#futuristic casket

[ndostairlyrium]

Funeral girl AU in which Lav is the social media manager of a funeral home, posting silly memes about death on Facebook, mass producing coffin/gravestone-shaped chocolate for every festivity, and is just very annoying online with death related puns

Somewhere in Cullen's apartment there's an old school poster of Nevarra's necropolis that says "It's never too late to fall in love. Or to fall in general." There's a "thinking of you" scribble behind it, because it was originally a gift for Cassandra that she recycled due to obvious reasons. So now it's there, along with a big collection of tombstone keychans and valentine's inspired chocolates with "see ya (on the other side)" written on them in old english font

[ultimateissuessimp]

Golden days

One shot

Word count: 1,036

Warnings: I don't think there are any (Let me know if you think something is warning worthy)

Notes: Yeah, yeah, if you didn't already know it's based on the song "Golden Days" made by Panic! At The Disco.

I found a pile of Polaroids In the crates of a record shop

Y/N looked through his apartment's attic that he lived in with his husband, Killian in search of his practice swords. He promised Henry that he will train him since the kid was getting bored and wanted to learn something that he might need and what was better if not self defense?

But while he was searching, he stumbled upon a little casket filled with trinkets that he and Killian had gathered over the decades of being together. So many memories in one place, stored safely for the sake of a day when they'd maybe would like to share them with their future child or even children, tell them stories of their shared adventures and their ever blooming love for each other. There were some gold coins from different kingdoms, cultural pieces that spoke of long histories, even the small things like the little notes they made each other or drawings. What he completely forgot about were those moving pictures that Y/N took anytime he seemed fit thanks to a small, futuristic device that he had found one day while they were traveling across a land filled with gadgets some people could only dream of.

He looked though dozens of them. There was one he took of Killian peacefully sleeping in their shared bed on the Jolly Roger, exhausted after an adrenaline filled hunt for treasure and mischief. He looked so beautiful then that he couldn't help himself but snap a quick picture, testing the camera out. The picture swaying gently with the rocking of the ship against the waves of the ocean they were swimming on. That was the first ever picture he took and after he saw it when it manifested in his other hand, he made it his personal mission to document each moment worthy of remembering.

There was also a picture of Killian simply smiling devilishly at him while he steered the ship. Gods, he looked so hot while doing so it would be a shame not to snap a picture. It just so happened that he managed to captured a wink that was sent his way in the last second. He smiled lovingly at the memory and caressed the picture. The next one was both of them making goofy faces at the camera while they sat on a rock on the beach, near the docks they stopped at while they were watching the sun set.

The last one he looked at was actually made by his husband while he was presenting him a hand picked pretty flowers that he had turned into a flower crown and was making his way to Killian to put it gently ontop of his head. He was smiling so widely then, proud of himself of doing that. Who would've thought, a pirate making a flower crown and casually placing it onto another pirate's, nonetheless his captain's, head. It was unheard of and yet it was so… Sweet, so simply and domestic.

Forever younger Growing older just the same

Y/N got lost in his memories of their adventures, remembering the times when they stayed in Neverland for some time, the magic around the island keeping them from aging. They saw each other during their best and worst, forever young in their age thanks to the magic, but even younger when spending time together, acting like children when nobody was looking, chasing each other around on the sandy beach, splashing each other with water or playing hide and seek on the ship when the crew was sleeping below deck.

All the memories that we make will never change We'll stay drunk, we'll stay tan, let the love remain And I swear that I'll always paint you

He went back to the drawings, finding many that they either made of each other or the simple little doodles of their wished future with one another. Forever capturing them, drunk with love and seeping with adoration. Completely blind, guided by their feelings. Decades passed and they loved each other the same if not even more than before.

Time can never break your heart But it'll take the pain away Right now our future's certain

Y/N also thought of the time they got separated, the curse taking him away from his beloved, making him forget about Killian right in the moment he was trying to find a perfect ring to propose with under the guise of wanting to visit an old friend, assuring Killian not to worry and simply go for the supplies they stopped for. It was supposed to be just a few days trip that ended up being 28 years… And yet they found each other again despite the odds.

As he reminiscenced about the old times he felt a pair of arms wrap around his waist from behind and a hot breath hit the back of his neck. He jumped slightly at being startled like that before relaxing into his husband's hold and resting his back against Killian's chest, his head laying on his shoulder as he closed his eyes and smiled softly.

-What've ya got there, luv? - Killian asked, his voice soft yet holding that slight rasp that made Y/N shiver each time he heard it in any situation. God, he loved this man so much it was sometimes unbearable.

-Just some things that we've gathered over the years, our memories - he answered with a quiet chuckle before turning his head to the side to place a sweet kiss upon the blue eyed pirate's cheek. Killian didn't let it end just at a kiss to the cheek, quickly turning his own head to press his lips to Y/N, letting them move in a slow tandem.

-I love you, Mr. Jones - Hook murmured into the kiss, letting his nose rub against Y/N's lovingly and the man smiled at his antics.

-I love you too, oh captain, my captain - he said the affectionate words back to him, knowing that they were not enough to portray how deeply he actually felt for the man that was holding him so gently yet firmly in his arms.

Yeah, He won't let it fade away.

[ruscha]

go to 'on repeat'/heavy rotation playlist on spotify/apple music, throw it on shuffle and share the first 10 songs you get

tagged by: @speakviolence ty !!! :-)

sympathy is a knife - charli xcx

mannequin love - justice ft. the flints

sun king - the bright light social hour

end of beginning - djo

pyramid song - radiohead

jeannie becomes a mom - caroline rose

good luck, babe! - chappell roan

futuristic casket - phantogram

floating features - la luz

tagging: @frenchfrysword @junk-thunder @funbi @garykingz + whoever else would like to participate!

[glamgoblin]

Tagged by @loveable-sea-lemon to share 10 of the songs I’ve been listening to on repeat lately! Thank you for the tag!!! 😄😄

Even When I’m Not With You - Pierce the Veil

It’s Alright - Mother Mother

I’ll Rust with You - Steam Powered Giraffe

Hold Me Now - Caskets

Puppets - Motionless in White

Better - SYML

She’s the Prettiest Girl at the Party, and She Can Prove It with a Solid Right Hook - Frank Iero

ALSO BITTE - ACE TEE

These Are The Days - Manyfew

Better than This - Futuristic Polar Bears

Not sure what this playlist says about my mental health 🤣🤣

Tagging @wintercrushes @redweddingsandbowties @padfootstolemycrumpets @soyellowcurtainsthen @machoestofmen (only if you want to, if not feel free to ignore ✨💖✨)

[seemingmusic]

WHERE WERE YOU (parts 1 & 2)

New single tomorrow morning on Bandcamp. It's about the way now becomes then, the people we lose in the process, and the compromises made.

Election day is coming up. Please vote.

______________________________

WHERE WERE YOU (parts 1 & 2)

[part 1]

Where were you in ’22? The end of the honeymoon The mask is off and the creature is coming through Out of the void that cuts between the eye and the screen

What does she see, young futurist, 1913 Crystal ball, looking down on me— Who damns them all among the fallen— She who fell in with the yelling shiny metal boys? Yes they knew there’s an art to noise That now’s where the time ahead destroys the ashen past But they left their caskets wide Half of them turned fascists while the other half died

Why’s it that a ticket out Is always a Faustian deal with the devil? The field’s not level; whatever— Give me the lever, just give me the lever Just give me a lever and a place to stand I can move the world, I can move the world Give me a lever and a place to stand And I'll move the world, and I'll move the world

But where am I? And why’s this mirror here? Why does it shine with the disappeared? World War One and all to come The spiral swallows up a hundred years Is it wrong that I long for correction? Some invective retrospective court To flex a hand around the necks of Bush, Thatcher, Musk Bastards all who stacked the decks

So who is next? Not Benedetta Cappa, or the table-rapping Foxes yet Tried to escape from their boxes Without a say in their age or their sex Besides, who can test whether the perception I got is correct? Whether I’m inventing a special effect? Am I a lone tall tree in the woods unwrecked unchecked from dusk to sunset?

Where were you in ’22? The death of solitude The end of your tolerance for the call of a prophet Who fed you dreams or the fear of a bloody coup But how did you get here? What did they do to you? And when is now? I mean really, what in hell is now? A junkie who, caught between the memory of flight and terror of the night Begs: what can my money do?

That’s what I get for having two eyes to read with, see with Maybe size up the summer roughness From above this burning forest, California’s poorest, smoke on all horizons Who let all the flies into this version of my life? Am I dying? Where were you in ’22? Go get your alibi, son Make it a good lie

Where were you in ’22? Where were you in ’22? Got one more window to look through Where were you?

[part 2]

The Angel of History turns an eye to the graveyard Growing and churning without a border or safeguard But blown back by the force of the past, The tyrannical gnashing of teeth and the panicking death screech, The Angel of history is paralyzed by a shock to the spine called progress Trinity bomb test, 1945 Everybody ever alive, when you rise, I’ll fall and apologize

I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry I dreamed of Kemdi Amadiume, where I could see the future And I’m sorry was I all I could tell her Creation is sorry; you deserved better I’m so sorry, sorry The words echo wide to the first ever suicide in the Kalahari And everything tumbling after Hell of a way to conclude the first chapter

So where were you in 22? Who am I talking to? The slaughterhouse animals in the cages all going blue Illegal to film but they’re killed for you to chew And the angel is crying at the Bronx Zoo Are you talking to the meteor in space You’re hoping will break through, come and erase Cut the Gordian knot, plot dissolves, columns fall All our problems going small?

Or are you talking to your parents whom you even still make excuses for 'cause you’re in the will? Executor, testatrix, execution in the matrix Am I talking to entitled generational wealth? The feedback loop spins a Fabergé shell Gilded with rubies and amber gels Waiting to be smashed, cast a spell

Hell, I guess what I mean is take yourself back to fourteen The first and only evening you could see with clarity right and wrong And share with me: do you owe that kid a song? Or were you killed by the age-fifteen version And the guilt that made age sixteen worse And seventeen, eighteen like dominoes And when they come, can you tell where the kid goes?

Are you swallowing the previous minute down? Does this verse chew the last and spit it out? Animal to animal, cannibal to cannibal Man ate the neanderthal What claim do you have at all? Don’t blame the black hole’s gravity well Don’t blame the crocodile eating itself But where you in '22 when the curtain finally finally finally fell?

[parfumieren]

1828: Jules Verne (Histoires de Parfums)

The tallship has just crossed the equator. A junior sailor, newly initiated into the Court of Neptune, descends into the cargo hold. His line-crossing ceremony took place only this morning; his skin is still salty from repeated baptismal drenchings with ocean water. Just for tonight -- as officers and crew celebrate with glasses of port and tankards of rum in their respective mess halls -- he has the run of the place and can go where he likes. Here is where he likes to go.

In the darkness below deck loom crates of lemons, limes, and oranges, barrels of rum and aqua vitae, bundles of Virginia tobacco, and cedar caskets full of spices. The wood -- already fragrant on its own accord -- has been permeated by the scent of nutmeg and black pepper, producing a wholly new and curious fragrance which lifts the sailor's heart. His apprenticeship before the mast has been toilsome and often doubtful. Years from now, skin calloused by work, heart hardened by defeat and sorrow, he may well become as jaded as the toothless, wizened old-timers who barked in laughter at his initiation. But tonight, he belongs to this ship, and it belongs to him. Everything about it -- its crew and cargo, the wide sea upon which it sails -- is beautiful. Curled up in a coil of rope in the full-laden hold, at peace with life's vagaries, he closes his eyes. It comes to him, seconds before sleep descends, that he has never known pure happiness until now. Let the wind and waves rise...

Perfume, like any art form, is a form of storytelling. Every vial of fragrance contains layers upon layers of narrative to be guessed at by the wearer. Sometimes the perfumer's brief provides clues to the plot; other times, it's left to the imagination to interpret all.

1828 is dedicated to the French author Jules Verne, whose fascination with technology and mechanical innovation paved the way for modern science fiction writers such as Philip K. Dick and William Gibson, and has been a primary influence on the steampunk movement. Transportation is a particular fetish of Verne's; submarines (20,000 Leagues Under the Sea), transatlantic steamships and cross-continental trains (Around the World in 80 Days), cannon-propelled spaceships (From the Earth to the Moon), and lighter-than-air craft (The Mysterious Island) all symbolize the quickened pace and boundary-breaking spirit of 19th century life.

Oddly, the perfume named in Jules Verne's honor is neither sleek, fast, nor futuristic. Rather, it is a nostalgia piece, an evocation of an era predating that of the great author: the age of tallships, of Horatio Lord Nelson and the Napoleonic Wars.

Up until 1810, Myristica fragrans -- the tree from which nutmeg and its sister spice mace are derived -- grew nowhere else on earth but Banda, a tiny volcanic island chain east of Indonesia. For nearly 200 years, the Dutch occupied Banda, maintaining a complete monopoly of the nutmeg trade worldwide. But once the British Royal Navy managed to wrest control of the island from the Netherlands, transplanted nutmeg trees began to dot the globe.

To the modern-day nose, the scent of nutmeg still evokes quaint colonial comforts. It's a resolutely anachronistic smell -- and although it would seem to have little to do with the ocean, a nutmeg accord properly embedded in a marine composition will "read" like a Patrick O'Brian Aubrey/Maturin novel.

But where is Jules Verne's place in all this? It's in the clockworks, the gears, the mechanical accoutrements that set 1828 to humming. The trick that this perfume pulls off -- superbly -- is to place a wonderful piece of old-timey scrimshaw in a spare, minimalist, and thoroughly modern setting so that one can no longer tell what century (the 18th? the 26th?) it hails from.

A breezy citrus top note greets the nose first, paired with the smallest touch of eucalyptus to make it fly. A strong middle section of straightforward wood notes lulls you into thinking that perhaps the liveliest moments are over, but at last a radiant nutmeg accord sets in-- rich, cool, weighty, and smooth. This is a scent both Horatio Hornblower and Captain Nemo could wear. (Heck, throw in Morpheus from The Matrix while you're at it. What is the Nebuchadnezzar, anyway, except a supermodern Nautilus adrift in dystopia?)

When a perfume has the power to set all sorts of mental plotlines into motion, you might as well make yourself the hero: steely-eyed, soft-hearted, and guaranteed a new adventure at every latitude.

First, though, you must hear the call of wind and wave.

Scent Elements: Grapefruit, citrus, mandarin, eucalyptus, pepper, nutmeg, cedar, incense, vetiver, pine

[milafm2002]

Books and Music Part 13 (VC Andrews Editon)

It's Officially Time For Arc 4 The Casteel Saga Debuting With Part 1 Heaven Hope You All Enjoy It!

A Letter To My Daugther - Bat For Lashes - ( The Dream Of Delphi ) 2024

Beautifully Unconventional - Wolf Alice ( Visions Of A Life ) 2017

Lord Knows - Dum Dum Girls ( End Of Daze ) 2012

Hallucinations - The Raveonettes ( Lust Lust Lust ) 2007

Futuristic Casket - Phantogram ( Eyelid Movies ) 2009

The Conflict of The Mind - AURORA ( What Happened To The Heart ? ) 2024

The Bats Mouth - Bat For Lashes ( Fur And Gold ) 2005

In A Glass - Blouse ( Imperium ) 2013 

Through The Eyes Of A Child - AURORA ( All My Demons Greeting Me As A Friend ) 2016

Endless Summer - Still Corners ( Creatures Of An Hour ) 

And Make Sure To Keep Your Eyes Peeled For Part 2 Dark Angel

[nophicas-ward]

44!!!

you get phantogram! they're more vibes than lyrics too tbh, and this is lower on my personal favorites of theirs lol. but my husband would take like, two mile long walks and i know this is one of the albums he would put on heh.

[theliterateape]

Spending the Decades After My Death in the Tackiest Places on Earth Seems Fitting

by Don Hall

There's something clarifying about looking back at those first few years of nurture vs nature and recognizing the patterns that define who and what you are in the world as an adult.

Spending more time with my mom has unearthed a few tidbits that seem to resonate in ways I hadn't considered much before. She tells me that on my first day of school, kindergarten, while all the parents were walking their children to their first class ever, I refused to let her walk with me. At five years old, I was determined to do it on my own. I'd heard this story before but not that it broke her heart and she sat in her car and cried. She took a picture of my tiny frame marching in alone and had it published in my high school year book thirteen years later.

She tells me that when I packed up my truck to head out after college (ultimately ending up in Chicago) there were no tears from me, just determination to go out and tackle things solo. She tells me that, at the time, she wondered if she'd ever see me again. A few years later, apparently I looked at her and said "I think you're permanent." A shitty thing to say to my mother but revealing nonetheless.

I've mined my circus-like career and life choices for humor and stories for as long as I can remember but it takes being shoved off a cliff (rather than my almost pathological decision to jump off of them throughout my days) and hitting, while not rock bottom—I still have a ride, shelter, and food as well as a few folks who care about me—pretty close to that barrel floor, to see myself more objectively.

A rolling ˈstone (gathers no ˈmoss) (saying)—a person who moves from place to place, job to job, etc. and so does not have a lot of money, possessions or friends but is free from responsibilities.

I'm that guy.

In the consistent pursuit of being that guy, a few years ago I landed on what I wanted done to my decaying corpse once I shuffle off. At the time I was married and the responsibility fell to my wife. She was busy having massive amounts of sex for money and she isn't my wife but my third ex-wife so the duty falls upon you, Dear Reader.

First, I want to be cremated. I've been to a few open casket funerals and that shit is plain creepy. Nope. Ashes to ashes for me, gang.

Second, I want my remains to be portioned out into three equal amounts.

The first third should be placed inside my trumpet, the trumpet welded shut and made into a functioning table lamp. The lamp should then be sold in the Midwest at a garage or rummage sale.

The second third should be placed in a futuristic looking glass jar, sealed, and a label should be placed on it that states "AUTHENTIC MOON DUST! Straight from Apollo 11, this is dust from the actual MOON!" The jar should be taken to a gift shop just outside AREA 51 in Nevada and placed on a shelf with other Moon-oriented crap with a price tag slightly cheaper than the most expensive alien figurine.

The final third should be mixed in with ceramic pottery and made into a figurine of Mickey Mouse with a huge cock and then placed in a Spencer's Gifts somewhere in Orlando, FL.

I figure, in keeping with my bizarre rolling stone trajectory to date, these objects (lamp, moon dust, and figurine) will be sold, sit in some of the tackiest homes in America, resold at other garage sales, and on and on. I will still be dancing through the world like an idiot.

My dad thinks this tendency to roll and gather little moss—no wife, no kids, few possessions, limited debt—is a flaw. "No, pops. My habit of finding fault with women who choose me and then marrying the women I see as a challenge is a flaw. The gypsy lifestyle is not a bug but a feature. I'm in my mid-fifties. That part is baked into the bread like cheese."

Last week I walked into my high school for the first time in thirty-eight years.

After my sojourn to the two malls of my youth, I decided it was time to revisit the building I spent the most time in during my days of hormonal overload and scholastic achievement. In my mind, it would take around 90 minutes to drive from Wichita to Towanda, KS, home of Circle High School (and that’s about it). The drive took just under 24 minutes.

This disparity in my memory of the trip and the reality of it was the first sign that nearly four decades and having lived in major cities since had affected my perception.

In 1984, the school was a dome building. The dome was why it was called ‘Circle’ and, yes, this adherence to the literal seems about right in hindsight. As I drove up, the dome was gone. Towanda looked almost if I had never left with the sole exception being the local grocery was gone and replaced by a brick building with no indication what it was for except for a huge sign on the front that stated unambiguously “HEBREW.” I’m sure I’ll swing by and dig into what that means but I had other discoveries to make on this trip.

I pulled into the parking lot. The football field was still to my left, the building (now more complex than the big dome) still to my right.

“Can I help you?” He was leaning a bit to much my way and it occurred to me in the Era of the Mass Shooter his concern was merited.

“Yeah. I’m an alumnus from 1984. Haven’t stepped in the building in four decades and I’ve recently moved back to Kansas to help my family. Where are the students?”

“Columbus Day. We’re in-service today so I guess you’re lucky in your timing. I’m Mr. (I can’t remember). I’m the Principle. Mr. Science Teacher Who Looks Like a Baseball Coach? Could you give this gentlemen a quick tour?”

He printed a badge on a lanyard for me. Mr. Science Teacher was happy to help. He started the tour by showing my the outdoor courtyard that was the center of the dome.

“That’s where the library stood back in my day,” I said with a bizarre tilt of gravity. “Wow.”

“That’s where the library was? I had no idea. My wife graduated from here so maybe you know some of the same people?”

“When did she graduate?”

“2009.”

“Ah. No. I graduated in 1984.”

He looked at me as if I was a dinosaur that had strolled in and could magically speak.

He escorted me to a mosaic on the wall. Approximately 10’x12’, a facsimile of the Thunderbird mascot with emblems for music, art, speech, and drama in the corners. It hung on the wall with a certain reverence as if it were a relic of an ancient civilization. “Do you remember this? They saved it from I guess when the school was pretty new.”

“I remember it because it was my sophomore class that made it. Some of those stones were cemented in it by these hands.”

Again, he looked at me as if I was Benjamin Franklin checking out all the cool new developments in electricity and micro-brewing.

We went to the auditorium and, aside from brand new chairs and some fairly nice lighting equipment, it was exactly the same stage I had performed The Music Man on. Behind the stage was the hallway with both the Vocal Music Room and the Band Room. They were both much smaller than I remembered. I looked down the hallway toward the side exit.

“What’s over there?” Mr. Science Teacher asked.

“Oh. Probably not there anymore but back in the day there was a stash of Playboys and weed I had up above the door in the ceiling.”

“You wanna check?”

“Nah. Don’t want to get anyone—meaning you—in trouble.”

We went by the poster farm of graduating classes. I found 1984 and 1987 (when my sister graduated). I don’t look vastly different from back then but most of that has to do with my ridiculous weight loss fifteen years ago. The faces, though. The fucking faces. People I had completely erased from memory or compartmentalized into a box marked “High School in Bumfuck, KS” were suddenly thrust into my brain. I immediately started noticing the many girls I’d slept with from 1982 through 1984. I started to comment that “I fucked her,” but remembered I was in Kansas. Lotta Jesus out here so I never know if my less than sacred language will wildly offend someone.

“Wow. I dated her. I dated her, too. I also dated her.”

“How did you find the time?”

“Well, I mean, I only dated her once in the band room.”

He laughed. I hadn’t offended.

We walked around for an hour. I was gobsmacked. It was surreal to be in those hallways and to see trophies and pictures of these kids I knew so many years ago (including the National Forensics League Debate Championship gavel trophy with a photo of myself and our team). Also, a picture of the ‘top ten’ of our graduating class (including two girls I dated).

It was all a bit like time travel. I’m coming to grips with the dominant feature in myself in that I am a rolling stone and have always been one. I do gather moss but I leave it places I can easily find: Chicago, New York City, Los Angeles, Las Vegas, and, of course, Wichita. I can roll my ass off, skipping across the pond of life like a skipping stone, and when I need a green, mossy blanket, I can stop rolling for a while.

Except for after I die. Then I'll be sitting on end tables across this great United States, gifted as jokes or purchased by lunatics, all the way until Chuck Heston finds his way to Earth after the apes take over.

[secondhandskin]

I saw your face in a film tonight

I wanted to touch the screen

I'll never be cruel again

[brokentoys]

omg  this  is  the  biggest  ed  and  antoine  moment.

[glamgoblin]

Tag Game: for each letter in your URL/username, post the first song you think of for each letter

Tagged by the amazing @magicaldreamfox1 thank you bestie 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

G oblins - Nekrogoblikon (ofc)

L ionheart - Joel Corry

A Match Into the Water - Pierce the Veil

M asterpiece - Motionless in White

G oodbye Agony - Black Veil Brides

O ver and Over Again - The Used

B etter than This - Futuristic Polar Bears ft. Franky

L ost in Echoes - Caskets

I , Sexy Zombie - Chaoseum

N ot Okay - Maria Mena

Soooo um spot the elder emo?

Tagging @loveable-sea-lemon @wintercrushes @machoestofmen @ella-norah only if you want to 💕

[melodyofthevoid]

A New Frontier

Prompt from @creativepromptfills “The year is 2045 and the moon burial industry is booming. What new lore has emerged surrounding the strange moon graveyard?”

*----------------------------------------------------------------------------------*

It was a privilege to be buried on the moon, at least, that’s what the advertisements claimed. And it made sense from a marketing standpoint without question. 

The Earth was crowded with both the living and dead, some straddling the line in between for one reason or another. The moon was always that unobtainable goal, that foreign, yet familiar body always overing overhead. The subject of song, art, mythology, fixation. Even landing on its surface did not demystify it. So those with the means to do so found a way to privatize even their graves and decided that there, millions of miles away, is where they would be laid to rest. 

A corporation sprung up, with a pithy, futuristic name because of course that’s what it was. Selenum, who would lay you among the stars. Forever above the earth. After the first investor and inhabitant (Elon Musk, to no one’s surprise), almost anyone who could scrape together the exorbitant fees and charges were signed up. 

Only a select few are buried there now, given that the ships to transport bodies and the bodies that needed to fill the ships are few and far between, but they were up there. And with their arrival came stories. 

Because the moon, save for the first missions, had never been touched. Never disturbed from her state of astroid pocked beauty. And now new landings added footsteps and track marks to her surface. 

It wasn’t meant to be changed, was the usual phrase. Muttered under bitter breath. It should be left alone. 

Others still wondered of the effects that a new environment would have on the body, preserved in its casket. Some future occupants requested space-proofing yet some did not. A corpse, left in the vacuum of space? What would that do? Scientists knew, of course. Radiation, a lack of atmosphere, it would eat away at the tissue differently from Earth, but nothing in the realm of the exceedingly unusual. 

Those who fell into both categories kept their telescopes locked on the lumps and kept vigorous notes. Waiting for the inevitable change. The sign that they were right. Time would only tell. 

For most, the moon served as one more reminder of everything they were not. Another luxury to be bought and lorded over their heads. It was still their moon though, still almost as it had always been. Just a little different. 

And maybe haunted. 

[storiadinessuno]

- I must have died

A thousand times

When I get out

I'll rule the earth -

[lovelyirony]

@peachy-keener incredibly late, but better that than never, right? 

Rhodey has mourned Tony far more often than you should mourn for a friend. He mourned him when he was lost to Afghanistan, cried far too many tears than he actually let on. He cried and mourned when he saw the crossword puzzle creeping along his chest at a steady rate, because he knew what that meant, but they never mentioned it.

His heart leaped into his throat when he saw the news of Tony going into space, hurtling back down at a speed that no one could really come back from, but he did.

And he mourned when Tony went back up into space for a second time and didn’t come back down. When people disappeared, and Rhodey and Pepper had to lean on each other as they grieved. As they buried an empty casket and held far too much hope that he would come back.

But then he did. Tony came back, and their hearts sang. Rhodey and Pepper couldn’t stop touching his shoulder lightly, pulling him into hugs whenever he needed one. They wanted to hide him away from the world, and he didn’t mind much.

They didn’t talk about space. They didn’t talk about it, just focused on getting him better.

And then they bring Morgan into the world. She has Pepper’s nose and Tony’s inquisitive eyes, and Rhodey is ready to be the doting uncle. He holds her as Pepper and Tony drag their feet upstairs to get some much-needed sleep, and Rhodey promises that he won’t let harm come to Morgan.

He should’ve promised no harm to any of the family.

Tony is tired, and he has saved the world before.

“I…am…Iron Man.”

His last symphony. His last stand.

Rhodey knows he’s not coming back from this one, not with how far away they are.

He passes on and it’s time, but Rhodey hates how bitter his throat feels. Tony just saved the world and as shitty a want as it is, Rhodey wishes—he almost wishes—that he hadn’t.

“We both knew he would be the one,” Pepper whispers as they’re on the plane ride home. Happy is with Morgan, and they have to tell her that dad isn’t coming back.

That affects him more than he thought it could.

She’s still young. Maybe it won’t be bad. God, she’s going to have a lot to live up to. It reminds him of Tony a year after they graduated college, complaining about how much of a legacy Howard had left behind, how he couldn’t fill his shoes.

“You don’t fill someone else’s shoes, you buy your own damn shoes,” Rhodey had told him at the time.

He wonders when Morgan will need that advice.

-

They have a private funeral. It’s the team and the family.

He notices one kid there that he wasn’t expecting—Harley Keener.

Tony had told him all about Harley.

“He’s smart, and an asshole,” he had said while they were on the balcony.

“Oh, so he’s you?” Rhodey responded, grinning as Tony sent him a dirty look.

“Not the point, and no. We are not alike.”

“I guarantee that you are.”

“Hmph.”

While Rhodey had never seen Harley in person, Tony had shown him pictures and called him frequently. Keener was a smart kid, miles above everyone in his small town. He’s been able to keep up with all of Tony’s light jabs and able to launch back some of his own. Rhodey’s laughed as he was in the kitchen, listening to them.

And this.

Rhodey hates mourning. And so when the bouquet gets pushed out onto the lake, when everyone coalesces into their own groups, he watches everyone.

Pepper is surrounded with Morgan and people wishing her well before they leave. Happy and May surround Peter, who’s eyes have been rimmed with red every single day now.

And Harley…he doesn’t know anyone here. He’s never met half the people.

So Rhodey approaches him.

“You may not know me. I’m Rhodey.”

“I know who you are,” Harley says, although his tone is even. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“So am I,” Rhodey says.

Neither of them have cried. They both don’t like crying. (They don’t know that about each other yet.)

They stand together for a moment, and Rhodey turns towards him.

“What brought you all the way here?”

“May or may not have been someone else’s car,” Harley says. “May not have been the best idea.”

Rhodey laughs.

“It’s what Tony would’ve done.”

The past lays thick on his tongue as they stand there together.

“I, um. I don’t mean to be rude. But, uh. Hotels are all full here, and I’m really not looking forward to crashing in the car. Do you know a place I could stay around here?”

“Come with me,” Rhodey says. “I have a place not too far from here.”

Rhodey’s place isn’t the secluded cabin that Tony had built.

“Jealous?” he asked Rhodey, grinning.

“Of course,” Rhodey scoffs. He’s jealous—just not of the cabin. He’s jealous about—

“Rhodey, good to see you again,” Pepper says. She has a hand cradled around her stomach. “What do you think of this place?”

“Good views and better people,” Rhodey responds, smiling. Wishing he was smiling about something else.

But that doesn’t matter now.

His place is an apartment that has another bedroom, because he was a fool and thought that Tony would need another place to crash, but he has a house and a wife and a daughter. So then it became Morgan’s room.

Some of her toys are still here, and a note from Tony. Rhodey sweeps it out of the room before Harley can see it, and moves some of the toys to underneath the bed.

“It’s not much, but it’ll do,” he says.

“This is more than enough,” Harley answers, dropping a backpack that looks like it should’ve been replaced about two years ago.

Rhodey doesn’t know what to say. Just says that he’ll order a pizza and he’ll call Harley when it’s here.

It’s from Tony’s favorite place in the area. Well, really Morgan’s. But Tony loves whatever someone else loves. That’s why his favorite Mexican restaurant was Rhodey’s favorite. The pizza is good.

He calls Harley, and they eat together.

“When Tony and I first ordered a pizza from college, he ate it with a fork and knife,” Rhodey says.

Harley grins.

“What, like a full-fledged socialite?”

“Yup. Had to ask him what the hell he was doing and practically teach him how to hold a pizza. He couldn’t do it for a month, and finally broke down around midterm season of college.”

Harley cracks a grin.

They trade stories back and forth.

Harley made Tony like two country songs, which amazed Rhodey. He tells him all about Tony’s first lab, and the cursed poster of Bruce Lee on the wall that got warped in the factory production, so his legs were stretched a bit too long, and the proportions were totally messed up.

In the morning, Rhodey is in his chair. This is usual routine, but he fears it might be a bit more routine now since Tony isn’t here to fix him up. None of the doctors even come close to the mobility the braces give, and they weren’t exactly doing one-hundred-percent after the big fight.

(And Rhodey feels guilty, that his thoughts are on this.)

Harley takes one look at them and suggests two different ways to fix them.

He’s a hell of a lot like Tony.

“Let’s get to work,” Rhodey says. “After breakfast.”

Harley and Rhodey take their eggs the same way: over-easy. With a piece of toast. Fruit’s on the side, a glass of juice to the right. It’s weirdly similar. But Harley likes strawberries over blueberries.

“You the reason why Tony likes blueberries?” Harley asks. “Or, uh, liked blueberries?”

“Yeah,” Rhodey says. “I am. He couldn’t get enough of them after we went blueberry-picking.”

“You went blueberry-picking?”

“Not all of our trips were extravagant,” Rhodey says. “I’ll tell you more about it when we get to the garage.”

Tony’s lab was always a bit more futuristic, and Rhodey liked the basics.

“Glad I can actually find the tools here,” Harley murmurs. “Tony’s organization was a shit-show.”

“He never could do it,” Rhodey says, laughing.

They work on the braces. Harley makes leaps and bounds and assumes and then is correct and gets a little grin when he’s right.

Rhodey thinks he picked that up from Tony.

“I’ll probably need to go to Tony’s lab space to pick up some stuff,” Harley says.

“We can go tomorrow,” Rhodey says. “It’s Morgan’s dinner and bath time right now, and if she still hates baths as much as I remember, Pepper’s gonna be exhausted after that.”

“I just. I don’t wanna invade your space for too long,” Harley says, uncomfortable.

“It’s for the best,” Rhodey says. “But I don’t wanna keep you any longer than you want to be kept here.”

“I like it here.”

“You do?”

Harley looks up at him, shuffling his beat-up sneakers together. Reminds Rhodey of how Tony used to tease him about his shoes.

“Dude. Your shoes are duct-taped together. It’s orange duct-tape. Are you joking me?”

“They can last a little longer!” Rhodey protests. “And I don’t need new shoes. These are fine.”

“You can afford them,” Tony deadpans. “I know Mama’s gonna kick your ass if you show up in those when you visit next weekend.”

“She won’t kick my ass,” Rhodey grumbles.

Tony rolls his eyes, but leaves a kiss on the forehead for him.

“I gotta go to class. Love you!”

The responding “love you too” goes unnoticed and unheard.

-

The next day, Rhodey and Harley are awkwardly waiting outside of the house.

Morgan hugs Rhodey tight.

“I’ve missed you!” she says. “I made a Lego castle.”

“You did?” Rhodey asks, smiling. “Well, you’ll have to show me.”

Morgan looks hesitantly at Harley.

“This is your cousin, Harley,” Rhodey says. “He’s the one from real far away. You remember where?”

“Tennessee,” Morgan says proudly.

Harley looks surprised.

“He…told her about me?”

“He told Morgan about everyone,” Pepper says quietly. “Tony loved you.”

Harley doesn’t say anything, just smiles as Morgan nods and still drags Rhodey to go see her structure that he’s built.

Pepper lets Harley into the garage, to yell if he needs anything. Her breath hitches as she sees the pictures and she sees the tools still lying haphazardly across.

Harley doesn’t know what to respond. He just walks forward.

He likes seeing what Tony was up to here. It feels like a better tribute to his memory than the flowers. They were a nice touch, but this…this is the Tony that he knew. That he knows.

Rhodey, after seeing Morgan’s impressive structure and checking in with Pepper (who is not doing well, but that’s…unfortunately expected), he goes over to Harley.

He looks so damn natural in the garage. He looks like Tony for a moment. For a moment, Rhodey can see Tony sifting through all the different drawers where he never kept anything organized, the small little furrow to his brow that he would get.

For a moment, Harley is Tony, kind of.

“Find what you need, kiddo?”

“Yeah,” Harley says, putting one of the smaller screwdriver behind his ear like Tony used to do. “You ready to go, or are we gonna stay for a while?”

“You know the way back home?”

“I…think so.”

“GPS already has it locked in for you. I gotta talk with Pepper some.”

Harley nods, already raising his hands up for the keys. Rhodey tosses them, and for a moment Harley reminds him a lot of himself.

Rhodey sits down with Pepper while they watch Morgan color a picture.

“She had a bad day yesterday,” Pepper says. “Dying is…it’s unfair.”

“I know,” Rhodey responds. “But at least Tony left her a message. And she has you and Happy and I.”

“But is it enough?” Pepper asks.

“No,” Rhodey answers. “When someone leaves, nothing is ever enough. But we work with what we are given.”

“We’ve never been good at that,” Pepper says, voice watery with grief.

They never have been, Tony and Pepper. Tony because he’s used to doing the impossible, Pepper because she’s always had to work with more than what she was given. That’s just what running a company like Stark Industries did to her.

Rhodey…he’s never been one for the impossible, he just rolls with the punches.

Tony never could. That’s why he stood against Stane, against Vanko, against his own death. It’s why Pepper adjusted to it.

Rhodey doesn’t know what to tell her other than that. So he asks her if she wants him to cook dinner, and she says no.

“Gives me a sense of routine,” Pepper says. “I’m working on writing down all of his recipes for Morgan.”

“I’ll bring some of my own by next visit,” Rhodey says.

He’s pretty sure right now, she’s only living for Morgan. Tony was the love of her life, even if sometimes she rolled her eyes at his antics. They fit well together. They fit so well together.

He swallows the jealousy down his throat, wills it to just leave, and texts Harley to come pick him up.

He gets there, and Rhodey doesn’t say much as he gets himself into the car.

“Pepper doing okay?”

“As good as she can be. She’s cooking dinner, so that’s an improvement.”

“Good. What are we having for dinner?”

Rhodey thinks about what they have in the pantry. Harley will probably need more than they eat.

“We need to stop at the grocery store.”

Harley nods, and Rhodey tells him where to go. Harley drives with the self-assurance that all new teens have, and it’s half-terrifying, half-exhilarating. It reminds Rhodey of when Tony would let him drive his fancy cars and he’d almost have a heart-attack the whole time.

This is payback.

“How did you get your license?” Rhodey wheezes.

“I didn’t,” Harley says with a shrug.

“Next stop: the DMV.”

“DMV doesn’t matter, Rhodey,” he says, tossing him the keys as they get out of the car. “What are we getting?”

“Lots of pasta. What kind of fruit do you like? Vegetables?”

“Do we need vegetables?” Harley says, scrunching up his face.

“Yes,” he answers, laughing. “We can do a small portion, but we still need vegetables.”

Harley sighs, but gets a grocery cart and they start going.

They get everything in a good sense of time, and Rhodey sneaks in a good amount of candy, which isn’t so much a sneaky thing, because Harley sees the whole thing and sneaks in his own choice, which are those weirdly spicy snacks that will probably absolutely wreck an intestinal system if one eats too much of them.

“When is your mom expecting you back?” Rhodey asks as they unload the car.

“Sometime this week,” Harley says. “I wasn’t sure what was going to happen when I came here, if anyone would need anything. Looks like they don’t.”

“Well I need your help with cooking dinner,” Rhodey says. “Put my strainer on the top shelf, and no way in hell can I reach it now. Plus, you’ve been helping me out with my braces. You’re doing good, kid.”

Harley nods and doesn’t say anything back.

Rhodey gets it.

They eat spaghetti and meatballs for dinner. They don’t talk much until they’re washing the dishes (Rhodey hates the dishwasher and uses it for storage more than anything), and Harley looks at him.

Really looks at him.

“You miss him a lot, don’t you?”

Rhodey stops washing the plate.

“Yeah.”

No point in denying it. No point in doing any of that when someone dies. You miss them or you lie very badly and say you don’t miss them.

“What was your favorite thing about him?” Harley asks.

“I can’t choose one.”

“Then tell me about all of them. I never really got to hear a lot from you about your college days.”

“Well let’s start off with the premise that everything Tony told you about me is a lie,” Rhodey jokes. “But I met this skinny little kid my first day of move-in, and I was also a skinny little kid, so we wreaked havoc in the dining hall. They had it set up buffet-style, so…”

Harley listens with rapt attention, laughing at all the right parts and interjecting with his own opinion on the matters at hand.

He tells Rhodey about Rose Hill. He tells him about his mother and his sister, about Tony who has always been awkward as hell around people he wanted to impress.

Rhodey tells him about the time that Tony was gone, the first time. How it felt like part of his heart was out of its body, how he went nearly crazy trying to find him.

They talk and the spaghetti gets cold, and they have to refill water glasses because they’ve talked so much.

Rhodey ends up cleaning up the kitchen after Harley goes to bed, and he hums Tony’s favorite song as he does it. Tony always had some sort of music going when he was cleaning, although he’d usually get side-tracked if one of his many, many favorite songs came on, and leave a dish half-cleaned as he danced.

He misses Tony a hell of a lot.

But as he cleans up and he checks up on Harley, who’s fallen asleep on the couch with his arms at a very weird angle, he realizes something, and that is that this kid will need him for a long time.

He’s a genius, just like he and Tony are. (Were? He’s not sure. Doesn’t want to think about using the past tense.) But Harley needs help. He needs someone who can help him with his future, and Rhodey can do that.

He wants to do that.

So when Harley packs up everything to head back to Tennessee, Rhodey gives him his number and a couple of road trip snacks.

“I’m here for you, alright?” he says, smiling as Harley gets the last of his stuff into the car.

“I know,” Harley says. “I’ll call you when I need something.”

“Or if you just want to talk,” Rhodey responds. “Don’t do anything stupid without consulting me.”

“Oh come on,” he whines. “I don’t do anything stupid.”

Two months later, he gets a phone call that is trying to be casual.

“Hi Harley,” Rhodey starts out, “what are you doing in public airspace?”

“Um, that’s not me?” Harley says, but Rhodey can hear the whistling of the wind that he remembers from when Tony pulled the same trick.

“I’ll come up with an excuse for you,” Rhodey sighs. “Just…get here. I know that you probably forgot some stupid, obvious thing.”

“I resent that remark!”

“And you resemble it,” he says with a laugh. “Please tell me you remembered the icing problem.”

“The…icing problem?”

“Drop your altitude!” Rhodey barks.

“But then I might get caught!”

“You telling me you can’t go faster than a fighter jet?”

“…no.”

Rhodey laughs. Of course Harley would factor that but not icing.

“Alright, circle back. I got you.”

“Promise?”

“As long as you don’t do anything stupid.”

“You can handle stupid.”