#rai ramble comp
hey i’m changing around my catchall talk + art tags, they’ll be #kbitycus art / #kbitycus talks from now on!
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crime au! the wyatt masons are a group of people trained to impersonate and replace high level crime folks, roo and vi mason are siblings. tw for blood and injury and guns! your typical crime au things. google doc title for this work was “dig your own grave.”
it would be a lie, to say that roo was predestined to fail. they excelled in all the places they had to, knew how to shoot and lie and mimic and all the other bullshit the masons asked of them. maybe that’s why they got fed up in the first place—nothing to prove, if you’ve already proved it all.
maybe it started when they showed up to virginia and the guy they were supposed to replace was already replaced, but hey! who’re they to judge someone else’s con?
it gives them the perfect opportunity. a little lie here, a little faked info here, and roo is sitting pretty in some other state, planning their next heist. (smashing their phone is a stupid move. cutting off all contact with the other masons besides vi for months is a stupid move. they can lie their way out of those. they’ve lied their way out of worse.)
learning how to be a mechanic here, robbing a bank there, doing a hit to pay the rent over there, and roo slips, a little. and slips a little more.
so it’s not really a surprise when they walk into their apartment and someone’s got a gun pointed at them, now is it?
“don,” roo says, easy as anything, hands slipping out of their pockets to motion in surrender. “thought mia would’ve replaced your ass by now?”
don elliott huffs a laugh, rifle trained on them. “we’ve got a little deal going with the masons. take care of you, and mia’s out of there.”
their breath quickens, a little. “am i not a good enough fucking example of someone who’s gotten away?”
he makes a jerky little gesture towards the gun he’s holding, and roo grimaces, twists it into a grin. “fair ‘nough.”
don gets a shot off, and then there’s a knife embedded in his abdomen. it’s certainly not roo’s best work, but there’s blood coming out of their side, give them a break. it’s enough to give them time to run, grabbing the backpack by the door and sprinting. it’s enough to get them away.
breaking and entering’s such a small little thing on roo’s list of crimes that they don’t even bat an eye at getting into the nearest for-sale house. it’s just a graze, they find. bleeding like a bitch, though. the adrenaline wears off, and they collapse in the bathroom, sorting through their own medical supplies with one hand.
don won’t bother to follow. not yet, anyway. has to deal with the little stab wound, first.
“there’s no fucking way i can tell vi about this,” they mumble, a little hysterical. laughs when the buzz of their phone reverberates against the tile—the vi themself, asking if they got home safe.
duh, they text back, fingers staining the screen with bloodied prints. i’m always safe.
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new icon to celebrate taboo noise sho minamimoto 🎉
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jesús and york my beloveds
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declan declan declan , declan,
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tot + tangled yarn?
it’s quiet. tot turns on hir side, one arm falling across where luis should be. it’s not a night ze’ll be getting much sleep; to be honest, ze’s not sure why ze was expecting to.
so instead, ze kicks off the covers and stands, stumbles into the dimly lit living room and fumbles until ze hits the lamp switch. there are still flowers on the shelves by the door, left by finn—a little to the left is what ze’s looking for, a floral-patterned bag full of skeins of yarn. ze drags it out to the center of the rug, puts on a record, and sits.
usually this was what luis did. sorted out yarn, while tot sat on the couch and talked to xir, or cooked dinner. ze takes a purple skein out and begins to unknot it, the wool uncomfortable on hir bare skin.
a bad sort of uncomfortable, really, but nothing ze couldn’t deal with for an hour or two. the chitin lining hir forearms keeps it from getting too awful when ze pushes the yarn back.
quiet work. methodical work. a distraction.
tot hums. ze’ll have to find a lighter, burn all this later. no point in untangling yarn if luis can’t use it.
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“Don’t look at me like that.” + pacrim au
“and with that, we’ll be set for tomorrow!”
“tomorrow,” tot repeats. they toss a look over their shoulder, grinning with all their teeth. “remind me what’s happening tomorrow.”
“we’re feeding fake information to the higher ups, obviously! a little less warning on the next kaiju attack, more data about their biology that is utterly false!”
“don’t look at me like that!” they don’t touch hir. they must have learned better than that, by being in luis’ head. but they lean on the desk next to hir, eyes bright, still smiling. “you’re not having second thoughts, right? we can always talk about it!”
“obviously not. i’ve been looking forward to this,” ze replies. it’s easy, even if ze’s silently praying they haven’t learned what hir lies sound like from luis, too.
but they don’t call hir on it.
“wonderful!” they clap, and walk away. to prepare the lies some more, maybe.
tot tries very, very hard not to think about the consequences of neglecting hir predicting in front of them. keep composure.
it’ll keep hir up tonight, anyway.
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trying to write canon-compliant kingdom hearts fic is always an exercise in “what about my fic is nomura going to make noncanon next”
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simpsimp fusion au,,, delcan fusions please hand them over
“don't worry about me, i'm okay. promise.”
“yeah. yeah, i'm sure, dec- thank you, though.”
declan reaches out.
it's not a good idea, to fuse. not right now, not in the rushed-breath anxiety they're both still feeling, but—declan clings onto echo's hand, trying his level best not to run away, singing at the top of his lungs for 10 to come back, and echo clings back.
it comes naturally. so, so naturally. it almost scares him, if the comfort didn't come first.
“we—” they stop, two arms coming up to feel at their head, two more arms clinging to themself in a hug, eyes (three, two on the left, one on the right, blinking furiously in green-violet-grey) darting to the side. “fused? we- fused-”
declan leans heavily into echo, letting them take the reins, reveling in the feeling of their—their voice, both of them—coming out right, no lyrics, no song, just the faintest hint of crinkling static. they know they still need to talk about solutions, all they can think about is we're safe and we're home and we're together (again, again, again—)
“we fused,” ghost repeats to themself, half-giddy. “we missed this.”
they both know it's true, when they say it. echo runs a hand across the horns jutting out the side of the head, curled, more outward, and declan traces the burn scars down the side of their face, until they stretch down the chest and vanish under their shirt to join the sacrifice scars.
“we missed this,” declan repeats. “i didn't- remember missing this.”
echo leans into them, and they sit down on the carpet, lean against the jukebox. “we don't have to miss it, right now,” and that's true, so declan lets it go and floats, static thrumming happily in their throat.
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diversity win! the keyblade wielder that stole your body and life in pursuit of a set future is nonbinary!
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tyvi + koch?
“so you’re super roamin’ now, huh?”
jesús shrugs. their hand is fixed at their neck, rubbing idle circles into the spot just below their hairline, head aching. the item they got—the legendary super roamin’ fifth base—sits at the foot of their bed, dormant.
“guess so,” they reply, a long moment passing. “there’s not much for me here anymore, anyway?”
tyvi’s eyes narrow, and she makes a moment of eye contact with scorpler, trying to communicate are you seeing this shit without saying anything. “what do you mean there’s not much for you here, jesús, there’s cv—”
“tyvi, i just.” they rub at their eyes, and she swears, for a moment, there— “i’m just a little tired of this town, okay? i’m. just a little- a little tired, of all this.”
“you didn’t say anything.”
“c’mon, jesús,” scorpler adds, but there’s a note of resignation in his voice, like he knows the cause is—already lost, or something. “least shit you could do is tell her why.”
tyvi feels like she’s four steps out of her own body, like this, too separated from jesús to know what they’re really thinking, too melded with her own body to change. “tell me what?”
“i’m just a little tired of all this.” jesús’ hands move, then, from their neck to their lap, motioning like they’re supposed to be clutching onto a bat, again. their eyes go unfocused, again. and again, she swears they’re just—too golden-brown, in this light. “i’m okay, tyvi, i- promise. just tired.”
“we’re all tired,” she says, dry, and jesús laughs, scorpler grins, and the conversation moves on. it feels like she’s given something up that she shouldn’t have let go.
it feels like she’s going to lose them. more than thirty fucking years, and being alive’s finally what’ll do them in, huh.
you better not fuck this up, she says to scorpler, all eye contact.
hundreds of scorpions stare back. we’re trying our fucking best here, they say, tell you later.
fine. later has to be good enough.
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robbins + hands
tw for minor injury and blood associated with that!
robbins drops the knife as the cut in kits hand registers, wincing as the blood drips onto the cutting board. nothing happens, and kit knows nothing is going to happen, but there's still a moment of still/still/still before kits brain kicks into gear again.
the eyes on kits jackets begin to blink open. kit swats at them with kits good hand, snorting softly as the bedroom door creaks open. “robbins,” axel says, voice quiet, “i got bandages?”
“go back to bed, dumbass, it's just a little cut.”
“let me put a band-aid on your little cut, asshole, it'll make me feel better.”
robbins settles on the edge of the couch as axel holds kits hand, eyes on the jacket all furrowed in concentration. he puts the band-aid on—one of the bigger ones, yeah, but still not anything that needs stitches or whatever. kit gets the fuss, anyway.
“you gonna let go?”
axel stops where he's smoothing out the edges of the band-aid, ears going red. “just checking.”
“you don't need shitty excuses to hold my hand, y'know. you do it all the fuckin' time.”
“i really was checking,” he insists, voice a little thinner. robbins drops it, tugs axel onto the couch and curls up against his side, hand still in his. “don't think i've gotten used to it yet.”
“yeah, no, same shit here. good days and bad days and all of that bullshit.”
“today's a good day.”
it's not a question. axel didn't have to coax kit out of a hiding spot, some cabinet in the kitchen they've left empty, or get tissues, this time. robbins shrugs. “happens more often.”
“yeah.” axel's thumb rubs circles into the back of kits hand, soothing to—one of them, maybe both. he's not thinking about it too hard. “did the band-aid help?”
“emotionally speaking, my life has one hundred and fuckin' ten percent improved because of colorful band-aid, axel, don't even- worry.”
“not one hundred and fuckin' twenty percent? guess i need to do better next time.”
“it's expotential- shit. i mean. exponential.”
axel laughs, the eyes on the jacket closing and stilling as he relaxes, head resting against kits. kit feels better just listening to him breath, knowing he's in the same room. the blood on the knife and the cutboard is not quite forgotten, but—
it can wait, now.
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“jaylen. can you stop using thinner for five minutes-”
“christ, you’re acting as if these people aren’t trying to fucking kill us, krueger!”
jaylen turns on her heel to brandish the paintbrush at him, the end still dripping thinner, and he flinches. it’s slight, overridden by the way he stills his expression and glares, but she saw it. “am i trying to kill you, too?”
it’s dry. unshaking. jaylen bares her teeth. “maybe you are. how the fuck am i supposed to know that the thing that dragged me in here wasn’t because of you? you can’t get out of this hellhole without a heart!”
“rub it in more, why don’t you-”
“you want mine.”
derrick stops. shoves his hands into his pockets. “no,” he replies, one eyebrow raised, “what the fuck are you talking about? we already talked-”
“and you were lying! oh, everything makes so much more fucking sense, now.”
jaylen turns back around, flicking her paintbrush back. she doesn’t mean for it to go off, but drops of thinner hit the ground anyway, erasing the path between them. derrick’s hiss is almost satisfying enough to make it worth it. “go protect your goddamn jug and your dead husband, krueger, i’m gonna get the hell out of here.”
“sure. good luck with that.”
she doesn’t leave until he walks away, fingers aching where they dig into the wood of the paintbrush. luis probably has the rest of the rocket parts by now. who gives a shit about krueger, anyway?
he’s not the one stuck here. he’s not the one people want to see get out. so he doesn’t fucking matter, jaylen decides, and thins the rest of the path behind her.
just in case anyone gets any smart ideas.
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faeu if you know you know
falling asleep in the feywilds is what most people would usually consider a death sentence. occasionally, people would consider it worse.
tot, though—tot falls asleep with hir head in luis' lap, unphased by any of it, even though ze's been here for decades and counting and ze knows, ze has to.
but for every deal luis fumbles, xe makes up for in protection. and, xe supposes, ze trusts that about xir. stupid. xe loves it more than xe should.
“do you hear that?” tot doesn't stir. luis listens closely for the rustling, again, and then laughs, light. “guess not. c'mon, up we go.”
xe lifts hir easily, xir wings flicking back as xe begins to walk. “i wish i could say i don't understand you,” xe murmurs, watching hir chest rise and fall. the rustling fades to background noise, but luis knows a bait when xe hears one, and xe knows better. “somehow, i think i might. how did we end up here?”
tot doesn't respond. still asleep, then. luis smiles, teeth catching on xir lip. “you've gotten me with you for decades. what a feat.”
“not too hard,” ze murmurs, and there's the kicker, hir eyebrows furrowed as ze wakes up. “where're we headed?”
“somewhere safe! we had a little intruder. nothing to worry about.”
and ze has the nerve to just—go back to sleep! xe huffs, before xir shoulders relax, watching tot's mouth curl into a small smile under the bandages. “have a good nap,” xe wishes, and the intent behind it is the most good blessing xe's given in months.
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robbins + matheo + movie night?
“can adam sandler stop being a fucking freak and just tell the girl already-”
“how would you explain that you’ve been on, like, fifty first dates with someone?”
“not like this! this isn’t even fifty of them!”
“how did i ever forget i hate watching movies with you, binny?”
“i don’t know, matty, why’s your taste in them so fucking bad?”
matheo rolls their eyes, leaning all of their weight back onto kit as kit huffs and keeps braiding their hair. “you didn’t even make us popcorn,” kit complains, hissing as matheo throws their hand back and smacks kit in the arm. “hey-”
“i don’t want your greasy popcorn claws all in my hair! it’s perfectly understandable.”
“i’ll show you greasy popcorn claws-”
“what does that even mean?”
“i- don’t know, shut the fuck up!”
robbins ties off the braid and flicks it in their face, snickering as they bat it away and grin. “just watch the movie, i didn’t remember you hated love.”
“you should by now.”
“sorry, the revelation that you’ve been in love with someone for thirty-someodd years kind of threw me off my game-”
“kill- bite, attack-”
“then push me off, coward!”
“no.” robbins leans back on the couch cushions, idly running kits fingers through the rest of matheo’s hair, pieces not caught in the braid. “i’m comfortable. fuckin’- real cosy hours over here. even if i have to listen to fucking adam sandler.”
“see? you love love. love and friendship and adam sandler movies.”
“would not go that fuckin’ far, matheo, the rest of his movies suck ass, too-”
“bedtime stories? do you hate children?”
“yes. yeah, i hate children.”
matheo’s attention goes back to the movie, shoulders still shaking with leftover laughter. robbins closes kits eyes, content to fall asleep while matheo watches their shitty movie for as long as kits able.
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axel + deals
axel stands in the field outside of the flowers stadium, russet standing in the grass beside him, assumedly-lilac jersey feeling too-wrong on his shoulders. something is poking at the-hole-it-left-behind, but it isn’t creeping in, not yet. he feels a piece of tall grass winds its way around his ankle, curious.
there aren’t any eyes carved, not here. robbins is on kits way, but boston’s still a good distance from baltimore, if nothing else. “i-”
the grass stops, and he stops, voice cracking on it. “i don’t want- to replace it. not yet. i’m- not ready. please? i can weed and water, if i have help, but i can’t- do this. i- won’t. not again.”
if the entity here is trying to tell him something, he can’t hear it. he just feels the piece of grass curl away, and the-hole-it-left-behind being left alone for now, and he slumps and presses one hand to his blindfold and tells russet to lead him back to the stadium.
he never thought he would miss baltimore, when he left it. right now he’d rather be there than anywhere else.
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and caleb if u have thoughts on calebs alting (or pre-alting caleb). i am just handing u alternates one by one
don is cataloging all the differences. not intentionally, sometimes. but it’s easier, when he has the things to look for, to realize when his brain drifts and he doesn’t remember that his husband is in a different universe entirely.
this caleb is seven foot five instead of nearly eight feet. this caleb has their spanish moss cut short instead of halfway down fir back, still has the branches of black mangrove and soapberry mixed in. this caleb doesn’t know mia, and this caleb watched raúl reflect incinerations towards other players instead of umpires, and this caleb still wakes up at five am to make breakfast like it was something they did for fir don, too.
maybe it was. he hasn’t asked. they still share the same house, out of convenience, out of “i can’t find where the other caleb’s house was,” and the way don knows caleb knew how to make firself hidden when they wanted to, so this one’s never going to find anything.
“i should talk t’ fir.”
“talk t’ fir,” mia echoes, shoving his shoulder. don sighs. that one’s deserved. “hanging back all the time- all the time. talk t’ fir.” eir voice shifts, and he stills as ey continues, hand still halfway through his shoulder. “i want to talk to him,” ey echoes, in caleb’s voice, new-caleb and not old-caleb.
“oi, mia- did they want t’ share that, or are y’being a dick?”
“want t’ share.” mia points, with a little more emphasis, and don keeps his eyes on caleb as they drift around the house. they look lost. they still have the wedding ring on their finger. don twists his own and slumps. “never get anywhere- never get anywhere if you don’t talk about it.”
“why d’ya even stay here if you’re this sick of my shit?”
“you love me, dude,” ey says, in randy’s voice, all smug.
don rolls his eyes. “yeah, yeah, kid.” he doesn’t take any steps towards caleb—not yet. a call to avila to place, first, something to send over the switchboard. but mia’ll win, in the end. talk t’ fir’s lodged in his head now.
he just wanted to chart the differences, not get involved firsthand. maybe that’s unfair. maybe this’ll make that easier. only one way to find out.
maybe it’ll get fir to stop looking so lost, either way.
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Everything Happens So Much
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i have so many blaseball ideas that are like. i want to write a fic about them but the words for a fic aren't there
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the amnt of garden of eden <-> shadows metaphors that can be made i didn’t realize them before
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