#tempo vents

[starfallen-sloth]

Also one thought before bed because I was playing bideo games and it had this character personality that I really hate:

There are just those mfs out there that can be so blind that they're not the only one suffering in a dynamic. Like Mr Prince sir, your girlfriend is literally dying because of a plague you infected her with on purpose don't be a little bitch when she decides to join my party and go on a quest with me.

[rastronomicals]

11:59 PM EST December 17, 2023:

MC Solaar - "Caroline" From the album Qui Sème le Vent Récolte le Tempo (October 15, 1991)

Last song scrobbled from iTunes at Last.fm

"Who sows the wind reaps the tempo"

--

[estranged-foreigner]

A beleza do anonimato é um dos motivos para eu ainda viver, ninguém me conhece e eu prefiro que continue assim, mentir meu nome, minha idade, minha origem, começou como um hobby bobo mas agora eu sou incapaz de mostrar quem eu sou, porque na minha mente eu sou isso.

Um conglomerado de ideias, não tenho face nem ambições, a minha existência se resume a minha interpretação do mundo, e até certo ponto eu ainda acredito nesse conceito, mas invalidar a minha forma física só porque eu sou mais que ela faria sentido talvez em outra sociedade, em outro contexto, em outro mundo em que eu não fosse eu.

Eu sinto falta dos momentos em que a minha vida girava ao redor de mim, que ser poética em um mundo acelerado não fizesse sentido, eu realmente anseio pela volta do tempo, mas nada volta, tudo sempre só segue em frente.

Mas realmente, eu queria que você me conhecesse, queria que você fosse real contudo é mais provável que eu só esteja falando sozinho, esperando um dia que alguém escute a imensidão do vazio em minha mente, que alguém preencha o buraco em meu rosto e que enfim eu tenha um coração.

[pensivespacepirate]

YOU FUCKERS IM GONNA HAVE TO LISTEN TO THIS SONG ON REPEAT FOR THE NEXT MONTH NOW

[bitting-my-tongue]

.

[mx-metronome]

ace week is over and I spent it being miserable, didn’t get to post or rb or have fun with it :(

[teenwolf-theoriginals]

Sitting on top of the kitchen counter, Carmen drummed his fingertips along his palm to the rhythm of constant thoughts. His pace quickened at the thought of the restaurant being four weeks away from opening, and yet, they still weren’t fucking ready. It slowed when he thought of last night with you, the first time in months he had gotten a decent sleep. Then it quickened once more when his mind circled back to the never-ending list of shit that needed to be done throughout the week. Before finally, slowing down to a steady tempo when he exhaled, bringing his thoughts back around to you. It calmed him. You calmed him. Yet, everything about that terrified the hell out of him. Simply because anything considered good, Carmen tended to self-sabotage. He did it at the family barbecue, getting an ear full from Suga when you had explained why you were leaving early. He said some shit, you said some shit back until Carmen played the "You deserve better than me" card. You listened and vented to Suga who then proceeded to tell Carmen how much of an asshole he was, leading him to sulk throughout the barbecue debating with himself whether he should call and apologize. He called that night, silence greeting him on the other line. He left a voicemail apologizing, and one year later he finally saw you again, standing in his shamble of a restaurant. The first word out of his mouth had been a low whisper of “Fuck”. But the good kind. The kind where the surprise was pleasant and a welcome breath of fresh, calming air after the mind fuck of the day.

Now, one month later, it felt as if the barbecue fallout never occurred and the two of you hadn't lost those 365 days. He had come home to you standing by the stove, the very place Carmen’s eyes had been staring at for the past 10 minutes. Remembering you in one of his white shirts after accidentally spilling wine on your black sweater top. He smiled when the memory of a faint blush radiated off your cheeks in the middle of you rambling on and on about how you weren’t sure if he would be okay with you borrowing his shirt. He kissed you mid-sentence, mixing the taste of white wine and cigarettes, leading to dinner being forgotten.

"Carm?". He looked up, softly smiling when he saw you walk around the corner. His white shirt looking so much better on you. "You okay?". 

He nodded, frowning his brow soon after. "I'm-I'm not entirely sure. Last night was...it was amazing, you know?".

"I do, I was there". You cheekily replied, smiling at him.

Carmen smiled back, starching his cheek before playing with your hand. Rubbing it, tracing up and down your fingers, just feeling your soft skin against his callous hands. "But I-I woke up this morning and I, I don't know, I had this thought that scared the shit out of me. And my mind, it er...it kept going back to the barbecue".

"That wasn't our best moment". You whispered, remembering that afternoon as if it happened yesterday. Richie had just started on the grill, the others enjoying the sunshine and drinks while you and Carmen were in Suga's kitchen. In two minutes it went from smiling and stealing kisses to watching Carmen's face drop as he chopped the tomatoes. Yelling followed shortly after as the two of you debated in circles about the relationship. Out of the blue, no warning, that was Carmen. A winter blizzard or the warm sun gliding across your skin, there was no in-between with him. It was either no emotion or an overload of emotion.

"It wasn't my best moment. And I'm sorry that I was such an asshole".

"You don't need to apologize again, Carmy. I heard your voicemail".

"You did?"

Stepping a little closer, you nodded. "I should have called you back, or at least texted, but I-".

"You didn't owe me anything, alright. I was the one who messed up. That is why I'm so fucking nervous about messing it up this time".

Brushing his hair away, Carmen closed his eyes for half-second to relax in your touch. "What if I'm the one who fucks it up?". You whispered.

"Not possible. It'll be me. And I don't want to, you know? I, um, I'm trying very hard to be present. To focus on you when you need me. But sometimes I feel-".

"Overwhelmed?".

"So overwhelmed". He exhaled as he rubbed his thumb across your palm.

"We're both going to mess up. Make mistakes, say the wrong thing. Get frustrated at the other for not listening, for not paying attention. But I won't give up trying to make this work. Because I really want this to work".

"I want this to work too".

"Then we'll find ways to make it work, Carm". You reassured him.

"Even when I'm being a piece of shit?".

"Especially when you're being a piece of shit".

Smiling at each other, Carmen ran his thumb gently across your cheek. "I really like that you're here".

"Me too". You replied, adding. "Is there anything else you're thinking about?"

"I'm thinking you're very, very beautiful". He confessed, leaning in to kiss you. Like dinner, breakfast was forgotten. And for worse or for better, you and Carmen were determined to take this second chance and build it all back up again.

[ninjastar107]

Megaman classic AU misc stuff. not sure what to call the AU yet.

Light isn't the only one spearheading robotics. He had a hand in a number of blueprints for helper bots, but he's just one of a handful of scientists working on advanced robotics (Including Wily, Cossack, Lalinde, and a few others).

Blues really was a prototype. There's a lot of functions and parts that are missing in him that are present in Light's later humanoid robots. He was built a lot longer ago than Roll and Rock were, and was out of commission for a lot longer too. - Light, having a breakthrough with advanced AI, kept it sort of under the table. He decided after Blues disappeared that there were just too many issues for it to be stable enough to advertise. - He did a few years of biological structure studies to refine how he approached building humanoids.

Rock and Roll are a lot more refined, and their AI hardware is built a lot more on trial and error over datasets as many other robots were at the time. Light presented this type of hardware in a paper but it was met with some questioning on whether machines *should* be modeled after humans internally and externally. -Lalinde built Tempo shortly after, using a combination of both.

Wily is back seats some of Lights research with the ever saying of 'we're building machines to do the dangerous jobs' to cover for some of Lights more 'questionable' developments (that being building robots that can feel pain and a full range of emotions). - Wily builds a lot of the robot masters off of Protomans blueprints, seeing that the structures require less balance attuning and are cheaper to obtain/make. - He gets jealous of Light being the face of their work and sets Light's first line of robot masters out to cause trouble. Rock becomes megaman to stop him, much to Lights uncertainty.

Roll winds up meeting Blues while out and about with iceman. Neither of them know that each other are related, and Blues mistakes her for a human. They meet a few times this way until she mentions who her dad. - Little does she know that this is the same robot that's been the rival/mentor to her brother.

- Blues reveals himself after the end of megaman 5 (after being impersonated). He visits more often after this and lets Light do a vent-port modification. (Adding a few more heat release areas on his back plates.)

Rock and Roll occasionally stand out in the sunshine, often times their mornings consist with waiting outside for the sunrise. They both have solar cores, and various sections of their plating have solar panels inlaid into them.

Tempo runs on lithium batteries and an alternator, much like a motor vehicle. When she was damaged in a cave in, the battery did more damage to her than anything else. - When she is gearing up to do more extensive work, her alternator kicks in to keep her power usage low. She could run on gasoline but Lalinde tries not to encourage that due to environmental reasons.

Ill probably draw a few diagrams for major differences in blueprints. Maybe give a hand at drawing Bass's layout as well (who I forgot to think about for this AU until now, haha!)

[starfallen-sloth]

Yall ever hear the wildest shit that you have to have a 10 minute laughing fit

[muzzlemouths]

Returning the Favor

Moon has a habit of helping you to bed. It's only fair that you return the favor.

Moon centric // Wordcount: 5714 // AO3 Vers.

The first time you think about it is the day you catch him dozing.

It isn't unusual for Moon to be listless during a shift. Despite having a fair share of sporadic moments where his energy rivaled Sun's, it was more common to see him lazily milling about.  Moseying along the ceiling beams, meandering through the vents, taking his sweet time to stroll or lounge about. Not that he had any reason to rush, it isn't like they paid him by the hour - or at all.

This was different.  You passed him just outside the Daycare, sprawled carelessly across one of the unlit light fixtures and seemingly unaware (or indifferent to) the concept of you illuminating it just to be an ass.

And, well, you were an ass. You readied a smart remark at the tip of your tongue for his inevitable outburst and reach for the light switch—

But you hesitate.

On closer look, he isn’t just lounging for the sake of it. His chest rose and fell with a tempo slower than you were used to seeing, even at his laziest. No red glow met you — his arm draped idly over the eyes in a manner most akin to something very human.

He was sleeping.

At least, you can only assume that's what it was, because before you have a chance to investigate further he's shifting and pulling himself into a sit, eyes fixating on you without a word.

Your hand sheepishly retreats from the light switch. Had he been watching?

His arms lift above his head, angling into a stretch that cracks and pops the mechanic joints holding his spine together. "Hasn't anyone ever taught you it's rude to stare?"

"Were you sleeping?"

His eyes narrow, and he answers you with a heave, arms falling to his side, "Don't ignore my question," he says, "I asked first." His legs swing over the light fixture and hang casually there, where he seems content to stay.

"I asked second," you reply with a sneer, "and it's hard not to stare at someone taking a fat nap next to the ceiling."

He tsks, "Wasn't sleeping."

"No?" Your arms cross your chest, "What would you call it, then?"

"Resting the eyes."

"You don't need to do that — there's nothing about robots with sleepy eye syndrome in the mechanic’s handbook."

"Maybe you just missed it," says Moon, "don't need to, no. Doesn't mean I can't."

You roll your neck in an effort to relieve the pressure with how it's craned. Having a conversation like this isn't at all conducive to correct posture. "Well, don't let me stop you. I'll let you get back to 'resting your eyes'," then, with a smug look, "I know you need your beauty sleep more than anyone."

His eyes further squint, the red a thin line against his dark faceplate. Unlike his usual self, he says nothing to correct you, no clever retort or sass. Instead, he returns to the position on his back, arms tucking behind his head, and lets his 'breathing' even out again, evidently deciding the conversation is over.

Fine. You had work to do anyway.

The thought haunts you, still. Was he sleeping? And if so, what for, and how? You had certainly never watched Sun doze into slumber (and heaven knows he needed a nap the most out of everyone). That said, what was the point? Did they actually gain anything meaningful from it — or was it as Moon said, just a rest of the eyes?

You had to know more. -

The second time you bring it up is at the height of your shift, two weeks out from the last time you touched on the subject. An all-nighter the previous night meant that you were lagging on your duties a fair amount. Enough so that Moon took it upon himself to point it out.

“You should sleep,” he asserts, following at your heel as you do your routine on auto-pilot, “Nighty night. Beddy-Bye. Come on.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you wave him off dismissively and reach for the handle of the cart, “I’ll sleep once I’m home. I’ve got stuff to do.”

“Won’t get anything done like this.” He cuts off your path, ducking beneath your arm and coming to stand between you and the cart, “Nap first. Then you can work.”

“It’s the middle of my shift, Moon,” you tell him - albeit with a long, obvious yawn, “I can’t afford to do something like that. Besides, weren’t you nagging at me about falling asleep on the job just last week?”s

“Changed my mind,” He says, ignoring the narrow-eyed expression you serve him, “You’re stumbling into things, ignoring steps, you’ll hurt yourself like this.”

You shove a hand between his arm and hip, successfully finding purchase on the cart’s handle, “Awe, are you worried about me?” you coo at him, “I’ll be fine.”

“Worried you’ll make my job harder, yes,” he shoots back, “take a nap.” He reaches for your wrist, intent on prying you away from the cart by force.

Your free hand catches his before he has a chance and suddenly you’re trapped in a game of twister. “It’s not happening, earthshine. Let me work.”

He softens at the name — if only a little. You face off in complete silence with neither of you willing to change your mind. Then, when he pulls back from the cart and it looks like he’s finally going to relent, you breathe a sigh of relief.

It’s too soon.

He bends at the waist, and your feet leave the ground. 

“Wh—HEY!” You’re up and over his shoulder before you fully process what just happened. There’s little to grab at from this angle, so it’s all you can do to slam your fists into the sturdy shell of his backplate and kick at his front, both assaults resulting in awful throbs after tasting metal. Your bones aren’t meant to compete with that.

“Nap time,” he repeats with a coo of his own, already parading you across the Daycare to god-knows-where.

“It absolutely is not nap time, you annoying little—oof—” You’re tossed haphazardly into the small section of daycare taken up by plush mats and vinyl coated foam shapes. It isn’t the worst place to take a nap, granted, but you didn’t want one to begin with.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says to your pout, “Stay here. I’ll find a blanket.”

“And if I get up?”

His faceplate turns a full 180 to meet you, “Don’t.” He reiterates, then turns back around to head towards the storage bins where the spare blankets are kept.

Full credit, you give it a minute of thought — which is generous, given your usual choice of ignoring everything he says — but his threats still aren’t enough to persuade you. Right now, you’re more worried about losing this job than your life.

…Yeesh. You’ll take a look at your priorities at a later point.

You peek over a foam triangle before making a break for it on tip-toes, and for a minute, after ducking behind one of the jungle gym corners, it looks like you might be home free. Unfortunately, he’s the master of hide and seek.

Your streak of defiance is short lived. When he’s caught up to you it’s with a rolled blanket in one hand and a pillow in the other, and he spends no time berating you, rather, he simply pulls you under his arm and — quite literally — drags you back to the foam mats.

You’re carried like a lap dog, and you find it too humiliating to put up much of a fight this time, deciding instead to spend the time sulking.

When he drops you onto the mats again it’s with less chariness. Evidently, your escape attempt has only proved to further sour his mood. The blanket is tossed beside you. The pillow makes a direct hit to your face.

You crossly take the pillow as it falls into your lap and take a minute to blow the hair out of your eyes. You’re not any happier with him than he is with you, but this time, you do stay put. “Why are you so insistent about this?”

“It’s my job.” He answers like it’s obvious.

“I thought that was security?”

“Also my job.” He takes the pillow from you and tosses it a foot behind. One hand cradles the back of your neck, the other presses to your chest, and together he lowers you onto your back with only a hint of fight on your end.  The rest of your energy is spent trying to keep the heat off your face.

Regretfully, the set-up is comfy. The pillow is soft, the blanket warm as he tucks it around you (making a point to ignore your fussing about doing it yourself). It’s impossible to deny how snug you are like this, and before you know it, your eyes are drooping.

“There,” Moon tuts, voice soft now in stark comparison to the impatient tune it carried earlier. He brushes the hair from your eyes with a touch so careful, so featherlight, it’s barely there at all. His neck bends, faceplate turning to meet you—

He stops just short of you. A breath away. And he pulls back, apparently changing his mind.

A whine stirs in your throat. You make no attempt to hide your disappointment, imagining that the only thing left for him to do in that position was a kiss. Any other day you might have been shy about outright asking for something like that but to be teased, and then denied, was just plain cruel.

So you get bold. You get daring. “What’s wrong, earthshine~?” You prop yourself onto your wrists, eating up the look he gives you, “No goodnight kiss?”

“Would you like one?” His answer is prompt. It knocks the courage from your words in one fell swoop, immediately serving as a reminder for why you don’t tempt fate like this. Moon is a professional at returning the favor ten fold.

As though looking to prove your point, he lowers himself again to a level you can reach and purrs the most dreaded sentence to hit your ears, “You’ll have to ask politely.”

Ohhh, you wanted to deck him. “Remind me to leave a screw missing next time I fix you up,” you roll your eyes, stubborn scowl hiding the otherwise blatant evidence that the blush this time is too broad to hide.

He picks up on this. He must have. There’s no other reason for him to edge ever closer, close enough to lower you down to your elbows, and sit himself right where you wanted him. “Is that a no?” He hums, “you can ask nicely, can’t you? Just a please—”

“Can I please have a goodnight kiss.”

It isn’t a question so much as an appeal spat out in flustered haste. A show of adamant desperation. If you didn’t get it out in one mouthful you weren’t going to say it at all.

Your blush reaches your ears and shoulders, dipping into your chest with a warmth that makes you want to dive under the blanket and hide there forever.

He’s quiet, eyes blown wide.

“Well?”

“I didn’t—” he shifts, visibly processing, then the grin returns, “I didn’t think you really would,” he admits, “I would have just given it to you,” his voice is half a pitch off from laughter, and you’ve never felt more exposed, “I just wanted to see the face you made.”

You can’t possibly get any redder. Your cheeks are hot with embarrassment and fury, “That’s mean,” you whine, and you’re now contemplating getting under that blanket for real. It’s looking awfully inviting. “You can’t get someone riled up like that and then not even—”

His hand shifts, sliding against your chest and driving you back into the mats with a touch gentler than expected but still firm enough to cut you off. Your breath stills in your chest when his face connects with yours.

You feel the quietest tap to your forehead. Not quite a bonk, nothing clumsy like you might have expected, but a whisper of touch that felt akin to — if not exactly like — a kiss. Undeniably so.

His right arm props itself above your head so he isn't putting weight on you and, evidently, so he can take his sweet time. He remains pressed there until the sweetest of noises is drawn from you, and only then does he rise to the sight of you warm and dazed.

"Better?" He murmurs.

You nod — slowly at first, then with great ambition. You can’t bring yourself to words for fear that they’ll be a squeak or a whine or betray you in some other way. But he can tell, surely, by the blush crossing miles of your skin, just how easily he’d wooed you.

If you squint, looking past his stubborn, stoic exterior, you might even say the act had flustered him just as much. Not that he’d ever admit to it.

“Good. Time for that nap, now.”

Your voice is a good deal quieter when you find it again, a contented mumble, a pliant hum, “I guess that’s only fair.” It has him smiling down at you with an expression that makes you dizzy. “Will you stay?”

He was already on his way out. It’s here that he pauses, bent at the knees, halfway to his feet again, and contemplates. Then, nodding, he returns to a sit; criss-cross applesauce. “I’ll stay,” he agrees, “Keep the boogeyman away.”

You can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of your throat.  “Thanks, but I don’t think the boogeyman can get me here.”

“That’s because I’m keeping him away.” He bends forward enough that he can replace the blanket over you again, taking care to ensure it’s thoroughly tucked at your shoulders and sides.

“Right, right,” you wave your hand from beneath the blanket. “Are you really only going to sit there?”

His hand pauses where it’s at, “What had you been expecting?”

“Well…” you think back to a few weeks ago, when you’d caught him dozing on the lights, “I thought maybe you would want some sleep, too.”

“Don’t sleep,” Moon straightens his back, folding his hands into his lap, “remember?”

Another yawn escapes you, his eyes following it like a dog trained to hunt. “What about the other day, by the ceiling? Weren’t you sleeping then?”

“Just closing my eyes,” he repeats, “not actually sleeping.”

“What’s the difference?”

His hands bind together and casually flex over his head, resulting in another of those rigid pop-pop-pop sounds emitting from his spine — or where the spine ought to be. He releases the built tension with a low exhale. Only then does his gaze return, and still, he’s adamantly silent.

“Come on,” you ask ever so sweetly, “Humor me. Then I’ll sleep,” your pinky peaks out from under the blanket, “promise.”

He stares narrowly for a moment, thinking it over. You think maybe he’s deciding between playing along and just letting you tire yourself out so he doesn’t have to answer. But sure enough, he stretches a hand out and shakes your pinky in a gentle grip.

“Dozing off has nothing to do with the power supply,” he answers, “Don’t actually sleep. I can’t charge that way, and I don’t shut down. It’s more like…” he hesitates for a moment, fingers tapping together, grasping for the words to explain it in a way you can relate to, “...like daydreaming. Not asleep, not entirely alert, either.”

“Do you like it?” You’re not sure what possessed you to shoot for that as your first question. There were hundreds of others on your mind; did he do it just for kicks? Was it built in intentionally, or was the habit learned? How long had he been able to do it?

Did he dream?

“It’s comfortable,” he answers truthfully, “I didn’t use to do it, before…” pausing, his gaze slides to the left, evidently rethinking his wording, “I only sleep when Sun is out. When we charge. But I realized I could do this, and it’s kind of like sleeping. I like it enough.”

Your curiosity is the one thing keeping you from drifting to sleep yourself. You prop yourself onto one arm, only for him to reach out and promptly shove you back against the mat again. Fine. Point taken.

“What about real sleep, then?” You ask, “Can you only sleep when you aren’t ‘out’?”

“I don’t sleep any other way.”

“I know you don’t, but can you?”

He goes silent, head tilting to the side as if he’s trying to suss out what your intention is. “You’re awfully nosy tonight,” he mumbles.

“Well, I’m not going to sleep until you answer me, so—”

“Yes. I can sleep here.” Oh, that was easy, “But I don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Always with the questions,” he growls, “aren’t you tired?”

“Nope!”

“Liar.” He stares sideways at you, and you stare back, stubborn to a fault. He breaks with a heavy sigh. “I don’t like the way it feels,” he avoids your eye, still, and fiddles with the hem of his pant leg instead, “I get antsy. Restless. Haven’t been able to since…” his fingers still, “...well, it’s been a while.”

You don’t need him to go into detail. You can figure the rest out.

Slowly, your body betrays you. He looks up just in time to see you yawn. “Bed time,” he says, spoken soft and just under his breath as though saying it any louder will shatter the moment you’re having.

You’re on borrowed time; warm in the bed he’s made for you, your eyes are heavy with sleep, struggling to remain open, and your mind has you convinced that the soundless lull pulling you deeper into unconsciousness has the best intentions.

“Mh, would you like to try it again?” You mumble around another yawn, “Sleeping out here, I mean.”

He reaches for you, palm gently colliding with your temple, cold fingers combing through your hair, “Maybe one day,” he murmurs, “Now sleep.”

You lack the energy to fight him on it any longer, so you don’t, and instead allow the sweet tug to pull you under. -

Another week passes, and you’ve already all but forgotten about the interaction and the many, many questions attached up until something jogs your memory; Moon, caught in the act of a yawn.

Not that you can blame him. Sun worked overtime in the Daycare that day, managing his usual hours along with two birthday parties and a sleepover. It was no surprise when he didn’t fight the changing lights, allowing Moon to take over without a hitch.

Unfortunately, sharing a body came with many cons, one of which being that the soreness didn’t leave when Sun did. That day’s events remained in the crevices of their joints and the low whir of a fan that’s been hard at work all day. Moon looked about ready to succumb to sleep himself when you arrived on the scene for your shift.

This time, you were determined to do something about it.

You knew he could sleep, just that he didn’t — not out here, anyway — the hard part was figuring out how to convince him that he needed more than some daydreaming before his body would find itself in functioning order again.

How unlucky for both of you, then, that he’s just as stubborn as you are.

You find him, initially, face down in the ballpit. The toys support his massive weight well enough and provide you with the image of him partially submerged, arms spread out in T-Pose position, seemingly unconscious among them.

He’s not, though. You know that by the steady rise and fall of his torso which moves faster than when he’s dozing. Which meant he was simply…laying there, fully conscious, taking in the sweet smell of plastic, children’s feet, and cleaner.

“You alive in there?” You make your way over and settle down on the edge, dipping your feet into the pit. He doesn’t answer. “Are there no better places around here to wipe out? I imagine that ballpit doesn’t smell the best.”

“It’s comfy here.” You can hardly understand him with his face pushed into the pit like that, “Go away.”

And that’s when you see it; the slight lift of his head as his fan whirs louder for a spare moment; a yawn - or something similar.

You hum, kick your feet a little, and reach beside you for the can of fizzyfaz. It opens with an audible click-shhh that has Moon’s head snapping upward, a number of balls scattering in the process.

“No open drinks in the Daycare,” he says without missing a beat, “you’ll get it everywhere. Or worse, get Sun’s attention.”

Another hum, this one more of a jeer, “Come and take it from me then.”

He squints, clearly not having the energy today to deal with your shenanigans. That is, until you outstretch your arm to hold the can above the ball pit and prop it in a way like you’re going to start pouring. He’s wading through the pit with haste, then, and you manage to just barely get up and out of said pit before he’s climbing after you.

This was simultaneously the best (and worst) part; the chase. Something about prompting a massive hunk of metal with a predator complex into pursuing you was, admittedly, a little thrilling, but only until the point where he caught you. Then came the collision, the bruises.

Luckily, your destination isn’t far. You manage to outrun him if only by a couple of steps and when you land, it’s into the plush, welcoming arms of foam mats. The same mats he’d tucked you into but a short time ago.

He’s practically on top of you and reaching for the can in your hand before you fully hit the mats — but he stops, freezing in place, arm outstretched and hand wrapped around aluminum — to the sight of a readied blanket and pillow set-up.

And he scowls at you with nothing short of exasperation.

“Look, I know you aren’t interested in getting some rest, but—”

He snatches the can from you and stands, turning immediately to leave.

“Wait!” You grab his wrist and hold him near, “I just think it’s a little uncanny that the bedtime robot won’t take a little nap every once in a while. Sun’s been running overtime this whole week which has obviously left you equally bent out of shape. Aren’t you tired?” He doesn’t answer, “You sure look tired. You look exhausted, actually, and that’s saying something coming from me.”

“Not interested,” he mumbles, “Let me go.”

“No.” You insist, attempting to make yourself sound firm this time, “Come on, is it really so bad?” Again, he responds with nothing. You decide to switch tactics. “You don’t actually have to sleep. You can just relax with me, lie down for a bit. That’s all.”

He glowers at you, full well knowing what you were doing, “Taking a page out of my own book, hm?” He muses, “That won’t work on me, starshine. I know those tactics by the back of my hand.”

“C’mon, Moon,” Your bottom lip sticks out, eyes pleading, “Ten minutes, that’s all I’m asking. You don’t have to sleep — I mean it, I won’t force you to — but I need you to try…please.”

“Can’t,” he repeats, looking strained about it, “I told you already. Too restless.”

You smile to yourself, having already thought this part through. “Well, let’s fix that, then! We’re going to make you un-restless.”

He finally sags with resignation, apparently tired of arguing, and allows you to drag him into the depths of foam blocks without any more of a fight — save for some grumbling under his breath.

The area isn’t as lavish as before. You found a couple of blankets, no pillows (where does he hide those?) and no plushies for him to snuggle with. But that’s okay. You were a plush enough replacement, if need be.

Retrieving your phone from its pocket, you spend a brief moment running through several playlists before selecting one made as recent as the night before. Moon watches over your shoulder, curious but silent.

That is, until the song begins to play.

It’s a music box — several of them making up an hour’s worth — and his reaction is immediate. First a glare, like he thinks you’re making fun of him. Then the expression softens into something…different. Something kinder.

You settle against one of the foam blocks and gently pat the spot beside you.

He stares it down like it’s enemy number one, refusing to budge.

“Come on, Moon,” you try again, “Isn’t this music relaxing? Doesn’t it make you want to snuggle under the covers and doze off?” You lift one side of the blanket pile temptingly, “I brought them all the way from the laundry room just for you.”

You’ve piqued his interest with that. There’s no reason to be anywhere near the laundry room when he had a perfectly good pile of blankets on-hand right here. Which could only mean…

Slowly, tentatively, he comes to your side. The adjustment is awkward at best; he shimmies into the spot beside you and tucks gangly legs up to his chest, hunching like an animal trying to go bipedal for the first time.

Pointedly, you stifle your laughter in your throat. As funny as it looked you knew he was making an effort here, and you weren’t about to sabotage that by making fun of him.

You try not to think about the before; how easy it was for him to settle down. How effortlessly he went about rest and relaxation, with the kids and himself alike. How naturally the calm came to him. Actually, now that you think about it, the lazy meandering you complained about so often was probably the closest thing to his natural state. He was clinging to it in the only way he knew how to anymore.

The thought makes your chest heavy, providing fuel to your fiery determination.

As soon as he’s within reach you pull the blankets over his lap and tuck them around his hips. It’d be more efficient were he laying down, but that’s a battle for later.

Moon’s body sags as he’s enveloped, going limp at the waist, “They’re…warm,” he murmurs, and you catch him burrowing further into the cloth, eyes drooping ever so faintly. Success.

“Mhm!” You try not to look so proud of yourself, “You’re always complaining about being cold. I don’t know if you were only joking, but you always feel cold, so I thought you might enjoy this. I left them in the dryer for a while before bringing them over here. They aren’t as warm as they were right out of the dryer, but—”

“They’re perfect.” His voice is a whisper. He brings the blanket to his cheek and nestles into it, eyes falling shut. For the very first time, before your eyes, he looks entirely comfortable. Not a restless bone — ahem, gear — in his body.

You wonder, briefly, if this is how he looked before. Content. Serene. At ease.

“How does that nap sound now?”

His gaze draws to you. The blanket moves through his fingers, then falls back to his lap with a soundless thump. “Why are you doing this?” He asks, and there isn’t a hint of his normal attitude remaining. No cheek behind his words.

You reach for him — hesitate — then your hand touches his arm and ambles down to his hand, “Well, this may come as a surprise, but I happen to care about you,” your smile is quiet, “and I hate seeing you stressed out like this,” his fingers curl around yours without a word. You squeeze them gently. “So…let me try to help. Please?”

He’s reluctant. That much is obvious. “I have security to do,” he states.

“Already took care of it. Called in a favor, security is doubled tonight.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll stay here, with you,” your voice soothes, “to keep the boogeyman away.”

He gives it some thought. But you’ve worn him down (or warmed him up, technically) and to your surprise, eventually he reciprocates with a nod, slow and shy. “I’ll try,” he croaks, “that’s all I can promise.”

“It’s enough,” you reassure him.

Another nod, and he goes to lie down where he’s at beside you, but you stop him halfway - an idea occurring. “Wait, not there,” you say.

He watches you with a quiet crooked eyebrow as you readjust your position against the blocks, then spread your arms wide, welcoming him right into your lap. You don’t have the courage to look him directly in the eye and choose to stare at his chest, instead, the invitation alone already taking all of your courage, so you can only hope he isn’t looking at you with disgust.

The lack of an immediate response makes you worry. He says nothing, does nothing for the longest time, and you do your best not to let your disappointment show.

Then it happens. From the corner of your eye you watch him shift into view and clamber with careful movements into the space before you, reclining clumsily into your lap. The only way he’ll fit is against your chest, his head positioned just below your chin. The fabric of his hat tickles your nose.

Your heartbeat quickens, and you feel no need to hide it. You know if his sensors don’t pick up on it, he feels it personally, back to your ribs. And mutually, you feel him.

The most vulnerable you’ve ever been.

The most vulnerable he’s ever been.

He makes a noise in the back of his throat, something guttural and odd, and it takes you a minute to realize he’s pretending to snore. You playfully bat at the top of his head. He grins, eyes remaining shut. “Just trying to be helpful,” he supplies.

“No pretending,” you tuck your arms around him, peering down, “you’re supposed to be giving this whole sleeping thing a real chance, remember?”

“I am, I am.”

Silence fills the room. It’s welcomed. It’s comfortable. You work under its embrace to wrap the blankets around him fully, up to his shoulders. Then, moving slow, you reach for his hat.

Only then does he remember his voice.

“Don’t,” he mumbles, and your fingers still around the fabric, “I look silly without it.”

“Don’t worry, I think you look perfectly silly with it on, too,” you say, delighting in the halfhearted glare he sends your way, “just for today? I promise you can have it back when you wake up.”

“I won’t be able to sleep,” he reminds you, sighing, “but fine.”

You offer him another gentle squeeze in thanks and ease the hat from its place, carefully moving it off to the side for now. His faceplate beneath isn’t as shiny as you’d been expecting; not the sight of a bald man’s head, but rather, it was somewhat dented and scuffed — a result of never allowing the hat to be removed,  even during maintenance, if you had to guess. You make a mental note to give it some extra love next time you manage you persuade him down to parts and services.

“What’s wrong?” He startles you from your thoughts, bringing you back to the present just on time to hear your own words cast back at you, “No goodnight kiss?”

Your cheeks flush completely. This time, you take pride in their warmth. You don’t keep him waiting.

“All you had to do was ask.”

Your hand fits beneath his chin and tilts it to face you, meeting your lips, pressed warmly, tenderly, against his forehead. His fan begins to whine. You feel him stiffen, then relax, going pliant in your arms.

Your hands begin to move. You gently encircle the joints and push carefully against the places where his lines met and pieces came together. His body, unlike yours, had no give to it, and there was no way of knowing whether this soothed him in the way it would a human, but you proceeded regardless, hopeful that it did. That this felt nice. That it felt good.

The breathy noises coming from him told you it did. If you listened close, you could hear the faint exhale of another fan somewhere deep within his inner system’s workings, exhaling stress with each deliberate touch of your fingers. You rubbed delicately, working him until the last of the tension finally gave way, and his shoulders slumped, and his body dipped heavier against you. He exhaled — a genuine, breathy sigh — only then did your hands fall again into a hug around him.

“Nighty night,” you whisper against his temple.

He smiles fondly, not bothering to hide it behind seven layers of gall, “Funny,” he murmurs, “Goodnight, starlight.”

You return his endearment, tucking him even closer, and resist the urge to rock from side to side. That might be overstepping. Instead you find yourself humming, adjacent to the music box that plays a foot away, and you spend some time staring up at the daycare ceiling where a thousand plastic stars illuminate the room.

At the ten minute mark you bow your head, and plant another small kiss to his, “Alright, Moon, a deal’s a deal. I’ve kept you long enough,” you mumble, “you’re relieved of naptime duties.”

He doesn’t respond.

Instead, his weight shifts atop you, legs tucking further into his chest, as if he’s tuned out your voice entirely. The fan in his chest moves in quiet, soothed rhythm, and it dawns on you.

He’s asleep.

Not dozing. Not daydreaming. Really, truly, asleep. His chest rises and falls with the barest motion, his body heavy against yours.

You don’t wake him. You would be crazy to, a waste of your efforts having actually paid off. Instead you relish in the breathy noises that stir in his chest — the occasional jolt in his frame which reveals he does, in fact, dream — and find a comfortable position to settle in for the next few hours.

“Sleep well, earthshine,” you whisper, forehead braced against his own, “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

[rastronomicals]

1:25 AM EDT June 4, 2024:

MC Solaar - "Caroline" From the album Qui Sème le Vent Récolte le Tempo (October 15, 1991)

Last song scrobbled from iTunes at Last.fm

"Who sows the wind reaps the tempo"

[solar-sparky]

I'd like everyone to meet Thermal Tempo! A pretty underground band that has been gaining in popularity these past months! The main leads of a violin and electric guitar make their songs very unique among most other bands.

More about each member below!

- Newt (Named after newtons, a pressure measurement)

- Wake (Type of wave boats leave behind)

- Knox (From Knots, a wind speed measurement)

- Naut (From Nautical and or Nautilus)

Thermal Tempo references underwater thermal vents. Tempo can also be read as temperature!

[sonimiki]

Samsa/ザムザ

I’ve got a name I’ve started hating, but questionably

I spell it out for you and watch the pen bleed

Such a terrifying creature has been turned into me

And taken all that I have— all of my honor, at least

Right now, what kind of creature am I seeming of?

You say “a demon”, huh? I knew you would, but…

Please don’t throw those apples at me, I’ll let

You and me Lock Up Lock Up

Samsa

You tell me “turn around, let me get a look at your face”

Because an ugly one hasn’t much to make

…And not a smile or a saying that can save me, right?

Because the second I run, you’ll see a monster try

It’s not as though I didn’t think to try at all, you know— see, I’ve lied awake every night so

I could end the nightmares laid in front of me, I’ve just never found a way

Ticking ticking ticking

(ticking ticking ticking)

Ticking ticking ticking

(ticking ticking)

Ticking ticking ticking

(ticking ticking ticking)

Ticking Ticking Ticking

Time to change

(ticking ticking ticking ticking ticking)

Everybody’s gone and screaming “save us from the…”

(ticking ticking ticking)

…my Wrangler off, pain along, let them rot-ta-tara-tat

But deep inside, it won’t go. This awful…

(ticking ticking ticking) Taste

Dragging my tail like your decoration, thus, is

Sa-Sa-Sa-Sa-Samsa

They’ve made you hate the world, although… don’t give up just yet, Samsa

Oh yeah

(ticking ticking ticking ticking)

Sa-Sa-Sa-Sa-Samsa

(ticking ticking ticking ticking)

“I’m so ashamed I wasn’t born the way you truly wanted me to be”, I truly try to convey

As such a shell of a human that’s hoping, today,

That you see just how every part of me has grayed

…But you just smile and pretend like there isn’t a problem

Makes sense… that we couldn’t fight on mine, I guess— since you’ve certainly got some

Ticking ticking ticking

(ticking ticking ticking)

Ticking ticking ticking

(ticking ticking)

Ticking ticking ticking

(ticking ticking ticking)

Ticking Ticking Ticking

Time to change…

…Or not this time

Those dreams were mine! Don’t eat them up! Stop all your…

(ticking ticking ticking)

…The tempo of venting songs, slowly wrought-ta-tara-tat

Don’t think you’d mind if I succumbed to such a…

(ticking ticking ticking) Taste

Surely you’d say to “suck it up” and “write a tune” to

Sa-Sa-Sa-Sa-Samsa

Hey… One and two and three, to freedom,

Sa-Sa-Sa-Sa-Samsa

Kick your way out of their kingdom,

Sa-Sa-Sa-Sa-Samsa

As the author gets to the ending where they die— your dreams—

If you leave just before it, I bet

That your future won’t be words for us to read

Everybody’s gone and screaming “save us from the…”

(ticking ticking ticking)

…my Wrangler off, pain along, let them rot-ta-tara-tat

But deep inside, it won’t go. This awful…

(ticking ticking ticking) Taste

Biting into your apple, thus, is

Sa-Sa-Samsa

I steel my mind to stay in dark forever, for the person who…

…Poisons me hasn’t fringe, is no iris, but you

And now a light comes pointing towards one o’ clock to pull me through

Dragging my tail out of obligation, thus, is

Sa-Sa-Sa-Sa-Samsa

I know that they’ve made you hate the world, although… don’t give up just yet, Samsa

Okay?

(ticking ticking ticking ticking)

Sa-Sa-Sa-Sa-Samsa

(ticking ticking ticking ticking)

(ticking ticking ticking ticking ticking ticking)

Sa-Sa-Sa-Sa-Samsa

(ticking ticking ticking ticking ticking ticking)

Ticking.

[oublietonorgueil]

MC Solaar - Qui sème le vent récolte le tempo (Clip Officiel)

[literary-motif]

Prelude in C-Sharp Minor

The piece I had in mind was Rachmaninov's Prelude in C-Sharp Minor.

Xanthus Claiborne x Reader

Xanthus plays the piano to express his emotions. You hear his pain.

Since your mission to take down the Trimedian, Xanthus had been distant. 

You brushed it off at first, thinking he needed some time on his own to recover from the shock and the betrayal you knew he must have felt when he saw Audric again. People dealt with trauma in different ways, and while you felt safest wrapped in his arms, you recognized that having spent as much time relying solely on himself to deal with everything might have led Xanthus to need to process things on his own. You didn’t push. 

He would come to you if he needed someone to hold on to. He would talk to you if he needed to express his emotions and just vent for a while. He would nuzzle his head into your shoulder and cry if he needed to, wouldn’t he?

Xanthus was always there for you when you woke up screaming from another nightmare or felt tears choking you as you thought back to the mission. He could feel your emotions, so he was next to you in an instant, gathering you into an embrace and making you feel safe, reminding you that it was over, that you were alright, promising he would not let anything happen to you. Never again.

Despite the bond, you had not felt any feeling of terror, anger, or sadness coming from Xanthus. It was almost as if he had blocked you out, stifled his emotions so they would not get to you.

While he tried to put up a cheerful facade around you, his smile never reached his eyes anymore and the faux levity he brought into the thick atmosphere that had appeared in the mansion made you all the more worried for him. 

It did not help that his smile always dropped when you turned your back, and no matter how much effort he put into hiding it, the anguish in his ruby eyes could not be concealed. 

The soft notes of the piano carried gently through the hallway as you descended the stairs. Xanthus played beautifully, despite insisting that he was severely out of practice and had forgotten a lot of techniques over the decades. 

You walked quietly over to the living room, where the grand piano stood in front of the floor-length window. The flames in the open fireplace painted the room in a gentle light, illuminating the sheets Xanthus was reading from. You could not help but admire his form as he sat perched on the piano stool, moving his upper body in tandem with the notes he struck on the keys in Lento. 

The melody switched suddenly from feeling like a gentle but tragic autumn breeze to a grave, hurried expression of despair and fear as the tempo picked up. The playing nearly felt chaotic, and it made your heart ache to see the earnestness with which Xanthus conveyed the heaviness of the piece.

To him, it expressed the disarray of his thoughts and feelings.

He had nearly lost you on the mission. He had put you in danger, even though you always reminded him that you had gone willingly, fully understanding the risk you were taking. It did not matter. When you were separated, he had failed to protect you. He had let you down.

He had broken his promise to you.

It kept him up at night, the memory of the fear he had felt and could sometimes still feel coming from you through the bond; the sound of Audric's smooth voice as he taunted him for his affection, his weakness.

The Agitato concluded as Xanthus struck the notes, making you wince at the burning anger you heard in them. They sounded nearly discordant from the force with which he played them.

No matter how loud he played, the echo of Audric's venomous laugh, the sound of your fearful breaths never left his mind.

As the tempo picked up again, Xanthus continued striking the keys, pouring his heart into the forte fortissimo and adding such melancholy and despair into his playing that pesante did not begin to cover the pain you could hear him express.

Tears gathered in your eyes at only being able to guess at the anguish he was going through because Xanthus simply would not talk to you. Maybe he would, in his own time, but only watching and hearing him suffer through everything alone made your heart break regardless. The notes he played on the piano were the only expression of his grief you had been witness to.

The volume decreased slowly, with a few changes of rhythm. Xanthus sighed as he played Lento, the last notes of the piece carrying through the room like a whisper of defeat.

“I can hear your heartbeat, you know,” he whispered into the heavy silence stretching across the room, “It’s quite distracting when I try to keep the rhythm.” Xanthus turned around on the stool, the light of the fireplace reflecting in his eyes and painting his face in a warm glow. 

You could see the gravity the gaze levelled at you and came closer, brushing your hand along his cheek in a gentle caress. “You play beautifully,” you told him, bending down to place a tender kiss against his lips. 

Xanthus hummed into the kiss, a small smile appearing on his face as you broke apart. “I have you to be my muse, love,” he said, placing his hand over yours to pepper soft kisses against your palm. 

“It was rather heavy, though.”

“Rachmaninov told a suffocating tale in it, yes,” Xanthus conceded, standing up to guide you to the sofa facing the fireplace. “That doesn’t make it any less of a masterpiece. The tragedy and despair conveyed so candidly— they make it one of the most emotional pieces I have ever played.”

You took hold of his hands, beginning to play with his fingers and rubbing your thumbs against his joints. A pianist's hands ached after playing difficult pieces, you had read somewhere. “You know I’m here if you need me, right?” you asked quietly, looking him in the eyes. 

His gaze softened as he leaned over to kiss you again. “I know, love,” he whispered, resting his forehead against yours, “Thank you.”

The two of you stayed cuddled together for the rest of the evening, gazing into the flames.

“Why don’t you play Liszt’s Campanella next time?” you teased after a while, raising one of his hands to your lips. 

“Very funny, love.”