#this chapter is very long

[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

Previous Chapter

Next Chapter

Read on AO3 here:

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."

[corvidcujo]

* They say art is therapeutic

* ...Which one of you was the patient, anyway?

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

The math just adds up!

[1alchemistart]

HI long time no post 😭 i got a new tablet and i wanna be more active again wahhh so have this drawing i did last night!!

[clingonlikeclingwrap]

Imagine if Yin Yu was better at acting and managed to hide his identity from Quan Yizhen except due to his habit of helping/saving QYZ even while actively disliking/fearing him, QYZ ends up getting super attached to the Waning Moon Officer (think: stuffing gold bars in Xie Lian’s offering box & throwing a bed at Pei Ming to help him but 10x worse). I just think this would make for a really amusing (for me) and stressful (for YY) identity porn scenario

[egophiliac]

crossing my fingers and wishing upon every star that chapter 10 finally brings us the tweel cards 🤞🤞

[askerror87]

Why it's important that Ramb isn't an American plug.

I know this is pedantic but I've been seeing a lot of otherwise great posts about Ramb that don't quite get that Ramb being British isn't a simple quirky throwaway nonsense detail. He's not British just for the sake of it- there’s a really important reason for that that actually says a lot about him as a character and why he ended up like this. I originally wrote this out as a reblogged response to this post but I realized that this was going to need a visual aid.

Most of the Plugboys we see in Chapter 2 are not only visibly supposed to remind you of a cat, but they are distinctly designed off of the Type B outlet that most Americans would be familiar with. (Note that Ramb's eyes, while still rectangular, are rounder and softer thanks to the eyebrows and beauty marks/ eyelashes/ smile lines/ however you want to interpret these pixels.)

[Image ID: Some Deltarune screenshots and pictures of electrical plugs. Descriptions in alt text. /End ID]

(Obviously, we see a variety of expressions from them throughout the game, which seem to primarily take inspiration from Type A, B, G, and possibly I outlets)

[Image ID: More sprites of the Plugboy with various expressions of stress and surprise, and a whole list of outlet types for comparison, all of which looking like faces. /End ID]

Ramb, however, is designed to be Like the Chapter Two Plugboys But Different BECAUSE he isn’t an American Outlet.

He’s a Type K power strip that Kris and Azzy stole from the Library.

Type Ks are distinct because of the roundness of their first two prongs and the semi-circle curvature of the third, giving them that signature ‘smile’ that Type Bs inherently lack because of how their plugs are shaped. They are also, as you may have guessed, very much European. (Type Ks, as pointed out to me by my friend @strangeandinteresting, are outlets that are primarily used in Denmark, but that they "do also reckon that a Danish accent would be harder to do in written format like that, so for the intents of him seeming 'other' the British (Specifically London, cockney(?)) accent is perfect". I grew up using Type K and other circular plugs, so my working theory is Toby primarily wanted to use a plug type that was distinctly From Europe first and foremost, and had the furthest possible 'expression' from a Type B.)

Ramb isn’t British and a Dog just for the sake of it- he’s Designed Like That because while Type Bs and Type Ks are visually very similar, they are inherently incompatible. You can’t put a European plug into an American outlet and vice versa for a variety of reasons, primarily because you will probably fry the thing you’re trying to plug in. To explain this as simply as possible, British (and other European) plugs are created in such a way where they include their own fuse (which is why the head is so big). Inherently, they are simply a more powerful and superior device because of how they are made. He’s also very portable because of this- power strips are supposed to allow you to Put More Things In Them.

As you can imagine, though… this is only the case if there’s actually something FOR THEM TO PLUG INTO. Whoever ordered Ramb (possibly Miss Boom) accidentally bought the wrong type of power strip. That’s also probably why no one from the Cyber World ever said anything about him- why he was never missed by anyone.

We see this foreshadowed by the Spamton Sweepstakes and its 2025 update. What’s the URL allowing us to access the greenroom page? /ramb. And yet, all traces of him are missing in it… beyond the door that Ramb guards for Kris stating plainly that ‘No one will shed a tear for him.’

Almost like he no longer served a purpose, no? Almost like he vanished without a trace???

This seemingly very small detail about his accent is actually one of many ways Toby gives us an indicator of him Not Belonging and to be able to cement it in this way by accent and character design alone is so good I’m going to explode-

He's supposed to be a shopkeeper but that job was delegated to a vending machine because Tenna didn’t want him handling POINTs. He's supposed to work the green room but he quit. He's supposed to be in the computer lab but no one noticed or cared that he went missing- nobody mentioned him in Chapter 2, nobody mentions him after you go to your Castle Town in Chapter 4. He has all the markings of a secret boss, talking about freedom, chaos, and remarking about big shots, and facilitates play via a game (games are supposed to be fun, don't let it feel like a job, okay?). AND YET-

He doesn’t give you a shadow crystal. No, that’s for the REAL secret boss. He doesn’t give you an item. That’s for the other REAL secret boss.

Something, SOMEONE, meant to be extremely helpful deprived of a use.

Jesus Christ is Toby good at making characters.

Bonus: if werewires are meant to be dogs-

Does that mean if Ramb was to be plugged in his werewire design would be more catlike? (Thank you to @gogogoat495 for the ID!)

[cupophrogs]

The Plan

Prev || Next

[itsmaferart]

The spy who could read everything… except for (real) emotions

This might contain spoilers!

One of Twilight's most fascinating aspects is his skill as a spy: he's a master of emotional disguise, capable of reading people with surgical precision in a matter of seconds. His work depends on it: detecting motivations, analyzing behaviors, and adapting to manipulate his surroundings.

As Loid Forger, his civilian facade, we see him as a kind, intelligent, educated man, a devoted father, and an exemplary husband. Everyone admires him, and in theory, he seems to have everything under control

.

But here's where the paradox comes in: the closer he gets emotionally to someone, the clumsier he becomes.

Despite his sharpness in reading interests and behavioral patterns, he struggles immensely to understand simple, spontaneous behaviors like Anya's, who just wants to have fun like any child, or Yor's, a woman full of emotions, contradictions, and desires that don't follow strict logic..

His fake wife and daughter become his true blind spot.

Twilight isn't used to dealing with genuine bonds, only strategic roles

That's why being in a home for so long—one that demands intimacy, emotionality, and spontaneity—makes his structure falter.

If we pay attention to his inner thoughts throughout the story, we notice that his true personality is far from the "perfect man" everyone sees.

Twilight is, deep down, a grumpy, nervous, insecure man who overthinks everything in search of a logical answer. This clearly generates high levels of anxiety and stress for him, and sometimes he even comes across as a bit silly.

Very, very, very silly.

Because deep down, his seemingly "mission-rational" actions are actually him concerned about his family's well-being. The truth is, he's a softie, protective, devoted, and very selfless.

This contrast between Twilight (the hyper-rational spy) and Loid Forger (the exemplary citizen) shows us a constant duality between who he is, what he pretends to be, and what he could become if he allowed his emotions to guide part of his life.

By repressing his most vulnerable parts, he finds it difficult to understand basic emotional situations that don't fit his mental framework. Not because he's cold, but because his psychic structure has been shaped by trauma, duty, and survival..

This is where a key idea comes in: Twilight interprets human behavior as a transaction.

His mind functions like an analysis machine

It seems that from his experience, people act driven by an interest—they want something, they're looking for something—and his mission as a spy is to detect what that "something" is so he can use it to his advantage. This mechanistic view of human relationships has been useful for infiltrating organizations, achieving objectives, and penetrating circles of power… but it's useless in a home where what's expected of you is to feel, not to analyze.

Indeed, his interactions with women have been more strategic than emotional. These were likely women belonging to influential social spheres, where the bond was based on seduction, mutual interest, or emotional manipulation (something similar to the classic "honey trap," where charm is used as a weapon of persuasion).

That's why he suffers an emotional short circuit with someone like Yor, a shy, sweet, authentic woman who isn't trying to manipulate him or get anything from him. She doesn't fit into his "if you do A, it's because you want B" logic, and that completely throws Twilight off balance.

His personality, with its highly rational structure, uses intellectualization and emotional repression as defense mechanisms.

The same goes for Anya, whose spontaneity and tenderness have no "strategic reason" behind them. Twilight can't "decipher" her because there's nothing to decipher: she simply is. This highlights his difficulty in connecting with people emotionally, because his life experience has programmed him to operate from the head, not the heart. .

It's curious, if we look closely at his past, we see something very different from the cold, calculating man he has become. He was an emotional, sensitive, expressive, and idealistic child, even described as a "crybaby."

However, that child was broken by war. The death of his mother, the complete absence of adult protection, and the need to survive alone pushed him to build a protective shell. Coupled with his years in the military, his life became a continuous training ground, not just physically, but emotionally: don't feel, don't doubt, don't get attached, don't trust.

This pattern is reinforced by internalized beliefs, which is why when he realizes he's "slipping," he mentally punishes himself and labels it as a mistake.

But the reality might be that Twilight tends to develop an avoidant attachment style

Where he seeks more subtle bonds and represses emotions more easily. We see this in his connection with Handler, whom he admires as a mentor figure; Franky, his undeclared best friend; and Nightfall, whom he cares for and values as a disciple and colleague.

He clearly appreciates and worries about them, but the difference is that Twilight can coexist with them and deny his attachment more easily. This is because these individuals actively reinforce his belief that attachment is a sign of danger, as they are all involved in the world of spies. In contrast, Anya and Yor have caused an emotional earthquake within him. In just six months of living with his "fake" family, he already shows signs of genuine concern and authentic affection, and his defensive system begins to fail

All of this shows us that beneath the perfect spy is a man hungry for human connection, who has lived so long repressing what he feels that he now doesn't quite know how to manage real bonds.

What do you think?

[mijucats]

more doodling... still trying to figure out how to draw big shot spamton

their toxic yaoi and unreliable narration has bewitched me...

ok see yall here same time tomorrow for even more doodles

[burningcheese-merchant]

Golden Cheese's impromptu expedition to Beast-Yeast ends in catastrophic failure: beaten, broken, and clamoring for freedom as Burning Spice dangles her over the edge of a cliff, ready to deal her the final blow. But before he does... he stops. As does the wind. As does the spice storm whipped up by their frenzy. Everything, everyone, completely frozen in place... all except for her, and for the strange woman in strange clothes that suddenly pops out from behind her assailant, armed with an obnoxiously whimsical attitude and a pair of gigantic golden scissors.

The stranger, with an eerie smile and a twinkle in her one remaining eye, remarks that she has been watching Golden Cheese's little adventure with great interest, and is really rather displeased that the great battle against her nemesis had to end in such a way. She offers Golden Cheese not only an escape from Burning Spice's clutches, but a chance to start their clash over on... more equal footing, or so she describes it. When Golden Cheese rightfully demands answers - how, why, who even are you, what the hell is even going on - the stranger insists that she is but a good Samaritan seeking to liberate both her and her oppressor from their current circumstances.

Not knowing what else to do, Golden Cheese accepts her offer, albeit begrudgingly - but the moment she puts her hand in the stranger's own, she's wrenched from Burning Spice's iron grip and sent flying through a glowing portal filled with bizarre images of melting clocks and whirring cog wheels. She falls, and falls, and falls, until she finally falls out of this mind-melting void and onto solid ground - quickly realizing that she is still in the Land of Spice, just in a different location.

Shocked, confused, and consumed by righteous indignation, she is found and rescued by none other than Burning Spice - but not the one she's come to know and despise. This Burning Spice not only looked different, but behaved differently as well: this one was jovial, good-natured, eager to come to her aid simply because he saw her in need of it.

Well... that, and... because he thinks she's pretty.

Now Golden Cheese is stuck in a distant, idyllic past; a time long before the Beasts fell from grace, where they were still loved by the world and hailed as forces for good. She's taken in by the Wild Spices, whom are likewise shockingly friendly and accommodating towards her, even despite her initial hostility. Her mission is thus to somehow find a way back to where and when she came from (that crazy woman won't just take her back herself, she refuses to) while grappling with the personal and cultural clash between her and the Wild Spices, her crushing sense of anxiety and loneliness born from being trapped in a time and place entirely unknown to her, and - perhaps worst of all - the so-called Herald of Change coming to see her and flirt with her constantly, for his mission now is to court her and win her heart.

Meanwhile, in Golden Cheese's time, Burning Spice - her Burning Spice - knows full well that she is missing. Where she went, and how she managed to escape him, he does not know - but he will. He will spend every waking moment tracking her, hunting her down, gathering whatever information he possibly can to discover her where(when?)abouts. He will have his Soul Jam back. He will have the fight he is rightfully owed. He will have her, one way or another. If she wants to play this game with him, then fine; let this be his greatest, most entertaining hunt yet. One that will inevitably end with him catching and devouring his delicious prey exactly the way he's always wanted to, as was always meant to be, for there is nowhere his little bird can hide where Burning Spice will not find her.

Here's the first chapter haha. Hope you all enjoy it. And I hope you stick with it, the story is far from over. Also the summary on AO3 is cooler than this one. I'm sorry this one is so cringe

Also, everyone please give a round of applause to my wonderful and wonderfully talented friend @pythoticusbingle for making both the cover art and all the illustrations in the fic! I couldn't have done this without them, I consider them my right hand in this endeavor and they're behind just as much of the story's potential success as me

[retellingthehobbit]

Here is just "The Misty Mountains Cold"/The Song of the Lonely Mountain, from Chapter 16 of my webcomic adaptation of The Hobbit! I noticed I had never posted the song in isolation. You can find my full webcomic adaptation of the Hobbit on Tumblr here, Ao3 here, and Webtoon here. You can also support my art in general/see things early on Patreon here.

[cosmickoshi]

Hi yes I'm still thinking about these two pages and about how Nakajima Atsushi really is the protagonist of all time.

Nothing could ever justify the orphanage director's treatment of Atsushi. Nothing could ever justify the pain and abuse Atsushi faced at the director's hand. But it is undeniable that the director has played a significant part in shaping who Atsushi is presently and has also aided him in times of need. It ties into BSD's recurring theme of how your past does not define you, but you also cannot flee from those memories because they have fundamentally influenced so many facets of your life — and acknowledging said memories is the first step to healing from them.

The director has been haunting Atsushi all this time and Atsushi so desperately wants to purge his voice from his mind, but he's also never lived a life where the director's presence doesn't plague him. What would he do once the person whose actions have shaped who he is today is finally gone? The director died and Atsushi cried because people tend to cry when their fathers die and now Atsushi is verbalising all of his loathing for his abuser in a way he couldn't for so long and yet he’s horrified by the prospect of being rid of his influence.

And the way Atsushi’s eyes are concealed from the reader until the director tells him that he’ll be gone “as early as today, even”, and there’s so little light in Atsushi's eyes when they’re finally revealed to us. The way they reflect these conflicting emotions within Atsushi surrounding the director's declaration — he'll finally be free of the very person responsible for so much of his pain and trauma, and yet that person has been such a significant part of his life that a world in which his abuser won't haunt him is unfamiliar and terrifying to him.

And I just. God. I can’t.

[egophiliac]

YOU MANIFESTED THE TWEEL CARDS CONGRATS

YOU'RE WELCOME EVERYBODY!

seriously though I was probably like. 60-80% thinking we'd get at least one tweel for chapter 10. but I was NOT expecting it so soon! both of 'em! in August! a shame we're not getting a Coral Sea event after all...but I guess I can be resigned to that and ALSO excited for getting shiny sparkly glowing(!!!!) mertwins along with Azul fighting his inner demons and going right for the eyes! AHHHH I CAN'T WAIT

(also heeeey I recognize that rowboat... 👀)

[sacchiri]

So @lesmismignon wrote a delightfully quirky Hellsing-in-One Piece-universe oneshot that I thought would be really fun to draw (I was right).

What a lovely crew they would make :')

[discordantwords]

Ah, hello, creative spark. I've missed you!