#Dog a tat the​ rat​ a​ tat

[hinoshimidoki]

Dog a tat the​ rat​ a​ tat​ Anayasha​ saayami​ yamabuki​ Suit bear blue​ soldier​ characters​ billiman​ cat​ man​ colonel​ doggert​ doggy​ Don​ major​ Saab​ pakdam​ pakdai​rat​

[bleeding-hart]

some sketches

based on @theicarusconstellation's writing

I keep thinking of details I left out and stuff I need to fix but if I let myself do that I'm going to go insane so we're leaving it at this

Also some Sirius because they're a fucking king and we love them (I very strongly hc them as genderqueer and using any pronouns, but specifically he/they/she/it)

The dress was a bit of a failure but hey it looks like fabric at least I think maybe

[ultra-nohai]

Reginald, Fred, and Jeb Requested by Wobbley

(WARNING: Any unauthorized copying of this artwork will be reported and will urge the user to take it down without warranty.)

[incorrectvtuberquotes]

"The One Thing You Can't Replace" - Ex-Niji Version

AKA the closest I'll ever get to discourse-posting. But if you have quotes for Mint, Doki and the rest, by all means send them in!

Maid Mint: Another story I heard about myself... This one happened in Nijisanji. We had this boss, Mr. Tazumi, and I had a kouhai who went to our agency, Rosemi Lovelock. She was in Obsydia and I was in LazuLight, so she was a gen behind me.

Mint: So Mr. Tazumi was an asshole. And one weekend, he and his yacht decided to leave town, which you should never do if you're an asshole. And Rosemi decided to throw a party at the HQ - hooray! So everyone around Niji heard about it, and we all got up individually and said:

Quinn Benet: Okay. Let's go over there and destroy the place.

Mint: I walked into this party. Everyone I had ever met was there, and everyone was drinking like it was the end of the world! We were drinking like it was the Civil War and a doctor was coming to saw our legs off. It was totally unsupervised. We were like dogs without horses - we were running wild.

Mint: I walked down... I walked down to the basement. They had a pool table in the basement.

[Cut to Michi Mochievee, jumping onto the pool table]

Mint: One kid took a running start and threw her body onto the pool table and broke it in half.

[Cut to Kuro, plotting mischief]

Mint: Another kid found out which office was Tazumi's and went upstairs and took a shit on his computer.

Mint: So the party was going great.

[Chat cheers]

Mint: I'm standing in the basement, and I'm holding a red cup - you've seen movies - and I'm standing there, and I'm starting to black out. And I guess someone said, like...

Sayu: Something, something, managers.

Mint: And in a brilliant moment of word association, I yelled:

Mint/Pomu: FUCK THE MANAGERS! FUCK THE MANAGERS!

Mint: And everyone else joined in! Three dozen drunk EN children yelling "Fuck. Da. Managers." with the confidence of guys who have, like, already been to jail and aren't afraid of it anymore - you know, that "I served my nickel! You come and take me!" confidence. But EN children.

Mint: The reason someone had said "something something managers" was because the managers were there. So an Anycolor manager walked down the stairs and got to the bottom in the basement, and looked out over a sea of drunk toddlers yelling "Fuck the managers!" in his face! And he was almost impressed! He was like, "Wooooowww..." And then he leaned into his walkie-talkie and went: "Get the paddywagon!"

Mint: And my friend Matara - who is now a mother, this woman has babies - she grabbed a 40, smashed it on the ground and yelled:

Matara: SCATTER!!!

Mint: And everyone ran in a different direction. We all ran in different directions. It was like that scene in Rat-tat-touille when the humans come in the kitchen and all the rats go in different ways - we all ran in different directions.

Mint: I ran into the laundry room and I jumped up on a washing machine, and I crawled out through a window into the back alley, and now I'm running through the back alley and there was this big chain link fence. And I thought:

Mint/Pomu: I have never climbed a fence that high before!

Mint: And then I woke up at home.

[Chat laughs uproariously]

Mint: On Monday, I went to work, because that's what we did back then. And I'm walking into the collab, and who do I see but Rosemi Lovelock. And she says to me:

Rosemi: Hey, were you at my party on Saturday?

Mint: And I said no. You know, like a liar. And she said:

Rosemi: Things got really out of hand. Someone broke the pool table. Someone took a dump on Tazumi-san's computer. But the worst thing is, someone stole these old antique photos of Tazumi's grandmother. And our bosses are freaking out about it.

Mint: And I had that thought that only blackout drunks and Steve Urkel can have: "Did I do that?"

[She pauses as chat reacts]

Mint: I figured no, I wouldn't have done that. But I was never sure - until, a year later... Relax!

Mint: I'm playing video games with this kid named Dokibird, that we also went to Nijisanji with. A year later, we've graduated by now. We're playing video games for a couple hours. And then Doki says to me:

Doki: Hey, come here, I wanna show you something.

Mint: And she takes me into her bedroom, and then she takes me into a side room off of her bedroom - never a good thing to have.

Mint: And she shows me a tiny room that is covered wall to wall in stolen antique photos from Nijisanji parties over the years. And I said: "Why? Why do you do this?"

Mint: And Doki said:

Doki: Because it's the one thing Tazumi can't replace.

[Chat erupts into laughter and cheers]

[emeryhall]

for @wolfstarmicrofic: prompt #22, Azkaban also for @r33sespieces: my #1 wolfstar cheerleader rating: M word count: 1460 (sorry!)

The North Sea feeds into the Thames, and Padfoot—aka Sirius Black—is too exhausted to do much besides, well, doggy paddle. Float, paddle, float, paddle. He passes the Tower of London and shivers at the thought of imprisonment, or perhaps just the bitter cold water that’s bled through his mangy fur and into his barely covered bones. Under London Bridge, which still hasn’t fallen, even after his twelve years of absence. He doesn’t clamber out of the river until he sees Big Ben. Then he locates a cluster of tourists and gives himself a good shake, flinging wet-dog-river-once-used-as-London’s-sewer-system water onto them, before transforming back into a skinny, tattoo-encrusted naked man who cocks an eyebrow at the oldest tourist who faints dead away. He snorts, flips the V to the rest of the crew, and sets off to find clothes. 

He lands in some muggle used clothing store where all the garments are organized by color, the reds being nearest the door, so he snags a couple of red items and yanks the trousers over his skinny hips before the other customers can get too hung up on his dick which is definitely hung if not up. Weirdly, the red jeans he’s grabbed button up the flies instead of zip, so he buttons away trying not to snag his pubes. He should steal some pants next. The top is apparently a red sweater vest. It’s not a good look, but he’s not in a position to be picky. 

“Hey! Mister! You gonna pay for those?” some minimum wage brat demands. 

Sirius considers. He’s got no money, no wand, no pants, no shoes, no friends (as far as he knows). What he does have is fucking dead-ass eyes and a brain full of nightmares and revenge fantasies. 

“How about, rather than pay for these, I promise not to pull off every single one of your fingers and feed them to your arsehole?” His voice comes out strange—scratchy, barely a whisper—which turns out to be more effective than a shout in this situation. 

The kid nearly pisses himself and Sirius walks out of the shop looking like a cherry lollipop. 

Next up is food. There are rats to be had everywhere, scurrying about the London streets, but he walks down Haymarket until it turns into Regent and finds a chippy. (He’s not in the mood for rats. Not just yet, that is.) He orders chips with cheese and a slice of pizza on top and tells the kid behind the counter that if you break a rat’s spine you can spatchcock it just like a chicken. Then he laughs because rats don’t have spines. He’s not sure if it’s the laugh that does it or the spine comment, but the kid doesn’t bother asking for money—just looks like he’s trying not to breathe through his nose, which, fair enough. Sirius smells like arse. 

He leans against the wall of a building in Soho and licks pizza grease off his fingers, licks down his arm where it dribbled, and pays no attention to the posh bloke in khaki trousers and a pocket tee standing next to him until the man holds a lighter to a fag, inhales, and says in a waft of delicious smoke, “What’s your sign?” 

“Go fuck yourself. But give me one of those ciggies first.” 

The man is not put off. Instead, he scans Sirius from his grungy bare feet to his tangled hair, taking in the button flies, sweater vest, and neck tats. Sirius tugs at a belt loop where his hip bones jut above the waistband. 

“How’d you like to make some money?” The man’s accent is sharp. American. 

“How’d you like to fuck yourself?” But Sirius considers. Money could be useful. He’s gotta get to Hogwarts, after all. 

“Ah, if only I were that flexible.” 

Sirius snorts. “I’m not a charity case.” 

“Never said you were. You’d have to earn it.” 

What’s this guy want? His dick sucked? Sirius could probably manage that. It’s been over a decade but the dementors couldn’t have sucked—ha!—that knowledge entirely out of him. Must be like riding a bike. 

“How much?” Sirius asks. 

The man eyes him. “I could make you rich.” 

“From blowjobs? No thanks. I just need to get to Hogwarts.” 

Now the man looks puzzled. “I’m talking about your dreams.” 

“My dreams?” 

“What are your wildest dreams?” 

Sirius is a simple man, or at least he’s become one, so he ticks his dreams off on his fingers. Doesn’t even require a whole hand. 

revenge

Remus

a cigarette

“That’s it?” 

“That’s it.” 

“Well, I can help you with all three.” 

“You can help me find Remus?” 

“When I’m done, Remus will come to you. I’m assuming Remus is a person.” 

“Remus is a person.” 

“And revenge?” 

“Revenge takes money. I’ve already promised you that.” 

“The cigarette?” 

“You smoke?” 

“Quit twelve years ago.” 

“You sure you want to start back up?” But the man pulls a fag from his pack and hands it to Sirius. Even lights it for him. “So, should I get you a contract?” 

“For what?” The first sip of cigarette burns his insides. Cleans him out. Phoenix rising from the ashes and all that. (The metaphor matches his outfit.) 

“Modeling.” 

Sirius laughs so hard he chokes (although that may be the cigarette). The laughter feels good. It’s been a long, long while. “Sorry, did you say modeling?” 

“I did.” 

“Modeling, like Jerry Hall.” 

“Mick Jagger’s wife? Well, yes. Or Cindy Crawford.” 

“Who?” 

The American raises an eyebrow. “Have you been living under a rock?” 

“On, under. Something like that.” 

“Cindy Crawford.” The man points with his cigarette at a newsagents on the corner—racks of glossy magazines on display. 

Sirius squints. “What am I looking at?” 

“Far right. Rolling Stone cover.” 

There’s a bird with big hair and bigger tits on a beach, pink leopard print fabric fwapping about her. 

“You want me to do that?” Sirius glances down. His stomach is so concave you could serve ice cream in it. 

Khaki trousers laughs and fluffs some of his greying hair. “Not at all. I want you to be the opposite of that. I want you to be the face of my new fragrance.” 

Sirius doesn’t even have to lift an arm to smell himself. “Not sure that’s a good idea, mate.” 

“Oh, it is. Your look is perfect. Skinny, strung out, haunted eyes, gender uncertain, those tattoos that look like they’ve been done with a ballpoint pen and knitting needle. We’ll wash your hair a bit but leave it the same length.” 

The man touches Sirius’s hair. His finger gets caught in a gnarl and he has to tug it out. 

“Problem is Mr.…” Sirius waits for the man to fill in the blank. 

“Klein.” 

“Problem is Mr. Klein.” 

“Call me Calvin.” 

“Problem is Mr. Calvin Klein, I’m a wanted criminal. Convicted felon. Just escaped prison. You put me on a magazine cover like that broad”—he gestures with his cigarette towards the newsagents and the bird with the big, smooshed tits—��and you’ll have the whole Wizengamot down on the both of us, and I can’t have that. I’ve got a rat to track down and—” Sirius makes a slitting motion across his throat. 

Mr. Calvin Klein considers him. “I take it you’ve been wronged.” 

“Completely.” 

“Convicted felon but innocent man?” 

“That’s right.” 

“You’re a real life The Fugitive.” 

“What’s that?” 

“Harrison Ford.” 

“Like Han Solo?” 

“Never mind. And I take it the rat’s a snitch?” 

“And not a golden one either, if you know what I mean.” 

Calvin clearly doesn’t know what Sirius means. 

“Then we’ll have to make you too big to fail.” 

“Sorry?” 

“There are two ways to avoid re-imprisonment. One: below the radar. Sneak about. Avoid detection. I imagine that’s what you’re aiming for, but trust me, dressed like that, you’ve already failed. Option two, and the one I’m proposing: I’m going to make you so famous they can’t arrest you. See Cindy Crawford over there? You can’t arrest Cindy. There would be public outrage if you jailed Cindy.” 

Sirius must look skeptical because Calvin goes for another analogy. “How about Brad Pitt? You can’t imprison Brad Pitt.” 

“Who?” 

“Patrick Swayze?” 

Sirius shakes his head. 

“Burt Reynolds?” 

“Smokey and the Bandit?” 

“There you go. Now imagine imprisoning Burt Reynolds.” 

Pffff. “Please. You can’t lock up that ’stache.” 

“Exactly. We’ll make this—” Calvin waves his hands all up and down Sirius’s ‘look’—“so known, there’ll be mob justice if anyone comes for you.” 

“You can do that?” 

“I’m Calvin Klein and this is 1993.” 

“Is it now?” Sirius ashes the cigarette onto his bare foot. Cracks his toes on the pavement. “Where do I sign?”

Hi, Reese! One day I want to gift you a full-length wolfstar, but in the meantime, have this ficlet as a thank you for always supporting my weird-ass wolfstar ideas ❤️

Was this story inspired by the thought that Sirius escaped Azkaban in the mid-90s looking like the epitome of heroin chic? Yes, it was.

[meli-writes]

Mechismo - No. 03 /// Speak

(First) / (Previous)

When the reappropriated battle-radio crackles to life— Pss-Tat-tat. It’s good.

“—ou copy? Answer! I know—” Psssat-at-at. It’s the oft-heard, impatient snap of takeout breadstick or asshole-bone. Psst-tat. One of those, at least. “—need help.

Okay?”

Boots slip to the deck in a restrained show of attentiveness; pulled through loose cablets — anxiously-chewed at the stray ends — that have hewn radio to emplaced console. That beg it remain connected, to the dropship’s comm-booster. Tsss-at-tat. Still within reach.

You want to hear this — need to, were waiting to.

But the pack — lance, she’ll be here soon to pipe-in indignant with — doesn’t need to see that, their breaths hitching as you click down on the transceiver, “Aww. Howdy pup, ya not doin’ so good right now?”

“Don’t call— Ugh. You were right!” she exclaims. “Not—” Psss— Tick!

Tsss-Tick-tick! The radio needs to be tuned to hers — its signal obfuscated before now, even with the leash hardwired between them, and the tracker buried in her bought-out frame.

It’s the hiss-click when internal-atmos sneers out through a cockpit-shield; where— Tsss-Tick! Where the sea presses on its laminate interlace which melds still, after hours sunken, the internal-external halves of its shattered, protective screen into purposed form.

Whereon the seabed her mech rests to be recovered, and indebted for the courtesy.

Tick-tsss-tick. Or the kettle that rattles to a whinesome, third climax — another pack-hound ordered to bring her tea, without notice to the possibility it’s because it never tastes how she made it. Tsss-tick-Tick-Tick!

One of those,

at least.

It takes some more dials to find her. Tick-tick—Tack! Then it locks in, and she’s yours.

“—were knocked out. So it’s just me — that’s left,” she pleads between the hiss that remains: the unmistakable whine of pilot exhaustion and shrapnel-bled coolant dripping onto wet, fizzing circuits. “Okay.”

Somewhere below, a treat rattles from tread-to-tread; out of the recesses of bounced-up combat boots, through metal slats into the underdeck — for the rats, not dogs, to feast on this time. Though one still mounts a boot-tip, bobs up into your spare hand, and “Oh. How I’d just adore making it all right for ya pup,” you drawl, wait out the seconds, to lap up each transceived pant of desperation. “But— y’know, ya gotta make it right first.”

Speakers shudder in electric anticipation as the meagre band of frequencies a battle-radio is allowed to occupy choke on two shots in sudden succession. Thhunkh. Thunkhh. Your radar flickers into range, to see the targeted blips but a moment before they flicker out.

There’s so many more than those ones, than hers — bright speckles of seawater mould on the dull, hooded monitor.

“Yeah. Sure,” she spills, spent shells in the oil-suckered muck, doesn’t have the time to mute, “can take it from my friends’ corpses when this contract’s done — like I didn’t pay enough gettin’ outta yours.”

You think it’s a shame, how she values them — valued them — over her own family, slipping her leash to leave the pack behind. “Handler,” she begs — her words huddled between the rhythmic shunts of her main-arm reloading.

You feel the way it tears itself apart each time it fires — how it trades off: so much power, but it must hurt itself too. How she didn’t know how to repair it — before you, “No.”

“Wha—”

“No more debts,” you append, in correction of her. It’d look the same on the company files but, “Ya always looked sad when ya owed me.”

“So how the fuck am I supposed to—” Her shriek suffers another’s interjection; the hull-creasing bellow of another blow taken, less glanced than the last, less her fainting gesture at leverage. “Fine! You wanna fuck me, right? ‘Cos I never gave you the chance.”

Mould pours into a brittle crescent around her, cut apart at the gridlines and nowhere else.

She must’ve backed into her prize: a vessel downed in distant memory, too much promise of precious relics to be uncontested, now the winds have shaken it from its grave. At last its rusted silvered shell bounces an invisible laser back into the rangefinder. You count down each point: two-point-six clicks, two-point-five, point-four, point-three.

She doesn’t need to know that — would know it herself, 

“Ya ain’t gotta make it right to me,” you explain, punctuate it with the loose, separation-anxious howl of the smallest of the pack’s three. It nuzzles past the mounted one, and whimpers as you tamp fingers down on radio and tongue, to tell her.

“It’s to your sisters.”

All your hounds whine now, except her. But that’s still good. The pilot-suits will recirculate the lost fluid — most of it. The rest will help it slip off, after she’s back, and even before that it’s little between them and the ridged, rubber toe-caps each vies to press themselves into.

“Are you not over this,” she cries, even though it’ll soak the soft trim of her head-mounted display. “I left months ago and I’m dying now.”

You retreat a wet index-finger from an eager, pulsing throat — rub the mess on its cheek, let out a soft snap. “I’m not, pup,” you turn on her, and two sub-point clicks fly past before you’re able to continue, “and you're already whining so perfectly for me.”

Each hound has stirred now, rushing to collar themselves in their owned, metal skin.

Your words echo into their cockpits, “Bark for your owner.”

It’s not even for them but— Awooo! And it must count sixty-four seconds or less, till they’re hot and grounded, “and I’ll be right over.”

If they want their reward, “I can’t believe I’m—” If there’s still one to collect.

You look at that speckled crescent, know from how it falls on her what each wretched speckle is — model, armament, pilot-temperament — and can count the seconds you’ll need to break it. Can count the second you have to break it, and are losing as drop-sirens howl and steel starts to pounce upon the earth.

“Daisy,” you bark — worried she’s silent.

But then, the radio crackles. You hear the hitch in her throat — as the dropship shadows the broken field, before her pack lights the darkness, and realise, in relief, that she is waiting — waiting to, “Speak!”

“Arf!”

“Good girl.”

---

(Masterpost) / (Next)

written for Making-up-Mech-Pilots' prompt:

Mech Pilot who is very upset that they don't get to pick their own callsign.

technically started writing this before i made a tumblr account but i believe this will be appreciated here. it started off more playful and invariably i have made it sad but also smutty. lmk if you like it <3

[milligramspoison]

List of FOB songs that can possibly be magic 8 ball songs at some point

Evening Out With Your Girlfriend

Honorable Mention - last performed on January 22nd, 2007

Switchblades and Infidelity - last performed on August 28th, 2004

Pretty In Punk - has never been performed live (yet)

Growing Up - last performed on November 7th, 2008

The World’s Not Waiting (For Five Tired Boys In A Broken Down Van) - has never been performed live (yet)

Short, Fast, And Loud - has never been performed live (yet)

Moving Pictures - last performed on November 23rd, 2005

Parker Lewis Can’t Lose (But I’m Gonna Give It My Best Shot) - has never been performed live (yet)

Take This To Your Grave

Tell That Mick He Just Made My List of Things to Do Today - last performed on July 30th, 2013

Sending Postcards From a Plane Crash (Wish You Were Here) - had its only live performance ever on March 12th, 2004

The Pros and Cons of Breathing - had its only live performance ever on November 19th, 2007

Grenade Jumper - last performed on February 20th, 2009

Reinventing the Wheel to Run Myself Over - last performed on November 19th, 2007

My Heart Will Always Be the B-Side to My Tongue

My Heart is the Worst Kind of Weapon - has never been performed live (yet)

It’s Not a Side Effect of the Cocaine, I Think It Must Be Love - has never been performed live (yet)

Love Will Tear Us Apart (cover) - had its only live performance ever on June 10th, 2004

From Under The Cork Tree

Our Lawyer Made Us Change the Name of This Song So We Wouldn't Get Sued - last performed on March 23rd, 2008

7 Minutes in Heaven (Atavan Halen) - last performed on January 4th, 2007

Champagne for My Real Friends, Real Pain for My Sham Friends - has never been performed live (yet)

Get Busy Living or Get Busy Dying (Do Your Part to Save the Scene and Stop Going to Shows) - had its only live performance ever on May 6th, 2006

XO - last performed on December 2nd, 2007

Snitches and Talkers Get Stitches and Walkers - has never been performed live (yet)

The Music or the Misery - last performed on August 12th, 2006

(Note: I didn’t include I’ve Got A Dark Alley as Pete has said that song will never be performed live)

Infinity on High

Don't You Know Who I Think I Am? - last performed on December 2nd, 2007

The Carpal Tunnel of Love - last performed on April 4th, 2008

You’re Crashing, But You’re No Wave - has never been performed live (yet)

It’s Hard to Say “I Do”, When I Don’t - has never been performed live (yet)

Folie à Deux

The (Shipped) Gold Standard - has never been performed live (yet)

Tiffany Blews - last performed on September 19th, 2009

w.a.m.s. - has never been performed live (yet)

20 Dollar Nose Bleed - last performed on September 29th, 2013

West Coast Smoker - has never been performed live (yet)

Pavlove - has never been performed live (yet)

Lullabye - last performed on April 26th, 2009

Believers Never Die: Greatest Hits

Alpha Dog - has never been performed live (yet)

“From Now On We Are Enemies” - has never been performed live (yet)

Yule Shoot Your Eye Out - last performed on December 18th, 2013

Save Rock and Roll

Alone Together - last performed on November 17th, 2017

Just One Yesterday - last performed on September 12th, 2014

The Mighty Fall - has never been performed live (yet)

Miss Missing You - last performed on January 14th, 2015

Death Valley - last performed on September 12th, 2014

Young Volcanoes - last performed on May 7th, 2018

Rat A Tat - has never been performed live (yet)

PAX•AM Days

We Were Doomed from the Start (The King Is Dead) - had its only live performance ever on November 29th, 2013

Art of Keeping Up Disappearances - had its only live performance ever on November 29th, 2013

Hot to the Touch, Cold On the Inside - had its only live performance ever on November 29th, 2013

Love, Sex, Death - last performed on June 14th, 2014

Eternal Summer - had its only live performance ever on November 29th, 2013

Demigods - had its only live performance ever on November 29th, 2013

American Made - had its only live performance ever on November 29th, 2013

Caffeine Cold - had its only live performance ever on November 29th, 2013

New Dreams (cover) - had its only live performance ever on September 13th, 2013

American Beauty / American Psycho

Jet Pack Blues - last performed on May 7th, 2018

Novocaine - last performed on March 27th, 2017

Fourth of July - last performed on March 22nd, 2017

Twin Skeleton’s (Hotel in NYC) - has never been performed live (yet)

Mania

Stay Frosty Royal Milk Tea - last performed August 18th, 2019

HOLD ME TIGHT OR DON’T - last performed May 7th, 2018

Wilson (Expensive Mistakes) - last performed November 4th, 2018

Church - last performed April 30th, 2018

Heaven's Gate - has never been performed live (yet)

Champion - last performed on December 6th, 2019

Sunshine Riptide - has never been performed live (yet)

Young And Menace - last performed on October 10th, 2018

Bishops Knife Trick - has never been performed live (yet)

LLAMANIA

Past Life - has never been performed live (yet)

Footprints in the Snow - has never been performed live (yet)

Wrong Side of Paradise - has never been performed live (yet)

Lake Effect Kid

Lake Effect Kid - last performed on October 10th, 2018

City In A Garden - has never been performed live (yet)

Super Fade - has never been performed live (yet)

Believers Never Die, Volume Two - Greatest Hits

Dear Future Self (Hands Up) - last performed on December 6th, 2019

Bob Dylan - has never been performed live (yet)

So Much (For) Stardust

So Good Right Now - has never been performed live (yet)

I Am My Own Muse - has never been performed live (yet)

Flu Game - has never been performed live (yet)

So Much (For) Stardust - has never been performed live (yet)

[katyawriteswhump]

See if I care

Late entry for @steddieangstyaugust prompt 24: ‘Go, see if I care,’ and also prompt 18 ‘right person, wrong time’ (I originally scribbled this idea for that one… whoops!)

Summary: When Eddie develops mysterious powers, he’s scared out of his mind. Steve is equally terrified of losing Eddie.

Rating: E. CW: problematic emotions, sexual content, self harm. Tags: established steddie, needy steve, eddie had powers. WC: 2000-ish.

…

Steve was staring into the pool, which had been emptied for the winter, when the mail van drew up outside.

He hurried over to take the delivery then turned over the single dog-eared letter. The address was written in Eddie’s hand. A thunderclap resonated through Steve’s chest, and he opened it quickly.

Steve, sorry it’s been ages since my last letter. Peru was a bust, so I followed the crazy visions to Pittsburgh, where I found this total badass with powers like mine. She’s helped me access locked up memories, and it’s blown me away.

Apparently, I spent several years as a kid in Hawkins Lab. Yeah, that dump that looks all shut up. They trained me to use my powers as a weapon, some bull about beating Soviets, and then something happened. Something so bad, my memory still won’t let me see it. After that, they must’ve somehow dumped me back with my uncle, and he was made to believe I was with my Pa all that lost time…

Steve skipped forward, flipped over the paper.

“Please, Eddie,” he whispered, “I need to know you’re coming home, or I’m gonna lose my mind.” 

….

Three months earlier

“This is a baaaad idea,” said Eddie, as he and Steve squished into the bank queue. “They’ll take one look at the tats, the hair, the name Munson, and they’ll pee their forced-conformity pants and run screaming.”

“Jesus, have a little faith.” Steve didn’t get what Eddie was so nervous about. “They’ll let us open the account, no sweat. I’ve got a reference from my mom, and she’s super-well respected.”

“Yeah, but putting down a deposit for a condo? It’s kinda drastic, dude. I mean—”

“Chill.” Steve’s fingertips brushed Eddie’s soft lips. “It’s gonna be f—"

“EVERYBODY ON THE GROUND.”

Steve’s heart literally leaped into his mouth. A bunch of armed guys wearing cartoon character masks stormed into the bank. Steve threw himself behind the nearest counter, bunched up with Eddie and several others from the queue. Screams and cries filled the air, echoed by the piercing rat-a-tat of gunfire.

Steve covered his ears. Oh God, oh God. But they’re only after money. They don’t want us. 

He lifted his face from his knees, reached for Eddie’s hand. Eddie looked frantic, clenching and unclenching his other fist.

“Breathe,” mouthed Steve. “It’s gonna be—"

At the sound of a child’s wail, Steve’s blood jumped again. He peeped around the counter. A robber wearing a Bugs Bunny mask had picked on a woman who’d been waiting with her kid. The little girl screamed and sobbed, while the robber waved his gun at the kneeling woman:

“Open the vault, NOW,” yelled Bugs to a quivering bank clerk. “Or you’re all gonna be finger-painting with mommy’s brains.”

Steve leaped to his feet, threw his arms in the air. “What is wrong with you, a-hole? Taking a hostage with a kid?”

“Yeah? You wanna be a hero? You wanna take her place?”

“Um…” Steve’s brain caught up with his instincts and his knees turned to jello.

Oh. Shit.

Steve felt a sickening crack across the back of his head. The next few minutes passed in a pain-drenched blur. He was thrown to the ground, dragged up again, pushed around. There was waaaay too much noise, more shouts about opening the vault, and he was scared he was gonna puke. He found himself held flush against Bugs Bunny’s chest, the cool butt of a pistol at his temple.

Always did hate that son-of-a-bitch carrot muncher.

“You wanna play games too?” Steve winced at the robber’s deafening yell in his ear, although the gun slid from his head. He lifted his chin to see Eddie facing them down. Looking pissed and spooked in equal measures. “Do YOU want a bullet in your brain, you long-haired loon?"

Steve’s terror spiked. Eddie lifted his arms and roared. A heavy blast hit Steve, throwing him backwards. He impacted something with a crunch and then landed with a heavy splat in a slick sea of blood and gore.

Somebody shot me. Or there was a bomb. I’m dying!

A wave of dizziness carried Steve far, far away.

…

Steve was in hospital for twenty-four hours, suffering from concussion, bruising and shock. Dustin visited Steve. His mom flew home, leaving his father alone in Paris. Robin was hard to get rid of. No sign of Steve’s boyfriend, though.

He was back at home in his room—moping and bored out of his aching skull—when someone tapped on the window. Steve hurried over, grabbed a wide-eyed, scared-looking Eddie and hauled him inside.

“Thanks,” gasped Eddie. “You know I suck at climbing.”

“Why not use the door like a normal person?” They stood nose to nose, breaths bated, not quite touching. “I mean, my mom isn’t mad at you. Not like I am.”

A beat passed. Steve glared and trembled and was pretty sure Eddie trembled worse.

“Steve, I’m sorry I didn’t swing by before.”

Steve exhaled crossly, mumbled, “Whatever.” They tumbled forward into each other’s arms and into a desperate kiss.

Steve made out like it was his last moment on earth—all that mattered was Eddie’s touch, Eddie’s longed-for taste, Eddie’s nearness. When they finally broke apart, Steve rested his forehead on Eddie's, burrowed his arms up the back of Eddie’s t-shirt:

“What the heck happened?” he asked. “That grainy footage from the bank is all over the news. Half the town believes you killed that bank robber somehow, and Dustin sure as heck says it’s real. Telekinesis, or something like that. Why didn’t you tell me you had freakin’ superpowers?”

“Because it’s scaring the shit outta me.” Eddie extracted himself from Steve and started pacing the room. “Look, Steve. I’m gonna have to get the hell out of Dodge. Alone.”

It took a moment for Eddie’s words to hit home. Steve staggered back and sat down heavily on the bed. “You’re dumping me?”

“Listen, I only discovered I could do this weird shit recently and it’s brutal.” Eddie hooked his arms around himself, unhooked them, and began wringing his hands. “When you were in danger, I hadn't a clue what to do. Then I threw Bugs Bunny into that wall so hard he exploded and you got caught up in it. I had literally no control over ANYTHING. You see why I can’t be with you?”

Steve’s jaw dropped. “You’re blaming me?”

“Not what I said, Steve.” Eddie clawed his hair. “Don’t you get it? I could hurt more people. I could hurt you. And here’s the real stinger—you’re the town’s whitebread hero for offering yourself as hostage. I’m more of an outcast freak than ever! Hawkins Post ran an editorial saying I commune with the devil and should be arrested for Bugs’ murder. Jesus, I goddamn hate that I killed, and I’d do it all over… to save you.”

“I can handle this.” Steve squeezed the words from tightly clenched teeth. “Christ, I can look out for myself. None of this is a good reason for us to split.”

Eddie stopped pacing, puffed out a sigh that sounded horribly like one of relief. “I’m sorry. You’re the right person. It’s simply the wrong darn time.”

“Go, then!” Steve leaped up and screamed point-blank in Eddie’s face. “See if I care!”

Eddie’s shoulders slumped and he turned away. He’d gotten one leg slung over Steve’s windowsill, when he peeped back, face crumpling. Steve dived forward and flung his arms around Eddie. Two seconds later, they were rolling on his bed, kissing each other stupid again.

“Holy shit. I missed you so much,” groaned Eddie.

Steve savored a flicker of triumph, then plunged his tongue back down Eddie’s throat. 

They peeled each other’s shirts off, kissing and breaking apart, then kissing again. Steve’s jaw ached, and all his bruises from the robbery started up singing. Soon, Eddie was dry rutting into Steve, jerky and desperate and hurting Steve worse. Steve didn’t care. His fingers tugged and tangled and messed up Eddie’s hair, and then he clung so hard.

They’d never had full-on sex. Steve was ready as always to roll over, spread his legs, and offer Eddie pretty much anything. He’d bang Eddie silly too, if Eddie wanted that. Eddie shoved his hand down the back of Steve’s pants, grabbed the meat of Steve’s butt and squeezed hungrily. Nevertheless, he seemed pretty happy carrying on like this, and they’d both already pushed beyond a semi. Steve fiddled down his own fly then Eddie’s.

“Damn, Steve… Gnnnng!”

They grasped each other’s dicks and scrubbed against each other’s stomachs, skins sliding, getting slippery and wet. Then they started up kissing again, and it was never gonna take long. Steve spurted messily over Eddie’s hand and chest. Eddie’s dick jerked crazily in the circle of Steve’s fist.

Jesus... Wow! Ouch?!?

Steve felt like his brain as well as Eddie’s dick exploded. Gaudy colors wheeled in front of his eyes, echoed by a disturbing crackling noise. Eddie broke the kiss, collapsed, boneless and sweaty, on top of Steve.

For a few happy moments, they floated, their heavy breaths falling into rhythm.

Then Steve spotted the broken window, the glass on the carpet.

And heard his mother’s shout: “Steve? Are you okay? What on earth was that noise?”

“Fine, mom. Uh, just a minute.” Thank Christ his door was bolted.

Steve remained on the bed, his brains still mush from the crazy-hot orgasm. Eddie was already on his feet, dragging his shirt on. Then he was at the window, gingerly hoisting himself over the shattered remnants of the pane.

“Don’t you dare!” hissed Steve, forcing himself bolt upright. “I’m coming with you. I just need to grab some stuff. Clothes… meds… cash.”

“Are you insane? You either bagged yourself a poltergeist who hates guys jacking off together… or I just exploded your window.” Eddie raked damp hair from his doleful eyes. “I’m sorry, Babe. I hope this won’t be forever.”

He lowered himself down and disappeared. Steve dithered, torn. He wanted to chase after Eddie, but his stupid concussion headache now hurtled back with vengeance.  Plus, his mom hammered on the door. “Steve! What’s going on?”

“I, uh… I dunno.” He straightened his clothes, bustled to conceal the worst of the mess. “I had the TV on, and… Something smashed into my window, I guess.”

He let her in and slumped on his destroyed bed, while she tiptoed around the glass. He dabbed his lips, still burning with Eddie’s kisses.

He waited till his mom had gone to call a glazier. Then he busted his knuckles punching the wall, nursed his bleeding fist, and cried.

…

Steve scanned the letter, helplessly seeking the words he needed.

The words that told him Eddie was coming home to him at last.

After Eddie had left, Steve had holed himself away with Dustin, who’d shared geek theories about Eddie’s powers—mainly gamma rays and other dweeby shit out of comic books. Dustin knew tons more about Eddie’s crazy-pants talents than Steve did. In fact, Steve suspected Eddie had spilled all to Dustin long before he’d been forced to reveal himself to Steve.

“His powers were changing him,” Dustin had told Steve. “Eddie was never one for heroics. And there he was, foiling bank robberies. It scared him shitless.”

“Total bull,” Steve had snapped. “Eddie always had that streak in him, I swear. The only thing he’s being a coward about is…

“… me.”

Yada yada yada. 

Me, me, ME.

Steve guts knotted tightly, as he scanned Eddie’s letter a third time. 

I love you, wrote Eddie, toward the end.

“I love you too,” murmured Steve. “When you’re ready to come home, I promise I won’t frogmarch you into another bank. Push you into all that grown-up crap. I’ll be there for you, when you need me. God, I’m such an idiot.”

He furiously screwed up the letter and dropped it to the leaves and sludge at the bottom of the empty pool. Then he jumped in after and fished it right out. He read it properly, studying harder than he ever had in class.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Take all the time you need, Eddie. I wish I could tell you… I’ll wait.”

…

Eddie conquers all, becomes a superhero crime-fighter known as The Stunner. Steve is his sidekick and Dustin his gadget guy and they all live happily ever after. 

Which is actually closer to the angst-light fic that I intended to write before this wrote itself instead 😛

Thanks for reading!

My Stranger Things fic on AO3

[hinoshimidoki]

Dog a tat​ the​ rat​ a​ tat​ Anayasha​ saayami​ yamabuki​ Suit bear blue​ soldier​ characters​ billiman​cat​man​ colonel​ doggert​ doggy​ Don​ major​Saab​

[confuzzled-crow77]

Summary: crack fic! a sharpshooter wins an angry wet-cat man from makker's wheel and decides he knows just the person who would love him!

A/N: hey, this is all for funsies, I know there's three different places I could've brought up Kaz's violent trauma in response to the events going on but since it's a comedic fic, I decided not to throw any angst in there and just vamp up everyone's personalities to 300%. @lysreadsbookssometimes this is literally their idea, in a reply to @jkriordanverse 's post! hope you two enjoy!!

-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-

Jesper Fahey was at it again. 

He couldn’t hear himself think over the roar of gambling games, the clinking of gaudy golden coins, and the constant, neverending clack-clack-clack-rat-tat-tat of the glowing money wheels. Just how he liked it, then. There was nothing but the race of adrenaline through his veins and the buzzing in his head as he played game after game under the harsh light of the gambling den. 

The Ketterdam air reeked of the night smashing with harbor stench, a thousand cheap perfumes, and stacks of kruge Jesper fanned in his face. Oh, it was a good night, wasn’t it? Throw a few coins there, a stack of kruge here, ignore the beef-cakes called bouncers that look like they eat three children a day to grow big and strong, the like. 

Sure, as he won and won and won again, his fingers drifted closer to the polished hilts of his revolvers, but heavy was the head that wore the crown, eh? He smiled to himself as he perused the tables after another game. The door was a thousand miles away. The night was just starting, and he had some money to burn. 

Too easy, he thought with a smirk. The men in their choppy suits and stringy hair glowered at him as he strolled by. 

Too boring. Ugh, he hated that game. Too much waiting, not enough doing. 

His hands played with the loose coins in his pocket, threading the gold disc through his fingers. He didn’t notice how many eyes were on him. 

He walked right past a beautiful lady with a handsome man, each wearing masks. Their gaze followed him. 

He slipped past the door leading to a room off to the side of the main gambling den with his eyes trained on a game of poker. He didn’t feel his hair instinctively rise as he passed the slotted window on top of the door. 

“Well,” he breathed, tossing the gold coin into the air and catching it again with a satisfying smack!  “A solid deal at Blackjack never hurt anyone-” He made off for the nearest table. 

A hand shot out from the shadows and yanked on his suit’s sleeve.  Jesper’s hand flew to his revolvers, ready to clear out the den with a single gunshot, but was faced with the house’s owner: a tittering little rat of a man with way too many ties around his neck. “Young man, my, look at that stash you have! You must be right proud of yourself, hmm?” 

Jesper’s pockets sagged under the weight of his winnings; the Zemeni sharpshooter mustered a smile but he didn’t dare take his fingers off his trusted guns as the man ushered him across the room like a dog. 

“I know just the game for the likes of you: a gambler with no match made by man, hmm?” 

Jesper’s chest puffed out and he crossed his arms as he was pushed. “I guess you could say that- I-” 

“There she is, the newest gambling game in this den! We just got her here!” The rat-man spread his arms grandly. 

Jesper grinned. “Of course you’d come back to me, wouldn’t you?” He murmured under his breath. A rolling machine stood in front of him with bulbous yellow lights bursting from its sides. Its many white panels displayed glowing numbers and the rod to spin it shone like it was made of rubies. 

Makker’s Wheel. 

“Play it once, and you get a prize!” The rat-man tittered, pointing to a small symbol beside each panel. 

Jesper scoffed, but unfolded his arms and placed his fingers on the rod. The cool material turned his skin to fire. He wet his lips. “A prize no matter what? That doesn’t sound like good gambling to me,” he pointed out, but his head was ringing, his bones were singing, and he was smiling. 

“Good gambling? No, no, just a thank you for being the first to try out our new machine here! Now, I’ll cross my fingers for your luck, friend.” The rat-man stepped away. Jesper shook his head to himself and grinned. 

Be it something foolish, he’d just throw it into the canals and forget about it. 

He pushed the rod down. The wheel clinked and clanged against itself as the numbers blurred into pure, unfiltered rainbow barf before Jesper’s eyes. A pot of gold was guaranteed at the end of it. 

He cursed under his breath. The slot he landed on would claim half his winnings. Unless…? 

“What’s the prize, good man?” He asked, bending down to be eye-level with the rat man. 

“LET ME JUST BRING HIM- erm, I mean… it out.” 

Jesper’s eyebrow perked as the rat-man almost fell over himself zooming away. Slipping out the front door was looking really good about now. Who is that eager to get rid of something in Ketterdam that’s not debts and deals? 

...

Kaz Brekker knew exactly how he had gotten into this, and that was the worst part. 

Per Haskell’s big mouth couldn’t keep shut tight, so Kaz was ordered to do his dirty work. Like usual. A quick tip to a gambling den and three games later, and he was before Per Haskell’s cheated clients. 

A half-baked but ultimately fulfillable threat, a slap of his cane on the ground, and a dip of his hat and he’d be on his way back to his study. 

No.

Kaz cursed the very Ketterdam harbor sea breeze that had wafted the sleep gas into his nostrils. How could his mother betray him like this? He almost laughed at his own joke as he was dragged by his tied wrists from the basement of the gambling den. They’d let him keep his gloves, but not his cane. They’d taken his hat and his coat but not the thin metal chain tied to his suit vest. They’d tied his wrists but not blindfolded him. 

Who the hell was he dealing with? 

“I’d like to pay your wife a visit.” 

“I hope your sister can make it to her wedding.” 

He’d spat his usual correct nonsense in rivers. He even tried some new ones. 

“They won’t stop finding pieces of your body for months. The warehouses beside Canal seventeen. The boarding houses three streets West. The university courtyard. The waffle house. It’ll be a treasure hunt.” 

Saints, at this point, he was begging to be gagged. 

“Who would believe the words of a sixteen year old kid in a three-piece suit?” 

 Then, the manager unlocked the basement door. 

Finally, time for business.

 Another allusion to murder, a brush off of his shoes, and a speedy snap of his wrist bindings and he’d be on his way. 

No. 

“Please, please, please,” the manager babbled and whined as he huffed and puffed. Apparently, dragging a sixteen year old down a hallway was hard work for the likes of him. “Please, please, please forgive us and have this young man instead. Please, please, I don’t want any trouble. Please, please don’t hurt my wife.” 

Gratifying. 

Kaz almost smiled. 

He didn’t. How could he when he was dragged down three musty hallways and lugged through a doorway, into the back of the gambling hall? 

Exits. Distractions. Cover. 

It was all there, now-

“Here’s your prize, boy!” 

He was thrown onto the floor in front of a boy as old as he was wearing a patchwork pink and green suit. The blaring lights of Makker’s wheel assaulted his eyes as Kaz Brekker glared up at Jesper Fahey and offered up as a gambling prize.

...

Why is this angry wet-cat of a man staring at me? 

The boy in a three piece suit with a bit of blood crusted to his forehead and appearing to have the temperment of a mistreated bull glowered at him. Jesper stared back. “I… uh, don’t want this.”

Some prize this was. 

The boy spat on his shoe. 

Jesper scowled. 

The rat-man scuttled away. 

“Untie these,” the boy snarled. No matter the lights and bright colors of the room, he embodied the color and word “slate.” “I’ll snap off your jaw and use it as a-” 

Jesper backed away slowly and glanced at the other gamblers. Nobody was looking in his general direction now. He had two guns. Both of his hands were resting on them as he took in this struggling boy with the gloves and the mouth just��� spewing threats. 

“Hey, I’m Jesper.” 

“I will find everyone you love and-” 

“Okay, that’s nice. I don’t think I want to untie you if you keep-” 

“I’ll have the Dregs burn your world to the ground.” 

“I didn’t know a gang was ruled by a me-aged guy.” 

“They learn to listen to me.” 

“Fair enough.” Jesper smiled to himself as he scooted around the guy still spitting sweet promises. Gosh, you know who would love him? He thought to himself. Inej. Why, what a great idea, Jesper! Thank you, Jesper. You’re welcome, Jesper! “I’m going to take you to a friend of mine’s. She’ll love you.” 

“Do not touch me.” 

“Alright.” 

…

“This is not what I meant.” 

“I’m not touching you.” 

Jesper nudged Kaz with the tip of his shined shoes as he wrapped him up in pretty pink ribbons. “You’re like a present! A proper prize, right?” 

Kaz seethed as Jesper tied the ribbon into a huge bow around his chest. Pekka Rollins would have to take a backseat to whoever this boy thought he was. And whoever this Inej thought she was. He locked away the manager and guards’ information in his head and opened a new file. 

Jesper Fahey and the elusive Inej. 

“This is going in here,” Jesper said like he was talking to a five year old. Kaz was tempted to bite him as he stuffed a birthday card in his pants pocket. “And you…” 

He carried Kaz through the shadows of Ketterdam streets by the ribbons like some twisted form of Santa Claus and plopped him down on a doorstep in the worst part of the Barrel. 

“...Are going here!” Jesper clapped his hands together in satisfaction. “You’re her belated birthday gift; if she asks, this was planned all along and I couldn’t get you to take your medicinal shots before and I didn’t want her to get rabies.” He laughed at his own joke. 

Kaz rolled his eyes. “For your friend’s safety and health, you should put a gag on me.” 

“For the sake of entertainment and Inej’s sense of humor, I think it’d be best you didn’t have one.” 

Kaz grumbled under his breath as Jesper jumped into the bushes as the door opened. 

One way or another, Kaz would get out of this. It would be easy. A snip and his ties would be off, and with his tongue, he’d make this “Inej” want to do it with her bare teeth. 

Right? 

[ultra-nohai]

Colonel from Pakdam Pakdai

Requested by Wobbley

WARNING:

This artwork has been copy-protected by a watermark to prevent art theft and from being used in other media. Any unauthorized copying of this artwork will be reported and will urge the user to take it down without warranty.

[calico-heart]

17. Sally

"Come now, I'lyrha, you cannot mean to tell me that in addition to dogs, sirens, ghosts, ghouls, voidsent, bananas, and witches," here X'rhun pinched the bridge of his nose, "you maintain a crippling fear of goats?"

Arms crossed, she leaned stubbornly against the stone wall behind her and pouted with pinned ears. "You would too if ye'd ever seen deir eyes twist sideways." She twirled a finger. "It's not natural."

"Is that the sum of it? You surely realize that your eyes do the very same?" He replied flatly, tail twitching. "Only as your pupils are vertically aligned, 'tis not so obvious when it happens."

"No." She spat. "One, tat ain't remotely te same. And two - tat's not te sumofit, ye gobshite. They's also voidsent in disguise, more often 'en not. An' I've seen 'em eat rats, so all 'at talk about 'em bein' 'armless plant-munchers is bollox. Ye can't trust a feckin' goat. I'm not goin'."

He grimaced. "You needn't trust the goats, I'lyrha. You need only sally forth with the fine shepherd boy here who, I must point out, has not yet been possessed, maimed, or otherwise inconvenienced by his livestock."

"No."

Scowl deepening, X'rhun huffed, "When you took the Red—"

"Ye said notin' about dealin' wit' devils an' curses at the time, an' I'm inclined t'consider that a deliberate an' malicious omittance on yer part, given' how fuckin' often we seem t'be required te assist folk in matters o' te dark arts."

"Rhalgr's red fist, I'lyrha, but you make me feel twice my age." He groaned, bracing his forehead with a splayed palm. "They are only goats."

"You escort 'im, then, an' let me do the sneakin' an' ambushin' bit." She snapped.

"Truly? You'd prefer certain confrontation with eight armed men over a casual stroll with a few heretofore utterly harmless ungulates?"

"Heretofore." She emphasized, nodding. "'Least wit the bandits ye know what te expect. Goats 'ave all manner o' trickery up teir sleeves. Ye don't find it even a little suspicious these mountain folk want te heckle a flock 'o poor farmers all outta te blue like this?"

"I can think of several compelling reasons it might be so, none of which have anything to do with voidsent. Believing it to be the work of devils disguised as goats requires such rampant speculation and, dare I say, paranoia, as to be beyond consideration."

"An' ye don't think the goats are countin' on that?"

"No. I do not." X'rhun blinked. Stared at her, hard.

She stared back, fur fluffing.

Realizing this was not an argument to be won, X'rhun heaved a sigh. "Very well, I'lyrha. We'll trade roles. And perhaps seeing which one of us ends up with more bruises to show for it at the end of this endeavor will apprise you the foolishness of your stubborn superstition, as my reason alone clearly cannot."

"Yeah." She scoffed, giving the billy watching them from the nearby hill a scathing glare. "We'll certainly see, Red Britches."

(FFxivWrite 2024 - Prompt 17)

[cedarxwing]

crying and throwing up thinking about you writing this

Brownham

Mamihlapinatapei

Mamihlapinatapei - The look between two people in which each loves the other but is too afraid to make the first move.

It’s late winter when Will comes home from the hospital, still hobbling with a cane from his gut wound. 

Matthew is sitting on his front steps, playing fetch with Will’s dogs. They pant with excitement around him, eyes trained on the slobbery old tennis ball until they notice Will’s arrival and rush to his side. They jump for attention, but bending down would set his stitches on fire.

He plays absently with the tips of Winston’s ears. “Out on good behavior?” 

“Yup,” Matthew says, glancing guiltily at Will’s cane. He’s not dressed for the weather, wearing only a light jacket and track pants, but he isn’t shivering. “They put me on mood stabilizers.”

“You feel more stable?”

“Not really, but I’m good at fooling the nurses.”

Will isn’t feeling particularly stable either. There’s a cavern in his chest where his heart used to beat, darkness heaving and coiling within. “What will you do now?”

“Not sure. I’ll probably go back to drifting. Pick up some work at a prison out of state.” 

The thought of Matthew going under cover as that lisping dullard again doesn’t sit right with Will, but he shakes the feeling off. Not his business.

Matthew helps him up the porch steps, a steady hand at the small of his back, careful not to let him slip on the black ice. Will’s instinct tells him to push him away, but the support is… surprisingly nice.

It takes a while for Will to open the storm door. The lock always sticks when it’s cold, and he only has one hand to fumble with the key.

“Here, I got it,” Matthew offers. He deftly unlocks the door and holds it open. The living room beyond is dark and dusty.

Will pauses at the threshold, his dogs milling around at his feet.

Matthew has that fresh-out-of-jail look: pale, jittery, hair grown out over his forehead and ears. He’s rumpled and scarred and could use a bath. It’s kind of cute in an ugly sort of way—Will’s worst weakness when it comes to strays.

The obsession is still there. His eyes are too wide, too fixed on Will, like they’re trying to absorb him entirely. But Will’s used to obsession, knows how to handle it. Hell, he has a bit of it himself these days. And it’s not like he has much left to lose. 

He rolls his tongue across his teeth before asking, “Do you know anything about boats?”

***

It takes several months to repair the Nola, but it would’ve taken much longer without Matthew’s help. He does all the heavy lifting for the first few weeks, hefting engine parts and sailcloth, operating the boom at Will’s direction.

“This is just like Castaway,” Matthew says as he watches Will rewire the bilge pump. “You’re Tom Hanks, and I’m the volleyball.”

Will wants to say that volleyballs don’t talk half as much as Matthew does, but the truth is he appreciates hearing a voice coming from outside his head.

Sick of the draft, Matthew takes care of the shattered living room window (“What the hell kind of mutant stag crashed through here anyway?”). In the evenings, he runs the dogs around the backyard until they’re too tired to jump all over Will. Once, when Will slips off the deck and lies face-up in the snow, paralyzed with gut pain, Matthew runs to him, carries him indoors, and frantically checks his stomach for tearing. Will isn’t allowed outside the house for three days after that.

Matthew cooks when Will doesn’t see the point of eating. Ham sandwiches, boiled hot dogs, and Kraft mac and cheese in cartoon shapes (“The extra crevices trap the sauce better”) are a welcome change from what he’s used to being served. Will doesn’t complain when his pancakes are burnt or when they have instant ramen for the fifth time in a row. He’s just happy to be completely sure of what he’s eating.

Mostly it’s nice to have someone else making noise around the house. The clatter of kitchen cabinets and the rat-tat-tat of video game gunfire keeps Will from getting lost in Hannibal’s kitchen, where he lies bleeding out on the floor, hands scrabbling uselessly at Abigail’s hemorrhaging carotid, distant footsteps echoing down the hall before the front door slams shut.

Matthew’s constant attention reminds Will that he’s not a ghost, especially in the middle of the night, when life is most like a dream.

Sometimes he comes down from the upstairs bedroom for a glass of water and finds Will staring out the newly-fixed window.

“Are the shadow people creeping around again?” he asks, peering over Will’s shoulder. For him, there’s nothing out there besides the gnarled hickory leaning over the driveway.

Will knows Hannibal isn’t really there, standing knee-deep in the snow, scarf snapping in the wind. The real Hannibal is done chasing. He wants Will to find him instead.

He glances back. Matthew’s shirtless—like always—except for the bathrobe he found buried at the back of Will’s closet when he first moved in. This close, he can feel the heat emanating from Matthew’s chest. He’s like a fucking furnace.

He’s tempted to reach out on a chilly night like this, if only to feel something, anything. He wants Matthew to press him against the mattress and make him forget. But Will’s teeth are growing sharper by the day, and his hands remember snapping Randall Tier’s neck mere inches from the bed. If he lets himself get too close, if Hannibal appears, sitting in the armchair by the fire, watching them…

Matthew places a warm hand on his shoulder. Sniffs subtly, checking for whiskey on Will’s breath, but he hasn’t had any tonight. “Come on, let’s get you back into bed.” 

Will wants to protest whenever Matthew plays the orderly—this isn’t a nursing home, and Will isn’t his patient, for Christ’s sake—but he can’t find the energy. He lets Matthew guide him under his covers and swallows a pill with the water held up to his lips.

Matthew sits on the floor, head resting on his arms crossed on the mattress. He studies Will, unblinking. No one has ever cared this much about Will without asking for anything in return. It’s an awful feeling. He doesn’t deserve it.

Right before Will drifts off to sleep, he feels gentle fingers brush through his hair.

***

Come June, Will’s all healed up and the boat is hooked up to a truck, gleaming with a fresh coat of paint, ready for launch in the nearest marina. He does the final checks in the early morning, when he knows Matthew is still asleep. Once he’s sure she has no leaks or loose wires, he hops off the stern and pulls out the keys.

Matthew is leaning against the truck door, blocking his way. “Thought you’d sneak off on your own, did you?”

Will squints at the empty green field and over the trees, toward the sun rising in the east. “Listen,” he says awkwardly, shifting on his feet. “Thanks for all the help.”

A muscle in Matthew’s jaw twitches. “It’d be easier sailing with a second hand. We could sleep in shifts.”

Will doesn’t trust himself alone on the open sea with Matthew, not for the full month it’ll take to cross the Atlantic. Already, he struggles with perception. People are flatter, washed out, like watercolor illustrations in a children’s storybook. He looks at Matthew and sees raw material. He sees meat.

“I only packed enough food for one.”

Matthew lets out a disbelieving laugh, voice thick with pain. “You still think about him, don’t you? All the time. After everything he did.”

It hurts to say it, but Will won’t lie. “Yeah. Yeah, I do, but—” He scuffs a foot in the gravel. “Stuff like that doesn't really go away, does it? Part of me probably will always think about him.”

Matthew’s face screws up, tilting to the side as he processes that. Will wants nothing more than to draw him into an embrace, but how cruel would that be, when he doesn’t know if he’s ever coming back?

“I’m going to kill him, Matthew,” he murmurs. “I’ll cut him out of me, one way or another, and then I’ll be myself again.”

Matthew nods, but he doesn’t seem reassured. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulls out a hunting knife and folds Will’s hand around it. The wooden handle has a pleasant heft.

He pulls Will’s head close to his, forcing him to look into his bright green eyes. There’s anger there, but fierce determination, too. “Whatever happens, I’ll be here when you get back. Me and the dogs. Remember that, okay?”

Will swallows. “Okay," he says, but it feels like a promise he can't keep.

[harrison-abbott]

She smoked more than anybody, drank more than anybody, spoke more than anyone, with that rat a tat voice that glued in so many other people. She earned more, due to her charm and prance and zeal. Money; holidays; promotions; a husband; a dog; a child. She divorced the husband after she’d had enough. Then had another child with the new one. And with the finance and the witchy voice she stayed much the same way for several decades. Trips to Europe, to America. Photos; sex; plush dinners; the admiring men. Her hair went ashy. And her body gained flab. Her children didn’t like her. So she grew brittle around them. Told them to get out of her house. She surrounded herself with her friends. With the cocktails and the cigarettes. But her friends ceased being interested in such behaviour and they stopped coming out so much. She noticed a pain in her leg. Her limb wasn’t functioning so properly – and so she went to the doctor about it. When she was waiting in the GP waiting area, she caught a look of herself in a mirror. In the rough sobriety of a November morning, when her health was under serious question, she despised this image of herself: what she actually was. And her pulse quickened and she felt her neck growing hot. Maybe there were uncontrollable ominous things happening inside her body that would lead to disaster … that would lead to conclusions she’d never really felt before. All of the wealth and the indulgence across the years. There was nobody else in the waiting area. On a table near her there was a kids’ cube game – those wire games for the children to push the coloured cubes around. And some leaflets for community groups, with smiley people on the front pages. She really wished that somebody was here. So she could speak to them. To anybody. And this fearful tension arose up her ribs. Under and up her liver. She was not so fallible anymore. And she finally realised she needed help.

[girlpog]

I saw someone do this and I wanted to add my takes

Honorary mentions to "From Now On We Are Enemies" and Alpha Dog lol

Also sorry I didn't put the full song titles for all of these, I only have so many characters lol

lmk what you picked in the tags!!

[mytardisisparked]

Spell your URL out with song titles

Got tagged to do this by @vincentsleftear ! Thanks!

Hehe watch this :)

My Songs Know What You Did In The Dark - Fall Out Boy

Young and Menace - Fall Out Boy

The Shipped Gold Standard - Fall Out Boy

Alpha Dog - Fall Out Boy

Rat A Tat - Fall Out Boy

Death Valley - Fall Out Boy

It's Hard to Say "I Do", When I Don't - Fall Out Boy

Sugar, We're Goin Down - Fall Out Boy

I Slept With Someone From Fall Out Boy And All I Got Was This Stupid Song Written About Me - Fall Out Boy

Sunshine Riptide - Fall Out Boy

Pavlove - Fall Out Boy

American Beauty/American Psycho - Fall Out Boy

Reinventing the Wheel to Run Myself Over - Fall Out Boy

[The] Kintsugi Kid - Fall Out Boy

Eternal Summer - Fall Out Boy

Dance, Dance - Fall Out Boy

tagging: @well-and-true @jellybeansarecool @elephant-in-the-pride-parade @thescullyphile @baylardo @maliciousalice @theartmeg @emilie786 and anyone else who wants to