#Bobbin goes on walks

[skelekins]

buns below cut

Bobbin Spindle's Light Grey Flemish Giant Doe

[Cascadia Rabbits - 1st image light grey doe - v fluffy - v good n big Gentle Giant Rabbitry - 2nd Image - I like the doe's large dewlap / general size in comparison to person Happy Tails Flemish Giant - 3rd image of Moxy. 20lbs of rabbit.]

and

Thimb(le) or Spool [still deciding the name] Spindle's Blue Otter Netherland Dwarf Doe

[Peach Buns Rabbitry - Blue Otter Doe Simple Loved Bunnies - "Precious" dat face dat stance; blue otter doe Show Quality Netherland Dwarf Breeders Facebook Group - Blue Otter Buck [But has a hand for size comparison] Bobbin is about 20lbs of rabbit; Thimb is about 2lbs of rabbit. Bobbin is v careful with her tiny wife. Thimb is not careful with her lorge wife. ┐(´v｀)┌

edit: i did not purposefully shorten that to Thimb but y'know what. guess thats her nickname. Also helps solidify Thimble as the name b/c Thimb won't get mixed up with Spindle for me. ;3 ;3 ;3 story? Spindle found Bobbin at some point, I'm thinking in the city or maybe just outside when he was taking a little vacation. I imagine Bobbin was abandoned around an Easter-like holiday. He took her in but then read about rabbits being social creatures so he started looking into local places that he could go to for rabbit speed-dates for finding a compatible rabbit.

This was uncomfortable for Spindle because that meant going around humans more than he was used to; but his friend (who's basement he rents out for his home) goes with him to help relax his nerves.

It takes a few tries until Bobbin meets Thimb who ignores Bobbin completely at first but at least doesn't start a fight. The encounter was relatively tame but Spindle was encouraged by the attendant that it had gone very well [eating together, mirroring, generally being okay with each other].

Bun wives hit it off once at home [though Spindle still followed the guidance he was given and took introduction n stuff slow].

buns

//\\

[sejanusarchive]

“Your own father used to say those people only drank water because it didn’t rain blood” vs two district boys who are assumed to be murder machines, yet prove that statement wrong multiple times: Reaper and Marcus.

PART ONE: REAPER

When Reaper is first introduced to us, we learn he’s rangy but muscular; we read about him wrapping his hands around Coriolanus’s throat on the truck headed to the zoo and about Dill, his District partner, saying he has killed a Peacekeeper before in District 11, without ever getting caught. 

Our first impression of him is that of a dangerous person, one who’s even clever in his lethality, and because of that we know he’s a presumed possible victor.

Lucy Gray mentions him more than once as one of the biggest threats, when talking about how she’s going to try as hard as she can to win the Games.

She also tells Coriolanus how Reaper apologized to the other tributes for having to kill them and told them he is going to make it up to them after, by taking revenge on the Capitol. Everyone takes this as him meaning it maliciously and with arrogance, ‘cause how else could he possibly mean it, right? Coriolanus thinks that he’s not only powerful, but good at mind games too. 

But the truth is that Reaper meant that genuinely, even with a certain innocence, and naivety to how it could have been misinterpreted. There was no malice or arrogance in his statement, but there was guilt and regret and grief, because of being forced into taking lives. He went into the arena fully prepared and resigned to kill the others to save himself, but not without obvious dissent.

When the Games start, he arms himself and heads to the stands. Coriolanus thinks he does so to begin his hunt, even if everyone else had fled in other directions and he had made no move to go after them.

Right after this we read about how Tanner, someone who’s also a presumed possible victor, is able to climb up to the first row of the stands and sit in the sun for a while, completely unbothered and unharmed. Reaper doesn’t try to fight him, even if it would have only been to his advantage, since he could have easily taken out his strongest opponent now that the Games had just begun and he wasn’t exhausted and starving.

His first interaction with another tribute in the arena is with a dying Dill, carrying her out of the tunnels, placing her in the sun and talking to her in the last moments of her life. 

His first act with another tribute, is comforting a dying child. 

This is when the “murder machine” image starts to crumble. Coriolanus’s classmates talk about how he doesn’t look so tough, doesn't look like the person who “promised to kill all the others”, which he never actually did.

But still, after all this, Coriolanus sees his distressed pacing around Dill, as him possibly being “eager to get back to the hunt”, a hunt he never even began, and not just him feeling pained and powerless at Dill’s condition. 

When Coriolanus is sent into the arena to get Sejanus out, Bobbin, Mizzen, Tanner and Coral are the tributes who go after them to try to kill them. No sign of Reaper at any point.

When Lucy Gray gets out of the tunnels with a rabid Jessup after her, he makes no move to kill them either. Coriolanus points out how he lets Lucy Gray go and only walks up to the bottles of water on the ground.

Again and again and again, he has a chance to easily take a life to save his own or take a small revenge against the Capitol, but he doesn’t. 

His second interaction with a tribute is with Lamina. He walks up to her, they negotiate an exchange of something both of them desperately need and that forms a bond between the two of them.

Then Coral, Mizzen and Tanner appear and he leaves, he goes behind the barricade and he falls asleep.

When he comes back out, he’s shocked to see Lamina and Tanner dead on the ground. And this is when he starts to make true his promise of avenging the tributes after their death. 

He lifts Lamina up in his arms and places her next to Marcus’s and Bobbin’s corpses and then collects Tanner, Dill and Sol, as well, and covers them all with the flag of Panem. And he keeps doing this with all the tributes for the rest of the Games, right until his death. 

This is the best form of revenge he could take. Not only because he disrespects the flag, causing great disdain among Capitol citizens; but also because, most importantly, he humanizes the tributes and gives them dignity, two things the Capitol has tried in every way to take away from them. He gives them as proper a burial as he can manage in those circumstances, makes it so now they can finally rest, tucked in a corner and covered, their corpses no longer on display for a bunch of sick people’s amusement. He honors them. He could have left them all scattered out on the dusty arena ground, but he didn’t. He took care of them.

Even when it’s just him and Lucy Gray left and he’s one step away from winning, he shows no signs of wanting to attack her. Doesn’t matter that he could easily take her out, save himself and finally go home. No, even then his main concern is that the tributes can properly rest with their corpses concealed. 

Everyone expected him to kill the most people, but he died in that arena killing no one and without ever even attempting to. He died holding strong to his humanity and making sure the fallen tributes could hold strong to theirs as well even in death.

Contrary to what we and the Capitol are made to believe initially, Reaper turns out to be pretty innocuous. He’s not a naturally violent or aggressive person, not a natural born killer and he refuses to be as well. This was a life or death situation and yet he didn’t even harm anyone. He has killed before, he is capable of it, but if he didn’t even do it in this case, even when all it would have taken for him to save himself was killing a girl smaller and younger than him, then imagine how dire and desperate the situation must have been when he had to resort to it.

He defied the Capitol by not participating in the Games, by not letting them turn him into the murder machine they wanted and expected him to be, and by honoring the corpses of the children whose lives have been so cruelly and unjustly cut short.

(Before moving on to Marcus, I wanna clarify some things in case anyone who’s reading this has only seen the movie. Reaper snapping at Clemensia during the one-on-one mentor-tribute interviews never happens in the book, neither does him looking angrily into the camera in the arena and challenging the Capitol to punish him arrogantly. Like we’ve just seen, this perceived arrogance and aggression in Reaper is a very surface level misconception of the people around him, that’s easily debunkable, that who made the movie took and ran with wrongfully. 

And actually there’s a few heartbreaking scenes in the book that contrast heavily with the image the movie created of him, like him tying a piece of the flag around his shoulders like a cape and spinning around, watching it fly behind him, and then running in the sun with his arms spread wide; and him rocking gently back and forth on himself for comfort, after the snake attacks, which is not when he dies in the book. He’s not the threatening, angry guy who tests the Capitol that they made him in the movie, he’s just a severely traumatized kid. Nothing more than a kid.

The movie made tons of stupid changes like this, that completely miss and disregard the whole point of both characters and story. Trust me when I say 99% of the characters are portrayed very wrongfully in it. So please keep that in mind.)

PART TWO: MARCUS

Marcus, like Reaper, was initially seen as a probable winner in the Games, before being murdered. Coriolanous makes note of his size multiple times, describing him as “towering”, as having a “colossal frame”, as “dwarfing the other tributes”, and comparing him to a grizzly bear. 

It’s exactly because of his size that people think of him as a sure winner, as capable of taking down everyone else, as threatening and deadly.

But then we hear Sejanus, the only person who actually got to know him at some point, talk about him, and the first and one thing he mentions about Marcus is his kindness. 

He tells Coriolanus how when they were still classmates in Two, he hurt his finger really badly and Marcus helped him by bringing him a cup of snow he scooped from the windowsill. He says he did it without being prompted by anyone, without consulting anyone, not even the teacher, and without even being friends with Sejanus. 

That’s actually the very first thing Sejanus tells us about him. They weren’t enemies, but they weren’t friends either. Marcus had no real reason to do it, especially considering how the Plinths were, and still are, deeply despised in Two, for having helped the Capitol win the war. He did it almost as a reflex, because that’s who he is as a person. 

And this pure, unconditional kindness, told by the one person who actually knew him, goes against the image of him everyone formed by just looking at him, against what everyone assumed because he’s district, he’s a tribute, and he’s tall and strong and broad, so he has to be dangerous and lethal, he will brutally kill everyone to save himself; he’s capable of it anyway.

As I already said, the Plinths are deeply despised in Two, Sejanus is a filthy traitor in his eyes, one who’s benefiting from a luxurious, safe life in the Capitol, thanks to blood money; blood of thousands of what were supposed to be his people, blood whose spillage made them lose the war and caused the realization of the Games, bringing Marcus to that very situation.

Sejanus doesn’t have to worry about whether or not he’s going to be able to fill his stomach everyday; whether he’ll be able to finish his studies or will have to drop out of school early, to go work to help sustain his family; whether the dangerous working conditions will be the cause of his early demise, or being sent to an arena to kill or be killed by a bunch of other children for amusement will be, and what will happen to his family once he’ll be gone. All of this thanks to his family’s betrayal.

No doubt he resents Sejanus and is angry at him, a part of him maybe even faults him a bit for everything, but he never takes it out on him. It would be easy to single him out, pick him and make him pay for this situation, since he can’t make the whole Capitol pay; take some sort of revenge on Strabo Plinth in the name of Two and Thirteen and all other Districts, by harming his son. 

Sweet Sejanus, who brings the tributes food when no one else thought about it, who keeps pleading with him to accept it, who tries to help them however he can, would probably let him do it. He would take the hit, metaphorical or not, because it’s clear he has guilt gnawing at him and would feel like he deserves it. And Marcus is definitely aware of it. 

But he never gets violent, physically nor verbally, never tries to attack him or spit insults or hate at him. Instead he just ignores him.

He had many chances to do harm, even to kill Capitol citizens and Peacekeepers as revenge, a small and trivial one, but still a revenge, and he had many chances to let his frustration and anger out on Sejanus and use him as a punching bag, but he never did, because despite what everyone assumed about him, that’s not the type of person he is.

PART THREE: SEJANUS 

Sejanus, whom I’ve already mentioned several times in this post, is another District boy with the ability to take lives, but who’s repulsed and disturbed by the mere idea of it. 

With Marcus and Reaper, it’s a matter of first impressions and then getting to actually know them and learn they’re not like they seemed. With Sejanus it’s the opposite. 

First thing we learn about him in the book, is his background: born in District 2, his father made fortune during the war and was able to buy his family a life in the Capitol. 

But the first thing we learn about him as a person, is that he’s shy and sensitive. 

Throughout the entirety of the book, over and over and over again, we see that he’s good, and kind, and gentle, and sweet and takes things so to heart. It’s constantly pointed out by the people around him. 

And it’s constantly shown to us by him as well, with the passion he puts into standing up against the dehumanization and mistreatment of District people; with how affected he is by these aspects and by the Games; with how he tries in every way he can to help the tributes; with how he made it his life mission to make things better for the Districts; with how he’s never mean or spiteful to people who bully, dehumanize and disrespect him; with how he was ready to give his life in protest.

The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes is at its very center a discussion on human nature. He (alongside Dr. Gaul) is the main character who explicitly talks about it, and he believes in the inherent goodness of humans and constantly advocates in favor of it. All the injustice and atrocities he witnessed and experienced, never made him change his mind or his actions, never made it so compassion and love weren’t his driving forces.

His heart is big, and kind, and pure. And he wears it on his sleeve all the time. He’s referred to as “emotional” and “compassionate”, his eyes are soulful, his face is incredibly expressive, and there’s so many instances in which he’s described as speaking with a voice so full of sentiment, so many instances of his eyes filling with tears, of him wiping his face cause they spilled out. 

It’s well established how good and uncorrupted he is, how devoted to humanity he is, how much he values life.

And then in the third part of the book, we learn he’s an excellent marksman, a natural one even, who has been training in shooting every week since he was tiny.

He’s so good, that the sergeant in Twelve, as to not lose someone with Sejanus’s level of ability, refuses to give him the recommendation he needs in order to train to become a medic, even when Sejanus purposefully shoots much worse than he’s capable of, to hide his talent. 

The boy who values life more than anything in the world, has the ability to take one even with his eyes closed.

When he arrived in Twelve, wearing on his body the signs of the toll that the Capitol, the Games and what happened to Marcus, had taken on his mental health; with the prospect of building a new life for himself in which he could help the world become a better place; of training to be a medic and save lives; Coriolanus noted he had a much lighter air to himself, as if a heavy weight had been lifted off of him.

But when he is confronted with the reality that he is now a soldier and is expected to kill, Coriolanus says that his expression goes back to being as gloomy as it had been in the Capitol, the heavy weight now back on his shoulders. 

At dinner he doesn’t take a single bite of food, which is a behavior we’ve seen from him before, one he falls into when his mental health gets concerningly bad. And the reason is that he is terrified by the idea of having to kill someone, or someone dying because he can’t bring himself to shoot first. Because to him, every life is precious and none is disposable, and the possibility of being the cause of one being taken away, is an unbearable thought.

Reaper and Marcus had many chances and what could be considered reasons to kill, but they refused to. Sejanus, who is expected to kill because he’s a soldier and the best shooter, who would be punished, possibly even with execution, if he didn’t, refuses to. 

All three of them have the power to take lives with little effort but choose to cherish and honor them instead, choose kindness, choose humanity, even over their own self preservation, proving both the Capitol and Crassus Snow’s statement about District people being bloodthirsty, wrong, by simply being their honest, uncorrupted selves until the end, by being truthful to who they are no matter what.

[reverieblondie]

Be Sweet to Me

Chapter 2

Pairing: Miguel O’Hara X Fem!reader

Warnings: None for this chapter, but there will be eventual smut, Pining, and teasing. Alternating POVs, wandering eyes.

Summary: He saved you, why did he save you? And why is he so familiar?

A/N: Okay I know I haven't updated this series in a while BUT! I swear I will never just leave a series unfinished! I hate when I get invested in something and the writer doesn't finish! So updates might be slow but that's because I am putting a lot of thought into this. (Plus just slow writer, sorry!)

Chapter: 1 <- ///////// -> Chapter: 3

Series Masterlist, ATSV Masterlist

It tingles still….

Miguel rubs his hand on his neck where you had fixed his tie, hours later and he can still feel the tingling warmth your fingertips left behind. Even the slightest touch stirs him still, he thought he would be over this by now considering how often you two bump into each other and all your friendly gestures. Every time it's an electric shock through his system. -Annoying…

Layla says it’s from being touched-starved but he rather eat a pile of rocks before he admits that to himself…though…the sensation only happens when you are touching him. -of course. 

From the top of the building Miguel watches as you walk back to your apartment, you have been working late again… he told you to get home on time but of course, you don’t listen to him… it’s dangerous to be walking home alone at night, especially with the hopelessly addicted taking every opportunity to mug people for their fix. Hints why he’s here surveying the city, not you, why would he be watching you? He just happened to be in the area when he spotted you, nothing weird. 

Miguel watches as you walk without a care bobbin your head to whatever you're listening to. You shouldn't be walking around at night with earbuds in, how irresponsible…though that thought quickly dissolves into another as his stare lingers on you. 

Have you always looked this good? Your hair cascading perfectly down, shining bright eyes, and the way your hips are swaying so…tantalizingly. Miguel groans and turns away from you, shutting those thoughts down instantly. He can’t think that about you, he works with you, you're annoying and touchy, and if he had thoughts about you it could complicate things. 

Plus, besides all that being Spider-Man was filled with a lot of responsibility and then there was the multiverse and…everything that went with that….

No, this was best…being alone meant he could be focused, he couldn’t afford to slip up…to let anything distract him…

Shaking off the feelings Miguel’s eyes go back towards you. As he continues to watch you he sees that it’s no longer just you walking down the dark sidewalk but a hood-clad figure steadily approaching with their head down. Okay, Miguel knows from experience what’s about to happen, it’s textbook at this point. The guy is going to pull out a weapon and take your stuff. Miguel or well Spider-Man will make sure he doesn’t get far with your things. 

Right on cue, as the man is about to pass you he speeds up, grabbing your bag and pulling. Though this doesn’t go as Miguel expected…

Usually, the bag gets grabbed, the person screams for help and the burglar goes off running for him to web up and get the bag back. Instead, you hold onto your bag pulling back, the guy looks at you surprised and Miguel matches the expression.

Pulling the guy's face goes from surprised to irritated, “Let go of the bag!” 

You pull back, “You let go of the bag, asshole!” 

“Don’t make me hurt you!” The man starts to go for something hidden in his waistband and Miguel knows that now he has to intervene. 

As the tug-of-war match continues it is interrupted by Miguel or Spider-Man jumping down and scaring the absolute shit out of the two of you. The guy gives one more tug before he relents, pushing the bag back at you and running away. Typically Miguel is just running and webbing up the attacker not giving the attackie any attention, but this was you and despite his logical thinking he decides to stay by your side. Very atypical for Spider-Man. 

Turning to look at you he sees you on the ground looking up at him completely gobsmacked. Okay, you look surprised…maybe he should say something to ease the tension…

“Usually people just let go of the bag” -nice, meet her actions with judgment. Way to go Miguel...

Tilting your head at him you stand up, “Why would I have done that? I’m not going to let some creep try and take my stuff” 

He sighs, sliding his hand down his face and he feels his patience thinning. “What you did was reckless and you could get yourself hurt or worse, killed.” 

Placing your hands on your hips you cock an eyebrow at him, funny you must have picked up the expression from him. “Aren't you the one who says we have to learn to protect ourselves?” 

Miguel can’t help but step forward meeting your combative attitude, clearly, you saw a video of the bus incident, “Yeah but that doesn’t mean act reckless and get yourself hurt” 

 “And to think, everyone thinks you don’t care about the city or the people,” you say with a giggle. -only you can meet this whole thing with some kind of humor, being friendly to a masked man whom the city hates. 

“People can believe what they want.” he turns away to end his conversation with you. 

“Well, I believe in you, Spider-Man.” 

This makes him stop in his tracks turning towards you once more, “What?”

“I bel-” he holds up his hand silencing you as he approaches you closer and closer. Why is this bothering him? 

“I heard you, why?” you're backing away from him, and he reads your face, you should be scared…but you're not…

“Well, I believe that someone who looks after the city like you can’t be a bad guy…” 

He's still approaching you, he’s intimidating you back into a wall successfully cornering you. “Maybe they are all right to hate and fear me…maybe you're wrong for seeing me as a hero…” 

Why is he doing this…

He has too…

He has to push you away…he has to keep you distant, everyone distant…

Miguel becomes lost in his thoughts, he knows he needs to distance himself, He wants you to be scared, to make you hate him…though he does want your friendship, but he can’t risk it. Not after everything that has happened. 

Then a rush of warmth spreads through him, and your soft hand is pressed to his shoulder…it's a comforting gesture like you're trying to console him. To reach out to him. Miguel's breath nearly stops; it feels like lightning rushing through him.  

“You're not perfect, but you're not as bad as you want everyone to believe.” 

He feels his eyes widen and he knows from the slight tilt of your head that his expression is being reflected through the mask. Miguel backs away no longer caging you between his arms. Shaking off the feeling he turns away from you, irritation blooming within his chest. Why do you always know how to rattle him…

“Just get home without getting yourself killed…” 

Shooting his red web he swings off away from you, lighting still lingering through him from your touch. 

Finally home…

With a groan you take off your shoes and put down your things, stripping away your work clothes as you make it through your apartment towards your bedroom. Today has been…interesting to say the least…

Getting dressed into your comfortable clothes you lay back in your bed staring blankly at the ceiling until you can’t suppress the urge any longer. Reaching aimlessly you grab your pad and search for the thing that has consumed your thoughts on your walk home. 

Spider-Man, 

Looking him up you see, what you expected, people complaining about him. News outlets saying that he is a menace and needs to be stopped. People talked about him, sharing their experiences, the overwhelming consensus being: that people were not too fond of the grouchy spider. You however were more lenient in his behavior. 

Having to save a city can’t be easy, sure he could use some consulting with a good PR agent but he's trying his best to protect everyone. He came to your rescue tonight, he just seems like he’s tired. Irritated for sure but not evil.

As you're scrolling through the articles about him you stop on a picture of the masked vigilantly. Unblurred pictures were a rarity and this was one of the very few, considering you just had an encounter with him the picture does little to actually depict the stature of him. How intimidating he is, it's funny you hardly ever get intimidated, the only person who has intimidated you lately is…

Your face scrunches and you look back at your tablet looking at the picture again then you quickly open up another screen typing with haste till both pictures are side by side. 

It's a picture of Miguel in his lab coat standing for a picture with the whole genetics department, a request made from the higher-ups for all the departments to do group photos. You remember how pissed Miguel was having to take the picture, a permanent frown on his face as the rest of the department smiles brightly, including you right next to Miguel. You had tried everything to get him to smile but nothing seemed to work. 

Looking at the picture you see how big Miguel is compared to everyone else. Tall and muscular just like a hero you know, and they both seemed to be rather…grumpy…

Closing the screens you shake your head at the crazy thought. Miguel O’Hara is not Spider-Man there's just no way! 

Laying in bed you stare upwards as your brain ticks with the possibilities. There could be crazier guesses but Miguel? Really? How could you even figure something like that out? Plus do you want to know? No, it’s too outlandish…

After a long night filled with dreams of Spider-man and Miguel you can’t help how you're starting to see even more similarities…

At work, you go through your usual duties, bring assignments to Miguel, and checking developments from projects you had sent off, the usual. Miguel of course was at work by the time you arrived, always so early stretching himself so thin for this place that you didn’t even think he truly likes. Everyone had their views and thoughts on Alchemax but they typically didn’t challenge the higher-ups like Miguel did. Honestly, it's one of the first things that drew you to him, he wasn’t scared to call people on their bullshit no matter who it was.

That’s kinda heroic, isn’t it? Standing up to big corporations when they are being jerks? 

Turning your head you watch as Miguel reads through reports and wipes his hand over his face in irritation…huh? That’s another thing he did…

Instead of wondering what could be making him irritated like a good coworker you just rest your chin in hand and observe…looking for something...

Taking his lab coat off he seems to be getting even more frustrated, leaning it over his chair as he starts frantically swiping at screens. Watching his back you see how his muscles seem to fight the shirt's material like it wants to rip at any moment. Placing his hands on his waist, you can’t help how your eyes follow his strong arms, to his narrow waist, then wandering to his ass…

A part of you is screaming to look away. This is a HR complaint waiting to happen, but as you tilt your head you look at his ass more carefully a thought crosses your mind. The flashing thought of Spider-man walking away from you and then swinging away. Sure, it might be creepy to have checked out the hero's butt, and to now be doing it to your co-worker…just the similarity is uncanny…Can you even recognize someone from their butt? 

Very discreetly you pull out your phone to look up pictures of Spider-man. You find one, from behind. As you look at the picture and then at Miguel you think that it is uncanny how similar they look from the back.

Miguel then turns to you suddenly catching your eyes being on him. You feel your cheeks warm and quickly put away your phone and start arranging your work.  

“We are going to have to stay late tonight,” he says in a grumble. 

Miguel seems tired…the bags under his eyes are more prevalent than normal. Honestly you don’t know if he could handle a late night of work, it looks like he hasn’t slept in days. Usually, you would give some kind of sassy response to the news, perhaps saying how he couldn’t even stay late because of how he looks, but today you decide to remain quiet; this might be a good opportunity for you to do some…investigating…

He’s got to get rest, he can feel his head bobbing as he stares at the different samples trying to urge his eyes to focus and his mind to wake up. Miguel is tired and he can feel his body becoming sluggish. It's been 72 hours without proper rest and it's starting to take its toll on him. He can't keep doing this but he has no other option. 

Miguel stands up stretching, his muscles stretch and pop and as he extends his hands up above his head. As he gets lost in the sublet moment of relaxation he hears your steps approaching carefully, almost like you're not trying to disturb him. -that's different from how you typically act. 

Opening his eyes he sees you waiting patiently with a smile, two hot cups of coffee in your hands.

“Tired?” you ask in a teasing-like manner as if the wrinkles and bags under his eyes were not a dead giveaway to his affliction.

“No” - lies…

Holding up one of the coffees towards him you smile gently. Of course, you thought to bring him coffee, you must have clocked how sluggish he's been moving today. With a careful lazy motion, Miguel takes the cup from your hand and gives you a nod, he can’t bring himself to do more considering how exhausted he is. 

Turning away from him Miguel's lazy gaze goes to your figure as you start to pittle away organizing his desk. Miguel feels his eyes rake all over your body in a cloudy haze, you look so…soft…so malleable, he could easily move you around, feeling the softness of your skin beneath his fingertips. Miguel quickly shakes away the delirious thoughts and instead starts drinking the piping hot coffee. 

As the coffee enters his mouth he suddenly no longer feels the waves of tiredness but the sharp hit of disgust. What did you make this with dirty dishwater? 

“I hope you like the coffee, they didn't have what I usually make, so I tried something different.” swinging back around you smile brightly towards him. Typically Miguel would have no problem spitting it out and giving his criticism, but he can't seem to bring himself to do it. All that he can think about when he sees you looking at him expectantly is how kind you are towards him. It brings him to give a tight-lipped smile along with a nod that has you beaming at your experimentation. 

Right as you turn around Miguel is spitting the foul liquid back in the cup unnoticed by you, he knew you were not good at making coffee but that crap was ridiculous!  

“So…I have a question for you Miguel…” you say casually.

Miguel places the foul drink down while he takes his seat back at his desk. Humming at your question, he’s half paying attention to you. He just needs to fix these reports and then he has to get back to society. As Miguel's mind races with thought he continues to feverishly type, until he hears the word ‘Spider-man’ slip from your lips and he pauses turning to face you. 

“W-what?” 

“I asked what you think of this Spider-man guy?” Miguel studies you, he feels his nerves on high alert…could you…no. You're smart but you couldn’t have figured that out. Maybe you're just wanting to talk about last night? He just needs to stay calm. 

“I don’t,” he responds flatly as he goes back to work.  

From the corner of his eye, he sees you plopping down to sit on his desk, looking up he sees that you're already looking down at him. It's kinda intimidating…your look is so intense…focused on him. Miguel can tell you want to say more, and a part of him wants you to. Then your classic sweet smile spreads to your lips.

“Did you hear he got punched by an old lady?” -uhhhgggg…biggest misunderstanding….

Miguel can no longer resist the temptation, “Why are you asking about him?” 

“Just curious I guess…” 

“Why?” 

He watches as you shrug “Just he’s interesting, a guy who seems to hate the city but then he’s always saving it. Makes you wonder.” 

Miguel can’t control the words that slip from him next “What do you wonder…” 

You look at him surprised before you answer very simply, “How he’s doing”

Miguel and you watch each other for a beat. Right as your mouth opens to say something else his watch starts blaring. -shit…

Getting up quickly he excuses himself, making some excuse but an important call he's been waiting on. Going out of the lab into the empty hallway he ducks into the nearest bathroom to pick up the transmission. Popping up he sees Peter, 

“Miguel, sorry to disturb you but there is a problem…we got a lizard anomaly in your area.” 

Miguel looks at him confused, “Wait? In my dimension?”

That hasn’t happened in a while…damn, now he has to go handle that. Typically he would send people to deal with it, but he doesn't want to deal with the aftermath of people seeing more spiders in the city. If anyone found out about the multi-spiders or the HQ or what he’s been doing it could lead to catastrophic events. 

Coming back to the lab you look at him confused, before you can ask what the call was about he’s cutting you off, “I have to go, go ahead and clean up and get out of here.”  

Furrowing your brows you get closer to him as he gathers his things, “Wait what? I thought staying late was your idea. Now you're just leaving? Is everything alright?”  

Why must you ask questions… “I am fine, I just have to get out of here, important date…” 

Miguel starts heading to the door typing on his watch and finding the anomaly coordinates when your voice calls out to him. 

“Where did you go yesterday?” 

Miguel stops in his tracks and looks over his shoulder back at you, he needs to go deal with the anomaly but your question is laced with seriousness. He sighs…

“Mind your own business, and clean up. Then get home.” 

With that he leaves, this just isn’t his night. 

What the hell? Of course, he runs off, it was his idea to stay late then he runs off leaving you to have to wrap up everything, and what’s with his cold response? Sure, you know it’s not your business, but what is he always doing? And a date? Does he mean a date date or something else? Why is he so infuriating!  

Going to his lab table, you grab the coffee he didn’t finish and start cleaning up his desk. What could be so important that he had to leave in such a rush? Why is he so irritated, and tired? As you shuffle together his reports you pause for a moment, what if…

No-

You quickly shake the thought of putting down the papers and going to the sink to pour the coffee out. You're trying to just clean up and not let your imagination get the best of you but the same thought keeps flashing in your brain…Spider-man….Miguel…

Tapping your foot you look around at the lab, and Miguel's desk. You're playing back your interactions in your mind, how frantically he had to leave, how tired he seemed…

Taking out your phone you quickly type the news and see that there is a breaking news update…and just like you suspected there is, pressing the video you watch the alert. 

“Citizens in East Neava keep alert, the masked vigilante known as Spider-Man has been spotted in the area fighting an unidentifiable creature. The police report that Spider-man has been inquired and are now taking the opportunity to comb the area to find him, they suspect he can not get far due to his inquiries, and that they will finally bring this menace to justice.” 

While the news plays you watch a video of the fight, Spider-man is fighting some kind of reptilian creature. The footage is shaky and grainy but the last thing you see is the creature getting thrown and Spider-Man getting his side ripped into as he lets out a strained cry. Then the video cuts off. 

You stand there stiff, You're in the east city…Spider-man is hurt…and that cry…it…it can’t be true…

“Miguel…” 

Taking one last look at his desk, you're sprinting for your things, rushing out of the empty building. You're unsure, your mind is clouded with suspicion and confusion. You don’t know if they are the same…but if they are…he needs help…

taglist: @oharasfilipinawife @aisyakirmann @spdrwdw @huniedeux @rosegnome @straw-berry-ghoul @migueloharastruelove @skylertully @keiva1000

[meekmedea]

thinking of a modern au recently... where things eventually go pretty well for everyone except for a certain blond. 

setting: a carnival that requires walking through this forest of sorts

warning: umm it’s Coriolanus. 

~~~~

Scene 1: 

Clemensia and Coriolanus walking there. In this universe, they sort of have a are they-are they-not dating vibe. Clemmie secretly thinks he just might ask her to be his girlfriend, because he said he had something important to talk to her about tonight. (Her friends ranged from supportive (Lyssie) to being: Alone in the woods with him? I think you’re gonna get murdered tonight, Clem. Please put this airtag in your bag. (Felix))

Unfortunately for Clemmie, the conversation of  “I’ve been thinking of my future and…” goes in the direction of him talking about how pursuing Sejanus would do wonders for his career. Clemmie is blindsided by this as he goes on and on about how his career needs this. 

“So you were stringing me along?” / “Clemmie-” 

Crassus Snow is still dead. The Snow family financial status is pretty similar to tbosas

Here Coriolanus is thinking about how the status and finances of a future partner can help his future career in politics. Yes, the Dovecotes have that. But the Plinths are wealthier, even if they are part of the Nouveau Riche. 

While Dovecotes can boast a place amongst the old families, there are old families that are more ‘prestigious’ such as Phibbs, Ravinstill, Heavensbee etc. Also her family prefers to keep their names out of the papers - both for privacy and other reasons. So her family’s status doesn’t help much in his eyes. 

(If you’ve ever seen Legally Blonde where Warren breaks up with Elle, I’m imagining those vibes.) Clemmie storms off deeper into the forest despite him calling her back. She refuses, and afterwards he doesn’t follow after her because she’ll calm down eventually, right? Everyone knows how stubborn she is, it’s not like it’s his fault that she ran off on her own. 

`

Scene 2: 

Reaper lost in the woods. It’s getting dark and he’s getting annoyed. RIP to chances for calling for help. Little to no signal.

`

Scene 3: 

Some time passes and most people have arrived. Most people get placated with Coriolanus’ excuse that she went to get some air. 

Coriolanus is trying to look for Sejanus. Where is he?

Felix arrives later, but when he comes across Coriolanus without Clemmie, he asks after her. He’s also extremely suspicious when presented with such an excuse. He’s texting and calling her, checking her location. Why isn’t she picking up?

Elsewhere, we've got Dill blaming Treech (and Lamina by extension) for Reaper's absence. If they hadn't been all lovey-dovey and late to meet up with Reaper, then he probably wouldn't have decided to set out on his own and gotten lost. Bobbin wholeheartedly agrees, because it's Treech and yeah, Dill is making some good points. 

`

Scene 4: 

Meanwhile back to the forest, Reaper, who has been wandering in circles, FINALLY, bumps into someone. Unfortunately, this someone is in the middle of a crisis. Clemmie is NOT having a great night here. First, there’s the whole thing with Coriolanus. Now she’s lost. She’s twisted her ankle and her phone doesn’t work. What a great night. 

Reaper: Who wears heels in a forest? Clemmie: *bursts into tears because this is her last straw* Reaper panics. 

`

Scene 5: 

Sejanus who’s reconnected with Marcus, they haven’t talked in years. Coriolanus is the last thing on his mind. 

While he’s having a good time at the carnival, we’ve got Felix needing to be held back from committing murder. He has NOT been able to contact Clemmie and has now been convinced that she’s probably dead in a ditch somewhere. Dramatic? Yes. But he is worried. 

Even if the truth does come out, Felix is still ready to throw hands. Because what do you mean, you let her storm off into the forest? ALONE??

Part 2 to come because this got long haha

[stquilts]

On to quilting…

This was probably the step I was most concerned about. My machine is a bit on the small side. It’s a Pfaff Passport. It’s my first computerized machine… just basic mechanical machines up to this point. There is certainly a learning curve when it comes to a major jump like that but I must admit… working with a mechanical machine that you have to do all the little adjustments yourself… it helps to understand what is happening, especially when something goes wrong. And something always goes wrong.

So far I’ve…

Bent a needle

Forgot to move the needle back to center position after switching a foot and the needle hit the foot. Luckily it didn’t break but the machine made a god awful sound.

I still can’t get the bobbin case out of the top load space (always had a front load) so I can’t clean out lint. The manual says to just “lift it straight up and to the right to remove” once u remove the needle plate but there’s a trick they’re not saying and i haven’t figured it out yet.

While the space between the needle and the arm to the right is small, it did just fine. I didn’t need to worry about that. A lot of Pfaff machines have a dual feed system which is kinda like an integrated walking foot so that certainly helps move the layers thru. I played around with the presser foot pressure but I didn’t really see a difference. One thing I did notice…. Managing all that fabric isn’t easy. I have a tendency to try a control the fabric too much (hence I bent a needle) and I can see that I may have pushed fabric out of alignment a bit. I did have to re-baste a bit and I had to take out a whole seam that was too wonky for words.

It’s certainly not perfect. Fabric shifted a bit. My stitches aren’t perfectly straight. I forgot to change my stitch length this morning so half a line is the default 2.5mm instead of the 3mm I wanted (this doesn’t happen with a mechanical machine!! It stays until u change it!). But for a first quilt attempt, I think it’s pretty good!

I have to head back out to the store tomorrow since I ran out of the lavender thread. Shout out to Three Little Birds in Hyattsville, MD. They’re awesome. I was just there yesterday… did I have the lavender thread in my hand? Yes I did. But I put it back because “What are the chances I’ll need it? Pretty fucking high.

I’ve got a few more lines to do after I get the thread and then on to squaring up and binding!

My cat doing a very cat thing… sitting on whatever I’m trying to work on.

[abimee]

playing little bits of fallout new vegas after watching oomf play it on twitch and heres my courier from 2 hours playing... need 2 still obtain her the attire i see her wearing ( field hand outfit)

basics is she was the daughter of union linen cleaners who named her utah carol after the marty bobbins song (heavily influenced from my linen cleaner grandpa who gave me my middle name lenore through that same song). shes 6'1 schizophrenic and is very happy and joyeux the bullet in her head is but another fun tidbit to tell over the campfire shes very pro-union and is trying to bring the concept back to the mojave. she only runs or jogs never walks and is a lesbian. i forsee her being friends w/ boone and perhaps carries arcade around in her pocket unsure yet what weapon i think she'll be good with but goddamn is she bad at aiming to the point sunny got worried for her but didnt say anything. chippewa-white and shes got a few rotted teeth she doesnt let bother her. she sings union songs when she rolls the mojave

her full name is utah carol lane but she goes by the nickname nighthawk (ladybird if youre her lover) because her mama was nicknamed ''nightjar'' for her singing of union songs so she took after the nickname because she doesnt want people knowing her real name unless theyre real close

[mollymauk-teafleak]

how could you think, darling, I'd scare so easily

Maverick is left deeply depressed after Bradley finds out he pulled his papers and Ice is left with no idea what to do. Until Maverick goes out for a run in the storm and finds the first step out of the darkness in a storm drain.

Huge thanks to @hangsters who constantly gives the best ideas and betas all of my fics and is the best ever ever ever

Please reblog and comment over on Ao3 if you liked this!

-------

It was still raining. 

It had been raining all day, Tom could hear it drumming on his office windows. 

He had just enough time to think I hope Bradley doesn’t have a baseball game today before the grief closed tight around his chest, slipping in through that door left ajar in his mind to sharply remind him that it didn’t matter. Bradley wasn’t here. Bradley was gone.

Tom pushed the glasses he was still getting used to up his face, rubbing the bridge of his nose like that was going to do anything. The thought was still a physical pain, a stab right to the nerve endings. Tom had never been someone who cried easily, he’d taken enough blows in his life to be the one who promised other people it would be okay, the arms that other people ran into. That had always been his job. 

But just that one thought, the realization that Bradley didn’t care whether it was raining or not because he wasn’t going to be walking through the door, curls sticking up from being under his baseball cap, drinking one of those sodas he loved that turned his tongue blue, asking what's for dinner. He wasn’t going to be in the backyard, throwing a ball at the back of the house and catching it, despite Tom constantly joking that if he broke the kitchen window again, he’d trade him in for another cat. When Tom got up in the night, unable to sleep and feeling that he might scream if he had to hold still a second longer, there would be no soft snores coming from behind Bradley’s door, he’d never get that sense of peace and comfort that everyone he loved was safe and accounted for. 

Tom felt his ragged breaths condensing into tears at the back of his throat. He almost let them fall, almost allowed himself a moment’s selfishness but he couldn’t. There were footsteps coming down the hall towards his office. 

“Papa?” the door pushed back, he’d had it ajar anyway but Sofia had never needed to knock. 

Fixing a smile on his face, resting his hands on his keyboard like he’d been actually working, Tom managed a passable impression of Admiral ‘Iceman’ Kazansky for his daughter, “Right here, bobbin. Just getting some work done.”

Sofia hovered anxiously in the doorway, her jacket on and her backpack slung over one shoulder. Looking at her was almost enough to break his heart all over again, every day she seemed to get a little older, a little more grown, he saw more of the young woman she was turning into. She’d never be tall- thanks to Maverick- but she had that gangly, wiriness all teenagers did, like a young colt. Especially when she was drowning in a patterned shirt Tom remembered wearing himself through the eighties. But none of that was what broke his heart, he’d accepted a long time ago that his daughter was always going to grow up faster than he was ready for. 

It was the expression on her face. No high schooler should have had to look so terrified.

“Daddy still isn’t back,” Sofia fidgeted, playing with the straps of her backpack, “I need to go, I’m gonna be late but…he isn’t back.”

Tom had to work to keep his reassuring smile in place. Of course Sofia was giving voice to the same fears currently pacing behind his ribcage, her fingers were twitching and foot was tapping the same way his wanted to. He wanted to take her in his arms and hug tightly, cry with her, refuse to let her out of his sight in case he lost her too. 

But she’d asked him yesterday, in a soft, small voice  like she was afraid someone would overhear, if she could go to the movies with her friends today. She’d held herself so tightly like she was expecting something to fall from the sky and strike her just for asking, like she wasn’t allowed to put down the grief they were all collectively carrying around, even for one Saturday afternoon. Tom wouldn’t let her feel like that. 

So he stood, crossed the room and put his hands on her thin shoulders, “He’ll catch you when you get home, bobbin, don’t worry about it. Everything’s fine, you have fun.”

The guilt in her eyes, those eyes that had started off looking so much like Maverick’s but had turned into Tom’s somewhere along the way, it lessened. Like she only believed him in the way young children did when their parents told them it was so, despite evidence to the contrary. 

“Okay,” she nodded, “Just…just tell daddy I waited for him?”

“I will,” Tom promised, already moving into the tight hug she gave him, letting her bury her face against his shirt, “I’ll keep an eye on him, we’ll be okay. It’ll all be okay…sure you don’t want me to drive you, it’s pouring down out there?”

Sofia shook her head quickly, too quickly to not punch a hole in her casual tone, “Nah, I like getting the bus. I got my umbrella.” You need to stay here in case he comes back, he can’t be alone.

All Tom could do was hug her tighter. Like that would fix anything. 

He waved her off from the front porch, chest tightening every time she glanced back at the house until the curve of the street took her out of sight. Still checking, still hoping. Tom had to wonder who it was she wanted to see, Bradley or Maverick. 

He couldn’t bear to go back to those reports, they were just another reminder of everything that was falling by the wayside as he tried to keep his family together with a white knuckled grip. His feet took him away from his office to the kitchen, to a bowl of pierogi dough that had been chilling in the fridge for way too long, one he’d started around 2am the night before but hadn’t gotten to finish because he’d heard Maverick screaming with another nightmare. But now he took it, scattering the bench with flour and got to rolling with smooth, practiced motions. 

He was failing as an uncle, as a father. He was failing as a husband. He was failing as a rear admiral. But he could at least do this, he could make sure there was food for them, food Maverick didn’t have the stomach to eat, that Sofia would thank him for, a portion that would sit untouched because it still hadn’t sunk in that he didn’t need to feed Bradley. But it would be there and right now, it was the best Tom could do.

It was an understatement to say things were bad. But there were no words to put to this kind of grief, one that wasn’t supposed to exist because his family wasn’t supposed to exist. Everything that had ever threatened them was supposed to be external, Maverick being sent halfway across the world on a vengeful deployment, getting kicked out of the Navy entirely if anyone decided to pry into their relationship, having Bradley and Sofia taken from them. 

The fact that what finally pulled them apart had come from inside was a sour taste in Tom’s tongue. 

He’d felt betrayed, hurt, for a flash of an instant he’d been as angry as Bradley when Maverick had confessed. He’d had no right to pull his papers, to wreck the future the kid wanted without so much as a word, that was never how they’d done things. Of course he didn’t want Bradley in the air, he didn’t want Sofia in the air but part of being a parent was swallowing that, smiling and wishing them well while the fear shredded him inside. The fact that Maverick broke rank, acted so selfishly, Tom couldn’t lie and say he hadn’t been furious. 

They’d all felt it. There had been a moment, after Bradley had come home with one foot in a panic attack, holding his rejection letter, after Maverick had confessed what he’d done in a small voice that had tried so hard to sound like he’d done the right thing. Bradley had raged at him, his face looking far too young for that kind of anger, that kind of hate. Tom had got between them just in time, needing all his strength to keep them apart, to push Bradley back out of the magnetic pull of his own fury and give him a chance to leave. And there had been a moment. A moment where Maverick, sprawled against the kitchen counter, and Sofia, sobbing helplessly in the corner, and even Tom himself had waited to see what he’d do. If he’d stay or if he’d go after Bradley.

And Tom had stayed. He’d slept on the couch a few nights, they’d taken things slowly. At first his texts to Bradley had gone unanswered but then he’d called him, they’d talked, they’d cried down the phone, he’d sent him money so he could get set up at the University of Virginia, the one he chose out of his handful of last minute acceptances just to be as far away as possible. Bradley let him help, that was all Tom was going to ask of him, the kid needed space, he needed to be treated like an adult. 

Tom smiled bitterly at the irony of it. He’d stayed, he’d let Bradley go to the other side of the country and take half of Tom’s heart with him. 

But Maverick was the one he was losing. 

It was like they were trapped in the same depressing, gritted-teeth dance routine every day, like there were white dotted lines and footprints across the floor of their house. Maverick rarely left their bed but somehow also rarely slept, not that Tom could blame him. These days, sleeping for him meant nothing but nightmares. It meant five minutes of quiet, Tom lying beside him like a guard dog, tense and hopeful, but the screaming always started, Maverick begging for someone to come back, to not leave him. Sometimes it was Bradley, sometimes it was Goose. Sometimes it was even Tom himself. 

He’d tried everything. He’d read books, he’d talked to professionals as candidly as he could while still being safe, he’d found and scoured enough articles on the Internet that he could probably go for a PhD in psychiatry if he ever got sick of being a rear admiral. Every new technique he found for dealing with loss, Tom told himself that would work, that would be the one that helped Maverick, the rope he’d toss down where he’d feel something tugging on the other end. And every one got them nowhere. 

Tom thought they’d made some progress with the running. Maverick wouldn’t leave their bed to shower, to come down and eat dinner, he wouldn’t even leave for Sofia, no matter how many times she asked. He wouldn’t play board games with her, he wouldn’t watch their old horror movies together, he wouldn’t come sing to her when she couldn’t drift off after losing Bradley had broken her sleep into pieces. It was like he was afraid he’d hurt her too if he so much as looked at his daughter. 

But he’d left the bed when Tom suggested he go for a run. And now that was all he did, if he wasn’t lying in their dark bedroom, nearly comatose, Maverick was running up and down the beach. Tom remembered feeling optimistic the first time he’d woken up with Maverick not actually lying beside him but tying his running shoes on the stairs. He’d felt like it was the first step towards things actually getting better. 

Tom felt pretty stupid, thinking back on that now, standing in his kitchen and overworking dough until he could throw it at the wall and have it bounce back. Maverick didn’t run to clear his head, he didn’t run to try and process his grief or pull himself out of this spiral. He ran out of fear. He ran like he could get away from everything he’d done, until Tom had to drive to get him and beg him to come back, until his feet were torn up by blisters. 

Until the sky was opening and more rain than San Francisco had seen in the last year was falling all at once but Maverick was still not coming home. 

Tom felt that headache still pressing against his temples, like the dark, cloudy thoughts in there were trying to force their way out. Thoughts that took fierce shapes and whispered in poisonous voices. You’re not doing enough. Everything’s falling apart, you’re losing them. They’re all hurting and you can’t save them. You were an idiot to think you could have this life. 

Tom brought his fist down on the counter, sending flour into the air, just for something to drown them out. But the rain kept drumming on the windows, a sound that got under the skin of him and stayed there, like it took over his own heartbeat. Tom sucked in a breath, fuck it, he turned and went for his keys. He needed to find Maverick. 

He was halfway down the hall, his mind set in concrete, until the only thing that could have stopped him tumbled through the door and nearly slammed into him. Maverick himself, soaked to the skin, panting like he’d sprinted the whole way home.

“I need your help,” he gasped, meeting Tom’s eye unflinchingly for the first time in months. 

That had been all Tom wanted to hear from his wingman lately, but now he’d said it, all he had in response was a blank look, “Huh?”

The dullness was gone from Maverick’s eyes, they were going like fireworks, “I was running down to the beach, I’d come up once but I went back again…anyway, I was running past that giant storm drain at the end of the avenue and I heard something? Sounded like someone crying so got down and…and look…”

He shifted, reaching into the pocket of his sweatshirt, probably the only part of him that was still dry. What he brought out was hard to understand at first, it looked just like a sodden piece of fabric, something that had definitely been fished out of a storm drain. But then it began to move, two milky eyes opening in that mass of matted, mud slick fur, a small mouth panting raggedly. A heart wrenching noise came out of it, a sound that yanked right on the instincts Tom had grown when he became a father, the kind of sound that had him stumbling to his feet in the middle of the night before he was really awake despite what the parenting books said about letting babies cry it out for a little while. 

“I need your help,” Maverick said again, his voice a little thin, anxious, like he wasn’t expecting Tom to say yes. But he was asking. 

Tom gave him a fond smile, “Let’s start with a bath.”

It took a good few sluices with the shower head before it became clear that Maverick had brought home a puppy, up until then it was hard to tell. A terrifyingly small puppy, frail bones jutting up through thin fur. Tom would have been anxious to try and hold her still, scared to hurt her, but she was good as gold, only sitting in the bottom of the tub and trembling as they washed her down. 

“Her eyes are barely open,” Maverick groaned, checking through her fur for any sign of ticks or fleas, “They’re not supposed to be away from their mom this early, right?”

“Well, we’ll just have to do our best to fill in for now,” Tom reassured him, “The vet said on the phone, the best thing we can do for her is get her clean, warm and dry then she if she’ll eat.”

Until we take her to a shelter. But he didn’t feel like saying that out loud would be helpful right now. He just passed Maverick a towel, now the puppy was thoroughly washed, hovering as he bundled her up. Now she was an admittedly rather pretty brown and white, a little like a collie that hadn’t been coloured fully in the lines. Her eyes were striking too, lopsided in color, not entirely unlike Maverick himself. Actually, in the way she trembled with barely restrained energy, the brightness in those eyes, the alert little ears, there were a lot of similarities. To Maverick when he was himself, at least. 

But as Tom perched on the edge of the bath and watched Maverick gently towel off the little puppy, he realized this was the most he’d heard him speak in months. It was the most aware he’d been, the longest he’d spent on his feet without running, the brightest his eyes had been. Tom was almost afraid to push too far, like if he nudged something in just the wrong way, the whole thing would shatter. 

But still he risked it, “You’re soaked through, baby, can I make you a coffee?”

“Huh? Yeah sure, if you don’t mind,” Mav hummed, rubbing the puppy behind her tiny ears. He didn’t even look up, like there had never been a time where a question like that, a quick answer, wasn’t normal, “Actually…I’m kinda hungry. Did you end up making pierogi?”

It was a good thing he didn’t look up, as Tom left the room. He didn’t have to wonder why he was close to tears. 

Another call to the vet just to make sure, one trip to PetSmart, another bath after she drank her formula a little too enthusiastically and the puppy’s tail still hadn’t stopped wagging. Even as her head nodded and blinking slowed, even as she was swaying on her paws in the middle of the kitchen floor, it was still drumming a little beat against the tile, like she didn’t want a second to go by without them hearing just how happy she was. 

Maverick however, looked less than happy. Tom, in contrast, was having to fight to keep his stern frown in place. 

“I’m not having a dog sleeping in my bed, Maverick,” he repeated slowly, like the issue was with Mav not hearing him, “She was in a storm drain three hours ago.” 

“And we gave her treatment!” Mav insisted, his jaw set in that stubborn way. 

He was raising his voice. He was meeting his eye. He’d eaten three helpings of pierogi, no matter how tough the dough was. Tom wanted to jump up and down.

Instead, he folded his arms, “Nope. She’s not getting on the furniture. You shed enough for crying out loud, let alone her. She’s got all those blankets, she’s got her little box, she will be fine.”

He was being proven right, the little thing was halfway into the cardboard box Tom had filled with soft things for her, back legs pinwheeling as they struggled to catch on the edge of it. Mav immediately ran to help her, kneeling down to ease her in. 

“What if she needs feeding in the night? What if she needs the bathroom? What if…what if she wakes up and misses her mama and gets scared?”

Tom couldn’t see Maverick’s face but he heard the way his voice trembled on the edge of that last word. The iron resolve that had earned him the two stars on his lapel took a significant dent, was about to crumble completely, when Mav stood up and faced Tom with a grim set determination. 

“Then I’ll sleep down here with her.”

“He really means it, doesn’t he…” Sofia’s voice was soft with a mix of awe, hope and fear. 

Since she’d got back home, full of frantic apologies for taking so long, she’d been leaning against the kitchen counter with her papa, watching Maverick with wide eyes, like he was some kind of rare bird that would squawk and flap away if she made a loud noise. She should really be in bed, it was getting late, but she hadn’t been able to tear herself away.

Tom shared her bewildered, shaky optimism, the kind that was almost scared of itself. 

But he just smiled and reached out to tuck a stray curl behind her ear, “Looks like it.”

Maverick had wrestled an old camping bed down from the attic and was currently sitting on it, grinning as the puppy rolled around, held safe by his crossed legs. 

“And now we have a dog,” Sofia gave him a sly smile.

Tom rolled his eyes, “I suppose. But don’t tell your father, I have to pretend to put up a little more of a fight.”

Sofia could barely contain a gleeful squeak, throwing her arms around him and hugging tight. There was more than just joy in that embrace, there was relief there too and faith that everything Tom had told her, every time he’d told her it would all be okay, he’d been right. He wasn’t quite ready to believe in himself that much but knowing she did, that meant a lot. 

“Goodnight, daddy,” Sofia went over to hug Maverick too, “I’m heading to bed.”

“Oh, is it that late? Alright then, kiddo, I’ll see you tomorrow,” he wrapped his arms around her, squeezing tight right at the end the way he always hugged their kids. 

When she pulled away and kissed his forehead, there was an odd look on Mav’s face, like he wanted to say something, but he wasn’t sure what it was just yet. In the end, after pressing a kiss to the back of her hand, he let her fuss over the puppy and run upstairs. It would all come later. 

“You’re sure about this?” Tom smiled fondly, arms folded. 

Maverick nodded firmly, “I’m staying right here. She…she needs me.”

Tom hesitated, tripping over that break in his voice, the way he suddenly bit his lip to keep it still, “Pete…”

He sank onto the little bed, reaching out and resting a hand on his knee, one he could easily pull away from if he wanted to. But Maverick didn’t. He looked like he might, for a split second, like he might withdraw, back inside the shadows he’d been carrying around for a while. 

Pull up, baby, Tom felt his breath still in his lungs. If there was one thing he’d been able to give his wingman throughout their wildly different careers, the one thing he’d been able to give him that was in criminally short supply from anyone else, was faith. He’d made the mistake of not trusting Pete Mitchell before and he would never make it again. Pull up baby, come on. 

“I’ve messed up so much, I can’t mess this up too…” Maverick’s voice broke, “Or…or accept that I ruin everything I touch.”

“Sweetheart,” Ice couldn’t quite hold his voice together, squeezing his knee because he knew he didn’t have the words. 

“Come on,” Maverick swallowed hard, as if there were any chance he could stop the tears, “Ice, you’ve been in my corner every goddamn day but even you can’t stick by me on this. I just…I just don’t know why it’s taking you so long to realize and give up on me.”

“Because there’s no way I’m fucking doing that, Maverick,” Tom croaked, shaking his head fiercely, “We can get through this, we can save it.” 

“How?” Maverick sounded desperate, sounding like a man who had water up to his chin and rising but at least he was reaching for something, “I’ve hurt Bradley so much, I’ve hurt Sofia. I don’t know how to get better.”

Tom reached out, finding his hand, knowing he needed to feel anchored, “With hard work. We’re going to get you some professional help, we’re going to talk about it, we’re going to get you back on your feet. And, I can’t lie, baby, It’s going to suck. A lot of the time it’s going to feel like we aren’t getting anywhere. But we’re going to make it work. We’ll keep going. Yeah?”

Maverick clutched him tight enough to hurt and after a moment, he nodded. And in his weary determination, Tom saw the young man who’d chosen to live as himself despite everything, who’d become the best pilot in the navy despite being exactly the kind of person they thought could never be good enough. The man who’d clung to Sofia, to Bradley, to Tom when the easiest thing would have been to let go. The man who’d saved him in the air above The Enterprise and every day since. 

The puppy squeaked, flopping against Mav’s leg, cuddling in like she was perfectly happy to spend the rest of her life there. Maverick smiled weakly, even as tears rolled down his face. 

“Yeah. Baby steps, right?”

“Right,” Tom raised their joined hands to his lips and pressed a kiss to them, “There’s plenty to walk towards, sweetheart.”

Mav looked down at the puppy, who was now snoring, surprisingly loudly for her size, “I think I’m going to call her Piper. It’s a kind of plane, right? Those little ones that go really fast?”

“Sounds somewhat familiar,” Tom smiled, leaning in to kiss him, “You know where I am if you need me. I’m here for you, okay?”

Maverick watched him as he got up, letting his hands go after a second of two longer than usual, “Okay. I love you, Tom.”

He hesitated in the doorway, knowing his heart was going to break a little when he left. But that was okay. Nothing that couldn’t be fixed. 

“I love you too, Pete,” he flashed him a soft smile before making himself turn and head up to bed. 

Maybe Maverick would wake up in the night, screaming, sobbing, begging someone not to go. Maybe Tom would come down in the morning and find him and Piper curled up, fast asleep, safe and sound. Whatever happened, they would deal with it. 

Baby steps. 

[sylph-silk-tailoring]

{TIMESTAMP: DOCKING OF "HAZEL'S LUCKY SHOT" ON ERIS V}

[A voice familiar to Bobbins crackles in over the ships intercom.]

Just got clearance ta pull 'er in . Shame I can't make ya one last meal, but I got an appointment ta keep. Ya can wait in the hangar, I'll be there to walk ya out soon as she's docked.

Welcome to Eris V. Hope the trip was ta yer likin'.

[bobbin snaps into wakefulness and swings out of the bunk in seconds flat, still in tight or flight from being on the run so long. They slowly gather their meagre possessions into a pack, and step out into the hall. They make their way over to the airlock, and meet Pinkie at the door]

Hey, just wanted to thank you for the pickup. I’d be hella dead if not for you… You have my omninet link if you ever want to give me a shout, and if anything goes wrong with the suit it’s the same. So… goodbye? I guess?

[they awkwardly hold their fist up for a fistbump]

[estrellami-1]

hi so. I did a Thing

Eddie groans quietly as he puts his guitar down and his head in his hands. He’s been working on this bridge for forever and nothin’s right. Nothing sounds right. And he doesn’t even have the lyrics yet, so there’s nothing to set the melody to.

He decides he’s not getting anything out of his brain today and hobbles out to the kitchen, where Steve’s cooking.

“Hey, Eds,” Steve smiles. “Finished?”

“For now, yeah. Whatcha makin’?”

Steve hums. “Soup.” He glances at Eddie. “Where’s your cane?”

Eddie makes a face. “My room.”

“Eddie.” Steve sighs. “Don’t touch anything.” He turns the heat down and walks the short distance. On his way back, he’s humming the song Eddie was working on. At first he just repeats it, but then he adds something after; an extension of the melody that, in hindsight, seems so freaking obvious that Eddie wants to bite his own hand about it.

“Steve,” he breathes, “you’re a fucking genius, I love you, I want your brain on my shelf, thank you!” He grabs Steve’s face in both hands, smacks a kiss to his forehead, snatches his cane from Steve’s hand and races back to his room, notes swirling behind his eyes, ideas in his head and a grin on his face.

Out in the kitchen, Steve blinks. His hand is still raised from holding the cane. He lowers it, then lifts it again to rake it through his hair. “Oh,” he says, then heads toward the phone as he glances at Eddie’s closed door.

“Buckley residence, Melissa speaking.”

“Hello, Mrs. Buckley. May I speak to Robin, please?”

“Oh, hello, dear, call me Melissa, of course, one moment. Robin!” She yells away from the phone. “It’s your Steve on the line!”

“I’ve got it!” He hears from her phone. “Hey, Steve. You’re calling about the new work schedule, right? I can’t believe Keith has you closing all week.”

“Um,” he says, “yeah,” and hears a faint click.

“Okay,” Robin says. “Sorry. You know my mom. What’s up?”

“I think- no. Robbie. I’m in love with Eddie.”

She gasps. “You’re finally admitting it!”

He blinks. “Wait. What?”

“Steve, you know you’ve been gone on him for, like, a while now, right?”

“No I have not!”

“Uh-huh. Sure. Big boy.”

“Oh, fuck,” he whispers. “Have I been?”

“‘Fraid so. Whatcha gonna do about it?”

“Uh. I don’t know?”

“Christ. Is this payback? For me… I dunno. Being gay? Or something? Steve. Let’s think logically about this, dingus. You are the only person I’ve seen him flirt with with any regularity.”

“He flirts with anything that moves, Rob, that’s hardly proof.”

“Yeah, and he moves on just as fast. You’re the only one he consistently flirts with. And I know you don’t see the way he looks at you, but trust me on this, okay? That boy is just as gone on you as you are on him.”

“But how do you know?” He pleads.

“Because I see him, Steve. And I see you. Just try.”

“I’m coming over with ice cream the second it goes south.”

Robin snorts. “I won’t be expecting you. It won’t go south.”

He makes a face. “Fine. I’ll try.”

“Good. Love ya, dingus. I expect a call after you’re done kissing him or whatever it is you’re going to do. I don’t want details.”

“I’ll make sure to remember all the details for you. All of them.”

“I will actually murder you, Steve, I will do it, don’t test me.”

“All the details. Love you, Bobbin.”

“Fuck off. Love you.” She hangs up, and Steve chuckles as he stirs the soup once more then heads to Eddie’s room.

He knocks, and Eddie lets him in. “Hey, Eddie, uh. Can we talk? For a minute?”

Steve’s not sure what Eddie sees on his face, but suddenly he blanches. “Oh, fuck,” he murmurs. “Sorry, man, I wasn’t thinking. I’ve been stuck on this bridge for months and you kept going with it in a way that makes sense, like it fits in a way that nothing I was trying did, and I got really excited. But I shouldn’t’ve, uh… well. Kissed you.” He bit his lip. “Sorry.”

“Well,” Steve says, “it did help me realize something?”

Eddie rolls his eyes self-deprecatingly. “What, that you’re completely straight?”

“No. The opposite, actually.” He cocks his head. “Or… not the opposite, I guess, but… adjacent?”

“Um.” Eddie says. “What?”

“Yeah, pretty much.” Steve huffs a laugh, hugs himself, looks down. “I realized I… I like you, dude. A lot. And I get if you don’t, I know you flirt with everyone, I know it probably doesn’t mean anything, but. I wanted to tell you.”

Eddie pulls a piece of hair over his face. “I don’t- okay, well, maybe I do flirt with everyone, but… you’re the only one I mean it with. I also like you. A lot.”

“Oh,” Steve says, and smiles. “Cool.”

Eddie chuckles. “Cool.”

“Can I kiss you?”

Eddie chokes on his breath. “Um. Yeah? Yes. Please do.”

“Cool,” Steve says again, and does.

Eddie, stuck on a song for months

Steve, walks up humming the song Eddie’s been working on and just continuing with a few new bars unconsciously

Eddie, jumping up to grab his guitar to go see the guys "You're a brilliant man and I want your brain on my shelf." Kisses his head and runs away

Steve, bamboozled, newly bi and in love. "Oh."

[tj-crochets]

One last s’mores ghost update! All the pieces are done, I temporarily broke my sewing machine (I asked my brother for help and he walked over, poked the machine, and it started working again), and all that’s left is to hand sew all the pieces together!

[sewfashionwithme]

So here’s my first sew!

I made this without a pattern and wanted to use it to get started with sewing.

I started with a vision, a mid length summery skirt and walked into a fabric shop to get the fabric - I didn’t even know how much material I would need!

So off I went, watching numerous clips from other dressmakers online and freestyling with my machine.

This project taught me so much, how to wind a bobbin I was a complete beginner, the importance of sewing in a straight line and most importantly, that I can create a vision, this is exactly what I had in mind when I walked into the fabric store and embarked on my first project!

Lessons learned:

I hate button holes!! Look how perfect my first attempt went (after lots of practice goes). I managed to slit right through it when I tried to open it with a seam ripper and had to start again..

Be gentle with the seam ripper (I later found a hack with a pin which prevents that from happening)

I played around with the button sewing function on my sewing machine which sews on the button, it gives a much more secure hold than hand sewing

Darts - I put two darts in at the back to give the skirt shape. I naively thought that a skirt is just a piece of fabric sewn together somewhere with a waistband, maybe some gathering to attach the waistband.. I only later realised that I would have a shapeless mess if I didn’t use darts.

It’s okay to start again or go back a step and redo.. that’s what a seam ripper is for.. I redid the buttons and the waistband

Be confident with it. I saw this project as practice to get familiar with the machine and HOPEFULLY get a nice skirt out of it. Admittedly it doesn’t look like something sold in a fashion store but that doesn’t matter, if you go wrong you learn for next time!

Now to finish off the hem!

Let me know if you have any questions or are a beginner like me and would like any advice on getting started!

[musingmemories]

How eerie, the calmness of Coriolanus' voice carried in undertone, weighing against the storm in Lucy Gray's. Making it seem as though she'd painted him her villain for this whole charade when he was allegedly as miserable as she was. The performance they'd mutually agreed upon when she’d taken his hand in the cage she'd been confined with the rest of the tributes, bold in their public display of relationship between mentor and tribute. A bond. Not enemies.

If this had been their setting before... after claiming victory in the 10th games and her living in the Capitol, sparing the lives Coriolanus had claimed — Bobbin in the arena, and Mayfair... and the last had surely been an accidental slip of self she couldn’t trust… would their relationship be different than this? Would they still descend upon their audience hand in hand in that adoring manner she'd dreamed while they were apart, heart fluttering at just the mere thought of visualizing the feel of calloused grooves against hers in the darkness when she closed her eyes? Giggling as her back pressed up against the cool marble of the hall, breaths mingling and whispered sweet nothings uttered between kisses. Or... would they eventually have been here? At odds, distrust the worst crime to commit in the eyes of Lucy Gray Baird.

'One misstep and the consequences ripple, to my family, to yours, to your entire District. You understand this. I understand this.'

A threat was interpreted and sent Lucy Gray's walls skyrocketing than be a reminder. Peace was a façade, fragile and easily taken away, people cast aside at the Capitol's disposal. But was Coriolanus truly still a victim as he claimed? Questioning the thought, Lucy Gray's silenced, sticking to her guns and blaming him as he nonchalantly suggested, offering to walk her back to her apartment if she didn't wish to be here. It's then Lucy Gray's found her words again, scoff falling from the depths of her chest in disbelief. Not home, home... her apartment here. Her new cage. "You know very well I mean the Capitol and not simply standing here alone with you during the festivities..." Goes ignored, Lucy Gray finally able to breathe in the separated distance between them, disbelief concealed in a gaze that's hardened to prevent the tears of frustration stinging her eyes to actually form, fixated on the decorum of the flooring.

Put on your face, or wait here for further orders... was it?

The options weigh on her consciousness. Continuing to play the part allows Lucy Gray a chance to find a way out, to know thy enemy... while staying and waiting grants her the possibility of leaving now. Fleeing the Capitol. But Lucy Gray knows, she's smart enough to know she won't get very far in a place she hasn't memorized like the back of her hand. And Coriolanus won't let her wander too far, anticipating this tactic of hers, surely. So the former is the right answer, to consider regaining his trust so she can stray farther, thereby extending the tether he allows by plastering on her radiant smile and play the part of the devout Victor.

"I have to stay... I'm scheduled to play. As your precious songbird." One that never sang unless she had something to say and oh how Lucy Gray did. A new piece she'd been working on in her head, gently sung at night, a lullaby to remind her she was still in control. Lucy Gray couldn't suddenly be obedient yet, it'll draw suspicion... so for now, she'll listen to Coriolanus' attempts. The political. The romantic. Give them consideration, and act as though they've gradually fallen back into the people they were. Opening herself back up to the attempt, Lucy Gray followed, returning to Coriolanus' side, forcing herself to look up at him. "How do I look? Presentable?"

Selfish. That was the first word that surfaced. He thought it, not without contempt, but with a weariness born of repetition. She still didn’t understand. Couldn’t. She was too steeped in the sentimentality of District Twelve, or whatever provincial ideals she’d brought with her. The Capitol was different. Here, the rules were as thin and sharp as a razor’s edge. Misstep once, and you bled, silently, efficiently, fatally. There was no safety net, no sanctuary. Power alone offered the illusion of protection, and even that was a brittle shield.

Without power, you were no different from the ghosts that lingered fifty blocks from the city’s gleaming core. Citizens in name only, scraping by, feeding off scraps, laboring in obscurity. Living in the Capitol, yes, but only just.

Neither of them had a choice.

His voice was calm when he said, “Is it easier to make me the villain when I am just as shackled to this performance as you are?”

Was she still blaming him for returning? As if it had been a decision. As if freedom had ever truly been on the table. And yet… he had wanted to come back. He couldn’t lie to himself about that. He had no appetite for stale bread or threadbare cots. He had ambitions. And ambition demanded sacrifice. Freedom came only through power. Without it, you were a pawn to be moved, bartered, broken.

He exhaled, controlled, deliberate. His gaze dropped from her face, as though dismissing her momentarily. “One misstep and the consequences ripple, to my family, to yours, to your entire District. You understand this. I understand this. They understand this. If blaming me makes it easier to sleep at night, by all means, blame me.”

The place they stood, he knew only through Tigris. He had never descended into these half-forgotten tunnels himself. Until now. He had thought, naively, that she might find a modicum of comfort here, under the Capitol’s skin, where cameras could not reach and expectations loosened their grip. But even now, even this meant nothing to her. He was risking something for her again. And again, she met it with resentment.

“If you don’t wish to be here, I’ll walk you back to your apartment. We’ll reconvene tomorrow for the interview.”

How many times would they need to perform? How many times must they parade their story before the nation? A victor torn from her home, and still, still, she chose the Capitol. Or so the story would go. Proof, if anyone needed it, that the Capitol was not just the heart of Panem, it was the pulse, the breath, the inevitable gravity. No one left. Not really.

The truth that she was not allowed to leave was a detail the public needed never to know.

He turned, almost casually. “I’m going to have a drink. Maybe listen to some music.” A pause, just long enough. “You may join me, or you may stay here and wait until we return.” He didn’t sound angry. He never did. Anger was undignified. Anger gave something away. And Coriolanus Snow never gave anything away, not unless he was certain he’d get more in return.

[gay-ghosts-committing-crimes]

Empty Chairs at Empty Tables

based off of this post by @ificouldtakeusback

AO3 link

Warnings: death and grief, bee mention

Summary: Bobby deals with losing Sunset Curve <3

Writing taglist (ask to be added or removed):  @barrel-of-cat-mituna @completekeefitztrash @tiergan-andrin-alenefar @lemontarto @hershis-kotlc @genesiscaveat @everything-else-and-mars @juline-dizznee @chaotic-basics @an-absolute-travesty @classyfunnyquotesmuffin7 @smolanxiouscatvoids @itstiger720 @introvertedscarecrow @sunset-telepath @an-idiot-in-a-trenchcoat @cowboypossume @anaccidentwaitingtohappen @sofia-not-sophie @fire-sapphics @dr-alan-grant @real-smooth @juline-dizznee

“There’s a grief that can’t be spoken     There’s a pain goes on and on      Empty chairs at empty tables  Now my friends are dead and gone”

~~

The morning arrived like a man condemned to death, slow-plodding and weighed down by guilt... by grief. The night before had been a swirl of energy; the energy of playing The Orpheum, the energy of being together, about to succeed, on the edge of everything they’d dreamed of. And then... the anxious energy and sick-to-the-stomach feeling of knowing something’s not right. A panicked rush to find his bandmates, his friends, because they were about to go on but they weren’t there, they weren’t there and something wasn’t right, something wasn’t-

Then came the sirens. The red and blue lights. The churning in his stomach became a cold stone.

But now Bobby sat alone, the morning sun streaming in like a memorial to the light in their eyes before it was snuffed out, and he didn’t have energy. He didn’t have the energy to feel anymore, he was exhausted.

He reached up to scrub at his face, wiping away tears that had long stopped falling, eyes dry and scratchy from crying until 3 a.m. and not sleeping at all. He wished he could sleep. He wished he could close his eyes and see something other than the bodies of his friends, something other than the way they had died in each others arms, wished he could think about anything other than the fact that he’d never hug them again or play music with them until his fingers bled and his throat was hoarse and his face sore from smiling.

He just sat. Alone. Exhausted.

The garage-made-studio was silent around him, and he longed to scream. Scream because he was never getting them back, scream because he was hurting, scream scream scream because the studio wasn’t meant to be quiet. It was meant to be filled with life and sound and four boys who loved each other in a way their ‘real’ families never would, playing music and goofing off and being together. It wasn’t meant for a single boy too tired to even cry anymore.

~~

“Here they talked of revolution   Here it was they lit the flame Here they sang about tomorrow    And tomorrow never came

   From the table in the corner  They could see a world reborn And they rose with voices ringing     And I can hear them now!”

~~

Bobby grabbed another box and shoved on top of one he had already stacked, angry tears burning behind his eyes. He hated this room and he hated this garage and he hated that he was alive and his friends were dead and he hated the fact that he was expected to be okay.

Because he wasn’t. He wasn’t okay and he had watched his friends take their last breaths and maybe if he was there sooner they would be alive, but it didn’t matter because they were gone and he wasn’t okay.

He grabbed another box and choked back a sob, anger and guilt and mourning caught and tangled in his chest like a swarm of bees swarming in his lungs until he felt suffocated and smothered. He tripped over a box and bit back a scream, choosing instead to kick at the box before falling to his knees. He couldn’t do this. He was just a kid, and he couldn’t do this.

The tears fell, hot and messy and his voice was choked and gasping, nose snotty and eyes red. Was it less than a week ago that the four of them had stood, side by side, in this very place? Singing and laughing together because they were doing it, they were finally making their place in the world! They were going to turn the music industry on its head and become something.

Bobby remembered how it had started; he and Reggie were the first to meet. They learned guitar together, they sung and played and thought ‘maybe this could be something’. And then Luke came with his voice and guitar and it was something. It was incredible and it was new and they found a place that could be their own and they claimed it for themselves, claimed it for who they were and who they were going to be. And then Alex... Alex with his anxious hands and killer drums came along and suddenly Bobby had a family again.

He remembered the late evenings of lukewarm pizza and song-writing challenges and four boys who were in love with music. It was freedom and it was flying and it was loving and being loved for who you were and not because you were what people wanted from you. It was four boys singing their hearts out. Singing their lives. Their hopes.

They had sung about their future, and now they didn’t even have one.

~~

“The very words that they had sung     Became their last communion         On this lonely barricade                     At dawn

Oh my friends, my friends forgive me      That I live and you are gone  There's a grief that can't be spoken     There's a pain goes on and on”

~~

Bobby thrashed, sweat dripping down his face and his eyes flew open, chest heaving and heart racing. He groaned and rubbed a hand over his face, sighing when he realized he was too tightly wound to go back to sleep. Reluctantly, he got out of bed, tugging on a light sweatshirt and grabbing his guitar before slipping out of his room and heading out.

The night air was muggy and thick, but chilly enough that he was glad he remembered to put something on over his t-shirt. The walk to their... his studio was mostly quiet save for the rare passing of cars, and he let himself get lost in the way the stop-lights reflected in the water on the road, a broken and distorted portrayal of their mirror image. It’s like him, he thinks, and wishes he wasn’t a seventeen year-old boy who had to think of things in terms of ‘Before’ and ‘After’.

He finally got to the studio and slammed the door behind him. It wasn’t like he was going to be quiet when he practiced anyway.

The music started soft. Started gentle and intriguing, and then began to harden, to twist into something loud and broken. It was jagged and hurting and Bobby sang till his throat was dry, like maybe if he sang hard enough they would come back, like maybe if he ruined his voice he wouldn’t have to live with what his best friends had died for, like maybe the universe would bend its uncaring ear and hear him, hear his grief and anger and grant him some semblance of peace, something like an ending.

He played for hours, the pads of his fingers sore, his voice choked and strained from yelling the lyrics, but he kept on. He kept on because when he played it was like the ghosts of them stayed behind to listen.

Luke would be grinning from somewhere beside him, hands moving deftly over his own guitar, Reggie beside him getting flustered when Bobby winked and then playing an incredible riff despite it, and Alex behind them, his hands playing magic on his set, smile wide as he enjoyed the music. And Bobby. 

Bobby strumming and looking at his bandmates and maybe it hurt worse when it was all over, losing them again and again every time he stopped playing, but for that brief moment his friends were back and he wasn’t the lonely teenager in an empty garage with only a few boxes around him to remind him of what is was like to have a home in other people. For a brief moment he was ‘Bobbers’ and ‘Bobbins’ and he was winning a tickle fight with Reggie and getting his hair floofed by Luke, for a brief moment he stopped being ‘Bobby, the boy who lost his best friends and bandmates at age seventeen’ and was ‘Bobby, who was getting chided by Alex for putting his stuff everywhere’.

For a brief moment he wasn’t grieving the only people who really knew what it was like to love him.

~~

   “Phantom faces at the window    Phantom shadows on the floor     Empty chairs at empty tables Where my friends will meet no more

          Oh my friends, my friends Don't ask me what your sacrifice was for        Empty chairs at empty tables   Where my friends will sing no more”

~~

Bobby got older and changed his name. He didn’t want to be the boy that lost his friends, the boy left behind, so he became Trevor, a man who wasn’t brokenhearted. 

It didn’t stop him from being brokenhearted though.

He still saw them in everything, and it wasn’t fair. He’d go to the beach to stare at the water only to jerk his head around when he heard Reggie’s laughter. He’d go to a café but when he’d sit down he’d see Alex drumming his fingers on the table, waiting to order, hear Luke rambling excitedly about a new song he was working on.

The boys may have been dead, but he’d never escape their memory.

He could shove it down as hard as he could, but in the end he’d turn around a corner and catch a glimpse of Reggie walking by, he’d be in the grocery store and overhear Alex sassing Luke. It was a never-ending cycle of shock, hope, and then crushing sadness, because it was never them and it never would be.

The beach was always silent, and the chairs were always empty.

Bobby was alone.

[baeddel]

re: this post (we won’t bother the OP with our little grumbles as they’ve already deleted the post, probably because of jerks like me) [the post goes like this: the origins of science-fiction are anti-capitalist, for example, take this Czech play...]

The Czech play alluded to is R.U.R, standing for Rossumovi Univerzální Roboti (Rossum’s Universal Robots), by Karel Čapek. The name Russom is play on words with the Czech word Rozum, Reason. So the title includes two ideologies: Reason and Universalism. In the play, the robots (a play on robota, which means slavery or serfdom) are synthetic humans, who are indistinguishable from real humans, produced in an enormous factory with “kneading-troughs for robot skin, great vats for liver and brains”, “a factory for producing bones“, and “factory bobbins” which spin “nerve fibers, arteries, and intestines” (wiki). The wiki quotes John Rieder in saying that the play is about “the traumatic transformation of modern society by the First World War and the Fordist assembly line.” At the end of the play the robots overthrow humanity and slaughter them, sparing only an engineer who worked at the factory because they recognized that “he works with his hands like the Robots.”

Is this an anti-capitalist play? The argument that progressive ideologies like reason and universalism were reducing humanity to automata was made explicitly by reactionaries like Wagner (who, if you’re one of the few fortunate souls who remain ignorant of him, wrote operas). In 1905 the modernist playwright E. G. Craig wrote a little manifesto on this theme which he called the Actor and the Ubermarionette, where the Ubermarionette (perhaps a perversion of Nietzsche’s Ubermensch) was the condition of man in modernity, an impotent puppet of industrial production, “reduced to [a] helpless marionette in the hands of some unintelligible forces” (the Silver Mask, Olga Yu. Soboleva, 2008). He wanted the actor in a play to become a double of man in modernity, impotently reflecting the designs of the impresario. The Russian director Vsevolod Meyerhold applied this approach in his troupe where he would take the name Doctor Dapertutto, 'Doctor Everywhere' (“an evil wizard and manipulator, taken from Hoffmann’s tale Die Abenteuer der Sylvesternacht”, ibid.), and intrude on stage during the performance to menace the actors or correct the script.

That this was a playwright’s ideology which blossomed in Germany, England and Russia throughout the first quarter of the 20th century, we might assume that a Czech playwright was at least familiar with it. It seems clear to me that R.U.R. is a contribution. But what is the contribution? While it begins with a gory demonstration of modernity (blamed on progress via reason and universalism), placing us in Wagner’s reactionary anti-modernism, it ends with a proletarian revolution. When the play was written the Russian revolution was ongoing, a revolution which was both a proletarian revolution and an industrial revolution, and was on everyone’s mind. It is easy to read the robot revolution as a tragic reactionary nightmare, where the road to serfdom is walked to the end and all free men are executed, in a mechanized regurgitation of the reign of terror. But there is an alternative reading available. The Russian symbolist reading of Ubermarionette carried out by Meyerhold and Sologub differed substantially from Wagner’s antimodernism; for them, the condition of the industrial puppet appeared like a quasi-religious liberation [it’s complicated...], and they all joined the Russian revolution and embraced Bolshevism (except for Sologub who joined the February revolution but opposed the October revolution). It’s very easy to read the robot revolution as a progressive revolution, and the robot the realization of the New Socialist Man; their execution of the humans who don’t work with their hands then reminds us of the execution of intellectuals in Cambodia. Was it really a 'workerist’ reaction to a parasitic, layabout bourgeoisie, the Ubermarionette played as an allegory for the vicissitudes of alienated labour, as the OP supposed all along?

Čapek died heroically; he was an “outspoken anti-fascist” and refused to cooperate with the Nazis during their occupation of Czechslovakia, where the Gestapo named him “public enemy number two”, while he also refused an offer to escape to England. He died of pneumonia while the Gestapo were still hunting him, while his brother Josef died in a concentration camp (wiki). But this was decades later; who knows what he had in mind in 1920? Very similar themes would be taken up by Fritz Lang in Metropolis, which has a more explicitly pro-revolutionary perspective; and by the fascist Wehrmacht torturer Ernst Junger in his work of speculative nonfiction, the Worker. Maybe really watching the play would clear up the ambiguity, but I might suggest that the work is successful because the two readings - reactionary anti-modernism, revolutionary futurism - play on the mind. Whether the play says one or the other is undecidable, and “it is this very undecidability which makes a good narrative” (Barthes). What a remarkable gesture it must be to experience, where what had been objects of horror, a combination of Croenbergian body horror and Invasion of the Body Snatchers paranoia, become the protagonists and slaughter the cast! Who's to say if this moment is Carnival or Ash Wednesday?

But what’s at stake in the OP is more than the statement of R.U.R., but the origins of sci-fi as a whole. At first blush we might think the relevance is fairly mere; while the robot genre got it’s name from R.U.R., it didn’t get its start there; by 1920 stories about automatons were already typical. But surprisingly if you look at some of the classics of ‘good old’ science fiction, they do seem to be responding to the issues raised by the play. Isaac Aasimov addressed it explicitly, calling it “a terribly bad [play]”, and in his own Robot series, added in some programming that would make the situation in R.U.R. impossible - the ‘three laws of robotics’ (wiki). Aasimov’s robot stories, when read alongisde R.U.R., become a little ridiculous - as though he missed the metaphor and could only understand the play in extremely literal terms. He realized that the robot revolution was easy to avoid, see here, if you just do it this way... While Bradbury seems to apply the same combination of sci-fi and horror in the Veldt, taking a straightforwardly antimodernist position where automated convenience alienates humans from eachother; but the interpersonal alienation isn’t tied to alienated production and the fate of the characters isn’t relevant to the fate of society. The story unfolds like a didactic play from which the moral has been subtracted.

[still-busy-being-mortal]

the rising of the moon

word count: 4544

rating: G

fandom: the mechanisms

warnings: major character death

summary: They've lived so long together, perhaps it is only fitting they die alone.

story notes: so this came about as a result of wanting to cry MORE about the mechs. don't ask me why.

features raphaella spouting unnecessary science jargon, ivy being emotionally repressed/depressed, drumbot brian holding a conversation with himself, and the toy soldier being actually emotionally intelligent.

——————

JONNY

It’s a quiet day aboard the starship formerly known as The Aurora. Most of the crew is out, and she’s drifting slowly through a dusty asteroid field. Ivy has stayed aboard to read, and Drumbot Brian was designated ship-sitter, so he’s stayed on as well. When enough time has passed (Is it days? Or decades? No one knows anymore, and no one cares. They are all so tired.), Brian hits the alert switch that will tell the Mechanisms to come home.

Ivy feels the gentle vibration in her brain --the pulse of The Aurora’s beacon-- and she puts her book down before walking slowly to the navigation bridge. Marius’ hand starts to buzz, messing up his note-taking; he apologizes to the rather fascinating asteroid-dweller he’s interviewing and takes his leave. Ashes feels their chest hum, and they turn away from their beautiful, fiery meteor shower.

[read more on ao3, or continue below!]

One by one, the Mechs find their way home. It takes some longer than others, but they all return eventually. Or they should; right now, there are only seven crewmates in the navigation bridge.

“I’m sick of waiting--where the hell is Jonny?” Tim whines.

“I guess he decided to stay in the asteroid belt?” Marius says.

“Woulda been nice to let us know,” mutters Ashes, “So we’re not all sittin’ here for ages.”

Brian stands and raises his hand. “All in favour of leaving and returning in a few decades?” They all agree, so he pilots Aurora away from the asteroid field.

Time goes by, and they do not hear from Jonny. Of course, members of the crew sometimes stay away for long periods of time, but that doesn’t mean their absence is not felt. And Jonny hasn’t appeared to try and contact them at all.

After a while, they vote to return to the asteroid belt. When they arrive, they split up, communication devices in hand.

Ivy combs through her memory, trying to summon any knowledge she has on Asteroid Field 01.18.20. The Toy Soldier moves methodically from meteor to meteor, searching for their lost comrade. Raphaella interviews any inhabitants she comes across, axially coding their qualitative responses to identify patterns in the data. Tim goes to a bar for a drink, irritated at Jonny’s latest antic.

He walks into some nameless, backwater joint and sits at the counter, flagging down the bartender with a lazy wave. He orders and waits, mechanical eyes roving the establishment. And then he freezes.

On the far wall hang a few dozen photographs, all dusty and poor quality. Above the photos is a crudely-done banner that simply reads “Cheers to Our Past Patrons.” One of the pictures is of Jonny.

When the bartender returns, Tim asks: “What’s the deal with the wall of fame, then?”

“Oh, that,” they answer tiredly. “Just sum dark joke the old owner thought up. Them’s the folks who kicked it in this here bar, you see.”

Tim was confused. “You mean those people died here? That can’t be right; my friend’s up there, and he can’t d--he’s alive.”

The barkeep shrugged. “Don’t know, pal. We had to bury most of thems out back, if you reckon you want to check.” He chuckled darkly and went back to drink-making.

Tim quickly finished his drink and went out the back door. He debated alerting the other Mechs about this development, but decided he might as well see for himself first.

He found the makeshift graveyard quickly, small rusty mounds amid the equally rusty asteroid outback. Some displayed names on roughly carved wood planks, but obviously none of them said “Jonny d’Ville” (Tim laughed at the idea of Jonny carrying around an ID). Most were unmarked, however, so he started to dig.

He used his hands, too impatient to try and find a shovel. He came across bodies and bones in various stages of decay, but none that had any chance of being Jonny. About fed up with this ridiculous idea of his, he decided to dig up one more grave. He shovelled dirt and rocks out of the way, until his hand hit something hard and cold. Something metallic. He pulled on it, and came away with a belt. Christ , he thought.

He quickly scooped away the rest of the dirt, revealing the corpse of Captain First Mate Jonny d’Ville. Dead. Tim stumbled backward, hand fumbling for his comm. “Um, mates, I-I found him.”

The Mechanisms were different after that. Yes, Nastya had gone Out long ago, but they had never actually come across her dead corpse , so it wasn’t the same. Marius had examined his body and declared him fully, completely, and irrevocably dead. They had held a funeral, but they were all too much in shock to really remember it. All they knew was that they were down a crew member, without a captain first mate, and terribly aware of their own mortality.

ASHES

About half the crew was in Raphaella’s lab, helping her with some complex kind of experiment. Raph was mixing two viciously green liquids together, while Marius was unspooling wire from a large bobbin. The Toy Soldier was holding an ultraviolet light against a motherboard, and Ashes connected the motherboard to the chartreuse concoction using the wires. After pouring all of the chemicals, Raphaella pulled on some rubber gloves and pulled out a small pocketwatch from her shirt. “Are we ready?” she asked gleefully. Without waiting for an answer, she started the countdown. “Five! Four! Three! T--curses!” The pocketwatch slipped from her gloved grasp and fell into the churning beaker. All at once there was a flash and a bang, and the lights went out. They stood in complete silence for a minute, before the backup generators flicked on.

The Toy Soldier clapped its hands, “That Was Jolly Good! Can We Do It Again?”

“No, TS, look, I got goop on my--wait!” Marius shouted, “Where’s Ashes?” They all turned to look at where the quartermaster had been just moments before. The floor where they’d been standing was a scorched, intricate, dark pattern of swirls. “What the hell is that ?”

“I Do Not Know, But I Will Go Get The Archivist!”

TS returned with Ivy, who took one look at the patterns on the floor and asked: “Who is it that has been time travelling?”

“Time travelling?!” Raph exclaimed.

“Yes,” Ivy said, “Those marks are a perfect exemplar of the evidence left behind when one has been forcibly transported forward or backward in the time continuum. Which one of you did it? Did you happen to bring back any books?”

“It wasn’t us: it was Ashes.” Marius said, “And we don’t think they’ve come back yet.”

Ivy grew very pale. “That is highly alarming. There’s a less than 0.1% chance that a time traveller ever comes back if they do not return instantly after the outset of their journey.”

“Y-you mean Ashes might not...” Marius trailed off, “...Wait a second! That doesn’t make sense! We don’t experience time linearly!”

“That may be true, but we are not forcibly moved through it either. We are at the whim of the narrative flow, and any alteration to that usually produces negative results.”

The Toy Soldier flashed through many emotions at once, though its face never changed. “So Quartermaster O’Reilly Is...Gone?”

“We can’t prove that yet!” Raph cried, fluttering around the lab and grabbing various scientific instruments. “Maybe if I can pinpoint when exactly they’ve been transported to, we can...we can bring them back.”

“That’s quite a long shot,” Marius said.

“What is science if not a shot into the ignorant dark?” Raph replied, rigging up a technological monstrosity. She aimed the thing at the charred spot and clicked a button, causing the machine to emit a pulsating, whirring sound. “Oh, you all might want to close your eyes.”

With a burst of green and a harsh dial tone, the thing spit out a strip of paper. Raph grabbed it and read it intently. She dropped it suddenly, eyes distant and empty. “They are gone.”

The room burst into a cacophony. (“What do you mean?!” “Gone How? Gone Forever ?” “It was statistically unlikely that they could have returned.”) Raph picked up the paper and pressed it onto the lab table. Most of it was meaningless words and numbers, but Raph pointed out a string in the center: “RESULT) DATE: %& INFINITE ROUNDING ERROR $! _ LOCATION: SINGULARITY!UNIVERSAL IMPLOSION. ANALYSIS) CHANCE OF TERMINATION: 100.0% +-0.0 R = 1.0”

“They’re gone.”

RAPHAELLA

The crew was far more disorganized after Ashes left. With no one to maintain inventory or keep the crew in line, The Mechanisms started to fall apart. Raphaella tried for a while to build some kind of time-travelling device, some way of defying the inexorable march of the story, but it was in vain. She was left with only one option; one experiment she hadn’t tried yet.

She carefully laser cuts some metal from the starship once known as the Aurora. She sits in Nastya’s former workshop for hours, bending and twisting and fabricating until she is left with wings; wings more breathtaking than any she has possessed before. Once on, they fan out behind her in a starburst of blue and metallic grey.

But her crew will never see them. In the cover of darkness, she steals away to the airlock. The ship is currently sailing past a black hole (Raphaella has the Messier number and NGC identification memorized, but that’s not her concern now). With one final look backward at the place that had been her home for millennia --the place she thought she would call home forever -- she casts herself into the black hole.

Ivy finds the note she left, succinct and unmincing as ever:

“Addressed to whoever finds this first:

After a brief review of prior literature, I have found extensive holes (no pun intended) in the study of singularities, specifically as it relates to a singularity’s effect on a humanoid body and mind. I seek to rectify this, as well as explore the possibility of horological manipulation, though perhaps my methods are not entirely replicable. It is every scientist’s dream to be on the cutting edge of research, and so I initiate this experiment joyfully. Also, black holes are hypothesized to have magnificent magnetic fields!

Yours,

Dr. Raphaella La Cognizi”

TIM

Tim, Marius, the Toy Soldier, Brian, and Ivy wait. They do not wait together, and they do not know what exactly it is they’re waiting for, but they wait nevertheless.

Time passes.

Brian pilots the ship towards various planets, pointless battles, dying stars. One day, the remaining Mechs arrive at a lawless sea-based war occurring on a planet composed entirely of liquid obsidian. They commandeer a ship (which they dub the ‘Dawn’) and spend decades wreaking havoc as the most formidable group of pirates. But Tim knows something is wrong.

“Tim, take out that vessel off the starboard side.” Brian orders from the prow of the Dawn.

Tim smoothly preps, loads, and positions a cannon to aim directly at the enemy ship in question. He lights the fuse, and the cannon fires. The crew watch as the projectile hurls through the air, arcing like a cold meteor into the distance. They watch it come down towards the enemy vessel. And they watch it miss.

The crew turns to stare at Tim. He’s not nearly as mortified as they expected. In fact, he’s perfectly serene.

“Um, Tim…” Marius starts slowly, “D-did you know you, uh...missed?”

“Yep.” he responds, popping the ‘p’.

“Did you mean to?”

“Nope.”

“And...you’re not upset by that?”

“Not especially.”

(“That’s a fascinatingly abnormal psychological response,” Marius mutters under his breath, jotting something down in a notebook he appears to have produced out of nowhere.)

The crew continues to stare as Tim goes below deck to his bunk, humming slightly.

Tim has known something was off for a long time now. His aim started to err by nanometres, then by millimeters, then more, until he was missing entire ships like today. He’d panicked at the beginning, of course, but now? Now, he was ready to be done.

He’d felt the pressure building up in his head, behind his eyes. He got spurts of tunnel vision randomly, and sometimes his vision just went to static. He gradually lost the ability to see some colors, as the electronic rods and cones went out one-by-one and refused to self-repair. But he wasn’t nervous or distressed or alarmed; he was excited.

You see, he’d been saving something for a special occasion. He didn’t know what ‘special occasion’ entailed, since the Mechs never consistently celebrated holidays or birthdays, but permanent death seemed like a pretty good one. He rooted around in his rucksack, and withdrew a set of shiny silver keys; keys he’d stolen a long, long time ago. These were the ignition keys to the largest gunship existence will ever see, and Tim planned to go out with a bang. That evening, he told the crew he wanted them all to return to the starship so he could be dropped off somewhere. They all agreed, since they didn’t have any real cares anymore, and they set off for the planet Tim had etched into his memory.

Tim sits in the cockpit of the gunship, the planet itself already ruined and smoking from fighting his way to get here. The Mechanisms were long gone, as he’d told them to leave without him. He hadn’t exactly said he wasn’t planning on coming back, but he thinks they understood. With one last grin of pure, unadulterated madness, he kicks the gunship into gear and blasts off.

The ship goes too fast to comprehend, and in an instant he’s shooting across the cosmos, shattering stars and razing entire systems of planets. The universe has never before witnessed such complete and utter desolation. Tim doesn’t process much during this rampage...until he starts to die.

He doesn’t know what he hit, but something has jolted the gunship just right, and he’s flung out the front glass. He knows he should die instantly, and he is, but his eyes are moving faster. They’re replaying his life, backwards, and he wants to groan with the cliché-ness of it all. But then it’s over. Or, almost over. At the very end, so fast, so short compared to the millennia he has lived, he catches sight of a young man in a trench. Bertie. A face he will never forget no matter how much longer he could have lived. And in the moments of blackness before he stops forever, he thinks about Bertie, about what comes next.

Faith is a moot point when you’re immortal, since you’ve quite literally come into contact with gods and demons, eldritch horrors and cosmic powers. But here, at the end of his wretchedly long existence, Tim wonders if he will ever see Bertie again. If he will ever see Jonny, or TS, or Ashes, or anyone ever again.

He dies blind, with their names on his lips.

IVY

Exposition: Ivy is quite spectacular at suppressing her emotions. She’s also skilled at identifying patterns, so by the time Raphaella left, she knew what was going on with 98% certainty. Without much fanfare, she packed her bags (5 for books and 1 for everything else), said goodbye to Marius, Brian, and the Toy Soldier, and left.

She rifled through her memory archives for the quaintest library she knew of, and headed there.

Rising Action: And so time passed.

Ivy read, and organized, and wrote, and...existed. Nothing happened, and nothing changed. Carmilla must have made an error in her mechanization because she’d never been the best at processing feelings, but she was happy, she thought.

Climax: A war came, and her library was attacked. With the numbest, most detached sense of purpose imaginable, she loaded an escape pod with random books she thought should be preserved and fired it out into the void. She didn’t even know she’d been hit until she’d fallen to the floor, blood streaming from a massive wound. She knows she is dying; she’d seen the patterns.

Denouement: Her brain whirs slower and slower, until it stops. The end.

MARIUS

They are not a crew any longer. Brian has firmly rooted himself on the bridge, more robot than man now. The Toy Soldier wanders the ship, searching for its friends who are playing the best game of hide-and-seek that the universe has ever seen. Marius putters along, doing some maintenance, writing down his thoughts, and waiting for his death.

He’d always known this life of theirs couldn’t last. Besides the conceptual and moral implications of an eternal existence without consequences, it didn’t even make sense physically . There was no such thing as a perpetual motion machine, and he was surprised his more rational-minded crewmates didn’t question it more. But now his theory had come to fruition, and his crew, his family , had slowly dropped off one-by-one, like leaves from an autumnal tree.

He’s at a bit of a loose end now. With no people left to talk to, no minds to pick, he doesn’t feel any sense of purpose. It’s not depression--he knows that; it’s more of a...cosmic futility.

He feels one last pull, one last tug of the all-pervading narrative, a tide of finality, urging him towards a certain door. He knows this door, knows what it means when he opens it. But he also knows all things come to an end eventually, so why not go out doing what he always did? Providing the comic relief.

“Time this for me, will you, Aurora?” he calls out. He turns the handle and steps inside.

BRIAN

Since Jonny’s death, Brian has been at war with himself. He supposes he’s always been at war with himself though, and his current moral quandary reminds him uncomfortably of his first.

Sitting on the bridge alone, he decides to have a conversation.

“So the crux of the problem is that we can bring people back from the dead, correct?”

He flips his switch. “Correct.”

He flips it back. “But the dilemma is whether we should bring the Mechs back or not.”

“Also correct.”

“Which we shouldn’t, because they wanted to die.”

“No, we should. We want them alive, right? Using magic is definitely the easiest way to achieve that.”

“But we need our family to be happy. God knows how long it’s been.”

“Is the end goal their happiness or our happiness?”

“If I answer that, will I change your mind?”

“Is altering the end goal really the moral way to win this argument?”

“You know what? Damn you.”

Time passes, and each crewmate’s departure only makes Brian’s contempt for his own inner hesitation grow. He spends years staring out into the cosmos, thoughts whirling just as fast as the dust and gases beyond the glass. He wonders if he will ever die and join his family, or if the degree of his artificiality will render him truly immortal. He hates that thought more than most anything else.

He stops smelling the smoke of Ashes’ fires one day, and wonders if his olfactory systems are shutting down.

He stops feeling the rumble of Raphaella’s experimental explosions, and wonders if his nerve endings are rusting.

He stops seeing the flash of Tim’s gunshots bounce around the corridors, and wonders if he’s gone as blind as the gunner himself.

He stops hearing Ivy’s narration, and wonders if his auditory fluids have finally trickled away.

One day, the lone violin that has been echoing throughout the empty starship fades out, and Brian feels his heart stop.

It restarts of course, but Brian knows.

He knows that it’s finally, finally time. Soon, very soon, there will be no more life aboard this ship. No life, where there had been life for eons. No life, where there had been life immortal.

His sense of taste has never come into doubt, because he can still taste the acridness of the Toy Soldier’s cooking wafting on the air. He decides it’s only right to bid goodbye, so he makes his way back to the kitchen. On the way, he passes the Doctor’s old laboratory. He briefly considers destroying it, bringing down the whole ship in a blaze of fire and brimstone, but he knows that isn’t right; it wouldn’t fulfill anything.

In the kitchen, the Toy Soldier is pulling something pink and grey and on fire out of the oven. “Hey, TS,” Brain says gently, leaning against the doorframe as his heart falters again. “I-I’ve got to talk to you.”

The Toy Soldier spins around. “Drumbot Brian!” it shouts joyfully. “How Have You Been, Old Chap! I Have Been Playing Hide-And-Seek With The Rest Of The Crew For A While Now, And They Are Definitely Winning! Have You Seen Them?”

“Oh, TS,” Brian says sadly, “We’re all who’s left now. Don’t you know? The others have gone.”

He sees the Toy Soldier’s wooden eyes soften, betraying an agedness he’s never seen before. “Of Course I Know, Bean. But What Have We Been Doing This Whole Time, If Not Pretending?”

Brian smiles sorrowfully, and TS matches it. “I just wanted to let you know, TS, that now it’s my turn to go.”

“I Know.” It salutes him. “Goodbye, Drumbot.”

Brain gently returns the salute, and leaves.

He stumbles through the ship, heart failing rapidly now, but he makes it to the airlock. He knows deep down that there’s only one way his story could end. His whole existence has been framed by empty solitude, with his family providing the best aberration one could wish for. With his body more an empty metal frame than a robot now, he opens the airlock and casts himself back into the cosmos, from whence he came, and where he would die.

THE TOY SOLDIER

Its friends are all gone away now, and it knows this. There is no more laughter aboard the starship once known as the Aurora. There is no more gunfire or explosions. There is no more music. The cold mass of metal drifts through the void of the uncaring cosmos, with no living being aboard.

But The Toy Soldier has to be sure; it has to guarantee that it is truly all alone now. So it visits its friends’ final resting places.

It spends some years gazing out the front windows of the ship. The thrusters have been broken for a long time now, and the Toy Soldier doesn’t know how to repair them, so it just sits and watches. It wants to see the Drumbot, so it pretends that it does. Soon enough, out the starboard porthole, it spies him. His metal is rusted and warped, frost rendering most of his face unrecognizable. A drum is still looped around his shoulder. The Toy Soldier tethers itself to the ship and goes outside for a moment, drifting towards the robot. It lays a wooden hand on his deformed chest, and feels that his heart beats no longer. It carves off a long curl of wood from its side, and places it in Brian’s frozen hand.

It returns to the ship. It hadn’t known where Marius had disappeared to, but now it feels the force of the narrative driving it towards a certain room. It opens the door, and a handful of mangy octokittens hiss at it and scurry away. There’s nothing in the room besides a pile of crumpled clothes, a broken violin, and a metal hand, but the Toy Soldier could recognize that style anywhere. It gently twists one of its own wooden hands off, and lays it on the mound.

The Toy Soldier knows that Ivy went somewhere far away, so it closes its eyes and pretends that it’s there. When it opens them again, it finds itself in the charred ruins of some great marble building. At its feet lay bones, a metal flute, and a mess of circuitry, untouched by the ash. The Toy Soldier reaches up, removes a piece of wood from the back of its head, and lays it besides the flute.

The Toy Soldier has a harder time finding the gunner. It’s drawn this way and that, chasing an intangible trail through the stars and galaxies. All of the planets it passes are devoid of life. Finally, finally, it stumbles across an enormous, gaping wreck of a starship, all mangled and smashed to pieces. The ship is so large, it’s drawn smaller asteroids into an orbit around it. On one of these rocky satellites, the Toy Soldier spies a body: a skeleton covered in a long brown coat with a guitar slung across it. A pair of mutilated, metal eyes rest in the skull. The Toy Soldier smiles sadly, removes one of its own wooden eyes, and slips it into the pocket of the coat.

It knows it cannot follow the science officer into a black hole. It does manage to find the sketches of the wings Raphaella designed, so it gathers them up, takes two chunks of wood from its back, finds Raph’s keyboard, and casts everything into the nearest singularity.

After pretending to be at the end of space and time, it finds itself there. There is nothing, absolutely nothing. It removes two segments of wood from deep within its chest and places them in the nothingness, along with the strings of an old electric bass it had found. As it winks back to the ship, it catches the faintest scent of gasoline.

It returns to the asteroid Jonny had died on, the start of their ignoble demise. It visits his grave, in the taupe dirt of the desert behind the backwater bar, and sees all of the trinkets and mementos the crew had left behind. It knows none of them left anything during their makeshift funeral, so that means each of them must have slipped away at some point to come here on their own. Ashes has left their best lighter, Tim a pair of dogtags. Marius left behind all of his notes of Jonny’s disaster of a brain, and Brian has deposited some sun-scorched piece of space station. His harmonica has also found its way here, somehow. The Toy Soldier slowly, slowly reaches into its chest and removes its wooden heart, laying it down atop the mound of dirt and memories. It walks away, and knows that it can finally, finally stop pretending.

AURORA

There is no record of where the Toy Soldier went next. It certainly did not return to the empty ship once known as the brilliant Aurora. The lifeless, soulless, music-less ship drifts on alone through the cosmos, rusting and warping until no one could tell it had ever been a ship at all. Eons pass, and whatever memory the universe might have had of The Mechanisms has been utterly lost.

Until the misshapen mass gets stuck in the orbit of a planet. Molded and formed by the planet’s gravity, the ship is reborn as a moon. And all at once, she comes to life.

As dawn washes over her, the young moon hears a voice. “Hello, dear,” a woman coos, “My name is Dr. Carmilla.”

[brooklynislandgirl]

📝 for the answering of applicable questions, please!

~Quietly, in the Lower Garden District~

~Colour~

The man behind the counter is ready to reach over and strangle her. She can see it in his expression, so put upon by each time she shakes her head and asks if she can have another sample made. She almost wishes he would try, he'd lose more than the hour that she's been at this. That might be uncharitable of her but the man reminds her of the kind of person who, when not wearing his little vest, is exactly the kind of person who sees Beth and Anakin walking down the street together and curls a lip, makes passing commentary to other middle-age white guys. Too poor, too weird, too questionably ethnic to suit them. The kind of person who would walk faster when it got dark, or would lock up before they could make it to a door. There's more of those than either one of them care to acknowledge, and the irony is almost delicious. Except that sometimes Anakin cannot help but to be very aware of that kind of prejudice and it really takes another chunk out of his self-confidence.

"Allow me to explain again," she says softly, in crisp and enunciated haole. "I said I want a very specific shade of blue. A hint of royal with a tinge of cadet number five. Then mix at the edges a touch of Prussian and just enough Turkish Steel to give that depth soft edges. Then overly sky atop it all. Or better yet, please find me a customer service specialist who can, in fact, understand what I am looking for because clearly? You're not it." That might be her fault, she does want to paint the living room the exact shade of Anakin's eyes.

~Song~

She doesn't play as well as Andy could, and she would never be a singer though she enjoyed it maybe because it was more about intent than execution, one of the few things that held true in absolute. And sometimes neither one really mattered when he folded himself up like an envelope just so he could rest his head against her chest and instead of plucking strings, she only ran fingers through his hair. He closes his eyes and she focuses hers across the back yard. Beyond the pool and past the grass. Colours blur and fade and there's a ripple of dissonance within the Tapestry to make a boundary between what is solid and inflexible and what is hidden in a space outside of the Tellurian. Words they don't use in every day conversation. She isn't quite singing now instead humming a tune that would reveal more than maybe they're ready to dive into. Other words they don't use, either. Her palm comes to rest on his brow as tender as she knows how. The other reaches around him to tuck one of the knitted blankets around him. He doesn't seem to mind the combination of warmth between herself and the acrylic, is maybe the only other person who could be cold in anything else less than 80 degrees and 90% humidity. It takes an infinite amount of patience, skill, and mana to redirect the rain to a different part of the city. He'll forgive her weariness even if he doesn't understand why she will go to bed early, sleep in late. And that's okay. He doesn't need to know. It's better if he doesn't, it would spoil the gift. 'Cause I'm gonna make this place your home.

~Scent~ The balcony door is open letting muggy air move sluggishly in through the French doors. Beneath her the bed is a little too stiff for comfort. Her laptop almost too warm as it rests on her thighs and only serves to remind her that she should probably get out of the charcoal grey suit she's wearing. She closes the screen and pulls her glasses off, raising them so they rest in her hair. Takes a sip of the wine she'd bought at...some store she won't remember the name of... but that came recommended by the bellhop.

She didn't have the forethought before leaving for Baton Rouge to steal borrow something to bring along. For reasons that she didn't want to explain because there's no very polite way to explain she's grown used to having him sleep beside her. That there's something soothing that comes wafting up from his skin the closer he gets, arm wrapped around her, leg half thrown over. At the end of a day there's his natural chemistry that mixes with clean laundry and cigarette smoke, something sweet and spicy from his preferred night cap. Sometimes there's blood. Sometimes the distinct smell of wood or metal from something he's working on for himself, the kind of tinkering that seems to bring him peace like nothing else can. There isn't an exact name for it but she can recognise it at a thousand paces. It makes her want to burrow furtively into his chest cavity and find some way to live inside of that newly hollowed out space. Maybe just thinking about it was all she needed. Maybe it's some new kind of magick trick. Regardless, she'd managed to doze off just long enough to be startled when the door of her hotel room clicks shut and he's there. Pulled out of her day dreams and turned into flesh. With exactly the kind of apologetic grin she's become as familiar with as she is the smell of him. "Guess, I jus' couldn't sleep." And she knows there's more going on behind the sheepish look, and the way he stands at a polite distance away, maybe waiting for permission. She doesn't say a word. Only turns down the previously pristine other side of the bed before slipping from hers. The white silk blouse hits the floor seconds before she disappears into the bathroom.

~Meme~ She eyes Anakin. Looks at her phone. Back and forth for five solid minutes before she just starts giggling. Which turns into a laugh.

~Sound~ It's those little sub-vocalisations that get her. Every near guttural groan, every single one of those breathless whimpers that cling to the edges of her senses soft as cobwebs or hard as thunder. There are so many layers between them, so much context to be drawn from even a half of a sigh. They are a siren song even if she doesn't know what rocks he wants her to dash herself on.

~Setting~

She cringes. "I don' wanna tell ya." He's helping her work on a psychological profiling assessment that's required of her continuing education class, which is all part of her professional development. But she's worried because it's going to sound incredibly racist, coming as it is not from a white-passing woman of colour but one of incredible privilege who absolutely knows what it's going to sound like. But she cannot resist the look of self-accusation and anxiety that creeps into his micro-expressions and doing anything else would feel incredibly dishonest. Something she doesn't want to foster in him. "Somewhere 'round sunset. Da bayou waddah look like it on fire. Dere's some soft Zydeco music goin' on in da backdrop. Air's hot an' heavy like steam 'tween lovers an' if ya real quiet, can hear da bayou jus' come alive wi' oddah souls. Dere's pirogues bobbin' along, an' you can smell some ono grindz cookin' somewhere. Spanish moss all hangin' down from cypress an' willow trees. A mixture of old spirituals an' dat beautiful, melodic pidgin dat get spoke down dere...I know is nevah really li'dat.... also make me t'ink of witch blood an' Mokole dat pass as gators... all dem ghosts an' da kine ya nevah can put ya finger on but dat give ya chicken skin jus' t'inkin' 'bout..." ~Fashion Style~

Clothes litter her floor. Flung without a care to their resting places. Some on the edge of her bed or the arm of a chair. Suits and jeans and tee-shirts. Undergarments and socks. Like some small hurricane exploded out of the closet, just with less water. There's sarongs too. Luau shirts that just aren't him. Shoes too. Finally, she steps back and examines her handiwork. A frame work of satin boxers that will caress the most delicate parts of him without bunching or pinching. An accent of which are picked up in the suit lapels and bow tie. White shirt, black buttons. Silver cuff-links. Socks that are thin as a Friday night prayer, and absolutely voluptuous Paolo Scafora oxfords in a blue so dark they look black at first glance, polished to a mirror gloss. Dior and Stefano Ricci. Famous labels from famous houses of style.

If the gala wasn't required...Anakin wouldn't be seeing the light of day and there'd be very different reasons the clothes would be laying scattered about.

But she kind of also misses that scruffy plain, slightly tattered tee-shirt and skinny jeans even she would have a hard time getting up past her own hips, and questionably aged converse. Aesthetically speakin, Anakin is ever clothing designer's wet dream and she has never wanted to be a circular scarf more in her life. "Wow. Jus'....wow." ~Feeling~

"Belonging."

It's all she says before she kisses him. Softly and sweetly, a little wet from a stray tear that slips down between their lips. Admitting this is admitting that maybe, just maybe, she loves him, too. Which puts a countdown on everything. Which means that he's going to find the wherewithal to leave her and to take with him every that makes her feel even the littlest bit real. She doesn't know if she'll survive the loss, so it's best that she make the most of it before he goes. ~Animal~ "If you were one dem changing breeds? You'd be a were-fossa. Dey are dese medium sized ....well. Dey kinda look like cats, but also...dey don't. Related to da civet but also like...mongooses. Mongeese? Wha'evah. Dey from Madagascar. Da Malagasy got kapu of a kind an' actually are sorta afraid of dem, an' wi' good reason...dey carnivorous ay-eff." She glances over. "Don' laugh! Dey beautiful an' rare an' I really like dem a lot. An' I'm not gonna tell ya any more about dem. Gonna make a new animal, an' call it a' Anakin." There is every possibility that she will do this. Some day.

~Holiday~ Christmas. It will always be Christmas. Not the lights and snow and carollers, though there's plenty of that to go around. Not the chill and dank air, not the interminably long night, not even because of gifts. It's not a childhood of Santa surfing or canoeing, and it isn't sandcastles and malasadas left by the lanai doors from Hawai'i, either. Maybe it's a touch of the peace and goodwill often associated with the season, and how he came to find her when he needed her the most. But if she had to give just one reason, it's that he brought her back a sense of wonder that she'd thought was lost when her world had shattered. He took something terrible and turned it into something beautiful. That isn't an ordinary, every day kind of magick and she doesn't know how she will ever be able to express her love and gratitude for him.

"Wha'ya t'ink about mebbe da Bahamas dis year? Get out of da city for a lil while, I promise I won' make ya go for da beach."

~Season~

When Beth thinks of seasons, she thinks of it being a mainland phenomenon. Her own islands only really have two: Kau from May to October, where everything is beautiful and averages about 85 degrees give or take, and Ho'oilo from November to April when the best tides bring in the biggest waves. It's only cooler by about ten degrees. Which is maybe why she always feels so cold so far away from home. And why she likes it here so much. She knows other places have as many as six seasons, broken up into more agricultural and solar tied patterns of weather and climate and sometimes even just spiritual nature. But taking all of Anakin into account, she would have to say... "Monsoon. It's da time of life-giving rains. But also it can be dangerous for the same reason. Cool but lingers along your skin. An' it's somet'ing I keep wi' me always, waitin' for it."