THAR BE CRACKLETS

[novembersmith]

So I have some ficlets from that random-numbers-meme thing, and if the internet will be so gracious as to allow it, I'll post them here for you guys. As I have gone lj-stupid, the chances of that are vanishingly slim. But I'll give it a shot, eh?

In case you were wondering, by the way...
2 = James Dewees, 7 = Brendon Urie, 8 = Jon Walker, 3 = the Joker, 4 = James Potter, and 14 = Gerard Way.

Yep.

So, for perspexsea, I have one cracktastic ficlet, as ordered:

Normally, Brendon totally would have written off James Dewees chugging a bottle of blood, was the thing. But usually James chugged blood on stage, and spit it back out afterwards, and normally he didn’t have fangs.

“Aw, goddammit,” James said. “Can’t you, just, you know, scurry off to the rest of your baby band stoners?”

“But this is so cool!” Brendon said, bouncing. James eyed him unhappily and tossed the Red Cross blood bag in the trash. “Oh, hey isn’t that a biohazard? Don’t you have to have like buckets or whatever, like in Bio class with the pigs? I’m pretty sure you have to dispose of biological waste properly.”

James stared at him. “Please go away. Seriously.”

“You know,” Brendon said, hopping up on the snacks table—where along with the Coronas and chips, James apparently also had a special delivery of bloody goodness arranged, which totally shot a hole in Zack’s theory that it was way too much trouble to have bouquets of green pixie stix waiting for Brendon at each venue. Surely it was easier to get candy than blood. He grabbed a handful of carrots and started munching on them, saying through a full mouth, “You know, you’re not what I imagined a vampire to, uh, look like.”

James put his hands on his hips and raised an eyebrow. “I hope you’re not saying what I think you’re saying, littlest Panic child.”

“No no!” Brendon said, swallowing hastily, but oh wow, James’ fangs were totally poking out and it was awesome. He sort of wanted to lick them, but he also wanted to run because if James drank his blood Ryan would totally throw a complete jealous hissy. “Just, um, you’re not as dark and broody as expected?”

“Is it my birthing hips?” James asked, but he was sort of smiling though, so Brendon counted it as a win. “Is that what throws you off? No one expects a vampire to have meat on his bones, Christ. It’s such a pain, those fucking movies. Brad Pitt can kiss my fat undead ass.”

“Well, yeah,” Brendon said. “But it’s more the Hannah Montana jumpsuit, honestly. Dude, does everyone else know? Does Ray know? I mean, he rolls around with you a lot. Is he, like, your blood-bonded sex slave?”

He was suddenly filled with concern, because man, enslaving Ray Toro was not on, Ray was totally like the nicest guy ever and also the only one left in the entire world that would still play the Donkey Kong Bongo game with him. He wasn’t sure exactly how he could thwart James Dewees and his evil, guitarist-seducing ways, though, because it was James fucking Dewees. Even if he wasn’t a vampire, James could probably break Brendon over one knee.

“Yes,” James deadpanned. “I’m slowly devouring the music industry, one by one. First My Chem, then the world. I was thinking of going after The Cab next, what do you think? Turn ‘em all into my Renfield minions.”

“Dude, that is cold,” Brendon said, affronted on behalf of his homeboy Cash Colligan. “Give them, like, a few years to not be so, uh. The Cab. They barely even have facial hair!”

“You’re right,” James mused. “I don’t think they’re ripe yet. You, on the other hand…”

Brendon maybe choked on his carrot. James smiled at him and cocked a hip suggestively.

“So, Brendon—it’s Brendon, right?—how do you feel about bloodplay? Dude, I bet you’d be the specialest special brownie in the world.”

Brendon was saved from having to reply by Frank poking his head around the corner.

“James, what the fuck, dude, we’re doing sound check. Get your ass on stage, motherfucker.”

“Does he know?” Brendon squeaked, and immediately regretted it when Frank whirled around and gave him a seriously scary glare. Brendon meeped and hid behind James—he figured if James was going to make him into a blood donor/sex slave, he could at least protect him from terrifying tiny guitarists. That was the duty of all good vampire masters, right? He’d have to ask Ryan about the proper vampire etiquette for these situations.

“Christ, fucking Mikey,” Frank said, grinding a palm into his eye and generally looking long suffering. “He’s not allowed to invite Pete with us on tour any more, not if Pete’s gonna bring all his children along. What is this, a daycare? Fuck. You think anyone’d be mad if you ate Ryan?”

“I think this one’s Brendon,” James said, slinging an arm around Brendon’s shoulders. He smelled like cigarettes and Corona and blood. It was sort of hot, in a weird, overly manly way. Previously the closest Brendon had come to being attracted to an actual man was when Jon had gone through that unfortunate lumberjack phase. “And I think I’m gonna keep him. Look at his little face!” Brendon tried to make his eyes as big as possible. He was unsure that he really appreciated James’ protection, though, now that James was giving him a noogie. Maybe he should have just thrown the veggie plate at Frank and ran.

Frank stared at them both, nonplussed.

“I will kill you,” he told James. “You are not bringing him on our bus.”

“Oh, whatever,” James said. “You brought Mama. At least Brendon can play piano, can’t you, boy?” 

***

Then I have three for fictionalfaerie (THREE OF MANY TO COME):
 

One summer morning, when Brendon was at that stupid summer music camp and Ryan and Spencer were out of town, when Jon had nothing to do at all except watch his baby sister sleep and the babysitter talk all gross and mushy on the phone with her boyfriend, he went next door to see if the new kid wanted to play. It was almost August and he was going to have to start first grade soon, which meant no more kickball in the park every day, or Tiny Toon marathons, or building forts in the backyard, and he wasn’t going to waste it inside. He waited until the babysitter Maura was busy painting her nails, and slipped out the back door.

The new kid wasn’t really a new kid—he’d moved there months ago, but Jon had never actually seen him outside before, and his house was weird, with the windows all shuttered up and sometimes it was loud, like a cop movie on TV, with lots of shouting. But the kid was in his front yard, now, and Jon figured maybe he didn’t have anyone to play with either.

“Hi,” Jon said.

The kid looked up, ratty blonde hair falling in his face. He was squinting funny, and his mouth looked sort of lopsided. “Hello,” the kid said.

“I’m Jon,” Jon said, and sat down on the grass. They had good grass at this house, like no one ever cut it and it was mostly clovers and those red stalks that tasted sour when you chewed them. He picked a blade and started nibbling at it. “I live next door.”

“I know,” the kid said. “You have a little sister, and that loud kid comes over sometimes. And the twins.”

“The twins? Oh, Ryan and Spencer. No, they’re not twins. They’re not even brothers.”

“Hmm,” the kid said. “If you say so. You’re not wearing shoes.”

“Shoes are stupid,” Jon said, scowling. He wiggled his feet in the grass.

“I agree,” his neighbor said, and took his own shoes off. He had muddy feet, like Jon’s. “We shouldn’t wear them.”

“What’s your name?” Jon asked, and proffered a stalk of the red grass. The boy looked at it and started chewing it gingerly. He looked pleased, and was smiling at Jon, a crinkly weird smile, all lopsided. Jon wanted to ask why he smiled like that, but his mom said it was rude to ask questions all the time, so he didn’t.

“I don’t have a name.”

“Oh,” Jon said. “What do your parents call you, then?”

“It doesn’t matter,” the kid said diffidently, and went back to poking at his pile of dead leaves and sticks on the ground.

“Okay,” Jon said, and peered over at the ground. “Hey, what are you doing? Are those matches? My mom doesn’t let me play with those.”

“My mom doesn’t care,” the boy said, and Jon thought even if he was sort of funny looking he had nice eyes, big and brown. “You can play with mine, if you want.”

“Okay,” Jon said agreeably, and they made a bonfire in the front yard, like the ones Jon’s dad made in the winter to roast oysters on, only smaller and without the marshmallows. Jon had never seen a fire during the day before, but it was still nice, crackling and hot. They burned the sweet grass, and it smelled like when his mom left cookies in the oven too long, and dead leaves, which just smelled like smoke, and the kid’s shoes, which smelled terrible, but it was really funny, too, watching them sizzle and pop.

“Want to come watch TV?” Jon asked, when the fire had died down and the kid was poking the ashes with a stick.

“Mmm, no,” he said, and frowned. “No, no, no. No TV for me.”

That was okay with Jon. It was too nice out for TV anyway, and he spent the rest of the afternoon with the kid coloring the street in front of their house with sidewalk chalk, weird swooping figures. It was fun, even if he did miss his friends. The new kid was weird, but okay, though. Kind of quiet, like Ryan, but he had good ideas, and he was smart, like Spencer, good at tying knots. He wasn’t like Brendon at all, except sometimes he started laughing for no reason and couldn’t stop. Jon spent the rest of that summer sneaking out of his house when he could, going next door and hiding out in the woods at the end of the street with the kid. He never found out his name, though, only that he liked that baseball bubblegum you could buy from the corner store and that he could climb way higher than Jon, up to the top of the tree, where Jon was scared to go because the branches were thin and looked like they might snap.

“Careful,” he told the kid. “You might fall.”

“I don’t care,” the kid said. “But you probably shouldn’t come up. Your friends will be back soon.”

The kid said a lot of things like that, things that didn’t make sense, but he taught Jon how to whittle a snake out of a twig—he had his own pocketknife already, which Jon thought was the coolest thing ever, and when he cut himself he didn’t even cry. Jon cut himself, by accident, once, and it really hurt, but he didn’t want the new kid to think he was a baby, and so he just sucked on his finger until it stopped bleeding.

Then one day, the new kid was gone. The house looked just like it always had, boarded up and bedraggled, but there was no noise at night anymore, and when Jon finally got up the courage to knock on the door, no one answered.  He was just gone. Like a fire that had burned up and the ashes all blown away before Jon had even noticed the flames were out. But by then, Spencer and Ryan were back from vacation, and Brendon had finished his summer camp and was out in the Walker’s front yard every day with his new tambourine, and most of the time Jon was too busy catching frogs or keeping Brendon from breaking his window to wonder about the next-door neighbor. Every now and then, though, even when he was much older, practically an adult, he’d remember the kid at the weirdest times. When he saw a bonfire, or a tight-rope walker, or a lonely pair of shoes by the side of the road, he remembered, and wondered if the new kid had ever found a name.

AND IN MY HEAD YEARS LATER THE JOKER SEES JON IN A BANK HE’S ROBBING AND SAYS, YOU WEAR SHOES NOW, HUH, AND Jon’s like, WHAT? And the Joker kills everyone else but not Jon and says, You were the only one who ever played back. And just leaves.
 
 
***
 

Any date that Worm's band didn’t find out about. If he didn’t know better, he’d say Frankie had him under surveillance.  He could count on one hand the number of dates he'd had without one or more of the Way brothers, with Frank and Bob in tow, giggling at the table next to his, hiding behind menus or giant sunglasses, like he hadn’t been the one to buy the fucking sunglasses. Ray never showed up on these band excursions, which was why Worm loved Ray forever.

***

James had a sort of bizarre vendetta going on with that weird Hufflepuff kid. It wasn’t like he started it, whatever Lily said—how was he supposed to know the new Slytherin had a brother? And that the brother was batshit insane? He’d only poured pondscum on the kid, it was practically a tradition, but all of a sudden Hufflepuff boy was in his face—he’d never even noticed the kid before, except to note that he was always drawing all over himself, and scribbling in class, and that he was chubby and weird and never washed his hair. And then suddenly he was screaming and jabbing James in the chest with a surprisingly pointy and painful finger.

Naturally, he’d retaliated by shoving and then they both had their wands out and the Hufflepuff kid, whose name was apparently something Way, Gregor Way, maybe? Anyway, he turned out to be decent at spellcasting, enough that even Sirius professed he was impressed by the talking boils that had sprouted all over James’ body. Whatever, James’ had totally paid Gerard back with the Uncontrollable Erection hex. Or he would have if that kid didn’t wear such gigantic robes with, like, three hoodies underneath, anyway. It was a moral victory, he assured Remus, who for some ungodly reason seemed to sympathize with the enemy. Ungrateful werewolf bastard.

Anyway, that had been the beginning of all out war with G-something Way. Mikey, his little brother, actually turned out to be a pretty decent human being, despite being a Slytherin. He did stare blankly a lot, but James once caught the kid laughing at Gerard when Gerard was tangled up in the All Encompassing Demon Clothing—a charm James’ was particularly proud of, he had to say. So maybe the younger Way was redeemable. At any rate, one of the first year Gryffindors, Peter Wentz, had latched onto the kid, so he was always underfoot in the Gryffindor common room, looking bored and unimpressed. He was dead brilliant at Exploding Snap, at any rate.

His brother, though, was another case entirely. Hufflepuff Way was going to suffer. Suffer greatly.

“His name’s Gerard, you know,” Remus said serenely, and passed James the pork chops. James seethed at his plate. No one was on his side.

“He’s just pissed ‘cause Gerard’s bat bogey charm is better than his,” Sirius said, which was mind-bendingly obnoxious. James stomped on Sirius' foot under the table. Peter howled indignantly.

“Sorry, Pete. Anyway, It isn’t, and that’s not the point,” James said. “The point is that he’s weird and unwashed and weird, and also a jerk. Sorry, Mikey.”

Mikey, who was also weird but at least was clean, was sitting in Wentz's lap and looking dryly amused. “He sort of is,” Mikey agreed.

“You see?” James said. “Out of the mouths of babes. Gross, Wentz, fuck, no groping at the table. We’ve discussed this!”

Wentz looked unrepentant. He always did.

Sometimes Wentz even brought Douchebag McWay into the Gryffindor common room, which was clearly an attempt to start an all-out war, but for some reason not even Sirius would join him in his noble quest to drive the enemy out.

“He’s not even Slytherin,” Sirius said reasonably. “No offense, Mikey. Plus, he does way wicked magical tattoos. Have you seen my lion yet?”

“Everyone with eyes has seen that stupid lion,” James said, later. He was scrubbing at his face in the mirror where Gerard had ‘accidentally’ smacked him with a paintbrush of magical paint, which, apparently, never washed off. If James’ cheek was going to be purple forever, with silver splotches, Gerard was going to die. Die so hard.

“Sirius, if you have ever called me your friend, you will help me with this,” James said, glaring at his comrade through soapy eyelashes. And by comrade he meant backstabbing traitorous pig dog, because Sirius kept looking at James and laughing, and soon James was going to snap and replace Sirius’ sheets with Mandrake threaded linens. See how funny he thought it was when he got talking boils. Sirius, despite the smile that kept reappearing on his face, looked as though he was aware of this, because after an eternity of chortling and mockery, he backed down and agreed to help James with his Cunning Plan.

“You realize you’re really becoming quite pathetic, right,” Sirius said as they finished the last touches on the newly collapsible dock. James was quite pleased with the clothing banishment spell they’d worked into the last few planks. Gerard would fucking regret ever messing with James Potter.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” James said haughtily, and surveyed the dock with great pleasure.

“Just, it’s an awful lot of trouble to go through to get Way naked, you know,” Sirius said, and of course then James had to feed Sirius his own shoe, so they didn’t get to put ‘Operation Humiliate Way Until He Knew His Rightful Place in the School Hierarchy’ in gear until the next day.

Then, somehow, it had all gone terribly, terribly wrong.

“Oh my god,” Gerard cooed. “Look at its little face!”

Gerard, it had to be said, was not as awkward naked as James had expected. He was also pink with cold and on his knees in front of James, which was alarming all on it's own, but then it got worse. Because Gerard was on his knees cuddling a baby squid thing.

“A squidling,” Gerard had said primly, when James had expressed his dismay. “They’re called squidlings.”

“This has gone terribly, terribly wrong,” James said, scowling. How was he supposed to have known the mermaids kept the squidling eggs by the dock? The dock had collapsed, all according to plan, and Gerard had staggered out dripping and naked and pale in front of the eyes of the entire school, but then as James was cackling in triumph, a tiny form had crept out of the water behind him.

The squidling looked like a human toddler from the waist up, all big liquid eyes and chubby cheeks and grasping hands, clinging to James’ robes. James was too dumb-stricken with horror to detach it. Gerard, meanwhile, was beaming at it like a giant girl, which was only the more disturbing because the lower half of the kid was a mass of tentacles, seven or eight thick purple things that it balanced itself on. It had some trouble moving out of the water, and kept toppling over. James guessed that was why it kept clutching frantically at his robes, for balance.

The entire Quidditch pitch had gone eerily silent, and the Ravenclaw-Slytherin game had apparently come to a screeching halt. James had a dim awareness of the wrath of Dumbledore and McGonagall sweeping down on them, and the fact that Sirius had fled like the rotten coward dog bastard he was—man’s best friend, James’ ass—but he was somewhat distracted by the fact that Gerard was glaring up at him and demanding he take off his robes.

“I, what?” James said faintly.

“It’s winter, asshole,” Gerard said frostily. “I know you’re a complete waste of space and humanity and magic, but he’s only a baby and it’s cold out. Give me.”

The squidling did look cold, it was shivering and burying its face in James’ leg, and James abruptly felt sort of awful. He stripped off his robes and had just wrapped the baby up in it—Gerard leaning over him—leaning over him naked, it had to be traumatizing for the baby, really—and okay, it was sort of cute, burbling up at him, its big black eyes crinkled up in a smile—when the aforementioned wrath of Dumbledore and McGonagall  finally descended upon them.

“Gentleman,” Dumbledore said, eyes twinkling alarmingly.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” McGonagall said fiercely. “Oh, for pity’s sake, Mister Way.” She waved her  wand sharply and Gerard was clothed again, draped in heavy black wool. James was glad.

“I… won the prank war?” James said uncertainly, and the baby burbled at him. “Hey kid, enough with the tentacles,” he said, then glanced back up. McGonagall was massaging her temples and Dumbledore was beaming. That was… not good. At all. “So, um. Where’s the baby’s mom?”

“That would be you, Mr. Potter, I’m afraid,” McGonagall said, sighing heavily.

“I beg your pardon,” James said. Gerard snorted next to him.

“I wouldn’t be so amused, Mr. Way,” she said, turning her fierce glare on him. Gerard tried to subtly hide behind James. James was not amused, either. “You’re the father, it seems.”

“I knew it,” James hissed.

“Oh, come off it, Potter,” Gerard sneered in his stupid high-pitched duck voice. “You’re obviously not the mother, so something else must be going on.”

“Correct!” Dumbledore said, still beaming. This was so bad. “Minerva, perhaps you’d better get the rest of the game sorted out while I explain squidling imprinting to our two new parents.”

“Imprinting?” James squawked. The baby squealed in his arms and stretched out a fat purple tentacle towards Gerard, who, obviously enchanted, offered it a finger. The baby cooed back at him. James was so fucking doomed.

“I want to name him Grant,” Gerard said. “Or, oh! Danzig!”

“We’re not naming him Danzig!” James hissed, and then hated himself a little. “I mean, it doesn’t matter what we name it because we’re not keeping it!” The baby had curled a tentacle around James wrist and was cuddling up to him, and James was resolutely not finding it cute at all.

“You’re right,” Gerard mused. “Danzig doesn’t really fit. How about Cliff? You like Cliff Steele, baby?”

So fucking doomed, James thought darkly.
 

***

So, yeah. That happened. Uh. I might write more of that last one. QUAKE IN FEAR. But I've also almost finished a ficlet for softlyforgotten which isn't actually a ficlet, but instead some epic thing that has taken over the entire universe. Which is unfortunate, as I don't think it's even in fandoms she's interested in. SORRY, BB. I'll write more later! In the interim, though, you should all watch this as a primer: Dr. Horrible's Sing-A-Long Blog. It's only 45 minutes and it will enrich your day and musical repetoire and life. Seriously, guys, it is amazing. fictionalfaerie I AM LOOKING AT YOU. AND I AM NARROWING MY EYES.