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[minioilmill]

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[corpbizlegal]

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[reasonsforhope]

"Governor Janet Mills announced that Maine has, two years ahead of time, surpassed its goal of installing 100,000 new heat pumps by 2025, a milestone that represents significant progress in reducing Maine’s reliance on heating oil, lowering heating costs, and curbing harmful carbon emissions.

To continue Maine’s momentum, Governor Mills also unveiled a new target: installing another 175,000 additional heat pumps in Maine by 2027, thereby bringing the number of heat pumps installed in Maine homes, businesses, and public buildings during her time in office to 275,000.

If this target is achieved, Maine would have more than 320,000 heat pumps in total installed across the state.

Heat pumps can be thought of as temperature recycling machines. They are filled with refrigerant fluid and contain a compressor, and they work by extracting excess heat and moving it around, either in or out of a house depending on whether it’s hot or cold.

It’s believed they work best in hot weather, but in February, Maine’s temperatures in some places plummeted during a cold snap to -60°F. Efficiency Maine, which aided in the state’s adoption of heat pumps by organizing rebates for customers under the provisions of the Inflation Reduction Act, did a survey of owners they had helped the previous year.

Many of [the heat pump owners] reported they were comfortable and warm, and offered to bring up the fact that by February they had already saved hundreds of dollars on home heating systems, over boilers, gas furnaces, and heating oil.

“We are setting an example for the nation,” said Mills at the announcement event. ​“Our transition to heat pumps is… curbing our reliance on fossil fuels, and cutting costs for Maine families, all while making them more comfortable in their homes—a hat trick for our state.”

The transition began in 2019 with bipartisan support of the Legislature, when Governor Mills enacted laws setting ambitious targets for transitioning to renewable energy and reducing greenhouse gas emissions."

-via Good News Network, July 31, 2023

[memecucker]

Simpsons headcanon is that Mr Burns had deliberately sabotaged the Springfield Elementary oil well by intentionally making it hyperpolluting and inefficient to prevent any other buyers from coming in and potentially threatening his energy monopoly and also ruining the site for any future owners while being able to write it off as a business expense for taxes.

The existence of that oil well combined with how the presence of the Gay Steel Mill implies Springfield has ready access to large amounts of coal means that Mr Burns had to build his nuclear plant in an area where oil and coal would’ve been easily accessible as sources of energy. I maintain that this suggests at some point in the past Mr Burns had engaged in some hostile actions to undermine then existing oil or coal energy plants in the area which would’ve been to such an extent that he was able to get his nuclear plant built. This would also explain Burns’ reputation for being ruthless and cutthroat despite how he seems to be fairly parochial with his business interests because he had managed to defeat several powerful business interests to carve out his own fiefdom.

So basically my headcanon is that around the 1950s Mr Burns was an ambitious capitalist futurist utopian like Walt Disney or Andrew Ryan and had a grand ambition to make Springfield an advanced “Atomic City” and that he was partially able to succeed by establishing his nuclear plant as having an energy monopoly but was unable to enact his societally transformative ambitions but that this is the reason he still occasionally makes attempts to take over the town. For all I know this may have been the exact plot of one of the hundreds of episodes released since I last watched idk

[serpentface]

Question for Faiza: what does the average day for an Odonii priestess entail?

We wake before dawn, and most of us spend the morning working around the temple. We maintain the shrines and grounds so- tending the hearths and burning the offerings, collecting water from the spring, feeding the lions. And there's always lay visitors milling around the temple while we're doing all this, but our attendants take care of the general public interfacing so. We can mostly focus on our duties.

There's always going to be some pregnant women or the odd soldier stopping in, so you might give out blessings once? Twice? On any given day. Rarely any more than that. But sometimes, you'll be right in the middle of something important- it's always when you're in the middle of something - and then, suddenly, in wanders an entire troupe. And you hear them before you see them. They'll have brought every single weapon and piece of armor they own, so they're clanging loud enough to wake the dead. And you'll just be standing there thinking, well, this is going to be my entire morning now.

...But it's very important work of course, attending our soldiers. Give a man Odomache's blessing, and he fights more bravely alone than twenty without.

Once the temple closes, we usually spend most of the afternoon just preparing the amenchalme. So- grinding the maize, then blessing the maize, then grinding the salt, then blessing the salt, then mixing the wine, then blessing the wine, then mixing the oil, then blessing the oil... It's a little tedious, I won't lie. But I think this is our most important duty, in a way. Out of every rite we perform, day in and day out, this is the one that serves all our people. The amenchalme that blesses a whore's nameless bastard daughter at birth and the amenchalme that blesses a great lord at his wedding is the very same, made by the very same hands. So when I see priestesses shunting the task off to initiates so they can go nap on the grounds or play with their muskets...

I digress.

So, when the rest of our duties are complete, we end the day with training. This is mostly practicing the six dances. Ideally, every Odonii in the temple should be assembled and practicing in unison. But in practice, there's usually some stragglers. So you'll be out in the yard and everyone is following the same drumbeat, but you'll see one group dancing the spear, another dancing the musket, and then another who's already finished and running laps around the grounds just to kill time.

Our core duties are over at sundown, and we're free to do as we please. Dinner is served at the temple, so most of us will spend an hour or two in the hall, you know, socializing, having a little wine, unwinding. I like to go down to the ocean after dinner, when I can. I prefer the quiet.

Uh, so that's an average day for the vast majority of us. It varies throughout the year, of course. Things get busy when we're approaching festivals. Or during wartime. And I'm a senior Odonii and liaison to the Usoma, so-. My duties tend to be considerably more complex, year-round. Sometimes I miss those long afternoons just mindlessly pounding maize, haha.

---

Notes:

-Temples to Odomache are open to the public from dawn until noon, and closed throughout the rest of the day. The temple consists of a great shrine that is publicly accessible by all, inner walled grounds that are prohibited to the public outside of certain festivals (tame lions are kept here), private spaces only Odonii and temple staff can enter (the Odonii's quarters and bathrooms, a dining hall, library), and ritually private spaces that only Odonii can enter (an inner shrine reserved for internal cult practice that is forbidden knowledge for non-Odonii)

-Odonii-attendants are high ranking servants to the priesthood. They start out as child servants given to the order by their fathers who perform most of the basic labor (this is a very attractive position to poor families in particular, as the family is paid until the child comes of age, and the child themself can acquire a degree of security and potential for class mobility that is otherwise difficult to attain). Those who choose to remain with the order upon adulthood (they have no choice in the matter beforehand due to children being under full legal jurisdiction of their fathers) may eventually graduate into attendant positions. This is a well paid and esteemed job, with attendants managing most of the practical logistics of maintaining a temple and interfacing with the public.

Servants to Odonii are only women and eunuchs. Those considered male are forbidden from this role (which entails entering some ritually private spaces, and sometimes seeing them naked in the course of bathing/being armored, etc) - the Odonii's body is sacrosanct and an analogue to the power and the security of the Wardi nation and God Itself, and the male gaze is considered uniquely dangerous to a metaphysically vulnerable female body and thus to be fundamentally violating of this sacred state.

-Outside of certain festivals and rituals, Odonii only perform blessings for royalty, soldiers, and pregnant women. Odonii also bless soldiers' weapons and armor.

-Amenchalme is the basic material used in public rites for blessing and purification. The finished product is a paste that is daubed on the body to give blessings, and consecrates animals/humans for sacrifice. It is exclusively produced by Odonii, but used in a broad variety of contexts.

-'Nameless' in the context of 'nameless bastard daughter' means not having a family name - ie an orphan of unknown parentage, or not being claimed by one's father, and therefore not having access to and the protection of the family as the foundational social unit in Wardi society. Namelessness itself is stigmatized, and its implications invariably entail ostracization and lowered status. Faiza saying 'whore's nameless bastard daughter' is her conjuring up like, the lowest possible status Wardi citizen she can imagine.

-The six dances are the core weapons-dances used in rites and for combat training, centered around the key weapons techniques- spear, sword, handgun, musket, spear and shield, sword and shield. Bow dances are still practiced by most soldiers (given that firearms are limited enough in access to have not fully replaced them) but are no longer part of the Odonii's core retinue.

-Faiza privately ascribes to a niche quasi-atheist strain of Wardi philosophy that posits that God fully died during creation and can no longer directly affect the world, and thus does not believe that the majority of rites her Entire Life is built on performing have any intrinsic divinely sourced effects. She is very good at not letting any of this slip, but tends to frame the benefits of rites around their practical effects (ie- soldiers who believe they are protected by God fight more bravely).

Her emphasis on the importance of amenchalme as is partly rooted in sincere conviction that all* (*Imperial Wardi citizen) people should receive the practical benefits of the state's religion regardless of class and she finds the ubiquity of the substance to be an equalizer, and partly because she absolutely believes in bad luck, ghosts, and evil spirits, and amenchalme protects people from those.

[redfoxwritesstuff]

AN: What do we have here? Did we forget a couple presents under the tree? Merry Christmas Nyxy, happy Boxing day- I hope you don't regret it. That's it folks, we made it to the end of Smutmas! Did you like it? Or were you all too burned out on smut on the heels of Kinktober? Would you like to see this or a similar event next year? Above all, remember the biggest lesson learned here- don't lick doorknobs.

CW: Smut, religious trauma, pretending to be a priest, belly bulge, loss of virginity, anointing oil used as lube (Don't do this)

Summary: Vox is owed money and the price of business is high. He's not a businessman anyone should keep waiting. So when Father Francis does just that, Vox finds a rather entertaining way to pass the time while he waits around the church.

You make the perfect thing to pass the time with. Sweet, innocent and pure- you take every one of his lies at face value, trusting the new priest taking your confession in the place of Father Francis. The cost of forgiveness and absolution for your sins is high but… the new Father wouldn't lie to you, would he?

Vox straightened his suit as he stood from the pew. Parishioners milled about still, lining up to speak to the priest as if he could somehow grant them salvation into heaven’s pearly gates if they but only had a few more moments of his time. 

The idea alone had Vox scoffing, but he did what he did best and put on a showman’s smile. There would be people who notice him, remember him, but that was the price he paid for being him.

“Father Francis!” Vox held out his hands, palms out, and spread in greeting. Nothing to see here, folks, just a friend greeting the father. “It’s so good to see you.”

Father Francis greeted, wrapping Vox in his arms in a tight hug. The preacher patted Vox’s back, whispering in his ear, “Wait in the confessional box.” 

Vox nodded, walking confidently over to the booths. He made a point of admiring the ornate craftsmanship; the details carved deep into the wood while he also looked around to see if anyone was watching him. 

As soon as the coast was clear, Vox opened the door closest to him and stepped inside. The dim light inside was just enough to see by, not illuminating much in the way of details.

There wasn’t much inside the small booth, all things considered. The bench was simple and hanging on a small hook inside the door was a spare set of robes, much like those that the good Father wore on a typical day. 

“Mr. Vox?” Father Francis poked his head inside the door. 

“Do you have the payment?” Vox asked, keeping his voice low. 

“I need to make a run to the hospital. A parishioner’s father is not well, I- It’s urgent, Mr. Vox.” The man stood just inside the small booth, looking sheepishly at Vox. 

“You’re not trying for a delay, are you, old chap?” Vox made a show of looking at his nails, not wanting Father Francis to have any more attention than Vox deemed necessary. 

“No!” Father Francis repeated the word, softer as he looked around sheepishly. “Not at all. I’ll have the funds. I just- we don’t think he’ll make it more than a few more hours. It’s vital that he has his last rites. You understand, don’t you?” 

“Sure,” Vox waved his hand as if he was batting away a bug. “I’ll just wait right here. You won’t be long, will you?” 

“Make yourself comfortable in the chapel.” 

“Oh,” Vox laughed. “I’ll be waiting right here.” 

“No, no-” Father Francis laughed awkwardly as he reached for the door. “Someone will mistake you as a preacher. You-” 

“Good!” Vox said, a smile blooming on his face. “All the more reason for you to hurry back.” 

~~~~~<3

Vox sat, passing the time, playing what amounted to dress up. The last thing he wanted was to step out of the little box and have to deal with socializing. Instead, he put on the robes, dressing himself in the garb of Father Francis’ role. He admired the feel of the robes, how different they made him feel, only to freeze in place at the sound of door hinges squeaking. 

Someone stepped into the booth on the other side of the wall. Vox looked back and forth in a panic, hoping to find some sort of hint, something to tell him what he should do or say next. 

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” Your soft voice carried through the wall easily. You sat neatly on the small bench, head down, as you focused on your task. 

“Haven’t we all,” Vox whispered under his breath. 

��I’m sorry?” You looked up, eyes glanced at the mesh that obscured your view of the man on the other side of the wall. You couldn’t see much more than the basic shape of him sitting there. 

“Nothing,” Vox waved the question away, out of habit more than anything, not knowing if you could see him at all. “Carry on.” 

“It has been… it has been a while since my last confession, Father.” Your fingers twisted in the soft fabric of your skirt as you tried to will the tears back from your eyes. The air in the booth tasted bitter and stale on your tongue, but you forced yourself to take a deep lungful of it, anyway. 

“Tell me of your sins?” Vox urged, not knowing for sure if it was the right thing to say but wanting to urge you on. You had such a pretty voice. He couldn’t help but wonder if the face matched it. Hell, did your body match the voice? 

“I’ve… lust has plagued me,” you whispered, struggling to find your voice in the face of the horrible things you had been thinking. “I- the thoughts come to me during the darkness of night, during the devil’s hours. I focus on my prayers, but the thoughts- they even come to me in my dreams.” 

“And what are those thoughts, exactly?” Vox asked, leaning forward. 

“I beg your pardon?” Your voice wavered as you looked again at the mesh between you. 

“I need to know the details of your thoughts,” Vox said, eyes straining to look through the mesh to see the woman sitting on the other side. “How else can I offer you absolution?” 

“I-” you hesitated only for Vox to speak over your doubts. 

“You can trust me,” Vox said, smile spreading wide. “I’m just a man of God, here to help.” 

“Okay,” Doubt lingered in your voice, but you pushed on. “There’s been men- I’ve been noticing them. I’ve been noticing things about them and thinking-” 

“What have you been noticing about them?” Vox asked, scooting closer to the mesh, hoping to see something more than just your silhouette. 

“Oh.” The sound came out as a sweet little squeak that ran down Vox’s spine. “The… the way their pants rest on their…their bodies.” 

“What parts of their bodies?” Vox pressed. “You need to be honest and detailed or I cannot help you.” 

“Right,” you sighed the word, face and chest growing hot with the words you were going to say. “The way they rest on… their hips and around their… pelvis.” It took you a while to settle on the right word, unsure how… vulgar the good Father wished for you to be. “I also… notice the way their shirts fit across their chest or the way the muscles in their hands and arms move.” 

“And what does that noticing inspire?” Vox leaned closer to the mesh wall. “Our God made the human form in his perfect image, did he not? Isn’t admiring the beauty of it little more than worshiping of His greatest work?” 

“I-” You sighed, “Yes, I suppose, but… It makes me think of how it would feel if they… if they gave me their attentions.” 

“In what sort of way?” Vox had his face nearly pressed against the mesh now, finally seeing you, though poorly. 

“In…. romantic ways.” Your voice came meeker as shame washed over you. 

“How?” Vox pressed, needing more, wanting more. He could hear the shame in your voice, the watery sound of emotion threatening to choke your words. 

“I… I think of how it would feel to have their hands on my.. on my thighs or touching my breasts.” You choked on the words, face burning with shame as you ran your hands through your hair. Curling in on yourself, you willed the words to continue. If you couldn’t say it, he couldn’t help you. “I think of how it would feel if they kissed me and held me as a husband should hold his wife.” 

“And how is that?” Vox shifted, pants growing tighter under the robes. “You must be very detailed, my child. The devil is in the details and you do want me to help you, don’t you?” 

You whimpered, curling in on yourself more. Never had you felt so shameful sitting in this little booth. It had been a place of comfort for most of your life, but now? Shame was all you felt. It had been too long since you had come. That was what made your mind, heart, and soul weak. 

“I think of… the feeling of his skin against mine. I- Of the way his lips would feel on my skin… and what it would feel like to have them… have them take me to their beds and lay with me.” Tears welled in your eyes as you confessed to the good Father your sins. 

“Have you acted on these desires?” Vox asked, palming his hardening cock through his pants.

“I am pure,” you whispered, pleading with the priest on the other side of the thin wall to believe you. Your attendance slipped, but you were still godly. You hadn’t acted on the thoughts. You had done nothing forbidden. He had to believe you. God had to believe you, had to know. 

“Even to yourself?” Vox asked, pulling his cock from his pants, moving slowly to make as little noise as possible. Once he was free, head brushing against the inside of the robes, he wrapped his fingers around his shaft. A sigh whispered between his lips as he leaned back, shifting his hips toward the edge of the seat as he worked his fist over the length of him slowly. “Do you touch yourself to these thoughts? Do you indulge in the- the lust of them?” 

“I-” Tears ran down your cheeks. You were crying openly now, no longer making an effort to hide it. If you wanted forgiveness, you had to lay it all bare in front of the Father and in front of God. “I almost did, Father. Last night- That’s why I came here. Please, I do not wish to sin.” 

“Do you feel it?” he murmured, his voice low and deliberate as his hand began to move faster over his length. “That ache inside you, the one that refuses to be ignored?”

“Yes, Father.” You answered, though you were not sure you understood. The ache inside you was the demon, clawing at your insides, demanding your fall. 

“The cure is surrender,” he said, leaning closer to the mesh. “You have to open yourself completely. Let yourself be filled, every inch of you, until there’s nothing left but the purity of what you’ve accepted.” 

Your pulse quickened, your voice barely audible. On the other side of the thin wall, you could just hear a rhythmic rustling, almost. It was a ghost of the sound, as if he was rubbing his leg. “And if I can’t?” 

A slow smile curved his lips. “You will,” he said, his tone curling around you in sinful delight. You told yourself it was little more than the whispers of demons. “You just have to let it take you... wholly.”

“I’m scared.” Your voice was broken, strangled by fear and shame. 

“Oh fuck,” Vox whispered, precum smearing against the inside of the robe. “The price for absolution will be high, my child.” Vox struggled to keep his voice steady as he swiped a thumb over the head of his cock, smearing the slick fluid that hadn’t been wiped away yet. 

“I’ll do whatever it takes,” you cried, turning to face the man you could not see, tears dropping from your chin. The scraping of your nails against the wooden frame of the booth was loud in the small space, or at least it seemed that way to you and to Vox. 

“The cure for lust is to be filled with- with the Holy Spirit.” Vox said again, “This is a ceremony of utmost seriousness a-and we must begin it immediately.”

Vox was certain you would question him. There was no way you would just accept his lies. Surely he was too far off the accepted script, but damn, you sounded so sweet and innocent, sitting there crying in the other half of the box… and he wanted you. 

He wanted to take that innocence and grind it under his heel. It angered him in a way that he couldn’t explain that something as sweet and innocent as you could exist, untainted.

“What must I do?” you whispered. “I’ll do anything to be in God’s graces again, to be freed of this demon. Please, Father. Please, help me?” 

“Good,” Vox sighed, cringing as he tried to shove his cock away, settling on fastening his pants up over his shaft. The waistband pinned his head to his abdomen. “Stand up and close your eyes,” Vox said, smile growing wide and greedy. “Do not open them until I tell you. I’m going to lead you to a room where we can see to this ceremony.” 

“But Father-?” You stood, eyes fluttering shut even as you questioned him. You were, at your core, a good girl who listened to the authority of the Church. 

“Do you trust your God?” Vox asked, standing himself. “Do you trust in the power he has vested in me?” 

“Yes,” you said without a shadow of doubt as that feeling twisted your insides. It was a vile, uncomfortable feeling that had you shifting your weight from one foot to the other. 

“Good girl,” Vox said, stepping out of the booth. 

The church was empty. His eyes settled on the altar and oh, he would love nothing more than to push everything off of it and take you right on top of it. That wouldn’t do, though. It would be pushing you too far. 

He opened the door to your booth, finding you standing with your eyes closed. You were just as he hoped you to be. Perfect and meek and oh so good. You looked like a ripe fruit, ready for the picking. Perhaps you were an apple?

Vox was eager to spoil you for all that would come after him. “Keep your eyes closed.” 

“Why?” you asked, even as you continued to obey, walking forward as a hand wrapped around your arm at the elbow, tugging you softly out of the box. 

“Why, we must keep the sanctity of the confession.” A wicked smile spread on Vox’s face, though you could not see it. All you could hear was the soft care in his voice, promising you he was a man who cared about what’s best for you. 

Vox lead you carefully through the church. He wasn’t totally unfamiliar with the building. The altar was too risky, but Father Francis’ office- surely no one would go in his office without at least knocking first. He watched as he lead you, ensuring your eyes stayed closed each step of the way. 

You allowed yourself to be led, heart pounding in your chest as you squeezed your eyes closed. Fear kept trying to worm itself into your mind, but you pushed it back down again and again, reminding yourself that you were safe. You were with a man of God. 

“Where are we going?” you asked. “What happens next?” 

Vox shushed you. “I need you to show faith in your God.” 

Vox walked you into the office, your simple heels clicking against the hardwood floors. After directing you to stand where you were, Vox made quick work of cleaning the desk of the stacks of papers and books Father Francis left littered on the surface. 

Once the task was seen to, he returned to your side, placing a steady hand at the small of your back. “We’re just about ready.” 

“Can I open my eyes?” you asked. 

“Not now,” Vox said, smoothing down the hair at the back of your head as he walked you up to the desk. “You must show great faith as I exercise the demons of lust from you. You cannot open your eyes before I say you can. Are you ready and willing to offer your body up as a sacrificial lamb in exchange for absolution?”

“What is going to happen?” Your voice trembled as you once again reminded yourself that you needed to trust the Father. He would take good care of you, as was his duty. He wouldn’t harm one of his flock. Still, the very idea of giving your body as sacrifice terrified you. “Will it hurt?” 

“No,” Vox said sweetly, “I promise I will try my best to not cause you any pain.” 

“What must I do?” You tried to sound brave, tried to lean on your faith for the strength to get through the unknown trials ahead of you. 

“Bend over.” Vox brought your hand to the solid surface of the old wooden desk. “Lay over this. Whatever comes next, know that I am working as an agent of the divine to purge you of these sinful thoughts. You are safe in God’s house. The Devil cannot touch you here.” 

“Yes, Father.” You laid across the flat surface. Cold from the wood radiating up into you as you willed your breathing to slow, trying to be calm. 

What attempts you made at calming your nerves were undone as a large hand ran along your thigh, moving over the thick fabric of your skirt. You squeezed your eyes closed as the hand moved around your side, caressing up the curve of your ass. 

“Have faith,” you whispered to yourself as the hand hooked under the elastic band of your skirt and your panties. “Have faith.” 

“Yes,” Vox said above you. “Have faith. This is what must be done to purge you of your sinful thoughts. I must be able to see the areas where you long to feel the touch of sin to purify it.” 

“What should I do?” You asked again, not daring to open your eyes. 

“Just lay there,” Vox answered. “I will take care of everything.” 

He wasn’t surprised in the slightest to see the full coverage, modest panties fall to the ground around your ankles along with your skirt. What did surprise Vox was that your stockings were thigh highs, not tights that would reach up to your waist. A part of you enjoyed the feeling of something scandalous, a little sexy. 

You trembled, laying on the desk as your most private place was exposed. “Have faith,” you whispered again and again before whispering prayers. It felt right while you were being prepped for a ceremony that you should pray. 

Vox looked at your folds, moist but far from the slick pathway he would need your virginal body to be. 

“Stay just like that,” Vox said, running his hands over the naked curve of your ass before leaving you. 

Things clattered around you as the Father looked around the room, looking for something. You laid there, listening as you whispered your prayers. Even within the sanctity of the church, you could feel the siren call of lust demanding your attention. 

The feeling of the Father’s hand on your skin felt good, and that was sinful. That was why you needed him to purify you. You needed help. He had to help you.

You needed something, though you didn’t understand what it was your body was longing for as you shifted your weight from one foot to the other. The change in position stimulated something between your legs, something sinful that had you shifting your weight again, thighs rubbing against each other as you did so.

Vox returned to you, standing back for a moment to just watch as your thighs moved against eachother. From between your puffy folds, he could see the glittering of slick starting to build ever so slightly, reflecting the dim light in the room back at him. 

You may have been a pure church girl, but your body responded like the slut you wanted to be. He smiled, knowing you were aroused even if you didn’t understand it at the time. 

“Move your feet apart,” Vox ordered, eyes locked on your folds as they spread, exposing your opening more. “Good girl.” 

“Please,” you whispered. “I need to be freed from this sin. I- I can feel it calling to me, tempting me even here.” 

“Sin cannot reach you here,” Vox said, opening the bottle of anointing oil and sniffing it. There was nothing to the scent that gave him any reason to believe it would sting or burn either your sensitive walls or him. “I am going to anoint you now.” 

Cold wetness dripped onto your core, running over folds and down your legs as you jumped. Vox shushed you, offering honeyed words of reassurance as he spread the slick oil over your exposed sex.

The strange sensation wasn’t unpleasant, and that terrified you. You trembled under his touch, body begging you to lean back, to chase the feeling of his hands running along your slick folds. 

“Isn’t this a sin?” You struggled to keep your eyes closed, wanting nothing more than to look back at the Father for reassurance. 

“It is a blessing,” he said, robes shuffling. “Keep your eyes closed and I’ll save you from the demons of lust.” 

“Okay,” you whispered, wanting to believe him. He was a priest. He was a man of God. He wouldn’t hurt you. He wouldn’t cause you to sin.

For a moment, Vox simply stepped back, admiring the view you made while he pulled the robes up, gathering it around his abdomen and tucking the fabric into the back of his pants. He carefully worked his fly down, trying to make as little noise as possible before he returned his hands to you. 

He gripped the globes of your ass, spreading you open for a clearer view of your slicked up hole. Fuck, he groaned internally. You looked tight. It would make sense. You were a fucking virgin, unspoiled even by yourself. 

Vox looked forward to ruining that. 

Vox poured some of the oil onto his shaft, smearing it around and slicking himself up as he watched your legs shake with how badly you wanted to close them. You were such a good girl, listening to him so well. 

He would reward you for that obedience. How many times could he bring you to orgasm? Would your body be responsive, or would you fight the pull of pleasure? Vox knew he was going to ensure you at least had one. Sure, this had very little to do with you but he was anything but a selfish lover. 

Vox rubbed the blunt tip of his cock through your folds, critical eyes cataloging every reaction of your body. He watched as your muscles tensed as he probed your entrance and jumped under your skin as he nudged your pretty little clit. 

The slick oil was far from a perfect lubricant but hopefully, you would soon relace it with your own natural productions. Vox pressed the head of his cock against your opening, parting the walls for the first time with such slowness he would consider it to be care. 

“What are you-?!” you gasped, spine pulling tight and lifting your head up off the desk as his bulbus head popped inside of you. The stretch of him burned. Your eyes shot open, though you did everything you could to not look over your shoulder. 

Hands rested on your bare hips, holding you in place. It wasn’t needed. You didn’t have anywhere you could have gone with the desk in front of you. 

“In order to purify you,” Vox said, thumbs rubbing soothing circles on your lower back. “The oil must go inside the core of your lust. It must be placed with something holy.” As he spoke, he sank deeper and deeper into you. The way your body squeezed around him made it hard to think or breathe, but Vox knew he couldn’t afford any mistakes. You had believed everything he had said and he would not fuck it up now. “You understand, don’t you? I’m doing this for you, to save your soul.” 

“Yes, Father.” The words tumbled out of your mouth as you felt the front of his pants press into your ass. 

The feeling of something inside of you stole your breath away. You felt so full as his seated cock twitched inside you, spreading blessed oil onto your inner walls. Your mind screamed at you that this was wrong, that something was wrong, but you refused to think about that. The burning pleasure of his holy tool pulling from your anointed body was more important. 

You expected him to withdraw from you now, having used his most holy tools to anoint you from the inside out. Instead, he pushed inside you again, moving slowly enough that your walls allowed him to drag but not lingering. 

“What is happening?” You asked as his hips again nestled against your ass. 

“I carry in me the Holy Spirit,” Vox said, thrusting slowly into you again and again, feeling as your body adjusted to the intrusion. “It takes time for me to deposit it within you. Only then will you be pure again of sin, free of the demons of Lust.” 

Shudders ran down your body as you struggled with the full feeling of having something inside you. It felt wrong, but not unpleasant. You wanted more of it and for him to stop all at once. 

It was alright; you kept telling yourself that again and again. He was a holy man. It wasn’t fornication; it was a ceremony. He wasn’t acting as a man. He was acting as a vessel of the Lord. 

You struggled as he pushed into you. You wanted to chase the feelings he was giving you, the sensations whispering of pleasure you could only imagine if you just gave in. Surely, resisting the call of the pleasure was a part of the test. 

“Give in,” Vox whispered above you. “Relax. Let it happen.” 

“Oh-” your breath hitched, breaking the sound up into a gasp. Confusion warred with the pleasure of the ceremony. “Okay.” 

Vox looked down at you, watching as your body shifted up the desk with every slow thrust in. You were so tight wrapped around his cock. Tight, innocent, virginal as you whispered your sweet little prayers, begging for salvation even as he ruined you. 

Vox couldn’t help the grin that spread on his face as he slowly picked up his pace. Each thrust into you brought pleasure through you both, stroking nerves that no one had touched before. 

As his thrusts came faster, you couldn’t manage to take a full breath. The force of his godly hips hitting your ass knocked the breath from your lings. Each thrust hit you with a spike of pleasure, making your voice jump as he hit something inside you that seemed to act like a wall. 

“Oh, ow!” you jerked away from the feeling. 

“Shh,” Vox cooed behind you, pushing his cock deep into you, slowly pushing your cervix back to allow him to truly bottom out. Reaching around your hips, he ran his fingers over your oiled folds, searching until he found the nub of your clit. “Just relax. Your body will make room for me, for God. That’s the demon inside you.” 

It took everything in Vox to not laugh at the nonsense he was spewing, focusing instead on the way your warm body felt around him. 

“The demon?” You whimpered as his cock pushed against that painful thing again. 

“Yes,” Vox said as his fingers slipped around your oil coated clit. “Can you feel it?” He knew you could. There was no way your body could lie to him. He felt the way your body clenched when he hit your cervix. He felt the ripples of tensing muscles that irritating the sensitive end of your tunnels caused. 

“I can,” you gasped. “It hurts me. Will you chase it away?” 

“I will,” Vox promised as he worked his cock into you again and again. “You must submit and let whatever happens happen.” 

His body slapped against yours, the sharp edge of the desk cutting into your hips with each thrust. Pain shot up through you as he hit the demon again and again. Along with the pain, pleasure came. You tried to focus on the sensations, the pleasure that the blessing was giving you. 

Each thrust into you by the holy tool brought more and more pleasure. “Something’s happening,” you cried out as your muscles tensed. Something inside you felt like it was becoming brittle and ready to break. “Something’s-” 

“Let it happen,” Vox said. “It’s alright.” 

Your legs spread more, chasing the feeling of the blessing. It felt… so good. That was why this ceremony was a secret. If anyone knew how good it felt, they would think it was sinful. 

Vox was more than pleased to watch your feet inch further apart, giving him better access to your clit. That and a small pinch to the sensitive bundle was all it took to have your walls twitching and clamping down around his cock. 

“Oh,” Vox moaned, choking off the curse that so badly wanted to tumble from his lips. “That’s it.” 

Your fingers dug into the desk as your eyes clamped closed. It felt like the good Father was pulling your body apart, ripping every muscle fiber from another before putting them all back together again. 

“Good girl,” Vox whispered, riding the waves of your orgasm, thrusting through the sensitive walls as he waited for their waves of pleasure to calm. “You’re doing so good for me, for your- for our God.” 

“Is it- Are we done?” You panted, fingers twitching as his pace slowed. “Is it outside of me?”

“No,” Vox sighed, reaching down and wrapping a large hand around your leg. He lifted it, twisting and rolling your body so that you were spread wide, leg bent and hooked around his torso. Each thrust into you in the new position had his pants rubbing against your sensitive clit as his shaft worked into your tight hole. 

“No?” You whimpered, torn. You should have been disappointed, but you were far from it. You wanted the Father to continue his ceremony, working his tool into you repeatedly, giving you such pleasure. 

That was the demon talking. You knew that. That’s why you needed him to purify you. Only God’s blessing would save you from the demon within you, trying to pervert a holy ceremony. 

“Please,” you whispered, eyes slitting open as you looked at the ceiling. “Please, my God.” 

Vox smiled, hand running up your side as he held your leg to his torso. “That’s right, doll.” 

You could feel him pushing against nerves you hadn’t realized went untouched before. Each thrust into you stole your breath as you focused on trying to keep your eyes closed. Pleasure had nearly replaced all the pain and discomfort now. Each thrust into you was smooth and filling. 

“Oh, God,” you whispered, pleasure building as it had before. You knew now that when it reached its peak, something magical, powerful would happen. Was that something God had given you, something that was a part of the ceremony? Or perhaps it was something you could look forward to sharing when you married and gave your body to your husband. 

“Unbutton your shirt,” Vox ordered, struggling to push back his orgasm. He wanted to see you finish at least one more time. 

“Why?” Your protest came out more as a sigh than anything else, fingers acting before you had an answer. 

“The demon will leave through your skin,” Vox lied, pleased to see you doing as he said without question. The pleasure mixed with your faith, making you the perfect little fuckdoll. 

He pushed your shirt back from your body, exposing your white bra. Of course it was simple, covering the whole of your breasts. It was expected though he wished he could have seen them. 

All in good time. Perhaps after a second orgasm you’d be fucked too stupid to question why he needed to see your tits. It was just a matter of time. You were already getting there, one orgasm in. Virgins were so fucking easy. 

Each thrust pushed you against the desk. Your foot lifted off the floor, the toe of your shoe grazing the hardwood floor as he pushed into you again. A flush rose to your chest and face anew as you caught sight of the man working into you, handsome and unknown. 

“Father?” you whispered, watching his eyes leave your exposed sex and run up your body. “I don’t-” 

“Shh,” his voice came out soft, reassuring as he rocked his tool into you harder and faster. “You’re doing so good for me, my child.” 

“Who-” The tightening in your body stole the ability to question anything. Whatever had happened early was coming dangerously close to happening again. 

“Priest,” Vox groaned out the word and by god, you accepted the answer, moaning as his tool twitched inside you. “You’re going to be so pure, so holy.” 

The promise of healing, of forgiveness mixed with the promise of pleasure, sending you over the edge once again. Your back arched with the force of the muscle contractions, breasts pushing out as your toes curled in your shoes. Sweet moans flowed from your mouth. 

“Oh God,” you cried out as the handsome Father’s fingers dug into your thigh and hips. “Oh God. Bless me.” 

“Soon,” Vox whispered. “Soon, my child.” 

“More?” You whispered, as his tool twitched strongly inside your clinched walls. “Do we need to go more?” 

“Yes,” Vox groaned, watching the way your folds twitched with the power of your internal contractions. Your body was begging him for his seed. “Lay back now.” 

Vox helped you roll onto your back, passing your leg to his other side. He guided your other leg up, resting them both on his shoulders. Leaning forward, strong hands ran up your sides as he watched your eyes flutter, settling on him, dazed. 

There was nothing he had to fear now. You were far too drunk on his cock to think about what he wore under his robes or why you had never seen him before. He pushed the soft cotton of your bra up, freeing your tits from their confines. 

“What-?” The question was little more than a sigh as you watched him reach for a bottle on the side of the desk. 

“I need to anoint you,” Vox said, thrusting lazily into you. “Where the demon has wanted you to sin.” 

Warmth radiated off the hand he planted on the desk, tempting you to reach out for him. Cold oil splashed as it drizzled on your chest. The tool inside you twitched as a thin stream of oil ran over your breasts. 

Vox set the bottle aside, not bothering to put the stopper on before reaching out to you again. His warm hand smeared the slick oil over the mounds of your chest, fingers slipping over your nipples in a futile attempt to pinch the pebbled buds. 

You arched into the touch, begging for his blessing. Your hips rocked, forcing him to move inside you, seeking more. 

Once your skin was shiny with the oil, dim office lights reflecting off your curves, Vox’s hand returned to your hip. Finally, he began to thrust into you again. He watched, eyes roaming eagerly as he pounded into you with more force than he had before. 

Your body jerked harshly on the desk, no longer pinned in place by your legs as his hips crashed into you again and again. Each blow into you pushed against that thing, that sign of the demon inside of you. The pain was less, just as he had promised it would be. 

“Bless you,” you gasped as the pleasure of his tool hitting that place outweighed the pain. The demon was being purged from you with each thrust inside of you. “I want to be pure.” 

“You will be,” Vox grunted, pushing your legs off his shoulders. He pushed your legs down, causing your heels to click against the wooden floor. “I can see it inside you.” 

Vox was talking about the way his cock pressed out against your abdomen, but you, sweet innocent you shuddered, thinking he could see the demon inside of you. 

“Please,” you moaned the words. “Please, make me pure, make me holy. Please, I want to be free from sin. Please, Father. Please.” 

Your begging was just what Vox wanted to hear. His cock twitched and swelled, threatening to explode within you, but he pushed his orgasm back, focusing on anything else. He threw your legs back over his shoulders and leaned into you. 

He nearly folded you in half as the desk groaned under the weight. Dark hair that had once been so perfectly combed back fell into his eyes as he pounded his tool into you. The pleasure was overwhelming, pulling moans from your lips easily. 

Your breasts moved with every harsh thrust, tempting Vox to taste the oil he had smeared onto them. Your chants, pleas for your silly God to protect you, to bless you, went on and on as your body tightened. The force of your orgasm choked the words off, throat too tight for them to push through. 

“Vox?” The door to the office opened as Father Francis stepped into view. 

“Shit,” Vox hissed, jerking back from you just as his cock twitched, ropes of hot seed cascading from his tip as he slipped from your warm, milking embrace. 

Vox wrapped his hand around his cock, eyes only darting over his shoulder for a moment before he focused on working his hand quickly over his length. Cum shot out, splattering your folds before he adjusted the angle, salvaging the situation. 

“Oh God,” you cried out as his holy spirit landed on your stomach. Ropes of it shot out from his tool, landing on your chest and running down your oil covered breasts. 

“What are you doing in here?” Father Francis snapped before remembering himself. Vox was not a man to be fucked with. Certainly, Vox was not a man he could afford to fuck with. 

“I was waiting for you to return, Father. Entertaining myself.” Vox said, shrugging his shoulders as he tucked his softening dick into his pants. The sound of his zipper being pulled up was deafening in the small office. 

You rose up on your elbows, looking to Father Francis and the new Father with wide eyes. 

“Father Francis,” you said. “The new Father- he was helping rid me of…” your words trailed off as the new Father reached behind him, pulling the robes off and tossing them aside without a care.” Rid me of the demon of… Of lust..” 

“He’s no Father.” Father Frances said, handing the other man an envelope and ordering, “You need to leave.” 

“Don’t keep me waiting next time,” Vox said, winking over his shoulder at you as you scrambled to cover your body, pulling your shirt across your breasts and pulling your knees up to your chest. 

Panic ran through your veins like cold ice as you realized the man you had been with was no priest. The world wavered as tears welled in your eyes. He was no man of god; he was a demon personified and you? You were nothing more than a dirty sinner. 

Fornication was your crime. 

Father Francis watched Vox walk away as if he hadn’t potentially ruined someone’s life before looking back at you. It didn’t surprise him in the least that you had fallen for the charming lies; you were innocent as could be. 

“You are not guilty of the sins another enacted upon you. Our Lord forgives you for anything he may have led you to do. Go… Go clean yourself up.” Father Francis turned on his heel, walking out of his office as tears ran down your face. 

You were dirty, defiled. He had stolen your purity from you. God had let him take from you within his own house. You felt betrayed and worthless. The emptiness within you was crushing as you pulled your bra down over your breasts. 

It was on that day that you came face to face with the demon of lust in the church. You had been too weak to resist the temptation. You had lost the battle that day, but you walked out of the church with a renewed determination to live your life godly, sinless. 

Though you had the holiest of intentions, in the darkness of night, your hand crept up your thighs as you remembered what it felt like to be taken by the demon of lust. 

Thank you for joining us for Smutmas 2024! This year, smutmas was a colab between @redvexillumRedVexi and I with prompts provided by @nyx-umbrakinesisNyx. Together we make up the admin team of VoxTek Inc on Discord. We thank you for letting us smut up your holidays.

Nyx, Thank you for the prompts- We've had a blast perverting them, twisting them at times so out of shape they hardly look like what you expected.

If YOU would like your own prompts, reach out to Nyx either here on tumblr or join VoxTek and hit up the Prompt Goddess there!

[multireese]

Yandere Roommate x male reader

Your new roommate seems nice enough but a string of unfortunate events lead you to rely on him financially. (WARNINGS: financial abuse, dubcon, sex mention obviously

Yandere!Roommate who drops you off and picks you up from work since your car was in the shop due to mysterious damage. Youv’e tried to report the vandalism to the police but they are not of any help. This is fine because your roommate doesn’t have a 9 to 5 so he will drive you everywhere.

Yandere!Roommate is bothered when you try to leave the apartment alone without telling him. He will drop everything to walk with you to grab a coffee or to a convenience store, even to meet up with friends. He likes to know who you're with and make sure there’s no competition. 

Yandere!Roommate is an only fans creator. This man is built like a Greek statue and is always wearing sexy cosplay and outfits. He walks around the apartment in the hottest underwear you have to force yourself not to stare. Your roommate asks you to oil him up and give your opinion before he films. He is adamant it's purely business so you help.

Yandere!Roommate offered you an opportunity when you were laid off at your job. You can wear a mask and not show your face if he can fuck you in some of his videos. He explains that it's just a business agreement but more importantly the money was too much to say no too.

Yandere!Roommate fucks you for your first time ever on camera. He played a nurse and you were the patient. After loosening your tight hole with his tongue and fingers for almost an eternity you were still not prepared for his big dick to stretch your hole the way it did. He talked you through the process which lined up with his character. The video got the most views to his page. 

Yandere!Roommate thought he would be proud to show you off but the disgusting comments about your beautiful body actually angered him. He was fine with strangers sexualizing him but you were his and his alone. No matter how hard his fans begged they would only get that one video of you. This did not stop your roommate from filming more content with you and paying you out of his own pocket. The difference being these videos were for him alone.

Yandere!Roommate convinced you to sleep in his bed together at night to create a more natural chemistry for your videos. This usually led to off camera sex which you had realized you liked a lot more than you wanted to admit. The two of you agreed it was just practice for videos but you both craved each other’s bodies. His constant praise and amazing sex made it easy to fall for him

Yandere!Roommate you were too shy to look at the posts and see what people would say but after you were more comfortable you got curious. Scrolling through his promotional page there was no sign of your body. Only that one original video. When confronted, your roommate was honest.

Yandere!Roommate was probably too honest in admitting he fell in love with you and the subsequent damage to your car, firing at your job, and tricking you into becoming a pro at riding his cock. You weren’t dickmatized enough to not realize what he did was crazy. 

Yandere!Roommate wasn’t going to just let you walk out of his life. He had ruined your career and you needed the money. “Do you really think someone else would provide you with a better life?” He directed your attention to the Richard Mille diamond watch on your wrist, then stroked your ear adorning the diamond stud you were wearing. “Will anybody fuck you like I do? You can have a good life with me or nothing at all. I promise I won’t let anyone else have you and live to tell about it.”

did this in 20 minutes let me know if you want a part 2 or expand story with this guy

[mothiir]

romancing the lion

You are not going to be courted in any sense of the word - you think you’ll get knightly romance? Nope, you need to study your history and realise that most of the courtly romances were told to entertain and had no more bearing on actual Caliban courtship than mills and boon has on today’s dating scene. Even if they were the norm, the lion is a feral child of the wastes who believes he is quite literally gods gift. He’s not doing any of that.

instead, the first indication of his interest is going to be indistinguishable from literal kidnap. You’re a serf? Well done, you’re not serving him exclusively. You’re a noble woman? Congrats, you’re now a serf serving him exclusively. Diplomat? Guess. And try telling him no. Go on. Try it. This is a promotion you do not get to say no to.

does this mean that he is now nice to you - absolutely not of course it isn’t. He isn’t nice to anyone. He doesn’t even really have the words for the feelings he is feeling for you. This applies to him in the 30th millennium and the 41st btw. Either iteration is equally bad with emotion. The older version of him is less likely to start killing people you love so you’ve got that going for you.

the fact is that now you have his total attention and that means you get ordered about constantly because his love language is acts of service which means you will be serving. Think the princess bride but a little less wholesome. “Mend my armour. Make my food. Prepare my beard oil. Spend time with my watchers.”

At this stage you probably think he is planning to kill you. He can’t stop staring at you. Every little thing you do seems to to infuriate him. You’re not to know that this is his brand of cuteness aggression.

he will kill things for you. Like a cat dumping dead lizards on a doorstep. It’s what he’s good at and it’s how he shows affection. If you have enemies they are now dead. If you are a normal person with no mortal enemies he will just kill the biggest scariest things and ensure you see him do it. Do you feel aroused yet?

when he takes you to his bed he will be under the impression he has been incredibly obvious with his intentions and you will be completely taken aback

he is not suave. His pick up line is: “come to bed with me.” Or: “come to my chambers to see to my needs.”

he’s a virgin. War always took priority over sex for him. He will try and mount you without any prep, flipping you onto your front and clambering aboard.

he will blame you for not being open for him. For being too tight to fit him. He’s seen women give birth he knows how this works.

(he saw one woman give birth once and has extrapolated)

40th millennium him will be a little less grumpy about this but will still insist that you are doing something wrong. You will have to coax him through the business of foreplay which should be easy enough as long as you suck his dick. As soon as he realises that’s an option he’ll be happy to hold off on actually penetrating you as long as you keep licking

Will get annoyed at you for walking too slowly and carry you. There is no choice in this

basically be prepared for the most aggressive care you’ve experienced in your life - on the one hand he will yell at you for being stupid and human and frail, on the other he will carry you on his shoulder like a tame kestrel and hand feed you “because you’re too foolish to take care of yourself”

[helloheyhihowdyheya]

Hanukkah with Peter | Headcanons

Peter Parker x reader

Masterlist

Here are some thoughts on what it’d be like for a non-Jewish reader to spend their first Hanukkah with Peter 🕎 it’s based off my experiences with my partner :) happy Hanukkah to those who celebrate ❄️

Peter teaching you how to play Dreidel and what each of the different letters mean. And while you know that it’s just a game of chance, he somehow ends up with all the gelt by the end. But he still gives you some of the chocolate every time.

You and Peter lighting the menorah each night. You start looking forward to it, and even when Peter gets busy, you still insist on lighting the candles.

You also insist on learning the prayer so you can sing along while lighting the candles. He ends up writing it out for you, and you take the job of memorizing it very seriously. And by the end of Hanukkah, you’re singing along beside him and watching the smile spread across his face

You trying to make latkes with Peter using Aunt May’s recipe. The first couple don’t come out just right, and you’re spending a lot of time dodging the popping oil. But Peter’s there to teach (and bravely protect you from the oil) until the latkes are perfect. And you never knew potatoes and applesauce could go so well together.

Speaking of Hanukkah foods, you two buy sufganiyot from the closest bakery that sold them. And you instantly fall in love with it — to the point where you’re dragging Peter back there for more as soon as you two run out.

Originally, you brought up the idea as sort of a joke, but Peter brought it to life by buying you a Hanukkah sweater and a matching one for himself. It was cheesy, but you (not so) secretly loved it.

You and Peter going over to May’s for the first night. She makes a beautiful dinner and showers the two of you with gifts, despite both of you insisting she really didn’t have to. The entire night, you’re smiling and loving every moment with them. May tells stories of Peter’s childhood and showed pictures of him on Hanukkah through the years.

You two invite Harry, Gwen, and Miles over another night for dinner and to exchange gifts. You spent the night laughing and catching up. You promise to do it more often in your busy lives.

And on the weekend of Hanukkah, you two go to a lighting ceremony. Crowds of people watch as the large metal menorah lights up the next candle. Then you all mill around together, your breaths clouding in the chilly night air. Warm drinks steam and heat up your hands.

By the end of Hanukkah, you wrap your arms around Peter and thank him for sharing this part of him. He calls you ridiculous because of course he wants to share all of him with you. And you can’t wait to do it all again next year.

[dastardly-imbecile]

Mechanical Butterfly (IV)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

---

Viktor doesn't run from Singed. Silco sees the burgeoning inventor in the young girl he found, after Vander. Collaborations abound!

---

Wordcount: ~3900

Silco has been out far more often, recently, but Jinx doesn’t mind. He keeps the nightmares away, fractionally, his presence, but she’s found something that does exactly the same: the task that Viktor gave her. 

So refreshing! No rules, no admonishment, no telling her, Powder, stop messing around, or Powder, nobody’s ever gonna use anything you build, no, just letting her crawl into the belly of that great mechanical beast and come out victorious with its guts(soot and oil) plastered all over her. 

She loves it. 

What she doesn’t love is the late nights, when it’s too dark to build, and she has to lay awake in her bed and try not to think of the names she won’t allow herself to speak. Try not to flinch, when something explodes out there in the dark-dark night, try not to climb out of her small cot and find someone to run to. Because Sevika started locking her door, after the first time Jinx tried to find her, and normally Silco at least tucks her back in, but now he’s out quashing rebellions or whatever it was that he called it. 

What’s worse is, two days later, when she’s finished with the filter. Technically, the third time she’s done so—the first two, there were tiny, minute things to fix, sockets a millimeter out of alignment or mesh not stretched taut enough, but now it’s genuine perfection and she looks at it and there’s the sound of voices creeping in the edges of her brain, nothing to block them out anymore. 

There’s only one thing to do: which is to track down Sevika currently in the basement, punching at a sack of flour. Looking out at the room, something ugly and slippery flip-flops in her chest, because all the old couches and blankets and shelves have been removed to make room for the woman’s gym—and it’s so unfamiliar that she can hardly believe she used to share it with…

 Jinx stands at the doorway at the bottom of the stairs, waiting patiently for her to finish—which she doesn’t for a long, long time.

“Sevika,” she says eventually. The woman throws two more punches before finally turning her way, brow furrowed in a scowl. 

“What?”

“We need to go back.”

“What?”

“To Viktor’s,” she says, “I finished the assignment. He needs to give me more. And I can learn more.”

It’s a well-laid out argument, in her opinion, but Sevika’s face screws up, and she shakes her head. 

“No.”

“What? Why?”

“Silco’s paying a damn bucketload for each lesson,” she starts, counting off on her fingers, “Silco’s out, and he can’t approve this, and I’m busy.”

Jinx stares at her for a moment. “But-”

“Take it up with the boss,” she growls, “but it’s gonna be next week.”

With that, she turns back to her bag, leaving Jinx to slowly ascend back up the stairs. There aren’t many others milling about in the space, the ground floor of The Last Drop, but that just gives her more room to appreciate the changes to the room. Most of the old decorations have been taken down, ripped, or otherwise disposed of, and now it’s a vast expanse of stained wood and nothing much else. It’s good, in a way, even if it makes the space wide and darkly unfamiliar, because it means that she can look at the wall and not imagine Claggor standing there, arms crossed, or Vi leaning against one of the ratty bar tables. 

She can’t think of that. 

Upstairs, it would be quieter yet, but she likes the level it’s at down here. Just loud enough to take the edge off her thoughts. Silco has yet to reopen the bar—he has to finish whatever street business it is that he’s working on, first—but some of his group hang around. They spare her no glances, used to her presence, and she doesn’t look at them too long either, afraid that she will see one of their faces, spark a bit of familiarity, be dragged back into the shadowed corners of her mind. 

Warily, she proceeds to the door, tugging on the fringes of her hair as she does. The small braid that peers out from under the rest of the mop barely reaches her shoulder. Vi braided it for her. Abruptly, she snatches her hand away, as if burned. 

Don’t look behind you. 

She doesn’t. Stiffly, she pushes open the door. Still, nobody stops her—seems that most of the group is instead occupied in rifling through the liquor cabinet behind the bar. A spike of fury at that—they’re touching things that aren’t theirs, stealing—but then she remembers that nobody will be around to reprimand them, and her heart skips an uncomfortable, sputtering beat. 

Nobody around, because of her. 

It’s her fault. 

All her fault. 

No!

This is what she needs to go to Viktor’s for—because in those two hours, sitting and learning, it was all calm and clear and nothing but razor-sharp focus upon the gleam of metal upon her lap. 

Deep breath. 

Silco told her, weeks ago, in those early nights when she couldn’t stop crying, deep breath. Never reprimanded her for crying—so different from Mylo’s mocking tone, whenever he found her curled up under the pillows—just told her how to stop. 

She likes that. 

Deep breath, again, and she peers out onto the street. Midday outside, though Zaun sees near-none of that light, and all the neon signs are just as lit as in the dead of night. It’s quieter than usual, too—all the normal market stalls are shuttered and closed, their inhabitants fled into their teeny hidey-holes. 

“Hey,” someone says from behind her, the words slightly slurred, “hey, isn’t that the boss’s kid?”

She whirls around, sees one of the gangly figures behind the bar point at her. 

“Don’t let her leave,” another one cautions, coming around the bar, and in that brief moment that they disappear into the shadows, she sees someone else. Not Vi or Claggor or Mylo or Vander but some homunculus made from all of them, reaching and chasing and there’s smoke in the air and her hands are burnt from the heat of the bomb, and she opens the door and flees into the street. 

As she runs, her hand snakes into her pocket, reaching for the small round ball tucked securely into the depths of the fabric. The last one. 

Footsteps behind her, chasing, but she knows these streets around The Last Drop just as well as she’d know anything, and she ducks into one alley, scales a rusted ladder, jumps from one roof to another before sliding roughly back down a slanted awning, landing roughly on her feet. Her pursuers are drunk, and less agile than her, and not trying all that hard in the first place, so by the time she allows herself a moment of stillness, there’s nothing else. 

She laughs, the sound bright in the open air. Ha! Take that! She’s still got it. 

Now, slower, she progresses down the street. It strikes her that she could just go to Viktor’s herself, but though the idea is tempting on the surface level, there’s a tug in her gut that stops her from navigating to the alleyway shop. Part of it is getting in trouble, of course, but that’s not much, especially because she’s probably already going to be in trouble from fleeing. No, it’s something that almost feels like fear. 

Not of Viktor, of course, because he’s kind, and if he wasn’t then she still thinks that she could take him in a fight, but it’s the other one. The other man, thin and tall and no more physically intimidating than Viktor himself, but she does not like his lab with all the creatures in the jars, does not like his experiments. Does not like the way that Silco carries himself around him: tense, careful, and wary. Whatever sort of person incites that sort of reaction from him, she’s automatically wary of. 

Though she bemoaned Sevika’s chaperoning, the first time, now the prospect of entering that space without her tall, solid presence is more than a bit intimidating. 

So, instead, she continues to wander. This road leads to the main market street, the largest one of them, and—judging from the babble of sound already reaching her ears—one that’s at least somewhat less abandoned than the rest. She’s got no money to her name, but that’s never posed much of a problem before—Ekko was always the best at pilfering from the edges of the stalls, at not getting caught—and, if spotted, at running away swiftly. 

Ekko. Where is he? He didn’t leave her, not like the others, but he’s not where he used to live.

So maybe she can find him! Find him, and Silco will take him in too, and then he’ll ask where the others are. What happened to Benzo. What she did, the bomb and the blood and the screams, and she collapses against one of the grimy walls, clutching at her head. The world spins violently, everything flipping upside down, and she can still hear Vi—she can always hear Vi, it’s just now, she cannot suppress her—and there’s wetness on her cheeks. 

Jinx!

Jinx!

Jinx!

“Jinx?” 

A new voice. It muddles with the ones still pecking at her head, until the speaker repeats himself, “Jinx?”

Familiar. The world clears, somewhat, though it’s blurred now not by her headache but instead by tears, and she peers out from between her fingers. A man on three legs. 

Except, not three legs, she realizes, wiping the last of the tears from her eyes, but instead two and a cane. 

“Viktor?”

A simple look upwards confirms it. She knew already, from the tone of his voice and that soft accent, but this is visual confirmation. There he stands, tall and narrow-boned, cane in one hand and leather pouch in the other, packed with things she can’t see. Must’ve come from the market. He looks nervous, out of his element, and looking at him now, she can’t help but agree. 

It’s not exactly that he doesn’t belong in the undercity. He looks Zaunite, no doubt about that, clothes simple and hardy, face set hard, worn. Clear in the way he holds himself, the little mannerisms like holding the bag close, so unlike the free, loose strides of topsiders. No, it’s less that he doesn’t belong in Zaun and more that he doesn’t belong on this street, in the open, away from his lab and looking like any random citizen. 

“Why… ah, are you here?” He asks. Part of that nervousness might actually be related to her, she realizes, and suddenly she’s embarrassed to be here crying on the side of the road. She is no better than she was as Powder, crybaby and weak and runaway. “Are you alright? Lost?”

“No,” she says, “not lost.” The last part of that sentence is the need to clarify—because she’s not lost, no, but also perhaps not alright. 

“Is Sevika..?” He asks, glancing around. The street is fairly empty, and none of the few shrouded figures meandering by are glaring or grunting or cursing, so he’s able to rule that out before Jinx even has to say no.

“I wanted to see you,” she blurts, which wasn’t really the reason she ran out of the lab, but is close enough and really the only thing that’s relevant now. “I finished it.”

But she forgot to bring it! She can picture it now, in her new room on the second floor of The Last Drop, haphazard on the floor and surrounded by scattered tools. Suddenly, she shrinks a bit, afraid that he will accuse her as a liar—but instead, he simply tilts his head, the corner of his mouth quirking into a smile. 

“That was quick. I should’ve expected that, though, no?”

Unsure how to respond, she nods wordlessly. He takes a step back, gesturing loosely to the road with his cane. 

“Perhaps you should be getting back. I’m sure your…” For a long moment, he hesitates, and she opens her mouth, Dad resting on the tip of her tongue. It’s so very close, but when she imagines saying it, she imagines Vander as he once was—strong and warm and laughing—and Vander as she recalls him now—laid low, snarling, screaming—and so she can’t bring herself to spill those syllables from her mouth. 

“-I’m sure they’re worried,” Viktor eventually finishes lightly. 

“Can I walk with you?” She asks. 

“Where are you headed?”

“The Last Drop.”

A flicker of surprise in his eyes—he knows the place, of course he does—but he dips his head in a shallow nod. “It’s on the way.”

He doesn’t turn to walk until she pushes fully off the wall, following in his footsteps. As she blinks the last of the tears out of her eyes, she’s glad that he never asked why she was crying. She’s glad she doesn’t have to think about that herself. 

From her vantage point slightly behind, she notices the further unevenness to his gait, beyond even that of the normal limp, showing clear strain trying to balance both his cane and the bag of supplies.

“Do you need help?”

“Hm?”

“I can carry that,” she says, indicating the bag. Eager to be of help—maybe, then, he won’t send her away immediately, and he’ll let her come back to the lab. The instant she thinks that, however, she also remembers the darkness, the sharp smell of alcohol overlaying the faint scent of blood, and the enthusiasm dies just as quickly. 

Still, though, if only to help him. 

“It’s heavy,” he says, but she crosses her arms. 

“I’m used to heavy stuff!”

“...For a bit,” he finally says, twisting to pass the bag over to her. It’s simple leather, lifted by two straps made of the same material, and she grasps it sturdily, heaves it up to her shoulder. There’s a wary look in his eyes, that first moment, like he thinks she’ll fall—or run off with the supplies—but though it’s weighty, she stands straight and smiles and tries not to let any strain show on her face. 

They set off again, and she smiles to see that his stride has returned to normal. The bag bumps against her hip, and she tries her best not to peek, but curiosity wins out in the end—inside, instead of the food and the like she’d been expecting, it’s simply bottles of darkly-labeled chemicals, scraps of metal, and, at the top-

“You can take it,” he says, and she startles, cheeks flushing at being caught in the act. 

“What?”

“The box of tools,” he says, “I bought it for you.”

She blinks at him, uncomprehending. “I have tools.”

“They’re not very good,” he replies, tone nearly teasing. She frowns. 

“Sevika bought them for me.”

“I guessed,” he says drily, and nods again at the bag. “Go ahead. Unless you would rather wait until next week, of course.”

She would very much not rather wait until next week, confusion aside, so she reaches into the bag lightning-quick to withdraw the heavy box at the top of the stack. It’s thin, but weighty, the edges lined in dark metal. Her face splits into a smile at the sight, and all insult from his previous words is struck down upon the realization that these are indeed way better. 

“Thank you! These are…” no words to express it in her brain, so all she can do is look at Viktor and grin and hope it imparts at least a fraction of her happiness. 

“Singed bought me mine,” he says softly. Singed must refer to that man—it’s a jolt of a reminder that they are, in fact, associated. “When I began to tinker. A brilliant mind can only be enhanced by quality implements.” 

The way he parrots the last words makes it clear that it’s a quote—not direct words of his. Still, her mind snags upon that one word, brilliant, and she asks, before she can stop herself, “Am I brilliant?”

“It took me a week to configure my first filter,” he says, “granted, I assisted, but at your age, in two days? You could not be anything but.”

Nobody’s ever called her brilliant before. Impulsively, she rushes forwards, hugs Viktor. He stumbles back a single step, but skids the cane backwards, catching himself—and the other hand hesitantly settles upon her shoulder. He’s thinner than Vi ever was, bones where she had muscle, smells of metal and chemicals instead of leather and clean air. But they’re somewhere in the realm of the same age, and she clutches the box to her chest, and if she closes her eyes and turns her head it’s almost the same. 

The embrace lingers only a moment later before he extracts himself, clearing his throat awkwardly. 

“I’m… very glad you like it,” he says, “but I’m afraid this is where we part.”

Right. On one side, the path splits towards The Last Drop, and the other must no doubt eventually lead to his alleyway. 

“Thank you,” she repeats, quieter this time, sliding his bag off her shoulder and proffering it back up to him. He takes it wordlessly. 

“Next week,” he says, like a promise, and then turns down to continue stepping down the path. She likes that—a promise, because those can’t be broken.

—

So absorbed is she in the new tools, in the memories of the day, turning ‘brilliant’ around in her mind until it’s smooth as a river-worn stone, that when the door to The Last Drop opens, she startles. Sevika doesn’t know a thing about her escapade—must’ve spent the whole day sulking down in the basement—and the few subordinates that saw her escape aren’t breathing a word. Mutual silent agreement: because if they admit she ran away, then they admit they let her run away, so her little secret is tucked away just as safely as the blue gem still shimmering in her pocket. 

Despite all this, when the door below opens, there’s a spike of unfamiliar fear in her heart. It’s Silco, and she confirms that by perching at the top of the stairs, hidden by the bannister, and watching the man stroll in. These past few days, she has always greeted his return by running down, grabbing onto his coat and sticking by his side for the rest of the night, but today, something holds her where she is. 

Below, he looks around, expecting her as well—the confusion on his face is almost funny. 

At least, until he looks up the stairs, and despite her hiding spot, meets her eyes. 

Jinx! Someone says. 

It sounds like all of them. 

She flees back, back into her room, heart suddenly sparked into a quick hammer-beat, but there is nowhere to hide, no lock on the door, and what exactly is she hiding from?

Suddenly, she wishes Viktor had asked her why she was crying, because maybe then she could have told him something, and he’d have comforted her. Vi was always able to comfort her, with soft words, or failing that by gathering her into her arms and squeezing her until she started to laugh, so maybe he’d have been able to do the same, but he’s gone and Vi is Gone, capital G. 

And it’s all her fault. 

Jinx! Someone yells. 

Footsteps on the stairs. She scrambles into bed, because she’s unsure of what else to do, kicks the covers up around her feet until she’s in a half-sitting sort of position. She doesn’t like sleeping alone, doesn’t like the absence of the other kids’ breaths. Misses, even, the occasional kick in the middle of the night, sometimes—usually between Mylo and Vi—leading to a short scrap. It’s penance, sleeping in silence, and she wouldn’t even know if they were in the room because they wouldn’t be kicking or breathing, would they?

JINX! They all scream. 

The door opens. 

“Jinx,” Silco says, stepping fully into the space, “where were you?”

“Up here,” she replies. He crosses over to the bed, sits down. 

“Is everything alright?” 

“Yes,” she breathes out. 

“I apologize,” he murmurs, “for my absences. Everyone in Zaun wants a piece of the power. It’s like setting rattraps, keeping all the vermin away.”

“Oh,” she says, more a wordless sort of acknowledgement than anything. She wants, so badly, to do what she’s always been doing, these past few weeks, bury her hands in the coat and her head in his chest, let it drown out the world around. When she thinks of doing that now, however, there’s the smell of fire, Vi’s voice, her wide blue eyes aglow with flames. 

“Vander never did a good job of keeping them in line,” he says. The words coincide with a long, low scream that rings through her mind, and she flinches—lowers her head—only barely resists the urge to cover her ears. Vander. Vander. Vander. 

“So it’s that,” he whispers. The blankets bunch as he scoots closer, places a warm hand on her arm, tilts her chin up with the other. When she looks up, it’s into his eyes, one green and the other a pinprick of red. “Are you thinking of them?”

She pushes herself back, further away, panic rushing bright and hot in her veins. 

“I’m not angry, Jinx.” A pause, and when she still doesn’t answer, a peculiar sort of expression flits across his face. “Or would you prefer Powder?”

A blow so strong that it’s as if he’d cuffed her. She flinches back, and he follows, arm snaking up from her hand to the back of her neck, the other settling across her back. 

“No,” she whispers, as he gathers her into his embrace. Not like the hugs of Viktor or Vi—this one is taut and poised on the edge of comfort, and she knows that it would be good if she melted into it, but she does not. “Not Powder.”

“She’s gone,” he hums, his chest thrumming with the motion, “and so are the rest of them. They left you all on your own, did they not?”

She relaxes just a bit more, cheek pressed uncomfortably into the buttons of his coat. When she nods, she knows he can feel it, because he continues. 

“Vander was a coward and a traitor. Your sister ran to the enforcers, ran to her death, rather than stay with you. Did they help you, even before? Vander had money plenty. Did he ever find you a mentor? Someone to cultivate your gift? Or did they degrade you? Leave you behind?”

She nods. In her head, Vi is hugging her, and then she’s throwing her off onto the cold, wet ground, shouting Jinx! Silco’s grip tightens, and the image puffs away in a cloud of reddish smoke, and the voices are mercifully silent. She surrenders herself fully into the embrace, finally lets herself settle against him. This is how it is. This is how it will always be. 

“There’s only us,” he says, hand rubbing circles into her back, “they’ll always leave you, Jinx, and as the ones left behind, we must stick together.”

One final time, she nods. He doesn’t speak again—for a long moment, they remain there, suspended in the silence. 

Eventually, as all things must, they separate. He ushers her under the covers, pulls the sheets to her shoulders, departs with a quiet, “Goodnight.”

Her dreams consist not of the usual—faceless figures circling her, calling her name, flame burning bright in the background—but something new. Silco’s embrace, which morphs into that of a thinner man, the clatter of a cane, which then turns into a child’s, and when she pulls back all she can catch is a shock of white hair and crooked grin.

[minioilmill]

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[britt-kageryuu]

A video of clips from a VTurtles! Vod.

---------------------

The brothers are in front of a huge tier list board.

Leo: Okay, so we're doing a teir list of the many Pizza Places we've eaten at.

Mikey: We must agree to Run of the Mill in it's own teir, I work there, amazing Pizza, but we would all be braised.

Donnie: Very much agree, Señor Hueso would be a bit annoyed to have his fine establishment compared to some of these excuses for Pizzeria.

Raph: As long as this doesn't get worse than the Pizza festival route arguments.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The camera has been zoom out so the names already on the board aren't cut off.

Leo: Wait, was this place the one near that weird Bodega that sold snake oil, or the one close to the 'Always Going Out of Business' electronics place?

Donnie: You forget the are TWO 'Always Going Out of Business' Electronic stores. Both with pizzerias nearby.

Mikey: Are you sure that isn't the one that got bought out by that pizza chain, and shut down?

Donnie: Shelldon, River some assistance pleace!

Shelldon: Dude the one Blue is asking about is the Chinese/Italian fusion place!

River: Yeah, the name doesn't really fit, but a search does bring up the menu.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There is currently a shouting match featuring the brothers top places, and weather they belong in A or S Tier.

River: Makes me almost glad I can't eat real food.

Shelldon: True that Sis.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mikey: Can we all agree Albeartos was overrated, and their pizza is lacking?

Raph, Donnie, Leo: Agreed!

Donnie: Especially after their Animatronics went haywire at that kids birthday party.

Leo: The poor server who had to clean up, because the boss was a major Jerk!

Mikey and Raph look at the camera each with a lifted eyebrow ridge.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Donnie: Well I believe that was all of them, Mandarin?

Mikey: Yeah, at least so far, apparently there's a few places we haven't been to yet.

Leo: Let's hold off on that idea, we just listed what 200 places? We can leave those for later.

Raph: And hopefully not scared the servers.

-------------------

Masterpost

This and two other ideas were stuck in my head all day. Opinions are welcome!

[reasonsforhope]

"As countries around the world begin to either propose or enforce zero-deforestation regulations, companies are coming under growing pressure to prove that their products are free of deforestation. But this is often a far from straightforward process.

Take palm oil, for instance. Its journey from plantations, most likely in Indonesia or Malaysia, to store shelves in the form of shampoo, cookies or a plethora of other goods, is a long and convoluted one. In fact, the cooking oil or cosmetics we use might contain palm oil processed in several different mills, which in turn may have bought the raw palm fruit from several of the many thousands of plantations. For companies that use palm oil in their products, tracing and tracking its origins through these obscure supply chains is a tough task. Often it requires going all the way back to the plot level and checking for deforestation. However, these plots are scattered over vast areas across potentially millions of locations, with data being in various states of digitization and completeness...

Palmoil.io, a web-based monitoring platform that Bottrill launched, is attempting to help palm oil companies get around this hurdle. Its PlotCheck tool allows companies to upload plot boundaries and check for deforestation without any of the data being stored in their system. In the absence of an extensive global map of oil palm plots, the tool was developed to enable companies to prove compliance with regulations without having to publicly disclose detailed data on their plots. PlotCheck now spans 13 countries including Indonesia and Malaysia, and aims to include more in the coming months.

Palm oil production is a major driver of deforestation in Indonesia and Malaysia, although deforestation rates linked to it have declined in recent years. While efforts to trace illegally sourced palm oil have ramped up in recent years, tracing it back to the source continues to be a challenge owing to the complex supply chains involved.

Recent regulatory proposals have, however, made it imperative for companies to find a way to prove that their products are free of deforestation. Last June, the European Union passed legislation that prohibits companies from sourcing products, including palm oil, from land deforested after 2020. A similar law putting the onus on businesses to prove that their commodities weren’t produced on deforested land is also under discussion in the U.K. In the U.S., the U.S. Forest Bill aims to work toward a similar goal, while states like New York are also discussing legislation to discourage products produced on deforested land from being circulated in the markets there...

PlotCheck, which is now in its beta testing phase, allows users to input the plot data in the form of a shape file. Companies can get this data from palm oil producers. The plot data is then checked and analyzed with the aid of publicly available deforestation data, such as RADD (Radar for Detecting Deforestation) alerts that are based on data from the Sentinel-1 satellite network and from NASA’s Landsat satellites. The tool also uses data available on annual tree cover loss and greenhouse gas emission from plantations.

Following the analysis, the tool displays an interactive online map that indicates where deforestation has occurred within the plot boundaries. It also shows details on historical deforestation in the plot as well as data on nearby mills. If deforestation is detected, users have the option of requesting the team to cross-check the data and determine if it was indeed caused by oil palm cultivation, and not logging for artisanal mining or growing other crops. “You could then follow up with your supplier and say there is a potential red flag,” Bottrill said.

As he waits to receive feedback from users, Bottrill said he’s trying to determine how to better integrate PlotCheck into the workflow of companies that might use the tool. “How can we take this information, verify it quickly and turn it into a due diligence statement?” he said. “The output is going to be a statement, which companies can submit to authorities to prove that their shipment is deforestation-free.” ...

Will PlotCheck work seamlessly? That’s something Bottrill said he’s cautiously optimistic about. He said he’s aware of the potential challenges with regard to data security and privacy. However, he said, given how zero-deforestation legislation like that in the EU are unprecedented in their scope, companies will need to sit up and take action to monitor deforestation linked to their products.

“My perspective is we should use the great information produced by universities, research institutes, watchdog groups and other entities. Plus, open-source code allows us to do things quickly and pretty inexpensively,” he said. “So I am positive that it can be done.”"

-via Mongabay, January 26, 2024

--

Note: I know it's not "stop having palm oil plantations." (A plan I'm in support of...monocrop plantations are always bad, and if palm oil production continues, it would be much better to produce it using sustainable agroforestry techniques.)

However, this is seriously a potentially huge step/tool. Since the EU's deforestation regulations passed, along with other whole-supply-chain regulations, people have been really worried about how the heck we're going to enforce them. This is the sort of tool we need/need the industry to have to have a chance of genuinely making those regulations actually work. Which, if it does work, it could be huge.

It's also a great model for how to build supply chain monitoring for other supply chain regulations, like the EU's recent ban on companies destroying unsold clothes.

[scotianostra]

On 10th July 1802 Robert Chambers, the Scottish naturalist and publisher, was born.

I wonder how many of you out there have owned a Chambers dictionary? We always had one in our household growing up, mainly for checking words while playing scrabble.

Two brothers, Robert and William Chambers founded the company that published the book also played a major part in the growth of 19th century writing and publishing in Scotland and the development of the city of Edinburgh.

William and Robert Chambers were part of a relatively prosperous Borders mill owning family with deep roots in Tweeddale. William the elder was born in 1800 and his brother Robert on this day, two years later.

Their father lost his business in 1814 and the family upped sticks and moved to Edinburgh. Life in the capital began in a tenement flat in Nicholson Street. It was a “second rate street home to other families with limited means.” They remained there for less than a year before moving to an even poorer area of the city.

William took up a job as an apprentice in a booksellers, his early jobs being cleaning and lighting the fire, preparing the oil lamps and running errands, but it put him in god stead for his oncoming years. He took lodgings in The West Port, his brother later joining him, but was jobless, William helped support his sibling, he then suggested Robert, using the last few books from his father’s house in Peebles open a small bookshop in Leith, the family business was born. Within a short time William also opened a bookshop close to his brother.

A small printing press was acquired and together the brothers turned to publishing. They printed, bound and published a range of books including 750 copies of the Songs of Robert Burns, a best-seller in 19th century Edinburgh.

It was perhaps inevitable that both would turn to writing and together they wrote and published the Kaleidoscope a fortnightly periodical. Half a century later William reflected on the struggle to produce the journal. “The mechanical execution of the literary serial sorely tested the powers of my little press which received sundry claspings of iron to strengthen it for the unexpected duty.” Although the Kaleidoscope didn’t last long, life was getting better. It was, “a small trial of one’s wings.”

Thanks to a commission from Walter Scott William and Robert moved home again as their business continued to develop. By 1832 the first edition of the Chambers Edinburgh Journal was published. It was an immediate and unprecedented success with 30,000 copies sold in Scotland and a further 20,000 in England. As well as publishing pieces by Walter Scott between 1879 and 1895, the magazine published 3 short stories and 1 article written by Arthur Conan Doyle. Initially Robert was only a contributor but after the 14th issue he became joint editor and W and R Chambers was founded.

I really should only be covering Robert in this post, but I have to tell you a bit about William, who rose to become Lord Provost of Edinburgh, in that position he helped save the life of a stray dog that was going to be rounded up and destroyed as he never had a license. Hearing of the poor dog William himself paid for the license, a collar for the dog and feeding bowl that can still be seen in The Museum of Edinburgh. Without this act of kindness we might not know the extraordinary tale of Greyfriars Bobby!

Anyways, back to we brother Robert. In 1844 Robert published, anonymously, the Vestiges of the Natural History of Creation, 15 years before Darwin’s Origin of the Species. It received very mixed reviews. One said that, “there was a fair chance of poisoning the fountains of science and sapping the foundations of religion.” Another took an opposing view by saying the book was like a, “breath of fresh air to workmen in a crowded factory.”

William and Robert Chambers achieved much in their lives but perhaps their greatest satisfaction came from the purchase of their Scottish Borders home 40 years after their father had been forced to give it up.

[whoredmode]

A DUBIOUSLY ACCURATE HISTORY OF STILWATER (& STEELPORT)

So if it’s not obvious by the obnoxiously long post I’ve made talking about the musical history of Stilwater, I’m fascinated by the worldbuilding of Saints Row. And in my quest of learning more about the setting of the series, I’ve pieced together my own headcanons on the general history of the city…and its cousin, Steelport. I’ve spent the last several days going over canonical histories of both cities, primarily Stilwater as it was my original goal, and put together my own ideas of how I think the cities developed prior to the start of the games in 2006. Some of this is based on actual canon evidence, other stuff is just my own conclusions. 

CANON TIMELINE

1783

Knight Plaza is founded, predating the founding of Stilwater itself

1787

Pennsylvania becomes a state

Unspecified year in the 1800s

Stilwater founded

1827

Steelport founded

1837

Michigan becomes a state

1940

Stilwater builds a new sewer system

Post-1940: An earthquake strikes Stilwater

1947

Sunset Park is built in Steelport

1970s

Vice Kings VS Los Carnales. Assumedly mid-to-late 70s into early 80s

1977: Stilwater is voted the most family-friendly city

MAPPING THINGS OUT

So it’s never exactly stated where Stilwater and Steelport are located comparatively. We know they’re in the Rust Belt, and Stilwater is expressly stated to be in Michigan. I’m inclined to say the cities are fairly close to each other (Stilwater in Michigan while Steelport is probably closer to Pennsylvania), probably several hours by car, if only because of similarities in industry, aesthetics, and even a few moments in-game. It can be fairly easily implied that the cities are within several hours driving distance of each other (my guesstimate is 7-8 hours away by car); especially given that in the beginning of SRTT they are able to land in Steelport so quickly despite assumedly not even being in the plane for more than an hour before they blow it up. 

TIMING THINGS OUT

The Stilwater Church is a gothic style church, assumedly a product of the gothic revival in the mid-1800s. Given that Steelport was founded in 1827, I’d say Stilwater was founded around this time as well, potentially ~1830. It was an unused territory for several years and did not get further development until after Michigan’s statehood was granted in 1837. 

I believe, given the architecture of Old Stilwater and the architecture of older buildings in Steelport, that both cities had a huge economic boom starting in the 1920s and had a period of growth and expansion. I’d say things were looking up for Stilwater going into the 1940s and 50s, but the earthquake sent the city into a really bad place economically. Worth noting that Steelport did not seem to be affected by the earthquake or tremors, which allowed it to continue to prosper while Stilwater tried to pick up its broken pieces.

Let’s go back a little into the 1800s, after Stilwater’s founding. I believe some time in the late 1830s/early 1840s, private railways were laid nearby to Stilwater, but the area itself would not get connected to the mainland of Michigan by rails until around the 1850s. Initially it was being used as a place for manufacturing, but wealthy people with railroad money saw the potential for a resort area. We’ll get into that in a moment.

Stilwater clearly had some manufacturing business as evidenced by the factories and boatyards, but I don’t think it ever reached the level of industry as Steelport did. Steelport also had the advantage of being founded a few years earlier. We know canonically that Stilwater has a steel factory and an oil refinery. I believe the steel factory is a minimill specifically, given its small size and the junkyard nearby; this means it uses scrap metal in its steel production. I’d date the mill around the 1890s but with several updates through the years until it was ultimately shut down. The oil refinery was probably built around the 1950s or 60s given its look, though it still appears to be somewhat operational? You can still see plumes coming out of the towers.

I know the Carnales own it, but I don't think they're necessarily refining oil or even using it as a cover for something; I think they’re getting profits from it and protecting it. From what I can tell the oil refinery may be the only factory still in actual operation, as the steel mill is just being used for the Carnales’ arms dealing. 

So where does that leave Old Stilwater’s actual primary industry? If it’s not steel factories like Steelport, and the oil refinery didn’t come into being until around the mid-20th century, what did the city do? All throughout Stilwater there’s old, decommissioned railway tracks.

Parts of them were obviously meant for more general transportation of products, as evidenced by the tracks near the factories, but others follow the slightly newer, raised tracks of the transit system. This implies that at one point, Stilwater had a need for moving people into and out of the city. Given that the tracks also led to a nice hotel at one point (the hotel underground in SR2), there was clearly a market for people getting around to some sort of entertainment and/or hospitality.

Which leads me to my theory/headcanon/whatever that Stilwater, starting in the late 1800s and into the early 20th century, had a nice trolley park and was known mostly for its entertainment. This became its primary source of revenue. 

For starters, all throughout SR2, there is talk about returning Stilwater to former glory, and tourism is obviously its most booming industry at that point in the series, so this seems to imply that it was known for tourism at one point. Stilwater itself has such a heavy emphasis on pleasure in the first two games, so it feels as if that’s always been a part of itself. Even just the fact that a record label was able to start and flourish there says that there is an entertainment scene in Stilwater and it’s a core part of its identity. Not to mention it being voted a family-friendly city in the late 70s, a point where it looked as if it might’ve started to recover from its post-earthquake troubles, further implies that there was a family-friendly image it kinda had. I think the idea of it being a trolley park in the late 1800s and into the 1900s makes a lot of sense. Stilwater itself is quite picturesque, and trolley parks began because of the rise in popularity of picnics. Families and friends went out to the nice waterside area of Stilwater, and suddenly there’s a need for more direct lines into and out of the area; next thing you know there’s new entertainment being constructed so more and more people want to come in. This all follows a pretty clear line in terms of what’s in Stilwater.

Trolley parks went out of fashion with the rise of amusement parks in the 1920s, and though Stilwater doesn’t have an amusement park, I believe Stilwater went in the direction of building venues for things like cabaret, bars, and brothels. It ended up leaning more heavily on adult entertainment, which makes sense given how it looks at the start of the series. Stilwater became synonymous with pleasure, even if it was starting to shy away from the more all-ages entertainment it had in the 19th century.  

So by the 1930s, 40s, and 50s, Stilwater was an extremely popular destination. It had great entertainment, beautiful hotels, and easy access to sex, drugs, and alcohol. All of this caught the attention of the Carnales, probably around the late 40s, and by the 1950s they began to have a hand in many of the institutions of Stilwater. 

One thing that caught my attention was a radio ad in SR1 in which Hughes says that his parents moved to Stilwater 50 years ago (so around 1956) and that, at the time, Stilwater was still a lively place. If we’re to assume the earthquake was the beginning of the end of Stilwater, we can easily guess that the earthquake either happened later that same year, or a year afterwards. With that in mind, around 1956-57, a huge earthquake hits Stilwater, razing most of the city. The place is in shambles, both physically and economically. That said, the Carnales are still expecting things like payments for their business, but now many people are unable to comply, having lost their means of income. In turn, the Carnales became a much larger, even more intimidating presence in Stilwater all throughout the rest of the 50s and 60s. 

Presumably at some point in the 1960s, a cult begins to form. People were seeking guidance and safety in the wake of such a huge natural disaster, and thus Philosotology began to take form. It stays relatively in the background for most of its life, but throughout the 60s, 70s, and 80s more and more people join, especially those in places of power. I won’t get too into the development of Philosotology, as this is about the more general history of Stilwater, but I would be remiss to not mention it. The point being, by the 80s and 90s, they’re running things from behind the scenes, to the point they’re just a staple of Stilwater come modern day.

As we move through the 20th century, the progression of the canon story takes form. In the 70s, Julius Little and Benjamin King—sick of the Carnales presence in Stilwater—decide to take back the city. So throughout the 70s, the Vice Kings and the Carnales fight, with the Vice Kings ultimately coming out on top. In the late 70s and early 80s, it seems as if Stilwater might return to former glory, as the birth of Kingdom Come Records helped revitalize the arts and music scene of the city. 

However, the economy of Stilwater does not recover. Generations of Stilwaterians have been hurt by decades of poverty, of negligence by those in power, and it is not the thriving coastal city it was in the early-to-mid 20th century. Obviously, these factors (and many more) contribute to how the events of the first game begin. 

A QUICK TANGENT ABOUT STEELPORT

So where does Steelport fit into all of this? I mentioned it at the start, so surely I must have something to say. 

Steelport was founded in 1827 in Pennsylvania. It was an industrial city, full of steel factories, and it stayed that way for many years. The city steadily grew over several decades, and around the turn of the century, a large number of people from Europe moved to Steelport for work. And it was around this time that the organized crime syndicates of Europe were beginning to take hold in Steelport. 

Fast forward to the 1970s. Phillipe Loren, a high-ranking member of the Syndicate in Belgium, had ties to several of the gangs that were now in Steelport, so he goes to the city himself to see if it’s worth a US expansion. Seemingly pleased, Loren uses his status to begin doing more work with the gangs in Steelport. By the late 80s, Loren had become head of the Syndicate.

It was also around this time in the 70s that I believe Steelport began to essentially fill the hole that was left after Stilwater was destroyed by the earthquake. There was a need for places like hotels, brothels, and casinos in this area of the Rust Belt—and Steelport, being flush with cash, was able to fill that demand. In Steelport’s later years, it became more of an icon of sin and pleasure, perhaps even more than Stilwater was. It was bigger and flashier. But despite its hedonistic charm, Steelport was not exactly heading in a great direction by the 90s. 

Similarly to Stilwater, it fell on hard times economically, with many areas falling into disrepair. Many of these areas are still like this even into the modern day as poverty is still a very large issue within Steelport, though as usual is not a topic of concern for those in charge. Thus, the Syndicate very easily continues to spread its control. By the 2000s, Loren and the Syndicate are running the city. 

Getting a little ahead of my timeline, but worth talking about real quick: in 2011, Loren gets into contact with Maero about arms deals and potential expansion into Stilwater. At this point, Loren was already in bed with Ultor so to speak, but this was his first contact with one of the other gangs. Obviously this deal is hurt by the Saints, but that will only come back to bite them in a few years. 

CONCLUSION

I wanted to write some grand conclusion about all this, but to be honest my eyes are starting to glaze over from hours of running around in the first two games, reading documents on my computer, and scribbling four pages of written notes. I read some official Michigan documents on the history of the railway system in the state. I’ve never even been. What am I going to do with this knowledge now.

Stilwater is interesting and was worth a deep dive into the potential history of the area. I used to be the teaching assistant for a class on worldbuilding in college, so this type of shit is just super fascinating to me. And Stilwater has so many bits of scattered information that I really wanted to try to piece everything together in a mostly coherent way. It’s just a setting I really love for some personal reasons, and I just thought I’d give writing its history a shot. Perhaps in some ways like a love letter to the fictional city, or maybe just as a way to fill my long weekend. Who knows.

[the-east-art]

Fantail Pigeons and Mourning Doves - Part 4 (END)

There are five pigeons bobbing their heads back and forth, prowling the lot for forgotten chips. Pigeons are generally considered a nuisance. Back at the seminary Uncle Boaz would actively harass them away from the feeders they left out for the birds. They don’t contribute birdsong and they’re ugly. That’s what Uncle Boaz would say, at least. Mel liked pigeons plumage, the way that they glimmered iridescendantly in light, like oil. You would almost think that pigeons had adapted to live at the gas station pumps with that kind of matching coloring. 

At the hospital there had been a public use phone, and Mel had used that to call Fatima and explain what had happened. His urgency to get Wren to a hospital had been overshadowed by his horror at the idea of leaving the bloody mess for his coworker to find. Wren hadn’t seemed to care about waiting for Mel to quickly clean up, sitting in Mels’, head leaned back and focusing on his breathing.

A car came up to pump 3 and the five pigeons skittered to the other end of the lot, away from small children that may come out of the car and give chase, but close enough to watch the cars’ family like it was a spectator sport, hoping for a scrap. The car rolled down the windows, the designated responsible adult got to work filling the tank, and the cavalry descended upon the store. 

Fatima had been understanding and passed on the information to his three other coworkers. According to Fatima - who from what little Mel had gleamed has dabbled in any job you can think of - blood is a biohazard that needs to be cleaned up to a specific degree, which she would double check when she arrive at the store. An hour early to her shift. Mel desperately for once wished he had formed any kind of a connection with his coworkers, something that could justify how nicely she was treating him. It was… kind. And it made his heart feel heavy. 

Three children burst into the store, followed by an adult. She tells them they each have 2 missions: one being to use the bathroom, the other to select a snack. They take the instructions very seriously, bouncing on their feet with excitement. The woman begins to mill around the store, looking with mild interest at the shelves and waiting for the children to finish their business, purse and wallet handy. 

Mel had to drive back to the gas station with Wren. The hour distance from town, for the first time, feeling something like a curse. If there had been a way for Mel to drive both their cars down originally, he would have. Wren was too tired to fill the air with small talk, and Mel didn’t have the emotional capacity for it. He spent an hour wondering if the doctors had unstitched his amateur stitches and the idea that what he had put so much effort and concentration into sewing those little lines into another man only for them to be unpicked… it made him feel a funny sort of way. An emotion that was not easy to unspool. In the nothingness of 3am, Mel didn’t care to put the effort into untangling the snaggle. When Mel asked if the doctors had cleared Wren to drive, he had just waved the idea off with one of his hands. That had been that. 

The children emerge out of the bathrooms and begin to circle the store noisily, arguing over the pros and cons of seemingly every single snack within the store. Mel tries to watch their interactions, appreciate the ways that the smallest child displays its’ frustrations with larger gestures than the older sibling. Children are easier to read, not learning subtlety yet. Yet, as Mel looked on at the scene before him, it morphed. The light from the windows dimmed, the people disappeared, and in the theatre that was his brain, Mel saw Wren staggering across the store. In his minds eye the few drops of blood that had slipped through his compressed hand were exaggerated, staining the cheap tile floor a permanent red in large streaks. 

Mel rings the small family up as a new car parks. As two more set up next to pumps. As pigeons bob their heads. The day flows slowly through the cracks, dripping from day to night to Mel driving home in darkness alone with the his head playing games that Wren is in the passenger seat. 

oOo

When Wren reappears, dusty green car easing into the lot and parking gingerly into a space, Mel digs resolves to ignore him. To treat him just like any customer. Wren doesn’t even give him a chance.

“Melchior!” He enters the store like a hurricane, eyes bright and face illuminated with enthusiasm. It’s almost like he’s purposefully trying to shatter the previous image of himself that repeatedly walks through the store like a ghost - tense and quiet. This time, Wren walks in so full of life that it fills the room around him like Uncle Haniels’ cologne. 

Mel grips his detached anger tightly with both hands, somewhat literally as they dig into surplus of fabric that make up his jacket sleeves. There are three other people in the store right now. Two at pumps, four cars parked. It’s busy, not exactly the time to chat. 

“Wren.” Mel nods at the man and watches half of the muscles in Wrens’ smiling face go slack for half a second. In that fraction of a moment Wren must rally himself, and the expression appears with a reinforced gusto. 

“How are you doing? Are you okay?” Wren looks Mel up and down, like Mel was the one that had to get sewed up my an amateur two weeks ago. Mel chews on his lips and on the thought in tandem - two weeks ago. 15 days, technically. 

“I’m fine.” He clips out. Wren laughs and adjusts him ballcap.

“Your voice says otherwise.” Oh haha, Wren can read tone and facial expressions and body language easily. Mel doesn’t even know what Wren gleans from his answer, because Mel doesn’t know if its true or not. One of Wrens hands - calloused and scarred - rubs at his face, and he seems to sober up from the enthusiasm a bit. The muscles in his face relax a little more, but do not sag down into neutrality. “Look, Melchior, I needed to take a bit. To heal. I really shouldn’t have driven home in the first place. I’m sorry it took me so long to come back.” 

The words shock Mel. He mentally rewinds the tape and plays it again. Have you ever heard something said out loud, and then realized once the words are gone there is no proof that what you heard had actually existed? Sounds don’t leave evidence in the air. Mel wonders if Wren said anything at all, for a moment. It seems more likely, somehow, that he had projected this entire interaction (a lie to himself, his projections were always such a thin layer over reality that they could never be mistaken as real) than that Wren was just… being honest with him.

“I…” Mel swishes the words around his mouth. The lonely ‘I’ could vanish into nothingness in the air, never having existed, if Wren wasn’t looking at him so intently. Behind Wren, a customer is shifting around nervously, holding two family bags of chips and a six pack of beers. “I think we can talk later.” 

Wrens’ face crashes, and adrenaline pumps through Mels’ veins unbidden. Shit shit shit. He pounds his fist into his leg three time to accentuate each thought. He said something wrong. This is not the reaction he had anticipated to his words. But was it the words that were wrong, or the tone? 

“Sorry, yeah, you’re at work. I, uh, I’m sure I’ve already put your job enough at risk huh?” Wren scratches the back of his head, and his face shifts into a new expression. He starts to make a motion to leave, and something in Mels’ head clicks into place. 

“I get off my shift at 5.” Mel clarifies. “Come back then.” Wrens’ face clears up, bursts back into the expression he makes the most often, the once Mel actually knows. A smile. 

“I’ll be here.”

oOo

There isn’t really anywhere for them to go, not when the empty desert stretches for miles in either direction. The gas station is a waypoint, not a destination. So Wren and Mel sit down on the bench in front of the window. Mel counts cars. 

“I’ve been thinking.” Wren is, of course, the one to break the silence. Mel feels like an intrepid explorer in uncharted territory, except the uncharted territory is the concept of hanging out with a person that isn’t family when he isn’t actively at work. Mel tilts his head sideways and looks at Wren, waits for Wren to decide what he’s going to say, he thinks that somethigns Wren just starts sentences without planning where he’s going with them. “20 stitches. Did you space them out just so you could get an even number?” 

Mels’ face is heating up traitorously. 

“It- I- The number-” Wren lets out a boisterous laugh and leans back on the bench comfortably. It soothes Mels’ embarrassment, despite the fact that had it been Zeph doing that it would have riled him up more. 

“The hospital kept them in, thank god. Imagine if they had done an awkward number, like 37.” He leans his head back and complains to the sky and the gas stations tin roof. “That would not have helped my moral healing up.” 

Mel almost lets out a small laugh at that. Almost. It gets caught halfway in his throat, like it doesn’t know what to do with the sound. Wren laughs too. 

“I really appreciate what you did for me, back there. I’m really sorry, I wasn’t thinking when I got here. I just needed somewhere safe and well lit to take care of myself. Not a lot of options, clear out here.” Wren sighs and adjusts how he’s sitting. Now that they’re outside, the sun shining and reflecting off the window, Mels’ jacket is stifling. He shrugs it off and places it in his lap, where he can knead his fingers into the fabric.  

“Do you actually do handyman stuff?” Mels’ been wondering for a while now. Another bark of laughter - Wren seems to be made up of smiles and laughs and the twinkle that lights up in his eyes - the color of freshly tilled earth. 

“My, uh, hobby doesn’t pay, so yeah, I do. And yeah, it really does take me all over the area.”

“Are you going to tell me your hobby?” Wren clicks his tongue at the question, purses his lips. 

“I kind of want to, which is weird. I usually don’t give a shit, but I mean, you definitely helped me out of a shitty situation there. But you’re really better off not knowing.” 

A decade ago Mel stands flush against a wall, not daring to breath, and listens to a conversation between a handful of his aunts and uncles. Discussing Melchior. He recalls hearing Uncle Boaz insist that ‘His mother told us to never reveal the truth to the boy’ and Aunt Esther following it with ‘Melchior is better off not knowing.’ 

Mel is turning the words over in his mind, thinking. Wren must find some kind of meaning or message in his silence a he pushes himself to talk more. 

“The stuff I deal with… I mean it’s not good stuff. It’s pretty freaky, sometimes. Obviously it gets me hurt.” Wren pats his knee. “Don’t want other people getting hurt.” He rises to his feet, fumbling a bit with something in his pocket. How Wren can still be wearing his signature jacket, Mel doesn’t know. Must be sweating like a pig under the layers. “I have some work down east, for a bit. Probably be stuck on that side of the mountains for a few weeks, but I - well -” He pulls his fist out of his pocket and holds it out to Mel, wrist bent slightly. Mel obediently cups his palms under the fist, understanding the gesture. When Wren opens his fist a grumbled piece of paper falls into Mels’ open hands. “My number, just in case you wanna keep in touch. Or something like that.”

oOo

Mel buys a phone. He doesn’t have a lot of fluid money - the paychecks he gets are pretty much just enough to cover the cost of rent, gas, and the cheapest food he can find. In the back of his head he knows that the income of two people would make this all easier, but back then running had seemed like the only choice. Mel thinks that the phone is very fancy - the front face of it has a square screen, below which are the standard buttons for a phone much like the landline at the Seminary. It had a hidden keyboard that could be slid out, which was easier and faster to type with. 

It was difficult to describe it accurately through text, and three weeks later when Wren returned to the stations side of the mountains and swung by he had taken one look at it and laughed for a solid minute. 

“I think my grandpa has that exact phone.” Wrens’ knuckles are red and raw. He holds the phone in his hand like it is an ancient artifact, marveling at the ‘shk’ and tactile feel of the keyboard. It’s Mel’s favorite part - while he’s at work he finds himself opening and closing the keyboard as he stares out the window and counts the cars. 

Wren leaves Mel large blocks of texts at a time. He talks through the problems with the house he’s currenlty working on - Mel never really understands exactly what Wren is talking about when he does that but enjoys reading it nevertheless. Wren talks about types of electrical currents and types of water heaters. Other times Wren discusses the most inane topics - what’s the best kind of apple, why he hates Douglas Pear trees, the pros and cons of Hawaiian pizza. Wren isn’t rude when Mel doesn’t seems to know what he’s talking about, just seems excited to share. Leaves new paragraphs about apple textures and about invasive plant species. 

Wren must know there’s something wrong with Mel. About the way he doesn’t know anything about pop culture or commonalities of the world. If he wonders, he never asks, and it’s a relief. 

Mel is a lamppost, figuratively, stuck in one place. He is a cactus out on the desert, unmoving. Wren takes jobs all over the state and neighboring ones, and once or twice even beyond that, but he always seems to end up passing through Mels’ ‘neck of the woods’ and staying for a day. Chatting at the register becomes talking on the bench outside becomes Wren meeting up with Mel in town on one of his days off and exposing him to the world of a pizza buffet. The next time they text Mel is able to give his own informed opinion on Hawaiian pizza. 

He isn’t sure why Wren puts in the effort to constantly return here. 

A darker part of Mel, hidden inside of himself, starts to develop a theory. 

Perhaps the answer is something that Mel would be better off not knowing. 

“You got a new jacket.” Mel remarks as Wren takes a seat on the booth opposite of him. The town Mel stays in is small, and yet every time Wren drops by he seems to have found a new cafe or restaurant for them to try. 

“Winter isn’t the time for that threadbare thing.” Wrens’ eyes rove around Mels’ figure. “I see you’re still floating the church boy look.” Mel looks down at himself. A short sleeve shirt buttoned up to the collar - he may need to start pulling out the long sleeves soon - tucked into a pair of slacks, worn with his scuffed loafers. The oversized red jacket. Mel shrugs in response and fiddles with the little jelly packets that sit complementary at the table. Whoever was here previously mixed up the piles so Mel lays them out on the table and sorts them. Wren looks at the jellies and wrinkles his nose. 

“Apple jelly? I don’t know if I’ve ever heard of that. Isn’t grape kind of the standard?” Wren invents a topic to gnaw on, like a dog with a bone. 

“Grape jelly is new to me.” Mel says, stacking the four different options into piles. Strawberry, Apple, Grape, and Raspberry. 4, 6, 2, and 3. His brain begins to consider possible patterns. Wren doesn’t seem surprised by the insight. 

“It’s kind of the archetypical jelly. Peanut butter and grape jelly sandwiches are what I ate for pretty much every lunch elementary school.” Wren comments. “My sister would get fancy with her lunches at shit - my parents never packed us lunches - but I’d do the bare minimum.” Mel hums in acknowledgement at the anecdote and Wren watches at Mel starts to make a pyramid of the jellies, apples on the bottom row. “What kind of jelly did you usually have back where you grew up.” 

‘Back where you grew up’ was the very versatile phrase that Wren used to encapsulate all of Mels’ backstory. He obviously knew that Mel didn’t have the typical Americana suburbia middle class upbringing, and rather than pry into the details, he asked questions about jelly. 

“We didn’t have jelly.” Mel said. “We had jam.” 

“There’s a difference?” Wren asks. Mels’ head titls to the side and looks at Wren. He wonders if Wren genuinely didn’t know - he;s fairly certain that sometimes Wren would fake ignorance for the sake of letting Mel talk more. Whether this was a common behavior for people outside the Seminary or just a Wren thing, Mel has yet to determine. 

“Jelly doesn’t have the…” Mel frowned, trying to find the right words. “Jelly is smooth and uniform.” That felt a bit better. “Jam has the viscera of the fruit.” Wren wrinkled his nose at Mels’ word choice. “The seeds and skin and pulp.”

“Viscera makes it sound way nastier.” 

“Apples were usually dehydrated, and grapes were made into juices and wines. Usually our jams were made out of our peaches. They get extremely soft when ripe and therefore are well suited for jam making. Berries too, but there’s a larger required haul of berries for jam. Our ratio of peach jam to berry jam always highly favored peach.” 

“You know, I don’t know if I’ve ever heard of peach jam. Is it any good?” 

The waitress returns with waters and takes their orders as the conversations continues to spill out easily between them. Wrens’ topic today is about his sister - she lives up in Oregon where the rains are plenty. She does the same job that Wren does up there, handiwork across the east coast and even over into Montana. Occasionally there’ll be a job up in Idaho that’s just far enough and close enough for both of them to meet and tackle it. Mel does not ask if the job is fixing pipes or Wrens’ hobby that leaves him with bruises and black eyes. 

Wren picks at the cranberry chicken sandwich and looks out the window. The parking lot has 9 cars currently parked. Someone is rolling up the drive through line. Wrens’ commentary rolls over him, a background as Wren sees himself outside. There are no pigeons here, instead three starlings hop around the lot. 

“Something outside?” Wren is angling his head out the window too, now, trying to figure out what has Mels’ attention. Mel flushes. 

“No.” A pause. “Starlings. And some cars.” Wren nods and does not pry. It takes Wren longer to eat that Mel, because he runs his mouth so much and has to remember to take pauses between his thoughts to snag a bite or two. Mel used to do this kind of thing, with some of his siblings, at the Seminary. Eat and listen, be in good company and good food. Then Raguel and Zephaniah and Astrophel and all the lot turned 12 and left him behind. Started to be trained and do research in the portion of the library that Mel wasn’t allowed in, have conversations that would halt whenever they realized Mel was in earshot. 

Mel got used to sitting alone, looking out the window, watching, or otherwise gazing up at the stained glass. 

Wren talked about his sisters’ current girlfriend. Mel smiles and turns his gaze back inside to watch the movements of Wrens’ facial muscles as he recounts a story, hands moving animatedly. 

oOo

“How was the shift?” Crickets somewhere in the desert called out as if to give their opinions to the question. The night has cold nip to it, and it colors Wrens’ cheeks and ears red. 

“The same.” Mel shoves his hands into his pockets, surveys the lot. The only cars are the expected three, all parked. He still lacked the words to describe that his shifts were not boring - though they seldom created the elaborate stories that Wren would share from his own work. 

“Usually I find the venues.” Wren commented. 3 am. The gas station as always had become what was left of the entire world. Wren smiled at Mel, and Mel sucked in a deep breath of the cold air, allowing it to fill his lungs. It felt sharp. 

“Follow me.” With confident steps Mel crossed the parking lot, Wren falling into rhythm beside him. 

“It’s within walking distance?” Mel nodded. “I’ll be honest, I almost thought your ‘favorite spot’ was going to be letting me stand behind the counter.” Wren smiled as he said the words as they passed the stations pumps, and Mel let out a small puff of air, the lightest version of a laugh. 

“I think it was a safe assumption. I’m not really known for exploring.” Mel admitted. The pair approached the edge of the parking lot, the edge of the ring of light, the edge of the world. Mel hesitated for a moment, as he always did. And then took a step into the darkness of primordial space.

In the safety of the dark, of things not yet created or born, Mel felt an recklessness begin to burn in his chest. Impulsively Mel grabbed Wrens’ hand and began to run. 

They crossed the lonely two lanes of middle-of-nowhere highway to the plot of land that sat opposite the gas station. It was empty - dirt and squat shrubs - and Mel ran the disappointingly small distance it took for his lungs to begin to object to the movement and then stopped all at once. Wren did not let go of his hand even as the Mel jerked to a standstill. He tilted his head up to the sky. There was no moon tonight, and the blood pumping through his body and his head made the view even more dizzying and dazzling. 

“Oh.” Wrens’ voice, singing through the darkness. 

“Yeah.” Mel, breathless. 

They stood there for a moment, several moments, out where time had no meaning where the world did not exist yet in the dark of the night, and looked at the stars. Out here, far enough away from any proper towns, a distance from the lights of the gas station, they were beautiful diamond scattered across navy velvet. Candles pitched into the air. Lightning bugs held in a perfect formation. 

For eight solid breaths, each one marked by a puff of condensation from Mel’s mouth, the two of them just stand there and look up in awe. At breath nine Wren leaves for the parking lot, and at breath 15 he returns with two camping chairs. 

“I got the job here before I got my apartment.” Mel could sit out here for hours, looking at the stars, and not say a word. But he doesn’t want to. “I stole his car and drove until I realized that there was nothing I could do without some source of income. So I stopped here and begged for a job.” 

“Ran away from your family.” A statement from Wren, steady and unjudgemental. 

“It’s more complicated than that.” 

“You don’t have to tell me, Melchior.” Wren always uses his full name. Mel never corrects him. Wren never demands more than Mel is willing to give. In the darkness of the unreal world that is night beyond the gas station lot, Mel wants to give it all. 

“I grew up away from civilization. A farm - they called it the Seminary - in the middle of nowhere. Somewhere out east. I had…” Mel lets out a puff of air, and looks at the stars. “...a couple dozen siblings. And more aunts and uncles. Sometimes if one of my siblings got old enough and I wasn’t close enough to them, they’d kinda become more like an aunt or uncle.” 

“That’s…” Wren cleared his throat. “...a big family.” Wren has talked at length about his family - just him and his sister, really. Their parents lived up in Canada somewhere, moved when they got old enough. 

“My dad was never in the picture, and my mom died when I was a baby. Living at the Seminary we were off the grid, and when you got old enough, you were trained.” Mel left a gap of air, for Wren to ask:

“Trained for what?” 

“I never found out. I was kept out of the loop. Did the chores and some of the text translations.” 

“I know this is your family, Melchior, but that,” Wren took off his hat and pushed at his hair for a moment. “...I mean maybe it isn’t my place but this sounds like a cult.” 

“I’ve started to think it was.” Mel traced patterns in the stars with his eyes. 

Quiet settles between them for a moment. Curiosity wafts off Wren, and Mel can feel his eyes returning time and time again to his face. 

“If you were there for your entire life, and you weren’t allowed to leave, why are you here?” Wren finally asks, when can’t stand it any longer and gives in. Mel knew he would. 

“Somthing happened, I’m not sure what. I remember,” Mel closes his eyes and the images flash behind his eyelids. “...I remember gunshots. And screams, and blood. My brother, Raguel, came for me, grabbed me by my wrist, and took me away. Got me out of there.” He takes a deep, steadying breath. “Through anything that stood in our way.” 

“Anything?” 

Mel mulls the words over in his mouth, trying to decide if he is really going to say this. Really going to expose this out into the world. The world that is just him and Wren. It feels like confessional, under the blanket of stars. It feels like something he needs to say, before what he think is coming happens. 

“I watched Raguel kill. Zephaniah. One of my other brothers. Took a knife and stabbed him, slit his throat. The knife was already bloody when he grabbed me, so I, he must have. You know. And the only one I saw was Zeph. But he got me out - took one of the only cars the Seminary had and got me out of there. Whatever was going down, I was probably a sitting duck.”

“He took us to a motel and told me about his plans to keep me safe. That he was gonna get a job, protect me. Tell me the truth. But I was a afraid of him. Every time I looked at Raguel I thought of how quickly he had killed Zeph, how easily.” Mels’ voice is shaking, as if saying this is physically exhausting. It feels like it is. He can’t stop the words that come out now, like he’s expelling a poison from his body. Mel wants someone to know this before it ends. “I stole his car and I ran away. Until I ended up here.” 

“Melchior…” Mel didn’t need to look, didn’t need to decipher any of that from facial expressions and body language.

Pity.

oOo

The end of Mels’ world, the crashing in of the darkness beyond the gas station, comes in mid November. Almost exactly a year after the night he ran away. Mel had felt it approaching him for month, like a persistence hunter. He thinks that he had known it’s approach since that first time he had talked to Wren. This was poetic, symmetrical. Mel was glad it was almost exactly a year. 

His apartment is a mess, objects tossed around. Not that he had that many possessions in the first place. It’s a little insulting that it happens when he was previously sleeping, just wearing his boxers. An unnatural chill fills the air, and it makes his breath visible like it had been a month ago when he had talked to Wren under the stars. A supernatural force pushes him up against the wall, and he can feel the bruises forming on his arms. 

The vague image of a human appears in the middle of the room, empty eyes and a decaying skull and the copper scent of blood. If Mel squints he can see Zephs’ jawline, maybe. 

“Fuck off!” The door to the apartment is kicked open and Wren emerges into the room. He wields a firepit stoker and swings it through the ghost without hesitation. The image scatters, and Mel drops to the floor as the force against him disappears. Wren is at his side before he can even slump against the wall. His hands are where the specters had been, slightly misaligned from it’s handprints. 

“Melchior, Mel, are you okay?” He doesn’t quite register the question, looks at the place where the ghost had been. 

“I knew it.” The words are vindicating to say. “You hunt monsters.” Wren freezes. 

“I, this is,” Wren is taught for a moment, and then his shoulders slump. “Yeah.” 

“You’re hunting me.” Mel follows up. Wrens’ facial muscles move drastically at his assertion.

“No I’m - Melchior I’m sorry. I thought I took care of this ghost but it hopped from me to you when I swung by last week. That’s all.” 

“You know about me.” Mel insists. Wren isn’t understanding that it’s okay, what Mel knows.

“Is this about… about your family?” Mel shakes his head so violently it might fall off his shoulders. It might in a second anyway. 

“No I’m - Wren it’s okay I know I’m not human. I’m wrong.” He explains, looking eagerly at Wren. He knows he knows he knows. “That’s why - I’m not right. I don’t think things right. Why they kept me separate. Maybe even why Raguel killed Zeph.” Mel tilts his head up. “You hunt monsters, you must have known from the start. That’s why you keep hanging out with me, so that you can figure out what I am and kill me. I’m ready.” Maybe the eye contact is scaring him off. Mel closes his eyes. 

All Wren has is the poker, but he must know how to use it. Hopefully he can make it fast. Maybe he has some concealed weapons. Those could help. They were protecting him, at the Seminary. And out here he is so tired of trying so hard to be human.

The poker clatters to the floor. 

Mel opens his eyes just in time to see Wren raise both of his hands, cradling Mel’s face. 

“Mel…” He shakes his head and his voice hitches. When Wren looks back at Mel there are tears in his eyes. “...Yeah Mel, I hunt monsters, but you aren’t one. You had a shitty upbringing, and you’re - hell I mean I doubt it was a thing where you grew up but you’re probably autistic or have ocd or something  - but you’re human Mel.” Wren sighs and runs a hand through Mels’ hair. Fuck. When was the last time someone did that? Raguel, when Mel had been pretending to sleep, before he stole the car. 

“I hang out with you because I like you, Mel.” 

“I’m not…” Mel slumps forward, rests his forehead against Wrens’ shoulder. “Are you sure?” 

“Yeah, I’m sure.” Wren murmurs into Mels’ curly hair. “I’m sure.” 

Mel sits like that for a while, to the rising and falling of Wrens’ chest. He feels more than hears when the breath hitches, preparing to speak. 

“I gotta - that ghost is going to come back if I don’t take care of it.” Wren shits and Mel leans back against the wall. Wren scans Mels’ face, seems to find something there. “Come on.” He rises to his feet, and a gentle hand on Mels’ arm assists him in following suit. “You can tag along. I think we need to talk.” 

oOo

Even the desert gets it snow, even if it waits to come until early January. The gas station has a new kind of quiet so soon after the holidays. Late December was marked with a flurry of travelers, but now that the fesitivies have passed everyone seems content to stay home for the foreseeable weeks. The people that stop by the gas station are mostly truck drivers.

And Wren. 

Mel feels strange to be standing in the new year. He had thought - no - he had known that he would die before January. That the thing that he had felt breathing down his neck his entire life, this dread that had swallowed him, would finally reach him before then. And it did. Only to appear and reveal that it was just himself. Just Mel. 

Wren talks him through a lot of it - survivors guilt, abuse, ptsd, anxiety. A laundry list of reasons why he probably had felt that way. In February he’s going to help Mel find a therapist. 

Ghost are real. And werewolves and witches and everything that goes bump in the night. Mel can’t find it in himself to be surprised. It just makes sense. It must have been what the Seminary had trained to do, and were sent out take care of. Kept it a secret from Mel, because of his dying mothers request. Learning monsters are real is easy to take in stride, realizing that he isn’t one is something Mel is still trying to figure out how to deal with. 

Wrens’ green car putters up the station and parks. 2 cars parked - 3, Mel adjusts his count as a beat up red truck slides into view, turning off the highway to the station and ignoring the pumps. 

Barely even looking, Wren snags a pack of gum and slams it on the counter, paired with a five dollar bill. 

“Play me my favorite song?” He beseeches, and with a smile Mel rings it up, letting the register fly open and call out it’s hedgehog chime. Mel still has to remind himself to lower his head, to lot look up at some unreachable thing constantly, but it’s getting easier. 

“How was the hunt?” Mel asks, absentmindedly flapping the oversized sleeves of his sweatshirt back and forth. 

“Pffft, a bitch.” Wren says, hands already moving in a flurry. “You ever try to find an unmarked grave in the snow?”

“I had to help break the ice on the irrigation canals a couple winters.” 

“Fucking miserable.” Wren agrees. “But luckily I had some help on this one.” He breaks eye contact with Mel when he says that, and Mel tilts his head to the side. Odd, unlike Wren. 

“It’s a long way for your sister to come.” Mel states. Wren nods and pushes his hand around on his stubble. 

“They, uh, he, well-”

“Mel.” 

The door chimes in tune with the sound of a new voice - of a familiar voice - and Mel looks past Wren to the door of the gas station. The voice is easy to identify, but the figure that stands before him takes longer to match with the image in his head. 

Raguel looks different. His hair has been grown out from the Seminarys’ standard cut into the beginning of dreads, and he wears a sweater instead of the button ups, and glasses, and he has a bit of a beard growing. Cargo pants and thick hiking boots and he’s filled out more and its Raguel. 

“I’m gonna go fill up my tank.” And Wren leaves the two of them, facing each other without any words to say. 

Raguel sighs, something sad and something soft, and smiles. He’s already crying. 

“Mel.” He repeats, and opens his arms wide. Mel runs out from behind the counter into the arms of the brother he ran away from. 

“Are you mad?” Mel asks voice hoarse, and Raguel kisses the top of his head. 

“I’m just happy you’re okay.” Raguel holds his out and scans him up and down, smiles. Raguel never used to smile like that at the Seminary. “I was wondering where my jacket went.” Mel coughs out a wet laugh.

It’s the middle of winter, but it feels like the new cycle of life is already beginning.