that speaks less to his frame and more to his soul. The edge of cruelty he'd always had in him had sharpened in a way Jack felt would make it much more difficult to skirt around.

-> idk if i have anything to add here i'm just very fond of this characterization. overall it was very fun and rewarding to write about barbossa from the perspective of a man hopelessly in love with him because, well, that's an easy frame of mind to enter

"I'm headed to Aruba after this," says Jack between mouthfuls, "t'go see a man about a horse. Or else... por darle gato por liebre. To put it another way. Could do with some time in the West Indies as it were, after all that on the Cantabrique." He glances over at Barbossa to give him the chance to ask the polite question. He doesn't. "I've been near Spain," Jack says anyway. Then, after a moment, "met a witch there, actually." Barbossa doesn't look too interested about the witch. Which is his loss anyway, because there had been plenty interesting about her. For a long while Jack talks and Hector doesn't. He talks about having found passage to Madagascar, and then to Clew Bay, before sailing to the Mediterranean. He's met a mermaid since they last spoke, the second he's run into and the more pleasant of the two. Met a princess as well, who was more pleasant than the mermaid but less interesting than her prince. You'll never guess where the witch came into all that.

-> just highlighting this because i was serious before, i did a lot of geographic research for this fic. also polyglot jack sparrow forever!!!

He lays in her bed as the night deepens around them with her curled into his side, his fingers in her pale hair. He thinks that it is good to be back at something that comes so easily to him. Jack doesn't care to be reminded of the things that don't, and this little excursion had been an amalgam of them.

-> as mentioned previously, i really like exploring jack's sense of personal failure here, of wanting to be there for someone he cares deeply about and not being able to do that

generally, the tension of jack's emotional investment in his relationship with barbossa vs. barbossa's investment in his relationship with jack, and the very clear upset of balance there, is something i find really interesting and sad to explore.

gibbs says in cotbp that jack plays things a bit closer to the chest now and that lifelong hurt from barbossa's betrayal is what really shapes my own understanding of jack as a character and of who he was before cotbp

He is only a few dozen steps up from shore when he sees former Captain Hector Barbossa leaning against exactly the building he's heading towards, under the wood placard that reads Jansen & Sons. His wide brimmed hat casts his face in shadow, and there's an edge to his smile that makes Jack feel like he's walking into something. Whatever it is, there's something not unlike a friend in the middle of it, which in a shrewder man would have raised suspicion and which in Jack Sparrow melts suspicion away.

-> and there he is again!!! letting his deeply held affections erase his self preservation instinct. another jack/barbossa elizabeth/jack parallel :3

Barbossa wears his nails long, which Jack's had little reason to notice until now, when they rake over his skin as his hands pin him down, lift him up, turn him over. There are scratches all over his thighs, his back, his shoulders, and four long bloodied trails over each of his hips where he was most ardently pulled forward. Himself he's not one for biting or scratching but he can't play the tease. He's too eager for it, too hungry to reciprocate, too lost in the ardor of coming together after so long apart and so long a stint of rough seas. If the intentionality of it had been suggested in the past this was it boiling over. It's near midday when they fall into bed together and past dusk when finally they roll apart, tired and content.

-> is it uncouth to mention this sort of thing in your director's commentary? idk and idc. the image of those eight long scratches dug into jack's hips is another random snippet that i've had somewhere in my head for many years, and it was once again a treat to find a home for it here.

barbossa isn't the only member of the Pearl's undead crew who wears his nails long, i think most if not all of them do (have you seen the clip of Lee Arenberg talking about how proud he is of the nails that he grew out au naturale? 🥰) but it's always made sense to me that barbossa kept his nails long before and after the curse. it's a very ~gentleman of fortune~ well bred foppish dandy thing to do.

Jack wakes up to the early morning sun coming through the open window; sober, well rested, and alone. He feels a fool for doing a double take around the room to make certain that he is. What might have been a pleasant soreness under nobler circumstances gnaws at him instead. The scratches on his body have turned to raised white lines and begun to scab over where they broke through his skin. He gets up and crosses the room, where he turns the little mirror above the water basin to look at the damn mess that's been made of his neck. His skin blooms in rings of blue and pink, some teeth marks pressed into the meat of his shoulder too deep and too angry to be mistaken for a wench's affection. His throat hurts. His back aches. He feels well worn in a way that makes him feel too much like a fishwife, kissed silly and left to languish at port. He gets dressed, pulls his collar up as high as he can get it, and makes his way downstairs. He chastises himself over a plate of rubbery eggs for his attachments, and gets on the first ship that can carry him off Nassau and out onto open waters.

-> i personally find this to be a very successful gut-punch after a good amount of build up. it made me sad to write and makes me sad to reread. would that our dear jack was in love with a better man.

i think after a lot of coming and going that jack convinces himself suits his fancy, it becomes very clear to him very quickly that it could be different, but it won't be.

i actually think that the 2 years he spent captaining the pearl with barbossa as his first mate were some of the happiest of his life because of that consistency.

All said, Jack's in the middle of a rather trying day, filled more so with avoiding people and things he doesn't want to cross paths with than with finding the one man whose path he has plans to cross. It's just past dusk when he stumbles out of the Rusted Sextant (where he'd stopped only briefly and only to ask for directions) and across the street towards The Broken Spyglass, a tavern on the North side of the island run by a Moroccan gentleman named Souhail who Jack is reasonably certain won't tell anyone what don't need telling that he's stopped by.

-> every single bar, brothel, or other such establishment named in this fic was named by my dear friend @grosskelly who i bothered repeatedly to provide me such things and who knocked it outta the park every time i harassed them for suggestions

"As ye like, but there's something else I've got that you'll want me to share." Then, very quickly, to outrun the onset of his wolfish expression, "Somethin' entirely unique and as yet unheard of."

-> of all the jack dialogue in this fic, both inner and outer, this is the line that i can hear most clearly in his voice, where i think i captured a specific cadence and affect that could've been in the original trilogy

this was SO FUN TO DO!!!!! i really hope some of it was interesting. thank you for your ask and for liking my fic :,)

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Super elegant 1907 firehouse conversion in New Orleans, LA has been on the market for 258 days. The 4bd, 6ba, 4,096 sq ft home is priced at $4.2m, which is probably why it's not selling.

The entrance hall isn't particularly impressive.

You don't have to take the stairs, b/c there's an elevator. Looks a little claustrophobic to me.

The first living room on the ground floor has a lovely wood fireplace accent wall and a full kitchen.

It also has a dining area. I actually thought that this was a separate apt., but the property is listed as a single family.

The wealthy don't know what to do with all the space they have.

There's a wall of storage in the dining room and it has a lovely wood ceiling.

Mosaic guest half bath.

This can really be a separate residence. It even has a large bedroom, which is probably a guest room.

Plus, it has an ensuite.

A 2nd bedroom.

The 2nd level has very high ceilings, wood architectural features, a long sideboard, and glass. The floors look terrazzo. If a buyer is expecting a quaint vintage firehouse, this isn't it.

Didn't I say it was elegant? Look at the built-in bench. Well, at least you get built-ins with it. That's less furniture that you'd have to buy. I like the brick wall they left.

The architect really did an amazing job. Look at the soaring wood fireplace, and it's double-sided. The large kitchen is ultra modern.

The family room is in the garage. It looks like it's missing something, though.

Mosaic guest powder room is elegant.

The primary bedroom has high ceilings, a wood feature wall, and sliders to the garden.

Compact ensuite.

Small bedroom in the hall has a curtain closure. This is odd.

Lovely 3pc. tile bath.

The yard is a small private courtyard with a patio, pool, and a container garden. 4,096 sq ft lot

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/929-Bienville-St-New-Orleans-LA-70112/2061290567_zpid/?

[ashyronfire]

Consequences || Chapter 04: No More Teeth To Bite With

Title: 04 - No More Teeth To Bite With Rating: M Characters: Grimm, The Pale King Warnings: Disturbing Content, Horror, Gore, Unreliable Narrator, Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Read On Ao3: Beginning || Current Chapter

Summary:

“Little more than obstacles to you, are they, nightmare?” he hissed. As empty as the city now was, the words carried far on the wind, resonating off the buildings that he’d find empty. Or would they, too, be tombs, forever encompassing those lost, until time decayed their lifeless shells into dust? “Inconvenient and in the way, the bodies of my people?”

Author’s Notes: Tumblr continues to be a week behind Ao3, I'm awful. I'm sorry. SOME day I'll catch them up (today is not that day and it's only 10 chapters long, so probably when the fic is finished lmao)

CHAPTER 04: NO MORE TEETH TO BITE WITH

The capital had a name once.

It was known more now as the ‘City of Tears,’ an apt descriptor if ever there was one for the rain-soaked cobblestone pathways and windows streaked from the steadily falling droplets sliding down their surfaces.

Once, that rain would have been broken up by the warmth of smoke rising from buildings, from the furnaces of restaurants, homes, and manufacturing plants. The glass panes covering the streetlights would be fogged up from the contrast of temperatures and mud would seep into the cracks of the streets, carried about by messy feet as the citizens went to-and-fro, about their daily business, mechanical and altogether entirely alive.

But it would not have been known by anything so macabre a definition as ‘tears’ back then, and the rain would not have been so dramatic. Though Blue Lake did leak through the cavern’s roof at all times, the menderbugs were constantly on call to repair the damage as fast as they could. Time had stolen that efficiency, and the collapse was imminent. The glorious civilization would be underwater before too long, its history lost to time, and anyone who yet lived within would find themselves little more than a memory as well.

Memories.

It had had a name once. He could not remember what it was called, and that was a distressing thought. He’d created it, this city. He was the architect behind its invention, the layout and design borne of his creativity. He’d always loved creating, far more than he ever had his people, and yet standing before a marvel of his invention, he was left with the distinct reminder of what he’d lost. What he stood to lose still.

Nostalgia seized his heart in a vice grip, choking.

He would not weep for the loss of his creations.

“You should have visited more when it was alive,” Grimm observed, unfazed by the falling rain. He should have been at least a little uncomfortable with the chilled water; he should have been at least mildly perturbed by the sensation of being wet. He was impassive, calmer than he ought to have been, and had the Pale King not hated him before, he might have in that moment.

How dare you stand at the precipice of my brilliance as it falls into the sea and care not at all for the loss.

How dare you be right.

There were corpses around them, desiccated and festering, bloated with infection yet dripping from their eyes, from their maws, from the breaks in their shell. The husks that lined the city ground were broken things, limbs torn asunder. Some of them had injuries clearly inflicted by nail, while others appeared to have just collapsed. The number was not small, though. No, it spread on, and on. Though the streets were not completely covered in the bodies, there were enough to leave no delusion as to how badly the capital had fared in the wake of the infection.

Grimm stepped over one of the fallen carcasses and kept walking, his eyes never even casting downward, and that infuriated the wyrm.

“Little more than obstacles to you, are they, nightmare?” he hissed. As empty as the city now was, the words carried far on the wind, resonating off the buildings that he’d find empty. Or would they, too, be tombs, forever encompassing those lost, until time decayed their lifeless shells into dust? “Inconvenient and in the way, the bodies of my people?”

Grimm did not look back at him, but he did stop.

“Always there will be bodies. Death gifts mementos to those left behind.” The butterfly carefully stepped around the corpse of one of the sentries, then looked left and right. “Memorials to remember those we loved and lost. We tell ourselves it is to honor their memory, but in the end, it is not. Graves, you see, are for the living.” Grimm made a decision, then, and he started down a different path.

Realization dawned as a guillotine on the Pale King’s neck.

Memorials. The direction they were going. It was not a coincidence; it could not have been.

“Grimm.” His voice shook. “There are other pathways to Dirtmouth.”

They would be going past the Watcher’s Spire, true, but that was not the most horrifying thing down that road. That was not what made his stomach drop, crashing like lightning, scorched in its wake.

“There are,” Grimm agreed. “But this is the one that I wish to take. Would you rather we separate?”

The wyrm froze. His stomach lurched violently at the thought, the feeling of something under his skin writhing and cold. Tingling spread through him, numbness that settled somewhere behind his eyes, and the vertigo that stole his vision made the world blur. He did not succumb to the uncomfortable sensation; he bowed his head instead, shaking at the shoulders.

He would not make it to Dirtmouth, and that smug creature knew it. He’d barely made it here. If Grimm left him, what would become of him? Would he—would he simply stop being animated? Would the void rise up from the bottom of the world to devour him once more?

Over the husks, he stepped, but the tattered remnants of his wings snagged on the end of one of their spears and he tumbled forward. His instinct was to reach out, to grab the edge of Grimm’s cloak to catch himself, and the butterfly instantly pulled away. He hit the floor face-down instead, shell crunching beneath the weight of his own rotting corpse. His mouth filled with something sweet, viscous, and he gagged.

Grimm did not acknowledge the sound, rattling though it was. “I will thank you to not touch me,” he said instead, impassive.

The Pale King rubbed his maw on the back of his hand, and it came away thick with honeyed gold saliva. He trembled, staring openly at the spread of his claws, willing away the viscosity, that the rain might wash him clean.

Footsteps told him that Grimm was departing again.

Slowly, he scrambled back to his feet, shell clattering beneath him as he attempted to rise. The rain obscured his companion’s departure, the dusty grays of Grimm’s cloak more like shadows than the flames that represented him most – shadows that crept, tangled, wove up and whispered. Fitting, the Pale King thought, for the path the reaper cut felt like the executioner’s axe, and he did not want to take it.

That was precisely why Grimm had chosen it, though – of that, he was still without doubt.

Did the nightmare god intend to act as jury, to pass judgment on the wyrm’s crimes? Was that the intention?

But surely he understood necessity? Surely he understood how dire the situation had been, for was he not privy most of all to the frenzy that was his counterpart’s rage?

The Pale King thought the Dream must have been a loud place, prior to her sealing. He envisioned it full of her screams, impotent but furious, and then the dawning realization of the monstrosity of her creation. He thought that her realm must have been full of rivers that flowed thick with infection – and Grimm was a part of that world, wasn’t he? Severed though he was from her, did he not see, did he not know?

“Please,” he said, legs uneasy, pain shooting through them. The sensation was burning and it seared down his throat, curling back shell that felt as though it were pressed beneath a branding iron. If he looked at himself in a mirror, would he find marks in the shape of feathers, woven tight around his neck?

Or would it be claws too long for a body that should have resembled his own?

He heard cracking and it took him a moment to register that the sound was his own footsteps over water-soaked bricks. His shell held up beneath his weight and yet the cracking continued. He half-expected to see splits in each brick under the burden of each step, but no – none came. The phantom sounds played in the back of his mind regardless, his path falling in sync behind Grimm’s own, and his plea – however pathetic it sounded even to himself – went ignored.

There was to be no mercy, but he had done nothing to merit so harsh a judgment from Grimm.

“You do not have a right to look down on me so,” he hissed out. Grimm did not turn back to him, did not slow down, and did not acknowledge the words in any way. They rounded a corner, great awnings rippling under the weight of the rainfall pooling on the fabric, and a faint breeze tore free a poster from one of the walls. He watched it splatter onto the ground, the silk parchment long faded, the edges ripped and jagged; it advertised the performance of a butterfly clad in fanciful pink silks, her name emblazoned over the bottom.

The magnificent Marissa.

The singing butterfly at the Pleasure House.

He'd never seen her perform.

He’d never been to the Pleasure House. Many an invitation was sent to the White Palace, with assurances of discretion if he wanted to enjoy their festivities without the bother of the general public. More than once, his retainers had suggested he go to a performance for a break from the business of running the kingdom, and every time – every single time – he’d refused them.

When he should have been a part of the kingdom he’d labored to build, he’d withdrawn instead, to the secrecy of his palace and his laboratories, to the dark recesses of his guilt and shame, to the burden that held him fast in chains.

Because he’d known what was coming. Because he knew what had to be done, and how could he ever hope to look in the faces of those he would sentence to death in a bid at immortality?

…he’d looked in their eyes –

“You who care nothing for the living, only the dead,” the Pale King continued weakly. “Have you ever loved anything in your life, save yourself? The macabre ghosts you call a Troupe, that you would have others believe exist as anything other than figments of your imagination? Extensions of your power? I know what you are—”

“Do you.” It was not a question. Grimm did not stop, but he did lift one hand, and the sound of his claws raking over the corner of the building they passed was jarringly high-pitched and sharp; it brought to mind a razor’s edge scraping over stone and left grooves in its wake. The building in question was a little nestled thing, with old, rotting food on display, long forgotten. It’d been beautiful once, though. The Pale King could faintly remember the smell of the breads baking.

Had he stopped there, on the day the monument was unveiled?

Had he wanted to? Yes. But he hadn’t. He’d been in a hurry to be free of the eyes boring through his very soul.

“I know much of you,” the wyrm insisted. “I made it a point to study you and your counterpart both.”

“And yet still you see so little. Still you are so blind.”

Grimm rounded the corner and he followed – only to be stopped sharply in his tracks. Slowly, he lifted his gaze, his head turning back to look at the memorial fountain, rain falling like tears streaking down a mask that would never have possessed any – that never could have. It was larger than life and stylized to remove some of the accents of the armor, to hide the embellishments that his own magic left like stains. Time had worn the polished black stone away to a mottled grey and the fine chiseling that had once added details was long lost to the erosion the water brought, and yet –

Yet he could hear the shifting of fabric with each turn. He could hear the click of metal as they turned toward him. He could see their mask, perfectly expressionless, and –

How desperately he’d needed to believe that the thing within was nothing at all. Like his kingsmoulds, but in a god’s shell. How he’d needed it to be – but it wasn’t.

In retrospect, he should have known. How they’d loved him. How they’d wanted his approval, how they’d sought it – there were so many signs, so many hints, and he’d ignored them all –

Little eyes staring up at him as he explained the names of the flowers that grew along the balcony.

Too long horns for a body that hadn’t yet grown into them, toppling over and then stubbornly rising again in stubborn determination.

Perfect stillness through the pain of having spells woven like strings into a shell that he now knew could bear pain and not once did it flinch, not once did it react, despite the agony the light tearing through its void must have presented.

The anguished desire for approval. The need to be what he’d asked for – it spelled its undoing, hadn’t it? By wanting so badly to please him, it broke itself – no longer empty, not hollow at all, but overflowing for him.

Nausea settled in his stomach with no where to go. He could have vomited, but the pain that twisted his guts felt like an apt punishment.

“Did you bring me here to gloat, wraith?”

Grimm was staring up at the statue. His mask prevented his expression from showing whatever emotions played through his mind, but the perfect stillness was reminiscent of the posture that his Pure Vessel had once taken, and the Pale King found it very unsettling. Grimm crossed his arms beneath his wings, the long waves of them covering his torso, and he shifted so that all the wyrm could see was his back.

“We are gods, but who is a god to one of us? We, who would rule over others… to whom do we offer our prayers?” the butterfly mused. “We place our faith and hearts in things unseen, in beliefs that we choose for ourselves. And, in some cases… in those we find worthy. I wonder, would I have been the same, had I parents?”

There was an almost whimsical way that Grimm spoke. If the Pale King hadn’t known any better, he might well have thought that it was melancholia that gripped the nightmare’s heart – a longing for what he did not, could never, have.

But that was not accurate, was it?

“I am given to understand that you have at least one parent,” the wyrm interjected. He was looking at Grimm because looking at the butterfly meant that he need not look at the statue and all that it symbolized. His stomach felt weighted enough without the reminder looming down at him, expressionless and yet saying so much – speaking without words – ‘How could you?’ –to drive home understanding.

And moreover, there lingered a question: what did Grimm know of what his children thought of him? Of what it meant to be a parent? He, who masqueraded as one, but was not – no, the Pale King knew very well what that creature that Grimm called his child actually was. He could fool the world, draw them into the illusion of his game, and it would change nothing for eyes that could see beyond the surface. Grimmchild was another facet of Grimm and so, in essence, he was not a parent in truth.

The butterfly inclined his head to the side. “Is it parentage, to be born of fragments of oneself? Is that what you would consider childhood? Birth, existence? Excised to hide away in shame, to banish to the darkest recesses of one’s realm, to pretend it does not exist?” His voice was calm, even, but the words that followed were anything but. “I should not find myself surprised so. You did the same, after all.”

The comparison wrenched deep within him, clawed at his heart, and pulled it tight, blood bursting beneath wicked claws. As it was intended to, no doubt. Grimm punctuated the statement with an easily observed, “She calls me her blood moon, rising scarlet on the horizon, and you call me her counterpart – but it is you, not I, who have the most in common with her.”

…and there it was. The implication given words. It chilled him to his core, and he was suddenly distinctly aware of the heavy drops of water leaking from cracks high above. His gaze shifted upward, to where fractures splintered like spiderwebs across cavern’s ceiling, weeping onto his beautiful city. He was distinctly aware of Grimm’s departure, footfalls light, cloak soundless. Mourning seized his lungs, holding him fast.

His kingdom was dead. He was not the one who killed it, but it was dead nonetheless, and in the war that he’d waged – conqueror to be – had anyone actually been victorious?

Was he really no different?

The Pale King turned and followed Grimm at a languid pace. Unlike the butterfly, his own steps were heavy things, the water splattering around him as he went. He could be faster. He could be more graceful, if he surrendered to his nature and moved on all limbs rather than the mimicry of a bipedal creature that he’d begun to favor. He did none of the above.

“The bodies,” he choked out, claws clinging to the remnants of wings that acted like clothing around himself. They were shattered in pieces and shorn; his reflection stared back at him, a disheveled mess, not at all the graceful figure that he’d once been. Hallownest’s Godking, reduced to a muddy, rotting figure, aghast and suspended in agony. How fitting.

He thought he heard the clank of chains.

He thought he heard the ethereal bells of seals going up.

He thought he saw, in his shadow, a figure behind him with blazing golden eyes.

There were none of those things and yet, part of him wished that there were.

“Will no one tend to them?” the Pale King asked.

Grimm stopped in front of a great, ornamental cage, folded metal and still in immaculate care for its age and lack of use. The butterfly adjusted the lever, calling the elevator back, then turned to look down at him.

“Who is left to do so? To mourn the dead? Would you have the relic seeker in the City do it? The survivors in Dirtmouth? Perhaps the scavengers of Deepnest have use for your carcasses?” He bent over, too far, his body curling in a way that no natural creature should have. “Or will it be you, wyrm? Will you bury your dead, lay them to rest? Bid farewell at last?” The wyrm looked away, and Grimm chuckled, vicious. “No. I thought not.”

This was going to be a long elevator ride.

[germanpostwarmodern]

Austria still is something of a hidden gem for admirers of Brutalism: nine states and a very diverse topography provide a unique background for architects to cultivate regional idioms engaging with the surrounding topography. This diversity also was the point of departure for Johann Gallis and Albert Kirchengast and their book „Brutalismus in Österreich 1960-1980: Eine Architekturtopografie der Spätmoderne in 9 Perspektiven“, published late last year by Böhlau: it collects nine expert essays shedding light on the development, key protagonist and essential buildings of Brutalism in each Austrian state. These are preceded by a lengthy interview the editors conducted with the curator of the SOS Brutalism exhibition Oliver Elder and Nott Caviezel, long-term professor of historic preservation at TU Wien. The interview serves as introduction to the characteristics and qualities of brutalist architecture, its conceptual history but also discusses its reception in Austria in particular. The subsequent nine essays then enlarge upon the interview’s cues and provide very readable miniatures of the brutalist developments in each Austria state. These include, among others, the transformation of Bad Gastein through plannings and buildings by Gerhard Garstenauer, Karl Schwanzer's Vienna churches and his influence on postwar church architecture or the outstanding works of Herwig Udo Graf and Matthias Szauer in the Burgenland. Each essay is accompanied by numerous vintage and occasional contemporary illustrations that highlight the indisputable qualities of Austrian Brutalism but also the individual interpretations of it. What emerges is a highly readable portrait of Austrian Brutalism and the socio-cultural circumstances it flourished in. Naturally the book doesn’t provide a complete picture but is apt to raise additional interest in the manifold exceptional buildings designed between 1960 and 1980 in Austria. A diverting and warmly recommended read!

[megmassa]

Monsters, Bubbles, and White Supremacy in Dot and Bubble

Let's make sure we're all on the same page. Dot and Bubble is a story about how white supremacist (techno) echo chambers doom their participants by obscuring the horrors of the world and showering white people with blissful ignorance.

Ok. Now onto some thoughts...

One of the biggest things that falls flat for me in this episode is the characterization of the man eating monster slugs. In universe, these slugs were created by the AI that runs the influencer echo chamber because all the white supremacists are "so annoying." The character's horror with respect to the monsters is "what are you?"

But this not quite how white supremacy works. The horrors of the world under white supremacy are those created ACTIVELY by it, not by accident. To view a world destroying power (Homeworld population 0) that is being ignored/obscured as an "oopsie", an unfortunate side effect of tech created for pleasure, absolves the white supremacist characters in the destruction of their world. It makes them victims instead of perpetrators.

A more accurate characterization would have placed the monsters as known entities that were created and used by the system to actively uphold white supremacy. The horror, then, for the characters switches from "what are you" to "you're not supposed to be doing this to US."

If instead the monsters were entities that had be used in creating this town, "cleansing" it, policing its borders, and yes, eating "undesirable" people to do so, the metaphor becomes more apt. Now, the bubble is a tool designed to shield the white privileged from the horrors required to maintain their "utopia," to mask the actual ongoings of the world. The dot doesn't register them because it's by ACTIVE design for maintenance of the world. The characters' lack of wanting to lower the bubble then signifies a WILLFUL engagement in the white supremacist system, a purposeful choice to shield that which one does not wish to know. The ignoring of disappearances becomes part of the practice of system maintenance.

Because THIS is ultimately how white supremacy functions. The tools it creates to maintain power actively destroy the world and, eventually, will eat its architects alive as well.