#brass repair tools

[synthesis-music]

The haul from the latest new tool day. Whole new set of dent rods and dent balls because the threads on my old ones were almost completely worn out and it was making dent removal very frustrating, two thread adapters, and the small power disc for the Z60. Not pictured are three valve casing thread chasers that arrived later, and four more thread chasers I'm still waiting on.

[fanaticsnail]

You Kissed the Clown? Part 6

As much as I wanted to reunify our beautiful clown captain with his lass in this chapter, it just didn't read quite right. I want nothing more than our sweet boy to join again with his queen once more; which I am aiming to do in the next chapter!

Part 5 back here.

Word Count: 2,398

Under the brightly lit beams from the lamp atop the workbench, you began to use several tools to understand the task that was bestowed to you by Klahadore. You were hunched over, using several magnifying glasses lay atop each other in your left hand while tweezing and prodding the brass tips of the metal caps that were fixed to the tips of the black, cotton gloves.

You could feel the unnerving proximity of Klahadore as he continued to gauge your temperament as you undertook this task. You kept yourself distracted away from his attention as you continued setting to work of comprehending the inner workings of the potentially deadly weapons you were working on.

“Do you have any of the blades intact or will I be smithing them for you?” you uttered below your breath as you creased your brows. You heard the butler extend a stifled gasp in what you could only assume was surprise at your question.

“I have the blades,” he purred with a slight arrogance displayed in his tone. You nodded, placing the magnifying glasses down on top of the workbench and turning your body to bring your sights to him.

“I will need them if I am to reattach them, as per your request,” you stated, your voice unwavering in your declaration. He hummed and quirked his left eyebrow slightly up, a sinister smirk beginning to pull at the corner of his lips once more.

“I will retrieve them,” he uttered, bringing leaning slightly over to bring his face closer to yours and extending his gaze to the space behind you, “do you have an estimate on the amount of time you will need to apply them?”

You leant back into the back of the chair, finally allowing a small amount of nerve show over your features as you teeth began to shudder behind your closed lips. You took a moment to collect yourself before glaring at him through narrowed eyes.

“If they are in pristine condition,” you quirked your head to the side before continuing, “your sentimental item not intended for use will be repaired within the hour.”

He narrowed his eyes in turn, baring his sights directly into you. The increase in uneasy tension building between you kept your senses on edge. He reached behind his body and placed ten full-sized, weighted katana blades down with a rough clang; holding his hand over them and inched his body closer to yours. You inhaled a shaky breath through your nose, noticing he was pleased by the amount of unease he was bringing to you.

“Have it done in thirty minutes,” he whispered, his breath tickling against your lips as he held his uncomfortably intense gaze on your eyes. You assumed he was taunting you with his intimidating proximity, but you held your ground and continued to attempt to mask how truly rattled he made you.

“Yes, sir,” you said hastily before bringing your attention back to the workbench and hunching over the objects, assessing them for any damage before reaching for several items you required to successfully reattach them.

“Good,” Klahadore purred in praise before bringing his body away from yours and adjusting his uniform before bringing the palm of his hand up to fix his glasses further up his face. You twinged your head slightly to the side and allowed a displeased snarl momentarily extend your upper lip up in displeasure.

You heard him turn towards the door and pausing one last time before he proceeded to exit the room. Once you heard him turn the knob, open the door and exit the room, swiftly closing the door behind him and trail a light tap of retreating footprints did you finally allow the amount of emotion withheld from fear overcoming your body.

You gasped air through your parted lips slightly before rubbing your hands over your upper arms and smooth over your forearms to soothe over the bumped hair follicles raised as your uneasiness fully erupted from your body. You breathed out a shaking breath as you fully comprehended the danger you were truly in while thinking of the task you were attempting to undertake.

You pushed all uneasy thoughts form your mind by huffing out a firm breath and rolling your shoulders back and shaking your head.

“Just get it done,” you uttered to yourself, “you can do this. This is second nature to you.”

You panted out a breath and shook your hands to remove any prior tingles or apprehension from your movements.

“Thirty minutes,” you mocked Klahadore’s tone with a small huffed laugh, “I can get this done in fifteen.”

You scoffed slightly, raising a weighted blade into your hands after placing an iron poker into the naked flame on your counter. You twirled the poker against the flame and began singing to yourself a tune from your childhood. Your voice flittered lowly between notes absentmindedly as you brought the hot iron to join the hilt of the first katana to the brass tipped thumb of the glove; successfully angling it to attach with ease.

After attaching the first sword against the material, you managed to truly understand the materials you were working with. You learnt exactly how to master the fixture and one by one, you managed to complete your task with haste.

Slumping back into your seat, you wiped your brow with the back of your right hand and smoothed over your skin. Your strong beverage remained untouched, the condensation dripping down from the rim and leaving a circular watermark on the surface of the work bench. You decided against drinking from the glass, instead rising to your feet and retire to the guest suite where you assumed the crew awaited your return. You left the gloves in a neat pile atop the workbench alongside the untouched liquid and briskly made your way from the workroom, clicking the door closed behind you.

Silence befell the hallway as you ventured through the hall, your shadow dancing as you continued towards your room.

You found yourself completely and utterly alone, as your crew were yet to return to quarters to sleep through the night. Deciding to pay this fact no mind, you began to shed your fine clothes you borrowed from Ms Kaya and change into your sleep attire behind the screen.

You placed yourself beneath the sheets of the plush bed and scuttled your feet fully down the bed as you savoured the familiar feeling of resting in the security of a stationary bed, rather than a hammock rocking against the waves as they clashed with the hull of the small rigging you were travelling on. Immediately, exhaustion overcame you as you slipped into a peaceful slumber; blissfully unaware of the events about to transpire throughout the night.

---------------

Buggy fell back onto the hard floor, slipping into unconsciousness as a blow to the head issued by the fishman Kuroobi successfully incapacitated him. He awoke to find himself bound with his hands behind his back and a sandy hessian bag thrust over his head, shrouding his sights from his surroundings.

As the hood was suddenly pulled from his face, he began frantically searching the darkened arena for the figure who lifted the course material form his head. A blue-lit spotlight cascaded over his body, ensuring it to be nearly impossible to locate the newcomer. He decided to utilise his favourite coping mechanism to deal with this unnerving situation.

“Is this the best way to ask for an autograph?” he called into the room, continuing to dart his eyes between the convex walls of the circular tent, “I mean, sheesh! Fans have gotten so toxic!”

He paused a little, teetering laughter off in a small snicker before his tone turned serious; “alright, what do you want? Tickets to the show? I can get you house seats, they’re pricey.”

A large thud resounded within the hall, causing Buggy to gasp in shocked response. Large firm footprints pounded against the floor in a slow approach.

“Oh,” a voice growled in their approach, “I am no fan of yours.”

Buggy was immediately drawn to a figure appearing from within the shadows. The purple-skinned pirate lord, Arlong, bearing a sinister snarl with his lips protruding to reveal sharpened teeth bared in an intimidating manner. A low, guttural growl was again pulled from the mouth of Arlong as he continued to prowl over to the kneeling position Buggy was currently in.

“Arlong?” Buggy uttered in a hushed tone while widening his eyes in shock.

“I run things here in the east blue,” Arlong spurled in a low rumble, before raising his voice, “and I’m here to remind you of your place in the food chain.”

He leant his tall body over Buggy as he continued to gawk at the sword-nosed fishman, allowing an air of absolute terror overcome his features.

“You pull a job in my seas, you gotta pay tribute,” the fishman circled Buggy’s kneeling body as a predator would their innocent prey.

“Arlong, baby,” Buggy pleaded with a small laugh, “you don’t gotta worry about me! I’m small potatoes! Pirating is more of a side-gig.”

Arlong halted his prowl and clicked his tongue in disapproval at the explanation Buggy provided.

“Kuroobi tells me you ransacked Orange Town,” Arlong said, keeping his sights fixated on the kneeling clown.

“Ransacked?” Buggy laughed, “you should’ve seen the place before I got there, okay? It was a real fixer-upper.”

This comment prompted Arlong to place a firm grip on the scruff of his neck and bore himself down onto him with a threatening; “you bore me, clown.”

Arlong growled and proceeded to bring his teeth to sink his teeth into Buggy’s flesh, prompting the clown to let out several repetitions of pleading the word: “wait!”

His plea seemed to halt the extended teeth baring down unto Buggy’s exposed neck. Immediately his thoughts were brought to centralise around you as his life was threatened by the looming fishman above him. He couldn’t die here at the hands of another pirate in the here and now, he had plans. He needed to see you again; to inform you that he not only reciprocated your feelings of affection, but to show you exactly how much he truly cared for you. He wanted you in his arms. He wanted to remove his gloves from his hands and feel just how soft your hair truly was beneath his fingertips. He wanted to dance, holding your body flush against his own and twirl you in a beautiful poofy blue dress within the canvas walls of the big top tent. He needed you. He needed to get you away from your crew and spirit you away to be with him and only him. And at that thought, an idea came before his mind.

“You know who’s out there really disrespecting you?” Buggy searched the snarling face of the purple pirate before him, drawing his gaze into his beady and predatory eyes; “It’s the little rubber prick in the straw hat; goes by the name, Luffy.”

Arlong placed his wide grip now bracing against the larynx of the clown pirate, choking him with a firm hold.

“Never heard of him,” Arlong growled, successfully bringing further panic to the clown.

“He just knocked over a marine base in Shells Town,” Buggy spluttered, eyes remaining wide and fixated in fear on the hardened face before him, “and then he stole a map to the grand line, talking shit about finding the One-Piece.”

Arlong threw Buggy against the ground, releasing him from his firm grip. Buggy let in a large gasp, praising himself at his quick thinking. Hopefully his actions would allow him to “kill two stones with one bird,” as he was sure the saying went.

Arlong began a monologue, of which Buggy truly had no desire to engage with. He was frantically searching his mind for further quick-wittedness at enabling for him to look like the rescuing saviour in your eyes without having any harm come to you at the hands of the fishman tyrant before him.

“Listen, why don’t you let me live, and then I help you find Luffy?” he attempted to use an air of charisma to charm the fishman. This offer had the firm grasp again clasping the scruff of Buggy’s neck which he gasped again in both pain and fear.

“And how do you plan to do that?” Arlong said once bringing his face down to meet the gaze of Buggy with his sharp teeth again exposed in a snarl.

“I’ve got eyes and ears everywhere,” Buggy broadened his grin, laughing at the cruel in-joke he had with himself at the knowledge that his small ear was currently tucked within the bedsheets resting beneath the pillow you were currently sleeping against.

Arlong joined him in his laughter before promptly replacing the musky hessian sack over Buggy’s head before using a small blade to successfully carve his head from his body. Buggy shrieked slightly in surprise as his body fell against the floor with his hands continuing to be restrained behind his back.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Buggy protested as his body was separated from his head, “what is the big idea?!”

The echo of Arlong’s laughter continued to resound within the canvas walls of the circus tent.

“I don’t require all of you,” he growled with an audible smirk, “devil-fruit user.”

“No, no, no, but I need all of me,” Buggy protested as his head began to sway within the dirty bag, “at least the fun parts!”

Arlong growled again, thrusting the bag containing Buggy’s speaking decapitated head into the arms of Kuroobi as he turned to exit the tent and make his way towards the straw-hat pirates.

“Bring the body,” Arlong directed to another member of his troop which promptly hoisted Buggy’s restrained form into the air and sauntered slowly behind Arlong.

Buggy gulped, swallowing down his neck as he came to terms with the fact that once he was brought before you again; he would not in fact be able to perform any of the beautiful moments he intended to share with you. He would just be an unnerving decapitated head, powerless to enact any of his desires as his body would not be joining him. He hoped he was still able to woo his queen without being able to humble all of himself to fall before her.

Part 7

Tag List:

@thesadvampire @a-phan-of-youtube

[travelingthief]

Lord Hephaestus Devotional Acts and Offerings

Learn about:

Volcanoes

Fire safety

Disability rights

The ADA (and how it could be improved)

Ableism and stigma

Blacksmithing

Forges

Devotional Acts

God of fire & volcanoes:

Woodburning (art form)

Fire scrying

Have a bonfire

Paper mache volcanoes

Burn a candle

(Learn how to) Tend a fire/woodstove/hearth

God of blacksmithing, metalworking, and crafts:

Jewelry making

Wood carving

Wire working

Making chainmail

Leatherworking

Car maintenance 

Have a good toolkit

Welding

Handyman maintenance

Robotics

Repair clothing

Carry a multitool 

Learn a new skill

Glassblowing

Restore an old/damaged object

Build Legos/Lincoln Logs

Watch restoration videos

Code/build a website

Go to science fairs/museums

Invent something

God of/with disabilities:*

Mobility aid maintenance 

Disability advocacy

Plan out your spoons/energy

Customize mobility aids/braces/other aids

Create a medical ID

Have an emergency to-go bag

Make your bed into a comfy place to be

Buy things from people with disabilities’ wishlists (like accessibility items etc.)

Identify how many spoons different activities take and make a list

Offerings

God of fire/volcanoes:

Fire starters/pokers

Burned paper

Burned objects

Blowtorch

Lighters

Fire imagery

Volcanic rocks

Volcano imagery

Firewood

Ashes

Matches

Coal

God of blacksmithing, metalworking, and crafts:

Nails, bolts, screws

Tools/toolbox

Swords/shields/armor (imagery)

Cool metal objects

Anvil imagery

Bronze/copper/brass

Anything you’ve made

Blueprints

Tongs

Bellows

Springs

Spare parts

Batteries

Mementos of handy work you’ve done (like a light bulb you’ve changed)

Chains

Stones/bricks/clay

Laptops/tablets/phones

God of/with disability:

Mobility aids

Painkillers/medicines

“Emergency” foods (like electrolytes or candy bars)

X-ray/MRI images

Medical bracelets

Medical paperwork

Adaptive aids

* While Hephaestus was not traditionally seen as a god of disability, many followers in modern times revere him as one

[verity-hollow]

What am I doing? What do you mean? I give all my dolls a thorough deep clean and repair once every two years. It's no difference to me that you are a flesh and blood doll rather than brass and steel. I'll open you up and disassemble you piece by piece. Every last muscle fiber from your gastrocnemius to your subclavius will be detached, cleansed, and organized here on my table. Every tooth and tendon shall be sorted and restored.

Why do you look so worried? You'll be just fine, my tools are sterile, and I'll put you back together in perfect condition. You'll be better than you ever have been.

You may not even recognize yourself when I'm finished

[camels-pen]

a solution like clock repair

Summary: Nothing does the soul good like the ticking of a clock.

based on @modordracena's prompt "Soft and cozy body horror. (Yes borrowing that phrase from Rivers because it’s good and I always want more.)" and @jackdaw-sprite's prompt "Danny discovers some of his insides have become, or been replaced with clockwork." and @five-rivers' prompt "Horror, but soft and cozy with lots of sensation."

also inspired by jackdaw's The Horologist's Paradox

warning: vivisection/dissection, body horror, suicidal thoughts, gore

Ao3 Link

Chapter 1: grandfather clock

They drew the final dotted line up the boy’s stomach, slow and unhurried, smiling at the slight tremble in Daniel’s abdominal muscles with each consecutive mark. They used just enough pressure to press the ink onto skin while also consciously brushing their fingers against their canvas. Once they reached the bottom of the breastbone, they shifted the marker in their hand to leave their index finger free and reached up to poke the tip of a slightly tan nose set above quivering lips.

A giggle escaped the boy, but he quickly pursed his lips. Little irregular breaths huffed out of his nose as he tried to compose himself.

Clockwork smiled. They’d only told Daniel to stay still during the procedure, but it seemed the boy was determined to stay quiet as well. They thought it endearing how he attempted to hold in his laughter, despite Clockwork’s best efforts.

They capped their marker and set it aside. “Comfortable?” they asked. The boy responded with an affirmative hum. Clockwork fluffed his pillow and adjusted the blanket at his waist anyway.

His trembling subsided, so when Daniel spoke it was with a clear, stable voice. “So, what’s this for anyway? A fitting?”

“In a sense,” they said. “Just a little something to take your hurts away.”

“My hurts?”

“Yes.” Those pesky hurts that had always ailed him. Clockwork would take them all away, leave his body better, more durable. Not for the first time, they asked, “Daniel?”

“Hm?”

“Do you trust me?”

And Daniel, he smiled. “Of course I do.”

That last confirmation was all they needed.

Clockwork put a hand over the boy’s eyes. “It’s time for a rest, don’t you think?” They could feel the boy ready to protest—out of a feigned desire not to seem rude, out of a real desire to avoid his nightmares catching up with him—but Clockwork was patient. 

They waited until the boy’s excuses ran dry—until the comforting smells of watch oil and metal shavings, and the faint ticking drifting out through their chest started to slow his beating heart. Waited until finally, the boy’s eyes stayed closed.

They pulled their hand away from his eyes, dragging it up to comb through his white hair. One moment longer, to indulge themself on the imperfections littered throughout the precious child laid before them. 

They smiled fondly. Each one would be missed, but in the end, Daniel’s quality of existence was more important. They could always revisit this moment—or any of the previous ones—later, after they’d completed their work.

Clockwork pulled the edges of their cloak aside and opened the door in their chest. The brass pendulum swung soundlessly a moment before folding up to the top of the case with a soft click. They reached a hand inside, pulling out a bundle of tools. Brand new and set aside just for Daniel.

They closed the glass door, careful to lock it slowly so as not to wake their charge, and readjusted their cloak. They set a hand on Daniel’s cheek, gently rubbing their thumb in circles across his soft, vulnerable skin. “Thank you,” they murmured.

---

When Daniel appeared in their lair last night, quiet, curled in on himself, and partially transparent, Clockwork did as they always did.

They led the boy to the kitchen, set him down at the table and turned on the stove. Set down a pot. Put in just enough oil. Pulled some chicken thighs from the pantry. Patiently waited for the boy to speak. 

“Cutlet?” he murmured, voice hoarse and muffled from where his head laid in his arms.

“Soup.” Because the boy would awaken in his other home a few nights later, with a stubborn cough and a stuffed nose. And because he loved bowtie pasta. 

Silence returned as Clockwork seasoned the meat and set it down in the pot. The sound of sizzling oil and the smell of cooking chicken filled the air.

“Does it ever get easier? Being—” The sudden silence made Clockwork look back. Daniel shuddered. “Being—” His breath hitched. 

Clockwork moved to set a hand between the boy’s shoulders, rubbing at his back through his thick sweater. They mulled over words that told the truth and words that didn’t hurt. “It is… a unique experience,” they settled on.

“What if I don’t—” Daniel lifted his head, just high enough for his eyes to rise above his arm, a wet sheen across the delicate surfaces. “What if I don’t want to experience it?”

And Clockwork, for all that they’d planned and pondered and predicted, had hardly entertained the thought that Daniel might get rid of his hurts himself, at the expense of his existence.

It was an oversight, one that may have cost them their grandson had he not spoken until now.

Or maybe it was solely their selfishness, for avoiding using their powers so thoroughly. Wanting to cherish each moment they spent with the boy.

They must’ve waited too long to answer, Daniel had sat up higher in his chair, put on a facsimile of a smile, and waved a hand. His shoulders tensed as he became a bit more opaque. “Sorry to get all emo on you. I’m fine, just… tired trying to adjust to some new changes at home.” 

It stung a bit, the choice of words, but nonetheless they said, “Of course. It’s no trouble.” Wishing for all the Realms that they could make sure he never returned to that place.

They returned to the stove, pulling the chicken from the pot with a pair of tongs and filling it with chopped onions and garlic. 

“So, were there any new games at the arcade?”

There were, of course they knew there were, but Daniel humoured them anyway, talking about swift blue hedgehogs with two-tailed yellow foxes and a gluttonous being seeking pellets and avoiding ghosts at all costs.

Throughout the evening, Daniel struggled to stay opaque, always a little transparent no matter how much he tensed.

The warm meal in his belly had clearly helped, but by the time Clockwork had laid him down into bed, they could still see the palm of their glove through his chest.

---

Clockwork took to their project with absolute precision. They carefully peeled away the flimsy canvas, gently pinning down the edges and simply stared, in awe of all the unfamiliar pieces native to the human body.

They cracked open the delicate green-white shell and watched the strange balls of… flesh? Yes, flesh. They watched as each little inefficient process was carried out, paying no mind to the red-green liquid trickling down the pale skin. They would need to clean the workshop when they were done anyway.

They shifted aside a sac of air, one that inflated and deflated in an even rhythm with an identical sac nestled against the left side of the shell. They used their thumb to pull it away from a smaller sac, this one in a much less symmetrical shape and directly opposite the boy’s frigid ice core. Curiously, however, the small sac was warm. 

They hovered their other hand over the open bundle of tools placed on a side table. They hummed to themself as they dragged their hand back and forth. Daniel’s wires were different from their own, and much more different than anything they’d worked on before. They rubbed a rather large wire, feeling that same red-green liquid from earlier warm them up through the material of their glove. They felt how easily it gave to pressure, squishing it slightly between two digits. 

Perhaps, a case knife? A medium-duty seemed a bit much for a soft, hollow wire. Yes, that should work then. That should work nicely.

It was a simple matter of slicing through the casing, though the abundance of red-green liquid spilling out was quite bothersome. It just kept pouring and pouring, obscuring Clockwork’s vision of the other wires. They huffed, amused. Where did Daniel manage to keep it all?

They grabbed a small cloth, patting around the area. The liquid welled up again and they sighed. They may need to speed this up if the boy kept deciding to unconsciously tease them like this.

Clockwork smoothly cut through the smaller wires connecting the sac to the other balls of flesh, feeling the squishy, wet thing in their hand pulse and pulse and pulse as they held it down to keep from shifting too much. 

Once the last wire was cut, there was a faint exhale from Daniel’s lips, but when they looked up his face was still set in peaceful sleep. Daniel’s face was a bit paler than before and the identical air sacs were moving at a slower tempo. 

Clockwork peeled off a glove and set the back of their hand on his head. He didn’t feel any warmer and they had seen Daniel become ill during the following night—and how strange that discovery had been, that his hurts were sometimes inflicted by his own body in some misguided form of protection; that his very core, his core made of and with the power over ice would allow his body to reach such high temperatures. It was as amusing as it was baffling. 

Had his illness come early? Maybe it was the dry scent of metal filling the workshop? Or perhaps the tang of copper that had found its way under their tongue—the one Clockwork forgot to put away after dinner—was significantly affecting the boy. As he was now, Daniel might be more susceptible to the taste and find it unpleasant.

Or, Clockwork thought, perhaps the boy was still battling his hurts even in his dreams. The thought brought a wave of sadness with it and, despite the risk of losing their place, Clockwork set a hand on each cheek, rubbing them softly. Some of the liquid staining their glove smudged against Daniel’s pale cheek. 

They’d hoped after his fairly uneventful day, the boy would be able to avoid nightmares tonight, but it seemed that wouldn’t be the case. A few more moments passed like that, Clockwork simultaneously wanting to give comfort and being enamoured with the flimsy membrane Daniel called skin.

They should continue. The longer they delay, the more Daniel would continue to endure his hurts.

So, with a final indulgence, Clockwork leaned down and pressed a kiss to Daniel’s forehead. 

---

One more day, they thought as they gave Daniel their goodbye in the morning. One more day before they could set him free.

There would be a few miscommunications in the day ahead. The heart in the boy’s chest would likely suffer more hurts, but, comparatively, it would be an easy day. Nothing worthy of worrying thoughts plaguing his mind, hopefully.

It was hard, letting the boy go after their decision. 

It was hard, but it was necessary.

Daniel would return, as he always did, and this time Clockwork would be prepared to see things through.

They left their lair, dawning a human disguise and entering the Living Realm to search high and low for the perfect tools. They went to as many stores and tradeshows as they needed—time was no object, after all—choosing tools of the finest quality for this realm. Choosing tools only from this realm, the realm of Daniel’s birth, to give significance to Clockwork and a, hopefully, instinctual comfort to their grandson.

When they returned, they wiped down their worktable, set out a clean white blanket and one of the spare pillows from Daniel’s room, and sat themselves down with some tea, awaiting the young call of their name from the entrance.

---

Clockwork pulled the small sac of flesh from the boy’s chest, the piece absolutely covered in that warm liquid and still spilling more. With great care, they set it aside on a clean towel next to a set of tall glass jars. They would keep each of Daniel’s pieces as intact as they could, just in case the boy wanted to keep them as a memento. And if not, well, there was always room in the workshop and they wouldn’t mind a reminder of Daniel’s little oddities.

Daniel made a small sound in the back of his throat, his brows furrowing slightly and his core starting to ice over the nearby flesh sacs. Clockwork frowned, sympathetic to the boy’s suffering. They needed a quicker way of going about this.

Clockwork moulded their shape, splitting the singular pair of hands down the middle into two, then four, then five. Additional fingers grew in mirror to the ones in their gloves, emerging from the palm side of each first knuckle.

Ectoplasmic skin pulled tightly to the false bone and short claws grew from each nail. Perfect for precision work and opening tiny containers.

Clockwork hummed. It wasn’t often they did this, since it wasn’t particularly comfortable, but the more helping parts, the better. 

The glass door in their chest swung open on its own, the pendulum pausing mid swing. Instead of folding up, it stretched out, creating new joints with each click until it was long enough to reach Daniel and their tools. The brass bob hollowed itself out until only the edges remained, then came apart to resemble pincers.

No, no. That was certainly not enough.

More pendulums, more hands, they needed more.

The new limbs formed out of their chest, for ease of movement, growing one at a time, with the hands growing bone then skin then claws at a rapid pace.

And, goodness, they needed better senses than just two eyes and ears. Slits in their face appeared—eye sockets—followed by newly grown eyeballs. Human ears were much more noticeably flawed, and though their comfort to Daniel was invaluable, Clockwork needed to hear everything. 

Thus, all along their arms up to the elbow as well as every free bit of their torso emerged single-jointed feathered wings, about the size of Daniel’s palm. Each barb and aftershaft more efficiently tuned to listen for any slight vibration in the air, any hint that Daniel’s sounds changed.

They could’ve added more, there was still much of their head they hadn’t used, but—

But they wanted to keep it as it was; Daniel worked hard on their braid and they adored the boy’s desire to take care of them and make them feel loved.

---

 “Your hair’s really nice, y’know?” Daniel had said earlier in the night.

“Of course, I grew it myself.” Daniel snickered, though Clockwork didn’t understand why.

“I mean, like, it looks really soft. Probably easy to comb through too.” Daniel hummed, pencil tapping on the kitchen table. “Maybe you could tie it up or something.”

They didn’t see much point to that, considering they could move it at will. Curiously though, they’d learned over time that Daniel’s was only affected by the gravity of whatever area he was in. “I’m not one for ribbons,” they settled on.

“It doesn’t have to be ribbons. You could just use a regular hair tie.” He shoved a hand in his pocket, pulling out something resembling a small black rubber band. “Here.”

They stared at the item. Wondered how they would be able to relinquish control solely to their hands to maneuver the white strands. It wasn’t something they were familiar with. “I don’t believe I could manage to do it myself.” They pressed on Daniel’s curled fingers, pushing his hand back towards him. 

“I could do it for you,” he said, a sparkle in his eye. “I’ve done it for Jazz tons of times!”

The boy looked confident, sure in his skill. And how could Clockwork say anything except, “I would love that. Thank you, Daniel.”

He smiled. “Okay, sit down in front of me, with your back between my legs.” Daniel adjusted his chair to face out from the table and Clockwork did as he instructed, curling their tail into a cushion underneath them. He set his hand atop their head. “Do you want me to braid it too? I’m really good at that.”

“I’ve never had my hair braided before,” they said. 

“It’ll look good, I promise.” The unwavering determination in his voice piqued their interest.

“Go ahead, then.”

They spent the next… however long it’d been, with Daniel running his fingers through their hair. Playing with it at first, they thought, but then splitting it into sections and doing something with them just out of their view. Every so often, Daniel’s fingers would brush through different spots on the sides of their head, grasping smaller strands and scratching slightly at their scalp. 

It was a new sensation for Clockwork, one they hadn’t been expecting to feel, yet wondering how they ever existed before experiencing these small pleasurable actions. Were it not for the restrictions on their powers, they would scour their future selves’ memories for any kind of repeat of this event. To say they ‘loved’ the feeling would be a large understatement.

“Oh,”—Daniel said, surprised—“you really like it that much, huh?”

Clockwork thought they’d hummed a question, but they couldn’t be sure.

Daniel giggled. “You’re purring.” Were they? Clockwork could hardly tell, but they could feel vibrations running through their body and a rumbling sound emanating from somewhere.

It didn’t take long after that for Daniel to finish, much to Clockwork’s dismay. “All done. I don’t have a mirror on me, but you have a bunch.” They conjured up a mirror in front of them.

Their eyes widened. Across their left shoulder sat a long white braid tied at the end with the little black band. It looked… good. 

“Thank you, Daniel.”

“Hey, no need for that. I did it ‘cause I love you and I wanted to show it.”

It was amusing really, that Daniel chose tonight of all nights to gift Clockwork this service. They anticipated returning the favour.

Daniel yawned. Perfect timing. 

Clockwork floated up, a smile on their face as they scooped up the boy in their arms. “Aww, Grampa, I’ve still got homework!”

“I’m not taking you to your room.” Yet.

Daniel stopped his squirming. “You’re not?”

“I’d like to do something for you, if that’s alright.”

Daniel tilted his head. “So then, where are we going?”

“My workshop.”

---

They pulled open a few of their drawers, using a spare limb to pull out gears and springs and watch hands painted a stark light blue. They’d nearly finished emptying Daniel’s torso, careful not to touch the young core, and occupied jars lined up along the shelves. 

It wouldn’t be long now. And were Daniel to ever ask what led them to act, they’d had plenty of time to think through words that didn’t hurt and words that told the truth.

---

At the crossroads between two doors, Clockwork paused. “Daniel?” The boy hummed, fighting off another yawn. “Do you trust me to have your best interests in mind?”

---

With a soft click, they closed Daniel’s new door. 

It was simple, really.

They came to a choice—one they’d made many times over. 

This time, however, Clockwork made a different choice.

---

“‘Course,” Daniel said, a lopsided smile on his lips and a head laying heavily on Clockwork’s chest. “You’d never hurt me.”

[mrsalwayswrite]

What Words Can't Say - Chapter 2

A/N: Here we finally meet more of the 100th!

Warnings: not much

Words: 2800

Series Masterlist // Next chapter

June 1943

Abby absent-mindedly listened as Ken talked with the two local boys that had become regular visitors to the ground crew. Unlike some of the other men, she liked the energy and joy they brought with them - always asking questions and telling various stories. It was a bright spot in the bleak days. 

The boys stood off to the side, as Ken repaired a carburetor, avidly watching and asking questions as if they were to be tested afterwards. She paused to watch her cousin, how he interacted and gave the boys all the attention he could while focusing on his work. Instead of wearing his usual leather tool belt around his waist, he let the older of the two boys wear it. So when he needed a new tool, he would ask for it, teaching them about the various tools but also letting them feel involved in a safe way. 

A pang of sadness hit her as she watched. In reality, her cousin was only about ten years older than these kids. In a perfect world, he should be transitioning out of his own boyhood, just stepping into the shallow waters of adulthood. Instead he had to leave behind any childishness and become a responsible, mature man much too young. At the young age of nineteen and the chief flight mechanic was an astounding feat, yet he thrived and almost immediately earned the respect of those around him. He had always been good with his hands, even back home on the farm. Any machine seemed to whisper to him, and with only a look, he knew how to fix it. Somehow that ability followed him to England and the forts whispered their own problems, knowing he could hear them. 

Thorpe Abbotts was lucky to have him and thankfully the Brass knew it. 

With a smile, she turned back to her own task. She stood in front of Wild Cargo, going down the checklist and ticking off everything she had checked so far. While it was not wholly necessary for her to double check what the others had done, she felt better doing it. It might be a little thing, but she liked feeling like she did everything possible to make sure those forts under her care were ready to fly without issue. She hated when they had to turn around mid-flight due to mechanical issues. 

A nearby commotion had her swiveling her head to the side to see Major Egan along with two other pilots walking up to Ken. From what she could hear, it sounded like Egan was introducing Ken to his men. A wise decision. Some pilots overlooked the ground crew, dismissing them, since they never engaged with the enemy directly, while most appreciated the ground crew's efforts. From the start, the new Major Egan had been one of the latter, making sure to introduce himself to everyone and talk up his own Bomb Group. It was not uncommon anymore for Major Egan to randomly show up on the hardstands in the quiet times, with a bottle of stolen whiskey (although he never admitted he took it from the Officer's Club) and would share it with whoever was interested. 

And then the 100th Bomb Group arrived with the subtlety of fireworks on the Fourth of July.

Over the past week, since their arrival, Thorpe Abbotts had been in an uproar. The replacements were young and wild with energy, ready to test their skills and finally get up in the air. The place felt like an overturned ant hill. A couple of practice runs had happened but mostly the men were waiting…and bored pilots always caused trouble. Thankfully the Majors seemed to have a leash on the potential chaos and most of it only leaked out in silly games and wild nights of dancing and drinking in the Officer's Club. 

The women of the airbase certainly appreciated the fresh meat of the replacements. It was all they could talk about back in the hut. Abby never involved herself in those conversations. She was here to work, not flirt with pilots. And most certainly, not grow any attachments to any of them. She pitied the women who did, the few who claimed they were in love. It was one thing to have a fling with a handsome soldier but another to talk of more. She had witnessed too many of the nurses with broken hearts when those men never returned from a mission. 

“AND THAT OVER THERE IS SLUGGER!” 

Abby glanced over at the call of her nickname from the loudmouth Major Egan. She waved her hand casually, an acknowledgement of sorts before focusing back on her checklist. 

Footsteps on the hardstand had her glancing up again, a jolt of surprise that it was one of the new guys approaching. The first thought that crossed her mind was that he was too pretty for a pilot. The messy blond hair with that thick strand over his forehead, just begging for fingers to run through it. Those brilliant blue eyes that were intense yet reserved. He had a boyishness about his look but it only enhanced his attractiveness instead of making him seem young. Plus with a figure that was lean and muscular, he looked like he spent days on the dance floor. 

Oh, the ladies were going to love him. 

“How's she looking, ma'am?”

The raspy drawl that emerged from this new major was unexpected, and so was the tingle it shot down her spine. She swallowed thickly and shoved the feeling away. She could acknowledge he was a pretty flyboy but that was as far as it allowed to go. 

She followed the major's gaze towards the fort above them. “She's doing good. Just doing the final check. The only thing I noticed was the fuel pressure gauge was off but I adjusted it. She should be good to go for your next mission.”

Not removing his gaze from Wild Cargo, he smiled. “Yeah, not sure those mechanics in Greenland paid much attention to the details. They wanted us out of there.”

“Can't imagine why.”

Now his gaze slid over to her, that easy smile still in place. “Thank you for fixing her up.”

Abby immediately went to dismiss the thanks like her usual response but something about this pilot in front of her, the genuineness of his statement and the sincerity in his eyes made her swallow her typical response. 

“You're welcome. Try to keep her in one piece for me.”

The man chuckled, shoving his hands in his flight jacket. “I'll try my best, ma'am.”

They shared a smile, their gazes connecting for several moments, as if magnetized and unable to draw away. She could feel a blush stain her cheeks, most likely making her few freckles stand out on her skin. The corners of his smile relaxed, his blue eyes softened with each passing moment, transforming from a gaze that pierced in intensity to a gentle warmth. Staring at him, she wondered if this is how flowers felt as they turned their faces towards the sun on a cool day. 

“BUCKKKK!” 

Their gazes unlatched at the shout, her's dropping to the ground. She blinked furiously, wondering what just happened, but unable to deny the butterflies fluttering in her belly. After a deep breath, she looked back up only to meet his again, a sheepish smile adorning his handsome face as he scratched the back of his neck. 

She wondered if he gave good hugs, he looked like he did. 

Nope. She was not going to think like that. 

Their attention diverted to Major Egan and the other unknown man as they approached. Egan casually tossed his arm over the blond's shoulder, pulling him close in a smooth action that appeared almost practiced with the ease used. 

“So, Buck, you've met Slugger, huh?” Egan said, that permanent smirk on his face as he glanced between his friend and the sole female mechanic. 

The man -Buck- rolled his eyes. “Not formally.”

“Alright, alright, let me introduce you.” Egan waved his arm like some conductor, his excitement bubbling over. “Gentlemen, this is Slugger, Kenny's cousin. Slugger, this handsome fella here is Buck Cleven,” he announced as he roughly smacked the chest of the man under his arm, “and that one is Curt Biddick.” He finished, gesturing to the man on his other side. 

“Hey! Why is he a ‘handsome fella’ and I'm just ‘Curt’?” The New York accent was thick as the slightly shorter man spoke but the teasing was obvious as he shoved Egan. “I'm just as handsome!”

“Look at this face!” Egan squeezed Cleven's cheeks. “He could make angels cry with how pretty he is.”

“Uh huh, sure. See if I'm nice to you again.”

“Ah, don't be like that, Curt. You know you're still my favorite little spoon.”

“We both know I'm the big spoon! You gotta stop lying to everyone about that.” 

Abby was enjoying the teasing far more than she probably should have. It was obvious the closeness and friendship between the three men. 

“So why do they call you ‘Slugger’? Are you into baseball?” Biddick asked, turning the group's attention back to her. 

“Oh no!” Egan spoke before Abby could. “This little lady right here, as I heard it, well some RAF shithead was bothering her. She was working on something and he wouldn't take the hint she wasn't interested, right? Well, apparently he tried to touch her or something and she whipped around and knocked him in the family jewels with the wrench she was holding. Now…after that, the poor guy is bent over, puking his guts out, but instead of taking pity on the poor bastard, she drops the wrench and gives him an uppercut to the jaw that knocks him flat on his back and unconscious. Medics have to come get his ass.” Egan winked at her. “That's why she's called ‘Slugger’. At least that's the story I heard.”

“That really what happened?” Biddick demanded, clearly reassessing her after hearing his friend's story. 

She shrugged. It was not one of her proudest moments and she hated how quickly the story circulated around the small airbase. At least it did keep any other pilots from attempting the same action. “He shouldn't have grabbed my ass.”

“She bunks with the nurses.” Egan stated, followed by a wicked smirk crossing his face. “Speaking of which…”

“No, Major Egan, I'm not getting Charlotte's undergarments for you.”

“What?” Biddick sputtered. 

With a long-suffering sigh, Cleven stared up at the sky as if petitioning for patience. 

Egan pointed a finger at her. “First, call me ‘Bucky’. Secondly, that was ONE time and I lost a bet because of you!” 

“You want her drawers, you get them yourself.” She muttered. 

“I'm trying…she isn't having it.” 

“Sounds like a smart girl.”

“You wound me, sweetheart.” Egan mock clutched at his heart with a wide-eyed innocence that no one believed. 

Biddick laughed. “I think she's got you figured out, Bucky.”

“Hey! What's this? Tease Bucky day or something?” Egan unwound himself from his friend and pushed Biddick.  

“That would be everyday.” Cleven drawled, shooting Abby a wink. 

“Oh I see, come here–” Egan threw a mock punch at the blond, who easily sidestepped and responded with his own swing. Soon enough they were grappling, taunting one another and laughing, right there on the hardstand.  

“Are they always like this?” Abby asked Biddick who was heckling from the sidelines. 

“You get used to it.”

She shook her head and stepped away, resuming her task. If the men wanted to act like schoolboys, she was not going to stop them but she was not about to waste her day on them either. After this checklist, she had two other forts to look over before sundown. She hated working in the dark. 

“See ya, Slugger!” 

Abby looked over from staring at engine number four, having heard Biddick's call. With a smile, she lazily waved to the three men who seemed to finally be leaving. Her hazel eyes caught the blues of Cleven, holding for a moment longer than they should have. His eyes crinkled as he smiled at her before turning and following his friends. 

Quickly she spun back around, turning her face upward to the engines, willing the butterflies to fade in her stomach. She did not have time for flyboys. She was only here to fix their forts and send them off to fight the Nazis…

…But that boy was just too damn pretty. 

*****

Two days later, the boys of the 100th Bomb Group had their first mission flying over Germany. 

Abby stood to the side, watching the men load up in the various forts. The ground crew and herself had done everything possible to make sure the forts were working perfectly, the bombs were loaded, bullets for the gunners and enough fuel for their flight to the target and the return. 

Now it was up to the pilots to see it through. 

As she surveyed the hardstands, tugging on her faithful necklace to keep her hands busy, it took all of her meager energy left to suppress the yawn crawling up her throat. The past twenty-four hours were a whirlwind of chaos in making sure all the forts were ready. Mindful of the oil streaked across her hands from preparing the landing gears, she carefully tried to rub the encroaching sleep from her eyes. 

When she opened her eyes, she rapidly blinked at the scene unfolding in front of her, certain some oil had managed to get into her eyes and now she was hallucinating. That was the only explanation for Major Cleven to be walking in her direction. 

As the men unloaded off the trucks, she noticed him and his crew heading to Wild Cargo. They dropped their bags by the wheels, a few standing around waiting while others walked over to neighboring hardstands to shoot the shit until it was time to load up. 

The blond Major looked handsome in his service cap and flight jacket, a true pilot in every sense of the word, with hands tucked in his jacket pockets and a confidence in his stride. 

Abby had no idea why he would be approaching her. She most likely appeared a mess, with bags under her eyes and grease on her face from where she could feel it having hardened on her cheek but she did not have time to clean it up yet. Her coveralls were filthy, her hair was sweat-matted, but thankfully still tucked in its bun and under her red handkerchief. 

He stopped a pace away from her and nodded towards the fort he would be flying today. “How's she looking, ma'am?” 

Wariness disappated like smoke and was replaced by amusement as the memory of their first conversation came to mind. She tried to act serious but her smile peeked through the edges, betraying her humor. “She's looking good. Do try to keep her that way, please?”

“I'll do my best.” He smiled in return. 

A hushed silence fell between them, almost drowning out the cacophony of chaos around them. She was unsure why he was still standing there near her, his gaze having slid over to a group of men chatting under one of the forts. Truly, she had no understanding why he approached her in the first place. She was not someone important, just a simple mechanic. 

Finally, she spoke, unable to stand the confusing silence. “Good luck, sir.” 

“Thank you, ma'am.” Cleven nodded then turned on his heel and headed towards Wild Cargo, tossing his bag inside before slipping in himself and disappearing. 

At the first sound of engines starting up, Abigail moved off the tarmac and to the side greens, standing with the other ground crew. Ken was further down, leaning against a jeep and tapping his fingers repetitively against his thigh. A truly disconcerting image. If her cousin was nervous about something, it was not a minor thing. She made a mental note to talk to him once the forts disappeared and everyone headed out. 

Tension hung over the airfield like an oppressive fog as one by one the forts took to the sky and onward to their target. The unspoken question of how many would return salted the lips of all watching but no one dared acknowledge it. Not yet. 

With the last fort disappearing from sight, the bystanders began to finally move. 

The female mechanic started to move towards Ken but the sight of Major Egan made her pause. Everyone else had left the observation deck at the Tower except for him. His hands gripped the railing and his gaze continued to be locked on where his men had just vanished. She was too far away to discern his expression but she wondered if he told his men what it's like up there or kept silent. 

Sticking her hands in the pockets of her coveralls, she turned and headed towards her cousin. Either way, they would know what it is really like up there after today. 

Tag List: @beebeechaos

[weirdandnerdyinlasvegas]

Dream House

Summary: Sometimes it is the smallest thing that matters.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Reader

Word Count: 700 (keepin' it short and sweet)

No physical description of reader. Reader is a teacher. Classroom chaos mentioned in passing. Lots of fluff. This is my second attempt at any sort of fic. I'm just proud I finished something. Go me!

The sky had held the promise of snow most of the day. The clouds were gray and thick, covering the entire sky. A wet, cold chill swirled around your legs, and you rushed to the truck to go home. Frankie had insisted that you take his truck to work that morning, worried that snow might start before you were home. Pulling carefully out of the parking lot at work, you head towards the home you and Frankie shared.

Just before you had been married, Frankie rushed into the too-small kitchen of your too-small apartment out of breath with excitement.

“It’s for sale,” he panted out.

Your eyes widened with disbelief. “Don’t tease, Francisco. It’s been a day. Tanner kept eating the playdough. Madison poured the glue all over the floor, then had a meltdown because there wasn’t any glue to put the snowflakes on her picture. And zero kids were listening during the morning meeting."

“Baby,” he gently cradles your face with both of his hands. “Baby, look at me. I drove past there on the way home from work, and there’s a sign. Out front. For sale. Look, I took a picture.” Frankie fumbled with his phone to show you the picture he had taken of the house. The house. THE house. A Victorian house on a quiet street that you had both fallen in love with on a walk through the neighborhood with Flynn, your Australian Shepherd. It was in need of a renovator's hand and a good landscaper, but the house still had an indescribable charm. It was on that walk that night, standing in front of this house, that you and Frankie started to dream about the future.

“It’s for sale." With shaking hands, you looked at the picture on Frankie’s phone. “I don’t know, Sweets. It's a bit more house than we need right now, and the renovations alone will be crazy." But you took one look at Frankie and knew that none of it mattered. It was your house, your home.

After you had closed on your dream house, it seemed like something new needed to be fixed or replaced every few weeks. That’s why, when you walked into the house to find Frankie leaning over the sink and his tool box on the counter, you assumed something else was going to need to be repaired. “Oh no, love. What broke now? Please tell me it wasn’t the faucet! I swear I installed it just like it showed on YouTube. I read the directions a million times."

Frankie chuckled. “No, no. This time, nothing broke. But I did install this.” He pointed to a thin brass hook sticking out from the wall just to the left of the window sill. Too low to hang a plant from and awkwardly placed on the stove for cooking utensils, you look at him confused.

“Remember when you were making cinnamon rolls and Nacho jumped up on the counter to sun himself in the window and almost knocked your wedding ring into the sink? And you almost had a heart attack?"

You nod your head slowly, remembering the lurching feeling in your stomach when your giant orange tiger cat hopped up onto the counter and then to the sill. Your ring fell into the sink and slowly circled the drain.

“I didn’t almost have a heart attack."

“Well, I almost did when you screamed like that. So I installed this little hook for you to hang your ring so Nacho doesn’t knock it down again. And I won’t have years taken off my life rushing down the not exactly safe stairs trying to make sure you weren’t being murdered in our kitchen."

You look at your husband with absolute adoration in your eyes. “Frankie,” you whispered as you threw your arms around his neck, peppering his face with kisses. “Thank you, baby. This is so thoughtful."

“Anything for you, my love. Oh, and before I forget, the other faucet you installed in the powder room? Leaked and flooded the whole bathroom. We're going to have to replace it... again."

There were a million other renovation projects to be done in the house, but the simple brass hook gleaming in the warm light of the kitchen was by far your favorite addition.

[quirkwizard]

Hello, Quirkwizard. I was wondering if you did a Quirk based around the metal Brass before?

I see it working as a Transformation type that Quirk allows the user to make various wires made out of various shades of brass from their hands. These can spread outward a few feet from the user. The brass is highly flexible and under the user's control, letting the user bind and shape it into various hand-held items, such as something as simple as a bowl to more complex tools like a trumpet. The antibacterial and anti-degrading properties of the brass are more noticeable, making it especially useful in cleaning and preventing any kind of degradation of materials. The user can painlessly remove the wires or their creations. This gives the user a good mix of support and utility options, capable of making a variety of tools from their brass. They can work to make repairs, make specific keys to locks, help stitch up allies' wounds, counteract corrosive abilities, or simply use them to make brass pieces of art. Though the weak, flexible nature and the various physical weaknesses of the material do make it useless in any kind of combat role. The user has a limited amount of brass to work with, slowly regenerating over hours if it is lost or removed. A possible name for the Quirk could be "Brass Tax".

[slaashys-oc-crypt]

Milo Vess + bugs hcs

Most of his bug enclosures were all aquariums and containers bought second-hand in thrift stores or things he's found in people's trash driving by. 

He’ll save bigger jars from his food for smaller insects.

The second bedroom in his house has become his “bug room” where he keeps them all.

Theres stacks of random jars and mismatched sized aquariums.

He'll always make each enclosure unique. For example, One of his beetle enclosures has a cat skull in it that he found in the woods. A spider enclosure has a vintage brass photo frame that the spider has made its web in.

One of his favorites is a beautiful black widow spider whos web he almost crawled through while crawling under the front porch for some repairs.

Another is a praying mantis he found sitting on one of the perennial flowers that sprouts under his living room window.

Spiders fascinate him the most. He's loved them ever since he was a child.

His dad bought him a spider encyclopedia not long before he died.

When living with his aunt, he would steal her old jars she threw out and would make mini spider enclosures that he kept under his bed.

When she found them, she smashed them all in the driveway and made him clean it up. He only kept one or two after that and hid them away better.

He loves to feed his spiders. He'll put mealworms in their webs and watch in amazement how each one preps and eats their prey.

His sketchbook is filled with sketches of spiders and their webs.

As a teen, Milo would sneak out of his aunts house at night to have a smoke in the woods behind her house. Sometimes spiders would decend from the trees and he would set his hand under for them to drop onto. He would watch as they crawled around on him and blow smoke in the opposite direction.

Milo once found a massive Orb Weaver spider in the cemeteries tool shed. It made its home in the small window the shed had. As much as he would like too, he wishes he could take it home. Instead he brings feeder bugs from home to drop into its web.

[blueiscoool]

The Roman 19th Legion Identified at Teutoburg Battle Site that shook Rome in AD9

Researchers in Germany have identified the metallurgic signature of the Roman 19th Legion in artifacts recovered from the Battle of Teutoburg Forest in Kalkriese, Germany, using a new chemical analysis method.

The Roman defeat by Germanic tribes at the Battle of Teutoburg Forest in AD9 was such a disaster that it sent shockwaves throughout the empire. Three legions, totaling up to 20,000 men, were lost.

Now scientists used chemical analysis methods to track down the destroyed legions in Kalkriese and were able to identify the 19th Legion in Kalkriese.

The characteristic composition of trace elements in an artifact can be identified by mass spectrometer analysis of non-ferrous metals like bronze and brass.  Because each Roman legion had its own blacksmiths who worked constantly on the campaign to repair and replace weapons and equipment, even legions that fought together had a distinct chemical signature in their metals.

When dating and identifying complex battlefield remains like those at Kalkriese, the fact that this method can be used to conclusively link an object to a specific legion is a major archaeological breakthrough.

The discovery of coins and slingshot ammunition in a field in northeastern Germany in 1987 by Tony Clunn, a British army officer and amateur archaeologist, fueled speculation that the battle site had been discovered. However, for decades it was only a plausible theory.

Since then, Kalkriese has unearthed more than 7,000 artifacts, ranging from complete horse bridle fittings to everyday items to the oldest set of Roman plate armor ever discovered in Germany. Undoubtedly, a significant Roman battle from the first century took place there, but it took decades for the Teutoburg battlefield to be identified, and there is still some scholarly disagreement on the matter. For instance, it might have been a battle that happened during Germanicus’ campaign six years later. The archaeological finds cannot be dated within a six-year range by any scientific dating method available to us.

Let’s introduce the metallurgic signature. 550 samples were taken for the project from non-ferrous metal artifacts found at Kalkriese.

The metals used for repairs in the camp forges contain trace elements in such small amounts that the Roman forges did not notice them, and they were not intentionally manipulated. These elements entered the metals through the original ores, various additives used during processing, and tool adhesions. On-site processing has caused the legions to develop a distinct pattern in the composition of trace elements over time.

“In this way, we can allocate a legion-specific metallurgical fingerprint to the legions, for which we know the camp locations at which they were stationed,” German Mining Museum Bochum researcher Annika Diekmann continues. Based on this, all Roman non-ferrous metals from Kalkriese were sampled and compared with non-ferrous metals from numerous Roman locations where it is known from written records which legions were stationed here.

After the analysis is complete, it is evident that the 19th Legion in particular, which perished with Varus and was stationed in Dangstetten in southern Germany years earlier, stands out from the other legions, which were only deployed later in Germany in the Roman vengeance campaigns. This is based on the composition of the trace elements.

“When comparing the finds from Kalkriese with the finds from the other sites, we find that the finds from Dangstetten and Kalkriese show significant similarities. The finds that come from legion sites whose legions did not perish in the Varus Battle, on the other hand, differ significantly from the finds from Kalkriese and thus show significant differences to the finds from Kalkriese.

[lithiumbot]

I haven’t been drawing very much recently, because I have been woodworking! I work with a group that upcycles pianos. We pick up old pianos, disassemble them (carefully!) and make new things from the antique wood. A lot of these pianos are 100-200 years old, and the people who are getting rid of them didn’t want them to go to a landfill. 

The materials are amazing! they are often made of fine woods like mahogany and black walnut, birds-eye maple or Brazilian rosewood. The veneer and finish on the wood is great too, beautiful and textured with age. 

The craftsmanship is notable as well, as we take them apart layer by layer you can see the skill and care that went into every piece. There are often handwritten notes and dates left by previous tuners and piano repair technicians. We find ticket stubs to school recitals, playbills, music sheets, and other bits that fell between the cracks. 

After the piano is taken apart, the real work begins, we build the parts into something new, and give the piano new life. 

One of our members is an instrument maker, and turns the piano wood into guitars (2nd picture), dulcimers, and banjos. Another member takes the carved front-pieces and makes hope-chests (third picture) and cabinets. 

Me, I tend to make things out of the leftover bits. I made the jewelry box pictured up top from a key-cover, integrating the locking mechanism and the brass hinge from the same piano. I have been using the backposts to make tool-handles and restore old axes, sledges and mauls. The pin-blocks have been repurposed as knife blocks and cutting boards. 

In this way we try to find a use for every piece of the piano. We started this project as a way to keep these fine antiques out of the dump, but now people bring them to us specifically to have something new made from something old. 

We’ve made so much more than what I showed you here, if there is enough interest maybe i can do a series of posts about the different pianos and the things we made out of them.

[notwhelmedyet]

2023 Craft Roundup

I did this last year and I'm gonna do it again! Mostly because I have a terrible memory and if I don't make lists I end up going "dunno, did I make anything in 2023?" I did, in fact, make several things. Even if the writing muses did not return to me this year, RIP.

January: Mitten Repair Project (aka Shitty Faux Leather Can Go Die Actually)

patched my warmest mittens with new leather palms and thumbs after the cheap faux leather they came with completely disintegrated

February: finished the mushroom slippers!

I'd done about 85% of the needle felt decorations on these mushroom slippers years ago and then never finished them. BUT NOW THEY'RE FINISHED

April - May: The SNAILMP

July: Reusable grocery bags and butch grocery bag holster

Definitely the craft I've made this year that I've gotten the most use out of. I love my bag holster, no more shoving bags in my pockets or wishing i had a purse with me

September: A Stick (an adapter for brass heated foiling tools so I can use them without the awkward electric heat pen)

very awkward amateur woodworking project but gosh darn it, it works and I managed to buy the perfect adapter to fit those screw fittings

December: Miscellaneous gifts

I made a few space-themed sewing supplies for a friend who's been thinking of getting into quilting (of which I am most proud of the wearable needle minder and the marbled paper mache handled seam ripper) as well as a few single section notebooks for another friend for our winter gift exchange.

HONORABLE MENTIONS

Only Sorta a Craft Project:

In January-February I made a whole host of braille practice flashcards (and then fell off the braille practice wagon, I'll get back to it)

In June-September I did a bunch of sketching as well as doing hundreds of drawing warmups. I didn't do any finished pieces but I did sketch a bunch of cute cats. also need to get back to this (it's a trend in my life)

In September-November I did a lot of uncial calligraphy practice for my bookbinding project. I've also done miscellaneous things in uncial for fun since then (including a "Please stop watering my plants" sign for work since some helpful soul keeps trying to drown them).

Not Finished:

September-Now I have been working on binding Ealcynn's A Fire Shall Be Woken fanfic series. It is taking me 10,000 years, because I am very slow and keep experimenting with new techniques. It'll get done. Eventually! Hopefully.

[hawkepockets]

i’m finally getting to those tav asks. thanks everyone who sent one!! the lovely @dragonologist-phd asked for #1, which includes birthplace & family, and i Got To Thinking in too much detail, much too much detail by far, too detailed, so here’s a separate post for just those elements.

jove grew up in baldur’s gate. they did have a clan, but it wasn’t a biological family unit—it was an all dragonborn craftsmen’s guild! most members were copper, brass, red or gold dragonborn who used their fire or acid breath to manipulate metal and glass. jove wasn’t born with that skill. their mother was a vagabond blue dragonborn, and although jove inherited their father’s brassy scales, they also manifested their mother’s electrical breath type, which wasn’t of any use in metalworking. the clan was warm to insiders but highly competitive and proud of their handiwork, and judged members’ worth almost solely by what they could craft. jove knew they’d be fed and cared for, but only tolerated, unless they excelled at a trade.

as a teenager, jove struck up a friendship with ritika estis, a much older gold dwarf metallurgist from a rival crafting guild. estis taught jove how to use a dwarven forge to work with metal, glass, and jewels using tools instead of relying on naturally heatproof hands and melting breath. estis was tough on jove, working them hard and giving praise sparingly, but every compliment meant the world to the young dragonborn. she built up their confidence to apply for a jeweler’s apprenticeship with their clan.

but estis also noticed that despite their dogged devotion to learning their father’s trade, jove was much more moved by folk songs and carved wood than any bauble made for a baldurian noble. jewelrymaking made them focus and sweat; music made them tap their foot, twitch their tail, and part their lips to try to taste it. it was a different kind of love. the day jove won their jeweling apprenticeship, estis went to them and, in a rare moment of open encouragement, urged them to forget the forge and learn to make music and instruments instead.

jove took up a secret, second apprenticeship with a human master luthier, learning to craft and repair string instruments and, tentatively, how to play the fiddle with their big, clawed hands. when the clan found out, jove was pressured to choose one trade and master it, instead of burning themself out to fail at both. with the self-assurance they’d learned from estis, jove committed to making instruments. many of their older clanmates were deeply embittered toward ritika and her guild for molding a promising young metalworker just to turn them against the family trade, but jove was happy.

after years of practice under the luthier, jove achieved the rank of journeyman and started to make gold for their clan selling handcrafted string instruments and repair services. they were much better at working on instruments than playing them, but had achieved enough skill on the fiddle to play gigs at local taverns and make passersby smile at them on festival days. they were more than content, and would have lived happily as an amateur musician and aspiring master luthier in the gate for the rest of their days.

and then came the bar fight.

fights weren’t that unusual for the cheaper inns and alehouses jove played music at, but this particular brawl started with a human woman harrassing a tiefling bachelor party, talking loudly about how they brought crime and sour luck on baldur’s gate, and shouldn’t be allowed to marry lest their offspring overrun the city. when she implied they killed and ate human children, one of the prouder and drunker tieflings took a swing at the woman. she reacted as though she’d been attacked, unprovoked, by the whole party, and other non-tieflings sprung to her defense. within seconds, the taproom turned into a battlefield, and within minutes all the celebrating tieflings were senseless on the floor. when the guards arrived, it was the tieflings who were arrested for disturbing the peace.

jove watched the whole thing, their bow sliding uselessly off the strings, unsure what they could do short of belching out a cone of lightning that would hit attackers, tieflings, and bystanders indiscriminately—so they did nothing.

when they told their master what happened, he was unsympathetic to the tieflings, saying that the other humans had taken things too far but that they hadn’t been wrong about the “foulbloods.”

jove got up before sunrise, stole their favorite of the violins they’d crafted and a simple glaive from estis’s forge (she would have given it freely if they’d woken her to ask, but jove couldn’t risk talking to her—if estis was as callous about the tieflings as their other mentor had been, it would break their faith completely), and left baldur’s gate. they’ve been roving the sword coast ever since, a vagabond like their mother, determined to protect strangers’ right to live and celebrate life loudly, especially those from “monstrous” races. this became the foundation of their paladin’s oath.

they’ve gotten rusty on the fiddle. but on the night of celebrating peace between the druids and tieflings, they’re compelled to play again.

[ladyshivs]

Actually I do have a few additional questions about Sal, if it's ok? ^^ How does he feel about his tattoos? The face scars - what's the story behind them? What is his stance on the Puppet business? Who's his Puppet? How is he getting along with other Rangers?

Oooh! Thank you! It's very okay, I love to talk about my steps!

Sal is very self conscious about his tattoos. He doesn't find them particularly ugly, but its how blatantly othering they are that bothers him. In his opinion, regenes are normal human beings. They may have been grown in a lab, but they're still human. Still people. And the blue grey skin and tattoos are all set dressing, designed to make them seem inhuman, to seem unnatural. They're an acute reminder that even though he thinks of himself as human, the rest of the world will judge him based on these markings, and find him subhuman because of them.

His facial scars are from the window during heartbreak! He went out face first and had to have some plastic repairs to his cheek because of it. The lip scar is from a fight where he got caught on the mouth with a pair of brass knuckles--it knocked a tooth out in the process as well.

His puppet is another OC that I reskinned, Avery Serpas. The puppet is just a tool in his eyes. A dead body. Sal's got a fairly mid-level ruthlessness, but it gets a bump because he doesn't really care if the puppet gets hurt during the gala. Don't get him wrong, its a very useful thing to have in his back pocket, but it also one that he could replace if he was pressed to. He's not losing any sleep to guilt over possessing a nearly dead body to achieve his goals.

As for the rangers, he and Chen are both tacticians, and they actually get a long surprisingly well for two people who can't seem to stop posturing and keeping their guards up. He likes Spoon and the chats that he's had with Chen haven't always ended terribly. He'd call him a friend, but it's still very tense. There's a lot still being hidden on both sides.

Herald is a plucky little thing, in Sal's eyes. A kid with a lot of potential that he agrees to train, enjoying the hero worship and the chance to plant some information and keep tabs on the rangers without putting too much spotlight on himself. He severely underestimates Daniel, something that he starts to catch on to during the rescue from the hospital when Daniel lifts him.

He caught Argent's dress on fire during the gala and now he has to focus to not get a boner when they fight on the bridge. She's lovely, she's wildly dangerous. She thinks he's a cheater and only very much hates his schmoozing and sleazy jabs. But by the end of retribution, they've reached an wibbly level of respect for one another. He let her have the regenerator, largely because he fucked up with Dr. Mortum.

Or well. He exposed himself to Dr. Mortum. It didn't go as he planned, but he's sure he can smooth that over. He's sure of it.

And then there's Julia. And what can he say about her?

It's annoying as fuck that she didn't move on. That she won't move on. That she keeps clinging to this idea, this ghost, of who he was and who she wants him to be. That she thinks that a few drinks and cigars and kisses can bring that fake version of himself back from the dead. So she can tell herself that she never lost him in the first place. And he is, without pause or question, helplessly in love with her.

She's an asshole that needs to know when the fight is too big for her to handle and all he wants is to make her laugh. He wants to get her heart racing and make her feel young and invincible and he wants her respect and he wants her mouth and her hands and her control over him, looking down at him and knowing she could break him with a word. He wants to meet eyes across the room and share a knowing look before they both move in for a. Well.

Not a kill.