she/they
mostly into mcyt atm (also insane about my ocs but i don’t talk about them much on here lol) also into land of the lustrous, madoka magica, sonic & dragon ball - my interests change often lol pretty rb heavy + art!!
Look who's decided to show up!
Thanks again for @hemi-demi for looking through the text for me <3
If you are new to this AU, or don't remember: It's called Gertrude is still around or GiSA
You can see my other posts for this au here: Gertrude is still around au on tumblr, or you can check out The AO3 if you want to read all the chapters in one place
I also have a kofi if you like what I do, or want me to draw something for you
A/N: Here's a sister piece to this ficlet, based again on @vampostingtime 's autopilot au, this time giving Cleo a moment with Legs :)
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The doctor's lucid moments are thinning.
At first, Owen's dead lover had only appeared sporadically. Erratically. Cleo had sensed the truth of the matter only in the aftermath; the sudden shift of breath, the halting of step. The lost moments where Legs' memory would falter, and it was easy enough to dismiss it to a mind stuttering with exhaustion. To human weakness.
It's rare, now, to find Legundo.
When he's present, however, it's unmistakable. Louis carries the doctor's body with poise retained from long-gone muscle memory, his movements sure, deliberate, and his damn smile–
Cleo would cleave that smile from his lips, except it isn't his to ruin.
Not yet.
Not ever.
The doctor's lucid moments are few now, and far between, but they're easy to spot. It's not just the confusion – that distant cousin of walking into a room and forgetting one's purpose. Neither is it just the sudden intake of breath, as if Louis – unaccustomed to a mortal form – sometimes forgets to breathe.
It's the exhaustion.
"This isn't right, doc," Cleo tries – because they have to try, they can't let him just slip away as if he's succumbing to a sickness in his sleep. As if this is natural. "You've got to see that."
Legundo sits at the edge of the animal paddock, where Cleo had seen the shifting perspectives take place. The low stone wall seems to be all that's keeping him up.
"Do I?" he asks. "Have to see that?"
"They're killing you," she says, because somehow, everyone keeps overlooking that. "They're just being polite about it."
The news of his imminent death doesn't perturb the doctor the way it might the other occupants of Oakhurst. He smiles – not in that damn benevolent way that Louis twists his mouth, but with a grief that asks: you understand, don't you? "I really thought it'd be over by now."
She doesn't want to understand, doesn't want to give him the inches of a rope that'll he'll use to hang himself by.
She understands, but she doesn't have to admit it.
"What would be over?"
"This," and he gestures to himself. "Every time I feel myself lapse, I think, maybe this is the last time. Maybe I don't come back after this."
"There must be a way to stop this. You're a doctor–"
Legs laughs – and, oh, she's going to miss it – and rubs tiredly at his eyes. "Of science. Medicine. Of real, rational conditions. Not ghosts, I don't know how to–" He breaks his comment off. He offers a wry smile that Cleo doesn't believe. Not for a moment. "They hardly taught how to cure possession at medical school."
"They didn't teach you how to cure vampirism either, but you're still trying," she replies, because they are not going to let Legs just let this happen. "Maybe there's a book out there. You don't know there isn't."
"And you don't know that there is." He reaches out to her, a show of comfort, of understanding, and she–
She flinches, before they can stop themselves.
(There had been another hand, the same but not the same, not the same in any way which mattered, which had reached out to her before. And they hate it. They hate how Louis has poisoned even this.)
Legs withdraws his hand. He doesn't even look hurt at the rejection – just sad.
"It'll be fine," he says – and the words could be Louis', it would be easier if they were, but this is Legundo, and a different kind of anger takes hold.
"How are you okay with this?" She's raising her voice, but they don't care. Let the whole town hear. Let Owen hear. Dammit, let Louis hear, in whatever depths of Legs' soul he's currently buried beneath. She rises to her feet. "How are you okay with any of this?"
"Cleo–"
"No. I've been in your shoes, doc. Not... not exactly," she remedies, because they're not sure there's really ever been any shoes quite like the fuckery that's currently going on. This is some tailor-made shit. "But not having control. I understand that, doc. You know I do."
He meets her gaze. He looks exhausted. Sallow. "I know."
"They win by making you believe that you have to accept this," she says. "They win when you choose not to fight."
"Not every battle should be fought."
"And this?" She stares down at him. "What if it was happening to someone else? To Abolish, or..." and she pauses to consider who's left. "Or Apo?" because, for whatever reason, there seems to be an understanding between the doctor and the soldier. "Would it still be okay?"
"That's different–"
"The hell it is." She kneels down before him, bringing their eyes level, and this time it is they who reach out. Her hands curl around the doctor's, and they can feel each pitted scar, each callused welt across his skin.
There comes the sudden, terrible fear that this might be the last time she holds these hands in hers.
"Come on, doc," she says. "We still need you."
The smile returns, and Cleo amends their previous judgement: it's not grief. It's the sorrow that comes before grief, the final vigil beside the dying patient. "The world doesn't need an old monster like me."
"It doesn't need a monster like Louis, either," Cleo says, because she doesn't have time to unpack the full weight of Legs' statement, not when there's never any way to know how soon the possession will return.
"Better Louis than me."
"And how would you know that?" Cleo realises their grip has tightened by the hitched wince, and forcibly loosens her hands. "How would you know he's like? He arrives on the scene, and you – what – get boxed away like a forgotten toy, and you just hope he means well? He's killing you, Legs, and calling it a kindness."
"And the last time Owen lost Louis, he murdered every living soul in Oakhurst," the doctor says.
"Damn Owen," Cleo says. "Damn him, and damn Louis."
"Cleo, I have spent... weeks trying to avert a war between vampires and humans," and he sounds so tired, morbid humour curdling at the edge of his voice. "Only for Louis to step in and immediately defuse the situation. If this is how we create peace, I'm happy with that."
"Well, I'm not. And, I'm telling you, doctor, we will find a way to stop this. We're not letting you go without a fight."
Something shifts within Legs then – a resettling of sorrow, an eased tension – and Cleo almost lets herself believe he's shucking off the apathy...
But then she sees that damn benevolent smile, and she knows he's lost again.
Louis shuffles back into the doctor's bones, posture sharpening and grief discarding. In its place sits polite, patient pity.
"Didn't you hear the doctor?" Louis asks. And he sounds so reasonable. So kind. "He's happy with this."
@mytoomanybookstoread yesss your tags are everything to me
Lord, grant me a character who allows themselves to be angry :) Cleo is one of my favourites, because she absolutely takes no bullshit, and this entire scenario is just cowpats as far as the eye can see. (They're so angry. But, like you said, there's so much to be angry about and especially when it's mixed up with grief.)
And casual platonic touch, my belovedddd <3 Given both their backstories and characterisations, I'd be wholly surprised if either are prone to contact. (Am I also personally touch-adverse, so casual contact is often used in my fics as a sign of quiet trust? maaaaybe)
I’ve been looking through some of the stuff the fandom does and thinks in regards to TMA, and—call me a snooty bastard if you wish—I think they’re missing out on a lot in relation to how they interact with the show.
The two episodes that come to mind are MAG102: Nesting Instinct and MAG103: Cruelty Free. I find that a non-insignificant number of people undermine the horror in these episodes. Specifically, they mock 102 for what they believe to be an absurd premise of a man falling in love with a beetle, and they refer to 103’s Monster Pig as cute, in some regard, for its proclamation of Dylan Anderson as “Friend.” I could speak at length about how this completely overlooks the nuance of both episodes, but you’d know better than I, and I wouldn’t want to embarrass myself popping the hood of a car you helped to design.
I suppose what I’m asking is, how do I avoid this tonal dissonance between work and fandom when doing my own projects? It has been a persistent worry of mine, that whatever I make shall be undermined by an innate desire in many fandoms to sympathize or soften, especially when such things are deleterious to full enjoyment of the work.
I cannot state enough that I do not aim to be pompous or establish that I am better than anyone. I am not. That is why I’m asking a superior artist—you—for advice.
Hey,
I got bad news for you. You can't avoid tonal dissonance between a work and it's fandom. If you try you will likely sabotage the work and alienate the fandom.
Examples:
1) Spoonfeed your audience their opinions in the work?
Your work becomes didactic and alienating.
2) "Correct" audience opinions outside the work?
At best you're ignored, at worst you're now perceived as an asshole.
3) Double down on the negatives to deliberately alienate audience sympathy?
Your work just became edgelord nonsense.
At the risk of going all Buddhist on you...
Your discomfort will fade when you stop trying to control people.
You cannot make people do what you want. You can only make the path you desire for them to take as easy as possible. If people are taking an unexpected path, ask them why because there is clearly a need your path isn't providing. Then you can either a) continue and modify your path to better meet that need b) accept that you cannot cater to that need and continue as you were, losing those people in the process c) quit the path.
It's all valid, even option C.
I know that's not a satisfying answer. I suspect you probably wanted some practical advice on steering audience reception via the execution of the work itself but this is, I think, a more helpful response.
Accepting other people's readings without being consumed by them is profoundly difficult, especially when people are harmfully projecting themselves onto you and your work but its the best advice I've got.
TLDR: You cannot control how people engage with your work. All you can do is make the work as well as you can, learn a lesson then make the next thing different. Sometimes the lesson is "make the desired reading more obvious" sometimes it's "some people will always be contrarian" and sometimes its even realising that you were saying something you weren't aware of at the time. Either way, you have something to work with next time and if you give it the consideration it deserves your work will improve over time.
The Mechanisms Zine project has now officially begun!!
A community project, by Mechanisms fans for Mechanisms fans, in the form of a collection of art made by us listeners to celebrate our beloved space pirates and their music
Are you an artist? Are you a Mechanisms fan? Would you like to participate in a few months-long project with other fans, combining your interest with art, and possibly even getting the end result recognised by The People themselves if we're lucky? Join The Mechanisms Zine!!
As of now, the project is in a very very verrrrrry early stage, so I am mostly looking for people to help organise the zine, which means that mod applications are open :}
They will remain open until the end of the week, and I am simultaneously opening artist applications too, which will remain open for a little longer and will have a longer response time
Link to the mod applications
Link to the artist applications
Once again, please share this as much as possible, I need a maximum of people to see this!!
tucked away in a corner of the archive of the starship aurora, there’s an old advert with a familiar face.
[image id: two versions of an illustrated advertisement for “Katabasian Computing,” featuring ashes o'reilly from the mechanisms. they lounge on an ornate armchair, one foot coming down to rest on a tasseled pillow. they wear black-and-white oxfords and a dark 1920’s style suit with a black coat over top; the trim of the coat looks like circuitry. the symbol of the acheron, a simplified skull with circuitry coming out of its exposed brain, floats to the left and right of their head. above the border of the ad is the paper name, “The Oracle,” and the date June 18, 2022. underneath it is the name “Katabasian Computing” and their slogan; “There’s no processor more powerful.” the second is the same drawing, just without the effect that it has been printed on a folded and stained piece of old paper. (without the acheron skulls). end id.]
A/N: Final part of the bloodlines au! Official AO3 link is now here!
Requested tags: @maddiemusic-miscellaneousmesses
[First] / [Prev] / [Full Fic]
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The bittersweet thing was, Morcant would have held up his end of his deal. The likes of Aric might have renegaded, might have laughed at the notion of keeping a promise to a mortal, but had Reiah delivered Alaric, as agreed? He would have turned her.
She would have made one hell of a fledgling.
Instead, her body lies decomposing in the grave alongside her husband. She hadn't lived long after Alaric.
He sits at the kitchen table, the bloodied brooch clasped between his hands.
Sometimes, in his more ungenerous moments, Morcant thinks it would have been simpler if Abolish had seen the monster that slaughtered his parents.
("Simpler for all of us," Aric had agreed, with just a touch too much derision. "Then I wouldn't have to watch you play nanny to a slow-served meal ticket.")
Abolish pulls the door closed behind him as he enters the dining room. He's healed well from his encounter with Aric's hunters: the cuts have scarred cleanly, the sedative long since cleared through from his blood, and his leg moves without hindrance.
And yet, even now – months after the attack – Morcant finds himself watching Abolish. Measuring his steps, counting his heartbeats; waiting for the falter, the fault, the crack in his mortal shell.
Humans break so easily, after all.
Abolish settles at the seat beside Morcant, and his gaze passes over the brooch in purposefully-polite curiosity.
"What do you have there?"
"A memory."
He turns the trinket over in his hands. He hears Abolish's breath catch as the crest comes into the light. And perhaps, if Abolish was still a stranger in his home, perhaps if Morcant had kept his distance, had treated him like the mere mortal he was...
Perhaps if Morcant hadn't spent a week at his bedside, counting between each drugged breath...
Then, perhaps, Abolish would see the truth of Morcant’s remark.
Instead, "I forget sometimes, sir, that they were your friends too."
Morcant feels the repulsed laugh bury itself in his throat. He closes his hand tight around the brooch, until its edge cuts into his hand. "We never talk about your parents."
"We don't need to, sir."
From the outside, Abolish looks perfectly put-together. His shoulders are loose, rolled gently back in carefully-constructed repose, his breathing steady. Even his heartbeat, that tell-tale metronome of humanity, remains regulated.
But grief has a particular scent.
(Sometimes, he wonders what would have become of an Abolish raised by Reiah and Alaric. Whether, surrounded by humans, he would have learnt to smother his emotions so bone-deep, free from the fear of his pulse betraying him.)
"Abolish–"
"I'm fine. Sir."
"You are allowed not to be."
The metronome stumbles.
"I'm fine."
(Would he have grown so dismissive of his own humanity in the Veylocke household?)
"You should pay your respects to your parents."
Morcant doesn't know where that comes from. But as he says it, an idea slots into place, and he sees his options sprawl before him.
The grief is disrupted a moment by confusion. "My... respects?"
"Your family came from another town," Morcant says. "It would be good – customary, even – for you to visit. Spend some time there. Gather a sense of... closure."
Doubt doesn't have a scent, but Morcant can read the flicker in Abolish's eyes at his last words.
"Which town?"
And Morcant could name any town. Any place, and he knows Abolish will dutifully attend, will wait out his allotted – customary – time before returning back to Blackwyn.
And he needs Abolish gone.
At least, for a little while.
"Oakhurst."
.
Morcant sits alone in his study.
It's late, the moon far risen, and elsewhere in the manor he can hear Abolish moving. He knows the scrape of the chair, the cadence of his footsteps; he knows, by sound alone, the way Abolish will stand and stretch as he turns in for the night. The efficient roll of the neck. The subtle shift of the balance to loosen the legs. The yawn, swallowed in the back of the throat. Life, in all its familial mundanity.
Tomorrow, Abolish will travel to Oakhurst.
Tomorrow, Morcant’s home will be silent once more.
He rolls the brooch between his hands.
"You old coward," he murmurs. "Waiting until you were gone to force my hand like this."
He does not grieve Aric, because Aric had been a liability. A menace.
A threat.
He does not grieve, because death is a familiar friend, one with an open invitation into his life. Grief is an indulgence.
And killing Abolish should have been easy.
The Morcant he had once been – a scant decade and a half back, a drop in the ocean of his eternity – would send Abolish away for a few weeks, a month perhaps. Long enough for the humans to forget the finer features of Abolish's face. So that when Morcant slaughtered him, drained his form and returned, rejuvenated once more, the mortals would overlook any discrepancies as flaws in their memory.
Oakhurst would keep him occupied.
Morcant doesn't know if a cure exists in Oakhurst. He knows there were once whispers of it, back before the massacre that left it abandoned. He knows that, if it does exist, it has gone undiscovered for at least two centuries. He knows the search will keep Abolish distracted for long enough.
And, in its own way, this is a kindness. Let Abolish's last few weeks be paying respect to his parents, let him process his grief, far from Morcant’s prying eyes. Let him close the final page, free from Morcant’s meddling.
A floorboard above creaks.
Abolish has always been quiet on his feet, but he no longer smothers his movements the way he had in his first few years at Blackwyn. Now, Abolish moves softly, a trait mimicked from Morcant himself, but no longer does he fear to be heard.
If Morcant asked, Abolish would let him drink.
And when Morcant continued to take, when Abolish realised this was no restrained replenishment, but a gentle murder, it would be too late. The venom would already be in his system, tenfold more potent than the hunters' poison; by the time he thought to resist, he would be already slipping away, as if into sleep and it would be a kind death, perhaps the only kindness he really knew how to give and–
The brooch draws blood across his palm.
And maybe he will learn to care less. Maybe absence will erode the compassion that has calloused across his long-dead heart. Two weeks, maybe three in his empty home, and he will remember what he used to be. Maybe it will be enough.
Because one thing is sure, as he watches the blood pool in the crevices of his leathered, liver-spotted hands:
Things can't continue like this.
He smears the blood between fingers and brooch, streaking the faded Veylocke crest russet-red. Flecks of the rusted blood, over a decade dried, come away at his dulled claws, and it still smells like Reiah.
Like Abolish.
(He had already been an old man when he slaughtered the Veylockes.)
After Oakhurst, he promises himself.
After Oakhurst, he will end this facade.
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A/N: Thank you, everyone, for joining me on this fun lil "what-if" – thank you for all the comments, tags, theories, and just overall enthusiasm! You make this a lovely fandom to be part of!
I know there was hope that I'd continue this past canon, but this was always my intention to officially finish it here, an open-ended finale. I wanted Morcant's decision to be left up to the reader, rather than narrowing it down into a single unambiguous conclusion.
Maybe I'll continue this one day. It's certainly a possibility! But for now, this is where I leave you with it. As always, people are welcome to pick up and play with my AUs, we're all sharing this sandpit together :D
Heya, absolutely love your work and your Michael still lives AU. I know you tend things chronologically but I have to ask : How does Michael deal with paranoid stalker Jon?
(Because on one hand Michael can relate, on the other they have an already strained relationship and on a secret third one Jon paranoïa was partially caused by Not!Sasha which doesn't exist in your AU so... Help)
Unfortunately, Michael will make things worse before he actually helps Jon.
He DOES FEEL BAD for Jon, especially having once been in his position, but he’s also the perfect target to have a little fun with. Michael (at this point) will have a harder time resisting the urge to mess with Jon, and he’ll feel deep regret only afterwards, when his head is a little more clear.
Short term, it’s really funny to mess with him. Long term, he knows it’s bad for Jon and himself.
Not!Sasha isn’t around, but that doesn’t mean the Not!Them isn’t around (and got someone else 😏)
annaxmalina
jacobvanloon
janainaart
stormborns
germansingergirl
