#pre canon?

[lleonnoell]

Stop being so VAIN, Vander! Shout, scream, SAY SOMETHING!…

…You’re as beautiful as the day I lost you.

[hope-to-hell]

No Way to get Ahead. August Walker. Allusions to death and dismemberment, nothing particularly explicit. This is a chance for August to unload a bit, in the form of a one-sided conversation with some unknown goon. Anyway, it’s not like it matters who they are. Were. Whatever.

——

Would you— just give me a minute here. Christ, the blood’s not even dry yet and you’re here with your million fucking questions. So listen, and watch, and shut your mouth while I work. It took me weeks to get here, weeks to track this fucker down and what did I get?

More questions.

More endless questions, each tied to the one before. It’s gonna be a nightmare getting this straightened out. Not like she’s gonna care. I’ve got a name and that’s good enough for her but this isn’t about Sloane, not really. Besides, the who is ephemeral. Lackeys come and bodies go and nothing ever really changes. It’s the what and the why that are giving me trouble. Something’s on the wind, something nasty even for me. There’s so much rot, you can’t help but smell it. It stinks of mildew and bile, old blood and new piss.

It smells like being buried alive.

The bitch of it is, I’m good at this. This shit about the Hammer is all smoke; I leave a few bodies for the cleaners and a little bit of intel all wrapped up nice and neat: dear Erika, I saw this and thought of you. But that’s not the good stuff. It doesn’t really matter if she has their names; they’re just meat by then. And teeth, and fingernails, and bits of viscera here and there. It’s a show, don’t you get it? I bring the goods and get a pat on the head and if I let her pull my hair a little— well, who says this can’t be fun once in a while? Besides, blood calls to blood. We’ve both got that audaciously stubborn streak; it’s what I lov—

And if I spend a little extra time in the reading rooms all by my lonesome, who’s gonna think anything of it? Secrets have a way of threading themselves through the earth, through concrete and steel til they rattle around in the walls. If you’re careful, if you’re focused, you can hear them; it’s like they want to be heard, to be caught. And it doesn’t matter if I’m seen down there. Being Erika Sloane’s pet has its advantages. I’m hers; I go where I’m ordered, so anywhere I am is right where I’m supposed to be.

The question is, friend, are you where you’re meant to be? Because I have this sneaking suspicion you’re not here out of the goodness of your heart. Maybe you’re someone’s dog too, and I can guess whose. It’s a wonder I can get anything done with the way he’s always watching and picking and being so goddamn irritating about every little thing. John, did you set the charges? Is there sparkling water in the helicopter? Are you sure the apartment isn’t bugged? You’d think I was some fresh-faced kid right out of the Academy. And if I have to hear one more word about Ethan fucking Hunt—

You know, as long as you’re here you might as well make yourself useful. Nevermind whose hand that is; it’s none of your business. Yeah, in that cooler there. Bag first, then ice. You want it to get frostbite? I would’ve taken their head, but it’s not so pretty anymore. Still, I’ll box this up all nice and neat and leave it on Sloane’s desk. She’s not much for the whole it’s the thought that counts thing, though. Might have to butter her up a little. She might see right through it, but that’s part of the fun. And you know, she tastes so sweet when she’s on the cusp of finding out.

Listen. I know Lane doesn’t much like what I do with his guys but a body’s a body and it’s not like it’s hard to pick up another angry disillusioned kid looking to get back at the world. All he has to do is tell you about a world of equals, born from the ashes; he piques your interest and sends you on a few simple errands, and before you know it you’re marching in step to his idiotic schemes. It’s hard to back out when you’ve got agency men climbing down your throat and Solomon Lane fucking you right in the ass with his wouldn’t it be a pity if somebody found out what you get up to when you’re away.

Lane and I agree on one thing at least: there’s rot in every part of this world and all we can do is burn it out. But he had to go and make it personal— he had to turn this into a dick-measuring contest against Ethan Hunt. He only has to hear the little twerp’s name and his pants are already around his ankles. Langley’s a vacation paradise by comparison. It’s all about the job: whether Erika’s dressing me down or undressing me, it’s nothing personal.

But listen. Whatever you’re doing here, whatever errand you’ve been sent on, you’re not leaving. Maybe you didn’t know the risk. It doesn’t matter. I can’t have so many of you out there knowing my face or the nature of my work. And yeah, I’m afraid that means you as well. We play a game where the rules are always changing and loyalties mean next to nothing. Like I said, the who doesn’t matter— only the why. If it makes you feel any better, that means me too. I’m just a part of the whole, one cog in a vast machine. Rebirth will come one way or another, and though I don’t want to die for the cause, it’s pretty much a given. After all, a phoenix can’t rise without burning first. You’ll just be kindling for the flame, but don’t feel too bad about it. So make it easy on yourself: hold nice and still, and I’ll make it quick.

Guess I’ll have a head to give Erika after all.

[lizleeships]

...All this work for a hentai joke. I'm terribly sorry.

I also consulted my jury of Patrons about whether or not Dean would say "Calm your tits". I'm not convinced he would, but also not convinced he wouldn't. :D

(Don't repost, but reblogs are very welcome)

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[technically-human]

What if I stayed here for a bit with you, instead?

[twinktor-frankenstein]

I will NOT take these men seriously

[milktrician]

(what the. who threw a wife plot device in the middle of a peak lord meeting)

i thought about this bit at the end of the airplane extras the other day. bro why are you looking at your coworkers like that rn

[what-am-i-doing-in-this-fandom]

Waiiit, is that FiddEmmaStan in my AU, who put this here???

[egophiliac]

I know we're not on the Hearts chapter but, I have a feeling the SSR will be Cater? But also him having the tear animation, since I have a feeling his dream will be a bit like Ruggie's q-q

I'm leaning towards either Cater or Ace, personally! Trey and Deuce have kinda already had their character arcs -- though someone else did mention to me that they thought it might be Trey, because so far all the vices have gotten one. though that might just be coincidence. we'll find out I guess!

my red-string-on-corkboard theory is that Ace is gonna get his arc + UM during whatever goes down with Grim, so while I could be completely wrong, I think it'd be nice if it were Cater's time to shine! ...also I am VERY curious as to what his dream is gonna be. 👀 like, I don't think he's gonna be all angsty or anything, he's a pretty cheery guy even though he pretends to be more vapid than he is, but...what would he be like if he were less. y'know.

(also I kind of want him to get the focus just because I think it'd be a shame if all he got was a super-quick 'oh his dream is to have a billion followers or whatever, now let's go on to the next person'. c'mon Twst. give him some love.)

[maiko-coy]

I don't see any angry, vengeful Dogday in the ppt community so I'll provide for myself beCAUSE IM STARVING FOR THIS, HE DESERVES TO BE ANGRY-- ahem. Anyway, heres an AU where after there is still fire in Dogdays eyes and him being saved fueled the fire and now he wants to keep fighting.

[quiddling]

how many eyes does lord bloodraven have?

[hairmetal666]

They're sitting in Eddie's bedroom, Steve propped up in the bed, flipping through some sports magazine, Eddie curled on the floor using his knee as a table as he scrawls notes for Hellfire's next campaign. Metallica spins on the record player, volume low. They're doing this more and more, being together and doing their own thing, music a soft backdrop to it all.

Eddie's deep into his planning, enough so that he manages to forget that Steve Harrington is in his bed. He keeps hearing something, though. It just manages to catch at the edge of his awareness, but when he fully tunes in the only sounds are Steve flipping a page, Ride the Lightning, the shift of blankets as Harrington taps his fingers. It happens a few more times, but when he tries to catch it, it's gone. Steve hasn't reacted at all, to the point Eddie wonders if it's all in his own head.

The next time, he's interrupted before he even gets back into it, that noise again, but this time, now, he's aware enough to see that it's Steve. And he's not, like, reading the magazine out loud to himself. No. He's singing along.

To Metallica.

And he wasn't idly tapping his fingers before. He was tapping along to the beat.

"You're singing along?" He asks before he can stop himself.

Steve looks up, a faint smile on his handsome face. "It's not too bad."

"Not too--Not too bad." Eddie's nearly screeching. Can't wrap his mind around Steve--"You've been listening to Metallica on your own? You've been--you--" He jumps to his feet, notebook spilling onto the floor. Steve's just looking up at him with big eyes and a gentle grin.

"Sure, Munson. You like it, yeah?"

He nods, mutely, unsure how he so thoroughly lost the plot that Steve's been listening to Metallica just because Eddie likes it.

"Got a taste for any other metal bands I should know about, Harrington?" He flops down on the bed, making Steve bounce a little.

"Well, Dio's pretty okay."

This time Eddie does really, actually shriek.

---

Eddie swans into the kitchen to greet Steve, who's already lounging on the couch with a beer. There's another one on the coffee table, waiting for Eddie.

"Just helped yourself, Harrington?" He teases.

Steve shoots him a look. "Wayne grabbed them before he left. What the hell took you so long?"

He can't say it's because he wanted to look nice with Steve coming over, even if they are just getting high and watching movies. Of course taming his hair took so long that he didn't have time to find a shirt, and Steve's knock at the door had him grabbing the first thing he could and jamming it over his head.

"You want chips?" He asks.

"Wait--Eddie--" Steve stands, pointing at Eddie's chest.

"What?"

"That's my--oh my god, I've been looking for that."

And, well, he had thought it was a little strange that the t-shirt he grabbed was gray. He pulls at the fabric, stares at the upside down Hawkins Tiger with a basketball in its mouth.

"It's my favorite sleep shirt. I thought Robin took it and you--"

Eddie's face heats. Steve's shirt. Of course. Steve stayed over one movie night, forgot the shirt, and Eddie. Well. He was going to give it back, but--

"Here, man, my bad." He goes to pull the hem over his head. "I didn't know it was your favorite."

"Nah," Steve says. He's sitting back on the couch. "You should keep it. You look really--" he pauses and takes a sip of beer. "It's nice on you, Munson."

He's sure his blush is a horrendous thing to witness, has to fight the urge to hide in his hands. "Right. Uh. Chips!" He whirls towards the cabinets, refusing to think about the matching pink stripes across Steve's cheeks.

---

"C'mon, Munson, you're hogging the covers." Steve's sleepy mumble cuts through the dawn quiet.

"Mmph," Eddie groans. Rubs the soles of his feet against Steve's shins.

"You're a dick," Steve grumbles. He shimmies closer, which is what finally does the job at fully waking Eddie.

"Wha--huh?" He blinks.

"You stole the blankets, man. If you're not going to share, the least you can do is cuddle."

"Uhh." Eddie is sure he's dreaming, but Steve's warm, strong arm slips around his waist, pulls them together.

Eddie doesn't know what to do. Where he should put his body. Does he relax into it? What do his arms do? They're not usually this rigid, right? But what do they do when he's sleeping? Somewhere in his gay panic, he has the presence of mind to grab the edge of the blanket and throw it over his friend.

"Better?" He asks. His voice is all wrong but maybe Steve will attribute it to tiredness.

"Mmm." Steve's grip tightens around his waist, his nose nuzzling against the nape of Eddie's neck. His breathing is already slow and deep.

Eddie can't imagine sleep finding him anytime soon. Not when Steve, his crush, his best friend, is holding him like this. Not when he now knows what the real thing would be like. Not when it's so impossibly out of his grasp.

---

Steve and Wayne are watching a Cub's game. Eddie's curled up on the couch between them, trying to work on a sketch, but his brain keeps skipping to a song he's writing. The lyrics have been easy, coming to him like nothing, but the melody...he wants it to be heavy, loud, wanting, but it won't fit.

He glances up at Steve, chatting with Wayne about some baseball thing called a ribee. His hair's not done, flopping softly around his forehead, and he's wearing his result-of-too-many-concussions glasses, the yellow sweater from that horrific boat ride, retrieved by one of the kids and painstakingly washed by Karen Wheeler.

Steve looks sweet, soft, relaxed. He laughs at something Wayne says, and Eddie's a lost cause. He's just fucking smiling at the pretty boy on his couch, hanging out with his uncle, too far gone to be able to fight it.

A melody forms in his head, and it's soft. Not sweet, no, but gentle. Almost tender. Nothing like he imagined.

---

It's early, early enough that Wayne's not home yet, but he got tired of trying to sleep. Didn't want to bother Steve, who still softly snored in Eddie's bedroom. So, he grabs his acoustic and his notebook, goes out to the couch to work on the song. It's coming along, really good, one of his best. He hasn't shared it with the guys yet. It's--he's not ready, lays him too bare.

There's a clatter from the kitchen, Steve's voice, deep and sleep rough, says, "Hey, Munson."

He pushes the guitar and notebook aside. "Did I wake you? I was trying to be quiet, I'll--"

Steve shakes his head, pads into the living room. He's wearing the yellow sweater, a pair of Eddie's sweatpants, bedhead rampant. He curls up next to Eddie, pulling the couch afghan over his feet. "What're you working on?"

Eddie's ears get hot. "Nothing much. New song I've been noodling on."

"Cool." Steve's smile is little and fond. "Play it for me?"

"Ahh," Eddie says. His hand twitches around the neck of the guitar. "Not sure if it's quite ready for that."

"Oh, yeah." Steve nods. His face does something weird and squiggly that Eddie's never seen. "Just never heard you play before. Thought now might be...you know."

Eddie swallows, hard. "Well, maybe we'll get a show up at the Hideout soon."

"Of course. It's just--this is just you."

He blinks at Steve for a few long seconds, can't believe he's about to do this, but--It's not like Steve will know it's about him, anyway. "It's not a full song yet, alright? Just a verse and half of a chorus, so like. Don't judge it too hard."

"I would never." He can sense Steve's smile but can't look directly at it, knows it would kill him.

He situates the guitar, spins the notebook to read the lyrics like they aren't already burned into his brain, starts to play. His fingers are deft and sure, his voice a little rough, a little raspy with nerves.

The song ends and he's afraid to look at Steve, to see the thoughts written plane on his face. The silence extends, though, and he asks. "So, what did you think?"

"It's--that wasn't what I expected." Steve's voice is weird. Wobbly. Eddie chances half a glance at him, but can't make anything definitive out from his expression. "I didn't think--that's not the kind of music I thought you made."

He licks his lips, swallows. Puts his guitar down. "It's not usually."

"It was a love song." Steve says. His eyes burn into Eddie's.

He can't say anything for seconds that seem to span minutes. "Yeah, Steve," he says in a voice cut with gravel. "It's a love song."

"Eddie," Steve whispers. He reaches out then, thumb tracing along Eddie's jaw, the scars that linger there from the bats. "Is this okay?" He can only nod as Steve's hand twines through his curls.

He's shaking, just a little bit, not because he's inexperienced but because this is Steve, because it's happening, because their lips are meeting and a trembling noise falls from his mouth at the sweet way Steve kisses him.

It's gentle and quick, but they don't part when the kiss ends, stay sharing air as their foreheads rest together. Eddie can't stop smiling.

"Please tell me I'm not dreaming, Stevie" he whispers.

"You dream about me?" Steve asks, eyes blazing.

"I wrote a song about you, and you think dreams are a reach?"

Steve laughs, brushes a kiss against the tip of Eddie's nose. "I loved the song."

"Yeah?"

"Can't wait to hear the whole thing."

"Well, stick around for a while."

Steve leans in, kisses him again, longer this time. "Just try to get rid of me, Munson."

[junodoom]

everything stays

[deadkraker]

More about my cTommy.

I would also like to add that in my head he probably did not have any clothes before cWil found him, but you can probably understand that I wasn’t too keen on drawing that, because even if I personally don’t view nudity in itself as sexual it’s just probably better not to do that. 👍 the shirt he’s wearing is from cWil though, so this is really after cWil found him if anything.

[seraphont]

an older comic wip, pondering a ‘tessa lives’ au

[technically-human]

St. Hilarion's ghost story

[hypertechnica]

did it mean anything to you?