#will post to AO3 at some point idk

[skwigelfskwisgaar]

Cold.

Skwisgaar always hated the cold. But it wasn't like he wasn't used to it - he had grown up swaddled in the biting cold winds, reminders that his mother had forgotten to buy food, to purchase new coats, socks, boots for her growing boy. He was an afterthought, to be left outside like the rest of her worries.

It was why he hated the cold.

He said it was because he was always stuck outside and exposed to it - which wasn't a total lie - but in reality it was because it was a reminder that he was unwanted by the one person he ever wanted to be noticed by when he was young. He wasn't meant for love, he wasn't deserving of it. He was unworthy of it.

He loathed everything about the cold and the snow.

It's why he was probably the only one opposed to the idea of the concert in Danzig - the cold affected sound quality, and it was cold.

Right now, he was trapped in the icy wilds of who knew where and stuck with Toki, without a guitar, and no cell reception. In the cold. But to the more pressing matter at hand, he had to tell Toki about something that was absolutely necessary before he forgot.

"I coulds hear your feedback in mine monitors!"

Skwisgaar hated the snow, but maybe because they were stranded together and he felt some kinship with a fellow Scandinavian that instead of complaining about the fact that they were needing rescue, the blonde felt maybe he should try to dig into Toki's subpar playing at their concert. Especially given that Toki had grown up playing in the harsh Norwegian landscapes and should know to tune his guitar for colder temps -

"How dares you - !" Toki cuts him off, offended that Skwisgaar had told him his playing sucked. Maybe if he practiced or actually paid attention to Skwisgaar when they practiced, maybe he wouldn't have feedback during the concert. Sometimes, it felt like Toki wanted Skwisgaar to be disappointed. It didn't make sense that such a talented guitarist would make such careless mistakes otherwise.

Regardless, he tried to hear Toki's rebuttal about how he was 'killings it', but he was too worried about the cold.

There was a pit growing in his stomach with each step they both took and it was taking every fiber in his body to stop himself from cutting Toki off on his rant - it felt like he was that young little boy again running home excited to show his mom that he got a passing grade in his home ec and music class only to see --

A tree exploded next to them. Halted to a stop, Skwisgaar's thoughts froze, and he stood still, much like Toki before he decided to comment.

"That was weirds."

A large brutish man emerged from the tree line, letting loose a battle cry. Already on edge from the botched concert and a failed escape attempt, Skwisgaar joined Toki in screaming out in fright.

"Time to die!" Both turn in a frenzy and run, long hair wildly whipping behind them. Neither make it far enough and get shoved down as their chaser pulls out a weapon.

In a panic, Skwisgaar thought of how much he hated that after all this time, he was going to die in the snow. Surrounded by the cold. The very thing reminding him the he was unworthy of love. He looked over to see Toki, who was much more confused than panicked, maybe because he had a fighting chance at kicking this guy's ass than Skwisgaar. He took a moment to let his mind calm down from the frantic thoughts speeding through it before he spoke.

He thought of the way the snow crunched under the boots of the man as he took his time to pick between him and his friend. He thought of how he often wanted to play music forever with Toki, and so, quickly formulated that into words before anything else happened.

He thought of all the times he felt the happiest.

The image of Toki and his audition, and how he impressed the band and blew Skwisgaar's mind.

The first recording of them in the studio together as a band.

The privilege of having a fellow Scandinavian who understood basic Swedish and knowing enough Norsk to talk to Toki when he could.

The times when Toki told him how safe he felt, or the times he opened up about why guitars had saved him much like how Skwisgaar felt they had saved him too.

So he said the only thing he could.

The only thing he felt was appropriate.

"I's ... will sees you in Valhallska, Toki."

Toki looked over, a hesitation lasting half a second.

"I always ... hateds you, Skwisgaar." There was a half second in his response but Skwisgaar's heart was singing at the very idea that anyone admitted to feeling anything for him. Toki admitting that he felt this passionate anger, this brutal fury for Skwisgaar made the blonde's heart soar. Toki had this black fury, brutal anger, raw talent that he had trusted Skwisgaar with to pour into their music. To hear Toki aim at him when it was probably more of Toki trusting Skwisgaar with it was neither here nor there, but nonetheless it cemented what Skwisgaar had thought of their musical dynamic for a long time now.

To hear him say it out loud was euphoric.

He knew there were days that Toki wanted to rip Skwisgaar apart, or who knew what else with that wild primal look he had in his eyes after practice sessions - but for him to admit this on what might be their metaphorical deathbeds?

It was the highest form of flattery Skwisgaar had ever been granted and he had no way of of knowing how to respond. So he smiled.

He cracked a small, albeit genuine, smile.

And he answered honestly.

"...I knows Toki, I knows."

- - - - -

It was cold in his room, no matter how often he fiddled with the thermostat. Ever since he had the scare with Toki and his new guitar teacher, Skwisgaar's room became colder. He was sure Toki was playing tricks on him at this point, or the others were messing around with him when he wasn't looking. They all knew he hated the cold. It was probably more mind tricks.

Right now he had a hard time even playing classic Dethklok songs because his hands were so cold. He muttered a few curses under his breath and started again from the top, gluing his eyes back on to the metronome and internalizing the beat.

Closing his eyes, Skwisgaar tried to playing the Duncan Hills jingle again from memory, trying to forget the recital and the events that led up to it. Toki's tutor had died last week, which should have meant Toki and the other guys would find a way to stop fucking around with Skwisgaar - they moved on to the next thing which was Murderface and a line of Planet Piss watches he was planning on launching. Yet Skwisgaar hadn't been able to find a way to regulate the room to a stable temperature he could tolerate.

He was in the middle of playing the stupid coffee jingle when he heard a knock on the door. Skwisgaar mumbled something about coming in before rolling his eyes at the hulking mass that was Nathan - probably there to tease him about Toki still. He made his peace that he wasn't the best tutor for Toki, as much as that hurt to admit, but they weren't going to stop him from being better.

"Hey, I heard Toki was - holy shit Skwisgaar - !"

In a flash Nathan had torn Skwisgaar's hands away from his Explorer, with Pickles and Murderface in tow as they now poked and prodded at his bloodied hands with very poorly veiled concerns.

It took over an hour of some careful wording and promises to Charles to get everyone to leave him alone after all was said and done. Even Toki had stopped by to see what happened, to which he put his foot down and shooed everyone out with promises of care and rest if they left him alone

Everyone except Nathan.

"Nat'an, you amnst needs to dotes on mes like Fatty Ding Dongs."

Nathan had taken a seat on the bed next to him, looking at him like he did when Toki or Murderface screwed up their parts.

With pity.

"Uh. Just. Take it easy, need you in peak shape."

"Can'ts stays in peak shapes if I can'ts praktises." Skwisgaar pulled his signature white fur cover on himself, his room unbearably cold still. He forgot to mention to Charles about the fact that his room needed servicing.

"Well. Maybe. Hrm. Maybe ease up. On the whole... uh. On the whole practicing thing."

"Nat'an, I has to be betters than Tokis - !"

"Skwisgaar. We were messing with you. We - I didn't think - this was a joke."

Skwisgaar looked down at his hands. He knew guitarists who had done bloody messes of themselves trying to meet deadlines. Hell, Skwisgaar had done that to himself several times trying to complete songs with Toki and Murderface, all 3 of them sporting some gnarly blisters; bloody bandaids the days after recordings were finished worn as badges of honor. Why was this a concern all of a sudden?

"I's had bloody blisters before meeting deadlines. Williams, Toki, mes toos. Amns dis about somet'ings else, Nat'ans?" Skwisgaar could see Nathan struggling to spin this in a way where nobody broke that stupid rule but it wasn't like they had particularly tried to hide it this time. Maybe it was habit at this point - Pickles talking about the insurance policies Charles took out on each of his fingers and Murderface talking about how devastated Toki would be and how he would be burdened with the younger man. As if either one of them actually played their instrument outside of concerts or the recording room.

"Look, I'm only saying this because no one else is here to hear this but Skwisgaar, this is ... uh. Concerning."

"Ands?"

"And? Is Toki getting better than you really that big a deal to you?"

"Woulds it be that bigs a deal to admit that I has not'ing else?"

"What are you talking about?"

"I only has de guitar. If I amnst de best at de guitar, what do I has to mine name?"

"You have Dethklok. You have us."

Nathan got up, giving Skwisgaar a squeeze on the shoulder, before leaving the room. His room, oddly enough, was no longer cold after that night. At least now he knew he had his band. He had his friends.

- - - - -

The Dethcopter was cold. Maybe it was because Toki and Pickles beat the living shit out of Murderface and he insisted they stay an extra hour to get some ice for his aching bruises, or maybe because he had just broken up with Tori, the first time he felt like he was at home outside of Mordhaus. Regardless of which, Skwisgaar was over it. The cold was exactly as it was from his memories - sharp, biting, numbing.

Sitting across from him, Murderface gave him an accusatory look - something Murderface had mastered over the years as their profit chasing bassist. Despite both seats facing the same direction, they both managed to face each other while they made small talk.

"Looks like Pickle and Tokis really puts de boots to you."

"I wish those fuckers put the boots to me..."

Skwisgaar, out of pity, or out of duty to the band, took his freezing hands and placed them on Murderface's knuckles, red and bruised from covering himself from Toki's and Pickles' beating. Couldn't have a bassist with useless hands. Murderface flinched at first, then took Skwisgaar's cold fingers and placed them on his other knuckles, alternating them every few seconds.

"Amns wantings to knows whats you dids to get beaten by Pickle and Toki." Murderface grumbled, or mumbled, Skwisgaar could never tell with that terrible lisp of his, before he responded.

"You know, that chick you were with looked an awful lot like schomeone we know, Skwischgaar."

Skwisgaar arched an eyebrow. He thought about all the women they knew, which wasn't many to begin with, and tried very hard to think of who his ex-girlfriend could even remotely look like.

"I's... not sure who she amns looking like." Murderface made a smug face, as a Klokateer came by to give him an ice pack for his leg.

"Whats?" Murderface took the ice pack from his knee and placed it on his hands when Skwisgaar retreated his hands, trying to question Murderface now.

"Brown hair, blue eyes. Blue sweater, really Skwischgaar?"

"She amns sweet and kinds, and likes animals. She hads a small collection of sea creature plushies. Wants to be a doctor." He smiled a little, remembering the fun dates he had with Tori, and the fun outing to the aquarium in Stockholm. He didn't even know about Skansen-Akvariet and now it became a new favorite spot in his home country to visit.

"Holy schit, plushies?" Murderface clamped a less bruised hand over his mouth, looking more like he was trying to contain his laughter instead of trying to have a conversation. Skwisgaar scowled at him.

"Ja, Williams. She amns havings a sweet side. Classy lady nameds Tori Skarsgard. She hads me whats call binge watch Moomintroll wit her, even if I alreadies seen it with Toki when he amns join - !"

"Why the fuck am I the only one here to hear this?!"

"You amns just jealous dat I founds a wonderful lady even ifs I's not famous." Skwisgaar crossed his arms in indignance, a bit upset that Murderface was finding humor in any of this. Maybe Skwisgaar was sore about letting Tori go. Maybe he was upset about the cold. Or maybe it was a mixture of both.

"Skwischgaar." Murderface stopped smiling and more or less kept a serious face. At this point Skwisgaar saw that maybe Murderface was seeing something he wasn't - maybe that Tori resembled someone he already knew.

" ... whatevers. It amns over wit her." Murderface sighed, a placed a hand on Skwisgaar's shoulder. Was that pity he picked up on in the bassist's voice?

"What, Williams? Are you goings to tells me to stops de moping over Tori? Tori amns amazings but evens Tori amnst a worthy of a gods?"

"What the fuck - no, I wasch going to say that she was Toki with tits, you fucking egotistical prick!"

Skwisgaar's brain short circuited at the words that came spilling out of Murderface's mouth. He blinked, and he registered that Murderface had begun to to snap his fingers in front of his face and had said - asked actually, about something. But nothing was registering.

Brunette with a large plushie collection. The blue sweater he gifted her for their aquarium date. A shared love for animals. The fact that both of them made him sit down and watch Moomintroll nonstop --

Snap!

Skwisgaar shot his hands up and slapped it over Murderface's mouth, as he scanned the Dethcopter for prying ears. Once he saw not even Klokateers were nearby, he leaned in to whisper. Murderface, who was caught mid finger snap, stopped as if frozen in ice. He locked eyes with Skwisgaar once the hands came off his mouth.

"So, what gives Skwischgaar?! Your first ever girlfriend and it's literally a female Toki - !"

"I misseds Mordhaus."

"Excuses." He and Murderface glare at each other before Murderface sighs and lets out a laugh.

"What amns funny, Williams?!" Skwisgaar crosses his arms again, furious that he didn't have his Explorer on hand and sits facing the right direction, forward to avoid looking at Murderface and his ridicule.

"You literally just realized that?!"

"Whatevers, you dildo. At least I amnst denyings dat I misses mine band."

"Nah, you missed him." Skiwsgaar spun around so fast Murderface almost got a mouth full of blonde hair.

"Never mention dis agains. Got its?"

"...I got it. If it makes you feel better - well, you didn't hear it from me personally- but I- we saw more blonde groupies too. Not even to like fuck them or anything, but just like, to have them around. The other guys, I mean. I- we all missed you." Murderface looked away, trying to put on a cool bravado and not look like he was outing himself but instead more like he was ratting out the rest of the band for blatantly caring as much as they did. With both now facing forward, Skwisgaar could swallow the humiliation of being told by Murderface of all people that Tori had been 'Toki with tits'.

Skwisgaar nodded, then replied, "What a weird ways to says the bands misses me."

"Whatever." Murderface leaned away again, before he spoke again.

"What a weird way to admit you dated a Toki with tits."

"Dat amnst true, Moidaface - !"

When Pickles and Nathan came back on the Dethcopter they found Skwisgaar and Murderface rolling around like idiots, fighting about who knew what - probably about who slept with more groupies. Again.

- - - - -

Skwisgaar felt a bone-deep cold that he couldn't shake off. It was Sweden 1984 all over again. In the distance, he could see the dying fires of riots from fans still upset about Dethklok breaking up. Rumbling in the sky signaled that the weatherman was correct as always, and rain should be coming in later. Despite this, Skwisgaar doesn't care.

His band is no more.

He takes a swig of the ipen bottle of vodka he has with him and looks from his high balcony as he leans forward on his arms. Everyone is trying to put out fires, it feels like.

With Murderface still dealing with the fallout in the political sphere after his nudes leaked, and Pickles and Nathan still fighting over a woman that Skwisgaar was positive wanted nothing to do with either of them, it left little for Skwisgaar to do except drink and think. He wandered Mordhaus like a ghost, except he was riddled with dread and stress. Maybe less a ghost, and more a haunted soul left to carry the burdens of mistakes made. To drink and think on decisions made.

And he's had plenty of time to drink and think since Pickles announced he was quitting the band.

To think about how awful he's been to Toki. To drink to the good times he took for granted. To blame himself on how he turned Toki's admiration, that righteous brutality he wanted to draw out and funnel into his playing - how he twisted it into an acidic poison that's corrupted into a desperate plea for validation. While Toki could have attempted to pour that angry energy into his guitar playing, Skwisgaar definitely didn't encourage Toki in positive ways.

He twisted Toki into the monstrosity that backstabbed him all for a stupid solo - which Toki bombed and was also still trying to make up for with those fans too.

" Oh hey, Skwisgahr! Mind if I join ya?"

Seeing that this was the balcony overlooking what was the Mordhaus equivalent of a backyard, Skwisgaar looked at Pickles and nodded. It's not like he and Pickles didn't hang out often, but nowadays, it felt like Skwisgaar had been left out to dry just like everyone else, while Pickles and Nathan feuded over Abigail.

"I see you're hitting the liquor early tonight."

"Heughs, I ackshualies am starting lates tonights."

"...is that so?"

"Yeahs. But amns enoughs about mes. Wants some?"

"Sure!" Pickles took the vodka from Skwisgaar and really took in the sight of the man. He felt those emerald green eyes look over him as he approached. Blonde locks looked dull, skin had a grey pallor, and unless his eyes betrayed him, the guitarist looked sleep deprived. Or at least Skwisgaar would assume Pickles could tell that from a glance - Pickles was always so good at seeing and telling right away what was wrong with someone.

"You okey, dood?"

"I wills be. Not my foirst times having a band break ups."

"Right. Look, I was actually lookin for ya, I wanted to say sorry fer -!"

"For whats? Tellings Nat'an dat he amnst right for breakings de master records?"

"No - !"

"For goings back to your moms after you tolds me you amnst let hers do whats she dids last time we dids mom talk?"

"Dood, unrelated and no!" Pickles downs almost the entire bottle of vodka like a true champ before Skwisgaar takes it back and drinks the remainder. He doesn't look at him when he produces the other bottle he had brought out with him, and he just knows Pickles is going to judge him for it - which is rich coming from the guy who was in rehab for drinking.

"I came to say sorry for being a shit friend. I was so bent outta shape about my shit wit' Nathan thet I forgot to check in with ya, especially after the whole thin' with Toki."

Skwisgaar spins around and smacks Pickles with his hair. Pickles sputters, trying to wipe his face.

"What amns you knows about me and Tokis?" he asks, popping the cork on the new bottle, before leaning to look at the dying riots in the distance, "Amns as much mine faults anyways, amns a punishments for mine hubris." He takes the bottle to his lips and takes a sip, and not wanting to not wake up hungover for Cornickelson's funeral offers the bottle to Pickles.

Pickles stands there gobsmacked before he takes the bottle away from Skwisgaar again. Skwisgaar rolls his eyes.

"Looks, Pickle. I cames here to be miserables before de funeral. I amnst in de mood - !"

"I'm not gonna stand here and see you kill your liver over fuckin' Toki!"

"It amnst over just hims! It amns de band, mine friends, mine music careers! I pours mine entire hearts and souls into dis!" Pickles takes a step back as Skwisgaar, drunk on both vodka and misery, looms over him as each syllable spills out of him.

"Seems likes I amns de only ones who amns not wanting Dethklok to breaks up, because it amns de foirst time I likes people - de fans and de label and mine friends - !"

Pickles tries to tackle Skwisgaar but becomes a hug when the guitarist wraps his arms around him; Skwisgaar pets his head and while the humiliation of the failed tackle stabs at his pride for a split second, there remains a longer burning shame for neglecting a friend who has been suffering in the shadows of the much more prominent fighting between himself and Nathan. He feel Skwisgaar's arms shudder, no doubt because the man was always somehow cold.

"... fuck, Skwisgahr - I'm so fuckin' sorry."

"I don'ts want de pity. I wants mine band backs."

"It's not pity, you fuckin' douchebag."

"What amns dis huh, Pickle?"

"Fuckin' ... shut up and just let me keep yer beanpole ass warm for a sec."

"You amns such a moms."

"So... do you accept my apology?"

"Ja, apolejacks accepteds."

"Geez, we have got to get you an' Toki to some classes - wait, I got an idea."

Tearing himself off of Skwisgaar, Pickles produces his phone out of his pocket and taps away, while clouds overhead blot out the stars. Skwisgaar decides his legs need too much coordination to keep him upright and slumps down next to the railing.

"You invites goirls?"

"No, I invited Toki."

Pickles had never seen someone try to sober up as quickly as Skwisgaar did. The man knew he was an emotional drunk, as evidenced by the hug earlier, and the half-confession, half-admission of him caring about the break up. And for some reason unknown to the band, Skwisgaar always refused to get drunk around Toki alone, or would get drunk with everyone. Pickles squinted at Skwisgaar as a suspicion began setting in; the guitarist is busy trying to make himself puke over the balcony, before looking back to the entryway to their home.

"Skwisgahr."

"Nej, dis amns terribles time, I's drunk as shits - !"

"Skwisgahr."

"Calls Williams, or get some groupies - !"

"Skwisgahr."

"Waits, maybes I gets sloppies and just pass out - !"

"Dood, why are you so against having Toki here?"

Skwisgaar freezes like a deer in headlights, before slumping back down against the balcony and pulling his legs up and laying his head against his knees. Realizing he wasn't going to get an answer, Pickles joins him, pulling out a joint and asking again.

"Skwisgahr, I'm askin' as a friend 'ere."

"You guys knows I amnst likings to be drunk with Toki around. Amns bad influence."

"... never stopped you from drinking and partying with 'im on ... tours..." Skwisgaar looks up to Pickles as if confused for the drifting off at the end.

Pickles looks back at him, confusion in his face.

"Now that I say it, it's like - it's with the rest of the band. Is there something else I'm not seein' here, beanpole?"

"Nothings you dildo! I don't wants him to sees de poirson whats invites him to de band to acts like... wells like drunk idiot!" Skwisgaar and Pickles both look to the entryway for a short second because they saw movement; when they see a few Klokateers come and go and one come out with ice, some drinks and glasses, Pickles continues. He thought Toki said he was close by, and he could swear on his drum set that he saw those pale blue eyes for a split second.

"What's wrong with thet?"

"Toki ands I went drinking alones once. We don't drives anymore. It were a careless act." Pickles gives him a face of realization, recalling the incident. They thought it was really awesome to see them on the news, drunk driving on live TV on a police chase. Toki shooting a gun at the news helicopter and then the crash into the barricade was the highlight. The band was excited to pick them up, even if it meant that Skwisgaar and Toki had lost their licenses to drive.

"I remember! Thet was fuckin' great."

"I crash de car. We hads de buckles on, which amns goods but..."

"Oh yeah, so... you really care thet much?"

"Toki ... he amns like music... soul twin. He amns differents. I's be a dildo to not says dat. I has been dildo to hims. Amns why I amnst mads about de book, I's mad it took a book to sees it. I deserves it for not appreskiatings Toki's skill. "

"... this is the first time I've ever heard ya talk about the kid in a nice way. But I've seen ya, Skwisgahr! You care, like, a lot."

" You amnst foirst to tells me dat." Pickles lit a joint up and passed it to Skwisgaar, who took a good puff out of it.

"Pickle? Ams Toki, I's here!"

Skwisgaar promptly started choking on the puff he took. Pickles let out a hearty chuckle. Toki waved, looking at Pickles before his eyes landed on Skwisgaar. The kid seemed nervous. Apprehensive about approaching them, and for a second it felt like he was watching a rabbit approach a wolf in its den. Maybe his eyes hadn't played tricks on him earlier.

"Amns you been arounds a long time?!"

"Nei? I's uhm, I's justs gots here." After composing himself from what looked like a potential heart attack, Skwisgaar passed the joint back to Pickles, who made a huge wave of his arm to make Toki sit down. He took a small puff then passed it to Toki once he finally sat across from them.

"So, Toki. Heard ya leaked the nudes that killed Murderface's political cahreer."

Skwisgaar leaned in, and so did the others. "If you dids, Toki, I says you dids de woirld a favors. No ones in politics amns taking bads nudes like dat."

Pickes let out a loud howl of laughter as Toki giggled.

"...amns you been drinking, Skwisgaar?"

"Ja, amns been rough wit ... Nat'an and de new music he amns doings. It's dildos." Pickles gave him a disapproving look, but Skwisgaar would rather go back to Sweden than talk about why he was on the verge of a breakdown.

"Nat'en ams needs to apologise to Pickle. It ams wrong what he did." Pickles raised the vodka bottle he had managed to get without much moving and then drank. Toki took it next after passing the joint to Skwisgaar, who snatched it from him.

"Nej, amns bads for yous."

"Pickle!?" Pickles smacked him on the arm.

"Fines."

"Play nice, both of ya."

"Skwisgaar started it."

"Toki, we all need apologize. I came to say sorry to Beanpole here." Skwisgaar felt himself shrivel up, as Toki looked at Pickles with curiosity.

"Whats about?"

"Eh, another time, kid. But I think, before we get crazy here - ya both need to clear up some shit. I'm gonna get Murderface, he just texted thet he got lost."

Toki asked why not text him again, like he did with him as Skwisgaar flopped on either trying to pull Pickles back down or freezing up.

As Pickles vanished, Skwisgaar felt too drunk and too aware and in his skin all at once. His eyes locked with Toki, and he immediately slumped back on the balcony railing, opting to grab the abandoned bottle.

"... yous not just drinking because of Nat'ens, ams you."

"Amazings brain usings, Toki. De skies amns blue too, you knows dat?"

"Okei fucker, whys Pickle says dat and leaves me wit your sour pusses?"

Skwisgaar didn't respond. He took the bottle to his lips, dipped his head back and drank. And drank. And drank. And drank --

"Stops! You amns gonna kills your liver!"

'I's not drunk or highs enoughs for dis."

"For whats?!"

He looks at Toki, who looks lost and afraid. He's not seen Skwisgaar hit a low like this, not even when he lost the endorsements after the book published, or his career was pulverized into pieces. Last time he saw Skwisgaar this drunk was the night they got arrested for drunk driving. He thought about how things were different then, how simpler their dynamic was, how easier it was to trust his band, to trust Toki.

How he took it all for granted.

"I's sorries, Tokis. You amnst deserves dis."

"What ams you talking abouts?!" Toki pulled himself closer; Skwisgaar's eyes drifted away from those pale blue hues and to Toki's hands. Those hands that he had been trusted to write for. To care for. To cherish and to play music with.

He sighed.

"You needs to talk to mes when I amnst fuckeds up. Meets me at de bar after de funerals?"

Toki, looking at him with concern and apprehension and some suspicion, nodded in agreement. Pickles came back and told them it would be a few more minutes, and Toki volunteered to go with him.

Skwisgaar cracked a small smile. Toki did too. Pickles looked at Skwisgaar, and he gave him a sloppy thumbs up. Pickles gave him one back.

- - - - -

The first thing he felt was cold. It was a common thing to feel when he didn't remember the events leading him there. Stiff and sore, he took an attempt to slip back under because being sober was awful.

Was that puke on his face?

"...eurgh.....hrmph..."

He pulled himself out of the tangle of hair, limbs and liquor spilled on and around him before he grabbed a bottle. Surprisingly, it still had alcohol in it, so he took it and a semi-clean robe and wandered out of the room. Alcohol was better for avoiding sobriety this early, for now.

It felt like it was a lifetime ago that he spent his night under that cloudy night getting drunk and high with Murderface and Pickles and Toki. With the promise of meeting Toki under better circumstances after the funeral to talk.

That night he sat at the bar by himself until he couldn't sit straight anymore.

And since then, he refused to stay sober.

It was easier that way.

And when alcohol wasn't doing it, he began to raid Pickles' stash. When Pickles cornered him, he lashed out and finally went out and found himself back on the streets of 1999, chasing a high that he promised to leave behind.

Pickles finally came to him in hysterics when he threw out his Explorer, a book he wrote some music ideas on, and a few CD cases he had stashed Toki's old guitar riffs on. Pickles only knew Skwisgaar was doing it because a CD hit one of the groupie sluts he was talking to in the backyard.

Skiwsgaar was so high on meth that Pickles had to get Murderface and Nathan to help him bring the blonde inside. It didn't take long to see that the guitarist was not drunk but high and less time for Pickles to see what it was when he saw track marks.

"I's not gonnas get lectures from you Pickle. You wents to rehabs for dis." Stunned at the remark, Murderface and Nathan watched as they both had a shouting match until both stormed off. At least Skwisgaar stopped taking meth.

That was last month.

Or last week.

Or was it last year?

He lost track of time.

It didn't matter anymore. Not without Toki.

Skwisgaar picked up a pastry in the kitchen and listened as they talked about using a new recording as part of the concert coming up. Skwisgaar nearly gagged.

"Amnst de sames."

"It'll have to do. We have recordings - !"

"Nei, Nat'an. I won'ts do its."

"Skwischgaar - !"

He threw his glass of juice at the first wall he saw.

"Fines! Dos whatever, fucking dildos."

He shoved the pastry into his mouth before they said anything and walked off. Stumbling, like a toddler just learning to walk. He makes it to the entry of the kitchen as he hears Pickles finally pipe up.

"What the fuck is Skwisgahr's problem now?"

"He, uh. He doesn't want recordings."

"... did I ever tell you guysch about the girlfriend he had in Sweden?"

Immediately, Skwisgaar turns on his heel and comes back into the kitchen and makes a dive at Murderface, until Nathan tackles him and tosses him against a counter. Pickles makes a dash to get out of the way as Murderface slowly lowers the arms he instinctively raised in his defense.

"Yous amns fuckings dildo lickers! You fuckings-- you amnst GETS ITS!"

And while his silent cries and tears didn't make sense that day, a week later when he quietly held Toki in the Dethcopter and whispered all the things he didn't get to tell him at the bar the day of the funeral, they understood.

- - - - -

Cold.

Something about the Arctic cold that made bones creak. It made joints crack like glass. Fingers ache. Skwisgaar hated it. Maybe it was his age. Maybe it was the cold, still.

How long had it been since they had first stepped onto Danzig? How much had changed since then?

His head throbbed, the ground wobbled -

A warm arm wrapped around his middle before his knees gave out.

"Shit - Toki, come help with yer brother!"

If Skwisgaar wasn't on the verge of puking his guts out he'd chew out Pickles for calling on Toki to help him. With Murderface on his right side Toki came up on the other, clutching Deaddy Bear as Pickles ran his hand over Skwisgaar's head. Wait, when did Skwisgaar get shorter?

"Of course Skwischgaar is a mess, he's light as fuck! Feels like a lady!"

"Yous a lady, Williams!"

"Dood, how many fingers am I holdin'?"

"Amnst blind, Pickle - !"

"No, but uh. You have a concussion. Got those in high school. Erm. A lot. I know one when I see one."

As Pickles and Nathan both talked about how Skwisgaar was going to recover, and Murderface grumbled about how no one cared about how he felt after having been possessed - all Skwisgaar wanted to do was make sure he at least made it back to Mordhaus -

"Skwisgaar?"

Toki pressed Deaddy Bear to Skwisgaar's arms, and then held Skwisgaar in a tight hug. The cold he felt began to seep out of him as Toki slowly looked up and finally locked eyes with him. He had taken a seat next to him, under Skwisgaar's arm still.

"I know it was you who carried me," he said in Swedish, "Let Toki carry you now."

"... this is a hug, Toki." Toki just hugged him tighter.

"What have I said about not speakin' English? No Snow-Speak!"

"Picklesch, its called Swedish." Toki gave Murderface a look, as Skwisgaar finally manages to hold down the Doritos they gave them in their cells the night before. He says what he assumed Toki was also thinking.

"...what de fucks amns Snows ... Speaks?"

"A schtupid term he picked up from reading ..."

Skwisgaar saw Pickles panic for a split second as Murderface stopped. Toki loosens his arms, but doesn't let go of Skwisgaar, to lean closer to Murderface, who also looks like he's panicking.

"Readings what?"

"Wowies, Mordaface, how ams you knows wes speaking Svenska?"

"I made an educated guessch."

"Yeah! Ya only speak in Swedish when - !"

"Readings what, Pickle?!"

"Uh... fans! Social media stuff! The fans think you an' Tokes have some secret language! They call it thet." Based on Nathan's own face, Skwisgaar felt like maybe Pickles was lying through his teeth. He was not going to pry further now, however - his stomach was threatening to empty itself again. Skwisgaar pried his right arm away from Murderface to clamp his mouth and then rub his stomach as he took a deep breath.

"Shit, uh. We gotta get you, mhrm, Murderface, and Charles looked at. Like, now." Pickles made a quick turn and immediately pointed at something Skwisgaar couldn't see from his angle. Sitting on the snow aside, the view out here wasn't bad. Nathan patted Pickles on the shoulder before walking in the direction he pointed. Maybe it was Charles? Pickles began walking away and talking with Nathan, before he stopped and made a motion to Murderface.

"Murderface, come help Nathan grab Charles! Looks like there's someone helpin' already."

Murderface grumbled something about suffering from success, which made absolutely no sense to Skwisgaar, but he was using the time of quiet to gather his thoughts. Toki finally, slowly pulled himself away from him and smiled sweetly.

"...Skwisgaar, I know you and I have had our problems, and I haven't made a great friend. But I mean it. Let Toki carry the weight for now. If that includes you when things get tough, then I will." Skwisgaar grabs Toki's fretting hand and rubs his thumb over the callouses there. Even now Toki is clingy, needy, affectionate, caring. And it's not just with Skwisgaar, even if it is who he does it the most with - he went to Pickles or Nathan if he needed help with anything or to Murderface for fun and laughter.

With Skwisgaar he often just sat and listened to what the Swede said, chords and strings and arpeggios the backdrop for the lessons and practice sessions in Deus Keep.

He wondered what happened in the time they forgot.

He wondered what made this Toki so clingy.

He wondered if he did something to him.

He wondered why Toki and not --

"You are thinking too loud."

"Sorry, my head is a mess."

"Speak your mind, Skwisgaar."

He lets go of Toki's hand, and holds himself in the biting cold as he formulates his thoughts. Danzig is where they both 'confessed' to their intentions going forward in their music, and Skwisgaar wanted to keep that same spirit. Here was Toki wanting to mend things - either because he felt guilty about the book or because he felt he wasn't pulling enough weight in the dynamic, but here he was ready to help Skwisgaar.

Ready to not just be an equal, but his friend.

"Toki... if you have been a bad friend, then I've been outright shit to you. You trusted me with your talent, and I squandered that. I never gave you reason enough to be excited or passionate for the music if I never let you shine. It's just as much my fault - !"

Toki launches himself on Skwisgaar, a crushing hug and then shaking shoulders. Skwisgaar panics as he realizes Toki's crying, and he slowly and awkwardly begins to rub the younger man's back as he pulls himself tighter on the blonde.

"I promise to put my ego aside from now on. Okay?"

Toki nods his head, and Skwisgaar suddenly realizes something.

"Tokis... amns you using mine shoirts to wipes your face?!"

Toki shakes his head no, but then pulls himself away and gives Skwisgaar an angry look.

"You says nice things and you worry about yous stupid shirt?!"

"It amnst a hankys chef to wipes snot off ... your - !" Almost immediately, Skwisgaar feels it and loses to his stomach, as it empties itself and he only feels Toki rub his back as he goes for a second round, and finally, his stomach gives up fighting him. Thankfully all he did was turn his face to the side and Toki managed to get his face out of the way before he whispered reassurances that it would get better once he had something to eat and some proper food and sleep.

"...the fucker exploded into red mist! Farm equipment is brutal!"

"That uh. That explains why we didn't see a corpse."

"Skwisgahr ain't doing so great too, Charles, we're gonna get ya'll checked out."

"Thanks, boys."

Skwisgaar wipes part of his mouth as Toki keeps a hand on him and the other cradling Deaddy Bear. It sounds like they did find Charles. Good.

His ears ring for half a second, before he sees Charles carried by Nathan and Murderface. Behind them is what looks like a nurse and a paramedic, and a Klokateer with a duffel bag slung on over a shoulder - if he recalled correctly, many of the non-combat Gears had been left in chapters scattered throughout cities to help in the days of the prophecy but to still see them around was --

"Wowies, a Klokateers?!"

"Lord Wartooth, Lord Skwigelf, an honor. I have some emergency first aid kits and these two medical professionals volunteered to assist with what they could. Mr. Offdensen has been stabilized and can be treated for minor injuries while we look at Lord Murderface and Lord Skwigelf."

Pickles approached Toki with a diabetes monitor and insulin kit, while the paramedic looked at Skwisgaar, and the nurse looked over Murderface. Murderface was cleared physically of anomalies, and Toki was given a sticker and insulin to make sure his levels were stable. With that, Pickles and Nathan helped clean up Charles with the nurse ans Toki and Murderface kept Skwisgaar company.

With both sitting next to him, he only has to whisper as the paramedic does some final checks and gives him some medications.

"Sos, Williams, Toki. When amns you thinkings dat Nat'en and Pickle finallies realizes de truth?"

"Truth about what, Skwischgaar?"

"... you amnst sees it!?"

Toki sticks out his tongue as he squints hard at the pair, busy trying to make sure they help. They're both helping Charles with his mangled hand, cleaning and bandaging what they can.

"...thats they sucks at doctors?"

"You amns dildos at dis. Nat'en and Pickles? De worry abohts eqch other? De way de boths amns so carings wit each other?" Murderface and Toki both let out a sound of realization, before excitement and shock creeps over both of them.

"Wait, you think they are together?!"

"That ams make it reals mom and dad?!"

"Looks, we amns smart and can sees it. We amnst idiots. We can sees what amns plains as light of days!"

At this point, Murderface looks at Skwisgaar and then Toki. Henarrows his eyes at the guitarists, as if he's expecting either of them to say something - Skwisgaar looks at him and gives him a questioning look instead.

"What, Williams?"

He just needed to find the people that wanted him first.

"You know what, Skwischgaar? You aschtound me. You really do." Skwisgaar smiled, as he realized that he hadn't felt cold for a while now. Here he was out in Danzig, in near Arctic temperatures, and he felt warm as if he was standing outside on a sunny day. Maybe he was wanted, after all.

Like Nathan, who reminded him he had more than just his guitar - he was Skwisgaar and he had his friends too.

Like Murderface, who reminded him his band wasn't just another gig, it was his friends who liked him for him.

Like Pickles, who reminded him that he didn't need to struggle alone, and apologies made people grow.

And like Toki, who showed Skwisgaar that he was someone worth trusting.

Who, despite all their up and downs, still wanted to be his friend. Who still wanted to play music with him.

Toki, who wanted to shine just as much as he wanted Skwisgaar to shine too.

Toki. His friend. His brother. His equal.

[read-write-thrive]

part 1

“Waiting for the other shoe to drop”, while pessimistic, seemed to be a running theme in Charles Rowland’s life. It wasn’t really a phrase he heard when he was alive, to be fair, but at some point he’d come across it (probably hanging out with too many Americans, but can’t remember for sure) and it felt a little too much accurate. His dad’s come home angry again? Time to wait for the fallout. He’d gotten written up at school for not paying attention? Just a disaster waiting to happen. He goes against his best mate’s advice? There he goes, literally torn from Charles’s arms and back to hell, just as he’d said. Maybe the last one was a little dramatic, but that’s the gist.

The looming anxiety of it all usually slid off of him for the minor stuff, and was otherwise bottled up and shoved far away for the heavier stuff, but regardless he didn’t let it show. Have to keep up appearances and all. He’d only had one real instance of all those emotions blowing up (and he still blames the Night Nurse for all that mess) so he thought he was doing a bang-up job keeping himself together.

That was until his dad died. Yeah, it was rough, and he ended up berating the old man on his death bed, which probably was a shitty thing to do. And yeah, he’d needed a bit of a cry afterwards. So what? Blokes cried sometimes, and he was man enough to admit to his emotions and all that. The girls had done a good job of emphasising that he (and, mostly, Edwin) needed to express their emotions more. That it was healthier to let it out than bottle it all up. Not sure if they still needed healthy habits as ghosts, but it wasn’t hurting anyone. Just a little uncomfortable.

All that to say, it felt like his friends had been treading on eggshells around him ever since his dad died. Which was infuriating, yeah, but also didn’t make sense to him. Especially after he’d already cried—did they expect him to get angry again? To blow up over a dead man? He thought he’d gotten it out of his system just fine, so getting these weird vibes was starting to stress him out more than anything. He’d resolved to bring it up on their next movie night and ask why they were acting funny—didn’t want to mess up a case, after all.

However, he didn’t get the chance before it all came crashing down on his head. Ultimately, Edwin was the messenger.

“Charles, I—“ he took an unnecessary breath, “Have you checked on your mother lately?”

His undead heart went cold, but his default smiley ways were still stuck on, “Not really, why?”

Edwin’s eyes were sad, which was never good. He didn’t emote unless it was serious, “I think you need to visit her. She’s not faring well.”

And so they went. Turns out everyone hadn’t been waiting for Charles to blow up, but rather for his mother to pass and then for him to break down all over again. Edwin had been checking on her daily since his father’s passing, deducing correctly that Charles would be too swept up in the emotions around his dad dying to remember that his mum wasn’t getting any younger.

The girls weren’t free until the evening, but they promised to stay in touch and maybe visit later if they could (particularly if they could figure out how to visit the Hospice without rousing suspicion). And so Edwin and Charles were on their own.

Charles had rushed into the room, as if running at the issue would evade the emotions of it, or as if getting there quickly would reveal it was all a lie—neither of which were true.

Instead, he was face to face with a dying woman with some resemblance to the photo on the mantle in the house he grew up in—his grandmother, or maybe his great grandmother, or some favourite aunt, he couldn’t remember anymore— hair gone fully white, pulled back into a tight bun so as to keep her curls controlled, keeping her gaunt, sleeping face exposed. Unlike that photo, this woman was in a hospital gown, tucked into sterile sheets, with a tube under her nose to help her breathe. Gone were her usually loud and ornate earrings, her bare fingernails stained from years of colour. There was a singular blanket laid across her lap, on top of the sheets, that almost looked more familiar than the woman it covered. It was her, but apparently he hadn’t stopped to just look at her any time recently, if ever. It felt too much like looking at a ghost, as ironic as that felt.

She was awake, but halfway to dozing. There was someone at her side, adjusting the blanket and murmuring reassurances in what was definitely Punjabi. It had been so long since he’d heard it, added to having never properly learned anything besides English under the threat of his father, that he couldn’t make out the words. That realisation left a stinging feeling in his chest.

“A relation of yours?” Edwin asked at a whisper, coming up to stand beside Charles, almost entirely copying his position from that fateful hospital room. It didn’t seem as if either of the room’s living occupants had noticed them.

Charles blindly reached for Edwin’s hand for comfort, not looking away from the scene in front of him and matching his partner’s volume, “No idea. Don’t think I’ve seen them before.”

Edwin hummed, “Perhaps a little too young to have met you. Or someone your mother reconnected with recently—“

“I’m not really in the mood for deductions, love.” Charles said, not unkindly. Everything felt too fragile to be picked apart like that.

“Right. Apologies.” Edwin squeezed his hand and went quiet.

Charles squeezed his hand back in forgiveness, joining in the silence. He kept going back to what the stranger was saying, familiar consonants both soothing and devastating. What kind of a son was he, failing to comfort his dying mother, unable to speak her mother tongue, a stranger to his relatives? His tears were thankfully silent.

It took much longer for his mother to see them than his father. Several days passed, with the mystery relative coming and going more days than not, and the usual nurses and caregivers administering various care. Over time, the boys (the girls couldn’t figure out how to enter the space, but were supportive from their distance) had learned that the stranger’s name was Sangeeta, and she was a niece of his mother’s who’d noticed her steady decline and was the one to take her to hospital and then to hospice care. Charles’s mother had apparently stopped taking care of herself after her husband’s death, and she had refused other care, so at this point all they could do was make her comfortable. Charles spent a whole morning ranting to Edwin about it, how unfair it was that her life was so tied up in his asshole father’s that she wasn’t even trying to live after he was gone. Edwin, the deeply kind person he was, had let Charles rant until he ran out of steam, then gently pointed out that she’d been under the thumb of his father for far longer than Charles was, and that she’d now had to mourn her husband and her only child, which presumably takes a toll. Charles had started crying before Edwin had even finished talking, and Edwin had held him close on the plush sofa for the rest of the day.

It was hard to tell if it was a comfort or not when she finally saw them, but Charles decided that wasn’t important to think about right now, if ever. Right now, his mother could see him for the first time in forty years, and they didn’t know for how much longer. And yet, with all this time to prepare, he still found himself speechless when the time finally came.

“Mere laal,” She beat him to the punch, eyes glazed over but clearly locked on Charles, “I am glad to see you again, beta. It’s been so long.”

Charles let out a shakey breath, “Hi, mum. It’s—well— it’s been longer for you. I’ve visited a few times, over the years.”

She reached out a sinewy hand on a bone-thin arm, and Charles flew to the seat by her side, keeping his focus to make sure his hand stayed solid in her grasp. He vaguely noticed Edwin taking the seat beside him.

“Such a handsome boy. You were so young.” Tears welled up in her eyes.

Charles, all anxious energy and nerves, tears of his own threatening to spill, was quick to respond, “It’s alright, mum, I’m alright. No need to cry over me.”

She huffed, “Nonsense. You were the light of my life. Who else should I cry over?”

They were both crying at this point, tears streaming as they sniffled in turns. Edwin laid a careful hand on Charles’s back in a show of comfort.

However, that seemed to give Charles an idea, “No, really mum, it’s okay! See the bloke next to me? His name’s Edwin, and he’s been by my side all these years! He’s the one who first found me, and we’ve been helping people ever since. It’s been aces. Not sad one bit.”

Edwin stiffened at the mention, then all but froze when her eyes turned to him. He knew he looked night and day from Charles, and if he started talking she was bound to find him as abrasive as everyone always did, so why had Charles pointed him out!? If ghosts could sweat, Edwin would be drowning in his nerves.

Her gaze stayed on him for a long moment before she broke the silence, “He’s been good to you? Not like those other boys.”

Edwin wasn’t sure what to do with that, but thankfully Charles was quick on the uptake, “Not like them at all. He’s— he’s the best, mum. None of those tossers could even compare.”

“Because the boys— the ones who—“

Charles gripped her hand, “I know, I know. He’s a genuinely good person, Edwin. I was bad at picking friends in life, but thankfully I chose well with this one.”

His attempt at joking was overlooked completely by her, “Those boys, how could they do that? I knew their families, John Parish’s mother went to your funeral… Such cruel boys…”

“I’m alright, mum, I’m okay.” Charles kept going, smiling even as the tears continued, “It’s all in the past.”

“I should’ve fought harder for you… kept you close… mere laal, taken from me…” She was sobbing, her whole frame shaking with hiccoughs.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Charles took a steadying breath, “You know I couldn’t have stayed in that house, mum. And no one could’ve known those lads would go that far…”

Her sobs were worse for a moment, then stilled suddenly as she fought for oxygen. She coughed weakly.

At that, Charles’s crying intensified, despite all he did to keep himself together. He could tell. He knew what was coming. It was still devastating to see. Edwin pulled him in for a proper side hug, taking care not to jostle his grip on his mum.

This did not go unnoticed, and the dying woman suddenly smiled, as if the devastation was forgotten with the oxygen. She looked back to her son, “I am glad you have been happy, beta. You deserved happiness.”

“I’m happy, I’ve been so happy mum, I promise,” Charles tried to calm himself down, stuck in his reassuring her.

“Mere laal, light of my life, darling boy,” She breathed with difficulty, smile dropping, “Can you forgive me? I failed you…”

Charles’s frame shook with his vigorous nodding, “I forgive you, mum, you did the best you could, I love you so much—“

Her weak smile returned, glinting in the lamplight of the evening room, “Thank you, beta. You were too good for me, for this world…”

“All because of you, I swear it, all thanks to you—“

“Charles.”

“I love you, I’m sorry I wasn’t a better son, I’m could’ve been better, gotten you out of that house—“

“Charles, darling.”

“You deserved better, I love you, I forgive you—“

“My love, the light—“

Edwin was right, a deep blue light had filled the space, illuminating the still body of his mother. Her face was pulled into a slight smile, eyes closed, as if she was having a pleasant dream, even as the tear tracks dried on her cheeks.

“No, no I’m not ready—“ Charles immediately started to protest, gripping onto her hand like a lifeline.

“Charles—“

“I only just got to see her! She only just got free of him! No, no, I won’t—“

Edwin gently but solidly grabbed under Charles’s arms, “I’m sorry my love but we should go—“

Charles was nothing but hysterics by this point, head thudding onto the sheets for a moment before Edwin fully pulled him away. He said more, but Charles was too overwhelmed to process it properly, buzzing in his ears and headache behind his eyes making him feel alive in all the worst ways. Maybe it was just the first time he had cried this hard in his afterlife, or maybe being this close to an active death did something to their physiology—

Everything was a blur as they returned to the flat, Edwin all but carrying him through the mirror so that he wouldn’t get lost on the way. They collapsed onto the sofa, extra large cushions taken up by their ghostly presences. The girls were already there, and joined into the cuddle pile without another word (or perhaps with a few, Charles still wasn’t all there yet). Edwin jostled them all slightly to better position everyone before settling in again, making sure Charles was properly surrounded.

Charles sobbed for a while longer. He wasn’t quite sure for how long, or what day it was, or if he was bothering his friends by taking up their time and space like this. His devastation had seemed to take over his entire being. But, when he did breathe a little easier, when he was finally able to sit up, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief. His mom was dead, yes, but so was he, and dying had granted them both freedom from that man, from that house, from the cruelties of the world. And in his death he was surrounded by people who loved him, people who were there for him when he needed them and would still be there for him tomorrow, and the next, and the next. The other shoe had dropped, and it certainly hurt, but thankfully he had people around him to help him through it. He was truly lucky to have them.

~

hope you enjoyed this impromptu series exploring Charles and his parents and grief and loss and all those lovely things. this was inspired by the complicated emotions I have / had after my grandparents passing, and I heavily encourage you to do something similar if you’re ever struggling with these big emotions—therapists and such will say that journaling is where it’s at, but sometimes it’s easier to project onto fictional characters and that’s ok !!! and, just to drive the point home, I want to reiterate that you are loved, and there are people around you who are there to support you, I promise ❤️

also, just to make it abundantly clear, I’m a v white midwestern american and as such have vvv limited knowledge of cultural aspects of Charles’s mom—I did research and tried my best, but if I screwed anything up PLEASE let me know so I can fix it!!!!! same goes for Britishisms ig but mostly looking for feedback on her Punjabi and her various cultural elements :)

[stobinesque]

@steddie-week day 2: fluff | 1.8k words | teen and up

The door to the apartment slammed shut, followed by the jingle-clang of keys landing in the ceramic bowl Robin had made for Steve two years ago.  

"Babe?" Steve looked up from the magazine he'd been flipping through and frowned at the stormy expression on Eddie's face. 

Eddie barely acknowledged him, just swept past with stomping feet, dropping an absentminded kiss to the top of Steve's head as he made his way into the bedroom. A few moments later Steve heard the telltale thunk and flop of Eddie's bag hitting the ground and the man himself hitting their bed.

Ah, so one of those days.

Steve set down his magazine, folded his reading glasses neatly atop it, and pushed himself up from the couch to make for the bathroom.

~*~*~*~

Eddie wanted to die. Nope, no, he wanted to commit a homicide. 

Actually, scratch that, being wanted for murder sucked.

What he wanted was for the world not to be full of a bunch of entitled little shitsacks who had never been taught how to talk to another human being who didn't have a white collar around their neck.

At least his bed was there to support him. The mattress was a little lumpy, sure, but nothing could outmatch the satisfaction of dramatically flinging oneself onto a flat surface after a shity day at work. 

The sound of running bath water filtered into Eddie's awareness. 

Okay, maybe one thing.

Steve usually allowed him a few minutes to sulk and brood when he got home feeling like shit. Sometimes interacting with any human (even someone he would literally—and nearly did—die for) was just too much. 

"Eds?"

"Mmph." Eddie spit some of the hair that had landed in his mouth out, but didn't bother to raise his head more than half an inch off the bed to do so.

Steve chuckled. "Okay, five more minutes—otherwise the water will get too cold. I'm gonna go make us some tea."

Eddie raised an arm and waved vaguely in the direction of Steve's voice in acknowledgement.

He let himself drift for his five minutes to the sound of Steve puttering around the kitchen—grabbing mugs, teabags, the sugar jar—before peeling himself up off the bed when the shrill whistle of the kettle pierced through the relative silence of the apartment. If he wasn't in the bath by the time Steve made it there he'd be in trouble. Which could be fun, but it wasn't what he was in the mood for today. 

Eddie stripped off his—itchy, sweaty, suffocating—uniform as he padded over to the bathroom, leaving a trail of clothes behind him as he went.

~*~*~*~

Steve waltzed back into the bathroom with two steaming mugs in his hand to find Eddie already situated in the tub, knees pulled up under his chin, hair piled up in a messy bun, and one hand dragging lazily across the surface of the water. 

Steve set both mugs down on the ground next to the bath. "Hey, baby," he murmured, pressing a kiss to his boyfriend’s temple.

"Hi." Eddie's voice was low and subdued.

“Bad day?” Steve asked as he pulled his shirt up and over his head.

Eddie shrugged. “You could say that.”

“Wanna talk about it?” Steve shucked off his jeans.

Eddie shook his head. “Not much to talk about.”

“Okay.” Steve folded his clothes, set them in a neat stack atop the closed toilet lid, and carefully lowered himself into the bath behind Eddie.

The water was just a touch too hot for his own comfort, but Eddie ran cold and preferred his baths on the scalding warmer side. (Shared showers were a trial. Eddie insisted that Steve was trying to murder him with frostbite. Steve maintained that Eddie was trying to boil the both of them alive.)

Some of the tension had already bled out just from being in the bath. Eddie’s shoulders were no longer curled up around his ears—instead, he was slouched forward into the water. 

Steve wrapped his arms around Eddie’s waist and pressed a kiss to the patchy birthmark high up on his back, smiling when Eddie responded with a humming little sigh. “Wash my hair?” he asked.

“Sure thing, Eds.”

Steve reached over to grab the shampoo and tiny bucket they left in the shower just for this. “Wanna drink some of your tea before I douse you?”

Eddie didn’t say anything, but reached out blindly to grab one of the steaming mugs next to the tub. Steve didn’t bother holding back a snort that he’d managed to grab the “Don’t Bother Me, I’m Crabby” mug they’d nicked from Wayne. 

Eddie took a slow sip of the tea, and the second he’d set it back down and straightened back up, Steve dumped a bucket of warm water over his head.

Eddie spluttered. “Babe, what the fuck!”

Steve snickered from behind him. “Just wanted to make sure you were here on earth with me, bedhead.”

Eddie shook his head like a rain-soaked dog. “You could have at least taken out the ponytail first!”

“I suppose I could have,” Steve said, lips twitching up into a smile as he reached up to start pulling Eddie’s dark curls from where they’d gotten tangled in the hair tie. “I got you talking again in something other than a monotone, though.”

“Maybe I was enjoying playing the dark, broody hero.”

Steve pinched Eddie’s side, which resulted in a high-pitched squeak, and a wild flail that had water splashing up around them. "Behave," Steve chastised—though the warning was undercut by the laugh of unconcealed delight he barked out as Eddie’s arms swung around him. 

"You're the one assaulting me in my time of suffering!"

"Suck it up, buttercup,” Steve shot back, combing his fingers through wet curls and gently detangling each and every knot he ran into. He couldn't help but rub the silky-soft strands between his fingers as he went. Steve's own day had been slow and uneventful, but a quiet sort of unease had been hovering at the edges for hours. Drawing Eddie a bath and settling in behind him to wash his hair helped settle Steve back into his body just as much as it did for Eddie. 

Steve began working shampoo into Eddie's roots, massaging his fingers into his scalp, and Eddie's head tipped back as he let out a pleased hum that sounded almost like a purr. "Love your fingers in my hair, Stevie," he mumbled, sounding a bit hazy.

"Yeah? Is that the only place you like my fingers?" Steve asked, right into Eddie's ear. 

Eddie scrambled back upright and turned to face Steve with an alarmed expression on his face. "No! Why would you think that? Did I say something to make you think that? Please, I’m so sorry, baby. Please know that I love your fingers anywhere on me. Or in me. What if they went somewhere else right now?" 

Steve laughed, grabbing Eddie's shoulder to turn him back around with one hand, and dipping the bucket back into the water to rinse the suds out of Eddie's hair with the other. When Steve was sure he'd thoroughly rinsed Eddie's hair he leaned past him to grab the conditioner and whisper in his ear, "You can get them somewhere else a little later if you're good for me, baby," before leaning back and clicking the bottle open.

"I'll be so good for you, Stevie. Just tell me what I gotta do."

"Keep still and don't sass me for the next five minutes."

Eddie's mouth opened and then immediately snapped back shut as he clearly decided that whatever his response to that was gonna be probably qualified as "sass."

"Good boy," Steve said simply, dropping another kiss to Eddie's back. 

"I can be good when I wanna be," Eddie grumbled. 

"Careful," Steve shot back, gently chiding. He methodically worked the conditioner through Eddie's hair in sections, tugging gently as he did, just for the soft satisfaction that ran through him every time Eddie let out a soft gasp in response to it. 

"Always careful, Stevie," Eddie mumbled back, eyes fluttering shut. 

Steve reached down to brush one hand over the scars running down Eddie's side. "Not always," he whispered, just a little sadly, as he pressed a firm kiss to the mostly-faded ring of scars at his throat. 

"Mm, don't be sad, baby."

"Not sad. Just glad you're alive."

Eddie was quiet for a stretch, and Steve chuckled. 

"What? What were you gonna say, asshole?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, love," Eddie replied, all faux innocence.

"You were gonna say something sassy just then, that's why you went all quiet. So, out with it, come on. How were you gonna sass me in response to me saying I'm glad you're alive?"

"Promise you won't hold it against me?"

"Yeah, baby." Steve leaned over to press a kiss to Eddie’s nose. "This one's a freebie."

Eddie looked over his shoulder with a wide grin, and a twinkle in his eye. "I was gonna call you a sap."

Steve rolled his eyes. "Oh, well, fuck me for being happy my boyfriend's alive I guess."

"I was actually hoping that you would fuck me," Eddie replied. 

"You're pushing your luck, Eds," Steve warned, yanking lightly at his hair. 

"Sorry, baby."

Steve ran his hands up and down the sides of Eddie's arms. "All forgiven, Eds." 

Steve let his hands drift as he waited for the conditioner to rest—digging his fingers into the dense coils of muscle in Eddie's neck, smoothing his palms down the ridges of Eddie's spine, ghosting his hands up Eddie's sides. When time was up, he grabbed the bucket, turned on the tap to fill it with clean, warm water, and spilled it over Eddie’s head. Steve combed his fingers through the chestnut locks again, making sure he’d thoroughly rinsed them once more. The two of them fell still and silent, like two little stones in the river bed. 

Steve loved this. The quiet trance they fell into, as Eddie relaxed into the water, and Steve pressed kisses into his lover’s skin, and they both forgot the mugs of tea that Steve made. 

Steve separated Eddie’s hair into even sections, savoring the feeling of freshly cleaned locks passing through his fingers as he wove the strands together—over-under, over-under, over-under—and plaited Eddie’s hair down the length of his back. When he was done, he flipped the end of the braid back over Eddie’s shoulder, and Eddie leaned further into him, pressing the length of his back against Steve’s chest.

Steve let his hands start wandering, and Eddie let out a soft gasp of surprise when the pads of Steve's thumbs brushed over both nipples. "Steve."

"Shh, I got you baby," Steve murmured, and let one hand drop down to where Eddie was stiffening up beneath the water.

"I know you do, Stevie," Eddie whispered back on a sigh and a gasp. "I know you do."

[kirisclangen]

Larchpaw

She/her, 8 moons, cis molly

[rainbow-nerdss]

I want to see the 118s perspective of the drunken confessions from black out so bad 😭

HELLO ANON I LOVE YOU FOR THIS. SO MUCH LOVE. YOU HAVE NO IDEA. This has been sitting here in my inbox for a while because I wanted to do it justice, but I had SO MUCH FUN working on this! I present: Chimney's POV of that whole situation from my fic Blackout (3k, E) I may have gotten caught up in my Madney/Dad!Chimney feels for a while there, but who can blame me?

Chimney has always loved having Halloween off work, glad to avoid the crazies, but it's even better now he's a dad, especially now Jee's old enough to have fun with her costumes, and to understand what Trick-or-treating is all about.

He gets to dress up with her, a whole-family pirate ensemble, to pose while Buck snaps way more pictures than necessary of the three of them, and to take her door-to-door around the neighborhood. 

And, after getting Jee-Yun in bed, he heads to Hen's for the grown-up party. 

Buck takes a detour on the way, to pick up Eddie and see Christopher before his first teenage Halloween party. Those are days Chimney isn't looking forward to—when Jee is old enough to prefer spending time with her friends than her parents, when she won't climb on his back and pose for a dozen pictures as they wear matching costumes.

He hopes she never grows out of this.

When Eddie and Buck arrive at the bar together, they're walking in step with each other, Eddie mid-laugh at something Buck has said. Eddie heads straight for the bar, while Buck stands for a moment, watching him before making his way to the booth where Chimney is sitting with Hen, Bobby and Ravi.

Everyone's in a good mood today, it seems, as they order rounds of drinks: beer and whiskey and cocktails. Hen is pacing herself more, but Chimney is pleasantly buzzed, verging on drunk. He's nothing compared to Buck and Eddie, though. They're both pink-cheeked and laughing, pressed together in the booth, practically in each other’s laps.

Bobby makes his excuses just after eleven, telling them all to have a good night, and to stay safe.

“Aww, c’mon Cap! Stay a while longer!” Buck protests, leaning over Eddie to reach for Bobby. Chimney catches the way Eddie’s cheeks turn pink as he looks anywhere but at the denim-clad Buck in his lap.

Bobby shoots a look at Hen, raising his eyebrow. She nods.

So, great, Chim isn’t the only one seeing this.

“Sorry, Buck. Athena’s waiting up for me. I’ll see you at work, okay?”

Buck pouts and reaches for the dregs of his last drink, barely shifting out of Eddie’s lap.

“Twenty bucks says it happens tonight,” Chim whispers, sliding back into the booth next to Hen.

“Those idiots? They’ve been like this for weeks now!” Ravi argues. “I’ll take those odds.”

Hen shakes her head. “They’ve been like this for years. Stop wasting your—” but Hen cuts herself off as Eddie takes out his phone, checks a message and shows it to Buck, whose expression turns ridiculously soft as he drops his head onto Eddie’s shoulder.

“Huh,” Hen says, narrowing her eyes at them. “Honestly, you might have a point, Chim. This isn’t their usual dance. Here’s how it’s gonna go—”

Chim orders a round of shots while Hen draws up the bet in her notes app. 

“This is the last drink we buy for them,” Hen insists. “Otherwise, it gets weird, morally speaking.”

“Agreed,” Chim and Ravi both chime in, and they all shake on it, then down their shots. Buck and Eddie don’t even break eye contact as they drink the shots, but a moment later Eddie is scrambling out of the booth, pulling Buck with him.

“I love this song!” he yells.

And Buck follows him, eyes wide in a way that Chimney wishes wasn’t the exact same expression Maddie gets sometimes, right before they fall into bed together.

He’s going to have to drink a lot to forget that sight, but at least he’s definitely gonna win that bet.

He loses them for a while, getting another drink, showing Ravi the trick-or-treating photos again: “Look at this one!” he coos, showing yet another picture of Jee. “She was looking for the treasure!” 

He only snaps back to the moment when Hen smacks him on the arm, and he looks up, following her eyes to where Buck and Eddie are dancing. The song’s different, but they’re closer than before—Eddie’s hand is on Buck’s chest, Buck’s on Eddie’s waist, and that is probably the most intense eye contact Chimney’s ever seen—and he’s seen Ravi and Lucy attempt to communicate telepathically during a long shift with very few calls. 

“It’s happening,” he whispers. “Hen, come dance with me!”

He takes her arm, and pulls her within earshot of Buck and Eddie—trying and failing to be subtle, but it doesn’t make any difference for all the attention they’re paying to anything but each other. 

“—really pretty,” Buck says, expression dazed.

Eddie blinks at him. “Pretty?” he asks. Buck nods, touching the corner of Eddie’s eye, letting his hand rest there.

Eddie swallows, and Chim squeezes Hen’s arm as Eddie leans in, then muffles a curse as he pauses. He glances over and sees Ravi preening at the edge of the dance floor, but then Buck is pulling Eddie in, and yes, yes there it is!

“They’re kissing!” Chim cheers as quietly as he can, practically jumping for joy while Hen tries to get him to stop. Chim shakes her off, then holds his hand up in the shape of an L, directing it at Ravi, who rolls his eyes.

“I love you,” Chim hears Eddie say, and he whips his head back around to them. 

“You—Eddie. Really?” 

“Of course I do, Buck. God, of course I do.”

Buck pulls Eddie close, burying his face in his neck. The smile on his face is familiar to Chimney: it’s the same one he knows he wears each and every time he looks at Maddie. 

“I love you too,” Buck says. “So much. I…you know, you and Christopher, I think I’d be happy if I did nothing but sit in your house and make pancakes for you both for the rest of forever.”

“Buck, oh my god,” Eddie chuckles, while Chimney pretends to gag at the sincerity. “You know, having nothing but pancakes would probably not be healthy,” Eddie points out, but Chimney can hear the fondness, the love in his voice.

“Don’t care. Not if it makes you happy.”

“You make me happy.”

“Good. C’mere,” Buck says, and it’s all the warning they give before Eddie goes in for another kiss, and this is not the type of kiss Chim wants to see his future brother-in-law, the uncle to his beautiful daughter, engage in, but there’s really no avoiding how much he just goes for it. 

“Fuck.” 

Chimney hears Eddie’s low growl before he’s, thankfully, pulled away by Hen, back to where Ravi is waiting, trying to maintain a scowl over the smile that’s clearly fighting to break free on his face.

“Alright, well, pay up!” Chimney announces, resolutely not looking up to where Buck and Eddie are practically mauling each other on the dance floor—more than five years of sexual tension all trying to resolve itself at once.

He holds out his hand while Ravi grumbles. “Who even carries cash anymore? Can I just venmo you?” 

Chimney rolls his eyes. “Sure, fine, whatever. But you will be held accountable for this, got it?”

There’s a crash to his right, and he turns to see Buck, grinning, out of breath and red in the face. “We’re uh, we’re gonna head out.”

Eddie pops up behind him, mouth latching on to the side of Buck’s neck from behind, eyes hazy in a way that Chim tells himself is just from the alcohol but he knows is probably something beyond that. 

“Get home safe, boys!” Hen tells them. They back off, making their way to the door before Chimney calls after them.

“And be safe in the other way, too!” he yells, earning him a chiding slap on the arm from Hen. He grins. “I think our loser ought to buy the next round of drinks, don’t you, Hen?”

He sticks his tongue out at Ravi, who rolls his eyes, grumbles, but still gets up to order another round.

Chimney doesn’t stay too much longer after that. He orders an uber for himself, and Hen and Ravi both follow him out. He’s the first one dropped off, and he stands on the curb outside his house for a moment, smiling at the little garden, the front door with the lopsided pumpkin he’d carded with Jee, the little bats and spider decorations they’d hung together. 

There’s a light on in their bedroom, which means Maddie’s still awake—probably reading or watching a show in bed. Chimney does a little skip on his way up the porch steps. 

He has so much to tell her.

[candyriku]

I unfortunately find myself unable to work on my current Soriku fic today due to my mental state, but I was able to make a bit of a teaser for the next big Soriku fanfiction that will be coming sometime after JTSYS is finished.

You can read it under the cut, but TW for blood, death, and uh, general misery. This has been cathartic for me to write but the whole idea of this fic is that things are impossibly doomed, so be warned - this is not the happy fun zone.

Blood. There was so much blood.

He had smelled it before even seeing it, the metallic scent thick in his nose before he had even rounded the corner. He had tried to convince himself that it was his own bleeding wound that he smelled, or maybe the blood of something else, someone else, but in his heart, he knew the truth. He picked up his pace, sprinting at top speed now, his sneakers splashing through shallow puddles on the wet pavement. 

When his eyes finally came to rest on the crumpled form at the end of the alley, the breath was knocked out of his chest as though someone had taken a baseball bat to his sternum. He knew, of course he knew, but he had hoped-

No. It didn’t matter what he hoped for. Hopes and wishes weren’t for people that walked his path. He had been denied the right to hope for anything ages ago. When he had signed that contract, signed away his soul, he forfeited all the cushy pleasures of a normal life. He had given up his chance of knowing peace.

But it had been worth it. If it was for Sora, anything was worth it.

Standing over Sora’s blood-soaked body, Riku tried to remind himself of that truth, the one thing that he had tethered his heart to all this time. It was worth it. Even if the chance of Sora making it out alive were next to none, there was still a chance. He could still fight.

One of these loops, Riku would get it right. He would figure out how to keep Sora safe, how to protect him from this accursed dimension where everything was designed to end his life. They would break out and live a normal life together, just the way they had always planned. 

There was a happy future waiting somewhere for the two of them. There had to be. Riku had gambled everything on it.

He crouched down, his shaking fingers gently brushing Sora’s tear-stained cheek. He could hardly stand to look at his face, but the sight of his broken, bleeding body was no better. The wounds were precise and lethal, and Riku was far too late.

No matter how many dozens of times he had watched Sora die, it never got easier. It never stopped feeling like his chest was a black hole caving in on itself, his heart squeezed until it was nothing more than dust. 

He couldn’t look. He couldn't look away.

Riku kneeled and placed both of Sora’s hands over his heart. He was about to speak and begin the incantation that would throw them both back to the starting point again, but Sora suddenly stirred, weakly reaching one hand up towards Riku’s face.

“Riku…” his voice was barely more than a whisper. 

“I’m here,” Riku said, the words catching in his throat. “Don’t speak. You can rest now. It’s okay.”

He hated to say it. He wanted to plead with Sora, wanted to beg him to stay. But if Riku had learned anything throughout the loops, it was that nothing came of begging. There was no one to answer his prayers; benevolent forces did not dwell here. At best, all it would accomplish would be making Sora sad in his final moments. At worst, future loops would be impacted by Riku’s words to Sora, twisting the knife further. He had seen it enough to know what to avoid now.

“I don’t want…” There was a weighted pause. “...Don’t want to leave you.” The pool of blood continued to grow. Riku knew - though he wished that he didn’t - that Sora wouldn’t be able to maintain consciousness for much longer at this rate. He could hardly believe Sora was awake even now. 

“We’ll meet again.” he assured Sora softly, trying to keep his voice steady. “Don’t worry. It'll be okay.” 

“You…” This pause was longer, much longer, and Riku was all but sure that Sora would not speak again. Finally, with a wet cough, Sora continued. “You promise?”

“I promise.” Riku lied. He leaned forward and kissed Sora’s forehead, his lips lingering there for several long moments as he took steadying breaths. 

“Mm… ‘kay.” Sora managed. “Love you… so much.” 

“I love you too.” Riku said, clenching his teeth so hard his jaw popped. He wanted to scream. After taking a moment to compose himself, he sat up and offered his best imitation of a smile to Sora. Better for him to see that than to see how broken Riku really was. 

The all-too-familiar faraway look settled on Sora’s face as the last of his breath left his body. Riku collapsed over him, the tears finally coming, the weight hitting him all at once with the force of a tidal wave. Even knowing that he would see Sora alive and well again in mere moments did nothing to comfort him. 

It didn't matter how many times Riku had seen it. It never got any easier to watch Sora die.

[jazzythursday]

Prompts: Nightlight | Drifting | Dried (1489 words)

Wylan is tired

Nightlight runs off of the oil lamps and the club signs that line the streets, spilling out of open doors and casting the wet cobblestones in tones of yellow and gold.

Wylan is cold.

He drifts through the streets of the Barrel like a spectre, like he’s invisible. Like the cold canal water has seeped straight into his bones, and he shivers for too many reasons to count.

He’s not dead.

It’s an absurd thought to have, even more absurd because he’s so surprised by it.

I’m not dead. I think my father tried to have me killed. It didn’t work.

Jan Van Eck is not a man who takes well to not getting his way. If he’d wanted Wylan dead, Wylan has no clue how he managed to avoid it.

It makes him consider that this all might have been some misunderstanding. Maybe father hadn’t meant for him to die. Perhaps he had intended for Wylan to reach Belendt. Maybe his men were simply confused, or they could have been hired by some other party, someone else with a vendetta to settle.

Maybe, perhaps, could have. Who is he kidding? Miggson and Prior are loyal to his father, and no one else hates Wylan enough to even bother with killing him. How could they, when he’s barely left the house in years and his father has only ever exposed him to the public to parade him like a symbol of his good intentions as a humble family man, a single father and a dutiful Ghezenite.

No, this was—it had to be—there were too many coincidences, there were too many factors, and all roads led back to the same answer.

I’m not dead. I think my father tried to have me killed. It didn’t work. Over and over again. It didn’t work.

It makes a funny sort of sense, considering that the only goal his father has ever fallen short of achieving is Wylan himself. Eternal disappointment and failure, no matter how much he poured into Wylan, no matter how much he tried. Wylan failed his expectations as a son, and he failed his expectations tonight as well. It didn’t work.

His father always said his greatest talent is causing problems.

I’m alive.

Wylan is not, if he’s honest with himself, quite sure if that’s a good thing.

He might die of hypothermia anyway, if he doesn’t find somewhere to rest soon. He’s soaked through. His wet hair drips down his forehead and his boots squelch with every step. Already he feels close to collapse, weight dragging him by his joints and lungs wheezing from inhaling water and swimming for hours and also, probably, being nearly choked to death.

Weak, his mind whispers, what are you going to do with a life you’re not strong enough to live? Wylan is too tired to answer it, too cold to care anymore. A numbness deeper than the chill has been slowly setting in since the terror of Prior’s hands around his neck had first left him for exhaustion, and Wylan wants to sink into it like a blanket, protecting him from the harsh bite of wind and the dark night. If he’d cried, he hadn’t been aware of it, and when he touches shaking fingers to his face they come away dry.

He thinks of putting each foot in front of the other, walking as he has for hours, and nothing else. There are too many feelings, too many thoughts, and he has a hunch that giving into them now might just bring him to his knees right here on the pavement. Might finally break him. He clutches the straps of his bag in his hands like his life depends on it, like they’re the only things holding him up.

“Boer, buddy, no need to get handsy, you only need to ask nicely.”

“That’s enough, Fahey, you’re done for the night.”

Wylan stops, he turns to see a man being led out of a club by a bouncer, practically dragging him by the collar of his coat. The man grins like he and the bouncer are having no more than a friendly chat, hands held loosely up and top hat tipping to the side as he tilts his head.

“But the night isn’t done with me, Boer. You wouldn’t deprive her, would you? Me and the night, we have plans.”

“Not here you don’t. Go home.”

“But I’m feeling lucky! Kaz will understand. Come on, one more game, and then I’ll be out of your hair for good, on my honour.”

“Don’t speak of honour where none exists. Times up.”

With that, the bouncer pushes the man roughly off the step, only to stumble gracelessly into the street.

The thing is, Wylan may feel invisible, but his body is as solid as ever, and that’s proven to him as the man’s momentum sends him forwards and directly into Wylan. It knocks them both off balance, and they go careening downwards like a clumsy sack of potatoes. Wylan yelps, back hitting the ground with a harsh slap of wet stone and knocking the wind out of him. The man follows, falling just shy of collapsing on top of him, hands and elbows bracing against the slick ground and bracketing Wylan’s shoulders. He groans as Wylan’s knee jerks up and hits him, tangling their legs together.

His chest rises and falls in heaving and shaky pants. His shoulder hurts where it’d hit the ground, his satchel digs painfully into his shoulder blades. He’s been moving for so long, and now that he’s stopped, everything aches even worse.

Wylan stares up, stunned, and the man stares back. A sound that is not quite a whimper and also not not a whimper emerges, unbidden, from Wylan’s throat.

All at once, the man snaps back into action as if he’d never been still at all. “Sorry. Sorry. I’m—Saints, here, let me—” he pushes himself carefully off of Wylan and offers him a hand. Wylan, still too stunned to do anything else, takes it. The man pulls him up and then braces him as Wylan sways forwards into him, unsteady on his feet. His heart is pounding, his legs are jelly, and somehow, Wylan still finds it in himself to be embarrassed, because even in the low lamplight, the man is the most attractive person he’s ever seen, and Wylan must look like a drowned rat that’s been dragged through the mud.

He takes a sharp breath and it rattles in his chest, making him cough. The man looks at him with open concern, probably noticing for the first time the state Wylan is in. The bruises he’s sure wring his neck, the dark purple under his eyes and blue tinge of his lips.

“Are you alright?”

And, Wylan may be stupid and foolish, but he knows what the Barrel is like. He knows the kinds of things that go on here, knows that there’s absolutely nothing about this situation that’s advisable or safe. But Wylan is tired, and cold, and despite all efforts to the contrary, he’s alive.

And the beautiful man has kind eyes.

Wylan bites his lip, and shakes his head.

“Do you need some help?”

He does, doesn’t he? Yes, Wylan definitely needs help. But he doesn’t respond. This is supremely stupid, and he knows it. There’s no guarantee that kind eyes make a kind person, and there’s every likelihood he could be robbed for what little kruge he still carries and then dumped for dead.

Seeming to sense this, the man smiles, softer than the cocky grin he’d given to the bouncer.

“I promise that looked worse than it was, by the way. Boer likes to play, forgets his own strength. Ask anyone around and they’ll all tell you l have dodgy luck with the cards, but my other references will check out.”

Wylan nods, though he isn’t sure he quite follows.

“I’m Jesper,” the man—Jesper, and Wylan thinks the name suits him—says. “Jesper Fahey.”

“W—” Wylan coughs again, and his voice sounds as ragged and waterlogged as he feels. “Wylan.”

“Okay, right. Hello, Wylan. Now that we’ve been acquainted, need some help?”

“Why?”

“Well, I did accost you in the street. My fault entirely, by the way. Look, can I just—can I walk you anywhere at least?”

“I don’t have anywhere to go,” Wylan whispers pitifully. He looks down at his water soaked clothes. At the space between Jesper’s boots and his. His bottom lip is starting to tremble. From cold or the impending collapse of all his crumbling walls, he doesn’t know. He can’t make sense of anything beyond the cold in his bones and the sense that he is finally too broken to ever be fixed.

A hand squeezes his shoulder gently, and Wylan looks up and into the incongruously kind eyes of this strange but seemingly lovely man. Jesper Fahey.

“Okay, that’s—okay, we’ll sort that out first.”

[blackjackkent]

15 Lines Tag Meme

Tagged by @morganaseren

Tagging: @istibaethoriel @thedarkstrategist @astreamofstars @bardic-inspo (also retagging @morganaseren and @writer86 bc I did this slightly differently than y'all did and maybe you wanna try it this way too :D )

(Want me to tag you in work-sharing memes like this in the future? Toss a like on this post over here! Would love a bigger list of folks to tag. :) )

Rules: Share 15 or fewer lines of dialogue from an OC, ideally lines that capture the character/personality/vibe of the OC. Bonus points for just using the dialogue without other details about the scene, but you’re free to include those as well!

I just realized that I don't actually have a WIP currently running that involves an OC, which is a bit wild. (Two WIP Jaheira longfics and a bunch of one-shot ideas I haven't started yet. XD ) So I'm going to do this as not a WIP fic quote but instead fifteen different quotes from Hector across several different existing fics that are representative of his personality. (I'm not sure which the originator of the meme intended and I know prev (Lee) did it the other way XD but I'm gonna reinterpret the instructions bc this is where my brain is taking it instead.)

-----

“Where your Lady looks for emptiness, mine looks for…self-reliance,” he finally says slowly. “Which is itself…not conducive to…” He trails off. “I have not ever felt this way before.” (Happy For You)

Hector hesitates. “I think perhaps I ought to ask you to forgive me,” he says quietly. “There were– and still are– many steps along this path that I have not handled as I should have. I was…very confused for quite some time, and very afraid, and perhaps my actions betrayed too much.” (Happy For You)

“It was one of the mantras of grounding I was taught from when I was a very young boy,” he says. “To…calm myself when I was upset or angry, to stop crying or raging, take control of the feelings and quiet them.” (The Center Cannot Hold)

“I love it,” he murmurs. “And I will keep it close to me going forward, you can be sure of that.” He turns the small talisman in his fingertips, watching it catch the light. “I've seen many of these,” he adds reverently. “But never one of such fine make. And old, too. Some monk carried this through hell before it made its way to you. I suppose I will add to that tradition...” (The Mystery of the Night)

“I don’t think I can go back,” he finally says quietly. “Not after all of this. I’ve… changed too much.” (Riverbed)

“I don’t know how to do what they want me to do,” he says softly. “How to… be what they think I am.” (Riverbed)

“It is only through meditation and strength of will that we master our emotions,” he says. “So I was taught.” (What Good, This Heart of Stone?)

“Discipline,” he mutters. “To control one's body is to control one's mind.” (What Good, This Heart of Stone?)

“SHUT UP!” The roar bursts from him and cracks apart into a sob. Tears flood his eyes, blurring his vision. “Gods… please… just leave me alone. I can’t… I can’t… she is dying and she is in so much pain, and I can’t help her, I can’t stop it. If you were anything less than a monster, you would grieve with me, you would want to help her… you would give a single, solitary damn… but you don’t. All you care about is your fucking worm, and it’s all falling apart… it’s all gone… it’s all gone…” The tears are coming heavier now, choking him, blinding him. “What the hell am I going to do?” he whispers. “I won’t… I won’t do it, I won’t do what you want… I won’t become an… an abomination just to save my heart… I won’t take her choice from her… but how will I bear it…? ” ("Because of What You Are" - drabble)

He swallows the lump that forms in his throat at hearing these words. “There is so much… so much more to the world than I ever imagined…” (vision of selune - drabble)

He flinches, not meeting her eyes. “I was thinking about how I’m scared because I could die. And then I thought about how perhaps there is a certain level on which that would be the simplest outcome.” (night before the brain - drabble)

“You’re perfect,” he repeats softly, and to his shame he hears his voice tremble. “I just…have no idea what I’m doing, and you surprised me.” (Prayers and Hellfire)

“You make me smile,” he goes on when the kiss finally breaks. The words come slowly, carefully - he considers himself no orator, but there is an ocean of feeling inside him waiting to be spoken of. “So many terrible things we see out here, and yet you make me laugh. You see the good in everything, even when it looks so dark to me. You've suffered so much and you're still kind, still want the best for everyone.” He pauses, then adds with fervent sincerity, “And you are so… so beautiful…” (Prayers and Hellfire)

[lunar-lair]

a new star is born...

(but hes more than just a star.

SURPRISE! @ashwii im BACK with the casey idea i mentioned!!! i ended up landing on him being sort of...the gods deciding leo would need someone, at the end of the day. or, uh, universe. and, well, creating stars is so dang confusing, and there was risk later on of it becoming too much for leos power alone to contain all the history and the reactions of or something like that. so they set up a failsafe of sorts: instead of leo collecting these reactions and collisions and beginnings, it would be delegated to a part of him, instead, that would grow slowly and become its own god inevitably. hence, casey! and why hes so late to the party, hehe. ill warn you, this one isnt as Godlytm and more kind of just...familial? and dialogue heavy, and lovey dovey. im tired idk how good this thing is tbh lmao. gonna put it under a read more cause its 2.5K. yeah i went a tad feral on this one. casey and leo r just <3 2 me ok)

It was a slow, quiet thing. 

Leo felt it, in the corner of his brain, his heart, his soul, every inch of him. Like a new star, but bigger. Like a new star, but greater. 

It was like…almost like a supernova, but in reverse. It was so slow. Not agonizing, no, more…

Like something was blooming, like the flowers on earth. Like something was slowly waking up, warm and tired and sleepy. 

Like it was building itself up from scratch, carefully crafting itself inch by inch. 

Leo waited, patient as could be. 

He knew it was one of his, and he’d always wait for his stars. 

It was sudden, sharp and clear and bright and warm. This calling that swallowed up his entire being, this question, asking, 

Are you there? I’m home. 

Casey woke up. 

He felt…small. No, that felt just right. He was tired. Really, really tired. How long had he been asleep? How did he know what being asleep was? Wait, no, too many questions, he needs to…

He jolted, but calmed immediately. 

Oh. The stars.

He was home. 

It was an innate thing, something he couldn’t shake off if he wanted to. He was warm, and he was made for this endless black, a blink of light shining in the dark. 

He stayed there for a while, but reached out. Not with his hands, with his soul.

There was something…someone.

Warm yet cool. Blue. Gentle and focused and ready, sharp, and silly and carefree and-and-

He wanted to see him. He was lonely. These were his brothers and his sisters, he knew that, he knew.

He didn’t need to be told.

He was part of this-this, whoever. This warm person he needed to see, needed to be held by. He was part of them, and he was part of this family. 

And he missed them, even though he hadn’t met them. 

So, he reached out, quiet and careful. 

And waited. 

After a moment, he curled into himself, starbursts on his forearm catching his eye. 

He could be patient. He could be, he knew he could be. He waited so long to wake up, he knew that. 

But he was still so cold out here. 

He didn’t want to be alone anymore. 

Leo started to make his way through the cosmos leisurely, waving hi to stars here and there and asking them what they knew about the new kid. 

According to most of them, he seemed a little more powerful than the lot of them. A demigod, maybe? Leo wondered, though he wasn’t sure how that would happen. Maybe…a minor one…or just a cluster of-

He froze. 

It was quiet, at first, but he could hear it. Could hear it loud and clear. 

He could hear, vaguely, the call of any star, when they truly needed him. Like a ripple, on the edges of his form, stars shifting and moving like an itch that needed to be scratched. He’d always find them, of course he did, but it would always take a moment of thought. 

This was like a shout. A call. A plea.

It was like someone had whispered right into his ear, like they were right next to him. 

Please. It’s cold. 

Dread and worry and pain and guilt and love all poured themselves out into Leo’s core and he was by the starchild’s side in a mere second. 

He softened, an instant thing. 

Oh, he was beautiful. 

He looked like newborn stars. Bright collisions and nitrogen and helium slowly mixing and clashing, stardust and love and new warmth, new light in the sky. He was small, just a kid. Not too young, but about as young as Leo was when he started out. 

He looked like bright light, like the beginning of everything Leo loved. 

The starchild jolted and turned the moment Leo appeared, leaping into his hold and shouting, “You’re here, you’re here!!”

Leo laughed back, pulling back with a grin like honey. Nothing less, for this bright boy. He was human, but well enough, for the beginnings of his stars, for the complex mix and match of chemicals and light. “Woah, hey, slow down, buddy!” He framed his face in his hands, softening when the boy leaned in. “What’s your name, starchild?”

“Casey,” he hummed back, grin quiet and tired, and warm like nothing else Leo had ever seen. “I’m really glad you’re here. I missed you.”

Leo laughed, quiet and only a fraction of the bonfire this boy gave off. Blinding, he was blinding. Leo already loved him with everything he had. “You hadn’t met me yet, starlight.” They both knew better, but they laughed anyways.

“Yeah,” Casey hummed back, sitting down on thin air and pulling Leo with him. He looked around, at all his brothers and sisters and everyone Leo would have to introduce him to when he could, and-oh, Raph is gonna love this kid, he knows it-”I woke up with everyone else around me, but I just…” He took Leo’s hands in his, five fingers folding perfectly between Leo’s three, like he’d been doing it for centuries. (Maybe he had. Maybe he had always been part of Leo, brewing, forming slowly. Like a world egg or the calcium that made his shell, the beginnings of his stars, the delightful afterbirth of the many that had come and gone.) “It was cold. And you’re warm, in-in a special way. None of the other stars are you.” What Casey left unsaid was, they don’t care like you. They aren’t safe like you. I love them, but they can’t hold me like you, and they can’t understand waking up and being and living and holding like you can. And I missed you, and I’m so so glad you’re here, now.

Leo didn’t get it, really. He knew that his stars cared for him like a caretaker and a father, and he would never let them think he didn’t love them just the same back. But he’d never had that, himself. He had his brothers, and…well, he got lonely in a certain kind of way when they were off doing their own things, sometimes. Maybe it was about this star-no, this minor god, his mind shot back, that innate knowledge that stirred from within on occasion-well, maybe it was about Casey being like him. Given form by the Gods, being…simply more than the stars and the humans and the moons and the planets, however much they were beloved. 

Well, he was here now. And, if Life had deigned to give him the gift of this bright, bright starlight, he’d never let him go. 

Leo laughed softly and pulled Casey in, unsurprised when he clung to Leo’s shell like he’d disappear if he didn’t. He set Casey on his hip and stood, an instinctual thing, even though he hadn’t done it before. Stars were never this…physical compared to his form. He couldn’t hold them, couldn’t feel their every-burning warmth.

Maybe that was the difference. Maybe Casey was just cold. 

Leo pulled him in a little closer, and Casey happily reciprocated, hiding his face in his shoulder. “Well, I’m here now, starburst. Say the word, I’ll be there.”

Casey laughed-a soft and bubbly and quiet and absolutely adorable oh Leo was smitten-little thing, but only held onto Leo’s neck and nodded. “Ok.”

They sat there, for a while, Leo curling up a little and just…letting Casey sit there and breathe. It was a lot, to wake up. It was a lot, to miss someone like that. He didn’t want to ever leave him like that again. Never, he promised himself, he never would. 

Eventually, finally, he smiled and huffed a soft sigh, Casey’s stardust hair drifting slightly in response. He looked up at Leo, eyes wide and face curious. Always so bright, even with eyes as gray as a rainy day down on Earth. Leo grinned back. “I should probably introduce you to my brothers.” 

Casey brightened immediately, sunny and sudden and beautifully blinding. He pulled his arms back and pumped his fists up and down, nodding all the while, saying, “I’d love to!!” because clearly he was determined to be the cutest thing Leo had ever witnessed. 

Leo grinned back, a little toothy, and only said, “Hold on tight.” before blinking away to a star near their usual hangout spout above Earth. 

Casey only laughed with glee, though, throwing his arms around Leo’s neck again, grin wide enough to show teeth. (Somehow, they were crooked, and somehow, it was perfect.) “That was so cool!!! How do you do that??”

Leo laughed, one part cocky fool persona and ten parts warmth. “When you’re every star around, you can get anywhere, anytime, starlight. Just another perk.”

Casey grinned. He knew exactly what Leo was gonna say next (because he knew, he knew, how much he loved them and the warmth radiating from Leo’s soul and mind and everything he was a part of, all of the love he refused not to share with every single star he held), but he still asked, “And the other?”

Leo nuzzled his beak into Casey’s forehead, heart bursting with adoration when Casey giggled back. God, he loved his stars with everything he had, but nothing could compete with being able to hold one, with being able to hold Casey and his bright fire, his neverending warmth. He wondered, for a moment, if he could play favorites, and the playful cheering on that rippled back told him he absolutely could. “You and your siblings of course, silly!” 

Raph interrupted any response Casey could’ve given, taking Leo by the shoulders (not noticing as Casey ducked away and Leo carefully pulled him closer) and shaking, asking, “What happened where’d you go?? You left so suddenly I felt a new star show up but it was way brighter than usual wh-”

Mikey pried him off, Donnie following behind with a raised eyebrow. “Raph! Leave him alone, at least give the man a chance to explain!” He huffed, turned away, busy scowling at Raph. 

Donnie turned down and gave a soft gasp, catching his brother’s attention. 

Leo was busy pulling Casey’s hair back, eyebrows drawn. “You ok? Raph kinda spooked you there, huh?”

Casey didn’t bat his hands away, though, only shook his head. “No, no, I’m fine.”

Mikey was the first to lose it, yelling loud enough for Earth to probably hear (and for a comet to go splashing into the atlantic in response). Donnie pushed Mikey away, officially ending his onslaught and far more carefully introducing himself (and Mikey, since he’d been too busy crying over how adorable the boy was to do it himself). Raph was a little sheepish, but he loved the boy immediately, just as Leo predicted. They were bright, the two of them, in a way none of them could compete with. Sunny like Mikey, warm like Raph, smart like Donnie, loving and careful and a bit sassy like Leo. He was always meant to be here; he just showed up a little late to the party. 

“And,” Donnie finally hummed, the other three crowded around Casey at a respectable distance, “who might this little brightspot be?”

Casey grinned, big and wide, crooked teeth and dry lips making him all the more charming. He raised a hand, and said, “Hi, I’m Casey!! I’m the creation of all of Dad’s new stars.”

They all went silent, though for different reasons.

Stardust started falling and everyone else started talking amongst each other-he must’ve woken up like us, just like Leo but more specific, I wonder what this means for future gods-while Leo was busy pulling Casey in, blubbering about “Ohhh Dad that one’s such a classic I haven’t heard it in ages!!! Casey I’d be so glad to be that you can stay forever and ever even after all the stars go out I love you so much-”

Casey only laughed, bright and bubbly, and even Leo’s brothers shut up, even as Leo kept blubbering and pulling Casey in close enough that stardust stained his cheeks. “Calm down, Dad, we’ll have forever together! As long as stars are born, I’ll be here.” Leo settled, but only a little, stardust falling. He seemed more frozen than anything else, Casey still held close to his chest. Casey smiled up at him, gentle, understanding, warm, loving. He knew, he knew. Of course he knew. “I’ll be with you ‘til the end, and I’ll have you ‘til the end, too.”

Leo curled up, pulling Casey in as close as he possibly could. His brothers gathered around as Leo started crying in earnest, Casey only patting his plastron. 

“You will be, won’t you? We’ll have each other…”

Til the end of time. 

Stars will form, and stars will die, and stars will live and exist and be. 

Leo will never have to be alone. 

And neither will Casey. 

Leo pulled back after a while, setting his forehead against Casey’s, smiling, syrup and honey and every comforting thing that Casey knew Leo alone had, soft starlight a perfect match to his bright beginnings. “Well, Case, I’m ready and willing to keep you for forever, long as you’ll stay.”

Casey grinned softly back and pulled away just to dive into a hug. “‘Course. You’re warm, anyways.”

Casey was a new addition to their daily lives, but one taken happily. Him and Leo were rarely ever apart, Casey even taking to welcome new stars with him. Besides Leo, he was closest with Raph, but that was a given. Him and Mikey raised hell together, little hydrogen and helium creations and megalith comets that Mikey could only rain on Pluto, lest all of humanity be forgone. (They looked epic as hell, though.) As soon as Casey was old enough to figure out a corporeal form on Earth-and Leo was assured it would be fine, even if he wasn’t as powerful as them, though he refused not to stick to Casey’s side like glue regardless-they introduced to April. Of course, she was smitten, but as Leo claimed, head held high and grin proud, who wasn’t?

The kid was pretty easy to get along with, anyone would give him that. 

True to his promise, Leo kept Casey close. They always knew where the other was, anyways, but it was rare they wouldn’t fall asleep and wake up together. (Raph would always be grateful to the kid for fixing Leo’s sleep schedule, if nothing else.) They lived every moment they could together, warmth and love and beginning and living and ending. 

Casey was always there for Leo to hold when a star died. Leo was always there to make sure Casey was never alone, always there to be the safe comfort he needed. 

But no matter what happened to them, if Casey really did have to go before Leo did, if Casey was ever left without him, Leo would always have Casey’s bright, starlight smile, and Casey would always have Leo’s stardust tears and ever-warm eyes. 

Beginning and living. They were the start and the living and the end of the same thing, one apart of the other. 

There was no such thing as loneliness for stars. Not if they had a say in it. 

[capriciouswrites]

on the sixth day of halloween my true boo gave to me...one (not) hallucination

Any mission that the Outlaws were able to get away from was a good mission. Except they’re maybe having some issues with the actual getting away part. Kori is out for the count — Jason has her in a fireman’s carry, walking backwards while he covers their retreat — and Roy is well aware that there is probably something really wrong with his leg. But he can hobble onto the ship and get it into the air and —

They make it out of danger, which is to say, the planet they’re leaving doesn’t have space travel yet, before the alarms start going and he’s pulling up the screen and —

“Shit, shit,” he chants and tries the fixes he knows and, he presses the intercom button so that he can be heard wherever Jason’s ended up — his bet is on the infirmary getting Kori settled, and healed if he can. “We’re losing pressure, bad. There’s a break in the hull, front port — if you can get Kori awake she might be able to weld it shut until we can get somewhere to fix it for real, but we’ve probably only got like three hours before we’re space dust if we don’t stop it.”

“Kori isn’t going to wake up for a while,” Jason says from behind him, and Roy jumps so hard in shock he jars his leg and has to swallow back a pained whimper. He must succeed because Jason doesn’t stop talking his voice no longer filtered through his helmet. “I’ve got her stabilized but the system can’t figure out what they drugged her with. But I’ll take care of the hull if you can just keep driving us home.”

And as soon as Jason says that the alarms stop blaring and when Roy checks the readouts it says they’re holding steady and that doesn’t make any sense. Kori can seal up a crack but Jason can’t — and how could he do it from the bridge with him — what did he do, threaten to shoot at it and make it behave?

“How —“ Roy turns around and abruptly forgets how to breathe. “Okay,” he says, transfixed and having more than a little trouble thinking, “I know I said that the only place I was hurt was my leg, but I think I was wrong. I think I hit my head. Or got drugged. Or something because…” He gestures expansively with his hands even though there’s no way Jason could intuit what he’s seeing.

And he, honestly, doesn’t have words for it.

Jason walks closer. And Roy honestly isn’t sure if he’s a hallucination, although he can feel the vibration of the steps on the metal flooring so if he’s a hallucination he’s a solid one, or if the hallucination is just what he’s wearing. Which is, well, it’s not his Red Hood gear that’s for sure.

But Jason is frowning and his hands are coming up to Roy’s shoulders and carefully guiding him back to sit down and then those same careful hands are checking Roy’s head and —

And Roy cannot think because there is a cleavage window and he’s not blind, he knows that Jason has a nice chest, the things he wears under his body armor are tight but…but this is — this is just too much.

Something about the cleavage window is a lot more provocative than just no shirt, too, and Roy can’t even make fun of the fact that the cut out is in the shape of a bat because — because if he makes fun of it maybe it’ll go away and that is absolutely the last thing he wants.

Of course, if it’s a hallucination it’s going to either go away or get worse or something but —

Holy shit, he’s just going to enjoy this for as long as he can.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” Jason asks, and Roy can see there’s a hand extended but he cannot move his gaze from where it’s locked. Jason is always covered up — which Roy hasn’t thought much of until now and now he’s not sure he’s going to be able to think of anything else ever again.

“Are your nipples pierced?” he asks, his own voice sounds an octave higher and much breathier than he’s used to but, well, he’s pretty sure no one could blame him if they could see what he’s seeing. Which no one else can because this is absolutely a figment of his imagination.

Jason laughs, which does interesting things to his chest and Roy is starting to wonder if maybe the oxygen leak was worse then he thought and he’s dying and hallucinating and —

But Jesus, what a way to go.

“You’re fine, Harper,” Jason says with a huff, but his fingers are still gentle against the back of Roy’s skull.

“I know you are, but what am I,” Roy responds and then fails to stop his hand from reaching up and touching the chest in front of him. For a hallucination it seems very solid. And he’d think that maybe Jason was actually there but he can feel the warmth of silky skin and — “Jesus,” he breathes. “I might be dying and my mind is trying to give me something nice to see.”

There’s a choked sound that Roy thinks is probably a smothered laugh. “Okay, get the autopilot set up and we’ll get your knee looked at.”

Roy would, he really would, but as much as he’s bragged about being able to fly the ship blindfolded or one handed he actually can’t and he can’t look away from the glorious sight in front of him so — he whimpers when Jason turns him around, and he tries to keep looking over his shoulder but then those hands are turning his face back towards the screen and —

Petulantly he gets the autopilot set up towards the nearest friendly planet they’ll be able to do repairs at. There’s still, he thinks, a decent chance they’re actually already dead but he might as well try and hey, if they’re not and he just took a knock to the head it’ll be a good story later.

“There, set,” he says, and promptly turns around — only to be lifted up and out of the chair and — okay, so it’s not a cleavage window but it’s still a good view. The hallucination suit is a lot tighter than the Red Hood outfit and Roy wants to know if he can petition for Jason to swap his pants out for tights because damn. “Are you wearing heels?” he asks, after a moment as his gaze trails closer to the ground.

“I’m literally holding the ship together and you care about my heels,” Jason says, voice light like this is something they joke about and Roy is just, not having a good time processing.

“They do,” Roy says, reaching out a hand to pat the body part in question, “amazing things to your ass.”

The jostle he gets for that is probably fair, to be honest, even if he can tell Jason is still being careful of his knee. And then he’s being put down on the exam chair for the robo-doc to take a look at his knee and he can look at the full sight as Jason punches in the instructions to the wall unit and some dull spark of memory flairs to life.

“Wait, are you — are you seriously a Star Sapphire?” Roy asks, incredulous, not because he doesn’t think Jason is one of the most loving people he knows — if hidden behind an epic amount of surly attitude and ammunition most of the time — but because shouldn’t he have…

Vaguely the memory of a drinking game when they first teamed up comes back to him and —

Jason shoots him an amused look before clicking the last button on the wall and Roy falls back with a groan as the med-robot blocks his view.

“It’s unfair that you’ve been hiding this suit from us! You’ve been holding out and I, for one, am deeply offended!” Roy shouts out the open door after Jason, because yes, okay he thought he was dying and hallucinating but he refuses to be ashamed of what really was a natural reaction to Jason Todd in a skin tight Star-Sapphire uniform with heels and a cleavage window.

[acaciapines]

finished editing the first story of my owl house daemon au!!! rewrote nearly the entire thing and added like 6k words lol. anyways time to ignore this project for a month cause guess who got an idea for another undertale fanfiction---

[kindlythevoid]

y'all this game never ends. i got to the nuclear option. i blew up the thingy. i saved the people. i did the thing. but it keeps going. where are the credits? i got the voiceover but no credits? do the credits ever come? will i be doing endless mission after mission? send halp.

[notafandomname]

Hey anyone wanna know the pointless data that I just found. Sure okay here we go:

Using AO3's tags, we can see that the hermitcraft smp has 14,042 fan works published. 1,241 of those are rated E. So that's 8% of hermitcraft works being explicit.

I compared this to the dream smp, which has 71,577 fan works, of which there are 3,037 explicit fics. So that's 4% of dream smp works being explicit.

As a more general overview I had a look at the Minecraft fandom tag and found that out of 102,507 works there are 6,019 works rated E, putting it at 5% being explicit.

OK so now why the fuck did I do this and also, does it mean anything?

One of the things I love doing on ao3 is going into different fandoms and seeing the general vibe of the works, I like seeing which ship is most popular, how many works it has, what the general ratings and warnings are, and what additional tags are most common. It's just a fun little thing and I like learning about different fandoms that I'm not a part of. I also really like seeing the additional tags, and seeing what fun little things pop up, because there's always fluff, angst and hurt comfort etc but I like seeing what else there is! There always some fun fandom specific tags to be seen.

Anyways, that's just the sort of thing I like doing, and another thing I like is seeing a specific or weird tag and clicking on it to find out what the deal is, how many works it has, what fandoms it's for etc. And anyways today I was having a look at an author that had written a lot of smut fic. And they'd used the tag mob fucking a lot (yeah, like the Minecraft mobs, for this unfamiliar with the concept). So ofc I was like "I wonder how many works that tag has" (it's 41 btw). And I noticed, scrolling through, that it was overwhelmingly hermitcraft under this tag, which I thought was odd, because I know dsmp is a lot more popular so I naturally assumed that for something Minecraft related, dsmp would have more fics. And that thought naturally progressed to fic tropes in general, if the dsmp has more works, surely it has more of everything, right? More E rated fics at least. So I did that maths, for curiosity's sake, and thats what I found! Smutfic makes up double the amount of fics in general in hermitcraft than in dsmp (those being the two biggest smp specific Minecraft fandoms on ao3).

This info,,, benifits no one, as far as I can tell, and is useful for nothing (except my own curiosity) but it is interesting just in terms of challenging my own preconceptions, and probably many peoples, on how just because something is popular doesn't mean it has the most of any one thing. And I was also surprised at how small the amount of E fics was in general, I think there's still this overwhelming generalisation of fanfiction being pornography of being an especially lewd sort of writing, and scrolling through ao3 it really does feel that way sometimes. But I think that's just because,, when we see something that has graphic tags, or an E rating, it just stands out more, you know? We remember it, it sticks in our minds, and makes it feel like there's more than there actually is (not that there isn't plenty).

I'm probably going to do more of this just for my own sake, and see how much of different fandoms have different percents of smut/E ratings,its really interesting.

Also disclaimer I'm not 100% certain that I did my maths right in getting those percentages (I did number of E fics÷number of fics overall, times 100, which I think is right but it's late so honestly who know) and I also was aware that plenty of smut gets published under not rated works, so I did a quick search for unrated works with the tags "smut" or "porn" but didn't come up with anything that significantly impacted the original data. Guys I'm meant to be writing a report it's due in in 40 minutes and I haven't finished it what the fuck am I doing with my life.

[huckleberr1es]

no because what i dont understand is why people on ao3 intentionally seek out triggers/dark fics/dead dove, knowing full well that they dont like that type of content, just to leave mean comments? like its literally free to mind your business

and ao3 LITERALLY has a system for filtering tags/fics you dont want to see???? why not... utilize it? curate ur experience? i love me a good dark fic/dead dove but i also have my Squicks and u know what i do... i exclude tags in my search

idk i just think some people are addicted to drama and literally just need to mind their business 😭 "oh no this triggered me!!!" filter the fucking tags then and stop engaging in this weirdo form of self harm just to start shit??? and if someone didnt tag their fic properly tell them????? and if they dont listen??? BLOCK/MUTE THEM????? HELLO?

[autumnrory]

i absolutely get where that “all your fave fics were written by middle aged women” post is coming from wrt how women are treated in fandom as they age but like having followed a lot of the writers i was reading stories by back in the day ik for a fact that at the time most of my faves were written by ppl who were like 25 - 35 at the time lmao

[stevethehairington]

grr i wanted to post my ficlets from here to ao3 as a big chaptered collection and i wanted to do it before the end of the year so the word count went towards 2022 since i wrote them all then but i am NOT going to be able to do that, there is NOT enough time left for all i still have to do for it 😔