All fucked up and I make it look good

He returns one night to his humble apartment, which is known to have vermin, and comes across a rat, which he could easily kill or set loose on the street.

But the rat- it is special. It seems to speak to him. Promises him every little thing he desires- talent, fame, and fortune. Recognition and esteem like he has only ever seen from afar; fine company like the wealthy men and women whose scraps he picks at over the sink.

Put me on your head, the rat says. Put me on your head and think of nothing.

It is strange at first, yes. Strange to feel another take control of his life and live it better than he ever could. To see miraculous things created with his own two hands, to feel his feet move in graceful and fantastic ways with a confidence he has never had.

But the rat delivers as he had promised: he receives promotions, notoriety, admiration. He is noticed. Envied. Every day is a waking dream, rubbing elbows with beautiful women and handsome men and influential personalities who lavish him with praise. It is addictive, this lifestyle- never mind that he is only ever truly conscious of it as a passenger of in own brain.

It is when he has reached heights few can ever conceive, with all that the rat had ever promised- a beautiful wife in a beautiful house with all the world in his palm, in possession of all the wealth and success a man could ever want, that the rat says that it is leaving.

Leaving? The rat cannot leave. Everything he is, the rat has provided.

"I have delivered on our bargain", the rat says. "I have brought to you all that you have ever dreamed. What more could you desire? I must live my own life, now."

The man is furious. He is terrified. He destroys the rat, in all of the ways that a rat can be destroyed, until nothing is left of it but a fine smear of marinara sauce.

He returns to the restaurant the next day moving like the shell of something hollowed-out and brittle. He cooks well- his fingers remember the movements, his eyes recognize the patterns, his mouth knows without his asking what orders to speak and what platitudes make patrons smile pleasantly with their straight white teeth.

He retains the talents of the rat. The charm of the rat. All the worldly pleasures the rat had provided him.

Still, it seems, he is little more than a vessel for the talents of the rat.

But the rat is gone.

8: what part of etched in the surface is your favorite?

okay, i actually have 2 answers here:

1) the duct tape scene which genuinely makes me sound insane bc i went back and forth on it sooo many times bc i was worried it was too much. but i think it was a really good metaphor for everything, i’m glad i didn’t talk myself out of it, bc i think its super easy for characters to not want to acknowledge something until u literally throw it in their face and it works as a metaphor for captav’s worst fears about their relationship, and i think its the only thing extreme enough to justify him leaving after? if it was anything softer, it would have been cruel to leave, but captav had to see himself as a monster and doing ghost a favour by leaving for the scene to work. so. i’m not insane i promise

weirdly, the original plans for the scene were much more… romantic, in a way? not romantic but kind of warped romance, like ghost is letting him in so close and letting him touch him especially on such a tender wound. and it only internally bothers captav because he can’t help but draw parallels, like it should be romantic but its not. but then it would have been really horrible for captav to sneak out after all that :( tbf the entire thing was lowkey horrible for everyone on all sides. but that was my fault so sorry guys

When I was a kid, between six and fifteen, one of our Pyrenees would escort me, off-leash, between my grandmother's house and mine. I'd just have to call him, and he'd show up and walk me there, placing himself between me and anything he considered threatening- Cranky farm animals, holes in the ground, bodies of water, etc.

That same dog found a (unfortunately deceased) lamb my grandfather had buried a few hours earlier, dug it up, realized it was cold and not breathing, and carefully carried it to our barn, where he covered it neck-deep in straw and tried to cuddle it warm again to bring it back to life.

One of our older dogs, at about sixteen years old (keep in mind, this breed tends to average out at about 12 years max) had arthritis in his hips, a bad back, and a respiratory issue, was fucking ancient and essentially palliative, but would still go stock-still out of nowhere, let out one subtle "boof", and then set out at an awkward-yet-speedy bunny-hop sprint at the slightest whiff of a cougar, bear, or wolf. Like, grampa would jump fences. Gentle geriatric giant would kick up to 7k to protect the family, never mind the three other, much younger fogs already on the case.

When I was a baby, like a literal in-diapers infant, he would lay on the ground and let me dress him up as a wizard and crawl all over him with zero complaint.

His nephew was 100lbs and often alarmed visitors who mistook him for a bear, yet never so much as bumped into a person in his life and feared only string and kittens.

—

MacTavish was in hell. Not actual hell, not yet, though he'd get there sooner than he hoped if that heat went on. No, he was stuck in his stuffy on base office, blinds drawn on the south facing window he was so generously given to let more light in during the shorter months. He would trade his nephew and niece for one of the shitty, moldy basement offices right now.

He'd managed to scrounge up a single rattling fan that looked like it was about as old as his gran and did roughly the same job as someone blowing air at him through a straw. There was a wet towel slung over his neck, dripping down his chest and joining the sweat rolling down his skin and he wanted nothing more than to tear all his clothes off and walk into the nearest body of water. Unfortunately, not only would MacTavish crumble to dust like the vampire he was slowly turning into the second he stepped out into the sun, he also still had work to do.

Debating just emptying his water bottle over his head he responded to another email while his laptop was half a degree away from blowing up in his face. He scrapped that idea as quickly as it popped up. The humidity in the room was so high that not even his sweat was drying anymore and adding more water would only turn him from vampire to a swamp monster, which somehow seemed even less appealing.

The email disappeared from his screen with a soft whoosh at the same time as the grandmother fan made a noise that could only be described as a death rattle. MacTavish looked up to witness the last rotation its blades would ever make before it stilled. Whatever meager air circulation the fan had put into motion was a thing of the past now, leaving him in a room approximating the South American jungle so closely he was about to declare it enemy territory when his door opened.

MacTavish was still glaring at the little fan that couldn't, choosing to ignore the living shadow that sauntered into his room covered in black fabric from head to toe. “Did you just take a shower?” Ghost asked, sounding way too chipper for a man currently standing unarmed behind enemy lines.

“No.” MacTavish refused to look up at him, instead turning back to his computer whose fans were running loud enough to rival the migraine pounding in his head now. Riley, as always, ignored his murderous tone, rocking on the balls of his feet. “I need your help.”

Muppets in love <3