#should i write a sequel or not

[edwinspaynes]

Having once been a high schooler, I can tell you with 1000% certainty that some future kids at St Hilarion's at least tried to summon Edwin with a Ouija board. Would it have worked once he was out of Hell? Would he be summoned to the quad of St Hilarion's at 3 AM on a Monday? I can totally imagine him being super annoyed about it happening once in a while, but sometimes he just randomly is forced to poof there. He says something mildly scary but not too scary on the Ouiji board, hoping it will deter future sumonings, and poofs back. And he's good, for a few years, until some totally different stupid kids do it again

[ultimaratiovaccinium]

Sweets (1/?)

The snugness was barely tolerable. She had overestimated herself. She looked surreptitiously over her shoulder and ducked around a corner. The only thing following her were her bad decisions, but she felt chased all the same.

Okay. Calm down. Breathe (but not too deep). Evaluate the situation. What are your options? Can you loosen anything?

She looked down at herself. Past her swollen breasts, past a fluffy roll of upper belly, she examined her waistline. Nope. The button was the only thing keeping the zipper together, and vice versa. For the millionth time, she lamented her morning. What a bright idea, interviewing for a job with a snack company. She was very well aware of how sweets affected her.

Could she find somewhere discrete to wait out her... little metabolic mishap? She looked around for a discrete nook to accommodate her fresh bulk.

The little atrium she had found had a series of plush benches around the walls. She sighed and headed for the one in the corner. She sucked in as best she could and sat down. Some horny little corner of her mind made note of how it felt as her tight belly shifted against her puffy thighs.

Sitting like this, only barely upright lest bending too far compromise her jeans, she couldn't ignore how her waistband was trying to cut her in half. She thought back to how she had done this to herself. The lovely HR manager had very explicitly pointed out the basket of the company's sugary offerings there in the middle of interview table. The woman had been insistent that she try at least one of each, gushing like any good salesperson about their rich flavors and subtle textures, occasionally even peeling one out of its wrapper and handing it to her.

How could she have done anything but eat what was offered to her? And by a beautiful woman, no less. She knew how her body reacted to food like this, but she had been desperate to make a good impression, to look good and eager and employable. A good girl. She ignored that last thought, and the accompanying shiver through her frazzled tummy.

She closed her eyes and tried to steady herself. Breathe in through the nose and out through the mouth (but not too deeply). All she had to do was calm down, and give her body a chance to do the same. Then she could find a back door to sneak out of, go home and hope that somehow that she hadn't blown the interview.

She opened her eyes again and caught sight of herself in a mirror across the room. Holy crap, she was huge. She had been her normal, narrow self, and her outfit had fit very very normally, when she had arrived. But now? Now it looked positively painted onto her. Her breasts were trying to spill out of her tastefully exposed bra and over the lapel of her blouse. She was more balloon than woman at this point. She ignored another tingle.

As she watched herself in the mirror, she noticed something change. Slowly but surely, the last wrinkle in her blouse smoothed out. Uh oh. That meant... she was still filling out. Panic. She tingled again.

No. No. Calm. Breathe (but not too deep). She closed her eyes again, and could feel her plump body quietly grow. Crap.

Panic. Calm. Breathe (but not too deep). Calm.

Maybe if she didn't look, it would go away. That had never worked before, sure, but there's a first time for everything, right?

As she rationalized to herself, she noticed the sound of heels clacking towards her hiding spot. Panic!

Maybe their owner would pass and not notice her?

No such luck.

The woman who had interviewed her rounded the corner.

"There you are!"

She struggled to stand. So tight.

"You left your purse upstairs. I get it, though. Interviews can be pretty stressful, huh?"

Like nothing had changed. Did this woman not notice that she was currently three times the size she was when she had shown up? Could this woman not hear every seam in her clothes creaking in harmony? Could the woman not see how wide and deep and round she was becoming?

"It's such a beautiful handbag, I almost wanted to keep it for myself!" The woman laughed. "Oh well."

She took the bag from the woman. "O-oh! Thank you!" Leapt out of her.

"Listen," said the woman, "technically I have to review a few other candidates, but I think you're a shoo-in for the position." The woman moved closer. "No one else has shown so much... enthusiasm." Closer still. She basked in the smell of the woman's musky perfume.

"Oh... that's great!" she managed to squeak out.

"In fact," the woman continued, "if you'd like to come back upstairs, we can have you fill out the onboarding paperwork now, so you don't have to come back just to fill out some forms if... when we give you the job." So close now.

"Um! Okay!" What.

The woman placed a gentle hand on the side of her massive, tight, growing belly. "Listen, between you and me, that passion you showed today will take you far with us. Do you feel like the offer is fair? We can negotiate further if you need." The woman's eyes were so sincere.

What was going on here? She could barely think.

The woman placed her other hand on top of her belly, well hidden by her burgeoning breasts. "I do hope you'll say yes."

"Um..."

There was a pop. Her button pinged away across the room from her overburdened jeans. It made a little thwack sound as it hit the far wall. Her zipper flew down, zizzing audibly. Her belly erupted through the breach. Her blouse retreated upwards. The tingling became a roar. All the while, the woman, as though no tectonic shifts were happening right there and then, continued to implore with borderline puppydog eyes.

The world held its breath with her. How had this woman not reacted to any of that?! What? Was the woman still waiting for an answer?

"...okay?" She tried. She wasn't sure if her brain was still working. "Sure?" Best to stick to small sentences.

"Yay!" cheered the woman, "I really think you'll love it here!" The woman launched in for a quick hug around her exposed belly. The woman's arms didn't go even halfway around her. And still the woman didn't seem to notice that anything was wrong.

"Well! If you'll follow me back to the elevators, we can at least get the formalities out of the way."

The woman took her by the hand and pulled, still gentle. She followed, mutely. Even the horniest, shamiest corners of her mind were silent, waiting with bated breath.

As they reached the elevators, the woman pushed the up button and stood to the side. "Please," said the woman, "after you!"

On autopilot now, she stepped into the elevator and... wedged into the door. Stuck. What. Panic? Calm? The elevator dinged again as if to say "I'm waiting!"

The cold of the elevator doors brought her back to reality. She put a hand on either side of herself and tried to pull herself in. As though this were somehow normal, the woman chirped "Oh, here, let me help!"

She felt a gentle pair of hands press into her oceanic bottom. Her horny brain thrilled again. She clamped down on those thoughts. No time to be a pervert.

Between the two of them, they muscled her into the elevator. She turned to face the doors in time to watch the woman press into her in order to let the doors close. Normally equipped for eight full-sized human adults, due to her immensity, it very barely fit two.

"We need floor thirty," said the woman into her barely contained cleavage. She tried to reach for the panel of buttons, but by now there was simply too much of her in the way.

"I've got it," said the woman, reaching behind her without looking.

They rode the thirty floors quietly. She could feel herself still widening, pressing towards the walls of the elevator car. Her embarrassment had burnt out, leaving only a kind of stunned peace in her mind. She tried to will her body away from the woman, but where else could it really go?

By the time they reached their destination, the woman was firmly pressed against the doors, still showing no indication of the extra-ordinariness of the situation.

As the doors opened, the woman stepped back, grabbed her hands, and pulled as she tried to wiggle through the door. Eventually she floomped through, and they set off toward the HR suite.

Full-on waddling now, she felt an inner tension release. She had stopped growing. Relief. If nothing else, at least things had stopped getting worse. Sure, she was almost round enough to roll. Tingle. Sure, her clothing had been reduced to barely covering her... rude areas. Tingle. Sure, a beautiful woman was acting as though this was all perfectly normal. Tingle tingle tingle. But hey, at least it finally wasn't getting worse.

The woman pushed open the double doors to the HR suite and welcomed her in with another glittering smile. They seemed to be the only ones there. The woman led her, patiently, to the front desk area. The woman ducked behind the desk, looking for something.

"Hmm, it looks like I'll need to go print off more some more copies of the forms. Shouldn't take more than a minute or two." Finally she'd have a moment to collect herself.

Then the woman produced a basket, laden with various goodies, from underneath the desk. "Here! Help yourself, sorry to make you wait." Uh.

"Oh, here, allow me," said the woman, picking out a chocolate confection, peeling it, and pressing it into her mouth. "I'll be right back!"

She chewed and swallowed the treat.

Uh oh.

[marlynnofmany]

Just a Rock

For all the time I’ve spent traveling through space, I haven’t spend much of it actually out in space. It’s unsettling. Inside the ship, I can forget how close the airless void is, how small our precious bubble of air. But outside, everything is black like some vast creature ate all the color in the universe first, then the air, and is now hungering for life forms too.

Sometimes those distant stars look like teeth.

These are the thoughts that tend to pop up when I’m in my exo suit, hoping that my thruster pack doesn’t run out of fuel before I make it back to the ship. But then an empty pack of chips will float by my visor, and I can refocus on business.

That’s how it happened today, at any rate. (And yes, “day” is a silly concept in the blackness of space.) We’d made a detour to see if we could pick up some extra funds by gathering salvage from a museum ship that had gone kablooey, but so far all we were finding was trash.

Paint jetted past in her own exo suit, upside-down to my frame of reference, then stopped to pull apart a jumble of carpet fragments. “They really did clear out the good stuff already,” she said over the radio. She swatted aside a drink cup with her tail, looking like a little space-suited dinosaur, a thought that kept me entertained for a good few seconds.

Captain Sunlight’s voice said, “Keep an eye out for scrap metal. That may already be gone too, but it’s worth a shot.” She was somewhere else in the drifting junk pile, or maybe back near the ship; I couldn’t tell. There was too much stuff in the way. This was a mildly alarming thought — out of sight meant out of safety — but I caught a glimpse of the Frillian twins posted as safety guards at the edge of the cloud, and my heartbeat settled a bit.

“Do you think anyone will buy some mildly used carpet?” Paint asked the captain. “It’s only in several pieces.”

“Let’s go with ‘no.’”

“What about some very exotic — what is this — napkins? Made with authentic Earth wood fibers!”

I looked over at that. “How can you tell?”

“Oh, I have no idea,” Paint said. She held up half of a wall placard. “But this is from the Earth exhibit, so maybe the napkins are too.”

I looked around at the trash in a new light. “Man, it’s a pity we weren’t here for any of the good stuff.”

“Yeah, and all these food packages are empty! We can’t even get you a slightly exploded taste of home!”

I waved my hand through a cluster of soda bottles. “I appreciate the thought.”

Paint jetted over to a different pile of whatever. “Hey, do you think any of this food trash was actually an exhibit? Packaging from olden days?”

“Uh, maybe,” I said. “Probably not. That’s not the sort of thing I’d expect on a multi-species museum ship. A janky little humans-only one, maybe. But even then, most people aren’t going to care.”

Something clunked against the back of my helmet. I hate that. Nothing like a reminder that I can’t see behind me like some species can. I toggled the jets to rotate in place, so I could find the offending object.

It was a rock.

“What’s this doing here?” I asked, closing a gloved hand around it and bringing it in for a closer look.

“What’d you find?” Paint asked, sticking out sideways from behind a twisted bench.

“A rock.”

“A meteorite rock?” she asked. “Oh hey, do you think it pierced the hull?”

“No, it doesn’t look like a space rock,” I said, turning the small gray-and-white lump over. It was mostly smooth, with a divot that would have fit a fingertip if I hadn’t been wearing the gloves. “Weird. I wonder if it was part of some Neolithic exhibit or something.”

“Can I see?” Paint jetted over to park herself in roughly the same orientation as me. She was very good with that jetpack.

I showed her the rock. “It doesn’t look like any gemstone I know. Maybe some kid had it in their pocket, then threw it away.”

Paint cocked her head. “Is that normal, for your young to carry rocks around?”

“Sure. You never picked up something you thought was neat as a kid?”

“Not a rock,” Paint said with exaggerated disdain. “A sweet-smelling seednut or herb, absolutely.”

“But look: it’s even got a little finger groove,” I pointed out. “You could stick it in a pocket and rub it for luck.”

“Could you?”

I smiled. “You could. You probably wouldn’t, but…”

“Why?”

I looked at the rock again, already fond of it. “I get the feeling that I couldn’t explain this to a point where you’d agree.”

Paint shrugged. “Probably not. But hey, we found you a souvenir after all. From probably the Earth section of whatever museum this is.” She grabbed a handful of colorful pamphlets drifting by. “The ‘Galaxy in a Bottle Museum Tour Ship.’ Who named that?”

My smile turned into a wide grin. “Humans.”

Paint grumbled about the unflattering comparison of an elite starship to a simple bottle. When she moved to toss the pamphlets away, I held out a hand.

“What’s that white one?” I asked. “It looks like a display sign.”

Paint flipped over the stack and separated the one I meant. “You’re right. Hey, it’s about a rock!”

I reached out a grabby hand. “Gimme.”

She passed it over. “Is it that rock?”

I read the title, then was gut-punched by familiarity. I’d heard about this. “Yes,” I managed, skimming the rest of the sign and holding the rock close. “This is Bethan’s Rock.”

“What?”

I fumbled to explain. “Ages ago, a kid visited a museum — a human kid — and learned what museums were for, then offered her favorite rock as a donation, so other people could appreciate it too.”

Paint cocked her head in the other direction. “And they took it?”

“Yes!” I must have looked a little wild at this point, but I didn’t care. “The adults agreed that it was a fine thing to donate, not to mention adorable, and the only one of its kind that I’ve ever heard of. More museums should house the occasional favorite rock, though I suppose they wouldn’t be as special if they did.”

“So just to clarify,” Paint said. “There isn’t anything valuable about this rock, except that one of your youths decided there was. And all the adults played along.”

I smiled down at it, careful not to let it drift away. “It’s the most precious non-precious stone I’ve ever seen.”

Paint stared for a moment. “It’s not even one of those shiny ones you like.”

I laughed. “I know!”

The captain called us back in at that point, having found one decent chunk of metal among the mountains of trash. We had a schedule to keep.

I folded the sign and tucked it into my suit pocket, but held the rock tight in my fist as I jetted toward the ship, working the controls with one hand. I was already thinking of the safest place in my quarters to keep it until we got ahold of the proper Earth museum authorities. Other humans would want to see Bethan’s Rock, after all, but it would be my honor to watch over it until they could.

~~~

(Inspired by this post. Long live Bethan’s Rock.)

These are the ongoing backstory adventures of the main character of this book. More to come!

[poison-into-positivity]

i ADORE that vianton has garnered a sort of cult following. like they’re two characters from a nearly decade-old movie, one of which only has like seven minutes of screentime, that interacted twice. then we saw ofmd and were like you know what, these men need to kiss in every universe. and we were right

[livesincerely]

“Jesus, Jack,” Davey groans when Jack releases his lower lip from between his teeth⁠—from between his fangs, Davey mentally corrects, noting the change with a quiet thrill. “I thought you didn’t want to dance?”

Jack’s hands slip lower, one curling around his hip, the other splaying wide and possessive over the small of Davey’s back. “Changed my mind.”

“Oh?” Davey murmurs, curling his fingers through Jack’s belt loops to draw him closer even as their hips continue to sway to the beat. “And why’s that, I wonder?”

“One’a life’s great mysteries,” Jack says, leaning in to kiss along Davey’s jaw. “Why would I want an armful of the prettiest guy in the room? The world may never know.”

“You think I’m pretty?” Davey asks, pitching his voice to something soft and sultry, batting his lashes just so.

Jack’s eyes narrow, his grip around Davey’s hips tightening that much more.

“You’re a menace,” he growls, and god, he’s so easy to rile this close to the full moon. Davey has to bite his lip to keep himself from smirking. “Don’t think I don’t know exactly what you’re doin’.”

“So, you don’t think I’m pretty?” Davey pouts.

Jack tilts his head and catches Davey’s mouth in another kiss, deep and dominating.

“I think,” he says against Davey’s still-parted lips, his voice low and rough, “that you’re the most gorgeous creature on the face of this Earth. An’ I think you’re gonna regret teasin’ me like this when we get home.”

“And I think,” Davey replies, a little breathlessly, looping his arms around Jack’s neck and bringing their foreheads together, “that isn’t as much of a threat as you probably think it is.”

[poebrey]

I’m tired of seeing all these caveats on The Acolyte saying that the writing could’ve been better or it wasn’t as good like there’s a need to preemptively defend criticism of it when saying it deserved to get renewed. It was just as good or bad as most of the other star wars live action, none of which in terms of either quality (everything except Andor) or performance has surpassed The Mandalorian.

The Acolyte had a good first season, set the stage for a new direction, was able to build word of mouth and attract new audiences, and by the end of the season was going viral in a way that only Obi-Wan managed to do by bringing in a second legacy character (Anakin). This is now the 4th production including the sequel series that received a targeted hate campaign, by which I’m placing strong emphasis on the words targeted and campaign because both Ahsoka and TBOBF received large amounts of racist abuse.

Star Wars is a stagnant media property, coming off of a widely-panned sequel series (which managed to achieve the rare feat of alienating both the racist and misogynistic parts of the fanbase and just about everyone else in refusing to properly develop the new leads as it re-tooled itself to appease the former.) Just about every actor of color in a leading role has been subject to widespread racial abuse, it frequently undermines its own initiative to focus on female characters, and in refusing to stand by its own IP it’s destroying any long-term plan to revitalize the fanbase before it even gets off the ground, the High Republic era now having years of investment and buildup cast aside.

When all of the following media projects fail because no one has faith in them after how they handled their previous projects (looking at the upcoming Rey-centric Sharmeen Obaid-Chinoy led film) its going to once again be blamed on ‘bad quality, bad production, whatever the racist dog whistle of the season is like the current “wokeism” etc.’ and not an inherent refusal of a company to stand by its own work. This is Star Wars, no one, not even the biggest fans of the prequel films were coming out of theatres thinking this was Oscar-winning high art. What made it work is George Lucas’ refusal to give in to criticism and fundamentally change his own creation, for better or worse, whether it be bad CGI and Jar Jar Binks, or making an annoying little kid named Ani the central protagonist of the first film in decades. That same attitude stood by giving Anakin a padawan named Ahsoka. It should be ushering in a new era of Star Wars, instead half the audience is convinced Lucasfilm hates its own IP.

[findafight]

I think there's something deeply interesting about the Clone troopers learning Mando'a from the trainers, and passing that on to each other. It's probably not a full language, not at first. They only got the basics from the trainers, but they take loan words from Basic, and then from other worlds they're stationed on. It gets passed down to the shinies, evolving and changing quickly. It's a living language, and it has different accents, different words taken from different languages depending on where the troopers speaking it have been for the longest. It's not hidden, not really. The Jedi actively encourage it, though Kaminoans have never wanted it to spread. But it's a remarkable thing, how quickly it changes and how precious it is, for clones to have something that is It morphs into something unique and theirs.

And then, order 66 happens, and clone troopers are phased out and replaced by recruited, but some sources have them training together/training new recruits, and so they pick up on the language as a kind of military slang or code. But it's still a language, still taught and spoken, though more covertly, more carefully even as the clones are slowly decommissioned, but their language is passed on through imperial stormtroopers.

Even when the New Republic seems to have defeated the Empire, there's still Grand Moffs, there's still Stormtroopers, and the First Order rises. And yet somehow, stormtroopers keep this language alive, even though no one who speaks it now knows where it came from, or why only troopers speak it.

Eventually, all those kidnapped children grew up not knowing anything but the first order, and fear, and whispered words under bedcovers that the higherups can't understand. Sometimes they call them natborns and they don't know why. Sometimes they call each other vod'e and don't know why. They know what it means, (it means brother, means sister, means sibling, it means something deeper than that) but not why, not the how. They just know it's a secret. Some of them know songs, and some of them don't get a chance to learn them before they're heard by higherups and whoever knew it was reconditioned and it was lost.

When the First Order falls, troopers who escaped try to find their vod'e, find their family, and along the way they also find decedents of Clones, who speak a language similar to theirs. Who know the words that First Order troopers have only whispered to each other and speak them in the open with their families without fear. Who know all those songs that were so precious and dangerous and more. And they discovered their shared heritage, shared history, through the language the clones built for themselves.

[duskier]

Never will I ever stop posting about dyke Ghost on T thank you!!

Thinking about her bent over Price’s desk so Price can give her the injection and Price absolutely pulled her pants down much lower than necessary. Always groping at her big meaty arms and thighs under the excuse of admiring Ghost's progress- but there's no excuse when Price is on her knees sucking off Ghost's swollen t-cock, is there? That's just an old woman acting like a needy whore, a fresh-faced barracks bunny, but Ghost doesn't mind. She just spreads her fat thighs apart further and grabs Price by her hair, hips flexing as she bucks forward into her tight, hot fleshlight of a mouth!!

[lesbiannieism]

I NEED TO STOP STARTING NEW FIC IDEAS WHEN I STILL NEED TO FINISH OLD ONES but i had an idea for a fic where charles and edwin have to pose as a couple to attend this ghost gala and im kind of obsessed with it

[itsjaywalkers]

do you think DO YOU THINK i can focus on work under these conditions (nsfw under the cut . kinda)

“Did you touch yourself while you were at it?”

James’ breath hitches. “Baby—”

“Did you imagine it was my hand instead of yours, daddy?” Regulus tilts his head up, looking up at James from under his eyelashes. Their lips are close enough that a tiny push would be enough to shorten the distance. “Or my mouth, perhaps?”

James’ gaze falls downwards, eyes hooded and darkening as he watches the way Regulus’ tongue wraps around his words.

“Or maybe it was something else,” Regulus whispers, barely audible. “You remember how good it felt to be inside me, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” James exhales, not looking away from Regulus’ lips.

“I bet you couldn’t stop thinking about it. About how perfectly your cock fit in me, how hard you fucked me. How much you came.”

“Fuck. Yeah, baby, fuck. It’s been on my mind all the bloody time.”

“On mine, too,” Regulus confesses softly, like it’s a secret. “You can’t even begin to imagine how much I’ve jerked off to the thought of you.”

“Regulus—” James starts, strained, his hand clamping down his arm.

“It just wasn’t quite the same, you know,” he sighs, completely ignoring the other man. “I still came, of course, but my fingers don’t feel as good anymore. Yours are longer, daddy. And thicker. They can fuck me so deep.”

“Fucking hell, Regulus,” James groans, sounding pained. He makes an attempt to kiss him, but recoils at the very last second, to Regulus’ disappointment. “Your brother is literally right there.”

[no-light-left-on]

post-DotO Emily and human Outsider shenanigans, because their friendship needs more love. a little over 800 words

“How do I look?”

Emily looks up from her correspondence with the Duke of Serkonos to see the Outsider dressed in his new clothes. The shirt is of fine ashen grey silk, paired with deep blue pants and a waistcoat to match. He’s fidgeting again, his fingers toying with the corded loop of his top button, but he lowers his hands to let Emily take the whole look in.

She knew why she recommended her personal tailor to fashion the Outsider's new wardrobe for his inevitable introduction to the court.

The clothes suit him.

“You look stupid,” Emily says and the Outsider gasps.

“I will have you know that this style of embroidery and fine cording has a long tradition in Tyvia that predates the Empire of the Isles by centuries,” he tells her. “By incorporating it into the newest fashions of the Isles the people of Tyvia express their connection to their history and tradition while embracing the modern ways of life and cosmopolitanism of the Empire.” His back straightens and he rolls his shoulders back. The fine wool fabric hugs his chest perfectly and the silk of his sleeves falls over his slender forearms like waves of a stormy sea as it spills over into the Void. And yet the clothes make him appear much more human than the leather he wore back when he still was the Outsider.

Emily rolls her eyes. “Wow, you are nerdy and stupid.”

The Outsider’s cheeks flush with irritation and his top lip juts out. He is pouting. Emily chooses to forego teasing him about that.

“I thought you said you want to try something new?” she asks instead, diverting the Outsider’s attention from whatever lecture he had coming next about the importance of tradition and history of Tyvian folk motifs in aristocratic fashion. She vaguely remembers him speaking of it as she wrote a letter to Wyman while he decided how he should present himself to the nobles of Dunwall.

“This is different,” he says. “I’m wearing more colour than you could have ever possibly seen me don in the past.”

“Barely,” Emily shoots back. The blue of the fabric mirrors that of a clouded sky right after sunset. Variety, Emily thinks, is not something that she can expect from the Outsider’s wardrobe anytime soon.

Her tailor, bless her heart, does not say a word in regard to the insults thrown at the Outsider’s personal style and taste. “We can still adjust the fit,” she says, brushing over the differences between black and indigo or ash and slate grey that encompass all of the Outsider’s wardrobe. She’s heard enough on the topic from Corvo in her years at the helm of the royal boudoir. She provides no warning as she grips the strip of fabric at the Outsider’s back and pulls until the fit is snug and the Outsider startles and yelps. She pays him no mind, instead fixes the folds of the fabric fanning out over his backside.

Emily whistles. “Your waistline is incredible.”

“Thank you,” the Outsider says with a smug smile. “I hear narrow waist is popular with the older gentlemen of Dunwall these days.”

Both Emily and the tailor freeze.

“Do not,” Emily stresses, “ever say these words around me ever again.”

“I could fit the waistcoat to this size,” the tailor suggests in a desperate attempt to move the conversation anywhere that is not the Outsider’s subtle suggestion of sleeping with half of Emily’s court to gain their favour and support. “We can keep the clasp, too, but that is mostly seen as…” she weighs her words, “juvenile.”

“Leave it as is,” Emily tells her. “He’s going to fill out some, now that he has real food, and then you’d have to change it again. Save yourself the trouble, please.”

“Real food,” the Outsider mimics with a tinge of sarcasm. Juvenile, Emily thinks, is the perfect word to describe him after all.

“Yes,” Emily says. “You’ve only really eaten whatever in the Void Billie bothered to feed you with. And I would not ever dare suggest that to be real or proper meals, for the most part.”

“How would you even know what she fed me?”

“I spent a couple weeks with her. To call our eating habits proper meals would be an insult. Then again, your habit to eat only pastries is not to be considered a proper meal, either.”

The door opens, then, breaking the awkward air hanging over their little company, and Corvo walks in with a small collection of letters for Emily.

“Corvo,” the Outsider exclaims in way of greeting. “How do I look?”

Corvo does not spare him even a glance, instead passes by him to hand the letters to Emily.

“Stupid,” he answers after a beat of silence, and the Outsider pouts once more.

“I hate you,” he tells him, then turns to Emily, “both of you.”

Emily bursts out laughing.

[residentrookie]

fic authors self rec!

When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you’ve written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Spread the self-love!!

thank u loml for the tag @static-radio-ao3!! not a lot to choose from here guys i only have three fics so….. so….. um…

i’ll be seeing you—jegulus, multiverse au, longfic

It’s 2022, and James Potter is both single and depressed. But after a strange encounter with a psychic (?) involving psychedelics and discussions about the multiverse, James begins to have crazy dreams about a magic world. In one of these dreams, his desperate attempt to save a drowning boy somehow sends him careening into a dangerous and magical universe (circa 1979), stuck with none other than a skeptical Regulus Black as his guide. Chaos inevitably ensues.

Back in 2022, a different Regulus Black is once again estranged from his brother and therefore his brothers’ stupid friends, including James Potter. But after a ridiculous and infuriating run in with what Regulus believes to be the James Potter he knows (or used to know), Regulus is forced to reevaluate everything he thought he knew about the way the world works. Chaos once again inevitably ensues.

Or:

A Very Non-Magical James Potter from 2022 and a Very Magical James Potter from 1979 accidentally swap universes, and now must figure out how to get back to their own worlds. Oh, and Regulus Black is inextricably involved in both universes, which is obviously just a coincidence.

are you sick of me? (would you like to be?)—jegulus, sickfic au, one shot…. or is it????

James Potter is sick. Regulus Black is the only person available. (Snapshots from 8 hours in the life of a non-caretaker attempting to assist someone who hates to be cared for.)

starfell lodge— wolfstar/jegulus, ski lodge au, christmas fic

It's Christmas Break at Starfell Lodge and four boys each have a conundrum on their hands this holiday season. Sirius Black is on a mission to talk to the cute barista he sees every winter, and this time he's not going to mess it up. Remus Lupin is hellbent on ignoring the Snow Angel (annual, disgustingly wealthy vacationer) who seems determined to be his friend. Regulus Black will do whatevever it takes to never set eyes on James Potter again. And James Potter is desperate to get back into Regulus' good graces, not knowing what he did to push him away in the first place.

tagging @nevvaraven @a-fiery-fox @blackberry-sunset @twisted-tales-told @otrtbs @itsjaywalkers and an open tag for any pookies who want to participate <3

[thiefbird]

platonic renown trio, “but I know being reckless and young is not how the damage gets done” from your list?

Ooooooooohhh this is so good

(also might be a little bit more pre-slash than purely platonic because Bush has complex feelings about Hornblower just. canonically) have some William Bush character study my friend; i listened to Damage Gets Done on repeat almost the entire time i wrote this, other than the bits where i rewatched Mutiny and Retribution for Research Purposes

(under a cut bc it got long - and possibly not entirely connected to its prompt; Bush decided to instead just dwell on his junior lieutenants a bunch in general)

Should I write a sequel to this? Maybe touching on how Horatio's mood might effect the infamous Kingston Debauch in a Dead Kennedy universe? I have Thoughts but this ended up near to 4k words and I needed to end it.

damage gets done (on ao3)

Stepping on board the Renown for the first time, Lieutenant William Bush had had no idea that he would be a different person by the time he reached Jamaica. He had been the same person, more or less, for the entire thirty-five years of his life so far; expecting to continue as he had was only reasonable.

But that was before he had met Hornblower: being dashed to the deck by a total stranger had not seemed like a likely catalyst for personal change at the time, unless caused by a knock on the head; looking back now, he felt he ought to have known, ought to have guessed. But instead he had been ruffled by Hornblower's oddities, peevish towards Mr Kennedy's facetiousness, and fully cemented himself into the role of outsider he so resented those first months.

They were an unlikely pair on the outside, Hornblower and Kennedy. Hornblower was an awkward, serious sort of man, private and reserved to a fault - and Bush had indeed seen it as a fault - where Kennedy was quite the opposite; Bush didn't think he heard a single earnest word from the fourth lieutenant's lips before he'd been on the Renown a month, unless the captain was present. And yet in practice they were as well together as any two men Bush had served with - he was unsurprised to learn they had been mids together at the start of the war, and shared most of their postings since.

He had been obscurely envious of such a friendship - coming up before the mast as he had created a gap between him and the other officers, one that he'd done his best to hide in his years as lieutenant, but one that he felt sorely - and had resolved to look down on the younger officers. Lieutenant Buckland made for poor company, too harassed by his rank, and Bush had resigned himself to a dull, lonely assignment within a week of coming aboard Renown.

Even now, many months later, he almost regretted that he had been wrong. But Captain Sawyer had proven to be a shell of himself, and he had somehow found himself in the unenviable position of plotting mutiny alongside an incompetent premier and the reckless youth of lieutenants Hornblower and Kennedy.

Reckless was perhaps putting it a little strong; Kennedy, certainly, was impetuous and excitable, a gleam in his eyes that drew Captain Sawyer's ire with a consistency unmatched by the finest timepiece, but Hornblower was anything but. Calculating, conniving, manipulative even, especially in his handling of Lieutenant Buckland; too clever by half, even half dead from keeping continual watch.

He had made a pitiful sight, gaunt and hollow-cheeked, bruises deep under his piercing brown eyes making them appear preternaturally large from under the brown curls of his queue. Compared to Kennedy Bush had thought he looked near corpse-like by the time their plot succeeded, and yet the spark of genius had never burnt low.

Samaná had been the true turning point, where he had gone from outside observer to- perhaps not an equal member, but a close orbiting body of the binary star that made up Hornblower and Kennedy. He had been mistaken, to take Buckland's side against Hornblower's plan, he had seen that almost immediately, and admitting the fault had done much to repair his fellow lieutentants' opinion of him; the desertion of some thirty-odd men had been the perfect opportunity for Hornblower's expert machinations, and Buckland had folded like so many decks of cards in Hornblower's hands.

Kennedy's lascivious grin, the puff of his breath as he laughed at the Spanish solider's importunity, Hornblower's poorly suppressed answering smile - all were the badges of friendship earned, and he had treasured them as he received them lying near prone on a hilltop. They had felt the same pang of hopes dashed as some damned folly aboard Renown - Buckland had never been clear when he explained the mishap - ruined their chance of surprise, and he had felt a similar pang alone when Hornblower and Kennedy had run clear away without explanation: once again he was on the outside of their insular attachment, and he had felt a queer turn at it, one that he could hardly name.

"If you live to see Mr Hornblower-" he'd told Stiles, though he knew not what he had meant to convey before those bitter words had slipped out; "tell him he'll hang from the yardarm," had not been his intention when he started to speak.

The fort had fallen, the Spaniards offered a deal - and predictable as clockwork, Hornblower had seen through it and conceived a counter before the words had left their commander's mouth. And now-

"Alright, are you, Horatio?"

Hornblower's expression was a strange blend of terror and derision when he turned back, Kennedy's mouth fighting to remain bland. "Yes, thank you, Archie." He turned back to the block and tackle hanging over the cliff, and Bush could see how tight his jaw was set from behind.

"I remember when you used to be scared of heights, Mr Hornblower!" Kennedy pronounced, as if an actor in one of the plays he would read aloud in the ward room, despite constant protest. He glanced aside to Bush, laughter clear in his eyes, and Bush felt a smile form despite himself.

Hornblower, too, was smiling regardless of his fear when he turned back once more. "Nothing has changed, Mr Kennedy," he admitted, playing along with his friend's formality. Bush caught his eye and felt a surge of affection for the young man - for he and Kennedy were so very young, if not in years (for Bush had less than ten years on them), then in spirit, a playful exuberance that he could only account to their friendship.

That affection, that long-held desire to be admitted into their intimacy, must have been what sparked his playing along. As Hornblower grasped the hawser and prepared to rappel down to young Wellard's rescue, Bush nudged Kennedy's shoulder with his own and called out. "They say one should always do what one dislikes!" he advised.

"Oh yes?" was the only response Hornblower deigned to give.

Kennedy's grin was in full force now, delighted to have a compatriot in his torment of Hornblower, and Bush knew his was not far behind as he was swept off his feet by his contagious high spirits; he deliberately did not allow his gaze to land on either Hornblower or Kennedy as he spoke. "As a boy, I had to eat turnips."

Hornblower warily began to lower himself down. "Eat them now, do you?" he asked, his voice resigned - but the anxious pitch of it was gone, and some strange tension Bush had not noted in Kennedy before suddenly faded as Hornblower disappeared below the edge of the cliff, replaced by some sort of exhaustion.

"Never touch 'em," Bush said, his voice too low to carry further than Kennedy's ears. Kennedy looked back to him, his face strangely inscrutable until Bush gave up his attempt at controlling his smile; then Kennedy clapped his shoulder, the apparent fatigue entirely absent once more. Bush felt as if he'd passed some obscure test in that moment, and he directed the reassembly of the gun in its carriage with a lighter heart than he'd felt since Captain Sawyer had stepped on board Renown.

The Dons struck, the rebellion attacked, and the fort was to be abandoned the moment it was clear - and Hornblower, the proud, reckless creature, volunteered to set the charges to send the fort to kingdom come. Bush saw Kennedy's face as his friend - their friend? - said the words, and knew his own face echoed that same dawning realization. Kennedy's throwing himself in with Hornblower was instinctive, automatic, and Bush's hardly less so. But Buckland preferred, if preferred was the word to use for so damning a mission and that cold look in their premier's eyes, Hornblower, and Bush felt a shade of Kennedy's palpable terror at the parting; the boy's voice trembled as they shook hands, and not for the first time Bush wondered just how deep their friendship went.

There was a strange moment, as Hornblower turned back to the fort, where Bush felt some strange, foreign urge to touch him, to reassure himself of Hornblower's reality - an urge so strong and strange that he could not resist it: his hand came up of its own volition and brushed the younger man's narrow shoulder as he passed, and he stared dumbly after Hornblower's retreating form until Buckland cleared his throat, giving both him and Kennedy a queer, questioning look. "Well, we had better get this whole... this whole mess cleared away. Bush, Kennedy - you know your duties."

Back on board Renown, they threw themselves into the organising of prisoners with as much appearance of zeal as they could muster, setting men to clear sections of the hold for the carpenter's crew to erect bulkheads. Bush had to reprimand both himself and Kennedy on multiple occasions within those first minutes for near criminal distraction, and he knew they had both caught the cold, hateful look in Buckland's eyes as he shook Hornblower's hand. Finally, in a lull, Kennedy grasped his arm in a desperately tight grip.

"What is it, Mr Kennedy?" Bush asked, and then, feeling his tone had been a little harsh, added with more kindness, "Tell me your mind."

"The men know their work, sir - we would only be in the way, were we to stay below." Kennedy's fingers were still tight around his upper arm.

"You may have a point there. You there! Keep to your tasks, men!" he ordered, and allowed Kennedy to pull him to the companion and then further, into the wardroom. "Now, Kennedy, no more of this - you will tell me what is the matter," he said in a low voice, his ear turned towards the door.

"You know as well as I Buckland will leave him on the island if we give him half a chance. I don't know who has his ear - if the damned fool has been listening to Sawyer or just to that lush of a doctor - but-"

"That is a harsh accusation to make, Mr Kennedy," Bush said, not in reproach, but in warning. Kennedy's mouth opened, the confiding expression wiped away and replaced with a hot, reckless anger, but Bush raised his voice as loud as he dared and continued over his protestations. "But I will concede the point that our acting captain may have his hands too full to spare men to row back. And as we find ourselves at loose ends-"

The tension holding Kennedy in a rigid, spiteful posture dissolved as if strings cut away, and he drooped against the bulkhead. "Thank you, sir," he said quietly, staring down at his hands; they shook like leaves in a gale as they stood in silence for the space of a few dozen breaths. Finally they stilled, and Kennedy looked up, his eyes flashing with that same reckless enthusiasm Bush had once condemned. "Well, what are you waiting for? There's not a moment to lose, if we don't want our acting captain to catch on!"

They walked out as if they were on an important mission, using the natural deference of the hands to have the smallest skiff lowered down the shoreward side of the ship. "That'll be all, Norris, thank you," Bush said dismissively as he climbed over the railing and dropped into the flimsy craft, Kennedy following after and fending them off of Renown's side. Bush took the oars himself, wordlessly indicating for Kennedy to man the tiller, and watched as the great mass of their ship steadily shrank away from them.

"Mr Bush, sir, I wanted to-"

"Do not thank me, Mr Kennedy; I saw that same look. And I think-" Here he hesitated: he worked hard to maintain his rank, had nearly eradicated all traces of his broad accent; to offer such liberties to a junior - and a junior as irreverent as Kennedy, no less - was a risk to all that work. And yet... "I think, while we are risking our necks together a second time, Mr Kennedy, that you may call me William."

Kennedy looked surprised, astonished, at being offered such, and he took a moment to gather himself. Then, with a touch of colour on his cheeks, he inclined his head. "In that case, Will, you-"

"I am warning you, Mr Kennedy-" Bush growled; Kennedy took no notice.

"You may call me Archie," he said, that bright smile firmly in place. "No one calls me Archibald, and if you may use a short form it is only fair I may, too. No need for entire names while we row towards our deaths, now, is there?"

Bush feigned a sigh of disapproval, though he was certain Kennedy- was certain Archie knew better than to be fooled by his attempts by now. "Very well. Archie."

The Renown was only a short distance from the fort's docks, and Archie leaped across to tie the skiff up what felt like mere moments later, offering Bush a hand up as he beamed down. "Sir," he said in a mockery of the white-gloved sideboys as Bush fought with the desire to pull Archie down into the boat in retribution.

"The cheek on you," he muttered as he batted away the offered hand and stepped onto the dock unassisted. "As you said, Archie - no time to lose; we must find Mr Hornblower and lend him our expertise."

"Expertise, Will? I only meant to offer him a boatride," Archie said over his shoulder as he took the stairs towards the fort two at a time.

"Archie! Are you out of your mind?" Bush heard Hornblower shout as he followed Archie up the stairs to where he could hear the fizzling of slow match.

"Very possibly, but we thought you could use the company!" Archie agreed in his play-reading voice. Bush quickly took in the room: barrels of powder stacked, lengths of match trailing from them, and on the other side of the barrels, as Hornblower began lighting another length- He aimed, fired; the revolutionary fell, and he fumbled with his kit to reload.

"Well you've clearly lost your wits, the both of you," Hornblower said brusquely; Archie fired into the smoke and another man fell, barely visible through the acrid cloud.

"I suggest we make our move, gentlemen; it's getting rather warm down here." Bush slipped his reloaded pistol into his gunbelt and gripped Hornblower's elbow momentarily to encourage him to follow.

Together, they ran through the fort and down into the connecting tunnels. The first breath Bush drew of fresh air as Archie helped him climb onto the grass was heaven-sent, and as soon as he gained his feet he was reaching into the smoke-scented pit to grab at Hornblower and heave him out into the sun, just in time for the first rounds to go off. The earth bucked and heaved under their feet with each following explosion, and they ran to the edge of the cliff to hail Renown, eager to escape before they were found and shot.

"She's sailing away!" Hornblower cried, the first to reach the summit.

Bush slowed his sprint as he came up, wary of the cliff's edge, and watched the four ships turn away for the open ocean. "Well..." he began, glancing back at Archie. "Looks like that's it, gentlemen."

He did not regret it, now that the end was in sight. Not the mutiny, not his encouraging of Hornblower's manipulation of Buckland. Certainly not this second mutiny that seemed now to promise their death; he cursed Buckland for a jealous fool, but he was happy to face his death alongside these two brave, bright men. They may not have saved Hornblower, but he at least would not die alone.

"No it isn't, Mr Bush," Hornblower said, his hands on his knees as he gasped against the effects of his run. Then he straightened up, a rare smile, the twin to Archie's near constant smirk, firmly in place. Bush had a momentary feeling of apprehension as he spoke. "Archie?"

Archie's smile was consistently amused; now it looked incredibly fond, as well, as he looked at Hornblower. "I am afraid I think you're right," he said with a disbelieving chuckle, his gaze flickering between Hornblower's face and Bush's own.

"What?" Bush demanded as his apprehension grew into a queer, queasy terror.

Hornblower's dark eyes flashed with excitement as he looked at Bush. "We're gonna jump." His voice was as gleeful as a skylarking midshipman, and Bush wondered at it, that he could not imagine a worse plan, and yet Hornblower had never seemed more alive - more pleased to be alive.

He and Archie jogged a few fathoms away from the cliff's face as Bush mastered himself and peered over the sickening drop to the churning sea below. "Well now who's out of his mind?!"

When he turned back, the other two were stripping down to their shirtsleeves, tossing aside their swords and guns. "See for yourself, Will!" Archie called over the dull roar of the ocean beneath them. "It's only water, you won't break anything!"

"Really..." He turned to join them, hoping to convince them of literally any other mad scheme to escape than this certain death by drowning.

Hornblower beckoned him closer encouragingly. "Come, easier than eating turnips," he said as Bush approached. And then: "Mr Kennedy?"

Before Bush could protest, Archie had him in his arms, spinning him bodily around until Hornblower could grab him by the other elbow, flashing a maniacally beautiful grin. Bush twisted fruitlessly between them, unable to escape. "No, no, gentlemen, I'm sorry, but-"

"On the count of three!" Hornblower said to Archie over Bush's head, ignoring his protests.

"One!"

"No, we're not going to jump-"

Archie continued his count, tensing to start the run up. "Two!"

His grip on Bush's forearm was firm and solid, but Hornblower seemed to think better of his hold, releasing Bush's arm and instead gripping Bush's thick, work-worn hand in his own, long and strangely delicate fingers wrapping around Bush's calloused ones, and effectively extinguishing all Bush's escape attempts out of sheer shock: he did not think his hand had been held since he went to sea - no, Nora had held it when she was small, but that hardly counted. Hornblower gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.

Despite his bewildered reaction to the almost affectionate hold, he still was capable of putting up some level of protest. "We will not jump, and that's my final word!" he demanded, just as Archie shouted "And three-"

Another charge exploded behind them. " And jump!" Hornblower and Archie said in unison, and charged forwards, dragging Bush between them as they cheered wordlessly.

They cleared the cliff edge and released him to plummet alone, and he felt the loss keenly. "I can't swim!" he yelled, all attempts at dignity gone in the rush of terror as the water rose up to meet him.

Hitting the water shocked him almost insensible, not from the impact but from the strangeness of it; he sank thoughtlessly for a moment before the panic set in and he thrashed ineffectually for the surface. Then two sets of strong arms were around him, supporting him, and he broke the surface gasping. "I can't swim," he repeated as Hornblower and Archie laughed giddily, keeping him afloat as easily as they did themselves - Bush was certain if they did not feel themselves responsible for him they should be playing like mids, splashing and dunking each other in between hails to the ship.

A boat was rowed out to them, and Archie lifted himself in, leaving Hornblower to support Bush on his own while he and the men situated themselves to make more space. "I wanted to say," he started in a strange voice, his arm warm around Bush's waist in the surprising cool of the Caribbean waters. "I wanted to say, sir - thank you. It was good of you to- to keep Mr Kennedy from making an ass of himself."

"Nonsense, Mr Hornblower; Ar-" he cut himself off; the implicit limitations of his granting Mr Kennedy the liberty of his name had ended with their return to the ship - or at least the ship's boat - and he would not do Mr Kennedy the disservice of using such intimate address when he had not extended the offer. "Mr Kennedy only prompted me to do what was right. You should not have been left alone in such circumstances."

Hornblower seemed surprised by Bush's words, and not for the first time Bush felt a pang of regret at his initial behaviour towards the junior lieutenants of Renown; had he been more personable, less concerned with propriety and rank, could he have had these friendships sooner? But before Hornblower could seem to make his mind up to speak, Mr Kennedy was leaning out of the boat and grinning at them. "Pass me Will, would you, Horatio?"

Hornblower blinked at the casual address, but pushed Bush forward until Archie - for if he would not respect the time limits of their intimacy, neither would Bush - could grip him under the armpits and heave him aboard. Bush, still grappling with the remnants of the terror of their plunge, did not allow himself to lie gasping in the bottom of the boat as his instincts demanded; the moment he felt stable he turned to assist Archie in lifting Hornblower's light frame into the narrow gig.

Once they were underway, dripping uncomfortably in the sternsheets, Hornblower turned towards Archie, high spirits still playing about his face and making him look far younger than his twenty-seven years. "'Will', is it? I did not know you and our second lieutenant were such intimates, Archie."

Bush was uncertain how to respond to such a strange manner of address: Hornblower's eyes were fixed firmly upon his face as he spoke, despite ostensibly directing his words to Mr Kennedy. A glance towards Archie, at his left, showed him in a remarkable mimicry of Hornblower's posture, leaning so against the cutter's hull that they were both twisted back and looking at him with an intense humour. "Oh, yes - he granted me the privilege while he rowed me back to save your sorrow soul, 'ratio."

"Hmm." Hornblower did his best to look serious, contemplative, but strong and sincere amusement was such a rare expression on him that Bush caught it at once, and could not believe him. "Well then, Mr Bush; it seems only fair to grant you my own given name - though I beg you will not shorten it so." He threw Archie a glare that seemed only partly in jest.

"Oh, I am sorry, sir - should you prefer 'Horry'?" Archie asked archly, and Hornblower twitched as if he should like to throw himself over Bush to swat at him in retaliation.

Bush felt his lips curling into a small, secret smile of fulfilled desire to be admitted into such confidences - a week ago Horatio would never have let his guard down enough for even so small a betrayal of self, were he in the room. "I would be honoured for you to call me William, then, both of you," he said, adding, "At least when we are not in company, of course; discipline must be maintained amongst the men," in a perfectly bland tone.

Archie huffed, seemingly put out before he caught the sardonic note, and then chuckled. As the boat pulled alongside Renown, he looked more somber. "Well, gentlemen, it is time to face the music."

Buckland's persecution of Hornblower continued from there; he was set to captain all three of the Spanish ships alone, and Bush intervened his apology to their acting captain; as the superior officer, the fault for disobeying orders lay with him - Hornblower had not, in fact, disobeyed any at all.

"It was true to form, if nothing else," Buckland said, his voice strange and frail. "You three: you are so full of yourselves, and of each other... You think me a fool."

It was true, and more true perhaps of Horatio than of any of them, from his position of genius; Bush pitied him, Archie looked down on him, but Horatio? Bush did not think Horatio thought of him at all, except to maneuver around him in order to stay on course, as if he were an inconveniently placed bit of shoal. Buckland was as dangerous, too, as sudden shallows were to the safety of the ship - though not so dangerous as Sawyer's erratic moods had been, like an malignant squall; whatever damage had been done to Renown, to her crew's morale, was not the sin of youthful recklessness, but of frail and unfit officers.

"No one pretends command is easy, sir," Bush said after a pause - damning Buckland by faint praise; he knew Buckland felt the insult keenly, but could not bring himself to any further show of comradery after his treatment of Hornblower.

"I never expected it to be easy." Buckland's voice was mournful, and Bush gave him a shallow bow and excused himself to see to the transfer of stores to the Spanish prizes; Hornblower would have enough on his plate.

[boundinparchment]

…..one of these days, Dottore is getting a breeding fic. One day. Somehow. It’ll probably be with Karina because the crumbs are there but this won’t leave me alone…

[brsb4hls]

Oh look, here's why season 2 sucks:

[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.