#that and personal organization/archive purposes of course

[tentacleteapot]

didn’t want to lump this into OP’s post unasked, but the topic of “it’s okay if you just so happen to dislike somebody while still being civil about them if you have to engage with them, you don’t have to go digging for the flimsiest possible justification of your dislike” is something I think about a lot when it comes to tumblr’s relationship with media over the years, honestly.

like, it would be ahistorical and downright dishonest to say that some of tumblr’s reputation for being “a blog site with pvp enabled” doesn’t come from the fact that there are and always have been users on here who felt like they had to justify their dislike or disinterest in a really popular thing at one point. it’s just plain factual that said dislike motivated them to go digging into a creator or actor’s past to try and find something sufficiently negative that they could use it as justification for publicly dumping on something. I know this because I’ve had people say it to me, seen people say it, and I’ll admit to even having thought it myself a couple times over the years (in my defense, I’ve been on tumblr since like 2010, I was much younger then).

“I can finally make a post about how awful this show is and then I’ll never have to see people talk about it again because my mutuals will feel like they can’t reblog things from it” may not have been the exact words that anybody said, sure. but in a time before we had resources for blocking tags and posts we didn’t want to see, the extremely nebulous claim that something was “problematic” (scare quotes intentional, the term as tumblr uses it has ALWAYS been too vague and unspecific to have any real place in actual discourse or critique imo) was often enough to get mutuals and sometimes even tumblr celebrities to boost your post decrying it. and that attitude definitely extended toward people whose posts or typing quirk or overall vibe just… didn’t do it for you.

is that an okay way to act? no. is it the ONLY reason people might feel like they have to find concrete ‘proof’ their dislike of somebody is justified? definitely not. is it the only time anybody feels that way? of course not. sometimes bad people DO have bad vibes, or a show’s writing or an actor’s behavior are subtle red flags that subconsciously warn us not to get too invested in something. but the very specific “once I have the perfect reason for disliking this crafted, I can bring it up whenever I need to or keep it in mind if anybody asks why I’m so rude to this guy or get so mad when I see gifs from this show” mindset is one that’s sadly had a lot of cultivation and fuel devoted to it over the site’s various eras of discourse. unlearning the idea that you have to have a reason to dislike someone and internalizing “I can be civil to this person or neutral about this thing other people like, and avoid them/block the tag for whatever reason I want”, is one of the healthiest things for a person to do.

[space-mango-company]

Stranger | Chapter 3

Chapter Links: [1], [2], [3], [4], [5]

TW: none for this one, I think

Tags: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Atreides!Reader, Arranged Marriage, Eventual Smut, POV Second Person, No use of y/n, Original Characters, Canon What Canon

Word Count: 1.4k

A/N: Unedited for now! Holy moly, sorry for taking so long on this one. I was kinda drowning in uni work the past week. The next chapter should come sooner, I hope. Also just wanted to say thank you so much to those who take the time to comment!! I really really appreciate the kind words. You guys are super sweet. Mwa mwa.

The inky black fireworks exploded in the distance as you were led back into the underground chambers of the arena. Your eyes are relieved to escape the infrared sun. Heavy doors open for you once more. The na-Baron stands, chest exposed, skin slick with sweat under the artificial light. His blown-out eyes hone in on you as you enter. He makes his way to you holding the blood-stained handkerchief.

"Did you enjoy the show, my lady?" His chest heaves and you feel his heavy breaths as he leans into your ear, voice even more raspy, "Aren't you something, little hawk."

He holds the cloth up as if giving it to you but when you reach for the handkerchief he snatches it away.

You sigh and lift your veil, a sweet smile plastered on your face, "A most impressive demonstration, na-Baron. You are as formidable as they say."

Feyd-Rautha takes a moment to scan your face. He doesn't know what your game is but he wants to play.

His breathing has settled. He raises a hand to reach for your cheek but you move past him. You walk towards a table displaying knives laid over a cloth. You pick one up to examine. The blades remain uncleaned, the blood from earlier in the day already beginning to dry. You sense they will be kept that way.

"You have good form. Clean, precise," you say, holding the dagger in a reverse grip, edge out. "You enjoy it, don't you?"

From behind, you feel Feyd-Rautha close the distance between you once again.

"Perhaps you enjoy it a little too much," you turn to him, "I'm sure you let him disarm you on purpose. For the show."

Feyd-Rautha tilts his head and allows himself a small smile. "You should return to the fortress, my lady. I have duties to attend to," he touches your armed hand and gently takes the knife from you, "and my uncle would like to see you."

Despite being shielded from the black sun, you elect to keep your veil for your lunch with the Baron. You excuse the chill running down your spine as the coldness of the high, stony walls of Fortress Harko as Iassa escorts you to the dining hall. Iassa kept her head bowed, you noticed, hands folded in front of her. She didn't need to look ahead to know the way.

When you arrive, large doors open to the sight of the Baron floating at the head of the table. There was only one other seat at the side of the table a few feet from him. Despite that, there was a full spread of food which his servants were already feeding him.

You had done your best to avoid the Baron in your short time here, but it seems this meeting was inevitable.

"Lady Atreides," his eyes turn toward you lazily. "Come. Eat."

"Good afternoon, Baron," you curtsy as you enter. Iassa bows to you and waits outside. You take your seat, "will it only be us, my lord? This seems a lavish spread for only two people."

"Are you calling me a glutton, girl?" he spats.

Your heart takes a beat as you try not to stare at his grotesquely large body.

"We are Harkonnen," his husky laugh rings through the room. "We may lavish as much as we please."

You exhale the breath you were holding and let out a small laugh. Of course. They were the richest house in the Landsraad. The Harkonnens must be accustomed to excess.

"Soon, child, you will be Harkonnen as well," he says in that gravelly voice that is so uncomfortably similar to Feyd-Rautha's. "Is that what you want?"

The question takes you aback. No one has ever asked you this question before. This betrothal has been decided for so long, you've never even thought to ask the question yourself. It was all you'd known. Your duty. You had never bothered to imagine what your life would have been if you weren't destined to marry the Harkonnen heir.

You regain your composure, "Baron, it is my honor to unite our Great-"

"Drop the act, child!" he barks. "Perhaps you fear me, but if you are to become 'family', I will not have the patience for charades. Speak plainly. Do you want to marry my nephew?"

This has been a most unusual exchange. At least compared to what you're used to. Always taught to be sweet and pleasant. You suppose you had nothing to lose, considering the Baron killing you would start an all-out war. You take a moment to think, and then a deep breath.

"I am a woman, dear Baron. There is not much for me in this life. Indeed, tales of your house's savagery are well-known throughout the systems, and in Caladan more than most. But had I not been betrothed to your nephew, I would only be married off to some other lord or count or whatever, gentler than Feyd-Rautha they may be," you swallow. "Perhaps, I could have been trained a Bene Gesserit sister. However, to become the wife of the heir to one of the most powerful houses in the known universe—there are worse fates."

The Baron stares, seemingly satisfied with your answer. He waves his servants away. "Eat, child. Waste not the food of one of the most powerful houses in the known universe."

He begins to glide towards the doors on his side of the hall and his servants scurry to lay down their forks and follow after him.

You look to the remaining servants in the dining hall, then to the mounds of food on the table. Your first dinner on Giedi Prime had felt suffocating with all the nobles around and Feyd-Rautha smugly breathing down your neck. You pile your plate high.

In your quarters, Iassa helps you out of your clothes and into a warm bath. You don't wait for her and begin scrubbing your skin with a rag yourself. Between the heat from the morning gladiator fights and your tense conversation with the Baron, you were happy to wash the sweat off your body.

"Is this alright, my lady?" Iassa is trying to wash your hair with the lightest touch, "Does it hurt you?"

"No, no. It's quite alright." You take over and she moves to begin scrubbing your legs.

You're grateful you brought bottles of your own hair soaps. You notice Iassa is intently observing how you washed your hair and you appreciate her wanting to learn. Although, you surmise she might not have a choice. Her black choker seems to stand out even more against her pale skin.

"How was your day, Iassa?" you say as you lather your hair.

She pauses in confusion. "It was quite alright, my lady," her voice is soft and polite.

"Do they treat you well?" you knew it was a futile question.

"I am property of House Harkonnen, my lady," she says as she pours more water into the grey stone bath, "I am treated appropriately."

"Yes, but do you mean appropriately as in well or appropriately as in—" your desperate attempt to make a friend seems to be slipping through your fingers. You let out an exasperated sigh, "I know it's only been a few days but, do I treat you well, Iassa?"

She takes a moment and smiles up at you, "My lady has been most gracious." You see in her eyes she means it.

"You were right about the na-Baron," you say, "he is formidable indeed."

"I'm pleased my lady was impressed," she wraps a robe around you as you rise from the bath.

"Well, I don't know about impressed," you say as you step out, "he is a decent fighter, certainly. Perhaps it is a difference in the fighting styles of our worlds."

After helping you dress, Iassa bows and leaves you to retire. Her grey robes flowing behind her.

Once alone, you find your father's dagger in your belongings. The Baron's earlier question comes back to you. Is that what you want? To marry Fayd-Rautha? That night, you sleep clutching the knife close to your heart.

When you awake the following morning, you are greeted by a servant girl bringing you breakfast.

"Where is Iassa?" you ask.

"She has been relieved, my lady," the girl looks even younger than Iassa, "I am Zora."

Your brow furrows, "What does that mean, 'relieved'?"

When Zora remains silent, you get up from the bed.

On the dark grey of your vanity, you notice a black strip of leather. A choker identical to your new servant's but it was unmistakable who it belonged to. Your mind ran through the whys and your blood began to boil.

Chapter Links: [1], [2], [3], [4], [5]

Taglist: @torchbearerkyle @austinswhitewolf @dreamlandcreations @emeraldsgirl @strawberryfieldsforevermore @bornslippys @vexis-world @aoi-targaryen @alexandrainlove

[py-dreamer]

WOAH! 2 UPLOADS BACK TO BACK?!

Don't get too excited but yea, I've had these two in my back pocket for a long time now, just didn't really have the motive to finish them per say

Commission for designs for a fic my friend is writing so go check it out!

vvvv

I know it looks very different from the tight spandex miraculous designs but I definitely wanted to incorporate that LMK style with like armor and extra....like fabric on the sides? Just extra bits and bobs to make the designs interesting

But for me the most important parts were to make the purpose of the miraculous obvious, make them look cool and hide their identity (I think they'd look quite different from their human civilian forms)

Oh! And in case you haven't noticed, the miraculouses aren't animal themed anymore. Mainly because especially for the monkeys and dragons, it didn't make sense for them to have multiple miraculouses with the same animal. But it still keeps the theme of magically specialised powered jewels with one specific power outside of enhanced natural abilities with the akumatisation process

(spicynoodles of course)

(my friend and I developed so much brain rot behind the scenes, someone gets impaled, have fun guessing who!)

I'm gonna be honest, never really liked the sleek spandex polkadot suit that much so decided to go in a different direction

I do really like how Mk's design came out with the fluffy jacket and everything. I was wondering how to include like the feathery bits on top when I saw this fanart of Wukong wearing a cap and the two bits were sticking out like that and just stole that lol. I personally do really like the mask, again inspired by wukong's opera makeup

Red son was more tricky though, his design specifically the top area needed a lot of finessing and I saw this one other fanart of his fiery hair being blue at the end and man! it looked cool but I could not for the life of me figure it out, I did steal the bull mascarade mask from my the cat returns piece but hey it looks cool! And I didn't have a lot of ideas for other masks. Fun fact, the brown prayer beads are inspired from his days as a disciple under Guanyin.

Even though I'm not doing that tight spandex bs, I still wanted the two to look cohesive, and look like a team unit, I hope they do

Let me know any opinions! I'm very curious, the new style yay? Or nay?

(Also my friend wrote the 2nd chapter after I showed her the designs, Mk ISN'T meant to have a yellow cape. NO CAPES FOR THIS LAD)

[pastellieria]

The latest round of AO3 comment discourse crossing my dash made me suddenly realize that people are just taking it as a given that AO3 is a "fandom community website". AO3 is often directly compared to Livejournal and other older fandom hubs amidst laments about how "no one cares about participating in their community anymore".

But AO3 is not a "community" website. It's not social media. It's a fanfic archive that was designed to center the fics first and foremost. There is no space on the site for general, casual fandom discussion. You can't even DM other users. The site was designed this way on purpose to protect writers, because its creators were familiar with the ways in which writers have been harassed on other sites and wanted to minimize direct access to writers as much as possible, but that decision comes with the tradeoff of limiting the amount of communication and discussion between fans that is possible on the site.

This is, to be clear, not a criticism of AO3. It accomplishes its goal of being an archive very well. I don't particularly want DMs or larger discussion forums on the site, and I enjoy how it centers the writing it hosts. But as it exists now, it is simply not built to be a "community" and does not function as one. Unlike sites like Livejournal where fic posting and general interpersonal fandom interactions all took place in the same space, fics are posted to AO3 while the "community" for any given fandom now largely takes place on Twitter, Tumblr, Discord, or another site, depending on the fandom.

You're free to personally dislike those spaces and voice valid criticisms about how they function as communities, but they are undeniably where the actual "community" parts of most fandoms currently reside. These sites, not AO3, are where most fans talk to one another, form friendships, and express themselves. It's not impossible to do these things on AO3, but it is not the norm because the site simply is not designed that way.

The latest posts I have seen about commenting culture have gotten this dynamic exactly backwards. If readers are discussing a fic amongst themselves on Twitter or Discord, they're characterized as antisocial and accused of "not participating in the fandom community". But Twitter and Discord are the fandom community sites! The "bookclub" servers and Twitter threads are where the community bonds are being forged between fans! These spaces are the modern analogue to the old Livejournal groups and web rings, not the comments section of any one individual fanfic on AO3.

If an author's only interaction with their fandom is to post fics to AO3 and passively wait to be found, and they aren't seeking out their fellow fans in these other spaces and interacting with them... they are the ones who are "not participating" as much as the readers that are so readily being cast in so much of this discussion as "selfish" or deliberately spiteful for not commenting "enough".

I understand why many of my fellow writers feel this way. I too often find socialization on sites like Twitter and Discord draining and difficult. It takes time and effort to build friendships organically, discuss ideas and share snippets to pique people's interest in a fic before it is posted, and provide reciprocal effort when it comes to everyone else's ideas and snippets and stories, and there are many days when I just don't have the energy for it all. At the same time, I'm also very curious about my readers' thoughts on my stories, and if I learned that they were being discussed in a server I couldn't access, I would want to know what was being said. It's a natural impulse to feel curiosity like this when it comes to one's creative work. And of course, I also love getting comments on my own fics and I'm not immune to feeling disappointed when a fic seems to "flop".

However, it's not fair to take out feelings of disappointment and frustration on readers for participating in their fandom in the spaces where their fandom's community actually exists. If you find out that fandom discussions are happening in a place where you are not present, you have a choice in what action you will take. You can either make the effort to join the discussion, or you can knowingly distance yourself from it. Neither of these choices are objectively correct for every single individual's situation, but you, the AO3 denizen, are the one who needs to choose whether or not to engage with your fandom's community, because AO3 is not where the community lives.

If you choose not to join your fellow fans in their actual community hubs because of low social battery, annoying features, or a site culture you dislike, that's perfectly fine and a valid choice... but you shouldn't be surprised when the author who is participating in their fandom outside of AO3 gets more comments on their fics. And you certainly don't have the right to project your own social withdrawal onto your readers and accuse them of maliciously withholding "community" from you.

Comments are wonderful, and positively encouraging people to leave comments on the fics they enjoy is completely fine, but comments are not community. AO3 is not a community website and in fact is designed to put us writers behind a wall for our own protection. We are the ones who need to choose whether or not to venture out from behind the wall and join our communities, instead of getting angry that the community isn't spontaneously appearing in our comments sections.

[memecucker]

The relationship between colonialism and religion is more complicated than the Civilization game where you’re trying to score a religious victory and it’s easier to convert places you conquer.

It’s not a matter of religion being imposed purely for the purpose of religion being imposed even if that may have been the personal motives of individual colonizers because even if there was a truly missionary motive these missions could only exist insofar as it was economically sustainable and oftentimes this takes the form of exploitation of the indigenous population.

Also the flat conception of religious colonialism overlooks how as colonialism progressed as a type of “social technology” there was in many places a shift away from seeking to replace indigenous organized religions (if they were present in the first place) towards recruiting the indigenous religious authorities to the colonial side.

Like for example with the colonies of the Iberian powers there was no separation of church and state and I don’t just mean in the sense of “the state imposed religious dogma and the church officially endorsed the state” I mean basic everyday functions of the state relied upon services of the church. Eg; If a colonial Governor wanted to say, requisition corvee labor from villages for a building project and he wished to know the populations of these villages in order to decide which to pull laborers he wouldn’t be looking at any state mandated census but instead would rely upon the archives and records of the Catholic Church because records would be kept of church attendance. If the governor wanted to hunt some rebel named “Diego of San Juan” he’d look at baptismal records to find examples of people named “Diego” and who they’re related to.

This meant that Spanish and Portuguese colonialism had an actual material interest in enforcing religious homogeneity and Catholic supremacy because that’s how their colonial states functioned. The colonial bureaucracy was in fact synonymous with the Church’s bureaucracy and so if some people weren’t Catholic they existed outside the Church which meant they existed (at least partially) outside the State. One example that’s a bit relevant is the original version the “National Commission on Indigenous Peoples” in the Philippines was set up during the American occupation and was called “Bureau of Non-Christian Tribes” because the groups in question are largely people who existed outside of direct Spanish colonial control (and wouldve been labeled “savages” in the 19th century) and hence “non-Christian”.

Anyway in the case of the Portuguese colonial empire in Asia this wound up being part of the reason for its collapse. By making their state function in the requirement that it’s subjects be observant Catholics the Portuguese had a lot of trouble making allies because if indigenous elites could be persuaded to convert then great but if they didn’t then they were gonna get really pissed off especially when they start hearing the Portuguese are torturing people under their rule that feel the same. And so without a network of allies the Portuguese colonial empire in Asia began to fall apart leaving only Goa, Macau and East Timor. Elsewhere the Portuguese had been replaced by the Dutch, English and French all of whom had systems of governance which was not as so dependent on doctrinal supremacy as the Iberians eg; the Dutch agreed to help the Shogunate put down a Christian revolt in 1638 and the East India Company actually banned Christian missionaries from operating in its territories until 1813 when Parliament forced them to allow Christian missionaries to preach.

Now of course the EIC example is in particular interesting because what you’re basically seeing is the colonial state shedding its reliance on the Christian Church in favor of courting the support of indigenous religious leaders and recruiting them into the colonial apparatus but at the same time you have churches seeking to operate whats can be considered a type of “rival” colonial project that would have an almost parasitic relationship in that the churches profited in their own way while also in a way undermining the local legitimacy of the official colonial state.

[thebreakfastgenie]

this is one (1) redeemable voucher to complain about AO3's tagging system (if you like)

Thanks for the voucher!

I probably should have phrased that post differently because upon reflection what I hate is more downstream of AO3's tagging system. The system itself does what it's supposed to do: it organizes the archive. Of course, users get cutesy with it (and I'm guilty of this myself) and other users will use inaccurate tags on purpose to get more attention (this is not acceptable behavior), but neither of those things are the system's fault.

But because the tagging system is so robust and fics are tagged based on tropes, this culture has developed of hyper-curated, trope-based reading habits. This didn't exist before AO3 because it just wasn't possible to filter fics to that extent. Some of my favorite fic reading experiences have been fics that I stumbled across by mistake because I didn't know what they were or because I had to comb through broader categories.

And this is where I start sounding like Ted Gup. Ted Gup wrote this essay in the late 90s called The End of Serendipity about how computers being so efficient at retrieving information was going to bring about the end of people stumbling upon topics they wouldn't have otherwise explored. I had to read and respond to this essay in English class in middle school and I raked Ted Gup over the coals, because I was writing on my laptop with dozens of open tabs. I still think I was right to point out Ted Gup's failure to foresee the wiki walk, but now that I'm older and technology has developed more over the last fifteen years, I'm starting to think he had something of a point.

I was thinking about this in a fanfiction and fandom context because I recalled a post I reblogged recently saying (paraphrased) "I have nothing against shipping but some of you are too focused on shipping to the exclusion of everything else." I agree with that post, but for me part of the problem isn't even the focus on shipping, it's that the shipping content is often so formulaic. Fandom talks a big game about diversity and creativity in fanworks, but a lot of the actual output I see is incredibly formulaic. In my opinion that's related to the extreme focus on tropes. Tropes are great, but if you're only looking at fic as a list of tropes you're taking a very narrow view. I don't know what the direction of causality is here, if there even is one, but I think the tagging system and the way the tagging system is used facilitate this reductive trope-based outlook.

I'm from the fanfiction.net era and I find the character and relationship tagging on AO3 useful, but I don't really care for the additional tags. I had to train myself to even read them. I prefer to select fics based on titles and summaries, because those are created by the author. Obviously writing a summary is very different than writing a story (and in fact it's a different skill and it's hard!) but a summary is still written by the author, so it gives me some sense of their writing style. When authors actually include an excerpt in the summary it does that even more. Tags can be useful in conjunction with a summary, because well-selected tags make me curious how all the elements listed in the tags fit together. But I don't want to sort by Enemies to Lovers or whatever.

I don't expect everyone to read like I do, this is nothing more than one crank's ramblings about my personal dissatisfaction with the current state of fandom. Maybe it resonates with someone, and if it does they're welcome to reblog it, but I'm not trying to do social commentary here. Maybe it doesn't, and that's okay too.

I also don't know if the trope focus on booktok and in the traditional publishing world comes out of fanfiction or not but it's even more distressing to me there and I think it bothers me in the fanfiction sphere because of the possibility that fanfiction is contributing to that trend.

[covid-safer-hotties]

Also preserved on our archive

By - Jessica Wildfire

You’ve been lied to, over and over, about Covid.

Here’s a recent example:

A public health grifter in Australia named Nick Coatsworth recently urged schools to “save your money” because “any investment in air filtration is unproven and wastes precious resources” and that “Covid is no more harmful to kids than any respiratory virus.” You’ve heard this before, from dozens of highly credentialed doctors and public health officials, all of them with their own motives.

In reality…

Up to 25 percent of children who catch Covid go on to develop Long Covid, a euphemistic term that describes long-lasting damage to virtually every organ and system in their bodies. One recent study has estimated that 5.8 million children in the U.S. currently suffer from the condition.

There are dozens of studies.

In many cases, children who were healthy and happy go from performing well in school and having lots of friends to barely being able to solve simple math problems and withdrawing socially, even after a mild illness.

As a pediatrician at NYU has said, “This is a public health crisis for children,” adding that we’re going to see the “long-term impacts of experiencing long covid in childhood for decades to come.”

So when someone tells you that Covid is a mild illness for children, they’re lying. They’re doing harm to your children. You should get angry.

People are sicker than ever, and it’s getting worse.

When they say air purifiers don’t work…

They’re also lying.

Public health officials like Ashish Jha and Rochelle Walensky have advised their own children’s schools to spend millions of dollars installing clean air systems at the beginning of the pandemic. Rich parents joined them. Jha and Walenksy, like Mandy Cohen after them, have become some of the most notorious Covid minimizers on the planet, continually spreading misinformation and encouraging a culture of “personal risk assessment” that has driven a mass disabling event, with tens of millions of adults and children now suffering from chronic illness and disability, with slim hope for treatment in the near future. It’s not because we lack knowledge, but because our governments lack initiative.

Meanwhile, they spare no expense for their own families.

You deserve to know the truth.

In the U.S., our government originally allocated billions of dollars explicitly for the purpose of installing air cleaning systems in schools.

What happened to all that money?

First, many states explicitly refused to spend those funds. They redirected as much of it as possible. At the same time, CEOs pulled off what federal prosecutors call “the biggest fraud in a generation,” spending pandemic relief dollars on toys. Even NBC reported on the scandal, describing how the rich engaged in “the theft of hundreds of billions of dollars in taxpayer money” by “purchasing luxury automobiles” as well as “mansions, private jet flights and swanky vacations.” They didn’t just raid payroll protection. They also took $80 billion from other disaster relief funds. As one attorney said, “Nothing like this has ever happened before.” It’s theft on a massive scale, and it happened during both administrations.

The rich did all of this while the rest of us were dragging ourselves through the hardest years of our lives. And of course, you remember how the minute things started looking a little brighter, those who stole from us started complaining about how we didn’t want to work anymore, and we had too much cash. Some of these thieves were prosecuted, but many more got away with it.

It gets worse.

While the rich were spending pandemic funds on yachts and sports cars, our governments were spending money on police, prisons, and courts. According to a bombshell report by The Marshall Project, “billions of dollars flowed to the criminal justice system by the first quarter of 2022, from covering payroll to purchasing new equipment,” as well as “courts, jails, and prisons.” The equipment included tasers, rifles, shooting ranges, and armored vehicles. Governments were very clever in how they framed their purchases. In one case, a town in Alabama said new tasers with longer ranges would help curb the spread of Covid, since “officers will not have to get so close to the perpetrator.” Another city said armored vehicles make the public feel safer during challenging times.

By the middle of 2023, an investigation by Epic uncovered that at least 70 different municipalities were spending even more relief funds on police surveillance equipment, mobile forensic technologies, monitoring stations, and drones. They also bought software to spy on our social media.

Basically, while the rich were stealing from us, our governments went to absurd lengths to spend billions of dollars on anything other than clean air. By 2022, Biden was even giving governments his blessing to do so, using the unspent funds as proof that he supported law enforcement, a largely political move. As The New York Times reported, Biden was “making a forceful push” ahead of midterm elections “to show he is a defender of law enforcement.” As PBS explained, Biden urged governors to spend the rest of the money on law enforcement even as the treasury department released another round of funds.

So, that’s why our schools don’t have air purifiers.

We have an overwhelming amount of information that HEPA air purifiers work. They don’t stop transmission in cases where someone is sitting or standing right next to you without a mask, but they remove anywhere from 70 to 99 percent of the virus in the air, when they’re installed properly.

They significantly reduce your risk.

Indoor air experts can tell you a lot more about how to maximize the efficiency of air purifiers and ventilation systems. The end of this post offers resources toward that end. For now, we’re just going to talk about the simple point that they work. There’s absolutely no reason not to fund them, especially given that our children’s futures depend on it. Let’s get started.

Carl Van Keirsbilck has written an extensive review of studies on the effectiveness of air purifiers. Nina Notman provides an extensive overview on the benefits of clean air, including air purifiers and why certain types might be so reluctant to embrace them. So does Andrew Nikiforuk.

First, the CDC found that adding two HEPA air purifiers “reduced overall exposure to simulated exhaled aerosol particles by up to 65 percent without universal masking.” When you add masks, it goes up to 90 percent. They recommend HEPA purifiers as part of an overall clean air strategy.

A review of more than 50 different studies in Indoor Air found that “when HEPA filters were utilized, regardless of the type of ventilation, number of ACH [air changes per hour] or hospital area, minimal surface-born and no airborne SARS-CoV-2 RNA was detected.” In other words, HEPA filters can significantly reduce the amount of virus in the air, even when you might struggle to ventilate a space.

A study in Environmental Science: Processes & Impacts found that portable air cleaners used in classrooms “reduce the mean aerosol intake of all students by up to 66 percent.” A study in Physics of Fluids found that using multiple HEPA purifiers in a classroom led to a reduction in viral aerosols “between 70% and 90%.” A study reported in Buildings & Facilities Management found that using a HEPA purifier in combination with open windows led to a 73 percent drop in the risk of infection in classrooms. A study in Virology found that a HEPA filter could remove between 80 and 99 percent of viral aerosols from a room.

A study in Aerosol Science and Technology found that when researchers installed four air purifiers in a high school classroom, “the aerosol concentration” of Covid “was reduced by more than 90 percent within less than 30 min” and the reduction “was homogeneous throughout the room…”

A study in the Journal of Hospital Infection found that HEPA filters can “reduce the viral load in air” by as much as 99 percent and that “air purification systems can be used as an adjunctive infection control measure.” A brief article in Nature reported that an ICU in Cambridge used HEPA purifiers to largely remove Covid and other pathogens from their wards. That brief report turned into a full study published in Clinical Infectious Diseases, showing that not only do these filters remove Covid but also “significantly reduced levels of bacterial, fungal, and other viral bioaerosols on both the surge ward and the ICU.”

A study in Infection Control & Hospital Epidemiology found that by using two HEPA air purifiers, “99% of aerosols could be cleared within 5.5 minutes.”

A study in Building and Environment found that combining air purifiers with ventilation in a gym “can reduce aerosol particle concentrations” by up to 90 percent, “depending on aerosol size.” Another study in the same journal found that adding a portable air purifier to a hospital patient’s room “could prevent the migration of nearly 98% of surrogate aerosols…”

So when someone says investment in air filters or purifiers is “unproven” or “a waste of resources,” they’re not just wrong.

They’re lying.

There’s a major movement for clean indoor air.

Many of these researchers gathered last fall at the Clean Air Expo, a virtual conference hosted by the World Health Network, where experts and advocates shared their knowledge and strategies for getting the public on board with the message. I sat through every minute of it, and I learned a lot.

(You can watch the stream here.)

Some cities like Boston have already deployed sophisticated air-cleaning systems and air quality monitors in their public schools. They did it because parents and teachers teamed up with nonprofits to get the job done. Groups like Indoor Air Quality Advocates are building local, regional, and national networks to do the same. Advocates like Liesl McConchie are touring schools and speaking at school board meetings to spread the truth. HVAC experts like Joey Fox run blogs to educate the public on effective strategies.

Companies like Clean Air Kits are changing the game by offering quiet, affordable PC Fan filters and quick guides on how to use them.

Startups like the Air Support Project are taking the Corsi-Rosenthal box into commercial territory, to make them more accessible and to clear the red tape that often keeps them out of schools. Other companies like SmartAir are providing people with portable air purifiers when they need extra protection.

Consumer Reports explains how air purifiers work and tests the most popular brands. Groups like the Clean Air Crew have posted multiple tutorials on clean air, including buying guides. Confused parents and teachers can also visit Clean Air Stars to find affordable, reliable filters.

The elite will tell you that clean air is a waste of money while they spend millions of dollars on it themselves, all while big tech companies make special deals with energy utilities to restart nuclear reactors and coal plants to power their data centers. They’re not being very honest, are they?

Maybe it’s comforting to believe that air purifiers don’t work, that Covid doesn’t make anyone very sick anymore, and that we don’t have to figure any of this out. Deep down, you probably know it’s not true.

Public health agencies are staying silent on clean air, and sellout doctors are pushing misinformation, all because our governments gave our clean air money to the police and let the rich walk away with hundreds of billions of it, which they spent on sports cars and vacations. Instead of facing consequences, they would rather have you believe that air purifiers don’t work.

Your children deserve clean air.

So do you.

[daisy-mooon]

Portraiture;

Portraits of the Emperors, and what those paintings mean to them.

Portrait Two - Shrub

Back at home, they had a thing called...

Shrub doesn't even remember its name anymore. Not exactly. She sounds the syllables out on her tongue. Cam-uh-ruh. It could take pho-toes of someone, print them out perfectly, albeit in black and white. She has one, tucked safely next to her heart in the pocket of her silky coat. She doesn't show it to anyone. Who would believe her? They don't have cam-uh-ruhs here. She tried to explain it once, to Fwhip and he looked at her in confusion so... she let it go.

She- well. The Undergrove is not empty of its people, it's only that it is filled with spirits and supernatural beings that don't understand the rules of human made empires. It's a wild place for wild things. Shrub is just the head of it, the gnome in charge of making sure other mortals don't interfere with it. Chosen by the land. Some of the more pretentious nobles in Mythland or Rivendell might huff at that, but it's true. It can't be challenged, not without a lot not of wrath on the behalf of the spirits.

Becayse the spirits are spirits and don't abide to the laws of mortal-kind, the Undergroves Empress- (Empress? The word doesn't feel right for her. The spirits refer to her as Lady Shrub, sometimes, and that doesn't feel right either) -is mysterious. There are no paintings of her. But that doesn't mean she doesn't need one. Gem says they need paintings for historical purposes, and Katherine says they need paintings for diplomatic purposes, and Joel says they need paintings for the fun of it and manages to drag her into a long winded conversation about gnomeish art practices that she only half-remembers.

But she can paint- can't she? A little bit. Well. She can make an okay flower. She more remembers her parents weaving. But there's no reason why she can't make her official portrait by herself.

Shrub takes one of the fallen logs in the grass outside of her home and splits it into two. She takes the wooden face, takes the paints that Katherine had given her and places them alongside the tubs of dye she has prepared herself, and readies her brush. It's homemade and scruffy, but it should get the job done.

It takes her a long time. Longer than she thought. How did Mezealeans do this? Katherine offered to hire one for her, one of the travelling Mezalean painters that seemed to have paint every nobleman under the sun, but Shrub is determined to do it herself. It wouldn't feel... right, otherwise.

When it's done- oh, when it's done-

It doesn't look like her.

Shrub picks the paintbrush back up. She's nothing if not resilient, so this time she buys a smaller paintbrush from the Crystal Cliffs and the grabs obsidian mirror from her bedside table, and tries again. At least, now, she has a foundation. Painters need foundations to paint on, don't they?

And she tries again.

And again.

And again, until it looks just right.

Xornoth almost ruins it once. Then Joey. Then the rain itself, because she tried painting outside and almost forgot to take it back in. But she keeps going. She has too, doesn't she?

Katherine is the first person she shows it too, and Katherine gasps upon seeing it. Katherine will gasp upon seeing anything that Shrub makes, delighted to see her crafts, but she can tell that she genuinely does love this portrait. "It looks just like you!" She cries in delight. Grinning, Shrub leans in and stares at Katherine's eyes as she talks. "Can we replicate it?"

Shrub has no qualms with House Blossoms artists making copies of the painting. "Of course!" And so it becomes the official portrait of her, and becomes worth far much more because the original was a self portrait, but she doesn't care about that. What she cares about-

Katherine has one done on a polished wooden panel and has it hung in her bedchambers. And then she has a miniature produced, one tucked inside a locket necklace that she can wear around her neck and open whenever she misses her. And then, because everyone wants to know what gnomes look like, Gem asks her to make a sketch of herself for research purposes, and then because Joel is supremely egotistical he asks if he can use one of the copies of her official portrait to create an eight foot tall mural of her. Joey wants one too, which she declines because whilst she's fairly sure Xornoth can't do anything too her through a painting she'd rather not find out. And then, and then, and then-

Shrub keeps the original in her house. It still has the tree bark on the back. A fae assistant had offered to sand it down for her, but she kept it. It feels better that way. It makes it feel weight. It makes it feel real, in a way that she struggles to feel with the grandiose oil paintings that are now scattered across the lands.

At the very least, she thinks too herself somewhat sadly, people will know what the gnomes looked like when they die out with me.

-

Historians note: Empress Shrub Berry of the Undergrove (or, as she is referenced to in spirit talk, simply, Lady Shrub or Lady Berry) is the only known gnome to exist in this world pre-Rapture. Whilst later developments in rifts, world walking and evolution meant there are now species similiar to the original gnomes that go by the same name, they are unrelated species and Empress Berry was the last gnome of her genetic species. There were no known survivors of Prince Xornoths massacre in her home dimension, and it has never been retraced.

As the only known, and last, member of her species, art of her is worth far more than other pre-Rapture art pieces. The original may be one of the most valuable pieces of art of all time, and is kept under careful care and constant surveillance to ensure its survival. All existing portraits of Empress Berry, other than a badly damaged anatomical sketch recovered in a Crystal Cliffs Others textbook, are all copied from this original, although others exist. The two most famous are the two miniatures were commissioned by her lover, Empress Katherine Elizabeth of the Overgrown, one a single locket with just Empress Berry in it and the other a double locket with both Berry and Elizabeth depicted.

[eldritchqueerture]

petty morons are back on their bullshit, facing the infamous Consequences of Their Own Actions. @lighthouseshepard 💜

---

As soon as the doors to the hotel closed behind him, Arthur knew he had made a mistake. He very much did need John, and not just for his sight – a part of him had always known that. He swallowed as panic started to grow in his gut, an electrifying force travelling with his blood to every part of his body. He retraced his steps to the alley.

“John?” He asked quietly, hoping no passersby were around to hear him. “John!”

No answer. His chest tightened, pushing the air out of his lungs. Did he really leave? Arthur didn’t let himself think like that when he woke up to an empty room – didn’t even want to consider the possibility that John might not want Arthur in his life, now that he didn’t need him.

And it was the truth. John didn’t need him anymore. It was Arthur who needed him, and perhaps… Perhaps he would only be a burden in John’s mind. Arthur had served his purpose, just as Oscar had back on that farm, and John was free to create the life he wanted, whatever that would entail. And Arthur… Arthur had just lost another person.

He leaned his back against the wall and let out a shaky breath. He couldn’t help but look back on every single friendship he’d had: James, Parker, Oscar, Noel, John. All of them, dead, hurt or pushed away some way or another. He just couldn’t seem to figure it out – couldn’t let a single person stay, no matter how much he’d tried.

No, that wasn’t right. He wasn’t giving up – not now and not ever. If he had control over anything in this fucking life, it was his own actions. Hurtful things have been said, that was obvious, but they didn’t have to be the end. Not as long as Arthur had anything to say on the matter.

He reached into his jacket’s breast pocket and took out the lighter. With an almost unconscious movement he opened it and struck a flame, passing a thumb over the engraved words. This too shall pass .

With a deep determined breath, he gathered himself, pocketed the lighter, and returned to the hotel lobby. Remembering the way to the reception desk, he strained his ears not to bump into anyone and called it a success once his hand touched the surface of the desk.

“Can I help you?” The receptionist spoke with a polite tone.

“Yes, could you direct me to the phone? I, uh, can’t see very well,” he chuckled.

“Oh, of course.” The rustling of clothes and a creak of the chair suggested the man was getting up. “What of your companion?”

Arthur’s smile soured; he wasn’t overly thrilled that this man remembered them, but he couldn’t really expect anything else.

“Ah, just… A stupid fight,” he sighed. “He’s… We’re both rather hot-headed at times. I do have someone to call, though.”

“Of course. This way.”

The receptionist led him to the phone and offered to put the number in as well. Arthur breathed with relief – he didn’t have a perfect memory for numbers, so going on that alone was bound to end in him making a bunch of wrong calls. But this way, he searched his wallet until he found the familiar card and gave it to the man.

He took the receiver with a tight knot in his stomach. They hadn’t heard from Noel after they made sure he was at the hospital and his wound was being taken care of. He didn’t know whether he still worked there – whether he was still alive at all. All sorts of things could have gone wrong during surgery, or he could’ve lost too much blood, or—

“ Yes, Detective Noel speaking? ”

Arthur let out a shaky sigh at the familiar, lilting voice.

“Noel,” he said. “I… It’s A-Arthur.”

He heard a sharp intake of breath on the other side. “ Arthur! It’s good to hear you. You had me quite worried there, disappearing like that. ”

He couldn’t help a small smile forming on his face at the thought.

“Yes, I–I’m sorry about that… S-So you’re still in New York?” He asked, a little nervousness stealing its way into his voice.

“ Yeah, for now. Not many prospects anywhere else at the moment. Where’ve you two gone off to? ”

Arthur’s throat tightened. “Yes, um, about that. We’re… Ah, in New York, too. Actually—Can I meet you somewhere? I’d rather not have this conversation over the phone.”

“ Are you okay? ” Noel must have detected the strain on Arthur’s voice. “ D’you need anything? ”

“We’re—I’m…” Arthur faltered.

“ Where are you? ” Some rustling on the other side made it to his ears.

“Hotel Tudor, just off of Grand Central,” Arthur offered with a deflated sigh.

“ I’ll come pick you up. Hang tight. ”

The connection ended. Arthur let out a sigh that could have just as well been a laugh as he put the receiver back in its place. He hadn’t expected Noel to drop everything and come get him, but it made something warm flutter in his stomach amidst all the worry and regret. With Noel’s help, maybe they could find John and fix the situation somehow. They’d always come out of fights like this better for it, right?

As he directed his steps towards a seat in the lobby, a treacherous part of him whispered that before this, all their fights had ended because their survival depended on it. They could not afford to be at odds when they shared a body and the potential of death. It was just like Kayne said; there were universes where they’ve separated earlier, and it had never gone well for their friendship.

But thinking like that would not get him anywhere.

With nothing to do, the minutes passed torturously slowly; every time he heard steps approaching and thought it might be Noel, it turned out to just be random person. He forced himself to disregard the sound entirely, relying on the voices surrounding him, looking at where he assumed the faces of the people entering would be.

“Hey there!” He finally heard, and with all the nervous energy accumulated in his muscles, he jumped in his seat before standing. “You alright?”

“Noel,” Arthur sighed with relief. “Thank you for coming, seriously. I—”

“Don’t sweat it, kid. I’m glad to see you again. C’mon.”

Arthur followed Noel as best he could by sound alone, but late morning brought more guests to the lobby. He almost managed to get to the door without bumping into anyone, but Noel still noticed the difference.

“Are you okay?” He asked, putting a gentle hand on his forearm. Arthur let out a huff.

“I can’t see,” he whispered. “And John is… gone. Alright?”

“Gone? What do you mean—”

“That’s what I want to talk to you about,” Arthur replied, exiting onto fresh air. “Let’s just… Get someplace safe.”

“Sure.” Noel sounded worried now, but he knew when to put off an interrogation. “You need an arm, or…?”

“Yeah, thanks.” Arthur took the offered arm with gratitude. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, kid,” Noel scoffed with a chuckle. “Just tell me if you need anything else.”

Noel took them to a café at the corner of the street and ordered them two coffees. When they settled into a booth, he somewhat awkwardly informed Arthur that the café wasn’t busy, and that they were sitting by the window overlooking the street. Arthur appreciated the effort.

“So, what’s going on?” Noel asked intently once the waitress, who brought their cups was out of earshot.

“John and I separated,” Arthur said, cradling his steaming cup.

“Separated?”

“Yes, it’s… a long story.” Arthur waved his hand dismissively. “We performed the ritual in an old cult hideout near New York, so we decided to stay here to… figure things out, I suppose.”

He didn’t need sight to sense the frown on Noel’s face.

“We got here last night. John was quiet, uncharacteristically so, and—and I thought he’d need some space… You know, it must be overwhelming with a new body and all, and…” Arthur took a shaky breath. “And when I woke up this morning, he wasn’t there.”

“You mean he just left?” Noel asked disbelievingly.

“I mean, I—I don’t know what I thought at the moment, but I went to look for him eventually and… And I suppose I was angry.” He chuckled bitterly. “He found me down in the lobby and we argued, it… It seems stupid now.”

“What did he say?” Noel asked, taking a sip of his coffee.

Arthur rubbed his face. “I think he was… worried I’d get hurt without him. He lashed out, and—and gripped my arms so tight…”

His voice faltered. “Fuck. I got all defensive about my own autonomy, but I didn’t consider how it must’ve felt for him.”

“I imagine he must be pretty conflicted,” Noel mused.

“Conflicted?”

“Between protecting you and being his own person.” He put the cup down with a clink. “Does he even know what he wants out of life on this plane?”

Arthur frowned and took a breath to answer but halted with a sudden thought. He let out a laugh. “Do any of us ?” He offered instead.

Living with the prospect of deadly encounters on a daily basis wasn’t exactly grounds for long-term life goals; and Noel must have realized that, because he too let out a startled laugh.

“Alright, got me there. But you catch my meaning.”

“Yes, I… I suppose.” Arthur rubbed his thumb on the rim of the cup.

“You don’t like it,” Noel observed after a moment of silence.

“I…” He started. “I—I mean, we’ve worked towards this for—for so long, we… That was the goal. To separate, to have my—my body back and…”

“And you don’t like it.”

He inhaled, desperately wanting to deny it, yet knowing he could not. Noel was right – he didn’t like that John could just leave now, create a life all of his own without involving Arthur in it if he so wished. He didn’t like that John was now so far away, not just across the city but in a different body; he didn’t like the silence in his head, and using his left hand still felt foreign and strange.

“I can’t not like it, Noel,” he said instead with a crack in his voice. “John… deserves a body of his own, to know and enjoy all life has to offer. He was trapped in my head, probably more so than I was trapped with him. This is… This is the right thing.”

“Yeah,” Noel agreed. “And you’re allowed not to like it for a while.”

Arthur blinked instinctively, parting his lips, though no words came out.

“Kid,” Noel sighed. “Where is he now?”

“I—I don’t know,” Arthur mumbled. “I left him outside the hotel and when I went back he was gone.”

“Did he say what he looked like?”

Arthur surmised how John had described himself to him in front of the mirror at the hotel room and recalled that brief little moment where he held his palm to his face. It was fragile and full of possible meanings that Arthur couldn’t let himself examine right now. He left that, as well as John’s tentacles, out of the description.

“Right.” Noel said. “Any ideas where he could’ve gone? Places that come to mind?”

Arthur chuckled under his nose. “So, this is becoming a missing persons case now?”

“I mean, might as well,” Noel smirked. “Gotta do what we do best, right?”

“You do have a point.” Arthur nodded and finally drank the coffee. The taste was mildly bitter, leaving a watery and slightly nutty aftertaste on his tongue. “Honestly, we didn’t spend that much time here, and I don’t imagine he’d want to revisit any of the places we’ve… Maybe except for Marie’s,” he said. “But she wouldn’t know him, of course.”

“Alright,” Noel replied. “We can go there, check the area, then go back to the hotel. He might just come back.”

“Yeah,” Arthur nodded through the bile in his throat.

“And then you gotta talk, kid.” He could imagine the look Noel was giving him right now. “I’m sure you can work this out.”

“Yeah, I… I hope so.”

---

John walked for what could have been hours before finally slowing down. Was he trying to escape Arthur – as if he’d been able (or better yet, willing) to chase him down? Or was he escaping his own thoughts, nagging at the back of his mind, spurring him ever forwards? He didn’t know what to think, he didn’t know what to feel, and everything happening in his guts, chest, and throat amounted to a maelstrom that just made him feel… sick.

He was lost.

As if on cue to the thought, a church bell rang to announce the hour. John stopped altogether to consider his surroundings. He had walked into a poorer part of the city, it looked like, with slightly more dilapidated buildings and a familiar-looking church. John frowned and inspected the area closer. Was this…

Yes. Not far from the church John could see the outline of the community center they had visited with Arthur when searching for Mr. Scratch. Where they had met Oscar.

Did that mean Oscar worked in this church? John wondered, staring at the door. It would be monumentally stupid to go in there, wouldn’t it? Even more so to seek him out – the man Arthur had had to abandon because of him; the first friend he had made since John showed up; the one John had tried to kill out of his frustrations.

But was he not frustrated now, as well? Wouldn’t that be the ultimate lesson for Arthur about who John really was, what he was capable of – the carnage, the power, the inexpressible cruelty that put him above these meager mortal shells; that let him thrive in the Dark World for countless years. He wasn’t human, and he never intended to be.

But he wasn’t those monstrous impulses anymore, either.

The violence would feel good for a second, the pleasure drowned and overpowered by shame and regret. He could feel the taste of them in throat even now, standing before the building dedicated to a god he did not know of. A god that might not even exist.

He went into the building without any idea why. One of the heavy wooden doors was open, and he passed it with a skeptical quirk of an eyebrow, as if someone else controlled this body and he was just there to judge their questionable decisions. In a second the bright light of day was replaced by the half-dark of stone walls and stained-glass windows, illuminated by flickering candles inside.

The air was chilly and smelled strongly of incense and old stone. There weren’t many people about, and they were mostly sitting silently and motionlessly in the pews, with their heads bowed in silent prayer.

He hesitated at the entrance. What the fuck was he doing here? An entity of madness fitted into a human body, standing in a catholic church. Did he hope for answers? Clarity? Absolution? Was he completely out of his mind?

He was about to turn on his heel and leave, when the smaller doors to a wooden box by the wall opened. An older woman left for the nearest pew, clutching a pearly necklace with a cross in her hands – a rosary, John belatedly remembered. From the other side of the box emerged a man in a priestly garb, his movements a little unsteady. He turned his head a little as he closed the door behind him, and he met John’s gaze briefly.

For a terrifying moment, John felt recognized. He knew Oscar would not, could not know who he is, not even knowing of his existence through Arthur, but still he felt seen like never before. That halted his movement enough for Oscar to approach, like a predator hypnotizing prey until it could comfortably devour its fill.

“You look lost, my friend,” he spoke softly. His voice, his accent, his left arm a stump at the elbow – all of that reminded John of his frustrations. Of what he craved from Arthur and, at the same time, what he ran away from.

“You don’t know,” he replied with a scowl, looking away. He felt Oscar’s eyes on him, on his face – rich brown and intelligent, that Arthur had called beautiful when John had described them to him.

“I may as well not,” he shrugged. “But God does.”

John scoffed. “Your god doesn’t care.”

Oscar blinked up at him, some sort of realization smoothing out his face. “Believe me, I know how that feels,” he said quietly, so only the two of them could hear.

John raised an eyebrow at him in doubt. “Do you?”

Oscar motioned with his head to follow him to the corner, closer to the confession booth. John felt compelled to follow, if only for curiosity’s sake.

Oscar looked up at him again, for a second trying to read something in his face. With the mask disguising half of his features, John deemed that an impossible task.

“I can tell you’ve been through a fair share of pain, my friend,” he spoke again in that gentle tone that made John want to smash something. “It seems impossible that a merciful God would allow that.”

John barely stopped himself from outright snarling. “ If your god exists, he is anything but merciful. Trust me.”

Oscar tilted his head at him curiously. “Yet you have come here. Why?”

This time the growl that brewed in his chest was directed at his own damn self. Why did he come here – to Oscar specifically? To scratch at old wounds, pick at the scabs that formed over tender flesh, and tear the thin layer of fresh skin anew with his blood-stained claws? Was this at all a punch directed at Arthur – or just a reminder of his own failing? What was he looking for in the recesses of his old identities that was so important and yet so lost?

“I…” He faltered. “I don’t know.”

He let his gaze fall to the ground, the anger and frustration dissolving into exhaustion that fell upon him like an avalanche.

“It’s alright,” Oscar said. “There are times we don’t know our purpose.”

“And what is your purpose?” He countered with a heavy frown, almost challenging him with the knowledge that he had. Oscar gave him a slight, sad smile.

“Other people,” he spoke. “There are times I struggle – we all do. But in those times especially we need other people to latch onto. To help. To protect. To inspire us. So, we may then inspire others.”

The glistening determination in Oscar’s eyes was too much for John to handle. He knew he spoke of Arthur, and a spark of that clawed, cloying jealousy reared its head, looking for something to sink its teeth into. But who was he to feel this way now? He left Arthur at that hotel alone because… what? Because he was scared of his own feelings? Frustrated with the intensity, the depth of what he felt, and feared that Arthur may not want him to stay, should he find out? Knowing what he’d done – knowing what he could do. Arthur wanted him to be human, undefeated – he wanted him to be other people for him, to inspire his humanity, but John would never be able to live up to that standard.

But Oscar could.

If he could give Arthur this – the companionship he craved, the friend he’d had to abandon – then maybe he could forgive John for failing. Maybe he could forgive him for being a piece of a shattered mirror – a shard of glass, always meant to cut his fingertips.

“Oscar,” he said quietly, noting the look of surprise on the priest’s face. “I am not here by mistake.”

Oscar frowned, trying to understand the change in tone. “I didn’t—”

“Arthur told me about you,” he lied. Oscar’s face paled in shock.

“What? A-Arthur…?”

“Yes,” John looked down at him, expressionless. “I can… tell him I ran into you. I’m sure he’d want to talk to you.”

Oscar stuttered for a moment, clearly thrown by this turn of events. “Why? Wh—Who are you?”

John took a breath. “Because I owe it to him. Because I,” –he huffed and gritted his teeth. “Because he deserves to have a friend like you.”

Gentle. Soft. Kind. With no teeth that could cut bone clean in half, no tentacled limbs that would smother every part of him if given the chance. Without masks, manipulation, lies.

No sharp edges that had sliced through his identity, leaving only shattered dust to be swept up with the wind.

He’d turned to leave, but Oscar grabbed his arm. “Wait,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I… He said—”

“Trust me, Oscar,” John said. “He will want to speak with you.”

“How do you know?” He breathed out, and John pressed his lips together briefly.

“Because he didn’t want to leave you. I told him to.”

Oscar let go of his arm, staring at him with wide eyes. John looked back at him one more time and, without another word, turned and left the church.

[peskellence]

Rule Of Nines

Retribution

Explicit content, Graphic Violence

(18+)

Pairing: Reed900

Tags: AU, Multi-Chapter, Lovers to Enemies, Kidnapping, Crime and Violence, Oral, Anal, Dom/ Sub, Toxic Relationships

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Summary: In a world where loyalty is currency and compromise is weakness, Gavin Reed, a ruthless mobster, lives by his own rules. When an old enemy resurfaces with a deadly demand, his life is thrown into chaos-as his trusted second-in-command, Nines, is put to the ultimate test of allegiance. Will he stay committed to Gavin, or will the loyal guard dog begin to stray? (Human Mob!AU)

Warnings: Major Character Death (before events of the story), Graphic Violence, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Dubious Consent

Tag List: @sweeteatercat @wedonthaveawhile @ladyj-pl @tentoriumcerebelli @negative-citadel @faxaway

If you would like to be added to the tag list for future projects, please let me know♡

The basement door creaked open, rusted hinges groaning under the weight as the rotten wood swung back. Nines slipped through the gap, calmly surveying his surroundings. Motion-activated bulbs flickered, the yellow fluorescents humming incessantly—catching slightly before promptly extinguishing, unable to light.

The room was dark, making it impossible to see what was shrouded within the oppressive walls. It was an area the family rarely frequented, save for general storage, with no one enjoying spending any significant time there. It served no purpose outside that—just a cold, dead space.

Of course, it had adopted a more sinister use in the last 24 hours.

Finally, a charge of electricity succeeded in its pursuit. With another groaning whirr, illumination flooded the mercury tubes. A whine of protest came from below, coming from the bundled mass of flesh curled against the concrete. 

A cord of rope bound Gavin's wrists, with a matched coil wrapping his ankles. A rag was shoved haphazardly into his mouth, muffling the bulk of his voice.

This foresight proved invaluable, as the man had spent the hours preceding his unconsciousness screaming through the walls.

Cries that had been less defined by suffering, more than they were angry—vengeful. He had thrashed around like a caged animal, stumbling against walls and crates as he attempted to evade the repeated blows being struck against his body.

They came relentlessly. Dull thuds of merciless impact, never once stopping or slowing—like the incessant drip of a leaky tap. Nines had not seen much, although it was hard to escape the noise. Instead, he had tucked himself away on the floors above, diverting his focus to more pressing matters.

The urgent call to action demanded by an increasingly dire scenario. Devising a plan of attack—determining movements, coordinating forces, and ensuring nothing would go wrong. 

Because nothing could go wrong. 

If it did, Nines stood to lose everything. 

"Did you sleep well?"

Gavin's response was delayed. He blinked through the sudden onslaught of light, lids flickering in line with the unsteady glow. Having spent so much time in darkness, his bleary eyes took time to adjust. When they finally did, they focused on Nines—glaring from beneath his furrowed brow. Flickers of amber mingled with searing hatred as he attempted to form a snarl around the gag.

Nines moved forward, ripping it from his mouth, despairing at the mass of saliva that had wadded its end into a ball. The captive gasped to fill his lungs, a reflexive response after having his breathing constricted for so long. His nose was broken—damaged cartilage crushed against his face, nostrils crusted with blood.

Once the breathing had stabilised, he rasped out his reply, voice rough and defiant:

"Go fuck yourself."

Nines huffed before casting the rag aside, allowing it to flop onto the red-speckled canvas surrounding them. 

"I suppose you've never been a morning person," he hummed distantly. "I am sorry it had to come to this, but you really did leave me no choice. I intend on bringing my brother home. I won't have you, nor anyone else, stand in the way."

He awaited the riposte, the kind of superfluous resistance that always came when Gavin was challenged. Anticipated the warmth dripping down his cheek as he realised the futility of using his bound limbs and resorted to spitting instead.

But it didn't happen. Instead, he did something worse. Something he knew would damage Nines more than any other form of protest.

He jutted his chin, attempting to flick the mass of hair clumped on his temple, before flopping his body to one side. Shivering, he tucked his knees to his chest and turned away completely—refusing to look at the other man, presenting instead the procession of welts that littered his back. Raised and raw, discoloured by bruising. 

All manner of physical and verbal resistance could be tolerated—was expected—but Nines refused to be ignored. It was an offence that could not be forgiven, demanding swift repercussions.

He was willing to extend a warning first. Clasping Gavin's shoulder with measured firmness before smoothly pulling back. His battered body rolled compliantly, too weak to resist the momentum. 

"I am in charge now," Nines reminded, capturing his chin between his thumb and forefinger before forcing his head upward. "The sooner you prove willing to accept that, the sooner this unpleasant arrangement can become more tolerable."

He flitted his thumb possessively against the canvas of stubble, reducing the pressure of his grip. His captive showed no gratitude for this as his eyes remained fixed on the corner of the room. Boring holes into vacant storage containers, refusing to meet his gaze.

The show of mercy did not last long. Nines' hold tightened again—remaining fingers enclosing his face—digging into spongy flesh which yielded obediently to the force. He demanded Gavin's mind to follow. Appealing to any sense of reason that might permeate his haze of rage.

"Is your pride truly worth suffering like this?" 

Pressing tightly against his jaw, the smaller man winced in pain—but refused to cooperate, much to Nines' growing frustration. 

"You can come with us; I am willing to allow that. To let you assist in the operation. It isn't too late to redeem yourself, to prove that you can do the right thing."

This suggestion finally elicited a response, breaking through the stonewalled stubbornness. Gavin laughed bitterly, barking in the face of his generosity.

"What do you know about doing the 'right thing'?" he accused, casting him a sidelong glower. "If you wanna act all high and mighty? Start preaching fake fucking virtue? Then save it for the choir of traitors waiting around to lick your taint. I'd rather die than listen."

Nines rolled his eyes at the dramatics. The man had always been like this—unapologetically crude and obstinate, even when it created endless problems for him.

It was a surprise that his mouth hadn't landed him in deeper trouble over the years, although it could be rationalised by the fact he'd always had protection. This had undoubtedly given rise to his excessive confidence: a sense of unearned entitlement and superiority.

Something that should have been challenged sooner and a wrong Nines sought to correct. Robbing the man of his safeguards, he aimed to shake the foundations of security with long-overdue repercussions.

He leaned in, pulling Gavin closer until their faces were inches apart. Smothering him with heady puffs, tracing the wounded slits of his lips with his thumb. He drew at the malleable flesh, moving with intrusive touches from which the other man reeled.

But Nines was stronger. He hooked a digit between his lips, pulling them down, forcing his mouth open. He brought his own close, breathing laboriously into the wet cavern. Not to claim it—but to establish he could . A demonstration of how easy it would be, how powerless Gavin would be to stop it.

"I can't understand why you are making this difficult." His words were delivered in a way he knew the man found irresistible. Syllables stretched into long draws. A decadent richness undercut by a not disproportionate amount of menace. "You've never had an issue answering to me in the bedroom. Is this really so different?"

Because if Gavin knew what was good for him, he would concede to temptation. Listen to the undercutting demand, following its instructions.

In contrast, he snarled , growing increasingly defiant. He lunged with what little strength he could muster, attempting to sever the digits pawing him. Snapping at them with sharply bared teeth.

Having exhausted patience with the clumsy flitting between cold snubs and flaring temper, Nines made good on his warning. He drew back his available hand, balling it into a fist before wiping the sneer from his captor's face. 

Knuckles embedded mangled cartilage as shattered bone crunched and squelched. Gavin howled as his head flopped back, dangling limply. Dizzied by impact, he gawked at the ceiling—sights unfocused, slipping loose from any grip on reality. 

His shoulders slumped as his body attempted to slip laxly to the ground. Nines prevented this. Holding firm, refusing to let go.

"Just think for a moment," he seethed, shaking the increasingly limp weight, urging a response. "This entire situation could have been avoided if you had simply listened to reason. Don't make any more rash decisions."

"... S-Screw —" The words were aborted, gargled in rubied pools rapidly filling his mouth. The strike had reopened a split on his lip, consequences of insolence dribbling in rivulets down his chin. 

The droplets glinted like gems in pale casts of light, and Nines felt like a king. 

It was a level of control he had never experienced, a power that couldn't be rivalled. His only regret was the delayed ascension of his throne. He drank in the sight of his former master, swilling liberally from the gratification of his crumpled form. Reasoned factions began to desert him as he became lost to intoxication. 

"Come on, baby ." The term of endearment was hissed like a slur, mingled with venom pooled on his tongue. "This isn't worth us fighting over. You're smart enough to know that, right?"  

Nines' trademark deadpan had adopted a more abrasive quality, exaggerating gruff inflexions to the point of mockery. As the echoes of his own cruel taunts were levied against him, Gavin was knocked from his stupor. 

"I said what I said." His brow scrunched together as he sharply hocked the bubbling liquid from his lips. "I'm not going to change my mind. If you don't like that, stop being a coward and finish the job. Or are you gonna let your gaggle of shitheads do your dirty work?" 

The numbing high of euphoria fizzled in the wake of this rejection. Sensation returned as Nines was struck by a lingering pang of sentiment. Inconvenient and inescapable—something that refused to let him proceed. 

He held all the cards—had claimed all spoils of their twisted game. He could do what he wanted. Snub Gavin out, extinguish his flame, all the while inflicting unspeakable suffering, making him hurt in every measure that he had hurt him. 

Nines was in a prime position to claim his victory. All he had to do was instigate the final move…

"I don't want to kill you." 

"I don't give two shits what you want. You've already taken everything from me. I'm not letting you take my pride." 

He couldn't move, gripped by indecision only Gavin inspired. It made him doubt his initiative, questioning whether or not he could act—knew how to—in the absence of his coercion. 

Despite everything, Nines was still losing, and he hated himself for it.

He let go of the other man's chin, removing the anchor holding him upright. His former lover teetered on the unsteady foundation of his knees before dropping back, collapsing against the gnarled concrete. 

"I am going to get Connor." The icy detachment in his voice resumed as he briskly stood. Refusing to betray any lingering disappointment or the bitter sting of his longing. "I'll decide what to do with you when I return. Whatever the outcome, make preparations." 

"Not like I can do much else." Gavin traced the perimeter of his makeshift cell with a pointed flourish of his head. His mouth contorted, forming into a twisted parody of a grin, as he flashed Nines a set of tobacco-stained teeth. 

It was astonishing how apparent his flaws seemed. With rose-tinted glasses removed, leaving only the overhead glow to cast a stark, unforgiving light on what he really was. 

"Take your time, sweet pea. Don't rush back." 

"I also meant what I said," Nines gravely reminded, plagued by a twisting ache in his gut. It pulled and wrenched, threatening to eviscerate his precariously held resolve. "I don't want to kill you, Gavin—but if it is a life for a life, I will not hesitate." 

Ascending the narrow staircase back to the hideout, Floyd was waiting to greet him. His pudgy lips parted curiously, attention darting down the passage towards the sealed door of the basement. Nines offered little answer to his silent query, save a curt shake of his head and equally brusque demand: 

"Bring him water in three hours, and make sure he doesn't get out." He stepped around the gawking man, straightening the lapel of his jacket. "Outside of that, do whatever you feel required to keep him in line."

Floyd stuttered a fumbled agreement that Nines did not fully hear. He doubted the simple man grasped the full weight of his permissions, but hoped the crux of the message was understood.

Turning the corner, he rounded his way towards the meeting room. A congregation of men stood huddled around the card table, conversing in tense mumbles as they pocketed supplies. Nines watched from the sidelines, observing the scene through an observation slot. This was until he kicked the door, firmly nudging it open. 

Vincenzo was first to look up, clicking a silencer atop his pistol before nodding respectfully to his superior. A message had been sent to DeLuca advising the deal was accepted. The rival gang would know they were coming and, despite the compliance, would undoubtedly be readying their defences. Ensuring they were prepared for tricks, planning required contingencies—

They had no awareness of the almighty storm about to rip through them, casting ruin to every one of their poorly conceived strategies. 

Nines gathered his own resources. Goggles and respirator slipped into the back of his tailored suit pants, the resultant bulk concealed by the tail of his overcoat. His pistol was already waiting, tucked dormant in the silky lining of his inner pocket. 

Checking the time on his watch, he adjusted the concealed mechanism attached to its case. Ensuring it was securely in place—and accessible when its moment came. 

A large duffle bag awaited him, propped against the nearby wall. The men closest, Rooney and Meyer, compliantly passed it over—reassuring their leader the contents had been checked. 

Nines pulled back the drawn fastening to peer inside, studying the neatly stacked bills before raising an inquisitive brow at Meyer. "And the rest?" 

"Y-Yeah, just like you said—" the lanky man responded, bobbing his head in overzealous insistence. "Promise, boss. Everything's ready." 

Satisfied with the fretful testimony, Nines resealed the bag. Slinging its ample mass onto his shoulder, he commanded the charge out of the hideout, his men following suit. 

The journey was spent in silence, as he knew that no further instructions were demanded. Everyone understood their roles, aware of what had to be done. 

The underground bunker DeLuca had led them to was a compact, windowless space—enclosed by walls of crumbling cinderblock. It had once served as a storage area for a now-defunct company, though the specifics hardly mattered. Basic blueprints of the facility had been recoverable, but without insider intelligence on the 'Snakebite Syndicate', it was impossible to know how accurate they remained. 

That said, initial scouting of the compound suggested no significant structural changes. This was fortunate. 

Less fortunate was the partition that had been installed through the centre of the room, dividing it. The barricade was fortified with bulletproof panes, with access permitted through a revolving doorway, the controls undoubtedly on the other side of the wall. A drop slot, similar to a mail chute, was also present, awaiting their deposit.

Evidently, Salvatore was making a business of this style of ransomed exchange, the area forming a hotbed for similar dealings. 

The mobster in question was sitting in wait, flanked by two of his more imposing goons, a chair positioned across from his station. The foundation of the room appeared to slope, with the Syndicate's leader positioned towards the peak of its incline.

Nines noted the deliberateness of this choice as he sat in his allotted seat. A smaller opponent would have been forced to crane to see through the opened window shutter. Fortunately for the towering figure, this wasn't a concern.

"I must say, Nolan, I was a little surprised when I found out it was you I’d be meetin’ with..." There was an anticipative twinkle in the older man’s eyes, matched by an assured smirk. "What happened to the old ball and chain? Feelin’ under the weather?" 

"The family has undergone a restructure," he curtly responded, studying the man scrupulously before slowly arching forward, face inches from the glass. "You will be answering to me now."

His adversary appeared somewhat rattled by the confidence. He edged back in his seat, beady eyes blowing to the largest fraction physically possible…

Until crinkled folds formed in their corners, and his lips twitched with the re-emergence of his grin. It was far more pronounced this time, stretching to each of his prominent ears as he jostled the men on either side, nudging their forearms until they broke into obedient chuckles.

An inferred celebration of their superior's planning, as his scheme had come to fruition. 

Precisely as he'd wanted. 

The successful dismantling of Gavin's leadership, with Nines and Connor acting as pawns. Unwitting means to an end, their suffering collateral in achieving his goals. 

Chuckles built to laughter, fanning in waves across the Syndicate, as Nines imagined propelling a fist through their transparent barricade. 

Enclosing DeLuca's throat in his hands, he'd trapped the hideous laugh as he systematically crushed his larynx. Cutting airflow, allowing pressure to build until it sought escape through the swell of his eyes. Vessels would balloon and rupture as the man's ruddy skin turned blue, and he was decisively robbed of his ability to make the sound again—

The fantasy ended with a steadying breath as Nines grounded himself. The morbid images slipped away, allowing for a renewed focus on the task at hand. 

"I want to see my brother," he requested evenly, masking all traces of malicious intent. "If you can prove he is alive, I'll give you the money. Fail to do so, and the deal is off."

He hefted the duffle bag, brandishing it towards the glass for added incentive. DeLuca's eyes gleamed with avarice, captivated by the bulging seams. He was practically drooling as he motioned to a pair of his thugs, who vanished beyond the glass.

When they returned, they did so with the audience their 'guest' had requested. 

Connor was presented like a hunting trophy, his weakened body propped limply by his armpits, anchored between their grips. Were it not for low, wheezed breaths rattling through his swollen lips, Nines would've assumed they were too late. 

The mutilated figure scarcely resembled his brother. Every inch of flesh was covered in bruises, patterned by deep-set gashes dragged and scored in all directions. One of his eyes was pummeled so rigorously it had swollen shut, while the other was hidden beneath a serrated mass of pink. 

There were also blisters—clustered in patches that bubbled and wept—like he'd been drenched with scalding water.

As though the depths of brutality weren't enough, they'd had to escalate their torture, inflicting pain so excruciating that Connor undoubtedly pleaded for death. 

He could not answer when Nines called, but it wouldn't have mattered. The mobster couldn't hear anything past the roaring rush of blood in his ears.

Rage boiled. Hissing like steam through every available pore, gurgling beneath his skin as it demanded release. He would not let this atrocity go unpunished—yielding an inch to the creatures who had done this to Connor.

They would receive no reward, with the family under strict guidance to give them exactly what they deserved. The only exception was DeLuca, who would be forced to wait until last so that Nines could deliver fitting retribution. 

Resisting the impulse to abandon all sense—to charge headfirst into action and snatch his brother from their revolting clutches—he resumed the act of compliance. The ploy developed gradually as he noted the number and positioning of the captors. Determining vulnerabilities and establishing escape routes before identifying a primary candidate: 

The fire exit stationed at the crest of the slope.

True to his word, Nines made the deposit. The duffle bag rattled down the chute, echoing through its narrow confines. He then released the handle of the drop box, a spring lock pulley snapping it back. On the other side, Salvatore’s men yanked the opposing lever, eagerly retrieving their spoils. 

"I’m glad you could see reason," DeLuca lauded, exuding satisfaction as his men fumbled to raise the bag onto a nearby countertop. "I’ve always liked ya. Connor, too. You’re good kids. That’s hard to come by in this line of work. Ya know what I mean?"

Nines bit down on his tongue, threatening to rupture the muscle, as he forced a cordial nod.

"Really, this ain’t nothin’ personal, it's just—" 

His feigned sympathy was interrupted as his lackeys ripped through the bag’s fastenings. The severed drawstring fell to the ground as one of them exclaimed in cackled delight:

"Holy fucking shit! Look at all this!" 

Salavotre’s head snapped around, beaming in tandem as he keenly leant toward the counter. The goons had recovered the first stacks of notes, brandishing them like fans. The rest of the layer was excavated, piles carded through with practised thumbs, as they were checked for the number of bills.

As this practice was underway, Nines also began to count. Smoothly and methodically in his head: 

Four. 

"I understand," came a measured lie as he clasped his hands in his lap, fingers wound tight. "Although I wish circumstances could have been different. With communication, we might have come to a fairer arrangement."

"Ahh, don’t be like that," Salvatore dismissed, waving his stout fingers. "Reed was gonna be a serious problem in expanding my turf. I know he was still sore about what I did to his Pa."

Nines was doing a masterful job of appearing focused on DeLuca while his attention had shifted elsewhere. His sharp eyes stared through him, trained on the men rifling through the duffle bag.

"I would’ve gone for him directly, but ya know how it is..." The older man looked Nines up and down, extending his reach to trace his full stature. A not-insubstantial degree of jealousy was evident in the despondent curl of his lips. "He had protection."

"Had eliminating Gavin been your goal, there would have been other ways to do it." Nines made a concerted effort not to let any anger bleed through the cracks of his stony visage. "It is a shame that you didn’t consider appealing to me directly. I am my own man, with my own autonomy. I believe you will find I am quite reasonable."

Three.

"Yeah, but it’s…different with you two…what with…" Salvatore rolled his wrist, floundering to find the desired words before abandoning at tact. Snorting uncouthly, his shoulders stooped in a dismissive shrug. "Look. Let’s not play dumb here. We all know you were close." 

"Yeah, real close."

A rogue snicker emanated from the makeshift workbench. The men assigned to count the money had unceremoniously abandoned their task, opting instead to jostle each other with a series of juvenile shoves. The larger of the two, whom Nines identified as the instigator, began flipping his wrist limply, speaking in a breezy, lisping cadence. Obscene displays soon escalated as the second man bent over the table, his cohort positioned behind him. Together, they mimed unsavoury acts, scored by wanton moans and exaggerated pants. The dominant party repeatedly swatted the air above the other’s backside, adding to the vulgar pantomime.

Salvatore made a show of frowning, although it was clear he was amused by the antics. He then motioned towards the table, demanding they resume their previous task.

 "Point being: I knew I had to do something extreme to shake up the waters. You don’t get what you want in this world by keepin’ on as a little fish."

"I wholly agree," Nines drawled, citing a muddled analogy DeLuca favoured during his time with the family. Something he’d frequently spout to Connor during his coaching on finances:

"If you choose to swim with the sharks, you mustn't allow yourself to bleed. Unless you wish to be eaten."

Following his cue, the more overt 'muscle' present in his carefully curated company began to position themselves, ready for an impending charge. Nines continued his efforts to retain DeLuca’s focus, feigning interest in his mundane response, all the while pondering the most gratifying ways to shatter his skull.

"Hey, you got it," the smarmy man winked, clicking his tongue as he did so. "Props for bein’ a strong swimmer, Nole. Better luck next time." 

Two. 

Unfortunately, Nines would need to step up his efforts, as progress risked being fatally hindered. Salvatore was seeking to wrap things up, signalling to the men holding Connor, ushering them into action with a firm head tilt. They began to advance towards the rotating doorway as their boss to close the metal window shutter. A brusque conclusion to their exchange, having gotten what he wanted. 

Nines glanced at Vincenzo, who had been examining the catch on the entrance. Namely, it's flimsy aluminium plating, scarcely secured by loose bolts. He gave his superior a nod, ensuring there would be no issues in claiming access to the room—when the timing was right. 

As it stood, they couldn’t allow DeLuca’s men to breach the seal of the door. Not in the absence of a crucial moment yet to pass. 

"I can assure you my blood is in no danger of being spilt," Nines began cryptically, seeking to recapture the man’s attention, "but I fear yours is already in the water."

This effectively stalled Salvatore's movements. His grip hung suspended on the handle before gradually loosening. "...Whatchu talkin’ about, kid?" 

"I am simply suggesting that with how you currently operate, you are likely to make some enemies." He paused momentarily, watching as he gauged the man's reaction. "Given your reputation for defection and backstabbing, I doubt you’ll find many associates willing to lend you protection, ‘Snakebite.’" 

DeLuca was less than appreciative of the advice. His face flushed red, veins pulsing from the crinkled folds of his brow, as his lips pulled into a tense line. 

"I don’t know what you’re implyin’, faggot ," Any show of decorum was gone as he spat the hateful rhetoric in response to the slight. Proving his namesake and exposing precisely the calibre of deceptive bastard he was, " but I don't need any protection. I get what I want when I want it—" 

To illustrate his point, he levied a pudgy finger at the room behind him, gesticulating wildly to the men counting his money. They were making good progress, moving onto another layer, closer to their penultimate find…

Not that they were aware of this. They would be staying much longer for all they knew, sorting through piles of ill-earned riches. Nines’ own dormant fingers migrated from their neatly held clasp as one of them arched towards his wrist. 

One. 

Satisfied with the silence, Salvatore reclined in his chair with a grunt. Running a sleeve across his temple, he dabbed at the dense sheen of sweat beginning to form. "Now, don't run this for yourself by gettin’ all sour. I already told ya, ‘better luck next time.’"

Beads of perspiration trickled down, in line with the steady tick of seconds beneath the glass of Nines' watch. His finger deftly traced the mechanism, ready to unleash its cataclysmic reckoning. 

"I don't think we'll need to worry about next time." 

Now.

As DeLuca's men reached the layers containing decoy notes—and before any suspicion could be drawn—Nines detonated the trigger. The concealed devices in the bag promptly ignited, releasing billows of smoke that rapidly filled the enclosed space. Chaos erupted, with members of the Syndicate stumbling blindly, clutching their throats as they wheezed in panic.

The infiltration began.

Protective equipment was removed from pockets—strapped securely across eyes and mouths. Vincenzo stepped back, guiding his cohorts to do the same, as he retrieved a handgun from his pocket, aiming it towards the doorway. With a targeted shot at the catch, the flimsy metal promptly crumpled, splintering into shrapnel. DeLuca and his men were left exposed as the first of the assailants advanced.

The thugs holding Connor were dealt with first. A decisive shot between their eyes, a bullet embedded in each temple, to which they folded like marionettes onto the ground. Rooney and Meyer moved in fast, catching their captive and holding him upright.

Any further shots were held as they carried him towards the fire exit, hurriedly breaching the seal. They slipped from view, the breeze outside slicing through the blackened clouds, moving Connor to safety.

The door was slammed shut, and in the knowledge no further harm would fall upon him, Nines showed no hesitation. Save for covering exits, coordination and planning became less of a concern. He raised an arm before flinging it forward, a clear signal to proceed.

What ensued was a massacre. The spearing of fish in a concrete tank as they desperately floundered for escape. Puerile tendencies notwithstanding, DeLuca's men were far from amateurs—but they put up little resistance. 

The confusion was too great, and the ambush too precise. One by one, they fell. 

A man by the door clutched his throat as a bullet pierced through it, eyes wide in disbelief. He gurgled like a brook, mouth spilling blood, as he futilely fought for air. Another man darted away as he fell at his feet. Searching blindly for escape, but turning too late. A silenced shot cut through the mist, catching him in the chest.

The smoke had dispersed slightly due to the previously opened exit, but it hadn’t provided enough reprieve for the men to establish bearings. Most were eliminated before they could comprehend what was happening. 

Nines had no consideration for them, retaining focus on his primary target. Barging through the dwindling crowds, callously thrusting aside survivors as they scrambled for cover, he headed straight for DeLuca. 

The cover continued to thin, parting in a slow reveal of the immense carnage surrounding them. Bodies lay strewn across the room, lifeless eyes gawking at the crimson streaks which fanned in all directions—traces of life lending vibrancy to a once barren palette of grey. 

Salvatore shuddered, mouth agape, as trembling hands fumbled with a gun half-retrieved from his pocket. Nines quickly impeded his efforts with a fierce hook to the jaw and a targeted kick to the abdomen. 

The man was propelled into a nearby wall, weapon flinging from his jacket and skidding across the tiles. He wheezed, stunned by the impact, as his hands fell to his sides, fingers twitching involuntarily. Nines surveyed the sea of death, discerning no lingering forces remained to aid him.

He then signalled for Vincenzo to open the exit, permitting the remaining smoke to clear from the space. With the field of vision returning, he ripped off his mask, tossing it to one side before continuing his advance.

The older man snapped from his daze as fear sparked in his eyes. Nines loomed closer, becoming lost in his violent desire to extinguish the light—quashing it with his own hands, watching it fade permanently. 

In grim comprehension of what was approaching, Salvatore made a desperate attempt to slither free of his fate. He clambered through the bloodied embers of his empire, crawling on hands and knees, whimpering like an infant. Babbling through the pitiful sounds, he implored Nines to search his conscience, to show him mercy —

He would show every measure of mercy they had shown his brother.

Nines didn't think, couldn't think, as he grabbed DeLuca by the collar and forced him to turn around. Searching the man's horrified gaze, he smoothly adjusted his pistol—grasping it by the barrel, rotating it so the grip was angled towards his cheek.

" Holy shit, please—God— don't —"

He struck it across his face. Repeating the motion again and again, until skin and muscle tore like paper, and rivers of red flowed freely through cool, pitted steel.

DeLuca's face soon lost structure—reduced to a shapeless, pulpy mass. The attached body twitched and spasmed as gurgles rumbled from what remained of his lips. Torn ribbons of flesh that flapped weakly, futilely, until their movement finally ceased. 

Then, there was nothing. Just a silent, broken ragdoll collapsing laxly against the tiles. 

With the task finished Nines strode from the primary scene, scouting the adjoining rooms until he found an old utility closet fitted with a basin. He washed the blood from his hands, staining porcelain with the filth of the savagery he had just committed.

He then traversed back through the chaos, leaving the hideout through the fire door and stepping out into the sunlight. Breathing deep, he filled his lungs with crisp fall air. Far less oppressive than the acrid stench of copper and gunpowder.

The mollifying ritual was halted by the rumbling of a burner phone concealed in his jacket. Nines reached inside, retrieving the device before surveying its contents.

Rooney and Meyer had done as instructed in securing Connor's help. The correspondence had come from Dr Victor Dagny, the principal of a prestigious local medical centre and established confidant to the family:

┌─────────────────────────────┐

                                    

Junius Ward  

       

Room Number 317     

Let me know when you're done.     

- V.

             

└─────────────────────────────┘

┌─────────────────────────────┐

                                    

I am done.  

       

Ready for transfer. 

- N. 

   

└─────────────────────────────┘

The trip to the hospital was gruelling despite the short duration. His mind ran wild with possibilities, ruminating on all manner of news that could be awaiting him on his arrival. 

With every rotation of wheels against tarmac, the raging pulse of adrenaline tapered, and the lingering smog of fury dispersed. In this renewed clarity, he was forced to contend with an increasingly bleak outcome. One where his triumph meant nothing, as he was made to endure the loss of his most valuable treasure—

But he couldn’t succumb to despair, the situation demanding greater mental fortitude. As the journey wore on, his mind rebuilt its strongholds. Anxiety turned to disillusionment as Nines blocked his grim introspections. Upon arrival, he mustered the strength to power out of the transfer vehicle, pushing aside the heavy doors of the clinic’s entrance.

Dagny was waiting for him, rolling on his heels, lips pulled into a crestfallen scowl—prepared to recite a briefing on Connor’s condition. Nines neglected to listen, veering towards the Junius Ward, reasoning he could discern the severity of the situation when he saw his brother. 

He doubted anything could be said that hadn't already been ascertained from the profound desecration they'd discovered him in. Were the prognosis even worse than that, Nines did not want to hear it. Not now. 

He just wanted to be with him. To be close, even if his sibling could not comprehend his presence.

Despite all internal persuasion that he was ready—with cognitive strongholds sufficient to shield him from psychological blows—Nines was woefully mistaken. 

Upon entering Room 317, all assurance shattered the moment he saw him. 

Connor, the incarnation of strength and vibrancy, wrapped like a corpse in a polyester shroud.

His body was drowned in sterile vacancy, not just from the starched linen but from the oppressive shine of the lights above. A stark illumination that only served to highlight the full extent of his injuries.

Almost every inch of his body was bandaged—binding skin that had been irreparably damaged and preserving what little there was to save. One hand was encased in thick gauze, the folds stopping disquietingly close to his wrist, while the other hand was exposed enough to reveal an embedded cannula.

He was hooked to a complex matrix of tubes and wires, aligned with monitoring devices which buzzed and droned incessantly—a stark testament to the intricate balances keeping him alive. 

From what little Nines registered from Dagny, his brother was in a state of deep chemical sedation—aimed at promoting his physical recovery but also to mitigate the depths of suffering he would otherwise endure. 

Despite this, the awful, rattling resonance of his breathing persisted. Audible over the monotonous beeps of a nearby heart monitor. Nines could not elude the suspicion that Connor was still in pain, suffering desperately despite all extensive medical intervention.

Assessing his presence wasn't welcome, Dagny left the siblings alone, permitting them some much-needed privacy. Nines sat in the chair beside Connor, feeling decidedly numb against the rigid groove of moulded plastic. 

For a moment, he didn’t move or speak. He seldom breathed, as the oxygen in his lungs was held under strict deadlock. Just stared absently across the bed, paralysed by indecision. 

Then, slowly, his weight shifted, the teetering legs of his seat groaning. His fingers slipped across the sheets, moving to clasp his brother’s hand. This was until hesitation re-emerged, and he doubted whether or not he should. Not wishing to hurt him more. 

"...Connor? Can you hear me?"

Even if he could, he wouldn’t be able to answer. Nines had known that—and was uncertain why he asked—perhaps borne from sheer desperation to hear his voice. To fill the vacancy in the room with something .

It was an absence that ached far more than words could convey. The distance between them felt immense despite their current proximity. It soon became unbearable, compelling him to push past his fear and decisively bridge the gap. 

Connor didn’t flinch when their hands met. There were no involuntary spasms, not even as he tentatively brushed a thumb across one of his numerous burns. 

Maybe he couldn’t feel anything. Truly detached from the Hell he had been mercilessly dragged through…

It was a comforting thought, far more so than the alternative. 

"I wanted to come and get you sooner. As soon as I knew where you were, I just—I couldn't go against him. I was too scared to find out what would—"

He stalled, too disgraced by the shallowness of his excuse to continue—the contemptuous words lodged in his throat, inspiring sickness. 

To have permitted such selfish desires—lust and voracity—to take precedence over the things that were most important. 

Shrouding his principles, allowing damage to escalate irreparably before finally choosing to act.

"I was weak, and you suffered for that." The confession came with a shuddering breath, clawing past the flimsy sentiment he had abandoned. "I'm sorry, Connor. I promise I'll never be that weak again."

Nines could only hope his slumber was proving restful. Shielding him from the egregious injustice the world had inflicted. Perhaps it was immersing him in simpler times—happier ones.

"...Do you remember when we were small…" The words came idly, without any real intent or direction, "and Dad used to take us on fishing trips? I’m not convinced he even liked fishing. I think he just enjoyed the quiet. Being so far away from everything."

Their father had always valued the comforts of solitude. The pleasantness of a peaceful silence unburdened by pressure or pain. Just being . Nothing else.

Nines laughed, though it hurt to do so, the sound more akin to a terse gasp. He straightened his back correctively, forcing himself to smile. An exhibition of positivity where he tried to appear genuine, as though Connor might sense if he wasn't.

"I suppose it was never that idealistic. We never let it be so calm—

Do you remember when Cole tried to convince us there were monsters at the bottom of the lake? And that if we stuck out our rods too far, they would come up and grab us?" 

 

This was until everything happened. 

After that, all Dad knew was pain, and it couldn’t be escaped. No amount of cathartic fishing trips—idle time spent with his children—would ever change that. 

Nines had been too young to understand—but looking back, it was as though he didn’t want to. Their father didn't fight his anguish but submerged himself in it. Plunging deep, allowing it to consume every part of him. 

 

"Then he…" Another forced laugh as Nines pressed through derealisation to finish his story. "He pushed you in. Dad was livid because you could barely swim, and he had to jump in with his wallet and phone to scoop you out…"

 

The descent had started with their mother. Disappearing without a trace, nothing to suggest where she might’ve gone. Dad threw himself into his work at the DPD, investing everything and making endless sacrifices to discern what had happened. To find her.

 

"...But he didn’t mind. Not really. All he cared about was that you were safe…" 

 

He never did.

Connor and Nolan had been okay. They were young when she vanished—young enough to recover, to ‘forget’—as people always assured. Nolan could scarcely recall her at all. Not even a face, save from glimpses in snapshots stashed in the shoe box beneath his father’s bed.   

Cole had been different. 

He was older—couldn’t forget, couldn’t move on. 

Dad was submerged so deep in the waters that he didn’t notice his eldest son being pulled under. Consumed by grief, exacerbated by the perceived rejection of his remaining guardian. Dragged deeper and deeper until he was lost to a current of choppy waters. 

 

"He just wanted to know you were safe." 

 

It started with Mom, but it ended with Cole. 

The night he stole Dad’s car, driving it at 100 down Interstate 96—until he lost control and clipped a telegraph pole. He was sent hurling through the window, whirring through the inky black towards the sky. Air rushed past him, brisk and freeing, although Nines doubted he’d had time to register this. 

Then he hit the ground, and it was over. All of his pain was gone, ensuring he never felt lonely again. 

 

"I thought we could go back there one day. I know it wouldn’t be the same, but it could still be nice. There was so much history on that lake, so many memories..."  

 

Something changed in their father. All the resolve, all the drive, was gone. Spidering like a cracked windowpane until the pieces broke apart, scattering across the floor with the splintered fragments of their family. 

 

"I was going to surprise you for your birthday. I wanted to see if I could rent a boat for us. Just you and me, together."

It wasn’t long until sorrow and desperation led him into darker pursuits. 

The drink and drugs did not kill Hank Anderson, but rather the bullet to his head. Not delivered by his own hand but the hand of an aggrieved supplier.

Richard James Reed, who had come to collect his debt. 

He imagined his father was glad, accepting this fate as a mercy. No doubt he would have done it himself had he possessed the strength to pull the trigger—

"You might act like tough shit, Nolan, but deep down, you're fucking weak. Guess you can't help that; it runs in your blood."  

"The lake is gone. They filled it in. Groundwork for a new apartment complex."

Reed had a child the same age as Connor. He must have seen some of his son in the petrified glint of tear-filled eyes. It had inspired some level of remorse in him. 

Pity. 

The decision was made to take them in, tying loose ends through less bloody means. The man probably thought he was doing a kindness, allowing them to live.

"They can never just let things be, can they?" Nines inhaled sharply, and the breath stalled. Obstructed by unsaid words, trembling against the walls of muscle, desperate to fill his aching chest. 

 

The younger version of himself would have never imagined—searching in curiosity online to discover what actually happened to his eldest brother—that Cole had been the lucky one. 

He never had to keep living, to discover the depths of depravity he might have sunk to, discovering what the darkness might’ve made of him…

To risk becoming one of the monsters that lived at the bottom of the lake. 

"After everything Dad did for you. After everything I did for you."

One of which was staring back at him, cast in the reflection of the nearby monitor.

 

Sorrow clouded his vision as Nolan Anderson broke apart. He burrowed himself into Connor's sheets, curling against his chest before he allowed the tears to fall. He released all the burdened pain that had been vying so hard for release—mourning for the children they had been and the adults they might have become had fate dealt a fairer hand.

Don’t go, Connor.

Please.

 

I need you.

He sobbed, howled , not caring who heard—not caring how weak it might be—allowing what lingering tethers remained of Nolan to slip from his clutches until there was nothing left but Nines. 

You’re all I have left.

He stayed in the hospital for some time, neglecting himself almost entirely—seldom eating, drinking or attempting to sleep. All in the pursuit of being there for Connor, even in the knowledge he often couldn't be.

His brother required surgeries, ones that frequently left Nines relegated to the waiting room. Watching as the seconds ticked by on a nearby wall clock. An exercise in mind-numbing repetition.

The longer time persisted, the more he was forced to confront the updates delivered by doctors. Each was a devastating, striking blow—knocking him back and fueling what evolved from crushing guilt into the re-emergence of silent fury.

There was no telling how long it would take for Connor to recover. If he ever did.

His face was destroyed—and with it, the boyish charm that had defined him. His off-kilter smile, delicate freckles, the guise that had instilled so much pride and assisted him in being so skilled at what he did. Carved and mutilated beyond repair.

Physiotherapy would help him adapt to the nerve damage in his right hand and adjust to the absence of fingers that had been lost to necrosis.

Then there was his eye, the one that was gone. He would need to learn how to cope with the loss of depth perception, the permanent knock to his coordination and balance—

All of this because Gavin Reed refused to comply with DeLuca's demands. To act in any small measure of favour for anyone other than himself.

Returning to the hideout was a reluctant journey but one he needed to make. Inaction and passivity were what had brought them to this point. 

 

It was time to make a decision. To resolve matters once and for all.

 

In the time he had spent in that bleak waiting room, surrounded by grief and boundless suffering, a moment of enlightenment struck.

Blaming himself was difficult. Excruciating. It was easier to place blame elsewhere. To channel his sorrow into hatred.

Nines swung the door of the basement open, allowing the bulbs to charge to life before casting his focus on the loathsome creature huddled against the ground.

As per their instruction, the men had worked to keep him breathing—but this was the extent of their generosity. 

Gavin was severely dehydrated, evident in his fissured lips and crumbling skin. His bruised, sallow face was drawn tight across his skull. Sunken and gaunt, a far departure from the healthy plumpness that once defined it. 

His former lover was filthy, caked in blood, as well as all manner of filth he didn't care to think about. Green eyes were ashen and lifeless, dulled to the point of near-translucency. They stared at nothing, unable to focus, as Nines was left scarcely convinced they were able to see at all.

He kicked him against the cavernous rut of his belly as a pained bark rattled from the jutting cage of his ribs. 

"Get up."

Gavin refused. While weak, there was a definite aspect of willful non-compliance, as there was a stir of recognition in response to his voice. A flicker of awareness across his blighted gaze, understanding who it was inflicting his current beating.

Nines kicked him again. Harder, to which another sharp cough escaped his lips—a sickly cocktail of fluids sputtering out. 

"Connor is alive," he informed, watching in sadistic delight as the man wheezed and writhed, desperately grasping for air. "Barely."

Through rasping breaths, Gavin grumbled a response, unwisely defiant, growing more resonant the longer he persisted. "—Don't—give— a — shit —"

He was pulled by the front of the binds and forced to his feet. His legs teetered ineffectually, unable to support his dwindled weight.

"We could have gotten there before If it hadn't been for you. This is all your fault."

"Whatcha gonna do to me, Nines? Huh?" He grinned spitefully, revealing the dense layer of grime accumulated on already unsightly teeth. "What's the end game here? You gonna leave me to die, 'cus you're too much of a pussy to finish the job yourself?"

Nines set him down a moment, allowing Gavin to collapse to his knees. Pausing, he assessed the situation, confirming in himself his next actions before he reached into his inner pocket. Pushing past his firearm, he searched for another instrument. Something more intimate.

He pulled out a knife, brandishing it towards the light, allowing it to glint against its polished surface. Gavin's bravado deflated slightly, fear passing his sneered expression as his muscles subtly slackened. Then, he scoffed, attempting to conceal a shudder. 

But he could not conceal the trembling, shaking his entire form. 

Despite this, the facade of confidence resumed—and with a defiant jut, he pushed his chin outward. Presenting his neck and goading Nines to commit the final, decisive act.

"Do it, then. Fucking prove to me that you can." 

 

Nines refused to comply. No longer willing to accept Gavin's orders or desiring his empty approval.

 

"As I said before, you aren't worth the effort it would take to end your miserable life." 

He leant down, angling the knife forward. After positioning it between his wrists, he pulled up, slicing through the rope. 

"Death would be easy for you. A mercy. I want you to suffer for what you’ve done, to live with the memories of what you experienced here—and to face all the punishment the world still has waiting."

Grabbing the newly unrestrained man, he thrust him forcefully against the door. The movement pushed it open, leaving him sprawled at the foot of the stone passage, bathed in the filtered light from the stairwell.

"You will untie the rest of your binds, and you will leave. I don't care where you go or what you do, just don't come back."

[tarditzgrade]

chat i write the fanfiction about the ice guy. no not the robot, the old one

two chapters. around 4,546 words. :)

full fic under cut if you dont wanna bother with ao3

"The cold bit his fingers, threatening to loosen his grip on his staff. The frost clung to his face and beard, obscuring his vision. The frigid air broke through his clothing and chilled his skin directly, staggering his breathing and slowing his movements dramatically. He cursed at it. What was this bitter element’s role in Creation?" The Elemental Master of Ice has too many questions to answer and not enough time. Even his own element seems to want to kill him, but he must find answers, and a successor, before he passes.

The hail battered his body, stinging with every impact.

The cold bit his fingers, threatening to loosen his grip on his staff.

The snow fell under his feet, never telling how far beneath the surface a step would sink.

How humbling. His own element working against him.

He did not have to be out in this horrendous blizzard. He could’ve been sitting back in the monastery, cozied up inside where it was warm and comforting and he could spend the final days of his life in peace.

But something called him out here. Something he couldn’t quite understand.

The frost clung to his face and beard, obscuring his vision.

The frigid air broke through his clothing and chilled his skin directly, staggering his breathing and slowing his movements dramatically.

His foot snagged an obstacle hidden in the piles of snow and he fell down.

The snow continued to fall upon the Elemental Master of Ice as he laid there and the harsh effects of the cold rippled throughout his body, rapidly shutting down his will to do anything.

He cursed at it. What was this bitter element’s role in Creation?

A question he had asked himself since he first mastered it. There was no doubt what the others were there for.

Fire provided warmth and heat, something every living being needed to sustain itself and the very movement of atoms. It provided light and guidance, used for cooking, smithing, or simply a place to gather around and socialize. Fire aided life.

Lightning would’ve been better known as electricity, a current that coursed through the nerves of every organism. It provided thought and power. Electricity kept wheels turning, gears moving, and people going.

Earth was a foundation. It supported all, buildings, trees, even the ocean would crash into the core of the planet if it wasn’t for the ground everything stood on. It provided shelter and materials used to create. The earth offered protection.

But what could ice do? Sure, it was a form of support, but a very fragile one and never reliable for long. It negated the effects of fire’s warmth, leaving people to sit still to conserve whatever little warmth they could provide themselves. The coldness it brought overwhelmed a person, left them numb, and robbed them of all will and thought besides one:

That they were cold. Very, very cold.

But he, of all people, should not succumb so easily to such feelings and shortcomings. 

He was the Master of this horrid element.

But was he? Here, lying in the cold, desolate snow. Unmoving. Lost.

He should be feeling invigorated in this moment. He once did. At his prime, when he felt like he knew all there was about the element he commanded. He’d truck through the snow and frost without worry, and the ice would give and bend to everything he asked of it.

But his powers were fading now. He was fading. And he did not know the element he could command.

He mustered some of the will that was left in his body into his arm and felt around in the snow for his staff. It stung to do so, the ice meeting his bare palms. It was a sweet, yet minor, relief when his hand found his staff among the snow.

Slowly, he used his staff to help right himself upon his two feet.

Thankful to be standing upright again, the scenery around him still did not change.

The birchwood mixed with the blizzard and created a bleak white as far as he could see with his limited vision. A fleeting glimpse of brown would occasionally appear in the mix, but it would disappear just as quickly. 

It all blurred together to create a nothingness. He might as well have been in the void.

He could not recall which way he had come in this forest or if he had ever taken a turn at all. Senseless in direction, there was nothing left to do but trek on forward.

Step after slow step, he continued to make his way through this hailstorm.

Why did his element fight him? Even if he could not command it anymore, he had heard tales of elements still aiding their former masters if they were still alive to benefit from it.

Flames would retreat from the hands of former Masters of Fire so they did not accidentally burn themselves. Former Masters of Light would find themselves able to see in conditions too dark for an average person. The ears of a former Master of Sound would be able to pick out the lightest of noises in a cacophony.

And he had heard of former Masters of Ice retaining their low-temperature tolerances once their element had passed on from them, unable to parse how cold things truly were.

But cold was all he could feel right now. Cold and rejected.

It seemed like his element wanted to kill him, but for what?

If it was mad at him for being unable to find an heir within his lifetime, then, trust him, it was a sentiment he shared.

Something that had bothered him all his life was that he would never find someone to become the Master of Ice after him.

All of his peers had figured out what to do with their elements, either passing them on to their children, or nephews, or other trusted younger figures in their lives.

But he had always been a more reserved person in his life. He did not have many younger friends, he had no students, and he had never settled down with anyone. Aside from his fellow elemental masters, he hardly made any real connections with anyone in the world, let alone with someone younger.

And now he was paying the price for it.

No, he was not going to let himself die and just let the ice find its own successor. That was perhaps the greatest shame any Elemental Master could undergo, no matter if their death was premature or not.

There was no way in hell he’d find an heir in a hailstorm, though.

Who else would be out here in the worst conditions in the middle of nowhere but him?

Who would subject themselves to such torments?

Or perhaps this was the perfect place to find a successor. Someone who relished in the cold just as he once did would obviously be a wonderful Master of Ice. 

But would they be worthy?

An Element of Creation was not something to be handed off to the first slightly suitable person you find. What if that person had corruption within them? What if that person was destined for evil and darkness? What if the second they were given such powerful abilities, they would turn them against the world and use it for nothing but personal gain?

But did he even have the time to consider such things?

A particularly large chunk of hail struck him across the face and he faltered.

His element was mad at him. It was true.

For never properly showing it appreciation. For never finding a successor in time. For never truly learning its purpose.

More and more hail struck his body. The cold pierced his skin, freezing over his muscles and bones. Perhaps such a hostile element would be suitable with a more morally dubious master.

Maybe the ice called him out here to kill him. Maybe the ice had found a new purpose and was done with its old master. Maybe he was taking too long to die and the ice brought him out here to kill him itself.

He stumbled over another thing hidden in the snow and he halted his pace to gather his bearings.

The wind howled and whipped. The noises in this storm were so monotonous that it became deafening. Nothing changed. Just the repetitive beating of the storm.

The song of the cold. Ever familiar. Ever mystical. Ever maddening.

The nothingness of the noise mixed with the unchanging scenery reminded him of white torture.

Perhaps the goal wasn’t to kill him, but just to drive him mad.

The buffet of the snow and the pain and exhaustion coursing through his body felt more welcoming now, as they were the only things reminding him he was still alive.

How? How did he ever find something like this so good?

Sure, every element could be destructive, but it felt to him that ice was destructive by nature.

Ironic for an element of Creation.

Thump.

A new noise broke through the storm.

Thump. 

Thump.

Thump. Crack.

The sound of repeated striking.

Thump. Crack.

Thump. Crack.

He couldn’t tell where it came from.

CRRRRRACK.

A crack louder than the rest.

Something split. A tree, most likely. 

Odd. These winds were strong, yes, but these trees were thick and their roots held fast. It was impossible for the storm itself to sway one of them, let alone tip one over.

Creeaak.

Something shifted in the storm. A large birchwood trunk fell, plummeting down towards him.

It took every ounce of strength, will, and energy left in him, but he managed to leap to the side to narrowly avoid the giant birch.

Something within him decided to live. Something within him still needed to learn, to know what the purpose of his element was, why it brought him out here in particular.

But now, lying face up in the snow, he didn’t think he’d ever get to know.

He felt senseless, weak, and lost. So many things demanded his attention and he could give thought to none of them. Alone in a blizzard with nothing but the cold, here to take him in his final moments. Maybe that’s how it was intended to be.

He lived by his element and he would die by his element.

The ice drained the last bits of life from his body, until at last the meager strength in his eyelids began to wane.

Fluttering between open and shut, the monotony of the storm didn’t change as he looked up. White and gray, as far as he could see.

Maybe this was what death looked like for someone who never found purpose.

…

There was a new color in the sky.

Blue.

Two bright dots of blue pierced through the unchanging grays.

A higher power coming to save him?

He couldn’t care.

The Elemental Master of Ice succumbed to the cold and let his eyes rest.

End of Chapter 1

Warmth. 

It was warm.

It was comforting.

It was welcoming.

It was…wrong.

It was wrong. He should not be feeling warm right now. He should not be taking comfort in this.

He was supposed to be in the cold. He was supposed to relish in the lack of warmth.

He could not find the answer to his many, many questions by staying so far away from the element he called his own.

But despite his supposed nature, his mastery over an entire element, he was still but a human and subject to the human desire to stay warm.

So he did not shove off the blanket he found himself under and succumbed to warmth as he opened his eyes.

He was not dead. Unless the Departed Realm took on the form of a messy workshop, he was still among the living.

Steel pipes and a winding staircase lined metal walls. Blueprints detailing all kinds of mechanics and shelves stocked full of various tools decorated these walls as well.

The floor had its messes, too. A few tiny things, like screws, gears, nuts, and bolts, had been left lying about the ground. Larger things, such as hammers, spools, and buckets, had at least been kicked to the side or put up on a table.

His own staff had been placed to the side as well, in its own corner away from all the messes.

Incomplete inventions caught his eye. Something in the shape of a bird sat dormant on one of the tables, with a wind-up key in its back. A box on wheels had its gears sticking out. An automaton resembling a cat sat tucked away underneath a table.

A light whistling filled his ears.

He saw a man, turned away from him, hunched over a desk, working on something out of view.

The whistler wore a white coat and his gray, nearing silver, hair moved up and down as he worked away on his project.

The tinkerer must’ve been enamored with his work, as he didn’t hear the Master of Ice stir.

But the Master of Ice had greater things to do than lie in a workshop, safe and warm under some nice stranger’s covers.

He had questions to answer, purpose to discover, and an heir to find, and he did not have long.

He began to gather the strength to move away from this bed, only to be overrun by a sudden coughing fit.

It seemed he was still weak.

His coughing caught the tinkerer’s attention. The tinkerer turned around, revealing the face of an older man, nowhere near as old as the Master of Ice himself, but certainly someone who had seen some years.

A small pair of glasses sat on his nose and many pens sat in the pockets of his wrinkled lab coat.

The tinkerer’s face lit up when he found the Master of Ice to be awake. He abandoned his project and came over to the Master of Ice to help him sit up completely.

The Master of Ice asked to be removed from the covers, but the tinkerer only chuckled, finding the request odd and mentioned how important it was to stave off the cold out here.

Oh, did he know the irony of that statement, but he couldn’t help but agree with the sentiment.

The tinkerer stepped away for a second and brought back a bowl for the Master of Ice.

A warm bowl of soup, with steam rising off the top. The Master of Ice was again put off by the need for warmth, but his hunger far outweighed his ideals and he was sure he’d get another odd look for requesting his soup to be cold.

He accepted the food, taking note of the tinkerer’s smile as he did. The tinkerer asked him if he needed anything else and the Master of Ice shook his head.

Surely this tinkerer could not give him what he truly needed.

The tinkerer nodded and returned to his project, leaving the Master of Ice to stew with his stew.

Tentatively, he took a few sips. By all powers that be, it was a very well-made soup. Whoever made it certainly knew how to cook.

And the temperature only complimented it. He would not have found it as appealing if it were cold or even lukewarm.

It just did not sit right with him.

Instead of braving his own element to figure out its purpose for once in his life, he sat cooped up indoors, taking comfort in its opposite.

Not just in its opposite, but the other elements of Creation, too. Electricity powered the bulbs keeping this place well-lit. The earthen floor and metal walls offered insulation and protection from the outside.

There was no place for the cold in this haven.

Sometimes he, too, felt unwelcome in places of hospitality or refuge. Places meant for gathering and healing.

He felt like he only brought an intrusion on the sanctity, like a glacial wave leaving once green plains barren.

Sometimes he’d try to leave these places, but others would ask him to stay, insisting they could think clearer when he was around and that he brought a calming sort of mood that they appreciated. He never felt this air himself, but he always obliged, forgoing his discomfort for others.

He was so caught up in his thoughts that he hardly noticed he had finished the soup.

It was a good meal.

He hadn’t eaten like this in a while. And he doubted he would again.

He cleared his throat and offered his thanks to the tinkerer.

The tinkerer only laughed (a very joyful laugh) and said that he was not the one who made the soup, but would pass on the compliments to the chef.

Of course, the tinkerer wasn’t the only resident in this place. The workshop seemed to be a little too tidy for someone like him.

Plus, the tinkerer was old. There was no way it had been him alone to take the Master of Ice out of the storm.

Curious, the Master of Ice asked the tinkerer who had made the soup. The tinkerer pondered for a second, then told him that his son had made it.

Right now, his son was outside chopping wood, but would probably return soon.

Outside? Was it safe out there now? Or did the blizzard still rage on?

If the conditions had lessened, perhaps he could last just a little longer out in the storm.

The Master of Ice was about to tell him that he wanted to leave as soon as possible when the door at the top of the stairs flew open.

The blizzard howled outside, ice and snow flicking about in the crisp wind that called to the Master of Ice with a song that he always knew, but words he could never decipher.

He could feel the cold rip through the previously warm and tender workshop, an unwelcome frigidness that made him tighten his grip on the bowl he held. The lights on the ceiling swayed roughly in the wind. He noticed the tinkerer pull his coat closer to his body.

And yet, despite this hostility, he could not help but yearn to be out there. To trek once more through that unforgiving storm and seek meaning or die trying, surrounded by his element.

His gaze remained fixed on the doorway when two bright dots of blue broke through the unrelenting gray of the storm.

The very same ones he had seen before.

The eyes belonged to a young man who stepped through the door, bundle of wood over his shoulder and an axe in his hand, wearing only a thin white shirt and equally thin pants.

The song of the cold continued to flit about the Master of Ice’s ears, whispering words he would never understand, but a meaning he could interpret.

Could this young man be his heir?

The man shut the door as quickly as it had opened and apologized for his intrusion. The tinkerer told him not to worry and beckoned him over.

As the man descended the stairs, his eyes swept over the room in a methodical fashion. The steps he took were strangely precise, almost calculated, each stride exactly as long as the last.

The tinkerer introduced the young man as his son and the Master of Ice didn’t know what to think of it. The many, many thoughts and questions swimming about his head seemed to slow down with the new presence, yet there were still too many of them and none of them reached his tongue.

Instead, he tried to focus on the similarities between father and son. He could not find many beyond general traits. The tinkerer was slightly shorter and portly in stature where the man was tall and on the thinner side. He had no reference for the tinkerer’s hair, but the young man’s hair was a platinum blond, bordering on white.

Most obviously, where the young man’s eyes were an unnatural and striking blue, the tinkerer’s were a soft brown.

The man asked him if he was alright. By most definitions, he was not. He was old, sick, dying, and confused.

But he told the man he was fine. His condition was the least of his worries to him and he didn’t want it to be the worries of this stranger.

The man didn’t respond, but instead stared at him, boring into him with a very intense gaze.

The Master of Ice did not shrink under his gaze, but he took notice of how the young man’s eyes moved. They scanned him up and down in an even and practiced way, as if he was examining every detail of the Master of Ice from afar. How strange.

The man’s brow furrowed and he asked the Master of Ice if he was sure he was.

The Master of Ice assured him he was. Again, a lie, but what was it worth at this point? If this man was what the ice claimed he was, surely he’d catch his fib.

The young man shook his head. He stepped forward and grabbed the Master of Ice’s wrist to look at him closer, taking the empty bowl from him at the same time, all in complete silence.

And then he felt it.

Concentrated.

Collected.

Focused.

His confusions, his worries, his ailments, his needs were all previously a tangled mess in his head that burdened him as he never knew which one to address first.

Now his thoughts settled down at the man’s cooling touch, no longer warring for his attention.

This was the effect he had on others, was it not?

This was the purpose of ice.

Similar to how the absence of heat was just the stillness of atoms, the presence of the cold brought a stillness to his mind. A small moment of clarity.

The cold, in smaller quantities, brought an odd refreshing effect that cleared one’s head, suppressing the voices of the unimportant and distracting thoughts; allowing one to focus only on what was necessary in the moment.

The slight shock ice brought reminded one of reality. An odd sort of wake-up call that kept one’s mind from drifting, kept them present so they could think straight and make reasonable decisions.

The same way winter was a time of reset for the land; anytime one felt cold, it was a mental reset that let them start thinking again anew.

Earth supported.

Fire comforted.

Lightning invigorated.

And ice focused.

With this new revelation, only one question begged his attention.

Could he trust this young man?

The Master of Ice watched the young man examine him to discern exactly what was wrong with him.

The man continued to hold his wrist as he studied the rest of him, never too intrusive in his methods, but enough where he could learn what he needed to properly diagnose him. 

Methodical. Calculated. All of his motions were. The Master of Ice was enamored.

That was when it hit him.

The way his eyes flitted about in patterns.

The way every single one of his movements seemed intentional and planned. 

The way he seemed to account for everything around him.

Up close, he could see it now.

This was no man.

The person studying him was inhuman.

A robot.

That would explain why he and his father looked so different. 

Why his eyes seemed to glow.

Why he examined him with some all-knowing precision.

Why he had such a tolerance for the cold.

The tinkerer’s “son” was one of his creations, in a very literal sense.

This had to be some kind of joke.

Was the ice taunting him?

Was it possible for non-natural objects to master elements?

The man, no, the robot, holding his wrist looked up at him, worry on his face.

He relayed to the Master of Ice information he already knew. That he was so close to death, beyond saving, and it was very ill-advised to go back out in the storm, for it would hasten his demise.

A very orderly way of summing up his situation, yet laced with enough care to show his concern.

Yes, he could trust this man. 

Despite his inhumanness, he still had heart. He would be a worthy Master of Ice. Clearly, the ice liked him, too.

The Master of Ice only smiled and told the robot he was aware of these things, and still wanted to get back outside as soon as possible.

Both father and son tried to get him to stay, telling him it was no bother if he stuck around for however longer, but he insisted that he must go.

The tinkerer and robot were clearly not comfortable with his choice, but ultimately relented, as they couldn’t force a stranger to stay in their home.

Two good people. He had chosen right.

The robot retrieved the Master of Ice’s staff and helped him out of the bed and up the stairs.

As the two reached the door of the humble workshop, the Master of Ice had just one last question on his mind.

“I can tell you aren’t human, young man. For what purpose were you built?”

“I am Zane. I am built to protect those who cannot protect themselves.”

“Well, Zane, you must know that you have helped me today in ways you can hardly imagine right now. I hope you continue to serve that purpose throughout your life, however long it may be. I wish nothing but the best for you.”

“And I wish you the best on your travels, sir. Please know you are always welcome to return should you ever find yourself around here.”

“You and I both know that will not happen, but I thank you for the offer regardless. Farewell, my friend.”

The Master of Ice shook the old man’s hand and opened the door to let him leave.

The blizzard still raged outside, just as strong as ever, the song of the cold calling to both figures standing in the doorway.

It met younger ears with a new, alien tune, whispering to him words that he would one day come to understand.

And it met old ears with a familiar, welcome tune, singing words to him that he always knew and now understood. It beckoned him forward, out into the storm, and he obliged, leaving his successor behind.

For once, he felt unburdened. To be surrounded by his element without having control over it felt freeing in a sense. The snow gave way under his feet and he no longer cared how far his steps fell.

The frost no longer bit. The ice no longer stung. The air no longer chilled.

He no longer felt maddened by the unchanging scenery surrounding him. The grays seemed so much brighter now.

He had no pains left to endure, no worries left to bother him, no questions left to be answered.

He laughed, despite the hostility surrounding him.

For once, his mind was clear. He knew the purpose of what was once his element. He knew its place in Creation. And he knew a good man who would master it after him.

He felt calm. He felt content. He felt free. Powers above, he felt so free and glad.

He halted his pace and kneeled down in the snow, letting the snowfall shower him from above. The cold loosened his grip on his staff and he fell down into the ice.

This was how it was intended to be. Alone in a blizzard with nothing but the cold, here to take him in his final moments. Another laugh, lost to the storm.

He had lived by his element and he would die by his element.

The man once known as the Element Master of Ice succumbed to the cold and let his eyes rest.

edit: a few hours after posting this i swapped around the words 'refresing' and 'focused' where the master of ice has his revelation bc it was bothering me. if you saw this beforehand, you're not going crazy. i did switch it

[the-other-art-blog]

Benophie wish list: Benedict and Anthony (Part 3: the mistress question/Siena)

If you haven't read my previous posts about Benophie wish list: Benedict and Anthony: PART 1 and PART 2

This is the last part of my analysis/wish list of Benedict and Anthony's relationship in the show and how it can continue in the s4.

This time, I want to theorize on Anthony's reaction to Benedict's feelings for Sophie.

Let me be clear: I do not mean any ill toward Anthony or Kate. But I never understood the hate for the previous love interest for the Bridgertons, since we know who their endgame will be. Siena was no threat to Kanthony's HEA but she still had an impact on Anthony and is part of his story. And she was a good person.

Having said that, I think it would be smart if the writers call back on her and Anthony's relationship, not her, just a reference to her. Why? Well, she was Anthony's mistress.

Obviously, the whole Bridgteron family is going to love Sophie unconditionally, but I think it will be interesting to have Anthony being a bit (or a lot) hesitant, at first, for several reasons.

As the head of the family, he feels responsible for keeping their family's good standing (the whole point of s2's quest for the diamond/Edwina). Sophie tells Benedict this after just 5 minutes of meeting Anthony. His marriage to Kate was not financially advantageous but she was part of his world. Let's be honest, Kate in no way suffered poverty, real poverty. At worst, the Sharmas were middle class. The scandal came from Anthony's pursuit of Edwina and the failed wedding. So, yes, I think he'd be a bit nervous about his brother marrying a servant and an illegitimate daughter. Añready in s1, when he and Daphne were walking around the ballroom in ep1 he dismisses a suitor for his "dubious parentage".

A while ago, I wrote a one-shot about this. How would Anthony react to Benedict's crush on Sophie:

Moreover, he won't be living with Violet and the girls (+ Gregory) anymore, so he won't know Sophie as well as them. To him, she is just another lady's maid, which is why he is so confused about why Violet invites her to tea. His head-of-the-family alert will ring as soon as he hears Ben brought her. Why? Like, be real, which son of an aristocrat cares about female servants unless they its for inappropriate or malicious purposes. AOFAG implied that men who harassed servants were judged more harshly than those who were with other women. So, I think it's reasonable to expect Anthony to be curious about Ben and Sophie's relationship. Has Ben taken his libertine activities too far? Does his brother harass servants now? Is she taking advantage of Ben?

He will also want to figure out what exactly is happening between them because of his past with Siena. Anthony almost ruined his life because he got too attached and confused lust with love. He won't want Ben to make the same mistake. Also, I think the book made the mistake of not remembering the LIS in at least one scene before Colin's. Did no one remember how long he looked for her? In the show, LIS could cause Anthony to be more weary of Benophie. Didn't Benedict already find the love of his life? What the hell is going on? What is Benedict playing at? Can't he see that having a mistress who is his sister's maid reflects horribly on the entire family?

A confrontation about this between Anthony and Benedict could be a great opportunity to push Benedict to define his feelings for the LIS and for Sophie. Does he actually want Sophie to be his mistress, like Siena was to Anthony?

And of course, Anthony will see how different this situation is from his, how different Ben is from him. After this, he will 100% support Ben and Sophie.

Kate could also help him handle the situation, not storm into Ben's house and demand answers but talk. She could also remind him that Mary suffered ostracism after marrying her father.

If you haven't read my previous posts about Benophie wish list: Benedict and Anthony: PART 1 and PART 2.

About s4 side plots

#benophie wish list

[welshdragonrawr]

Did I write OuaT fanfiction? I did indeed. Am I rusty after quite a few years of not writing much fanfic at all for any fandom? I am indeed. Enjoy, I guess...? And Some Things You Just Can't Speak About (a.k.a The One Where Emma Gets Angsty Over a Jacket)

Emma Swan was no stranger to living small. There had been plenty of times in her life when she had survived just fine living out of one scruffy duffel, or her car, or on more than one occasion simply the clothes on her back. Hell the very first night Henry had brought her to Storybrooke, and she had opted to stay at Granny’s, had not been a problem as everything of importance she carried with her either on her person or in the compartment spaces of her yellow bug.

Despite the number of times she had been to Regina’s place before, it still surprised her just how much the other woman kept around. Not to mention how clean and tidy to a fault everything always was. Surely the whole having-magic thing helped – the only dust she probably kept anywhere in the whole house was probably some of the fairy kind. Almost every surface was polished, pristine or held some kind of knickknack that seemed to have no purpose other than looking pretty on a shelf.

Even the stairs didn’t give a telltale creak under Emma’s boots as she made her way up to the second floor. For a house that had supposedly been lived in for at least twenty-eight years – unless of course Regina had lived anywhere else in that time, but Emma figured that was incredibly unlikely – what felt like an expansive mansion to the blonde, also seemed to be missing something.

Emma had moved through enough houses, hostels, hotels and unfit homes to know all the signs of a building well-lived in and all the stories the very walls could tell. This place in all its grandeur and appearances, held history in the fact that it showed absolutely none at all.

Except, she thought with a pause as she passed an open door, for Henry’s room.

All it took was a quick glance through the gap to see the contrast. Things scattered over the bed from where he must have dressed for school that mornings, the splashes of colour on the wall, the mess over a desk where he had clearly been working hard at whatever latest theories were on his mind.

Unable to resist a pull from somewhere deep inside her chest, with a brief glance back over her shoulder toward her original destination, Emma shook her head lightly, pushed the door open further and took a step inside.

The abundance of colour was an immediate switch on the senses from the austere black and white décor downstairs. The vibrant hues of blues, and reds and rich mahogany browns of youth filled all four walls. There was still some sense of attempted organisation in the array of shelves and compartments for things, but these too were filled to overflow, with excess having spilled over into the floor as Emma had spied from the doorway. Just one look around the room and it was possible to see how much stuff was crowded in there. Anything and everything a young boy could want or wish for, more or less. She even spied a few games consoles tucked away alongside the plethora of books.

Emma was hit with an unexpected pang somewhere deep inside her core. Short, sharp, but no less surprisingly strong. If things had been different, would she have been able to give Henry all this?

She couldn’t help but wonder as she stepped by the bed, picking up a discarded jacket with some fancy designer label embroidered inside the collar that she knew she could not have afforded, regardless of career choice. The material felt thick in her fingers, the fibres woven with that sense of luxury many kids didn’t care for, but an adult would spot a mile away. Would he have been able to have any of this...? Of course if Henry had merely been content with possessions, then there would have been absolutely no reason for all of this to have ever happened as it appeared he already had everything he ever needed right here…

“Can I help you, Ms Swan?”

“Regina-“ the other woman’s voice had startled her, made her twist on the spot to see the Mayor hovering in the doorway, a sliver of a smile pulling at the corner of those red-painted lips – though Emma saw that same hint of a smile falter upon seeing the jacket in Emma’s hands.

“How long have you been standing there?” Emma asked.

“Inherited your fathers’ sense of perception I see, or lack thereof,” Regina chuckled, though her eyes remained drawn to the jacket in Emma’s hands. A beat of silence between them continued on a few moments too long to be comfortable, neither of them saying a word. Judging by the look in her eyes and recognisable subtle squaring of her shoulders, Regina had clearly expected the usual snap back from the blonde. When seconds continued to tick by and she must have realised she was not going to receive one, her fine brow finally raised as her arms folded across her chest.

“Looking for something, were we?”

“For you, actually,” Emma replied, fingers curling into the fibre of the jacket. If Regina noticed the subtle clench, she said nothing, merely tilted her head a fraction. To Emma however, that still felt like she was being assessed without words.

“We both know I like to keep an eye on my son, but I can’t say I make a habit out of hiding out in his room every other day,” Regina quipped, and for the first time in the conversation managed to pull her eyes away from the boy’s jacket to survey the rest of the room herself. Emma couldn’t help wondering if she was looking for anything out of place, even amongst the adolescent mess; no doubt Regina probably would have noticed if Emma had so much as accidentally kicked a toy from one end of the rug to the other.

For the second time, the smirk dancing slyly across those scarlet lips faltered when once again the blonde had evidently not risen to the goad of the verbal challenge. “What made you think you’d find me in here?” Regina poked just a little more.

Emma shook her head, as if shaking her thoughts free. “No, I didn’t, I…” she trailed off.

“You certainly seem to be having a way with words today,” Regina chuckled, finally stepping fully into the room and beginning to peruse various objects herself.

If Emma didn’t know any better she might have guessed the other woman was indeed inspecting each and every thing. She watched her pick up a notebook from the desk, flick through a few of the pages that Emma could see were filled margin to margin with Henry’s chicken-scratch scrawl – he had his biological mother’s knack with handwriting it seemed, although the tails of his letters had a more distinct flourish for sure. She wondered if that was because Regina had likely tried to teach him the much more elegant cursive of her own hand before… She heard Regina give a click of her tongue and mumble Henry’s name under her breath, shaking her head at a particularly untidy page; perhaps she had been thinking along the same lines. What else did she teach you…?

“Regina, I…” Emma ‘s voice tumbled out before she could stop herself, the other woman’s name falling from her lips with a softness so unexpected for both of them that Regina’s head snapped up from the book to look in Emma’s direction.

Emma wanted to ask. She wanted to know. She wanted Regina to give her some glimpses, some snapshots, some sort of mental photo album of the milestones she had missed and how the Mayor had managed them alone.

But a catch in her throat and a caustic ache in the centre of her chest stoppered the words thickly before they could fully form, let alone be said so freely. Did she want to know? Did she want to open herself up to the regret, the guilt, the burden of knowing how she had soothed each fever, comforted each cry in the night, encouraged his education to become the man Emma already saw every day in the young boy?

“Spit it out, Ms Swan, for both our sakes,” the words were sharp, but there was something else under the sting. Emma folded the jacket in her hands, over her arm, and she could have sworn she saw Regina’s brow twitch watching the imperfect action.

“Henry…” Emma began again, attempting to find a common ground for conversation to start but once again found her words caught on a soreness in her throat that had nothing to do with the time of year. The usual sharp clip of Regina’s heels seemed subdued on the carpet as she stepped closer, softened, but not silenced.

“Did you-“ Emma tried to clear her throat, to little avail. “Did you ever…”

“Take care of him? Of course I did.” Regina snapped, the defensive thorns of the dark rose pricking at Emma’s skin. A perfectly poised hand snapped forward, attempted to snatch the jacket from Emma’s unsuspecting hands. A pull, a stronger tug, Regina’s hands grappled for the jacket, but Emma’s grip neither loosened nor let go. If anything her hold held fast, refusing to relinquish the fabric.

Caught in such a physical impasse, Regina looked up, mouth open to lash out with another venomous barb no doubt. But rather than clench tighter to the hypothetical stem of the dark rose in spite so well as she did her son’s jacket, Emma flinched, surprising them both.

For a moment, just a flickering moment, Regina’s gaze appeared to soften, seeing something in the blonde’s eyes, shoulders, way she held herself, the way she held that ridiculous jacket that spoke more volumes than any book on Henry’s bookshelf.

“Of course I did,” Regina repeated, her words softer than any velvet, dark eyes softening with as much of a sheen. Doing her best to clear her throat of the thick lump that had so stubbornly caught there, Emma averted her gaze from those eyes, and laid the jacket back down on the bed with a careful touch that Regina had never seen her use with her own awful leather jackets that tended to be slung, hung or thrown over the backs of chairs. The feeling of that intense stare prickled Emma, burned through leather and cotton and skin alike right through to the turmoil underneath. She didn’t dare to look up, to look back, fearing as much what Regina might find through such a gaze.

“Right…” Emma finally managed to force out through the silence. If either of them noticed her inflection being a fraction higher than usual, they did not mention it.

Perhaps purely out of habit, as much as anything else, Regina stepped closer and brushed a stray fleck of flint from the exposed lapel of Henry’s now-folded jacket. It was a movement so precise, so practised and probably done a thousand times before to the point she must not have even thought about it as she leaned over.

Yet, Emma had to tell herself forcefully, as she felt the brush of Regina’s arm against her own, that it wasn’t as purposefully possessive as it seemed. For every scrape, every stray thread, every speck of dust caused by Emma’s careless exploits, there Regina would always be waiting to dust him off after, to clean off and care for the clothes and the kid who wore them. A fact that gave her both relief and an unrelenting ache inside in almost equal measure. As worried as Regina might have claimed to be, Emma couldn’t help wondering how much of that constant fear of losing him also obscured her from seeing how she was always there.

Smooth expensive fabric of a blazer likely only worn once or twice and the old worn leather of Emma’s own jacket that had endured a lifetime was all that separated skin to skin contact – was all, and was everything - as Regina straightened herself again, unnecessarily dusted down her already impeccable skirt as if she too needed something to do with her hands for just a moment. Emma’s own clammy palms clenched to fists at her sides, blunt nails digging into the creases of her palms, tight and taut. If she gripped hard enough, the prickling pain of her nails just might detract from the inexplicable pool of warmth that had gathered deep inside from the brush of such closeness. A warmth both impossibly familiar and completely foreign to the Sheriff as she rocked back and forth on the heels of her boots. And with such feelings came all too familiar itch, the urge to run far, far in the opposite direction of finding out what it meant…

“Care to enlighten me as to the reason for this visit, Sheriff, or shall I have to prise it out of you like a tooth?” Regina asked, with a not entirely feigned sigh.

From the cut of the jibe, Emma knew the expression on her own face was tantamount to the way one would look prior to a dental extraction. So intense had her focus been on trying to smother the tumultuous feelings tossing around inside herself, she hadn’t thought s much to school her outward emotions also. Nevertheless, she was grateful for the slightly awkward return to the expected banter after the uneasy silence had lingered for so long – too long. Seeing Regina’s eyes flicker, however briefly, to her fists still held at her sides, Emma shoved her hands into her pockets – as much to avoid the gaze, as to avoid being waylaid by any other stray objects or ruminations in the room.

“You’re needed at the Town Hall,” Emma finally croaked out, inwardly cursing the ever-so-slightly rusted aspect of her voice. Regina’s brow raised, obviously awaiting further elaboration for such a vague answer, but Emma turned on her heel, headed back toward the doorway, the sudden urge to leave, to flee from this house and all its oppressive things coiling uncomfortably inside her like a spring prepped to snap or spiral out of control with every prolonged second or step. She wasn’t surprised to hear the click of Regina’s heels behind her, but she made no move to turn back around even as Regina spoke.

“What mess has your mother made for us to clean up this time, that couldn’t have waited, that you’ve felt compelled to come to tell me in person- Emma?” Regina’s sarcastic quipping cut short just as Emma’s hand found the door handle, and Emma tried her best to ignore the voice in her head telling her to recognise that tint of concern to those last two syllables.

“Gotta get back,” Emma replied, too hastily for either of them to believe it. If she looked up from the door now, she knew she would see those dark eyes staring back, scoring deep, searching for answers in cracks and crevices that Emma always tried her damned hardest to conceal.

Before Regina could open her mouth, let alone say the words what’s the rush, Emma had pulled the door open – with perhaps a little more force than was necessary, and a breathless ‘see you there’ – and set off down the driveway at a near-impossible pace. Her fingers flexing down at her sides as though the repetitive motion could wear the memory of the coat-fabric from her fingertips, could shake away the unfathomable prickling warmth humming in her blood, and rub away the bruising half-moons setting deep into her palms, leaving Regina disconcerted, standing in the open doorway, to watch as she disappeared.

To be continued...possibly...

[astriiformes]

Hello! If you’re able to, what did you find in general in the University of Iowa filk book records? What was that like?

So it's not just filk in the archives in Iowa -- they have a whole fandom history collection, which has a Fan Culture Preservation Project in conjunction with the Organization for Transformative works, or OTW (the same organization behind Ao3) to collect old fan materials for archival purposes.

I looked at a specific set of filk songbooks that had been donated via the OTW, but I'm sure there's more in there. I will admit I had a bit of an agenda that's very funny in the context of talking about Star Trek filk -- I actually skipped over some of the Trek-specific songbooks because I was specifically focused on finding Star Wars songs, which I figured had to be a part of fandom history too even though I mostly only ever heard about the Trek songs! (I don't buy into fandom wars, but I will admit that I've always been a bit more on the Star Wars side of things after falling in love with it when I was small, haha.)

In general though, it was a treasure trove. Like I said, I was looking at three specific boxes, and I found all kinds of filk in them. There were people's personal songbooks, ones put together by groups like the LA Filkharmonics, fandom-specific ones, multi-fandom ones, and plenty of filk that fell more on the "waxing poetic about (or making fun of) fandom generally or space exploration or etc" side of things.

(And I did in fact succeed in finding a lot of Star Wars filk -- my two favorites were "The Last of Grand Moff Tarkin's Crew," a really well-done Barrett's privateers filk, and a filk of "Blowin' in the Wind" with the chorus "The answer of course, lies hidden in the Force / The answer lies hidden in the Force")

Like many university special collections you can make an appointment to go see the materials there, and I highly recommend doing so if you ever get the chance! It's a real treasure trove, and a particularly neat example of how fanworks and fandom really are something being preserved and studied at the academic level. Fan culture is culture too!

[sephesisweek]

Sephesis Week 2024 is Officially DONE!

Posts will continue to be reblogged to the main account until this Sunday, so it's fine if you're running a little behind! The Archive collection will also remain open for submissions until that time, so make sure your work is added before it closes on January 14th.

Sephesis Week will return January 1st of 2025, with the prompt list to be revealed November 13th, 2024. Here's to doing it all again next year!

As a special thank-you to everyone who took part, Sephesis Week organizer @getvalentined has created a set of "badges" for all participants to use in profiles, to print off for personal use, and to repost on your own social media to let everyone know about your contribution to the event!

I Participated in Sephesis Week 2024 ▏ For anyone who filled at least one prompt over the course of the event. This event literally wouldn't have happened without you!

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I Did Sephesis Week 2024 (and I was super spicy about it) ▏ This one is specifically for creators whose prompt fills were on the adult side, whether truly explicit or otherwise. Sugar is nice, but we all love some spice!

Standard Size: 1000x1000px (for small prints and reposts)

These can be printed off up to 3x3 inches in size without losing clarity, allowing you to pin them to a joyboard, run them off on adhesive material to make your own stickers, use the files to make your own buttons—the sky is the limit! These are also the best size to repost on your own social media without looking particularly grainy, so if you want to share your badge to celebrate your participation, use one of these files!

EVENT GUIDELINES ▏ FREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTIONS ▏ DIRECTORY

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Note that tumblr doesn't allow hotlinking of images hosted on their platform, so you'll have to save these and host them somewhere else if you want to show them off somewhere! If you don't have access to your own image host, you can embed using the code from the following links:

I Participated in Sephesis Week 2024

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Full Resolution: ≈2500x2500px (recommended for larger prints)

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At their native size, these files are about 8.5 inches (21 cm) square at a resolution of 300dpi; there are a lot of options on what to do with these files, so it's entirely up to you.

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[commanders-company]

Audio Log Archive: Calculator Zoxxe

Entry 34 - 1326 AE. Transcription start:

Ten years with the Inquest, and I’m still equally amazed and appalled at what my fellows get themselves caught up in. I’m sure sciences like herpetology and ichthyology have their uses, but it gets aggravating seeing promising researchers become obsessed with some rare fauna or another when they should be applying themselves to the stated goals of our organization.

Case in point, this “Scarlet” character. Everyone and their golem is buzzing about this mysterious sylvari who studied at all three colleges - personally, I doubted the authenticity of her certifications even before the Council revoked them. As though a non-asura could ever hope to achieve our heights of genius. Ha!

Still, I can’t deny the spark behind her eyes. She has big plans, whatever they might end up being, and I have no doubt she will do anything to see them through. I have no interest in partnering with pirates or bandits or whatnot, so I will continue to watch from a distance as I continue my own aetherology research here. Who knows, maybe Scarlet will impress me after all. Or maybe dolyaks will sprout wings and fly.

Entry 39 - 1327 AE

Of course Scarlet ended up being a bust. Anyone who believed differently was a fool of the highest order.

She certainly went out with a bang - my aetherology instruments were going haywire from the sheer amount of magical energy that rushed towards the deep jungle. Now that we know the truth about the sylvari, we can near-conclusively see that her true goal all along was to reawaken Mordremoth. It was certainly a bold idea to flood the ley line stretching from Lion’s Arch to Maguuma with magic; not unlike jump-starting a stalled golem with an external power source.

Whatever her exact motivations for this could have been, her success does open up a potentially fascinating avenue for my research - what sort of link is there between the elder dragons and the magic of the world? Clearly Mordremoth was attuned to it, but what about Zhaitan, and for what purpose? And most importantly, how can we exploit it for ourselves?

I’ll prepare my thesis and send it to high command along with a request for additional funding and personnel. I have no doubt they will give me all I ask for, so I will begin my personal work at once. I wonder if the Pact would miss one of their submersibles…

Entry 53 - 1335 AE

The Pact and that blasted commander of theirs continues to be both a boon and a curse! While our agents in the Rata Novus lab have passed on immeasurably useful data from their efforts, that blasted sylvari keeps killing more dragons - good for the survival of the common folk, I suppose, but absolutely detrimental to my research.

Only one dragon remains, the ever-theorized but heretofore unproven “deep sea dragon.” There’s so much more we’re on the cusp of discovering, and the commander is on track to ruin my career without even knowing!

But, as always, I have a plan. I was able to find records of Scarlet’s notes left over in an old workstation. She mentions time she spent with the late Omadd, and most importantly, a fascinating device he constructed near the Silverwastes. Supposedly, the device allows the user to peer into the fabric of reality - the very Eternal Alchemy itself!

Finally, a chance to mathematically prove what I’ve always believed - to show those boorish idiots I call my fellow researchers that absolute structure is the only way to success. Everything down to the smallest particle of the least important atom can be determined, charted, predicted and directed. The Inquest has always strived to control the Eternal Alchemy, but no one ever thinks about what we’ll do with it. Absolute order to all things is the only conclusion that makes any sense, and I will be the one to put it in place.

I will be traveling alone to the machine - no reason to give anyone else the chance to muck everything up, or worse, steal my work. Very soon, all asura - the entire world - will know my name!

Entry 55 - 1335 AE

[unintelligable] -it’s wrong. It’s all wrong, everything is wrong, I was - [crashing, papers scattering, yelling]

I fixed it. The machine worked and I saw everything. All magic flowing in and out the dragons like water through a filtration matrix. For a moment it was so beautiful. But the dragons died one by one, and in their place, there is…

Nothing. Less than nothing. Void from end to end. No greater purpose, no rules or equations or anything comprehensible. An emptiness that will take and take and take until there is nothing left.

She’s doomed us all. She can’t save us this time. Now everything we’ve done, everything I’ve done is worthless. No one can stop what’s happening.

The Void comes for us all. The Void comes. It comes. It comes. It comes… 

[unintelligible]

Entry 56 - 1335 AE

Ahem.

I’m not going to delete my last entry - embarrassing as it may be to admit, it is important to acknowledge when one’s conclusions end up being incorrect, if only for the purpose of proper documentation.

Which is to say that the world didn’t end, obviously. The Commander found a way, as she always seems to do. Our agents report that Aurene now fulfills the role the previous elder dragons used to, sans the whole death/rebirth cycle. Magic flows through her to be cleansed, and the world is balanced once again. The Void is - it’s gone. It has to be -

[coughs] I’m putting together another thesis and personnel request. The events of the last few days opens up yet another previously unknown facet of aetherology. We’re not under immediate threat anymore, but it demands to be studied. All sorts of possible applications could be found, if we can properly contain it.

I cannot - I will not be taken by surprise again. I will master its flow and dictate its course.

I will be the one in control. It will have no power over me ever again.

Should my proposal be approved, and I have no doubt it won’t, I will be forming the V.E.R.G.E. krewe - Voidic Energy Research and General Exploitation. We will decipher every secret of the Void and turn it to our own ends - and prepare ourselves should it ever return like this again.

I will be ready. And someday soon, all of creation - even the Void itself - will bend before me.