#skein & bones

[eventiderookery]

nothing but skein and bones

Venus is full of bones. Human. Vex. Eliksni. What will happen when a Ghost finds some that aren't quite like the rest? written for the One Last Wish Zine

Venus is full of bones. Human. Vex. Eliksni. 

A verdant graveyard that Skein needs to be the last place it looks for a Guardian. It can’t go back empty-handed. Can’t go back to the jokes that hit too close to bruise-tender insecurities, can’t go back to laughing along with them. It won’t go back until it can show them how wrong they all were. 

The landscape here is pocked with craters, but this one seems to loom up out of nowhere. Vegetation crawls out over its crumbling edges like it’s trying to escape. It’s not a very wide depression in the ground, nor very deep. There’s no metallic debris to be seen that could indicate its an impact from a ship or ketch. Any scorch marks have long since faded away, just faint branching fractals that fan outwards from the perfectly circular crater. 

 It’s all just… odd. 

read the rest on ao3

[thecryptidwizard]

Anyways. GAY YARN

[ashsomethingart]

Skein & Bones Creature Creator Character Logo v2.0 - Therian Variant Commissioned by Bones Adobe Photoshop CC2024 12 Hours

All art was created by me and is (C) Ash Something Art and Skein & Bones Creature Creator No AI was used in the creation of this work

[rosymiel]

sorry i’m in my toothless crochet grandma arc idk what the sims is

[whats-in-a-sentence]

Have you seen the ghost of Tom?

Round white bones with the flesh all gone!

O - O - O - O - O - O - O!

Wouldn't it be chilly with no skin on!

"Incarnations of Immortality: With a Tangled Skein" - Piers Anthony

[felassan]

The Flame Eternal

By Sylvia Feketekuty | Art by Albert Urmanov

Synopsis: "A pair of necromancers investigate what torments a distressed inhabitant of the Grand Necropolis."

"Thirty years ago, in 9:22 Dragon… “Well? You tore me away from an experiment for this, Volkarin.” The shorter necromancer caught a hissing monster of bone and dried gristle in a skein of light. A twist of her hand, and it was ripped apart. “What does the wretched thing want?” Emmrich Volkarin adjusted his collar pin. “Just a moment, Johanna.” “Fine.” Johanna Hezenkoss scowled at the skull cradled in Emmrich’s hand. “Anything to stop that howling.” The skull had started screaming, ceaselessly screaming, inside its niche in the Cobalt Ossuary of the Grand Necropolis. An attendant had noted it, informed the Mourn Watch, and a pair of necromancers had been dispatched. They came to a junction. Emmrich placed the shrilling skull on a plinth. “What insights on the dead it could—” “You already told me about your paper.” “Come now!” Emmrich turned. “What sort of passion drives one spirit above the rest? What tangle of thoughts and heart returned this soul?” “Mawkish drivel.” “You must admit it’s an interesting variation on possession!” The skull’s shrieks bounced through the corridor. “It’s only some petty spirit too weak to become a demon.” Johanna ducked under a collapsed lintel. Statues of corpses lined the passage. A flick of her hand, and a green bolt of light smashed into a lanky shape lurking at the end. The demon twisted up, wreathed in smoke, as another volley hit. It gnashed its teeth and collapsed into itself. “There. It should be safe for your corpse whispering.” Emmrich closed his eyes. Whispers came, and when he spoke, the air vibrated. “By breath and shadow. By endless night. Tell us what haunts you.” The skull’s sockets flared green. “Divided. Cold. Two graves where there should be one!” “Twaddle.” “Johanna!” Emmrich cleared his throat and turned back to the skull. “Tell me: what will grant you rest?” “Take this one… to sunken black walls… by silver flames…” The skull’s glow flickered, faded. It resumed its earsplitting shrieks. “You possess a grand talent, Volkarin.” Johanna gave the smallest inclination of her head. “And you’ve honed your command of sub-astral manifestation.” Emmrich beamed. “Why thank you.” “But what does this wailing nuisance want down in the Crescent Fane?” *** Emmrich leaned over a coffin ringed by bowls of silver fire. He placed the skull next to the body of an old woman, humbly dressed but crowned with white roses. The screaming stopped. “Mathilde…” “Your wife left gently, in her sleep, last midnight.” Emmrich smiled. “The records confirm she also wished to be interred together. You’ll not be parted again.” There was a sigh. Did the old woman’s mouth quirk, or was that the dancing flames? Johanna snorted. “All that fury, ending in another grave.” “Oh, I don’t know.” Emmrich ran a hand along the coffin’s snowy marble. “It would be rather fine to possess such an enduring affection. Besides, you did see this through.” “Someone had to ensure you weren’t beheaded while chattering with the dead.” “I am grateful for enduring friendships, as well.” “Bah!” They made their way back up the Grand Necropolis in companionable silence."

[source]

[asliceofzosan]

i'm thinking of sanji growing up with a pet cat at the baratie.

how sanji finds him hungry and cold and shivering on his doorstep. he's frighteningly thin, almost as if a single gust of wind could turn his bones to dust. a chill runs through sanji's spine as he picks up the little green and black kitten — something like a distant memory — of rationing out tiny portions and drying water skeins and the rumble rumble rumble of his stomach as it begs him for more food to eat. just one more crumb. maybe it would sate his hunger.

so he takes the little kitten in, nurses him back to health, and endures the scolding from zeff for bringing the little stray in. sanji gets his reparation by pretending not to see zeff bottle feed the kitten when he was too weak to stand. he doesn't try to hide his knowing smile when he and patty find zeff passed out in his office chair, the little kitten curled up on his lap as it took shallow breaths in his sleep.

sanji took to calling the kitten marimo. he never saw a green kitten before, and certainly one not as fluffy as him once he was regaining his strength. marimo was playful and mighty mischievous. just like every other cat, his life's mission was to rile sanji up with each vase knocked over and each cat tree he refuses to use in favor of the box it came in.

but sanji adored his little marimo.

he always made sure he was well fed and quenched. not a single day went by where marimo didn't have a bite to eat. it haunts his dreams still. when baby marimo was shaking so much in his hands, sanji was afraid he might break him if he moved too fast. now he was a fierce cat, always lazily wrapping himself around sanji's legs when he's waiting tables or doing prep work in the kitchen.

marimo pretends he's not protective. but he's bared his fangs at more people than sanji could count. carne's got the scars on his arms to prove it too. sometimes sanji would catch the little rascal with a small paring knife in his mouth to chase one of the poor line cooks with.

despite his chilly attitude towards him when others are around, at night marimo would already be curled up on sanji's pillow, purring and purring until his owner was sound asleep. sometimes sanji would pull marimo onto his lap and brush him while humming a sea shanty zeff taught him long ago. he cherishes these quiet moments with the once hungry little kitten.

he doesn't want to admit it out loud — and maybe he never will — but marimo gave him another reason for living everyday.

so when sanji found a naked green-haired man where marimo is supposed to be on his bed, it should be understandable that he kicked the guy straight into the wall, right?

"who?!?" sanji couldn't even finish his question, he was hysterical that a naked man was in his bedroom! he long dreamed for a beautiful woman on his bed ever since he hit puberty. this is not how he wanted this to go. not at all. the strange man thankfully got tangled in sanji's bedsheets (note to self: must wash and/or burn those sheets now) when sanji landed a mouton shot to his chest.

but most importantly...

where the fuck was his cat?!?

"i should have dressed first, huh?" the man says through a pained groan. sanji somehow found himself feeling sorry for him, but only for a split second, because he was back to glaring at the stranger as menacingly as he could. sanji watched him warily, trying his best not to stare at his bare chest.

"who are you and what have you done to my cat?"

the man decided then to open his eyes and sanji let out a small gasp.

gray eyes.

his marimo had gray eyes exactly that shade.

"you know, don't you?" the man says, not looking the least bit afraid even after sanji literally kicked him in the chest. sanji backed away when he stood up, the blanket still wrapped loosely around his frame. "you know who i am, cook."

"no i don't!" but even sanji could admit that his tone wavered with each step the man took towards him. "if this is some fucking prank, i'll kick your ass again!"

"careful, curly." the man smirks, baring razor sharp fangs. "cats like to scratch."

and within the blink of an eye, the man was gone. an indignant meow sounded from the pile of blankets at sanji's feet. without really thinking, sanji knelt down and lifted the blanket up. marimo laid there, limbs paws tucked up against his body, and licking one of his paws nonchalantly.

"please tell me i'm dreaming," sanji murmured, running a single hand through his hair. marimo just tilted his head at him, slinking out of the blanket fortress and onto sanji's lap. sanji looked down and saw marimo staring straight up at him, those same gray eyes he saw on the stranger boring holes into his soul. sanji couldn't bring himself to look away.

because something tells him that he might get a visit from the green haired man again very soon.

or maybe he never left.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

The River at Ascutney, 1942 Maxfield Parrish

* * * *

Every prayer seemed long to me at that age, and I was truly bone tired. I tried to keep my eyes closed, but after a while I had to look around a little. And this is something I remember very well. At first I thought I saw the sun setting in the east; I knew where east was, because the sun was just over the horizon when we got there that morning. Then I realized that what I saw was a full moon rising just as the sun was going down. Each of them was standing on its edge, with the most wonderful light between them. It seemed as if you could touch it, as if there were palpable currents of light passing back and forth, or as if there were great taut skeins of light suspended between them. I wanted my father to see it, but I knew I’d have to startle him out of his prayer, and I wanted to do it the best way, so I took his hand and kissed it. And then I said, “Look at the moon.” And he did. We just stood there until the sun was down and the moon was up. They seemed to float on the horizon for quite a long time, I suppose because they were both so bright you couldn’t get a clear look at them. And that grave, and my father and I, were exactly between them, which seemed amazing to me at the time, since I hadn’t given much thought to the nature of the horizon. My father said, “I would never have thought this place could be beautiful. I’m glad to know that.”

from "Gilead" by Marilynne Robinson

[days-until-burnout]

Ranchers (romantic)jimmy, in probably the lowest point of his life, is jealous of the chickens

chimcken _____

📧 Day 71 -

Characters - Jimmy/Tango Words - 982 Time - 52 mins Content - Double Life-adjecent

Jimmy picked up a feather from the counter, pinching the hollow yet firm quill between his index and thumb. His eyes followed the symmetry of the vane, perfectly white barbs running parallel each other, never touching, never crossing. Behind him, his own wings puffed up, golden feathers so vibrant and beautiful compared to this bland white.

With a huff, he dragged himself to a high chair, talons perching on the stretcher. They dug into the wood, and he could feel the quill imprinting into his fingertips. And if he were a phoenix or had some fire adjacent abilities like Tango, he was sure his glare alone would have burnt the feather to a pile of ash.

He, however, had no fire powers, only the fire of annoyance burning inside him.

In the corner of his eyes, as he folded his left arm on the edge of the table, he caught more white. Lines and curves, jarringly littering the table. The white stood out against the red of apples, the purple grapes, the mismatch of yarn and rich gold knitting-needles sticking from the skeins. To his dismay, he blinked away from the feather, focusing his eyes on the table, swallowing a shriek in the back of his throat.

Feathers upon feathers, more than he had initially seen in the corner of his eyes.

Frazzled, jealous, he swiped them all off the table. Grabbed them by the handful and threw them onto the ground, huffing and puffing, yet there were more and more behind books and bowls and mugs.

It took a clumsy move until he stopped, the sound of something crashing onto the hard floors breaking him out of his frenzy. His body froze, tension heavy in his bones. There a trill in the back of his throat, an unhappy, quiet chirp. His talons clenched and unclenched the stretcher of the chair.

Jimmy blinked as a ringing filled his ears, the room no longer quiet, giving him a dizzying headache he tried to push back, forcing his body to move. Despite his will, he only managed to turn his head; directly to the shattering sound, just on the side of the table. Broken pieces of a mug, a puddle of cold coffee under them.

A couple seconds after, seconds that went by so slowly, Jimmy sighed with defeat. He shook his body out of the tension, letting go of the stretcher, he carefully placed his talons on the floor. He snatched some tissues from the table, and sat on his calves beside the mess, dropping the tissues atop it.

"Jimmy?"

A voice, Tango, called, followed by a quiet clucking, but he did not reply. He picked the broken pieces, pinching some corners and moving them to a pile, tossing more tissues into the coffee puddle. White tissues soaked up the liquid quickly, turning brown against the light brown of their floors.

"Hey, rancher," Tango called again, much closer now.

Jimmy could not bring himself to look at him, simply choosing to poke at the pile of tissues with his index. His wings deflated, falling with defeat against his talons lightly. Alongside, his shoulders slumped, right hand pinching his left hand, held together in his lap.

Tango walked about, the soles of his shoes against their hard floors were the only sound. That, and two pairs of feet tapping on the boards occasionally. Jimmy's talons, and claws.

Claws. And clucking.

In a couple minutes, the pieces of the mug were gone. The pile of soaked tissues was gone. After a wipe with a cloth, the puddle too was gone. In between blinks, each thing vanished until Jimmy stared at nothing. Blunt nails pinched the back of his hand, a couple of times as his pale skin littered in pink marks.

"Want to talk about it?" Tango asked quietly, brushing his hand where the puddle had been before sitting down, cross-legged. He breathed in and out, and Jimmy mostly heard it rather than saw it. Shortly after, Tango moved around, getting up to his knees to sit on his calves too, moving up closer with his knees on either side of Jimmy's. "No talking, alright. We can just sit."

Jimmy dropped his head further, now looking at his hands. A small white feather stuck to the back of his hand that he did not realize sooner, the barb messed up and sticking because of the coffee.

A trill escaped his lips, and Tango's hands took his. Not rough, or confident, simply resting atop his, giving a small squeeze.

"We should kill the chickens," he said finally, so quietly it could have been a thought instead. He only knew he spoke the words because Tango let out a confused sound, hand squeezing then letting go, hesitating between pulling back and staying. "All of them… Kill all of them."

"Alright," Tango started with a shaky breath. "Um… Why… Why?"

"Because."

Tango chuckled, "That's not an excuse, Jimmy."

"Should be," he muttered, pouting.

Rather than continue the conversation, Tango pushed himself to his knees, pressing their foreheads together. Tango was warm, from being a blaze but also from being under the sun. Jimmy could feel it, sun touched skin warm against his slightly chilled one. Reassuring, if not for the tickling of feathers.

Jimmy frowned, "The feathers. They… They get everywhere."

"Like cat hairs."

"Cat don't compete with me."

"No," Tango giggled, pushing back on Jimmy's forehead so they were a little more eye-leveled, "cats hunt you."

"I can hunt chickens then."

Ultimately, Jimmy did not get to kill any chickens despite his hand tightening on the handle of his sword. Instead, he spent the rest of the day picking up feathers and tossing them far, letting the wind take them away.

Tango let the chickens be for a couple of days, and Jimmy turned his nose up at the thought that he got jealous of some chickens.

_____

this almost turned full angst. but i did not. i am strong and did not angst angst was dead tango btw anyways. took this way too seriously, which is why the first and second halves are so different but oh well. writing hard, only chimcken

[roseaesynstylae]

Star Wars: Republic Commando: Triple Zero, Chapter 4

"Mereel was on Kamino. If Zey was heard to mutter that the Nulls were Skirata's private army, he wasn't entirely wrong."

You say that like it's a good thing.

"'I never said good-bye to the lads who didn't come back, that's all. I lost nine out of my batch.'

'But the last time you saw them, you left them feeling confident, respected, and loved. That's enough for any buir to achieve.'"

*narrows eyes* *with a remarkable amount of spite* I fucking doubt that calling them "wet-droids" made them feel loved. Just because you're constantly licking daddy's boots doesn't mean everyone else does.

Okay, that was going a little far. But everyone talking about this asshole like he's the ideal parent makes me want to throw something across the room. Hard. And repeatedly.

"'Have you met Sergeant Kal yet?'

'No.' Kal was always there for Darman, somewhere, even at times like this when she wanted to say so much to him.'

'Darman beamed, clearly delighted. 'Oh, you'll like him, General. You'll really like him.'

Etain certainly hoped so. And if she didn't, then she'd try, for Darman's sake."

*beaming smile* I'll just list things off, shall I?

"Even at times like this when she wanted to say so much to him." Etain, I want to say so much to him as well. It isn't what you want to say, though. It's a bit more...profane.

"You'll really like him." I've been getting a look into this man's mind for the past few chapters. I don't fucking like him. I actually prefer Walon Vau, since he's at least open about the fact that he's an asshole.

"And if she didn't, then she'd try, for Darman's sake." I could not try. It would end in an attempted strangulation.

"Vau was settled in one of the deeply upholstered hide chairs with the strill draped across his lap on its back, all six of its legs flopping in an undignified sprawl while he scratched its belly. Its huge fanged mouth was slack, tongue lolling, and a long skein of drool hung almost to the floor. Its body was a meter long, lengthened by a whip of a tail covered in more loose skin.

The strill was still prettier than Vau, though. The man had a long square-jawed face that was all bone and frown lines, and graying hair cut brutally short. Faces rarely lied about the soul within."

MIRD!!

PRECIOUS BABY!!

Oh, yeah, and its human servant. Great to see him too.

Who is the most adorable little killing machine?! It's you~

Mird, My Beloved: 1

"'The Jedi Council is pretty adept at turning blind eyes,' Skirata said. 'For an organization that knew it was taking on an army with an assassination capability, you do send out conflicting signals to simple soldiers like me.'

Vau was watching like a man being mildly amused by a holovid. The strill yawned with a thin, high-pitched whine."

Mird, My Beloved: 2

*sourly* I'm glad someone is amused by this.

"'We didn't even know we had an army until a year ago.'

'Maybe, but the fact that you're sitting here now with a general's rank means you've accepted responsibility for it. You could have objected, collectively or individually. You could have asked questions. But no. You picked up the blaster you found on the floor and you just fired it to defend yourself. Expedience ambushes you in the end.'"

*in the most fake nice way imaginable* Fuck. You.

Lemme just break this down a little...

"You could have objected, collectively or individually."

They did.

"You could have asked questions."

They did.

The problem isn't that the Jedi didn't try to find a way to object or that they didn't try to investigate. The problem is that the Separatists were actively attacking, the Senate wanted a war, and Palpatine had manipulated everything so they had no other choice. They took the role of Generals and Commanders because they felt that it was the best way to prevent excessive casualties and lessen suffering.

But, no. It's all the Jedi's fault. It isn't that they're a group that was not and never has been intended for a military position who have just been forced into this role. It isn't that they're trying to keep to their principles in the middle of a situation they are not meant for. It isn't that the chaos of the war made it so that trying to object or figure out what the hell was going on impossible.

In conclusion...

WHY DON'T YOU ASK JEDI WHAT THEY FEEL ABOUT THE SITUATION AND WHAT THEY DID? THEY'D TALK TO YOU. THEY'RE NICE, REASONABLE PEOPLE. I"M SURE THAT YOU'D LEARN A LOT MORE IF YOU HAD AN ACTUAL CONVERSATION INSTEAD OF RANTING ABOUT A GROUP OF PEOPLE YOU BARELY KNOW.

Jedi-Bashing: 7

"'Oh no, I'm just a civilian now,' Vau said. The strill rumbled. Vau, apparently distracted, fondled its ghastly, stinking head, his slightly narrowed eyes revealing a doting affection that he never seemed to spare for any other living creature."

I'm going to make this clear right now: I like Vau considerably more than Skirata. 80% of that affection comes from Mird.

Mird, My Beloved: 3

"'How far is too far, Kal? Can you answer that? How far did you go?' Vau called after him. 'I made that boy a warrior. Without me, he wouldn't be alive today.'

With him, Ordo thought, Atin very nearly wasn't."

Vau's training methods are a discussion for another time.

(I still prefer him to Skirata. Like I said, Vau's open about the fact that he's a bastard, unlike some people.)

"It was delightful to see the mix of armor -- yellow-striped commanders and pilots, plain white troopers, and the motley mix of commando colors -- drawn together in one ancient Mandalorian ritual, every face the same.

Etain felt adrift, excluded.

She had never truly felt this degree of bond with her Jedi clan. The connection in the Force was there, yes, but....no, the real strength here was attachment, passion, identity, meaning."

Attachment is not love. Attachment is not a good thing. Passion is not a good thing for a Jedi. I am explaining this in small words for the author's benefit.

Also, nice shit you just took on the Jedi's Youngling Clans.

(Don't fucking insult the Jedi Younglings. They're adorable and have done nothing wrong, ever.)

Given the fixation on (relatively nuclear and standard by sci-fi standards) families in this series, this really feels like a jab at the "fact" that *extremely mocking voice* ThE JedI DOn'T HAve FaMilIEs.

Jedi-Bashing: 9

That's it. I'm exhausted by this series' bullshit and it's only been one chapter. Thankfully, I have a vacation coming up where I can ignore these books and concentrate on actually good Star Wars content. Once I'm done decompressing, I'll be ranting about this again.

Jedi-Bashing: 9

Mando-Shilling: 1

It's a Man's World: 1

Shut the Fuck Up, Kal: 1

Deltas, Move Out: 4

Mird, My Beloved: 3

Is This The Bad Batch?: 2

Main Post

[eventiderookery]

propaganda below the cut

Nimüe: it/they. warmind not built by braytech, but was eventually acquired by them when bt bought out its company. was forcibly shut down after going on a rampage when it learned all its scientists had been relocated to other projects. recently found again by a pair of guardians and their ghosts. very murderbot like

Auxâ: she/her. solar variant lucent wizard, former deathsinger and doesn't speak because of that (playing fast and loose with deathsong lore because i can). her ghost Tacet (they/them) speaks for her. doesn't particularly agree with Savathûn or the majority of the brood, a lot like Luzaku

Kythra: they/them. last member of a semi-incorporeal species destroyed by the witness. mad scientist. doesn't actually like the witness (definitely helped to destroy it when the time came) but the power was necessary for what they wanted to accomplish. beefs with Rhulk, helped create Nezarec, thinks Savathûn is fascinating. i have an entire idea for a raid with them as the final boss that plays with the manipulation of light and dark, and has lore reasoning for why it would be replayable

Bones: they/them. wish dragon raised by the ghost Skein (it/its) that now helps it get revenge on the people who wronged their ghost. just general chaos. works as a sorta back market dealer in wishes things that guardians want/need but can't get easily or at all (like the end to a losing streak in the crucible). a hunter

Sigurd: he/they. ahamkara pretending to be a recently lightless warlock to escape the great hunt. stole the face of the warlock that took their right arm. basically just a dragon learning to be human and appreciate humanity for what it is.

[fely-v]

This art was created in a very funny way. My friend, whom I successfully hooked on Star Trek, was saying out loud some dramatic tense scene while I was literally sketching it all. When she saw that I had brought it to life, she wanted to supplement it with a beautiful passage. I hope you like it no less than me.

***

- You don't see!? He needs help! The captain shouted, trying in vain to escape, - Kirk was held by two men, diligently wringing his hands. Dumbfounded, McCoy only held his hand with horror over a fresh wound on his arm, from which blood was oozing profusely.

He quickly shifted his gaze from the attackers' phasers to the first mate. However, neither a way to get the first aid kit back, nor the thought of how not to run into a couple of shots, did not arise. The doctor's head was spinning, the sleeve of the torn turtleneck was soaked with blood. Mentally calculating the remaining time for himself and for Spock, whose unconscious body lay just a few steps away, he cursed inwardly.

One of the men holding Kirk pressed down on the scratches on his back, forcing the captain to clench his teeth harder and get down on one knee. He looked with hatred at the man leading the group, stealing glances at the medic present.

- What kind of creatures are you! Do you have at least a drop of humanity in you!? The captain, who was being pressed into the sand, continued to rage.

McCoy took a deep breath, glanced briefly at the mockingly green sky. Time was running out.

- Fuck, let me, your mother, bandage him! Bones pleaded. – I'm a damn doctor! He will die if you don't…

One of the men standing next to the doctor hit him in the stomach with his elbow, causing the doctor to bend in half.

- I'm a doctor! All I need is a bandage and time! Give me a damn bandage! -The doctor croaked, staring intently at the man holding his first aid kit. A few more minutes and he won't be able to bandage anyone at all, because he's unlikely to be in a more acceptable condition there than Spock is now.

A cold voice sounded above his head: "Give him a bandage." The man McCoy was glaring at took out a first aid kit and threw a couple of skeins to the ground, making their use potentially dangerous. Kirk froze, watching as his friend rushed forward amid the guffaws of the attackers. The captain could not tear himself away from the doctor's convulsive movements, from his trembling hands and the despair splashing in his eyes.

"It won't be enough," Bones whispered, barely audible, unwinding the bandages with jerky movements and, as if in some kind of madness, trying to stop Spock's green blood. Still hot, pouring from open wounds, the blood of the first mate of the Enterprise.

- Give him more! James rebelled again, causing a new wave of laughter.

The doctor now and then measured the pulse of the unfortunate, put his cheek to at least feel the weak breathing on the skin. He hated moments like this. When the seconds count, when someone's life hangs in the balance, McCoy's heart bled.

Supporting the unconscious Vulcan's back, McCoy froze for a moment, leaning his back against a boulder behind him. His head was spinning, goosebumps were running before his eyes, as if the disgusting guffaw and Kirk's scream could be heard through the water.

"Son of a bitch! Damn son of a bitch! Don't leave me... damn it! DON'T LEAVE IT! " - Bones scolded himself out of impotence, putting a new layer on top of the previous one. There were not enough bandages. His clothes were stained with blood, and the doctor's right hand was almost unresponsive.

Panic was rising in his throat., Spock's body seemed too cold, too pale. During the whole time he did not make a sound, only once he slightly lifted his eyelids. McCoy inadvertently looked into the Vulcan's pain-filled eyes, and a desperate plea flashed through Bones's mind: "... please."

***

There is an open ending here and everyone can quite imagine the ending they want. It all depends on how much you like to hurt yourself and others. Personally, I intend to write my own ending, which I will certainly post soon.

[codywanreversebang]

Codywan Reverse Bang 2023: Masterlist Part 1

Team 1

codywan reverse bang - pokemon au [Art] by @cmarani

a heart so true [10.8k] by @sarmaril

At the tender young age of eleven, Cody Fett believed he knew exactly what love at first sight felt like. Or; Cody has his sights set on the Pokémon League. It's not going to be easy training his way to the top. He can't just leave home at ten and charge Tauros-headed through the Galax region like some kids can. He has to spend his time helping his family's daycare in Kamino City, but Cody's not going to let that stop him... And maybe if along the way he gets to hold hands with Professor Jinn's cute assistant then he certainly wouldn't complain.

Team 2

codywan reverse bang - stained glass [Art] by @cmarani

Until We Meet Again [5.1k] by @geodax

After deserting the Empire that raised him and his brothers, Cody finds himself on a isolated planet. There, he finds a face he never wanted to see again.

Team 3

Team 3 [Art] by @madbunnyarts

Rewinding the Skein [8.5k] by @itsgoldleaf

He’s seen the creases of that palm before. Another thing he doesn’t remember. He walks towards the alley. The first sun drops lower. The footsteps behind him are as loud as the blood in his ears. Or: Ben goes to market and comes home with more than dried fruit.

a remedy painted blue [20.2k] by @ihathbenobiwankenobied

After ten years trying to keep his head down on Tatooine, Cody finds Obi-Wan lost in a life he never planned on living. It's not what they dreamt about during the war, but perhaps together they can make it work. Except Cody has a secret he didn't know he was keeping. And it might just tear them apart.

Behind the Scenes [10k] by @catfur-and-greenscales

“Spare any credits?” Obi-Wan stopped on the spot, feeling a cold sensation creeping down his spine. He knew that voice as he had heard it hundreds of thousands of times. With wide eyes Obi-Wan turned around and saw a man, not anyone he could say he knew, but those features were more than familiar to him. Perhaps the Force could have provided him more information, but he dared not to use it to reach for the man. It had been ages since the last time, so starting now was not an option. For a moment they both were just staring at one another, until the rough looking man lifted his bandaged arm, with a helmet. Obi-Wan could not help himself but … There was no facial scar. And there shouldn't have been, since even after everything, the man in front of him was still wearing the colors of the 501st. This man was not Cody. Of course not. He should have known better to not hope. But the seconds their eyes were locked felt too long to Obi-Wan. The tension was broken only when the clone just lifted his bucket a little higher and said:“Help a veteran to get a warm meal.”

Team 4

Team #4 - CodyWan Reverse Bang 2023 [Art] by @djk-creations

Twin Suns on the Horizon [22.9k] by @tyedyeboogers

Out on the hots sands of Tatooine anything can happen. For the people that live there, it is a fight of survival. For the Hutt who lords over them, it's resting on his ill gotten laurels. For the two gunslingers with a bone to pick - well, that's something entirely new. A Codywan Cowboys Story

cowboys are frequently secretly fond of each other [5.5k][WIP] by @catsnkooks

A new sheriff has come to Freetown, the town Ben has established himself in after the rise of the Empire. Sheriff Cody Fett isn't someone he was expecting, with his determination to make Freetown a place for everyone, away from the shackles of the ever-encroaching Empire, and it's not long before Ben finds himself falling for the selfless sheriff. But when Ben's past comes knocking on the door, threatening the livelihood of everyone in Freetown, he knows he must act to save everyone he loves in his town, which has now come to include a certain sheriff in his life.

Team 5

Team 5 [Art] by @nhyhu

Tied [17k] by @insertmeaningfulusername @embeanwrites @wixiany

Qui-Gon is gone and Obi-Wan, freshly promoted to a Jedi Knight, needs to take care of a Padawan of his own, but doubts and insecurities plague him. Elsewhere in the galaxy, Cody and his brothers are struggling through rigorous training on the water planet of Kamino. They meet and start working together once the Clone Wars begin. They steal comfortable and quiet moments with each other, slowly working their way towards more than just a friendship between Commander and General. But the war is relentless. In a skirmish, Cody is fatally injured. Obi-Wan reaches deep into the Force and into himself to change Cody’s fate, and in doing so, a powerful Force bond is created. Now, they will have to navigate the war and their growing affection alongside an as of yet unprecedented bond. or: Obi-Wan and Cody's journeys before and throughout the war and their relationship (in 3 parts)

Team 6

Art for I Will Support You (Even When You Fall) [Art] by @commanderfoxtheshield

I'll support you (even when you fall) [8.6k] by @robyn-hoood

The offer is also tempting for another reason; from here, he can spot the two figures on the front page, limbs poised in a graceful arc as the smaller figure is lifted up by the other, spotlights bathing them in golden light. Dance therapy, he thinks, quietly mulling it. A class that paired up veterans with volunteers to teach them how to dance to cope with PTSD, a year-long program that ended with a small competition with a small monetary prize. A tiny part of him, a part that suspiciously sounds like his younger, college-attending self, perks up in interest. He quickly pockets the flyer, and stands up. She startles slightly, but settles down with his next words: “I’ll think about it.” . . . . . Or, veteran Cody Fett and dancer Obi-Wan Kenobi are paired up for a dance competition. It all goes downhill from there.

[ikeromantic]

The Final Thread, pt 2

Kenshin (Red Thread of Fate AU) finds himself inexplicably drawn to a tavern-keeper in an enemy village. Though victory seems assured, strange happenings put Kenshin, his allies, and the woman in danger. Written for @scruffymctee featuring her lovely OC Tomoyo! Approx. 3700 words.

Previous: Crimson Thread, Another Skein, The Final Thread pt 1

The mist ahead of Kenshin and Tomoyo cleared enough to make out the shapes of struggling figures. Men grappling with ghostly shapes, animated shīsā fighting fell beasts made of mist, and the fallen desperately crawling toward the hilltop and the hope of safety. A mounted kamaitachi crashed to the ground nearby in a sudden gust of spinning wind, the Akazonae rider dead and the beast dying.

Kenshin didn’t hesitate. His sword made its first cut, the sharp edge sinking heavily into a nearby writhing mass of arms, legs, heads, and less definable body parts that made up the opaque mass. There was a slight feeling of resistance, like cutting moving water. For a heartbeat, he wasn’t sure the ghostly creature noticed but then it turned its attention to him. 

Arms and open mouths clutched at him as he ripped his blade free. He leapt back, guard up. Slash and move, his body in tune with the fight even as his mind calculated the odds. Could a ghost be defeated? Killing the dead seemed too much to ask from the simple steel of Himetsuru Ichimonji. Yet in the end, Kenshin knew he would keep fighting even if the battle was already decided. Futility played no part in the blood-song of the struggle.

Only . . .

His distracted gaze sought out Tomoyo, drawn to her as the moon draws the tides. She stood to his right, guarding him with a zealousness he knew he did not deserve. Her weighted sleeves snapped in the night air, weaving a wall of moving fabric to keep the spirits at bay. She fought without hesitation, without fear. 

Kenshin could not help the way his eyes drank her in, admiration filling him. She was formidable. Beauty and danger, mystery and comfortable familiarity in equal measure. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to fight her. He desired. And that alone shocked him. How many years had it been since his frozen heart stirred? He could not count the passionless nights, the days of living only because to do otherwise was too much trouble. And now, there was something, someone, he wanted. 

She caught him looking and flashed an exuberant grin. Then she gestured to his left, the slightest tilt of her head, but he understood.

He spun on his heel, blade cutting toward whatever threat approached. The phantom soldier screamed, its face distorted, mouth open and bloody. It held no weapon, but speared toward him with bare hands as if its palms were knives. Kenshin’s sword cut the ghost deeply, but it did not stop. 

The phantom’s hands slipped past Kenshin’s armor, through his skin and muscle and bone. Like shards of ice that wounded the spirit and not the flesh, he thought, as the cold ripped through him. A nearby shīsā leapt to help him, stone limbs grinding as it heaved its mass across the intervening space to clamp its jaws around the ghost’s shoulder. The stone dog’s teeth dug into the ephemeral meat of the phantom, pulling it back and down.

The ghost turned its head toward the guardian. It spat the frothing blood from its lips onto the dog’s head. The moment the blood touched the shīsā, the stone it was made from crumbled into dust. The Sanada troops around him weren’t faring any better, fighting a foe that could not die and would not stop. 

Kenshin didn’t have time to worry over their fates. He had his own ghosts to battle. The cold was seeping from his chest down into his legs, and up into his throat. There were only two options. To push forward or to try to withdraw. Kenshin swept his sword out and up. With a shout, he brought it down onto the phantom’s arms. With a sensation of tearing fabric, the spirit’s flesh parted. Its limbs fell twitching to the ground. 

“Good job,” Tomoyo’s voice was closer than he expected. When he turned his head, he felt the flutter of her lashes on his cheek. “I thought I would have to save your ass again.”

“I can handle myself, woman.” He felt a smile on his lips and heard it in his voice. What was she, to bring this change on him?

“Call me woman again and next time I’ll just let the spirits take you,” she pouted. 

Kenshin felt his lips part, and her name left them like a kiss to land upon her ears. 

Tomoyo’s pout melted away. “Better.” Her jade gaze still flashed like bonfire flames, but the heat they held now was of a different sort. One that stirred low in Kenshin’s belly, a serpent of fire that excited the flesh. He felt himself lean ever closer, wanting to claim her mocking mouth with his own. “Careful,” she laughed, dancing back from him. 

Kenshin had only a heartbeat to react as a smoking chunk of armor hurled past his head. Any slower and it would have hit them both. “Is your village always like this?”

“Only when we’re being invaded.” She gestured toward the battle raging around them, encompassing the mist-cloaked village and the hidden swell of the hill they climbed. “Mostly, the nights are quiet. Mists and shaking shutters. It’s only when there is violence that the spirits wake.”

They had no time to discuss it further as the many-limbed abomination closed in on them again. 

Kenshin tried to stay out of reach, using the longer reach of Himetsuru Ichimonji to his advantage. Tomoyo was at his side, her small blade and long sleeves teasing and distracting the monstrosity while Kenshin hacked at it. Normally, Kenshin preferred not to coordinate with other soldiers, but fighting beside Tomoyo felt as natural as drawing breath. He need not call out attacks or warnings, nor did she. They moved as if guided by one will, one being split into two parts.

Slowly, they whittled the creature down. Arms, legs, heads all fell to the ground and dissolved into mist. The mass of spectral flesh kept coming though, and Kenshin realized this fight was only a holding action. They could not win, not like this. “Is there a way to destroy them,” he called out, unable to spare a glance for her.

“Yes,” she replied after a moment. “But it’s impossible.”

“Tell me.” 

Tomoyo took a breath, her motion slowing for a moment. Then, “We must let them have their victory. Then they can depart, knowing they protected their home.”

It was impossible. The Sanada and their Takeda allies would never submit, especially not to a force of yūrei whose intentions could not be known. Kenshin shot her a gauging look, but there was no doubt in her expression. She was certain, he could see. “Come, then.” 

The two of them fled their fight with the limbed horror. They ran up, past more knots of battle and through thickened mist. The night was alive with screams and the clamor of battle, intensifying as they reached the top. There, the Sanada general rode atop his dragon mount, using the vantage point to direct his troops. 

Kenshin grabbed Tomoyo’s hand as they approached. The general spotted him and brought his dragon to a stop so that he could speak. 

Yukimura Sanada was an imposing man. His gaze was hard but not unkind. He led by never letting his troops fight a battle he was unwilling to put himself into. Though the Sanada were the reason Kenshin was a mercenary, Yukimura earned his respect a hundred times over. As he did now, sliding down from his saddle to greet a mere mercenary. “What news?”

Kenshin bowed low, and was somewhat surprised when Tomoyo followed suit. He half expected her to be to proud to bend even for the general. “There may be a way to fight these spirits.” He quickly relayed Tomoyo’s suggestion. 

Yukimura’s brows rose. “And what will the ghosts do if we surrender? You want me to believe they will let us go?”

Tomoyo nodded. “Yes. These are merely farmers, craftsman, conscripted into battles that were not their own. They died fighting battles they could not win, and watched their village burn. Wives and children killed, or worse. All they want is to protect this place.”

“Why should I believe you? You’re one of these villagers.” Yukimura’s frown deepened. 

“Because if you don’t, more of your troops will die. You will be left weakened by the time dawn arrives, if you survive. Easy pickings for the Oda.” Tomoyo smirked. “I could care less, of course. But this one made himself worth my time.” 

Kenshin felt her eyes on him as she said it. Appraising, warm. A look of approval. It made his heart lurch in his chest, his pulse racing. 

Yukimura scowled. He did not like the idea of surrender, but it was clear his troops had little hope otherwise. You could not kill what was already dead. “Fine. I will try it. But if it doesn’t work, you best hope it’s the ghosts that pull you apart before I find you.”

Tomoyo laughed. “You should hope for that too.”

The general ignored her jibe, already calling out to his commanders. Kenshin waited, his hand still holding tight to Tomoyo. He could let her go, but did not want to. And she didn’t pull away. 

“You, village woman, you will accompany my mercenary to deliver my orders.” Yukimura pulled a charm from his armor that bore his mon. “Here, so they will know this order comes from me. Tell them to put down their weapons and kneel.” 

Kenshin accepted the charm with a nod. There was little to say. As they moved away from Yukimura, Tomoyo tugged at his hand. “You need to surrender too.”

“I’m not fighting them right now.” He raised a curious eyebrow as she released her grip on him.

“You need to put down your weapons.” Tomoyo demonstrated by setting her knife down and shrugging out of her kimono. She wore a simple linen shift beneath it, baring her shoulders and legs. 

The sight left Kenshin’s mouth dry and his heart racing. For a breath, he could not remember where they were or why. His eyes followed the curve of her bare throat, the line of her neck, the slope of her breasts. A pendant hung between her breasts, hidden by the thin cloth. It was the first time he felt jealous of a piece of jewelry. He devoured her with his gaze, tracing all the places he wanted to touch. To kiss. She was intoxicating, and he wondered if, perhaps, this was some spell. 

Tomoyo touched his arm. “Your turn?”

He put his weapons down, too distracted by the sight of her to argue.

Her smile was a reward in itself. “Good. Now let’s go.”

The two of them left the hilltop ringing with the clatter of dropped weapons and kneeling armored men. It seemed to be working, or at least, the spirits returned to the mist and gave up their horrid forms. Word was spreading without them, the soldiers that saw what was happening imitating their comrades. 

Kenshin delivered the command to surrender at each knot of fighting they came across. The soldiers, seeing them unarmed and passing the spirits with ease, followed suit without much argument. He did need to flash the Sanada token each time, but the soldiers were all looking for a way to survive this fight and that was what he offered them. 

It was strange to him, bringing peace instead of battle. Kenshin was a god of war, a man with only one real purpose in life. One thing that made him feel. At least, he had been. Tonight, something shifted. He wasn’t sure what, not yet. There would be time to understand later. He shared a look with Tomoyo as they stepped past a pile of bodies, men they were too late to save. 

“You will answer my questions when this is over.”

“Will I?” She grinned. “Maybe you’ll answer mine. Like, who are you really, Kenshin? Why do you look so -”

“Familiar,” they said together. 

Kenshin smiled. “We will answer each other’s questions then.”

“Mmmm. Like a conversation?” Tomoyo gave a quiet laugh. “I have to admit, I was thinking of another way to greet dawn with you. But I suppose we can talk first.” 

First, she said and the intent echoed in his ears. Kenshin nodded. He was not unaware of the tension between them. Like the air after a lightning strike, or the feel of coals about to spring alight, there was energy that hummed to life when they were close. One that coiled in his low belly and beat in his chest. A hot-blooded tautness that could only be relieved by violence or sex.

She poked his arm. “Your cheeks are red.”

“You -” He wasn’t sure what he was about to say, but the words died on his lips as they came to another knot of fighting. Kenshin called out, holding Sanada’s mon aloft. “Surrender by order of General Sanada. Drop your weapons and kneel!”

The soldiers ignored him, too intent on their phantom enemies to listen to sense. Kenshin waded in. “Drop your weapons! The ghosts will depart if you stop fighting!” 

“Drop them, you idiots,” Tomoyo shouted from beside him.

The ghosts ignored the unarmed pair, but one of the soldiers spun toward her voice. “You! You’re one of the villagers! You’re on their side!” 

Kenshin brandished the charm, holding it higher. “This has nothing to do with her. Surrender on General Sanada’s orders!” 

The soldier did not even glance at the charm. His sword came down in an arc, slashing Tomoyo open from shoulder to belly. Blood stained the linen of her underdress and streamed down her bare legs. She stood there, looking down in surprise.

Sanada’s charm fell to the ground, forgotten in sudden motion as Kenshin launched himself at the soldier. He had no sword, but he was a weapon himself. His fist crunched against the side of the man’s head. His other fist met the man’s throat. The next several heartbeats were lost to fury and panic as Kenshin punched and kicked, continuing even after the soldier ceased to move.

Around them, the ghosts stirred. While Kenshin fought, the other Sanada soldiers dropped their weapons. Now they knelt on the ground, faces upturned to watch as the ghosts moved as one toward the only remaining combatant. 

Kenshin did not even notice. His vision blurred from rage, and all he could see was red. Failed. Again. Why could he not protect her? The thoughts swirled in a storm of confusion as he tried to regain control of himself. In the end, it was her voice that brought him back. Her quiet voice, barely a breath.

“Stop.”

He froze midswing, finally realizing his opponent was dead. The spirits were moving toward him now, inexorable. And he was helpless. Kenshin’s gaze moved from his bloodied hands to Tomoyo. When had she fallen? He crawled to where she lay, grasping her hand in his. Blood slickened palms met, her blood and the blood of the man that killed her. “Please,” Kenshin whispered. “Stay with me.”

Tomoyo smiled at him, a look made melancholy by the regret in her eyes. “I wish . . . but . . . not this time . . . either.” 

Not this time. Her words stirred a fitful stream of images. Memory or imagination? He did not know. Only that she was in every one. Dead by his own hands, killed by his enemies, slain by his allies, and even by her own will. A thousand thousand partings, tragedies beyond count. His heart ached with a searing pain. “I won’t let you go.”

“You . . . always . . . say that.” Her smile turned wistful. “I wish, just once . . . we could find . . . our happy ending.” 

A rain drop landed on her cheek. Another on her lips. Warm drops that welled from his eyes. “This will be our happy ending. Tomoyo!” 

She shook her head. “Next time.” She tore the cord from around her neck and pushed it into his hand. “Take this . . . protect . . .” A shiver ran through her. 

Kenshin stared at his hand, where the bloodied pendant lay. It looked like a piece of bone, carved with some strange sign. “Protect?” The jewelry lit up from within. A fey, thin light at first, it grew stronger with every beat of his heart until it was glowing like the sun. 

The encroaching spirits burned away, and the surrounding mist as well. This was the light that protected him before, he realized. Some magic Tomoyo kept close. He closed his eyes against the bright light, against the tears that threatened to spill out again. In the afterimage, all he could see was a coiling thread of scarlet. Thin and delicate, a tangle that pulled itself apart in the darkness behind his eyelids. Spooling into a trail that led from his heart. 

Kenshin’s eyes opened. He could still see that faint crimson string. It ran from his thumb to the little finger of her left hand. Cruel fate, he thought, to give him the other half of his soul only to take her again. He laid down beside her and held her body close, no longer caring if he lived or died. There was nothing, without her. 

The light of the pendant faded, imparting an otherworldly glow, one hidden by the palm of his hand and the press of Tomoyo’s bloodied chest. 

Around the two fallen figures, the battles died down. Those that surrendered, lived. And those that fought, died. The mists withdrew, until only a few pockets of it remained. Silvered depths of fog and gloom. One such settled like a cloak over the two ill-fated lovers. 

Kenshin felt the weight of mist as it stretched over him. He wondered if it would take him as it had the camp soldiers. That end seemed no better or worse than any other. Perhaps more peaceful than he deserved, he thought. Yet there was no sense of menace from the fog. No dread as the cold of it sank into his skin. 

Love. A hundred whispered voices said the word, echoed it, repeated it, in his mind. Did you love? We loved too. The voices came now with images of their own. Wives, mothers, daughters, sons, husbands . . . family and friends and neighbors. With each, the sense of overwhelming grief. 

The spirits mourned with Kenshin, his sorrow blending with theirs. His tears, their tears. 

You freed us, the voices sighed and moaned in his mind. You protected our village. 

“No.” Kenshin struggled for a moment, fighting the influence of the dead over his thoughts. “She did. Tomoyo. She brought you peace. I am only -” killer, murderer. God of War. They read his thoughts before he gave them breath. 

Tomoyo.

He felt her body grow cold beneath his hands as the spirits pressed into her empty flesh. The vibrant soul of her gone already. 

She is not gone, the dead whispered. She is here. With us.

“With you?” Kenshin’s eyes opened, the mismatched gaze searching as they met the depths of swirling white and grey. He felt her then, the heat of her jade gaze, soft breath against his cheek, her laugh tickling his ears. “Please. . .” He wasn’t sure if he was begging her or the ghosts, or what he asked for. His heart was bound up in all its confusion to that one plea.

The mist swirled around him, disturbed and growing more agitated by the breath. The voices of the dead rose in volume, turning from whispers to a cacophony. And then, in a sudden gust, everything fell silent and still. Kenshin froze, uncertain.

He felt the pendant in his hand tremble, and he turned his palm up to look at it. When he did, the tiny bone-colored carving shattered. Light burst from the remains, a cold fire in his hand. The brilliance drew itself in and poured like water from the remnants of the pendant into Tomoyo’s wound. 

Her chest closed up, the skin rippling as it healed. Her fingers twitched. A breath groaned through her parted lips, and then another. 

“Tomoyo?” Kenshin watched in awe. 

Her body warmed beneath him, and then her eyes opened. Her eyes, like a spring garden, green and brimming with life. 

Kenshin kissed her. His lips met hers with a desperate hunger, built across a thousand worlds and countless lives. He drank her in, the coppery taste of blood on her tongue, the sweetness of sake, the vibrant complex taste of her. His heart felt as if it might burst as she returned his passion in kind. 

“How,” she murmured, her hands caressing his arms, his shoulders, his sides. 

“I don’t know. Or care.” He kissed her again. “I found you this time. And I won’t let you go.”

Tomoyo laughed, a gentle, joyful sound. “How do you know it’s not the other way around? Perhaps I won’t let you go.”

He felt a smile so wide it hurt spread across his cheeks. “That is a debate I might let you win.”

“Let me? I can beat you fair and square,” she teased back. 

“I will not waste a single moment we have been gifted.” Kenshin bowed his head. “I do not know why the dead returned you to me, but I am grateful.”

Tomoyo nodded. “We will honor you. All of you.”

Around them, the spirits shifted, the weight of them growing lighter. Dawn approached, and the ghosts, appeased now, could pass on. Kenshin and Tomoyo felt them go. 

“We should go too,” Tomoyo sighed. “I am sure your general has questions.”

Kenshin gave a slight shrug. “Maybe. But we have plans, you and I. Though I am rethinking the order . . .”

“Oh?” She gave him a look that turned his insides hot. “But you wanted your questions answered first, didn’t you?”

Kenshin lifted her into his arms and cradled her close. “I have changed my mind. Instead, I am going to deposit you into a bath. And after we scrub off the dirt and the blood from each other, I am going to make love to you until neither of us can even whimper. And when we sleep, I will wake up with you in my arms to do it all again.”

Tomoyo’s smile widened. “That is a plan I can agree to.”

[quietblueriver]

Part II of the Camp Prudaj AU, featuring equine therapist Imogen and children’s vlogger Laudna. Part I here.

In which Laudna appears and charms Imogen through a phone screen.

-

The episode opened on a tiny animated paw batting at a skein of red yarn, which unraveled to spell Crafting Creatures as a melody, something that sounded like it was coming from a phonograph, played in the background. It was cute and seemed fairly normal for a show aimed at children, even if the paw was a little gaunt.

And then the creature to whom the paw belonged came running out after the yarn, scruffy black rodent body and bone-white bird skull head skittering across the screen, a small with Laudna and Pate scrawling in black font behind its tail as it moved.

“What the fuck?”

The words escaped on an exhale, low and reflexive, her head moving away from the screen of her phone, like she might see something different than a half-living, mutant rat chasing a ball of yarn if she gave it a little distance.

She did not see something different.

The creature turned to face the camera and titled its head as it said, “Well, what’re you waitin’ for? Stop starin’ and come on in.” The accent was absurd, something from a community theater production about a chimney sweep in Whitestone, and Imogen huffed a laugh, torn between revulsion and amusement.

And then the camera zoomed out and faded to black, opening again on a woman—Laudna, she assumed—sitting in a worn, ornate rocking chair that looked as though it could’ve been pulled from a few centuries back. Its occupant might’ve come with it. She was all delicate, high cheekbones and big, dark eyes. The tilt of her head and the cut of her jawline, the way her hands moved effusively and still somehow gracefully with her words, which were, themselves, lilted out in a distinctive accent (Whitestone, she thought, but about as far from Pate’s overexaggerated growl as possible)–all of it was classic and classically feminine, a match to her chair and the lace of her high collar.

“Hello, there. Welcome to Crafting Creatures. I’m Laudna and…” Her hand disappeared for a moment over the side of her chair and when it appeared again, it was maneuvering the wooden sticks of a puppet, a familiar and horrifying rat thing coming to sit on its hind paws (Haunches? Her rat anatomy was lacking.). “You’ve already met Pate.”

The rat took a bow, tiny front paws dipping low as its body tilted. “‘Ello. Pate de Rolo at your seeervice.”

Laudna made a small effort to hide the movement of her mouth but seemed much more concerned with Pate’s movements, and, Imogen imagined, maintaining that fucking accent. She was smiling, really smiling, as Laudna drawled, voice unnaturally low, “What’re we up to t’day, boss?”

Laudna’s eyes met the camera directly again, and in her own voice, she offered, body moving side to side very slightly in what might’ve been anxiety but which seemed much more like irrepressible delight, “Well, I thought we’d make some acorn dolls.”

The screen shifted to a list of materials, ones that had also been posted in the description, Imogen noticed, and Laudna read them and then said, easily, “And if you don’t have these, don’t worry! You can pause here to go find some acorns or draw the dolls on paper or just imagine on your own!”

The screen shifted again and Laudna tapped a long, bony finger against her temple, black nail a stark contrast to her pale skin.

“Remember, your mind is a wonderful thing. It can take you wherever you’d like to go. And anytime you’d like! So, today, if you’d like to make dolls the same way that Pate and I will or differently than we will—with shells or pen and paper or in your fantastic imagination—please do! We’re excited to make something with you.”

“Enough talkin’,” Pate said, dancing across Laudna’s lap to perch on an arm of the chair and stare at the camera with the black holes where its eyes should be. “Let’s get to it.”

Imogen followed along as Laudna and Pate decorated their acorns—faces with various expressions, pants and skirts and dresses of every color—and then stacked them together to form little dolls. The camera shifted occasionally, shots from above of the decoration and process, Pate’s little claw making an appearance every now and again, and wider shots of the small table where they worked.

She tuned out after a few minutes, caught in watching Laudna. Her mannerisms and tone and vocabulary all made Imogen feel like she might be watching one of the classic movies her math teacher had loved so much, one well-worn copy or another in the old VHS player on an afternoon close to a holiday break.

It took her a few minutes to notice, because Laudna was incredibly charming and incredibly gorgeous and because, relatedly, Imogen was incredibly gay, but there was something different about Laudna, something that made Imogen’s brain whisper, Look again, although she hadn’t, from the moment Laudna appeared on screen, considered looking away.

She was alluring in the same way all of those actresses had been to (equally incredibly gay) teenage Imogen, undeniably beautiful and out of her time.

But unlike the lead in An Evening in Whitestone, there was something just slightly too much about Laudna. Her skin was too pale, too thin, her eyes too wide and too dark, her hands moved just this side of too quickly, closer, upon examination, to anxious than ethereal. The smile stretched too far across her face and the features were too sharp, sliding from delicate to the kind of worrying thinness that warned of illness.

It didn’t make her less gorgeous. Not to Imogen, anyway, who appreciated unique features and who, with her own scars climbing from her fingers to her sternum, liked to believe that imperfect didn’t mean unattractive. (It didn’t, on other people. The opposite really. She was a sucker for a scar and a story. As for herself, well. She was trying.)

It did, though, make her different, and it made Imogen, who understood very well how differentness could shape a person, consider her (examine felt too clinical and also at least a little creepy but was probably, if she were honest with herself, the best word for what she was doing)—the way she moved, the way she dressed, the musicality of her voice, Pate. Laudna seemed so wonderfully herself, but Imogen wondered how much of the way she carried herself was meant to distract, whether Laudna had always been built for a different time, what made her want to make a children’s series with a nightmare puppet. She wanted to know her, she realized. And she might get to.

As Laudna and Pate settled back in the rocking chair and began to discuss next week’s project—some furniture for the acorn dolls—and what materials they would be using, Imogen found herself looking forward to coffee.

Laudna laughed at something Pate said, which Imogen considered, after this brief time watching, to be endearing rather than disconcerting. She took a look at the time and plugged in her phone. There was a whole playlist of these videos, and she had a whole evening of nothing.

“What do you say to a quick story, before we go?”

“Yeah! What abou’ the one with the crickets?”

“Wonderful choice. Do you know, I made some finger puppets that will work beautifully for this.” She rummaged in the basket beside the chair and emerged with a handful of small, knitted multicolored creatures. “Alright. Ready, then?”

Imogen kicked off her shoes and settled back into her bed. Ready.

[elsinore-and-inverness]

A passage from the poem An Arundel Tomb by Philip Larkin that the Doctor quotes in Boom:

They would not guess how early in

Their supine stationary voyage

The air would change to soundless damage,   

Turn the old tenantry away;

How soon succeeding eyes begin

To look, not read. Rigidly they

Persisted, linked, through lengths and breadths   

Of time. Snow fell, undated. Light

Each summer thronged the glass. A bright   

Litter of birdcalls strewed the same

Bone-riddled ground. And up the paths   

The endless altered people came,

Washing at their identity.   

Now, helpless in the hollow of   

An unarmorial age, a trough

Of smoke in slow suspended skeins

Above their scrap of history,   

Only an attitude remains:

Time has transfigured them into   

Untruth. The stone fidelity

They hardly meant has come to be   

Their final blazon, and to prove   

Our almost-instinct almost true:   

What will survive of us is love.