#i picked the duck car because it's silly

[moreb4tz]

WE WON CHAT

[koenigami]

fucking finally. tags : pure fluff, fem!reader, childhood friends to lovers trope wc : 1,5k synopsis : one single word is sometimes enough to change everything a/n : oh how i missed writing for my baby boy

"Come on, set for me!" Bokuto's heavy arm hooks around your neck as he pulls you into his side, the grown man looking at you with big bright puppy eyes. "Pleeaaase, Y/n."

You sigh at his antics, and eye the net across the street. Initially, this was supposed to be a calm evening walk with your best friend after you had picked him up from practice. Yet, you must admit that it is your own fault for thinking that you can combine the words "calm" and "Bokuto" in one coherent sentence. The weak smile you offer him as you exhale defeatedly is enough for him to sprint over to the sand volleyball court, and pull a ball out of his duffle bag.

He guides you to the other side of the net, enthusiastically explaining how to toss him the ball, how to dig it once he hits it, reminding you to keep a proper stance -

You scoff. As if you haven’t spent half of your free time observing him like a hawk during games and practices. You wouldn’t call yourself good at volleyball per se, but for an amateur you’re not too bad either.

And so your little play time goes on like this for a little while, the ball flying back and forth between the both of you. And before you know it the sun has almost set, painting the sky in a reddish orange hue.

"Kou, it’s getting late. I think we should head home." You tilt your head as you pout at him, stuffing your hands in the back pockets of your jeans. You'd be lying if you said that you weren't a little out of breath.

"Hm? Don’t tell me you’re already tired." He grins mischievously. You know what he’s doing, because if there’s something worse than his puppy eyes, than it is him using your ego against you. He watches you flip him off before you get back into position as he mumbles to himself. “That’s my girl.”

The dull sound of Bokuto’s palm slapping against the ball sounds through the empty court as you watch it hurtle towards you at a speed that you usually only get to witness from the sidelines. With the little reflexes that you have, you manage to duck and dodge the ball. It whizzes past your ear like a bullet before it slams into the sand, right before the end line.

Besides the few birds chirping and cars passing by, you don’t hear any other noise as you stare at him, shock clearly written all over your face. "Damn." Bokuto rubs the back of his head sheepishly, a nervous smile stretched over his face. He fucked up. "What a service ace, huh?"

And that’s it for you. The exhaustion that you’ve been feeling after such a long day turns into irritation, and you don’t even offer him a last glance when you simply turn around and stomp off.

"Shit." He quickly gathers his stuff and hurries after you, nearly stumbling over his own feet as he clumsily makes his way across the sand. Were you always this fast? "Y/n, wait. I swear, I didn't realise I hit it that hard!"

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see him deflate visibly when he eventually catches up with you. He pleads for your attention, to look at him as he talks to you and apologizes, or at least acknowledge his presence. Yet you simply look ahead of you and do none of those things as you keep a petty pout on your face. All while trying to ignore his way too adorable face.

"Oh, come on. I said I was sorry." He all but nearly whines while he wildly gesticulates with his arms as if to prove his point. Something about the way you're ignoring him doesn't sit right with him. If it were anyone else, he'd probably laugh about it but when it comes to you? Bokuto's not sure how to explain it to himself but your cold shoulder feels like a bullet wound in his chest. You, who always laughs at his silly antics and remarks. You, whom he has the best insider jokes with. You, who has never made him feel like being too much.

"Babe!"

It slips out of his mouth, and he briefly has to check his surroundings to make sure that he's not in a fever dream. Because why the heck would he say that? His wide eyes fall to his hand and the way it shakes the slightest bit before he cards it through his hair and down his face. All those years, he managed to keep his silly little crush at bay, since having you as a friend in his life is better than not at all. Yet, all it took was one single slip up to ruin everything.

He fails to notice that you have long since frozen in place, the gears inside your head turning as you wondered whether you might have heard him wrong. You have not.

"What was that?" His eyes are focused on the ground beneath him, though he can't help but cringe as he clearly discerns the teasing and mischievous smile in your voice. Of course you won't let him off that easy.

"What was what?" He laughs nervously, rubs the back of his neck, and you notice how his eyes seem to wander without ever meeting yours. All your previous annoyance has faded away at the sight of Bokuto standing there, nervously playing with the cords on his hoodie, and reminding you a little of his younger self.

You bite back the growing smile on your face as you walk back towards him and step into his field of vision, not giving him a chance to escape you. Because something inside you decides that this is probably the only chance you'll get.

Your heels raise off the ground as you lean over towards him. So close to him, you notice how good he smells. He must have taken a quick shower after practice. Warm, a little prickly from the light stubble along his jaw, and so so right. That's how the short peck you give him feels before you're already walking backwards with a bright grin on your face while eyeing his shocked expression.

A laugh bubbles up your throat when you see realisation hit him of what you just did. Yet you don't expect him to recover so quickly, because your laugh soon dies down as he shoots you his own challenging grin before taking slow tentative steps towards you.

Then you run.

Your hear his loud stomps as he's immediately on your feet while calling out to you, boasting about how you can't just do something like that and run away, about how he's going to get you, that you can't run forever. And you know that you can't. You've tried for so long to escape your feelings, and this time it seems like you failed big time. And apparently so did he.

"Kou, wait no!-" Shrieks and giggles sound through the almost completely empty street once he catches up with you right in front of your apartment building. His hands wander all over your sides, your stomach, your neck- Once Bokuto ceases his tickling assault, there's nothing left but the sound of your quick breaths, chests heaving quickly while you both just stare at each other with adoration, longing, relief. So many emotions and neither of you is sure what to do with them.

"Shit, I think my heart's going to jump out of my chest." He admits with a sheepish chuckle, and grasps your hands as he guides it up to his chest. Your palm slides over the soft fabric, and then you feel it. It's beating so fast that you wonder whether it should worry you. "Can I-"

His words die on his tongue as the tiny little voice of reason inside his head tells him that it might be too early. Maybe it's neither the time nor the place, and another tinier voice in his head, called insecurity, tells him that you're just playing with him, that-

And for the second time that evening, you take his breath away when you mould your lips against his, ever so softly and gently as if you yourself were testing the waters and making sure that this is truly something you both mutually want. But his eagerness is proof enough. His tongue leaves a wet trail along your lower lip while his hands grip your waist tightly in a way that makes it seem as if he was scared that you'd slip through his hands and disappear forever into nothingness.

Only when your lungs start to burn with the lack of oxygen, you eventually part, still so out of breath yet maybe a little more maddly in love than before.

"So- babe, huh?" You tilt your head and speak so quietly as if you were telling him a secret. His fingers smooth down your hair, trying to tame the strands that have been messed up by the wind, and during his little attack.

"Oh, you have no idea." Bokuto rasps, his nose wrinkles the slightest bit as he shoots you a handsome grin before his lips find their way on yours again. He's finally got you, and he's sure to never let you go.

[woso-dreamzzz]

Prematch

Hardersson x Child!Reader

Jessie Fleming x Child!Reader

Part of The Big Adventures Universe

Summary: The prematch routine

One day, before a match at home, Morsa gets up early to go to the market. She takes you with her because she woke up to you staring at her from your spot in the middle of the Big Bed.

Magda's not even sure how you snuck in without her noticing but it's enough to get you dressed and out the door before you can wake Pernille.

The market only really happens once a month so Magda always makes time to visit as she picks up various items that she can hoard until the next time it comes around.

You get a bit distracted by the crochet bees at one of the stalls and she has to hold your hand tightly to pull you away to the stall with all the flowers.

"Good morning, Magda," The old woman behind the table says, dipping her head in greeting.

"Morning." Magda pokes around at a few of bouquets.

It's a little embarrassing, she thinks, that she's here so often that the woman running the stall knows her name.

"And who is this delightful little lady?"

Magda rests a hand on your shoulder proudly. "My daughter, y/n."

"Oh, she's beautiful," The lady says with a coo and your cheeks go a little red and you duck to hide behind Magda's legs. "What were you thinking of today?"

"Roses," Magda replies," Pernille's still in bed so we're going to surprise her."

"Wonderful choice."

The woman picks up several deep red roses and spins them together as you watch.

"Morsa," You say," Why are we getting flowers for Momma?"

"Well," Morsa replies," When we really like someone, we give them flowers to show our affection. I really love your Momma so I want to get her some flowers to remind her."

That makes you think for a moment, brow furrowed as you ponder. "Morsa," You say eventually," Do only girlfriends give each other flowers? Or do friends do it too?"

"You can give flowers to friends. We got sent a lot of flowers when you were born."

You don't remember that because you were very little then but you believe Morsa. You tug at her shirt.

"Can I give Jessie flowers? Because she's one of my bestest friends and I want her to know."

"Well, princesse-"

"Here you are, Magda."

Morsa has to stop talking to grab the flowers and pay.

You huff a little, scuffing your shoes in the dirt at the non-response.

"And for the little lady to give to her friend."

You look up to see the woman smiling down at you, holding a second bouquet of flowers to you.

"Thank you," You say as you take them.

"Now," The woman says," These flowers here are yellow roses and they mean friendship and happiness. The pink ones a tulips. Now pink tulips are for affection and good wishes. Perfect for a friend."

"Thank you," You say again, adjusting your grip so you're holding them more carefully.

"No need to pay for those ones," The woman waves off Morsa's attempts," You just make sure the little lady gives them to her friend."

You make Morsa walk carefully back to the house to make sure that Jessie's flowers don't get crumpled. You think that annoys her a little bit but she's very nice about it even if it means Momma's already awake when you get back.

She takes the flowers from Morsa and accepts the soft kisses she's given.

"These ones are for Jessie," You say when she asks," We have to be careful with them, okay? Because they're special flowers just for her."

"Okay, princesse," Momma laughs," We'll be careful."

You remind Morsa how careful she has to be in the car when she goes a bit faster than you'd like and then when she holds the flowers a bit too tight when Momma's helping you out.

The silly social media man is waiting outside for you.

You give him a weird look as he holds something out for you. You take it, turning it over in your hand.

"It's a camera," He says.

"Why?"

"Well, we thought it would be fun if the fans got to see everything from your view."

You lift the camera up to your eye for a moment before smooshing it towards the flowers. "I'm giving flowers to Jessie," You say," Because she's my friend." You look at the social media man. "Like that?"

He nods with a laugh. "The others are out on the pitch if you want to join them."

You look at Momma and Morsa.

"Go on," Momma says.

You scamper off with your flowers and the camera.

"Niamh!" You exclaim when you fast walk down the tunnel and spot the older girl.

She's walking with Zećira and they both turn to look at you. You're not quite running because you don't want to ruin the flowers but you're moving quickly.

"What's that you've got there?" Niamh asks.

"A camera," You say, turning it so it can capture Niamh and Zećira.

Zećira laughs. "I think she means the flowers."

"Oh! They're for Jessie! Morsa got Momma flowers at the market this morning so I got some for Jessie."

Niamh's laughing now too and she leans down to look into the camera.

"Well, as you can all see, love is in the air at Chelsea."

That makes you frown. "What does that mean? Momma and Morsa are still inside."

"Don't worry about it. Here, I'll take the camera and then everyone can see Jessie getting her flowers."

"Okay!"

You move a bit quicker now that you can use both hands to hold your gift safely. Jessie's a little bit up ahead with her headphones in and you reach to tug her hand.

She smiles down at you and gives you a hug.

"Those are pretty flowers. Did Magda and Pernille get them for you?"

You shake your head. "I got them for you." You puff out your chest. "The market lady said they're for friendship and affection. We're friends and we hug. Hugging is affection, Momma says so."

You lift the flowers up to her.

Jessie looks a little caught of guard and you can hear snickering from Niamh and Zećira behind you. You don't pay them any attention though as Jessie takes the flowers and gives you a little kiss on the cheek.

You take one of her hands and receive the camera back in your other one.

Instantly, you're back to talking to it.

"You have to walk the pitch to make sure it's good," You say," But Niamh is always very silly. My Morsa says she only comes out here to socialise and so she can avoid being told what to do."

"Hey!"

[txjis]

i lwk can’t stop thinking about grown ass yuji itadori with a shy lil baby insecure about her weight..

about: yuji itadori x f!reader , yuji being silly n strong

cw: none really , mention of weight insecurity , he spanks ur booty once

like, he’s grown now. a behemoth of a man. bordering 6’ he’s not overly tall but the sleeper build is fucking craaazyyy. he could easily lift you, he has lifted you. but he didn’t do it much because of how uncomfortable it made you.

finally you’re able to squeak out why exactly it makes you uncomfy and all wiggly. “jus’ think i’m a lil heavy is all. don’t wanna hurt you.”

hurt him? you, hurt him? by him lifting you? now, yuji has seen some SHIT in his life. fuck he was a VESSEL as a teenager. he stood dumbfounded for a couple seconds before chuckling.

“you’re so silly baby.” he paused for a second, giving you a gentle smile. “wanna know a secret?” and who are you to say no?? you nod your head with a giggle, taking a step closer to him.

“when i was, 15? 16? blegh, doesn’t matter. when i was younger i threw a fucking car with my adrenaline alone.” he never spoke much about what exactly happened in his past with you, not that he didn’t trust you- but you already worried about him enough. he didn’t wanna add more worries to your pretty lil head.

“you.. WHAT?!” your face is priceless, he can tell you’re torn between believing him and saying he’s just exaggerating. he laughs again, closing the distance and presses a kiss to the crown of your head.

“so, when i wanna pick my pretty girl up-“ he ducks down fast, you blinked and missed his movements. you blinked again and suddenly you were thrown over his shoulder. he wrapped his arm around the back of your thighs to support your weight. “-she’s gonna let me carry her around.” you giggled, but it was cut off by a gasp when his hand connected with the fat of your ass.

“now lemme show you just how strong your man is.” and he’s matching off towards the bedroom, carrying you like a sack of potatoes easily.

[luveline]

Maybe a Eddie and Roan where Roan gets into an argument with one of her friend/classmate and she’s like really grumpy and reader and Eddie try and cheer her up or even defuse the situation??

tysm ♡ eddie and roan

Roan toddles out of her classroom with her eyes on the floor until she reaches Eddie's legs. He frowns at her in surprise, smoothing the frizz of her curls away from her forehead. "Hello," he says. 

"Everything okay?" you ask. 

That morning at the kitchen table, when you told Roan you'd be there at pick up with her dad (the two of you taking a much needed day off to waste together in bed doing alternate loads of laundry), she smiled and climbed into your lap. "Good," she said, her lips shiny with waffle syrup, "I'll make you a present in arts and crafts."

"You will? Thanks, baby," you'd said. 

The present isn't anywhere to be seen now, nor is your sparkling girl. Roan rubs her cheek against Eddie's legs without greeting you. Eddie takes the hint and leans down to take her into his arms. He sighs as he stands, ducking his head to hers. 

"Hello," he says again, gentler now. "Bad day?" 

She sniffles and puts her face in his shirt collar. Eddie covers the back of her head, his eyes wide. What the fuck, he mouths, surprise melding into something worse. He hates when Roan's upset like this. Her tantrums are loud but her real tears are always quiet, and you can see the moment Eddie's heart breaks, her hands gripping his hair urgently. 

"Hey, okay, don't worry, bubby…" He nods his head back the way you came, and you follow at his elbow, crestfallen. 

He prods at it as you walk to the car. What happened? and Talk to me, babe. Roan stops crying and turns silent, until the concern gets too much. 

"I'm sure whatever it is, we can make it better. You just have to tell me what happened, roly-poly."

"Nothing! Nothing happened, dad, stop." 

Eddie rubs her shoulders. "Alright. If you say so." 

You open the car door for them and Eddie covers the top of Roan's head as he tucks her in. She's definitely reaching an age where all this carrying is unnecessary, but Eddie always says he has muscles for a reason. You like to roll your eyes, and, secretly, think it's amazingly sweet. He's like that. 

"Want me to come and sit in the back?" you ask. 

"No." 

"Are you sure? We can play pat-a-cake, or thumb wrestle?" 

"I don't want to." 

More of the same on the drive home. Eddie suggests ice cream, movies, McDonald's. Roan stares out the window and refuses to answer. Safe to say, you both hate it. It's your worst nightmare to know that somethings wrong but not know what that something is. 

"Let's go to Leaven," you whisper. 

Eddie raises his eyebrows at you, though he takes the turn, whispering back, "Why Leaven?" 

"We can buy her some fancy cupcakes and new pyjamas and stuff. And a tape, whatever she wants."

"We can't just buy her happiness," Eddie says. 

"Really?" 

"...Maybe." 

You park up in the family spaces near the front of Leaven and Eddie insists upon himself from car to store. "Please hold my hand, babe, I'll get lost in Leaven by myself," he whines, waving his hand at her. "I won't know where to go if you don't steer me." 

"Fine!" she says, taking his hand furiously. 

"Do you want to know why we're here, lovely girl?" you ask. 

"No." 

"Roan, don't be mean," Eddie says reproachfully. 

"I'm not mean, dad." 

"You're being a little tiny bit mean. We should try to be nice to the people we love even when we have bad days. Work is very very hard, but I try to pick you up from school and be happy because you haven't done anything wrong." 

"I don't want to be happy," she pouts, twisting her head away from you both. 

Eddie huffs playfully and grabs her from behind. Arms under her armpits, he swings her around and chuckles maliciously in her ear. "Silly girl left herself open for my evil plan," he croons, the voice of a character from one of his campaigns that gives you and Roan the shivers. 

You grab a kart and push the children's seat out for Eddie to slide her in. "Trapped!" he declares, squeezes the arms of her vinyl coat. "And there's nothing you can do to stop us!" 

Roan struggles to pretend she doesn't find it funny. "Stop what?" she asks, exaggeratedly unhappy to maintain her grumpy facade. 

"We're going to spoil you, duh," he says, voice back to normal. "What should we get first, my love?" he asks you. "Cupcakes?" 

"Best get cupcakes before they run out of the pink bunnies." 

Roan's lips quirk at the name of her favourite ones. "Are we really having pink bunnies?" she asks. 

"We're having anything that will make you smile," Eddie says. 

You link your arm through his for most of the journey, the smell of his cologne rich and smokey. He doesn't smell like diesel, a rare occasion, nor are his clothes mottled by oil. You look like a family meant to shop at Leaven (sort of, you aren't so decked in designer as the wealthy Hawkinites). Roan perks a little as you pick cupcakes from the bakery counter, their gold foil wrappers reflected in the brown wells of her eyes. Eddie lets her eat one as you walk around so long as she puts the wrapper in the bag when she's done. 

From there, you choose pyjamas, a stuffie shaped like a frog, and a breadcrumb covered tray of mac and cheese. You pick up things you don't need as you go, fancy brownies in a tub and clothes softener. The best part is the deliberating, you and Eddie and Roan taking turns sniffing the caps and debating which one smells best. You settle on deep sea minerals, probably because Roan likes the seahorse on the front. 

"You're a traitor," you say, putting back the scent you'd preferred with put upon disappointment.

Roan giggles sweetly. Like a plug pulled, a levy unburdened, she laughs from the checkout to the car, all the way home. You barely notice how dark it's become, focused on the loving heat of Eddie's hand on your knee and Roan's renewed smile. 

Later, once she's had a bath and you're all in your pyjamas, Eddie asks her again what upset her, and she gives a teary answer. One of the Stacey's said her hair looked ugly, and Roan agreed with her. 

"Bubby, your hair's not ugly," you say, chucking her under the chin. Eddie, her chair, leans his chin over her shoulder to agree. 

"It's beautiful." 

She sniffles. "I said it was ugly, and it's not nice because daddy has the same hair." She sputters wetly, tears squeezing from the corners of her eyes. "I'm really sorry." 

"Aw, Ro." Eddie hugs her with both arms tight to his stomach. "Don't be sorry, you don't have anything to be sorry for. Stacy shouldn't say you have ugly hair– you have beautiful hair. So shiny and bouncy. I promise you it's perfect." 

You smile at Roan encouragingly. "Your hair is soooo super pretty. Just like your dad's." 

"You think so?" 

"I know so." You coil a curl around your finger. When you let it go, it springs away and falls against her face. 

Roan relaxes into Eddie's chest. He rubs her upper arm, a similar relief on his pert features. 

"Is there anything else wrong?" Eddie asks. 

Roan closes her eyes, dark lashes kissing her cheek. "I think I have a tummy ache." 

"I bet you do, babe. Why don't we lie down for a bit?" 

Roan agrees wholeheartedly. It's a tight squeeze, but the three of you manage to lay on your couch, the smell of sugary pink icing stuck to your fingers and the warm scent of mac and cheese floating in from the kitchen. 

[ladykailitha]

Around the World Part 7

I know I said that Nanny would be out this week, but I just finished this and am really wanting to get it out as soon as possible and that includes the epilogue.

But if I time it right, this series and Hellfire will end the same week and I'll be able to return to some kind of normal schedule instead of pumping these out on a fucking grinder.

That said, I probably won't do a Christmas story with the way things are right now. But we'll see the closer we get to the holiday.

In this we get the proper Jack the Ripper tour and the author has opinions, okay! Steve draws attention to himself at the Paris Opera house. Murray is a bit too knowing. And of course as @val-from-lawrence guessed, visited the Catacombs!

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6

~

They had done the Tower of London and St. Paul’s Cathedral during the day and got ready for the Bauman Experience as Murray called it. They all had a flashlight and went to go meet him where they had the night before.

They caught him dealing with some obnoxious tourists.

“Oh thank god!” the Karen cried. “An American. Could you please explain to this woman that we only have dollars to pay with. She has to take it!”

Murray blinked at her for a moment. “Well that is quite the cock up, you absolute muppet. Are you dead from the neck up? British pound sterling is the brass here, you silly cow!”

The woman’s head reared back in shock, clutching her chest. “I beg your pardon!”

“To make it perfectly clear,” Murray said leaning forward into her space. “You fucked up, you moron. Are you really that stupid? Dollars aren’t the currency here, the British pound is. Just like you can’t use the pound anywhere but here, you can’t use the dollar anywhere but America so why don’t you go to an ATM or bank and get it exchanged. Or and here’s the really neat part about living in the age of technology, use or credit or debit card and your bank does the conversion for you.”

When she started sputtering angrily, Murray waved her off. “Now, shoo! I’ve got actual paying customers waiting for me.”

Murray turned to the four of them with a smiled. “Well, hello! Welcome. Now that things are dark and therefore sufficiently spooky, let’s take you on a proper tour of Jack’s slaying grounds.”

He went through the different murders until he got to the double murders of Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes.

“Now,” he said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, “Miss Stride is usually considered his third victim and that he was interrupted, moving on to Miss Eddowes. But I think Stride was a copycat. The person only knew the bodies were mutilated, but not how. So for me, I don’t count her in the confirmed kills.”

Robin nodded sagely. “I don’t either. There was far too little evidence to prove he had been frightened off, because otherwise Eddowes would have been more brutal than it was. He would have been angry he couldn’t finish with Stride. You would have expected her to look like what Mary Kelly’s body looked like, not cool and calm.”

Murray smiled up at her. He turned to Eddie. “I really like her. She’s clever.”

Robin blushed and ducked her head.

A short time later, just as they were wrapping up the Kelly murder, Murray stopped. He looked at a pair of older teenagers and then back at the group.

Chrissy picked up on it first. “You thinking what, I’m thinking, Mur?”

Murray turned to her and cocked his head to the side, considering. He nodded and Chrissy pursed her lips.

Steve caught on just as quick. “Eds, baby. I think those boys may have guessed who you are, love.”

Robin and Eddie shared a concerned glance.

“Fuck,” Eddie huffed. “I liked this jacket.”

Robin grabbed it from him and gave him her jacket. “Mine doesn’t look as fancy,” she explained pulling his jacket on. “Just like Boston, peeps!”

Murray tilted his head to the side and did a quick Google search. “Or... if you’d like, my car is literally around the corner.”

The four of them stopped swapping clothes and looked up at him.

“That’s easier,” Steve said. “Who’s all for easier?”

The other three raised their hands and they followed Murray to his car. Robin sat up front while Steve and Chrissy covered Eddie between them.

“Drop me off at the hotel,” Steve said, tapping on Murray’s shoulder. “I’ll check us out and then meet you at Shakespeare’s Head.”

Murray looked behind him and grinned. “Smart thinking.”

~

Eddie had changed into a trucker hat and a puffy hunting vest over sturdy blue jeans and thick work boots.

“Kids and their cameras these day,” Murray huffed, sliding a pint of beer over at Steve as he sat down between Robin and Chrissy. “So what’s the story with loverboy here?” he asked Eddie, cocking his head to indicate Steve.

“He’s not out,” Eddie said dryly. “His parents are complete assholes who could and would make things very difficult for him if he was.”

“Nothing says asshole parents,” Murray said with a nod, “quite like those that have the money to make you miserable.”

Steve snorted. “You��ve got that right. But I’m more than equipped to make it work.” He half shrugged. “I’ve been doing it for almost a year.”

Murray’s went wide and he gave an opened mouthed smile. “Have you really? I would have never guessed. Good job! ”

“How did you spot the kids, by the way?” Robin asked around her fruity cocktail.

“Oh,” Murray said, ducking his head a bit. “You’re walking around a small group of people at night in a bad area of London. Whitechapel isn’t as bad as it was in Jackie’s time, but it’s still not a good neighborhood. You have to keep an eye out for people, but especially older teens wishing to knock you over for a bit of loose change.”

Steve cleared his throat and ducked his head. “I am about to ask the most bougie question imaginable. And you can tell me to go to hell if I’m out of line here.”

Murray’s eyebrows went up and he leaned back in his chair. “Wha’cha got, kid?”

Steve licked his lower lip as he tried to word this in a way that wasn’t instantly offensive. “How entrenched are you in this job?”

“Not very,” he replied with a shrug. “I’m just moving through the world enjoying myself and taking jobs that would be fun. I’ve got more than enough money. Why?”

“We were talking in our group chat,” Chrissy explained taking over from a very embarrassed Steve, “and we thought we’d offer you a job as main look out and part time driver for when we’re in Europe. You really saved Eddie today and we could really use someone like you with us.”

Murray glared at her. “You sure I wouldn’t cramp your little foursome you’ve got going on here’s style?” He made a little circling motion with his hand to indicate all of them.

Robin shook her head. “It’ll make it harder for people to recognize a quartet if it suddenly became a quintet. Plus, we’d pay for your room and board. None of us are skint, believe you me.”

“We’ll be staying in haunted hotels, motels, and bed and breakfasts,” Eddie added. “But we won’t force you to join us. We can put you up in a nice place nearby and we join back up whenever we go out.”

Murray eyed them suspiciously until Steve slid over an envelope. He picked it up and pulled out a check. His eyes went wide. “That’s quite the pretty penny.”

“That’s half,” Robin huffed, crossing her arms and throwing herself against the back of the chair. “You’ll get the other half once we leave Europe for Asia.”

“All that for a month’s worth of driving you four around and making sure fans and paparazzi don’t find Eddie here?” Murray asked. “Have you gone crazy?”

Eddie shook his head. “We just want a romantic tour of the spooky places of Europe. I hate the thought Steve getting caught up in something just because I’m recognized everywhere I go and he isn’t.”

Murray licked his lips slowly as his eyes narrowed. “That’s not how that’s usually said.”

Steve frowned and tilted his head to the side. “What do you mean? How is what said?”

Robin put her hand on his elbow as he bristled slightly at his tone.

“Usually people will say ‘famous and they’re not’,” Murray said thoughtfully, “he said ‘recognized’. Meaning Stevie here is famous too, but not in a way people would recognize him on the street. What is a famous painter or some shit?”

She cocked her to the side and said dryly, “If I told you that, I’d have to kill you.”

Murray laughed. Just full on cackled. “Have I mentioned how much I like her? Because I really like her.”

Eddie leaned forward to put his elbows on the table. “So what do you say, Murray?” he asked tilting his head to the side. “You want to work for me again?”

Murray slipped the check into his coat pocket and stuck out his hand. “I think you’ve got yourself a deal.”

~

Their first stop on the Continent was Paris and the catacombs. Eddie was still trying to figure out how Robin did that one. It had been closed to the public for years.

Robin just smirked and said, “Well we aren’t the public.”

Steve was also sure they didn’t open it up to anyone who opened their wallet, either, but wisely stayed silent. Plus he was having fun watching Chrissy and Robin run circles around Murray in terms of sheer knowledge.

“Um...Stevie?” Eddie murmured so the trio couldn’t hear him. “Can I hold your hand? It’s getting a little creepy in here.”

Steve held out his hand, the one that had the little guitar on the inner wrist. Eddie looked down at the offered hand with a fond smile. He took the offered hand and their tattoos matched up. Eddie felt braver with every step knowing that Steve would always be there to hold his hand through the darkness.

Chrissy looked back at them and grinned at their clasped hands. She sped up her walk just a little, forcing Murray and Robin to speed up to match her pace, leaving the two love birds the privacy they so richly deserved.

Once they were out in the sunlight and among the city once again, Eddie refused to let go of Steve’s hand.

Steve looked at their joined hands and then back at Eddie. Eddie gave him his brightest smile and Steve was smitten. Even more so than before. He just loved him so much.

They toured the Paris Opera house and Eddie pulled out a cape and mask.

“Sing for me my angel of music!” he said to Chrissy.

She burst out laughing. “My name may be Christine, but I really don’t think they’d want me shattering the glass.”

Eddie turned to Robin who waved her arms in front of her. “No way! I sing like a frog in heat!”

“No.” Was all Murray said.

Steve raised an eyebrow and Eddie grinned.

“Sing!” Eddie crowed.

Steve took a deep breath and belted out that high note, held it perfectly and then took a bow.

Murray blinked and slow smile spread over his features. “You’re in one of those bands with the masks aren’t you? Like Sleep Token or The Fallen, huh? That’s Eddie here said recognized and not famous. Good on you.”

They all shared looks of concern.

“I’m not going to tell anyone,” Murray huffed, holding up his hands in surrender. “And I’m certainly not even going to try and guess which band it is.” He pulled out his phone and messed around on it for a while.

During which they all watched with ever increasing dread. The silence seemed to stretch out on and on.

Then Chrissy’s phone pinged. Everyone jumped as she scrambled for her phone. She opened it up and blinked a moment.

“You signed a blanket statement NDA?” she asked handing her phone to Robin. “Why?”

Murray licked his lips and crossed his arms over his chest. “Did it suck when Corroded Coffin pulled out of my management causing a shit ton of other people pulling out, too? Sure. But that’s the nature of the business. One that I had been in for over twenty years. I took it as a sign from the universe to retire and enjoy my life. Unlike the CC boys pulling out on Nancy Wheeler because she about to do some pretty shady shit. And I say that having been part of a business that used to be built on shady ass shit.”

Chrissy coughed and looked away to hide her smile.

“I’m guessing Steve’s band is why Corroded Coffin went nuclear on her in the first place?”

Steve looked over at Eddie and then nodded. “She was an ex-girlfriend and she tried to hold that over my head to get me to work with her.”

Murray let out a long and low whistle. “Shady doesn’t even begin to cover that shit. The void would be fucking closer. Shit.”

Robin handed back Chrissy her phone. “How did you get an NDA that fast anyway?”

“Oh that?” Murray asked with a huff of laughter. “I have a bunch of basic contracts and shit in my Google docs. Things can move fast in this business and it’s a good idea to keep a few on hand. Back in the old days we kept them in our briefcases that we carted around. This is sooo much easier.”

“Smart.”

Murray grinned back at her. He turned to Steve. “Come on, show us what that classical vocal training can really do.”

Steve blushed and began warming up his vocals as Robin grinned.

“You may think you’ve heard Steve sing,” she crowed, “but you’ve ain’t seen nothing yet.”

Then Steve really opened up and began to sing. There was a deepness to his voice that didn’t have anything to do with his range. He was clearly a tenor, but the rich quality to his voice just elevated it somehow.

“Rigoletto,” Murray said nodding appreciatively. “Well done.” He clapped slowly, but it wasn’t mocking. “Your parents must have been livid when you didn’t go into opera.”

Steve snorted. “About as angry as when they found out I was bisexual. They know what I am but if I go public with it...”

“They’ll make your life a nightmare?” he asked. Steve nodded. “I feel for you, kid.”

He looked around and grimaced. “I thick it’s time we make like Opera Ghost and scram. That performance of Steve’s here, is getting more attention than I thought it would.”

They looked around and sure enough there were people pointing at Steve.

“I’m not sure what the Venn diagram of opera and metal fans,” Chrissy said, “but I’m betting it’s not two separate circles.”

“Yeaahhh,” Eddie said with a wince.

He grabbed Steve’s hand and they ran for the doors. Murray and the girls hot on their heels.

~

Part 8 Part 9

Tag List: CLOSED

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10- @sadisticaltarts @urkadop @chameleonhair @clockworkballerina

[florallylly]

i've seen model steve harrington aus. i've seen child steve harrington aus. i present: child model steve harrington

note: this came from my own desperate need to see this conceptualized and i SWEAR i've searched, i just can't find any content with child model steve so. :(

bc little steve harrington was remarkably cherub-like. his large brown eyes and soft pout ensured endless cooing and fussing from his mom's friends. and when he blushed and ducked his head in shyness, they only complimented him more. when he got home that day, his mom smiled at him.

so steve decided that he would put up with the cheek pinching and the squealing. he sat upright in his chair, sitting on his hands so he wouldn't fidget and ruin the image. because he'd do anything to keep his mom smiling at him. if he was being particularly good that day, she'd let him lay his head on her lap on the drive back home.

but everything changed at his father's birthday gala. a nearly eight year old steve harrington sat prim and proper in his seat, but a smile lit up his face--his cheeks round and his dimples showing up. he raised his hand up to cover his giggle, but he couldn't help but laugh at some silly old man with a loose toupee. then he sees his mom approaching, and his face quickly smooths over, going back to the more polite smile he usually adopted when it came to these events.

he'd ruined it. he hadn't continued being the sweet boy his mom wanted. but then, she smiles at him. and introduces him to the man behind her, who says he's a designer. the man holds out his hand, but when steve puts his hand into his palm, he doesn't shake it. the man simply holds his hand, his eyes scanning steve's face. steve tries not to squirm under the attention. but the man nods and smiles at his mom, and he gives two brief cheek kisses to steve, whispering in his ear "you're going to be a star, darling." steve looks at his mom, confused, but she waves him off to continue talking to the man.

a few months later, steve's mom whisks him off on a trip to france. and steve is so excited to go, nearly vibrating in his seat as the airplane prepares to take off. but instead of the eiffel tower and the seine, steve is taken to a studio. he's posed and changed. once again, he's being fussed over, but instead of wealthy socialites, gossiping make-up artists squeal over him. he's "perfect for the shoot" and "the most darling little boy." steve doesn't understand, but his mom is still smiling, so he lets the nice ladies brush powder over his face.

and he looks in the mirror. his hair is a little more tousled and his lips have a slight tint to them and his eyes seem to take up much of his face. he's put into new clothes, and he feels like a doll in their hands. and when he's put in front of the camera, he simply follows the photographer's directions. afterwards, he's bundled into the car and his mom can't stop gushing about how good he was.

apparently, he's a natural. and then she goes back to fussing over him, focusing more on appearance than his behavior now. but she takes him out shopping and they eat at an upscale restaurant along the champs-elysses. and steve is happy.

and then they go back home, and his mom is so much stricter than before. she has him try out all kinds of different hair products, determined to find the best combination to keep it looking shiny and soft. she controls his food intake and what he wears and makes him use weird creams and serums on his face. but this is what makes his mom happy, so he's happy to let her.

his mom is also on the phone a lot more lately, whispering harshly about the quality of brands and steve just assumes she's being picky about the clothes she buys. later, his mom picks him up and holds him, and asks if he'd like to move to italy. she looks at him intently and it's obvious what answer she wants, so steve nods. she smiles and holds him close, and it's the most loved steve has felt in a while.

so they move to italy, and suddenly steve is a lot more busy. he's put in front of more cameras for more people he doesn't know. but he's smiling and pouting and doing whatever they want him to do. his compliant attitude and polite nature have photographers and designers alike singing his praises, and steve always looks to his mom for approval. but she's been arguing with his dad a lot lately, so she's upset more often than not. but that's okay, the make-up artists are always kind to him.

but then one day, his mom takes a phone call in the middle of the shoot. and when it finishes, she's gone. steve goes back in, close to tears, but the make-up artists still hanging around look after him until a car is sent to pick him up. this becomes a trend. and eventually, steve goes alone to his shoots. he's always taken care of by the crew and someone is always there to pick him up, but it's not fun without his mom there.

but he knows that she's always enjoyed him taking pictures, so he continues to do so, hoping that she'll come watch him again sometime soon. and he busies himself with befriending the chatty make-up artists and the bossy photographers and the eccentric designers. and he's such a cute little thing that they can't help but dote on him.

steve is never catapulted into child stardom, as his mom is picky with his jobs, only choosing luxury brands and well known designers for him. but within the industry, they call him the "little prince."

and then steve is catapulted into puberty, but his intense skin regimen prevents him from getting acne, save for the occasional zit. and his diet and religious exercise schedule help maintain his look. and he's still doing remarkably well, especially now that he's fully aware that he is a Model.

and steve has truly grown into his looks. with time, he's grown more comfortable in front of the camera and made numerous friends. nearly all of them are older than him, but they're fun and loud and it fills up the space that normally surrounds him. and they're the ones who get him hooked on american movies. steve remembers living in america, but he's been in milan so long that everything he recalls is vague.

but he watches them and falls in love with the american high school experience. so when he finally catches his mom off the phone and actually in the house, steve asks if he can go to school in america. and his mom laughs. but steve keeps asking, which devolves into begging. and his mother snaps, slapping him across the face and calling him ungrateful. she cries and begs for forgiveness, cowed into shame by steve's desperate attempt to hold back tears.

and so she lets him go to school in hawkins, indiana. an odd choice, but his parents just so happened to own a property there. (in truth, both of his parents expected him to change his mind within the year). but steve finds his place at hawkins high, because even though nobody in hawkins has ever heard of versace, steve is pretty. he's pretty and charming and he knows the right thing to say. after all, he's spent his whole life perfecting his mask.

and even if his mom ended up moving back home with his dad, leaving steve all alone in that big empty house, steve is happy. he's finally hanging out with people his age and high school is so far removed from the glitz and glam of the fashion industry. and he's settled and content with tommy and carol by his side. while he misses his friends back in milan, steve finds himself longing for the clothes more often. hawkins was certainly the opposite of milan, what with the nearest mall being two hours away and only equipped with a macy's and jcpenny.

through it all, steve is determined to be normal. he laughs along with jokes he doesn't quite get and rolls his eyes at carol's cue, and he joins the swim team. and he joins the basketball team. and he goes to parties and kisses girls and wears dumb little polos with his letterman jacket and does everything that he saw in the movies.

but nancy wheeler is different. steve can't forget his time in italy and who he is and was, and he's reminded of his old life in everyone and everything in hawkins. but not nancy wheeler. she's all hawkins and all his. and then the upside down happens.

and then nancy wheeler breaks his heart.

even after three years, his parents continue to ask when he'll go back to modeling, but he's different now. the upside down and billy hargrove beat that starry eyed little kid who thrived in the spotlight. and nancy wheeler proved that adoration and love is fleeting, so what would even be the point of trying anymore? his dad was a little more approving of steve's retirement/hiatus, saying that steve must want to go to college so he can take over the family business.

but when steve doesn't get into college, he's once again badgered by his mom to go back. but he's grown and changed and he's not sure that he can pretend anymore, so he says no. and they cut him off. enter: scoops era.

the measly scoops salary is not nearly enough to cover all of the new bills and expenses steve has, but he's not willing to leave hawkins. so he reaches out to his friends back in italy, and they refer him to their american connections. steve doesn't model at the same level as before, but he poses for a couple of zines and one artist who got a little too handsy at his exhibition. but he's able to make it through until the mall blows up.

this routine continues and he starts working at family video with robin at his side, but he keeps his side job a secret from the kids, using the excuse of visiting his parents to leave town for his shoots. he's not ashamed, but he knows he wouldn't "be normal" anymore if they found out.

but how does he explain his near mental breakdown at the sight of his healing demobat scars. they're raised and ugly, ruining what should have been a perfect body. and even though he uses scar cream everyday, they refuse to fade away completely. and how could anyone stand to be near such an ugly thing when all his life, steve was meant to be pretty? after all, love and adoration is fleeting.

[blessedbucky]

we tried the world, good god, it wasn't for us! (part 4.2)

pairing: autistic!satoru x suguru x autistic!reader

word count: 12k (oh hey look this one is actually shorter than the last)

summary: that second year of high school has a clear division within your mind—before summer and after. this is the after.

tags: autistic!reader, autistic!satoru, bisexual!reader, bisexual!suguru, continuing the existential crisis of realizing a bunch of old dudes poorly control the future of your teenage life, hidden inventory angst, mayhaps some poor coping mechanisms, maybe some codependency

beautiful people who asked to be tagged 💕: @ichikanu, @iceheartsice, @anders-is-being-a-simp-again, @honeydew-cheesecake

author note: HIDDEN INVENTORY TIME! also, putting on full blast a couple of common things with autism—strong sense of justice and a love of routines! the next year will most likely be split up again because i have so many plans and most of them aren't good! we do be talking about JJK here. please like, reblog, and comment! it makes my heart flutter!

chapter links: ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR [PART I], AO3

[YEAR TWO.]

[PART II]

At the bottom of the mountain path that leads up to campus, you’re seated on a bench. You were here alone as you waited on the car to pick you up, but Satoru and Suguru showed up. They detail the specifics of the incredibly important mission personally assigned to them by Lord Tengen. The more they reveal to you about this, the more anxious you become, the bigger the cloud of dread over your head grows. Your nervousness is made apparently by the way you nervously spin your cell phone between your fingers.

There’s so much about this that you hate. It’s too big. It truly is the weight of the world on their shoulders—the jujutsu world. It isn’t right that they’re being entrusted with something that could change the course of every sorcerer’s life. Shouldn’t that kind of pressure be left to a more experienced sorcerer? This is the work of adults.

Another thing that’s been bothering you…

“Erase?”

Satoru and Suguru are standing in front of you, most likely too nervous to sit still. You’re glad that they’re not blinded by their ego and seem genuinely troubled. Satoru is nervous, though he’d never admit to such a thing. He rocks on his feet from side to side. Coins jingle as he tosses them up in the air and catches them.

Suguru has his arms crossed over his chest, frowning. “Yes,” he confirms quietly. “When the Star Plasma Vessel fully assimilates with Lord Tengen, there will be nothing left of her.”

“That…” You duck your head to hide the sadness that you know is written all over your face. It doesn’t matter how you feel. You are a sorcerer, and this is no time to be soft. At the cost of one life, Lord Tengen will continue to live, sound of mind, and all the barriers that keep sorcerers safe will remain intact. “That seems cruel,” you blurt.

“So…what do you want us to do?” Satoru suddenly asks.

Your head snaps up, attention back on them, blinking in shock. “Huh?”

Instead of Satoru, it’s Suguru that repeats, “What do you want us to do? That’s why we came to you.”

Your brain stutters over their words, unable to process the things they’re saying to you. You sit there, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “What…what does that even mean?” You press your thumb to the center of your forehead. Stop when you realize you’re copying Suguru. “Why do you want to know my opinion? What does it matter? What I’ve got to say means nothing.”

“What a silly thing to say, Squid,” Suguru scolds. “Your opinion means everything.”

With a little more thought, a little more looking between them and studying them, you finally understand where this is all coming from and where it’s all going. There’s an air about them, more to their nervousness than just stress over the weight on their shoulders. “You want to do something really stupid,” you sigh, “and you want me to give my blessing which also makes me an accomplice.”

“Accomplice is such a dirty word.” Satoru pouts. “Is it illegal to get some advice from our best friend?”

If it was Shoko here, she’d already be walking away. Unfortunately, you care about these assholes. “What stupid thing are you planning to do?”

“Nothing yet,” Satoru answers vaguely.

You ignore him in favor of Suguru. If you need to pout, you will, and he’ll cave because you hardly ever bring it out. “Satoru is right, technically. The decision won’t be up to us. Satoru just asked a logical question—what if the Star Plasma Vessel doesn’t go through with the assimilation?”

“You know what would happen,” you point out flatly.

Satoru pipes up with, “We don’t know that for sure!” You stare at him, deadpan. He gets all huffy because you didn’t just simply accept that. “Look, the world always has a way of balancing itself out. If this person doesn’t want to assimilate with Tengen, then someone else will eventually come along that does want to. Tengen will be fine.”

“Let’s say this girl doesn’t want to go through with the assimilation, what will you do then? Are you going to protect her for the rest of her life? They’ll send every sorcerer after her. You might even have to fight Lord Tengen himself. They’ll label you as curse users—”

“Will they?” The ego is back in play because Satoru declares, “We’re the strongest.”

Suguru tries to soften the severity of this stupid plan by explaining, “We’re too valuable as sorcerers. We’d be severely punished, maybe, but I doubt it. The girl has a caretaker with her, so we can cover them while they make themselves disappear.”

You throw up your arms in frustration. “Why did you even ask me, then? You’ve clearly made up your minds!”

“Yeah, okay, you’re right,” Satoru admits while rubbing the back of his neck.

“Believe it or not, we’ve actually thought about this more than you think we have,” Suguru tells you. “Everything you said is true. We know there’s a possibility that they do actually banish us and declare us as curse users. There’s a chance that we won’t come back—”

“But we don’t want to lose you!” Satoru interrupts. He’s a little too enthusiastic about this prospect because he goes on to excitedly ask, “If we leave, will you run away with us?”

The answer is out of your mouth before you can even give it a second thought. “You know I will.”

There’s a little part of your brain that reasons you should’ve taken more time to think about this, but the bigger part of your brain knows that the answer wouldn’t change. Somehow, that was the easiest yet most difficult answer in the world. No matter which option you chose, there would be a huge shift in your life, so it boils down to what would be easier to accept. If you were to stay behind like a good sorcerer, you would have to find a way to live normally without two of the most important people in your life and that…

The thought of not having Suguru or Satoru in your life is so terrifying that it makes you physically ill.

You’ve started to spiral. It’s not until a hand comes in view and yanks on the string of your hooded sweatshirt that you’re pulled out of your darkening thoughts. When you tilt your head up, Satoru is towering above you, smiling with such a genuineness that it makes your heart hurt.

“Don’t worry. It’ll all work out,” Satoru tries to assure you.

Your voice is weak, shaky. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

It’s either to make you feel better or lighten your mood, but Satoru holds out a crooked pinky. You lock it with your own. Then, to be cheeky, he extends his other pinky to Suguru. “A pinky promise? That’s childish, even for you, Satoru.” But Suguru takes it. And maybe you’re taking this a little too seriously, but you also offer your other hand to Suguru. His expression softens before he’s taking it.

In the end, the three of you are making a promise to each other.

“See?” Satoru grins. “It’s a super promise.”

“Okay,” you accept quietly. “Be safe, then. I’ll see you in a few days.”

***

Gojo Satoru is…

…was a fucking liar.

***

Just as you’ve coaxed the cursed spirit into exorcising itself, Kusakabe’s cell phone rings. He’s been off to the side, insistent to see your cursed technique for himself. Remembering that Sensei said Kusakabe could potentially be the person to vouch for you to become Grade 1, you bowed and did as he asked.

Anyway, the call.

As you approach him, you see him rush through many emotions at once—panic, anger, relief, and resignation. When his gaze darts over to you, he looks at you with a sympathy that makes your stomach start twisting into knots. On instinct, you pull your phone out to check for any texts, but there’s been nothing since Suguru said that he was on a plane back to Tokyo with the Star Plasma Vessel.

Kusakabe calls out your name, gesturing for you to pick up the pace. When you stand across from him, you shift nervously, clutching tightly at your sketchbook. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry,” Kusakabe starts with a soft apology. He takes a step toward you, putting a hand on your shoulder. “There’s been an incident at the school…” You wait on the news with bated breath. It’s bad. It has to be bad, your brain reasons, because you’ve learned Kusakabe is a naturally reserved person. He doesn’t seem like the type to show sympathy so easily unless it’s really, really bad.

“Gojo Satoru is dead.”

The sketchbook lands in the puddle at your feet as you drop everything and run.

You never leave Suguru’s side.

Apparently, he was found outside the Tombs of the Star Corridor—the place Lord Tengen lives. The wounds went deep, needed to be stitched. The medical staff at the infirmary said it was a shock that he hadn’t bled out.

When Shoko returns from Kyoto and clears the medical staff out, she curses their shoddy stitch work. That irritation is turned on you because you refuse to let go of his hand and she snaps at you, but you won’t budge. She harshly tells you to make yourself useful, so you help her remove the top half of his gown. Tears prick the corners of your eyes, and you have to quickly look away when the red, jagged slices across his chest are revealed to you both.

“That’s going to scar,” Shoko mumbles as she glides her hands over his chest. You’re so close that you’re in her crossfire and the aches and exhaustion from keeping vigil fade away. “Where is…” Her hands, glowing white with her technique, clench. “Did they say where they put him?”

It takes you a few minutes of swallowing down grief before you answer, “They said his body is missing.”

“Yeah,” she agrees hoarsely. “Yeah, that makes sense. That idiot always bragged about the bounties on his head.”

“Or…or maybe…maybe he’s…”

Shoko knows what you’re going to say before you even say it. “I walked past where it happened,” she explains lowly. “Duck, I’m sorry, but there’s no way he came out of that alive.” She powers down her technique. You assume there wasn’t that much damage and he’s been unconscious so long because of some painkillers the medical staff gave him. “They found the Star Plasma Vessel’s caretaker. I’m going to examine her body. See if there are any clues that can lead us to whoever has his body.”

You know you’re in denial. Logically, if he was alive, he would be here, in the infirmary. But…you can’t accept it. You just can’t. “I’m going to find him,” you swear.

“What are you going to do against someone that killed Gojo Satoru?”

You remember the finger of Ryomen Sukuna. The cursed energy that touched you. “I’ll make him tear his own heart out,” you say furiously.

“You’ll give yourself an aneurysm, if you could do it at all.” Shoko puts her hand on the top of your head. “Don’t make us lose another friend today.” You cover your mouth to muffle a sob. She reels you in, so your face is squished against her chest. “There was nothing we could do. We have to accept that.” She bends over and presses a kiss to the top of your head. “This is our life now. It’s what we chose when we became sorcerers.”

But why does it have to be like this?

It doesn’t take much longer before Suguru is waking up.

You have to help him when he tries to sit up and sways too much to the side. The drugs are still lingering in his system, so you nervously watch as he blinks slowly and tries to process. You don’t want to overwhelm him, but you also want to comfort him, so you compromise by reaching out to take his hand and squeeze tight. That simple gesture holds his attention. There’s something about it…or maybe he’s remembering everything that happened before…

Suguru’s expression doesn’t change, but tears begin to trickle down his cheeks.

You practically drag him forward by the front of his hospital gown, desperate to get your arms around him. “I’m here,” you promise as your own tears begin to fall again. “Suguru, I’m here.” His arms lock around your waist. His quiet, hitching breaths are in your ear, and his shoulders are subtly shaking under your arms.

“I failed, Squid,” he chokes out.

It never should’ve been put on you, you want to say but what point is there in that anymore? It doesn’t change the fact that it happened and Suguru was the only one left behind. We can’t save everyone. Empty words. Strength has cushioned you all from the realities of sorcery. Suguru has been told that he’s the strongest practically since you two came to Tokyo. He’s not supposed to lose.

Satoru wasn’t supposed to die.

“I’m here,” you repeat because it’s the only thing that you can think to say.

Now that he’s completely healed and the painkillers have worn off, there’s no more reason to keep Suguru in the infirmary. And when no one is around, he admits that he wants to be left alone in his room. You can tell yourself that you’re terrified to leave him by himself, but, deep down, you know it’s that you’re scared he’ll disappear if you don’t stay with him. This is all somehow so surreal yet so viscerally true. Simultaneously dream-like and so real. Like a child, you want to cling to him. Have you not lost enough already?

The two of you walk out of the infirmary, hand-in-hand. At the sight of Sensei waiting, you puff up like a street cat. You sidestep and put yourself in front of Suguru, flashing your metaphorical teeth and hissing. “Get out of the way.”

Suguru and Sensei both sigh your name. You don’t back down. Just square your chin. “The campus is still covered in fly heads.”

“Go exorcise them, then. You can make more cursed corpses.”

“I’m not here to ask Suguru to handle it,” Sensei gently corrects your assumption. “I agree with you. Suguru should rest.”

You relax a little. “Oh.”

“It would be easier if you can exorcise them all at once.” Sensei frowns. “Or make them disperse, at least. They can exit the barrier. If they make it off the mountain, into the city, they won’t cause too many problems for non-sorcerers.”

You angle your body toward Suguru, glancing up at him with furrowed brows. “Will you wait for me?”

“I’ll leave the door unlocked,” he whispers.

It’s not what you wanted to hear, but you can’t push him. You wordlessly nod, squeeze his hand, and then he’s walking away, headed toward the dorms. You watch him until he’s completely out of sight, immediately twitchy and nervous when you can’t see him anymore. Desperate to be beside him again, your cursed energy flares up.

“Not here,” Sensei says when he feels you gearing up. “You won’t reach them from here. They’re mostly centralized in one area.” He takes a deep breath. “You need to prepare yourself. They haven’t cleaned up yet.”

Cleaned…?

Oh.

It’s where Satoru was…

For a moment, you doubt that you can ever prepare yourself for something like this. You’re no stranger to gore, though, you remind yourself. You’re a sorcerer. You’ve seen the result of a curse’s rampage. But…those people weren’t your best friend, as cold as it is to think.

The only thing that pushes you forward is realizing that if it isn’t you, it’ll be Suguru.

There’s no way he came out of that alive, Shoko had told you.

You understand now, what she meant.

There’s a small crater that hints to the force that he was thrown down with. Hit with. You don’t know. No, it must’ve been some weapon because…the blood. The blood. There’s so much. It’s splattered everywhere across the concrete. The man that killed Satoru hated him. Loathed him. This wasn’t a clean and professional kill like with the Star Plasma Vessel and her caretaker who were taken down with neat shots to the head.

The monster that did this didn’t even hesitate when he confronted children. Because that’s what you all are, in the end. Children with too much power at your fingertips being guided by old men too scared to get their own hands dirty and all too happy to let the new generations die on their behalf.

And this is already so horrifying as is, but the assassin had to defile these corpses, too.

He wouldn’t even let Satoru have a proper burial.

I just want to find him.

You hunch in on yourself, fists curling, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. The shattered pieces of your heart scream that one demand—I want to find him, I want to find him, I just want to fucking find him and bring him home. You know it will never be. This world is not kind. But, nonetheless, someone answers your call. Multiple someone’s, actually.

Around you, the fly heads have frozen in place. They float listlessly, even their buzzing quieted, waiting with anticipation for a command that you didn’t recognize you were preparing to make. The command that you should make, the one for them to exorcise themselves, is on the top of your tongue. What use can the fly heads be? From what you were told, the attacker left no residuals behind. The residuals left behind by Satoru and Suguru would be too faint…

…they would be too faint for a sorcerer to track. A cursed spirit is different. Their senses are different. They’re sharper and more attuned to cursed energy because it is both their life force given by non-sorcerers and a threat when wielded by sorcerers. Weaker spirits are constantly on the hunt for more cursed energy to gain power.

You could command them to search for Satoru’s residuals, but your influence over them will wane with distance until they’ve forgotten the order completely.

Unless…

Unless you can influence a spirit that you know is bound to another.

Die, you demand of the fly heads.

Slowly, they all start to expand around you until they explode with a loud pop. You don’t stick around any longer to make sure they’re all gone. Sensei can take care of that. Just like he can handle the few fly heads that have spread around campus. You’re too busy planning now.

For the rest of the afternoon and the whole night through, Suguru doesn’t speak, and you don’t make him. He really only moves when you do because when you crawled into bed with him, he’d manhandled you until he could curl around you and place his head above the beat of your heart. You don’t ask him about it. You understand the reason that he clings to you. It’s why you can’t stop running your fingers through his hair, can’t stop touching him. You don’t want him to slip away.

Around three in the morning, Shoko texts you. She’s done with her autopsy. Eavesdropping, too. There are no clues. She’s overheard Sensei on his cell phone with higher-ups and they have no idea where to start because so many people have put bounties on his head over the years. They’re also scrambling to figure out how to break the news to Lord Tengen that there will be no merger. You tell her that she’s done enough and to try and get some sleep.  

After you snap your phone shut and drop it on the bed, Suguru immediately picks it up. Your fingers itch to stop him from reading the texts, but that’s not your place. From your position above him, you watch his eyes carefully scan over the text, face unmoving.

The room is bathed in darkness once again when he snaps it shut. You think that’s the end of that, but he whispers, “I can’t believe it.”

“I can’t, either,” you confess as quietly. Even seeing all that blood…this is being in denial. Is that what’s going on? You’ve never had a loss like this ever before. You don’t know what to do with yourself. No. That’s a lie. You know what you want to do. “It’s not fair. That they took him, I mean.”

“I’m going to look for him,” Suguru announces. “I…just wanted this one last night with you.”

You tug at his hair meanly. “I’m going with you.”

“No,” Suguru replies with an air of finality.

“Bullshit,” you snap. You’re not letting this go. “No, you’re not leaving me here like some—”

Suguru suddenly rolls over on top of you, knocking the breath out of you. He lifts up on his hands and knees, shifting up so that his face is hovering directly over yours. With only the glow of the moon, it’s hard to make out the fine details of his face, but you can see the frown, the hard set of his jaw. He snatches your wrists, keeping them pinned up by your head, immobilizing you completely and giving you no option but to look at him.

“He has no cursed energy in exchange for a Heavenly Pact. Do you understand what that means?” Suguru asks harshly. “What are you going to do against that? You’re—” weak. You squeeze your eyes shut, hurt lancing through you. He tries to soften the reality with, “You’re not suited against that type of fighting style. You’re better for support.”

“Let me support you, then!” You dig your nails into whatever skin of his you can touch. “I know I’m weak, but…” Your bottom lip wobbles. Definitely not helping your case. “You couldn’t beat him, either. You…you said that you were split up, so…maybe two is better than one…”

“I’m not losing you. I can’t lose you, Squid. Can’t you understand that?”

“But you want to make me grieve you, too?” You scramble for anything that can make him change his mind. “I doubt we’re going to run into danger, anyway. It’s been so long already that…that he’s probably collected the bounty on both heads.” You lean up to knock your forehead against his. “Please, Suguru.”

“No.”

“You promised! You promised that it’d be me and you!”

As your vision blurs, you can make out Suguru’s expression softening. “Don’t cry, Squid,” he begs. One of his big hands let go of your wrist, cupping your cheek. “Why do you have to make this so much harder on me, huh?” He flops down next to you, carefully guiding you to bury your face in the crook of his neck where you continue to cry. “Okay. Okay, I’ll bring you. At the first sign of danger, you have to run.”

You won’t, but you nod and lie, “Okay.”

Little do you know, you’re not the only one who’s lying.

With the sunlight comes the truth of the matter. You wake up alone, the bed empty, and with a note on the nightstand beside both your cell phone and Suguru’s. I’m sorry, the note reads in his neat handwriting. I’ll be safe, but I’m not risking you. At the very end of the note, there’s a line of text, but you can’t tell what he wrote because it’s so scratched out. The page is nearly ripped on that little section.

You, who planned to lie yourself, have no room to feel so betrayed. Anger, though, you think you’re allowed. Grief crashes over you all over again, too. You chose this life, you know, but shouldn’t children be protected a little longer? It never should’ve come to this. Ten minutes is all you can allow yourself because you don’t know how long Suguru has been gone and you need to find him.

Before you rush out the door, you shoot Shoko a text for when she wakes up, letting her know your plan. You also tell her that if he comes back before you then she needs to punch him in the nose on your behalf.

Late in the afternoon, as the sun is setting, there’s a breakthrough.

By this point, you’re jittery and exhausted. You’ve swallowed down so much coffee to keep yourself going that it’s probably in your veins now, but you’re at the point of exhaustion that it’s just not doing anything anymore. Not only have you been walking around the city on foot, but you’ve been keeping your technique running as you have cursed spirits try to lead you to Satoru’s residuals. With as much cursed energy as he had, it should still be radiating off his body enough for a spirit to pick up. That’s what you’d thought, anyway.

Until every spirit that you pull under your influence just…stops. It’s like there’s some invisible barrier that they simply won’t cross. You step past that point, and they’re compelled to follow you, yes, but they struggle against you. Some of the stronger ones outright free themselves and go running.

Something or someone is scaring them.

The problem is that you don’t know how wide the perimeter is of this barrier, how close or far away that Satoru is. But when a pack of vaguely centipede-shaped curses rush past you, out of the invisible area, you know your solution. Just like in movies where animals are the first to know of a disaster and try to outrun it, curses are acting the same. You will run toward where they are running away. At some point, you’ll have to find epicenter.

As you’re still running, further ahead of you, in the distance, there is an explosion—a bright flash of red light, a boom so loud that it vibrates in your chest, and a shake of the earth that makes you stumble. The non-sorcerers around you do the same, some of them even tripping, but they’re not turning in the direction of the flash. No, between all the chatter, you make out people questioning if it was an earthquake or a terrorist attack.

Non-sorcerers can’t see cursed techniques.

And then there was that red light…

Red.

There is something rising up inside you, something dangerous. Hope. All the blood that stained the concrete, the horror that Suguru described that you know extended to Satoru even if Suguru didn’t witness it himself…that all flies out of your head. This is the only thing that makes sense, you reason. There’s only one logical conclusion for why cursed spirits would be running away, refusing to pass that point. A dead boy’s residuals wouldn’t scare them like that.

He’s alive, you think. What else could it be? Nothing, your desperate heart reasons. Then, it’s on repeat. He’s alive, he’s alive, he’s alive, he’s alive, he’s alive—

Not even five minutes pass before, in the middle of your sprinting, there’s yet another explosion. With this one comes a bright purple light and an even bigger explosion. It sends you stumbling, tripping over your feet, and you manage to catch yourself on your hands and knees, but they don’t come out unscathed. They’re busted open, but you ignore that pain. Adrenaline has you up and back to running.

Looming tall, getting closer and closer, is a temple. Gold and white marble. An eyesore that makes your retinas burn. Is this…the headquarters of the Star Religious Group that Suguru had told you about? One of the two organizations that was targeting them on their mission? It must be. Kusakabe said that the other group, Q, was defunct. Satoru and Suguru even sent pictures posing with the leaders that they beat.

The path that leads to the entrance is lined with tall pillars on either side. The further down the path you run, the evidence of a fight becomes more and more abundant. Some of the pillars are totally crushed, others chopped in half, rubble everywhere, and practically stinking of Satoru’s cursed energy.

Why…why does it feel so different? Are you…you’re not imagining that, are you? For someone that should be on the verge of death, it’s so strong. Stronger than it’s ever been before. The weight of it is almost oppressive. Familiar, but…sharper. You’ve unthinkingly slowed to a stop. Too stuck in thought to move, maybe, or…too scared. It’s as if the connection with the cursed spirits is lingering and their terror is bleeding over to you. Weak and feeble prey against a predator so unimaginable.

This can’t be your Satoru, can it?

“Sketch.”

And the last year and a half of memories comes crashing down on your head when you hear the sound of his voice, suffocating the noise of your panicked hindbrain. When you raise your head, unaware that you’d ducked it down to stare at nothing, he is standing there. A few meters away from you. His blazer is torn open, white button-up underneath it stained with blood, the same as a section of hair covering his forehead. It’s a horrifying miracle…but a miracle, nonetheless.

“Sa—” your mouth snaps shut because your throat clogged with emotion. You don’t know what the fuck you’d say, so you just don’t bother with it. You shut the hell up and run. Tears are blurring your vision, you’re more out of breath than you were getting here because the sobs are bubbling up in your chest, but you don’t stop. You can’t. Not until you know that he is solid and real and alive.

It’s when you throw yourself right at him, arms locking around his neck, that the dam of emotion inside breaks. Before you know it, you’re sobbing. “Satoru!” You’re being rough with him. Clinging too tight. One of your hands is grasping tightly the hair at the nape of his neck and the other fisting the fabric of his blazer. “Satoru!”

Satoru mumbles your name, shoulders slumping under your grasp. “Oh.” His voice cracks a little. Then, he’s giving you a hug of his own, hands splayed across your back. “Oh,” he repeats, almost dazedly. “It all still feels so, so amazing, Sketch.” You try to lean back, but he smushes his cheek against yours, sighing in something you’d think is pleasure. “I want to keep feeling this way forever…with you, Sketch.”

“Satoru—”

The breath catches in your throat when you can lean back enough to catch his gaze with your own. How did you not see these eyes before? Something has changed. Infinity isn’t active, but they’re still glowing bright. Sparkling like the sun glinting off the clearest ocean waters. These eyes are beautiful, entrancing, and…almost inhuman. His world has shifted. He has stepped up on another level. He—

Satoru is kissing you.

You’d been so stunned that you didn’t pay attention to his face inching closer to yours until you feel the warmth of his breath against your mouth. It’s a soft touch of his lips against yours. You could…you should…stop this. You need to…to…check on him. But…oh. Oh, he cups your cheek, hand so big and so, so warm. His hand is at the small of your back now, a gesture that sends pleasure up your spine.

It’s a clumsy kiss, maybe. You’re not sure what to do with your mouth and your noses bump against each other. Then, he tilts his head to the side a bit and it falls into place like two puzzle pieces coming together. Your eyes flutter shut and instead of pushing him away, you’re tugging him closer by the lapels of his blazer.

Heat explodes across your body when he takes it a step further, tongue gliding across the seam of your lips. You’re not sure if he’s aware of it or not, but it’s a dirty move when he cups your cheeks with both his hands. He tries to pull you closer, like he can’t get enough of this. Of you. And that’s…that fucks with a person’s brain. You’ve been swept up in his whirlwind, so you go with it. Your mouth opens and he’s licking into your mouth. You always thought it’d feel gross, but it’s just…hot. The smacking of your lips, the small noise of pleasure he gives…

Satoru pulls himself away from you, the both of you panting harshly. “I…” He licks his lips. “I am super high right now.”

“High,” you repeat hoarsely without much thought to it. You’re dazed and he’s pinning you down with those eyes again. It takes you a good minute to comprehend what he said. When it hits, your body jerks. “High?”

Instead of doing something like elaborating, his brows furrow, and he turns to look over his shoulder at the temple. “Hey, I need to get Amanai’s body. You might wanna leave.” He faces you again, looking like he’s trying to gather his all thoughts. “I blew a hole in that Zen’in guy with Purple. And…I kind of want to slaughter all those people in there. I can see them in this big meeting room, clapping because she’s dead now. I don’t want you seeing that.”

Don’t do that, you should say.

But how can you find mercy in your heart for people who celebrate the death of a child? Who paid a man to swoop in and shatter your life? Those aren’t good people. They’re not innocent. Shouldn’t they be punished in some way?

“Be safe,” you say instead.

Satoru doesn’t kill them.

Not soon after Satoru left you had called Sensei to tell him that Satoru was alive and found the Star Plasma Vessel’s body. And almost as soon as you hang up the phone after Sensei assures you that Shoko and the cleanup crew will be there shortly, Suguru shows up.

When they walk out of the temple, Suguru comes back to meet you while Satoru goes on ahead to hand over the body to those that will make sure she’s treated with respect. Suguru doesn’t look at you when he tells you that he talked Satoru down from killing them all.

“There would be no meaning it in.”

It’s clear that Suguru is troubled, trying to justify that to himself. While you don’t really believe him…well, no. It’s more that you simply don’t care if there’s meaning.

“You’re right,” you lie as a comfort and reach out to thread your fingers through his.

***

For four days after they come home, you never see them.

Suguru is still texting you—somewhat, anyway, since he’s more focused on taking care of Satoru who hadn’t been able to sleep for three days straight. Still high on…something. You and Suguru were trying to speculate what put him in such a state since there was no point in asking a practically incoherent Satoru. He died, Suguru told you in the middle of night two. I think, he then followed up with. The Six Eyes are fully realized. All the pieces fell in place.

He’s high on the power, you think you summarize correctly.

Suguru thinks that Satoru is finally leveling out when he sleeps for twenty-four hours straight.

You’re the first person to know that he’s awake when you’re walking across campus, planning on a late night konbini run because you can’t sleep, and almost get smacked in the head by a floating wallet. You duck it, but a rock gets tangled in your hair. There’s a bunch of rocks and some empty soda bottles, looking like one of those asteroid fields that you see in space movies.

“Oops,” a familiar voice calls out. “My bad, Sketch.”

“Satoru?” You fully expect him to be there behind you, but when you turn around, there’s nothing. You look off to either side of you, too. Nothing. “Where—” wait. Did it sound like he was speaking above you? You tilt your head up and, yeah, you definitely forgot that Satoru could float even before…everything.

Satoru is cross-legged, floating there in the air. All the debris surrounds him now as if they were planets in his orbit. Your brows furrow. “Why does it feel like you’re showing off?”

“I’m not!” Satoru protests with a pout.

“It just…feels different,” you mumble while trying to figure out what exactly is giving you that idea. This isn’t totally out of the ordinary for him. He was blocking massive chunks of destroyed buildings and tearing apart houses before. “Oh. Your output is so low now.”

“Bingo!”

There was a little delay, but your brain finally catches up. “You’re awake! What are you doing out here? You should’ve gone to see Shoko as soon as you were up!”

Satoru waves the concern off. “I’m running Reverse Curse Technique now. I’m good.”

“You…what?” Logically, that makes the most sense. Despite all the blood, you hadn’t seen a mark on Satoru that day at the temple.

“Yeah! Who knew that getting stabbed in the neck is what it’d take for me to figure out Reverse Curse Technique, huh? Never let Shoko become a teacher. She can’t explain things for shit.”

Avoiding overwhelming emotions isn’t a new concept for you. You’re notorious for it. That doesn’t mean you can’t feel the emotions for Satoru, though. Stabbed in the neck—you didn’t think it was possible for your heart to crack more than it already has.

“Come down here so I can hug you,” you choke out.

Satoru blinks, looking almost baffled by your turn of emotion. Does he really not know how fucked up that is? Can he not understand why you’d be upset? How terrified he must’ve been, you think as you reach out for him when he slowly lowers back to the ground. Sure, he beat Death, but that doesn’t make the sight any less horrifying.

“You gotta stop being such a crybaby or I’m gonna have to give you a new nickname,” he muses when you get your arms around him. His arms slip around your shoulders, crushing you against his chest. “I’m okay, Sketch. Alive and kicking. Got some badass scars and, as the geezers in my clan would say, my Six Eyes are fully realized.”

Be serious about this, you want to demand of him, but who are you to do that? “Don’t make fun of me for worrying about you.”

“Suguru is already doing enough of it, y’know,” Satoru remarks softly. “Go worry about him.”

“I can worry about you both, thanks.”

“You’re cute, Sketch.”

The memory of his mouth against yours makes itself painfully known. Back of your neck prickling with heat, you try to bury your face further against his chest, not wanting him to see whatever might be on your face. In the silence between you two, your mind runs through so many questions. Does he remember? Why in the world did he do that? If it’d been Suguru there instead, would Satoru have kissed him instead? Should you even ask about it? What would you say if you did? Do you even know enough about how you feel for him to have that talk?

Satoru demands to escort you to the konbini when you tell him what has you out so late. He’s almost aggressive when he takes your hand in his and starts tugging you forward again, listing off all the snacks that he wants to buy. At the bottom of the mountain, finally out on the street, you notice that he still hasn’t let go of your hand, so you stop him. You’re fully prepared to talk about it. Okay, you’re not, but you feel like you need to talk about it.

But then, under the glow of a streetlamp, you catch the glint of that scar at the base of his throat.

You’ll bring up the kiss some other time.

***

“What?”

For once, Sensei doesn’t look you in the eye. “You heard me.”

“Did I? Because it sounds like you told me that some old man is here to force Satoru and Suguru out on solo missions—”

He pinches the bridge of his nose and breathes out your name. “It’s just to ease them back out in the field—”

“Stop lying!” Sensei’s mouth snaps shut at the sound of your echoing shout. “I’m not dumb! These are assignments that only they can do as Special Grades. The higher-ups wouldn’t bother with wasting them on something the rest of us grunts can do, would they?”

“Please. Calm down—”

“It hasn’t even been three weeks!”

Sensei calls in backup. Looking over your shoulder, expression pinched in discomfort, he begs by way of order, “Nanami, Haibara, let’s end class early. Can you take her back to the girls’ dorm—”

There have been only a few times that you’ve ever been so furious in your life and, not-so-shockingly, they all had to do with Suguru. When you were both eight, inseparable, Suguru had finally confessed where his bruises truly came from. You learned that the lack of food wasn’t from poverty or neglect, but maliciousness. The bruises weren’t from scraps with spirits that he was trying to tame.

You’d been downright distraught. You hadn’t let him leave your house for as long as you could. Begging your parents to let him live with you, offering your plate up if there wasn’t enough food in the house for four people. When Suguru wasn’t in the room, you told them what he said, insistent on your parents calling the police for help because you knew they were supposed to help with bad people and what else were Suguru’s parents?

The first few times, your parents lied and said that they’d handle it. After a year of nothing happening, you’d gone to a teacher instead because your parents outright told you that how Suguru’s parents disciplined him wasn’t their business. Suguru was out for about a week, and you hadn’t been allowed over. When he came back to school, arm in a cast, he told you about a person visiting, and how furious it’d made his parents when that lady left.

Finally, you learned a cruel lesson—that trying to help would only punish Suguru.

Maybe that’s something you should remember right now, but…you’re blinded by that same sense of justice that you’d had as an eight-year-old girl. You have a voice here. You’ll scream until your throat bleeds. If they want sacrifices, you’ll offer yourself up in place of Suguru and Satoru. Just to let them have peace a little while longer.

“Senpai?” Haibara hesitantly touches your shoulder.

Nanami and Haibara, smartly, move out of your way when you whirl around and storm out of the classroom. You’re not sure how much time you have left, but you need to ditch your escorts, so you go back to the dorms like Sensei requested, fuming the entire time. You don’t speak a word to your juniors, scared that you’ll snap at them unnecessarily. They’re just following orders, same as every other fucking sorcerer.

As soon as you’re inside your room, you’re immediately sneaking out the window, and pinpointing Satoru and Suguru’s cursed energies. They’re at the entrance’s torii gate, getting lectured by some withered husk. Satoru, as always, looks disinterested, but Suguru…

Suguru looks tired.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!”

The old man slowly turns around to face you, eyes narrowed. “Who do you think you’re talking to like that?” For someone that’s hunched over and clutches to his cane with a trembling hand, he sure does have his nose stuck up pretty high in the air. “Ah, I know you.” He says your name. “Mind your tongue, girl. You’ll ruin your chances at success with this type of behavior.”

“They almost died and you’re throwing them back out in the field this soon?”

He scoffs. “Is that what this is about? I’ve spoken with Yaga. They’ve been healed.”

“Are you stupid?” If he can’t scrounge up an emotion in his black heart, you’ll appeal to logic. “Do you not understand that if you don’t give them proper rest and run them ragged then they’re more likely to make mistakes and die? Let someone else handle whatever you want them to do.”

“Who? Like you? Stop acting like a child. You may be a sorcerer, but don’t think you could be of any use other than collecting information. You’re weak.” You hate this man, but you hate that he’s right even more. Is running your mouth really the only thing that you can do? “Know your place.”  

Behind the old man, Suguru and Satoru puff up.

Something ugly is festering inside you as you watch him walk away. You’re not sure that you’ve ever felt so much hatred toward another person. How can such weak people have all this power? What more can you compare them to other than an invasive parasite—hiding themselves away as their host supports them and weakens itself until there’s nothing left and then they’re on to the next pray. That’s how they rose so high. Everyone else threw themselves on the sword until only these cowards remained. It isn’t fair that you’re forced to bow down to them.

You should worship us, you think viciously. Rage is making your body go haywire. You’re trembling all over, fists clenched so tightly that your nails are digging into your skin causing sticky, wet blood to slip through your fingers. Prostrate yourself before us, you wish you could scream at him. How much blood have they spilt with their callous and cruel demands? You can’t even begin to imagine, but you smell it. You taste it. You can’t even register that something is slipping from your nose, over the bow of your lips. Your eyes are losing focus, your ears are ringing, and you’re shocked that you can focus enough to think anymore with how agonizing this headache is.

Prostrate yourself.

A lot happens all at once. Just as someone snatches your upper arm, the higher-up goes down with a crack. An actual crack of a bone. He twists himself awkwardly as he’s going down, ending up spread eagle on the ground right in front of your feet. He turns his head to the side, forehead coated with blood from getting busted open on the concrete. He clutches at his hip, trying to move, but failing every single time.

Then, you’re gone.

Feeling like your stomach drops out under you, along with your feet, you’re warped to a completely different part of campus by Satoru’s hold on your arm. All at once, the world comes rushing back in, and you’re suddenly aware of your body. You collapse to your hands and knees, watching as drops of blood plop on the blades of grass beneath your face. Even this much, holding yourself up by your shaking arms, is hard.

Just being conscious is hard, apparently, because you wobble before you’re crashing on the ground and passing out.

“You were right to bring me to her first. Fuck. She had a brain bleed. What the fuck happened?”

Shoko’s raised voice might be what pulls you back to consciousness. Or the fact that you’re clearly healed now. The only remnant that there had been something wrong is the flaking blood on your face, sensitivity to light, and the lingering exhaustion because she can’t fully replenish cursed energy.

The lack of noise has you turning your head to the side. Shoko, Satoru, and Suguru—all in a circle—have turned to stare down at you. There are varying degrees of concern on their faces, but Shoko is the only one that’s also furious. She points an accusatory finger at you. “You’re going to tell me what you did later, Duck. Do you understand me? Right now, I have to go heal some old geezer’s broken hip.”

Ah. You’d been right, then. A bone had broken.

You broke that bone.

Because you…

In the heat of that moment, you weren’t comprehending what was going on. What you were doing. But you know now. And the implications of it terrify you. What’s even worse is that you weren’t even consciously thinking about doing it. It just happened, so what if it happens again by accident? What if one of those things thought in the heat of the moment that you’d never say out loud comes true?

You didn’t want this. Not this. You never asked for it. This is too much power for one person. How do you shoulder the weight of something like this? You can’t. You don’t have it in you. You’ll hurt someone, you know it, and it’ll be someone that you love, and when it happens—

“Squid.”

Suguru’s hands appear in your blurry line of vision. They’re meant to be a silent question, to ask if you’re okay to be touched right now. You answer by grabbing his wrists and yanking them down to your cheeks. You don’t know what possesses you to do it. Maybe it’s to pull him in closer because seeing his softening expression makes you feel less overwhelmed. They understand better than anyone, after all, that power is a burden.

It’s not a full breakdown. More a moment of overwhelming pressure and guilt. Suguru and Satoru, both now sitting down next to you in the grass, don’t say anything until you calm down. When you’re just sniffling, Suguru’s thumb that’s been stroking your cheek stills. “What happened, Squid?”

“I’ve been thinking about it,” Satoru speaks up. “Your persuasion isn’t only limited to cursed spirits anymore. It’s anything with cursed energy, isn’t it?” You nod, mouth twisted with misery. “We really need to come up with a name for your technique.”

“Not the time, Satoru,” Suguru sighs. He brushes away some hair that’s plastered across your forehead. “You don’t seem as surprised by this as I think you should be.”

“Shoko put the idea in my head at the start of the term,” you mumble. “I told her about that mission with you—the one where I caught your cursed spirit and that other sorcerer’s shikigami. I could maybe understand why yours was affected because the spirits have different cursed energy than yours, but…the shikigami is a manifestation of a sorcerer’s energy. Shoko took it to its next logical step. I didn’t want to believe her.”

“It was so weird.” Satoru is tapping his bottom lip, thoughtful. “It was like your cursed energy was infecting that geezer. It was only a second, but I guess whenever you gave your command, I swear that it was like there were two of you. It was seriously trippy.”

“And then you gave yourself a brain bleed. Do you know how lucky you were that Shoko was on campus?” Suguru presses his palm against your forehead, and you look back up at him. The corners of his eyes are tight with worry. “Promise me you won’t do that again.”

“I didn’t mean to do it,” you purposely deflect. Does this power scare you? Yes. Would you use it again if it meant keeping the people you love safe in both body and mind? Another yes. “I’m just…worried about you both.”

“Squid, you can’t keep us here forever. I know you’re worried, but—” he fumbles. Briefly, his gaze darkens, but that emotion quickly passes. “We’re the strongest. We can take care of ourselves.”

“It’s not about whether you can do it or not,” you whisper. “It’s about rest. You almost died. You…you lost. And…that leaves wounds that Shoko can’t heal. Why can’t you have more time? Why does it have to be you?”

“The world has to keep spinning, Sketch.”

Yes, the world is cruel like that, isn’t it?

***

The start of middle school had felt like a month-long blowout in your household.

About two weeks in, while you were curled up under the blankets with a hot water bag pressed against your pelvis, grandparents that you rarely saw had come to visit from the village over. It’d felt like such an invasion of privacy when your both your mother and grandmother presented a bowl of red rice and congratulations on becoming a woman that you’d snapped. Why celebrate such a stupid thing? You’d ranted and raved. It’s what the body does. Why make a big deal? Do you do this with boys when they get their first erection? And all hell had broken loose.

Your father had outright smacked you in the mouth for speaking so crudely and disrespectfully to his mother. After an hour or so of being banished to your room, your frazzled mother and shrewd grandmother had come to interrogate you on how you knew about such a thing—the thing being erections. You’d told them because you saw nothing wrong with the truth. You hadn’t known it then, but Suguru had started puberty a few months before you. He’d told you about the exhausting and awkward conversation his father had been forced to give him.

By the end of the weekend, you’d been ready to choke your grandmother. The way she hovered over your mother, stirring up shit by whispering in your mother’s ear. The worst offense, in your opinion, had been how they turned Suguru away at the door every single day. You couldn’t sneak out because your grandmother slept in your room at night while days were spent going over what boiled down to glorified etiquette classes. Ladies don’t talk about crude things which included basic bodily functions, ladies don’t sleep with men unless they’re married, ladies are demure yet try to make friends with their peers, ladies this, ladies that, and on and on it went.

And you’d overheard conversations at school, knew that most of your classmates hated it as much as you did when their grandparents visited, so you’d hoped the hell would end when they were gone. It hadn’t. That Monday night, your mother had declared that there would no longer be any sleepovers, and you think that may have been the first ever time you screamed yourself hoarse.

You’ve always been too close to that boy! Your father had been the one to step in, absolutely laying into you. I tolerated it because you needed to have one friend, at least, so we could pretend our daughter is normal, but this is just becoming borderline inappropriate now! You’re lucky that I don’t ban you from seeing him, period! And think of him! Don’t you think that he’s sick of spending so much time with you? He’ll never have any other friends if he’s seen spending so much time with you! Let the boy be a boy, damn it!

That’s when the doubt started, you think.

This fear has always plagued you—the idea that you need Suguru more than he needs you.

Zen’in Toji changes that.

Sometimes, when you’re too stuck in your head, you worry that you’re still acting like a child, tugging at his sleeves, annoyingly demanding his attention. Now, it almost feels like the roles have reversed. Not that you’re annoyed. No, if he tried to hide himself away, you’re pretty sure that you’d be waiting outside his door like a lost puppy begging to come home.

Really, the only difference between now and those childhood days where you two were practically joined at the hip is that Satoru is included.

Now that Satoru and Suguru are on their own, you’ve been unofficially added to Nanami and Haibara’s team. What happened to headquarters wanting you to spy on Suguru, huh? This might be a punishment. You don’t mind it, obviously, because you like to be a good mentor, but it’s not just them that you’re helping. Helping is a loose term, though. You’re almost as busy as Suguru and Satoru are, running to pacify and record spirits for the seasoned sorcerers.  

A thing that you’ve started to learn is that sorcerers are…eccentric. More often than not, they don’t try to make small talk with you which you’re happy for, but it’s still exhausting to be around all these strangers. It seems like you’re always running on empty. It feels like your art is suffering, too, because you can’t find it in yourself to practice in your spare time. You feel as if you always have to be available.

Things might be easier if you had some time alone, but you never are anymore, even when you’re on campus. Would Satoru and Suguru respect your wishes if you asked? Yes. But you never do. You always feel too guilty to ask for such a thing when they’re working so hard all the time. Thankfully, Suguru is fine to sit in silence with you and Satoru can talk and talk without you ever saying a word back.

Things are changing between the three of you—even a person like you who always has things going over her head can see that.

You’re not quite sure when it started but there is always someone in your bed. None of you talk about it, though. If they hadn’t started leaving pieces of themselves behind in your room, you’d wonder if they even knew that the other is with you when they aren’t around. In your need to have things in the correct places, you’ve assigned them spots—Suguru’s cigarettes are tucked in the corner of your nightstand, Satoru’s stash of blueberry sodas is neatly stacked inside your minifridge, Suguru’s spicy ramen is in the cabinet closest to the door and Satoru’s melon bread are next to the ramen.

People talk about walking in the shadows of The Strongest, but…for you, it feels like their shadows are swallowing you whole.

Where do they end and where do you begin?

It’s getting weird inside your head. Not that it hasn’t always been. It’s just…you sometimes feel suffocated. On bad days, you wonder if you’ve started to create a mask for them—something you’ve never felt the need to do, especially with Suguru. And yet, in spite of it all, you’re terrified to push them away, and not because of what happened to them.

Bitterly, you think about that river in your village, and how if you were thrown in it with no way out but forward that you’d let yourself drown in that familiarity rather than face the unknown that awaits on the other side of the river.

You’d scolded Suguru for picking up smoking, but maybe he and Shoko are on to something with it.

The stars have aligned just right so that you, Satoru, and Suguru are all on campus at the exact same time. It’s a bitterly cold December morning and you’re gathered in the smoking area. Sitting next to Suguru on a bench, you eye the cigarette, tempted to try, but decide better of it. You’ll settle for the smoke that curls in the air and clings to his clothes. You tilt to the side, putting your head on his shoulder, and Suguru settles his cheek on the top of your head. Satoru, across from you and munching on pocky, has been watching you two with an eerie intensity.

“You two should come home to Kyoto with me.”

“Meeting the parents already?” The question was intoned by you and Suguru, at the exact same time. You lean away, glancing up at Suguru with the same surprise mirrored on his face, and then the two of you break out in a loud fit of laughter that’s becoming depressingly rare these days.

Satoru stands there, red-faced and fuming. “Sorry for wanting to spend my birthday weekend with you, you assholes!”

After collecting yourself and catching your breath, you ask, “Are we even allowed?”

“Doesn’t matter if you are or not,” he replies with a shrug of the shoulder. “I’m head of the clan, baby. I can do whatever I want, and no one can say a damn thing about it.”

From next to you, Suguru snorts. “Why don’t you just stay here since you obviously don’t want to go, Lord Gojo.”

“Future head of the clan,” Satoru reluctantly grumbles. “I could stay here,” he goes on to defensively. “I’m just being a nice person! The last time I saw my parents was last year when I moved on campus. I’m doing them a favor before I’m eighteen and never looking back.”

“Oh? Are you giving up your position when you graduate? Otherwise, you’ll probably be seeing them to do fancy, important clan stuff,” you tease.

“Screw both of you!” If life were an anime, there would be steam blowing out of his ears right now. “I was even going to let you guys go all out when we get fitted, but now I’m choosing for you, and I’ll put you in the ugliest colors!”

You cock your head to the side. “Fitted?”

“They want traditional clothes for the birthday celebration.”

“How traditional?���

“Ofurisode for you and montsuki for us,” he answers casually.

Oh, no. No, no, no. There have been only a few times where your parents rented a kimono for you, and you hated every single second of it. Granted, you were young, but you remember how much you hated it. “No.” You shake your head. “Absolutely not. I refuse.”

Satoru’s brows furrow. “Eh? Why?”

“What do you mean why? I can’t believe you’re okay with it! You don’t like clothes clinging to you, right?”

“Actually, it’s more like I hate when my clothes get wet. Besides, if something feels like it’s rubbing against me wrong, I can shift Infinity to sit between my skin and the fabric. Anyway, my montsuki are always silk, and I like how that feels.”

Your eye twitches. “Yeah, well, not everyone has Infinity. Do you even know how many pieces there are in an ofurisode? It’s so heavy and tight and—” you visibly shudder.

“Good point.” Satoru hums and taps his chin in thought. “Best I can do is a chu-furisode, though. I don’t doubt that they’d kick you out on your ass if you showed up in anything less formal or if we tried putting you in something for the married women.”

“You’re forgetting something,” you point out wryly. “I can just not go.”

“Sketch,” Satoru whines. “It’s my birthday.”

“We can celebrate here before or after you leave.”

“Also,” Suguru finally speaks up, “that’s too much money.”

“Oh, don’t worry, my little country bumpkins. It’s all on the Gojo dime and it won’t even be a drop in the bucket.”

Deadpan and once again at the same time, you and Suguru say, “Rich boy.”

Satoru claps his hands together in front of himself, ducking his head. “Please, please, please,” he loudly begs. “Don’t leave me on my own with my shitty clan! It’ll be like a sleepover! You guys did those when you were kids, right? My one wish is that I get a turn having a sleepover with Sketch and Suguru!”

We have sleepovers every time you’re on campus, you aggressively think. But, after a moment of reflection, you realize that, actually, not all three of you have slept in the same room. On the few times that they’ve been on campus at the same time, neither of them tries to sneak into your room at night or text you to ask. You think you know what they do, though. Just as they’ve started to leave pieces of themselves in your room, you see them in each other’s. And, sure, you could put that as them hanging out, but you’ll sometimes catch whiffs of cigarette smoke on Satoru’s sheets and pillows.

You still want to tell him no. It’s a daunting thought, being in an uncomfortable kimono, surrounded by people that don’t even respect their own future clan head let alone people like you and Suguru who have no sorcery in your bloodlines. But what else is there to get the boy who has everything? And…it’s a rare chance to have them to yourself because the higher-ups are giving him leave and, if Satoru insists, his family will request the same for you and Suguru.

“Fine,” you agree with a frustrated sigh.

Suguru also gives a sigh of his own. “I’m smoking, whether I’m allowed to or not.”

“Best birthday ever!” Satoru cheers.

***

For obvious reasons, Satoru puts off going on his clan’s estate as long as possible. There are people at the estate that could measure you and Suguru, but Satoru pulls you both into a shop that’s probably so expensive that it costs to breathe. You’re glad the prices aren’t displayed. Thankfully, you don’t really have to put up with strange hands all over you yet. They simply take a tape measurer to you and then let you pick out the fabric. Like Satoru, you decide on a beautiful silk that starts out forest green before fading to a navy blue near the bottom.

Kyoto is mostly religious sits—temples, castles, shrines, and the like. It’s very beautiful. Satoru takes you both to the Fushimi Inari-taisha, a long path that’s nothing but bright red torii gates. Satoru is surprisingly quiet, so it’s a peaceful moment. After the shrine, you wonder if it was just a way to calm you down before you’re forced to face the crowds to find food. It’s…honestly not as bad as you expected because with Satoru and Suguru’s huge bodies in front of and behind you, people can’t bump into you that much.

Late in the afternoon, as the sun is setting, the three of you are in a random park. Satoru is dozing off, head in Suguru’s lap, and Suguru is reading a book. It’s good inspiration, so you draw them. Not like that’s anything unusual. You do feel a little sad, a little nostalgic when you flip through your personal sketchbook and see the gradual loss of…youth, you guess. Even Shoko isn’t unaffected. You wonder how you look to everyone else.

At twilight, Satoru decides he can’t stall anymore, and he finally picks up the phone that he’s been ignoring all day.

jjk

“Your parents aren’t what I expected,” Suguru comments when the three of you shuffle into his obscenely large bedroom.

Meanwhile, your question is, “Is this not your room?” Sure, Satoru brought a lot of stuff when he moved on campus, but this room is…weirdly empty. Not a hint of his love for Digimon, no posters, and the bedsheets look like they belong to an older person rather than a teenager.

“Right? My parents are super weak. They were low on the Gojo ladder, but then they had yours truly, and they’re practically worshipped now. I’ve never lived with them much, though. They handed me over to tutors and people who could teach me about sorcery,” Satoru explains. “I was in another section of the compound, but when I come to Kyoto, I’m a good son and stay with my parents.”

Suguru voices what you’re both thinking. “Satoru, that’s…really sad. You know that, right?”

“Eh.” Satoru shrugs off the concern. “It’s probably how every other rich kid is treated. Non-sorcerers get boarding schools, and I got training and missions.”

“Missions?”

“Yeah?” Satoru cocks his head to the side, genuinely confused by your disbelief. “What? I’m Gojo Satoru, wielder of the Six Eyes. You think I was sitting around on my ass until high school?”

Suguru is pressing a thumb against the center of his forehead. “I’m too tired to tell you how fucked up that is, Satoru. We’ll save it for another day.”

“Agreed,” you say with a nod. “And don’t expect me to be polite to any of your family.”

“I don’t get you guys, but okay. Let’s go to bed.”

It takes a bit of maneuvering. There’s some giggling when, as you three try to get settled in Satoru’s massive bed, you all bump into some ticklish spots. You argue even more about the positioning. Finally, you decide that the birthday boy is stuck in the middle. Besides, he’s always ice cold, so he won’t get too hot, anyway.

Satoru has an arm thrown around your shoulders and Suguru’s. Suguru’s cheek is up in the crook of Satoru’s neck while yours is above his heart. It’s a nice sensation, listening to the frantic beat of Satoru’s heart slow as the minutes pass by. Suguru is half-asleep when he reaches out to lace his fingers through yours, placing them on Satoru’s stomach. They’re both asleep before you, which isn’t a surprise. They must be exhausted, constantly coming and going on missions.

I wish I was stronger.

Strong enough to shoulder these burdens with them, strong enough to face down the old men that treat Satoru and Suguru like weapons to be used and feared, strong enough to stop childishly clinging to everyone else, strong enough to protect these so very precious moments, strong enough…

I’m weak.

And that’s a bitter truth but a still a truth regardless.

[struwberrii]

I think tumblr ate my ask so I’m gonna send it again with what I can remember-

OK OK SO I freaking adore the high school HCS you did and I am humbly asking for some college hcs for this self-indulgent duck. I will let you pick the sillies, but if I may request my own, I’d love either Yamaguchi or Ennoshita!!

Thank you so much! 🫶🫶

haikyuu!! college headcanons ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

thank u for the request u silly duck, i tried my best 🫡 (i am not in college but i THINK i have a pretty good idea of how things get down in college)

characters: kageyama, hinata, tsukishima, yamaguchi

♡⋆˚⋆｡⋆˚⋆｡⋆˚⋆｡⋆♡

kageyama

misses his first classes because he’s on the wrong side of campus looking for his classes 😭

takes notes on his laptop and types SO LOUD

asked a really dumb question in one of his classes and now he’s too embarrassed to ever speak up in class again

has a hard time making friends because he’s so awkward

probably builds lego cars and displays them in his dorm as decor

spends like $500 on doordash a month because he hates driving

probably hardly passing any of his classes

always has an airpod in during class

hinata

also gets super lost on the first day

good ol fashioned pen and paper for his notes

has the brightest and biggest bookbag ever

probably conducts the gay son or thot daughter street interviews

doesn’t have a car, he’s just fending for himself

his dorm room is SO cozy, like bro does not play about his bedroom decor

has definitely tried coughing to cover a fart in class but it only ended up drawing more attention to himself

everyone kind of sees him as a little brother

tsukishima

doesn’t talk to anyone in his classes

went to one party and hated it so much now he just stays in on saturdays or goes out with yamaguchi somewhere quiet/chill

always looks annoyed in classes

do NOT ask him for notes or help with something because he will scold you + make you feel dumb

his dorm is probably like almost empty, he does not decorate much

takes good notes and probably sells pics online too

lives in hoodies and big jackets

probably been a victim of the phone mic interviewers an odd amount of times and always gives the most out of pocket answers to mess with people

carries a tote bag

drives a prius, even though yamaguchi can drive tsuki drives the 2 of them everywhere

he and yamaguchi have game nights and invite some of the others over sometimes

can cook the most simple things, that’s about it

yamaguchi

sat in the wrong class on the first day and just stayed for the entire lecture bc he was too scared to leave

dorms designated chef (he isn’t THAT good at cooking though just better than tsuki)

takes walks around campus during his free time

#1 library studyer

has lost his dorm key multiple times

falls asleep in class sometimes

takes notes on ipad

sketches during classes he isn’t interested in

switched his major like 3 times

eats fast food a lot for lunch

plant dad, his dorm is covered in different plants

(sorry i feel like this writing is a little bad, maybe i DONT understand college like dat)

[visceravalentines]

sugar stuck in your teeth

They're grimy and tired and Benson's neck is sore. Randy gives him a shoulder rub and thinks hard about the allure of being a biological organism.

2.5k words. canon divergence, boys on the run. established relationship. implied sexual content, nothing explicit. sweat and oil and general nasty. sharing of a toothbrush. so fluffy i'm spinning it up and putting it on a stick and selling it at a carnival. read on ao3 here if that's more your speed.

They spend a full day on the road. Seven hours across Texas through scrub and sand. Nothing to see. No end in sight. Randy falls asleep in the dead-eyed sun of mid-afternoon and wakes up in the dark, dry air whipping through the car from Benson's window rolled all the way down. 

"Hey." Randy sits up, disoriented, mouth gummy and tasting of bygone Mountain Dew, bladder fit to burst. "Why didn't you wake me up? You've been driving for hours."

"Didn't want to stop." Benson's voice is rough. Randy can read the exhaustion in his posture, the way he grips the wheel with both hands. "Besides, you looked like you could use it."

Randy shifts in his seat. He hasn't slept well all week. "Well…it's my turn now. Let me take over."

"Nah." Benson rolls his neck slowly. "Town's up here in like ten minutes. Figure we stop for the night."

Randy peers through the bug-splattered windshield and sees lights in the near distance. "You wanna find a motel?"

"I'd fucking love a motel. Gimme that lukewarm shower and a box spring mattress. Fucking luxury."

As it turns out, they get none of that. The only place in town has a sign that says Closed and no lights on in the lobby. Doors all locked, despite Benson's best efforts to rattle them open. 

He doesn't say a word, doesn't even curse, just slumps defeated back to the car with Randy in tow. "You want the backseat or the front?"

"Benson, I slept for hours, I can–"

"There's not another town for forty miles and if I spend one more second on that fucking highway I'm gonna peel the skin off my face."

Randy doesn't argue. "I'll take the front."

"You sure?" Benson tosses a weary look at him over his shoulder. He squeezes the back of his neck and winces. 

Randy nods. "Yeah, I'm sure." 

The front sucks. You either have to fold your legs to fit around the steering wheel, or risk nailing the thing with your arm or your head. One time he hit the horn with his knee and scared them both so bad they ended up packing up and driving through the night because neither one could fall back asleep. 

He's had plenty of rest. Benson should get the back. 

They leave the car parked in the rear lot of the motel and pick their way through the scrub in the dark to take a piss, elbow-to-elbow. Randy barely feels self-conscious anymore. At the start he used to walk ten paces away and make Benson turn around. But that seems silly now. Benson's seen and touched every inch of him. This is nothing.

Benson zips up and takes off down the sidewalk with a haphazard sense of purpose. Randy has to jog a little to catch up. Benson holds out his arm and he ducks beneath it, the weight comfortable across his shoulders. By now Randy feels like he belongs there, pinned against his side. 

He reeks. They both do. It's been three, almost four days since they last had a shower, been making do with baby wipes and clean underwear since they left Tennessee. Randy almost can't stand it. Back home, he showered every day, sometimes twice a day if work was rough. Right now, he could scrape the grime off himself with a fingernail. 

He's adjusting to this level of awareness of his own body, like he's just now cognizant of the way his skin fits. It makes him sort of anxious. But he's coping. He doesn't really have a choice. 

And it's funny–Randy doesn't mind Benson's stench at all. He's uncomfortable with his own stink, but he actually thinks Benson smells kind of…good, maybe. In a gross kind of way. It's such a foreign concept that he keeps inhaling a little too deep at this distance just to prove it to himself. 

"What're you doing later?" Benson asks, oblivious. 

Randy clears his throat. "Um…not much." 

"Oh. Huh." Benson squints down the road towards the distant light of a gas station, the only thing in town that looks alive besides the two of them. "Well, how about I take you to dinner?" 

A smile steals its way onto Randy's lips. He hooks his pinkie into Benson's pocket. "That might be nice." 

"Yeah?" 

"Yeah." 

Benson takes a deep, thoughtful breath. "There's this place…Seven-Eleven?" He casts a dramatic sidelong glance in Randy's direction. "You heard of it?" 

"Yeah, I…I think so." 

"It's just fantastic. The beer list? Unbelievable. And the atmosphere, well…there's really nothing like it." He's talking with his hands, throwing them off balance. Randy stumbles happily along with him. 

"I don't know, um…I've heard they don't have Pringles. Like, the big can. Just the little ones." 

Benson scoffs. "Well, now, don't you worry your pretty little head about that. You can get two of the little ones if you want. It's on me." 

"Wow." 

"I know." 

"That's–that's really generous." 

"Well, you're gonna have to put out." 

Randy coughs out a laugh, looks at his shoes to hide the heat in his face. "Sounds, um…sounds fair." 

"Randy, come on." Benson laughs, gives his shoulder a shake. "You're giving it up for two cans of Pringles? You gotta know your worth, man." 

He'd give it up for less, but that's beside the point. "Maybe toss in some peach rings and we have a deal." 

Benson gives him a squeeze. "Fuck yeah, alright. Now we're talkin'." 

They pick their way through the snack aisles of the gas station, select a few staples they aren't sick of yet. Benson salutes the clerk behind the counter like he's an American hero. They make their way back down the road to the motel in silence save for the crunching of chips and cellophane. 

It's a beautiful night, still warm from the sun, everything orange beneath the sodium streetlights. Not a soul in sight save for them. This town looks like every other one and Randy likes that, likes that it's starting to feel like coming home when they stop for the night in a new place with a single stoplight. 

They lean against the trunk of the Chrysler and pass the Big Gulp back and forth. It's too late for caffeine so they got root beer, extra ice, because Benson likes to fish it out and chew on it. There's too many streetlights to really see the stars, but that doesn't stop Randy from trying. He sucks the sour off a peach ring and feels a little bit nauseous and a lot filthy and an overall, bone-deep sense of contentment. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Benson twist his head, trying to roll out his neck again. It's not the sharp jerk of his familiar tic, not quite, but it makes Randy nervous. He's been doing it all night. He wonders if it was something he said, something he did. He still doesn't know what exactly he's trying to shrug off every time, but he knows enough to tread that ground lightly.

"You okay?" he asks, tries to make it casual. He swallows the peach ring whole and has to fight it all the way down his esophagus. 

"Yeah." Benson nods, winces slightly. "Yeah. Just sore." He grips the back of his neck and stretches, lips hitched in a grimace. 

Randy can imagine. Slumped in a car days on end, cracking the damn thing all the time. He sets the Big Gulp on the trunk, thinks, hesitates. Commits. 

"Would you, um…would you want me to rub it out for you?" 

Benson looks at him warily as he considers the offer. He's slow to answer, but Randy is patient. Doesn't push it. Lets him think about it. 

Finally he nods. "Sure. Why not." 

Randy clambers up on the trunk and sits behind him. Benson leans back between his legs, rests his elbows on Randy's knees, hangs his head forward. The space between them is awkward all of the sudden. Too close, not close enough. Too many clothes on. Too much skin exposed. 

Randy is nervous and he's not sure why. He thinks fleetingly of their first time, his first time, and the way Benson's hands hovered an inch over his skin and shook a little bit. This isn't that, but it feels kind of the same. "You can…tell me to stop if you want. Whatever you want. It's okay." 

"How about you start and then we'll see." 

Randy brushes the curls at the base of Benson's neck hesitantly with his thumb before he wraps his hand around the muscle of his shoulder, gives an experimental squeeze. "Right…there?" 

"Higher." 

He moves his hand up and tries again. "There?" 

Benson hisses through his teeth, cringes. "Yeah. Fuck." 

Randy sets his hands on either side of his neck and squeezes gently. 

"Yeah. Right there."

Benson's all tension beneath the skin, stiff and warm under his cold fingers. Randy thinks about the color of his muscles, the white of bone underneath them. He's pretty sure he's never touched anyone like this before, not even Benson, not like this. Not friendly or sexual, just…intimate. 

"If you want me to stop, just–just say so, okay?" 

Benson grunts an affirmative. His skin is oily and his muscles are taut as bowstrings, so riddled with knots it feels like buckshot lodged in his flesh. Randy presses his thumbs in deep and pushes up along his spine, again and again, feels a flush of satisfaction as Benson melts back against the car. 

"Fuck," he moans. 

"Hurts?" 

"Yeah. Don't stop." 

Randy's nothing if not good at taking orders. He falls into a rhythm, slow and steady, works over his neck and shoulders and back again. Benson swears up a storm and lets out a low whimper whenever he hits a sore spot. 

"Sorry," Randy murmurs every time. 

Benson never replies, but that's okay. He doesn't tell him to stop either.

At first his hands are balled into fists against Randy's knees, but after a while they go slack. He relaxes, finally, allows Randy and the car to support his weight. It's a selfish thought, but Randy hopes he's the first person to do this for him, or at least the first in a long, long time. Benson doesn't have a lot of firsts left. He wants this one. 

Before long, his hands are cramping and he worries he's going to rub his neck raw but doesn't want to stop touching him, doesn't want to forfeit this new familiarity with his body. So he eases up, cheats a little bit, combs his fingers through his greasy hair and scratches at his scalp. It makes his chest feel tight, the way Benson leans into his touch with his eyes closed and groans under his breath. 

When he finally pulls away, Randy tries to subdue his disappointment, until he turns around and reaches up to hook a hand behind Randy's head. 

"C'mere," Benson mumbles, tugging him close and meeting him halfway for a kiss that tastes like peach rings and root beer. Randy grips his forearm and for a second, in his mind's eye, everything drops out and disappears into the void, save for them and the car and the stars. 

When he breaks the kiss Benson doesn't let him go, holds him in place with their foreheads pressed together. Neither of them speak. Randy focuses so hard on Benson's breathing he forgets to breathe himself. There are words, but they creep by in silence like animals in the dark. 

"We still got water in the back?" Benson says at last. 

"Mmhm." 

"I'm gonna brush my teeth. Change into my jammies." His jammies are a pair of basketball shorts made of more holes than fabric. 

"Okay," Randy says. 

Neither one of them moves. The crickets chat amongst themselves in the brush. 

"You still want the front?" Benson asks. 

"Sure." 

"Thanks." 

"No problem." 

Benson sighs softly through his nose. He lets go of him and steps back, shuffles from one foot to the other and stares at Randy for a long time, hair sticking up in all directions. Finally he goes to dig through the backseat for the water jug. 

"Looks like a bunch of fuckin' raccoons live in here," he mutters. 

Randy chuckles, looks at his hands palm-up on his lap. He's got Benson's skin beneath his nails, his sweat and oil worked into the whorls of his fingerprints. He's never been so close to another person. Spent his whole life maintaining a safe distance from everyone around him, treating his body like a blast zone. Now the idea of distance is laughable. They share everything but toothbrushes. Hell, he's been inside him. Randy always figured he would never reach that level of connection with anybody. 

He brings his hand to his face and hesitates for just a second before he sticks his thumb in his mouth. The salt of Benson's sweat is familiar on his tongue. He tastes his skin on his skin. He knows him. He knows him. And Benson knows him right back. 

He's craved this sort of intimacy his whole life. Laid awake alone countless nights and ached for it, mourned bitterly for what he never had and assumed he never would. But now he lies awake with Benson beside him and basks in how wrong he was. In how real he feels in his arms, wearing a second skin of grit and spit and whatever else. 

He doesn't want to sleep in the front. 

Randy twists to call over his shoulder. "Hey…um, Benson?" 

"Yeah?" he says around his toothbrush. 

"You think we could…both fit in the back?" 

Benson spits on the asphalt. "No." 

"Well…could we try?" 

Benson snorts. "Fuckin' clingy, huh?" he says, but he sounds amused. Randy feels those dark eyes appraising him like a pair of hands fumbling at his clothes. He tugs absentmindedly at the collar of his shirt. Well, Benson's shirt. "Yeah. We can try." 

Randy hops off the trunk and joins him in the evening routine, bumping shoulders, bumping elbows, their voices small and close in the night. 

"Gonna sweat to death together back there," Benson says. 

"That's okay." 

"If you say so. Think I might skip the jammies. That cool?" 

"That's–that's fine, yeah. That's good. Hey…is that my toothbrush?" 

"No, yours is green."

"That is green." 

"No it's not." 

"Yes it is, the light makes it look weird." 

Benson looks at the thing again. "Oh. Whoops. Does it really matter?"

Randy gives this serious consideration, thinks about his mouth and everywhere it's been. Thinks about the state of the rest of him. Thinks about pressing his body to Benson's in the backseat, sticky with sweat, breath on his neck. 

He wants to say yes, it matters, but he doesn't feel it. He tastes salt on his tongue instead.

"I guess not," he shrugs.

Benson hands it to him. 

"Your turn, then." 

[yourgamemasterthewhiterabbit]

Did I tell you about the time I accidentally tracked an injured pigeon from multiple city blocks away?

So just after the duck incident, I had this very fresh idea of exactly what rotting bird smells like. I thought I had finally gotten the smell out of the house, but smells to me linger like they get stuck in my sinuses or something...

Anyway so I think it's finally, like gone, gone... and I am out for a walk, and I catch a faint whiff of "rotting bird blood" and I'm like "no". No I refuse to believe this smell is still haunting me, or in my clothes or My hair or whatever. I got that smell out... But I am not just imagining it right? I'm not losing my mind?

I turned back and forth a couple times and the smell got stronger or weaker and I'm like "Okay, if I follow it, I can maybe confirm that smell isn't 'coming from inside the house' so to speak, yeah?" So I do.

Trying not to look like I am obviously sniffing the air and changing my mind about where to walk based on that and maybe pulling off looking more like a crow, or more like I am listening for something, I follow that fucking smell. I follow it long enough that I would be starting to think it's getting silly of me except the smell keeps getting stronger.

So finally I walk back and forth past some store fronts and determine that the smell is strongest right between the buildings. There's an alley there that's maybe 2 feet wide if you're generous about it. And I can hear pigeons cooing. So I stick myself into this little -too narrow to be an alley, you wouldn't want to walk down it really- and there's this pigeon with a fucked up wing. There's blood on the pavement near it, old and dried out. It's mate is there with it and bringing it food. It's tucked away out of they street and it has someone taking care of it, at least, even if that someone is other pigeons. It looks like a cat got at it's wing maybe, or it got clipped by a car. It doesn't want me coming near it.

So there's my answer. The 'rotting bird blood' smell I had just tracked through all the other smells downtown and past main street isn't some big massacred bird corpse stinking in the sun or 20 pigeons that were gunned down with pellets the way it smelled like... It's a living pigeon with an injured wing. The smell that was driving me nuts from blocks away because it was so strong to me and because I knew what the smell was enough to recognize it and be bothered I didn't know where it was coming from.

The fucking look I gave myself.

[Like good job buddy you found the smell! You tracked a little bird! Do you want a reward? Dumbass go back to your errands... Like before the store closes, and tell no one]

It felt so silly. It was silly. Probably, but I did learn something about myself and how human senses are that day.

The biggest obstacle to most people being able to pick up on really subtle smells is a combination of bothering to pay attention, being familiar enough with a smell to recognize it, and having an emotional reaction to it enough that it comes to your attention at all, instead of begin written off unconsciously as meaningless noise. Part of my good hearing and sense of smell might be thin nerve endings and sensitive nerves [connective tissue, hormones and autism], but part of it is also the autistic inability to turn off 'junk' sensory input, and just being an observant person prone to noticing patterns. Maybe I have a particularly strong memory for smells in particular for recognition type recall, even if my proactive/intentional recall is shit.

Real life human noses can just be like that too.

really I prommy.

And that's without conscious training! There are people who intentionally expose themselves to all the smells and "notes" they can to learn to identify things that way, like cigarette brands by scent, or wines, or whatever!

If you have a character who's a "nose" who has had training and lots of experiences or is a spy who was trained -knowing- they have super senses... I am not going to be impressed if they can only manage the kind of party tricks I can!

And that's why my biggest gripe about writers trying to write characters with a super-sense of smell is twofold:

What you have described isn't outside the range of things I can smell myself [okay I wouldn't say I am an unmutated human exactly like I do have genetic mutations, but you know what I mean]

You haven't given the character a -reason- to be familiar with what that smell even is! There is no inborn ledger of what smells are in the human psyche! They have to be familiar with the smell from a known source to know what it is! Stop forgetting that! Your character needs a reason to have noticed what these things smell like! They won't know what radiation damaged flesh smells like unless they've smelled that before! They won't know what liver cancer smells like unless they have smelled it before! The have to know what a person smells like and that the smell on something -was- from that person to begin with -for someone they haven't met- before they can notice their scent on the wind! Otherwise all they are getting is "a human who used hotel soap" or "something off".

It isn't hard to establish a background comparison they can make to what a smell must be. They spent time in hospitals or medical facilities or old age homes and talked to people enough to identify patterns in what smells are, or they worked at a gas station for a while and know the difference between different fuel smells, gasoline and diesel, leaded, unleaded, etc...

Maybe even they smell something and their brain instantly says "a helicopter was here" and they have to take a moment to be like "why the fuck do I know what a helicopter smells like [or what combo of smells registers as 'helicopter' like machine lubricant, the right fuel, the material of the seats, etc...], obviously there's something I am not remembering, because unconsciously I knew what that smell was when I shouldn't"

I have gotten entire memories back, as someone with amnesia and repressed memories -including of being in a car accident- because I unconsciously ordered what used to be my old coffee order and the smell and taste slammed me back 10 years deep into a memory... A lot of human memory is closely linked to smell and even the writers who -think- they are taking advantage of that aren't thinking big enough.

Yeah it's an experience that's hard to fake if it isn't how you live, but like... Try really testing out your own sense of smell sometime, consciously, [I mean if you smoke or keep exposing yourself to corona I can't help you]. Make a habit of picking out smells around you and taking note of what they are. Carry a notepad around and start to notice trends. Maybe ask a friend with a sensitive nose and sensory issues what their experiences are like.

[imaginesandbandfiction]

Bejeweled — JJ Maybank

An Outer Banks Imagine

Pairing: JJ Maybank x Reader

Word Count: 2.2k

Summary: After mourning the end of a two-and-a-half-year relationship, you're finally ready to get back out there. You get more than you bargained for with some guy.

Warnings: Underage drinking, brief mention of cheating

A/N: I started this wayyyy back in the fall when Midnights was first released and have just now gotten around to finishing it. I hope you like this silly little Taylor Swift-inspired fic!

Masterlist

You pat silver glitter on your eyelids, careful to keep it contained to below your crease, but it seems like your best friend doesn’t care about that because she jumps off of your bed and launches herself forward, wrapping her arms around your neck and squealing. The force of her hug makes you wobble, almost falling out of your chair. 

“Sarah!” You shriek, “You’re going to make me mess it up!”

“Sorry! I’m just so excited that you’re finally coming out again,” she gushes, pressing a kiss to the side of your head before loosening her grip so she’s just standing behind you with her arms on your shoulders, looking at you through your reflections in your vanity mirror. “We should do a shot before we go.”

“I’ve got a bottle of Grey Goose under my bed. Just let me finish this quick.” You shove her off in the direction of your bed and wrap up your makeup with some lip gloss and a spritz of setting spray. When you turn around, Sarah has a solo cup in each hand and when you take yours, you see she’s poured double shots. After downing it and chasing it with a swig from the open bottle of wine you’ve been sipping on while getting ready, you and Sarah head out for the night. 

Sarah’s boyfriend is waiting for you in the driveway, his beat-up old VW van in blatant contrast to the white brick mansion and manicured grounds surrounding it. You’ve met John B a few times, mostly in passing at parties, and once or twice at Sarah’s before everything fell apart and you had to avoid her house like the plague. But it’s been four months, and despite your underlying anxiety about seeing Rafe again, you’re excited to get drunk somewhere other than your bedroom again. 

Sarah climbs into the passenger side and leans over to give John B a quick kiss and you duck into the back, rolling your eyes at your lovesick friend. Despite the fact that they’ve been together for over a year, they’re still in the honeymoon phase and showing no signs of that stopping.

You’re not jealous - you’re not - but it does suck to be the single person in the backseat, watching your best friend lit up with love. It doesn’t help that your ex is her brother, who you had dated for two and a half years before finding out that he had cheated on you. It was a horrible, messy breakup, made even messier because Sarah got caught in the middle. 

It’s not the first party you’ve been to since the breakup (that honor goes to the one and only house party you had attempted to attend a month and a half ago before leaving after forty five minutes), but it is the first boneyard party since the breakup and that’s on a whole different level. The beach is sure to be so packed, you’ll have your pick of tourons to dance with. Maybe it’ll make Rafe jealous, or at the very least, it will help you get over him. 

Sure enough, the party is in full swing when John B pulls up to the beach. The loud, thumping music rattles his old car and you’re glad to be able to scramble out of it before the bass drops and increases the intensity of the shaking. John B leads the two of you over to the keg and pours you both a beer. 

“Thank you, sir,” you say, giving him a mock salute as he hands over the plastic cup. He just laughs and shakes his head at you, wrapping his arm around Sarah to pull her into his side. 

“I’m glad you came out with us, Y/N,” he says, voice full of sincerity. It melts your heart a little bit, because he’s just such a good guy. You’re happy for Sarah, and it dulls the sting of your own unfortunate romantic life a bit.

“Me too!” Sarah squeals, reaching out to squeeze your free hand with her own. Before you can respond, someone calls John B’s name, so you follow him and Sarah across the beach to where a campfire is set up. 

It turns out to be JJ Maybank who had called for him, sitting by the fire with Kiara Carrera and Pope Heyward. JJ stands up when he sees the three of you approaching and walks around the fire.

“Hey, man,” John B says, greeting him with that smooth high-five-fistbump combo that all boys seem to love.

“Hey, JB,” JJ says. He wraps an arm around Sarah, pulling her in for a side hug. “Sarah.”

“This is…” John B starts, gesturing towards you, but JJ puts up a hand to cut him off. In his other hand is a lit joint, which he takes a quick hit of before speaking.

“Y/N Y/L/N, I remember.” He slides his aviators down his nose and peers over the rims at you with a small smirk on his lips.

“Maybank,” you say, nodding at him. You had only met JJ once or twice in passing, but he was always nice enough. To you, at least. 

“Y’know, you’ve got this, like, aura around you. It’s like… moonstone.” He takes another hit of the joint, dropping his gaze down your body and then back up to your face.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re, like, shimmery.” A laugh escapes your lips, bubbling out of you like an overflowing glass of champagne. 

“Okay, buddy, I think you’ve had enough of that.” You reach over to pluck the joint out from between his fingers, raising it to your lips. Smoke fills your lungs and you inhale until it starts to burn a bit and then push it out in a steady stream. JJ’s eyebrows raise in a mixture of shock and appreciation when you repeat the action two more times. Then you feel a hand on your shoulder and turn around to find Sarah standing right behind you.

“We’re gonna go dance,” she says, raising her voice so you can hear her over the music. “You gonna be okay here?”

“Yeah, I’m good!” You assure her, glancing back at JJ out of the corner of your eyes. 

When you turn back towards the fire, Pope and Kiara have disappeared, leaving you and JJ alone. You try not to read into that too much, but it’s hard because he’s a notorious womanizer. He’s also really fucking hot, in his backwards hat and cut-off Kildare Marina t-shirt, grinning at you with the flickering light from the fire dancing across his face, so you decide to say fuck it and give it a shot, even if it’s only for tonight. 

“Wanna sit?” he asks, gesturing towards one of the logs of driftwood situated around the fire. You nod and plop down next to him, giving the joint back. He takes another hit and then turns to look at you. 

“What?” You ask through nervous laughter as something that feels like butterflies flutters in your stomach. It’s been a long time since you’ve felt the type of giddy excitement that comes from a burgeoning crush, and it feels as good as it is scary. 

“You’re pretty.” You roll your eyes at that pitiful excuse for a pick up line and take the joint back, turning to stare into the fire. He just shrugs. 

“What? It’s true. I’ve always thought so.” He’s not teasing, just stating a fact, and it shocks you so much that you nearly drop the joint. Thankfully, he has quick reflexes and is able to catch your wrist in his hand before it can fall completely. 

It’s almost gone, so the two of you pass it back and forth until it dwindles down to nearly nothing, sharing a companionable silence and soft, secret smiles. Then JJ tosses the roach into the fire and gets up, moving to stand in front of you. 

“Dance with me?” He asks with a flicker of mischief behind his eyes, holding his hand out to you. You make him sweat for a few seconds, biting your lip to keep yourself from grinning, then nod and take his hand, allowing him to pull you up and lead you over to the makeshift dance floor. 

You’re really starting to feel the impact of the weed, inhibitions lowering just enough to dull your senses to the outside world, and you let yourself sink into the pure, hedonistic pleasure of it. The feeling of the bass thumping deep in your chest, the slight press of JJ’s fingers against your hips as you move together in time to the music, the sticky, salty air that lays heavy around you. 

Time passes, though you’re not sure how much, and the more you dance together, the bolder it makes you. At some point, you spin around so your back is to JJ and grind up against him. One of his arms wraps around your waist, pulling you tight to him, and he uses the other to brush your hair off your shoulders, dropping his head down to rest his chin in the dip of your exposed collarbone. Your eyes flutter shut and you let your weight sink back into his chest a bit. It’s broad and warm, and you feel safe, tucked against a boy you barely know in the middle of a sweaty crowd full of your peers, some of whom have been flashing confused looks your way all night. 

You don’t care, though, because for once, your brain isn’t running on a constant loop of intrusive thoughts about Rafe Cameron and Bella fucking Bond. That is, of course, until the crowd parts in front of you, revealing Rafe flanked by Topper and Kelce. You take a tiny, half-step back, leaning into JJ for support. JJ’s arm tightens around your waist and he wraps his other one around your shoulders protectively. As the three Kook boys get closer, you realize that Rafe’s wearing the vintage Air Jordans you bought him for his last birthday, and you roll your eyes at his audacity to show up and accost you wearing shoes you gave him as a present.

“Hey, Y/N,” Rafe says, lips curled up in his trademark half-sneer, half-smirk. “I see your standards have lowered.” 

“Just following your example,” you tell him, shrugging as much as you can with JJ’s arms around your shoulders. 

“You’re making a big mistake, Y/N, one you won’t be able to come back from.” Rafe’s eyes are dark and his voice is low and gravely in warning. 

“Hmmm. I don’t think I am. You can try to change my mind, but you gotta wait in line. My dance card’s full at the moment.” With that, you turn around in JJ’s arms so you’re facing him and press your lips to his. It’s a quick, forceful peck that you hope conveys yes I’m doing this to mess with Rafe but I also want to really kiss you so please just go along with it. You feel him smirk against your lips and your whole body relaxes, knowing that he’s on the same page. 

When you turn around to look at Rafe, he’s spluttering, looking from you to Topper with wide eyes. You wink at him and push against JJ’s shoulders in a silent request to leave the dance floor. His arms slide down your body and he captures one of your hands in his, lacing your fingers together. 

Without a word, the two of you leave the dance floor, ignoring the fact that everyone’s eyes are following you as you cross the beach. Your heart rate skyrockets as adrenaline pumps through your veins, adding to your high. You feel powerful, unstoppable, and when you’re far enough away from everybody else, a laugh escapes your lips. 

“What’s so funny?” JJ asks, turning his head to raise his eyebrows at you.

You launch yourself into his arms and reconnect your lips, pouring your answer into the kiss. He stumbles back a few steps but then regains his balance and pulls you against him, arms tightening around your waist. After a few dizzying, breathless minutes, you pull back just enough to be able to take a deep breath. JJ’s eyes flutter open, diamonds shining behind his blue irises. He surges forward, recapturing your lips for a moment before trailing his own down your jawline.

“This okay?” He murmurs against your pulse point.

“Better than okay,” you breathe, tilting your head back slightly to give him better access. 

“Better than okay?” He pauses for a second, lips hovering above the sensitive skin between your collarbone and shoulder. 

“Yeah, it’s…nice.” You feel your cheeks heat up, embarrassed and excited and embarrassed about the excitement. 

“Nice,” he agrees, lifting his head back up so your lips meet again. And it’s not really anything yet, but the first flickers of like burn in your stomach, and for the first time since your breakup there’s something like hope inflating your chest like it’s a balloon.

It’s nice. 

[philliam-writes]

you are in the earth of me [01]

Pairing: Anthony Lockwood x fem!Reader

Content: cot3 +1 (and kipps), canon-typical violence & horror, loss of family member (not just Lockwood), found family, touch starved Lockwood, childhood friends Kipps & Reader, childhood trauma, slow burn, rivals to lovers (if this stays a Lockwood/Reader), mature language (swearing), aged up characters (everybody's in their early 20s; Kipps is mid-20s), fem! Reader though pronouns are used sparingly and no use of y/n

Summary: “Ton—Anfonie ‘Ockwoo’.” You nod, and finally swallow your mouthful of food. “I’ve heard things about you.” Lockwood’s dark eyes slide over to Kipps for a second, glinting like a knife drawn out of its sheath. He gives you a nice, easy smile. “Only good things, I presume?” You feel your face scrunch up at the memory of Kipps’s curses, threats and very imaginative ways of what he’d do with his rapier and a very specific part of Lockwood’s body. “Yeah, uhm … things.”

Notes: [02]

Words: 5.1k

A/N: Words will never suffice how much Lockwood & Co. has carried me through some of the toughest parts of my life. To see it adapted to a show is SO EXCITING, I couldn't help but be a little self-indulgent and plan out a whole ass story for my favourite three (+ Kipps) ghost hunters. So here we go.

This could either stay a Lockwood/fem!Reader or I could easily change it into Locklyle or even freaking poly cot3 x Reader or just Locklyle depending on what people want to read. I'm fine with pretty much everything; I just want my silly little Reader joining 35 Portland Row because I am in DIRE NEED OF FOUND FAMILY AND JUST SELF-INDULGENT GHOST HUNTING

So yeah, I'm totally open to people requesting Locklyle or anything for this one, but it's still gonna be from Reader's POV and focusing on an original story with action and characters studies and personal growth. Also sorry for any mistakes, English isn't my first language and I'd be super happy if someone offered to become my beta-reader for this! Any feedback is super super appreciated!!

01: let the dead hollers hum

when i first saw you, the end was soon to bethlehem it slouched and then it must've caught a good look at you

—hozier: nfwmb

At almost two in the morning the streets should be empty of people and cars, yet you manage to nearly get hit by a night cab turning down Tredegar Road. Its ghastly horn echoes like the wail of a Banshee through the dark, disturbing the peaceful night. Across the street, a kitchen light flickers to life inside a building. A shadow moves behind the white curtains, pausing for a second to look out at the street.

Bracing against the cutting wind, you turn up your maroon trenchcoat’s collar and duck your head like a turtle trying to hide inside its shell. It would have been much colder without your gloves now that the early winter bite is coming, but it’s still very unpleasant to be outside after the sun has set. Today is a clearer night, despite the day of rain; the moon chases stray wisps of cloud across an otherwise unmarked black sky.

London turns in earlier than usual now that the nights grow longer and colder—and more dangerous as well. Just yesterday you heard two more night-watch kids have succumbed to ghost-lock down at the warehouses near Blackfriars when they got distracted trying to warm up from the freezing evening rain that had set in after eleven. They turned into easy pickings for a Drowner lurking beneath the docs—former scoundrels who ended their sorry lives in the water by drowning. They rarely make a pleasant sight with their bloated limbs and skin wrinkled so hard it is peeling off like layers of paint.

It makes you glad to feel the familiar weight of your rapier hanging from your hip holster, to know that just within short reach, everything you need to protect yourself is at your disposal. That and the salt bombs around your belt. It’s hard not to feel safe while carrying around something with ‘bomb’ in its name.

You find the meeting point you’ve been summoned to at the end of the street. The Green Goose is a two-floor building with the restaurant at the bottom and what you can only assume the storage and other facilities upstairs. All sun-blinds on the first floor are drawn shut.

Few London establishments are open during the night, and fewest of all in the dark hours before the dawn. But places like this, catering for agents or night-watch kids, are easily recognised by the additional fortification against possibly unwanted visitors. High up where the first floor meets the second, heavy mistletoe bushes run around the whole building like a gigantic garland. You imagine in summer this would be lavender blooms, plunging the whole street into their thick, sweet scent. The door and windows are laced with iron grilles, and overhung with battered ghost-lamps. A few wooden dining tables and benches remain vacated outside, left to their own until the warmth of spring returns.

After a first glance inside the premise through the grimy windows, you don’t spot your friend. How much easier this would be if you could carry a phone around, just to check if you are at the right place. Now all you have to go on is his cryptic call before your shift started this morning, and a vague sense of the kind of establishments he likes based to his tastes.

Good thing you have known him for almost a decade.

But that doesn’t really give you an idea what exactly Quill Kipps wants from you. Maybe help with a case? Or he has finally realised he has a crush on his co-worker, that lemony-smelling Kat or Kate, and now he needs advice. Not hanging out at the dead of the night would be a preferable start.

Small bells jingle when you push the door open with your shoulder, and a waft of warm air scented with grease and coffee hits your nose, bringing heat back to your face. It looks a lot smaller than from the outside, narrow and with the sitting area stretched in an L-shape around the bar and counter in the middle. Behind that a pair of slightly askew doors lead to the kitchen where you can hear a radio play.

The first row of tables line alongside the window, then disappear further into the back. In the corner, two night-watch kids sit huddled together, quietly snoring and drooling on each other’s shoulders with their meagre food spread before them. A waitress with short black hair and a chubby chin standing behind the counter looks up from a magazine, stares at you, and blows out a baby-blue bubble of gum until it pops loudly.

She raises an eyebrow.

You raise one back at her.

From the other side of the entrance, you hear Kipps calling your name. At that, the waitress gives you a single, polite nod which you answer alike, as though you are two cowboys engaged in a stand-off who don’t want to shoot each other.

Marching down the narrow aisle, you pass an occupied table and accidentally bump into it. Cutlery rattles against an empty plate. You mumble a half-hearted apology and move on, barely listening to the grumbled answer or really looking at the man clad in black sitting there. He gives of a sweet, heavy scent you can’t really place, and quickly move on.

Knowing you’d arrive in a foul mood, Kipps has already ordered your favourite midnight snack after a hard day’s work: coffee and a simple English breakfast with a fried egg, hot and greasy sausages, crispy bacon, tomatoes and mushrooms on the side.

“It better be important, Kippy,” you say in lieu of hello, manoeuvring over his lap to the unoccupied seat by the window, using elbows and knees to execute a complicated dance with him so you can squeeze into the narrow booth. He grunts and makes barely any effort to make you room. His outstretched legs take up a disproportionate amount of real estate. “I got a ten hour shift behind me and I’m desperate for my bed.”

“You certainly smell like after a ten hour shift,” he comments, wrinkling his nose. Of course he looks well kempt and neat as always with not a single ginger curl on his head out of order. But there are dark circles under his eyes as though someone put a charcoal pen to his skin, betraying his tidy appearance. His eyes flit over your face for a second, scanning it for any injuries.

You give him your best shit-eating grin and wolf down on your eggs when someone clears his throat from across the table—and that’s when you realise Kipps isn’t alone.

Nursing a cup of tea, opposite you sits a young man in a black suit, slender and tall, his short, unruly hair swept back elegantly. He watches you with mild interest, his thin lips slightly pursed, like someone would watch a flock of hungry pigeons plunge towards bread crumbs spread by tourists at Hyde Park—nothing out of order. Just another regular sight in the big city on a late afternoon stroll.

You hold his steady, dark eyes when you bite into your egg, feeling the yolk escape at the corners of your mouth and run down your chin. You didn’t even realise how much you were starving.

“Hwo’sh yor fren’, ‘Ippy?” you ask with your mouth full because you have absolutely zero shame.

Kipps swallows a groan.

“Yes, Kippy,” the young man replies with the most soothing, alluring voice you have ever heard, as though he’s eaten silk and honey for breakfast. “Why don’t you introduce us?”

Kipps makes a disapproving noise in the back of his throat. Annoyance radiates off him stronger than any other-light you have seen on apparitions. “Friend is a bit much,” he says slowly, as though he has to talk around the word ‘friend’ because it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. “That’s Lockwood.” You recognise his tone. It sounds a lot as if he’s saying That’s the biggest nuisance of my life.

The effect is pretty much the same.

You nearly choke on your next bite and aim for the coffee to wash it down. When you jerk your head around to stare at Kipps in disbelief, your eyes stretch wider than the dinner plate before you. Kipps must read what’s written on your face: That’s Lockwood? Tony Lockwood you can’t shut up about? Your arch-nemesis?

Kipps rolls his eyes so hard it must give him a spectacular view of his skull. Just humour me, his expression says.

“Ton—Anfonie ‘Ockwoo’.” You nod, and finally swallow your mouthful of food. “I’ve heard things about you.”

Lockwood’s dark eyes slide over to Kipps for a second, glinting like a knife drawn out of its sheath. He gives you a nice, easy smile. “Only good things, I presume?”

You feel your face scrunch up at the memory of Kipps’s curses, threats and very imaginative ways of what he’d do with his rapier and a very specific part of Lockwood’s body. “Yeah, uhm … things.”

Lockwood seems to understand, for he doesn’t inquire further, but his smile seems to freeze a little at the corners. “And you are?”

“Kipps’s friend.” You stuff the rest of your toast into your mouth and give your name. Lockwood blinks and keeps a polite smile, and doesn’t ask even though you’re sure he didn’t understand a word you just said.

“I wasn’t aware Kipps has friends.” Lockwood’s eyes have taken on a taunting glint, and he leans forward as he speaks. “Certainly not friends at Rotwell.”

His eyes drop to the crest stitched onto the upper part of your sleeve on your trench-coat: a snarling lion holding a rapier in its front paw—the agency’s symbol—before he gives Kipps a pointed look as though that small detail would have been worth mentioning before they got up to whatever this is.

Kipps ignores him. “I called you because I need your help,” he says, sliding napkins over to you which you promptly ignore. “I need your Talent.”

You halt at that and give him a long, level look. Kipps doesn’t shy away from the weight of your gaze, and suddenly you become painfully aware of the tension surrounding them, thick enough you could cut it with your dull knife.

Slowly, you chew your sausage. “What exactly are we talking about?” you ask, voice quieter, matching Kipps’s. He’s doing that little wiggle in his seat, shifting his weight from left to right he always does when bracing for potential conflict. When he trails his eyes away from you, you follow them to Lockwood who is looking at Kipps as though seeing him for the first time.

From the pockets of his long, black coat, Lockwood pulls out a small wooden box. It would easily fit into the palm of your hand, and from where you sit you can’t see a particular design or anything on the surface. Lockwood slides the box across the table towards you, flips it over with his long, slender fingers, and opens the lid, revealing a small bronze key lying on a cushion surrounded by thin iron plates.

You stare at it for five, six seconds. Then reach out to take another big swig of your coffee. With no sugar, acidly bitter taste explodes on your tongue, just the way you like it.

“It’s a Source,” you say. “You just carry a Source around like that?”

“Exceptional observation skills,” Lockwood says with the mild tone of someone barely holding back his impatience. “I can see why you asked her to join us, Kippy.”

“I can see why Kipps wants to shove his rapier up your—”

“Trust me, I’d be the last one missing out on a chance to ridicule Lockwood,” Kipps interrupts, tapping a finger on the table in front of the box, “but Barnes wants results by tomorrow and I’d like to act like professionals for once, so can we please focus?”

Lockwood and you throw a mirror glare at Kipps that’s something along the lines of You’re one to talk. When you notice each other’s similar expressions, Lockwood quickly schools his features back to a neutral one. “It is secure inside its seal for now, but the Visitor contained in it is not particularly strong. If we’re quick, it won’t have time to come through,” he says.

You shake your head. “You’re mad. And you—” you knock your knee against Kipps’s—“what’s wrong with you for going along with this?”

“There’s just … not enough time,” Kipps says. Exhaustion seeps into his voice, strong enough to peel back layers of caution for he shares a quick glance with Lockwood and what they don’t say screams so loudly that you have to lean back and re-evaluate what you’ve known about their relationship up until now.

It seems that Kipps has missed out on filling you in on some crucial details about the past few weeks he has worked at Kensal Green Cemetery.

“Then why don’t you just tell me what this is about?” you say, looking over at Kipps sharply. “Why does Barnes need you both to work on it? Is it a Fittes job? Did Bobby get his greasy little hands on something and—”

“Actually,” Lockwood chimes in, “it is our case. Lockwood & Co. Kipps is … an associate. And we’re very short on time to solve this case. Let’s just say Kipps has a little favour to repay. We need someone who excels at Touch, and he said you are the best at it. You might be our last chance to find out more about this key.” He has switched from that arrogant drawl to a soft, melodic cadence with that maddeningly smooth voice of his. It has to be intentional—he is trying to play you like a fiddle with that charm he switched on like an industrial bulb.

“What’s there to solve? You got the Source, you sealed it. That’s all there is. This should be on its way to a furnace right now.” You fall back into your seat, eyes raking over Lockwood’s form. He doesn’t even wear a uniform for Christ’s sake. “And you call yourself an agent?”

And just like that the light goes out, the switch flicks off. Lockwood’s face is calm; the only sign of his agitation is a pulse hammering in his throat and a muscle twitching in his jaw.

Kipps shifts in his seat. “We can’t give it to Barnes yet,” he says in a quiet voice, wrenching your eyes away from the glaring contest you have engaged in with Lockwood. Kipps presses his lips into a thin line, and you can see the mental strain it takes on him to agree with something Lockwood said. His handsome face crumples as though he has bitten into a lemon. “We believe the murder of that Visitor is still out there.”

You digest that. Go in for some more food. It takes a lot more effort to swallow your bacon. “Even more reason to just leave it to Inspector Barnes and DEPRAC. Exactly why is this your responsibility?”

“Justice for the dead?” Kipps offers.

“Protecting the living?” Lockwood states nobly.

It sounds like a load of crap, but you are too sleep-deprived to bother figuring out what truly is at stake for them. Maybe another stupid bet, or whatever favour Kipps owes Lockwood from the last.

You run a hand through your hair, bobbing your leg up and down in a frantic rhythm. It isn’t your favourite thing to do, but you have always had a hard time telling Kipps no—and God knows he has done so much for you.

“You owe me,” you tell him. Kipps nods, and visibly relaxes with relief.

“Do you need me to—” he starts, sliding his hand across the seat and offering it to you. From across the table, you hear the seat’s leather creak as Lockwood leans forward to get a better look at what you are doing. It reminds you of a hound scenting blood in the air and going out on the hunt for its prey.

“No, I’m good. I’m not taking my gloves off anyway.” You don’t like using your Talent without anything to ground you, but there is something about the way Lockwood is looking at you two, hungry almost, as though he is categorizing a particular fascinating information to dissect it later and see what use he can draw from it. Best to just ignore him. Besides, without your gloves, you feel naked, vulnerable. This isn’t something for prying eyes—and Lockwood has an awfully piercing, scrutinising pair of unfathomably dark eyes you are not interested at all to get lost in.

You lean back into the seat and get comfortable first. It never works when you go in too tense because it takes more effort to peel away the wards of your consciousness. When Kipps takes the key and plays it into your open palm, you focus on its weight first—akin to a bird bone, you barely feel it through the thick fabric of your glove.

Which doesn’t mean it isn’t heavy. The energy radiating off this thing is like a physical force pushing you back into the backrest of your seat. You close your eyes and focus on the low thrum of energy—feelings and impressions wash over you in torrents, layer after layer. Your chest feels heavy. Your stomach clenches in a hard, tight knot—fear. Fear grips you in a tight, cold grip.

Something is lurking, far far back, something unfathomably dark and abysmal but you can’t get a hold od if through your gloves and as you begin to sift through the chaotic blur of emotions to find the source—so much darkness, so much death; good Lord the things people did to get their hands on—

Excitement. A lingering echo burning so bright it blinds; hope swelling after long periods of dread, like the first spring buds blooming after a cruel, cold winter. Agitation. The adrenaline-inducing last sprint towards your goal knowing there is nothing that stops you from reaching it. The smell of damp soil and coppery hijacks your senses, and then—

Pain explodes in your chest, knocking you back against a cushioned surface. Your knees slam against something hard, sending hot shots of pain up your legs. Your eyes snap open but the world spins when all the oxygen is sucked out of your lungs and warmth spreads over your chest, liquid seeps through your fingers—but how? He could not. He would never—someone is screaming, a piercing, blood-churning scream. It takes a moment to realise the scream belongs to you; the wailing is drawn out from your raw throat, but how could anybody blame you; you are dying, shot in the chest by—

Someone is calling your name. Strong hands grab your shoulders and shake you hard as though trying to tear you away from a dream, a nightmare.

“Oh God, help me. He—he shot me—please help.” You gasp, trying to stop the bleeding by pressing your trembling hands against the wound.

“You’re fine. Listen to me, you’re fine. Nobody shot you!” A familiar voice—Kipps’s voice pierces through the wailing terror inside your head. You stare up at his green eyes which are paler than usual, widened in worry. “It’s just a psychic echo. You’re safe here.”

Another forceful inhale expands your lungs. The hot pinpoint pain in your chest subsides slowly with every shaking exhale, and when you look down at your hands, there is no blood sticking to your fingers, only coffee. When you hit your knees against the table, you knocked over your cup. Now the liquid is spreading across the table in a big puddle and dripping down its edges.

Lockwood is busy wiping the table clean with the leftover napkins while wildly gesturing with his free hand to the waitress looming over your table. “Just a long night, nothing serious,” you hear him say in haste. Either she isn’t interested or doesn’t get paid enough to deal with this; she shrugs and drags herself back behind the counter. You look around the establishment, ready to apologise for your outburst, but everybody has left already.

You turn around. When your eyes meet Lockwood’s, he grins, his smile so sudden and jarring as a thunderclap. “I have never seen anyone so sensitive to Touch. That was remarkable.” He beams as though you have performed an exceptional trick at the circus.

Something about the excitement in his voice sets you off—or maybe you are just still very raw from the experience, and the aftershock of such a gruesome echo is driving you up the wall.

“Oh yeah, it is so much fun! Feeling how people get killed every time is so worth it.” You grab your fork and stab your sausage with enough force you send tomatoes flying. On second thought, you are not hungry anymore. “Why don’t I get a gun and shoot you just so you can get an idea—”

“I’ve had my own fair share, thank you,” comes Lockwood’s flippant answer and for a second you imagine leaning over the table and smothering him with his own tie.

“So he was shot.” Kipps quickly steers the conversation back to its topic before you can follow your impulse. You slump against the seat, feeling pressure around your hand. When you look down, Kipps is holding your hand tightly, grounding you. You should have let him from the start. Weakly, you squeeze back. “We knew that already—”

“He … he never expected it to end like this,” you say slowly, gazing outside the window. Only your own reflection stares back at you. “He was shot by someone he knew. There was … genuine surprise. Before the pain, I mean. He couldn’t believe he would be hurt by someone he trusted. It was so absurd, he didn’t even have time to feel betrayed. That’s how unbelievable it was.”

“So it was someone very close to the victim. Who’s someone you’d never expect to betray you?” Kipps thinks aloud.

“Friends,” Lockwood provides.

“Family,” you say, quietly.

“A lover.” Kipps takes your fork and helps himself to some leftover mushrooms from your plate. When you look at the food, your stomach churns. “We should go back to the house tomorrow and see if you missed something, Tony. Wouldn’t surprise me if you managed to gloss over some obvious evidence,” he says to Lockwood.

“Why do you believe I would be the one—”

You shut out their bickering. A fine drizzle has set in outside, leaving small rain drops on the window. The street is a blur of black and faint white light from the ghost-lamps. When you look at your own face in the window’s reflection, your own eyes stare back at you—big, scared and haunted.

It always takes some time to get back after using your talent—to slowly build up the walls and distance yourself from the echoes of someone else’s life and the brutal way it ended. Deaths like these: sudden, violent, painful are always difficult to come back from. Which is why it is so important to have someone to ground you. Kipps has known you for so long, he is well aware how the psychic hangover drags your senses through the shredder and leaves your mind and body bruised and raw like an open nerve.

He had a few years training on how to handle it thanks to your brother.

The thought of Matthew shakes you awake and shoves you into full alertness, as if ice-cold water has been dumped down the back of your neck. You feel a sharp ache in your chest as you shove the ghost of his memory out of your mind, and then raw emptiness, as if a grappling hook has yanked your heart out of your body. It is just the aftershock—the hangover from the psychic connection, you try to reason. This is no time to allow grief back into your body, your mind.

Kipps must have heard the quiet sound you made, like a wounded animal. He falls dead silent mid-sentence and whips his head towards you. An echo of recognition passes his features for a second—there and gone so quickly, you think you imagined it.

“We are done here,” he says, and reaches over to close the box’s lid with a resolute click. You didn’t even notice he has taken the key away from you and returned it inside its seal. Lockwood opens his mouth, as though ready to argue, but whatever expression your face paints, even he recognises that you have reached your limit. Without another word, he swiftly slides the box back into his pocket.

You turn away from them, feeling anger and frustration boil inside you. You don’t want them to think you are weak just because you are a little more sensitive than other agents who can use Touch.

“Want me to drop you off the dormitory?” Kipps asks, his voice intensely neutral. He is digging through his purse to pay for your food, and shoots a glare towards Lockwood to indicate that no, he will not pay for his.

The dormitory for Rotwell agents, commonly known as the Lions Den, are rows of sand-bricked two-room apartments housing most of Rotwell’s younger agents in Chelsea. Half of your monthly salary evaporates just for paying rent, but at least it is a roof over your head and only a few stops away from your workplace. There is also something about pretending to belong to the upper posh class of London, to stroll through the highly-maintained gardens and polished windows glinting like diamonds in the early morning sun. They don’t have to deal with countless sleepless nights, the psychic hangover that makes you feel as if your body is not your own, or the constant fear every shift might be the last.

Sometimes it is that moment of pretending as though you live a different life that makes a difference.

“It’s okay, I’ll just take a cab.” Because for one, Kipps lives on the other side of the city, and two, you need to be alone.

Kipps nods, but he doesn’t look happy about it. Lockwood stays silent and is completely relaxed, a paragon of serenity with alert, dark eyes.

You scoot out of the booth and follow them outside into the cold drizzle. Mist hangs in the dark streets, rendering the area nearly invisible. Kipps and Lockwood share a few quiet words. When they part, Lockwood’s coat end flaps like black wings in the dark. He turns halfway around, gives you a long, considering look over the back of his shoulder. He parts with a single, almost approving nod, then ducks his head against the biting wind and strides down the street, disappearing into the dark night.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Kipps buttons the front of your trenchcoat. He is balancing on the back of his heels—an old habit when he feels bad for something and doesn’t quite know how to apologise and it would be easier to just bail from the conflict. “You still look like shit.”

You give him a weak kick to the shin. His shoulders relax. “I’ll fill you in tomorrow about how it went,” he says, jamming his hands inside his pockets. He pulls one out again and shoves a crushed candy into your hand. It’s your favourite brand and for the first time today, you feel something warm spreading in your chest.

“Wait.” Before he can turn away, you quickly catch his sleeve and make him turn around. “About that key…”

“Is there anything else?” Kipps leans forward and you have to bend your neck back to meet his eyes.

You remember when he was much smaller and you were at the same eye level. At 13 years, Kipps used to be smaller than the rest of the boys at Stroud & Co. where you started out your agent career and met. He’s had his share of playing errand boy or punching bag for the older, taller boys, until Matthew came along one day, dunked one of Kipps’s bullies into an overflowing rain barrel and got his nose broken in return.

They became best friends after that, and you in the middle. Matthew, Quill, and you. Lock, Shock, and Barrel.

Now, only two remain.

Kipps claps your shoulder, snapping you out of the memory and dispersing the picture you have conjured in your mind of him young. Today, he stands tall and broad-shouldered before you, twice in size and muscle. Nobody sane would try and mess with him.

“What’s wrong?” Kipps asks. “Where did you go in there?” He taps two fingers against his temple.

“When I was holding the key, the recent death was the strongest echo, but there was more. Like … way, way more.” You sling your arms around yourself. “Like many layers on a painting, and whatever is underneath all that … it feels evil. Really, really evil. There is a lot of death attached to that key.”

Kipps chews on this. He looks down the street to where Lockwood has vanished, his square jaw drawn tense. “I can’t say Lockwood’s stake on this, but I don’t care much about its history. It changed owners, I get it, but who would kill for something like that?”

“I don’t know.” You think back to the smell of blood, to the underlying eagerness to own that key. “But if that key is already that vile,” you say, shuddering, “then what about the thing it opens?”

“Not important to me as long as it’s not our problem.” He yawns, and taps a foot against the hard pavement to stave off the cold. “I bet it got destroyed or lost long ago. There is no way it’s still around.” Kipps runs a hand through his hair. It curls against his temple and neck in the damp mist. “Chances are high we’ll never hear anything about it ever again after this week. Case closed. Thanks for helping us. I’m sure DEPRAC can find the murderer and it’ll be just another case in the books.”

“Yeah, sure. I guess you’re right.” You barely hold back a yawn.

Kipps nudges your elbow. “I’ll catch up with you later, OK? Gotta make sure Lockwood’s the one who messed up the earlier investigation and go back to the crime scene.”

“Doing the Lord’s work,” you joke and give him a mocking salute. For the first time tonight, Kipps grins that lopsided half-grin showing part of his white teeth before he rushes off into the night after Lockwood.

For a moment, you stand still and let the drizzle engulf you. Although you have been almost sixteen hours on your feet, exhaustion has slowly trickled away, and in its stead a bone-deep anxiety has settled. Sleep. You need to sleep this off, and everything will return back to normal by tomorrow.

Heading for the main street to catch a night cab, you don’t turn around, and just like that, you miss out on the shadow unhitching itself from a wall even though the ghost-lamp flickers to life.

A/N: hmu if you want to join the taglist!

[cherrycola27]

afterglow

Series Warnings: Language, alcohol and drinking. Military inaccuracies. Allusions to and eventual smut. Friends to lovers. Mutual pining. Unrequited love. Minors DNI. 18+. Banner Credit: @thedroneranger

Masterlist Previous Part Next Part

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Chapter 1: In My Head

The week passed in a blur of jets and clouds and sunshine. By Thursday, you were finally able to choke down the feelings you had for Jake, just in time for him to wreck them on Friday.

As the squadron sat in the briefing room Thursday evening, Cyclone came in, whispered something to Maverick, and then left.

"Well, folks, it looks like we need someone to make a late afternoon flight before they head home to test out some new software. Any takers?" Maverick asked.

There was a collective groan before Jake's hang shot up. "Glow and I can." He volunteered the two of you with a smile. He knew that you loved flying in the afternoon as the sun was starting to set. You always had.

"Are you okay with that, Glow?" Maverick asked you. "Yes, sir," you responded. Maverick sent everyone else home for the day. He met the two of you out on the tarmac to prep you for what you would be doing.

"Also, Admiral Simpson said whoever stayed late today could have tomorrow off. So, it looks like you two get a three day weekend." Maverick smiled at the pair of you. You and Jake exchanged a high- five before he helped you up and got himself situated.

The evening sky was absolutely beautiful as the two of you flew. The sun painted it in shades of pinks and oranges, and purples. The hues danced off the water and floated around the jet. You couldn't help but smile as Jake piloted back towards base.

"I can see why this is your favorite time to be up here." He said to you. "It's gorgeous."

"It is. There is just something about the afterglow that always gets me." You told him. And you meant it. In more ways than one.

After landing, showering, and changing, you ducked out of the locker room to find Jake leaning against the wall waiting on you. "Oh!" You exclaimed when you saw him. "I thought you would have already left by now."

"I was waiting on you, silly." He smiled before falling in step beside you. He lazily tossed an arm over your shoulders as you walked. His hair was still slightly damp, and you could smell his cologne. The scent of oak, whiskey, and tobacco filled your olfactory receptors. It was mixed with a hint of sunshine and salt water. A combination that was so perfect, so unique, so—Jake.

"So I was thinking." Jake began. "That's terrifying." You snorted. He lightly shoved you before pulling you back to him. "But seriously. I don't have any pressing issues I need to take care of tomorrow, and I assume you don't. So, I was thinking, what if we spent the day together?" Jake asked you as you reached your cars in the parking lot.

"And do what?" You asked him. "'We could get breakfast at that diner you love, and we could take the tops off of your jeep and cruise for a bit to our favorite ice cream place, hit the beach, get dinner, oh and Phoenix told me about the movie she and Lukas saw over the weekend. I thought we would check it out and maybe skip the Hard Deck because I, for one, don't want to hear Rooster bitching about how we got the day off." Jake smiled. He had the whole thing planned out.

"So? What do you think?" He asked you with a smile.

You knew this was a bad idea. If you were up in the jet, you'd have warning lights going off everywhere, and you'd be ejecting. "Sounds like a plan. What time do I need to pick you up if we are taking my car?" You asked him.

"Now, Glowy, you no good and well that I'm not going to let you pick me up." I'll be at your house at 9:30 sharp." He stated. You rolled your eyes and agreed. Jake pulled you into a tight hug before climbing into his Silverado and leaving.

....................

You set your alarm for 6:30 the next morning. Even though he said he would be there around 9:30, Jake Seresin was notoriously early for everything.

You got up and took a shower before drying and styling your hair. You took your time dawning some simple makeup for the day. After your finished with your hair and your face, you packed a bag for the day.

You grabbed towels, sunscreen, a change of clothes, some snacks and a few other odds and ends that you thought you might need.

Jake had mentioned the beach, so you slipped a simple purple two-piece on before deciding on a tea-length, bright pink floral sundress. You slipped on a pair of sandals and spritzed your favorite perfume on your wrists and neck.

You were giddy as you were getting ready. You had to keep reminding yourself that this wasn't a date. Just two friends enjoying an unexpected day off.

At nine on the dot, there was a knock at your door. "Good morning, Jake." You greeted him as you opened it. "Morning Y/N. I brought coffee and these." Jake smiled as he walked in. He handed you your favorite iced carmel latte and a bundle of fresh daisies. "They're your favorite, right?" He nodded to the flowers.

"Yeah, um—why did you get me these?" You ask him a little confused.

"My mother told me you never go to a lady's house without flowers." Jake stated matter of factly. "Plus, the farmers market is right near the coffee shop, and I saw these and thought of you." He smiled.

You quickly turned away from him to find a vase. You wouldn't let him see the pink rise in your cheeks.

After securing the flowers, he promptly stole the keys from their hook in your hallway and pulled the tops off of your jeep. He secured them in your garage. The weather was supposed to be bright and sunny all day, so you didn't bother storing them in the trunk.

You tried to argue with him that you should be the one driving, but he simply shook his head stating thst he was the pilot and you would forever be his back seater, or in this case, passenger princess.

..................

The weather was spectacular as the two of you drove to your favorite diner. You laughed and joked as the two of you feasted on bacon, eggs, potatoes, and French toast.

"I'm so glad that I got orders to come here. Lemoore sucked without you. The pilot they assigned to me after you got recalled was even more of a dick than you." You told Jake as you speared a potato square.

"Really? I doubt that." He chuckled. "And it is great that you got moved here." He smiled. Jake prayed you didn't catch the guilt behind his eyes.

It was no accident that you ended up in San Diego with him.

When pilots were being recalled for the uranium plant mission, the rule was that no pairs of pilots and their weapons systems officers could be called together. They didn't want to leave the original squadrons hanging for too long. That's why Jake flew a singe seater. He refused to have anyone in his back seat besides you.

It killed him to leave you. So, after getting word that he would be permanently stationed at Top Gun, he begged asked Cyclone and Warlock if they could transfer you, and he could get back in a two-seater.

Admiral Simpson and Admiral Bates reluctantly agreed, but it worked out for the better. Jake was much more tolerable with you around.

After you finished breakfast, Jake swiped the bill before you could set your card down, claiming once again that his mother would have his head if he let a lady pay. You had to take a deep breath and remind yourself that this wasn't a date.

You silenced the warning bells once again before getting into your car.

The two of you drove along the coast, stopping at a few shops and sent selfies to the rest of your friends who were stuck at work.

You had ice cream on the boardwalk for lunch. The two of you sat side by side and watched the waves roll in. Jake had asked you something, and when you turned to answer, he noticed you at the smallest smear of mint chip on your face. He leaned in with his thumb to brush it away, but he lingered before pulling back. His eyes darted to your lips, and he leaned forward ever so slightly.

The caution lights flashed before your eyes. No, he wasn't about to kiss you. Not here. Not out in the open like this. Your brain was screaming at you to eject.

You pulled away from him and cleared your throat. He pulled back and coughed before licking the melted ice cream from his thumb.

"So, beach?" You asked him after a beat of silence.

"Yeah, beach" He nodded.

The two of you tossed your cones before going back to your car and grabbing the beach bag you'd packed. You slipped off your sundress, and Jake's breath caught in his throat when he saw you in your purple swimsuit. His was barely able to keep his tough guy charade up as he helped you apply sunscreen.

The two of you froliced through the waves, splashing and laughing until the sun began to sink. After a quick use of the beach showers and a pit stop in the changing room, both of you were relatively sand free as you sat back in your car. You'd pulled your hair into a high ponytail and were humming along to the music as Jake drove the two of you towards the movie theater.

After getting more popcorn and candy than necessary, and two icees that would give you the worst brain freeze ever, the two of you found yourselves in the last row of an almost empty theater.

Jake had moved the armrest separating your seats out of the way, claiming it was easier to share snacks that way. But you didn't miss the way his bare knee bumped against yours through the slit of your sundress.

..................

At the Hard Deck, the rest of the Daggers finally concluded that the two of you probably weren't showing up tonight.

"It's not fair," Fanboy groaned as he leaned over the pool table.

"I mean, they did volunteer to take a later test flight yesterday, so it is kind of fair." Bob shrugged.

"Bob is right. We all had the same opportunity." Payback stated.

"So what do you think they are doing that is better than hanging out with us?" Coyote asked the group.

"Probably fucking." Rooster shrugged causing half of the group to choke on their drinks.

"Jesus, Bradshaw. Have some tact, man." Payback scolded him.

"What, I'm just saying what we are all thinking." Rooster defended himself. "Glow assures me that they are just friends. Very good friends." Phoenix tells the group.

"Yeah, and I'm a front seater." Fanboy laughed.

"Nix, you can't really believe that. I mean, haven't you seen they way they look at each other? Or noticed how they always leave together from here? And they are together right now?" Rooster pressed.

"Rooster does have a point." Bob chimed in.

"So I have a theory, well three, of what the situation could be." Payback began. "I'm going to present them in order from least plausible to most likely." He continued.

"One, they are secretly dating or maybe married. That would explain why she got transferred to here from Lemoore. Two, they really are just good friends and have worked together so long that they act like a couple. Or, three, and what I feel is most likely, they are hooking up, and one of them, Hangman, wants to keep it more casual, while ignoring the fact that the other, Glow, has feelings for him." Payback finished.

"Well, I don't know what it is. All I know is that Hangman is way easier to deal with when she's around." Phoenix said as she held up her beer. Everyone mumbled out an agreement as they went about their pool game.

.................

Nat was right. The movie was great, and you were glad you had seen it.

You and Jake were walking back to your car as the last rays of the sun began to dip below the horizon.

"Ugh, the sunsets here are so much prettier than the ones in Lemoore." You told Jake.

"Yeah, they are." He agreed with you. "Looks like some clouds are rolling in. We'd better get a move on." He said. You took note of the weather and agreed. You definitely didn't want to get caught in the rain with no cover on your jeep.

Unfortunately, Mother Nature had other plans. The two of you were about halfway back to your house when the heavens opened up and rain came pouring down. Jake desperately tried to find an overpass for shelter, but there was nothing in sight.

He broke a few traffic laws to get you home, sliding into your garage on two wheels. The two of you sat there for a moment, soaking wet and out of breath.

You shared a look before breaking out into a laugh.

As the laughter faded, the air shifted between the you. The electricity flowing wasn't just the lightening from the storm. Desire radiated off your bodies as you both surged forward and connected your lips.

You basked in the salty, sweet taste of him, as you tried to ignore the warning bells going off. But eventually, you gave in and pulled away from him.

"We can't keep doing this, Jake." You told him.

"I know." He replied as he cupped your jaw, dragging his lips almost criminally slow against your skin. You could feel the subtle hint of the stubble on his chin.

Heat flushed in your cheeks and spread across you from the tips of your ears to the curl of your toes. You felt like you were doused in gasoline, and his touch was the strike of the match, ready to burn you down.

"One last time?" You breathed out.

"One last time." He whispered against the shell of your ear.

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[leclsrc]

happy 2023 bestieee <3 could i get some charles angst please? i love hurting <3

overly sincere – cl16

It should be easy to break a habit, but this one isn’t.

auds here... crunching the last of these reqs bahshha, title from this. edited a bit for clarity x <3

Charles always knocks on a door before he enters a room. It’s not weird, but it sometimes is.

It happens with the new intern, who stutters out a did you just knock on the fridge? And then immediately apologizes for the lack of professonalism. He politely waves him off, says it’s okay, but again he doesn’t answer the question. He just retrieves the bottle of water inside and exits the kitchen, rubbing a hand over his face, the same hand he used to knock on the fridge.

Then he knocks on the bathroom door that’s half-open, and now it’s Yuki asking, teasingly, beside Pierre. “It’s open,” he jokes, “no need to knock.” And Charles laughs, shakes his head as if to say I’m just out of it, and ducks into the toilet. He misses the way Pierre’s gaze lingers on him, dark with concern. But hears the hushed conversation from where he’s splashing his face with tap water. When he exits, there’s no more mention of the knock. 

He knocks again on the oven door before he shoves a tray inside. Isa’s head cocks to the side, inquisitively almost, but she smiles tight-lipped. He thinks she’s answered her own question in her head. She leans on Carlos’ shoulder, and Charles watches them, alone, as the room fills with the smell of bread. He knocks again before he takes the foccacia out.

It’s rare, he thinks, it’s rare and strange and amazing to have picked up a habit so difficult to stop. He’s got many—the sign of the cross, the click of his tongue, the cigarette every time he drinks something with bourbon in it. But this habit will never die, and he fears it’s because he’s not trying to kill it, because killing it means losing the only fragment of you he has left.

You just knocked on the car door, he’d said incredulously then when you climbed in beside him.

You looked up, met his eyes. What about?

He scoffed. You don’t knock on car doors.

You laughed, oh, I knock on every door.

Every door? Every door.

He hummed. Why?

You shrugged. I dunno. If there are any spirits inside, they know I’m there. 

That’s bullshit.

I’m superstitious, so everything is bullshit to me.

He’d teased you then, thought of how obscure it must’ve been, how tiring it could’ve been to explain why you knocked on every single door. But now he does it, too, not only because he’d adopted your behavior then, but also because the sound of knuckle hitting surface reminds him so much of you. Of your pretty smile, your laugh, the letters you left him on bluish early mornings. 

He will knock on the fridge because it reminds him of the way you did, the sing-songy way your fist hit the metal before you swung it open to retrieve breakfast or a beer. It reminds him of mornings, nights in your kitchen, where he was finally himself, a chef in his own right. It reminds him of your favorite brand of milk, the way it was never dairy but instead always oat or almond. 

He knocks on the bathroom door because of how often you did it, and how it became somewhat of an alarm clock to him. The sound of your hand meeting the wood woke him in the morning, and alerted him to bedtime at night. And he’d follow you inside, kissing your face, laughing if your eyes met in the mirror while brushing your teeth, fucking you in the shower.

The oven is knocked on because you’d made up a silly story about how the monsters in your flat lived not under the bed, but inside the massive oven. He remembers all your silly inside jokes that he’s now had to unlearn, to find unfunny, to stop referencing because really, nobody else gets it. They just laugh out of pity. So still he knocks, remembers your stories, remembers the kisses when the bread burned.

Charles realizes he’s made up of so many people he’s met, but you especially. Each knock sends another aching memory to his brain: knocking on your first flat, on the cage of your first dog together, on his parents’ house to make a big announcement. You’d become such a big part of him that now, he’s the fool who knocks on the oven. Now, he’s the guy who knocks on the fridge and open doors and cars and anything he needs to swing open. 

So when his date, the pretty blond girl who’s friends with Lando, asks amusedly, “Why are you knocking on the fridge?” He finds himself mute, unable to form a proper answer for her. He just shrugs, mutters something in French so she can switch the topic to his fluency in it, and like that, the situation is defused.

And he should be angry that he’s such a fool, but he doesn’t think he could be.

He knocks on his own bedroom door, his own sanctuary, his own safe space, like it’s a stranger’s room housing a stranger’s bed. But this time, he knocks not because of you, or your stories, or your kisses, no, not those. In fact, it’s for the same reason you knocked in the first place. So if there were any spirits, they’d know he was there. But he’s not wary of the dead. Charles has befriended grief, and has known that, in the same way the dead are never really gone, the living can become ghosts, too. Figments, imprints of the past, like dust on the wall or whiffs of perfume. So when he burrows into his sheets that still smell of you, he thinks the knocking is useless.

Because, like every figment appearing to a human, Charles finds he can still feel, hear, smell you, so pointedly he can almost touch you, there in the corner of the room where you placed the engagement ring back in his hand and left his life behind quietly.

[defire]

Ghost of Seattle Chapter 4

Content: child whumpee, humiliation, bullying, forced to kneel, self-sacrifice, slightly creepy whumper, hurt/comfort, excessive responsibility for a child

It was about a year later, in late summer, and closing in on dusk. 

The Guards were meeting the Yellowcaps in the outskirts of Seattle, the part where the suburbs seemed to have been broken before they died. Nobody lived in these houses anymore. There were plenty of nicer ones to choose from.

Chase was 10, and he was part of Ron’s squad, which had been picked to lead one of the guards that were going to escort the Yellowcaps to the Night Market. 

Cars were parked all down the gravel street on both sides of the road, with a few abandoned at the stop sign behind them. 10 Yellowcaps and 18 Guards met here on the street across from a lot-sized playground. They traveled small, because they needed to duck out of sight if a copter flew over.

Signs of life brought on bomb attacks. Nobody knew why, or who did it.

"Well, you're a little young to be leading our guard today." The leader of the Yellowcaps sneered at Ron. He had a bushy gray beard, curly hair, and talked with an accent that sounded like eating the words. Chase knew of him--he was an asshole named Charles--and he always pushed around anyone younger than him.

"I'm not young." Ron said. "I mean, I'm 16. That's basically adult."

Charles laughed. He reached out and pinched a large section of Ron's cheek, taunting him. Chase watched; Ron looked kind of silly.

"You should really be more respectful to ya customers, eh?" He yanked Ron to the side by the cheek. 

"Ow!" Ron grunted. 

Chase was coming closer, frowning. Ron was a bit of a wuss. Chase couldn't help wanting to rescue his friend. 

Ron threw him a teary glance. It was like, "Chase, please help me." Charles was slapping Ron's cheek, saying humiliating things Ron would have to do to prove he was the leader, and to properly fulfill the Guards' duties. 

All the Guards were routinely warned never to provoke or annoy The Yellowcaps. Be subservient. Do whatever they ask. They control the food. If they didn't, the entire Guard would turn on the rebellious member. Chase imagined being kicked half to death by his friends, then being thrown to the Yellowcaps to finish it. He'd seen it happen once. He shook his head hard, to try to forget.

"I'm--I'm not disrespecting you..." Ron protested weakly as Charles slapped him again.

"Then stop talkin and start doin!" Charles said, but he had a grip on Ron's shirt.

The Yellowcaps saw the bullying as some kind of initiation ritual for new Guard leaders; they laughed as they talked about it when they were visiting Guard territory. It happened inside the Guards, too, sometimes. 

"You'll have to excuse him." Chase interrupted, stepping forward. Damn, his voice was soft like the breeze. Instead of repeating himself, he cleared his throat like how Dad did.

"Excuse me!" He belted the words out. This time Charles stopped, turning to him.

"What did you just say?" Charles said, an incredulous smile on him.

"That's my underling you're slapping around." Chase shouted, to make the words come out at a normal level. "If you want the leader, you'll have to talk to me."

The Guards were stunned, especially Ron. Ron was totally supposed to be the leader.

"Then why's he in the front--"

"Forward guard." Chase snapped. He was shocked by his own boldness. Guess he was angry. "You think I don't know tactics?"

Every one of the Yellowcaps burst out laughing, uproariously.

Chase scowled appropriately, like his dad would've. This would help the guys think he was in charge. It would satisfy them to bully him instead of Ron. 

Charles wiped his eyes.

"Hah, you--you're what? 7?" He laughed.

"10." Chase said sourly.

They all laughed loudly again for awhile. Chase lifted his chin.

"Laugh all you want, but I'm captain, and I order you to move out with us."

Dusk was falling, so it was about time anyway.

Charles stopped laughing suddenly. He leaned forward and leered at Chase.

"You said what now?" His breath stank over his yellow teeth, shiny at the points.

Chase stood his ground.

"Captain. Me." He said. Maybe sarcasm was taking it a bit too far. "We're ready to escort you. Sir."

He scratched his arm, not sure if he was dignified enough.

"Not that part..." Charles poked his forehead with a finger, hard enough that his head jerked back.

Chase stepped back to balance, glaring at Charles.

"So you're the one I should be talking to, eh?" 

Charles grabbed him by the cheek now, pushing him back a few more steps into the group of Guards. 

"Hey--" Chase grabbed back at Charles' hand, trying to pry it off. "--let go!"

"Aren't you a cute one." Charles grinned.

Chase and Ron met eyes nervously, for a second. Chase wanted to send the message, I got this, but he was being yanked around so hard by the cheek, he risked losing his balance in the muddy ground. He couldn't make faces.

Charles yanked Chase so close their noses brushed. Chase's left eye was getting stretched out. He pretended to be fearless, but his lips parted and his nostrils flared, to breathe in for a fight. He was scared, just not as much as normal. 

"You wanna try that intro again?" Charles said, still half-leering. 

Chase didn't reply. It was better to stay silent if you didn't know what to say. Charles' fingers felt like they were tearing his face off. It burned, and he couldn't even wince because even his eyelids were stretching. Then Charles shoved him back away from himself. Chase caught himself with a hand slapped into a car hood.

"Well, if you wanna work together now, you're gonna need to show me you can be humble and respectful." Charles said. "Otherwise, how can I trust you?"

Holding his cheek and grimacing, Chase looked around fast, noticing that the other Yellowcaps were sharing uncomfortable glances. He didn't answer Charles.

"Ya gotta promise to serve us." Charles said. "You wanna win our trust, ya gotta be an ally."

"I'm--we're just here to escort you." Chase frowned. "To the market."

"And to ya guest camps." Charles corrected. "It's a part of the deal; we need a place to stay."

One of The Yellowcaps, encouraged by the others, cleared his throat at Charles.

"Charles, let's just go. He's only 10."

"No," Charles said. "No, I wanna see what he does."

Giving Chase a side-eye with his tongue to his lips.

Chase said nothing, palms open, face blank like "what do you want?"

Ron nudged him. Chase didn't react, deliberately staying focused on Charles. He wasn't afraid.

"Chase--" Charles said. "That's ya name, yeh?"

Chase nodded.

"Yes." It was too quiet to be heard, again.

"Chase, you should say you're sorry for being so rude." Charles smirked. 

"Mister, how--"

"Want me to forgive you?" Charles interrupted. "Get down on your knees. Forehead right on the ground. And promise you'll serve us loyally this week. That way I know we can trust you."

Chase hesitated, looking at the others, who either shook their heads or made no answer. Ron looked scared, pale. Odd. Chase got on the ground all the time, he didn't see what the big deal was. He knelt down on the cold black mud, lowered his forehead to the ground, and said,

"I promise to serve you this week."

"Serve loyally. Say it." Charles nudged his head with the toe of his boot.

Chase sighed.

"I promise to serve you loyally this week."

Charles grabbed him by the tousled white hair on the back of his head, shoving his forehead hard into the mud. It ground into gravel.

"Ouch--" Chase protested, attempting to push his hand off. "Let me up."

Charles ground his face into the muddy gravel, then let him go, standing up.

Chase wiped his stinging face with his arm, leaving a brown streak down it. He was already getting a sunburn, so he needed to hurry and get back inside. He got up hastily, rubbing dirt off his hands on his waist as he turned his back to rejoin his group.

Ron secretly passed him a piece of jerky.

"Thanks." Chase said. Ron never wanted to lead anyway.

An older Guard put his arm around Chase and tugged him close for a sideways hug. Chase blankly allowed it. Wordlessly Guy patted him lightly and let him go. 

"Tell us our formation." One of the Guards said quietly to Chase.

Chase lifted his chin and cleared his throat. 

"Formation A for the wide streets," He said, just repeating some words he'd heard.

The Guards looked at each other with raised eyebrows.

"Yes sir." Guy saluted. "Formation A, it is."

Guy took up a position next to Charles. Glanced quickly at the tall Yellow Cap.

"Ron, you'll continue in the lead." Chase ordered. He took position on the other side of Charles. "Let's move out!"

Chase got the Yellowcaps settled in a camp in less than twenty minutes, and Guard rotations set for the night. That was all he needed to do. He grinned at Ron, who looked very relieved.

Then Shorty told him that Merc wanted to see him. 

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