#lob city

[sleepyminty]

If i had a nickel for everytime a red eye character try to something good, means well and aim for a noble cause in this sardonic, unforgiving city only for it to be backfired catastrophically, i would have two nickel. Which is sad that it happened thrice

[lobslobslobs]

* thoughts this evening

* all because of this.

[penpinetree]

Stars of the city ramble posting: Davey Works

woe, ramble upon you

Davey Works is a workshop office made by Davey that specializes in modular steam powered equipment that work off of "charges" their weapons generate steam in a mysterious manner that Davey doesnt disclose that is stored in up to 4 chambers, steam is spent though a trigger mechanism to enhance that weapon's capabilities, the wielder of the weapon can choose however much of the steam to release for exponential reward.

The Davey Works workshop office consists of Davey (He/him), Eli(she/they), Samuel(she/her), Beatrix(she/her) and Bird(they/them), they're a incredibly tight nit office and consider each other to be family.

The office was established during the events of lobotomy corporation, the story takes place during library of ruina (urban legend - star of the city) and resides in district district 22 where theres currently a power struggle between the thumb and a rising syndicate(s)

[tictocnicnoc]

Made a LobCorp Employee AU portrait of my girl Rei ♡

[lokisgoodgirl]

In the Bleak Midwinter [Loki x Reader]

A Link to my Masterlist is HERE Summary: On a mandatory Christmas Avengers Getaway, resident Scrooge Loki discovers there is warmth to be found. (w/c 3.4k) Warnings: None, really. Fluff. Bit of angst. Brief reference to erotic fantasy. Loki in his Christmas feels. A/N: Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays & Season's Greetings my loves❤️ I hope all your days are merry & bright. 🎄

Loki’s hands dug deeper in his pockets with every methodical crunch of his boots into the snow.

The outline of the church was visible; the kind reproduced on a hundred greetings cards which had landed in Loki’s fanmail these past weeks. The cards, at least, he could ignore. Tony Stark’s ‘Olde Christmastime getaway’, it seemed, he could not.

The small church had a thick, proud steeple; old uneven walls arranged on either side in a way he was sure his brother would imminently compare to a cock and balls.

"Brother," Thor chittered madly beside him. "Doesn’t the dwelling yonder resemble—?"

Loki yanked a hand from his pocket and brushed it along a low wall running adjacent to the path. He lobbed a clutch of snow into Thor’s ruddy face and kept walking. He was in no mood for japes.

His eyes stung from the sharp, needling cold. The night was clear, and only his breath fogged the view of this place the gaggle of Avengers who insisted on ‘involving’ him hadn’t stopped wittering on about for months. Soon, they would realise he only spoiled the occasion. A perennially cracked door sending a draught through their warm surroundings.

A carol concert, he mused bitterly, shaking his head for the third time since leaving the toasted seclusion of his armchair at the lodge. Of all things he did not wish to partake in this weekend, the carol concert occupied prime position on Loki’s list of grievances.

I will go, he’d decided as Thor had forcibly manoeuvred Loki’s coat onto his body. But I shall not make merry. Loki of Asgard would not be caught dead engaging publicly in festive frivolities of any kind. Of that, he was resolved.

A soft, amber glow pulsed at the criss-crossed windows of the church. With a swell of hope, he wondered if the building was, in fact, unsalvageably ablaze. Perhaps, there would be no carol concert after all.

A vision of the cup of spiced wine he’d been rudely separated from flashed through his mind. Perhaps, it would still be steaming on his imminent return. Thor yanked his arm roughly towards the wooden doors with one thick mitten emblazoned with crudely stitched glazed hams.

"Un-hand me. This is Armani, you cretin."

"We’re already late, and I don’t want to miss a second. Besides, there are candles. You love candles."

Loki sighed. It didn’t surprise him that Thor had fallen for this seasonal, mortal farce. The fact that they were once worshipped and celebrated thus in their own realm had escaped Thor in a way it had not escaped Loki. It was to be expected, but still, as his cheeks pinched against the cold, it grated.

Behind wood and stone, an organ groaned to life and a low chorus of unsure voices rose.

“Once in Royal David’s City, Stood a lowly cattle shed…”

Thor yanked harder and Loki felt his feet unroot from the crushed ice. The voices were stronger now, coming together as one, melodious snake slithering against his iced eardrums.

Thor paused with one mitten on an iron knob, the other fastened to Loki’s Armani. Snot dangled from his nose. “Try and be nice.”

“I’m always nice.” His brother’s eyes narrowed and he relented. “Courteous, at least.”

Thor’s lips pinched. “You know what I mean…Festive.” Loki would have rolled his eyes if he weren’t sure they were frozen. He released a snort of fogged air from his nose instead. “Open the door lest we both expire in this winterous wasteland,” he said, and Thor’s face brightened.

“That’s more like it.”

The church was warmer than he’d expected. He stood at the threshold and brushed a dusting of snow from his cuffs as Thor lumbered down the aisle and made a cartoonish, indelicate attempt to sidle his bulk into a row; a boisterous whispering of apologies clashing with the turn of the organ.

“When, like stars, His children crowned All in white, shall wait around…”

Loki flinched as the voices tapered and the organist released a crescendo of bone-shuddering notes. And then, he stumbled.

“Norns,” he growled, a little too loudly in the incense-heavy silence.

He regained his balance and looked down at the small child looking up at him with wide, shining eyes. They were holding out a booklet with curled, yellowed edges. Shoddy workmanship, Loki thought as he took it with a curt nod and turned it over.

St Barnabas Church Carol Concert, it read, accompanied by a garish cartoon holly faded to a light beige. The years below it, beginning at 2002, had been scored out until whomever was in charge gave up in 2014. He sniffed, observing the child with suspicion. "I don't have any coin, if that is what you seek.”

The child’s hand was touching his hand; her small fingers like matchsticks curled around his own. She wore a sheepskin jacket that was a size too big. Not tailored, clearly, and the collar hid her mouth—yet he could tell she was smiling. He glanced to the side, noticing for the first time that every member of the audience was staring.

Natasha hung out of a row halfway down, a black fur hat low on her brow, and beckoned to the little girl. “He’s with us,” she hissed. The organ burst to life with some other musical hokum in defiance of the interruption.

Loki looked back to the little mortal. She said nothing, just led him at a glacial, imperious pace down the aisle and stopped at the correct row. Her auburn curls shimmered in the low light, bouncing.

“Oh, guess there’s no room at the inn…” Natasha winked. “Go behind.”

Loki met his brother’s smug grin one row back. He knew that smile: the plotting smile.

The small pocket of warmth that had been growing in his belly extinguished. And then, he noticed who stood beside him at the end of the row. Loki swallowed.

Thor had all but climbed over you in order to ensure it would be he, Loki of Asgard, standing beside you like a stiff, tuneless, merryless fool. His eyes slid back to his brother, sucking in his cheeks, wondering if punching out a sibling’s teeth was considered ‘festive’.

“There’s room, don’t worry…” you whispered, shuffling your gloves further along the scratched, wooden pew. The smile playing on your lips made Loki want to carve out his own heart in longing.

He edged gingerly into place, staring at the booklet in his hands. And then, your fingers were touching his, moving the pages, your woody perfume thick in his nostrils. He closed his eyes, willing the stir in his groin to cease. His brother would perish for this.

“Your hands are cold,” you whispered, giving his knuckle a brief rub with one, elegant finger. Like my heart. Loki swallowed again, observing the attendees and trying to ignore the unmistakeable correlation of your hot breath skating his neck to the twitch beneath his trousers.

The church was packed. Families, lovers, white-haired humans swaying and their creaking voices tumbling with the rest; the booklets resting unopened. They knew every word.

He fixated on the stone altar, the golden casket behind it glittering in the light. It reminded him of the Tesseract, and with that memory came a familiar twinge of guilt like the slip of a knife between his ribs.

“Oh little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie... "

He moved his lips out of time, faintly recognising the music. As much as he’d tried to avoid it this year and last, the songs playing from your room in the Tower come December 1 were hard to ignore. And perhaps, if he were honest, he hadn’t tried very hard.

You always sang along to them when your mind wandered. It was the only part of Christmas he’d come to favour. And the candles: those too.

“Above thy deep and dreamless sleep The silent stars go by…”

Your finger traced along the lines of the book you shared as if he were a child. He should be insulted; and yet there was something about the tender movement, and your shoulder pressed to his that made him want to nest in this moment and never leave. Your voice was different here. It had a meeker cadence, as though you were stifling the volume and its capabilities to as not to embarrass the quality of those around you.

I’ve heard how she really sounds, he thought smugly as he cast a quick glance at his brother. Perhaps I’m the only one who has.

Thor held the booklet at arm’s length, a millimetre from the back of Stark's head, the baritone of his singing rivalling the organ. His neck swivelled slowly towards Loki. He winked.

“Yet in thy dark streets shineth The everlasting Light…” Loki inhaled sharply, before fitting the words into the repetitive notes with a whisper. “The hopes and fears of all the years,” he sang quietly, voice hoarse. “Are met in thee tonight.”

You squeezed his bicep, the heel of your palm resting on his forearm. Loki stiffened, missing the start of the following verse. He turned fractionally, meeting your eyes glittering in the light of a hundred candles flickering. Gods, you were so beautiful.

He tore away.

Stop it, he chided, letting his eyes focus and refocus on a thick, white candle dripping rivulets near the altar.

He couldn’t afford the weakness that sentiment brought. One had to be wary of sentiment at this Christmastime of theirs. It was too easy to be tricked by the lure of cinnamon and the twinkle of lights like stars; drunk on new beginnings and the gluttony of temporary happiness. Loki knew what came of such things for him. He didn’t intend to make the same mistakes. Not here.

The carols began, and ended. And with each one, Loki felt the itch of sweat grow beneath his armpits, seeping into the fine cotton shirt. Five carols ago, the god had to ban himself from touching his hair like a senseless virgin. It was intolerable; to have you so close, to smell the linger of spiced gingerbread latte on your breath as your tongue shaped across each lyric, and do nothing. And what would you do? Kiss her? Force yourself upon her like an animal? He stilled the fidget of the hand hanging at his side.

You were kind, that was all. Pleasantries. Courtesies. You wanted him no more than he wanted to be at this godsforsaken carol concert.

The hand balancing the booklet began to tremble as intrusive thoughts formed in his mind of you and he curled under a blanket, barely watching those Muppet creatures he’d seen in passing, your soft whimpers as he sank inside you and rocked your curves gently against him. If the spiced wine grew cold then, he would not mind so much, perhaps.

His grip tightened on the booklet. “O’ Come, all ye faithful…” “I can’t do this,” he whispered, his brow scrunched. Your grip on his arm loosened. “Joyful and triumphant…” “Are you okay?” The journey of his gaze to your face seemed to take an age. Half of your skin was bathed in a soft, orange glow; the other shadowed as the chorus of voices grew louder; happier. A line had formed across your forehead. Concern? Maybe. Fear? Most likely.

Most of your hair was tucked under a hat, and yet he knew every strand beneath it. He’d envisioned the texture beneath his fingers more times than he had admitted to anyone. Even his Judas of a ham-fisted, scheming brother.

“I have to go." The flap of his overcoat hit the pew in a swirl and his boots were clicked on the bare stone floor towards the doorway. Eyes followed him, but he paid them no heed. They were better off without him. Within the small vestibule at the exit, a stout old man arranged a tray of mince pies. He turned just as Loki thundered past. “Oi,” the man hissed in a broad, Yorkshire accent. “Don’t forget yer pie.”

A foil-bedded pastry was thrust up towards Loki’s face as he fumbled with the door.

Loki paused, looked at it, and then the man. He had ragged, grey hair and a face carved with a thousand frowns. A worthy adversary.

Loki briefly considered making the pastry explode in a shrapnel of raisons, sighed, and thought better of it. As though they were not his own, his fingers plucked the small comestible from the old man’s hand.

“Wife made ‘em,” he said proudly, searching Loki’s face before his lips stretched in a smile over crooked, tombstone teeth. “Merry Christmas.” Loki mumbled something, twisted the knocker and fell out into the cold, crisp air. The god’s pulse pounded in his throat as he crunched down the path towards the crumbling gateposts; wind playing at the sides of his coat with delicate hands. At the boundary, he stopped. Loki steadied on a gatepost, head drooping. Hair fell around his face, fluttering against his flushed skin. “Are you going to eat that?”

He jumped, twisting around. There you stood, resplendent in moonlight from above and the glow of fresh fallen snow below. Your jaw worked; half a mince pie clutched in the hand not buried in your pocket. “They’re really good actually,” you said, pastry scattering from your lips before covering your mouth with a shy eye roll.

Loki’s lips tweaked. “Clearly. I wasn’t going to but now…I’m not so sure. It seems a valuable boon after all.”

At that, you nodded, crunching closer as you popped the remainder of the mince pie into your mouth. He spun around, gazing up to the sky, rolling his lips. She loves Christmas. Do not destroy it for her.

And then, you were at his shoulder. “So, about that mince pie…” There was a slyness in your voice that made him want to pin you against the gatepost and kiss you until you felt faint; until you couldn’t remember your own name, only his. He cupped a hand protectively over the pie, looking at you beneath his lashes.

“And what if I won’t part with it?” You shrugged. “Then perhaps I’ll rethink my gift.” His heart sank, ill-gotten confidence fading. Loki had made it very clear last Christmas that he would not partake in the Avengers gifting foolishness. Had you forgotten? His stomach joined his heart somewhere around his boots.

“I…was not expecting a gift,” he said, curling a wedge of hair behind his ear. As he did so, the pie lost balance and fell with a pathetic plop to the snow. The two of you stared at it. “Norns,” Loki said, bereft. You burst out laughing as he began rooting in the hole. “I thought gods were supposed to be nimble, suave—all that stuff.” “Have you met my brother?” “I thought you were different.” The strange slyness was back in your voice. “I thought you were a bit more…”  Loki looked up, breath evaporating from his lungs as moonlight bounced off the fake jewels woven into your hat. She deserves every jewel in the nine realms. And then, you shrugged.

In a move he was sure he would later haunt him as he failed to fall asleep, Loki held the small, snow-laden mince pie aloft. An offering of contrition. Your lips flickered, and to his surprise, you took it. “My sincere apologies,” he mumbled. “It’s just a mince pie, Lokes.” “Not for that…” He sighed. “Were you speaking true about a gift? Because I…” You flapped a hand. “Everyone knows you don’t do gifts, you don’t like Christmas, yadda-yadda. But that’s not the point of gifts. I just…it belonged to you. For when you’re ready. Just…promise you won’t make it explode.”

Before Loki could think of a response, you’d produced a small box wrapped in brown paper from the depths of your jacket. His gaze lingered on it for longer than it should have before he said, “Ah.” Your eyebrows rose. “Are you going to open it?” “Should I?” He turned it over in his hands and your eyebrow rose. “It’s not a trick.” At that, his lips drew to the side. If it was a trick, he wasn’t sure if he was in the right frame of mind to deduce it. Loki’s heart pounded between his ribs, a sharp tang nestling in the back of his throat as he stared at the tightly curled ribbon hanging from the box. He wondered if you’d wrapped it here, or in the Tower, with him next door, lying in bed to the sound of your sporadic singing over Nat King Cole.

Your fingers covered his and tugged the ribbon gently. Loki’s breath hitched, eyes meeting. “Open it,” you ordered, and a hot shiver ran down Loki’s spine.

He pulled the ribbon free, then paused. “You should know…I don’t hate Christmas.” He searched your face. “It’s everything I love, you see. Or at least, I used to. Family, closeness, warmth, the feeling of hope for Spring, sprouting under the joy of light and feasting, the music…”

A lump grew in his throat, and he bit the inside of his lip to stifle it. “I find it easier to forswear, you see. It’s better for everyone that way. It seems that what I love has a habit of turning to ash.”

He didn’t realise he’d been fixated on the box under a gentle touch landed on his arm. When he looked up, you were waiting with glossy eyes, lips parted. “You don’t need to be apart from it, Loki. You deserve it…the same as any of us do.” “But—”

Your finger pressed to his lips, silencing it. “Open the box,” you said again, and the finger slid away. He did as he was bid. Inside was a Christmas bauble, polished to such a sheen he could see the sharp outline of his jaw reflected.

The base was a deep forest green, and on it, gold threads traced runes like frost clinging to spiderweb. “For when you’re ready,” you repeated, softer, as liquid heat flooded his chest. “You belong with us, Loki. I…we, love you.”

“It’s beautiful…I…” He licked his lips, making them tingle in the chill. A grin spread across your face.

“You really like it?” “I love it,” he said, not breaking eye contact. Boldness swelled inside him, lighting up the dusty corners of his frigid heart. You looked away, pulling your jacket tighter. Inside the church, the final flourish of 'O’ Come all Ye Faithful' blared.  He reached out, brushing his knuckles down your puffy bicep.

“You mean it? If you don’t, I can return it…” “I really do.” “Good, because it’s custom, and I can’t return it.” Loki laughed at the same time you did, noting the sparkle of your eyes. He drew you into his arms, memorising the way your bodies slotted together despite the layers, and pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “I fear I must buy you a gift after all…” he said quietly. You pulled back, looking up at him with absolute sincerity. “What I want doesn’t come from a shop, Loki,” you said, breathless. Your eyes dropped to his lips as you cupped his face, the warmth of your skin sending jolts of pleasure down his spine. “I just want you to be happy, and I want…I want…”

Your words grew faint as flecks of snow began to fall. And with that, his resolve exploded.

The first kiss was tentative, skin brushing over skin as he waited for you to pull away. But your arms were thrown around his shoulders, clawing at the back of his Armani coat, pulling his mouth to yours with the ferocity of a winter sea.

Hot breath seared his throat, desire and adoration so thick it held weight bursting from the secret places he had boarded up and forgotten. All he wanted was you, and this, and Yule—wherever it was, and however it was celebrated. As long as he had you.

Eager lips slid together as one kiss broke and launched into the next. Something sharp and iron was poking into his back from the gatepost, but he didn’t care. It could rip a hole in the coat for all he cared.

As your delicate moans heightened, and your fingers knotted tighter into his hair, the applause started.

The two of you broke, twisting as one towards the band of a dozen Avengers making their way down the path. Natasha had her arms spread; eyes wide. Thor was frozen in place, mittens pressed to his cheeks with a soundless scream of glee. Scott was passing money to Sam, and then Tony, too. “It’s a Christmas…miracle,” Thor screeched.

"Sweet baby Jesus..." Stark muttered, fingers jammed in his ears as Loki drew you tighter to his chest, not caring if you felt the leap of his heart through thick wool. Your hand slipped through a gap, drinking the warmth of him, and when your eyes met; Loki couldn’t breathe. “When we return to New York, I shall need a Christmas tree to hang my gift,” he whispered, placing a kiss above your ear. You giggled into his snow dusted collar. “You can always start next year- no pressure.”

Loki cast a glance over the smiling figures bundled in bobble hats and thick scarves, to the amber-lit windows, to the snow stretching over hills and faintly glowing homes scattered across them.

“I’ve waited long enough,” he murmured. And then, to the sound of cheers louder than the organ, he kissed you again.

Tags in comments 🎄✨

[amuseoffyre]

A succession of thoughts:

there was too much made of the memory editing for it not to be relevant at some point in S3: between the people Crowley couldn’t recall, the threat of memory erasure directed at Gabriel, Gabriel’s amnesia, the constant looming Book of Life warning

given that Nina and Maggie are mirrors for Az/Crowley, I’m sus about their first conversation we see on screen where Nina recalls Maggie’s order of choice and Maggie happily says “You remembered!” only for Nina to go “Yeah, lots of drinks up here, but I only remember the regulars.” But very next scene when Maggie tries to give her name, Nina goes “Yeah, I know, Skinny Latte.” I have Forbs A-Boding

Speaking of which, Aziraphale’s diaries that he kept for many hundreds of years, collecting and collating and storing all his many many years of memories and recollections in. Which will be stored in his bookshop. By someone who has been told that reading books is a good thing to do.

Related to which the repeated presence of The Crow Road is also too prevalent to be coincidence. A story about piecing together what happened to someone by going through their papers? In a story where we already have 600+ volumes of a character’s papers available and ready to be examined?

I don’t know what Neil expected, lobbing a show with all these tidbits to a feral english/film nerd with a taste for literary, textual and visual analysis. I am Well Fed.

Just wait until I sink my teeth into all the mentions of A Tale of Two Cities.

[destielmemenews]

"Dozens of counter-protestors, many wearing white masks and flags over their shoulders, arrived around 10:45 p.m. and attempted to dismantle the pro-Palestinian encampment that has overtaken Royce Quad since last Thursday. The agitators lobbed fireworks at the encampment and set off what may have been bear or pepper spray.  

Demonstrators on the pro-Palestinian side used umbrellas to shield themselves, and skirmishes broke throughout the night out as counter-protesters attempted to wrestle away wood pallets, plywood and metal fencing from the encampment."

"New York City Mayor Eric Adams said on MSNBC’s “Morning Joe” on Wednesday morning that police had to move in to Columbia University’s Hamilton Hall “for the safety of those children.”

He blamed outside agitators for the building takeover and said “There are people who are harmful and they’re trying to radicalize our children and we cannot ignore this.”"

source 1

source 2

source 3

source 4

[notbecauseofvictories]

any advice for someone who's very bad at keeping friendships? people just up and vanish despite my best efforts, and I don't really know how to meet anyone else (dating apps are the worst/the pandemic ate my education/I work remote). late 20s are basically for feeling unlovable and ruined, I suppose.

Maintaining friendships---maintaining all relationships, particularly with people inconveniently not in the same apartment or office building---is hard. It just is. I've also found there's a steady attrition of freely-available friendship in your late twenties, as people move out of their crowded apartments, shack up, start having children and/or climbing the ladder into jobs that demand more of their attention and energy.

It is tough to be in your late 20s. You realize that you've taken for granted how full the world felt, with people and potential. You're not quite prepared for when you find yourself alone, and someone starts locking doors that you thought would be open forever.

Unfortunately, there is no easy fix to this. The only fix is: you are going to have to pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and do it all again. And again. And again.

"It" can take a lot of different forms. I know "join a group" is the most trite, annoying advice I can give but---do it. Find a group that you think you might be interested in joining, and join. Book club, running club, esoteric interest of your choice club; go on MeetUp and see what's in your area, volunteer for stuff. Ignore (for weeks, if not months) the fact that you feel awkward and out of place, and make it a commitment.

And then, when you've been part of a group---well, it's not so weird to ask if Lisa wants to go to a street festival with you. Not if you've packed lunches for the homeless with Lisa or laughed about a particular book with Lisa or been running alongside Lisa as you train for the upcoming 5k.

(Maybe Lisa will politely decline. Maybe Lisa will come to the street festival, but then has excuses for the next thing, and the next; she's too busy to make a good friend right now. And so---you will pick yourself up. You will do it all again.)

Or you can reach out to those people you've fallen out of touch with. "Hey, James, if you're in town let's grab lunch!" sounds very fake but it's not if you genuinely want to grab lunch with James. Ask Aiden if they're doing anything on Thursday, and would they like to come to bar trivia with you? If they're not in the same city, find some time for calls, or zoom---or hell, go old-fashioned and write letters.

If those ideas sound labor- and time-intensive, hard in the way that making yourself vulnerable always is......yes.

As I said, there's no easy route to this. Relationships take effort and someone has to go first; someone has to toss the ball and hope another human catches it. You cannot guarantee the catch, that's out of your power, so the only way to find people is to keep lobbing balls at everybody's heads and hope they have good reflexes.

[lcfthaunted]

Seven. Her breath audibly escapes. Turning her face away, she takes a moment to breathe, careful and even. It takes several too-fast heartbeats before she’s able to answer him. “They’ll come for me,” she confirms. “Don’t know if they’ll come this far out. It’s not like they have a way to track me.” Thinking about the logistics of Better Living retrieving her calms her a bit. She trusts Mallaidh not to give up until either she’s back in the city or confirmed dead, but… “If they don’t find me in the first few zones, they might try to write me off as dead.”

She meets his gaze again, considering him for a heartbeat. She has hidden behind this shiny veneer for a decade, with only her sister allowed to see past it, but… so far from the city, from the company’s view and reach, without the constant threat of surveillance she lives under… she makes the perhaps reckless decision to be honest. She's more than a placid piece of plastic, but how much more is the line she has to walk. Understanding the machinations doesn't mean knowing the granular details, after all.

“They’ll use this, you know. If I don’t get back fast enough, they’ll use my disappearance to turn against all desert dwellers. To further their control over the city. I have a significant following, and I wouldn’t be surprised if my disappearance has already been noticed by some of them. My-” and she falters, gaze darting away briefly before returning to him, “I have people who won’t stop looking, but they aren’t enough to hold back the entire machine.” Honest as she’s being, revealing her understanding of the machine she’s a part of, she cannot reveal her sister. She’ll keep Mallaidh safe to her last breath, even if that ends up being much sooner than she originally suspected.

  It's hard to know what he'd been expecting – a spontaneous change of heart after a ride out spent in utter chilly silence? The initial haughty disbelief seems as good as he can ask for. Still, it touches his nerves. He resists pointing out the alternative to the faded couch is the floor, which is a generous word for bare concrete. At least this way, as she trades her faces for fronts, he can tell she's got a mind. And when the fear seeps through, he can tell it's a mind made of more than the deranged, plastic-wrapped placidity for sale in every district of the city, Neon or Silver.

  Despite all appearances, sun-baked and wind-weathered as he stands now, he'd had a first day. A time when every step out was the furthest he'd ever been. His mouth pulls into more of a frown, but his eyes and the edge of his tone soften.

  “Seven.” He pauses a beat to let it settle; officially, there is no seven. Officially, you cross that line, you cook. The hard lines are a fiction, of course, but settling here was a risk all the same, and an addendum's reassurance comes crawling up. “Only just. It's more on the outer boundary of six. Give or take a corner.” That, too, he leaves to land how it will while he considers the sleekness to her champagne hair the dust and terror haven't quite managed to erode yet, and what Diana told him to get him to agree to this at all. “...Will they come for you here?” Half a question of the risk he's taking. Half wondering if this, kidnapping and dust trails, is the thing that drives Better Living to brave the delicate edges of their bubble.

[kaiju-krew]

So I know this is like, a month late (forgot to ask when you posted the pic lol), but what's up with Labra? He got like a backstory, lore, or something like that? I'm curious and wanna know more abt him.

drew him again :3c

UHMMM yes i am lore building for him........ i haven't decided everything yet but i know i want him to be a distant cousin species of goji's. everyone's fangoji lore is different but i def imagine him as a part of my personal monsterverse au rather than existing in his own world with no friends haha loser

putting a cut here so i dont spam people's feeds lmao

likeeee for comparison it's probably similar to Crocodylia encompassing crocodiles, alligators, and gharials?? labra is in a similar niche to zilla for me. goji is the largest/apex species of the gojiran order, whereas zilla & labra are smaller and occupy a different niche. Big bruiser lion vs. carcal or lynx type thing.

my hc is that the vast majority of labra's species (pre-mutation art is what they looked like) was wiped out when ghido got into hollow earth. which is also the same time he wiped out most of the divine moths and a couple other species :''(

it ended with ghido iced but it fucked up the hollow earth ecosystem for a while and led to a lot more radiation leakage since he tore the place up real bad. labra was Almost Dead and ended up hibernating to recover by a radiation vent, but he'd laid down in feldspar vein that kinda grew to cover him and turned to labradorite and idk magic radiation nonsense it fused with him and caused him to grow/mutate.

the ghido massacre also caused battra to hibernate/mutate too so it's a Big Event in my silly au world. most of the kaiju that are clearly a result of mutation fuckery (biollante, kessho too) may be related to it as well but i haven't fully fleshed it out yet. it would mostly be based around goji's hyper-regeneration doing the thing where like.. if a big enough chunk of him gets lobbed off and has access to energy it mutates and tries to regenerate and causes a fucked up clone siblings thing idk omg ok i'm in tangent city good god sorry i was supposed to be talking about my gay son

ANYWAYSSSSSS for more general hc/character stuff: >labra is genuinely terrified of ghido and even gets freaked out when he hears wing beats without warning. (mosu beats rodan's ass bcuz he divebombs labra for fun sometimes) >he lives on monster island and ventures down to hollow earth sometimes, but he won't return to his old home because it just reminds him everyone else of his species is gone. (he isn't even his own species anymore bcuz of the mutation. so they're basically extinct.) >he loves swimming and sometimes just lays in the shallows to absorb sunlight. stretches out like a lazy ass cat. cat boy behaviour >he's loyal to goji and doesn't start shit with humans unless they attack first. even then he does his best to steer clear. >mothra likes his dorsal plates and talks with him sometimes (Moth Therapy) they can bond over ghido hating it's a good time >he has a mutually bitch-bother dynamic with rodan where rodan bothers the shit outta him until he manages to grab that turkey and idk sits on him or something. but if rodan really pisses him off he doesn't mind actually throwing hands because he knows goji won't care if he puts the bird in it's place. >he also likes angy, zilla, and bio a lot too.

there's more but i'll stop there for nowwwww

tldr: big gay lizard is traumatized but doing ok ig

[livefromthedas]

That Time Flirting Accidentally Worked

By ClickClickBoom

(Also here on AAO3)

Chapter 2: The Pnemoix

Summary:

Rook Ingellvar, a dumpster fire amongst Mourn Watchers, manages to fall face-first into dating one Emmrich Volkarin.

Nice.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

It was a little hard at first, being surrounded by such opulence when Rook knew as well as anyone how sorely so many people were suffering in the same breath. Venatori had overrun the streets of Minrathos. Ancient artifacts of varying degrees of calamitous power were taking lives in Arlathan Forest, and the Antaam had an iron grip on the daily lives of citizens in Treviso. Never mind whatever brutish machinations the Evanuris were planning to unleash next.

But Navarra City stood strong, as bustling a lavish gem and the seat of their nation’s powerful elite as ever. Art and culture bejeweled the landscape in all directions. Even more so, the city dazzled at night, as bone-chillingly dark and cryptic as it was beautiful.

When questioned about their unusually quiet stroll from the Necropolis Eluvian to the threshold of the Pnemoix, from which, unsurprisingly, a line of patrons spilled out of the door patiently awaiting their reservations call, Rook admitted, a bit bashfully, her guilt over the genuine delight attempting to overtake the the degree of seriousness she knew their responsibilities entailed.

Compassionate as ever, Emmrich smiled. Gilded fingers gestured thoughtfully to usher her inside as the maitre d’ called for the reservation of one Emmrich Volkarin.

“My darling Rook,” the Senior Necromancer crooned at a volume meant solely for her, “If not for exactly this, whatever are we fighting for?”

——————-

The Pnemoix was Navarran pageantry at its finest. Part fine dining experience, part elaborate performance art, it was not entirely unlike stepping into a smaller, darker, more sensual version of the Fade. Spirits and the necromantic arts, live music and a whole host of finely dressed Navarran well-to-do’s mingled.

Rook, for once fully doe-eyed herself, couldn’t help but ogle the theatrics with an enraptured sort of joy, the small orchestra filling the space with notes as delicious as its menu. Wisps lit much of the venue alongside the palpable shimmer of magic that crackled in the air.

Emmrich had been grinning the whole while, clearly proud over just how breathless his company was over the experience.

“Wine for the both of us if you would, dear boy. Ah, and blood orange salad to start?” He shot Rook a glance, her favorite hometown appetizer still fresh in his mind.

Rook had smiled and nearly nodded to confirm as a menu was passed her way, when - - -

“…Professor?”

Emmrich’s brown eyes went wide in a rare moment of diffidence - Not for the first time where where Rook was concerned, she mused, thanks to a handful of less than subtle and a little more than crass flirts lobbed his way over the past many months - but his propriety was recovered as quickly as ever.

“Augustus Durchdenwald!” He declared with charming enthusiasm. The young man, who had momentarily frozen amidst passing Emmrich a menu and barely looked old enough to hold down a job, seemed to shake off some of the awkwardness of discovering his aging professor on a date by sheer will of the Senior Necromancer’s delight, “My dear boy, how are you? How has the semester treated you so far?”

“Oh… good, good. Thank you, ser,” The teenager managed, “I’ve been able to start field work a semester early, just this week.”

“Rook, darling, Augustus here was easily one of my top students just this past semester. Remarkably astute for such an early grade,” Emmrich boast.

Augustus went beet red and probably would have disappeared into his doublet if he could. It struck Rook in that moment that Emmrich seemed far more focused on assuring Rook herself felt comfortable in the situation than the young man squirming beneath such praise.

Rook stifled a chuckle, sounding not unlike the Professor as she afforded the boy a cordial nod, “Charmed.”

“The Shakshouka for me, if you would,” Emmrich was quick to order his meal, “Rook?”

“Navarran Curry,” Rook replied.

“Right,” Young Augustus scrambled to recollect his menus and gave a quick, courteous bow, “With you shortly. Good evening, Professor. Uh… Ma’am.”

The young master Durchdenwald disappeared as quickly has he’d stumbled onto the scene.

“Given the chance,” Rook teased, trying and failing to stifle a laugh in the moments that followed, “Do you think he’d have preferred death by a thousand cuts, or a public hanging over absolutely anything that just happened there?”

Emmrich’s eyes glistened with barely stifled bemusement of his own, “Dear boy. Let us hope his recovery is swift.”

His tone managed to be *just* serious enough to shatter Rook into a fit of laughter.

——————-

The crown jewel of the Pnemoix’s festivities for the evening was a sweeping gallery show featuring fine art - Mostly sculpture - that seemed to blur the lines between physical materials like glass and stone, and very real, raw magical energies. Built around the theme of dragon slaying and its integral importance within Navarran culture, each sculpture's energy illuminated its glass components like molten fire despite remaining cool to the touch, and its light undulated around the space like the auroras seen in the skies to the north.

Rook was enraptured with the display - She’d never experienced anything quite like it. It struck her that she spent so much time studying the ancient and the arcane of Navarra’s distant past, that she rarely bothered to poke her head up and see how creative minds chose to express their experiences today, and she mentioned as much to Emmrich.

“I had hoped you would enjoy it so,” Emmrich smiled, before adding with a sweet sort of seriousness, “If our journey together thus far has reminded me of anything, it is that one must remember to look up from time to time, my darling. There are boundless experiences to be had outside the comforts of solitude and books.”

“Professor Volkarin, did you just tell me *not* to read?” Rook couldn’t resist teasing.

“Oh, Never,” he assured, mischief glinting in his eyes. A warm gloved hand faell to the small of her back as he guided the pair of them along to the next luminous display of artistry, “Books tend to travel remarkably well, after all. Or so I’m remembering for the first time in a very long while, thanks to you.”

“This is a new leaf for me,” Rook grinned, wrinkling her nose in a way that she, only recently, realized made something about the spark in Volkarin’s eyes go just a hair shy of feral, “Rook Ingellvar - The *good influence.* I dare say the late headmaster would never believe it.”

At Emmrich’s raised eyebrow, she laughed, admitting, “I really did give that poor old man hell for a couple of years, there.”

“Your reputation did proceed you, if I recall,” he agreed, trying to look serious but once again failing just enough to bait a laugh from his lovely companion. “And it is remarkable, Rook. To see how far you’ve come.”

Rook went surprisingly somber at that, a tinge of shame worming its way into her typically unshakable confidence, “Emmrich, love… I’m less than a year off from what was essentially a soft banishment from the Necropolis. I’ve the destruction of two undead nobles on my record, and enough pissed off patrons to make sure it could take years - If I’m ever able to reintegrate into the order.”

“Yes, as you’ve told me,” Emmrich said evenly, “At length. And I maintain that between what you have explained to me in confidence, and based on the intuitive competency I’ve seen you display every step of the way thus far, that I have every belief you acted in a way best befitting the moment.” He slowed his pace to a stop, the pensive woman on his arm stilled with him, noting softly, “You are no longer a child struggling to find a place to be, my dear. Surely you see you are so much more.”

Rook found her hand fluttering to press warmly upon his chest. Something in his gaze just then made her suspect he’d needed to hear those very same words, once. Perhaps not that long ago.

It was unlikely to the point of absurdity that Emmrich would have dared kiss her in such a wildly public space - certainly not so soon, and not in a social gathering a stone’s throw from the Necropolis, where half a dozen patrons and the majority of the staff seemed to know him by name. But, quick and chaste, her tiptoes afforded her a kiss to his cheek before he ever saw it coming.

It was the first time Rook was quite certain that, despite the mottled light and deep shadows of their surroundings, she ever saw the Senior Necromancer blush.

Notes:

Shit, they're cute.

Also, Gallery shows making for a hot date is a hill I will gladly die on.

Thanks for reading, you beauties!

[rapeculturerealities]

‘We are tired, angry and mad’: 180,000 women march in Mexico City | Women's Rights | Al Jazeera

Impunity for homicide is around 94 percent, confirmed a study by the think-tank Mexico Evalua in 2021. Women have to be wary of police in Mexico; a government study released in 2022 found that the majority of women who are detained by the police have been abused, a third of them sexually.

The march ended in Mexico City’s central square — the Zocalo — that is overlooked by government buildings and the Metropolitan Cathedral. As the square filled with protesters, people sought relief from the scorching 31C-degree (89F-degree) heat in small pockets of shade under tents run by street vendors offering cups of corn, sliced mangos and potato crisps drenched in lime and chili sauce. Sunstroke was the most common complaint among the 112 patients who received medical attention during the march.

Behind heavy-duty metal barriers with overhanging metal lips, hundreds of police lined up, standing far enough back to avoid the near-constant barrage of plastic cups, rubbish, flashbangs and purple flares being lobbed by angry protesters. Taking advantage of any openings in the barriers, women taunted the police, showing their middle fingers or pushing lit cardboard banners through the gaps.

A group of women dressed in black with balaclavas and ski masks, referred to as the “Black Block”, slammed hammers against the metal fence.

[sleepyminty]

I always remember how Angelica death fuck me up:

Like from the beginning of roland’s story, he told angela that he used to have a wife, who is also worked as a highly grade fixer as him, same industry and died due to ‘typical City disaster’ with their child who she’s still pregnant with. With how the world building goes in The City, ppl die brutally due to abnormal disaster are normal mundane thing here. But as the story progress, we started to see more or angelica: she and her brother Argalia were victims child experiment until she was saved by Iori, she’s witty and funny, she’s a happy gal with trauma, she’s somehow memorise orlando furioso, and she’s not just tough, like her brother she’s a color fixer. And we started to understand how and why Roland fall for her: She’s not just anyone, she’s the Black Silence, She’s a fixer of Charles Office, she was a victim to the City inhumanity, she’s the Blue Reverb’s sister, she’s the Purple Tear’s student, she’s Roland soulmate, she’s Angelica,

she had a story, her story was supposed to have a soft epilogue

she’s also one messed-up individual who struggle to live under cruel crushing gear of the City

Which is why Roland’s short summary at the beginning of Star of Urban Legend AND the fact that Argalia defile her goddamn corpse is taken more tragic in context.

It’s like the City crushing her as if she’s no less than a bug: She’s nothing more like those second-class passengers in w corp train. she’s nothing like those orphanage Tomerry destroyed, like those clerks who dies violently in lob corp like ants

Its like to the City, she’s just a background character who fall victim to the City’s brutality.

Perhaps, this is why i like limbus company, bc they let those ‘no-name’ to have the chance to gain confidence, gain the second chance to tell their story, to win against the nihilstic hell that is the City, to give them their voices back.

Perhaps this is a love letter to those who are like Angelica

[pocheccos]

soft spot.

You shake your head while looking up at Checo, “Been traveling all week, I think it’s catching up to me. I would like to stay somewhere for longer than a couple days.”

sergio perez x gender neutral!reader // word count: 1098 // no major content warnings. mentions of airsickness but nothing happens. just being soft. no use of y/n

rambling. hi, hello! it’s been a hot minute (years maybe a decade, in fact) since i’ve posted any writing onto this site. i wrote this before the news today but this is me coping i guess!! anyways hope u enjoy and hugs to my fellow checo lovers. we are free from the hell that is red bull racing. if my spanish seems off, thats on me. i only speak fluently, but never formally learned how to write/read (im at a first grader level probably). ty ty. how the hell do u format on this thing

You’re nervous on the flight heading to Las Vegas. From the initial take off, your stomach felt uneasy. Thankfully, the Red Bull team had the idea to fly out from Los Angeles, so the flight would be short. Your whole life you’ve never been one to fall prone to airsickness. That would not change today.

You kept your eyes trained to the scenery outside. Your eyes traced mountains and their ridges as a distraction. You mentally ran through your personal schedule for the week. Even as a guest for the team, you were required to complete media duties. A few video shoots with Red Bull and some with your own personal sponsors. Today would be one of your free days; you’d have the chance to adjust to the time zone and settle into your home for the week. You’re so focused on not feeling sick, you don’t even register when someone takes the seat next to you. You only become aware of Checo when he takes your hand into his.

You exhale a deep breath and offer the driver a smile. He drops your hand in exchange for raising the arm rest that separates him from you. Without question, he presses himself against you while wrapping his arm around your shoulders. On instinct, you lean against him while keeping your eyes trained on the window. Your free hand comes up to grip the hand that's draped over your shoulder.

“Since we took off,” Checo begins as he leans to press a kiss to your hair, “has tenido una cara. What’s wrong?”

You don’t answer immediately, choosing to look away from the window and give the man your attention. You shake your head while looking up at Checo, “Been traveling all week, I think it’s catching up to me. I would like to stay somewhere for longer than a couple days.”

Your offered reason wasn’t a complete lie, you were tired. You felt as if you were being pulled in a different direction at every turn. Even if you were in a beautiful city for an event, you had to adhere to a schedule.

Coupled with the stress of watching your partner struggle in his sport, you felt drained. Checo, even Max, had expressed their frustrations to you after races. Complaining that their cars were not responding to them or that the team refused to acknowledge that their beloved car wasn’t the fastest anymore. You were waking up at odd hours during race weekends only to see both Red Bull drivers struggle to get points.

The media had managed to get under your skin, unfortunately. You had grown accustomed to being on the end of good and bad press with your own career. But seeing your partner casually slandered each week was different. It was easy when the boys performed well. Though a bad performance meant the press could lob every doubt and criticism with little remorse. It felt as if you were the one being stabbed with each word.

Unconvinced brown eyes stare into yours, waiting for you to admit the real reason. Checo doesn’t press the subject further, but you see how his eyes beg for you to confide in him. Perhaps in a more private setting, you would. You could discuss it in his native tongue for an extra sense of privacy, but you didn’t want to feel vulnerable on a plane.

Perhaps you were being dramatic. You had no real reason to be this distraught over his race results. You weren’t a part of the Checo’s garage. You weren’t there to change his tires, to fix his car after receiving damage, and you weren’t strategizing on his behalf. You were just the significant other. The Red Bull affiliated athlete that happened to be dating a Formula One driver. Others would tell you to focus on your own sport.

Still, the anxiety chose to manifest.

“Mi vida,” Checo says and it pulls you out of your mental spiral. You see the concern taking over his face, and it makes you feel guilty. You didn’t want to be on his list of worries for the weekend. Checo would argue against that thought, give you a kiss and remind you that he wanted to support you as you did him.

”You’re under a lot of pressure this weekend.” You begin, “I’m hoping that this weekend treats the team well. Don’t let my bad mood add to your stress.” It's a loose attempt at describing how you feel, but you see the frown on Checo’s face.

You choose to give Checo a quick kiss to dissolve the growing frown. He chases you as you pull back for another kiss. This one is far more intense than your peck, so much so that it blinds you to the sensation of his hand on your thigh. His fingers skirt towards your inner thigh just close enough to replace the nausea in your stomach with butterflies.

You dig your nails into his other hand as a warning, “Pórtate bien, Sergio.” You say in a hiss. You shoot the man a glare. Your relationship with Checo wasn’t a secret, but you would rather jump off the plane with no parachute than join a certain club.

All the man does is chuckle at your reaction, but he moves the offending hand closer to rest by your knee. He lowers his face to find the space between your neck and shoulder. The pair of you sit in comfortable silence, your gaze returning to stare out the plane window.

“When the season is over, I’ll take you somewhere we’ve never been.” He mummers against your skin. In a tamer fashion, he peppers soft kisses along the area, “No schedules, just us and whatever we’d like to do. Three races and then we’ll disappear. Only if you promise me something.”

You can’t help but hum softly at his words, knowing you’re falling victim to his favorite way of getting you to open up. You already know what his request will be.

“Lo que tu quieres, mi cielo.” You tell him anyway.

”Tell me what’s bothering you,” Checo says, lifting his head from your neck. “Whatever feelings you have, they won’t scare me. Feeling you pull away is what scares me. Only when you’re ready.” You shiver at the air hitting the empty space. You don’t turn to face him, but you squeeze the hand that you were still holding and turn your head to grace it with a kiss.

I will. You wordlessly tell him.

I love you. Checo reminds you when he intertwines your fingers together.

[msunitedstatesjames]

Frances Hardinge is a criminally underrated author. If you've never heard of her, I'm not surprised. Even though I'm in several fantasy book groups on Facebook with thousands of members, I've only ever seen one or two other members post about her. And yet, since I first read one of her books in 2020, I've bought every book she's published and read most of them.

Frances Hardinge, for those who've missed out, writes fantasy young adult books. Her books are extremely well written, romance free, unfailingly unique, and somewhat dark, all of which are qualities I find to be more and more rare in today's YA fantasy market (not to hate on YA, I've read tons of it). If you need a comparison, I would say aspects of her books remind me of YA/middle grade books by T. Kingfisher or Neil Gaiman.

If I haven't convinced you yet, here's a little preview of some of her books that I've read:

A Face Like Glass (my personal favorite): A girl named Neverfell lives in a world where people have to be taught how to show emotion in their facial expressions. She has to wear a mask at all times because, mysteriously, she naturally shows facial expressions and if people found out they would freak. If that's not unique enough, this society is underground and produces magical artisinal goods, such as cheeses, wines, and perfumes that can do some wild things. If that still hasn't convinced you, the book critiques the privelege of the wealthy, as in this world only the rich can afford to hire Facesmiths to teach them expression, while the poor languish along with one or two facial expressions for their entire lives.

Fly by Night and Fly Trap (these might have different titles depending on where you are in the world): In a world where reading is illegal and seen as revolutionary activity, Mosca Mye escapes her awful life with her aunt and uncle by forcing an infamous conman (Eponymous Clent, this world has cool naming conventions) to take her under his wing. Joining them is Mosca's only friend, Saracen, the murderous goose. Yeah, you read that right. Highlights of the series include a heartwarming found family tale, an accidental revolution, a city that literally changes its population, personality, and shape when day changes to night, and, of course, an extremely violent goose. I mean, if you've read Pratchett, Saracen the goose is basically the Luggage. There's more than one scene in these books where all hope seems lost, and Mosca is like, "I guess it's up to you now Saracen," and she just straight up lobs her goose at the enemy and he utterly wrecks their shit. If I recall correctly, this happens once during a pitched river boat battle over an illegal printing press.

The Lie Tree: Faith's father, who refused to recognize her potential as a scientist, mysteriously dies. Faith discovers a tree he kept hidden that grows when you tell lies and reveals secrets in its fruit. The bigger the lie you tell the world, the bigger the secret that will be revealed. You can imagine the chaos that eventually ensues. This book critiques gender roles and discrimination, and tackles both the dangers and the necessity of telling lies.

Cuckoo Song: When Triss wakes up after apparently falling in a lake, everything seems wrong. She's missing memories, she has an insatiable hunger, dead leaves are mysteriously appearing in her room, and her sister claims she's a monster. Triss must piece together what's happening to her before it's too late. This book deals with the complexities of life with overbearing parents, siblings who've been pitted against one another, and families that have been torn apart by tragedy.

Verdigris Deep (another one that goes by different titles): A group of friends are cursed by a well witch after they take some coins from her well. She forces them to work for her by granting her wishes. Working with the witch gives them powers, but the wishes are getting increasingly complex. Does that guy really want a motorcycle or does he want to be someone else? And if he wants to be someone else, does that mean what he really wants is not to exist at all? This book deals with issues of self worth, power and control, and toxic friendships.

She has a bunch of other great books as well. So if you're looking for a unique fantasy story with adventure and no romance, definitely check some of Frances Hardinge's books out!

[ifuckingloveryoshu]

I said Id keep all murder on the warp express spoilers till 8/31 but. *BIG Spoilers FOR MURDER ON THE WARP TRAIN EXPRESS AND DISTORTION DETECTIVE*

I originally just wanted to make a horny post but here we are now, Don post. And keep in mind, all of this is speculation all hearsay and I have not read Don's book.

I might redesign and just redo my self insert oc for one if Bloodfeinds have a thing with masks and if the Pinky Finger has blood feinds? Its only heavy spectulation on my end given the scrapes and blood on the finer from Ryoshu's art. Unrelated but the mask make me thing about Jojo and the Pillar Men. Uhh, more speculation actually, maybe all Kindred in their culture, take the mantel of another role or face? For Don, its the valiant hero. With blood being part of their image, their goal is extending their influnce.

Go further, maybe the Mask and Rocinante can be related in the roles they want to play. The Barber was mentioned and I heard the original Don took the shaving thing used to collect hair from the barber and used it as a hat. I'm thinking for Casstti at least, the technology of that mask after getting enough blood would make him look all human.

From Distortion Detective Chapters 41 and 42 before they axed the series, here we have:

For context: Moses is talking to an older Bloodfeind in this fancy hotel because she wants Moses to murder her. For one, yeah they do feed on human but their not overtly evil? It's a hidden evil but tame for City standards. Elena was just a big exception but popular enough to give the whole species a bad reputation.

From Distortion Detective, we get the information that Bloodfeinds like keeping their numbers low.

There honestly must be cultural diffrences between blood feind populations of diffrent Districts. Don might actually be an Elder.

Also, it's not a new plot point with a bloodfeind who doesn't conciously know their a blood feind.

So does the Distortion inside bloodfeinds have to be awaken? I have no idea, but Rocinante seems to be Don's anchor.

When we meet another Bloodfeind, perhaps an elder one, it doesn't seem in the norm for Bloodfeinds in general to do giant blood bag and conversion things. This is a very hopeful reading of what can easily get retconed but my guess is Elder Bloodfeinds just drink a little bit and then normally let their victims go. But again, we never found out if this person was reliable or not because Project Moon discontinued Distortion Detective. Elena is an outliar among bloodfeinds and Casstti is put into a warp train as a blood feind, in an enviornment that gives as much blood as you want.

Wherever Casstti's from, he was running away to make his own 'kingdom' because where hes from was awful. He had no idea how the Warp Train would opperate. None of this was planned, everything was incidental.

My theory on the events: Cassetti hides in the freightcar to escape wherever he is from and hes been hiding there eversince to get enough blood to make his mask so he can blend in with the City residents, hide his bloodfeind features, maybe fuse with his mask. But, the bus woke him up and maybe he was spotted by the multi-armed fixers where he feels compelled to make Sasha a Kindred after her helplessness. Then our gang comes and fights him. Yeah. So many things to look forward to. And if the connection of the Barber in Don's story, a one off thing, Cassetti might be coming from P Corp. Two things i've just seen from Lob Corp's Shelter from the 27th of March and the Library Of Ruina Wiki:

We're off for a ride next Canto, that is certain. Thank you to anyone who decides to read this. If anyone else would love to build off this or correct me, that would be heavily appreciated.