#will need an entire CHAPTER in the history books

[sleepdepravity]

Happy to be your filter for funny history stuff.

[edwinspaynes]

100 years from now, history books will need to have an entire chapter that's just Destiel memes printed across entire pages

[ckret2]

Chapter 52 of human Bill Cipher being the Mystery Shack's prisoner: the Pines get their hands on a book that, they hope, might explain Bill's entire history.

And Ford, Dipper, and Mabel debate the ethics of executing a wanna-be tyrant who recently saved their lives.

"Hey, hey you with the inner eye! How'd your show go, inner eye?"

"Did you read anybody's mind?"

"Did you get next week's lottery numbers?"

"Yeah! Did you predict when anyone's gonna die?"

Brag one time about identifying somebody's cancer and nobody lets it go for years. As the triangle stuffed his bookbag in his locker, he tried to ignore the square and rectangle laughing at him down the hall. Every time he missed a few days of school so his parents could haul him to a speaking engagement several states away, he got this when he got back. They knew he couldn't read minds and they knew he couldn't tell the future. They didn't care; they just wanted to make him mad. If he tried to correct them, they'd just laugh at him for caring about what they said.

"How come your inner eye's on the outside, inner eye?"

"Yeah, shouldn't it be in your stomach?"

"Can you see the ghosts from in there?"

He slammed his locker and turned toward the square leading the harassment. "You know what, I did have a vision at the show," he shouted. "I saw who your real dad is! Hey, did you mom ever get that mutt fixed?"

He didn't need to tell the future to know he'd better run for it. He bolted for class.

He'd missed the last three days of school so he could wow the crowds by telling them what was in their pockets, while his parents talked about cleansing negative energy from their spirits or some junk like that; and he'd come back just in time for a history test he hadn't studied for.

He wasn't worried. He was sitting behind the smartest line in class. On test days, the teacher set up cardboard barriers between everybody's desks to prevent them from reading each other's tests, and he took it on faith that this worked on the other students; but for his own part, the barriers were so thin that sometimes he walked into them without noticing they were there. He just looked straight past them as if they didn't exist. He had a clear view of the smart line's test.

As he bolted for his classroom, he could see through the walls that the line was already in there, talking to the teacher. He slowed down his mad dash before reaching the doorway and came in at a stroll, just in time to hear her quietly say to the teacher, "Just for this test, can I switch seats? I don't want to sit by..." She trailed off when she caught the triangle coming in; she and the teacher both stared.

He stared back, irritation flaring up, and snapped defensively, "What?" What did she care if he copied her test? It didn't cost her anything and it didn't make her do any extra work. Wasn't it considerate to help a fellow classmate out? Why should she be selfish about her test?

The square and rectangle tumbled into the room, advanced on the triangle, saw the teacher watching, and shoved past him to get to their own seats. They glared at him as they passed, but didn't say anything. Yeah, that's right, look who got the final word in.

To the line, the teacher quietly said, "Don't worry about it, just get ready for the test." She raised her voice. "All right, settle down, everyone at your desks. Put your notes away. This is a long test, so we're starting immediately." Several students grumbled in dismay.

The triangle couldn't be more delighted. The teacher didn't believe in psychic abilities—to his benefit, since so far it had let him get away with copying other students with impunity—but she also didn't like him. He'd been sure that she'd agree to let the smart line switch seats to get away with him. But apparently she'd rather dismiss the class pet than admit that maybe it was possible for him to psychically cheat. He smugly headed for his desk, ready for the easiest test of the class.

The teacher put a hand on his arm before he could pass her. "Not you," she said. "Get your stuff from your desk, you'll be taking the test at the front of the class. At my desk."

"What!" He whirled to stare at her indignantly. "Why?!" (The rest of the class fell silent. He could feel a dozen eyes on his base.)

"Because, your last few test scores have been... unusual. I want to keep my eye on you—"

"Unusual how! My grades have been great! You should be thrilled I'm keeping up with my absences!"

"Your test grades haven't been consistent with your classroom performance," she said tersely.

The other students started to titter. His sides flushed in humiliation.

His classroom performance was abysmal. He never finished his homework (he rarely started his homework), he never had an answer when he was called on in class and usually substituted with something sarcastic that'd at least make the other kids laugh, he never did the readings, and he wasn't even sure which town he'd lost his history textbook in. Studying was boring! He had better things to do! He was a busy guy! (And why bother, when he wasn't any good at it anyway.)

"What, you think I'm too stupid to make A's?!" He planted his fists on his corners. "If I'm cheating, how!" She had the privacy walls between students on test days, she'd searched his desk twice, and during the last test she'd passed behind him like a dozen times as he filled out the answers. Sarcastically, he asked, "Am I psychically reading the other students' minds? Maybe looking at their tests through the walls with my laser vision?"

The class giggled again, but at least this time it was with him. Everyone in the school knew about his family's traveling show and the performances he put on. And everyone in class knew that the teacher thought his family's shows were scams and that he was a fraud, and she'd made that clear from the first week. The other kids believed in his abilities. He'd been in class with most of them since they started school, and his default reaction to being called a liar about his abilities had always been to do something to prove them wrong—and he'd kept doing that even after he realized that telling kids what they were hiding in their bags only creeped them out. 

But it didn't matter if all the kids believed. As long as the teacher didn't, he could get away with anything—and everyone else in class knew he was making a fool of her.

She narrowed her eye. "That's enough. Just get your pen and come to the front."

"This is stupid! You can't prove I've done anything wrong!"

"I'm not going to fight with you."

"You just hate my family, you don't have any proof I—"

"Get. Your. Pen. Or you'll be taking your test in the office."

He shot her a dark look; but stormed to his desk, snatched up his pen, and returned to the front. Times like this, he really did wish he had laser vision. He could, just, grow a laser gun out of his eye, shoot her in half...

As he passed the teacher, he muttered under his breath, "I'm telling my mom," but apparently not quietly enough, because the square who'd been bothering him all morning announced, "Hey, he's gonna tell his mommy!" and half the class laughed.

"Behave," the teacher snapped; then said tiredly to the triangle, "You can tell anybody you want, just—take your test."

Sure, she said that now. She didn't know what his mom was like when she thought her golden child was being mistreated. He'd go home whining and moaning about how unfair his teacher was, and tomorrow morning his mom would be in the front office ripping into the principal over the terrible teacher slandering and humiliating her perfect little triangle. And she was shrill. The whole hallway would hear it. Wielding his mom was a double-edged sword (or maybe double-edged whip would be a more apt metaphor): the other kids would make fun of him for weeks; but he'd definitely get what he wanted. Either his teacher would shape up, or he'd get a new teacher.

Assuming he did convince his mom he was being mistreated. His confidence waned as he waited at the teacher's desk for her to finish passing tests out to the rest of the students. What if calling in his mom backfired? What if his teacher graded his test tonight? What if his mom got there in the morning and the teacher could show her that he'd gotten almost perfect grades on his other tests, but flunked the one where he'd been forced to sit at the teacher's desk? The teacher didn't believe he could see through walls, but his mom sure did—and he wasn't sure whether she'd care that he'd cheated, but she'd sure care if they could prove that he'd cheated and make her look bad. But now that he'd said he'd tell his mom, he'd look like an even bigger loser if he didn't...

The teacher set his test on her desk last. He filled out his name and stared miserably at the first question. Who was the first triangular president. How was he supposed to know? There'd been like, seven. It was a multiple choice question; he looked at the options to see if any names sounded old-timey, concluded they all sounded old-timey, and sighed in frustration. Now what? He'd heard a kid say once that if you didn't know what to guess, you should always guess C. Would he get enough right answers to pass...?

He let his all-seeing gaze drift past the test to snoop through the teacher's desk—sheets of stickers he'd never earn, eye drops, coupons to a movie theater, spicy novel... and then stopped in wonder. She'd left the answer key to the test inside her desk. Every answer, right there. This would be the easiest test he'd ever taken!

As the teacher watched in increasing frustration, he cheerfully highlighted answer after answer, pausing between each question to read a couple paragraphs from the novel in her desk to make it look like he was actually thinking.

The line at the top of the class and a couple other kids had turned in their tests by the time the triangle had finished his performance. With a flourish, he turned and presented his test to the teacher still standing behind him. "Well?" He gave her his most innocent look. "So how'd I do?" He'd almost asked her, so how'd I do it?

She glowered at him, seething; but simply took his paper and snapped, "Go back to your desk."

"Whatever you say!" Cheerfully, he sauntered back to his desk. As he passed Miss Perfect Grades, he said quietly—but not so quietly the other nearby kids couldn't hear—"You got question 7 wrong, idiot." She groaned.

Nobody would get the best of him. He was making it through this class with flying colors. Maybe the teacher was right, maybe he was stupid—but he certainly wasn't a loser.

####

As soon as he'd dressed, Dipper ran downstairs to get the phone book in Soos's office and call the library. This was it. He was rested, his schedule was free, and he was ready to read. Today, he was buckling down and reading Flatworld. He was gonna crack Bill's secret history wide open—and on top of that he'd get a leg up on a year of math, and he'd learn something big about Bill before Mabel.

Which he felt guilty for being excited about; but he figured it wasn't wrong to want to be the better twin at paranormal investigation, right? That was his whole thing. Anyway, Mabel might be grateful for it—she'd seemed annoyed at the prospect of reading a hundred year old book on math; maybe he could summarize the important parts for her, it was just like when he'd help her study for big tests...

The librarian on the phone said, "Flatworld by Edward Bishop Bishop? Sorry, our only copy is checked out."

There went Dipper's plans for the day. "When's it due back?"

"In twenty days. Do you want to put it on hold?"

"Yeah, thanks."

Dipper hung up. The Gravity Falls Library let you check out a book for twenty-one days; so somebody had grabbed Flatworld yesterday. Who else would want it?

####

Absolutely aghast, Mabel cried, "They banned colors?!"

Bill and Abuelita, sitting at the kitchen table having breakfast, stared at her. Mabel was standing in the doorway, still in her pajamas, hair unbrushed, bags under her eyes, distraught. Bill said, "What?"

"On Flatworld!" Mabel dragged her hands down her face in distress. "They made colors ILLEGAL?! It's ILLEGAL to have COLORS?! That's as bad as—as—I can't actually think of anything as bad as banning colors!"

Bill gave her a surprised look. "Oh, you're reading Flatworld!"

"Bill, you've been through so much!" Mabel grabbed his shoulders. "What a traumatic childhood!"

"Mabel."

"No wonder you turned evil, I'd be evil if I grew up without coloring books—"

"Mabel. Kid."

"What!"

"Colors weren't illegal," Bill said.

Mabel paused. "They weren't?"

"They weren't. I was even born gold. I drew my house, remember? You saw the rose bushes?"

"Oh." Mabel thought about that. She planted her hands on her hips. "Then I take it back, you've got no excuse for being evil!"

"I'm devastated."

"What is Flatworld?" Abuelita asked politely.

"Book inspired by my home world," Bill muttered. "Loosely."

Abuelita nodded, puzzled. "¿Pero tú no eras del infierno?"

Bill laughed. "¡Puede ser!"

Mabel asked, "So if colors weren't banned, why did the book say they were?"

"Ahh, Eddie was a writer." Bill shrugged and turned back to his breakfast. "He took some creative liberties to make the story more exciting. He wasn't writing a history textbook."

"Which parts are true?"

Bill gave her a sly sideways glance. "Which parts pardon me from being evil?"

Mabel blew a raspberry.

In the entryway, Dipper said, "Mabel? You checked out Flatworld?"

She jogged over to him. "Yes! Augh, Dipper, you've gotta read it after me! There's some crazy bonkers stuff in here!"

"Yeah," Dipper said, mildly deflated, "sure. When did you pick it up?"

"Yesterday! I biked to the library after Bill fell asleep. I had to find out what it said. Did you realize we don't know anything about where Bill came from? I don't even know if he had dirt."

Bill had avoided looking at Mabel as she talked to Dipper, focused on eating, mouth set in a flat line; but without glancing over, he said dismissively, "Sure, of course we had dirt. It was cheap to import."

Mabel turned back to Dipper, her eyes bugging out. "He had to import dirt. I didn't know that!" 

"Okay, I get the picture."

"Here!" She dragged Dipper into the living room.

Bill looked at Abuelita. "Ask how cheap it was to import dirt."

"No."

"It was dirt cheap. Ha!"

Abuelita shook her head.

Mabel picked up the book from the end table by the sofa bed. Out of range of the kitchen, she whispered, "All that talk about the Axolotl and prophecies just kept bugging me until I read the book. I stayed up half the night! I thought maybe it'd help us remember more of the poem."

"Did it work?"

"Not yet. But I think I feel something percolating in my brain! It's coming, I know it." She pushed the book into Dipper's hands. "We've gotta talk as soon as you read it."

It was a much smaller book than Dipper had anticipated; a cover about the size of a paperback novel, but it was only as thick as one of those easy chapter books for new readers that Dipper had started devouring in second grade. Even if the text was dense, it shouldn't take more than a couple of hours to read.

"By the way, who put me back in my bed?" Mabel asked.

"Oh. Bill d—" The hairs on the back of Dipper's arms stood on end as he realized something he'd been too tired to notice last night. "Bill did."

"Aww, that's sweet of him," Mabel said.

"But Mabel," Dipper hissed. "I don't know how he got through the bedroom door."

####

Ford shut his journal and turned his desk chair to face the children. This was serious enough to warrant his full attention. "You're sure you didn't prop the door open last night?"

"Positive," Dipper said. "We talked about it. We decided it would be safer if Bill was stuck in one spot and had to ask to leave."

"The doorknob's been busted since the tooth fairy broke in," Mabel said. "Maybe Bill just pushed it open?"

Ford said, "Under the terms of the curse, he shouldn't even be able to do that much. It's supposed to magically prevent him from remembering or imagining any way to get through a door." Still, he made a mental note to ask Soos to repair the door as soon as possible. They ought to at least remove the possibility that Bill might have found a loophole.

"Could the curse be wearing off?" Dipper asked. "Maybe you just need to do it again?"

"This isn't a curse that should wear off. It was originally designed to keep hidden treasures guarded for a thousand years—and as far as I know, the only way to remove it is for the person who placed it to lift it," Ford said. "If Bill's getting through doors, either he knows a way to break the spell that he never told me, or he's found a way around the spell. Both mean bad news. For all we know, he might already be able to get through any door and is just pretending he can't."

Dipper thought back to the pitiful performance he'd seen in the bathroom. "I... don't think he's faking." Unless that wasjust a big act? Bill flung himself down staircases and stuck forks in his arms for fun; what was stopping him from writing on the walls in his own blood?

"Well, he can get through at least one door." Ford got to his feet and began pacing up and down the length of his study. "On top of that, by now he's revealed he can see through walls, see the future, see in the dark, and see who knows what else in other dimensions... He's trying to befriend Wendy, he's already befriended—" he cast a guilty look at Mabel, "... one of us, and I suspect he's getting into Stan's head... He has a standing weekly appointment to network with the mayor, the sheriff, and the deputy... He could be up to almost anything by now. I'm afraid he's right on the verge of slipping through our fingers. If only we could get that blasted fuel! We need to destroy him before he finds a way to escape for good—"

"Wait," Mabel said. That alone was enough to make Ford flinch. "Didn't he just save you guys' lives yesterday?"

Dipper winced, but Ford didn't seem surprised that Mabel knew; he just averted his gaze and sighed. "I know. And I'm..." he wrestled with his words until he reluctantly conceded, "grateful that he did. But even so—"

"Grunkle Ford! How can you still hate him after that?!"

Ford pressed his lips together to avoid saying pretty easily. "It's not about hatred, Mabel. It's an issue of the greater good."

"The gr—pbbbt!" Mabel blew a raspberry and flung her arms in the air. "Come on!"

Dipper said, "Grunkle Ford's right. Even if Bill isn't just trying to manipulate us somehow... if he had a chance, he'd still take over the world."

"Exactly," Ford said. "Two lives isn't a sufficient down payment to let him purchase the rest of our reality. We must put the safety of the universe first, and... put our consciences second."

Mabel looked between them in disbelief. "It's not a down payment, it's—it's progress. It means he's changing for the better! Guys, you don't know what the world he came from is like!" She pointed at the book Dipper was carrying. "Of course he's evil after how he grew up! Maybe he just needs some people to be nice to him and he'll learn to be nice back!"

"He grew up more than a trillion years ago," Ford said. "That's over seventy times longer than our entire universe has existed. He's had plenty of chances to outgrow his upbringing. I'm sure somebody's been kind to him in that time." He'd been kind to Bill.

"Then why is he being nicer now? First he was nice to me, now he's been nice to you two—if he keeps getting nicer to more and more people..."

Ford shook his head. "He could be nice to the whole world and it wouldn't mean he's any different."

"How do you know?!"

"How often does he talk to you about his plans for Weirdmageddon?"

Mabel fell silent, thinking uncomfortably about all the times he'd freely told her what boring animals he planned to upgrade once he'd conquered the world, or which fun places he wanted to destroy with his alien friends, or which laws of physics and spacetime he planned to change. She thought about all the times he'd expressed his gratitude by swearing to shed blood or rearrange stars on her behalf.

"He doesn't see befriending his future victims as a conflict of interests. So why wouldn't he start Weirdmageddon again?" Ford asked. "He doesn't feel remorse over a single thing he's done."

Mabel thought about Bill offering to put back the stolen ring at the mall.

Dipper thought about Mabel's Fault.

But did that really prove he felt remorse?

"But—doesn't he ever get a chance?" Mabel's voice was thick. "How do you know if he'll be selfish next time if you don't let him try? He can do better, I know it! He just needs a chance to prove it!" She looked pleadingly at Ford, then at Dipper. "What if he could be good this time? What if he could help?"

Dipper had to avert his gaze. "If we were talking about shoplifting or vandalism, yeah, but... if we give him a chance and he lets us down, it's the end of the world. We can't risk that."

Ford knew Bill would be just as selfish this time, because Ford knew Bill. Because Ford had heard, throughout the multiverse, on world after exploited world, just how selfish Bill had been for billions and billions of years. Because as far as Bill was concerned, he didn't have any reason to change outside of the fear of death—and fear never made anybody better. But Ford said, "His second chance is whatever he can do between now and whenever we find or make a fuel that will let us destroy him. But once we can..."

Mabel's face scrunched up as she fought not to cry. She squeezed her eyes shut, crossed her arms, and lowered her head.

"Mabel..." Dipper reached for her shoulder.

She shook him off and shook her head; but she said, voice muffled by the collar of her sweater, "I know. You're right. He's too dangerous." She sniffled.

"I'm sorry," Ford said.

"It—it's fine." She wiped her eyes and turned away. "I'm gonna get breakfast."

"Mabel, wait," Ford said. "You... know not to mention any of this conversation to Bill, right? Even if you want to help him, it might just make him pretend to be better long enough to fool us—or escape entirely, if he's found a way how yet..."

She turned to give him a teary-eyed frown; but she said, "I won't. I promise." She got into the elevator to head upstairs.

Ford sighed and sank back down into his chair. Should he have done more to keep her from Bill? Used his summer guardian privileges to ban her from talking to him, and dealt with the relationship fallout? What he and Stan really should have done was just send the kids home. He'd thought this would all be over weeks before now.

He didn't think Mabel would betray them for Bill. He hoped not.

But this was going to break her heart.

"Grunkle Ford?" Dipper said. "About the fuel we need to power the Quantum Destabilizer..."

Ford sighed. "The impossible-to-synthesize paradox fuel?"

"Actually... I think I have an idea."

####

In order to generate NowUSeeitNowUDontium, Fiddleford had said, they needed a paradox: someone to simultaneously both observe but not think about and think about but not observe the miniature particle accelerator as the experiment was run. Fiddleford had tried to cheat by using a pair of twins, hoping they'd be similar enough that they could still generate Dontium, albeit at a much slower rate; but to no avail. Which left them at a road block. How could one person both observe and not observe and think about and not think about the experiment at the same time?

Dipper thought he might have found away.

Bill had made a comment last night that stuck with Dipper, about how his body stared at nothing while he was outside it. (He'd called him "stupid looking." That was the real reason it had stuck with Dipper.) Would that meet the criteria of the paradox? A body that was looking at the experiment, but not thinking; and then if his soul was thinking about it but not looking...

Ford thought it was worth a shot. He could call Fiddleford and propose it. "As long as you're sure you want to try?" he asked Dipper. "You only just figured out you've been slipping out of your body—and too long a separation without anything occupying your body might kill you. And who knows if there's more risks we don't know about yet?" Ford put a hand on Dipper's shoulder. "We can still look for other possibilities first. You don't need to be a hero."

Dipper scowled. All he could think of was Bill capturing Ford, laughing at him as he turned him into a statue, burning up his journals in front of Dipper's eyes: Don't be a hero, kid. This is what happens to heroes in my world!

"I'm going to do it," Dipper said. "And we should do it now. Before I lose my nerve."

Ford frowned. "I'm serious, Dipper. If you're afraid—"

"I didn't mean that," Dipper said. "I mean—about Bill. He did just..."

"Ah," Ford said. "Yes. There's that."

It had been easier to treat the issue like it was black and white when Mabel was in the room—when she saw it all in black and they needed to balance out her perspective with white. But when she was gone, and the muddled shades of gray crept in like fog?

Dipper could still see Bill gloating as he kidnapped his great uncle and burned the journals; but at the same time, he could also see Bill angrily muttering under his breath as he delicately reeled in Dipper's body by a thread, and then rushing to the cliff's edge to drag Ford to safety. Safety of the universe aside—it felt wrong to plot to kill the guy who'd just saved them.

After an uncomfortable silence, Ford said, "But it doesn't change anything else he's done."

"Yeah," Dipper said, "it doesn't change anything." All the same, his stomach twisted with guilt. He wondered if Ford's did too.

Ford sighed heavily. "I'll call Fiddleford."

####

Fiddleford was wary about trying a new strategy, although for different reasons: he didn't want to change their method to create Dontium before he'd spent several days calculating how the new variables would affect the experiment. But desperate times... He agreed they needed to do whatever they could before Bill found a way to escape.

Dipper went upstairs to grab his backpack. He didn't even unpack all his camping equipment; he just shoved in his journal and Flatworld, and headed back downstairs.

Meanwhile, Ford tracked down Soos in between tour groups to ask him to fix the kids' door.

To Ford's surprise, Soos looked uncomfortable at the request. "Dude, are you sure that's... y'know... necessary?"

"Even if Bill weren't a threat, it would need to be fixed sooner or later, wouldn't it? I can help when we get home if it will take too much of your time." Or maybe Stan could help, he didn't seem too busy; last Ford had seen, he was hunting through the house for a missing remote control.

"It's not that." Soos fiddled with his hands uncertainly. "It's just, I know Mabel and Bill have been getting along really well lately, and I think that's probably a good sign for Bill; and I thought, if Bill can use their door, maybe Mabel would like it if Bill can visit her a little easier?"

Ford stared at Soos, bewildered. He'd expected this out of Mabel, but Soos? "And I think Dipper would like it if he couldn't."

"True," Soos conceded.

"Not to mention ensuring he can't sneak in during the night, or snoop when they aren't home..."

"Okay, okay. You're right." Soos sighed. "I'll fix it after work."

"Thank you."

A tourist family came in, and Soos went to greet them; Ford watched him a moment. Where had that come from? Soos rarely interacted with Bill; if anything, Bill seemed to steer away from Soos, and certainly never had anything kind to say to him when they did interact.

Maybe the pet geodite had won him over. Ford shook his head and returned to the living room.

Dipper was waiting on the couch, adjusting the straps of his overstuffed backpack. Ford glanced in on Mabel having breakfast by herself in the kitchen, picking at a waffle, lost in thought; but they left without saying anything to her.

####

(Took two weeks to get the next few chapters cleaned up, but finally here it is! Hope y'all enjoyed—and we'll be hearing a lot more about what's in that book next week.)

[topazadine]

Things that immediately turn me off a fiction book

I'm pretty picky with what I read, because the time I spend reading is time that I could spend writing. I generally know if I will like a book within the first chapter, and I feel no shame in giving up if I'm not vibing with it.

And no, I don't believe in the "oooh read further it warms up" because does it? Does it really? Do I want to waste time finding out?

Frankly, at this point in life, I read more nonfiction than fiction because there's just so. many. bad. books. that are getting published. Worse than fanfictions.

Anyway, here are the things that make me give up. Maybe hearing this will help you as you write your own masterpiece.

Too Many Proper Nouns

Three characters maximum in the first chapter or two. Do not throw dozens of people at me. I will get confused and give up. Let me get to know the main character, by themself or with a few of their closest companions, before you make me remember everyone else. And go deep with those characters! I want someone to stick with!

You can reference other characters, to create a sense of a deeper world, but do not go all-in on them. Make it clear that they are just there to provide a bit of context, and we don't have to remember them yet. We should only be meeting three characters maximum.

Throwing Us Immediately Into a Dramatic Action Point

This is controversial I know, but I hate when something immediately starts with a battle. I don't care if any of these people live or die. I don't know them. I haven't grown attached to any of them.

Even just a page or two to get to know them first will help. You can have them gearing up for a battle, thinking about what's going to happen, maybe talking to their friends, maybe checking their armor, whatever feels natural for them. But do not just start with stabbing people! I don't care about them yet!

Too Many Details

Many this is just me, but I simply do not care about every piece of armor your character is wearing. I don't need to hear a play-by-play of every single color of every single thing because I don't care. Pick out a few specific things for me to focus on and that's it. Stop overloading me with colors and patterns and armor styles.

Yes, yes, you've done your research on historically accurate gear. That's great. It would be good for a movie. But if I have to look up different armor pieces every five seconds, I am glossing over it and moving on. I don't care. I'm here for the story. If I wanted an infodump about medieval armor, I would simply pick up a nonfiction book (and maybe I will).

White Space Syndrome

Tell me what the overall scene looks like instead of all these hyperspecific details of certain objects, like carts or emblems or whatever. I want to know where I am!!

Don't just say "a forest." Tell me what kind of forest. Tell me if it's a young forest or an old snarly forest or a swampy forest or a cold alpine forest.

Don't just say "a castle." Tell me if it's a bustling castle or a gloomy castle or a rundown castle.

Don't just say "on the sea." Cold sea? Tropical sea? Far far away from land or is land in sight? These are the things I want!

Too Much Backstory

For the love of god do not explain the entire history of this culture in the first chapter. The first chapter is for getting to know the characters we're going to be following. You can introduce those things slowly and carefully as the story unfolds.

I get that fiction writers are delighted by all the worldbuilding (or research, in historical fiction) they have done. But the reader does not care right away. They need to get invested before all those little specifics matter at all. My eyes glaze over and I give up because I don't want to have to remember all of that all at once. It's like you just threw a college textbook at my face.

Plus, if you're doing third-person limited, you have to remember that the character is not going to be thinking all of that! They won't say all of that either! Because they know all of that!

Even a general on the brink of a major battle is not going to go "yes, this all dates back to when we took Iuanfutila back in 181, when the brave Iuanfutilans protested the rule of our Yawwbaawnwhryr leaders ...." They are focused on the present moment, and they may discuss the backstory later. Tell us what we need to know now because that is what the character would be thinking too.

"Oh, but Topazadine, how will the readers understand the context if I don't tell them??"

There's a battle. Two groups are at war. Or something was stolen. Or two people are fighting. Whatever. We understand those things. We can get the basic gist of how things are going to play out by just showing us these things happening. Then, as we have gotten a feel for the characters, you can tell us more about the context.

If you walk into a store that's being held up by an armed robber, do you give a shit about his backstory, or do you only care once that person has been arrested and you have to testify? I think we know the answer. You're not going "ohhh why is he doing this??" at first. You're going "HOLY SHIT THERE'S A GUN WHAT'S GOING TO HAPPEN NOW???" and then you'll care about the other stuff later.

Too Much Play-by-Play

I also do not need a play by play of a fight scene. I need to know the general movements, and then the overall atmosphere. I want to feel what the character feels rather than feel like I'm watching a football game.

Your reader will fill in the gaps if you give them enough information, but when you overload them with every single action, they're now trying to keep track of what went where instead of how this moment is supposed to feel. And now the action and drama has gone out of the writing because it's become a manual of fighting techniques.

Pointless Dumb Conversations

"Oh, could you turn around for me? I want privacy."

"Sure, of course, I'm a respectable man." Manfred knew that a lady-in-waiting would be unsettled by the presence of a strange man, so he wanted to be respectful.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome."

Oh my god no one cares!!! No one!! We don't need this exchange. Cut it. This is stupid. Unless something is actually happening or something is meaningful about them saying this, shut up.

How to Not Write a Horrible First Chapter That Makes People Ragequit

Can you tell I'm mad today? I started and stopped three different books because they were all so bad.

Three characters max in the first chapter, with deep discussion of each. (One or two is better.) General appearance, demeanor, profession, whatever.

Restrain the urge to infodump! Dribble it out over the chapter!

Give the setting more attention than random little details that ultimately do not matter. I don't need to know the pattern of the curtains on the horsecart that's about to be burnt. Don't care.

Do not give a play by play of every single action that a character takes because it's boring and no one cares.

In media res is great but do NOT start with a big climactic intense battle or fight or whatever because we don't know these characters and don't know who to root for (or why we should care).

Your character is not going to give us a history lesson in why this conflict is happening. Do not do it yourself either. Give us just enough to get intrigued and no more. Think how your characters would think and what they would prioritize in discussions.

If a conversation is just pleasantries and has no purpose, drop it, we don't care.

[th3-c0rps3-r0gu3]

Arranged marriage?

Chapter two.

Royal au

Pairing: princess (to be queen) Natasha X autistic queen reader.

Warnings: Natasha being an asshole. (She gets better... Just not yet.) Natasha getting feelings?

Y/n pov:

The gardens. Meant to be peaceful and calming. But unfortunately I have another meeting with a seething princess Romanoff. She's mad because of how our last interaction went. Me having a meltdown over scrolls and books. Well Natasha calls it a meltdown. I call it being rationally upset over precious history being damaged. But I don't think I could get away with telling Natasha to leave again so I let her rant. Not that I'm listening. I've always been terrible at that..

"are you even listening to me!?"

I'm startled out of my thoughts by those angry words. I glance at Natasha again. I blink slightly as I register the question.

"oh uh.. no."

I then realised that's probably the wrong response as Natasha goes into another loud rant. I'm surprised she's known for her rich kingdom and powerful presence and not overly loud rants that don't need to happen. I would much rather be on the molten wyrm walk down in the southern parts of my kingdom that's happening right now but princess Romanoffs family insisted we meet up today at this time. It's as if the entire family doesn't want me to enjoy my dragons.

"yes princess Romanoff I apologise for my insolent behaviour from our last conversation."

The words come like clockwork. The amount of times I've apologised to this woman I don't even know. But then again it may not be that many since I never counted. I stand up wanting to at least try and get this meeting to come to some sort of an agreeable end and I offer my hand to Natasha.

"perhaps you would entertain a walk with me around my gardens?"

Natasha pov:

I'm pissed. Very very pissed. I'm meant to marry an incompetent woman who seems to have no dignity or self confidence. She's a push over but perhaps this could be useful in further advances to kill her later on. I despise the fact that y/n is offering a walk. As if I would like to walk with her. I would like to shove a knife in her skull. But I can't. Not until we marry and my parents are content. So I shall have to agree.

"very well then. Let us hope your insolent nature doesn't intrude this time."

I scowl as I take queen y/n's hand. And despite the fact I despise the queen with every inch of my existence I must admit her hands are soft and warm. But I ignore it and walk.

Thus far this walk has been uninteresting and a disappointment all round. And I've made that known by complaints. Queen y/n seems to be taking it well. But I doubt she's listening. That wretched woman never is. It's always dragons with her. Something wyrm this something serpent that. Nobody cares about the creatures because of how common it is to find plant drakes and poison lily wyverns in one's garden or even a mouse dragon in one's walls. But it seems as though this woman is stuck on the things.

"and did you know that while Treetailed pixie dragons are commonly found small and the size of someone's palm they actually grow to be the height of any other tree but nobody notices them because of their specially designed tails. So if you look close enough in woods or even orchards you might find one living there unnoticed."

Queen y/n spouts. She's been talking about these dragons nonstop since we were walking. The only break I get is my complaints about how the walk is stupid. I glare down at y/n as she keeps yapping away. But I'm caught off guard when my immediate first thought is she's cute.

Now I'm upset with myself. Why was that my first thought. Queen y/n is anything but cute. She's a weird queen who holds no grasp over her kingdom and is obsessed over common creatures such as dragons. Though I suppose the ones she mentions are ones I never learned about. And it's endearing when she rants. I internally smack myself at that thought. No. Absolutely not. Y/n is not cute or endearing. She's annoying and weak. And she'll be just another murder under my belt in a few more years.

Y/n pov:

I hardly focus on princess Romanoff beside me as I talk. I had spotted a Bumblefluff quetzalcoatl and hadn't stopped talking about dragons since. Though I can see Natasha getting upset with me about it. I internally sigh as I slow down my rant. Perhaps I should be known for my rants considering I do it as much as Natasha. Only my ants are useful. Not mean. Like princess Romanoffs are.

I glance over at said princess and notice her deep in thought with herself. She looks angry. I suppose that's my fault. Must've said something to annoy her. Though it could've been my entire speech. I don't know. Reading people is hard no matter what anyone tells me.

"princess are you ok?"

I'm asking, trying not to be rude like Natasha herself is. I hope it doesn't come across as nosy. I never can tell how people will take my inquiries. Almost always to offense though.

"does it look like I'm ok!?"

Natasha snarls. I never knew she could snarl like that. It was almost animalistic. Too real. I flinch away slightly and fidget with my fingers. There's no books to take my attention away here. I sigh and shake my head.

"no."

I mumble softly. Though this causes a worse reaction out of Natasha. Now she's yelling about how stupid am to ask if she's ok when she's definitely not. I was trying to be nice. But I guess she took it the wrong way. I dodge one of Natasha's hands as she flails them around as she screeches at me for the millionth time. I let her get it out of her system before talking again.

"I apologise princess."

*I speak gently. I hate when people yell at me. Their screaming irritates my ears. I'll avoid social interaction for a while after this. Maybe forever. That sounds nicer than a life condemned to princess Natasha Romanoff. I sigh and keep walking. Now in silence with Natasha. Until I see another Bumblefluff quetzalcoatl and get excited again.

I rush over but slow as I near the small dragon. It's on a lead as of current looking between an orange or yellow flower. I sit a bit away and watch in silence as the small Quetzalcoatl goes about its business. And by the colours it's a female. The yellow and black have been dulled to a near white and grey. The makes are normally brighter and have twinges of orange in the larger ones. I practically squeal with delight as I watch the Bumblefluff quetzalcoatl.

Natasha pov:

I ranted to y/n. This time about my frustrations with her and her dragon obsession. I also slipped the fact I'm going to murder her. Only to test if the queen listens. She doesn't even comment on it. Though I feel guilty when I see y/n flinch. That's not what I had intended. I stop screaming after a few moments and our walk falls to silence. Until queen y/n exits my side and rushes over to a second bumble fizz cutie colt or whatever she said it's name was.

I groan lightly as I stop walking and watch the woman who's meant to be a queen act like a young princess. But y/n does look adorable as she watches the funny dragon she's examining. Wait now she doesn't. Y/n is a frail queen I'll destroy when the time is right.

Y/n is not adorable, endearing or cute. Y/n is not adorable, endearing or cute. Y/n is not adorable, endearing or cute. It's like my fucking mantra now. I'm just repeating it over and over in my skull. Me and the queen are walking again and the gardens end is in view. I practically jump in delight but that's not queenly behaviour so I don't. I'm just trying to keep myself together for the remainder of this horrid walk. Queen y/n is yapping about small dragons again. I'm forcing myself to think it's rancid. And I'm mad I'm needing to force that opinion when it should be natural.

I try not to make a happy noise as the gardens finally come to an end and me and y/n are back where we began. Though I know I'm probably glowing. I can leave. And hammer in the thoughts of queen y/n being only an obstacle again. These thoughts of the queen being sweet are hindering my plan to assassinate her later. I won't have that.

"it seems our walk has ended. And just in time too I need to leave."

I speak in a passive aggressive tone. Though I don't think y/n realises I'm was being passive aggressive since she agrees with me. I hurry over the goodbyes. Desperate to leave this dreaded castle and it's dreaded owner and her dreaded influence over my mind. I eventually get out of the castle grounds and I'm back in my carriage. Going home. I need to get my priorities straight again before these thoughts get in my way.

A/n: I decided to write a Nat pov for this chapter since I could imagine how her side of this interaction would go. Not all chapters will be spilt povs but some of them will. Hope this suffices as a chapter.

Taglist:

@cd-4848

If you want to be added to the tag list ask in the comments :)

[threebooksoneplot]

what draws you both to jalice/makes you so feral about them as a ship?

you should know we had an entire meeting in order to answer this ask. no this could NOT have been an email (unlike new moon) 🤭

Secretary G took notes. they are as follows (read the bolded parts for a tl;dr)

we kind of see it as though jalice got the traits that edbella weren’t allowed to have, either due to their status as protagonists or because smeyer's mormon background causes her to view these qualities as too sinful/negative for her wholesome Waiting Until Marriage main couple. (examples: alice's materialistic, "shallow," hyperfeminine qualities, her character flaws (especially her manipulativeness), and jasper's aura and history of fucked up violence closer to what you'd find in traditional vampire stories/horror/adult gothics/books not written by a mormon author)

in terms of how much screentime the non-main-love-triangle canon couples get, their relationship is kiiiinda given the next-most weight to edbella’s (examples: jasper's extreme overprotectiveness, the New Moon chapter 19 moment where alice prioritizes jasper and bella is like “yeah I get it, I would do the same.”) basically smeyer gives jalice's relationship a lot of the qualities she finds romantic/ideal, (and which are either similarly romantic to us or entertainingly toxic/a good source of drama), presumably because alice is like her 4th-favorite character after the main love triangle and she wants nice things for her

we both really love how, superficially, as presented in the books, jasper and alice seem to have this almost “courtly love” that smeyer has described as "spiritual." yet when you look closer, their relationship has so many darker undertones—the deep codependency bordering on obsessiveness (mutual, but especially the way it manifests on jasper's end—"I will kill this random teen girl who witnessed edward's jean valjean moment™ because any means are justifiable when the ends are Protecting Alice"), the dark sides of both of their powers, the idea that jasper is only a cullen and/or only a vegetarian for alice's sake, etc. hell, even the fact that they're the only Cullen couple who we know had (gasp) premarital sex 😏 (I mean we assume rosemmett did too, but alas, they don't have that hilarious "carlisle convinced jasper and alice to get married" quote from smeyer)

partially summarized: "jasper’s general desperate willingness to sell everyone to satan for one corn chip if it keeps alice safe (carlisle: I know this and I love you)"

we're forever smug that the movies gave us even more jalice screentime (especially remarkable in such a protagonist-centric universe), including jasper being in the same grade as alice/bella/edward, and the extra jalice kisses in Eclipse and BD 🥺

what we wrote down as the “who’s protecting whom" phenomenon, as coined by G in this old ask. (shannon: "jasper is the toddler you've given the PS2 controller that's not plugged in")

we also like the characters individually. jasper is for the girlies with competency kinks—a stoic caretaker who speaks little and mostly expresses himself via acts of service. we also both love the way in which he needs protection from his own uncontrolled violence (slipping up and killing humans, suffering the pain and fear he inflicts, etc.) he is, in the words of our beloved @liceparade, the "line cook trauma boyfriend"

“It’s hot when there’s a fictional violent man who wet babygirl 😌” —shannon

and alice, unlike bella, genuinely loves being spoiled and bossing people around. she's brat-coded, she's confident and secure in who she is, her god complex ("I'm close enough [to omniscient]") causes fascinating conflict, bella eats drywall from sheer horniness at her merest movement, she dresses like a slut in the Mormon YA Novels and yet somehow escapes authorial condemnation, she has a sickass gothic heroine backstory, she's "annoying," aro started a whole war over her (eat shit helen of troy 🖕), she spaces out in public and has to be led around by jasper, she's one of the most powerful vampires in the world, she's in high school getting a C+ on her precalc test 💅🏻

it's appealing that smeyer frequently puts alice in the center of the series' various conflicts (james' singer and "one that got away," the accidental cause of all the drama at the end of new moon, one of aro's secret True motives for starting the conflict in BD.) this is mostly as a consequence of smeyer using alice as a plot device and/or deus ex machina, but it is in fact interesting

is alice jasper's morality chain? we love pondering this question via fic, meta, etc (especially because...alice ain't exactly a model of ethical behavior herself)

together, the two of them exhibit lots of classic tropes. they're grumpy x sunshine, chatty x silent, opposites attract, etc. to say nothing of that height difference 🥵

we love the yin/yang symbolism of a character with a horrific past paired with a character with NO memory of her past, who is focused on the future and all about potential. not to invoke an ancient phrase but POETIC CINEMA

the next note just says “POTENTIAL in general.” I assume we meant how all of the above stuff creates potential for interesting stories, conflicts, metas, art, fic, etc

G has brought this up in the past, but we love the irony of jasper, a character whose chief desire is to be left in peace, being soul-alteringly in love with the one character who will always be a giant glaring target through no fault of her own. hilarious

[radioactive-earthshine]

Orla's Non-Bat Comic Recs.

Hello folks, in light of the 'all published comics are BAD' wave that has been swept everywhere recently I would like to share a collection of comics that are good actually and are generally isolated (you don't need a spreadsheet to read them).

1.) Impulse (1995)

Why: This is about a neurodiverse coded teenage refugee from the future who cannot live with his blood family in the 20th century due to circumstances that are beyond his control. It is about learning to adapt to a world that doesn't make sense, and learning to love it too. As time goes on Bart learns how to love and he discovers who he is and what is important to him really. All the while some of the most chaotic things happen that you may ever see in a comic (Bart tricks the whole school into getting into a brawl and drives a car off a cliff). Primary themes: Found family (for real), loss, immigration coding, neurodiversity, foster homes, friendship, self discovery, school. Trigger warnings: child abuse, ableism, ptsd, gangs and gun violence (a shocking amount) mental illness. Available in Trade Paperback: Partially. Reckless Youth - collects Bart's first appearances from The Flash plus issues #1-#6 in Impulse. Flash/Impulse: Runs in the Family - collects Impulse #1-#12 plus supplementary issues from The Flash. Mercury Falling - Collects the entire Mercury Falling arc.

2.) Jack Kirby's New Gods (1971)

Why: This is the epic that started it all with Darkseid as he scours the earth in search of the Anti-Life Equation. It is about many deep layers of history involving the New Gods, the divide between New Genesis and Apokolips. In desperation to stop an endless war Darkseid and Highfather of New Genesis agree to a pact - to trade sons and in return a long period of truce and a ceasefire would pass between worlds. Highfather agreed, trading his son for Darkseid's whom he raised with love on New Genesis. Orion, years later, is a god of war and he fights for New Genesis and he fights for Earth, undogged he persists in vanquishing Darkseid's evil wherever it dwells. But Orion has a secret, and deep shame, for he experiences anger and wrath like no other on New Genesis but there is deep compassion and love that tempers it. As Orion fights for Earth he uncovers many secrets about himself, and at his side is his 'friend' Lightray who knows the darkness in him but never turns away. Primary themes: war, anger, ptsd, secrets, space opera, family, anti-war, malice, self discovery Trigger warnings: ptsd, this was written in the 70s but was pretty liberal for its time, still has some awkward moments that are slightly sexist and racist (mostly with names of black characters Vykin the Black and Black Racer which some people are uncomfortable with). Available in Trade Paperback: Complete. 1 book. Jack Kirby's New Gods - Collects all issues of Jack's 1971 series plus Even Gods Must Die and The Hunger Dogs. NOTE: Jack Kirby's entire Fourth World epic with Mr. Miracle and The Forever People is also highly recommended and is part of the New Gods tale. All 3 series has been complied into one massive trade called Jack Kirby's Fourth World, and all are available individually as well. Either way you might be able to find these at your library, or on Hooplah.

3.) Orion by Walter Simonson

Why: Decades after Jack Kirby wrote his final chapter for New Gods Orion finally gets his solo where he faces his father on Apokolips and steps up as its ruler. Now the leader of Apokolips Orion begins the arduous task of cleansing it of its malice and cruelty, a feat that is not easy and even more so when he does it without aid. With sinister deception at every turn Orion struggles and finds himself being tempted to use the very force that he was sworn to protect everyone from; the very anti-life equation itself. Primary themes; deceit, temptation, rebirth, life and death, redemption, mercy, compassion, love, forgiveness. Trigger warnings: torture, sexual assault implications. Available in Trade Paperback - Complete. 2 books.

4.) Barda by Ngozi Ukazu (NEW!!)

Why: This is a graphic novel and is a retelling of Barda as she comes to understand love and what she really wants from her life all while navigating the cruelty of Apokolips. Primary themes: love, cruelty, malice, torture, imprisonment, hope Trigger Warnings: torture, execution. Single complete graphic novel.

5.) Superman: The Harvests of Youth by Sina Grace

Why: This is a heartbreaking coming of age story about Clark Kent as a teenager in Smallville as he finds his place among his friends, family and himself as an alien during a time of death and hatred. It is a young Superman story that is incredibly relevant today in an age of internet toxicity and leaves you feeling hopeful. This blends some elements from Smallville (the show) but tweaks them to make this its own unique bubble world that feels believable and fresh. Primary Themes: toxic masculinity, incels, bullying, suicide, capitalism, teenage coming of age, teenage romance, high school Single complete graphic novel

6.) Superman Smashes The Klan by Gene Luen Yang

Why: In the 1940s the Superman Radio Show released the story "Clan of the Fiery Cross" that told a terrifying story about the KKK targeting a Chinese-American family that moved from Chinatown into Metropolis white-dominated suburbs following WWII. This is a graphic novel that is based on the same story. Primary Themes: racism, identity issues, internalized racism, police brutality. Single complete graphic novel, and also has 3 separate novels.

7.) Bad Dream: A Dreamer Story by Nicole Maines (New!!)

Why: This is Nia Nal's solo and origin story that has been confirmed to take place in the main verse for the current comics. Nia was born and raised in a small heavily isolated Sanctuary where aliens live safely. Even among dozens of alien species Nia is still seen as different as she is the only person who is trans. To complicate everything even more, Nia inherits her people's precognitive powers when her sister Maeve was raised her entire life to accept the powers into her. Terrified of her new powers and destroying her family by revealing them she inherited them instead of her sister, she flees from her hometown to Metropolis where she for the first time in her life meets other queer people. But there is a threat to her family on the horizon, and in order to protect them she must go back and face her fears. Primary Themes: transphobia, self discovery, xenophobia, acceptance, fearfulness, family, secrets, deceit. Trigger Warnings: see above, also internalized queerphobia. Single Complete Graphic Novel

8.) Static: Season One

Why: This is a modern retelling of Milestone Comic's Static as bullied nerd Virgil Hawkins comes into his powers at a protest when police discharge an experimental tear gas. The gas leaves many of his classmates dead, but some like him gain amazing powers - unfortunately some other people, like his bullies, also gain powers. Caught between law enforcement, capitalism, and the complexities of being a new teenage superhero Virgil works to uplift his community and stay strong within his nerdy friend group. This series is heavily based on the Static Shock TV show so fans of that show will be delighted with familiar faces, and names. And yes, Richie Foley is gay. Primary Themes: racism, police brutality, bullying, anger, frustration, dehumanization. Trigger Warnings: See above Available in Trade Paperback - Complete in Static: Season One which collects all six issues. Note: We also have its sequel Static: Shadows of Dakota out as well.

9.) Superman: American Alien

Why: This is a collection of short stories about Clark at varying stages of his life that range from funny to incredibly heartfelt. Primary Themes: finding ones self, self discovery, compassion Trigger warnings: I cannot think of one Available in Trade Paperback - Complete as Superman: American Alien which collects all 7 stories.

10.) Legion of Super-Heroes: Post-Zero Hour Reboot

Why: In the 30th century R.J. Brande Industries creates the Star Gate System, finally connecting the galaxy closer than it ever had before. Travel that once took months or years to complete now could only take hours and with it came the United Planets with Earth as its home headquarters. In an effort to promote the United Planets and unify the galaxy, the Legion of Super-Heroes was formed by Brande as a peacekeeping unit and an inspiration to cooperation. Sadly, it was co-opted by political parties and turned into a draft for talented teenagers to serve, or risk their planet's enrollment in the U.P. Over the course of over 200 issues teenage super heroes are given unfathomable responsibility and power while unifying to protect their galaxy and friendships while combating xenophobia and political corruption. This series is everything people wanted TTv3 to be but never got. Primary Themes: Dehumanization, loss of autonomy, death, life, space, technology, capitalism, political corruption, manipulation, deceit, hope, romance, found family Trigger Warnings: See above plus ableism and teenage pregnancy. Available in Trade Paperback: Partially. We have 2 volumes called Legionnaires which collect approximately 20 issues, plus extra content, of this run. We also have various other trade collections such as Legion Lost in its entirety.

11.) Ascender and Descender by Jeff Lemire and Dustin Nguyen

Why: Tired of superheroes? These are two separate series that follow the same story about a young companion robot named Tim who was assigned to be his human brother's best friend and companion. Unfortunately, during a mining accident his entire colony had to flee and leave him behind as they attempted to escape toxic gas. 10 years have gone by since then, and a lot has changed in the world since he was shut down. Mostly being 95% of all robots have been destroyed and are targeted for destruction after a mysterious robotic alien force attacked all sentient worlds and obliterated the populations down to catastrophic levels. All Tim wants to do is find his brother Andy, but what has become of Andy in 10 years, and what will happen to him in 10 more years after they reunite? This story takes place over 20 years as Tim and Andy both grow and change, as they face the challenges before them and unravel the mystery of the Artificial Intelligence that swore to destroy all organic life. Oh, and magic is also involved too. Primary themes: hatred, violence, abuse, xenophobia, forgiveness, found family, brothers, dehumanization, life, death, magic, balance, manipulation, deceit, mysteries, will probably remind you of Mass Effect. Trigger Warnings: see above Available in Trade Paperback: the entire series is available across multiple books.

That's all I have for now folks, I'm tired of writing.

[everythingisromant1c]

It's Always Been You - Chapter 9

james potter x fem!reader

summary - after the whirlwind of emotions that you'd felt in the past few days, and with James's odd mood definitely not being of any help, all you wanted was some peace and clarity. Though, it didn't seem like you'd be getting much of that any time soon with how things were looking around school.

wc [4.5k]

a/n: the biggest thank u to everyone who has been sticking w/ this story and supporting it!! it means the world to me, + i cannot wait to keep at it and get the last few chapters out 🤭very exciting times ahead

all chapters | <- Chapter 8 - Chapter 10 ->

You'd seen so little of James the rest of the day you'd think he was walking around wearing a bloody invisibility cloak. You tried not to jump to conclusions as to why he was acting the way he was, but that seemed impossible when your mind kept replaying each moment you shared with him in the locker room like you were making a stop-motion film from it.

The fact was troubling, especially because of the other blaring fact that you had a big History of Magic exam coming up that you desperately needed to study for. You'd decided a study session in the library was exactly what you needed to get your mind cleared and focus on eighteenth-century goblin rebellions, but your solution wasn't proving so successful.

Maybe you were still paranoid from the broom closet rumor incident, but you could've sworn people were giving you weird looks. You'd only been sitting at your table on the far side of the library for maybe twenty minutes and had to stop what you were doing three times because you had the feeling people were staring at you—which you were proved right about every time, looking up and meeting a pair of eyes that would glance over you once before turning away, a matching pair of lips whispering something to an equally nosy friend that you couldn't make out.

Each time it happened that feeling in your stomach would sink deeper and deeper until it made it too hard to even focus on the books in front of you at all. You shut your textbook maybe too loudly, bracing your head in your hands for a minute in frustration. When you looked back up, you met the eyes of a Slytherin girl from afar. She was giving you what you could only interpret as a dirty look, though she wasn't so quick to look away.

You looked over your shoulder, like an idiot, thinking maybe she was staring at someone behind you, but the only thing in your sight was more books on a shelf. Your gut was churning, a feeling that only got more intense as you watched her get up from where she was sitting and march over to you like she meant business.

"Hey," she greeted, though her greeting was anything but inviting, her darkly painted lips a thin line against her pale complexion.

You creased your forehead up at her. "Hi?"

"I don't know if you've noticed," she began, practically snarling, "but everyone's getting pretty sick of you going around acting like you can do whatever the hell you want."

"Excuse me?" You blinked at her, entirely lost. She only stared down at you, nostrils flared with a cringe-worthy hand on her hip. You turned halfway back to the closed textbook in front of you. "Sorry, I think you've got the wrong person."

She scoffed. "You're dating Sebastian Vance, are you not?"

You paused, taken aback. "I- ..." You opened your mouth and then closed it. Were you dating him? He did ask you on a date, but that didn't mean you were really dating him, did it? The girl didn't even give you time to answer her, let alone figure it out for yourself.

"Yeah, you are. And you're also the girl who's been sneaking around hooking up with Potter every other day, correct?"

Your jaw dropped along with your stomach. You were rendered speechless for a second, mind racing a mile a minute as this random girl peered at you like you were some dirty gunk stuck to the table with a cruel expression. You rolled your eyes. "Look, I don't know who you are, and I also don't know what the hell you're on about."

"Yeah, sure," she spat. "Well, you should know that it's bloody trampy of you to be going around hogging Vance from the rest of us when you're so set on fooling around with Potter."

"'Hogging Vance?' What-"

"Hey, Ashthorn!"

The girl snapping at you whipped her head in the direction of the voice from behind you, luckily rescuing you from the one-sided conversation you'd been forced into. In no time, the voice grew louder and you recognized with a relieved smile Marlene and Lily making their way over to where you sat.

The blonde put a hand on the back of your chair, sharp eyes glued in front of her. "Why don't you slither away to your other horndog friends until you figure out what the bloody hell you're talking about?"

The girl, or Ashthorn, as Marlene had called her, contorted her features crudely. "Bugger off, McKinnon."

Lily crossed her arms from beside Marlene. "Professor McGonagall is right down the hallway. Do you want us to go get her for you?" The redhead took an authoritative step forward. "If not, I can deduct points from Slytherin fine myself."

Ashthorn crossed her arms over her chest too, eyeing the prefect and seething blonde standing beside her. You'd never been so thankful for having such intimidating friends.

She scoffed, seemingly deciding the argument wasn't worth whatever punishment Lily had in store. "Whatever."

With a final nasty look at you and the two girls behind you, she stomped off and out of the library. You released the tension that'd spread to your shoulders and let out a breath you didn't know you were holding in.

"What a bitch." Marlene rounded the table so you could better see her. "I knew she was crazy, but not total batshit crazy."

Lily gave her a look, but you saw her holding back a smile. She turned to you concernedly. "Are you alright?"

You nodded, finally feeling like you could think clearly. Then, you remembered all the stares you'd been getting, and the full-blown argument you'd just had in the middle of the library certainly didn't help. You felt dozens of eyes still lingering on you, like they were insects crawling on flesh. You must've looked visibly uncomfortable because in no time Lily and Marlene were packing your bags away for you and having you follow them out of the library.

"How did you guys know I'd be in the library?" you took your bags back from them, smiling gratefully.

"You're not exactly a difficult girl to find," Marlene shrugged. "We knew you'd either be in our dorm or off in the library as soon as we heard that bloody rumor."

Your feet halted in their tracks, a painstakingly familiar alarm blaring in your head. "What rumor?" you panicked. "The one about the broom closet?"

"Not the broom closet one." Lily shook her head horrifyingly. "The locker room one."

"Oh no. No no no." You ran a stressed hand through your hair. "What are people saying now?" The crowded feeling of your heart beating in your chest told you that you weren't sure you truly wanted to hear the answer.

"Well," Marlene began cautiously. "It's ridiculous, but my brother heard from his friends in the second year that you and Potter got caught snogging in the boys' locker room without shirts on."

"What?" Your eyes widened until you felt as if your eyes could fall out of your head any minute, dropping to the floor along with your stomach and your pride.

Marlene shook her head. "I know. I don't know how they come up with these things, really."

You bit the inside of your cheek, averting your eyes as your brain racked backward to that morning. "I guess it's not entirely far off from the truth."

Lily's jaw dropped. "It's not?"

"It's not true, obviously," you began hurriedly, placating your friends' petrified stares. You lowered your voice to a whisper, paranoid but rightfully so. "I was in the locker rooms with him this morning. There was no ... no snogging. None of that."

Marlene raised a brow at you. "So then where did the 'topless' part come from?"

You fought against the heat rising into your face. "Well, I wasn't topless, of course. God." You lowered your voice and your head. "But James was." You hurried to add, "But only because he'd just come from playing Quidditch outside."

"Oh, Love." Marlene sighed, a hand reaching for her forehead. "At this point, you're doing it to yourself."

Lily slapped at her arm. "What she means is," she eyed Marlene. "Even though these people are boring and awful for having nothing better to do than obsess over some dumb rumors, it's hard to explain why you and Potter keep ending up in these ... situations. Ones where he's topless nonetheless."

You averted your gaze, beginning to walk again. "Yeah, it is hard to explain. I wish I could tell you the answer myself." You sighed. "I've been trying to steer clear of being around him too much because of-" you stopped yourself, remembering the feelings for James you'd avoided speaking to the redhead about all year. "-Because of all the rumors. But he just has seemed off lately, and I wanted to check up on him. That's all. But I suppose even that's social suicide since the world has it out for me and loves seeing me holed up in my dorm since that's where I'll be hiding for the rest of the year."

Marlene reeled, tipping her head at you dramatically. "Don't be ridiculous. You can't let these thirsty idiots win."

"Win what?" You threw your hands down at your sides tiredly. "I don't want to be in some competition I didn't even sign up for."

"Don't think of it as a competition." Lily shook her head from next to you. "It's not about them. It's about you getting to have fun at Hogwarts while you still can. Things will die down in a day or two, and we'll be here for you the whole time like we were just now."

"Yeah," the blonde agreed. "This school is literally full of deadly magical creatures. Something's bound to snag their attention in no time." She rolled her eyes. "Plus, not everyone is as feral as Cressida Ashthorn."

You held in your laughter, maybe still shaken up from the interaction but your friends easily lightened up that feeling.

Marlene shook her head to herself, face still contorted with disgust. "Who knew she gets that territorial over Sebastian Vance of all people." You stopped in your tracks again, probably a walking traffic hazard by then, but your mind was too occupied by a different revelation to care.

"Oh my God. Sebastian." Lily and Marlene both watched you wordlessly with only the raising of their brows in question. "I need to go find him." Without saying another word, you sped off down the hallway.

"We'll meet you in the dorms?" you heard Marlene call, voice full of confusion but encouragement that you definitely needed. You threw her a thumbs up. The day was lasting much too long and every new thing being thrown at you was getting harder to dodge.

You had absolutely no idea where you thought you were going, and after peaking around the dungeons for a solid five minutes with no sign of him, you remembered you were a Marauder and that the map existed.

Groaning at the idea of all the stairs in this god-forsaken castle of a school, you started for the Gryffindor common room. It felt as if an eternity had gone by before you arrived on the right floor, your mind trying to think through what you'd say to Sebastian—you came up with nothing.

The feeling sunk in alarmingly when you rounded the corner to the common room and saw the very person you were looking for standing by the portrait entrance.

"Sebastian?" You stopped your steps a few feet away from him. He was standing there with his hands tucked into his pockets, head tipped forward that he raised at the sound of your voice. He called your name back to you softly in greeting and you were struck with how handsome he was once again. No wonder that Slytherin girl had been so crazy over him.

"What are you doing here?" You tried to make your tone as casual as possible, suddenly shy after not having seen him since he asked you out the night before. The fact that not even a full day had gone by since then was mind-boggling.

"I was looking for you, actually." Even if he ended his sentence with a smile, you still felt yourself panicking internally.

You chewed on the inside of your cheek. "I'm guessing you heard about the rumor."

He tilted his head, eyes lightly painted over with a look that told you he had. "You mean the one about you and Potter in the locker rooms?"

You visibly cringed. "Yeah, that one." You looked him directly in the eye, even if doing so made you want to run into the portrait door behind him and hide in your dorm like you'd wanted to all day. "I'm so sorry you keep having to hear all these rumors. I swear whatever you heard about it isn't true, and I can explain everything."

Sebastian began to shake his head. "You don't have to-"

"I was in the locker rooms with him," you started, because you didn't know how to stop, "and he was shirtless but trust me I was definitely not, and there was no snogging no whatever else people have been saying, and-"

"It's alright." Sebastian cut in, stopping you in your panic, his voice sandy and smooth. "I believe you. You don't have to explain yourself or apologize. It's not like you started any of these rumors, right?"

He laughed lightly and you thought he must be one of the kindest boys in your whole grade. How you got him to ask you on a date of all people, you didn't know.

"You're right. It's just not fair that you have to keep hearing them. I hope you know I would never do something like that when I just agreed to go on a date with you."

"I know." He shrugged a shoulder. "Don't worry about it, seriously. People are just bored and want a good story to talk about."

You laughed inwardly, feeling a little lighter now that you'd cleared things up with Sebastian. "I can certainly tell some stories." You stopped yourself with wide eyes. "Not ones with James, of course. God." You looked up at Sebastian, who was laughing to himself, and that soothed your nerves. "I was talking about this absolutely rude girl who came up to me in the library of all places earlier today and started yelling at me about hogging you, or some rubbish like that. She was crazy, I swear it."

Sebastian sighed as you finished your story, a hand to his head. "Let me guess. Cressida Asthorn?"

You blinked at him, surprised. "Yes, how'd you know?"

He put his hands back in his pockets like his forthcoming answer took effort just to tell. "She's had this obsession with me since the third year, Salazar knows why." You fought back the urge to ask him, Have you seen you? "This isn't the first time she's done something like this."

You laughed. "Wow."

"Yeah," Sebastian huffed. "Now I owe you the apology, for having to put up with her and all."

You shook your head. "Like you said to me, it's not your fault."

He smiled warmly at you. "Don't worry though, I'll talk to her."

"Don't, I think she'd like that too much." You could see him immediately fight back a laugh, something that had you grinning at your own joke.

"Anyways," he said, straightening himself up. "The rumor wasn't actually why I wanted to talk to you."

"Oh." You winced. "Sorry, I was probably panicking so much you couldn't get a word in."

He grinned, flashing perfect teeth. "Don't be." He ran a hand over his hair. "I came here to ask you whether you liked The Three Broomsticks or Madam Pudifoot's better for our date. Or we could walk around and go to both. Whatever you want."

Our date. The word felt foreign in your mind. You weren't even sure you cared where you went on the date, just the fact that you were going on one had your mind occupied enough.

"Both sounds good." You pulled your lips into a smile, suddenly feeling light as air in a way you weren't used to.

"Great," he said, and he smiled infectiously.

"Perfect."

You were looking up at him, ignoring your lack of social skills, and he was looking down at you, and you could've sworn his eyes flickered over your face so delicately it was almost unnoticeable, but it made your mind spin. What was he thinking about right then?

You never got the chance to find out, because the life-sized portrait door swung open from beside you, right in between you and Sebastian.

"Sorry," Sebastian muttered immediately, bowing his head and taking a step back to give whoever was exiting the common room space. When no one came out, you frowned until you saw who it was.

"Well, look who it is: Our favorite couple," sang Sirius, who stood in a group with the other three boys. You took in a breath, already having the urge to roll your eyes at your friend who loved to torture you any moment he could. He looked between you and Sebastian with a glimmer in his eye. "Oh, please, don't stop whatever you were doing on our accord." He pretended to cover his eyes with his hand. "Act like we're not here."

Now you really were rolling your eyes, if only to hide the embarrassment you were feeling at him calling you and Sebastian a 'couple'.

"You can open your eyes, Sirius," you drawled, the corners of your mouth creeping up. You turned to Sebastian, who was watching the interaction with interest and definitely some confusion.

"Sebastian, these are my friends." You gestured to them from where they still stood inside the portrait hole, trying to deflate the awkwardness of the situation and probably failing. "This is Sirius." The boy in question waved his fingers at Sebastian, and you fought your reaction from your face. "And then there's Remus, Peter, and, well, you've already met James."

You couldn't explain the way your heart beat heavier as you looked at the boy you gestured to. The last time you'd spoken to him was that morning when he'd practically shooed you away from him. It felt like at this point you were living your life on rotation, bumping into James and wanting nothing more than both talk with him and avoid him all at once. With the realization that he'd probably heard the rumor by now too, you were thinking the latter was the better option.

"Yeah," said Sebastian, and maybe his tone was tight but you could see him making an effort. "Alright, Potter?"

The distance between the two felt tangible, and it didn't help that James hardly even gave a nod in response. You looked over at him, trying to signal with your face that he was being rude, but he wouldn't meet your eyes.

"Well," you began. "I was just talking with Sebastian about the new horrid rumor going around. Hopefully, you guys haven't already heard it."

"Trust me, we have." Sirius barked out a laugh. "This one was quite the catch." Remus elbowed him in the side, and Sirius held his torso dramatically. "Fine, not funny. Tragic."

You sighed. "I'm guessing it had to come from that blonde kid who came looking for his broom polish, James." You looked up at him, who finally met your gaze, something off about the way he'd been avoiding your eyes. Maybe he was thinking about what'd happened that morning; you definitely were.

"Yeah, Crembley," he said plainly. "He's a second year on the team. I already told him he'd be running extra laps at our next practice." His eyes flickered between you and Sebastian. "Don't worry."

Your lips parted. "Thanks." You held his eyes for a second, something that reminded you too much of the moment you shared in the locker room.

You broke the suffocating silence hurriedly. "Well, I'm gonna head in." You turned to Sebastian again.

"Right," he said, nodding. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

In all the disarray of the week, you'd almost forgotten that the Hogsmeade trip, and your date, was tomorrow. You didn't let it show on your face though, and smiled. "Yeah, tomorrow."

You felt like maybe hugging him goodbye, but turning and looking at the four boys still awkwardly standing in the portrait hole, you decided on a wave instead. He waved back, and you watched as he gave the boys one last nod before leaving, walking down the hallway and out of sight.

You let out a tired puff of air from your lips, turning to your friends that still hadn't budged. "You know, you guys really could've helped make that less awkward instead of just standing there like a bunch of stone statues."

"Hey, I talked," defended Sirius, a side smirk creeping its way onto his lips.

You gave him a look. "Yes, unfortunately." You made your way into the portrait hole, the painting door shutting behind you as you walked into the common room, the four boys following you from behind. You eyed them over your shoulder. "Weren't you guys going somewhere before we bumped into you?"

Remus nodded, taking a seat on the arm of the sofa before the burning fireplace. "Yeah, we were actually going to look for you."

You raised your brows, leaning against the back of the couch. "Oh. How come?" You paused. "Don't tell me it's about another prank."

"Not yet," Sirius teased. "We actually have some exciting news to share." He sprawled lazily beside Remus, a doggish grin taking over his features. "Wormtail here scored himself a date to Hogsmeade tomorrow."

You gasped, maybe too loudly, turning to Peter. "Pete that's great!" You poked him in the shoulder as he came to sit by the rest of you. "Who did you ask?"

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, looking sheepish. "Lina Wednesbury." You racked your brain and matched the name to a quiet Hufflepuff girl in your Herbology class. "And, well, she asked me."

Sirius pushed him in the side, smiling playfully. "Nothing to be ashamed about, mate. Game is game."

"Yeah, I think you two make a perfect match." You grinned. "It looks like the two of us both have dates for tomorrow then."

"Hear that, Padfoot?" Peter joked, turning to the boy on his left. "You're off your game."

The long-haired boy shrugged, rolling his eyes cockily. "Please. I reckon I could score a date without even getting up from my seat."

You shook your head at his antics, Remus doing the same. He held up a hand. "Please don't test out that theory."

"Don't worry, I won't." Sirius smirked at Remus and tipped his head over to where James sat in the seat to your right. "Wouldn't wanna leave you and Prongs here all alone."

James tilted his head up from where he'd been leaning it back against his seat the whole conversation. "I don't see what's so important about getting a bloody date."

Sirius barked out a laugh. "Says the man who spent more than half his Hogwarts years asking Evans out to every Hogsmeade trip."

James rolled his eyes at him, tone souring. "Ha ha."

Remus peeked over at him curiously. "You ask her out this time, mate?"

"No," he answered, bored tone telling you he didn't want to discuss the matter. "I didn't."

Sirius gasped. "That's gotta be a first."

"Not true," James defended.

"Yes, true." Sirius leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. "Weren't we just saying we reckon she'd say yes this time?"

"Yeah," Peter agreed. "And then the three of us could all have dates."

"How adorable," Sirius cooed. "You three could all triple date. You, Pete, and Sebastian." He cracked up at his own joke as James rolled his eyes.

"Like I'd spend a whole day with Vance when I could be doing funner things, like helping Filch clean the toilets."

You tutted, squinting at James and his lazy position in his seat. "Very funny," you mocked, turning back to the others. "Sebastian's actually quite fun to be around. He told this hilarious joke the other day in Potions about Slughorn's outfit that-" You halted your words. "I'm sorry," you said, turning to James, who'd scoffed into the empty air as you spoke. "Is there something wrong?"

"No," he answered, but continued talking anyway. "It's just that I've heard Vance tell about a million jokes to you in that class and trust me, you couldn't get a five-year-old to laugh at any one of them."

You frowned at him, sitting up in your seat so you could better look at the boy who'd had little to nothing to say to you all day, yet now wouldn't let you get a word in. "So you're listening in on my conversations now?"

James avoided your eyes, rolling them instead. "Not willingly, trust me."

You shook your head, face surely showing disgust. "You're being incredibly immature, James."

"I'm sorry that I'm not as mature as Vance." You huffed out an annoyed breath, because you were sure you'd never talked about Sebastian mature, ever. "And quite frankly," James continued, "I'm just saying what we're all thinking."

Now you were really irritated. "Really?" You turned to the three other boys sitting beside you, onlookers to the absurdity. "Was anyone else thinking that?"

"I think we're all just tired," rang Remus when everyone else said anything, forever playing the role of peacekeeper, though you'd rarely ever seen him have to do it over you and James. "Maybe let's talk about something else, yeah?"

James huffed. "Gladly."

"No," you interjected, turning full in your seat to the brunette. "I want to know why the hell you hate Sebastian so much."

James sat still for a moment, eyes flickering directly into yours for only a beat before they wandered again, taking on that avoidant and quite frankly aggravating set to them. "I suppose it's not so much him than the fact that he decided he suddenly needed to take you out during the first Hogsmeade trip back. Obviously, the lad doesn't have friends of his own."

At his last sentence, he let out an ill-humored laugh, looking to Sirius and whoever else to agree with him. Meanwhile, your head was spinning at his words.

"Is that what all this is about?" you interrogated. "If it's so important to you, then fine I'll ... I'll take the carriage ride into Hogsmeade with you guys. That way we can still all spend some time together." If you were being honest, spending time with James when he was acting like this was the last thing you wanted to do. You threw your hands up. "Are you happy?"

James regarded you for a moment silently, and then shrugged, seeming to submit back into his aloofness once again. "Yeah," he said. "Whatever."

You ran a hand over your hair desperately. "If that's not it, then what is it?" You couldn't help the way your voice was rising. Your hardening eyes searched over his form for whatever stick seemed to be up his arse, and then softened as a realization flooded into your mind. "If it's about Lily, then I can always-"

"For Merlin's sake," James interrupted, loud enough to stun you. "Not everything's about Evans, alright?" He ran a frustrated hand through his hair and then rubbed both of them over his thighs in frenzied thought, silent. "I'm going to bed." He stood up, storming swiftly past you and the others without another glance back.

"But the sun's hardly set," Peter squeaked in question.

Remus shook his head. "Let him go." He peaked over at his retreating form until he disappeared up the stairs, out of sight, and a weight seemed to lift in the air of the common room, though it stayed rooted in depths of your chest. "He's just in a foul mood. Needs to sleep it off."

"Yeah," you agreed, leaning back in your seat tiredly. You looked over at the seat he'd been sitting in. "I hope so."

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[word-wytch]

Don't Stand So Close To Me — Chapter 14

Eddie x Teacher!Reader

Chapter 14/? 18k. Series Masterlist

✏︎ An invitation to The Hideout answers some long burning questions.

✏︎ Series Summary: Forced to move back home to Hawkins after your fiancé cheats on you, you begin to fall in love again with an audacious 20 year old metalhead, only there’s one problem — he’s still in high school and you’re his English teacher.

While you struggle starting over in a place you never thought you would return, Eddie struggles feeling stuck in a place he can’t manage to leave — until you offer to help him. Of all the lessons learned, the most important are the ones you teach each other.

✏︎ Series CW: forbidden romance, slow burn, true love, smut (18+ mdni), internal conflict, student-teacher relationship, 10 year age gap, mutual pining, sexual tension, emotions, drama, angst, character development, happy ending :)

Chapter CW: kissing, heavy petting, jealousy, protective!eddie, drinking, smoking, fluff

Tuesday, December 10th 1985

Winter crept in like a lamb. It nipped at your ankles when you got out of bed, beckoned you to hibernate in the warm cocoon of soft sheets and heavy blankets. The room was a lightless cave, the sky still as dense as midnight. Feet shuffling blindly at the floor to find your slippers, you clicked on the small lamp atop your nightstand to offer some light to your habitat. 

Standard routine — making shadows on the wall as you brushed your teeth, emerging out the door to the dark hallway, squinting under the harsh light of your kitchen. Two eggs over easy. Two pieces of toast. One phone that hung to the right of your small kitchen table like an omen as you dipped the crust into the yolks. Looming. Waiting. You swallowed a feeling with your next sip of coffee; flutters that danced down your throat and settled in the pit of your stomach. 

By the time you returned to your bedroom, the sky touched your sheer curtains with the palest blue. Your clothing was already laid out neatly on your dresser, poised like soldiers in a row — thick ribbed stockings; plaid wool skirt; stiff white blouse; cream knit sweater. 

As you suited up, stripping yourself of warm pajamas to brace the chill of your formal attire, your eyes drifted to an object on your desk. Powder blue and collecting a fair amount of dust; an IBM Selectric II typewriter. It was more or less a decoration now, pushed against the wall to make room for piles of papers in need of grading. Still, you liked the way it looked; cheery against the drab apartment wall, like something a real writer would have.

It was a trusty old thing, still chugging along despite countless college essays hammered into the grey keys. It had been your only company in the wee hours of many mornings such as this one, only then there had not been sleep to separate you from the night before. Sturdy and dependable, it captured your imagination too, letter by black inked letter. 

Fastening the buttons of your blouse in a methodical rhythm, you could almost trick yourself into believing it was any other morning, except today there was something else you needed to do before you left, and the clock on your nightstand let you know in glowing red that your window to do so was closing.

Cold linoleum creaked under your stocking feet as you padded into the kitchen, stomach twisting into knots as you approached the phone. If you were going to do this, it had to be now. 

Running your finger down the laminated tabs of the well-loved address book on your counter, you flipped to the section labeled “J”. After scanning a dozen hand-written names, you found the one you were looking for. It was a mess of chalky white-out and hasty scribbles. Last name replaced, same with the phone number and address. You weren’t sure why you didn’t just write it all fresh under “P”, perhaps it was something about not wanting to erase the history entirely.

You took a deep breath and snatched the phone off the receiver. Pressing the cold plastic to your ear, you glanced down at the numbers in blue pen and whispered them quietly to yourself as you slowly, hesitantly, clicked them one by one into the cream button pad on the wall. 

You stared across the kitchen in sober contemplation of your life choices as the phone rang. Again. And again. And again, until a familiar, groggy voice answered.

“Hello?” 

“Hey! Janet!” you greeted brightly, sounding far too awake for 7:06 AM. In your nervous haste, you almost forgot to tell her who was calling. 

“Oh… hey there,” came a hesitant voice on the other line, a sharp squeal cut through the static followed by a hush.

“Hey, um, I know it’s like, super early and totally last minute but I wanted to catch you before I left for work. Listen, I’ve had a hell of a week already and I was wondering—and I totally get it if you can’t, but—well I was wondering if you’d be up for going out tonight. Like say around eight-ish?” You bit your lip and grimaced, twisting the gummy cord around your finger. 

The pause was filled with the rattling of tiny fists against plastic. “Oh! Well let’s see,” she said in a voice that was suddenly very awake. “The kids will be asleep by then, or at least they should be,” she chuckled, “and Bob doesn’t go to bed till after eleven anyway, so I’m sure he’ll be fine if I escape for a few hours. I mean I’ll check with him but I really don’t see why not.” 

It was equally as promising as it was a relief; the excitement that crept through her voice. 

“Great! Yeah, I figured you could probably use a night out.”

“Oh gosh, you don’t even know the half of it,” Janet laughed. “So where were you thinking? You wanna just go to Pal-Joeys again?”

Pacing toward the counter, you braced to offer your suggestion. “Actually, I was thinking we could go to The Hideout, I hear there’s a band playing tonight.”

“The Hideout?” she asked through an incredulous smile. 

“I know,” you breathed nervously, “it’s not really our um, regular haunt, but that’s kinda why I want to go, you know? Shake things up a bit. Everything’s just been feeling so… routine lately, you know?”

Janet’s sigh was deep and heavy. “Oh trust me, I know.” A bright coo crackled through the telephone line. 

“Like, I kind of want to just…” you coiled your finger deeper into the phone cord, glancing at the glaring red clock above the stove, “I dunno…pretend to be somebody else for a change.” 

“You know,” she started, a quiet mischief creeping into her voice, “I could really stand to be somebody else for a night too.”

You paused in your pacing as a smile cracked across your face. “Glad we’re on the same page.”

“Gosh, do you know your birthday was the last time I went out? Seriously! And before that I don’t even remember. Sometimes I look around and it’s like, man I used to be fun. You remember when I was fun, right?”

You chuckled, drifting back to memories of truths and dares, of creeping down her dark basement steps with freshly painted toes. “You still are fun, Janet.”

“Well maybe you can help remind me because sometimes I look in the mirror and I swear I don’t even recognize myself. Really! I swear I see my mother more and more and that’s what’s really terrifying.” 

“You mean you don’t see Bloody Mary anymore?”

Janet’s cackle would have woken the whole house had it not been wide awake and eating Cheerios already. “No that’s just at my parents’ house, remember?”

You snorted, leaning back against the counter. “I think we screamed so loud we woke the neighbors. I swear that bathroom is haunted.”

“That’s what I’ve always said! You feel like you’re being watched, right? My parents still don’t believe me. Oh well, not my problem anymore.”

You laughed, the knot in your belly releasing slightly before you glanced at the clock again, 7:13. “Crap, I’ve gotta get going. So I’ll see you at eight tonight? At The Hideout?”

“Yeah, should be fine. I’ll call you if anything changes. Ah!” she squealed, “I can’t wait.”

“Glad you’re excited,” you chuckled, gripping the smooth plastic. “Ok, see you later.”

“Bye now!”

You hung the phone back on the receiver and stood in the blaring silence of your kitchen, frozen by the impact of your choices. It was real now. In a matter of about thirteen hours you would be getting in your car, driving down a dark road, and parking it at a seedy bar where you would see Eddie for the first time in public. Your feet felt glued to the floor, but as the clock blinked to 7:15, you willed them to move.  

Before taking the dark road that led to a seedy bar, you would first need to get in your car and take another road — to work.

You cursed the cold. Cursed it as you hurried across the parking lot to find your car covered in fractals of frost. Cursed it vehemently as you worked the glass with your feeble plastic scraper, shaving holes just big enough to see out of your dashboard and rear window as the clock on your wrist ticked on minute by precious minute. You cursed it audibly when you turned the key and the engine whirred, and whined, and refused to turn over. It must have heard you, because after the fifth time of stomping on the brake and snapping your wrist forward, the engine roared to life.

You rode in on a wave; a daze like the fog that escaped your lungs in shallow breaths. The sun rose above the frozen farmlands, casting its golden-pink light across the empty fields. Out here the roads stretched on for miles. Flat and straight, with little variance in elevation. There was nowhere to look but straight ahead. No curves to surprise you, just you and the rumble of the salt-dusted road, bumping along in silence as an anxious fog rolled across the landscape of your mind. 

A sea of students swept you through the front doors of Hawkins High and into the bustling office. Amidst the flurry of ringing phones and voices settling into the cadence of their roles, you grabbed your punch card and stamped the date and time in line with the rest. Pushing the metal handle of the heavy glass door, you exited the humming reprieve of the office and into the din of the main hall. Your boots made hollow clicks against the glossy tile, wind at your face as you marched forward, dodging roughhousing students and hall monitors rushing toward them. 

Goodness was a mantle. A strap that dug into your shoulder; heavy with books, and papers, and responsibility. You wedged your thumb beneath it, shrugging it up onto the padded wool collar of your coat as you strode on, vision locked ahead as chaos swirled around you.

Your mug left a ring on the big desk; a remnant from where you’d sloshed it coming down the hall. You’d tried to be careful; slow and deliberate in your pacing when you left the teachers lounge with it, but when a blur of wild curls drew your gaze, your footing faltered. At least you missed your shoes. 

Coat hung on its solitary hook and grade book stationed at the center of the desk, you took your place in front of it. Clutching your clipboard, you glanced across the rows of desks, down at the rows of names, beside the rows of boxes that your green pen would fill with neat little P’s and A’s like it did every day. Bell after bell, swipe after swipe of your eraser at the board, the fresh sticks of chalk dwindled to nubs. Question after question, the patience in your voice grew thin. 

Between the bells at the top of fourth period, you stood poised like a sentinel outside the door to your classroom. Arms folded across your knit sweater, you sighed, shifting your weight back and forth between your tired feet, offering gentle smiles as your students filed through the threshold of the door. You smelled him before you saw him; the waft of leather and cigarettes with notes of shampoo more prominent than usual. 

Against the flow of traffic, Eddie Munson brought his salt-licked combat boots to a halt in front of you. Thumb hooked under the heavy strap of his backpack, he offered you a smile so broad it crinkled the corners of his eyes and made your knees want to give. 

You tightened your arms around your sweater, over the hard plastic of your faculty lanyard, and breathed a shy, girlish greeting. “Hey.” 

“Hey,” he mimicked, shifting his weight with a less than subtle restlessness as his dark eyes drank you in. They darted back and forth between yours, plush lips parted and primed with words. You felt them brimming impatiently behind his eyes, saw them in the pink flash of his tongue as it darted out to wet his lips. 

Out here in the bustling hallway, with eyes that watched and voices that echoed off the polished tile, Eddie edged a bold foot closer, dove in, and ghosted the shell of your ear with his burning question.

“Will I see you tonight?”

The words were a low, hot rumble — rippling from your ear down your spine, pooling deep in your belly. His heat thawed your shoulder as he hovered there, lingering for each aching second it took you to eke out your response. 

“Yeah,” you whispered into his curls.

Pulling back with a blinding grin, he tipped his head and ducked into the door of your classroom.

The slam of a locker made you jump. Arms crossed to shield your pounding heart, you stood there in the middle of it all, swimming in a sea of passing bodies, struggling to keep your head above the waves. It surged with images of a lighted stage, of bottles, and tables, and a dark corner for both of you to hide in. The bell echoed loudly down the hall, shrill enough to wake you from the dream you were surely having. Donning your mask, you took a deep breath and dove in, shutting the door behind you.

______

Eddie swung open the heavy back doors to his van, piercing the darkness with the dull yellow overhead light. Gravel crunched under his boots as he leaned in to grab the first amp from the stack, like a pile of black Christmas presents awaiting unwrapping. The night air bit at his fingers, stars twinkling in the patches where the clouds gave way above the tree line. Tightening his grip around the thick gummy handle, he hoisted it and followed the pale path the moon offered out of the side parking lot toward the patio behind The Hideout.

It wasn’t much; a stout fence in dire need of a paint job that caged in a few meager picnic tables. They still had umbrellas in the middle, wrapped tightly like mummies for the winter. He knew the back door would be open, it always was. Turning the weathered knob with his free hand, he welcomed the heat that wafted toward him. He could almost say he welcomed the piss smell coming from the bathrooms as his heavy boots thumped down the dark linoleum hallway, but that would be a stretch. Accustomed was a better word. Familiar was a better word. 

Stale beer and cigarettes soon drowned it out as he entered the dimly lit bar, stopping to plunk the heavy amp down to his left on the stage, which was little more than a raised platform painted black. The thud drew the attention of the five usual suspects at the bar, and Eddie wondered which one of them was responsible for playing “Free Bird” on the jukebox.

Bill raised his hand, tipping his baseball cap back in a friendly nod as his fingers splayed. “‘Ey, Eddie!”

He returned the gesture of a single raised hand and flashed a smile before turning down the hall again. Eddie took a deep breath at the door to calm his pounding heart before pressing it open. He couldn’t believe he had been crazy enough to suggest something like this. That soon enough, you would be perched atop one of those rickety stools at a tall, sticky table, watching his every move, listening to his every note. The chill of the night air was a welcome thing, sobering and distracting from the heat that was creeping up the collar of his thick, leather coat. As the gravel crunched under his boots again, headlights blinded his vision. 

He could hear the bass pounding from the outside of the small sedan as it rolled up beside his van, followed promptly by another. After a moment of squinting, the headlights shut off with the rumble of the engine, leaving him in the darkness once again. Seatbelts clicked and laughter emerged from the open doors as his friends tumbled out into the parking lot. 

“What the fuck took you guys so long? We left at the same time,” Eddie groused.

Dave lumbered over and sighed, a smirk playing on his broad features in the moonlight. “Jeff had to take a shit and he parked me in.” 

Jeff rolled his eyes, swinging the door shut with a huff as Gareth laughed into the night air. 

Eddie sighed, glancing toward the tall stack of amps and drum heads sitting backlit in the rear of his van. “Ok, well we’ve got like forty minutes to get our shit together so start hauling.” 

Dave groaned, cracking his back with a twist of his hefty torso. “Ugh, can you at least let me hit this doob before you put me to work?”

On any other night, Eddie would have welcomed the suggestion, but his nerves were traveling to his hands now and he itched to move them. “Dude, it takes us like an hour to set up, we don’t have time right now. We can smoke after we get this shit on stage.”

Jeff quirked his brows suspiciously, “Dude, since when do you care that we’re on time for anything?”

“Yeah seriously, we’re late like every week,” Gareth added.

Eddie balked, searching for the answer in the treeline, one that excluded you. “It just—if we’re ever gonna play anywhere else besides here we’re gonna have to start getting our shit together.”

There was a lukewarm pause as the band considered his answer. By the looks on their faces, Eddie wasn’t entirely sure if they bought it, but it was the best he could come up with and the statement was true. Dave broke the silence with an exasperated sigh. “Come on. I’ve been jonesing since we got to Gareth’s. His mom is so anal we can’t even smoke outside.”

“That’s ‘cause you reek when you come back in,” Gareth defended.

“At least I don’t reek of ass like you,” Dave chortled.

Jeff didn’t miss a beat. “That’s debatable.”

Gareth’s cackle wafted into the frigid air as he pointed a pale finger at Dave.

“You wanna find out the hard way?” Dave’s eyes glimmered wildly as he hooked an arm around Gareth’s shoulders, locking him into a power noogie position.

Gravel shuffled under their stumbling feet. “Let go of me you asshole,” Gareth gritted through a strangled laugh. Jeff only egged them on, howling uproariously like he had tickets to the show. 

Eddie dragged his hands down his face with a deep, seething breath as Dave ground his thick knuckles into Gareth’s mop of hair, kicking up rocks and pivoting as Gareth attempted to pry away. This was his circus, his monkeys, and he would have to step up and be the ring leader if they were going to take the stage at all tonight. “CUT IT OUT!” he hollered. 

Dave paused, arm still locked around Gareth’s neck. “Come on, we’re just having a little fun. You remember fun, right?” 

Gareth groaned weakly, looking up at Eddie with pathetic eyes. “Who’s we?” he choked.

Eddie’s expression didn’t budge from its scowl. With a roll of his eyes and a resigned huff, Dave released his arm and Gareth stumbled backward, gasping. “Fine, captain killjoy.”

A heavy plume of fog left his nostrils as Eddie stormed toward the back of his van, weaving his arm through a thick ring of cables to rest on his shoulder before hoisting another amp from the stack. Gravel shuffled behind him as the others followed suit.

You were risking a lot to come here. The last thing he wanted to do was disappoint you.

______

The silence gnawed at you, filled you with an itching discomfort as you thumbed your dresser knobs. Staring into your open shirt drawer, you faced off with your biggest decision yet — what to wear tonight.

The chasm of options laid before you in neat, folded rows. An excavation site of cardigans, and turtle necks, and things you hadn’t unearthed in years. You ran your fingers through the layers of folded cotton, peeling them back with deep consideration. 

Nagging thoughts crept in like whispers over the softly ticking clock, pinball plunger pulled and ready to fire. With a determined huff, you stepped back from your dresser and padded down the hallway, out into the living room. 

Your skirt pooled around your stocking feet as you crouched down in front of the long wooden cabinet that housed your records. Fingers dancing over the worn cardboard spines, you flipped them softly forward as you perused one by one, walking steadily until one of them fell open to a scene; a painting of a man hunched over with sticks tied to his back that hung on a wall of peeling paper. You paused, pulling it out to scan the track list. This would do.

Placing the the record softly on the felt pad, you lowered the needle to the ridges, and with the press of a button, a crackle roused the room. 

Hey hey momma said the way you move

Gonna make you sweat, gonna make you groove

A smile, like a crocus peeking up from the snow, bloomed across your face. You cranked the volume, wrapping yourself in a sound that would carry to your bedroom. 

Your fingers found the tiny metal tab behind your waist, and with a downward tug of the zipper, your wool skirt became a puddle on the floor. Peeling back the layers, your tight sweater joined it in a heap, your thick stockings lay deflated on the pile, the buttons of your stiff blouse worked free until it was a crumpled afterthought. The chill that kissed your skin was a welcome thing. Goosebumps raised like the current flowing through you as your near-naked silhouette danced across the wall to approach the open drawer once more. 

Emboldened with a curious delight, you began to dig. Past the crust of crisp blouses, beneath the squishy mid-layer of cardigans, down into the sub-layer of camisoles and tees, deeper and deeper until finally your fingers made purchase with a soft treasure. 

It fell open as you unearthed it, the solid black gone grey from washing, the white letters and arched angel cracked and faded: Led Zeppelin — United States of America 1977. 

It happened on a Sunday in April, which began as most Sundays did, with you hunched over your powder blue typewriter in a race between the clock and the keys. You had it down to a science. At the speed you were typing, a rough draft could be finished by dinner, and the final could be churned out by cutting into a few hours of your sleep. A worthy sacrifice, as your final grade was on the finish line. This, like countless others, was how you planned to spend your day — until your roommate found you. 

You remembered the way she leaned against the wooden frame of your bunk bed, amused, watching the paper you hammered with black-inked letters grow longer and longer. Finally she spilled it; as of an hour ago, she was down one boyfriend and up one ticket, and now it had your name on it. When she dangled it between you and the tidy rows of text, your hands froze over the keys. 

You eyed the invitation — temptation printed on a neat, orange strip. Free admission, at a price.

The show was sold out. It had been for a long time. 

Your class was at 9:00 AM tomorrow. A late paper took twenty percent off your grade. 

You loved the band dearly, had a bigger crush on Robert Plant than you’d openly admit to anyone. Fights had broken out over tickets nation wide. You had no idea when they would play the states again.

The clock ticked on beside you, the long hand grazed past three. Maybe you could churn out the rest  in the next few hours. Maybe the rough draft would be enough. But the realist in you knew neither would happen if you seized the ticket. Your grade would never recover, your streak of straight As you’d kept since grade school would come to an end. Your GPA would dip for the semester.

On April 17th, 1977, you left your paper sitting unfinished in the typewriter to see Led Zeppelin play Market Square Arena. You didn’t know it then, but it was the last time they ever would.

On April 18th at 9:00 AM, you showed up to class with empty hands and a brand new shirt. 

You had altered your souvenir; taken scissors to the collar so that it draped off your shoulder. Time and your washing machine had made Swiss cheese of the bottom hem, so you cropped it. You admired the handiwork as it draped off you now, the way the black strap of your bra peeked out from the slope of your shoulder like a coy secret. 

Pulling open the lower drawer—opened far less frequently than you would like—your knuckles grazed the bottom of the smooth wood interior as you peeled back the layers of folded denim. A crease of black jumped out from the sea of blue, and you examined it. It had a nice worn-in fade for only having lived in your dresser a few years, a flatteringly high waist, and most importantly, tapered legs that could easily be tucked into the tall, black boots sitting in the back of your closet. Your bare legs welcomed the barrier against the chill, and you caught a glance at your rear as you hiked them snugly upward. They hugged you in all the right places, as the music electrified the air, you transformed.

A vision of you — sprawled across a blanket on the quad with your face in a book. Making shadows on your dorm room wall while transmuting fantasies to black-inked pages. Strolling down a lamp-lit street, face to the stars, fueling your wild imagination. Here, in your reflection, the ghost of you looked back.

You painted her darker than normal, swapping the usual chapstick for a deep, dusty red exhumed from the bottom of your makeup bag. Eyes smoked and cheeks dusted, you drew out the beauty from angles of your face with every stroke.

Coat donned and purse in hand, you paused at the front door, glancing over your shoulder, down the hallway, toward your coffee table piled with papers. There was another ghost of you here — tucked into her slippers and cozy robe with the voices from the television as her only company, flicking her green grading pen down rows of questions. 

On December 10th, 1985, you left the papers sitting on your coffee table to see Corroded Coffin play The Hideout. With a decided twist of the handle, you pushed out into the cold night air. 

Light pooled in sparse puddles as your boots echoed off the rough pavement. Stillness whispered on the wind as crisp remnants of fall scuttled across the asphalt. The apartments behind you were a tapestry of glowing squares, pictures of the rest of Hawkins tucking into their slippers and washing their dishes, grabbing their blankets and turning on their televisions. 

You grabbed your keys and unlocked your car, and when it roared to life with a swift flick of your wrist, a strange exhilaration coursed through you. 

It rose like the moon over the barren fields, thrumming in your chest, spreading to your limbs, alight with something wild and teeming as you drove past rows of lighted windows—vignettes of tired routine—and stopped at the same red sign you did this morning. Your fingers twitched over the turn signal leaver — an impulse to flick up, to turn right, to settle into the familiar rhythm of your muscle memory. This time you pressed down, pressed your foot to the gas, and cranked the wheel left.

Cruising boldly down the straight and narrow road, fields and farmland faded in your rearview mirror and soon there were trees on the horizon; dense and dark. Gripping the wheel as the silhouette closed in, the corners of your mouth drew upward, pulled by a wild, awakened force. Headlights illuminated pale, naked limbs. Eyes beamed back at you from the shadows. You cranked the volume on your stereo, and as you braced for your first bend, something deep within you—dormant and restless—howled.

______

The water was so cold it burned. Eddie cursed the old plumbing, instantly regretting having the decency to wash his hands in the first place. Soap just barely rinsed, he twisted the lime-scaled handles and shut it off. With a trembling hand, he grabbed one of the last paper towels. Gareth’s kick drum echoed down the narrow hallway, thundering just like his chest. He glanced at his watch again. 7:56. 

Eddie took a ragged breath, chucking the crumpled paper at the overflowing trash bin in the corner. It bounced dejectedly off the wall and onto the dirty tile. With a deadpan glare, he left it where it lay. Hands barely dry, he felt for the flask in his pocket. Screwing the tiny cap and flicking it open, he tipped it back. Eddie welcomed the burn. It chased down his throat and settled in his stomach with a warmth that radiated, instantly numbing his nerves.

Meeting his own eyes in the tiny, smudged mirror, he gave himself a final glance over. His curls were holding; fresh and clean from this morning, fluffed by the icy wind in the trips from van to stage. 

Here, in the dingy confines of The Hideout, words like freak and loser lost their stick. Words he could shake like a dog at the door. He’d fashioned them like armor in the daytime; a shield in hallways and in lunch lines. What was stickier were feelings. The feelings that came with chewed pens and answers left blank. The feeling of lectures slipping like a sieve through his brain. The feeling of stares and stifled laughter, of staring numbly at the board, of filling the silence with bullshit instead of an answer. 

Microphone feedback squeaked outside. The dull, heavy walk of a bassline. Laughter. Cymbals. That kick drum again. Eddie took another swig, searing the flutters in his stomach.

He wanted to be good for you. Seen under stage lights instead of fluorescents. 

Good like an answer he knew.

-

You saw the sign first, peeking from behind the trees — simple, effective, and yellowed with time. The Hideout: a hole in the woods. Tucked around the bend you now braced against, it sat like a neon beacon. The chipped, grey exterior faded into the shadows, leaving only the holy glow of Budweiser and Miller Lite signs to guide you to the promised land. 

Pulling into a spot along the narrow parking strip, you faced off with your destination. Looming and real. Frozen as reality stared back at you in the glare of your blinding headlights, you gripped the steering wheel and looked around. There were a few other cars beside you, but none of them Janet’s. Around the left of the building there appeared to be more parking, and the stout silhouette of a two-tone van you did know the owner of. Pinballs hammered in your chest. 

When you arrange a time to meet someone, you are always punctual. Perhaps a life organized by bells on timers trained you to be this way, but the thought of entering alone filled you with dread, and part of you wondered whether you should wait out here for her. Your hands were starting to shake, and not from the cold. 

The list of crazy things you had done in your life was a laughably short one, but this made the top by a long shot. As you turned the radio down and sat in the wake of your rumbling engine, the questions grew louder. Serious questions about where you thought this night would go, about where you wanted it to go and if you would truly go there. 

Suddenly your headlights felt too bright, like a beacon drawing eyes from the woods, or even more terrifying, eyes from the building. You promptly flicked them off and waited, staring dead ahead at the chipped grey siding. It was fine. You were fine. At least you could no longer see your breath. You could hide here as long as you wanted. 

-

“Alright man, it’s doob o’clock,” Dave said with a satisfied stretch as he took in the stage setup.

Eddie ripped another frantically scribbled setlist out of his spiral notebook and shoved it at him. “No it’s eight fifteen and we still need to do soundcheck,” Eddie scathed, glancing at the door. “You can start by plugging your mic in, Jesus Christ.”

Dave huffed annoyedly through his nose, squatting down to find the cord with exaggerated difficulty. “Yes sir,” he mocked. Eddie shot back a testing glare. “Dude, what’s up with you tonight? You’ve been on one since Gareth’s.”

“Yeah, you ok man?” asked Jeff.

The knots tightened in his stomach as the attention of all three of them closed in around him. “Just—let’s just get our shit together…please,” he deflected.

-

Glancing around frantically, you wondered, for the hundredth time, where the hell Janet was. You couldn’t be that surprised that a woman with two small children was late, but your exhaust was making a smokescreen of the parking strip, and you wondered if anyone inside had noticed, if anyone could hear the low rumble of your engine and questioned why this strange woman was idling. With an irritated sigh, you turned the key, leaving you in deafening silence and leeching cold. You could hear your breathing now, your pounding heart, the squeaking of leather as you shifted in your seat. What one of the kids got sick? What if she called after you left? 

What if she isn’t coming?

Eddie’s eyes lingered at the door as he clicked the pedals with his feet, plucking a soft, testing melody into the mic. His watch glared under the stage lights, confidence fleeting with every minute that ticked by. Gareth snapped his foot petal with a deep thud. Dave walked out a bassline before squealing feedback made the whole bar flinch.

The strum of a chord made you jump. Booming and electric, you heard it through the walls. They were starting. They were starting and you weren’t there. Gripping the steering wheel, you tossed your head back in an anguished sigh. You sure as hell weren’t going to stand him up. As you glanced around the parking lot one last desperate time, the bitter conclusion rose like bile — you may have to do this alone. Seatbelt clicking under your gloved thumb, you steeled yourself for the cold, for the eyes of strangers in a strange new place. With a decided pull of the handle, the door opened to the frigid night air, and you emerged from the heat into the unknown. 

You met your reflection in the glass of the entrance as your hand gripped the weathered knob. Pinballs fired off at lightning speed — a jackpot multi-ball bonanza. Checking your hair one last time with eyes locked on your own, you turned the handle with a determined sigh.

A bell dinged above your head, and winter’s chill gusted in on your heels.

The whole room turned at once — at you. You, from the front of the classroom. You, from behind the big desk. You, in the doorway of The Hideout. Across a dark sea of scattered tables, poised on an altar of sound and light, Eddie Munson smiled at you — brighter than all of it. 

The door fell shut behind you. Hot under the gaze of what seemed like the entire bar, it suddenly felt like you were the one on stage. Standing there like a deer in headlights in your long wool coat and clean black boots, you surely must have looked as out of place as you felt. Shoulders rolling back to counter your thrumming nerves, your boots left the rug and found the tacky linoleum as you approached the bar that lined the left wall. 

Eddie busied his shaking hands with tapping another test melody into his mic, pausing when he heard a voice over his right shoulder. 

“Is that…?” Jeff pointed toward the back of your head.

Gareth’s eyes lit up in recognition. Dave peered over with a shit-eating grin. “Did you invite her?” he mouthed.

Eddie’s face betrayed him, burning like it did under the fluorescents. Burning to greet you at the bar, for the liberty to patronize it, to offer you something more than his aching gaze. 

“No,” Eddie lied, “but I may have told her we play here on Tuesdays.” He struck the strings with the weight of his frustration, drowning out any further questions with the opening chords to the first song on the setlist. The others took their cue with chuckles and shaking heads. Heart pounding like the kick drum behind him, Eddie’s fingers found the frets, tugging a muscle memory from deep within as his eyes stayed fixed on you. 

There was an older man in a sweatshirt behind the bar. The owner, you figured, by the way he was standing — arms crossed, stance wide, unafraid to take up space. By the way he was looking at you, like he wondered what would drive a new face to his establishment on a random Tuesday night in December. From the glances the others passed between them, the feeling seemed unanimous. 

“How can I help you?” he half shouted against the chugging chords, leaning against the bar with a curious smile.

You braced with your brightest grin, placing your gloved hands down flat on the waxy bar. “Hi! Yes—um,” you scanned the selection under the neon lights, the liquor bottles of all shapes and sizes reflected in the dirty mirror behind them. The bar back was tightly cluttered with old stickers and hand-written notes taped behind the cash register, with half-empty bottles of bitters and bobble heads nodding to the palpable vibration. Having no interest in standing there awkwardly while he fixed you a cocktail, you selected a bottle of Coors. 

He nodded and ducked to open the steel, magnet-plastered fridge beneath the cash register. 

Your gaze, like a magnet, drew back to the stage. It was all you could do just to watch him — the way his curls fell gently at his cheek, the way they bounced with every strum. There was a tension lingering just under the curve of his lashes. The music was fast and loud, purely instrumental. You recognized nothing about it but the genre. Head dipped in concentration as his left hand tapped a frantic melody into the frets, he raised his eyes bravely to meet yours.

He wasn’t the only man staring. It was hard to ignore; the man in the baseball cap to your right as you stared right through his line of sight. You pinched off your gloves and shoved them in your pockets to occupy your hands.

A bottle cap plinked against the bar top. “Two bucks,” the owner stated, slinging a towel over his shoulder. 

You fished through your purse, feeling those eyes on you as you opened your wallet, as you slid the bills right under his gaze across the waxy counter. You snatched the cold bottle and raised it to your lips. Turning over your shoulder, your eyes clung to Eddie on stage, to his tendons as they flexed to pick a rhythm at the strings. His was gaze a soft and yearning thing, a contrast to the sharp and punchy chords that left his fingers. 

“You know these guys?” the man in the cap asked finally, pointing to the stage. Your eyes shot toward him in surprise, lips still pursed at the bottle. He had that working man sort of look. Average features, subtle crows feet, a whisper of sandy stubble across his strong jaw. His grey-blue eyes were gentle, but brimming with a heated curiosity.

You used the much needed swig to buy yourself a second. Did you? The cold, bready fizz sparkled down your throat. You supposed you didn’t have to specify how you were acquainted. “Yeah,” you answered simply, plugging your mouth with the bottle like a dam.

A bell rattled behind you. Grateful for any disruption, you whipped around quickly to break the connection. Janet lit up as soon as she saw you, a mixture of relief and apology playing out on her face as she strode across the room. Tight blonde curls emerged from her lowering leopard print hood. “Oh my god I’m so sorry,” she lamented, arms opening to embrace you. 

Relief washed through you like a warm buzz. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it!” you said as your nose took a dive in her soft, perfumed curls. 

“Sarah would not stop crying, it took forever for me to finally get her to sleep. I swear babies have a sixth sense, they always know when you have fun plans,” she said through a laugh. Her lashes were long and thick with mascara, eyeshadow a solid sky blue so vibrant that it popped even in the dim neon glow. 

Janet ordered a margarita. There was nothing new to speak of, really, over the electric roar of the band, but you tried to listen. Intently, you tried to listen to the new words her son was saying, to offer some lukewarm update about how work was going, but your eyes had their own agenda.

The rolled cuffs of Eddie’s tight, acid-washed jeans bunched against the pull tabs of his boots as he tapped the rhythm with his heel. There was no jacket for him to strain against, no flannel to constrict him, no sleeves on his T-shirt in December. It was more than you’d seen of him yet. Ink flexed with each generous swell of his bicep, and with every attack, he would flash you his ribs through the hand-hacked holes. 

“Mmm,” Janet mumbled, sipping off the top of the very full, salt-rimmed rocks glass. “Come on, let’s get cozy,” she said with a wink and gestured toward the tables. The air was thick with smoke wafting from the bikers at the bar. Eddie tapped out another lick and peered through a few stray curls as you followed her across the room to a high top, back and center.

You wanted to be closer. Close enough to see the umber of his eyes, the ridges of his knuckles as they plucked the strings. There were a few shorter tables down in front, back about five feet from the stage. But as the beams of light bounced off the glossy wood and over the seats in blinding white, you were grateful for the shadows ten feet would afford you. 

Janet stripped off her coat to reveal a tight black dress with long sleeves and sequined, padded shoulders. It hugged just above the knees of her sheer hose, punctuated with sharp ankle boots. 

“Look at you all dressed up! You look stunning.” You meant it, she really did.

Janet’s smile was a shy deflection, but hiding just beneath it, a glimmer of belief. “Thanks, this thing’s been sitting in my closet for like a year now. Can you believe it? I just felt like, you know, if I’m going out I’m gonna dress up goddamn it,” she laughed, punctuating with a slap against the table. “We coulda gone to Benny’s, I still woulda worn it.”

You laughed, for the first time since you’d talked to her that morning. Unbuttoning your coat, you let it drape over the metal back of the stool behind you. 

“You’re not looking too shabby yourself,” Janet said with a wink before taking a sip.

“Honestly I’ll take any excuse I can get to dress down,” you said with a sheepish huff, propping your elbows on the sticky table before bringing the bottle to your lips. 

A nervous crackle wound its way through Eddie’s stomach at the vision of you. You, perched on a stool in a dive bar. You, in jeans and a t-shirt. You, arching forward just enough to grace him with a sliver of your back. It was real — you, here.  He soured a note, and those words he shook off came creeping back in as he fumbled through the next lick. But you didn’t seem to notice. You propped your cheek against your knuckles and let the warmth of your eyes usher his doubts away. 

When the song came to a ringing conclusion, Janet’s cheer was uninhibited, clapping her hands above her head. It drew eyes from the couple seated at one of the lower tables, from the bikers at the bar, from the band. Your applause was more demure, but you couldn’t mask the brilliance of your smile. 

“Thank you, thank you,” Eddie said into the microphone. “Looks like we really have a crowd tonight. Seven drunks.”

The room erupted with hollers and cheers. 

The bassist muttered something to the other guitarist and the two shared a laugh, casting their eyes towards you. Suddenly your face grew very hot. Of course they recognized you, Jeff was in your second period class. You anticipated this, and yet it was the realness of it all that shook you — the hard stool beneath you, the stares you could feel as your finger idly traced the cold condensation on the glass. Pinballs fired off at rapid speed. You drowned them with a tip of the bottle. 

Eddie shifted, clicking the pedals with his foot. “Ok, so this next one is uh, definitely not an original.” He breathed a laugh into the microphone, glancing up at you — at your shoulders, hunched in shy defense, at your worried brow and downcast gaze. He wished he could reach across the room, lift your chin with his words and draw you from your shell. “Anyway, you’ll uh, probably recognize this one,” he said, to you.

Eddie nodded to the band, counting off silently before they struck a chord together — a low, droning thing, gritty and slow as the bass walked steadily over the foundation. Eddie swayed back and forth, rocking in time with the beat like a march, resting his heavy-lidded gaze on you. Across the divide of scattered seats, you — at the small table, saw him — on the big stage. His nimble fingers struck the chords with an ardent conviction, and the ice in you began to thaw. 

Suddenly the beat changed pace. Gareth smacked his drum sticks together to count off, and the first two chords sparked instant recognition. A smile rose up in you — a wild and thrumming thing, radiant and rising until it cracked through. 

You knew what was coming. Two chords, quiet taps for a count of sixteen, and then those two chords again, like a one-two punch, booming and building with anticipation. Again, and again, as the energy rose in the room. You caught the wicked glint in his eyes as his hands—those hands that fidgeted and fumbled with dog-eared pages and chewed up pens—wielded power. A surge of electricity swirled through your stomach, crackled because you knew what was next. 

Eddie took a deep breath, and opened his mouth. 

Generals gathered in their masses

Colors. Warm and bright, tingling like a shockwave from your chest down to your seat. 

Just like witches at black masses

In your secret daydreams, you often wondered what his voice sounded like in song. 

Evil minds that plot destruction

Tried to guess from his deep hums and brilliant laughter.

Sorcerers of death’s construction

Now, it suspended in the air like a battle cry, reaching out across the chasm of tables and chairs.

In the fields the bodies burning

Surging like a wildfire.

As the war machine keeps turning

Swirling through the darkness like a strange magic.

Death and hatred to mankind

Reaching out like it wanted to touch you. 

Poisoning their brainwashed minds

And so you let it.

Oh lord, yeah!

The music rocked and swelled. Like a balm reverberating through the air, it softened the hunch of your shoulders. Like an antidote, it dissolved the knot in your stomach. Like an arrow, it pierced the shell of you. 

Janet took a generous sip of her margarita and bobbed her head to the rhythm. You caught her gaze from across the table and shared a laugh, a mutual knowing through squinted eyes and shaking heads that this was, in fact, a Tuesday night in December, and the two of you were here.

As the cold drink warmed your limbs, you became acquainted with the hard curve of the stool beneath you, with the of rings left behind on the glossy table, with the crowded ashtray. Acquainted with the smoke that wafted through the air and the darkness that enveloped you like a blanket. The music settled over the room, and as you settled into that heavy buzz, you started to get the feeling you might actually enjoy yourself tonight.

Janet needed no convincing. Her first margarita went down easy, leaving nothing but the ice and her hot pink lipstick on the rim before they finished their fourth song. When she returned from the bar with one in each hand, she placed the extra in front of you. Her treat, convinced they were better than Pal Joey’s, insisting that you try it even with a few sips still lingering in your bottle. 

It surprised you — the balance of lime, and liquor, and something else you couldn’t quite place. It surprised you how it easy it melted the tension in your stomach, how it encouraged you to lean in a little more, to let your shoulders drop.

Eddie noticed it, peeking out from under the coyly dipping collar of your shirt; bare and soft as you leaned against the table — your shoulder. He missed a note. Cursing silently, he glanced down at his fingers and tapped into that deep, subconscious part of his brain again where they knew just where to go. But when he closed his eyes to find it, the image remained painted to his lids — a ripened fruit, tempting but too far to taste. Across it, a stripe of black hazard tape, a trail he itched to follow. 

There was a hunger in you, stirring more with every song, with every decadent flash of his pale ribs. He was good. Stadium good. Those nimble fingers tapped the frets, making them sing in a way that made you wish you were wire and wood, looking at you in a way that made you think he wished the same. He stroked the neck of his instrument with a reverent touch, attacked the strings with a holy power, like a wingless angel with a spotlight halo. You whispered a silent prayer, venerating him from your faraway pew in the only way you could — with your eyes.

The animal stirred in its icy den, roused by the warmth of his voice as it stretched across the bar. It stirred in that place you rarely acknowledged, rarely indulged as you considered what other talents his hands might have. You considered the shades of those sighs and swallows he took before painting the air, considered what they might sound like if he showed you. It settled and throbbed in that low, blooming place, and you smothered the feeling with a cross of your legs.

Busying yourself with what remained of your beer, you shifted your shoulders to face him directly, leaning your free arm against the metal back of the stool with an ease that Eddie considered looked almost as good on you as the shirt did. Your lips lingered on the rim of the bottle before parting with a soft pop. He swallowed.

There was a gap between you; a sea of scattered tables and wide open ears and eyes amongst them. What could he possibly say from his position? From a microphone on stage? A thousand words ached on the tip of his tongue and he swallowed them with a sloppy chug of water as the applause bought him a moment to consider. 

The white lettering across your chest jumped out at him from the shadows like a bright idea. Eddie swiped droplets from his mouth and turned to his bandmates, bringing them into a huddle as the noise drowned out what he was saying. Whatever it was, after some deliberation, they seemed in agreement about it.

You hadn’t seen Janet like this since the summer between your junior and senior year of college. She was always a happy drunk; talkative and bubbly, spilling over with laughter and the sort of wild enthusiasm that a child at a carnival might have.

“I wanna dance,” she said longingly, glancing toward the stage as she slumped in her seat. 

“Maybe we can go to a club next time,” you joked as you downed the remainder of your sweating drink.

The band assumed their positions again. Eddie tapped the pedals with his feet and rolled his shoulders back with a deep, collecting breath. His eyes found yours across the room, brimming with such a longing you wondered anyone else could sense it too. After the longest second, he snapped his head over his shoulder with a steely conviction and nodded off a count before making his attack — the opening riff to Led Zeppelin’s “Whole Lotta Love”. 

Your hands shot to your face.

Suddenly Janet perked up, inspired by the catchy rhythm and her own suggestion. “We should dance! Will you dance with me?”

You balked, shrinking down. “There’s like… six people here! I don’t think it’s really that kind of—”

“Oh come on, please? What’s there to lose, huh?”

Oh, only my last remaining shred of dignity in front of my students. But you couldn’t say that. “Janet,” you hissed. “We are not—I can’t—”

Her three margaritas had a different opinion. They reached across the table and grabbed your hand. “Come on, live a little! That’s what we came here to do, right?” 

You buried your face in your other. The truth was you wanted to. You wanted a closeup of that smart smirk, of the sweat beading down his temple as he strummed the punchy chords he hand-picked just for you. You wanted the fantasy, the memory, the experience. It was convincing — her pouting pink lips and pleading eyes, almost as convincing as the tequila coursing through your veins. The truth was you left your better judgement at home on the coffee table. To her giddy satisfaction, you surrendered. Dragging you from your seat, she led you to the front of the stage.

Eddie’s smile could have blinded you, even through the shy web of your fingers. Cheers erupted from the bar, from the whole band, as Janet shimmied her sequined shoulders to the beat.

Eddie opened his mouth again, this time with an ardor you could feel in your bones.

You need cooling, baby I’m not fooling

He crouched down to level with your eyes. I’m gonna send ya back to schooling

You lowered your hand to mask the girlish grin that cracked across your face.

Way down inside, honey you need it

They were breathtaking up close — his eyes. Sparkling with an energy you’d never seen before. Rich umber alight with something you couldn’t quite place, too mesmerized by the promise his tongue wove through the air.

I’m gonna give you my love

I’m gonna give you my love… oh!

He straightened with a backward toss of his head, and you found the word you were looking for in the droplets that flung from his curls. Power. 

Wanna whole lotta love?

Wanna whole lotta love?

Janet—having an absolute field day over the spectacle—offered you her hand like she wanted to tango. Freeing your face with a brave sigh, you accepted with a slap of your palm in hers. She tugged with a childish delight, and you took your cue — spinning into her waiting arm and shooting back out with a flourish dredged up from some long forgotten place. The room became a blur of sound and light, of cheers from the bar and the stage. You stilled to find your footing, landing on his eyes. 

You’ve been learning, and baby I’ve been yearning

He dipped down again. All them good times baby, baby, I’ve been lear-er-nin’, he punctuated with a shake of his head. He could see the whole vision of you, bright and clear under the stage lights. A wildness lingering just behind your eyes, a fragment unseen until now. It pounded at the cage of your chest, rose up in the shallow breaths you caught before Janet snatched you away again. He swore—silently on a deep inhale—that he would do everything in his power to coax it out of you.

Way, way down inside, oh honey you need it

I’m gonna give you my love

I’m gonna give you my love

You couldn’t remember the last time you really danced. The last time you felt a rhythm with your body and followed its blind inspiration. No rhyme or reason, no plans or choreography. It felt awkward at first, like trying on skin fresh from the wash. Feeling your feet shuffle against the tacky linoleum, finding the rhythm of yourself with a room full of strangers as witness.

Somewhere between the beams of light and the wink of Eddie’s rings beneath them, you found it. Like a memory rising up, sweeping through you like a current. Visions of a stadium, roaring as a lion struts the stage with his golden mane, as he commands a sea of thousands with his voice. There was an animal in you too, wild and careless. 

It grew wilder when the music dropped to nothing but percussion. When the room fell away to nothing but the heat from Eddie’s eyes, sparkling with play. It made your hips want to sway a little more, your legs want to dip a little deeper to match his wildness with your own. Imbued with a sudden, potent energy, he struck his wicked instrument as the rhythm and melody unraveled. 

Janet took it in stride, leading you in a rocking shimmy as you swayed to the change in tempo. Light danced on her sequined shoulders as she tipped her head back in a blissful cackle. You followed her lead, eyes fixed on her with a surging power in the knowing of whose eyes were fixed on you.

The air was a cool kiss against the sliver of skin where your shirt left off, daring you to show a little more. With a twist of your arms toward the spotlights, you blessed him with the dip of your back — the alluring shadow of your spine that trailed into the high waist of your jeans. He panged with the urge to follow it, fell to his knees and wailed through his fingertips.  

You broke from Janet’s pull to face him, eye-to-eye level, watching reverently as the sweat glistened in his clavicles, as his pelvis jutted into his weapon to eke out his solo. Howling for you with each stroke of its neck, each bend in its strings as you matched his rhythm with your hips. A secret world, just you and him, the rest fading out into nothing. He swore, like a spell in each note that he wove through the air, that somehow he would make it last.

From his knees, Eddie grabbed the mic off the stand, and with a wordless nod earned by years of friendship, Jeff took over the melody. To the delight of the crowd, he stripped himself of the weight of his instrument, setting it carefully off to the side. 

You’ve been cooling, baby, I’ve been drooling, he crooned as he crawled forward.

All the good times, baby, I’ve been misusing

You played with him there. With your shoulders, with your eyes locked no more than a foot from his. Desperate to touch him, you worshiped every bead of sweat that fell from his temple, every wet curl that strayed from the nape of his neck and hugged the strong angle of his jaw. What left his lips next dripped with such fervent intention you that you couldn’t keep your hand from your face.

Way, way down inside

I’m gonna give you my love

I’m gonna give you every inch of my love

I’m gonna give you my love

He was pure energy; raw and manic. Free in the way that wild things are. He snatched your breath away, dragged it to his den and had his way with it as he queried the chorus to you. There was wildness all around; in glinting sequins and megawatt smiles. In the flashes of limbs under the lights. In the rhythm you carried with your whole body now, moving in a way that was both so foreign and natural all at once. 

You wondered how it looked from the outside; you and him. From the bar it might have looked like drunk spontaneity. From the stage it might have looked like a stint of support for the arts. You wondered, with a twinge of fear, if the others could feel the longing too or if you had masked it well enough as a performance. 

The music dropped out to make way for the final lyrics.

Way down inside, he belted into the silence, punctuating with a deep inhale. Woman, he shouted, locking eyes with you for a pregnant second as the world came to a halt, you need… he drew a deep breath in the space the two chords allowed him before wailing the final word at the ceiling — loooooooove!

You felt it with every cell of your body in one suspended moment. Felt—for the first time since you could vividly remember—truly and completely alive. With a crash of cymbals and an electric instrumental boom, the rhythm—and the world—reconstituted around you, swirling with a vibrant energy that swept you away.

His dark eyes opened with a wicked glint, and his next breath left his chest as a command. 

Shake for me, girl. I wanna be your backdoor man!

You obeyed with a shimmy of your shoulders and the room went wild. 

______

Janet left you with a tight, perfumed hug. A gentle reassurance that yes, she was fine to drive home. She left you in the vacuum of slamming guitar cases and distant voices as the jukebox picked up where the band left off. Left you to sober up to how idle and awkward you felt sitting at the table you once shared with her, picking at the peeling label on the wet, empty bottle.

When you heard footsteps approaching, a part of you was grateful for the prospect of someone—anyone—to talk to, though it wasn’t who you hoped. Instead, it was the man in the cap from the bar.

“Hey, love the shirt,” he remarked, glance lingering a little too long over the text across your chest.

“Thanks,” you said shyly, gaze drifting back to the bottle.

He stepped closer, setting his can on the table. “I take it you went to that concert?” 

“I did, it was really last minute actually.” You told him the story. You told him with your words and gestures, twisting in the tall stool to face him, but it was Eddie that drew your eyes. Crouched down with one knee bent beneath him and the other straining against denim slits, he collected his pedals into a tiny, vintage suitcase. There were words coming out of your mouth, but faced with the rigid angles of his thighs, you were helpless but to stumble over some of them.

It was then that you noticed he had already been staring, though not at you, at Bill — with a simmer behind his eyes.

“Man, I woulda killed to go to that show. I was working a double when tickets went on sale and a buddy of mine said he was gonna camp overnight for us. Well, he ended up getting into a fight with his girlfriend and flaked out. ‘Course they were sold out and closed by the time I left work.”

You expressed your genuine sympathy.  

“Boy I was pissed at him then, but even more pissed after Bonham died. Like damn, that was my last shot, man!”

“I’m sorry you had to miss it. It was quite the show.” You told him what you could remember. The setlist, the stage, what they wore.

Eddie watched closely, carefully darting between you amidst the gathering of cables and closing of metal latches. He watched your hands come to life like he loved so much, like you always did when you were explaining something with fond enthusiasm. Helplessly, he watched the way Bill leaned closer, the way his hand and forearm made themselves at home on your table. The simmer hissed and bubbled behind his eyes.

“Anyways, it’s good to see such a lovely new face around here. One with great taste, I might add. Made my night.”

The simmer kicked up to a full, licking flame. 

“Oh, well thanks. I don’t get out much,” you said with an awkward chuckle.

Bill stepped closer, as if his next point was something he had to lean in for. “By the way, and I hope this isn’t too forward, but… you’re a great dancer.”

Eddie watched your hand dive behind your neck, your face contort into a feeble smile, your shoulders hunch, your eyes glance down. He could hear the distress in your beautiful laugh and he boiled so hot he could have seared a hole into the back of Bill’s head.

He extended his hand. “I’m Bill, by the way.” 

Eddie wrapped the cable in hasty circles around his forearm. Heat rose behind behind his tight lips and exited in short fumes.

“Hey man, have you seen the drum key anywhere?” Gareth called from behind him.

It barely registered. The world was a fragment now. A red-hot, narrowing tunnel reduced to a singularity — Bill’s hand. 

Bill’s hand; hovering like a salacious invitation, too close to the soft swell of your belly. That open, rugged palm — weathered, experienced, and free. Free to reach into his wallet, to reach across the bar, to hand you a drink, to wander all sorts of places where Eddie could not.

You, ever polite and always accommodating, reached back.

He touched you. 

Eddie’s vision narrowed red. Helplessly, he watched Bill’s fingers snake around the back of your hand and squeeze, linger at your palm as they released. A coil wound through his body. It rose up like bile — up through his spine, into his shoulders that rolled forward and back with a deep, seething breath. Up, up, into that primitive space at the base of his skull where words and civil manners had no place.

“Can I buy you a drink?” 

Eddie dropped the cable. 

The world blurred in the wake of his target and in five swift steps he was at your side. “Hey, Bill. Uh—” his senses ebbed back to him with a curious look from the man he’d shared countless drinks with. A man he would call his friend had he not breeched a sacred distance, a contract he knew nothing of. His vision was clouded, the coil tight and hot. 

“She’s um,” he continued quietly, a murmur he had to lean in for. An urge seized his hand. The urge to claim, to slip across the divot of your back and pull you close where you belonged, to but the noise from the stage and the eyes that followed forced his hand deep into his pocket. He swallowed his frustration, hoping the simmer in his eyes would be enough to convey what he meant. “She’s with me, man.” 

A throb from that low, blooming place, rose up in a full body yes. In the arch of your back, in the dip of your eyes as you caught the desperate heat from his. 

Bill blinked in honest surprise. “Wait, you mean,” he pointed between the two of you, eyes darting back and forth with a confusion that only deepened the insecurity of everyone involved, “you’re—”

“Yes,” Eddie hotly interrupted. The coil in him released slightly, a low rumble replaced by a surge that settled in his cheeks at the trembling, nervous laughter in your voice. 

Flutters roared through you all at once, spinning the room well beyond the scope of the liquor that lingered in your veins, heightening your senses to the warmth radiating from the aching nearness of his body to yours.

“Well, hey man, we were just talking—”

“Yeah—well,” he glanced at you, an apology playing out in the widening of his eyes as the coil cooled to sobering embarrassment. He wished he could bury himself, open a trapdoor and take you with him. A parade of stomping feet and slamming cases trudged on behind him from the stage. He prayed the din was enough to mask the conversation. 

“It’s ok!” you nervously exclaimed to both of them. “Really. Besides, I—I need to sober up anyway before I go home, so… it’s really ok,” you soothed to Eddie specifically. 

Eddie’s pulse thrummed in his hears, his body a livewire of stress and embarrassment. “Ok. Well, I just, um… thought I’d let you know,” he concluded to Bill, desperate to string together some semblance of dignity. He dipped his head toward you until his voice hummed lowly in your hear. “It’ll just be a few more minutes. I gotta get the rest of this shit cleaned up, and then we can, um—” his eyes darted back and forth between yours in wordless exasperation.

“Yeah,” your body whispered, overriding any protest of your noble mind. To what you were agreeing to was unimportant. Whatever he wanted.

Eddie nodded and pivoted toward the stage in a swift exit.

In the wake of his absence was an awkward pause, a space Bill was quick to fill with words. “Well, um, it was nice to meet you,” he said with an awkward dip of his head. 

“Yeah, you as well,” you said, a feeble anchor to the spinning room. Bill’s gaze hesitated with a flash of disappointment before returning to the bar. It was all you could do to just stand there a moment, heart pounding in stunned realization as the space whirled with the clammer of footsteps, the thud of equipment, the clinking of glasses. Suddenly the weight of your aloneness in the middle of it all was crushing. You retreated to the down the short hallway and ducked into the bathroom.

She’s with me.

She’s with me.

She’s with me.

In the muffled quiet of the dimly lit reprieve, the words echoed louder than ever. You were almost afraid to check your reflection, to look yourself in the eyes and face the person who ached to hear them repeated, but you did, and she surprised you. Something about the way your lipstick feathered clean in the center from the kiss of the bottle, the way your mascara settled at your lower lashes in the delicate lines beneath. It was oddly flattering, like the shadow of a good time. 

You liked who you saw, and perhaps that scared you most. 

Jeff’s laughter echoed down the hallway and the pinball trigger snapped again. What the fuck am I doing?

You would ask yourself this question as you pressed the tip of your boot to the dirty toilet handle, as the cold water woke your skin, as it dripped onto the salt-stained tile, as you dropped the soggy remains of the last two paper towels into the overflowing trashcan. 

When the clammer of footsteps and slamming of the back door faded to nothing more than distant murmurs from the bar, you slowly cracked the door and peered into the empty hallway. Your boots clicked tentatively against the tacky linoleum, emerging from the shadows as you drew a steady breath. The stage was dark, the men perched on stools had their backs to you, all roaming eyes cast down over drinks — all except one.

Eddie stood in the middle of it all; hands on hips, damp curls clinging to his neck, chest still heaving from movement and stress. He locked eyes with you, and you could feel relief in his sigh from the apron of the hallway.

Your smile was a shy, timid thing, blooming to a helpless grin as the softness of his features heightened into focus with each progressive step. As the distance between you closed to less than a foot.

“Hey,” he breathed like a soft apology.

“Hey,” you answered, like you always did. A nervous crackle of anticipation wound through your gut.

“I um,” Eddie wrung a hand behind his neck, flashing a dark tuft of hair that made the animal in you stir. “I need to cool down,” he admitted with a raw, candid urgency. He patted his pockets. “I’m gonna step out for a cigarette… if you… wanna…” he nodded toward the back hall. 

Yes. Anything, the animal growled. You simply nodded and went to grab your coat. 

Eddie snatched the heap of leather from the railing by the stage and draped it over his arm. He ushered you forward with a sweep of his palm through the air, catching your eyes with a softness that threatened the strength of your knees. A giggle escaped you — honest, uncontrollable, automatic. Clutching your arm with a coyness that surprised even yourself, you shuffled in front of him, the towering presence of his closeness like a tingle at your back, a safety in the thud of heavy boots behind you. 

The night air was a cold refreshment, a sobering reprieve from the hot, smoke-dense air of The Hideout. Your lungs helped themselves, filling to the brim, releasing just a little of the tension that was mounting before you arrived. It left you in a thick fog, drifting out into the empty patio, catching the glow from the singular bulb posted by the door. Eddie pulled it shut with a soft thud and shrugged on his coat in a rattle of zippers and chains.

Silence. A howl of the wind through naked limbs. A sigh that left both of you at once. 

Eddie dipped his head in subtle reverence as he crossed in front of you, placing his hands on the short, wooden fence to your right. He paused a second, drawing a deep breath before spinning around to face you, hands splayed in an open plead. “I am so fucking sorry.”

Your mouth hung open. “A-about what?”

He ran a hand through his hair with a ragged sigh. “About Bill, about how I acted, a-about…” he swallowed, “what I said…”

An O trembled on your lips but never made it out. “It’s fine, really—”

“It’s…it’s not. It’s just that,” he huffed, “Bill was hitting on you a-and you just looked so uncomfortable and…” it drove him fucking crazy. It lit his blood on fire. It made him want to grab a man who’d bought him countless drinks by the collar and ram him into the wall. 

You stepped closer, close enough to see the whites of his eyes in the darkness, the shadow of his pinching brow. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t stir something in you. Hearing those words. Hearing the ones he said now in profuse apology. “Eddie,” you soothed.

He closed his eyes; a split-second relish of his name on your lips. “It—” he sighed. “It wasn’t cool, to say that…” he shook his head before meeting your eyes in soft earnestness, “in public.”

The breath froze in your lungs. Out here the world fell away to the rustle of trees, to a darkness that cloaked you like a blanket. You were alone. Truly alone. A question tugged at your heart, twinged on the tip of your tongue but felt still too bold to leave it. What would he say, then, in private? 

It played out like a tape behind his eyes — the curl of Bill’s fingers around your hand. It was such a simple gesture, benign outside of context. Yet there was something deeper, something that wound like a serpent through his gut. It struck, and stung, that in one fell swoop, Bill had touched as much of you as he had. That Bill could do as much in public as he could only manage beneath a shadow. 

“Anyway, now that… that’s out of the way,” Eddie shook his head as he fumbled with the zipper of his pocket, curls feathering his delicate cheekbone, gaze cast down in weakly hidden shame. He procured a box of cigarettes, thumb flipping it open with an ease earned by years of habit. Popping one into his mouth, he paused before snapping it shut. “Y-you want one?” he mumbled. It seemed rude not to ask, but the question felt dumber by the second as it hung in the air. You were good. Good like 6 AM coffee, like the early morning sun. Good like the buttons on a crisp, white blouse. Yet here he stood, hand extended, offering what little he could — an experience.

Goodness was a mantle. A weight that kept your shoulders back, your lips pressed tight, your head cast down, your feet in slippers, your curtains drawn. Eddie Munson stood beside you, rugged and regal like a dark knight, arm outstretched in humble offering. With hesitance, you eyed the invitation. 

Out here you could be anything — a vagabond, a runaway, a princess escaped from her castle. A woman who spends Tuesday nights at dive bars and smokes cigarettes with men in leather jackets. Anything you wanted. 

You wanted to taste it. You wanted the flame, and the smoke, and the raw, ragged air that wound through your lungs and left like a beacon that soared toward the sky.

You wanted to be bad for him, and so you accepted.

The cigarette almost dropped from Eddie’s mouth in shock. He fumbled another from the box before tucking it into his back pocket. With a flourish, bending in its presentation as if it were a single rose, he offered it to you. 

Never in a million years could you have imagined it. You, in a position like this. Him, in a position like that. Least of all that it would be so wildly romantic.

You accepted with the tips of your fingers, your index and middle, brushing ridges of his knuckles with feather-light indulgence. They closed around the offering, pausing for an aching second before drawing away with it. 

Eddie closed his eyes, so quickly he could have masked it as a blink, but you caught it. The sigh, the swallow, the batting open with a burning hunger as he relished in the barest fulfillment of what he’d been craving since he saw you this morning — to touch you.

The cold nipped at your knuckles as you took in the foreign sensation between them, admiring it like a sinful adornment under the moonlight.

With a flick of his thumb, the parentheses of his mouth lit up in a warm glow. He took a few quick puffs, smoke billowing from his nose and the corners of his lips before taking a long drag. Satisfaction exited his lungs in a deep sigh, a billow that rose toward the twinkling sky. He turned his attention back to you. “Here,” he offered gently, beckoning you closer with a gentle come hither motion, readying his lighter.

You held your hand out gingerly, willing the trembling of your fingers to cease with little success. 

Eddie closed in, bringing a finger to his lips as a gentle suggestion. “Put it in your mouth,” he said, unable to suppress the boyish grin that surfaced from the words. 

You did as he told you, held it in your smirk, searched for your next instruction in the depth of his eyes but found only delight. Delight in the whole sight of you; the way it dimpled the swell of your lips, in the attention of those dutiful shoulders, like you wanted to be good at misbehaving. Delight in the fact he was teaching you something.

Eddie leaned closer. “Like this,” he instructed softly, framing his own with his long, ruddy digits before taking a quick drag. Obediently, you mirrored him, like a natural smoker would, like they did in the movies and inside the bar. 

The flame ignited between you, flickering in the wild wind. Eddie cupped it with his other hand, forming a shield with the curve of his knuckles — gentle and protective. The fire caught the tip of the slender roll, but his palm was far more captivating. Inches from your face, you could study it closer than ever, plush and glowing — the broad heart line, the soft meat of its heel. 

A deep inhale had smoke ghosting over your tongue. Eddie pulled away to reveal the ember and you took your cue. The drag you took, long and determined, left you coughing. 

Eddie couldn’t suppress his chuckle, couldn’t mask the crinkle of his eyes as you—from behind the big desk and before the big board—were swallowed in a clumsy cloud of smoke.

“Are you laughing at me?” you asked through a giggle of your own.

Like oxygen to a flame, his laughter only brightened.  “I’m sorry, you’re just… so…”

“So…what?” You gave him a look, trying to suck your dignity back through the end of the cigarette. 

A million words ached on the tip of his tongue. The wind ripped across the small, frozen field, shyly disappearing in the treeline. Out here there were no bells, no footsteps, no concrete walls to listen. Eddie watched those fingers of yours pull away from your lips, blow a billow toward the open sky, and one in a million came tumbling out.

“Beautiful.” 

A puff retreated back through your lips, froze in your lungs. The truth hung like smoke in the cold night air, rolled around in your chest, warmed your body from head to toe. Eddie plugged his mouth with another draw to prevent more from slipping out. 

There was space for the truth out here. Space like a vacuum, vast and quiet. A shyly muttered “Thank you,” was all you could manage to fill it with.

Eddie raked his fingers through the damp curls at the nape of his neck, cheeks pinking visibly, even in the dim glow of the single light on the other side of the patio. He leaned against the fence and met your eyes again, nervous breath rolling over his plush lips.

His movement, like a magnet, drew your feet across the pavement. Deeper into the shadows with the gentle pull of his eyes. The tobacco settled in your body with a comfortable heaviness as you drank him in, and you suddenly grasped the appeal.

Out here he seemed even taller, shoulders stacked over slender hips as he leaned into the fence, an ease that washed over him with each generous draw, like the stress was rolling off into the shadows. Out here he took on a different posture, different than the one under fluorescent lights. Different than the one in the small chair next to you, the one with hunched shoulders and downcast eyes.

You tapped the ash of the cigarette off with your finger, like a natural smoker would. He smirked at the gesture, and you caught the twinge of pride in it this time. 

Out here he could be anything. He could be clever and daring; a roguish enchanter. A man who casts spells with his fingers and charms with his words. Anything he wanted.

He wanted to make your eyes light up. 

Eddie took another drag, hollowing his cheeks before sending out smoke in deliberate puffs with his tongue. It left his mouth in rings, hovering in the gap between you before drifting across the patio.

He got what he wanted. A gasp left your lips, eyes twinkling brighter than the stars. “What?! I didn’t know people could actually do that!” You exclaimed, delighted like a child on Christmas.

Eddie blew the rest off to the side and returned a blinding smile. It was more satisfying than the cigarette — the fact that he could do it, make your face light up. The fact that he had the power.

“How do you do that?” you asked, ever inquisitive.

His instructions were simple; take a big drag, hollow your cheeks, make the shape with your mouth, and push the smoke out with your tongue. Simple enough, from the sound of it.

Your first attempt failed, miserably. Uproariously.

“The shape is critical,” he reminded through a chuckle, “it’s gotta be like, a perfect O, not an oval.” His eyes lingered over your lips as you tried his suggestion, struggling to will his mind away from the gutter.

Your smile made it hard to maintain. “Wait—wait, hold on I think I got it.” You tried again with great focus, sending out puffs with your tongue that looked nothing like rings. It was worth it though. Worth making a fool of yourself for the amusement that colored his face, for the bright laughter it earned you. “Ok, fine. Maybe not.”

It looked good on him, just like it did on stage. This knowing that drew his shoulders back, made him lean with a powerful ease. The knowing that he was really good at something, that he could show you.

“It’s a bit advanced,” he said with a wink before taking another deep drag. He puffed a ring and cast it forward with a push of his hand, like a spell through the air. It broke on your nose and you relished in the soft sensation of his life-force ghosting over your face. 

It was all you could do just to look at him — rugged and regal in the way that only he could be. It was dangerous and thrilling; how alone you were right now. His aura pulled you closer, eyes tugging at those burning questions, serious questions at war with your lingering buzz. You broke the silence with the truth; soft and sincere. “You’re insanely talented, I hope you know that.” 

The curve of his lashes dipped shyly with a little puff through his nose. They raised with a sparkle that cut through the darkness. “Thanks, it uh… comes a lot easier to me than chemistry.” He tapped off his ash on the pavement.

You tucked your free hand into your pocket with a bashful shuffle of your feet. “Well, good thing rockstars don’t need to know chemistry then.”

Eddie scoffed and gave his eyes a quick roll, unsuccessful at hiding the brilliance of his smile. Heat crept up his neck, and he soothed it with a wring of his hand.

There was a gap between you; a space you were too scared to breach. The two of you filled it with shy chatter as your cigarettes dwindled to nubs. It was easy, to talk to him. About music, about anything. Easy because you gave each other turns to take it; the space. It almost made it easy to forget who you were to each other before you came out here, who you would go back to being tomorrow.

The cold was wicked and relentless; biting at your knuckles as you tapped the last ash. Even the tobacco’s heavy warmth sinking to your feet couldn’t stave it off. It was a Tuesday night in December, and the wind made sure to remind you. 

Eddie followed your eyes toward the door. “It’s ok,” he reassured. “Nobody comes out here. We’re safe.”

His words sparked a tingle in your chest, a pulse of heat; low and thrumming. Neither could halt the shiver that seized your limbs. 

“You ok?” he asked gently, stepping close enough to almost feel the heat from him.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You blew on your hands, rubbing them together feebly to fight the cold. You were stubborn to surrender, determined not to end your stolen moment by succumbing. 

It was all he could do just to look at you. You, shaking like a leaf in the wind. You, with longing eyes and trembling lips. You, with your soft skin and softer soul. His fingers burned, wrestled with the silence, and the distance, and the howl of the wind through the trees. They warred with the ticking clock, with the chill against his precious moment, with the threat of it winning. Suddenly his fingers—bolder than they’ve ever been in his life—twitched to animation. They toyed with the cold metal zipper at his neck, and in one decided tug, he opened up for you. “Here,” he offered. 

You froze, more than the cold could ever manage, as you eyed the invitation — the warm leather cave, the exposure of his heaving chest. Your lips parted but words would not come. You wanted it — the heat, the tight embrace, to be wrapped in his aura, to feel his laughter with your palms. 

Your noble mind as it cast its disapproval like a shadow toward your heart, but your hands and feet were deaf to it. Boots shuffling boldly against the rough pavement, they filled the gap between his. You accepted with the tips of your fingers, delicate and tentative, like his skin was a hot iron and yours at risk to burn. You watched them disappear into the darkness, felt the soft cotton warmth as it enveloped you. With trembling slowness, you traced the divots of his ribcage, settled into them like grooves, felt him gasp into your palms when the ice that you’d become found the velvet, heated skin under his arms.

“Sorry—”

“Hah—hmm—no-no it’s ok,” he grimaced, pinning your hands beneath his arms to stop your recoil, as if the pain of the freeze hurt less than the pain of its absence. “I—ah—I asked for this.” His chuckle was a warm vibration, a flutter as the cage which housed his heart contracted. 

A shiver racked your body as you thawed. Whether it was nerves, or fear, or the chill that had settled deep in your bones long before you stepped foot outside, you were helpless to control it.

“Come ‘ere,” he breathed with equal care and need.

You submitted, tracing his contours as he pulled you closer — head against his solid shoulder, into the soft pillow of his hair, into the source of his scent: leather and tobacco and the sweet, salty musk of his skin. You closed your eyes and basked in it, nose buried in his curls, drawing in deeply to steady your rattling chest. 

Broad palms splayed across the fabric of your coat, pulling you deep into the comfort of his heat, tracing your waist to settle in a place they burned to be — your lower back. “It’s ok, you’re ok,” he murmured into your hair, bracing you tightly as your whole body shook.

You could have died here, buried yourself in his arms and made him your tomb. They would find you in the morning; frozen like a sculpture. Left out for all of Hawkins to see, to point and say terrible things. It wouldn’t matter. You would have died happy.

His heart was pounding with disbelief. You, here, in his arms. You could feel it through your coat, hammering against your chest, into your palms at his back. Eddie felt your breathing slow, your body soften and relax. He crooked his forearm firmly to your back, to the place where it belonged, fingers curling like a cage around your waist. Out here he could be anything — strong and stable, a haven for your tired bones to rest. Anything, for you.

In the dark leather cave there was a landscape for your hands to study. The satin liner grazed your knuckles as your hands explored the angles of his shoulder blades with tentative slowness — down along the muscles of his back, the dip of his spine, the birdcage of his ribs; expanding and contracting, deep and steady. 

He was real, here, in your arms. Two swelling lungs. One beating heart. Two hands that clutched the wool barrier between you. One solid shield of a chest. One humming column at your cheek. Eddie Munson; wildfire. Close enough to thaw you. Close enough to burn you to the ground.

Your hands settled at the slim taper of his waist. Pliant and yielding under soft cotton, swelling with each ocean breath. His cage around you tightened, and you breathed him in, felt him swallow, felt his hips slot against the groove of yours with sensed belonging.

The animal in you keened with curiosity, emboldened by the dark. Your hands wouldn’t dare beyond the roadblock of his belt, but they would move in slow strokes up and down his back. A gentle comfort, a mask for your indulgence.

A quiet moan rose up in him, one he couldn’t swallow. The best he could do was cloak it in a sigh. It hummed against your ear; your cheek so close to the crook of his neck you could almost taste it. You breathed him in again, lips pressed to his soft curls against tough leather as the smoke, and musk, and crisp night air filled your lungs. 

His hands were less patient; dipping toward the slope of your hips, pawing at thick wool, thumbs drawing aching circles there. It earned an arch from your back, a grasp from your hands at the soft cotton barrier. 

There was an animal in him too, preening at the cant of your hips, at the rub of your neck against his. With a dip of his chin he could sink his teeth in, but his noble mind willed it away, settled for the scent of you instead — soft like powder, warm and inviting. The heels of your palms drifted toward his belly, and the animal threatened to rear below his belt.

“Ah,” it leapt out his throat.

Hands freezing before reaching the healthy swell, you drew back from his shoulder, checking in. Your lids hung with visible weight, pupils blown by more than just the lack of light, dizzy from his touch. He could do that with his hands, he thought; a split-second revel before concern sobered your features.

His disappointment was palpable, like he’d burst some great bubble. “Mm—no, it’s fine, please—” please don’t stop. His arms around you tightened, eyes pleading with words he wasn’t bold enough to utter, even in the darkness.

A shadow of guilt fell across your face. Guilt for your greedy hands, for your lost control, for your bad behavior. It was a pitiful sight; worse than the one he saw yesterday. Worse because it was here. Worse because he was closer than he’d ever been before.

There was a gap between you; space for the cold to seep between your hearts. Space for the fear that he’d broken the spell. That you didn’t see him anymore, but your student instead. 

You thumbed his soft cotton shirt, buried in the shelter of his coat. Eddie Munson — frenetic and compelling. Beautiful in the way that wild things are. Breathing life into your numb hands with each  ragged swell. You studied him closely; his soft cupid’s bow, his pink, plush pout, the angles of his worried jaw, the pining in his eyes.

Want. A wild, elusive thing. A summer wind. An admission at a cost. Want didn’t budge. Want looked you dead in the eyes and tightened its grip.

Eddie knew what he wanted, burning like a question on his tongue. He knew he had to be the one to ask. He was terrified — of the question, of the asking, of the fact that he may never get another chance. Your hands grappled with it, clung like they feared he would vanish. He felt the ache in them, the want, the fear, the frustration. It opened up a narrow passage, and he entered with the boldest thing he had ever done.

He asked you with his forehead first. A gentle nod forward; the softest collision. A tickle of curls. A rock back and forth of his strong, sturdy brow. A smile even you couldn’t hide. Your hands released, settled at the dip of his back in quiet permission.

He asked you with the bridge of his nose. A delicate slope. A tender nuzzle. Rigid bone under soft flesh. Cold, round tip. Roaming the map of yours with heated intention as he swayed like a dance in the moonlight. You closed your eyes, surrendered to the fantasy. Felt the heat of his cheek, the pang of his palm at your back as he pulled you closer.

He asked you with a tilt of his chin, and brought time to a halt.

There was a gap between you. A fractional distance bridged by the ghost of his breath. Within it; every party that you never went to, every basement you were never led away from, every page you never shared, every experience you never had. Goodness was a mantle, heavy from a lifetime on your shoulders. 

What did freedom taste like? The question brushed across your lips like a warm invitation. You were desperate for the answer. Wanted it more than anything, ever, in your whole entire life. Wanted it for you, for only you. For once.

Eddie asked the question. You closed the gap. 

A sigh left both of you at once. One you could taste this time, humming against the plush cradle of his lips. Freedom could have melted you. It threatened the strength of your knees, but his arms were stronger. Locked against each other in the shadows you borrowed, your lips began to explore, to express every secret wish the two of you had dreamt apart. 

Freedom tasted tentative at first. A slow drag of his lips, a languid slip that rippled to the dormant parts of you. Catching like tinder as they grazed over yours, hot with an ache you could taste. It was sinfully exquisite; tasting the curve of his smile, the hyper-real rasp of his stubble as those lips—the ones that shot you smirks from down the hall and spilled over with song—found a rhythm with yours. Broad palms clutched the wool at your waist like you’d slip through a crack if he didn’t hold on.

Freedom was slick. It tasted like cigarettes, like a thousand unsaid words ushered past the border of your mouth. You could taste every one on his tongue, soothed them with the slickness of yours. Every aching word, dripping in each soft caress. Diving like a dance, echoed in the soft, wet smacks when you parted. You devoured them like you were starving. Every sigh, every hum, every color that left his lungs slipped eagerly down your throat. 

The wool at your back was a nuisance. Eddie pawed at it, desperate to feel the shape of you through the fabric, to store it in the vault of his mind, to play with it later in private. He halted his hands at your hips, willed them decent, rationed with the small working part of his brain that your lips would have to be enough. He relished in the way you accepted him. The way you spread for him, parting eagerly for his tongue. The way your lips closed around him, rocking as he prodded like you’d done it before. Like you wanted to elsewhere. 

The spell was broken. The line, miles away. There was a hunger in you, sudden and surprising, roused by the very first taste. Eddie palmed your hips with an urgency that stirred you. Like a bear in the spring, thawed by the heat of his touch, you devoured him. Devoured him with the wholeness of your splayed hands, tracing up his pounding ribs, dragging across the expanse of his broad chest. It heaved under your touch; solid muscle under soft cotton. You devoured his moan; a hot, strangled thing that escaped his plush lips. Like a match to the strip your tongue, you ignited. 

His hands lost their patience. Breaking from your waist, they dove behind your ears to cradle your face. Your face. Your jaw, your delicate cheeks he caressed with the rough pads of his thumbs, as if the swell of them—the rigid bones under soft skin, the absolute realness of you in his arms—could wake him from the dream he was surely having. He was tasting you, tasting the want on your tongue. More satisfying than a four course meal, more satisfying than anything he’d ever tasted in his life. You wanted him. More than that, you savored him; the taste of his hot, eager tongue as it slipped against yours.

Freedom was delicious. Bold and complex, acrid and rich. Full bodied. A smooth, sweet finish. You could have drowned in it. Drowned in the angles of his hands, in his tender strokes, in the sopping heat of his mouth. Drowned in his eager sighs, in his scent. Drowned completely if he hadn’t held your head above the surging waves. 

Eddie was good like a midnight snack. Good like a wide open road. He was good at this. Good at knowing how to ask and answer. Good at at finding the rhythm of you. 

You broke for air, stilling against the bridge of his nose, afraid to look him in the eyes just yet, to break away from the safety his shadow provided. Safe from the world, safe from consequences, safe from the thoughts that battered at the door of your mind. Safety was fragile and fleeting. You knew it, he knew it. Your breath mingled in hot bursts as you steadied your spinning world for a quiet moment together. You felt him smile—heard it—big and bright as it cracked across his face. The air stung your cheeks when he took his hands away. Leaning back against the fence, he tugged you closer, further into the safety of the shadows, enveloping you in the crook of his heat. 

It was good like this — the angles of you and the angles of him, fitting like they always belonged. It felt safe to explore them, to paint his pounding chest, down the soft swell of his belly, stopping at his hips. With a thick bob of his Adam’s apple, he closed the gap again. It was chaste this time, peppering your lips with space to breathe between each kiss. They were slow and savory, steady and sure. They lingered long enough for you to get another taste, to capture that plush Cupid’s bow and let it melt across yours, to flick your tongue over his soft bottom lip and taste him there too. 

You could taste his need when he greeted your tongue with his own. It was safe to show it here. Safe to let the animal inside him bare its teeth. Safe to let the animal in you do the same. It growled when he nipped at you, hooked its claws through his belt loops and tugged. It was a quick, testing thing, and your sound let him know that he passed. He lapped it up hungrily, soothed it before inflicting another.

It ached in a frightening way, in that deep, low place. Throbbed awake with each delicious bite. It scared you how quickly the path was veering south, but the pooling warmth encouraged his travels, let him go wherever he wanted. When his lips strayed far enough to track your jaw, a shrinking voice shrieked danger, but the rest of you simply submitted. 

Claws braced denim and leather, offering yourself with a tip of your head. Reverently, he accepted, setting his pace with a dizzying slowness. He worshiped you with every latch, every press, every lingering smack, darting his tongue out to taste the forbidden angles of your jaw. It was greedy but good. To him, to you. Letting go this much. Letting him go this far. The trail cooled in the night air, and he settled at the precipice of your neck.

His breath alone was enough to melt you; heavy with the weight of his new position. Heavy with desire, with the weight of thousand fantasies he never thought would come to pass. He drank in the cocktail of your scent; concentrated, warm, deliciously real. In the throws of your own heaving chest, sobered just barely by the pregnant pause, you awoke to your position: open, vulnerable, completely at his mercy. 

He tasted your swallow, felt your breath hitch when his warm, wet tongue found your pulse. Lathing there a moment, lingering and slow, he savored you. Savored the ridges of your neck, the way your head lolled to the side, like a feast laid out for him. He stored the image in his mind, packaged it carefully for when he would surely be starving again. His lips soothed where his tongue left off, over and over until your strangled sound stirred a fiending hunger. He bared his teeth, and you shattered. 

Freedom was falling apart in his arms. Crumbling into pieces and letting him grapple you whole. Letting him capture you in his maw and lap up your ruin. Letting him, letting him. His teeth dragged dull and slow, tingling every waking cell, turning you to putty completely. He dragged a moan out of you. A full one, loud and clear. He tucked it away, buried it deep alongside your squirms and your touch. 

The door opened.

Cold air shocked your lungs. Head snapping over your shoulder, you broke his latch and Eddie hissed a curse at the separation. With daggers, you both assessed the intruder. 

The silhouette of his cap gave him away. He might have even kept on walking but the gasps and the shuffling feet made him turn. “Oh shit,” Bill flinched back in surprise. “Sorry man I thought you left.”

Eddie’s arm tightened instinctively, pulling you as close as he wanted to earlier. Reflexively, you pushed away. It was a strange tug of war — his pride and your fear. “Yeah—no we’re still here,” he snapped.

You swallowed your pounding heart, sobering completely under Bill’s gaze. Suddenly your claws retracted, your hands felt wrong where they rested, shame bit at your neck along the cooling trail he left behind. 

Even in the backlit glow of the singular light, you saw it painted clearly on his features — the judgement, the disbelief, the questions rising up but not daring to come out. “Well um, sorry to interrupt. Have a good night,” Bill said with an awkward raise of his hand before making quickly for the parking lot. 

Footsteps faded over gravel and left a silence in their wake, thicker than the stillness from before. 

Eddie breathed a sharp sigh through his nostrils, brows lowered as he seethed toward the parking lot. The cold was setting in again. Your nose, and ears, and fingers stung with it. The rest of you stung worse; chest numbing, caving like a can under the weight of what you’d just done. 

When the flick of distant headlights made you brave enough to face him, frustration painted his features. He pawed at your coat, desperate to salvage what he could of his precious moment. “Anyway, where were we?” he muttered, eyeing your neck with a tilt of his head like he was about to dive in again. 

Your hand at his chest stopped him, and the look in his eyes was wounding. “Eddie,” you warned softly. A slow, heavy sigh left his nose, one you could feel with your palm. “I need to go.”

Crestfallen after a desperate, hesitant second, his arms went slack. Your hand dropped, leaving a fierce chill behind. One more, his lips begged, but struggled to release. Please. 

It hurt, to crumble like this after all you had built. With the roar of Bill’s engine, the fantasy shattered around you. The carriage became a pumpkin, your gown turned into rags. Shrill bells rang out in the distance, coming surely as the sun would rise. Pinballs thundered as that sweet oval face—the one from the back of the room and the chair next to yours—pouted with lips still swollen from where you had broken your contract. 

“I’m sorry,” you mouthed. 

Gathering himself with a deep breath, he straightened to a dignified height, conviction filling the cracks in his composure. “I’m not.” 

It was terrifying — the prospect, the consequences. What it meant for you, for him, for the world you’d have to face tomorrow. 

Most terrifying of all was how good it felt to hear him say.

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A/N: Thank you all for your patience on this one. It took me nearly all summer to finish but I'm really proud of how it turned out. Please let me know what you think! I've missed hearing from and connecting with all of you. Next one won't take nearly as long, I promise. 💕

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MASTERLIST ⎮ AO3 ⎮ KO-FI

[etrangeres]

The Curious Case of Kaitou Kid

We love alliteration in this household.

To start with an anecdote, I went to the main Animate store in Ikebukuro some 2-3 weeks after M27 began showing in theaters. I had two reasons to be there: hopefully grab some copies of the Magic Kaito Treasured Editions, and grab what movie-related merch I could. The former I managed, but the latter was a lot harder. Despite them devoting nearly an entire wall on the right side of the first floor to Detective Conan merch, every single piece of non-blind box Kaitou Kid merch had been snatched up already. This trend of Kid’s merch being sold out seemed to continue for at least a couple weeks afterward, at least in and around Tokyo.

This demonstrates something I think we all already know: Kaitou Kid is a crazy popular Detective Conan character.

…Detective Conan character? Yes, but… No. But definitely yes. But… yes?

Kaitou Kid - real name Kaito Kuroba - is such a funny character if you think about him for more than a few seconds. So I chose to think about him for a few, uh. Days.

When I say he’s funny to think about, I don’t necessarily mean in terms of who he is as a character - which is admittedly also fun, because I think Gosho Aoyama is the king of gap moe - but more in terms of his placement in the greater DCMK canon. I mean, the fact that we have the “DCMK” acronym at all signifies the importance of tying these two series together. Even though they technically take place in different worlds. You know. Technically.

So I want to (mostly) chronologically go through Kid’s history in Detective Conan, how it relates to his origin as Kaito Kuroba in Magic Kaito, and amuse myself with the strange relationship he (and his source manga) has with the juggernaut that is Detective Conan.

Before we jump into this, some basic notes:

-I don’t mean for this to come across like some academic thesis. Nor did I actually think this would hit nearly 17k words. I’m just Like This.

-Any translations you see here are done by me, from the source Japanese.

-There will be concrete mentions of events from M27. They are comparatively trivial in terms of the mystery the film offers, but there will be spoilers for certain major parts of the plot as they relate to Magic Kaito elements. This will be clearly demarcated, should you wish to avoid those spoilers.

The MK to DC Pipeline

So I don’t know how many people actually need this information, but for completion’s sake:

Magic Kaito is Gosho Aoyama’s debut serialization (important distinction), and it began in June 1987. Though roughly the first two volumes’ worth of chapters were published at a fairly consistent monthly rate, it grew more and more irregular after that due to the popularity of both Yaiba and (more importantly for our discussion) Detective Conan. Due to it still technically being an ongoing series, it is currently Weekly Shonen Sunday’s longest running manga. This just so happens to be followed by Detective Conan, and they lead this particular ranking by a fairly wide margin.

The manga as it currently exists came out of the one-shot “Nonchalant Lupin,” which he submitted to Shonen Magazine’s manga contest after his editor told him to “draw the story you most want to draw” (Treasured Ed. V5). The one-shot won an honorable mention. His comment in Treasured Ed V1 also mentions that he “all but became a mangaka because I wanted to write about a high school kaitou,” so he’s clearly attached to the concept. He’s also clearly attached to Magic Kaito itself; a number of excerpts from the Gosho Aoyama 30th Anniversary Book, for example, talk about how a greedy part of him immediately thought of Kaitou Kid on the silver screen when he heard about the first movie being greenlit, or how he thinks Detective Conan will one day end but Magic Kaito may not because that’s what he really wants to be writing.

Back to our timeline: the Kindaichi Case Files were gaining steam in the early 1990s, and Weekly Shonen Sunday wanted its own version of the boom. Gosho himself was approached by the editorial team at Sunday to do a mystery series, and he accepted, not thinking it would last very long - not only because he wasn’t all that interested in the idea, but because he didn’t think there would be enough material to last more than three months.

It has lasted 30 years.

I say all this not to indulge in the depressing truth that Magic Kaito only has just shy of 40 chapters, but to specifically highlight the synergy Magic Kaito has with Detective Conan - despite the existence of magic in the former - due to their shared inspiration of Arsene Lupin. Things like Sherlock Holmes and Kogoro Akechi are pretty obvious inspirations for Detective Conan that I don’t need to go into in much depth, but the idea of a “high school kaitou” still very much bleeds into aspects of Conan’s character. Many of the things Kaito is either capable of naturally or has to deal with due to the inherent nature of his position are things that are also reflected in Shinichi.

Feats of physicality (Comes naturally to Kaito due to genetics and practice; enhanced for Conan via Agasa’s inventions)

Master of disguise (A practiced skill with makeup and voice changing for Kaito; use of a voice changer and aid from people in his life to deal with disguises)

Secret identity (a flipped perspective version: Kaito has a straightforward secret identity, while Shinichi has to keep his survival a secret)

The “bumbling police” (A good kaitou story will have a morally upstanding but kinda dumb detective that demonstrates the sheer skill of the kaitou in question while putting a contrast to their morals. Nakamori is this to Kaito; though not a one-to-one, characters like Megure or Kogoro serve similar roles to Shinichi to demonstrate his skills as a detective.)

“Why are you like this????” (Admittedly the most Vibes of the list, but there’s a level of gray morality. We root for the main character while knowing that what they’re doing is at times questionable. Kaito goes without saying, but Shinichi is more likely to engage in suspicious behavior like breaking into cars, bugging people’s houses, or even stealing evidence after becoming Conan.)

Motive (The most interesting - and sometimes the funniest - overlap is the fact that they’re both after a shifty organization. It’s a bit surface level at first, but there’s a suspicious level of overlap between not Shinichi and Kaito, but Shinichi and Toichi.)

All of this is to say that pushing DC and MK into DCMK is almost comically easy once you adjust for tone (and, uh. remove Akako, I guess) because Shinichi is BUILT from the kaitou framework and tweaked into a detective. So it’s no wonder Gosho decided to throw in a Kaitou Kid cameo that turned into the character asserting himself as a recurring sub character, as opposed to a quirky crossover character.

Even if he’s still both. And also a secret third thing.

The Last Wizard of the Black Star

So, there’s not much to mention about Magic Kaito’s early run. All chapters in the pre-DC era are stand-alone stories, with the plot starting and concluding within the span of a single chapter. It was a bit of an “anything goes” era, with the genre fluctuating all over the place and a lot of things we consider “standard” in any given Kaitou Kid story not yet being fully codified. Many of these weirder chapters have their own charm if you allow the gag manga energy to take you for a ride, but if gag manga isn’t your thing then it feels like these chapters are where Kaito himself is at his most…incongruous with the character that would eventually show up in Detective Conan. (Let it be known for the record that I personally find these early chapters SO silly and would kill for an animated adaptation of Clockwork Heart, the truly bonkers third chapter.)

The biggest “what do you MEAN that wasn’t there from the start?!” is by far Blue Birthday, which is the chapter of Magic Kaito that was published immediately before Detective Conan began serialization. It took about half of the currently released chapters to introduce Pandora, a now fundamental concept that is likely to be included in ANY one-paragraph summary of Magic Kaito’s plot. It isn’t the only thing, of course; though Kaito’s card gun debuts in the very first chapter, his hang glider doesn’t show up until Chapter 10.

The other major thing worth pointing out in the pre-Black Star era is the general pacing and fundamental makeup of the stories themselves. Very few case-only (or heist-only, as it were) characters show up in these chapters. When they do show up, they tend to be pretty flat, are often ridiculous, and are there to facilitate the hijinks of the day (the gun-crazy detective, the weird robot inventor, the irresponsible prime minister).

This changes with Green Dream, and it’s an immediate change. Detective Conan has been in serialization for over half a year by this point, and already its formula is bleeding into Magic Kaito. There are multiple new characters per heist, and multiple pages with two to three times more text than before are dedicated to setting up a fundamental conflict. Kaito is also more likely to take a stance in this fundamental conflict and use his talents and status as Kaitou Kid to lead it to a conclusion. Behind all of that, though, Kaito himself is still the cheeky little agent of chaos we all know and love throughout these chapters. (As an aside, the Kid mark used on his advanced notices debuted in this chapter!)

The big watershed moment is very obviously Black Star - the Detective Conan version, in this case. In both this and the Magic Lovers case (despite his very little screen time in the latter), readers of Detective Conan are introduced to a FAR more serious version of the Magic Kaito character. This is largely because what we’re seeing in Black Star specifically is a 100% outsider's perspective. Though we’ll very shortly find out this is not Shinichi’s first meeting with Kid chronologically, it is the first time he not only hears his name, but also has any real interactions with him. Kaito wears the mask of his father in his performance as Kid, and you could very much argue his guard is WAY up around probably the weirdest child he’s ever met. So in a story from Conan’s perspective, we have no way of seeing behind that mask.

Personally, I always put a bit of an asterisk next to DC’s Black Star. This is the case that feels the most like a “crossover” than any other Kid case after this, and of course it would. It’s the very first one! It’s the Kaito and Aoko cameos that really bring this vibe for me personally; great care is taken in Detective Conan not to pull much of anything from Kaito Kuroba’s personal life except in a few stand-out cases, and those  almost never involve anyone in our core cast directly. And I don’t even mean in the “he’s only ever shown in his Kid costume” way, because there are plenty of times where he shows up not wearing that. They key for me is that Kaito is always “at work” as a disguised Kaitou Kid as opposed to as Kaito Kuroba - the hat, the darker clothes, the low-effort disguises as police or staff. That kinda thing. But the appearance of Kaito and Aoko in their casual wear or school uniforms here really makes this case stand out in a way that later cases simply don’t joke about.

Detective Conan shows us Kaito at work. It’s why he comes across as so difficult to grasp and almost intimidating in these earliest of appearances. Those vibes obviously continue into The Last Wizard of the Century, the third theatrical release and Kaitou Kid’s very first movie appearance! His grand total screen time is only a fraction of the movie’s full run, but the vibes have a heavy overlap with that first conversation Conan has with Kid on the roof in Black Star. Though there are debates regarding the movie’s canonicity, this also marks the point in at LEAST movie continuity where Kaito figures out Conan’s identity, so there’s that precedent set. (Put a pin in that, by the way.) This also marks the first time Kid disguises himself as Shinichi.

What’s more amusing to me is that Magic Kaito’s Black Star seems to have been published to coincide with the movie’s release. Magic Kaito’s very first chapter after Kaitou Kid’s appearance in Detective Conan brings Shinichi Kudo to Magic Kaito. This is his only appearance in Magic Kaito to date, whether it be as Shinichi or as Conan. Gosho mentioned in his note on the Yaiba vs Kaito chapter that he really likes crossovers (same hat), so I have to think that the limited run of Magic Kaito is likely why we don’t see more DC characters in MK. Though in a Q&A he did toy with the idea of Conan showing up in Magic Kaito one day, so…

All that said, every time I think of MK’s Black Star my brain shoots off in two directions. The first and easier to articulate direction involves Akako’s presence, but we will get to that in the next section. The second direction is the very existence of this chapter at all.

As I mentioned above, this is the first new heist for MK after Kid showed up in DC. It is also the first multi-chapter heist, which indicates even more influence is bleeding over. It was also published alongside the movie, probably as part of a promotional stunt. Something about it feels like a doubling down of sorts on the stapling of these two series together. Kid showing up in Detective Conan is a fun reference; Shinichi showing up in Magic Kaito instead of the more recognizable Conan feels like a statement of shared worlds, largely because of how it makes you think about the timeline. The Akako issue aside, it really feels like he wanted these worlds to collide. If you have your own Lupin analogue AND your own Sherlock analogue, why wouldn’t you want to pit them against each other?

Add More Staples!

It’s at this point that updates to Magic Kaito get… particularly sparse. But there are a couple of things I find personally interesting about these few years despite that.

We start off with a back-to-back bang. The Twilight Mansion case introduces Hakuba into Detective Conan. Which would be fascinating by itself, but this was also Hakuba’s first appearance in EITHER DC or MK in TEN YEARS if you don’t count his one-panel cameo in MK’s Black Star. The framing of his introduction in Detective Conan is interesting, because the paneling and composition very clearly tell the reader that the character that’s about to be introduced is either 1) important, or 2) already known. In Hakuba’s case it’s clearly the latter, but this would make very little sense to someone that isn’t as aware of his place in Magic Kaito. 

Enter The Gathering of the Great Detectives, the animated adaptation of the Twilight Mansion case that was turned into a two hour special and opened with MK’s Black Star. There are ways in which it’s an odd choice, given Hakuba barely appears in Black Star at all. But I think Hakuba’s status as yet another Magic Kaito character being introduced into the narrative provided an opportunity for them to adapt a Magic Kaito heist for TV broadcast, and the chapters featuring Shinichi were the easy choice. The Yaiba vs Kaitou Kid vs Conan OVA had come out shortly before this, so it’s technically not the first time a Magic Kaito chapter had been adapted. But that was more of an altered gaiden OVA compared to this, and this TV adaptation seemed to hit you over the head even harder that there was merit to delving into Magic Kaito if you were a fan of Detective Conan.

But now we finally get to talk about Akako. Oh, Akako. Bane of the DCMK world. Sole reason we must argue that they take place in parallel worlds despite how ridiculous that sounds.

In the manga, Akako gives Kaito her premonition about the Demon of Light coming after the White Sinner. This is also in the episode, if memory serves. But in the episode as aired on TV, Akako features very little after that… because they fully cut the scene of her attempting to use magic at the base of the clock tower. Magic does not exist in Detective Conan, after all. It was eventually put into the episode another ten years later on the bonus DVD that came with certain versions of the Treasured Edition of Magic Kaito Volume 4.

More broadly, Akako is clearly a sticking point for the combining of these two “worlds” into one. Gosho himself takes the easy way out by ignoring Akako’s existence entirely in the Detective Conan canon, just as the TMS adaptation of Black Star did. He’s often brought up the concept of the two taking place in parallel worlds where the only major difference is the presence of magic in one and its lack in the other, as in his comment on Akako’s intro in Treasured Ed. V1: “In truth, the biggest bottleneck when it came to introducing Kaitou Kid into Detective Conan was the inheritor of Red Magic herself! So please just accept the two series as parallel worlds (lol).” He’s much more straightforward in his comment for Sun Halo in Volume 5: “You really gotta have Akako use Red Magic! (Please just assume Akako does not exist in the Conan world…lol)”

Despite this insistence she doesn’t exist, Sky Walk features an almost blink and you’ll miss it reference to her. Nakamori brings up the idea of Kid’s assistant being in play, to which Conan shows surprise at him having an assistant at all. Nakamori replies that there are multiple reports, some of an “old man” and others mentioning a “young woman.” The old man is obviously Jii, but the young woman is very likely meant to be a reference to the stunt Akako pulls in Akako’s Delivery Service, a very early Magic Kaito chapter.

As you’ll notice, Akako is still very much a practitioner of sorcery as of something as recent as Sun Halo, so it’s not as though Gosho has simply opted to phase her or her magic out of Magic Kaito. But considering there are MULTIPLE DC cases that deal with debunking the supernatural, her presence would most certainly complicate things. That being said, Magic Kaito’s world and plot do not seem to hinge on magic in an intrinsic manner (unless Pandora is literally a magic gem, as opposed to the tale of the gem being a metaphor for something), so I personally don’t see too much of an issue with magic being very rare, even in Detective Conan’s setting.

To keep with Magic Kaito for a little while longer, Golden Eye was the single heist released during this period. As far as its significance is concerned, I actually think Gosho said it best in his comment in the Treasured Edition: “Magic Kaito may be a thief story, but it’s also a magic story, so it was incredible to finally be able to mention the actual legend Harry Houdini. Even so, there’s an awful lot of deduction going on, so in this story you can also really feel how it’s been corrupted by Conan (lol).” It was a thought I had about Golden Eye even before reading his comment, so I’m a bit amused to find he actually called it out to be honest.

The following Detective Conan cases - Sky Walk, Three Instruments, and Four Masterpieces - and the movie Magician of the Silver Sky are all more along the lines of Black Star in terms of Conan and Kid’s relationship, but with an extra added pinch of “coming together for a common cause” in the movie. Sky Walk specifically also introduced Jirokichi to the mix, and he becomes the only Detective Conan character whose purpose in the narrative is tied exclusively to Kid. It’s in this way we begin to create a Detective Conan-exclusive environment for Kaitou Kid, which in turn establishes him more and more as simply “a Detective Conan recurring character” as opposed to the main character of another story that’s here for crossover shenanigans.

There’s a Pandora’s Box reference in Three Instruments that makes me want to pull my hair out because don’t say Pandora that word is important, and Four Masterpieces is a lot more “murder mystery involving Kid.” They happen very rarely in Detective Conan, but they happen basically NEVER in Magic Kaito (Dark Knight doesn’t count), so this lowkey feels like another way we’re shoving Kaitou Kid into the rules of Detective Conan.

In Magician of the Silver Sky, Conan expresses a level of shock when “Shinichi” passes the pinch test. This then marks the first time (in movie continuity, at least) that Conan is aware that Kid naturally resembles him.

But the funniest thing about this series of cases (and the movie) for me is the cracks in Kid’s mask, whether that be for Conan himself or for the reader. The final confrontation in Sky Walk ends on an almost comical note with Kaito being blasted off again via gasoline fire, and there’s a stinger at the end of Four Masterpieces showing a pathetic Kaito after Conan has just shot a mecha-powered soccer ball directly at his stomach. And that’s not even getting into the movie, whose entire first act drops us into a tense confrontation with a very suave Kaitou Kid before rewinding back to when he put on the least convincing act ever as a disguised Shinichi Kudo.

Have I mentioned he contains multitudes yet? King of gap moe. 

But we aren’t truly there yet. He’s a little silly for sure, but there are still times where the mask is on about as tight as it can be in Conan’s presence.

The last two stories mentioned here - Detective Koshien and the movie The Private Eyes’ Requiem - are actually a lot less about Kid and a lot more about Hakuba. So let’s talk about the cosplay detective for a little while.

Hakuba is interesting to me, for a couple different reasons. One is the cadence of his appearances in Magic Kaito. He is introduced late into the pre-Blue Birthday run and is in a total of three chapters. Those three chapters speedrun his discovery of Kid’s identity… and then he’s gone until his first Detective Conan appearance. Golden Eye is his return to Magic Kaito in a short but fairly significant scene that fills out the contours of his relationship with Kaito with regards to that identity, at which point he is in all but one case thereafter.

The other reason is that he seems to slip through the cracks of “significant Kaitou Kid relationships” unless you consider yourself a Magic Kaito fan. But I think this is largely due to the line in the sand we shall not cross: Kaito Kuroba’s personal life is off-limits in Detective Conan. As a result, Hakuba is framed far more often as a detective in his own right that just so happens to have some manner of connection to Kaitou Kid in his few Detective Conan appearances.

This connection is made fairly obvious in Twilight Mansion by both having him introduce Kid’s presence in the case, and having him and Conan highlighted as the two people that are after him at the end of that case. But his next appearance, Detective Koshien, only implies a connection in passing and chooses instead to focus on contrasting him with Heiji in preparation for the movie. In an interesting move, the plot developments of the case actually give Hakuba an excuse to avoid wearing a school uniform like the other students because he ultimately settles into the “foreign detective guest” role. There are, as a result, zero indications that he and Kaitou Kid’s civilian identity are actually classmates - or that he attends a Japanese school at all.

As for the movie itself, Hakuba was Kid in disguise the entire time, so there’s very little we can discuss when it comes to Hakuba himself. But after Kid’s frankly poor performance as Shinichi in M8, his performance as Hakuba in M10 is almost uncanny levels of spot-on (which admittedly turns into a very funny contrast with his Hakuba disguise in Green Dragon).

All in all, this selection of chapters, episodes, and movies pulled more of Magic Kaito into Detective Conan (when those details weren’t flying in the face of it), while Kid himself began to more closely resemble the Kid of Magic Kaito in the small moments. In Magic Kaito, meanwhile, we’re starting to see far more obvious influence from Detective Conan in the writing and pacing of its heists.

But the gates have not yet been thrown wide to truly allow the silly in.

Throw Wide The Gates That We May Sillie

The collection of chapters that start this portion of the list are, in a word, fascinating from a Magic Kaito perspective. 

We start with Shinichi’s Childhood Adventure, which does a couple of notable things. First, it confirms that Toichi was the magician that taught Yukiko how to use disguise makeup for her acting career. It was implied to be him in a very “if you know, you know” fashion in the Golden Apple case over 200 chapters prior, but this makes it inarguably clear. The extension of this confirmation is that Toichi also taught Vermouth the art of disguise, which is a particularly interesting connection to think about. As obvious as it sounds to say, this chapter is also the start of confirming that many things we know of Magic Kaito’s plot and backstory remain consistent in Detective Conan as well. The case ensures you don’t need prior Magic Kaito knowledge to pick up on Toichi being the first Kaitou Kid. That he meets Yukiko with Kaito in tow also means (unless my memory is failing me) that this is the first and only time Kaito’s name is spoken within the Detective Conan manga. It also confirms that the author that named Kid was, in fact, Yusaku.

The big part of this case that people tend to bring up in the wake of the M27 reveal is the “I’m your younger brother” conversation from Toichi to a young Shinichi. Now, 2006 is earlier than what meager sources I’ve managed to find that seem to indicate he had the familial relationship in the back of his mind, so I’m personally not sure how much stock I place in this conversation as any form of foreshadowing. What the entire case does seem to indicate regardless, though, is that Toichi and Yusaku are aware of each other on more than a surface level. At the very least, we’re meant to take away a passing of the baton, from father to son, in their relationship as friendly rivals. It has, apparently, always run in the family.

All in all, this case is a far more intentional mixing of Magic Kaito with Detective Conan because it deals with past events. It says “these things were always here, intermingling” and concretely refutes the idea that the modern Kaitou Kid was the first point of contact, retroactively entrenching the character even more into the world of Detective Conan.

We switch back to Magic Kaito for a heist with Dark Knight, which Gosho acknowledges in his Treasured Edition comment is “another story with a strong mystery feel, and a dark conclusion that isn’t very Magic Kaito-esque.” This also happens to be the first Magic Kaito case to feature Superintendent Chaki, a Detective Conan character and Nakamori’s boss as introduced in Black Star.

The following series of four Detective Conan cases all look at slightly different aspects of Kid that haven’t really made themselves known in DC yet. First is Purple Nail, a personal favorite and the case that arguably leans the most into the idea of a magic show. The focus on having an audience and the employing (and challenging) of Thurston’s magic principles give it a slightly different vibe to other cases. In relation to Thurston, Kid actually opts to approach Conan ahead of the heist to personally challenge him. In the manga, it’s the first clear look at Jii in Detective Conan. But the thing that stands out to me is the sheer level of emotional expression on display from Kid. It’s not in a small moment at the end of a case anymore, but in various moments throughout. You see his panic when Conan shows up above the building, or his sense of satisfaction when running through the crowd in the middle of his trick. All of it combined makes it feel much more like, by this point, Conan and Kid are engaged in a game.

After that is Iron Tanuki, an amusing oddball of a case. That Jirokichi used a fake notice to send a secret message to Kid pleading for help is interesting enough, given it displays a level of begrudging trust the former has in the latter. But more amusing is Conan’s choice to facilitate this upon realizing the truth of the situation, as well as his choice to stay behind and ask Kid if there was anything he could do to help to open the titular safe. If Purple Nail was their first real game, then Iron Tanuki is the first time they really came together in anything resembling a cooperative stance.

Kirin’s Horn seems like an outlier at first - and it sort of is, since Kid thought a little shock and awe was in order - but the case also demonstrates a level of familiarity. Conan remains flat on the ground because he knows how Kid works, and knows figuring out why he’s chosen to knock him out this time is the key to the case. There’s also a level of gag to this case via Kid’s choice to disguise as Genta, and the stinger of Conan getting the last laugh via something as silly as a paper taped to his back.

The fourth case, Ryoma’s Gunbelt, is where the real fun starts. Despite the rather nonstandard premise of Kid opting to return stolen goods, the general flow of the case is fairly standard for a Kid case in Detective Conan. The standout of this case, in my opinion, is the final conversation between Conan and Kid. They speak of their respective mothers in a conversation that reveals key details about each other, and do so surprisingly candidly. There’s an argument to be made that Kid knew of Conan’s identity by this point; regardless of that argument, that Conan spoke of his mother with such identifying details once again indicates a level of trust. Kaito implying Phantom Lady is his mom, while not particularly identifying, returns that trust. And that’s not even getting into the fact that a Kid case in Detective Conan is introducing a pretty important fact about Kaito’s mom.

Skipping ahead a bit, what makes this case notable is not the case itself, but rather its pair: Phantom Lady, a Magic Kaito heist published a year later that serves as an immediate prequel to Ryoma’s Gunbelt. This is the first time since Black Star that Magic Kaito picks up on a Detective Conan case in any capacity, and arguably the first time at all it does so with such a direct connection. The mentions of the Black Star served as a vague framing story for the clock tower heist, but Phantom Lady ends with a shot of the three treasures that assumes you know exactly where things go from here.

All of these cases do much more to peel away the mysterious veneer from Kaitou Kid, and give him a more candid and open relationship with Conan.

But the big thing of this stretch, and a turning point as a whole for Kaitou Kid in the franchise in my opinion, is The Lost Ship in the Sky. Now this? THIS is a Sillie Movie. Kid is playing around with goats, smirking like a fool with Conan before jumping out of a helicopter, and making the most inappropriate sounds when Conan’s hand wanders a little too far. He and Conan are actively seeking each other’s help and indulging in silly banter, even as Kaito makes a fool of himself with Ran. Speaking of Ran, this is the movie where she first fully realizes that Kid naturally resembles Shinichi. And as a cherry on top, we also get a shot of Kaito Kuroba himself.

And I think it’s worth considering what aired the very same day the movie came out: Secret Birth of Kaitou Kid, the first episode of TMS’s adaptation of Magic Kaito.  After years of teasing the door open on who Kaitou Kid is behind the mask, TMS adapted the first chapter of Magic Kaito and aired it in the Detective Conan TV time slot. It, too, is an incredibly silly episode of an incredibly silly first chapter of an incredibly silly gag manga. THIS IS KAITO KUROBA, Detective Conan said. OBSERVE HOW SILLIE HE IS.

Testing the Waters

TMS eventually made 12 of these episodes. Based on the air dates, I can only assume Secret Birth of Kaitou Kid was meant to be a one-off, or at the very least it was a testing of the waters. Whatever the case, the remaining episodes got greenlit and were aired over 2011-2012. The most interesting change to the second half of these episodes is the addition of new plot points related to Magic Kaito’s organization, chiefly the new member Spider. They were introduced alongside Hakuba, who I imagine they wished to give a larger role in the episodes he did show up in. Another major takeaway from the TMS adaptation is their decision to animate Akako’s Delivery Service in The Witch, The Detective, and The Phantom Thief, albeit edited and extended to deal with the new anime-only plot points. In terms of Akako’s feelings for Kaito and Hakuba’s discovery of his identity, it’s a fairly significant chapter. Despite that, this is the only animated adaptation. I have some… complicated feelings regarding this, but now is not the time. 

As for the manga, we have a major arc in Mystery Train. This is not, in all technicality, a Kid case. If anything, his presence is pure coincidence, given he was only there to stake out the train ahead of the actual heist. Though this is a purebred Detective Conan plot, with the Black Organization’s involvement, Kid winds up a key part of their plan to convince the Organization that Sherry is well and truly dead.

Though his appearance in this case would be referenced in the future, this would be the first and last time Kid was directly involved in a major Detective Conan plot beat. This chapter was released before I had an active interest in Detective Conan, so much of what I’ve seen are second- or third-hand accounts from Japanese fans who went through the arc’s release. In short, reception was very mixed to Kid being such a major part in the resolution of this conflict. While there are those who enjoy his inclusion, either because they’re fans of Kid or because they accept the manner in which he was dragged into the plot halfway through, there are also those who consider him a “cheat” character who taints the worldview of Detective Conan by his presence alone. Gosho himself has also mentioned that he won’t be involving Kid in Black Organization plots anymore, either, due to the backlash.

My personal view on Kid’s involvement in Mystery Train is that the arc felt very much like a capital-E Event, so I bought it. There was a clear amount of luck involved in his presence there, so I could see how some may think the entire thing contrived, but it’s that coincidence that sells it for me. It’s Conan needing to fly by the seat of his pants to ensure Haibara makes it out alive, and further impresses upon us that they were half a step away from potentially fatal consequences. Nevertheless, this seems to be a case of an attempt to integrate Kid into the greater Detective Conan narrative that ultimately failed, so he returns to being largely divorced from the overall plot.

Despite this, though, there appear to be multiple chapters after this that focus on systematically introducing Kid to members of the extended cast. This starts with Blush Mermaid, Sera’s first presence at a Kid heist. What’s also unique about this chapter is the small but significant scene at the end that actually does continue the overall main plot - in this case, Sera’s misgivings over the death of Akai. Though Kid will not be overly involved in the main plot from here on out, his chapters do start featuring B Plots that touch on said main narrative. It’s… a half victory, of sorts, in terms of integration.

The other major takeaway from this case is a continuation of Conan and Kid apparently keeping a score of sorts. Due to Kid’s assistance during Mystery Train and the lack of a real theft, Conan lets Kid go. We’re in real “friendly rival” hours now.

Twin Bets pits Kid against Kyogoku, a frankly long overdue confrontation considering he’s Sonoko’s boyfriend. There’s a half-argument to be had that this also involves Kid in a major B Plot for the series as a whole, since this is a romance plot with a major recurring character. There’s also a level of intrinsic amusement in a Kid vs Kyogoku confrontation, since it comes down to (to quote my girlfriend) “guy who is literally from another manga but feels like he belongs here vs guy who somehow belongs here but definitely should be in another manga.”

Twin Bets also serves as the very first time Kid looks at the gem of the day under the moonlight in a Detective Conan chapter. It's the first case post-TMS Magic Kaito where it's applicable for him to do so; he's a bit busy with other things in Mystery Train, and he calls out Blush Mermaid for being a fake. This trend would continue in every case afterward where the plot wasn't otherwise preventing him from doing so (like the murder in Azure Throne).

Normally, this particular stretch of chapters would include quite a few more due to how many of them follow this “Kid, meet [Character]” format. But some of you may have noticed that, despite all the ample opportunities I’ve had to speak of it, I’ve avoided mentioning a certain number…

1412

Thousands of words earlier in this retrospective, I mentioned that Detective Conan’s Black Star felt the most like a crossover chapter. What I didn’t mention at the time, however, was that it also feels like one of the most fundamentally necessary Kid cases in Detective Conan. Not because it’s Kid’s first appearance, but because it introduces a piece of information about Kaitou Kid that eventually becomes baked into his identity despite the fact that it was introduced outside of his source series.

1412, the Interpol criminal code assigned to the internationally renowned phantom thief that was subsequently transformed after an author misread a journalist’s hasty scrawl as “KID.”

It feels like no small coincidence that the A1 adaptation of Magic Kaito added “1412” to the end of its title not just to differentiate this adaptation from TMS’s Magic Kaito specials, but to also indicate that this version of Magic Kaito would be the marriage of its namesake manga and Detective Conan.

In this regard and more, Magic Kaito 1412 modernizes aspects of the original story.

Technology, for example, was updated to reflect what a high school student like Kaito would be doing. Instead of reading the news in the papers, he’s scrolling through news sites on his phone. This is the most common kind of update that you see across adaptations of all stripes, so it’s the less interesting change.

The anime also modernizes with regards to itself, looking inward to find out what people associate with Kid in the modern day and adjusting the story - and the order that story is told - to account for that. This is expressed in ways both large and small. Blue Birthday, for example, is pushed way up to episode 2 of 1412 to introduce Pandora to the audience as soon as possible. Given Blue Birthday is also an Aoko-centric episode, it’s equally fitting that she gets the second episode. Jii’s significance is heightened by reworking the scrapped chapter Hustler vs Magician, a chapter that also coincidentally focused on an aspect of Jii’s past, into episode 3. This focus on major characters continues into episodes 4-6, which introduce Hakuba (chapter 15), Akako (chapter 6), and Shinichi (chapter 23), in that order.

There are also minor changes, likely made for pacing or simply content reasons. One small but frankly fairly significant change involves Kaito’s card gun. He’s shown using it in the first chapter of the manga, which also means he’s using it in the first episode of TMS’s adaptation. Since it eventually comes to be a signature weapon for Kaitou Kid, 1412 prevents Kaito from using it while in his civilian identity (like when he’s panicking about the fish with Aoko). Due to moving Blue Birthday up to episode 2, heists that originally weren’t really bothered with holding the target up to the moon include scenes of Kaito doing just that. Jii is suspiciously absent for most chapters until Black Star, so 1412 inserts him into animated adaptations of older heists, such as helping Kaito prepare the fireworks for Blue Birthday or providing an anime-original explanation of magic vs sorcery. There are similar one-offs with other characters as well, like a short scene of Hakuba being inserted into Akako’s introductory episode.

As a proper series in its own right, as opposed to a series of animated specials, 1412 also had to decide on a unified tone. Though TMS’s adaptation fluctuates wildly, 1412’s tone is a bit more even across the board. It’s comedic and dips its toes in gag vibes without taking it to absurd levels. While TMS’s adaptation of the first episode includes an entire apparatus outside the classroom window in episode 1, Kaito simply jumps out the window and makes it to the ground after running around the classroom in 1412. Though it also pulls away from some of the more atmospheric moments of TMS’s adaptation, it pulls back far more from the gag energy.

As a result of the above two points, many chapters are shuffled around or cut entirely. Chapters like Clockwork Heart, Japan’s Most Irresponsible Prime Minister, or I Am The Master are a level of absurdity that doesn’t fit with modern Magic Kaito’s energy, so they were completely cut. The Police Are Everywhere (chapter 2) was pushed back and adapted as The Princess and the Thief’s Improv (episode 15), because the emotional core of Nakamori potentially getting removed from the police force simply doesn’t work that early in the story outside the gag context. Akako’s Delivery Service was also unfortunately cut… Whether it be because of Akako’s appearance as Kid and the subsequent punchline or because of the technology Hakuba used to ascertain Kid’s identity, they apparently determined it was either too outside the tone or too difficult to adapt. Hakuba’s call in Golden Eye truly comes out of nowhere as a result, though, and that’s one fewer episode for a character that already had a bit of a spotty appearance record early in the manga’s run.

When the anime was announced, there were 30 chapters out. Seven of these were ultimately not animated, and many of the two chapter cases could be easily adapted into a single episode. They needed more material to fill out the remaining episodes, so they did this in two main ways.

The first is by reaching into some key Detective Conan cases. Black Star is a bonafide Magic Kaito case, but shifting it and Shinichi’s appearance in this adaptation to episode six - right after a series of core cast introductions - is actually very telling. 1412 was not only concerned with adapting the manga for modern sensibilities, but also with adapting Detective Conan for a Magic Kaito audience and further strengthening the connection between the two. This “adaptation” resulted in anime-original retellings of Ryoma’s Gunbelt, Sky Walk, and Purple Nail from Kaito’s point of view. Personally, I wouldn’t be surprised if this was a decision early on in the anime’s development, and if it was their existence that necessitated the tone of 1412 be evened out via not adapting the more “out there” chapters of the source manga.

The second thing they did to fill the run time was for Gosho to write an entirely new heist to function as a finale for the anime. This was Midnight Crow, the first heist to really touch on the driving plot of Magic Kaito (outside of Snake showing up to be ineffective) since Blue Birthday. Gosho’s comment on this case in the Treasured Edition is… a lot.

After a standalone anime adaptation was greenlit, the topic of what we should do for the final episode came up at our first meeting, so I said “Why don’t I write the ‘Black Kaitou Kid’ story I have saved as a trump card in Sunday and use that in the final episode?” Thus I wrote Midnight Crow! I’ll never forget how surprised the members of staff looked when I bluntly told them that Toichi is actually still alive (lol). (…) Though Chikage made Kaito work as Kid in Phantom Lady, she tried to get him to quit in Midnight Crow because of everything that happened in Las Vegas… But that’s a story for another time (lol).

The story itself has plenty of hints that Kaitou Corbeau is a Toichi-Chikage tag-team, but actually seeing him spell it out so casually sure is something.

Speaking of spelling things out, though, I also want to take an aside to touch on the Magic Kaito 1412 novelizations. Six volumes were published roughly concurrently with the anime’s run, and though there isn’t anything drastically different from what we already know from either Magic Kaito or Detective Conan, sometimes the narration can be quite enlightening. For the purposes of this, though, I specifically want to touch on that pin from earlier.

In the movie continuity, there is very clearly a moment where Kaito figures out Conan’s identity in The Last Wizard of the Century. There is no concrete equivalent to this in either Detective Conan or Magic Kaito, and 1412 doesn’t really expand on this either. I mentioned the possibility that Ryoma’s Gunbelt would have given Kaito ammo to figure out who Conan might be, but it’s not the most compelling argument. I’ve heard tell that Gosho once implied Kaito may have simply come to this conclusion on his own outside of the movie continuity, and I’ve personally always taken this stance given he seems to recognize Conan as a “high school detective” in Fairy’s Lips - and simply DOES know, no arguments, by Azure Throne.

Taking novelizations like these as fully canon is always a bit of a risk, but there’s a very interesting expansion on this particular issue in Volume 3, during the Ryoma’s Gunbelt adaptation. After Kaito runs into Conan while under disguise at the museum, the novels go into a brief explanation of how Kaitou Kid came to be known as such (aka the 1412 thing), followed by a flashback to Kid and Conan’s first meeting in DC’s Black Star. The narration then turns to what happened after the fact. This is fairly long, but as far as I’m aware these novels aren’t available in English, legally or otherwise. As such…

***

Kaito investigated the child that was on the roof of the Beika hotel - the young boy who called himself a detective, and with whom Kaito fought during the Black Star incident.

His name was Conan Edogawa.

He was a distant relative of Hiroshi Agasa, inventor and scientist, and was currently freeloading at the house of Kogoro Mouri, the famous detective “The Sleeping Kogoro.”

…And that was all he really figured out about him.

Conan Edogawa was full of mysteries.

But there was one thing that bothered Kaito.

Kogoro Mouri had a high school daughter named Ran. And Ran Mouri was the childhood friend of Shinichi Kudo.

That Shinichi Kudo.

The very high school detective that cornered Kaito during the clock tower heist.

Before his run-in with Conan, Kaito had looked into the young man that had aided the Metropolitan Police Department.

At a certain point after that clock tower incident, he had apparently gone missing.

He was not officially registered as missing, nor did it become a massive incident. But he stopped attending Teitan High School and disappeared from his home. He was apparently gone because he was busy chasing after some case a client had requested of him, but…

The elementary schooler Conan Edogawa appeared before both Ran Mouri and Kaitou Kid as if taking his place.

Shinichi Kudo, and Conan Edogawa.

Due to their mysterious nature, the two detectives continued to fascinate Kaito.

By the way…

The certain young novelist who had given Kaitou Kid his name was currently a world-renowned mystery writer.

His name was Yusaku Kudo.

Shinichi Kudo’s father.

Then there’s his mother, Yukiko Kudo, who was an essayist. She was a former actress, and once studied under the magician Toichi Kuroba to prepare for a role. Kaito had even once met her alongside his father in his childhood.

A strange turn of fate connected the Kudo and Kuroba families across multiple generations.

Did Kaito realize…?

Did he know that Conan Edogawa was actually Shinichi Kudo, who turned into a child after being forced to take a strange medicine?!

-

Professor Agasa was aware that Conan Edogawa was actually Shinichi Kudo… and it was likely only a select few others knew this. Not even Ran Mouri, his childhood friend, knew.

If Shinichi Kudo was keeping his identity a secret… then the reason he became a child must be pretty dangerous. Something that involved crime and the underworld. Just knowing the truth could put your life in danger.

It was only obvious that Kaito kept his identity as Kaitou Kid hidden.

But Shinichi Kudo must be living an even more troublesome life.

***

The narration of these novels knocks on the fourth wall fairly often, explaining that middle bit of this particular excerpt. It never confirms for sure whether or not Kaito managed to connect the dots, but the aforementioned questionable canonicity of novelizations like this means that was probably the safe choice. That there’s extra information here at all about Kaito looking into both Shinichi AND Conan is a pleasant surprise, as far as I’m concerned. But it’s also a bit frustrating that we don’t yet have even a hint of how this occurred in the manga when we now have two potential sources of that knowledge in the movies and these novels.

Which you opt to take as the more likely canon is probably up to personal interpretation, but I think I’m personally a bit more willing to go with a version of the novel’s events. I prefer to include the movies as a level of canon unless they outright contradict the manga (like M10 does, tragically), but the novel’s versions of events is probably the safer option.

But it’s the inclusion of extra scenes like these that further connects Magic Kaito - especially this particular iteration - to Detective Conan. They are holding hands so tightly now.

This all eventually culminates in Sunflowers of Inferno. Though M14 is the more obvious turning point with regards to Kid’s general behavior and personality in Detective Conan movies, Sunflowers of Inferno is a slightly more interesting turning point: all three movies after 1412 airs involve aspects of Magic Kaito, whether it be in its story or in its theming.

For this movie, it’s a very obvious example of the former. I think the plot of M19 is… strictly okay, but Kid’s motivation throughout being related to Jii is something I really enjoyed about the film. You know, assuming you don’t think too hard about Jii’s age as it relates to the timing of the flashbacks. Outside of that, Kid’s behavior in the movie almost looks as though it’s walking back from M14, but that’s only because Kid is playing the villain for most of it. Once that facade is dealt with he’s fully cooperative with Conan, to the point that the latter trusts the former with Ran’s safety. The opening scene with Kaito in his dark heist garb is also a nice bonus.

All in all, I think 1412 airing actually has the biggest effect on the movies. I’m not sure if that was intentional - movies 23 and 27 have the same director, so it could just be that her artistic vision includes MK in it - but for Sunflowers of Inferno it was almost certainly intentional as a show of fireworks after the ending of the anime. As for the manga, 1412 airing actually seems to have had very little influence on the Detective Conan chapters featuring him. Though Kid is a lot more likely to resemble the version of the character from Magic Kaito now, the manga seems a bit more concerned with introducing him to the new guard.

Meet The Fam

The Detective Conan cases in this section continue the general trend from after Mystery Train of either 1) introducing Kid to a significant sub character, or 2) running parallel to a B Plot that is concerned with the main narrative.

Luna Memoria does a couple of interesting things. First, this is the first time Conan explicitly asks Kid about investigating the jewel of the heist, since he knows Kid is on the search for a “special jewel.” Kaito is very candid in his response, telling Conan he ran into the deceased owner as the readers get a small flashback to Kaito Kuroba reverse pickpocketing the necklace. It’s an interesting conversation to have in the first Kid case since 1412 aired, especially since this aspect of Kid’s MO hasn’t really been discussed in any concrete way in DC before this point.

The second thing it does is have a small but nonetheless amusing B Plot with Okiya. While taking pictures of potential targets for his disguise, Kaito inadvertently gets a picture of Okiya’s voice changer. So Okiya joins Conan in confronting Kid in the bathroom and Very Nicely requests they get that picture back. Kaito has an “oh shit” moment, gets the heck outta dodge, and the chapter ends on a comical note when Kid can’t escape because Nakamori refuses to stop looking for him.

The next DC chapter, Fairy’s Lips, does a little bit of 1 and a little bit of 2. Surprisingly enough, Heiji has not had a significant confrontation with Kid in the manga before, and now Kid is getting himself involved in his and Kazuha’s romance plot. This chapter is retroactively significant because it’s the key jumping-off point for Heiji and Kid’s relationship in M27. But it’s also surprisingly significant for the MAIN main plot of Detective Conan by bringing in Koumei as a secondary detective that’s working to capture Kid… because he’s in Tokyo to receive a mysterious envelope addressed to him. The truth of the envelope’s contents is an Extremely Big Deal, and though by this point in the manga I was fully aware that plot developments would often happen in otherwise standalone cases now, I was personally not ready for that in a Kid case. So there’s that.

Between these two cases is the Magic Kaito heist Sun Halo, which puts a focus on Aoko for the first time in a while. It’s also very minorly a Magic Kaito version of a suspicion arc - the first one since Kaitou Kid’s Busy Day Off - though it ends with a return to the status quo. This chapter, as mentioned way earlier, also features some magic shenanigans from Akako in a more concrete way than we’d seen in a while. There’s some stuff about these chapters that are more disturbing the longer you think about them (what do you Mean Kaito just carries some blood neutralizing spray around with him so people can’t figure out his identity based on his blood), and the general tone is a lot more somber because Kaito is suffering from both pain and blood loss. It feels like an extension of Midnight Crow’s tone, in that regard.

After these three chapters is our next Kid movie, Fist of Blue Sapphire. This movie features a romance subplot between Sonoko and Kyogoku, and thus brings Kid back into it via certain aspects of the movie plot. As a post-1412 movie, the major feature of this movie is not the plot, but the thematic underpinnings of said plot.

Many post-Blue Birthday Magic Kaito heists tend to overlap aspects of Kaito’s situation with that of the characters introduced in the heist. The feature character of Red Tear is a woman who has grown to hate magic after the untimely death of her parents. The titular Dark Knight lives a double life as a notorious criminal for his son’s sake, and Kaito works to make sure his son never finds out about that double life. The thief in Golden Eye is attempting to salvage her father’s legacy. If they aren’t straight parallels, then they present what-if scenarios or twists on what Kaito is going through.

Fist of Blue Sapphire pulls something similar with Rishi, one of the movie-original characters. He’s torn up enough by his father’s death that he chooses to dirty his hands in order to get his revenge. After Midnight Crow, where Toichi himself wants to ensure that revenge is not Kaito’s only driving force, this presents a what-if scenario - an alternate path that Kaito might have chosen, had his admiration for his father not won out over his grief at his death. It’s interesting to see this particular thematic through line in a Detective Conan movie because it’s never been shown in a Detective Conan manga case before, and it’s one of the reasons I’m particularly fond of Chika Nagaoka’s Kid movies.

Another major aspect of this movie is how the sheer amount of screen presence Kid has gives the movie ample time to show what more involved cooperation between Kid and Conan looks like. The second Kid is framed for the crime, he chooses to go to Conan; if Kid looks to be in genuine danger, Conan begrudgingly comes to his aid. They spend time talking over the aspects of the case, and work seamlessly together during the climax. It’s by far the most actively cooperative they’ve been before or since, but it doesn’t come out of nowhere (and the spirit doesn’t quite go away, either). The clearest indication of this change in relationship is the line spoken by Kaito after he’s dealt with his wounds on the roof: “A magician makes you believe he holds something within his clenched fist, and a detective guesses correctly what they hold before it’s ever revealed.” It’s a stark contrast to probably his most famous line from Black Star about phantom thieves being artists and detectives being no more than critics.

Fist of Blue Sapphire happens to be one of those movies that I personally have any concrete info about via things like guidebooks. I don’t want to bloat this more than it already is, so there’s only two things I read that I want to share. 

The first is Kappei Yamaguchi’s seeming reaction to the script during recording, specifically in regards to his laugh. Normally, Kid in Detective Conan has had a sort of booming, open laugh, but twice during the recording for Fist of Blue Sapphire he opted to go for a version of the laugh as written out in Magic Kaito - an “ahaha” vs a “kekeke” kinda difference. He talks about this in the Kaitou Kid Secret Archives, but an online article on the movie from Movie Walker expands on this from Nagaoka’s point of view:

This time, we have a lot of aspects from “Magic Kaito” and Kaitou Kid’s true face in this movie. The moment I thought “This is just Kaito” was during ADR, when Yamguchi Kappei-san laughed like ‘hihi!’ Kappei-san said to me “I did it even though I thought it’d be struck out.” (lol) I could tell in those words that he met this movie with his own interpretation. I was impressed. We have a very cool Kid as a result.

It’s also in the Secret Archives interview that we get the “His speed may be at 100, but he has zero combat ability at all” comment from Gosho to Nagaoka, which is… extremely funny.

The other major thing from the Secret Archives interview (and elsewhere) is an anecdote about a certain regret. Nagaoka herself seems to be a big fan of Magic Kaito, but after M23 was released to theaters, Gosho lamented that he should have had Kid allude to Aoko. This was brought up again in a more recent Animage article: “Actually, back during Fist of Blue Sapphire, Aoyama-sensei had told me something akin to ‘We should have had Kid say “I have a better sapphire (Aoko) already” when he returns the blue sapphire,’ and I responded ‘You’re going to tell me that now, Sensei?!”

This is all to say that, despite the lack of any obvious elements akin to Jii in M19, they were clearly thinking of Magic Kaito while making M23.

The subsequent DC chapters continue the “Kid, meet [Character]” trend with Amuro (and Kazami) in Queen’s Bang. He’s a fairly active part of the process, not the least of which because Kid belittled his card trick skills as they were lining up to enter the museum. Though this chapter doesn’t have a relevant B Plot, it is the first reference to Kid’s presence in Mystery Train since Blush Mermaid - and a pretty significant one at that, since Amuro was the one that actually had to deal with “Sherry.”

Siren Splash’s main character introduction is actually Azusa, which feels a bit like a follow up on the minor role she had in Queen’s Bang. This case has a couple of fun things that sort of cover the entire spectrum of ways in which a Kid case could be fun for our purposes. The least significant of these is Kid’s skates, which (if memory serves) haven’t been seen since chapter 10 of Magic Kaito. Gosho mentions wanting to use them again in his Treasured Edition comment on that case, so it’s a lot of fun to finally see them show up again.

Going up to slightly more significant, there’s a Very Ominous Comment from Kanenori about his left eye, which serves as foreshadowing to information we find out about him about a volume later. And then we have the end of the case, which is a little difficult to talk about because we don’t have any elucidating information yet. Regardless, I’ve always been amused that, despite Conan being the talk of the various police departments, he’s largely avoided being in the news… except where Kid is involved. It seems that’s finally coming to a head with the older gentleman that is none too pleased about the news story covering Conan’s victory. We don’t know what role this man has yet, but if this has ties to the main plot, then this is a very amusing way in which Kid has affected the main plot.

There’s not much else of note to say about this series of chapters, because it’s largely continuing the trends of the era that led to 1412’s release and codifying a less mysterious Kid, and an (at times) more cooperative Conan. But it’s also a comparatively sparse number of chapters; in the over seven years since 1412, Kid had only featured in four chapters here. You probably wouldn’t expect any major developments from a precedent like that, right?

…Right?

Erasing the Line in the Sand

We have now entered the modern era - specifically, the immediate lead-up to M27. Recency means some of these things are going to be a little bit harder to extrapolate on, largely because we have no idea if this is the start of something new, or perhaps just an outlier in the general trend. Regardless, some of this stuff fully makes my brain spin. Never mind brainworms - I have brain bees, and they will not stop buzzing.

We start with the most-recent Kid case in Detective Conan as of this writing, Azure Throne. This particular case is significant for multiple reasons, besides just being a good time. First, it’s Hakuba’s first appearance in Detective Conan since Detective Koshien, which means it’s been a whole seventeen years. Help. It’s arguably also the closest it comes to a proper Hakuba vs Kid case in Detective Conan, since Twilight Mansion is a little too busy with other aspects of its plot to spend much (if any) time on Hakuba’s relationship with Kid. Hakuba is also just a little insane, given his plan was to airlift the entire observation deck and sink it into a pool to trap Kid… There’s some minor Magic Kaito gag energy in that idea, and Hakuba’s never done things by halves.

Next, we have yet another reference to Kid’s presence in Mystery Train. Queen’s bang was only a couple years ago, and in Conan Publishing Time that’s no time at all considering Mystery Train was back in 2012. It’s interesting to get two references to that particular case so close together. 

And speaking of references, my third point of interest for this case is that it straight up references Golden Eye. There’s even an illustration of Cartier, the security company manager that Nakamori is thinking about when he responds to Jirokichi’s comment. Magic Kaito has certainly referenced Detective Conan before, and 1412 itself pulls heists whole-sale from it to fill out its runtime. But this is the first time it’s gone the other way around.

It’s also, somehow, the very first time Kid has assumed the Shinichi Kudo disguise in the manga. And even more surprisingly, it’s done so at Conan’s request. Sure, Kid was the one begging Conan to free him of suspicion for the murder that just happened, but “disguise yourself as me and make sure Ran doesn’t find out” was the condition Conan put forward for his cooperation.

This connects to the fifth and sixth points that I’m concerned with. The fifth point is Ran herself; she has a comment toward the end about how she can’t forgive Kid for “disguising as Shinichi every single time.” Which is, you know. Kinda weird, if all we’re considering is manga continuity. This is his very first time assuming this disguise in the manga! So in Gosho’s mind, at least, the movies aren’t not canon. Considering more recent movies are more likely to require “homework” to fully enjoy them, I wouldn’t be surprised if they were more carefully written to slot into canon more easily than early movies were.

The sixth and most hilarious point is a single aside in a conversation Kid and Conan have.

Actually, why do you look so similar to me?

Why would I know?! Maybe we have a shared ancestor or something. (To be honest… I’m not even changing my voice much, either…)

Now, the addition of that voice comment makes the whole thing sound like a gag - they do have the same seiyuu, after all - but their similarity has always been a bit of a gag… In the movies. Thinking back on it, I’m not sure it’s ever really been brought up in the manga, so this is a joke that feels almost necessary after Conan requested Kid to disguise himself as “Shinichi,” which Kid managed to do despite being not at all prepared for it.

And, you know. It’s also foreshadowing now. Not by much, considering the movie was only a few months out, but still.

tl;dr: There’s a lot going on in Azure Throne. It is probably the densest of the Kid cases in terms of its relationship to itself and its relationship to Magic Kaito. As a result of that, there’s something about this case that feels like the purest mix of Magic Kaito and Detective Conan. It also feels pretty clearly written with the movie in mind, considering it not only had the aforementioned foreshadowing, but also brought in ideas from previous movies into the manga to create synergy between them.

After that we have Green Dragon, a Magic Kaito heist that ran through M27’s theater release. Meeting Aoko’s mother is certainly a standout of this particular heist, but what I personally find more interesting is the tone. It eschews the steady creep of drama into the narrative by pulling back to something more comedic, and in some ways feels a little like a return to form. Kaito’s fear of fish is brought up again for the first time in ages, and Midoriko gets a whole host of muscle men to corner Kid.

The chapter also opens with a reference to the crimes (as Midoriko would prosecute them) Kid committed in Queen’s Bang. In terms of time, it’s been over ten years since the last MK heist referenced DC in any meaningful way. But in terms of heist count, Phantom Lady was only three heists ago.

It is at this point I must discuss the movie, The Million-dollar Pentagram. As the movie is not yet out on Blu-ray as of this writing and the international offerings were a bit spotty (especially outside of Asia), I want to give another spoiler warning for the information I’m about to go into. I mentioned earlier that later movies require a bit of “homework” for full enjoyment, and M27 is no exception. It has also turned into one of the more common complaints I see from casual DC movie enjoyers, at least on the Japanese side of things - because yes, there is a whole audience of people whose only exposure to the franchise is the yearly movie. While the most easily recognizable pieces of “homework” for this particular movie are clearly cases like Fairy’s Lips or even M21 for familiarity with Momiji and Heiji’s attempts to confess to Kazuha, it is also very much arguable that the second major pillar of this movie requires a working knowledge of Magic Kaito. Like, not just knowing who Kaitou Kid is, but knowing who Kaito Kuroba is.

Which means I’m going to be talking about a lot of this movie in concrete detail. The main thrust of the movie is, to put it very simply, a treasure hunt. What I discuss will give you very few clues as to how or why that mystery is solved, but it will end up touching on key events, motives, and emotional beats. If you’d rather keep yourself unspoiled so as to enjoy those aspects as well, please skip to my discussion on FILE.0. You can find that by scrolling to below the second horizontal line, or doing a Ctrl+F search on “FILE.0.” That being said, there will also be more concrete references to the post-credits scene everyone knows about by this point in the final section of this retrospective as well.

——

There’s a lot I want to discuss with regards to M27, but it’s frankly hard to conceive of how I’d go about it. Going through the movie chronologically would take far too long, so I think I largely just want to list up a few interesting elements and then dive into what significance I think those elements hold. For the curious, I saw this movie twice in theaters: once about a week after premier, and again when they were running English subtitles at certain locations.

Let’s start at the beginning, with the most amusing thing this movie did before it was even released: the lack of a pre-screening. Movies like these usually have a seiyuu event of some kind attached to an early screening of the movie that fans can attend via lottery a little while before the official release, but they used the framing device of Kid “stealing the pre-screening” to avoid holding one at all. This isn’t strictly related to anything I’ll discuss further, but it is amusing to think that they believed the information presented in this movie was important and significant enough that they didn’t want to risk people talking ahead of the official release. And, you know, it WAS, but we’re not getting into that just yet.

Also somewhat minorly was the cover of an-an being Shinichi and Kaito, as opposed to Conan and Kid or even Shinichi and Kid. There’s also been a handful of DC merch that includes both Kaito and Kid in the lineup, and I don’t think stuff like this has happened since 1412 aired. It’s clear in hindsight they were focusing on his civilian identity because of his motive in the film and the reveal in the stinger.

As for the movie itself, I want to start REALLY basic, and actually talk about the score of the movie. The Million-dollar Pentagram is the first Kid film since Yugo Kanno took over from Katsuo Ohno for the movie soundtracks. This normally wouldn’t matter too much, except for the fact that Kaitou Kid has utilized a variation on the same two themes since The Last Wizard of the Century. There was apparently quite a bit of back and forth as to how to handle this aspect of the soundtrack, but in the end they went with a completely new theme: The Grand Circus (華麗なるサーカス). If you’re reading this and somehow haven’t heard it before, I highly recommend you give it a listen. It serves as his calling card throughout the movie and is a much more playful tune. I can’t help thinking about Toichi’s conversation with Kaito in Hustler vs Magician about how the pierrot is the most important member of the circus (yet another reason I’m glad this chapter got salvaged in the 1412 adaptation). I definitely don’t dislike his old themes, but I do enjoy that the vibe of this one expresses a side of Kid in Detective Conan that has seen more screen time lately, but has until now had no musical motif to express it.

Another amusing part of this soundtrack is a certain melody, only a couple bars long, that repeats throughout the entire score. This melody just so happens to play during the final major reveal of the movie: that Toichi had been disguised as Yoshihisa Kawasoe the entire time. Kawasoe is a local detective that is in and out of the movie for almost its entire runtime. Toichi was, in essence, with us the entire time. Just like this melody was, weaved in and out of the soundtrack. It’s a nice touch. Kanno mentions in the Toho Cinemas guidebook that there’s very little impact to a melody introduced in the final moments, and that he wanted to inspire a sense of deja vu alongside surprise by accompanying that final reveal alongside a melody that had played the entire time. It’s kinda neat.

As for Kid’s behavior in this movie, it’s informed entirely by his desire to discover why his dad apparently went after this “potentially world-destroying” treasure, found it, and then left it alone. There’s an overlap between this and his motive in M19, considering both are more personal in nature, but M27’s motive is also far more fundamental to Magic Kaito. Kid is mentioned multiple times to have an assistant of some kind in Detective Conan chapters, but the only mention of his dad is that 1) he exists, and 2) he was the previous Kid. He’s not at all connected to Kid’s search for Pandora or his reason to be the second Kid in the first place, so bringing his dad into things as a motive feels more poignant if you know Kaito’s always been chasing him. Which is to say, it relies a bit more on knowing Kaito’s personal story from Magic Kaito.

The plot leans into this “if you know, you know” vibe by having Kaito only ever indirectly refer to his dad. When he explains why he’s searching for these swords to Conan and Heiji, he only refers to “a certain thief.” In a moment of respite, he only just barely gets to say the first sounds of “dad” before he’s interrupted by one of our culprits. It’s not said in any capacity until the very end of the movie, when the treasure is found alongside Toichi’s glove and a notice from Kid the first: “Wake not a sleeping lion.”

Going back to Heiji and Conan, he’s not openly cooperative with them until they save him from near death. It’s at that point they share info and Kid ropes them into solving this puzzle because it’s what they do best. The rest of their cooperation in the movie usually takes the shape of a “2+1” format. Conan and Heiji are obviously working together while Kid comes in and out via a number of disguises. There’s a comedy to his disguises in this film, since they’re almost too easy to see through. It’s likely in part so Heiji and Conan can be aware of his presence, since they’re technically working together. Minami Takayama also picks up on this in her movie pamphlet interview, adding that he “seems more open and honest this time, probably because that’s just how badly he wants to solve this mystery” and that it feels more like “Kaito Kuroba and Shinichi Kudo have taken a step closer” as opposed to it just being Kid and Conan this time around. Kappei Yamaguchi in the same set of interviews says he’s “basically Kaito” with Conan, even if he still mostly behaves as Kid with Heiji.

To summarize, Kid’s behavior in this movie is far more open due to the goal being tied to his dad, and with Conan specifically the mask is basically off. Add this to the comedic touch of his disguises throughout, and you’ve got some good Magic Kaito vibes despite his reduced screen time compared to M23.

But that only lays the foundation for those vibes. There are plenty of other reasons why it feels more Magic Kaito-y, given key aspects of this movie bring in more aspects of Kaito’s civilian life - and certain emotional beats rely on your knowledge of that.

To start with a more minor beat that wraps up things mentioned above: Toichi’s glove. Kaito takes it with him after discovering the treasure, and there’s a short scene while he’s flying through the sky (after a more significant moment we’ll discuss later) that sees him looking at the glove with a frankly mixed expression. The novelization of the movie mentions him smiling happily as he soars through the sky, but that is not the expression we actually see in the movie. He has Thoughts about finding his dad’s glove there, but the audience is left to guess what they may be. It’s a hole that’s nearly impossible to fill without knowing Kaito’s backstory (and, arguably, without knowing about Midnight Crow).

And we’ll get to Midnight Crow’s significance, just you wait.

The second beat I want to talk about is Nakamori. First (and more minorly) is his engagement in some true gag Magic Kaito energy. A short scene with a disguised Kaito at a hotel alongside Conan and Heiji ends with Nakamori up against the window, looking in with multiple police officers behind him, as he realizes he’s found Kid. Kid then runs, and Nakamori and his officers run across the screen as Conan and Heiji continue their conversation. Real goofy hours.

But the actual most important story beat with Nakamori is him getting shot by one of our antagonists. He’a shot while on duty and escorting another principle character, and the framing of the movie puts us in Kid’s shoes as he discovers a gun aimed at the both of them just a little too late. This decision carries with it a couple of interesting tidbits, whether they be for our purposes or for how it seemed to affect the people that worked on it.

I want to do the latter first, since the snowballing is less extreme. Yamaguchi has talked about this scene a number of times, whether it be in interviews or during seiyuu events. As a voice actor, he was surprised at his own performance as Kid yells out Nakamori’s name. It was desperate and loud in a way he’d never been before, but it still felt natural to him; he thought it was indicative of just how important Nakamori is to Kaito, and that this was less Detective Conan’s Kid and more Magic Kaito’s Kaito Kuroba.

Related to this is a comment he made at a stage event that in his heart, he’d wanted to say “ojisan” instead of “Inspector Nakamori.” But he felt that it would be too difficult to display their relationship that way, so he went with the latter. There’s a lot of character interpretation you can do with regards to what Kaito chose to say in the moment, but I also can’t deny the possibility that it simply comes down to the “Kaito and Nakamori” dynamic not appearing in Detective Conan at all. Well, at least in part.

The other major ramification of this narrative decision is actually Aoko’s appearance in the movie. Nagaoka recounts in multiple interviews, such as in Febri or Animage, that she originally felt the tension in the movie was a little too slow-going, so she suggested someone get shot. The original plan suggested shooting Nishimura, the Hokkaido police detective, but Gosho said Kid wouldn’t save him if that was the case. It was here Nagaoka suggested Nakamori, to which Gosho agreed. He then added, though, that if he was in the hospital, then Aoko would likely show up.

Thus we have Aoko’s first theatrical appearance, and her first appearance in Detective Conan at all since Black Star. Her appearance in this movie grounds Kid’s emotional narrative in Magic Kaito; it implies the existence of Kaito Kuroba in ways Hakuba or Nakamori never could, because her significance rests entirely in his civilian identity. There are scenes dedicated to Kaito watching over her in disguise as she waits for her father to wake up, only leaving once she seems to be okay. He’s on the phone with her in one of the last scenes in the movie, and his smile when he ends the call is the softest it’s ever been in Detective Conan.

That’s not all, though. In a cute example of the movie affecting the manga, Gosho told Nagaoka later on that a gesture Aoko performs - a two-handed clap to the face that helps her psych herself up - was brought back into Magic Kaito for his April serialization. We see Midoriko do the very same gesture when she wakes up after her quick nap, as it turns out.

There’s something else I want to mention about Aoko, but that fits better elsewhere. So before we talk about the elephant in the room, I want to mention the theme of the movie. Both Nagaoka and Takahiro Okura, the script writer, have described the movie as dealing with “parent-child relationships” and “inheritance.” All of the antagonists follow after their forefathers in some way, but it’s an idea most obviously expressed by Hijiri Fukushiro, the main movie-original character. The complicated feelings he has about following in his father’s footsteps, and the things he does as a result, can all too easily be compared to Kaito’s own struggles. As I mentioned earlier, Nagaoka does something similar with M23, but it’s even more powerful here because Kaito is just as determined to chase after his dad as the many other characters in the narrative are to deal with the legacies their forefathers left them.

So. 

Elephant in the room. 

The ship-breaking shot heard round the world.

Shinichi Kudo and Kaito Kuroba are cousins, and their fathers are twins.

I want to just trace this thread throughout the movie, in as brief a form as possible.

It starts with the very first confrontation between Kid and Heiji. When Heiji gets the upper hand and knocks Kid’s monocle off, cutting through the brim of his hat in the process, the moon peeks through the clouds and gives Heiji a clear view of Kid’s face. He’s immediately shocked to discover he resembles Shinichi.

Heiji has a couple of moments following that clearly illustrates he’s ruminating on this. When he first sees Conan, he crouches down and takes Conan’s face by the chin, examining him. When Kid and Conan banter on the train, Heiji sits behind them, a confused but thoughtful look on his face.

Shortly after the above, Heiji confronts Conan: “Do you have any siblings?” He brings up the physical and vocal resemblance Kid has to Shinichi, but Conan brushes it off. “It’s a coincidental resemblance. It happened by chance.” Heiji drops the subject, but there’s an argument to be had that the way Conan says that last line sure is suspicious.

The movie follows the main plot until Aoko’s introduction. In one scene with her, Heiji, and Conan, she watches the latter two talk with interest. She crouches to the ground and stares at Conan, telling him that she’s reminded of her childhood friend’s younger years when she sees him. This is the first time their resemblance has ever been phrased as “You look like Kid/Kaito,” as opposed to the more common reverse. Nagaoka remarks in an interview that Aoko’s presence in this movie presented the perfect chance to further thread the foreshadowing of their resemblance throughout the film, and personally I rather enjoy that one aspect of this foreshadowing comes from the Magic Kaito angle.

Post-credits. Yukiko is surprised to discover Yusaku has an older twin brother. Yusaku is a little…cagey, in my opinion. He expresses mild surprise he hasn’t mentioned it before, says they keep in regular contact despite not seeing each other in over 20 years, mentions he receives gifts every once in a while (including the extremely plot-relevant missing sword) and hints to Yukiko that she’s likely met him before. As she continues to guess who it might be, Yusaku attempts to change the subject to his new book; he wants her opinions on it. This is when he receives a text praising his most recent novel, signed by “TK,” and Yusaku smiles. The scene cuts to a skyline view and Kawasoe standing atop a tower of some kind. He looks at his phone: “Thank you, Nii-san! YK.” He laughs, and the disguise comes off, revealing a smiling Kaitou Corbeau.

Now, I mentioned Midnight Crow earlier, so I want to recover that pin now. Midnight Crow is a Magic Kaito case. It is the case that very strongly implies Toichi’s survival. Absolutely none of this is brought up in Detective Conan in any capacity whatsoever. Not even a REFERENCE to a “Kaitou Kid in black.” I’ve seen multiple stories, whether they be about themselves or about others they went with or saw in the theater, about people that were simply confused as to why THIS was the stinger in this film. I even have a personal anecdote myself, given I dragged my roommate with me to the movie and what surface knowledge she had did not do anything to help her understand what the heck was going on in the post-credits scene.

Within the film, in the vacuum of this one movie, the connection between Kawasoe and “the guy that wears a monocle like Kid who seems vaguely threatening” is actually really well foreshadowed! It’s even BETTER foreshadowed if you know Magic Kaito, because the relationship between Hijiri and his dad has parallels to Kaito and his dad. Because Kaito’s first disguise in the movie and Toichi’s disguise throughout used the exact same method: taking advantage of someone’s vacation, and thus their absence. Because you know this man is Kaito’s dad, the thief who found this treasure before and chose not to steal it, and is now taking advantage of Kawasoe’s klutzy nature to give Heiji and Conan information so they can find and protect it.

As far as Kaito and Shinichi’s resemblance is concerned, it was always used as a joke in previous films. Considering how long this running joke went, I imagine that made their blood relationship that much harder to accept. It was clear they were doing something different with it from the very start of this movie, though, when Heiji’s reaction to the resemblance isn’t played for laughs and it just kept coming up.

This also doesn’t necessarily come out of nowhere. The earliest piece of info that I can personally confirm is from a six-page interview with Gosho in a 2011 issue of Hayakawa Mystery Magazine celebrating the release of M15. After the interviewer implies that the similarity between Kid and Shinichi may be due to Kid being written first as a protagonist (further implying it’s a stylistic “protagonist” thing), Gosho replied, “Their resemblance is not just because of the order they were written in, but because there’s a secret backstory. There’s no way someone that looks so similar exists, you know? (lol) As for why, look forward to it, I suppose.” In the No. 22-23 2024 issue of Shonen Sunday, Gosho also has a little cheeky comment saying he’s relieved he was finally able to talk about Kid’s secret…

The other comment complicating the timing of when Gosho would have first considered this is a comment from Yamaguchi during a later screening of M27 alongside the seiyuu. According to fan reports, he mentioned being told that Kid had a “secret backstory” when he was given the offer to voice him. Combined with the fact that Gosho had apparently specifically chosen Yamaguchi despite the latter already being onboard as Shinichi, and Gosho choosing to go with a Kid cameo in DC in the first place because he wanted to introduce a regular rival… Maybe the idea of them being related existed well before that 2011 interview.

You might be able to tell, given how much I have written about M27 alone, that I think it’s a very interesting movie from a Magic Kaito perspective. It borrows from it the most by far, and I have to agree with the Febri interviewer when they said this movie has the biggest crossover between the worlds of Magic Kaito and Detective Conan by far. Because aspects of the theme, Kid’s motivations, and the entire post-credits scene are frankly lost on you if you’ve never bothered to read Magic Kaito. It’s a very funny thing for the “yearly event movie” to do, if I’m being honest, but this movie relies on the strengthening ties the two stories have made over the years. It sure did break box office records, though, so it seemingly worked out for them.

My only question at this point is whether further media, manga or movie, will pick up on the movie’s main revelation.

——

Since merch releases and promotion for M28 are ramping up, I wasn’t expecting much out of the Magic Kaito or Kaitou Kid mines for a while. Imagine my surprise, then, when FILE.0 was finally released as part of the special rerelease of Volume 1. At a mere four pages, one could barely call it an extra chapter; if it could be called anything at all, it’s more like an omake of sorts. Here we have Shinichi taking a trip to Tropical Land to plan out his date with Ran - and with Fate, of course.

It’s honestly pretty cute, the way he’s likely taking way too many notes on what he could do there. But what ends up happening is Shinichi stumbles upon a scene from Magic Kaito (Kaitou Kid’s Busy Day Off, to be exact), right as Kaito says his embarrassing line about ice cream being as sweet as it is cold. Shinichi is taken aback at how cringe this guy’s being, but he likes the idea of ending his date here by the fountain, so he takes notes regardless.

Did we really just put Shinichi in a scene from Magic Kaito for a rerelease of Detective Conan’s inaugural volume? With Kaito and Aoko, right there? It feels so small and so silly, but I still can’t get it out of my brain. The last time Kaito and Aoko showed up just as normal people in front of our main cast in any capacity was in Black Star, and I’ve already mentioned that this appearance makes the chapter feel even more like a crossover. But now, after everything that’s happened, they show up again. Maybe the line in the sand is still there, but I think it’s moved.

Final Thoughts & Hot Takes

The very nature of Kid originally being from another older series means I have no idea where we actually go from here with all of this. I have no major expectations at all for when or how or IF Shinichi and Kaito being related will be brought into the manga in any capacity, largely because there’s very little precedent for it. You have things like Ran already knowing Momiji in the manga even though they only ever had a “first meeting” in M21, or James Black knowing about Akai’s survival first being confirmed in M18, but stuff like that that’s a pretty rare occurrence. Even so, Takayama and Yamaguchi discuss the idea themselves in an Animage interview. She mentions that the movies seem more connected to the manga nowadays, while he muses at the idea of Fairy’s Lip leading into M27, which may very well then lead back into the manga.

Regardless, I don’t think anyone would argue if you said Magic Kaito felt more integrated into Detective Conan now than it did 20+ years ago, when Kid was first appearing in the manga and movies.

So to cap everything off, I think some Hot Takes are in order.

The cousin reveal isn’t actually all that bad. I’ve admittedly been on this particular train for a decade, so this was like every national holiday and then some rolled into one. I definitely have some questions about things like Shinichi’s Childhood Adventure or Yukiko’s relationship with Toichi, but for me personally none of them really snap this reveal in two. Nor do I think it dampens the way they were brought together as detective and thief, especially since I think you could reasonably argue that Toichi and Yusaku maintained their distance not only due to the divorce, but because of Toichi’s new profession. “Over 20 years ago” puts them at probably no more than a couple years before Toichi became Kid, when he was likely traveling for his magic show, as opposed to the young age they apparently were when their parents divorced. It’s also made fairly clear in DC that Yusaku knew who Kid’s civilian identity was… or at the very least, that’s how I read that interaction. If they intentionally kept their halves of the family from meeting, then it’s pretty incredible Shinichi and Kaito met at all. If the manga touches on them being related in any capacity - and again, I have no clue how likely that actually is - then it’s not going to suddenly supersede the relationship they have now. It’ll just add to it, assuming they chose to entertain it at all, and that complexity could be fun. This is all admittedly personal, of course; my shipping preference leans very heavily into “weird platonic relationships,” so that informs this particular take by quite a wide margin.

1412 is the ideal way to consume Magic Kaito. I don’t know how much I even like this hot take, but I can’t help thinking it’s true regardless. It more closely resembles Detective Conan in tone and vibes than it resembles its own source manga in a couple of key ways, so I do actually think this - over either the manga or the TMS adaptation - is the way they want people new to Magic Kaito to consume it, especially if they’re coming in from Detective Conan. That Gosho created a new finale for it, and did so by pulling out the “Toichi is actually alive” card, is also fairly telling. And if people like it enough and want more, the manga is still plenty available.

Magic Kaito has become a Detective Conan spin-off. I think I also hate this take, but I also believe it to be true in any way that functionally matters. We must respect that Magic Kaito came first - that Kaito and Aoko and Hakuba came first - but Kid’s modern popularity can be almost entirely attributed to Detective Conan. And honestly, I have to wonder if it’s still running, albeit irregularly, because of that. Phantom Lady jumps off of Ryoma’s Gunbelt, Green Dragon references Queen’s Bang and takes a quirk from the movie for both Aoko and Midoriko. The tone does a clear shift after DC begins serialization as well, and goes even further into mystery solving after Kid makes his first appearance in DC. If you didn’t know any better, you might think it was similar to something like Zero’s Tea Time: a spin-off for a crazy popular character. It’s not, and it never actually will be, because Magic Kaito came first. But I think it sort of has become one.

The line in the sand is not bad, until it is. I don’t actually mind the parallel worlds argument, largely because I can understand what kind of slippery slope Akako is for the logic-driven Detective Conan. There’s also a part of me that doesn’t really mind Kid plots being largely stand-alone, with little to no involvement with the main plot. I could even also buy the two shady organizations actually being different, if and when we ever get information about MK’s organization. But after coming this far, and developing Conan and Kid’s relationship to the level that you have, I think not delving into who Kid is when he takes off the costume becomes the more contrived option. Gosho’s said before that solving the DC plot will not simultaneously solve the MK plot due to those organizations being different; I don’t think that means Kid should be verboten from Black Organization plots entirely. I don’t think it means Kid shouldn’t maybe suffer a consequence or two for being so open and casual with Conan, or that we can’t have a running side plot involving him. But then you run into the problem of Magic Kaito being its own series, and if you erase the line in the sand - if you let Kaito Kuroba be in Detective Conan - what do you do with Magic Kaito? The two worlds have overlapped so heavily with M27 that I almost wonder if we’re at a breaking point. Maybe this is the real Pandora’s box.

Kaitou Kid is a Detective Conan character, but Kaito Kuroba might not be… yet. I think DC has claimed Kid for its own. Especially the performance of Kid as displayed by the man behind the mask. But that mask has been chipping away, and Kaito himself is usually the one speaking to Conan at this point in both the manga and the movies. Even so, to so many people, that’s still just Kaitou Kid. I’ve seen disappointment expressed at that suave gentleman thief from the Black Star and M3 era being nowhere in sight in modern times, and it’s because it was always an act. You can’t keep up that act when you choose to trust someone, and they trust you back. You just… start becoming yourself. But he’s not truly himself in DC yet, despite the few scant appearances of Kaito himself we’ve received. For some reason, Kaito Kuroba still feels like a crossover character, and his appearance some special event, compared to Kaitou Kid. FILE.0 was a surprise in this regard, but in relation to the above, I have to wonder: Should Kaito himself ever feel as entrenched in DC as Kid is?

Kaito Kuroba - who many and more know as Kaitou Kid - is such a funny character if you think about him for more than a few seconds. His popularity in the Detective Conan vacuum is more than warranted, given his back and forth with Conan, but I really do want to believe that it’s the duality of his appearances in Magic Kaito and Detective Conan that contributes to this popularity. If M27 and some of the recent trends in both DC and MK are anything to go by, maybe I’m not so far off the mark.

We’ll likely get more stuff to enjoy in the meantime, but I’m currently looking ahead to Magic Kaito’s 40th anniversary in 2027 and hoping we get another movie… Or maybe another major manga arc. If you’ve managed to read all of this, you have my deepest gratitude! I hope this adventure was as enlightening for you to read as it was for me to write.

[antlerclxws]

CHLOE CHARMING HEADCANONS!

- She is autistic! She often uses noise canceling headphones or earplugs during sword practice, the sounds of the swords hitting each other makes her teeth grind.

- Lesbian! But not very out and open about it, Chad is the only one that knows apart from Red but she is certainly trying to come out! Mostly on her own terms.

- Has ADHD (Audhd girlie!) and often forgets to eat meals when really hyper-fixated on something, like her history books or her swords training, a lot of the times Red does have to remind her or bring her small snacks in between her breaks

- After coming back to the present time with Red, her relationship with her mother was very protective(?) in a way. She was a little worried about being away from her mother and would take many opportunities to be back with Cinderella. It took months for her to get a hold on the idea that her mother was safe again.

- Chloe is a chronic clothing stealer, her closet is full of Red’s clothes even though they stand out so bright in her closet and color scheme. It makes her laugh to have people shoot her some odd looks as they see bright red with golds, whites and baby blues. It serves as a reminder in Chloe’s mind that Red loves her, enough to share her clothes with her.

- Uses ASL! Since Chloe has some bad meltdowns sometimes when too overwhelmed or simply overtired, she uses sign language and has been since she was a kid and King Charming taught it to her! The entire Charming family uses it to communicate with Chloe when she goes nonverbal and Red is actively on her way to becoming fluent in it to understand and aid Chloe better.

- Her and Chad used to be double trouble when they were kids, they would run around the castle in races and narrowly avoid knocking over a servant or two in the process. They would make anything a competition; Who could get to dinner faster, who could read a chapter of Mom’s favorite book faster, who loves Mom and Dad more, so on and so on!

- Chloe’s favorite place to go on a date is to the museum!! She likes to look at all the museum of cultural history has and she loves to go on long rants about some of the exhibits there. Her second favorite place is a botanical garden because she likes how peaceful there are, and Red loves taking her any where when they’re allowed to.

- Chloe still wonders about Wonderland, even more so now that they’ve come and gone in the past. She doesn’t want to get Red upset with her by asking after them but she still thinks about it from time to time. (“Did flamingo feathers always taste good?”)

- She is actually one of the biggest sort of advocate for anything if she or someone else needs it, even if it means being a bit mean to get there. Chloe doesn’t find it fair that she has to ask for certain things and have people get a bit snotty in response, although it’s Auradon, what should she expect with women like Audrey’s grandmother?

- Chloe age regresses! A coping mechanism sometimes for her mind when she’s too stressed or too anxious, she has a mental age range of around 7-9 and tends to only be around her brother or Red when she does regress, she’s only comfortable around them.

- Chloe was actually the one to first ask Red out instead of Red asking her out! She did it at the enchanted lake, it was a planned hangout where they were supposed to swim, but her nerves made her too nervous to even get near the water. She asked Red to be her girlfriend while they were sitting at the edge of the water, blurting it out so suddenly that it made them both stare at each other with wide eyes.

(She did go for a swim after, practically dunking herself under so she didn’t have to hear Red reject her at first, but she never did. So she had a girlfriend AND soaking wet clothes.)

[misty-slays-blog]

So as promised, here's the translation of the interview Morfydd did with Knack in August. I am by no means a translator but I did my best. It's not too long. Some rather interesting bits about how she views Galadriel (also the author of the interview gets Haladriel lol). If you want to read the entire interview in Dutch, it's here (I archived it since you need an account to read it on the Knack site, this way you can read it in its entirety): https://archive.ph/HekvQ

Morfydd Clark keeps getting calls for freaky roles (like for a Galadriel who flirts with Sauron)

During the second season of Rings of Power, the young elf Galadriel will be haunted by the ghosts of her past. Much to the delight of Morfydd Clark, who previously made name for herself as a possessed nurse in Saint Maud. “I love looking for those extreme roles.”

“I would have to board a plane to go home and I can't do that, I thought.”

When Morfydd Clark arrived in New-Zealand five years ago, she had no idea what awaited her. The production for The Rings of Power was notoriously secretive. She knew she'd auditioned for a prequel to The Lord of the Rings. But that she would be playing Galadriel, was new information. Clark had been introduced to the franchise as a child, during a family outing to The Hobbit: A Musical in London. Throughout the following years, she collected illustration books about The Shire and the Peter Jackson movies in her bedroom in Wales. “Unknowingly, I've been preparing for a role in the Lord of the Rings universe for fifteen years”, she tells us through Zoom.

But no book could have prepared Clark for the massive scale on which The Rings of Power operates. It isn't the kind of production with casual fans who are willing to swallow everything. And on top of that: the production value was through the roof. Costing a total of 465 million dollars, the series is the most expensive one ever made. One didn't have to look hard to see where this impressive budget went. From the underground dwarven kingdom Khazad-dûm to the eye-catching splendor of Númenor: even those finding the prequel rather lacking – the series has some flaws – has to admit that the cinematography is breathtakingly spectacular, paling other fantasy franchises in the process.

On top of that, there was the fact that Cate Blanchett's adaptation of Galadriel in the original trilogy has turned into movie heritage. “It helped that I play Galadriel during an entirely different moment of her life, long before she became the Lady of Lothlórien. I delved into the history of the elves, who were pretty wild actually. Did you know that they used to throw each other off of buildings all the time? I wanted my version of Galadriel to be strikingly different from the Galadriel she would eventually become.”

Clark's version of Galadriel is a young, brave warrior who indeed barely resembles Blanchett's ethereal elf. The consequences of a rather unfortunate romantic experience might change that (spoiler: the hunk Galadriel flirted with the entire first season? He happened to be Sauron. Even elves can miss red flags). “She realizes now that she, too, might have darkness within her. Her sense of self is in shambles. We all experience this feeling sometimes, but not everyone revives the evilest being in all of Middle-Earth in the process.” The second season is all about the consequences of this error of judgment. “Sauron haunts her the entire time. She finds herself stuck in her own horror movie.”

Clark describes this new and spooky chapter of her life as 'coming home.' Before her career took her to Middle-Earth, she was well on her way to becoming a Welsh Mia Goth. She played in BBC adaptations of Dracula and His Dark Materials, and in 2019 she was promoted to indie darling thanks to Saint Maud, a psychological horror movie made by Rose Glass (who continued her streak with Love Lies Bleeding) in which she played the titular character. “My parents keep asking me why I am always cast in those terrifying roles. But I think it's wonderful. I love looking for those extreme roles. Although, it is kind of strange to always receive calls for freaky parts. Is that the kind of vibes I have?”

Her freaky vibes are definitely lucrative. Among future roles are a Hamlet adaptation and a slasher, earlier this year she acted alongside Matt Smith in Starve Acre, a British indie horror movie. “That was a lucky coincidence. Matt Smith just finished his takes for House of the Dragon, he has given me so much good advice”, Clark says. It was the first time being back to a small set “where the entire crew fits into one room.” “I don't think the sets for Rings of Power will ever feel like the norm.” Because while every series goes for as much CGI as possible these days, with Rings of Power, the crew aims to build as many of the sets as possible. “Wandering around in such a magical world still feels like winning the lottery each day.”

Despite her success, Clark's acting career started quite accidental. When she was diagnosed with ADHD at the age of seven, a directionless school career followed. She quit when she was sixteen. According to British GQ, her teachers called her 'hollol di gwilydd', meaning 'completely shameless'. It wasn't until she began acting, that she found some sense of peace. And when playing in paranormal and magical fiction, she discovered a world in which she can be herself. “Fantasy like Lord of the Rings reverses the status quo of how we think the world should be. I wanted Galadriel to be free of the things that were imposed on me when I was younger. She isn't apologetic. She never doubts whether or not she said the right thing. And that might be the best part about playing her: Galadriel is shameless.”

[manicpixiefelix]

head, heart, hand. {Felix Catton/Reader/Oliver Quick}

Part 16.

Summary: In which we observe a few nights during the first week of the Summer at Saltburn while you set your plan into motion for putting on a show for Oliver. You don't tell Farleigh about the plan despite definitely using him in it, because you reason that he'd only object because he still loudly hates Oliver whenever he can. You... don't think too hard about all of the ethics of this. But there's also a lot you don't think about. Anyways, what Farleigh doesn't know won't hurt him.

{ masterpost }

Need to Know: They/Them. Explicitly NB Reader. FWB!Reader/Felix. Reader is from a well off family but has pretty much been adopted by the Cattons.

Warnings: SMUT; Farleigh/Reader(/Oliver kind of). Dom!Reader, praise kink, no AGAB specified for the reader, brief mention of oral (M receiving), implied voyeurism and also implied non-consensual voyeurism, degradation, choking, discussions about the reader's sex life and about whether or not their partners get them off.

A/N: 3193 words. not to be hit by the fic writer's curse but sorry this chapter is late i had a seizure for the first time in my life on a main road by the bus stop and was hospitalized for four days. this was going to be longer but i wrote and rewrote the "ending" and neither fit right so i said fuck it. very nsfw chapter and we get to love farleigh a bit more. LOVE YOU!!

TAGLIST IN COMMENTS!! // TAGLIST ALWAYS OPEN ! (just message or comment to be added)

----

So it was definitely working.

And after you'd explained it to Felix, he was more than on board.

Farleigh was of the opinion that Felix monopolized too much of your time whenever you were away from the Estate, so he would never complain about your sudden increased desire to be pressed against him as you lay about the property. Likewise, Venetia had absolutely no complaints about the contact. Venetia relishes the contact, and not that she'd ever say it, but she'd wrap herself around your shoulders like a mink coat for hours at a time if you'd let her.

You know Oliver's eyes are on you often in the early days, the first week at Saltburn. His gaze burns you in the days, and he finds you in the lilac study at night.

At first it's innocent enough; you'd left a copy of Saltburn: The Art of Saltburn House, The Catton Collection on his bedside, to help him familiarise himself with the history of the Estate and the antiquities therein. You sit at the desk, looking through your dossier, he curls up like a cat on one end of the off-white, leather sofa beneath the window. He looks beautiful in the moonlight.

"You're watching me," Oliver murmurs. He looks like a dream, shirtless, relaxed against the sofa, painted beautiful and blue by the clear night sky. You sigh softly, apologising faintly but insincerely as you reach past your dossier to the pack of cigarettes resting there. Its Oliver's turn to watch you once more, book closed in his lap where he waits for you to join him. You open the window, sitting on the back of the sofa, half on the windowsill.

Oliver leans forward, looking up at you with those beautiful blue eyes of his as he asks you about the dossier. You explain about the various events, big and small, that Saltburn plays host to over the Summer. You explain rather clinically about your interest in the guests, while keeping your mouth shut on any information about your own parents out of habit.

The next night, you forgo the desk entirely and simply sit on the sofa, window open, lamp on behind you. Oliver sits, and you stretch your legs out over him, invading his space without looking up, but blithely telling him that he's free to ask you to move. One of his hands holds your ankles, crossed in his lap, secure as he braces his book against your shins.

You've become acutely attuned to the way Oliver thinks he's skulking around Saltburn. As quiet as he tries to be, he'll never be able to out-fox you here. The Cattons and Farleigh? Most definitely, but you? Well, not since you spent a full year trying to convince Duncan to let you join the staff for events. Neither he nor Elspeth had agreed, but the skills you'd taught yourself made you a sometimes uncanny presence in the house even to this day.

But you appreciate that Oliver's aiming for subtlety, even if he doesn't meet his mark; it makes him easier to ignore on purpose.

There's the barest shift and creak outside of Farleigh's room the night he invites you back to drink wine and hang out. Considering the artistic inclinations of his own immediate family, Farleigh had often found a great deal of solace in you and the stories you could tell him if your grandmother, a great artist in her own right. Many nights were spent in Farleigh's room, drinking, listening to music, and painting across each other's skin before it devolved into a mess of another kind.

This third night, you hear the faint groan of the floorboards, the creak of the barest weight against the other side of the door. You tell Farleigh he's beautiful as you ride him, rocking back and forth in his lap, and you wonder if Oliver can tell the painting on your back is a dreamy field of wildflowers through the keyhole.

Gorgeous boy, so good - fuck Fars, you feel so good - you tell him as he grips you tight, paint smearing across your hips and thighs. You're the one covered in his art, but you call him breath-taking with absolute sincerity. Part of it is of course a show for Oliver, but you can't deny your genuine affection for Farleigh. His bitchy shell gave way to so few people that you considered the moments in which he'd relinquish control to you to be rather special.

Plucking control and responsibility from him while lavishing him with affection was something you delighted in. The shallow doting of fair-weather friends and short term partners was something Farleigh was used to, but you knew he was worth - and capable of - so much more than that.

While you were more than capable - and he was more than willing - for you to bark orders, push him around, make him kneel and obey your every whim, you knew all too well that you had all Summer to show off. Not that you wanted these games to drag on that long.

The bed rocks with your consistent rhythm, so you can hear the way weight shifts just outside the door, but doesn't move. A thought occurs to you, a new script, a new hook -

"Ollie thinks you treat me badly," you tease loud enough you know your voice will carry, but leaning in to press yourself to Farleigh, braced over him to keep him on his back despite the irritation in his eyes the minute they flick open. Still, you carry on before he can comment, despite how much you know he wants to, "he even asked how we got -" you moaned faintly for effect, settling yourself on him for the moment, hips pressed flush, his hands on your ass, "close," your smile widens, "considering, how awfully mean you can be to me." You pout, putting on the act thickly enough that it gets Farleigh to smile despite himself.

"You need to tell me this now?" Hands sliding up your body, Farleigh's hips begin to roll, taking over from you, fucking you softly as he takes your face in his hands. The touch is tender, more gentle than he'd ever allow if he knew he had an actual audience. Perhaps you should feel bad for using him like this, but you tell yourself that Farleigh will understand. If he ever finds out.

Still, the more you think about it, the more it... bothers you. Oliver's voice in your ear.

You need to be needed. Want to be wanted.

Farleigh stops. There's genuine concern in his face as he holds your face close. But it's his voice too, casually cruel to the entire roster of your past sexual exploits without giving you a moment to really think about it.

You rate sex by how good you can make your partner feel.

Maybe that's all you were to Farleigh, just like Venetia; a warm body you weren't related to. Be a partner in crime, someone he could bitch to about the finer irritations he suffered under the Cattons, someone he could fuck when he felt bored or unwanted. An affectionate little imp who'd accept his every apology, who'd still let him get away with feeling like he had the moral high ground. The dog forever at the foot of his metaphorical bed.

But was that not enough? How could you say he did not love you, not care about you, not look out for you? It's there in his eyes in this moment, these brief few seconds that to you have felt like a lifetime.

Pushing down the urge to ask the kinds of questions that would give real answers, but would complicate things tremendously, you let yourself lean into the messy, shameful lust that pits low in your belly, burning as you think of Oliver, though you've lost track of if he was still there, you have hope. It's his voice once more, from this morning this time, the praise he'd so casually offered. It that spurs you on.

"Tell me I'm good," shifting your focus back onto Farleigh, it comes out as almost an order. Your companion takes a moment to reassess the situation, smile lighting up his face when he's finally sure your behaviour isn't worrying.

"Of course you're good, you're you -" he laughs, but you sit back up, taller this time and out of his grip, hand braced on his chest as you level thin, cold smile at him, playing far more into the dominant role than you had been earlier.

"Exactly," and your hips begin to move again; you think you can actually feel Farleigh shiver with sudden anticipation, "tell me I'm good, Farleigh," you drag your nails down his chest, "make me believe it." The words escape him in a hiss as you clench down on him, tight and sensitive as your hips pick up the pace. Hearing the words begin to spill from him like a prayer unlocks something deep within you, a want you hadn't even realised you had. Recognition. Praise.

"Don't fucking lie to me, Farleigh," hand finding his throat, you press firmly to the sensitive pulse points in the way you know he likes, and he actually whimpers, tries to shake his head that he's not. Agonisingly slowly, you leaned in. You know he's close, he's begging and whining as much as he's affording you praise, so you dare not stop. It's a messy kiss that you plant on him, all teeth and shared, desperate breath, his lip between your teeth to the point he actually yelps and you let go.

"You ever call me a dog again," you whisper into his ear dangerous and seductive all at once as you have him where you want him, "you'd better make sure you call me a good one," and you bite gently at his ear as he swears, "now it's your turn to be good for me."

Reaching between you both, as you pull yourself off of Farleigh's desperate, all but twitching cock, your hand takes over for the half second it takes you to move down him, to let him finish in your mouth, all but singing your praises.

Farleigh's quiet and rather giggly in the afterglow, sharing a cigarette with you. The tension leaves you as his fond teasing returns. You don't hear any sign of Oliver beyond the door in these moments; you don't think you hear him leave, so he must be gone already. You wonder just how much he stuck around for; you wonder if he'll ever let on.

That night you stay with him, talking and joking about nothing and everything, and the fears you had about your place in his life matter less and less with each passing moment. Head on his shoulder, reading the last Harry Potter book with him in the early hours of the morning, you think any pet should feel lucky to be half as loved as you were by Farleigh and Venetia. Even if they had a strange way of showing it.

Ever true to form, there's absolutely no indication at breakfast that anything remotely note worthy happened the night before. These trysts had been occurring for so long at this point that as long as it was confined to the private quarters of one of the four - now five, you supposed - youth of Saltburn, everyone else pretended to feign ignorance. It was simply a truth of life at Saltburn; death, taxes, and you knowing Felix, Venetia, and Farleigh biblically since high school. So if there was to be a reaction, it would be from the exact person you were hoping would give one.

Oliver.

His gaze does linger on you over breakfast, but it's strangely unreadable. For a long while he watches your hands, but you don't call him out, or draw attention to the fact that you know; you let him stare. You let him watch as you have resolved to do.

Okay, there is one point where your hands drift into a lewd, sexual gesture while you're busy making plans with the others to head to the field for the day, and when you glance back at Oliver he's pink around the ears when he guiltily meets your gaze. The smile you flash him, so quickly that no-one else sees it, is wicked. Even if he seems to grow further embarrassed, you're pretty sure he's focusing straight down on his food to hide a smile.

"What kind of pervert do you take me for?" Felix mutters, despite the flush on his cheeks in the golden afternoon sunshine as Farleigh continues to tease him while you three and Venetia settled into the field, waiting for Oliver.

"Like you aren't even the slightest bit curious about the only other dick to get Y/N off besides you," Farleigh smirked, even as Venetia gasped with a kind of scandalised glee, and you practically screeched with fury, berating him with a flurry of smacks against his shoulder.

"Not true!" You clarified immediately, looking to Felix, who had slid his sunglasses down his nose to give you an incredulously amused look. You could feel yourself growing more flustered by the moment, but you're not exactly sure why. Surely - if it were true, which it decidedly is not - it would be just an awful reflection on your past partners, "and if it were, which it... mostly isn't," you stuck your nose in the air, giving Farleigh a final shove, "wouldn't you just be writing your own shit review with that lie?"

"How can it be mostly true?" Venetia's eyes are alight with intrigue as she fully rolls over to get closer to you and the boys, propping her chin on her hand as she dedicates her focus to you. Farleigh's actually kicking his feet and giggling, the bloody shit-stirrer.

"I told you that in fucking confidence," you snapped to Farleigh in what was more a stage whisper than anything else. Farleigh's giggling turns to cackling.

"So what I was told," Felix sits back with a smug little smile and a tone that you knew could only mean he was about to be a menace, "was that Ollie was so good that none of our friends," his grin grows wider in the face of your pouting, "Farleigh included, I'd assume, would believe you if you'd told them." Smug bastard; if he put half as much effort into studying as he did to remembering stupid shit you say about your hook ups, you wouldn't have had to go in and change nearly as many of his marks in the system.

"I get off!" You defended your past self, though it almost sounds embarrassed, but the ridiculousness of the situation sets the others off snickering, "people other than Fi, and, yeah, Ollie," you admitted awkwardly, "get me off- have gotten me off! Both of you cunts have gotten me off! You were there!" By now they're all practically cackling, and you let your embarrassment wane and let yourself get caught up in the laughter too.

As your coming down, it's a lot easier to admit without feeling self conscious.

"He got me off first is all," you lay back in the tall grass, lighting up a cigarette with an easy smile, "which, yeah, is admittedly a rare enough occurrence that it made whatever counts as mine and Farleigh's news cycle," you snorted.

"Seriously?" You hear Felix's incredulous voice and you sigh, admitting that while, yeah, that list consists of him and Oliver, it's also not that big of a deal, that you have your fun. But Felix isn't talking to you; "no, seriously," he's looking between Venetia and Farleigh like he's personally offended, "how long have you two been fucking my best mate and you haven't even had the decency to -"

"I keep track," Farleigh insists, which, yeah he actually did, "I repay back every one that I promise," his hand over his heart like this is anything close to serious. Propping yourself up on your elbows, you see Felix is still wearing a severely unimpressed look at them both, and despite the ludicrous situation, something about his indignation on your behalf melts something in your heart. It's almost like he can tell; without even looking at you he reaches out and rests a hand on your shin beside him.

"And a very worked up lesbian in Montreal told me I was a pillow princess," Venetia says in that same tone as Farleigh, as if her words were any kind of justification.

"I have follow up questions," Farleigh, however, immediately takes the bait, if only to steer the conversation away from Felix's frustration at them both, "how did you know she was a lesbian and why were you arguing?"

"The answer to both is that we weren't arguing," Venetia tells him smugly, voice laden thick with inuendo. Felix makes a face, but lets them go about their conversation without further interruption from him, despite his continued discomfort with the news he'd just learned about you.

Sitting up beside him, you mirror him, knees up to your chest, but you tuck your arm in his and bump your forehead against his cheek.

"Feels kinda gross to know about you," you hear Felix mumble, though almost immediately he clarifies, "you're not gross," he's speaking low enough that only you can hear, "everyone else is," he jerks his head towards Venetia and Farleigh before he leans back against you, "they're gross."

"Lucky I have you and Ollie then," you murmur with a chuckle, but are met with silence. Felix lets out a long sigh, and you know him well enough to know what's on his mind, "you so are curious about Ollie," you poked him in the ribs with a sly grin. Felix snorted, pressing a kiss to your forehead instead of answering. You know all too well that he's blushing by now, attempting to hide most of it from his perverse family members by keeping close to you.

Venetia and Farleigh for their part have shifted over, given you both more space as the gossiping had come to an end. As it always seemed to be, the last two to remain unreasonably close were you and Felix.

"What made him different from everyone else wasn't his dick, for the record," you murmured as you were going through the picnic basket, searching for something cold in the afternoon heat. Felix the only one close enough to have heard your quiet aside, looks at you with intrigue; how does he not get it? You give him a strange little smile, "it's... that he was Oliver." Felix frowns a little, as if trying to decipher what you're trying to tell him. Instead you shrug and unwrap and ice lolly, gaze focusing on where you can finally see Oliver on the horizon; you wave, but keep your voice low as you add to Felix.

"There's no dick that's going to cure world hunger by itself, you know?"

And no, at the time Felix doesn't exactly understand what you mean by that. Yet.

[eff4freddie]

After She Left | Four

Words: 5.3k

Your tutoring with Ellie is going well, even if she's never going to be a fan of Jane Austen. Joel is still worried about the tracks he found outside the gates a few weeks ago.

Chapter warnings: Bit of angst, bit of mutual pining

Three | Series Masterlist | Five

Almost a week later, you found a perfect wooden replica of a whale sitting on the steps of the schoolhouse. The next time you tutored Ellie you brought over a hand-written recipe for mac and cheese that Jeremiah in the kitchens gave you shit for, being that it was basically two ingredients and three steps.

A whittled shark appeared the following week, which you reciprocated by providing Ellie your only copy of Pride and Prejudice. She hated it.

A wooden coral, complete with pock marks where a fish might have nibbled, appeared on your front doorstep. Its elegant fingers stretched out to grasp the sunlight over your desk, where you placed it with the others. It earned Ellie and Joel an entire plate of muffins.

All the while, you attended the Miller household to sit at the kitchen table or on the back porch and tutor Ellie. You’d started to learn her a bit better, understand how she thought and, by extension, how to teach her. She didn’t like books, even though she was a good reader, but she had a curious mind, and she could hold facts hard and firm. You realised if you were going to give her dates of historical events she liked to see them on a timeline, and you glued four sheets of paper together in a row and tried to recreate one for her, labelling it ‘the history of the world’. You watched her trace her finger over the line as you worked together to add cataclysms, wars, famines. The fact that some of them happened concurrently - on opposite sides of the world - amazed her. You realised history for her had become a big glob of before the outbreak and after. Together you were weaving some sense out of it.

Joel, for his part, stayed away. He wanted to give you the time and space you needed to help his daughter, to get Ellie up to speed enough that she wouldn’t just survive in Jackson, but thrive. He wanted her to be well-rounded enough, to be thoughtful and careful enough, that if he were ever gone she could continue on her life, her trajectory, without him. He knew, up late at night and sometimes pacing the floor at the foot of his bed, that you were gifting his daughter a fighting chance.

You, who had a really pretty laugh when it sometimes floated out to him from the back porch, as he stood at the stove cooking dinner. You, who would never accept an invitation to eat with them unless Ellie basically begged you, and she always did, because Joel could see she was completely besotted, came alive when you were around. You, who brought warmth into the house such that it eased the ache in his joints just enough for him to keep getting up in the morning, keep patrolling, beat back the terrors for another day.

You, who he absolutely was not developing any kind of feelings for. He just whittled you things because you’d asked him to, for the kids, and because it was good for him to keep his hands busy, to make things again.

--

You held his latest creation in your hands, an octopus, the suckers on its tentacles perfectly round and revolting. He’d managed to craft it as though it were floating, it’s arms up at different heights as though it was caught prowling across the sea floor. You laughed when he handed it to you, but not cruelly.

‘The kids are going to freak out when I show them this,’ you giggled, holding it by a tentacle as if it was going to wrap itself around your arm. ‘I don’t know how to even begin to explain what it is.’

‘Is it the eight arms?’ Joel asked, his smile reaching his eyes and making them glitter in the lamplight.

‘The suckers,’ you said, ‘and the whole…no bones thing. This one’s going to be tough.’

He was grinning at you, and you were ignoring the little flip your tummy did each time you locked eyes with him, preferring instead to look down at the figurine in your hands.

‘Joel, you don’t need to keep making these if it’s a bother, you’ve already gone above and beyond.’

‘No bother, I like it,’ he said. ‘C’mere.’

He motioned you out to the front porch, where an old rocking chair was set against the wall of the house. You hadn’t noticed it when you came in, being that Ellie had thrown open the door as you arrived and pulled you by the elbow into the warmth inside. Now she was in bed, hopefully reading, hopefully not listening in.

‘See, if I sit here,’ he said, demonstrating by easing himself into the chair and hoping you would be kind enough to ignore the creak of his knees, ‘I can whittle and look out at the town as I do it.’

‘Got a nice view,’ you agreed, nodding, and you smiled at him when you turned and noticed he’d started rocking.

‘You’re really giving the ‘get off my lawn’ Texas-y vibes you know,’ you observed, and he winked at you.

‘My ole’ grandpappy used to sit out here with his moonshine,’ Joel said, putting on a hideously overdone Southern accent, pretending to spit tobacco onto the porch beside him. You giggled. ‘Course that was ‘fore the war took his left leg.’

‘The war? His…what?’

‘Called him Stumpy,’ Joel continued, ignoring you, now pretending to chew on an imaginary blade of wheat out the corner of his mouth. ‘Stumpy’d whittle himself up a new peg leg every time he lost it drinkin’. And he drunk a lot.’

‘That right?’ you asked, trying to play along, trying not to laugh and ruin the moment, wondering who this cheeky Joel was, this Joel capable of mischief, wondering how you could get him to stick around.

‘Uh-huh,’ Joel went on, really getting into his character now, rocking away in the chair and nodding, ‘we said to him, “Stumpy, why ain’t you just whittle yourself a crutch?” and you wanna know what he said?’

‘What did he say?’ you asked, a little bit enthralled now by the adventures of Stumpy the Peg Legged Alcoholic.

“Your Grammy’d just whip me with it.” Joel finished, and you groaned.

‘Why do I feel like Stumpy would have deserved it?’ you asked, and Joel laughed then, dropping the act.

‘So perceptive, Teach,’ he smiled at you. A moment of levity broken only when he stood again, took a step towards you, his broad shoulders filling the air in front of you. You almost took a step back, worried for a moment his forcefield would envelope you, maybe wanting it to.

‘Everythin’ you’re doin’ for Ellie…’ he said, and you waved him off, because you’d had this conversation already and each time you’d stopped him, his compliments making you uncomfortable in a way you couldn’t put your finger on. You weren’t doing it for thank you’s, you weren’t doing it for favours. You just liked Ellie, and you liked passing on your knowledge, and maybe if she gained something from what you had experienced it would prevent her from having to do the same.

‘Joel, it’s fine…’ you countered, but he waved his hand to stop you, and you did.

‘Just want you to know, it’s not just Ellie that’s benefittin’,’ he said, swallowing before he continued. ‘Doin’ me some good, too.’

He didn’t know how to put it any better than that. In all the nights he’d laid awake thinking about it, trying to puzzle it out, he’d started to realise that Ellie going to school, Ellie bettering herself, Ellie doing homework and even that chart you’d put up in her room of all the historical events you could think of, that it was just so much like home. It’d reminded him of Sarah doing her homework every night, of Sarah telling him random facts she’d learned that day, that he immediately forgot but didn’t mind because he just liked hearing her voice when she was excited about somethin’. He wanted to tell you that you were doing something important, not just for Ellie and for her future but for him as well, something that had been missing for so long he forgot it until it was there. He didn’t have the words, not the right ones, but that wasn’t going to stop him trying.

You blinked up at him, felt yourself pull closer towards him without thinking about it.

‘It’s my pleasure, Joel,’ you said, and you watched the pink bloom over his cheeks. ‘I like it at your place, anyway. It feels like…I don’t know, it reminds me of something. It’s like I’m nostalgic for something I’m not sure I ever even had.’

He nodded at you, wanted to throw his arms around you, pick you up and pull you into his body, hold you there until his bones turned to dust. You were lit up from the soft light in the windows, the dark of Jackson over your shoulders. For an insane moment he thought about dropping his forehead to yours, taking you by the chin and pushing your lips to his, tasting the little gasp you’d let out as it arrived at his waiting mouth.

You watched as he glanced down at your lips. You swallowed, fought yourself not to reach up, hold his jaw in your palm and pull him down to you. You were standing so close now you were almost touching. All you’d have to do is lean in.

But you let the moment pass. You couldn’t say why, other than that it was late, and you weren’t sure you had all that romance stuff in you anymore, if any good could come of it, and it didn’t matter that Joel was the most attractive man you’d come across in twenty years, maybe ever, if it meant messing with your stability, with all that you’d built and achieved in Jackson, your little haven at the end of the world.

‘You know we’re doing prom next week?’ you asked, to break the tension with what you now realised was one of the most romantic topics you could have come up with. You swallowed.

Joel blinked, as if he’d heard but not comprehended what you said, before you saw it click into place.

‘Elly’s been telling me all about it,’ he said, smiling. ‘Well, she asked if she’s gotta wear a dress.’

You smiled, making a conscious effort to take a step back. ‘I told her she can wear whatever she’s comfortable in.’

‘Careful, that’ll be her pyjamas.’ He met your smile, his cheeks still pink, the something still hanging in the air between you.

‘So long as she’s got something covering her, I don’t care,’ you said, and he grinned, then.

‘You need chaperones?’ he asked, wondering if he sounded too hopeful.

You shook your head. ‘Tommy’s volunteered, and a couple of the other dads.’

Joel nodded. Fuckin’ Tommy. ‘What was your prom like, Teach?’ he asked, and you looked to the sky to try and remember.

‘I had a dark purple taffeta skirt that puffed out like this,’ you said, holding your arms straight out at your sides and puffing out your cheeks for good measure, ‘and a crop top.’ He snickered, before he realised that might have been hurtful, and rearranged his features to serious again.

‘M’sure you looked beautiful,’ he said, and you shook your head, sadly.

‘I looked like an eggplant in her little sister’s tee shirt,’ you said, and he laughed then, properly from the belly, and you wanted to bite the air where it hovered, bring the sound of it between your teeth and hold it there.

‘What about you?’ you asked, trying to get the conversation back on the rails, trying to forget the way the taffeta was so overwhelming you needed help to lift it all to pee. ‘Cowboy hat and matchin’ boots?’

‘Stumpy whittled me a pair of clogs,’ he said, completely serious, and for a second you panicked that the entire Stumpy thing had been real. He saw your face go pale and he laughed. ‘Holy shit, you actually think I’m that much of a red neck!’ he said, his eyes crinkling up so much you could barely make out his eyes.

You swatted at him. ‘I can never tell with you, you’re so serious all the time!’ He stopped laughing, adopting an exaggerated frown.

‘That is very culturally inappropriate of you, Teach, thinkin’ all people from the South are like Stumpy.’

‘Oh, fuck off,’ you huffed as you kept swatting.

He ignored your blows as they glanced off him, until he reached out caught your wrist, pulling you towards him. ‘Tellin’ Ellie you said that,’ he said, suddenly his voice low, dangerous, and you felt a seismic shock deep in your pelvis. Fuck he was handsome when he wanted to be, when he turned it on. His hand was so warm on your wrist, and you were sure he could feel your pulse thundering under your skin. You wanted him to lift it to his lips and lick along the vein.

‘Don’t,’ you said, and you weren’t sure what you didn’t want him to do. Don’t tell Ellie, don’t tease me like this, don’t let me go. His lips were so soft in the half-light, his eyes dark in the shadows. You felt the grip on your wrist loosen and you immediately wriggled it free.

‘I should head home,’ you said, forgetting you were still holding the octopus, looking down at it in your other hand with surprise. You studied it for a moment, felt something strange settle in your belly. ‘Do you ever wonder if these things, all of these animals, if they’re still out there?’ you asked. You heard Joel take in a breath through his nose.

‘Fungus wouldn’t have-’, he started, but you interrupted.

‘No, I know the fungus wouldn’t have got them, I just mean…I guess, do you think they’ll ever be seen by a human ever again?’

You felt the heaviness of the question on your sternum, listened to the creak of the bones under the weight.

‘Reckon they’re having a fine old time without us,’ Joel said, kindly, watching the sadness fall heavy on your face. You looked up at him again, your smile now just a little forced, bowing in the centre under the weight of the broken world.

‘Sorry, that’s not…thank you for these, again,’ you said, rallying. ‘They’re amazing and the kids will be…amazed,’ you finished lamely, your vocabulary slowly withering under his gaze.

He didn’t want you to go, but knew that you should, that you would anyway even if he didn’t want it that way, because you were more reasonable than him, because you were smarter. He wished, for just a second, that you were as dumb as he was.

‘Yeah, course,’ he said, waving away your gratitude. ‘Lemme know when you’re done with the ocean, what next to make for ya’ he went on.

‘Joel, really, you don’t have to…’ you started, but he was heading in now, turning away from you to hover in the doorway, a silhouette in the light from the hall.

‘See ya, Teach,’ he said.

You waved the octopus at him in goodbye.

--

The next time you saw Joel you were on the wall, your eyes trained on the horizon. You saw him as he emerged from the treeline, Guillaume following. Even from this distance you could see the tension in Joel’s shoulders, the way he was hunched over in the saddle to push his horse to the gates just that little bit faster.

Joel was nervous, having spent the better half of the afternoon working the perimeter with Guillaume and not finding the trail of the unknown campers from a few weeks ago. Guillaume had begrudgingly followed when Joel insisted that they spend a little time off the trail to make sure that they had covered everything, that there weren’t any new tracks inching closer to the safe haven of Jackson. When they hadn’t found any, he’d felt the frustration coming off Guillaume in waves. Had done his best to ignore it.

Joel knew it had made them come back late, that they’d have to log a report. He felt the worry and the guilt in equal measure on his shoulders, his heart thumping hard in his chest at the idea of having to explain, again, to Tommy that he was still out there looking for clues. He didn’t really have an explanation as to why it bothered him so much, just that something in his gut told him it was trouble, and it was all the worse for the fact that no one else was taking him seriously.

When he reached up to signal, he saw it was you on the wall. He could see that you were watching him, checking his six for him, scanning the periphery to make sure nothing emerged from the treeline at the last second to ambush them. He felt the panic ease slightly, seeing you up there, the dying afternoon light catching your hair. You motioned for the gates to open just as they were upon them, and he sailed through with Guillaume hot on his tail.

They rode straight to the stables. He could hear the younger man behind him huffing in anger alongside his horse. As he swung over and led his horse inside, he held his hand up in supplication.

‘M’sorry, Gollum,’ he conceded, hoping it would be enough to allay the younger man’s concerns.

‘Fuck that,’ Guillaume said, leading his horse into its stall and then rounding onto Joel. ‘What the fuck is with you, you always this paranoid?’

‘Aint no such thing as paranoid in these circumstances,’ he said, and Guillaume rolled his eyes. Joel felt the flicker of anger in his belly.

‘Fuckssake man, it was nothing and it was weeks ago.’

‘Don’t know it was nothing, and don’t matter how long,’ Joel said, hearing his own voice raise as Guillaume yelled at him.

‘I do know that, because I saw it was nothing with my own eyes. As did you.’

Guillaume was tall, a handful of inches more than Joel, but he was still too young to have learnt how to be properly intimidating. Joel felt himself draw up to his full height, his face setting hard into stone.

‘Been doin’ this just as long as you have, but I’ve been doin’ it on my own,’ Joel grunted, leaning in close to Guillaume to make sure that he heard every word. ‘Maybe you don’t like my methods, but they’ve kept me alive. Would have given anything for some safe walls around me the last two decades.’

‘Fuck you,’ Guillaume said. ‘You walk around like you’re the only one that’s had to fight their way here.’

Joel paused for a second. He knew everyone had a history, that people had suffered loss and sacrifice. But then he thought of abdomens torn apart by army bullets, of scalpel’s into sleeping girls’ skulls, and he reminded himself why he was still out there in the first place. That was why he patrolled the way he did.

‘We could be being watched, this whole time.’ Joel said, ignoring Guillaume’s insult to try and make his point instead. ‘They could be learnin’ our patrol routes, our schedules. Gettin’ real smart with it while we fuck around the same old paths.’

‘There hasn’t been anyone sighted within the compound in months, Joel. Last two people to waltz up to the gates were you and your daughter.’

‘They could be-’

‘Oh fuck off with the could be’s,’ Guillaume interrupted. ‘You spend this much time worrying about could be’s you miss the fuckin’ real threats out there, man. You know that. When the fuck did you get so scared?’

It would have been kinder, Joel considered, if Guillaume had just pulled out his gun and shot him. He felt the blow to his chest, the air sucked out of the stables. He blinked.

‘I…’ he started, but he couldn’t finish, the shame blotting out his words.

‘I’m asking Tommy to switch you out,’ Guillaume said, finally. ‘Maybe you need a different job for a while.’

‘No, don’t,’ Joel protested, but Guillaume was already walking away, striding towards the town hall. Joel knew that Tommy was already worried, could read his younger brother’s face like a book. This wouldn’t help matters.

‘Wait!’ he called out, rushing forward, stumbling on the steps and grabbing Guillaume by the back of his jacket to catch himself, sending them both sprawling onto the street. He only realised Guillaume was bleeding when the younger man groaned, reaching up to touch the blood pouring out of his nose. ‘Oh fuck, I didn’t mean to…’ Joel started, but Guillaume was up and angry, standing over Joel.

‘Fuck you, man, you fuckin serious?’ Guillaume said. ‘Y’see? Either you’re too fucking senile to stick to a route or you’re too fucking old and clumsy to keep yourself upright.’ Joel tried to stand but Guillaume was leaning over him, grunting into his face. ‘Stay down, old man, don’t break a hip,’ he muttered. Joel watched him go, turning to look at the onlookers milling around, watching with concern. He grunted, rolling over onto his knees to get up. A hand appeared in front of him and he took it, the humiliation almost complete, until he looked up into your eyes.

Death, he thought. Death would have been kinder.

‘You OK?’ you asked, and he felt himself rankle under your concern.

‘M’fine,’ he grunted, letting go of your hand the moment he was upright. ‘There was a loose stone, I fell, it’s nothin’.’

‘Yeah but the shit he was saying-’

‘I said m’fine,’ Joel spat, the shame biting at the back of his throat and nearly making him choke. ‘Just leave me be.’

He couldn’t look at you, but out of the corner of his eyes he saw your shoulders deflate, the look of hurt pass over your face.

He just couldn’t figure it, how he got so old so quick, so jumpy. He wasn’t sleeping, had dreams of the hospital when he did, and he couldn’t get any pills to help him. Best he could do was some of Tommy’s god-awful whiskey and even that didn’t knock him out so much as knock him over for the next three days.

You took a step back, suddenly feeling like a lion tamer without a shield.

‘Ok,’ you said, quietly.

He felt the heat on his cheeks, looked up in time to see you turn and walk back to the gate, to take up your post again. You’d come down to check on him, and he’d chased you away.

He looked down at his hands, saw the little tremor in them. He tried to clean away the dirt, dusting them off on his thighs. He waited until people milled away again, staring down at the ground and hearing nothing except the pulse in his ears. Humiliation complete.

--

You couldn’t sleep, your traitorous little mind replaying the moment outside the stables over and over again. The hideous shit Guillaume had been saying to Joel, the injustice of it, the shock on Joel’s face when he realised Guillaume was bleeding. You’d come down from your post to check on them, just for the reason that something seemed up with Joel as he came through the gates, and had accidentally compounded the situation, tried to help of all fucking things, while Joel just wanted to be alone. Of course he did.

‘I know, I fucked up,’ you said to Rose, who was sitting on the end of your bed, criss-cross apple sauce and somehow aged both 24 and 15 at the same time. ‘You don’t need to tell me.’

You paused to listen to your sister’s words echoing out from her death.

‘Because I was prying, when I should have just left him alone. He’d a proud man, and he’s strong but Guillaume is younger, and everyone talks so much about how he was in the French army or whatever, and like…Joel is just, Joel? He’s amazing and he’s strong and so capable, but he’s not fancy pants like that.’

You listened, again.

‘I know he doesn’t need to be fancy pants. I’m not saying he does. I quite like his pants as they are.’ A short pause. ‘Oh, get your mind out of the gutter. I’m just saying that…I made things worse, and I don’t like that, it feels yuck. Yes, yuck. Yuck is a technical term.’

You waited.

‘No, I can’t, it’s too late. Maybe in the morning. I don’t know, after school. I am NOT being a coward, I’m being considerate.’

You listened.

‘No, I can’t go over there just to see if the lights are on. That’s so creepy. It IS creepy. No, because what if he sees me?’

You realised that in your heated conversation you’d neglected to notice you were already pulling your boots on.

--

Joel’s lights were on, and you weren’t surprised, he had mentioned a few times he had trouble sleeping. You wondered what he did with his time, alone in his bedroom, and then you banished that thought before it got out of control.

You didn’t want to knock on his door in case you woke Ellie, but you didn’t want to throw rocks at his window like in the movies because knowing you you’d shatter the glass. So instead, you stood under his window, with your neck craned right up, and hissed his name into the night. It took four or five goes, of increasing volume, before he appeared on the porch. You swivelled around to him when he called you, pinching something in your neck in the process.

‘Get your boots on,’ you stage-whispered to him. ‘Hurry up, I want you to see.’

You waited on his front lawn, the teeth of the late-Spring air nipping at your skin. He appeared several minutes later, a jacket on over his sweats, his bootlaces untied.

‘What are we doing?’ he asked, and you realised he was nervous, and that you’d probably startled him by calling to him in the night with no explanation, and by being completely insane.

‘I want you to come see,’ you said, and he sighed.

‘Come see what, it’s the middle of the night.’

You sighed, and grabbed his arm to you, pulling him onto the pavement. You just knew you wouldn’t win an argument with him, so you didn’t bother having one.

Jackson was pretty at night, the string lights along the street guiding you back to the gates. At this time of night, you could pretend the whole place belonged to just you, that you ran it, but if you thought about it too long you started to fear the emptiness. You liked the people around you, the community. There was strength in numbers, there was cover.

You nodded to Billy and Shruti at the base of the gate.

‘Not your shift,’ Billy said when he saw your approach, and you shrugged.

‘Just taking in the sights,’ you said, stepping onto the ladder and glancing over your shoulder to make sure Joel was following. He didn’t look pleased, but he put one hand on the rung beside you.

This was one of your favourite places, up top of the gate. You took up your position, by the third pylon, and waited for Joel to join you. You felt him at your shoulder, looking out into the night below. The immediate area was floodlit, right up to the treeline, and the roaming spotlight threw light even further again, as Shruti pushed it side to side.

‘See how far we can see, even in the nighttime?’ you said to Joel, not looking at him, not wanting to turn in case you saw shame or anger or hurt etched on his face. ‘In the day you can see so much further, down to the river on the right side, up to the overpass on the left. But it’s not bad in the dark, either.’

He came up closer beside you, resting his hands on the rail. You chanced a look at him, could see that he was studying the landscape beneath you.

‘It’s further’n I thought,’ he said to himself.

‘We can see you coming back from patrol before you see us,’ you said. ‘The movement in the trees, the colour, it means we know someone’s there even if we can’t see who until you clear the treeline.’

You watched as his eyes roamed left to right. ‘You just get good at scanning for movement,’ you continued, turning back to the view. ‘You know the difference between a tree moving in the wind and someone moving underneath it.’

He nodded his head, grunting in agreement.

‘M’sure you do, Teach,’ he said.

‘We all do, we train for it,’ you replied. You turned to him, wanting to see if this was working, wanted to wrap your arms around him and tuck your cold nose into the warmth of his neck, make him huff out a laugh and try and push you off him just to dig in further, make him warm your cold hands on his back next.

‘Nothing’s getting close without us seeing,’ you said, after a while, trying to drive your point home. He nodded, his eyes moving, finally, from the horizon to meet yours. He exhaled, long and slow, and you saw some of the worry go with it.

‘What are you doing up so late?’ he asked, after a while. You shrugged your shoulders.

‘Same thing as you, I’d say,’ you replied.

‘S’hard not to think of them,’ he said, turning to look back at Jackson.

‘It’s a great community,’ you said, but Joel was shaking his head.

‘Not them, although that’s true. I mean the others. The ones who didn’t…’

He trailed off, and you realised what he was saying, and you reached out and gripped his hand in yours, and you didn’t care if it was weird or too forward because you felt in your bones that the moment called for it. That and so much more.

‘At night when it’s just you and the dark, and the memories of them,’ you finished for him, and he nodded. He sniffed a little, and you realised he was tearing up, did him the courtesy of not making a big deal out of it.

‘The guilt can make you crazy, makes you see things, maybe,’ he said, quietly. You felt him grip your hand, and you gripped back.

‘If you let it, it’ll eat you alive,’ you agreed. You pulled on his arm a little, nudging it, until he turned his head to look at you. ‘Don’t let it.’

‘You two stayin’ til sunrise?’ Billy called from beneath you, and you looked away from Joels’ gaze. ‘Only I could be warm in my bed, is all,’ Billy finished.

‘I can stay,’ Joel said, turning back to the horizon. ‘Want to, actually. Thank you, for this.’ He nodded towards the ladder. ‘Go on, go get your rest, Teach. Got young minds to nurture in the morning.’

Billy helped you down the ladder and you walked with him back up the main street, your nose tingling from the cold.

From your front porch you couldn’t see the wall, couldn’t see Joel working it, but you knew he was there, that he was watching over you and the town, and you slept that night, better than you had in a long time, the eight arms of the octopus on your bedside table raised as if to hold you.   

Taglist (let me know if you'd like me to add you) @harriedandharassed

@vickie5446

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[ladykailitha]

Never Hold Back Your Step... Part 7

I know, I know. I put out a chapter recently for this one. But it was the closest to being done after my elbow started feeling better so it got to go first.

In case anyone was curious, this is the song that the title is based on. It's from the musical The Scarlet Pimpernel and it's about the lead, Sir Percival Blankney trying to get his friends to help rescue nobles in France during the French Revolution.

Steve is going to have a very rough go of it for the next couple of chapters. but we're nearing the third season so that should be fun (it might get glossed over a bit for the sake of this story's plot, as it's more about Eddie and Steve then the events of the show).

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

****

Steve was taking a break from doing homework to work on his next comic. This one was a little bit more dangerous to put to paper in the sense that even the dumbest agent would immediately know what he was referencing. Well maybe not immediately, but definitely by the end.

But to the people who didn’t know that underneath their feet was this massive alternate dimension filled with murderous monsters? It was the easiest to hide. Giant wolves in a junkyard? The spunky new character who had more sass in her pinkie than the entire rest of the Party combined and considering Dustin was in this one, that was saying something.

He was lettering his favorite exchange between Max and Dustin. Her calling Steve insane and Dustin saying that he was awesome.

He could be both.

Really, all he needed to do was finish up the lettering and he would done. Then he could actually give it to Eddie and not chicken out this time.

Last time, he had brought it over to show Eddie, but had gotten cold feet at the last minute. Not that it had mattered, the ever loving idiot that he was had left it at the trailer anyway.

He already had his note to Eddie explaining the real events behind the comic on the back. Again with the instruction to do away with that page after he had read it.

He really, really didn’t want either of them in trouble with the Feds.

Steve looked up at the clock and sighed. If he wanted to get his homework done, he’d have to get back to it. He knew he really didn’t have to work that hard, having graduation in the bag, but he couldn’t help try anyway.

Plus at least two of his teachers had threatened to prevent any student who slacked off in class from walking in graduation. And he didn’t doubt that a least two others would do it, too, they just hadn’t said the quiet part out loud.

He put aside his comic and pulled his history book closer to him. He sighed again when he saw that he had barely done two questions. He dug the palms of his hands into his eyes and rubbed them.

He could do this.

****

Steve had been invited to a couple of graduation parties, one from a couple drama geek friends and another from Lyle on the swim team. Was even hosting one of his own.

Thankfully none of the were on the same night and he could do all three. Eddie wasn’t going to any of the ones he’d been invited to. Including Steve’s.

And as much as that hurt, Steve understood. He didn’t think that he could stand there with people graduating, knowing that he wasn’t going to be on that stage with them.

****

Marty, Janice, and Steve were all standing in the corner at the drama club party, drinks in hand and wishing to be anywhere but there.

“I’m just saying,” Steve muttered for the tenth time since he got there, “that we pick up Eddie and some real booze, drive out to the quarry and get proper shitfaced.”

Marty rolled his eyes. “So you keep saying. But I can’t if my parents find out I’ve ditched the party, I’ll be grounded until I go to college.”

He took a sip of his punch and winced. It wasn’t even alcoholic. It was Sprite and Kool-aid. Lime Kool-aid, no less. With lemon/lime soda? At least use it to spike cherry or some shit.

Janice suddenly ducked behind Steve and hid her face into his back. “Shit, it’s Tammy Thompson.”

Tammy walked up to Steve and Marty.

“Hey, guys,” she said cheerfully. “Glad you two could make. I heard Janice was going to come, have either of you two fine fellas seen her? I wanted to talked to her about where’s she going to college, just to see about what her prospects were.”

Marty and Steve shared a glance and then Steve frowned.

“Yeah, sorry,” he said, “she did stop to chat with us briefly, but then she moved on.”

Tammy pouted. “Well thank you anyway.”

She wandered off and Janice hissed, “So you could degrade them and make sure not to apply there, because they were beneath you, you hell beast.”

Marty snorted.

Steve just shook his head. He dumped his almost full plastic cup into a nearby garbage. “You guys can stay here if you want, but I’m out of here. I’ve been to some pretty lame parties, but this one takes the cake.”

“I’m with you there,” Janice agreed. “How about you Mart? You coming?”

Marty winced again and looked around. The music wasn’t loud enough to be heard and they were standing pretty close to the speakers. The food was just chips and store bought cookies. The drink was nasty as hell.

“Come on,” Steve said gently tapping Marty’s elbow. “At least let me give you a ride home.”

Marty deflated and tossed his cup in after Steve’s. “You’ve got me there, man. Yeah. Let’s go.”

Steve breathed a sigh of relief.

He led the way out to his bimmer and went to go dig out his keys out of his pocket when he was spun around roughly.

“Hey!” Janice cried.

Steve gulped. He was looking into the very furious and drunk face of Kyle Carver.

The asshole who had tried to sabotage Steve’s performance as Thomson in the school play by dumping water all over him.

He had been expelled and no doubt blamed Steve for that.

“It should have been me!” Kyle screamed in his face. “You ruined my life Harrington! You’ll pay! I’ll see to that!”

Then he took a swing at Steve. Steve managed to move to the side enough to have Kyle miss, but it was a near thing. He pushed Kyle’s chest.

“Back off, man!” he growled. “You ruined your own fucking life. You cheated on the audition, you tried to dump water all over me because you couldn’t get over the fact that I’m just better than you.”

He turned around to get into the car, but Kyle slammed his head into roof of the car. Marty and Janice screamed, hurrying to get over on the other side of the car.

Steve turned around and touched his forehead. His finger came away with blood. “You’re going to regret that, Carver.”

Kyle scoffed. “Billy told the team what an absolute pussy you are, Harrington. You couldn’t fight your way out a paper bag now that you don’t have that freak Munson around as your guard dog.”

Before Marty or Janice could stop him, Steve swung with everything he had.

CRACK!

Kyle stiffened like a board and went down.

Marty and Janice skidded to a stop to look down at the now unconscious Kyle Carver.

“What the fuck did you just do?” Marty asked in awe.

Steve wiped the blood off his forehead and spat on Carver. “What I should have done from the beginning. Take those assholes out. I was just afraid of what my dad would if I was caught fighting again after the incident with Byers.”

He gestured to Marty. “Come on, help me get this idiot off the side of the road.”

Steve lifted under his arms, while Marty and Janice moved him off onto the grass.

A passing sophomore saw them and made to open his mouth to scream.

“Hey, hey,” Steve said softly. “He’s just had a little too much to drink and hit his head. So why don’t you keep an eye on him for us.”

The sophomore nodded and the three of them slipped into Steve’s car, Janice at the wheel.

****

Eddie opened his trailer door and looked down at the trio of them getting out of Steve’s car.

“And just what did you two do to my boyfriend?”

Janice laughed and waved her hand at Steve’s smeared with blood forehead with a grin. “This? Oh this is nothing. You should see the other guy.”

Eddie sighed, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “What other guy?”

“Kyle Carver tried to get in Steve’s face and smashed his head onto the roof of the bimmer. So Steve here, just turns around and lays him out flat. It’s a good thing I could tell he was breathing, because holy shit, did Kyle go down hard.”

Eddie raised an eyebrow at Steve.

Steve shrugged. “It’s the reason I don’t get into fights. I don’t know my own strength.”

The other three looked at him in a mixture of shock and awe.

“Get your ass in here,” Eddie huffed. “I’ll get the first aid kit.”

Steve, Marty, and Janice made it up the steps and Eddie held open the door for them to all file through.

Steve sat down on a kitchen chair so Eddie could have a look at him.

“Let’s get you cleaned up first, sweetheart,” he murmured on his way to the bathroom.

He came out moments later with a large first aid kit and a damp wash cloth.

“Wow,” Steve said as Eddie set the kit on the counter. “You’re med kit is almost as impressive as mine.”

Wayne, who had been sitting on his recliner this whole time, snickered. “Eddie was very accident prone when he first hit puberty. All limbs and no idea where to put them. Plus, the bullying. I got the best I could afford just to keep up on it all.”

Eddie blushed a deep red as he wiped off Steve’s forehead. “The cut isn’t that bad, head wounds just bleed a lot. You’ll get more of a bruise than anything else.”

Steve nodded.

“I get why Eddie has an extensive med kit,” Marty huffed. “But why do you have an extensive med kit, Steve?”

Steve threw back his head and laughed. “I babysit six barely teenagers. One plays basketball and another skateboards. Plus, there’s Dustin who is just a walking disaster because he always has to be right and has absolutely no fucks to give to his general surroundings.”

Eddie snorted, rolling his eyes. That was a really good description of Dustin if he was honest. He liked the kid. He did. But low wisdom and high intelligence made for quite the disaster.

Janice nodded. “Yeah. I could see that. My little brother rollerskates and he is a menace on wheels I swear to god.”

Eddie finished putting on the band-aid and then kissed Steve forehead better.

“I’m sorry Carver was an ass,” he said packing away the first aid kit. “But I’m glad you won.”

“Steve told some kid to watch Carver because he was drunk and passed out,” Janice said gleefully. “So even if he does remember the encounter he knows he can’t say shit because then he’d have to admit to assaulting Steve first.”

Eddie kissed Steve again, this time on the cheek. “My super clever boyfriend.”

Wayne grunted as he got to his feet. “Come on, Marty and Janice,” he muttered. “I’ll take you home. I don’t trust this idiot to drive.”

“Hey!” Steve and Eddie protested together.

Wayne just shook his head as if they proved his point.

Janice and Marty said their goodbyes and followed Wayne out.

“Let’s get you some aspirin and into bed, darlin’,” Eddie cooed.

Steve nodded and followed Eddie into the bedroom.

He stripped down to his underwear and climbed under the covers. As he drifted off, he smiled softly to himself. It was nice to be taken care of for a change.

Just before he fell into a deep sleep, he felt a warm hand card through his hair and a soft kiss on his hair.

“Sleep well, Stevie.”

****

Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16

In case you guys don't remember, Kyle is the one that got suspended when he tried sabotage Steve's performance as Sec. Thomson in the musical 1776.

Tag List: @mira-jadeamethyst @rozzieroos @itsall-taken @redfreckledwolf @emly03

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[tiddygame]

Ghoap god type au part 4! Now on Ao3!

part 1 /// part 2 /// part 3 /// part 4 /// part 5 /// part 6 /// part 7

I have not slept in A While because meds are meds so I don't know if this makes sense! Let's Go!!!

And shout out to these people for making me happy stim by requesting to be tagged! I hope this chapter is worthy of such an honor lmao:

@imjustheretofightforlove / @pieckyghost / @life-as-a-gamergirl

Ghost doesn’t know why he continued to give offerings to the god. He should have stopped when he had the chance, but he didn’t. Flowers, jewelry, rocks he thought looked cool, even an entire wallet he stole from a soldier who got on his nerves; It all went on the offering table. 

Something had changed. He doesn’t know what, but there was a difference. And not knowing was terrifying. Ghost liked to compartmentalize, to think things through and sort them into organized boxes. Decluttering the unknown was how he stayed sane.

If there is a problem, do not panic, just figure out what you can do. And if you can do nothing, then you have no reason to panic. The rigid line of thought was the only way he could trick himself into thinking he had any control over his life, that fate hadn’t already woven her strings.

So how do you think through something beyond your comprehension?

Try as he might, he could not and would never be able to truly understand divinity. There was no rationale he could apply to Soap that didn’t make his ears ring. It was all well within arms reach but firmly out of his grasp.

He shouldn’t continue to show patronage to something so unpredictable, so volatile.

“Besides,” Soap said, making eye contact once more. He grinned. It didn’t look human. “I’m not letting you go that easy.”

And yet, every night he would take his dinner to whatever lousy altar he’d created and sit down to eat with an entity that could kill him without raising a finger, would eat and talk to him like they were friends. He’s not sure of when he lost his fucking mind, but it was certainly long gone.

Everything about the god terrified him. It was ancient, domineering over one of the most prevalent parts of humanity. Everything had to die someday, and at the end of it all, Soap would still be there, even as it died too.

So when he appeared behind Ghost at a bookstore of all places, he damn near shit himself. 

He just wanted a book to occupy his time between battles, a distraction from the boredom of downtime. It was the same town as before, barely a few weeks since their impromptu meeting in the temple. He had been perusing the shelves and grabbed a book that caught his eye, some book about the history of the town, and was reading the back of it when someone was very suddenly right next to him.

“Anything interesting?”

Ghost flinched, reaching for a sword that wasn’t there as he turned to face the person who somehow got the jump on him. And just like everything else with the god, he doesn’t know how he knew that the person was Soap in disguise.

He looked nothing like the renditions he’d seen of the god; The man before him was short and had pale skin, light brown hair, and brown eyes. He looked about as non-descript as a human could get. Yet, he still knew that the man was no man at all, but a god that came from the heavens just to make his life miserable.

“Why are you here?” Ghost was too on edge and confused to put the fearful respect in his tone that he normally used when speaking to the god.

“I just came here to look for books, the same as you,” he replied, trying to keep a straight face and play it earnestly but smiling far too much.

Ghost didn’t dignify that with a response, continuing to stare down at him, book still in hand.

Soap sighed, “Alright, alright Mr. Grumpy, maybe I wanted to talk to you again.”

Ghost asked, “Why?” But he realized that probably wouldn’t get him the answer he wanted, “What do you need to talk about?” He was hoping to cut through the small talk and jump right to the essentials.

“I said want. Not need.” Soap corrected. When Ghost looked even more exasperated, he whisper-shouted, “I’ve been stuck in limbo for who the fuck knows how long! I need stimulation! Interaction! Conversation! Anything!”

Oh, gods above, this is the worst torture the god could have devised. He’d rather take eternal pain and misery over becoming a chatty god’s only conversation partner. Fuck, he’s done a lot of bad shit, but nothing to deserve this!

The god grabbed the book out of his hand from where he was still standing petrified and dumbfounded. Soap looked at the book, hummed, and then began browsing the aisle himself.

Soap mused aloud, “I’m not surprised you’re a history nerd… Is there anything else here that’s more interesting?”

A few weeks ago, the god had been so weak he could barely conjure a physical form, now he was in a bookstore to make fun of him?

“The god of death is calling me a nerd with shit taste.” Ghost hadn’t meant to vocalize that thought, but he was still trying to mentally catch up. 

It seemed to catch the god off guard as well, with him snorting as he tried to cover his mouth to stop from laughing, “I didn’t mean ye’ have shit taste, I meant history isn’t an interesting read when you lived through it.”

And at Ghost’s core, he was nothing if not a pain, so even as he was scrambling to figure out what was happening, he pointed out, “But you weren’t alive. You said you were in limbo.”

“Okay, smart-ass. Alive, limbo, whatever. I need a story — one I haven’t heard before.”

“Do you even know how to read?”

His accent became thicker with indignation, “‘Course I do!” 

“This language?” Ghost asked, gesturing to the shelves.

Soap immediately responded, “Ye—,” he cut himself off, looking at the book he grabbed from Ghost. It was upside-down and he twisted his hand awkwardly to have it back upright, squinting at it as he answered, now positive, “Yeah!”

Ghost mumbled, “Hmm, I figured you’d only be able to read dead languages.”

That one got a full laugh out of the god, he desperately tried to quiet his chuckles before they were told off for being too loud. Ghost isn’t sure why, but he felt oddly proud.

Soap was still smiling in an effort to stop laughing as he said, “That would make sense I suppose.” It seemed that not being able to laugh only made the situation funnier, huffing air out of his nose in a quiet giggle. “Well! What book would you suggest?”

Ghost pointed to the other side of the bookstore, “I’d suggest you stop looking in the non-fiction section.”

Soap looked around, muttering a curse under his breath. Seeing where Ghost had pointed, Soap grabbed his hand and dragged him along. Ghost was too surprised by the sudden contact to fight it, which was probably for the best. He may love his personal space, but he loved not getting smote even more. 

“Okay, well, now what book would you suggest?” Soap repeated himself, this time not bothering to browse the shelves as he looked at Ghost for a recommendation. 

Sighing in resignation, “What genres do you like?” If he could get this done with quickly enough, he might still have some time to himself before he had to return to camp. 

“I don’t know. All of them I guess.”

He is not going to get this done with quickly enough to have some time to himself before he has to return to camp.

Ghost let out an even longer sigh and rubbed the bridge of his nose before coming to a solution. The store had their books sorted by genre, so it would be easy enough to grab one or two from each and then get Soap to pick one. 

The god of death’s personal shopper. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

Luckily for both of them, Ghost has had an exorbitant amount of downtime and knew of a few popular ones that weren’t complete garbage. Death seemed content to trail behind him as he picked out the books, admiring the simple building.

The store had large windows facing west, golden light stretching over the shelves and reaching across the floor to tell Ghost how much time he was wasting. The smart thing would have been to just grab a random book, sing its praises, and hope he didn’t get called out on his bullshit. Of course, that would require being smart, so instead Ghost went through almost the entire fiction section, ending with a total of seven books. 

The stack of books was ridiculously tall as he set them down on a table at the back, intending to explain them to Soap and let him pick a couple. 

“This is everything, one book each from most of the genres.” Ghost backed away when Soap stepped closer, looking like an owl as he turned his head sideways to read the spines. Ghost gave up trying to understand the god. 

He pointed to the one on top, “This one is—“

“Fantastic! I’ll take them all,” Soap said, completely ignoring what Ghost was about to say. 

“What?”

“I’ll take them all!” Soap repeated, as if he hadn’t been clear enough the first time. He grabbed the stack of books, adding the one he’d snatched from Ghost to the pile as he walked to the counter.

“But… You don't have any money…” Ghost’s quiet protest went unheard as Soap walked away. He had a small existential crisis as he wondered what mistake he made that led him to this exact moment. He decided the mistake was being born as he followed after the god of death, knowing he probably wouldn’t have enough to cover the books.

Soap set down the books next to the cash register and gleefully asked, “How much for all of these?”

The shopkeeper looked a little surprised at the size of the stack but began checking them and adding up the cost. Even without seeing the number, Ghost was already bemoaning having to explain to a divine being how the economy and poverty work.

But apparently, Soap wasn’t done confusing him as he grabbed a wallet out of his pocket and began pulling out credits as the shopkeeper gave the total. 

At first, Ghost checked his own pocket thinking Soap had managed to steal his wallet and was in for a rude awakening when he found out Ghost was broke, but his wallet was still there. He wasn’t going to ask in front of the shopkeeper where he got it, but curiosity was eating at him. 

Ghost stared at the wallet. He recognized it vaguely but didn’t know from where. It was only when Soap was putting it away that he realized it was the one he’d stolen from that annoying soldier and offered to the god.

And who said your misdeeds come back to haunt you?

Once the books were all bagged, Soap gestured towards it and Ghost sighed as he grabbed the paper bag, supporting the bottom as it was lifted off the counter. Mirroring the same motion, Ghost gestured towards the door. Part of him was curious if the god would pop back out of existence when he walked into the light like he did last time.

Ghost whispered once they were far enough away, “You know I stole that wallet, right?”

Soap snorted, “That’s what made it one of my favorites.”

Ghost let go of the handles of the bag, only holding it from the bottom, and opened the door for Soap. Soap nodded in thanks like everything that had transpired over the last two or so hours was a normal interaction. 

Fortunately, the god did not vanish upon stepping outside, disproving his theory.

No, it was unfortunate. He wanted this to be done with. He didn’t want to keep talking to Soap.

His mouth didn’t seem to get the memo as he started to ask, “Why did you actu—”

“Ghost!”

The shout from someone behind him immediately sucked out any positive feelings he had. His usual glare was back as he turned to face the voice. There were two soldiers, a miserable little search party that looked disgusted at even having to go near Ghost.

“The General needs you for something.”

Of fucking course he does. He risked a glance to where Soap had been standing, unsurprised to see that he’d vanished. Ghost didn’t give them a verbal answer, just glared at them until they both began shifting where they were standing.

He felt a little relieved at being able to put the threatening tone back in his voice as he informed them, “I’ll be back before dinner.”

The one that spoke before looked to his partner and tried to forcefully say, “He needs you now.”

Ghost stepped closer, looming over them as he repeated, “I said I will be back before dinner.” He waited a moment, making sure they were properly threatened before he turned around and walked in the opposite direction of camp.

“Why were you at a bookstore?” One of them called out, almost accusatory as if it would stop him from leaving. He had forgotten about the rumor that he couldn’t read; He doesn’t know how it started, but it was a favorite amongst his fellow soldiers.

“What bookstore?” Ghost yelled back, not bothering to turn around.

The forest looked beautiful in the orange light of the setting sun. He was heading back to the temple, not because he missed Soap, but because it was the only place they wouldn’t be able to find him. If he really was needed, there would be soldiers crawling all over town searching for him.

He didn’t like going somewhere so secluded without his sword, but it was back at camp and he was not going back yet, wanting to piss off the general as much as he could. He hadn’t wanted to walk into the village with such an obvious weapon on his hip out of respect for the residents, but now it meant he only had a hunting knife to defend himself with. Nothing to sneeze at, obviously, but he would have felt a lot more comfortable making the hike through the forest with a heavier weapon.

A chill began to take hold as the sun dipped below the horizon. A cold front came through a few days prior that made sure the days were a lovely charming example of the upcoming fall weather and that the nights were frigid enough to make anyone regret not being on a tropical island.

He made the trek much quicker this time, now knowing the path. Which was a very good thing as the shadows grew stronger as he made his way through the trees, trying to make him trip on roots that seemed to appear out of nowhere.

When he got to the temple, he set the bag down and made quick work of gathering a small amount of firewood and kindling with the last of the waning sunlight, the chill turning into a freezing wind. His fingers shook slightly as he made a small campfire near the empty doorway to the right of the statue, paranoid about proper ventilation even with all of the cracks in the roof.

Using the light to see, he pulled down some of the vines, setting both them and the greener wood near the fire. Hopefully, they would dry quickly enough to be used later in the night. He quickly sorted through the books, taking them out and setting Soap’s collection to the side. 

He was trying to read the first page of his book when Soap appeared again. He didn’t look up as he greeted, “Good evening.”

“I do not like the way they treat you.” The god was blunt and Ghost couldn’t help but huff a small laugh at the amount of simmering anger the god held over what was a standard interaction for him.

“No?” Ghost asked, wondering why being told to return to camp was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

But he may have underestimated Soap’s anger as the god answered, “No. They don’t get to speak to you like that.” The sentence was punctuated by the campfire flaring slightly, the flames suddenly rising higher, illuminating more of the temple before they rescinded.

Ghost looked up at that, moving the book away to stop it from getting singed. He was not ashamed to admit that he was nervous, he just would never tell Soap that. To have him suddenly swap from someone friendly and charming to an undeniably pissed-off god was alarming.

“Uh—”

“They treat you like a fucking dog and can’t even speak to you with a shred of respect?”

The god’s form was flickering. This is what Ghost wanted, to know the tipping point for the god, but he wasn’t sure if this was the scenario in which he wanted to find out. He’d prefer for it to have been on the battlefield, the god having lost its patience with protecting him, not next to a campfire in his own temple.

“Soap—”

“Why do you fucking stay? They have no fucking right!”

The flames flared again and Ghost grabbed the handle of his knife. Just like the last time he was at the temple, he knew it would do nothing, but he could at least find comfort in the lie.

Soap noticed the movement, making eye contact. Soap was still breathing heavily and Ghost was doing the same, albeit for very different reasons. The god heaved a sigh, slouching over as he covered his face with his hands.

Once more, despite all rationale screaming otherwise, Ghost stayed. There was a long silence, the only noise being the crackling of the fire and the whistling of the wind. 

The god was sitting with his legs crossed, his elbows resting on his knees and his hands propped up his head. He was still staring at the ground when he asked, “Why? Why do you stay?”

“It’s complicated.” 

Soap looked unimpressed, “No, it isn’t.”

“No,” Ghost agreed. “But it’s a story I don’t like to tell.”

The god let out a long breath like he was trying to calm himself down as he rubbed at his eyes, “Didn’t you say you’d be back for dinner?”

“I lied. Late morning at the earliest.” Soap chuckled, much more tinged with defeat than it had been a few hours ago. The silence was back and Ghost hesitated before grabbing his book again.

“Thank you.”

Ghost wasn’t expecting that and felt a bolt of panic strike through him, not knowing what the god was thanking him for. 

Soap gestured towards the stack of books, “For humoring me today. I haven’t laughed in a long time. Thank you.”

The somber tone settled over him, the emotional whiplash from the past ten minutes alone was enough to make his head spin. Unsure of what else to say, he stuttered, “You’re welcome.” It sounded a lot more like a question than he intended.

Soap nodded and let his head fall again. 

And, just like that, he was gone, fading away with the wind. He stared at where the god sat, ruminating over his words. When he came back to the present, he saw that the books were gone as well.

He would have laughed, Death having grabbed his haul of books and scurried off in the breeze, but the honesty behind the god’s not-quite confession weighed on him. He tried to read, but was only flipping pages as his eyes ran over the words, not taking anything in.

He’s been in this situation before, waiting out time to piss off the general and he knew how it went. Sleep wasn’t an option; He always found something to occupy himself with to stave off the inevitable boredom. He was lucky to have a book this time, but try as he might, he couldn’t focus on it.

He gave up on reading and instead turned his focus to the campfire in front of him. He added another log carefully, taking care to not smother any of the other sticks. He didn’t have much fuel and he’d need to make it last until sunrise. 

Ghost woke up to light streaming in through the open doorway and birds chirping obnoxiously loud. He grumbled and tried to go back to sleep before remembering that he was never supposed to be asleep in the first place.

He tried to get up quickly, to stand to attention and scan for any threats or changes that indicated someone had come in during his nap. Instead, he sat up slowly, having to prop himself up on his arm to not lie back down.

His fire was miraculously still burning. The temple looked the same, there weren’t any assassins hiding in the corners, and his stuff hadn’t moved. It took him an embarrassing amount of time to remember that he never went to sleep with a blanket or pillow, yet now had both.

Instead of thinking about that, he stood slowly, his joints popping along the way. He yawned as he gathered his stuff, smothering the fire and folding up his bedding. Still not even half awake, he dropped the pillow and blanket at the base of the statue.

He grumbled out what was meant to be an expression of gratitude, but he’s not sure he got any of the syllables out. Taking as deep of a breath as he could to try to wake himself up, he began the walk to the river. 

It’s a miracle he didn’t get lost as he stumbled through the woods, listening for the sound of rushing water. When he finally got to it, he was sure to avoid getting too close to the slippery bank, not feeling like drowning so early in the morning.

He walked over the ramshackle bridge that crossed the river and led into camp in the early afternoon. Just like last time, most of the soldiers quieted upon seeing him. And, just like last time, the general came stomping out of his tent, though this time significantly angrier

“I need you to listen to me carefully,” he began, seething with so much anger over Ghost’s disobedience that he was twitching. “I am going to give you ten seconds to explain yourself. If you do not have a good reason for why you went AWOL, you are going to wish you had never been born, am I understood?” 

Ghost had mastered the voice of false innocence and remorse, “I’m sorry General, I wasn’t paying attention and got delayed by an hour.”

“An hour?” The general had a deceptively calm tone, one that spoke of being on the edge of doing something drastic. But the general was no god and Ghost had no qualms about giving him a shove.

“Yes sir, I know I said noon. I’m sorry for being late.” Ghost hung his head like he was ashamed. He was already mapping out a lie to explain why he arrived almost a full 24 hours after the search party said he would.

“Noon?” The general asked. Both of them were playing a very dangerous game, weaponizing an unstable but calm facade and putting on a little show for the rest of camp to sit back and watch.

“Yes sir.”

“I was told that you said you’d be back before dinner.”

Ghost lifted his head and glanced around, furrowing his brow in faux confusion, “Before dinner? No sir, I was trying to hunt for something to bring back to camp. They caught me right before I went into the forest; I might have said I was trying to find something for dinner, but I knew it would take me much longer than that.” Oh, how Ghost loved gaslighting.

The general’s lip curled, thinking he found a thread to pull, “Do you normally go hunting at night, son?” The words were full of poison, but Ghost already had an excuse.

“No sir, I looked for tracks yesterday afternoon, set up camp, and woke up early this morning to hunt. Unfortunately, I was no—”

“He’s lying!” One of the soldiers shouted, walking closer and shaking off his friend trying to pull him back. “He was walking out of a store! He wasn’t hunting!” Ah, that must be one-half of the search party.

Now emboldened, the other half approached from the stables, and joined in, “Yeah, he was leaving a bookstore with some guy.”

Uh-oh, that’s not good. He didn’t realize that they saw Soap. 

He was trying to figure out if he should outright deny it or try to claim that he, the notorious loner, had made a friend in town. A friend that just so happened to leave that day so they couldn’t ask for him to verify Ghost’s story. Hmm…

“What? No, he was alone.”

Never mind, that’s perfect; Only one of them saw Soap.

The two began arguing over whether or not Ghost had been alone and Ghost “timidly” chimed in, “Bookstore?”

The first one that had spoken paused his argument and turned back to the general, “He even had a shopping bag!”

Adding fuel to the flames of their anger, Ghost made a point of looking at his hands to show they were empty. He gently corrected like he was just trying to help the two remember, “I was walking out of a general store. Alone. I needed berries for bait.” 

The rest of the camp gave odd looks to the search party, the rumor of his inability to read not helping their legitimacy. Now he just had to hope they didn’t ask why he didn’t have any camping or hunting supplies aside from a small bag. 

The general looked more irritated than irate, “That’s enough. All three of you are being punished for insubordination. For now just get the hell out of my sight until tomorrow morning.”

Ghost tried not to smile too wide as he nodded and walked away, very happy that the general reached his limit before more glaring holes could be poked in his story. The other two looked offended at getting punished with him, one standing slack-jawed as the other even tried to argue before getting dragged away by his friend before he could dig himself a deeper grave.

Ghost was going to be punished regardless of what he did or when he returned, but dragging the other two down with him was well worth it. Plus, the rest of the camp would now think they were liars as well who tried and failed to get him punished.

All in all, it was a rather successful trip to the bookstore.

…

Had he been paying more attention, thinking more clearly, he might’ve thought to hide his tracks, to not leave an obvious trail to where’d been, to hide the evidence of his time spent at the temple of the god of death.