#how does he manage to look so pretty even dressed like this…. the world may never know but he is slaying hard

[thekidsarentalright]

patrick beetlejuice in birmingham <3 (x)

[hypnoneghoul]

Hihi! If you're comfortable with it, and inspo strikes may we get something with a Touch Adverse/Touch sensitive Dew who really wants to be intimate but needs a lot of reassurance and to be slowly lowered into it rather then dive headfirst

Opening to any ships you have in mind, thank you! <3

i really liked this prompt, im such a sucker for stuff like that. trans dew as usual

Dewdrop’s relationship with touch has been complicated at the very least since his elemental transition.

He used to be a very touchy person, even for a ghoul. Always hanging off of someone, always putting his hand in someone else’s, leaning against whoever was available whenever he could, sneaking into his packmates’ beds any time he felt like it; which was very often.

Now, though? It’s hard for him to even hold someone’s hand.

When he woke up right after his transition the first thing he realized was that Aether was holding his hand. He can’t forget the anguish on his face when he yelped in pain and fear and ripped his hand away to curl up as far away from him as the narrow infirmary bed allowed.

It wasn’t just pain from his skin being new, raw. It was the feeling of wrongness he couldn’t shake off. His skin didn’t feel like his own and every touch, even the slightest graze of a fingertip sent him into a panic attack.

Not much changed in the following months, but some things did.

Rain has been summoned, for one.

Dewdrop has fallen head over heels for the pretty water ghoul right away and he doubts there has ever been anything in his life that he wanted more than to simply touch him.

For months he hasn’t been able to bring himself to even run a finger over the back of Rain’s hands. Oh, how he wanted to trace those prominent veins and tendons, to see how small his hand will look in Rain’s own.

Thankfully, the water ghoul turned out to be the gentlest soul that has probably ever escaped the Pits. Hell, Dewdrop is sure he got sent by Lucifer himself as an apology for all the torment he went through.

After a conversation full of tears from both ghouls, they had come up with a plan of making Dewdrop whole again.

So far it’s been going exceptionally and the fire ghoul can’t be more grateful. His latest achievement is going through a whole night of being cuddled in close to Rain with both of them being dressed in nothing but underwear.

They both might have cried in the morning.

It made Dewdrop think…maybe he is ready? After nearly a year of not getting touched in a sexual manner, maybe it’s finally time?

He’s terrified, but after a few weeks cuddling with Rain every night, he decides to bring it up. “Rain, I think I want to–would you try…touching me?”

“Isn’t that…what we’ve been doing for the last few months, droplet?” the water ghoul asks, confused, but doesn’t dare laugh.

“Not like that.” Dewdrop shakes his head. “I want you to touch me.”

“Oh…oh.”

“Would you?”

“Oh, droplet, I–” Rain tries to not show that yes, he’d love to do that. “Are you sure? Is it not too early?”

“I don’t–I’m gonna be honest, Rainy, I don’t know,” the fire ghoul sighs. “I think I am, and, hell, I want to, so much, but you…you know how it goes sometimes.”

Rain does. He remembers every single time Dewdrop thought he was ready for another step only to turn out he simply…wasn’t. Still, they managed to work through every single issue so far. Maybe it is a good idea.

“Okay,” Rain says after a moment. “Okay, droplet, we can try.”

The excitement on the fire ghoul’s face is easily the most adorable thing Rain has ever witnessed.

He starts easing Dewdrop into it right away, stretching it over the entire day.

“We’ve got time, baby,” he mutters over and over again, with every new point of contact. “All the time in the world.”

It’s hours before Dewdrop is bare, sprawled out in his own nest. Rain stays in a t-shirt, having decided it’s going to be easier if there’s not as much skin-on-skin. They’re focusing on something else tonight.

“Are you sure?” Rain asks for the last time. He’s kneeling in the nest with Dewdrop laid before him, his legs spread and hooked over the water ghoul’s thighs. Dewdrop is wet and Rain is rock hard, but there’s no rush. As always, they have to go slow; now even more than ever before.

“Yes,” the fire ghoul breathes his consent once again. “Please do it, just…go slow.”

“Of course,” Rain smiles. “You know how to make me stop.”

Dewdrop nods, he wouldn’t be able to forget their system after all this time even if he wanted to. With that, Rain brings his free hand between the other’s legs; the other one resting on his bare hip. It’s not squeezing, but it’s heavy. They discovered that one solid point of contact helps to ground the fire ghoul and keep him from freaking out about the lighter touches.

Rain keeps his eyes on Dewdrop’s face as he slowly runs a finger through his wet folds. Up and down before pulling away; his cock twitches at how shining his finger comes back. Still, he waits for the fire ghoul’s nod that the first touch was okay. He does so, with his bottom lip pulled in between his teeth.

Rain gets back to the task at hand. He slicks his middle finger up, too, and places it over Dewdrop’s clit. He presses down lightly and circles it and the quiet little moan that the fire ghoul lets out makes his gut twist.

“Good?” he makes sure.

“So good,” Dewdrop whimpers, “it feels so good, Rainy.”

The other hums and drags his fingers down to his hole. With his eyes on Dewdrop’s face, Rain presses a finger in. It slides in easily and he pauses at the second knuckle. Dewdrop is scalding inside.

“Oh, Lucifer, go–go on, please,” he moans and Rain can’t not follow that pretty order. He removes the finger and pushes back in with two pressed tightly against each other. The fire ghoul cries out in pleasure as they sink in as far as they’ll go and more slick leaks out into Rain’s palm as he squeezes around the digits. The water ghoul curses under his breath, enamored by the sight and feeling.

Dewdrop looks wrecked, but not in a bad way. He looks like he’s about to cum already, even though it’s been mere moments of actual stimulation. Considering he hadn’t been touched like that for so long, though, it’s not any surprise.

“M–more,” he begs and Rain knows exactly what to do. He puts his thumb on Dewdrop’s clit and lightly presses down at the same time he curls the fingers inside him. The fire ghoul wails at that and Rain is about to all but rip his hand away and break all points of contact, but Dewdrop’s cunt now pulsing rhythmically around his digits tells him it wasn’t a pained cry. The water ghoul smirks; he can’t help feeling proud of himself.

“I just–” the other pants.

“You did.”

“You made me…”

“I did.”

“But I wanted you to…”

“That’s alright. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

[goingmerryfics]

Hello!! I recently found your blog and I love it!! ❤️

I was wondering if I could request something!

Kid, Mihawk and Law with a partner who’s into gothic clothing. uwu

Gothic style S/O w/ Kid, Mihawk & Law

Content: Gender Neutral reader, SFW!

Notes* Glad to have you! Thanks for the request :) Out of anyone, I think these three would be the most accepting/understanding of someone with this style and even indulge in it a bit themselves so I tried to make this a little more personal to each character. That being said, I feel like they turned out a little shorter than normal, but I hope you still enjoy it!

Kid

He wouldn’t even bat an eye if this was a regular thing to be dressed in gothic style. It’s pretty common around the crew, and even if it wasn’t, Kid appreciates the aesthetic of the style

He also just doesn’t give a shit what you wear as long as you can do your job

Looking good while doing it is also a plus

For that reason, he would help you out with your makeup for sure. Not that he has much experience with it in the first place, but he just likes any excuse to look at your lips

On the other hand, if your weren’t introduced to him in black and chains, he wouldn’t recognize you if you just up and changed your wardrobe

You walk out of your room in your new style, the one you’ve been wanting to try for years and never had the bravery to out of fear of judgement

But after joining the Kid Pirates, it didn’t feel so scary to go outside of the world’s expectations

“Who the fuck are you!? How’d you get on my ship!?”

After managing to convince him not to just throw you overboard, he does the unthinkable

“Oh. You look good. Better than that boring shit you used to wear.”

He compliments you

Kid will pick at your outfits and give unsolicited advice on how to coordinate or style your clothing

He isn’t one for making jewelry, but he might try if you can’t find anything that would match your clothes

Mihawk

No comment from him. You’d have to outright ask him what he thought, and even then it would be a short answer

“Yes, it’s a good look on you.”

He isn’t actually looking at you when he answers, but it’s genuine

You’d find him staring at you quite often, though

He enjoys the style on you, especially since his style is very close/similar to gothic

He respects your backbone for sticking to what makes you happy, and he’ll encourage you to stick up for yourself if anyone has anything to say about your look

Honestly, he’s seen people look and dress a lot worse, so he doesn’t see why anyone should be making unnecessary comments

Despite being a man of few words, he would still compliment your outfits every time

He, having a eye for the fashion, would also help you coordinate and mix up your clothing items and accessories to freshen up the looks

“That won’t do. We need to get you some earrings that will match this.”

It’s such a sweet way to spend the time that you two have together

Law

Law gets whiplash at first

His emo phase is coming back to him all at once and he’s cringing internally

But despite his own emotional setbacks, he is happy if you feel comfortable dressing this way

He’s very level-headed, so there’s not going to be a very big reaction out of him right away

His perception of you hasn’t changed, and it won’t anytime soon

“Express yourself however you like, just make sure you don’t alter the uniform too much.”

He’ll warn you that the crew might ask some dumbass questions or make rude comments

He also will ask you some questions, very carefully, not wanting to sound ignorant

He would come to your aid if you needed support, especially within his own crew

If you’re the type to wear a lot of make-up, he’ll be on your ass about cleaning your face every night 

He’d even help you do a skin care routine to make sure you were taking care of yourself!

If you bother him enough, he’ll start to do it with you, too

Gets you stuff that remind him of you, things he believes may align with your style

All in all, he’s pretty indifferent to the style, and may even be open to dipping back into it a little bit

He looks great in eyeliner, but damn it he keeps smudging it

[selarina]

And I'm Asking You to Hold Me Just Like the Morning Paper

-> older brother’s best friend!Gojo Satoru

Gojo Satoru grew up lonely. He’s not only the freak whose mere existence altered the balance of the world, but he’s also the only one of his kind. There’s no more after or before him. There may be one, born hundreds of years from now, who will understand him, but for now, for today, he stands all alone.

But then Getou comes along, and he starts to feel like he can stand beside someone. Getou will never understand what it means to be him, but he understands him in most ways no one else does, and it thaws his heart just a little. But then he meets you, and you—you’re just the worst parts of Getou.

You understand Getou like no one does, despite your differences in looks and techniques. You have the same blood flowing through your veins, so you get him in so many ways he could never.

That’s when he starts craving for what you and Getou have, while also hating you all the same. Your mere presence has managed to single-handedly make him feel even more alone. Of course, he hates you.

He wouldn’t ever say it out loud; you're Getou’s sister, and Getou loves you more than the world itself, so he would never. But it shows—sometimes he just so forgets to pull out a seat for you.

Some days, he forgets to invite you out with the group.

Some years, he even forgets your birthday. But Getou never believes him, even if you do. Gojo remembers the day you were born so vividly; he was there alongside Getou, after all. He saw your father's hands tremble as he held you. He later saw Getou's hands do the same. It was the strangest thing.

He also got to hold you when you were born, and it was the first newborn he had held, the most insane experience he had at the age of three. So, of course, he remembers.

So one day, you grow tired of it because you grew up idolizing this man. He’s an idiot, and he’s always embarrassing himself in ways you didn’t think were possible, but he’s just so—well, he’s Gojo Satoru, right? There’s something about him.

There are so many things about him—he’s pretty good-looking for starters. Sometimes when he stands under the sun, you think he’s no short of an angel. And he has these eyes; you see them so rarely now, but when you were a child, you thought you could see the ocean in his eyes.

One time you told Getou, and he told Gojo, who wouldn’t—no, doesn’t shut up about it.

And it’s not just his looks really—one time, you saw him save not only you but 53 other people from a building that was making its way to crush you all. You could’ve moved and saved yourself, but you didn’t see the point, not when that meant living with the fact that you couldn’t save those 53 people, but things like that came easy to a man of his capabilities.

You could go on and on about how you came to form a crush on Gojo Satoru, but the fact of the matter is—your pride matters more, and you decided that after 16 years of pining after him, the least you could start doing is pick up your pride and find other options.

Your heart may not find them instantly, still slightly transfixed on the man who bleeds gold, but eventually, you think you’ll move on.

So when the popular guy from your class asks you out—you think, “Why the hell not?”

And so, you find yourself on a date with a man who’s really into furniture and protein shakes apparently. It’s all you’ve gotten out of the conversation you’ve had with him. And frankly, he doesn’t compare.

But you tell yourself over and over again, as you begin to zone out—that this is to be expected. No one compares to Gojo Satoru, a man who’s entirely too unique to supersede or replicate, so it’s only natural. It’ll take time.

So you try, the fake laughter and soft brush of your fingers. You focus on the little things and you try to beat the sleep dawning on you.

That’s when Gojo sees you. You’re wearing a blue dress that hangs just above your bruised knees. Your hair is down but slightly styled and pulled up halfway by a clip, and beside you, there’s a guy.

The guy you’re with, his hand slips around your back, ushering you into the elevator, and Gojo thinks he’s never felt something so sinister boil in his gut before. He clenches down hard on his jaw. He doesn’t understand.

Are you with this guy? No, there’s no way. Is this a random guy bothering you? If he was—he’d be on the floor, pleading for his life. So no—it can’t be.

He doesn’t think at all, really, but he rushes towards the elevator before it closes. Only when it starts to close after he gets in does he notice his date—and then he snaps out of his daze to hold the door open.

She looks surprised but joins him by his side, and now you and your date stare at him in surprise.

“Are you Gojo Satoru?” your date speaks up.

“Yeah,” he grins as he pulls his glasses down. “That’s me.”

“Can I have a picture with you? My mother practically worships you,” he continues.

And Gojo turns his attention to you, and your eyes have grown stone cold, and he immediately turns his attention back to the guy, not wanting to be subject to you staring daggers at him.

“Of course, I always have time for fans,” he maintains his grin.

“Who even are you?” he hears his date murmur, and frankly, there’s more to this story. His date wasn’t entirely a fan of his at the moment. He was late to the date, and he got caramel chocolates which she mentioned she hates. He disappeared on a bathroom break but really, he was halfway across town fighting off a curse that could’ve been taken care of by an amateur, and on his way back, he started wondering if he was really needed there or if he just wanted to leave the date.

So, yeah, when the elevator dings and the doors open up to the ground floor, he’s not entirely surprised that she’s saying goodbye, but he is surprised by this.

“Not to sound like a bitch—” she starts. “—but you need to learn how to be a better date. I understand that boys your age are slow in the brain, but it doesn’t take a genius to send a text if you’re running late.”

Just when he thinks she’s done, she’s talking again, as though she only stopped to take a breath in— “And I know that wasn’t a bathroom break, who even is gone for that long and comes back smelling like he bathed in perfume when he didn’t a moment ago. And for God’s sake, don’t go out on a date if you’re in love with your best friend's sister,” she says.

“God’s sake, what is wrong with you?” is the last thing he hears from her as she makes her way out.

“So,” your date begins. “About that photo?”

“Chimin,” you bat his shoulder. “Not now.”

“But he—”

“It’s fine, give me your phone,” Gojo says, and he’s less chipper now, although he does a good job of maintaining the facade.

He poses with a peace sign, and he pats your date on the back.

“Uh, thank you, sir,” your date says before he turns to you, his arm reaching your waist. “Shall we go? I was thinking there’s a park—”

“It’s cold out,” Gojo’s voice comes out abruptly, leaving your date’s mouth agape.

“I mean, I should probably take you home,” he says, situating himself right next to you now. “You can expect a text about that second date. What was it you said? Oh yeah, a park date. Heh,” he scoffs. “Sure.”

“So sorry,” you start. “I’ll text you. It is pretty cold, and I’d rather get home now. Thank you for the date; you were lovely,” you say with a smile before you lean in for a hug as he kissed you on the cheek.

“It’s alright. Text me when you’re home safe,” he says mirroring your smile, only his feels a little more real than yours. “I’ll wait for the text.”

So as you make your walk back home with Gojo, you pull his coat tighter around yourself. Gojo doesn't say anything as he walks beside you, and for a moment, the silence between you two is almost soothing.

You steal a glance at him, and his lips remain unreadable, his expression hidden behind those ever-present sunglasses.

"So," he finally breaks the silence, his tone light but something else lingers beneath the surface. "You're dating now, huh?"

You merely nod, trying to keep your composure. "Yeah, kinda."

Gojo smirks, and you can feel his gaze on you, "Interesting choice. He did seem more into me than he was into you if I'm being honest."

"Haha, it's a pity. I pegged him for a man with good taste, what with the Toyota Crown he promised to take me on a ride on and whatnot."

"Do we really want to go there?" he turns to you, bending down, as he smiles all in your face. "You don't want to go there."

Your heart quickens just a bit, caught between a fine line of annoyance and amusement. You tilt your head, looking back at him through narrowed eyes. "And where exactly is 'there,' Satoru?"

He chuckles. It's a low, throaty sound. " 'There' is a dangerous place, sweetheart. A place where your date, no matter how charming, can't compete with me, Gojo Satoru."

You roll your eyes at his arrogance. "Ever the egotistical maniac. You're insufferable, you know that?"

"I am?" he replies, with playful obliviousness.

As soon you approach your home, you stop in front of the door, turning as you awkwardly wave at him. "Well, um, bye."

"Bye," he replied back. He doesn't motion for you to return his jacket back, but honestly, you're disappointed in yourself. You should've asked him about what his date meant. You should've said something.

"Actually—" you start. "Do you want some tea? It's cold."

He doesn't get cold easily, he wants to say, but he'd play weaker if he could spend a millennium cooped up in your house. "Sure," he says.

He walks in, and there's silence. "No one's home?" he asks.

"Yeah," you say. "They should be back soon though."

He hums in response, through muscle memory alone, as though dragged by strings he removes and places his shoes in the rack. The same place he's been placing them for years. And then, he blindly follows you down to the kitchen.

The kitchen is dimly lit, the only source of light coming from the small hanging lamp above the kitchen slab. You set the kettle on the stove, the sound of its soft whistle filling the room as it begins to heat up. Gojo takes a seat at the table, his fingers tapping absentmindedly on its surface.

You busy yourself with preparing the tea, the gentle rustle of tea bags as you move them. There's a muted grassy smell that's emanating from the tea, but it's not strong enough to overwrite all the tension in the air, a lingering curiosity that just won't leave you alone.

"So," Gojo begins, breaking the silence. "That guy, you really going to go on a second date with him?"

You glance over your shoulder, meeting his gaze. "I don't know. Maybe. He's nice."

He smirks, leaning back in the chair. "That's nice."

"What about you? How did your date go? You know apart from terrible," you grin.

"Well, it was also 'horrible'," he says, mirroring your grin.

"Date with Gojo and horrible. Seems about right," you say.

"Oh, come on. It was an off-day. I can be a very good date," he says.

"Why was she so mad then?" you ask. "Your date."

"Well, I'm sure you heard most of it," he starts, truly wanting to know if you did, but your expression remains muted. He can't tell, but it seems obvious. It's why he's here and not halfway back home, after all. "But I, uh, I got her caramel chocolates."

You wait.

"She hates caramel," he adds with a small pout.

"Ah, smooth. I've changed my mind about you, Gojo Satoru, you would make the best date ever."

He grins. "Thank you, kindly."

Your tea seems about done, so you reach up, opening the cabinet, but the classes are placed too far back for your height. And generally, you'd pull a chair and get the cups, but before you could, Gojo's right behind you, reaching for it before you could move back. He pulls out two cups, one plain pink one with hearts and another white mug with a bear on it. His and yours.

It reaches the slab with a soft clink, but before Gojo can move away, you speak up, "So, what did she mean?"

"What are you talking about?" He asks, plainly.

"You know," you say, stressing, as you turn to face him. You're so close to him now, but he doesn't move back. For once, he doesn't move back. You gulp, "You know what, Satoru."

"I don't," he says. His grin is gone, and his lips are in a line. You've never truly seen him this way.

"Bullshit, what did she mean by 'you like your friend's sister'?" you almost half-yell.

"Ignore her. She was just talking nonsense because she was mad at me."

"Was she, though?" you press, studying his expression more closely now.

He resigns with a sigh, as he begins to move. "Yes. Now, drop it."

"No," you say, as your hand comes up to hold his own. "So, she was just making it up?" you ask, incredulously.

"Yes," he says.

"And you don't like me?" you ask. This time, you move closer to him, his lips practically a few centimeters away from yours.

"Look, it doesn't matter what she said. I was just trying to save your date, be a good friend to your brother, and all that."

You scoff, trying to mask the lingering disappointment. "Save my date? By ruining it completely?"

"How did I ruin it?" he asks.

"Oh? I don't know, the same way you always ruin things for me. Just by showing u—"

And that's all it took, really. For his lips to meet yours. His hands find themselves on your hips as yours rest on your shoulder and his chest. Your lips move roughly against his. It's not like any of those soft first kisses you see on TV. This one feels like yearning. You feel it in your heart and in the way your arms tug his body into your own.

When he pulls off, you feel strangely disappointed.

"I'm serious. If you didn't show up, that could've gone somewhere," you say. A little proud of yourself for not giving in so easily.

"Gone where exactly? The park? You know you deserve more than the fucking park."

"What? Sure, I wouldn't end up married to this guy, but does it matter? I was moving on," you say with a shrug.

"Moving on from what exactly?" he asks.

"From you, obviously stupid."

Gojo's expression shifts, a mixture of surprise and something else, something you can't quite read. Your grip on his hand tightens just a bit, and for a moment, neither of you says anything.

"Moving on from me?" he finally repeats, his voice softer than before.

"Yeah, Satoru, from you." You pull your hand away, breaking the contact.  "It's about time, isn't it?"

The kettle on the stove whistles, signaling that the water is ready for the tea, but neither of you moves to attend to it.

"Look," he starts, his tone serious, "I didn't mean to mess up your date. I was just trying to have some fun and play the hero for a bit. I didn't think you'd actually be interested in that guy."

"Well, you thought wrong," you reply, crossing your arms. "I was giving it a shot, trying to move on. But you can't resist bringing everything back to you, can you?"

"I'm sorry, okay? I didn't think it through." His shoulders slump a bit, and he runs a hand through his hair as his head falls onto your shoulder. "I just... I couldn't stand seeing you with someone else."

"So, your date wasn't wrong then?" you say.

"Yeah," he says, and you feel the breath of his words on your neck. "I guess, she wasn't."

The kettle continues to whistle, now completely forgotten in the background.

"I don't believe you," you say.

"What?" he looks up now, his eyes looking at your face. "I just told—"

"You can tell me whatever you want," you say, frustrated. "But you don't even remember my birthday. How could you like me if—"

"I remember," he says. "I remember your birthday."

"But you—"

"I know, I know, baby." His hands come up to hold your cheek. "It's stupid, but I guess I was scared. It's stupid and not an excuse. But of course, I remember your birthday. I could never forget."

"Scared?" you repeat. "Scared of what, Satoru?"

"It's not that simple. You're Getou's sister. I can't just..."

"Can't just what?" you challenge, even if his thumb moving against the supple of your cheek thaws your heart red. "You can't just admit that maybe, just maybe, I'm worthy of being liked by you?"

"It's not that," he sighs, frustration evident in his expression. "It's complicated, okay? I didn't want to complicate things between us. I didn't want to risk our— whatever it is that we have between us."

"I get it," you say, a few moments later to his surprise and your own.

"You do?"

"Yeah," you say, reaching up to leave a soft kiss on his lips. Soft. Delicate. Like your touch could break him. "I do. I really do, and we'll figure it out, okay?"

His ears perk up as he turns, and the soft purring of the car engine comes to a halt. He can't believe he didn't notice your parents pulling in with your brother.

Your hands reach out to hold his own, and he realizes that they're trembling, just a little. And he gets it now. To love is to be afraid.

[columboscreens]

columbo is so gender to me but i dont think i could ever look like him</3

i think it's totally possible for anyone to embody his essence. you can even manage to rock something directly inspired by columbo without looking like you're cosplaying.

hair

if you have columbo's hair type, it's actually pretty easy to emulate his styles. i even know people who show pictures of columbo to hair stylists to get his look. my partner's hair in its natural state is very similar to columbo's--dark, wavy, tending to grow in spite of gravity rather than with it. whenever he gets his hair cut, he shows the stylist photos of late 60s/pilot episode peter falk, whose look is actually pretty on-trend for the current era. it works out pretty well.

your swag may have aged well pilot columbo but you can't beat floof

failing that, getting any haircut that is natural, low-maintenance, and not too attention-grabbing captures the visual language all the same. for reference, natasha lyonne in poker face has her hair in natural-looking, messy waves that to me just exude columbo.

clothing

how you present yourself to the world is up to you, but if you want to invoke columbo, there's a lot more you can do than buy a tan raincoat.

in an era of sharply-cut, wide-lapelled constructions, fat tie tuesdays, and gucci loafers, columbo stands out as classic comfort personified.

his collar, tie, and lapels are slim, proportional, and unassuming; they'd look good in almost any era. his pants fit closely to his leg but not too wide or slim, and sit at or near the natural waist. though his suits, shirts, ties, shoes, socks, and even coats rotate, there is a consistent color palette keeping him "on model". he embraces earth tones: creams, forest greens, light browns, dark browns, stony grays, rusts, and roses. his clothing seems like an afterthought, but it's an extension of his personality--rumpled and unassuming at first, yet sharp and deliberate upon further inspection.

amid the 1970s explosion of synthetic popularity, it says something that every stitch of textile on columbo's person is natural (aside from the raincoat, which is probably nylon or poly--he wears it without a lining and uses it as essentially an oversized windbreaker). his boots are leather with crepe latex soles; his tie is silk. his shirt is cotton, a bit boxy but comfortable and properly fitted. because the construction of his suits is roomy and unstructured, and because they're made of linen, they wrinkle easily.

this is easily confused for appearing slovenly. actually, all things considered, his clothes fit him pretty damn well, it's just hard to avoid wrinkling natural fibers like linen and cotton, especially in hot weather. he's running around los angeles sweating up a storm, the man needs loose, breathable fabric.

point is, columbo dresses very thoughtfully. since these clothes are workwear for him and he works a hell of a lot, it's imperative that he factors in the weather, his comfort, and proper fit when picking clothes. he wants to like and be comfortable in them while looking unassuming. so even though he sometimes ends up looking like an unmade bed, his choices are deliberate.

you could invoke these principles in your own appearance by picking earthy colors/jewel tones and comfortable, natural fabrics that you enjoy wearing, which has the added benefit of being better for you and the environment. consider also taking a few garments in to be altered. it's usually not that expensive, supports your local needlefolk, and makes even cheap clothes fit great.

as a last little aside, i think having a "signature" clothing item akin to columbo's raincoat would be a nice touch. a jacket, a pair of shoes, even a watch or necklace. something you always wear. if you really do want a raincoat like his, just make sure you're not buying a trench coat, because, repeat after me: columbo does not wear a trench coat.

[tarotomorrows]

WE GOT THE OG 5 IN THE HOUSE!!! This is part of my Inside Out punk au. Their band name is Harmony! So let me introduce their roles and how they came to be. PART 2

Our 3rd member is Fear! He joined Joy and Sadness’s clique way back in their 7th grade year.

He is the only band member who didn’t join already knowing how to play an instrument. In fact he actually started at the artist and would often make designs for the band’s potential logo and was very keen on staying out of any potential limelight. Although during the 8th grade talent show Joy and Sadness needed someone to play the guitar as Joy was planning to do some acrobatics/dancing choreography while singing and didn’t have the stamina to play and sing at the same time. Fear knew how much this meant to the two and had seen them practice for weeks and with only 2 weeks left he pushed his own fears aside and offered to learn the chords to the song to help the duo out. In the end he liked playing so much that he continued even after the show and with enough practice later on joined as the 3rd member.

During their time on the tour Joy forced them all into. He was the first to deny and the most out of it while on the trip. In fact he it got so bad it would interfere with playing which would upset Joy and the others but as time passed on it only seemed to bother Joy in the end.

He missed home and he didn’t ask for this but didn’t want to start conflict so in an act of desperation to feel heard he confided in Sadness about his true thoughts on the matter which sparked the ignition for Sadness to really have a talk with Joy about the stakes this whole music career dream has gotten them into. Once it was announced by Joy that they would be returning home he was ecstatic he didn’t care why he was just glad they were. Right? I mean what does it matter if the reasons are known…

Next is Anger he’s the teams killer drummer and owner/designated driver of Bing Bong! (The giant mini van the crew uses to travel in, who Joy named Bing Bong because of the silly sound the horn makes).

He was the fourth to be recruited to the team. After getting sent to detention for one of her senior pranks Joy met Anger in detention where she over heard the accidental killer rhythm he had going with his shoe and pencil tapping. Joy asked if he played he gave a simple eyes roll, which was good enough for Joy. She begged him to join and he proposed she couldn’t do anything in the world that would make him join her crazy idea. In the end Joy proved him wrong by breaking both if them out of detention and also returning the item he had stolen from him that he fought trying to get back (the whole reason which got him into detention his drumsticks). Reluctantly out of the honor system and due to a possible charming face he caved and became the band’s official drummer.

He may or may not have had issues with the whole unorganized and possibly dangerous on the road tour trip but he had faith in Joy’s judgement and the strength and bonds of the rest of the group. However the more and more the trip dragged on the more and more he started to realize just how far apart they actually were…

Last but certainly not least is Disgust! Although not a band member she is still an important asset of the crew as their manager. She handles finances,bookings, and how their brand is presented and NO, She will not be dressing in rags (aka how she refers to the punk/alt aesthetic) but she will deck herself out in her own uptown style.

She was the last to join the crew. Although friends with everyone since sophomore year she never partook in any of their “rough housings” she called it. She never saw the appeal in getting all sweaty and lugging around heaving metal equipment but one day Joy asked for her help to organize the flyers for the show they were doing for the Senior Festival.

Getting to talk about how amazing her friends were and how she’s affiliated with them and getting to look pretty while doing it. Now that was something she could do not to mention managing the funds for new equipment and getting to style them with awesome costumes for when they started doing shows outside of school. She loved everything about it the generosity, hanging out with friends, and the popularity…

During the trip she was the second to snapping, Fear obviously was the first. During the trip she did her best to manage the finances with the best odds she could, it started off alright but of course later on their lack of funds lead to more cramped nights sleeping in the van. It came to a point where she started to up-sale some of their merchandise in hopes of allowing the everyone to eat a full meal or have enough gas. After the fateful night Fear confided with Sadness, Disgust, overhead their conversation and grew livid, she could live with Joy’s delusions but blind ignorance towards other people’s own well being was not on the table. She swore that night that if Joy couldn’t see that this was beyond hopeless she was gonna knock her around and make her see it. That fateful evening when dinnertime arrived Disgust did more than just expose Joy’s selfishness but also how morally and emotionally taxing this dream of hers has been on all of them and what she’s had to resort to doing to meet ends meet for everyone. In the end Joy stormed off which is what prompted Sadness to have that heart to heart later on in the night.

In the morning after Joy announced about them going back to Anderson Falls a huge relief was lifted off their chest. Well some relief she still felt horrible about how Joy had treated them. However she wasn’t going to apologize for what she said to her, you don’t say sorry not for being right at least. So she vowed that until Joy owned up to her mistakes back home they’d keep the pleasantries to a minimum and distance herself as far as she could. It’s not like she had to try very hard as Joy had already began to stop talking or listening to her. Which is fine she can wait till Joy’s ready to be a grown up, she can patient I mean that’s all she’s ever given anyone. She can keep waiting, it doesn’t matter how long it takes…

[leclsrc]

Hello!! May I request a charles leclerc fluff drable where he's like always staring at y/n (in a non-creepy way hehe) and like just has a big crush on her even when they're dating already type of thing? or something? tysm!

something – cl16

Looking can be so similar to loving—just ask Charles.

auds here... title from this. also i feel it is the one of the best ‘so enamored ur moving in slow mo’ songs...

A blue dress. Deep blue, satin, wrapped around your figure like you’re a dream that’s his.

There are moments where Charles’ world slows when he sees you, and this is one of them, a year into dating. Suddenly he feels like he’s a teen seeing his first racing car, or a kid seeing Star Wars all over again. Nothing else matters but this—but you, in this deep blue dress, your arms swinging around as you dance to the upbeat music that plays at this dinner party.

Someone’s clutched your hand and twirled you around, so quick your hair falls over your face. He wants to pick you up, let his hands wring around your waist and hug you close, close, closer. He wants to wipe the hair from your face, press a kiss to your cheek, then your nose, then your lips, taste the martini there, smell the sea and the two spritzes of perfume on your jaw.

You move in slow motion, every ripple of your dress, every tendril of hair over your eyelashes. You’re laughing, tipsy, when your friend hugs you close, moving the both of you into a shitty waltz. Jesus, you’re so pretty. 

“Charles!” You’re saying. He blinks, and your eyes are meeting his, smiling with the rest of your face. The French summer has tinged your cheeks with the heat, your left shoulder peeling with a sunburn. Even now in the evening, when it hides, it’s managed to follow you still, blinding and beautiful. An arm stretches out, a hand, then a finger. Come on, you’re saying, dance with me!

It’s your favorite song that’s playing, some disco tune that has you hopping excitedly, hips swaying in the kind of way he can’t ever get his eyes off of. He knows this because it’s one of the ones at the top of his Spotify statistics, what with how often you’re using his phone to launch impromptu dance parties while cooking or cleaning or driving. 

So he does, gets up from where he’s been sitting while everyone else dances. He’d been undoing his tie, then two buttons on his polo, nursing Scotch (between you both, you like to say, he’s the boring drinker and you’re the fun one.) You shimmy your shoulders when his hand locks with yours, a smile stretching onto your face when he pulls you close and wraps the same arm around your waist. The song hasn’t yet reached its crescendo, so you sway softly, smiling like idiots.

“Hi, beautiful,” he says, eyes lidded from the alcohol and the feeling of being this near you.

“Hey there, handsome. Here often?”

“Just passing by, actually.” He pauses. “I saw a beautiful girl from the entrance and couldn’t help myself.”

You laugh, letting him twirl you as the chorus begins, both of you moving to the ever-familiar beat of this song and using the same moves you use at home, when it’s just the two of you. That’s exactly how it feels, though: like it’s just you both, dancing and laughing. When he finally moves your hair aside and presses a kiss to your lips, the world slows all over again. 

—

His world whirs into slow motion when Pascale is laughing at one of your jokes.

“I’m funnier than your son,” you say when she’s wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. Across the brunch table, finger tapping against the white linen tablecloth, Charles’ eyes are stuck on you. Nobody notices his stare of adoration, because it’s so usual, so ordinary, for him to be looking at you so intently, and with so much love.

You’re wearing a white dress that you’d been wiping your palms over nervously in the car, asking him to repeat a crash course of his family over and over until it was the only thing your mind was capable of retaining. Yet for all your nerves, you’d blended in exceptionally well with everyone at the table, over salmon and pasta and tea and biscuits.

Pascale had ushered you in with the urgency of every mother, a hand around your shoulder, pointing out members of the family, fixtures on the wall. There’s a story behind everything. Behind stains, scratches, pictures, peeled-off labels. You’d let her tell you everything. 

A smile makes its way onto your face when you see Pascale fail to stop laughing over your joke, her hand clenching yours. Your eyes meet his, and he can see the excitement in them—the joy of having this happen. He hopes you can read him equally well, hopes you can see how excited he is, too, for this to be happening, for you to be so loved by the people that matter most to him.

A hand comes up to tuck hair behind your ear, lips pursing to prevent your smile from widening. No, he wants to say, I want to see you smile. Everything. Show me everything. You’re beautiful.

“You really are,” says Pascale, and the two of you turn to smile softly at him. This is love, he thinks, and he wishes time never quickens ever again.

—

The book this week is Love in the time of Cholera. You try to read one book every two weeks, but lately you’ve been forgetting—last night you’d firmly resolved to start again, and you’re hooked on the words already.

The thin blanket of your bed is the only thing shielding you from the cold, your bare back turned to him as you continue to read the chapter. Charles sees you and wishes he was half as good as you. You’re stupid, you’d said with genuine concern when he told you this once. Have you even seen yourself? And you praised him, listed every last amazing thing about him.

Still, he wasn’t convinced. There may have been awards and videos and celebrations for him, but he wishes he was good enough for you sometimes. Your intelligence, your wit, your beauty. Your ability to get up and read a book in the morning. Your capacity to love. He can’t believe you’re his, all his, this beautiful girl is truly all his.

His world slows again, time ticking into slow motion as he watches you passively. Every few moments there’s the sound of the page turning, and your slow breathing makes up the rest. He wants to paint a picture on your back, make you his canvas, so he can think of another way to convey his immense, all-encompassing love for you.

Genuinely, he thinks he’d be incomplete without you. He conveys this in the way he stares, the way he admires, like you’re a sculpture in the Louvre and he’s at the front of the line. But he’s the only one in line, and he’ll be damned if somebody shows up behind him. 

You pause; the noise of the blanket rustling and your book shutting snaps Charles back to reality. Without turning, your voice penetrates the silence. “What are you doing?” With sleep and unuse, your voice is raspy.

“Looking at you.” He answers slowly.

Your eyes meet his, eyebrow raising as you turn slightly. “Why?”

“Just…” he pauses. It’s impossible to articulate why. So he says instead, “Just looking.”

—

When a race is won, reaches its climax and its end all at once, it’s a noisy affair.

Tonight, there are fireworks, music, the pulse of excitement in the crowd that celebrates Leclerc’s P1. Everything moves fast, fast, fast—interviews, cheers, arms wrapped around him, worshipping him, fans screaming. Then it’s the media pen, questions over and over, then he’s packing up, tallying points, having debriefs.

He tugs off his helmet. Everything is fast, even in his moment of winning. Fast and quick and heavy. But he seeks something, something to make time slow—

And finds her, wearing a too-big Ferrari shirt (courtesy of Joris getting the sizing all wrong) in the crowd by the pit lane, beautiful as ever. You’re waving, your enthusiasm in your whoops of encouragement. You blow a kiss, and time is slow again. He watches you grip the front of the shirt and present it proudly, the big 1-6 embedded on it. He’s yours, yes, he is.

I love you, you mouth slowly. He nods back—it’s more than enough. Then you’re making a shoo motion with your hand, decorated with bracelets that match his. Go, you’re saying, go and be the winner, be the best driver. Later, you’ll be mine, just mine, just Charles.

He’s whisked away to do an interview, but his eyes are stuck on yours, excited and proud. You never usually like watching races, out of fear, but Charles insists you do, presses a kiss to your forehead and promises everything will be okay. You end up digressing almost every time.

“I’d imagine this win is the highlight of the week,” says the journalist smugly, then extends the mic to Charles’ lips.

He shakes his head a little. “Just one of them,” he responds, smiling. 

—

A necklace with an initial on it, a thin silver ring across your middle finger, a matching bracelet on your wrist.

“Who is that?” Charles asks dazedly, shoulder bumping Carlos’. An explanation is fed into his ear, someone who knows someone knows her and invited her to attend this dinner. It’s getting late in London, and he’d been prepared to get to his car and go to his hotel, but suddenly he’s distracted, stopped in his tracks.

It almost feels weird to have time slow so much like this.

Even when he’s in a racing car, or winning, or when a car careens off track and time seems to hang in the balance—nothing has made him feel this way before. He watches you laugh, play with the neckline of your black top and listens to your ring clink against your glass of champagne.

Your hair is tied into a loose bun, framing your face, your lips making animated conversation with someobody else. He wants to hear your voice, make you smile, see how you react to his own jokes. Time crawls when he thinks of you, moves like a turtle walking through honey.

So later, when he’s almost abandoned the idea of introducing himself, he finds you clicking your car keys on the sidewalk. He clicks his, watches the lights of his Ferrari blink open, and you turn to him, smiling coyly.

You open your mouth, and say: “So you’re the cute dickhead who can’t park?”

Again, time moves in slow motion, your bun coming undone as you turn, hair falling over your back, arms crossing over your torso. Your high heels click softly against the pavement as you listen to him stutter out an introduction, an apology for the shit parking. This is it, he thinks, the start of something absolutely beautiful.

If he’s looked at you now, he thinks, he can’t ever look away. He hopes he doesn’t ever have to.

[lonely-north-star]

jewelry maker mammon x retail worker mc pt 2

hi guys, two people asked for part two and now I'm here. Did not expect people to find enjoyment in this.

Part one above, not sure how to shorten it on mobile. Once again, this is me projecting onto my MC because I'm not suffering alone. Anyway, more craft store silliness !!

-Mammon attends the hiring event, dressed in a button down shirt and his hair combed. It's his Lucky Interview Outfit™

-He's kinda nervous because he really would like to work here and doesn't want to blow his chance

-The store manager recognizes him, and Mammon can't tell if this is good or bad

-Good because he's already got him laughing, and it helps brush over the fact that there's a few gaps in his resume

-The manager admits he had hoped to see Mammon there and it's good to put a name to a face

-Asks Mammon what he wants to work as, which Mammon kinda shrugs at, saying he's pretty flexible, but reminds him he's already good with the beads

-Says they'll label him as a floor person and put him anywhere as needed

-His first day is filled with training which he finds extremely boring until MC comes in to the break room

-She stops in her tracks and is stunned to see him there, before she recovers and smiles at him

"You're gonna work here now?"

"Nah, they just gave me a vest and name badge for nothing."

-She huffs and side eyes him as she grabs her equipment, rolling her eyes when she puts her bag away. Turns around, handing him a yellow star sticker

"For your badge."

-Suddenly he's even more eager to finish training and get to work

-His first days, he works short shifts during her hours and trains on the register (because everyone needs to know they claim)

-MC falls short of shaking him, sternly telling him to ask questions, no, she will not get mad. Yes, she may look irritated but she always looks like that. She'd rather you ask.

-They let him take over on his third day and he has great interactions with every customer

-He gets two credit card applications immediately. Had to walkie for help because he knew the script, but not the process (because no one ever gets them)

-The manager group chat receives a single photo of his tally sheet from the store manager because "Five sign ups! Three protection plans! Where has this cashier been my whole career? 🔥"

-He quickly becomes a favorite because of how good his numbers are

-No one knows how he does it but as long as higher ups aren't breathing down their neck everyone is happy

-It's because he's extremely motivated by the sticker rewards MC gives out. They're scented

-He might be good at the register but he hates staying up there when it's slow because he feels trapped. He can only recover the queue line so much guys

-Will beg to go on the floor if he's met the goal for the week and there's another person scheduled. Or will work to make the goal first and then beg to switch places

-On Fridays he works mornings in order to do jewelry repacks (Repacks are boxes of mixed products that get sent to us that we have to sort into other boxes by department. These things are like 12 x 10 x 20 inches maybe?)

-They are PACKED with products. The strung beads specifically come wrapped in bubble wrap or sealed bags by the SKU. Same goes for other products like findings, wire, and string. You spend a lot of time ripping open the package, pulling it out, scanning it, and then putting it on the shelf

-But see, Mammon knows these aisles better than the back of his hand. He doesn't need the scanner

-He'll unwrap handfuls at a time of strung beads and immediately start putting them out. Anything that goes in the next aisle he doesn't touch because he will not be walking back and forth, he's going to gather it all up and do it at once

-He spends barely an hour on each box, and once he's done, he admires any of the new items that came in. As a treat.

-Replen manager comes to check on him and she's stunned to find him done. She buys him a pastry from across the street as a reward

-He does help out with other repacks, but it takes him longer since he's not as familiar with the aisles

-Despises craft paint with a burning passion. Do NOT put him in that aisle or he will throw a fit. Threatens to quit (wouldn't actually)

-Gets frustrated easily with that aisle because the paint tubes fall over too often. And his hands are too big to reach for the one that fell over, and he'll end up knocking more over because the shelves are too close together

-Has trouble folding T-shirts. MC has shown him multiple times but he can't stay consistent with it

-One time she found him kneeling on the floor trying to fold a shirt. Has not let him fold since

-Now if they're working together, she folds them and he puts them away. It's efficient.

-After three weeks, he's gotten pretty good with memorizing the store and product locations. He has come to this conclusion.

Hell: Craft paint, T-Shirts, Open Stock Paintbrushes

Heaven: Jewelry <3, Kids Beads, Seasonal, Yarn

Neutral: Fine Arts, Ribbon (Thin Ice), Stickers, Fabric, Floral, Baking (Hates the baking pans specifically though), Wood, Frames, the rest of the store basically

-He likes making things look neat (actually likes the way MC looks pleased when he drags her over to show it off)

-If they're working together, he might get slightly distracted and trail after her to chat. She only allows it if it's slow.

-If someone needs help she'll shoo him away/send him off. He'll come right back after he's done though

-Otherwise she's walking through the aisles recovering with him and doing returns, handing him stuff and pointing to where it goes as he rambles about a new commission he made. Or the newest beads they got in stock.

"Says B 23."

"And they said they we're gettin' it for their partner-"

"There. Next to the red gift bags."

"-but how do ya not know their favorite color?! C'mon! That's like the first thing ya learn!"

"What's yours?"

"Blue. Or gold. And yellow, when gold ain't an option, because yellow is a lot more common. But none of that neon crap! Nah, like.. like.. I'll show ya when we reach the bead aisle! Anyway, they came back all-"

-'Yellow.' She thinks. Fitting, for someone who brightens her day so much. She shakes the thought away.

-She won't admit it but she does enjoy it. It makes the time pass faster.

"Did you know the beads go on sale Sunday? And we get paid this Friday. Are you gonna buy any?"

"...Are ya messin' with me?"

"Why would I be?"

"I'm going to buy so many things."

-MC starts to dread Sunday, and knows she's gonna have to reign him in. Oh boy.

-

hahaha pt 3 is in the works, i think. Because I had more ideas, but this got long again. Rest of this is me rambling.

Anyway, today I worked on repacks for Research™. And because I didn't wanna hear people asking if things are in the back. NO. I DID IT ALL TODAY !! EVERY LAST BIT !! (for t shirts and jewelry at least)

Took me four hours to do three jewelry boxes, though I did stop multiple times to help customers and go fulfill online orders. And unlike Mammon, I did need a scanner for some of it.

T shirts I did five boxes and took ten minutes a box since I didn't need the scanner except a handful of times. So it definitely varies on what department you're doing how long you'll take and how familiar you are with the aisle. For reference, it took my coworker 3.5 hours to do two boxes of jewelry.

Edit:

HERE'S PT 3 LOLOL

[taldigi]

How is the Amagi Inn holding up? The staff in the original game genuinely care for Yukiko, so are they worried about her?

Unlike kanji, who is not a delinquent as much as he's just trying to keep the peace, yukiko is actually causing problems. She is actively rebelling, going out late, getting into fights and generally being kind of a shithead. That being said she isn't evil. She isn't going to beat the shit out of some random townie, but she'll get into fights with people who pick fights with her or decide to exist in that same delinquent mind space (and are thus fair game.)

I think my main train of thought is a common misconception of her Arc in the actual game. Her story is not so much that she yearns to be free or that she laments her position as much she yearns to have the choice. So yeah, she does choose the inn in the end, but is happy with that choice because she chose it- not because she was obligated. She chose it because she does love her family, the staff, and she loves her Inn... And who says she won't take some time later on in her life to go out in the world and experience it? Nothing is stopping her from going to college for a few years or maybe taking some time away..?

I think a lot of people don't get that. So they express frustration and I thought... What if I actually followed that train of thought? 🧐

Here, she actively rejects and loathes the idea of inheriting the inn- and she loathes her role and The expectations that she has met with. She was pretty much the same girl as Canon up until a particularly traumatic event trademark ™️ when she was young- wherein she had been pinned down by some girls and had her hair cut off. Because to them, she had embodied the idea of... an unobtainable beauty standard. They had felt that she was flaunting it and that attitude needed to be remedied... Little girls are fucking mean and this is an au where she did not have Chie.

She came to the unfortunate reality that people often treated her a certain way because of how she looked. And now that she didn't quite look like that "traditional beauty" (Even though she had not actively chosen her new appearance), people started treating her worse. She doesn't know if she appreciates the new bluntness or hates the fact that she may have been treated differently due to her appearance, but she ends up sticking with the new hairstyle as well as developing a new attitude that is just as much rebelling as it is protecting herself emotionally.

Her family is worried about her and they do care about her. But they've stopped trying to 'fix her'. Even though she comes home with multiple violations when it comes to the dress code (which I don't think the school actually enforces that much so it's been mostly scoldings.), she actually has not been caught for anything, and she does keep her grades up (She wants to leave Inaba eventually after all.) she'll do menial labor tasks for her family but refuses to be a face for it. The inn is still the same inn. In fact, it ends up being where they access the TV as Junes was actually shut down due to the murders.

Most of her shenanigans happen at night. She's known as the Phoenix of Inaba (due to something fire related) in police records and no one is able to identify her (she somehow has managed to stay uncaught and unidentified due to the fact that she often hides out at Hanamura's, the small town grocery whom she is friends with the owner's son.) Until a news report manages to catch what seems to be one of her scuffles and runs a story on The delinquent problem plaguing the Inaba nightlife.

[faketrex]

Slowly but surely approaching the end of this caper... but first, Alex and Henry need to kick off their best friends tour.

To be continued.

...

SHARING A SLICE... part 5

RWRB, rated T, 750 words (this part).

(click here for part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4)

...

“Alex.”

Blearily, Alex blinks up at the ceiling.

“It's time to wake up.”

The voice is familiar but weird, like listening to a recording of himself. Alex rubs a hand across his eyes and looks over toward the sound of a floorboard creaking. That explains it: his own voice always sounds strange outside his head.

“Go away, Evil Alex,” Alex mumbles. “I'm tired.”

“What?”

“Why no eye patch, Evil Alex? You always have an eye patch.” It doesn't matter. Alex closes his eyes. Since he's still dreaming, he can get some more sleep.

“Get up, we've got brunch reservations and you should shower first. Unless of course you have a fetish for bees? That certainly wasn't on your Wikipedia page.”

“I – bees?”

“Cake contains sugar, Alex. Are you always so obtuse in the morning?”

Cake. Alex snaps awake. He sits up, but Henry-as-Alex has already disappeared through the doorway. “I thought you were my evil dream twin!”

“Your phone won't stop vibrating,” Henry calls back. “Does the name ‘Bug’ sound familiar?”

Fuck. Alex needs to text June – calling would be better if she's blowing up his phone, but June would see through Henry's shitty subterfuge in a second – and then he needs to – “Did you say brunch?”

“We're leaving in thirty minutes.”

Alex showers and brushes his teeth in record time. It's not easy getting clean while trying to ignore, like, all of his borrowed body – Henry's body – but he manages, mostly. Surprisingly, Henry's pretty fit. Alex had assumed all those beach photos were airbrushed.

Back in the living room, he finds Henry wrapped in a robe on the loveseat, scrolling on his phone.

“Why aren't you dressed?”

Henry looks up. “For the same reason you're wearing a towel, I assume. Going through your suitcase would have felt rude.”

“I'll dig out an outfit for you if you get one for me, just try not to – what the fuck did you do to my hair?”

“Nothing.”

“You must have done something, it never looks like that.”

“I didn't–”

“Did y'all ever have guillotines in the U.K.?”

“Charming suggestion, Alex, don't hold yourself back on my behalf.”

Alex keeps his commentary to himself while he's standing six inches away from Henry, trying to fix his hair from an unfamiliar angle, and even while they’re getting dressed – except for some entirely valid criticism of Henry's boring ties – but it's all fair game once they're seated across from each other, pretending to enjoy one another's company.

“You look exhausted,” Alex begins.

“Why, thank you, your royal highness. I didn't sleep much last night.”

“Maybe I should have warned you, I have insomnia.” Alex waits while the server sets down his coffee and a pot of tea for Henry. “I don't know if insomnia is a brain thing or a body thing, though. Hey, does this coffee taste weird? How often do people try to poison you?”

Henry takes a sip from Alex's cup. “It tastes fine. As a world-class insomniac myself, we may never know the answer to that particular question, but it seems we've already determined that taste is a matter of body, not brain.”

“What? How?”

“I don't like coffee.” Henry blinks at him slowly, obviously, like he's waiting for Alex to pick up on a secret code. “Usually.”

“Oh.” They swap drinks. “Anyway, I didn't know royals ate brunch,” Alex continues once he's sipping his Earl Grey and – as if things weren't bad enough – actually enjoying it.

“Alas, man cannot live on ribbon cuttings alone,” Henry quips, so deadpan that Alex nearly snorts. “Brunch was easier to arrange than any other morning appearance, given the spontaneity of today’s... excursion. Shaan is still organizing our afternoon engagements.”

“He's getting everything cleared, right?”

“Of course.” Henry smiles at the server as they arrive with their food. There's no hesitance to it, not like the smiles Alex has seen him wear in photos. At least Henry’s not a dick to service industry workers.

“In normal circumstances, there wouldn't be any public royal appearances the day after a royal wedding.”

“Yeah?” So they're breaking rules by trying to fix everything. Good to know.

Henry nods. “In an effort to avoid stealing attention from the all-important pomp and circumstance, you understand.”

“Well... seems like that ship has already sailed.”

“Boy howdy,” Henry drawls, sipping his coffee. “I do believe you might say we’ve dulled their sparkle.”

Alex can’t help it this time: he laughs. When Henry grins back, Alex isn't even thinking about the cameras.

...

(Part 6)

[thecryptidenthusiast]

Title: i just want to give you all i can (1/2)

Rating: M (Will Increase to E)

Pairing: ChargeStep

Summary: A Ranger is turning 40, and you decide to make an appearance at his party.

AO3 link if you want to read there instead!

The banquet hall is packed to the brim, people crammed from one wall to the other. You aren’t sure there’s ever been another time where you’ve felt so out of place.

You weren’t stupid, you knew to expect a crowd -this is as much a publicity stunt as it is any kind of celebration. ‘Congratulations on turning 40, Charge. Here’s to hoping we can squeeze one more year out of you before going for the next new model!’ Rubbing elbows and double-edged smiles, everybody playing the same song and dance as if they aren’t all just cogs to the same machine.

Easy to break.

Even easier to replace.

Ortega is eating it up though, because why wouldn’t he? All eyes have been on him the entire evening, just how he likes it.

Catching glimpses of him from the alcove you’d tucked yourself into wasn’t hard. He’d flit from one group to the next, a peacock showing off its plumage. Camera-perfect smile and winks meant to make somebody swoon. He had the audacity to invite you, and then run around like an idiot all night.

No, not even an invite, not really. It was more a comment thrown out like he was just fulfilling a social expectation. That tone of you won’t come anyways, but I’d come across like an asshole if I didn’t mention it.

Not an invitation, it felt more like a goddamn challenge.

He’s found a new group to migrate to, a group of men and women all dressed to the nines. The women are gorgeous, and at least half his age. Doesn’t stop him from grinning, doesn’t stop them from touching his arms in an overly-friendly gesture. Does he even know them? Probably not. He’s managed to lose his tie somewhere between the last time you’d seen him and now, so he’s opted for unbuttoning his shirt well beyond the point of “proper formal attire”.

One of the women, the shortest one with the red dress that’s slit up to her thigh, tugs Ortega down to say something in his ear. Close, so close and he just goes along with a smile you want to slap him. Something twists in your chest.

You could leave.

You should leave. Slip back outside and vanish into the night like a ghost, instead of haunting the halls of this place. Get away from the bodies, the minds pressing down on your shields from all directions. Fingers scratching, looking to find any cracks in your defenses. All the time that’s passed may have made you stronger, but the world hasn’t gotten any quieter, and it’s still so damn exhausting. You can feel that tell-tale pulse starting behind your left eye, a migraine brewing like an afternoon storm.

Just go.

It’s not like it’s your fault Ortega’s been too busy basking in the limelight. You made an appearance, even when you knew he hadn’t expected it. You filled your end of that social expectation.

A caterer shuffles a little too close, a tray of champagne flutes precariously balanced on one hand, and you press yourself further against the wall. Pull your shields up just a bit tighter, fight against that throbbing ache so the man just glosses over your existence entirely.

It’s like a bruise you can’t help but pressing just to feel it hurt, deciding to stay. Feet still rooted to the obnoxious marble floor and watch the humming buzz of life move around you. Always looking in - it doesn’t matter what you’ve molded yourself into. It doesn’t matter that you were invited by Charge himself; you can dress the part, but no amount of hair product or designer clothes can hide the fact you don’t belong. Grubby hands leaving smudges on a window into something you’ll never have a place in.

Eden would fit in here. Pretty face and a smile sharper than any blade. The kind of woman a person can’t help but bend and listen to. Even Enigma could - they would grab the world by the throat and demand to be noticed. To be seen.

Not you, though.

Not Erin Becker.

A woman in a dress that brushes the floor glances your way, eyes lingering a little too long. Wondering who you are, should you be here? Maybe she should get security?

The ‘nudge’ you meant for is closer to a telepathic shove: forget about the stranger, a featureless face fading into the crowds. It’s more important to find the way to the hall’s bathrooms.

You may be too stubborn to leave just yet, but it’s becoming increasingly obvious that you can’t just keep standing here. Sweat has your dress shirt sticking to your back, and you’d peel your jacket off if it didn’t feel like the extra layer is the only thing keeping you held together.

‘...never have the right champagne…’

How did you manage to do this? Two lifetimes ago, blending into events like this was why you were useful. The tool taken out of its box from time to time.

‘...a few more drinks, and may he’ll sign-off on…’

Was it easier back then, or did you just have more to lose? Be the good dog, don’t cause any problems. Sit, stay, roll over-

‘...waste of resources…’

-play dead.

But the good thing about being the ghost of a room? Nobody cares enough to keep you out of restricted spaces. You sure as hell aren’t going to let Ortega think he’s won by running with your tail between your legs, but there’s no reason why you can’t adapt.

~~~

He’s not disappointed.

A person has to get their hopes up to be disappointed by something, and too many years have taught him to keep any wishful thinking in check. Too much optimism and life will find a way to crush a person under its heel.

So, no, Ricardo Ortega is absolutely not disappointed. Besides, it’s his birthday. There’s an open bar, courtesy of the Rangers’ budget. The catered food is decent, and the music isn’t half bad for once. What more could a guy ask for?

Sure, half the people here are barely more than strangers, and there’s some people here he’d rather not see at all (good to see Blaze still hasn’t gotten that stick out of his ass, even after so many years). And sure, the one person he’d actually been looking for is a no-show, but there’s nothing new there.

The small cluster of people around him erupt into laughter over…something. Investors and potential donors he’s supposed to be playing nice with, but he’s already checked out of whatever conversation they’ve been having without him.

“What do you think, Ricardo?” Seems like they aren’t content to just let him coast after all - the smarmy looking guy with the flushed face and sweat-damped hair is looking directly at him. Ricardo, like they know one another. Ricardo, like they’re friends. Like this isn’t just a glorified business exchange, chasing whatever connections will benefit him best.

The man is smiling, but all Ortega can think about is animals baring their teeth as a threat.

“I think it’s time for a fresh drink,” His own smile is a well-practiced one, with just the right amount of mocking. The sort of smile that says ‘no, I wasn’t listening, and you’re not as impressive as you’re trying to be’. He rattles the ice in his glass for good measure. “Enjoy the rest of your night.”

He doesn’t bother waiting for any more niceties, just turns around and carves a path across the room, leaving the man to scoff at his back as he goes.

It’s less congested at the bar, a small mercy of the evening. The bartender barely pays him any mind beyond asking what he wants, which is another refreshing change of pace. He figures he wouldn’t get the entire bottle if he asked, so he settles for another old fashioned.

He doesn’t acknowledge the familiar looming presence that shows up at his side, just keeps his eyes on the illuminated wall of liquor bottles.

“If you’re going to lecture me about pacing myself, you can relax.” Ortega sighs, more annoyed than anything, “This is my third one.”

“You’re sulking.” He can’t see Chen’s face as the man watches the crowd, just the broad expanse of his back.

“Am I?” The bartender returns, leaving the drink before quickly moving to another patron. Liquid courage in hand, he finally turns to face the other man head on. Makeup got their hands on him, it would seem. Scars softened to be digestible to the masses, wearing a suit Chen hates. Another piece to be polished and shined for the public tonight.

“That’s what it looks like, yes.”

“I’m fine.” Mask back on, he gives him his most charming of smiles to drive the point home.

Too bad Chen knows him well enough to see right through it. “Are you?”

“I’m great.” He says as he turns, pressing his back against the edge of the bar to people-watch with Chen. It’s a sea of faces, to the point they’re almost blurring together. Some dancing, others drinking. Conversations the music is drowning out, and laughter it isn’t loud enough for.

“The party’s a hit,” He nods towards the crowd, “Why wouldn’t I be feeling great?”

“Do I really need to say it?” Leave it to Chen not to give a guy slack on his own birthday. He can feel his stare at the side of his head, but he pointedly keeps his eyes forward.

“I just don’t know when these stopped being fun,” It’s an easy deflection to the point he’s aiming for, and it’s not even a complete lie. “I know these things were always for work, but at least we enjoyed ourselves a little. But now?” He shrugs, managing a rueful smile.

Chen watches him, just a little beyond the point of being comfortable, before shaking his head. “You’re not 25 anymore, Ricardo.”

The comment is delivered with all the softness of a baseball bat to the skull. Ortega scoffs into his glass, taking a long drink like it can sooth the slight sting.

“Thank you so much for that reminder-“

“You’re not 25,” He cuts him off, “So maybe you forgot you’ve always hated these…events.”

Events. A performance under the guise of a party. Still, that doesn’t add up - sure, they weren’t a blast, but hated? He certainly doesn’t remember that. He turns to argue the point, but the other man pushes on before he can get a word in, “Maybe you convinced yourself you didn’t, or told yourself you liked the attention, but you were always happier afterwards.”

…afterwards. Descending on Hoots like a maelstrom, or finding whatever karaoke bar was still open. A smaller group, but people he actually wanted to spend time around - no cameras, at least not any more than being a public figure entails. Nobody to put a show on for, just him, having a night out with friends.

That feels like a lifetime ago now. He doesn’t have to count back to know exactly what year they stopped being fun.

“Maybe you’re right.” He sighs, eyes downcast to his glass. He very much feels every one of his 40 years all of a sudden.

“That happens from time to time.” He doesn’t smile, but there’s a fond glance thrown his way. “And for what it’s worth…Iam sorry about Becker.”

Of course he isn’t going to let that drop.

“I wasn’t expecting them to show.” Ortega says, mindlessly taking another swig just to grimace at the mostly-watered down taste. “They didn’t remember last year.” Why would this year be any different? Despite everything that-

No, it doesn’t sting. Not a bit.

“Right.” Chen’s got the look on his face that usually means there’s an impending lecture coming, but he must notice something Ortega isn’t hiding well enough, because he holds his thoughts to himself. “Just don’t go overboard, okay?”

“Relax, I’ll be sure to keep the PR scandals to a minimum.” He claps him on the shoulder, which does nothing but earn him a put-out groan (although it’s a little too amused to really be considered annoyed). Chen gives his arm a soft squeeze before stepping away, quickly vanishing amidst the people. Probably off looking for a place to get away from the crowds.

Vanishing, leaving Ortega alone to stew.

He’ll have to open presents soon. Not all of them, just enough to get some decent tabloid shots. Another spectacle; jump, smile, dance for the cameras. Make a good impression and be a good little Ranger for the paparazzi. The same loop stuck on repeat every single year. Most, if not all, of the gifts will be from brands of some sorts, looking for representation without the hassle of contracts. The ability to say, ‘Hey, look! Charge is wearing our product, don’t you want it, too?’

Maybe the cynicism just comes along with age, getting too old to enjoy the veneer of publicity. Or maybe he’d been spending too much time around Erin. Free stuff is free stuff, who is he to complain about where it came from? Maybe he’ll get a new watch.

He gives the gift table a once over, looking to see which ones will be the fastest to open, when he stops. One bag catches his eye purely because of how out of place it looks: nestled between gaudy silver and Ranger-blue, it’s there like a misshapen void. A simple black gift bag, folded and creased to the point that bits of the white paper beneath are peeking through.

Either it’s a prank, or a very strange attempt at rigging a trap at his party, and both options sound more appealing than making another round through the crowds. More hands to shake, more conversations he’ll have to pretend to give a shit about.

He’d take an explosive over any of that right now.

He should probably let somebody know about it, but a mix of boredom and morbid curiosity has him walking over and plucking it up himself. It’s too early in the night for this, somebody’s probably going to complain, but to hell with them.

There’s no tag on it, nothing to signify who might’ve left it here. No calling card, either, so it’s less likely to be a surprise from whatever villain of the week managed to sneak past security. It really is just an old gift bag, creased to the point it’s faded in spots. There’s almost a certain level of respect to whoever left something so intentionally shitty

He doesn’t bother looking first, just shoves his hand in with no hesitation. No tissue paper, just a card that he ignores in favor of grabbing the paper-covered lump at the bottom.

Whoever wrapped this thing seemed to think using an entire newspaper was hilarious, and by the time he reaches the end, he’s got a pile of shredding at his feet.

And then it registers what he’s holding, and his mind stutters to a halt. Fingertips carefully trace the familiar ceramic, it’s black and blue paint glossy in the lights of this banquet hall.

Cradling the mug possessively to his chest, he looks up to scan the sea of faces milling around him.

The buzz from his phone is too perfectly timed to be anything but intentional. Still manages to make him jump though, and while the message isn’t a shock, the number is.

Erin’s number. Their actual number, not one of the dozens of burners they have.

From: E.B [21:43]:

The roof.

His eyes snap up to the banquet hall’s skylight, squinting against the gleam of the lights. Is there a figure up there, dark against night sky? Or just his own wishful thinking?

Another buzz.

From: E.B [21:44]:

If your geriatric bones can handle the stairs.

~~~~~

Getting access to the roof was an easy feat - a benefit of being somebody people don’t pay a second thought to: you’ve always excelled at getting into places you weren’t supposed to be.

The air is as muggy as ever, humid to the point it feels like sticky hands dragging against your skin.

Still, it’s practically a breath of fresh air compared to being stuck downstairs.

Up this high, you perch on the ledge and just…watch. A passive spectator, viewing life from above; bodies and cars, all coming and going from one place to another. Life rolling onwards. It’s easier to exist like this - at a distance. This high, you can let your shields unwind. There are too many minds, and they’re all so far away they bleed into one, indecipherable sound. A quiet buzz at the back of your skull that settles on your frayed nerves like a balm.

Of course, the peace only lasts for so long. You may have texted him, but the loud clang of the maintenance door being thrown open still manages to make you jump.

A new mind, but a familiar sort of static.

“Go ahead and let the whole city know we’re up here while you’re at it?” You snap over your shoulder to cover up your reaction.

You’d expected a stupid comment. Something that would make you roll your eyes, but when you look back at him you see he’s just standing in place, still lingering at the doorway. Twisting around on the ledge, there’s a little rush of your back to nothing but open air. It would be so, so easy to just lean back and…

No, Shake the thought off like a cobweb.

Ortega hasn’t lost that weird look on his face, body poised like he’s about to lunge, and you’re hit with a momentary flair of panic. That animalistic part of your hindbrain you never lost, attack or run. Get away from the threat.

Swallow it. Stomp the fear back where it sprouted from, smirk to hide the unease as you push yourself up and step towards him. Another one, and-

Huh.

He relaxes almost immediately, a marionette with all its strings cut. There’s a flash of relief before his own mask is back in place.

“You actually came.” He’s teasing, but you know him too well to miss the slight awe in his voice. Happy to the point it makes your insides twist uncomfortably.

“You invited me,” Caustic, claws out to deter any softness, “Don’t tell me dementia has set in already.”

“Ouch.” He presses his hand to his chest in an over dramatic gesture, feigning some grievous injury before smiling again. “I know I did, but…”

But this is a surprise.

But he made the invitation out of kindness.

But he never expected you to follow through.

“Don’t be weird about this,” You groan, but it’s already too late for that.

“Me?” He doesn’t waste any time, catching you in an embrace as soon as you’re within his reach. Arms looped around your waist, dragging you close. “I’d never.”

“Liar, you’re always-” The rest of your insult is cut off with his lips pressing against yours. The kiss is slow, languid, tasting like mint and rum. Your arms move on their own accord to loop around his neck - no frantic energy now, not like your past ones, just savoring the peace of being away, being here. Space to exist without prying eyes, carved out for just the two of you.

You pull away at that thought, ready to kick yourself for how sappy that sounds, but Ortega doesn’t let you get very far.

“And you dressed up.” He says appreciatively, looking you over, “You look good.”

That’s enough to make you scoff. “Right.” As if you’re buying that. You feel stupid, and you’re sure the humidity has your hair fighting the product you used. Not good looking, just a frizzy-haired mess.

“I’m serious!” He seems to believe he is, so you let it drop. Not an argument you’ll win, not a hill worth dying on. Instead of answering, you busy yourself by playing with the curls at the nape of his neck. It’s a surprise the stylists haven’t chased him down for a trim, considering they’re always going for that ‘respectably ruffled, effortlessly messy’ approach. Not that you’d complain, gives you more to twist your fingers into.

“I figured my regular clothes wouldn’t get me through the doors of a place like this.” You could’ve forced your way in, make the security not see you, but you’d stand out even more than you already do.

“All these years and I never knew you owned anything besides jackets and jeans.”

“I don’t.” You deadpan, giving his hair a sharp tug, “There’s a naked mannequin in a window of an boutique uptown.”

“I can see the headlines already: ‘Enigma Terrorizes Local Clothes Stores’.” It’s meant to be a joke, but that doesn’t stop the unease that curls up your spine, making you stiffen. He must notice the shift, because he’s quick to let you go, and you put a little space between you both.

“So,” He drawls, obviously scrambling to save the mood before it can sour further, “Why a Sidestep mug?”

Not the direction you were expecting him to go. “What?”

“Seems a little egotistical, you know?” An over the top shrug and a shit-eating smile, “Getting me one of your pieces of merch on my birthday and all.”

“Yeah, well. You’re the idiot that kept the old, broken one.” It’s harmless teasing, you know that, but defensiveness still prickles across your skin like barbs. You’d felt stupid buying the thing to begin with, and standing here, that feeling comes creeping back in. What are you supposed to get somebody who’s used to getting whatever they want? But your old mug seemed to matter to him, for whatever reason. Enough to keep. To try and glue back together. It mattered to him.

Which made it matter to you.

“Erin,”

“Whatever.” You really don’t want to continue this conversation, shoving your hands in your pockets, shoulders rising to your ears. “I know it was a stupid gift, but at least this one isn’t covered in glue.”

“Maldita sea, no puedo hacerlo bien.” His smile is a rueful one. “Can’t keep my foot out of my mouth tonight, I guess.”

“It’s fine. No different than any other night.” At least that makes him look a little less sullen.

“I do love it.” He says, as sincere as you’ve ever heard him. And sure, he may just be humoring you, but damn him, that little knot of anxiety that had been twisting up in your chest loosens, just a little.

“Really?”

“Absolutely.” He’s speaking with the solemnness of somebody swearing an oath, not talking about an ugly coffee mug. “Best gift out of all of them.”

And just like that, the bubble of tension that had been slowly brewing pops, leaving exasperated amusement in its wake.

You snort, “Liar. You didn’t even open the others.”

“Doesn’t matter,” He steps close, clearly restraining himself from dragging you into another embrace, “Nothing else could beat it.”

“Idiot.” What else are you supposed to say? To the man acting like you gave him a priceless art piece, and not a novelty mug you found at a thrift shop.

All he’s mentioned yet is the mug, though, leaving you wondering…

“Did you see the card?”

“It slipped my mind,” Curiosity overrides the desire to stay close as he makes a B-line for the gift bag he left by the door. “Somebody interrupted with cryptic texts.”

“It got you up here.”

You didn’t bother writing anything on the envelope, you knew he was nosy enough to open it no matter what. There’s a flash of blue as he pulls it free, and you watch him peel the envelope open, taking in the horrendous card he’s holding.

“No dicks on this one, either. You could’ve opened it in front of a crowd.” The terrible, raunchy ones were more Themmy’s thing. They always got an evil sort of delight making the unfortunate recipient flush out of embarrassment.

What it lacks in genitalia, it makes up for with terrible caricatures of what you think is supposed to be the Rangers. It looks more like a picture blown up too large and printed out, the features of everybody bleeding together to the point they’re unrecognizable blobs of color. And on the front in big, blocky white and blue letters, it reads:

Have A

Super-Charged Day!

“Did you know there are still bodegas down at the pier selling knock-off merch?” It had been years since you last saw one. A hazy memory of warm evenings, wandering the quieter streets with Themmy. Of laughing until your ribs ached. “You almost ended up with a ‘Ranger Cherge’ keychain.”

It’s not the greatest card, but you’d expected at least a huff of a laugh. A comment about the card not catching his likeness, anything. But instead, Ortega is just staring at the card, terrifyingly still for once in his life.

“Ortega…?” Shit, it’s definitely not the funniest thing in the world, but you don’t think it’s silent treatment levels of bad. With his head down, you can’t get a decent read on his face, so you take a few tentative steps towards him. Leave enough room to- what? Run?

“Ricardo?”

In a flash of movement far too quick for his dumb old man body, he’s crossing the space in a few steps and crushing you to him in a tight hug. Probably should have seen this coming, but he was fast enough your brain doesn’t even get a chance to process that you should be panicking at the touch.

“Thank you.” He says, voice thick with emotion, and now panic sets in. Angry or annoyed you can handle, not teary Ortega!

“Ugh!” You squirm, trying to get your arms between your bodies to shove him off, “You’re being weird again!”

“Shut up and let me have this, you ass.” He laughs, a wet, broken sound. Neither of you want to acknowledge the tears.

You sigh, giving him an awkward couple pats on the back. “You’ve had too much to drink.” He can usually hold his alcohol, but you know he can be an emotional drunk when he gets started.

“Heh. Maybe.” You get one final squeeze, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he’s not here to hold you. But he backs off, quickly turning to tuck the card back in the bag. You pointedly find an interesting stain on the concrete beneath your feet to stare while he puts himself back together, and when he turns back around, his easy-going grin is back in place. No trace of tears, masks back in place. Sweep it under the rug and pretend it never happened.

Down below, the music shifts its tone. Fast, rhythmic beats are replaced with something slower - not quite party music, but probably a chance to give a break to the ears of everyone attending. Up with the pair of you, it’s little more than an echo, bouncing up the stairwell. An ethereal sort of sound, something that could easily be stolen away by the wind.

Ortega glances from you, to the maintenance door, and back again. There’s a glint in his eye, but before you get the chance to ask what he’s thinking, he holds a hand out to you.

“Dance with me?” It’s not your Ortega asking, but an echo. Ricardo, ten years younger. Ricardo, ten years lighter. On another night, on a different rooftop.

…A popup concert at the park.

You made an offhand comment, asked what that was. You’d never seen one, which everybody in the break room seemed to find weird. Weirder still that you’d never been to one, not even in passing

Of course Ortega didn’t pass up the chance to invite you. And like an idiot, you went.

But the crowds had been packed tight, people from shoulder to shoulder, front to back. Your neck prickled at the thought of getting too close. Not worth the effort. Not worth the impending migraine.

But Ortega pulled some strings - he’d always been so good at that. Got you both rooftop access on a building just across the street. No crowds, no minds pressing on your shields.

Just music and his static brain.

…you never let him call it a date.

You knew he wanted to.

“Erin?” Past bleeds away like blood from an open wound. Your Ortega once more - with wrinkles and new scars. Grey hairs he can’t always hide. Secrets and lies that haunt both your shadows like spirits.

He still has his hand out. Palm-up, waiting for you.

Always willing to wait. And it feels inevitable, slipping your hand into his. Life roughened, the both of you. Scarred and calloused, the bite of metal against your skin. But he tugs you close, and that time doesn’t feel quite so heavy.

And it’s not a dance, not really. Not one your trainers would have approved of, at least. It’s just a lazy sway to your own rhythms - his arms around waist, yours around his neck for a second time this evening. And for a second time, you let yourself just exist.

You didn’t think you’d ever have this again, not after everything. You threw all your cards out on the table, dragged your skeletons from the closet and into the light. Waited for some sort of retaliation - hurt for hurt, truth for truth. After all was said and done, you didn’t expect him to hold you, not with kindness at least. Not looking at you like you’re the most important person in his entire world.

His heart is strong under your ear, if a little fast. You wonder, can he feel yours, too? Pounding, a bird's wings beating against your ribs. You weren’t expecting care, so you’re not sure what to do with it. He should hate you, for everything you’ve done. Everything you’re still going to do.

He should hate you, but he doesn’t, and you’re not sure what you’re supposed to do, feeling this soft.

“This doesn’t really seem like dancing.” You point out, just to cut through your own brewing thoughts. Stomp those emotions down, kick them back into whatever corner of your mind they’d crawled out of. Deal with them later.

“Really? What kind of dancing were you expecting?” He asks, words curling off his lips in a way that means nothing but trouble. You move to get away, not trusting him or his smirk, but before you can, your world is thrown off balance as he drops you into a dip.

“Ortega!” Definitely one of the less-dignified sounds you’ve ever made, squawking out his name like a bird. Your fingers are claws in his shoulders, clinging for purchase even though part of you knows he wouldn’t drop you.

“Was this what you wanted?” The bastard has the audacity to laugh at you. His hand, the one not braced against your back, is a brand on your hip, trailing along your thigh - skimming down until he hooks his fingers behind the bend of your knee. He brings your thigh up to his hip, forcing you to put your entire weight -and trust- into him to keep you from hitting concrete.

It’s- close. Way too close.

“Hey there.” Switching gears, the charming Ortega is back with a megawatt smile that brings out the wrinkles around his eyes. Annoying bastard doesn’t even seem half as bothered as you.

“Let me up, idiot.” You blame your breathlessness on the surprise, and absolutely nothing else. You swat him upside the back of his head, which has him laughing again, but it has the desired effect of him pulling you back to your feet. He lets you pull away, giving you room to breathe, at least.

But he’s still just looking, to the point his eyes feel like a physical weight on you. “What?” You’re more snappish than you meant to be, but the staring is making your skin itch.

“Come back to my place with me.” Not a question, just a soft spoken request. A plea if you squinted just right at it.

“Ortega…” The excuses are already on the tip of your tongue, but he’s quick to jump in before you can voice them.

“Just, tonight? Nothing has to happen.” He barrels on, like if he’s fast enough, he can stop the inevitable refusal. “Make it a birthday wish?

“You’re being greedy.” You cross your arms and scowl.

“You know me.” Another shot at his charming persona, but this one feels a little more brittle. Always afraid to say good-bye, like it’ll be the last time he ever sees you.

And after all, you do know him. Well enough that if you’re adamant, he’ll drop it. He has in the past. Maybe he’d sulk a little, but never any hard feelings, happy to take whatever you willingly give.

You haven’t been over again, not since the day you went and dumped your entire non-human existence onto him in a creative new form of self-destruction. You hadn’t dared going back - not with that paranoid little voice always scratching at the back of your brain, the one with the images of traps and betrayals around every corner.

You’ve stayed away, and he…hasn’t pushed. Maybe it’s that fact that has you even entertaining the idea creeping into your mind. Knocking at the window, asking for attention. It’s a stupid idea, reckless. How many ways can you throw yourself onto the tracks, hoping the train misses you? How many leaps can you make before you don’t get back up again?

One more plunge.

“Or…you could come to my place, instead?” You almost choke on the words. Stupid, so stupid. Public places, or his apartment, never yours. Never let him close enough to be a threat. But you left that warning in the dust a few too many confessions ago.

“You’re inviting me to your apartment?” He’s shocked, the wide-eyed look only half comedic, “You’re not terminally ill, right? No hours left to live or anything?”

You scowl, embarrassment and annoyance rivaling for the front row now, “If you’re going to be an ass-”

“No! No, I want to go.” He says, practically giddy, you may as well have told him he’d won the jackpot. He’s already grabbing your hand, pulling you in tow, like if he waits too long you’ll snatch the offer back. “Let’s get out of here.”

His excitement has you grinning, and you don’t bother trying to hide it. He stops to grab your gift -not as stupid as you thought it was- before heading for the door. “Are you playing hooky to your own party?”

“Hey, I made the rounds.” He’s leading you down the roof-access stairwell with the determination of a man on a mission, “Besides, it’s my birthday. I can take off if I want. This way.” You’re on the ground floor, but instead of heading towards the main exit, he tugs you down one of the empty hallways.

“Do you even know where you’re going?”

“Garage. Back way in.” The grin he tosses over his shoulder is outright conspiratorial, and you decide to keep the ‘back entrance’ joke you were about to make to yourself. “I rode my bike here.”

“I’m surprised.” Now it’s your turn to tug him around a corner, dodging a catering crew member you sensed coming the other way, bustling with a tray of food. You both wait a breath, and another. Then you squeeze his fingers, silently conveying that the coast is clear, and you’re off again.

“Surprised?”

“That they let you ride here.” You say, innocent and nonchalant. “I thought they’d have rules about senior citizens riding motorcycles, you know?”

This time, you’re dragged to the side for a kiss. Messy and uncoordinated, because neither of you can contain your laughter. He mumbles something, maybe calling you a name, but you’re too happy to care. All you focus on is escaping with him like a pair of overgrown children, sneaking off into the night.

Maybe the party wasn’t half-bad, after all.

[piratefishmama]

Crossing The Line | Part 9

“Eddie. Dude. You have to stop pacing, you’re gonna wear a hole in the goddamn floor and we ain’t covered for that.”

Eddie did not stop pacing, he just turned on his heel and went in the other direction, starting a fresh line in the floor. “But what if— nah, he wouldn’t… I doubt it, no he was probably just—but then what if—"

“Man, you’re spiralling, if he’s gonna come, he’s gonna come, if he doesn’t, then he doesn’t, what’re you worried about, you don't even like the guy” Eddie didn’t stop pacing. “Unless… Do you?”

“I… may have… actually looked into him?”

“You what?”

“After he turned up at the coffee shop! He was just… he was nice, dude, and… an he had no reason to be, at all, I was a bitch for a whole week towards him for no reason, but he was nice, and funny, and he can sing even if he can’t do shit with metal, he can sing, and… his photoshoots don’t touch up shit he really is that pretty, and I think i'm going to spontaneously combust and die if he turns up tonight dressed to blend in.”

“Wow.”

“Leave me alone!”

“Okay, so, what did you find out on your deep dive through Instagram?” Eddie finally stopped pacing. They were in what the bar deemed to be a ‘green room’ which was really just a room in the back for bands to get their shit together before the gig started, Corroded Coffin always turned up a good hour or so early to make sure everything was set, and of course, get rid of any pre-gig jitters. Gareth was the only one completely ready, his drums were already out there, set up and covered by a black sheet waiting for their time to shine, and his outfit was sorted ages ago.

So Gareth was the one currently in charge of dealing with Eddie, while the other two primped elsewhere.

“Not just Instagram, Jesus, imagine if I’d have scrolled too far back and liked a pic from like, 2001 by accident. How about no to that inevitable mortification. I googled.”

“You googled.”

“Yes I googled!! Did you know that he donated like, ninety-something percent of his earnings from a bullshit rom-com soundtrack deal to LGBT charities across the US after they cut a lesbian couple out of it?”

“No…”

“Neither did I! The fucker didn’t tell anyone!! I HAD TO DEEP DIVE INTO ROBIN’S INSTAGRAM! Trust me that was a scary thing to do, she’s scary. but he pulls that shit all the time apparently!” It wasn’t for publicity, it wasn’t to make himself look good to a demographic, he did it because he could. Because he wanted to. “Did you know he regularly terrorizes producers and directors into offering fair contracts for their child actors and young muscians like a goddamn world class showbiz babysitter?”

“…Nope.”

“Neither did I!! Did you know that he got PERMISSION to sing Crazy Train from the actual goddamn Osbornes? Cause I sure as shit didn’t know that either! He spoke to Sharon, DIRECTLY, Gareth, DIRECTLY. What the actual fucknuggets on fire, does he want with me?!”

“I dunno, to kiss you maybe?”

“WHY?!”

“Can’t claim to have an answer dude, you’re not exactly my type. Maybe you’re his, he did come all this way, right?”

“Pretty sure he could find a weird metalhead in his own damn town, y’know?”

“Maybe it’s not the metalhead thing, I dunno Eds, I just know that maybe this guy will be in the crowd, and if he is, hell yeah, you have managed to secure probably thee best opportunity we’ve ever had in the history of ever, by… being a bitch.”

“We’ve ever had?” Eddie looked at him with a small frown

“Yeah man! Steve Harrington is a huge star in the music world. Dude probably has his own goddamn recording studio in his place… maybe if it goes well… we could ask him if we could use it, save us some cash on a recording studio for demos.”

“…Dude. That’s. That’s kinda taking advantage isn’t it? An I’m not whoring myself out to get free studio time.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it, BUT if you start dating this guy—"

“Gare, anything you say that relates to me using my first potential relationship as a step ladder to fame, is SUPER shitty. Let’s not do that. If he offers, then… maybe, but… that’s not—I wouldn’t even think about asking for that, we wanna get where we’re going on our own, not have it handed to us, right?”

“Well… yeah but… a helping hand would be nice sometimes, y’know? Get us out of playing these shitty dive bar gigs and into the big leagues, you know I can’t stand part time work filling the gaps in the wages, man, retail managers always suck donkey dicks. I cannot work another summer at Staples, they have like no AC, it’s torture, it’s like an oven in there and Ralph doesn’t wear deodorant, he claims it’s an allergy, but I know, I know it’s not, he does it as a power thing it’s weird. This… could be our ticket out.”

“Steve isn’t a ticket. Maybe stop digging a grave you can’t climb out of, yeah? I know I wasn’t the best towards him but… he’s better, deserves better than that… I’m not using him. An honestly I dunno if I’d even know how y’know? It’s not like I’m bursting with experience… barely even—y’know what, I’m not talking about this, big nope on the using Steve as a cheat code to achieving fame! Let’s just… get our shit together and get out there!”

Gareth smiled before rising to his feet, drumsticks in hand “you’re the boss, man. Where’s Jeff an Frank?”

“Bathroom touching up their shit… promise me you won’t bring it up to Steve, yeah? Like… if he does come, you won’t—”

“Dude, dude… I was just throwing out dumb ideas to get you out of your head, I’d never, that’d be really uncool of me” Eddie looked at him with doubt because… okay, maybe there was a little truth to the interest in the subject, Gareth had worked part time in the stationary section of Staples for three years now and he was just about ready to die if he had to deal with his supervisors summer BO any longer, but if Eddie put his foot down and said no, then it was no, the idea was vetoed. Axed. Deader than dead

He could deal with Ralph. Probably.

“…Right, well… oka—”

The door opened, a frizzy head of hair poking around the entry way, one of the bartenders, “You’re on in five guys! Wh—Where’s the rest of you??”

“Gareth go get em for me? I’ll get the crowd warmed up.”

“On it.”

T-5 minutes. Gareth rushed out the opposite door to the bathrooms behind 'stage', otherwise known as the staff bathroom. The bar was heaving, music from the speakers to fill the void of sound before the live music act, loud and thumping, it’d be them soon, filling that void, deep breath. Eddie fluffed his hair once more, spritzed it with hairspray one last time, checked his minimalist eyeliner, and shook himself out, and grabbed his baby.

Show time.

Part 11

[onepiece-oc-archives]

Heyy, any tips for dressing OCs? I struggle a lot coming up with outfits that look unique while looking like it fits in with the rest of the characters and the world.

Hi, thanks so much for your ask! Boy oh boy do I have tips for you, so buckle up! I'll try to keep this as straightforward as possible, but if you get lost on the way, I'll give examples at the bottom of the post.

First of all, it's important to have a feel for the character's personal style. One of the first things I do for every new OC I create is usually to hop onto Pinterest and make an aesthetic board for them because it just helps with so many things. Sometimes, you'll just stumble across the main design detail of your OC on accident! For example, my OC Aurelia's signature claws just showed up when I searched "gold aesthetic", and I decided that this was the way to go.

But let's go back: How do I even know what to search for? Well, you might want to have a basic concept for your character. What are their inspirations? What is their background? Do they prefer clothes that are more practical or more stylish? Do they have any signature colors? How do they come off in the eyes of other people and does that match their fashion sense? How rich are they?

The last point may be helpful to get a basic idea but, in the end, it doesn't have to be the deciding factor. Let's take the Straw Hats, for example. At the start of the story, they're not exactly rich. Still, both Sanji and Nami are walking around with nice clothes. Nami steals her clothes or bargains with (or threatens) the vendor until they give her a huge discount. Sanji, meanwhile, probably had a good bit of money before he left Baratie since it was a fairly successful restaurant, and I'm willing to bet that he probably only has one or two good jackets, so he might look high-end, but he's actually not very rich at all.

What I'm trying to say is: Knowing how your OC acquires your clothes can be a huge help both for their character design and for fleshing out their story.

Otherwise, just throw anything about your OC you can think of into Pinterest's search bar, glue "outfit" or "aesthetic" to it, and you'll probably find some good inspo for your OC's clothing style.

Now that you have an idea of their fashion sense, time to make it fit in!

I'll be the first to admit, the early animanga art style doesn't really leave a lot open for detailed character design, but once you get further into the story, you can practically go completely wild.

The first thing I'd think about is: What's your OC's place in the world? Are they a Marine? Great! You can draw them in uniform! A noble? What culture is their kingdom inspired by? A pirate? What are their crewmates dressed like? After all, some crews practically have their own version of a uniform or at least a theme.

In the end, someone's clothes "fitting in" probably isn't as much of an issue as you think. Yes, the Straw Hats' outfits look pretty simple in the early animanga episodes, but... take one look at OPLA or even try imagining their outfits in real life and you'll figure out at that isn't necessarily the case. They're just simply drawn because it's a simple art style. One Piece is such a diverse world that almost anything goes. You can go surprisingly far into sci-fi or steampunk or historical, whatever you like, if you play around with it a little.

A thing that I like to do is to take inspiration from the characters that my OC is close to. The Straw Hats are especially great here because, for a lot of story arcs, their clothes collectively have a theme, but they still manage to be individual and unique. How?

The details. It's all in the details. Even if your OC is a Marine, you can make them unique through the details. Think about Coby! How is Coby unique? Pink hair and those signature glasses! Most of the Straw Hats have one design detail that carries on throughout pretty much all of their outfits, be it an accessory, a color scheme, a pattern... Luffy has his straw hat, obviously. Zoro has his swords, earrings and bandana. Nami has circles and stripes. Usopp loves himself some overalls and, in the animanga, his goggles. Sanji almost always wears a suit or at least a dress shirt and, if he doesn't, the outfit is most likely blue. Think about how this works for your OC. What's the one detail that carries on throughout all of their outfits? That's what makes them unique and recognizable.

But details can also help tie your OC into the greater world. Remember that you are an artist making character design and you're free to throw in as many easter eggs as you want. They can really add to an outfit. Adopt an accessory from a character that your OC is close to! Make the pattern of their clothes a nod to someone or something or someplace else! That's what brings your OC to life because it's what people do. We steal each other's clothes, we buy matching outfits, we unintentionally and subconsciously pick up on or play off of other people's sense of style... It's a natural process, maybe even a sign of love, and it's one of my favourite things to see in art or character design.

To maybe put this all into perspective, let me walk you through how I came up with the outfits for two of my OCs, from two different backgrounds and parts of the world.

OC no. 1 is my beloved Akaito Coraline. Cora is a tailor of considerable fame throughout the East Blue and ends up joining the Straw Hats because she's childhood friends with Sanji. Finally, she ends up dating both Sanji and Zoro.

Practically the first design detail I had about her was a nod to her family, because her family and their tailoring tradition is a very important part of Cora's character. So, it was decided that she would have a sewing needle pierced through her ear. Her profession as a tailor also made it pretty self-explanatory to me that she would prefer clothes that are, well, tailored, and she most likely makes all of her clothes herself. So, she could wear fitted blouses and other fairly intricate or expensive stuff without actually being rich or being able to go shopping often because she can sew those clothes herself - which is also a lot cheaper. It also occurred to me that Cora would have a love of fashion and would probably put fashion over functionality in her outfits. Because of her backstory, I also knew that she would keep her back covered. Lastly, as a pirate, she would have to have some kind of weapon, and I decided on a rapier, because it's elegant, feminine, fashionable, and long and pointed like a sewing needle.

In the end, I threw all of those things together, picked reference images from Pinterest, slapped them into my drawing program, and, through trial and error, came up with this:

Base by Hevis-Swan on DeviantArt by the way - use and credit bases, kids, it really helps!

We've got the sewing needle through the ear and one of Zoro's earrings to link her to him. We've got a form-fitted blouse and vest where I made sure to actually draw the different panels so you could have an idea of the sewing process. The black things on her sleeves are sleeve garters, which are meant to hold your sleeves up while you work, and I figured Cora might wear them as one of the few things she wears for practicality's sake - but they're also made of lace because she loves her fashion. The idea to have her wear pants was more of an afterthought because I absolutely wanted the holster for her scissors, but the pants are based off a pair that I own myself! The belt is based off of historically accurate belts used to hold rapiers in the 16th and 17th century. Those boot covers are extremely impractical to button up, showing Cora's "fashion over function" principle. Finally, she wears heels because she's short and likes the extra height, and the anklet is a gift from Sanji, hence the blue and silver.

On a different note, we have OC no. 2: Dracule Aurelia, the wife of Dracule Mihawk. If you've ever seen Mihawk, you know that he's one fancy man, and the same applies for Aurelia. She is rich, filthy rich, and she's an incredibly powerful pirate. Her vibe is that of a mafia boss, a femme fatale, of power and deadliness through beauty. Her epithet is "Black Widow" because all of her lovers keep dying one way or another. Either by her hand or through other mysterious circumstances.

With those things in mind, I was already pretty sure of how I wanted to draw Aurelia and what clothes she should wear. "Aurelia" roughly means "the golden one" and, combined with her incredible wealth, that already guaranteed that she'd be wearing a lot of gold. Secondly, I knew her clothes had to be sexy. There's no other way to put it; she had to be turning heads. She also needed to be able to kick people in the nose. And lastly, I wanted it to be easy to see that her and Mihawk were married, so I took a lot of inspiration from him.

Bases by Fluffy-foxgirl and Alex-Hime on DeviantArt

This outfit is essentially one big easter egg hunt. The flower symbol is found on Mihawk's sleeve, the long coat is inspired by Mihawk and the collar is both a reference to him and Aurelia's father (whom I will not name here for spoiler reasons), she wears crosses just like Mihawk, the feathers on her headpiece are a nod to the feathers on Mihawk's hat, the petal-like sleeves are a nod to the island she's from... But the outfit is still 100% her! The way everything is very revealing, the gold chains, the claws, the high slit, the dagger with the spider in its pommel...

So yeah! I hope this helped at least a little. Hope you're having a wonderful day! ^^

[jixiswrites]

Suguru wakes up to blood and Satoru's absence

The first thing he registers is the smell - no, the taste - of blood.

It’s unpleasant and gut-wrenchingly familiar. 

It takes a long time for him to notice anything else, but when he does, it’s also blood. Drying cool and clammy on his skin, sticking hair to his face. Wet and greasy and clotting and so much. 

Is it his? 

Some of it, he guesses, when he can’t quite move his fingers on his right hand. There’s a dull agony in his shoulder, a twisted pain in his leg, but it’s not the worst he’s felt by far. He needs to throw up - not a new feeling, but the intensity of more curses than he remembers ever seeing, much less swallowing, roils in his stomach. 

What the hell happened. 

He blinks up at the clear blue sky. It’s far too pretty for the state he’s found himself in, an endless infinite blue just like Satoru’s eyes. 

Satoru.

Fuck, where’s Satoru?

He levers himself up with his good arm, trying desperately to not faceplant back into the blood-soaked earth. A quick scan reveals bodies - why are there so many bodies, what happened - but none of them have the tell-tale white hair. 

It doesn’t comfort Suguru as much as he’d hoped. If he’s in this state and Satoru isn’t beside him - well. Satoru must be in a worse state. 

His arm fails; he hits the ground with a jolt that rocks his entire core. The world dims, getting darker by degrees even as he scrambles desperately for consciousness. 

Satoru, is his last thought, Satoru, please be okay.

~

He wakes again, all the blood cold and tacky on him. Suguru may have felt more gross before, but if he has, he can’t remember. 

Satoru. 

He’s in the same place, the sky turning violet above him with the coming night. Fuck. He’s been out a while and Satoru still isn’t here. 

That does not bode well. 

His good arm isn’t his dominant, but it’ll do to find his phone. If he even still has a phone. With his luck, it’ll have been crushed by… whatever happened. 

Tentatively, he pats down his hip, searching for the pocket he keeps it in. 

It’s not there. 

Not just the phone - his pocket, as well. Groaning, he lifts his head enough to see that he’s dressed in… something? Not his regular clothes. Nothing at all like his regular clothes, actually. 

Well. That’s… concerning? Less concerning than all the blood and bodies, obviously, but still. Suguru pats vaguely at the strange… apron-robe-thing he’s wearing, hoping that there’s some kind of pocket hidden in the many (many) folds. 

Dark spots dance in front of him when he tries to think too hard. He can’t remember - he doesn’t remember what he can’t remember.

But he needs Satoru. 

Eventually, he finds his phone, tucked into the sash at his waist. It’s cracked, of course. He smears it with congealed blood when he tries to unlock it. When he wipes his hand off on his clothes, the sticky blood pulls at scabs he hadn’t realized were there, and then he’s bleeding more: sluggish, dark red. 

Fuck. 

With effort, he manages to get to the recent calls screen through the cracks and the blood. Satoru is always in his top three, but when he looks now, he’s nowhere. Yaga isn’t listed either. Neither is Shoko. Instead, it’s name after name of organizations he doesn’t know and people that mean nothing to him. 

Slightly frantic, he goes to his contacts. There’s no ‘Satoru’ under ‘S’. There’s no ‘Most annoying human in the world’ in ‘M’.

Hesitantly, wondering how he could be embarrassed while still bleeding out, he looks for ‘My one and only’, ‘Best friend’, ‘Love of my life’, and any other cringy thing he could’ve named Satoru.

(He looks for ‘Boyfriend’. He looks for ‘Husband’. He will never tell a single soul this.)

And he’s just… not there. 

Like he’s not here. 

Suguru doesn’t know what’s happened, but something has gone terribly, terribly wrong. 

His vision is fading fast. He has the horrible, absolute feeling that if he passes out again he won’t wake up. 

It’s a last resort, but he takes his cursed energy - so much more than he remembers, sticky and thick, roiling with hundreds if not thousands of curses - and shoots it up in the sky like a flare. Like a firework. 

Help.

Please, Satoru, help - 

I don’t want to die. 

(I don’t want to die without you.)

~

“Suguru!” He thinks he hears. Maybe. Or maybe his brain is being kind for once and he’s hallucinating that Satoru came for him. That’d be nice. Suguru could pretend he’s being held by him as he goes on to whatever’s next. 

There’s a pressure on his chest and a pressure at his wrist and a pressure on his neck; he opens up gummy eyes due to pure curiosity. 

Oh. 

It is Satoru, twisting all his limbs around so he can touch every pulse point at once. His head is resting on Suguru’s chest, pretty white hair brushing over congealed blood. It’s probably too dry at this point to stain, but Suguru should tell him to lift his head up anyway. He doesn’t like when Satoru’s hair is red…

When has it ever been red?

His mouth is twisted in this weird snarl. It’s nothing like Suguru has ever seen from him - or… is it?

Satoru’s wearing a blindfold. Suguru’s forgotten which arm is the undamaged one, so he simply tries to use both as he reaches for Satoru’s face. He wants to see his eyes while he goes.

One of his arms falters and he groans as it hits the ground with a dull thwack. 

“Suguru,” Satoru says, desperate. 

Darkness fills his vision. 

It’s nice that the last thing he heard was Satoru saying his name. 

He’d wanted to ask about the blindfold, though. 

~

 “Fix him.”

“Are you sure…”

“Shoko.” 

Suguru almost musters the strength to say something about Satoru using that pitch while he’s trying to sleep. Almost. Really. He’s about to wake up and…

It’s dark.

~

Suguru comes to in Satoru’s arms. “Mm,” he mumbles, pressing his face into Satoru’s shirt. He’s not dead, maybe. Or maybe he is and he actually gets to hallucinate that Satoru holds him while he finds out what awaits in the afterlife. 

Satoru still uses the same cologne he did in highschool.

Or - wait - aren’t they still in highschool?

It’s soothingly dark again. 

~

Again, he wakes up. Unless the afterlife is a bunch of woozy half-remembered instances of Satoru holding him, he’s probably alive. 

That’s good then.

Right?

There’s a tugging at his abdomen. He looks down, sees Satoru undoing whatever the hell he’s wearing. There’s a lot of ties. He doesn’t falter once. Suguru is the one wearing it and he wouldn’t know where to start.

It’s just like Satoru. Good at everything. 

~

He’s naked. The air is cold around him. 

Shivering, he curls further into Satoru. “Whassat,” is his elegant question to why he’s naked, being held in Satoru’s arms. It’s not like Satoru hasn’t seen him naked, but mostly they’re naked together, not just Suguru trying to hide from the cold by burrowing into Satoru’s chest. 

“Gonna wash the blood off you.”

“Mhm,” Suguru agrees. It’d be nice to be less bloody. His nostrils have acclimated to the smell, but every time he turns his head his hair sticks and pulls. 

Faintly, he registers running water. Satoru is holding him with one arm as he adjusts the temperature, which is hot as hell. Everything has been bad and confusing since he woke up, but now that he’s in Satoru’s arms, he knows it’ll be okay. 

Satoru steps them both into the shower when he deems it the correct temperature. Warm - hot, even. Hotter than he knows Satoru likes it, so he’s bearing it for him. Suguru nuzzles further into cloth - Satoru, always annoying and abrasive and always taking care of him. 

Wait - 

“Satoru, why are you wearing clothes?”

At least that's what he wanted to say. What comes out is more of a “S’ru, whu’clothe.” This is accompanied by a weak but insistent tugging on said clothes. 

Satoru understands him, of course. He always does. “I’m not the one that needs to get clean.”

Suguru whines, tugging harder at his clothes. Who cares if it’s pathetic, this is Satoru and he’s injured and he wants to feel his best friend’s skin against his own. It’s not like it’d be anything new. 

“Suguru…”

“C’mon,” he whines, taking a page from Satoru’s playbook. “‘M injured. Gotta b’nice.”

Satoru huffs out a laugh. It doesn’t sound happy at all. Suguru snuggles further into him - he hadn’t been that hurt. Satoru always beats himself up if Suguru gets so much of a scratch while Satoru smiles through being impaled.

…When has Satoru been impaled?

He stops thinking about it when Satoru rips off his clothes in one fell swoop. Always dramatic. Suguru snorts as he rubs his nose into Satoru’s ribs - has he been eating enough? Every ridge and dip is pronounced. He’s still burning hot, though - warmer than the water steaming around them. Satoru always runs unreasonably hot, it’s why most winter nights find him curled in the other’s body. He’s better than a kotatsu. 

He wriggles around for more skin contact. Turns out bleeding out in a village somewhere leaves you ‘tepid’ at best. 

Oh, right. Why was he bleeding out in a village somewhere?

“Satoru,” he mumbles. The man in question has started running his hands through Suguru’s hair, untangling it where blood and dirt has left it knotted. “Did I get the curse?”

“Mm?”

“The curse,” he coughs a bit into Satoru’s side. Satoru, being who he is, doesn’t mind. “Whatever killed all those people. Is it taken care of?”

There’s silence for a long time. Suguru doesn’t fall asleep through sheer force of will - he can after he knows. After he knows it can’t hurt anyone ever again. He can still taste the blood in his throat; can still see the bodies. 

“Yeah, Suguru,” he sighs, eventually. “You got it.”

He falls asleep to the gentle ministrations of Satoru washing his hair. 

~

Later, he wakes up: dry and clean in bed. It’s only a moment before Satoru’s beside him, a mug with an adorable little bendy straw being presented to him. 

Not trusting Satoru to feed him some slushy-sugary-awfulness, he glares at the other man. 

“Water,” is the response. Suguru eyes it suspiciously. “I swear it’s just water, Suguru.”

Satoru sounds… different. Sadder? Faker? 

He doesn’t know what to make of it. Squints sleepily at his face before chasing the straw around with his mouth. The laugh Satoru huffs at that sounds genuine, at least. 

After draining the whole cup (which was, thankfully, just water) he properly looks at Satoru for the first time. He’s still wearing the blindfold - what the fuck is all that about, have his migraines gotten so bad he walks around with a blindfold? Why hadn’t he been talking to Suguru about this, he knows Suguru learned that weird head massage just for him for when it gets bad -

Oh. 

He takes a proper look at Satoru’s face, the curves and slants that are so much sharper than he remembers. 

He’s not just sadder, and faker, and wearing a blindfold - he’s broader and stronger and older.

By a lot.

That’s… probably not good.

“Satoru,” he says, doing a very respectable job at keeping his tone level. “I think I may be missing a bit of time.”

Satoru smiles. Suguru likes it a lot less than the last smile he remembers getting from him. “Yeah,” he responds. “I figured.”

That does not bode well.

~

“So what was I doing in that village?” he asks around a bowl of noodles. A bowl of noodles that Satoru cooked. A bowl of noodles that Satoru cooked that tastes good. “What curse could do all that?” There’s a long, anxiety-inducing pause. “We’re still the strongest, right? No overpowered special grades have popped up?”

There’s a longer pause. Suguru refuses to break the silence this time, slurping passive-aggressively. Satoru stares at him. Probably. The blindfold is disconcerting. He slurps his noodles more aggressively than passively. 

Satoru stares. 

Suguru attempts to take another aggressive bite of noodles and finds there’s none left. 

The silence stretches. The boding is going and it is not going well. 

“What’s the last thing you remember?” is what Satoru eventually says, which hell no. 

“I’m the one with amnesia?” he reminds Satoru, incredulous. “Shouldn’t I be the one that asks the questions?”

“Well,” Satoru replies, smarmy smirk that is so familiar resting on his face. “How am I supposed to know what to tell you if I don’t know what you remember?”

“You could start by answering my questions.” Satoru tilts his head. “The very specific questions I just barely asked you? At least one of them is a simple yes-or-no, I’m sure you could manage that.”

“Hrm.” Suguru has the intense, debilitating urge to hit him. “Nah.”

“I’m guessing that’s not you saying ‘no’ to us being the strongest, still.”

“...Nah.”

“And it’s not you saying that no overpowered special grades have popped up.”

“...Nah?”

They stare at each other. Sort of. Suguru really hates the fucking blindfold. 

“Why the fuck are you wearing that instead of coming to me?” is what tears out of his throat, embarrassingly. 

“Er?”

“You told me I made your migraines go away! You barely had to wear sunglasses inside. Why the fuck do you have a stupid blindfold on?” He blinks at his tone, the snappishness that comes easier than it ever has. 

“Um.” Satoru actually sits up. “You think it’s stupid?” He flicks at the black fabric like the thought never occurred to him that wearing a blindfold was weird. 

“You just wander around with a blindfold on?”

“I have sunglasses for going out!”

Suguru pouts. He doesn’t really know why he’s pouting. “I’m gonna go… be not here.”

“With amnesia?”

“Just to the bathroom, so I don’t punch your stupid blindfold-wearing face.”

Satoru laughs like it’s funny. It’s not funny. Nothing about this is funny, but trust Satoru to make it into a joke. He strides away. Realizes he doesn’t know where the bathroom is.

“Second door on the right.” It’s interspersed with giggles.

He didn’t remember Satoru being this infuriating. 

Suguru purposely avoids the mirror as he splashes cold water on his face. He takes a deep breath. Another. Tries to steel himself and… looks. 

He’s older, of course - but he’s also older in a way he can’t explain. There’s deep bags under his eyes - his face somehow looks sallow and puffy at the same time. His hair is longer - much longer - and wild in a way he’s never let it be before. 

Honestly, he’s looking pretty rough. 

He fumbles around in the drawer Satoru keeps his hair ties in. It's a long moment before he realizes he hasn't touched a single one -

Because there aren't any.

He blinks down at his empty hand.

Satoru always has hair ties for him. This is a different place, sure, but everywhere Satoru has ever lived, the leftmost drawer had hair ties (among other random, aggravating bullshit).

He chokes down the instinctive panic. 

Maybe he’d changed where he keeps them? Suguru paws through the other drawers and comes up empty.

He comes up empty of anything that could feasibly belong to him. 

This is Satoru's house, right? Maybe it's a sort of safehouse he barely visits? Still, their things had been interchangeable last he recalled. 

Which, admittedly, seems to have been a long time ago. Maybe a decade? He could place them both at around twenty-six, now. Harder lines to their faces. Satoru looked less like someone sent him through a taffy stretcher, more like one of the strongest.

He hadn't wanted to think too hard about it in front of Satoru, but now he pokes around his brain, trying to get to where his last fully-formed memory was. There's weird snatches - emotions, mostly. 

It's troubling that they're almost entirely negative: anger, sadness. Betrayal. A manic intensity that feels… 

Well. 

It doesn't feel good, mixes unpleasantly with what must be thousands of curses rolling around inside him. He's been busy collecting them, it seems. 

It's not all bad: there's flashes of an almost parental affection; sparks of pleasure; a certain confidence in himself he gets the feeling was lost, for a while. 

But none of it's concrete. He reaches farther back, farther, and - it's Satoru's eyes. 

Of course it is. 

Satoru, grinning at him. Young and happy - the beach behind him. "We're the strongest, after all."

Somehow, the words that had bolstered him then bog him down now. He doesn't know how to feel about that - can't, probably. Without context, anyway. Context that Satoru had been extremely unhelpful in giving. 

Suguru holds himself in reasonably high regard. He's certainly not dumb, not like people seem to expect from someone from the countryside, but - his brain is railing against the picture of this future that's slowly forming. 

He takes a deep breath. Brushes a wet finger against the deep bags under his eyes. 

And rallies. 

Whatever bizarre world he's in (that he's created? That Satoru's created?) he'll just have to find his footing until his memory comes back. 

Starting with why Satoru is wearing a stupid-ass blindfold. 

~

The blindfold is still on when he comes back out. He stares for a long time.

"Oh, good," Satoru says, flippant. "Thought you might've drowned yourself."

Suguru can't do anything but stare. He'd confided, hadn't he? At least once. Right? 

That the urge to drown himself pops up more often than he'd like?

He thinks so. And he thinks - Satoru had been kind about it. Satoru wasn't kind about much, but that soft confession had always been held as sacred. 

Something on his face must give him away, because Satoru tips his head down and shrugs. "You've lost a lot of time, haven't you?"

It's the closest thing to an apology he'll get. It rends something open in his chest. 

He doesn't think he likes this future very much at all. 

~ 

“Where are we?”

“My house.”

“Your house. You own a house?”

“Many people do.”

“Can you take off the stupid fucking blindfold? It’s weird not seeing your eyes.”

“I always wear it now.”

“...Even around me?”

“Yeah, Suguru.” The way he says his name makes something unpleasant wriggle its way up his spine. “Even around you.”

“Why?” 

Satoru is silent. He tilts his head and at least that’s familiar, and then finally takes the blindfold off. “I’ll make you some tea.”

Okay then. “Just tell me if you need my magical migraine-killing fingers,” Suguru says, and it comes out more sincere than he’d like. “I haven’t forgotten that, at least.”

“You haven’t, huh?” Satoru sounds far away. 

~

“So can you please tell me what the hell has happened?” Suguru asks later, sipping his tea. Satoru had made it just how he likes and stuffed ungodly amounts of sugar in his own. “You’re fucking weird now.”

“I’m weird, huh?” Satoru tips his head and peers at Suguru. At least his eyes are the same. “Just tell me what you last remember and we’ll go from there.”

“Where’s all my shit?” Suguru says instead, because he’s nothing if not contrary. A trait he shares with Satoru, unfortunately. 

“Your… shit.”

“Yes. My things. My stuff. Did it all fucking burn down in a fire or something? You don’t even have any hair ties in your drawer.”

“You don’t live here, Suguru.”

“Yeah, I sort of figured. Do you even live here? It feels fucking sterile.”

“Not really, I suppose.”

“Do we just stay in hotel rooms a lot then? Constant missions keeping us out? Do I have my own house?”

Satoru looks very, very sad all of a sudden. “Yeah. You have your own house.”

“Oh. Why aren’t we there, then?” 

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“I have memory loss.” He takes an angry sip of his tea. “I woke up dying somewhere where everyone was fucking massacred not remembering the past ten years of my life.” Another, calmer sip. “I couldn’t find you in my phone. It’s a much newer one, too. What do I save your number as, these days?”

Satoru is silent.

“Fine! Oh my god, is there anything you will answer?” More silence. “What the fuck was I wearing, anyway? Surely you can answer that. Was I undercover or something?”

“It’s called a gojogesa.” Suguru startles badly.

“I - we’re - it’s like that?”

“I don’t know what it’s like.” He sets down his tea with a clatter. “I have to go. Duty calls, and all that. You can’t leave, though. Sorry.”

“I - can’t come with you?”

“No.”

Then he’s gone. 

His tea is still steaming.

Well. Another thing he hadn’t forgotten: Satoru’s teleportation thing was fucking annoying. 

~

He literally can’t leave. 

As in, he tried to walk out of Satoru’s house - because fuck him - and he couldn’t. 

He’s trapped here. 

Satoru trapped him in his house. 

He knows a lot can happen in a decade but something has gone very, very wrong if Satoru is psychotic enough to trap him in his house. 

(And that - that’s almost something, something about… something about Satoru he can almost remember. Something he’d had to pull him back from. 

But as soon as it drifts through his head, it’s gone, just the impression of sparkling eyes left.)

Satoru is going to have so much explaining to do when he comes back.

*

hiya! i truly cannot justify starting another multichapter fic but this doesn't really stand alone enough to be considered a oneshot but i was v proud of it... so i posted it here... it may be continued once i actually finish a few of my multichapter fics c:

[boysplanetrecaps]

Build Up Episode 0: Getting to Know the Boys Part 4: Team Unique

Hey, friends! This is the fourth and final post in my “episode zero” series of my MNET’s Build Up recaps. I’m giving you some basic background info on each of the boys, including where you may have seen them before, the group they’re in normally if applicable, and my opinion/analysis of their teaser performance. In the previous post, I covered Team Power. This will wrap things up with Team Unique. Woot!

Kang Hayoon

Hayoon is 20, and before this, he went on LOUD and Kookmin Singer. He may have met Jung Soomin (the kid from Chicago) on the show Loud, and he may have met Kwon Euibin on Kookmin Singer.

He was V07, and his teaser song is One and Only by Adele. He has a genuinely unique singing style that doesn’t at all match the way he dresses and looks. It’s a very specific vocal color that might not appeal to everyone -- deliberately somewhat nasal, but in a controlled way. It sounds retro-modern, the way that a lot of Western artists sing these days. He’s obviously a genuine talent, but I can almost feel his throat closing up as he sings. He needs a bit of training to really use that amazing instrument he has. I hope he gets it, and that it doesn’t destroy his natural color. 

Jeon Woong

Hair-stylist Unnies, what the fuck? Seriously.

Much better, thank you.

Woong is 26 years old, and was V11, performing Bad by Christopher. He sings the song almost exactly the way the original performer does, even down to the little purposeful vocal kicks. I would have liked to hear a bit more of his interpretation of the song instead of karaoke version. He uses falsetto to hit some of the high notes, but that’s ok, they’re very high notes and he sounds good. I like his singing in an instinctive way, but I’m not sure how well trained he is.  

Woong is in AB6IX, a four member group (used to be five) from Brandnew music. Like CIX, this is post-Wanna One group; Daehwi, a former member of Wanna One, is the center and face of AB6IX. Woong, meanwhile, is the main vocal. AB6IX started off doing pretty well, but one of their members, Youngmin, had a DUI arrest and had to leave the group in disgrace. It hurt the group pretty badly, and they haven’t really bounced back. Hopefully, going on this show will draw some good attention to the group, who I’ve always liked but thus far haven’t stanned. The song of theirs that I like best (of the ones I’ve heard -- there are lot of kpop songs, you guys, I don’t always keep up) is Close. 

And if you want to hear more of Woong’s voice, here’s his solo song, Moondance.  

Sunyoul

Sunyoul is 27 and a member of Up10tion. 

He has been on a few shows before this, including two reality shows devoted to trot, a uniquely Korean style of music, and a stint on King of Mask Singer in 2016 where he managed to convince everyone that he was a female trot singer. People were pretty surprised when they found out who he was! Seriously, check out his performance -- I don’t think I’d guess in a million years that this was a man.

For his teaser performance, he was V04, and did a song called Twenty Five Twenty One. He had some shaky moments, but showed his strong lower register and some serious vocal agility, moving from low to high notes almost effortlessly. I think he’s one to watch. 

Let me talk briefly about Up10tion. They debuted as a 10 member group in 2015, and didn’t really catch the world on fire. Several members went on ProduceX101 and two members did well enough that they basically started solo careers afterward instead of really bringing the fame home to the group. (I’m not criticizing them -- that was mismanagement on the agency’s part, not their fault.) Three members have left the group, and two members went on Boys Planet (Hwanhee and Xiao). Several members have left the agency, including Hwanhee and Sunyoul, and the future of Up10tion is really dubious at this point.  

Meanwhile, I’ve liked a few songs of Up10tion over the years, so it’s a bummer that they never really worked out. I think the first song of theirs that I liked was Blue Rose. Also, What if Love is great, especially the chorus, even if it sounds like they’re saying “ready for love” instead of “what if love”. In my opinion, a lot of Up10tion songs have weird intros and kind of mid verses and then awesome choruses held down by Hwanhee’s marquee vocals and Sunyoul’s sweet higher register. So if you listen to the first 30 seconds and you’re like “meh?” give the whole song a listen. Also, their song Spin Off was one of the best songs of 2021 and lives forever on my playlists. It’s one of those full-on kpop songs that isn’t really any genre, just sort of pop that makes you feel happy. 

Wumuti

Wumuti is 24 and is from China, though he’s actually an ethnic Uyghur, a Turkic ethnic group that is an officially recognized ethnic minority in China. If you read my Boys Planet recaps, you know that I have a soft spot for him. He just wants this so bad. Plus, and I don’t want to bum you out too much, but the Uyghurs are facing some pretty serious problems, including forced sterilization and labor camps and it’s really really bad. So I can’t help but always cheer for Wumuti, you know? 

He also seems like a really sweet, genuine, and hard working person. He seems pretty fluent in Korean and has been on all the Korean reality shows: Road to Star, The Dance & The Voice, Super Idol, Under Nineteen and Boys Planet. So this makes the third survival show in a row that Wumuti and Jay will be on together! (The other two were Under 19 and Boys Planet.)

Here’s one of my favorite Wumuti performances, gross lollipop aside. (He’s the one in the white hat.) Oh, now I miss Boys Planet!

Then there’s his cover of Antifragile, which he released shortly after getting kicked off Boys Planet. 

Ok, as for his teaser song, he was V12, performing Seven by Jungkook. He sounds fine, though I wouldn’t say at all his voice belongs in Unique. I think I’d call it Allround -- I couldn’t promise that I’d know his voice just from hearing it the way I would with, say, Hwanhee or Jay. Also, the rapping is a little cringe, but TBH it’s cringe even in the original version of the song. 

I think he was hoping to get people’s attention by singing a super popular song in English. His end game isn’t to make the top 4 of this show -- he wants to launch a solo career. I mean, that’s what I assume, anyway. I’m not sure if that will work out for him, but I hope it does. 

Lee Gwangseok, aka, Lee Kwangseok

Gwangseok is kind of a question mark overall -- I know nothing about him, not even his age. We actually learn on the first episode that he has no training at all and works as a model (!). So he has never been on any other show and he’s definitely not in an existing group. 

He’s V19 in the teaser song, showing off a unique, smokey, extremely thick kind of voice. I enjoy his performance, even though he’s singing a ballad, so that says a lot, though I know that some people may not personally like this distinctive style. I wouldn’t necessarily have guessed that he has no training. Maybe he just has good instincts, or maybe he had some light vocal training, like in high school chorus or something like that, because he can hit some fairly high notes in his chest voice. And some singers are charming without training -- Joni Mitchell comes to mind as someone like that. They sing the way they sing, and people can like it or not.

I’ll be really interested in see more of Gwangseok. I don’t know if he’s right for a vocal group based on harmonies, because his voice is so distinctive. However, he’s apparently quite handsome* and that combined with genuine vocal talent and his sort of self-effacing charm could give him a decent solo career.

*Those of you who regularly read my recaps know that I have no idea who is and who isn’t “handsome” or “pretty” in the kpop world. I often pick out the member who everyone thinks is the “ugly one” in a group and choose them as the one who’s best looking! So I have no idea. But the other guys on the show react in such a way as to indicate that he’s really handsome, and he works as a model, so I guess he’s handsome. 

Hong Sungwon

He’s a musical actor, and that’s about all I know. 

He was V21, doing Desperado by the Eagles. He sings it with a slight country twang, which is wild for a non-native speaker. (I assume he’s a non-native speaker? Maybe I’m wrong.) He has a rich, warm tone and impeccable pitch. I don’t love all his weird rhythmic choices in the song, but he’s trying to show that he’s fully singing live. It’s hard to critique a voice like this -- it’s just really good without necessarily really being all that unique. I like it a lot, don’t get me wrong. It’ll be nice to hear him sing more on this show. 

Neon

He’s listed as a solo singer, but I can’t figure out much more about him. There’s another Korean singer in this world named Neon Bunny (check out her song It’s You, one of my all-time favorites -- she’s not a kpop singer, she’s an indie artist and the song is amazing) and another Kpop performer named Neon who is a band called About U, so it’s hard to find out info about this particular guy with the same/similar name. I do know that he’s 28 years old -- that’s about it!

He was V33, doing Rush Hour by Crush. He has clean, nice vocals -- not particular unique, despite his category. He’s just really nice to listen to. Good pitch, good breath control, good power, all the good stuff. In fact, I think I would have put him in the Power category. You can see him in his silhouette performance standing quite a distance from the microphone, still singing loud enough to be heard clearly.  I’m looking forward to hearing more from him.

Kim Seohyung

Soehyung is a musical actor and has a similar singing style to Kim Seongjeong and Choi Haram. So it’s just not going to appeal to me, as much as I can respect his skill. His teaser song was V18, Me After You by Paul Kim. He did falter a little on one of the high notes, but I mean, it was just 90 seconds of singing one song, and mistakes happen. I think he belongs in the Power category, not the Unique category, but that’s just me.

A fan of his made this “Kim Seohyung cut” of episode 1 -- all 90 seconds that we got to see of him in episode one. MNET really doesn’t care much about Seohyung! 

Lee Hwanhee

Hwanhee is from Up10tion, but you might recall him from Boys Planet as the guy who ended up on General Gunwook’s team for Kill this Love. (Performance) You might also remember that he had to withdraw from the show midway due to his health issues. 

He is V38, performing Tomboy by G-Idle. He did the song justice, I thought, putting enough snap and sass into it. There were some backup prerecorded vocals that make it tough to tell how much he’s singing live. But I’ve heard enough of his vocals to know that he’s capable of some excellent singing.

I never got the sense that many of my 3-4 readers liked Hwanhee much, but I think he’s a really good vocalist. I like his distinctive, Baekhyun-esque vocal color, which adds nicely to Up10tion songs. However, he might be a tad outclassed by some of the other guys on this show, who have more training than he does. I think sometimes he wears out his voice and kind of runs out of steam while he sings. 

I think I would have put him in the Power category, but maybe I don’t really understand what the categories are about. 

Kwon Euibin

I can’t get over this official picture. Imagine being like, “Yes, this represents me. This is my brand. I’m going for that, like, pissed off substitute teacher vibe.” I mean. IDK.

He really likes beige sweaters over white shirts, I guess. 

Ok, so Euibin is only 25 years old, and my scouting tells me he’s a trainee going for the idol life. He went on two other shows: The Idol Band: Boy's Battle and Kookmin Singer. On the latter show, he may have met Kang Hayoon, the one who sang the Adele song for his intro clip.

He was V35, another fecking ballad, but his voice was unexpectedly sweet and pretty compared to his serious countenance.  He strained a little on some of the higher notes and the whole thing felt a little uneven, occasionally kind of shouty. It’s nice to listen to despite all that. I’m not quite sure what to make of him so far, so I’ll reserve judgment for now.  But again, not sure he’s “unique.”

Taewoo

Taewoo is 26 and my sleuthing tells me he’s a songwriter who appeared on a few other shows I haven’t heard of, Sing Again 2 and Vocal Play 2. 

He’s V28, Thought of You by John Park. I really like his voice. It’s slightly gravely, in a good way -- it has character. Finally, a unique singer who is actually unique. It’s hard to say how trained he is based on this clip but I know I want to hear more of him!

And that’s it! Gang, we did it. We made it through all 40! Now, I’ll move on to the recap at last. 

See you then and there! 

[chenfordspiral]

the scratches gave us away

It’s the end of a long, albeit boring, shift when Tim finally manages to head to the locker room and change out of his uniform. He takes off his duty belt that’s been pretty much unnecessary for the past two days, and hangs it in his locker. Then he removes badge, name tag, and his pen from his shirt, puts it all down in his locker as well, and takes off the uniform shirt.

He changes into jeans first, then takes off the white undershirt. He doesn’t think much of it - nothing, actually - until he hears Aaron’s surprised exclamation.

“Woah, Sarge. You okay?”

“What? Why?”

“Your back. You got.. scratches all over.”

Realization hits for Tim. Damn it, Lucy.

“Oh, uh. Yeah. That’s nothing. Just.. from a take down.”

“At your desk? Not to mention that your vest would prevent it. I mean, how would that even..?”

“It’s possible.”

“No?”

“Just drop it, Thorsen.”

Nolan walks over to them, seeing Aaron’s puzzled expression

“Everything okay, Aaron?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m just..” he trails off.

He looks back at Tim, still shirtless, still with his back turned toward Aaron - and now Nolan - and tilts his head as he tries to figure out what the hell is going on with his former boss. Nolan follows his line of sight.

“Ooh. How did that happen?”

Aaron is quick to shush him, so Tim doesn’t hear they’re talking about him. He whispers his answer.

“Take down. Apparently.”

“He’s been working a desk job for two days.”

“Exactly. I don’t get it.”

“You know, this kind of reminds me of that one time when B- oh dear god.”

He turns away, swallowing hard. Aaron still looks puzzled as he turns toward Nolan.

“What? What does it remind you of?”

“You don’t wanna know.”

“I kinda do.”

“Nope.”

“Come on. Just.. gimme a hint.”

“It’s from a… physical activity.”

“Well, that’s vague.”

“Just think about it for a moment.”

He turns away, slightly shuddering as he opens his locker to change out. Aaron is left standing there, staring into nothingness as he tries to figure it out. Then it clicks.

“Oh, dear god.”

“Told ya. Gotta admit, I didn’t know he was seeing someone again.”

“Yeah, me neither,” Aaron agrees quietly, wheels turning in his head already.

There’s only one person in this world Tim would wanna date right now. Only one person he’d take a freaking desk job for. He’s had his suspicions before, but this is basically proof. He turns back around to face Tim, who is now dressed — finally.

“Hey Sarge?”

Tim turns around.

“Mh?”

“Tell her hi from me. And that I'm happy for you two,” he says as he closes his locker, ready to leave.

“What are yo-? Who?”

“You know who,” he responds teasingly as he walks away. “Good night.”

Both Tim and Nolan stare after him.

“What’s he talking about?”

“Nothing. No one. Nothing. See ya.”

“See ya? That was weird,” he mumbles, focusing on changing into civvies. 

—

On his way out, Aaron runs into Angela and Nyla in the bullpen. Both look at him in interest when they see his grin. 

“What’s got you so smiley, Aaron?”

“Oh, nothing. Just… finally got confirmation about something I already kind of knew about. And I’m equal parts ecstatic, and horrified.”

“Care to share with the group?”

“I would, but I’d like to not get killed.”

“Aaron!”

He visibly flinches at the sound of Tim’s voice behind him. He turns to see his former boss approaching him with sure steps, but he sees the moment Tim realizes that he’s not alone, and watches as his expression changes as he takes in Angela and Nyla’s interested gazes.

“Oh. Lopez, Harper.”

“Tim,” they say simultaneously.

He hesitates for a moment, debating how to continue without raising even more suspicion. Aaron may not have outright said that he knew about him and Lucy, but the implication was heavy. He remembers the way he’d said that Lucy would kill him if he let anything happen to him, so. Oh, hell. He’d always known, hadn’t he?

“Can I talk to you for a moment?”

But Aaron never got to answer.

“Oh, no. I think we’d like to be here for.. whatever this is,” Angela replies with a smug grin.

Does she know, too? What had Aaron already told them?

“Yeah, I’d really like to know what’s got you so… huffy.”

He glares at Harper.

“Nothing.”

“Mh-mh. Oh, did he grill you about why you’re suddenly working a desk job? Because we’re all wondering, Timothy. Something you wanna tell us?”

“No.”

He turns to leave, but not before sending another death glare toward Aaron, narrowing his eyes in warning, as if to say I will kill you if you tell anyone. Aaron’s grin fell, but he couldn’t hide his smile. He really wasn’t afraid of him anymore.

Just then Nolan comes from the direction of the locker rooms, pointedly avoiding Tim’s gaze as he walks passed them all. He throws a good nightover this shoulder before quickly leaving the station.

“Okay, and now Nolan can’t look you in the eye anymore? What the hell did you do?”

Tim’s glare intensifies again.

“Nothing!”

“Oh, Nolan and I just saw all the scratches on Tim’s back and came to a disturbing conclusion,” Aaron pipes up, seemingly unaware of what he’d just said.

Tim, Angela, and Nyla all look at him as if he’d grown a second head. Registering the eery silence around him, Aaron turns his gaze back toward the three senior officers. Then it clicks. Whoops.

“I gotta go. Bye,” he says quickly, spinning on his heels and practically sprinting away from them. He could still feel the daggers Tim was shooting at him with his eyes on his back.

Before either of the three could say anything, Celina and Lucy come their way, talking and smiling together. And both Nyla and Angela look on, fascinated, seeing the immediate change in Tim. One look at Lucy, and his scowl is gone. Vanished. Instead, there’s a soft smile on his lips, a sparkle in his eyes.

Lucy notices the three of them standing in the middle of the bullpen together and frowns, but says hi with a smile anyway.

“Hey. Everything okay?”

“Yeah, we were just asking Tim here, who always swore he would never ever leave Patrol, is suddenly our new Court Liaison Sergeant.” 

Tim shoots Angela a glare, because that is not what they had been talking about. 

“Oh. Um-” Lucy stutters, eyes locking with Tim's. 

“Isn’t it obvious?” Celina chimes in, gaining everyone’s attention.

“I, uh, I mean. You can’t date someone in the same chain of command right? So, I-” she stutters, suddenly realizing that she’s talking to four senior officers.

“I just noticed a change in your au- you know what. Never mind. Maybe I should go home now. Good night.”

A second later, she’s gone. Tim and Lucy look at each other, while Angela and Nyla can only stare. It’s Angela who speaks up first.

“Oh, my god. It finally happened, didn’t it?”

“What finally happened?”

“You two,” she hissed back at him.

“What about us two?”

“Oh, come on! You’ve been smiling like an idiot for weeks now. Both of you have, actually. Then you leaving Patrol, taking a desk job. How did I not see this sooner? And why did you not tell me?!”

She punches him in the shoulder.

“Okay, ouch. And can we maybe not talk about this here? Not everybody needs to know.”

Angela and Nyla gape at him. Lucy presses her lips together in an attempt to hide her grin as well as her surprise that Tim didn’t even try to deny it.

“Wait. You- you’re not denying it? Oh! Aw, oh my god, I wanna hug you two so badly right now. But, oh. Ew. Ew. That means the thing Aaron was talking about was Luc- oh, I need to go. But we will talk about this later, Timothy!”

She makes gagging noises before she turns toward her desk to retrieve her bag.

“I second that thing about needing to leave. But I’m happy you two finally got your heads out of your asses. I do hope you know not to take this lightly, given why and how you met and all that.”

Lucy shakes her head.

“We’re not. We- we know. But thanks.”

“Good. It’s good to see you both happy. See you tomorrow.”

With that, Tim and Lucy are the only ones still standing in the bullpen. They share a look and fall into step beside each other, heading out.

“Soo. Everybody knows now?”

“Seems like it, yeah. I know this isn’t how we planned on telling anyone, but-”

“Tim, it’s fine. They were bound to find out soon, anyway. With HR and IA wanting to do interviews..”

He hums his agreement.

“What exactly did Angela mean when she said that’s what Aaron was talking about, by the way.”

“Oh, um.”

He chuckles as he opens the door that leads to the parking lot.

“Well. Apparently somebody-”

He looks at Lucy pointedly before he continues.

“-dug her nails into my back a little too much, and left a few scratches.”

“Oh, my god. What?! No, I didn’t. Oh, no. And he saw that?”

“Mh-mh. And so did Nolan.”

“Oh, god he knows, too?”

“No. He hasn’t had a front row seat to this the way Aaron did. And then he practically ran out the station right after, so.”

“Wait, so now Angela and Nyla know that was me? That we’re-?”

“Yup. You know they would know about that once we'd told them, anyway, right?”

“I know. But.. it’s different knowing they know, and knowing they know, you know?”

“Uh.. sure?”

He looks at her befuddled, trying to decipher that last sentence. If Lucy weren’t so mortified about the fact that their friends knew she’d left scratch marks all over Tim’s back, she’d laugh at the confused look on his face.

“Oh, god. They didn’t see, did they?”

“No, that was only Aaron and Nolan.”

Lucy sighs. Tim’s expression changes, his look no longer annoyed.

“But, you know. Is it wrong to feel a little smug about it?”

“Huh?”

“I mean, you’re leaving scratches on me, so clearly you’re enjoying yourself.”

Lucy blushes, but grins a moment later, chuckling.

“Oh, I’m definitely enjoying myself,” she drawls, looking him directly in the eye with nothing but desire, then dropping her gaze to his crotch before heading over to the passenger side of Tim’s truck.

Mouth agape, rendered speechless, Tim stares after her as he feels all his blood rush south.

"That's good to know," he says quietly once he finds his voice again. 

Yeah, tonight was going to be fun.

—

And while their friends now officially knew they were together, it was a whole other thing to know. And the smug grin on Tim’s face whenever he knew that Lucy had left marks on him did not help. Not one single bit.