#woah this is a little long

[transsexualcoriolanus]

to what extent do you think aufidius actually understands coriolanus?

ooh this is hard. when i first read the play i would have said that aufidius understands coriolanus - that's certainly a more convenient reading of their relationship - but i think it's more complicated than that.

the main argument for aufidius understanding coriolanus is their experiences fighting together. they have fought together many times, and aufidius knows coriolanus as a soldier extremely well as a result. there seems to be an agreement and understanding between them when it comes to fighting ("'tis sworn between us that we shall ever strike till one can do no more"). i think it's also true that coriolanus enjoys and feels understood by aufidius' hatred of him. he despises being idolised, and i think it's refreshing to him to find someone who he respects, unlike the people of rome, and who doesn't treat him like a god, unlike his friends and mother, even if that means he is hated.

however, there is also a disconnect between them in their rivalry. at the beginning of the play, the way they speak about each other is extremely different. coriolanus respects him, enjoys fighting him, and despite telling him he hates him, doesn't ever mention wanting him dead ("i sin in envying his nobility, and were i anything but what i am i would wish me only he", "he is a lion that i am proud to hunt"). aufidius, on the other hand, seems to have a much deeper hatred for him, genuinely wanting him dead, and even saying that he would kill him dishonourably, the ultimate act of disrespect ("where i find him, were it at home upon my brother's guard, even there, against the hospitable canon, would i wash my fierce hand in's heart"). none of this necessarily means that aufidius doesn't understand coriolanus, but it definitely shows a disconnect between them that could point to that.

while aufidius may understand coriolanus as a soldier, in my opinion he doesn't understand coriolanus as a person, which becomes clear from act 4 scene 5 onwards, when they have to interact not as soldiers but as people. when they first see each other in this scene, aufidius doesn't recognise coriolanus outside the context of war - when they aren't fighting, they are essentially strangers. after this, aufidius begins to use language similar to that which is used by many of the roman characters who misunderstand coriolanus. he compares him to a god ("why thou mars"), similar to the dehumanising idolisation that he is treated with by characters such as menenius and volumnia. he later describes coriolanus as proud, and even manipulative ("he watered his new plants with dews of flattery, seducing so my friends"), similar to the way brutus and sicinius describe him. this could be true, as we don't see how he acts when in antium before act 5, but it's very unlikely considering what we know of his character from the rest of the play.

i think, at the beginning of the play, coriolanus believes that aufidius understands him, because he understands him as a soldier, and coriolanus has only ever interacted with him in this way - he also only really understands himself as a soldier, making that the main aspect of his identity and being unable to function in real life without it. however, they do not understand each other as people - when forced to interact with coriolanus in this way, aufidius comes to the same incorrect conclusions that everyone else in coriolanus' life has. and part of the build up to the tragedy is both coriolanus and aufidius realising that the person they thought understood them is really just a stranger, and not knowing what to do with that information.

[fisherrprince]

Instead of writing a fanfic like a normal person this oneshot turned into two separate, contextless things,

[ithinkdogshouldvote]

Sleep deprivation is one hell of a drug

[bylrndgm]

MIKE WHEELER IN EVERY EPISODE [22/42] 3.05 The Flayed

[cupophrogs]

The Three D's

(Click for better quality)

I have a horrible habit of dropping any series-comics I try to make, so I thought it'd do a little story-ish ask event!!

So far, we've got the three D's: Dogday, Daddy Long Legs, and Drew.

Basic info and closeups!

Drew, he/him, 18 yrs: the horror-loving nephew of an old Playtime Co. employee. Squawks like a strangled bird when surprised.

Daddy Long Legs, aka: "Pops:" If you could find a loving father from the 20s who wasn't a misogynist. Misses his wife, but doesn't blame Drew for her death.

Dogday, aka: "Deedee" or "Dogs:" The last, overly traumatised Smiling Critter who really needs a hug. Drew found him some spare legs in a closet somewhere.

Without dirt and grime:

[ask-the-roommate-au]

Keeping the killcode a secret until you loose control and end up hurting Sun… You really do take after Moon, Eclipse.

Shut up.

[luck-of-the-drawings]

FOR A BEAT OF HEART, THE BREATH IS SHOT. AND WITHIN A BREATH, THE HEART IS CAUGHT. THE PIPES ARE BURSTING, UNDER GREAT STRESS, BOLTS TORN ASUNDER, MAKING A MESS. A FINAL COUGH, A FINAL RETCH, A GOREY SLOUGH, CLAIMED BY WRETCH.

[groovyace]

"Maybe I shouldn't have been such a weenie!" -Tim Drake

[wgwingguns]

Chapter 2: The Shipwright's Brig and It's Captain

Powers: (Y/n) has powers of the Sut Sut No Mi. The Step Step Fruit. Which allows the user to walk on any surface and in mid air. Summary: (Y/n) Shristi also known as Captain Brig, a well known underground shipwright, has her own huge ship that harbors up to 8 other ships in docks that allow’s her crew to fix up other pirate ships that are in need of fixing or upgrades. (Y/n) who was a student under Dr Vegapunk for 8 years, after a tragic incident that caused her to lose both arms and legs. Dr Vegapunk took her in, gave her arms and legs prosthetics to allow the girl to walk and still be an adventurous teen, there (Y/n) learned and became a brilliant scientist and inventor. Back to the present where her mighty ship and mighty crew full of shipwrights, come across two struggling men in the sea, and then a whole crew and their ship split in half and in parts of their beloved vessel floating in the ocean…The Heart Pirates, and the Kid Pirates…How strange. Note: So this is after Law and Bepo escape Blackbeard, and Kid and his crew is fucking decimated from Shanks. Enjoy lovelies!! This is def not following the canon events-

WC: 4.5k

Fire, blood, pain. The buildings around abalzed, screams filling the air, men shouting and laughing. Laying there in pain crushed underneath burning beams. Unable to move, both legs and arms numb with no feeling. Her left blue eye looked around, blood seeping from her right eye unable to close fully due to a shard of wood embedded into her eye. Why can’t she just die and have all this pain go away? All that her family and village was doing was celebrating…then the damned marines had to ruin their fun. Turning her head to the side to see her parents laying motionless in the rumbles of use to be home, then down to her arm where a huge beam smashed into her arm like a pancake. All she could do was let the tears roll down her cheeks and hope to die, her throat sore and hoarse with screaming and calling out for help, now all that came out was strained air. She just wanted to die. She wanted the pain to end.

Finally the light appeared before her, and she closed her eyes accepting the light coming forward, finally to be at peace, no more worries, no more sadness and greif, no more pain. Hearing footsteps quickly approach, she didnt care. She slowly slipped away into the light where there was no pain.

She walked through the halls of the Labophase, following close behind Dr. Vegapunk. Passing by a room, the door slightly ajar, looking in only being able to see someone with lavender hair. But she didnt pay too much mind to it, looking forward to quickly picking up her pace to keep close to Dr. Vegapunk. Reaching her hand out to his, he would take it gladfully looking up at her with a soft smile. “My little Inventor Brig, someday you will be able to sail again, like your parents did. Imagine all the things you could do with that little smart head of yours!” he would coo up to the young adult holding his hand, following him like a little duckling with its mother. All she could do was smile softly. “Someday my little inventor, someday you will be the greatest inventor and sail across the whole world and Grandline. I just know you will!” He would laugh, and all she could do was just giggle softly at her mentor’s words.

“Maybe Dr Vegapunk, maybe.” (Y/n) would smile softly, towering over her mentor, her silt feet tapping against the tiled floor as she walked, and her cool metal hand meeting the warmth of her mentor’s hand. She saw him like her own father, and she would do anything for him.

Both Kid pirates and Heart Pirates are already up and in the galley with Angus and Yael eating breakfast. They were there later so they didnt have to deal with the large crowd of people in the galley so they could talk with one another.

“So Yael what are the plans today?” Bepo would spueak looking over at Yael. Yael would simply turn her head over to Bepo with some food dripping from the corner of her mouth. Bepo couldnt help but chuckle at Yael’s antics.

“Well, besides the rest of your crew, joining up with the other shipwrights, you two caps and your best men are going to be going into the warehouse to meet cap today after we show you around the ship.” she would talk with her mouth full, wiping the corner of her mouth of some food, then with a big gulp swallowing her food happily.

“Fucking finally! You keep fucking talking about your Captain but hardly say shit about them..” Kid would grumble, taking a bite of his food. Yael would just chuckle.

“We have our reasons.” Angus would hum softly as he would finish off his food, shoving the last piece of his pancake into his mouth. Killer would watch this man with such intrest, such a large man that everything about him screams to be a beast of a man, but yet such a teddy bear.

Soon with breakfast coming to a close, they would all take their plates, bowls, and cups to the dish drop. Killer's eyes made contact with the same white haired woman from yesterday. She quickly pulled the dishes onto a loading cart, her eyes meeting his, only giving Killer a soft nod before rushing back towards the kitchen. Angus and Yael lead the way out through some doors, and heading down a long hallway with many doors on the sides of them, soon opening a large door, and sunlight filled into the small hallway. Walking out one by one, they would be awestruck by the sight before them.

A huge deck in the shape of a U, with four docks on each side, 8 in total. Three large main masts with crows nests ontop of each one. The deck flooded with men, women, and non-beanies running around doing their chores. Children ran on all four with rags in their hands as they cleaned the deck having fun. A ship docked in the middle inner of the U shaped boat. This ship was MASSIVE. Not as big as the Gran Tesoro but definitely a large scale ship. The ship was a beautiful mix of browns and some gold and silver accents to it. Kid’s and his commanders, including Law’s and Bepo’s eyes were large and marveled by the sight.

“Holy shit! Who fucking built this ship?!” Kid would snap his head towards Yael and Angus who were just laughing at their shocked faces.

Angus would smile pointing to what seemed to be a warehouse at the end of the inner part of the u. “Cap Brig did and quite a few of us aswell. But with Brig’s science and technology, it definitely made the ship go by faster, still took 3 years to build.” Angus would chuckle.

“ONLY THREE FUCKING YEARS?!” Kid’s eyes looked like they were going to bulge out of his eye sockets. Yael couldn’t help but break out into a roaring laughter, tears escaping from the corner of her eyes. Kid was so astonished that only their captain and a few others built this massive ship in three years. But the fact that they say that Captain Brig has technology that sped up the process by alot was also intriguing. Law’s eyes were just wide as he looked around, and this stunning massive ship, the crew though seemed happy and unbothered, enjoying their lives, working hard making sure the ship was nice looking that everything was working properly with no loose ends. Law himself was just impressed as well. Bepo’s eyes shining with amazement looking around at this new environment.

“Now, now, come! How about we go see Captain Brig now, hmm?” His Rosey cheeks present with a large smile, his arms and hands resting on his hips as he looks at the guest crews. All they could do was nod, still eye candying the ship that they were on. They would begin to make their way up the stairs to the upper deck of the ship. Small buildings all around with signs on the doors with various metals, woods, and more. Supply sheds. They would head towards a small building with the words ‘Wearhouse 2’ above a pair of heavy swinging metal doors.

Inside was a small group of 3 women and 4 men seemingly to be working on a boiler. Law's eyes would widen upon looking at it, it was the Polar Tang's boiler that they were working on. A woman would be hammering out the dents in the metal of the boiler along with a man. The others putting mechanical pieces together and talking with one another. One of the men would peek up seeing Angus, Yael, and the visiting crew. “Angus, what brings you here?” The man would question tilting his head.

Angus would wave his hand heading towards another pair of heavy metal doors on the other side of this small wearhouse. “Taking the guests to go meet Cap!”

The man would nod his head looking back at what he was working on. “I will warn you, Cap was saying some pretty nasty shit earlier and now there's just loud music that can be heard from in there. Guess Cap is having a hard time with The Victoria.” The man would huff softly while screwing a piece together. He was right. They could hear the booming music playing now, and the distance muffled sounds of metal clanging.

“Thanks Path!” Angus would nod his head. Yael quickly made her way over to the new pair of double metal doors, and when swinging them open, the loud music would fill the smaller wearhouse. “Fuck I guess she really is mad.” Angus would laugh making his way in with Yael. Kid and his commanders followed hot on their trail at the mention of their ship beyond these doors. Law and Be possible stood there for a moment watching the men and women working on the boiler. Law could immediately tell they knew what they were doing, and they were doing it with precision and care, but Law would quickly go along with Bepo joining the Kid Pirates, Yael, and Angus.

Walking into the larger wearhouse, music loudly blasting, it was a sight before their eyes. Two huge cranes with chains and ropes holding the split in half Victoria in the air, along with two huge robotic claws holding the ship as well. Loud clanging in the corner of the wearhouse, as sparks were seen flying from welding. Stopping as a loud crash happens, and the a loud curse of a female “YOU'VE GOT TO BE FUCKING KIDDING ME! I'VE WELDING THIS PIECE OF SHIT OF METAL FIVE TIMES ALREADY! GOOD FUCKING PROPS TO WHO MADE THIS SHIT! JUST FUCKING GREAT!! MOTHER FUCKING BASTARD OF A FUCKING RETARDED FUCK WHO DOESN'T KNOW SHIT!” suddenly a large piece of metal would go flying and crash near the group that just walked in. Law, Bepo, Kid, and his commanders quickly backing away from where this sheet of metal is now gouging into the wall and floor. Though Angus and Yael didn't even move or flinch, just smirks on their faces. Kid's eyes wide with hearing such a colorful mouth from a woman no less.

“Yep she's mad alright!” Angus would boast, barely even being heard over the loud country music. Suddenly the shadow or a woman spiriting across over to a huge pile in the corner of the room full of metal quickly digging through, one finding a good sheet of metal would make her way back over to where the welding parts were. Quick sounds of hammer banging, and then sparks of welding once again came to a stop once again. Suddenly they would see the woman in full. 6’9, prosthetic metal arms with glowing yellow cores in the middle, prosthetic silt legs as well, a white lab jacket over her tall slender frame stained from rust, oil, and maybe blood. These sunglasses like goggles on her face covering her eyes, but her brown hair fading into a red, and the same classic black shirt, and brown overalls with the Jolly Roger presented on front with a tool belt over her waist. A strange red tattoo on the left side of her face near her ear. But this lady had gauges, pricings, and sharp teeth presented in a wicked grin of hers. As suddenly jumping into the air, she walked through the air towards The Victoria suspended in the air.

Stopping before she would slap the piece of metal onto a inner beam of the ship, taking out some nails from her tool belt and placing them in their places that she needed them. With ease she would back away grabbing what seems to be a large hammer with a very short handle, until swinging it, it would extend, and hitting it against the nail. With one heavy hit from the hammer and one hard hit the nail was fully in with ease. But she continued with a swift and smooth pattern, she would hit each nail with every hit. Then after a good few more swings, the nails are perfectly straight and perfect.

“Captain!” Yael would shout but the music was too loud, as the female was still in her own little world checking over her work. Yael would sigh “Angus! Do the thing!” Angus would sigh looking around finding a bolt on the ground picking it up and chucking it at the supposive captain.

Right about the nut was about to hit her, her hand would fly out quickly, the metal hand catching it with ease crushing it. As the female's head would turn to look at the group, the sunglasses goggles covering her eyes as she stared them down. Dropping the crushed bolt to the ground below her, she would reach up a hand to her glasses pushing them up with a finger to rest on her forehead. Her blue and yellow eyes staring down as she looked at them with a quirked eyebrow. Then pushing a button on her hand, the music would suddenly stop. “The fuck you want” she would speak.

“Cap, guests!” Yael would shake her head with a devious smile on her face. The female captain's eyes would turn to look at the guests. Standing up and suddenly stepping down through the air towards the group then landing on the ground in front of Kid. Her tall frame looked down at him. Her head would tilt to the side glaring daggers at him.

“So you're the captain of th-” Kid would try to speak till the woman would hold her hand up to his lips shushing him.

“Shut your fucking mouth… do you know how fucking broken you ship is?!” She would snap at him, Kid's eyes would widen. “The fucking fact that you have old rotting wood, broken beams, nails not where they should be! And not to fucking mention your ship is in fucking half!” She would yell towering even more over Kid. Killer would quickly make his way pulling his friend away before he could snap back. Angus would pull away the female.

“Captain Brig, calm please. He wasn't intending for this to happen.” Angus would speak hushed, as Brit's eyes full of rage slowly softened while looking at Kid without fear.

“Fine.. You're lucky that your ship is one of a kind and designed beautifully or I would have your head as decoration… “ she would scoff, turning away. Kid’s eyes were full of rage and curiosity of this woman. This was the Captain of this beautiful large scale ship? Law watched the scene before him. “Anyways, pleasure to meet you all the name is (Y/n) or known as Captain Brig. You all can just call me Brig.” she would sigh, dipping her head towards the group in greetings. Now noticing her accent had a southern accent to it, the accent strong but smooth. Law couldn’t help but look at her arms, and legs, the metal a dark grey with glowing pale yellow lights in some parts. The stilts for her feet, noting some small thrusters on the back of where her calves would be. More than likely used to make her run faster when needed. But another fact was, how did she walk through the air when there were no surfaces for her to walk on. Was it the small thrusters on the back of her calves or was it some sort of power like a devil fruit? Only saying a question could answer that.

“Miss Brig, we thank you for your hospitality. Now if you wouldnt mind answering a few questions for me?” Law would quip up, his amber eyes looking up at the tall captain. Brig’s eyes would snap towards Law, crossing her arms over her chest as she stared down the doctor. Her cold hard eyes would send slight shivers down his spine upon a look like that from such a woman.

“Sure.” was the only thing she would quip back at him. Those eyes of hers not easing up one bit.

“How did you exactly walk through the air? There are no surfaces that I see for you to walk on. By the looks of it, you have small thrusters on your calves. So did you use those to walk through the air or do you have devil fruit powers?” Law wouldn’t tear his gaze away from the cold stare she was giving him.

“Devil fruit. The Sut Sut fruit. It allows me to walk, run, sit, and lay on any surface of my choosing. That Includes water and air.” she would raise a brow now her own curiosity peaked.

“Intresting. Other than that, how long will it take for you to fix mine and Kid’s ships?” Law would flash almost a smug smirk on his face seeing that he caught Brig’s curiosity.

“Hmm…Well with your boiler of your ship almost being finished as is, the framework though is going to take a while. Your ship partially imploded once it hit a certain depth.” Law’s eyes would widen. “But doesnt mean im not up to the task of fixing it, cause I know I can fix it. But on a rough but good estimate for both of your ships…about another week give or take. At most two weeks.” A smile would finally start to spread across her face, the excitement of fixing these wonderful interesting ships, and getting them up and going and maybe seeing if she can do upgrades for them. Finally her eyes are not cold anymore but determined and almost have a light spark to them.

Kid would grumble quietly hoping that Brig wouldn't hear. Killer would nod his masked head, “Thank you we greatly appreciate your help in fixing our ship. We will do anything for you while we wait for our ships to be fixed, and once done we will leave, and hopefully sometime in the future run into you again and pay you back.” Killer would sigh thankfully at Captain Brig’s words. She would simply smile, nodding her head at Killer.

“The pleasure is all mine. Angus and Yael will ask you what your best attributes are, and you all will be set in different places to help around as payment for now.” (Y/n)’s smile now a gentle and endearing smile instead of the cold stature she had moments ago. “Now excuse me, I must continue to work on your Victoria cause fucking hell it won't fix itself.” she would chirp happily, as turning back around and with quick steps, back into the air she goes towards the Victoria, reaching her hand up tapping a button on her hand again the loud music continuing from where it stopped.

Angus would motion for them to follow, and they would do so, Wire though couldn't help but stare back at the Captain of this ship with such marvel. A ferocious but caring understanding woman. Wire turned his tall frame back towards where the others were headed, and he would quickly follow, catching up.

Kid was assigned helping with fixing machinery, Killer was assigned in the kitchen, Heat and Wire was assigned in helping make sure the sails and the ship was clean. Law and Bepo were assigned to help in the medical bay.

Kid was having the time of his life talking with other tinkers while talking about how he could help them, as well as giving him some time on things. For once, Kid wasn't snapping back at people. Killer was enthralled to work with people who knew how to cook. He also learned that the white haired lady was the second in charge of the kitchen, her name being Umai comically enough. Both of them got along with one another quite well, having the same interest of wanting to hide their faces due to being insecure about their faces. Wire and Heat had fun getting to know the shipwright crew that they were working with, some of them being kids who marveled at Wire's height and Heat's scars. Law and Bepo felt like they were in heaven with the amount of medical supplies they had on this ship. Yael, also being the doctor and herbalist of the ship would just cackle at their faces, upon seeing how much stuff they had, and items that would also help with injuries.

Time would fly as they did their business, helping the shipwright crew with their daily business and chores. Soon in the distance, kinda muffled, the lunch bell would ring twice. Everyone would begin to make their way to the galley to eat.

Kid's crew would sit at one end of the many tables, and on the same table at the other end was Law's crew. Already food piled onto their plates as they began to eat and talk with one another of how everything was going with their respective assigned jobs at the moment.

“Fuck man! When I tell you I have never been this rock hard then ever before, well i fucking am! It's so fucking nice to geek out about shit with other people for fucking once.” Kid would laugh loudly. Killer would roll his eyes under his mask, his shoulder shaking a bit saying that he's laughing quietly.

“Not the rock hard part, but I agree. The cooks in the kitchen are all very nice and welcoming. They definitely know what they are doing.” Killer would slurp some of his noodles through his mask.

Law on the other side of the table hearing this would roll his amber eyes, shaking his head softly. Though he did have to agree with Killer. Yael knew a lot of stuff and was glad that he and Bepo got to learn some new things today from Yael. Everything about everyone on this ship knew what they were doing and seemed to do everything with a passion.

Though Law's mind would go back to (Y/n). Thinking of how she lost both of her legs and arms to have the need for prosthetics. Who built her prosthetics? Did she perhaps build them herself? How has she managed to be under the World's government knowledge for so long, not a single peep about the Shipwright Pirates. So many questions spiraled around in his head while he ate. Bepo was talking to Shachi and Penguin about what Yael had shown him and Law in the medical bay. Penguin and Shachi got to help around on deck making sure everything was clean and tidy with a small group consisting of a few kids, teens, and some adults.

Yael would stroll past their table, Law's and Bepo's attention turned towards her as she walked toward the grand staircase headed towards where Grid's wearhouse was. A plate in her hand, and repeating what she did the other day, hitting the metal doors with her foot, slowly the huge metal doors ever so slightly opening, and the same metal hand reaching out grabbing the plate and receding back through the door as it closes. Yael would quickly make her way back over to the table where the two crews sat, sitting in between Law and Kid. Setting down her own plate full of food she would begin to dig in eating it like an animal.

Kid would glance over at her with wide eyes, this woman herself is definitely beating him by how fast and animalistic she was eating her food. She must always be hungry…remind him of a stupid monkey of an emperor. Kid would shake his head turning his attention back to his food to continue to eat happily and being in his own world while talking with his commanders.

Then all peace and comfortable loud speaking in the mess hall would come to a close and the loud panicked bells ringing. Everyone eating would freeze quickly getting up and rushing out of the messhall leaving their plates of food on the tables. Yael choked on her food coughing then hitting her chest violently trying to help her catch her breath. Law seeing everyone panic leaving the messhall quickly he would look over to Yael with a concerned look in his amber orbs. “Yael what's going on?”

“The alarm bell! We have marines on us! Quickly up! UP!” she would scream as she would get up rushing out towards the door that leads to the deck. The Heart Pirates and the Kid pirates would share a look with one another before quickly standing and following after Yael quickly.

Rushing down the hallway to the deck, emerging out onto the deck they would see the shipwright pirates rushing around getting the cannon’s ready, the smaller ship that belongs to the shipwrights, slowly being hauled up into the air by large chains and rope so now the inner part of the ship was empty. “Find your groups that you were with earlier! Get with them and ask them what you need to do! We are going to need all the help we can get! Law Bepo you are with me!” She would turn heading towards the stairs that led to the upper deck where the Helm was. Angus is already up there talking with some of the Helms men and women.

Yael with Law and Bepo following close to her, keeping up with her, they would get onto the helms deck. “How many Marines do we have on us?” Yael would run up to Angus asking quickly.

“We have three sinkers!” Angus would yell while then barking orders at helms men and women. Sinkers? Law would then look over to where Angus was pointing for Yael to see the marine ships. They were large scale Marine ships, but not as big as the Shipwright’s Brig. So they must have code names for different types of marine ships, which was actually pretty genius then giving the marines credits for calling them their actual names. “Turn hard port! We need to face them head on!” Angus would cry out angrily. It had been months since they last had their run-in with marines.

“What are you going to do? If you go down the middle of them you will get sunk!” Law would turn his head towards Angus, what they were doing was something really sketchy that could sink their large lucious ship.

“Dont worry, we know what we are doing! There is a reason no one knows about us yet!” Angus would laugh, as suddenly the sounds of huge metal doors were opening, looking down he would see the huge door’s to the warehouse opening. Suddenly a long metal track would start to extend down the middle of the ship to the very tip of the ship. Suddenly sounds of things coming to life as suddenly this large scale cannon would zoom out, and ontop of this cannon was (Y/n) with a vicious wide smug grin on her face. Violence and a crazed look to her eyes.

What the hell were they doing now?

Tag list: @h0n3y-l3m0n05

[akkivee]

mtc track sample~ i think what’s most notable about this sample is that

there’s change happening within juto’s force and it seems to be related to chuuoku

we have once again expressed how tired we are of chuuoku shenanigans

samatoki has been shown several times to have been moved by ichiro’s words and ideals as of late and it seems to have come to fruition here with samatoki seeing the block party and believing in a power that can change this shitty world

rio’s mates are ready to take down chuuoku once again lmao and mtc seems to want to stop them

[geniusboyy]

Covenants and other Provisions

Chapter 13

Crash

Ford woke slowly, the thick ache of his head pulling him out of a heavy, disjointed sleep. His first thought was water, his mouth dry and his throat parched, but as he blinked his way into consciousness, the sharp edge of stale whiskey hit him. He groaned, rolling onto his side, his body protesting the movement. The next thing he noticed was the light. Too bright. He squinted against it, feeling the pounding in his skull intensify as he tried to get his bearings. The room tilted slightly as he moved, his vision blurring for a moment before settling back into the dim outline of his bedroom.

He blinked, sat up, and the crunch of broken glass under his feet jolted him fully awake. Fuck. He looked down, the remnants of last night spilling back to him in a wave: the empty bottle, the shattered glass, the things he’d said, the anger, the resentment that had boiled over and crashed against the silence. Bill.

The name hit him like a fist in the gut. Bill. He hadn’t spoken, hadn’t made a sound since before yesterday. But even then, Ford had been able to feel him. He had still been there, lurking in the corners of his mind, that presence was constant, his second heartbeat. That’s how it always was.

But now—

Ford blinked, his pulse quickening as he focused on the stillness. No. He reached deeper, groping for that connection, searching for some flicker of recognition, some sense that Bill was still—nothing. He felt his throat start to tighten. There was nothing.

He stood, too quickly. The motion sent his vision swimming, the room swaying like the deck of a ship in rough waters. For a moment, everything went red at the edges, a fleeting dizziness that left his knees weak. But the panic—that was already rooted deep, sharp and insistent, as if it had been waiting just beneath the surface.

Ford’s body lurched forward on autopilot, carried by instinct, and he stumbled toward the bathroom. Each step felt heavier than the last, like his legs were filled with lead, barely carrying him the short distance. He barely noticed how his limbs trembled, the fatigue that clung to his muscles like a sickness. All he could feel was the dull, rhythmic pounding in his skull, a constant pressure that grew with every heartbeat, intensifying with every breath.

He reached the sink, his fingers wrapping around the edge of the cold porcelain, gripping it tightly enough that his knuckles turned white. It was the only thing grounding him, the sink beneath his hands, solid and real. He leaned over it, head hanging between his shoulders, the weight of his body straining against his grip as though he might collapse at any moment.

He looked up, forcing himself to confront the mirror.

The reflection was immediate and unforgiving. A man stared back at him—disheveled and somewhat unrecognizable. His eyes were glassy and stood out against the dark circles etched into his skin. His cheekbones looked sharper, more pronounced than they had a month ago, his face a bit more hollow in ways it hadn’t been before. He blinked, but the image didn’t change. There was no hiding from it.

But it was just him. No one else.

His fingers tightened on the sink until his nails bent in against the sturdy porcelain, white and unyielding under his grip. He leaned in, closer to the mirror, as if proximity might change something, as if the answer lay just beneath the surface of his skin. His breath came out shallow, fogging the glass in uneven patches, each exhale smudging the clarity, softening the edges of his reflection.

Ford stared into his own eyes, searching. For what? He couldn’t say. It was reflex by now, the need to find something in the depths of his own gaze, as though Bill had left some trace behind, some shadowy glimmer that he might catch if he looked hard enough. He had grown used to it, to that flicker of something not entirely his own, a shimmer of gold or a subtle change in the way his pupils dilated, telling him that Bill was there—somewhere—watching, always watching.

His eyes, though—that was what gutted him. They were empty. There was no spark, no sign of that otherworldly presence that had haunted him for so long. They were just…his. Human. Mortal. He swallowed, the movement slow, deliberate, as if even that took too much effort.

He leaned in closer, until his forehead nearly touched the glass, his breath fogging up the mirror completely now, obscuring the reflection. He wiped at it absentmindedly, as if that would bring Bill back, as if a clearer view of himself might reveal something he was missing. But the more he looked, the more obvious it became—there was nothing left to find.

Gone. The word throbbed in his chest, a relentless, pulsing ache that spread through his ribs, sinking deep into his bones. The absence was unbearable, like a phantom limb.

Ford’s heart pounded, each beat crashing against his ribs like a drum, fast and loud. His breath stuttered, shallow, as if the air around him had thinned, leaving him gasping for something that wasn’t there.

What did I do?

The question stabbed at him, relentless, as his mind looped through fragments of the night before. The edges of his memory were jagged, blurred by the alcohol, but certain moments stood out with perfect, brutal clarity. He’d been drunk, too drunk, the kind of drunk where the world shifted sideways, where words felt like fists, where anger simmered just beneath the surface, waiting for the slightest spark to ignite it.

He remembered that feeling, how it had built up inside him, tight and hot, filling his chest until it felt like it might explode. The frustration had been a physical thing, a weight pressing down on him, choking him, and he’d needed to lash out, to expel it, to let it loose. And it got the better of him.

He swallowed hard, his throat dry, as if he could somehow push the memory back down, but it wouldn’t go. It surged up, vivid, like it was happening all over again: the way his voice was when he’d shouted, the sound of the bottle smashing against the wall, glass shattering in every direction. Fuck you, Bill. The words had come out harsh, slurred, but the meaning had been clear enough, the anger raw and unfiltered. He could still hear them, even now, hanging in the air around him, jagged echoes that wouldn’t fade.

The weight of it pressed down on him, suffocating. His chest tightened, his pulse thudding against his temples. Ford ran a hand through his hair, pulling at the strands, as if the act might help him think, help him piece it all together. But the memories were scattered, fragmented, like the shards of glass still littering his bedroom floor. He remembered the flash of anger in his own voice, the way his heart had hammered in his chest as if it had been waiting for something—anything—from Bill. A reaction, a word, an acknowledgment.

But Bill had stayed silent. Just as he had all day, his presence there, lingering in Ford’s mind but withholding everything that Ford had craved. That was what had driven him to the edge—the stillness. The absence of the thing he had come to depend on most. That unbearable silence. It had eaten away at him, fanned the flames of his frustration until they’d consumed him, until he had hurled those words out into the void, desperate for a response.

And now he’s gone.

Had that been enough? Was that what finally did it? The question lodged itself in Ford’s chest, tight and painful, like something clawing at him from the inside. Had Bill finally decided he wasn’t worth it? The thought alone made him feel like his insides had been scooped out.

There had always been that lurking fear, hadn’t there? That this… arrangement—this relationship or whatever it was—had an expiration date. That Bill would grow bored or frustrated, would decide that Ford’s mess of a life wasn’t worth the trouble. Ford had known, in some distant part of himself, that this kind of power, this kind of connection, came with a cost. And he’d always wondered if there would come a day when Bill would simply vanish. When the silence in his mind would be final. Permanent.

But not like this.

Not over something so fucking… stupid.

His breath was a shuddering intake of air that caught in his throat. Of all the ways he had imagined losing Bill—if he’d let himself imagine it at all—it hadn’t been like this. But now… maybe that line had always been there. Maybe Ford had crossed it without even realizing.

The room around him felt too small, too close. His pulse raced, the beat of it relentless in his ears, as if trying to drown out his thoughts. I pushed him away. I drove him off. The possibility struck him like a blow, hard and vicious. It made his chest ache. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to push the thought aside, trying to tell himself it couldn’t be true. Bill wouldn’t leave. He wouldn’t just disappear. But the silence in his mind was deafening, a void where there had once been something—someone—so present. So constant. That was the worst of it. The absence. The persistent emptiness.

Ford’s breaths were coming too fast, too shallow, each one a sharp gasp that barely filled his lungs. No, no, no. His fingers fumbled for the faucet, twisting it on with a shaking hand, cold water rushing into the sink. He splashed it over his face, again and again, the chill biting at his skin, but it didn’t help. It didn’t pull him back. His mind was a storm, wild and relentless, tearing at the edges of his sanity.

This can’t be happening. He leaned over the sink, gripping the edges tighter as the cold droplets dripped from his chin. His eyes squeezed shut, and he tried to calm his breathing, tried to push away the rising panic that tightened his throat. But the fear was there, burrowing deeper, sinking its teeth into his thoughts. This isn’t real. This isn’t real.

He muttered the words under his breath, like some kind of chant, like if he said it enough, it would become true. “This isn’t real,” he whispered again, his voice shaking, the words nearly lost between the shallow, uneven gasps of air. His heart raced now, as if it was trying to outpace the trepidation swelling inside him.

His eyes fluttered open, and he stared down at the water swirling in the sink, his reflection fractured and distorted in the surface. His fingers still gripped the edges of the sink, trying to anchor himself, but the cold, hard porcelain felt distant, like he wasn’t really here. Like he was slipping, bit by bit, into something else—into that void of emptiness where Bill had once been.

He splashed more water onto his face, desperate now, as if he could wash away the creeping dread that clung to him. Please. Come back. The thought came fast, sharp and raw. He couldn’t let this be the end. Not like this. Not over a fight. Not over something so meaningless and impulsive. But the silence stretched on, heavy and suffocating, and with every second that passed, the hope that Bill might answer him, might still be there, grew fainter.

“This isn’t real,” he whispered again, more to himself now, like a plea. It can’t be.

He stripped off his clothes in a daze, dropping them carelessly to the floor as he stumbled into the shower, not even bothering to check the temperature. The water hit him like a wall, scalding hot, burning where it touched, but he barely felt it. His body stood there, rigid, while his mind spiraled deeper into that gaping hollow. He stared down at the tiles beneath his feet, watching the water swirl around the drain.

The water pounded against his back, relentless, but it was the silence that suffocated him. He hadn’t realized how much space Bill had filled in his life until now, until that space was empty, a cavernous absence that swallowed everything. The quiet wasn’t peaceful. It was crushing, pressing in on him from all sides, suffocating him, wrapping tight around his chest until he could barely breathe. His throat closed up, the weight of it pulling him down.

His chest heaved, trying to pull in air that wouldn’t come, each breath shorter and sharper than the last. He’s gone. The thought rippled through him, spreading like poison, latching onto every part of him. Bill wasn’t just silent. He wasn’t just distant, lurking in some corner of Ford’s mind, waiting to reemerge. He was gone. Really, truly gone.

How long had it been since Ford had felt this kind of emptiness? Since the weight of his own thoughts had been all he had? It didn’t matter. He had gotten used to Bill, used to the presence, the connection—no matter how strange or dangerous it had been, it was always there. Even when they weren’t speaking, Ford could feel him. Could reach out, just with a thought, and know he was there, somewhere in the recesses of his mind. But now that he’s gone, and the silence is painful.

Ford felt the panic claw its way up his throat again, sharp and vicious, threatening to suffocate him. His chest heaved as the dizziness hit—too much heat, too little air. The walls started tilting. He pressed his back against the cold tiles, desperate for something solid, something real to hold him in place. But it wasn’t enough.

His knees buckled under him, unable to hold him upright. He slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor of the shower, the tiles were cold agains his bare skin. The water still beat down on him, relentless and hot, but it was distant now, something happening to a body he no longer fully inhabited. He sat there, hunched and shaking, barely able to catch his breath. The sound of water hitting the tile, splashing around him, was distant—an echo muted beneath the roar of his own spiraling thoughts.

What if—? His mind raced, too fast to follow, each thought colliding with the next, a blur of confusion and fear. Why—? But none of it made sense. None of it added up. Why would Bill leave him now? Why would he disappear after everything they’d been through? Had Ford driven him away? Had that one night—those stupid, drunken words—been enough to tear it all apart? It seemed so absurd, so insignificant compared to the connection they’d shared. But Bill was gone.

The thought hit him again, harder this time, a fresh wave of panic rising up to swallow him whole. He pressed his palms against the floor, trying to ground himself, but it was no use. He was sinking. He couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t make sense of it. His mind thrashed against the edges of the truth, but there was no way out of it. Bill was gone, and Ford was left with nothing. No answers. No explanations. Just the unbearable silence.

His breath caught in his throat, sharp and shallow, and before he could stop it, the tears came. At first, they were quiet, just a few hot streaks that blurred his vision, sliding down his cheeks. But then the sobs hit, sudden and violent, shaking his chest and forcing their way out of him. He pressed his palms to his face, trying to muffle them, but it was useless. They tore through him, unrelentingly.

“I’m sorry,” The words escaped in a broken whisper, barely audible above the steady roar of the shower. His chest hitched again, the weight of it overwhelming, as the apologies tumbled out of him, one after the other, frantic and pleading. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it—”

But there was no response. Only the water, pounding against him, only the silence, pressing down like a weight, only the emptiness, vast and suffocating. Ford never knew silence could be so loud.

He cried until there was nothing left, until the sobs had wrung him dry, leaving him hollow and aching. His chest heaved with the remnants of it, the pain that throbbed behind his ribs, the pounding in his skull. He wasn’t sure how long he stayed like that, curled on the floor of the shower, knees tucked to his chest, arms wrapped around himself as if that could keep him from unraveling completely. He let the water wash over him until long after it went cold.

He failed. The realization crept in, a whisper that spiraled into a scream in his mind. Yesterday, the silence—it had to be a test, right? A final chance to prove himself worthy of Bill’s attention, of his presence. And he had failed. He had let his anger take over, let his emotions dictate his choices. He’d become too involved, too attached. Bill needed distance. Needed to see how Ford would react. And he failed. It was a bitter taste that flooded his mouth

Eventually, he forced himself to stand. He shut off the water, dried off mechanically, and got dressed, moving through the motions of his morning without really thinking about any of it. The panic had settled into something quieter now, something colder. A dull ache that devoured him from the inside out.

Ford’s morning unfolded like a memory. The kitchen was quiet, save for the soft clatter of dishes and Fiddleford humming some old tune under his breath, his movements easy and practiced at the stove. He cracked an egg into the pan, the hiss of it hitting the heat was amplified in Ford’s ears. Everything was louder today. The scrape of the spatula, the low hum of the refrigerator, the ticking of the clock on the wall—every sound was almost overwhelming against the silence in his head. Ford pressed his fingers against his temples, trying to dull the ache in his skull. His mouth was dry, his eyes gritty, but none of that compared to the emptiness inside him.

“Morning, sunshine,” Fidds said, his voice bright, too bright, like he hadn’t noticed the storm brewing just beneath Ford’s skin. It almost felt insulting, how happy he was. As if everything was fine, as if the world hadn’t shifted off its axis.

Ford grunted, sliding into his usual seat. He didn’t have it in him to respond with anything more. His mind was miles away, chasing shadows, chasing Bill. The thought of him—of that silence—was like a splinter in his brain, driving deeper with every second that passed.

“Rough night?” Fiddleford didn’t turn around, still focused on the eggs, but Ford could feel the question hanging in the air between them.

“Just hungover,” Ford muttered, his voice rough, like it had been scraped across sandpaper. He ran a hand over his face, the stubble scratching against his palm. Fiddleford’s eyes flicked toward him, just for a second, but it was enough. Ford felt the weight of it, the quiet concern, and for a moment, he hated it. Hated how close Fidds was. How easily he could see through him.

Fiddleford didn’t push, thankfully. He just slid the plate in front of Ford with a quiet clink. Ford stared at it for a moment. He wasn’t hungry. “Thanks,” he managed, picking up his fork. He stabbed at the eggs, chewing without tasting, forcing himself to swallow.

Fidds was talking, something about calibrating one of the machines, but Ford could barely keep up. His mind kept slipping, caught in the the aching void within him. He nodded when he had to, made vague noises of agreement, but it was all so detached. The only thing in his mind were flashes of memory. The way the lights and shadows casted on Bill’s skin, his lips and how they moved when he spoke, the way he smelled. How badly Ford just wanted to kiss him. How much he regrets that impulsivity now.

When breakfast was over, Ford washed his plate, his hands moving on autopilot. The water was scalding, steam rising like a ghost in the cool kitchen air, but adjusting the handle felt like a pointless effort. Each scrub of the dish was a repetitive motion that kept his body occupied while his thoughts drifted. Bill. The name echoed in his mind, a relentless refrain that bounced off the walls of his thoughts, filling the silence. It was unbearable.

He squeezed the sponge harder, his hand cramping with the pressure, foam slipping out and disappearing down the drain. His jaw clenched without him realizing, teeth grinding as his shoulders tightened, as if bracing for something that never came. For a second, he thought about smashing the plates on the ground, just to hear the sound. His fingers flexed involuntarily, knuckles red from the hot water, but he didn’t follow through. He just scrubbed them harder.

He left the kitchen without a word, ignoring Fiddleford’s gaze as he slipped past him and into the stairwell. His footsteps felt slow, as if he were walking underwater, each step taking more effort than the last. At the bottom, Ford halted, looking at the stillness of the lab like a photograph. The air was thick with the familiar scent of old paper and chemicals. His gaze swept across the room, landing on the desk littered with scattered notes, equations left mid-thought, instruments he had balanced and tuned with precision, all sitting there untouched, waiting, caught in time—seeming to mock him.

Ford squeezed his eyes closed and let out a deep breath, flexing his fingers again. He reached for his lab coat, slowly wrapping the heavy fabric around his shoulders. He stared at the ground, reminding himself to breath as he adjusted the lapels. It was so quiet.

He dared to look around again, his eyes skimming the corners, the shadows. And there it was again—Bill. Or rather, the memory of him, lingering like smoke in the back of his mind.

The photos still hung on the wire, stark and fully developed, just as he’d left them. He reached for each one, individually plucking them down and stacking them in his other hand, the edges curling beneath his fingertips. They vibrated faintly in his grip, trembling with the slight movements of his hands, but his eyes barely registered the images. He sifted through them, the glossy paper making a shuffling sound as they slid over to the next. His gaze flicked over the photos, but he wasn’t really seeing them, picking a couple at random and pinned them to the board without much thought. The rest he let drop to the desk, forgotten as soon as they left his hands.

Ford leaned against his chair and cursed under his breath, squeezing his eyes shut against the next wave of panic. Focus. He had to focus. He couldn’t fall apart now, not with Fidds so close by, his concern bearing down on him. His mind was racing, spinning in circles, chasing itself. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. About him. About that last moment, that last look, the way Bill had pulled away. How he’s crossed the line, got too comfortable, revealed too much of himself. He swallowed hard, the lump in his throat making it hard to breathe. The memories cut though him like a dull blade. He couldn’t get through like this. Couldn’t bear to get through the next hour, the next minute. But what choice did he have? He had to keep going, had to keep working, had to do something to fill the silence.

He pulled the chair out and sat, grabbing one of the notebooks and flipping to a blank page. He dated the corner, Thursday October 21st. His pen hovered, the date stuck out to him for some reason. He closed his eyes and shook his head, not now. He needed to model the memory retrieval process, use Fourier transforms—a method that allowed him to break down neural signals into their component frequencies, essential for the project’s success. He sketched out the formula, starting with the integral of the signal function, trying to map it onto a simulated neural network.

But halfway through writing it, he paused, the numbers losing their shape on the page. He hadn’t been focusing. He knew the integral was wrong without even checking it. He cursed under his breath, scratching through the equation, the ink smearing slightly as he pressed the pen harder.

Again. He started over, this time trying to compute the Fourier coefficients for the network’s input signals. He worked methodically, his pen moving rapidly, but halfway through the calculation, his mind drifted. His focus slipped, and he again knew, immediately, that it wasn’t right.

He tore out the page, balled it up, and tossed it to the floor. There was no point in even trying to fix it. He started again, resetting on the next blank sheet, forcing his hand to move slower this time. He was running through a new transformation, trying to convert the signals back from frequency space to time domain, but the numbers refused to line up, his hand faltering mid-equation.

Again. He crumpled another sheet. He could feel Fiddleford’s presence behind him, not saying anything but watching, and it made the frustration even worse. He had to get it right, had to make it work—but every attempt ended in a dead end, the equations refusing to coalesce. His grumbled another couple of curses under his breath and rubbed his hand over his face, letting out a deep sigh.

He threaded his fingers through his hair, resting his head on top of his hand while his leg bounced beneath the desk. He leaned forward, determined to run the equation again. Fourier transform, signal processing, mapping out the neural encoding for memory retrieval—he could do this in his sleep. His pen scratched across the page, the symbols flowing from muscle memory. But halfway down, his hand froze, his eyes locked on the mistake he hadn’t noticed until now.

He’d miscalculated the boundary conditions—again. The error threw off the entire transformation, distorting the results.

“Fuck!” he shouted, slamming the notebook shut and banging his hand on the desk, the sound reverberating through the lab. He stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. He slammed the pen down as he turned, going for the stairs.

Fidds, kneeling by the spectrometer he’d been recalibrating all morning, stilled at the sound of the outburst, the wrench clutched loosely in his hand. His hand hovered for a moment over the wires and bolts, frozen mid-task. He glanced up, catching a glimpse of Ford’s back as it disappeared up the stairs. Too fast—Ford always moved too fast. And yet, as always, he said nothing. Just watched him go, his lips parting for a question that never made it past his throat. What could he even ask? What could he say that Ford hadn’t already decided not to hear? Fiddleford sighed, his grip tightening on the wrench, and turned back to the machine, the loose wire still dangling in front of him. But his thoughts followed Ford up those stairs.

Ford burst onto the porch, the door slamming behind him, his frustration cutting into the cold air, each breath escaping in jagged, white clouds. His body felt too tight, like he couldn’t breathe deeply enough, couldn’t settle. He paced back and forth, hands on his hips, his shoes scraping against the worn wood of the porch. The cold hit him sharply, but it did little to dull the heat still surging through his chest, the mess of anger and disappointment knotting up inside. He fished through his pockets with shaking hands, checking each one until he finally found his cigarettes.

“Shouldn’t be this fucking hard,” he muttered, voice low, barely louder than the hiss of wind threading through the trees. “Fuckin’ boundaries, you stupid prick—” He cut himself off as his fingers fumbled with the matches, striking one after the other, his cigarette waiting impatiently between his lips, until it lit, a small, defiant flame against the cold. He brought it to the tip, inhaling deeply as the smoke curled into his lungs, a small relief. He closed his eyes, steadying himself, letting the nicotine pull him back from the edge.

Another deep breath, smoke trailing out slowly, and he pressed his thumb to his forehead and leaned on the railing, trying to ground himself. But the memories kept flashing. He couldn’t stop seeing him. Bill’s hair catching the light—short that day, curling just around his ears and neck. Ford’s breath hitched as he brought the cigarette back to his lips. The smirk was still there, clear in his mind. The way Bill’s lips would curl, right before he said something rude, something that would make him laugh. Ford’s next breath came out shaking, irregular plumes erupting from his lips.

The hours blurred together after that, the sun dipping low outside before Ford even realized it had crept into the evening. He moved from one task to the next, half-present, agitated, his thoughts circling back, over and over—flashes of Bill. By the end of the day, Ford felt wrung out, his body exhausted but his mind still churning. And yet, when he finally crawled into bed, it wasn’t with dread. There was a strange sense of anticipation tugging at the edges of his thoughts. Maybe tonight. Maybe Bill would come back, explain the silence like it was nothing. Just a fluke. He closed his eyes, hoping to find him waiting there, like always, with that crooked grin and some offhand, dismissive remark. Ford let the comfort of that possibility settle over him

But the moment his eyes closed, they shot open again. Nothing. No dream, no pull into that place where Bill waited for him. Just the stillness of the room. His hangover had faded by now, but that only made everything sharper—the quiet more crushing. Now, there was nothing to blunt the ache. The silence in his head swelled with every hour, turning into something heavy and sickening, a void he couldn’t fill no matter how much he tried. His mind reached out instinctively at first, calling for Bill in the dark, but after days of hearing nothing—feeling nothing—he’d stopped.

And so, he worked. He forced himself; the only way out was through. The lab became a refuge, a place where the parts of himself he couldn’t bear to face didn’t exist. He moved slower now, without Bill’s voice guiding him, but he pushed on regardless. He managed to isolate new pathways for memory retention, refined the neural mapping techniques they’d been testing, even developed a more stable interface for the machine’s input-output protocols. Advances—real, tangible progress—but none of it felt like enough. Without Bill, every breakthrough felt like a hollow victory, something that should’ve meant more. Something that used to. But it wasn’t enough.

The first week blurred together, each night filled with hope, each morning a fresh disappointment. Every time, the weight of Bill’s absence hit him harder, sinking deeper. He spent hours hunched over his desk, running test after test, sifting through photographs, data, slides, graphs, blueprints—anything to keep his mind occupied. Fiddleford hovered nearby, his concern visible in every small gesture, every quiet glance, but Ford couldn’t bring himself to engage. He couldn’t afford to. The work was all he had, the only thing he could cling to. If he stopped, even for a second, everything else would catch up to him.

He hated waking up. Hated the first breath of the day, the way it sat thick in his chest, sour on his tongue, like the world itself was reminding him of what had slipped away. But it wasn’t loss—not really. That would’ve been simpler, cleaner, something with edges, something he could grasp. Loss had a beginning and an end; it was something you could measure, something you could name. But this? This was worse. It was a hollowing-out, a quiet unraveling, like a piece of him had been ripped away, but the tear had no borders, no clean break.

He could hardly stand to look at himself. One morning—he couldn’t even remember which—it all hit him, sharp and sudden, when he caught his reflection over the sink. He made the mistake of meeting his own eyes, searching them, only to be confronted with hollow darkness staring back. His pupils were wide, empty, black. The sight made his skin crawl. Made him furious. This was his fault. He drove his fist into the glass.

Fiddleford had been sitting on the porch with his boots kicked up onto the railing when Ford came out, his attention drawn to the sound of broken shards clinking together, pieces falling from the frame tucked under his arm. “What happened?”

“Drywall gave way,” Ford lied, stepping down the porch steps and heading toward the street. “Must’ve missed the stud.” It came out smoothly, as if his knuckles, tucked under his sleeve, hadn’t been wrapped tight, red blooms soaking through the fabric. He quickened his pace, brushing past Fidds before he could ask anything more, the weight of unspoken words lingering in the air between them. Ford could feel Fidds’ gaze on his back. He wore gloves that day.

By the time the second week rolled in, it became almost impossible to keep up appearances. His body was failing him—he could feel it in the exhaustion that clung to his muscles, the ache that had settled into his bones like it had always been there. It showed on his face, his eyes were sunken, his hair more unkempt and unruly. But he didn’t care. He forced himself through the motions, driving his body past its limits, because sleep—sleep was the enemy. It meant surrendering to the dark, empty hours, where all he had were his thoughts, and worse, the suffocating certainty that Bill wouldn’t be there. He avoided it as much as possible.

One night, when the lab had grown insufferably still, Ford found himself scrubbing the floor. On his hands and knees, with only a sponge and a bucket at his side. He wasn’t sure how it had started, but once he began, he couldn’t stop. He worked his way through every corner, scrubbing every stain from the tile, until his knuckles ached. His palms were sore and his knees were bruised, but he was able to lose himself in it, while it lasted.

He never said it aloud, never let himself acknowledge it fully, but the thought infected everything he touched. It slipped into the way he gripped a test tube too tightly, a few accidentally breaking under the absentminded grip. It showed in the way he paced, a restless circuit around the lab, eyes flicking towards the door every time he turned his head, as if Bill might be standing there, smug as always, just as suddenly as he’d disappeared. But he wasn’t. And Ford couldn’t stop moving. Couldn’t stop working. The void stretched wider, and the only thing he could do was fill it with frantic motion, with the endless cycle of experiments, papers, numbers—all of it beginning to blur together, but none of it enough.

Fiddleford noticed, of course—he always did. He didn’t say much, but his actions were louder than words: the quiet, careful way he placed meals in front of Ford, his hands lingering for a second too long as to remind Ford he’s here. The gentle, persistent questions: “You alright?” “You eatin’ enough?” Ford barely answered, his replies reduced to grunts, noncommittal shrugs, or if he did speak, it was a rotation, “Getting close, almost at another breakthrough, can’t stop now,” as he’d push the food around his plate. He’d swallow just enough to keep from passing out, but nothing more. The taste of everything seemed to make his stomach turn these days.

The third week blurred into a haze of data and missed meals. Ford immersed himself in the work, pushing through fatigue and numbing his thoughts with endless tasks. The fungal samples were showing promising results—an advancement in their understanding of cross-species memory retention, something that could be monumental for the project. Fiddleford practically buzzed with excitement as they crunched the numbers, his eyes bright with the thrill of discovery. For a moment, Ford felt a flicker of excitement, or at least a spark of connection. He let himself laugh at a joke Fidds made, the sound bubbling up before he could stop it. But just as quickly, the weight settled back in, and the moment slipped away. The corners of his mouth faltered, and he was left with that familiar emptiness again. So, he buried himself in the work, letting the repetitive motions consume him, hoping that somehow, in the process, he might feel alive again.

Sunday had slipped in without Ford noticing. It was always Sunday lately, the weeks bleeding together like they were cut from the same cloth, the same fabric of sleepless nights, hollow mornings, and long stretches of numbness in between. He knew it was Sunday because Fidds always had that look on his face, the look where Ford knew, once he saw it, he’d have about 5 minutes in the lab until Fidd came down to remind him it was Sunday. He sat hunched over his desk, getting something small done ahead of his roommate’s fretting. He opened his notebook, scribbling in the top right corner. Sunday— Ford paused. Was it the 31st or the 7th?

Right on cue, Fidds appeared at the bottom of the stairs, hands on his hips, already launching into his familiar routine. “Ford, it’s Sunday. Why don’t you—”

“The 31st or the 7th?” Ford interrupted, barely looking up from his notebook.

Fidds hesitated, caught off guard for a moment, then sighed. “The 7th…”

Ford nodded and looked back at his notebook, Sunday November 7th, 1982 he wrote in his careful script. He rose from his chair and Fidds stood back, watching him for a moment, a mix of worry and admiration in his gaze. Ford often lost himself in the machinery, but today there was an unsettling distance in his focus. “I’m heading into town for a bit, Ford. Planning to swing by Reg’s. I can grab any supplies you need,” he said, trying to sound casual.

Ford blinked, his mind slow to register the words. “Hmm?” he murmured, barely turning to look over his shoulder.

“Town, Ford,” Fidds repeated, leaning against the machine Ford tinkered with. “You know, outside?” His voice dripped with an impatient sarcasm, the kind that was meant to break through the fog. “Do you need anything?”

Ford barely had time to nod before he was rummaging through a drawer, pulling out a scrap of paper filled with his haphazard handwriting. He thrust it at Fidds without looking up.

Fidds unfolded the note and squinted at the list. Bolts, composition notebooks, soap, orange juice (with pulp), #2 pencils, aftershave… It went on like that, a jumble of different colored inks and graphite, as if it had been accumulating while he waited for Fidds to ask. He pressed his tongue against his cheek as he read. “You know, you could always grab some these things yourself.”

Ford’s jaw tightened, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. “I’ve been busy,” he replied, the tension in his voice palpable.

“You’re always busy,” Fiddleford sighed, exasperation creeping into his tone. He glanced at the list again, frustration evident in his furrowed brow. “Seriously, you need to get out. You haven’t left this place in almost a month, and you’ve barely left the grounds in two!”

“Spare me the sermon, Fidds,” Ford muttered, a dark edge creeping into his voice. “It’s only been… couple weeks. You’re my assistant. Assist me.” He turned back to his screen, continuing to type.

Fidd couldn’t help but laugh, a mix of amusement and disbelief spilling out. “Dammit, Ford,” he started, shoving the list against Ford’s chest with a playful shove. “Take your fuckin’ lab coat off and come on.”

Ford snatched the list just before it fell to the floor, irritation flaring. “Aw, c’mon, Fid—look, I’m right in the middle of something.”

Fiddleford crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe with a playful smirk. “My boots’ gonna be in the middle of your ass if you’re not in the car in five minutes,” he said, teasing but with an undercurrent of serious intent. The lightness in his tone did little to mask the firm set of his jaw, a clear warning that he wasn’t backing down.

There was a pause, the air between them thickening with unspoken tension. Fiddleford shifted on his feet, glancing around the lab as if searching for something to anchor them. “Please, Ford. Just come with me.”

Ford didn’t respond immediately, he sat there, shoulders hunched and tense, his thoughts spiraling in the familiar chaos. He was tired, so tired, and the idea of leaving felt insurmountable, like scaling a mountain. But he could feel the weight of Fidds’ gaze on him, a mix of concern and exasperation that cut through the haze. He knew he’d have to relent eventually, humor him so he wouldn’t worry as much. With a heavy sigh, he stood, pushing himself up from his chair, the motion a reluctant surrender. “Fine. Okay,” he muttered, the words carrying a hint of defeat.

But as he glanced back at the cluttered desk, the mess of equations and research notes, he felt a flicker of something—maybe hope, or maybe just a desperate need for a break from the relentless grind. He stripped off his lab coat and hung it in its usual spot, taking another glance at the lab as he followed Fid up the stairs.

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[flythesail]

I do love rereading my own writing though like, wow the author put everything I want in this

[floorpancakes]

heart-pounding immersive bocchi cinema solo trip experience 1-page report

[honeyconez]

guys hear me out would painis cupcake pay taxes? Because he’s not like mega insane like ass pancakes I think he’d pay his taxes in my professional opinion.

[angelicdonuts]

WBF PICO'S SCHOOL DOODLES!!

FROM THESE PAST LIKE.. FEW MONTHS!! (Oct. + Sept. ...Maybe?)

There's a lot more stuff I've made recently other than this! SO stay tuned ^_^ !!!!

[zeroideaman]

They’ve come to beat you up

so guess who’s watching secret life…