#so I’m like. worried somebody will poison me which I know is irrational

[good-night-space-kid]

Hmmm got some mountain dew purple thunder because I like to try them all, but I feel like it has a weird cinnamon kick to it

[poetatertot]

It’s Not So Bad (In LA): part two

“So.” Wei Wuxian perches on the couch arm. “The summer camp seems to be working out.”

They’ve ordered a pizza for dinner—the sweet luxury of pay day. Jin Ling has sauce all over his chin, and greasy cheese fingers. Jiang Cheng watches him rip two pepperonis off the top and stack them in his mouth. 

“Yeah.” He sips his water. “You really like it, don’t you a-Ling?”

His nephew grunts through his mouthful. “It’s alright. Coach Xichen is too nice, though.”

Wei Wuxian lifts an eyebrow. “Too nice? How can someone be too nice?”

Jin Ling shrugs one shoulder. “He smiles so much. He makes us all share. He listens to all of Lan Jingyi’s stupid stories, even though he tells the same ones ove and over.” He scowls. “Lan Jingyi is stupid.”

Jiang Cheng snorts. “Big words coming from you.”

“What does that mean?”

Wei Wuxian cackles. “Uncle thinks you’re a clown!”

Jin Ling’s face screws up around his food. “But didn’t Wei-gege say Uncle was a fat—”

Wei Wuxian lunges across the table and slaps one hand over Jin Ling’s greasy mouth. 

Jiang Cheng swallows his crust. “No, go on, a-Ling. Tell me.”

Jin Ling’s eyes flick between them. “Um.. He scoots back his chair. “I have to pee!” He runs down the hall and slams the door behind him.

Jiang Cheng glares. “What bullshit are you telling my nephew?”

“Ah-ah, our nephew, a-Cheng!” Wei Wuxian ducks under Jiang Cheng’s swing. “He just needs to know the truth is all!”

“I’ll show you truth, you big, mangy—” 

They tussle, pulling hair and knocking plates until Jin Ling returns and squabbles at them for fighting. 

The next morning, Jiang Cheng wakes early enough to catch Wei Wuxian in the kitchen. Coffee brews from their old Kitchenaid, filling the living room with cheap-bean-smell. Jiang Cheng wrinkles his nose.

“I’m taking a-Ling to camp.”

Wei Wuxian peeks up from under his bangs. “Oh? Have something to do afterwards?” He frowns. “I thought it was my turn to get groceries.”

“It is.” Jiang Cheng fiddles with the peeling edge of the countertop. “I’m going to just drop him off and come back before work.”

They stand in silence for a moment. The Kitchenaid beeps feebly and turns off. 

A warm flush threatens to betray Jiang Cheng’s composure. He turns away, pinching at the behavior update Jin Ling came home with—a whole page of pen-written characters, signed at the bottom with elegant flourish. 

Lan Xichen.

“If you say so,” Wei Wuxian sing-songs. “Should I get those loquats you like while I’m out, then?”

Jiang Cheng thumbs over the signature. “I don’t care. You’re the one that likes them, remember?”

“Hmm.” 

He looks up. Wei Wuxian smiles back at him from the kitchenette, dark eyes bright. 

“What?” Jiang Cheng demands.

“Nothing,” Wei Wuxian says, but he grins into his mug as he lies, and Jiang Cheng knows he’s been caught. “Shall I pick him up this evening, then? Before groceries?”

The idea of Wei Wuxian laying eyes on Lan Xichen makes Jiang Cheng want to hide in the closest dumpster. Or move back to San Francisco. Or both. 

But he can’t be irrational. He has work; Wei Wuxian knows this.

“Do what you want,” he mutters, and lets the report fall from his fingers.

When they pull up to the Y—Jiang Cheng parks Zidian in the right spot this time—there aren’t too many kids. In fact, they’re a whole half-hour early. 

Jiang Cheng likes to think this is a coincidence. 

“Come on, a-Ling.” He pats his nephew’s leg. “Unbuckle. We’re here.”

Mianmian—because Jiang Cheng still hasn’t figured out her real name and doesn’t want to ask—sits at the front desk again. She looks up and actually beams at the sight of them.

“On time for Day 2!” She waves her pen. “That’s the spirit!”

“Er, yeah.” Jiang Cheng shoves Jin Ling in front. “Where’s today’s meetup for the 8-12’s?”

“Second door on the right.” Mianmian checks her monitor. “Looks like today is Morning Craft-Making! Have fun a-Ling!”

Jin Ling flushes an impressive shade of pink. “Thanks.”

The room in question is like a clown-house: bright tiles, walls covered in handprints, art tacked on every available surface. The smell of glue and paint hangs like nostalgic cloud; Jiang Cheng inhales deep and instantly is flung back to fifth grade when he painted purple dragons the whole year. They still have a few of them stored away. Somewhere. 

Lan Xichen pokes his head out of a cabinet. “Oh! You’re early today.”

“Yes, Coach.” Jin Ling throws his backpack into a chair. “Uncle said we had to.”

Jiang Cheng flushes. “I, ah. I have work.”

Lan Xichen nods—and then he steps out fully from behind the cabinets and Jiang Cheng has to close his eyes for a moment. Nobody should look that good in an apron and sweatshirt. He even has the sleeves pushed up, baring muscular forearms, showcasing elegant fingers and a cute little friendship bracelet.

Jiang Cheng’s palms are starting to sweat. He crams his hands in his pockets.

“Well,” he forces out, “a-Ling. Are we going to have another good day?”

“Yes Uncle,” Jin Ling drones. He wrinkles his nose. “As long as Lan Jingyi isn’t here.”

“Now, now.” Lan Xichen puts his hands on his hips. How did Jiang Cheng never notice how nice his hips were? “Is that any way to talk about our family?”

And it’s stupid. Our family is decidedly not Jiang Cheng’s family. He knows this, so why is his face getting red anyway?

Jin Ling peers up at him. “Uncle, you’re all sweaty.”

Oh my god. Okay. It’s definitely time to go.

“I’ll just be.. Leaving.” He points towards the door. “Um. Have a good day, Jin Ling. Lan Xichen.”

Lan Xichen smiles with all of his perfect teeth. A dimple pops on one side. “Certainly,” he says. “You too.”

Jiang Cheng is totally a goner.

He floats on that smile all day. Nothing can bring him down. Not when Zidian fakes her own death on the I-5 freeway. Not when AAA informs him there’s a waiting time of over an hour. Not when he arrives to work late, and then has to spend extra time cleaning all the bathrooms by himself. 

He has a dimple, Jiang Cheng thinks to himself. Oh god. He has a dimple.

He nearly drops his rag into the toilet.

Jiang Cheng floats on Cloud Nine all the way until he pulls into his shitty parking space and trudges up two flights to the apartment.

The living room light is on.

“Wei Wuxian?” He locks the door, toeing off his sneakers. “What are you doing awake?”

His adoptive brother should be asleep by now. Not that he follows a schedule—even with work, Wei Wuxian’s proclivities for late-night reality TV is well-documented—but it’s a Tuesday night, and Wei Wuxian usually opens Wednesdays and Fridays.

Wei Wuxian looks up from the table. “Oh, hey. Just..” He waves a hand. “Making a playlist.”

“At midnight? Don’t you have work tomorrow?”

His brother blows a raspberry. “It’s for somebody. I wouldn’t expect you to understand. Don’t you have, like, two friends?”

Jiang Cheng has one. It’s his brother. “So? Can’t you make that in the morning?”

“But I told Lan Zhan I’d have it done tomorrow.” Wei Wuxian sighs, twirling a lock of hair around one finger. 

There’s leftover pizza in the fridge. Jiang Cheng doesn’t even bother with a plate. “Lan Zhan?” 

Wei Wuxian has the audacity to blush. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he mutters, which means Jiang Cheng should absolutely worry about it. But then: “Here’s Ling-er’s report from today.”

Jiang Cheng swoops to snatch it from his fingers. All smiley-faces again. Whatever black magic Lan Xichen has at his disposal, he’s doing some serious legwork with it. Jin Ling never gets along well with other kids.

Another wonderful day, he’s written at the bottom. How lucky for Jin Ling to have such a good role model! There’s a little waving stickman next to his name.

“So,” Wei Wuxian says. “Coach Lan Xichen, huh?”

Jiang Cheng gives him a look over the paper that would kill small birds. “Don’t.”

“What? I didn’t even say anything!”

“Yeah. Yet.”

“You’re such a sourpuss,” Wei Wuxian complains. “No wonder you never get any dates. Your aura repels people from a mile away.”

“What does this have to do with getting dates?” Jiang Cheng can see the gears turning in Wei Wuxian’s brain—no, they’ve already been turning. He just happened to walk in right at the end. “Wei Wuxian—”

“Jiang Cheng,” his brother mimics. “I think it’s time we try again.”

“‘We?’ There is no we in this! And I’m not going on any dates!” He crinkles the paper in his irritation and pauses to smooth it out again. “You’re delusional.”

“And you have a crush on the hot YMCA supervisor,” Wei Wuxian sing-songs. 

“Do not!”

“Do too.” Wei Wuxian leans in, eyebrows waggling. “Come on. I would too, if I were you. Thank goodness I’m not, though—you’re bound to get premature grey hairs.”

Jiang Cheng’s eye twitches. “Do. Not. Meddle.”

“So you admit there’s something to meddle with?”

“Don’t you have a playlist to make?”

Wei Wuxian rolls his eyes. “I’m almost done! Don’t change the subject.” He leans in. “Picture this: you. Mr. Hunky Coach Man. On a date.” He pauses, considering. “A good date.”

“I don’t want to picture anything,” Jiang Cheng says. It’s a lie. He’s already picturing them on their second date. And their third. And when they adopt a dog together after he moves in.

“Uh-huh.” Wei Wuxian wags a finger. “I know you. If I don’t help out, you’ll be a sad, lonely hermit for the rest of your life! Come on, a-Cheng. When was the last time you went on a date? A year ago? Two years ago?”

Jiang Cheng knows when it was. A cold rush of something bitter seethes below his skin, poisoning his already-failing mood. He drops his pizza on the table. He’s not hungry anymore.

“Try five,” he snaps. “Some of us have bigger problems, you inconsiderate twat.”

He sees Wei Wuxian do the math. The way his eyebrows raise, and then fall. His lips part in a silent o, but for once, he has nothing to say. Jiang Cheng wishes he could call it a victory.

“I..” Wei Wuxian swallows. “I didn’t—”

“No, you didn’t,” Jiang Cheng snaps. “It’s all just a big, fucking game to you, is that it? My life isn’t one of your TV shows! At least one of us has to take care of Jin Ling, and if it has to be me then I’m fine with it. I don’t need you giving me shit while you’re off making playlists for random pieces of ass!”

“Lan Zhan is not a piece of ass!” Wei Wuxian snaps. He stands, lips twisting. “Just because one of us knows when to move on—”

“Move on? Move on?” Jiang Cheng lunges over the table and shakes him. “How can you fucking say that? Are you listening to yourself?” He sucks in a sharp breath and lets go. “Forget it. I’m going to bed.”

“Jiang Cheng, wait—”

He slams his bedroom door.

The next morning is rough. Jiang Cheng hardly slept. His eyes feel like someone’s kicked a whole sandbox into them. His body aches more than when Jin Ling accidentally gave him the flu. He almost wishes he were sick. Maybe then he wouldn’t have to leave his bedroom ever again.

But no. It’s a Wednesday, so there’s still a-Ling’s summer camp to go to.

“Uncle, you look bad,” his nephew tells him plaintively. 

Jiang Cheng squints over his cup of coffee. Jin Ling blinks up from his bowl of Cheerio’s, the picture of seven-year-old innocence. 

“Thanks,” he deadpans.

At least Wei Wuxian already went to work. There’s no morning awkwardness to deal with, no avoidance tactics Jiang Cheng has to employ. It’s just him and his nephew, alone in the apartment at 8AM. 

Jiang Cheng looks at Jin Ling—really looks at him. He’s grown a ton over the past year, shooting out of all of his pants. His hair is getting a little long; Wei Wuxian will have to give him a trim soon. 

Every day he looks more and more like his mother.

Jiang Cheng wonders what Jiejie would think if she could see him today. Would she be happy with the way they’ve raised her son? Would she scorn them for living like this? What would she do in this situation?

A-Cheng. I know you’re not good with words, but you have to apologize.

For what? I didn’t do anything wrong!

Maybe not. But isn’t it best to mend the bridge before it breaks?

His fingers curl tighter around his coffee mug. 

“Come on, a-Ling,” he says. “It’s time to get dressed for camp.”

☁️

It’s Pool Day. 

It’s Pool Day and nobody warned Jiang Cheng about it being Pool Day, because what happens on Pool Day but the most beautiful man on Earth walking around in tight swim trunks and a tank-top? With sunglasses? 

His long hair is twisted into a messy bun. His arms are defined enough to make a sculptor weep. And his collarbones— 

Jiang Cheng likes to think he isn’t a weak man, but sometimes? There are exceptions.

“Coach!” Jin Ling shrieks. “Look at my swim trunks!” 

They’re bright yellow with little elephants. Lan Xichen beams.

“They suit you,” he says. “Very bright. Just like you!”

Jin Ling smiles wide enough to practically close his eyes. He tosses his backpack aside and immediately makes for the group of kids in the warm-up zone. In a moment, he’s merged into their group entirely.

It makes Jiang Cheng proud. He doesn’t know what Lan Xichen’s done to improve his nephew’s behavior, but it makes Jiang Cheng hopeful for second grade. He wants Jin Ling to grow up surrounded by love, by friends and affection. Seeing him do warm-up stretches with the other kids gives Jiang Cheng light.

Lan Xichen turns the loveliest shade of pink when Jiang Cheng tells him this. He even blushes all the way down his chest. Jiang Cheng is utterly delighted.

“I’m just doing my best,” Lan Xichen says. His honesty warms Jiang Cheng all the way to his toes. “I want them to feel like they’re really part of a family.”

“Yeah,” Jiang Cheng breathes. He follows Lan Xichen’s gaze to the group of laughing, smiling children. “I know what you mean.”

[iya5rt]

Kalopsia Project [Bakugo Katsuki x Reader – Tokyo Ghoul AU]

Chapter 3 – The Rookie Always Has It Tough

Chapter Summary: Now that you’ve been welcomed into Yuuei, it’s time for you to make good of your promise and begin with your new job. Though the first day’s already bringing you a new surprise or two…

Kalopsia Project Masterpost

Making coffee was an art form.

It was a long process, consisting of many steps, each varying in difficulty or skills required. Sure, you could just get some from a coffee machine beside the school, but it was only after being made aware of all the steps that got you your small cup of bitter goodness that you could truly appreciate coffee for what it was.

Sadly, it was an art form few got to experience in their lifetime. There weren’t many coffee enthusiasts out there, after all. But you see, preparing to begin work at a cafe really opened your eyes about all this.

And about one more thing.

That you really sucked at brewing coffee.

“You really can’t do the simplest of things properly, can you?” Bakugo sighed from where he was leaning on the counter beside you. He looked tired (who could blame him – he must have slept maybe 4 hours total, what with everything that had happened the previous night), as he was carefully eyeing your pitiful attempts at making coffee. Two cups were discarded to the side. Those had been the products of your first two tries, though Bakugo had given each a single sip, before declaring it a fail.

You had to give it to him – he was a lot nicer than he could have been. After all, the first one had nearly made you gag.

Having finished preparing your third cup for the day (and it was only early morning too), you also sighed and stepped back, silently praying to the heavens this one would be passable. Crossing your arms, you turned to look at Bakugo.

“Well, excuse me, Mr. I’ve-been-doing-this-for-years, but may I remind you that I’ve never had to brew coffee until today?” You pouted. Bakugo pushed himself off the counter and moved to pour the two cups of “poisonous” (as he had called it) coffee in the sink. Your heart sank at the sight of your hard work disappearing down the drain.

There go two hours of my life, I guess.

“And I’ve never had to train an ungrateful human girl, so I guess we’re even.”

“Aw, come on, Bakugo-kun, don’t be so harsh on her. She’s still a novice at this whole thing,” a cheerful voice interrupted, before you could retort anything back yourself. The two of you turned to see a girl with short brown hair and very rosy cheeks smiling back at you, as she was tying her apron behind her back. You gave a grateful sigh.

“Thank you, Uraraka. Glad someone here’s got my back.” The girl waved her hand dismissively.

“Don’t mention it. We’ve been needing the help anyway. I will admit – the circumstances are… unexpected. But you’re a nice girl, after all.”

You’d met a few more of Yuuei’s employees shortly after waking up in the morning and going through a short check-up with Midoriya. You were surprised to find that most of them were students like yourself, and, most of all, had welcomed you with open arms (or at the very least – understanding nods).

Uraraka was one of them. She was the only other girl you had met so far and worked here as a waitress. Since she was two years younger than you, she was still a high-school student and as such, was a bit more lacking when it came to free-time. Though from what Midoriya had told you, she was always working here on the weekends. You found her to be very pleasant. The easiest to get along with too. You wouldn’t have minded if it had been her showing you the ropes.

“Alright, enough wasting of perfectly good coffee beans. I hope you’re better at the table waiting thing,” Bakugo sighed again, pushing you aside to take your place in brewing coffee. His push ended up a little careless, as your shoulders rubbed.

You know – his perfectly good shoulder and your very much still injured shoulder.

You flinched a little, not quite muffling the small sound that escaped your lips. For a moment, Bakugo cocked a brow at you, but when his eyes darted to the bandages peeking beneath the t-shirt you wore, he seemed to remember.

“Uh, my bad...” he mumbled awkwardly, choosing to train his eyes somewhere on the counter instead. You giggled.

“Oh, don’t worry, it’s fine.” Bakugo didn’t seem convinced but motioned to the other side of the counter with his head anyway.

“Go to half-’n-half. He’ll put some cups on a tray and you try to carry those. See if… your shoulder’s gonna bother you...” You nodded and thanked him. Instead of leaving though, you got distracted watching the blond as he worked away. Despite the way he spoke and acted, his touch and movements as he poured the water seemed so gentle and precise. Only now did you realize how much you still had to learn. Your distraction was interrupted when he noticed your eyes were still on him and looked up from his handiwork. “What’re you waiting for? You know we’re opening soon, right?”

You jumped and furiously waved your hands.

“O-oops, my bad, haha. I’m going!”

Finally tearing your eyes away from him, you found the “half-’n-half” in question quietly washing some cups and glasses at the sink. You weren’t sure why Bakugo insisted on calling him that though. Was it his hair that was dyed half-red and half-white? Perhaps. Quite the rebellious stage he must have had, you’d give him that.

There was also this painful-looking scar on his left eye, though you doubted even Bakugo would sink this low. He didn’t seem to care much about appearances anyway.

You’d learned his name was Todoroki – he had been one of the people who’d peacefully acknowledged you with an expressionless nod. Then again, he seemed to be a little stone-faced in general, so perhaps this was to be expected. He’d made no hostile comments or given you a reason to suspect he disagreed, so you decided this was probably his way of welcoming you to Yuuei.

You wondered what had happened to him to leave him as he was (though you’d heard he went to a prestigious university despite it all), not to mention the unpleasant scar, but you decided not to question it or ask around – everybody had their circumstances, and you could only assume ghouls’ were more complicated than the rest. Hell – you were a human working in a cafe full of ghouls. And you… surprisingly didn’t see any of them complaining left and right. At least not yet.

When you approached him, Todoroki gave a silent nod, and pulled a tray up on the counter, filling cups and glasses with all sorts of different drinks.

“What do you plan to do with school now, [L/N]-kun?” a voice asked from somewhere behind you. You turned to find a boy with neatly trimmed dark hair and a pair of glasses cleaning all the tables. Even if Bakugo hadn’t made fun of the fact earlier, you would have probably still managed to deduce that he attended a private college, just by how he looked.

“Just [F/N]’s fine, Ida-kun,” you brushed off his polite tone. “Midoriya-kun said my shoulder should heal soon, so I guess I’ll just call in sick in the meanwhile. Don’t want some of the more nasty professors marking me absent for no reason...” You could almost hear Bakugo grit his teeth behind you – you shared a class with a certain very uptight teacher with him, and you knew he hated his guts.

“Won’t it be suspicious if you and the person you were out on a date with disappear all of a sudden?” Todoroki asked, making you hum in thought for a second.

“Well, you’re not wrong. I guess there will be some rumors. I’ll just have to… brush them off, I guess?” you shrugged. “I’ve always had particularly thick skin so I’ll be fine!!”

You smiled, though that smile fell a little when you remembered how last time you just ‘brushed things off’ you were almost killed on a first date. You really had to take note of that stuff more.

“Alright everyone,” Aizawa called upon emerging from one of the back rooms. You’d heard something about him and Midoriya talking with somebody over the phone, though you assumed you weren’t supposed to know of any further details, so you refrained from asking. “We’re opening now, so stop wasting time and being irrational. [F/N],” he looked at you. “You’re to sit back and observe for today. You should get the hang of this by tomorrow.”

You nodded and moved to sit on one of the bar stools, noting how everyone went back to business. Ida turned the sign to say ‘open’ and went to adjust the tables on the outside. Todoroki disappeared to fetch more coffee from one of the back rooms. Uraraka and Bakugo sat back and waited for the first customers to start coming in.

You noted that Midoriya was still nowhere in sight, but you assumed he was finally getting some rest, after staying up all night because of you. You’d have to thank him and apologize when he woke up. Aizawa seemingly stayed up with him as well, thought he didn’t have the luxury of resting during the day. That explained the bags under his eyes. Good thing they were serving coffee.

The cafe was soon filled with people of all kinds – from children with their parents, students with their books and laptops, even through to an elderly couple or two. Although you wondered – how many of them really were people? You’d never felt such uncertainty before.

But you smiled at the scene unfolding before your eyes.

This had been one of the warmest welcomes of your life. Despite having been at Yuuei for only a handful of hours (a majority of which you’d spend unconscious or simply asleep), you felt like this was just the place for you.

And honestly? You could not believe it.

***

Like Aizawa had promised, the following day was your first day on the field. It was Sunday morning anyway, so there weren’t many people up and about quite yet.

Of course, Aizawa had no plans of busying himself any further. Despite having presumably slept all night for once, like a normal human being, he still looked like he hadn’t gotten even a blink of rest. You were beginning to suspect he just looked like this all the time.

“I’m suddenly regretting everything,” Bakugo muttered, rubbing at his temple. You had been appointed to him. Again. It wasn’t like he even had to teach you anything. ‘Just make sure she doesn’t screw up, because then you’re both responsible,’ Aizawa had said.

Truth be told, you were a little scared of your new manager, so you had no intention of making him mad. And there was this whole thing that you felt like you had a debt to repay so you couldn’t let yourself be a burden too. But the fear was greater…

It had been about half an hour since opening, and Bakugo had instructed you to just sit back and watch everybody else for now. He had taken to pointing out which customers were human, and which were ghouls. The weirdest part? He wasn’t even looking up from whatever he was doing, be it brewing coffee, washing cups, or making sandwiches. As soon as the bell chimed to signal someone had walked in, he’d quietly tell you. You racked your brain a little, but soon remembered why this could be.

“Say, Bakugo-kun?” He hummed to acknowledge that you have been heard. “My parents had told me that some ghouls have an especially developed sense of smell, which can easily tell a human apart from a ghoul.” He tensed, though you weren’t sure why. Had you been speaking too loudly? Was he afraid someone might hear you? He shook this behavior off though, and answered.

“Yeah. That’s right. It’s not very common but there are those of us who have it.” You nodded along.

“So you knew Monoma-kun was a ghoul right away then?” Bakugo stopped suddenly, and finally looked up at you.

“Yeah. What – you’re gonna get mad I didn’t warn you? I hope you realize how stupid that would have been.”

“Oh no, no. I’m just curious is all.” You smiled, while Bakugo returned to cutting a small tomato. Soon enough, he was back to pointing out what every new customer was. You were surprised to say the least – you’d expected there to not be many clueless humans, but you noted that it was in fact the ghouls that were few and far between.

“Well, someone’s being awfully quiet.”

You jumped at the sudden call-out. When you turned to look at Bakugo, you noticed a small smirk on his lips.

“You surprised they look so similar?” he asked. You looked away, a little ashamed to admit he was right. He was a ghoul so he had probably been looked down upon time and time again by other humans. You didn’t have the heart to tell him you expected the difference between your two kinds to be greater, more easily noticed, but he’d seen through your silence regardless.

“I… I guess… Everyone here looks so… so normal,” you muttered, though you quickly caught yourself. “N-not that you aren’t normal but- but… I… Oh, forget it, I can’t make this not sound bad...” You pouted. Bakugo hummed, as he once again tore his eyes away from you.

“You act as if everyone else doesn’t make it sound worse. I can’t really relate a lot to what you’re feeling right now since I’ve always been able to tell the two apart. But if you asked anyone else here, you’d be surprised to hear your experiences are a little more universal than you think.” He suddenly stopped mid-movement and lowered his voice, eyebrows furrowing. “If you really think about it, humans and ghouls are practically indistinguishable from one another. Not until they show their true colors...”

Both of you went silent. You stared at Bakugo intently, wondering if he had even meant to tell you this in the first place. He looked troubled, as if this was something that bothered him personally. And everyone knew there weren’t many things that bothered him personally.

I guess everyone’s general mistreatment of ghouls does get to him every once in a while…

“Bakugo-kun…?” you quietly called out. This seemed to snap him out of his daze and he shook his head, returning to his duty.

“Anyway, most of the ghouls here are regulars. Though you don’t have to rack your brain to remember all of them – they come often enough, so you’ll have them memorized in no time.” The door chimed once again, and this time Bakugo looked up. “See the old lady that just walked in?” Your eyes followed a short old woman with gray hair pulled up in a tight bun. She found a small table beside the window and sat down. You turned to look at Bakugo.

“Yeah?”

“Her name’s Shuzenji Chiyo. She’s a ghoul too. And she also has a keen sense of smell. She’ll be able to tell you’re human.”

“Okay. So?”

“So!? Go take her order, dumbass.”

“Eh?”

“That’s what you’re supposed to be doing, remember?”

“I, well… yeah, that’s right! Alright then!” You stood up and took a few deep breaths. “Yeah – I’m going!” Bakugo looked at you oddly, though you didn’t notice. He must have thought you were going crazy.

You took the notepad and pen on the counter beside you and headed to the old woman’s table, Uraraka giving you a big grin and a wink, as she passed you by on the way to relay an order of her own.

“Good morning, ma’am – may I take your order?” you smiled at the woman. Your heart briefly sank when her eyes widened and she looked back to the counter. Following her line of sight, you noticed she was looking at Bakugo, who nodded back at her. The lady finally relaxed and smiled at you too.

“I’m sorry, dear – you seem to be new here and I didn’t quite recognize your face.”

“Please don’t be concerned – I haven’t gotten used to this place yet either. And I understand why you would be alarmed.” The woman looked at you for a quiet moment, probably wondering if you knew about her and the other ghouls here, though she couldn’t exactly ask you that. She must have been satisfied with your confident smile though.

“A short black coffee, please,” she ordered and took to looking out the window. You quickly noted in your notepad (not that you needed to – it was pretty simple to remember, after all) and thanked her, returning to the counter.

Upon returning however, You found that Bakugo had abandoned his duty and was instead glaring daggers at Midoriya, who had come beside him and was giving you a big thumbs-up.

“A short black coffee...” you relayed as soon as you approached the two.

“Coming right away!” Midoriya exclaimed. “Congratulations on your first client, [F/N]-san!” he said, as he turned around to prepare the order. You blushed a little.

“Th-thank you… Not that it was a difficult job, haha...”

From that point on, Bakugo would point out a friendly ghoul or clueless human for you to wait on every once in a while. You were getting the hang of things, not that there was much to get the hang of, especially with how supportive and friendly everyone was being. You noticed the occasional customers shooting you some surprised looks, likely not having expected a newcomer. Those must have been the regulars that Bakugo had mentioned.

There were a handful that looked… a little less nice. You noticed their eyes trailing you, and you didn’t like their stares one bit. They felt almost like those of a creepy stalker or a cat caller, except somehow more malicious. You didn’t need a keen sense of smell to tell they were not human, though you were grateful to Bakugo, who didn’t send you out for any orders while they were in the cafe. Or a few minutes after, for that matter.

He really seemed to care more than he let out.

Before you knew it, it was closing time for Yuuei.

Though it seemed like Aizawa had other plans for you. Yeah, sure, you could have been resting, letting your wounds heal quicker, even studying for when you would eventually have to begin attending classes once again.

Instead, you were stuck taking out the trash.

‘Don’t mind the manager – he always makes the rookie take out the trash,’ Uraraka had told you. She looked strangely relieved though. You couldn’t help but assume she had been said ‘rookie’ until you came around.

Well, I did say I would do anything to repay them… I guess I only have myself to blame…

Fortunately, it wasn’t a very difficult task. All you had to do was take out the trash bags and bring them outside through the back door, where the dumpsters were.

How convenient.

The bags smelled mostly of coffee which, considering the nature of your new workplace, was to be expected. You briefly wondered if they kept any… food (the kind that wasn’t exactly meant for humans) somewhere in the back rooms, but you decided it’d be better just to ask. Bakugo probably wouldn’t have hesitated to tell you anyway.

Throwing away the final black bag, you wiped the sweat off your forehead (those things were heavier than they looked), and turned to open the door and get away from the unpleasant smell of the dumpsters.

Unfortunately, your luck seemed to be non-existent these days.

An arm slammed against the door from behind you, preventing you from opening it. Suddenly you were very aware of the shadows looming over you.

Turning around slowly, you found two men keeping you trapped between themselves and the door. One had chin-length blond hair and big eyes that looked a little less than sane to you. The other sported long black hair and seemed drunk off his mind. This wasn’t looking good.

You wondered if anyone inside would hear you if you were to scream.

Creepy ghouls wanting to eat me, and now some drunk guys trapping me in an alley. This can’t be good. How do I keep getting myself in these situations!?

You were suddenly thankful for the self-defense skills your parents had taught you. Sure, it wasn’t much, but they made sure that if you were ever cornered by creeps like these, you’d be capable enough to escape them and run off to the nearest place with other people buzzing about.

“Hmm, who knew Yuuei had such a little gem hidden away,” the blond man grinned, leaning in closer. The other only nodded along – he seemed too out of it to even speak. You, on the other hand, inched back.  “If the taste matches the scent, you’ll be quite the exotic treat.”

Before you could remark why everything seemed to revolve around smell today, you sucked in a breath as it dawned on you.

Treat…?

No way. Not again.

A mere second later, the man’s eyes turned black and red, as his grin widened.

“Let’s test that out, shall we?”

***

[CLASSIFIED INFORMATION]

Protocol K78152112

Subject #17

Real Name: N/A

Background: Taken from a CCG-funded orphanage.

Results: Mutations; change of skin color to an unnatural and sickly hue.

Signs of success were present; subject survived for multiple days, though had to be restrained; died due to complications stemming from the increased Rc count.

(scribbled in pen) Huh, seems to work better with younger subjects…

***

Author’s Note: Bam – cliffhanger! I would like to say I’m generally not one to leave you hanging every week, but this story’s doing weird things to me, it seems like.

Thank you guys so, so much for all the support on last week’s launch of this story by the way! It makes me incredibly happy to know you’re all enjoying it and I’m so excited to continue with it too! Here’s a quick recap of some easter eggs from this chapter – the old woman Bakugo sent Reader-chan to was actually Recovery Girl (I just used her real name instead); the two guys that have her trapped in that alleyway are actually two of Overhaul’s men – Setsuno Toya and Sakaki Deidoro (though the concept of the Eight Precepts of Death/Shie Hassaikai probably doesn’t exist here)! Just a fun little nod to canon!

Anyway, I had tonnes of fun writing the peaceful bonding time with Bakugo, and I hope you enjoyed it too! Thank you so much for reading, please drop a comment to let me know what you thought, and I’ll see you again next Wednesday! Bye~

(Psst, @afuckingunicornn  @creativedogs  @chims-kookies  - thank you for the support and here is the next part!)

[honeypiehotchner]

Trust -- part thirty-eight

It’s Best Man Speech time! Also, I’m a liar. This chapter is not the last. The next one is. Oopsies! ;)

“Pray silence for the best man.”

           You squeeze Sherlock’s hand as he stands to his feet, buttoning his jacket and smoothing it down. He really is nervous.

           But to be fair, you’re a little nervous, too. He wouldn’t let you hear the speech—He wouldn’t let anyone hear it, actually. This is brand new to everyone. And while that should be exciting, since it’s Sherlock, it’s a little nerve-wracking.

           John is beaming, though, grinning from ear to ear – possibly a little buzzed. But he does really love Sherlock, and you know that, even when he doesn’t want to admit it. You know those two have a bond like no other. The Baker Street boys, as Mary calls them.

           “Ladies and gentlemen, family and friends. And, um…others.”

           Sherlock’s stuttering continues, prompting you reach up and thread your fingers through his. He glances down, smiling a little.

           “Telegrams,” you hear your brother mutter, and then Sherlock is back.

           “Right, um…” Sherlock picks up the cards. “First things first, telegrams. Well, they’re not actually telegrams, we just call them telegrams, I don’t know why. Wedding tradition. Because we don’t have enough of that already, apparently.”

           “Sherlock,” you whisper warningly.

           He settles again, nodding. “To Mr. and Mrs. Watson. So sorry I’m unable to be with you on your special day. Good luck, and best wishes, Mike Stamford.”

           Ah, Mike. You chuckle.

           “To John and Mary. All good wishes for your special day. With love and many big…big squishy cuddles from Stella and Ted.” Sherlock sighs. “Mary, lots of love—Oh.”

           John looks up at him. “Yeah?”

           “…poppet.”

           Mary snickers, leaning forward to catch you stifling your own laughter.

           “Oodles of love and heaps of good wishes from Cam. Wish your family could’ve seen this.”

           You lean forward at that, giving Mary a look of sympathy as John takes her hand in his, comfortingly.

           Sherlock carries on, not missing a beat. “Special day…Very special day…Love…Love…Love…Love…Love. Bit of a theme, you get the general gist. People are basically fond.”

           Here we go, you think, wanting to smack Sherlock in the arm, but you decide against it.

           “John Watson. My friend, John Watson. John. When John first broached the subject of being best man, I was confused. I confess at first, I didn’t realize he was asking me. When finally, I understood, I expressed to him that I was both flattered and surprised. I explained to him that I had never expected this request, and that I was a little daunted in the face of it. I nonetheless promised that I would do my very best to accomplish a task which was, for me, as demanding and difficult as any I had ever contemplated. Additionally, I thanked him for the trust he placed in me and indicated that I was, in some ways, very closed to being moved by it. It later transpired that I had said none of this out loud.”

           The room erupts with laughter, especially coming from John. You laughed loudly, too, because that definitely wasn’t the story you remembered John telling you.

           Sherlock begins rummaging in his coat for some cards. “So…done that. Done that. Done that bit. Done that bit.”

           He takes a deep breath. And continues.

           “I’m afraid John that I can’t congratulate you.”

           Your eyebrows furrow. Odd start. Maybe you should’ve forced him to practice the speech in front of you.

           “All emotions, and in particular love, stand opposed to the pure cold reason I hold above all things. A wedding is, in my considered opinion, nothing short of a celebration of all that is false and specious and irrational and sentimental in this ailing and morally compromised world. Today we honor the deathwatch beetle that is the doom of our society and in time, one feels certain, our entire species.”

           The room stills. You stare down at your hands, a little bit worried for the rest of this, and still regretting the fact that you never took a peek at his speech before today.

           “But anyway, let’s talk about John.”

           “Please,” you hear John clear his throat, shifting around in his seat.

           “If I burden myself with a little helpmate during my adventures, it is not out of sentiment or caprice, it is that he has many fine qualities of his own that he has overlooked in his obsession with me. Indeed, any reputation I have for mental acuity and sharpness comes in truth from the extraordinary contrast John so selflessly provides.”

           You tilt your head. That was an insult, wasn’t it?

           “It is a fact, I believe, that brides tend to favor exceptionally plain bridesmaids for their big day. There is a certain analogy there, I feel.”

           Is he…serious? He absolutely has to be kidding.

           “And contrast is, after all, God’s own plan to enhance the beauty of his creation. Or it would be if God were not a ludicrous fantasy designed to provide a career opportunity to the family idiot.”

           The room rustles again, and you clasp your hands together, willing yourself to keep listening.

           “The point I’m trying to make it that I am the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant, and all-round obnoxious arsehole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet. I am dismissive of the virtuous,” Sherlock pauses to look down at you, nudging your arm so you’ll look at him. “I am unaware of the beautiful.” He smiles only softly, then turning to Mary and John. “And uncomprehending in the face of the happy.”

           You smile sadly.

           “So, if I didn’t understand that I was being asked to be best man, it is because I never expected to be anybody’s best friend. And certainly not the best friend of the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing.

           “John, I am a ridiculous man. Redeemed only by the warmth and constancy of your friendship and the love from the woman sat to my left.”

           Your breath hitches. You weren’t expecting him to mention you at all.

           “But as I am, apparently, your best friend, I cannot congratulate you on your choice of companion.” Sherlock pauses, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Actually, now I can. Mary, when I say you deserve this man, it is the highest compliment of which I am capable. John, you have endured war, and injury, and tragic loss. So sorry again about that last one.”

           You chuckle softly. He’ll forever be apologizing for the time he was ‘dead.’

           “So know this. Today, you sit between the woman you have made your wife and the man and woman you have no doubt saved. In short, the three people who love you move in all this world. And I know I speak for Mary and Y/N as well when I say we will never let you down and we have a lifetime ahead to prove that.”

           You reach up and wipe a stray tear away from your cheek, chuckling a little when Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice he’s gotten the rest of the reception hall crying as well.

           “Ah, yes. Now on to some funny stories about John…” Sherlock frowns. “What’s wrong? What happened? Why are you all doing that? John? Y/N?”

           “Love…” You shake your head, smiling despite your own watery eyes.

           “Did I do it wrong?”

           “No, you didn’t,” John mutters, pushing his chair back. “Come here.”

           The room applauds while the two of them hug, Sherlock still not understanding anything at all as he tries to continue over the noise. John pats his shoulder and says something to make him stop, but you don’t hear.

           After John is settled back in his chair, Sherlock continues.

           “So, onto some funny stories about John. If you could all just cheer up a bit, that would…be better.” Everyone laughs. “On we go. So, for funny stories, one has to look no further than John’s blog. The record of our time together. Of course, he does tend to romanticize things a big, but then, you know, he’s a romantic.

           “We’ve tackled some strange cases. The Hollow Client. The Poisoned Giant. We’ve had some frustrating cases. Touching cases,” Sherlock rolls his eyes. “And of course, I have to mention, The Elephant in the Room. But we want something very particular for this special day. The Bloody Guardsman.”

           Ah, you remember. The unsolved one. From wedding planning weeks ago.

           “Private Steven Bainbridge had written to us with a concern about someone possibly stalking him. A bloke, no less. Private Bainbridge had just come off guard duty. He’d stood there for hours, plenty of people watching, nothing apparently wrong. He came off duty and within minutes was nearly dead from a wound in his stomach but there was no weapon. Where did it go?

           “Ladies and gentlemen, I invite you to consider this: A murderer who can walk through walls. A weapon that can vanish. But in all of this, there is only one element which can be said to be truly remarkable. Would anyone like to make a guess?”

           Good lord. You definitely should’ve looked at his speech.

           “Come on, come on. There is actually an element of Q&A to all of this.” Sherlock clears his throat. “Scotland Yard, have you got a theory?”

           “Don’t pick on Greg,” you mutter.

           “Yeah, you. You’re a detective, broadly speaking. Got a theory?”

           Lestrade crosses his arms over his chest, deciding to entertain Sherlock. “Er, um…If the uh, if the blade was propelled through the um…grating in the air vent… Maybe a ballista or a catapult, uh, somebody tiny could crawl in there. So yeah, we’re looking for a dwarf.”

           “Brilliant.”

           “Really?”

           “No.”

           You shake your head.

           “Hello, who was that? Tom.”

           Sure enough, Tom stands from his chair, Molly sending a frightened look your way. This is going to end badly, it always does when Sherlock gets in one of these moods.

           “Got a theory?”

           “He attempted suicide with a blade made of compacted blood and bone. Broke after piercing his abdomen, like a meat…dagger.”

           “A meat dagger?”

           “Yes.”

           “No.”

           Tom sits back down, and Sherlock continues, clearly annoyed. “There was one feature and only one feature of interest in the whole of this baffling case and quite frankly, it was the usual. John Watson. Who while I was trying to solve the murder, instead saved a life.

           “There are mysteries worth solving and stories worth telling. The best and bravest man I know and on top of that he actually knows how to do that. Except wedding planning and serviettes, he’s rubbish at that.”

           Everyone chuckles at the slight joke.

           “The case itself remains the most ingenious and brilliantly planned murder or attempted murder I’ve ever had the pleasure to encounter. The most perfect locked-room mystery of which I am aware.

           “However, I’m not just here to praise John, I’m also here to embarrass him so let’s move onto some—”

           “No, wait. So how was it done?” Greg interrupts.

           “How was what done?”

           “The stabbing.”

           “He never solved it,” you chime.

           “Yes,” Sherlock nods. “I never solved that one. It can happen sometimes. It’s very…very disappointing. Embarrassment leads me on to the stag night.”

           Oh, dear Lord.

           This night was the night you, Mary, and Molly got together and had dinner before having essentially a big sleepover at John and Mary’s. Because John was out with Sherlock all night, apparently doing something along the lines of having a beer at every place they’ve solved a murder.

           It’s okay, you found the idea weird, too. But Molly said she calculated everything correctly, so they should be fine. Even if it was odd that Sherlock asked her to calculate anything in the first place.

           But anyway, while the three of you were drinking wine and sharing idiot stories of your significant others, John and Sherlock were getting absolutely pissed.

           “‘Course, there’s hours of material here, but I’ve cut it down to the really good bits.”

           Apparently, they were only out for two hours before returning to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson said she nearly had a heart attack when she walked out with her trash to find them snoozing on the stairs, drunkenly mumbling to each other.

           And then they had a client. Of all things, they had a client that night.

           “The Mayfly Man.”

           They also got arrested, which Lestrade wasted no time calling you about and starting off with saying, “You’re not gonna believe this shit.” You thought it was going to be much worse than what it was, but at least Lestrade was able to get them bailed out with no problem. And thankfully, it never turned up in the papers.

           You still remember after that when Sherlock continued investigating. You were sat in his chair when he had probably six or seven laptops open, talking to all of these women who had encountered the Mayfly Man. John was here as well, helping with the case on his day off.

           Apparently, Sherlock had asked a question to the women and immediately every single one of them signed off. You had warned him to let you help, but he didn’t want you to. He didn’t want to come off as too knowing.

           “Why? Why would he date all of those women and not return their calls?” Sherlock slams the laptop closed, straightening up and buttoning his blazer.

           John snorts. “You’re missing the obvious, mate.”

           “Am I?”

           “You are,” you nod. “He’s a man.”

           Sherlock still doesn’t get it. “So? I’m a man.”

           “You’re a different breed,” you chuckle.

           “But why would he change his identity?” Sherlock asks the rhetorical question to the wedding guests, not noticing their lack of interest. “He was married. Obvious, really. Our Mayfly Man was trying to escape the suffocating chains of domesticity and instead of endless nights in watching telly or going to barbeques with the awful, dreadful, boring people he couldn’t stand, he used his wits, cleverness and powers of disguise to play the field. He was—” Sherlock stops, suddenly surveying the room and seeing their tired faces. He turns to you and you shake your head, motioning for him to stop the story.

           He nods. “On second thoughts, maybe I probably should’ve told you about The Elephant in the Room.

           “However, it does help to further illustrate how invaluable John is to me. I can read a crime scene the way he can understand a human being. I used to think that’s what made me special. Quite frankly, I still do. But a word to the wise: Should any of you require the services of either of us, I will solve your murder, but it will take John Watson to save your life. Trust me on that, I should know. He’s saved mine so many times and in so many ways.

           “This blog,” Sherlock gestures with his phone, “is the story of two men and their frankly ridiculous adventures. Of murder, mystery, and mayhem. But from now on, there’s a new story. A bigger adventure.”

           You watch with a smile as Sherlock glances to the happy couple, and then you watch in surprise as he looks to you.

           “Ladies and gentlemen pray charge your glasses and be upstanding.” You stand with your glass in hand. “Today begin the adventures of Mary Elizabeth Watson and John Hamish Watson. The two reasons why every single one of us is—”

           Sherlock freezes.

           His glass falls from his hands, but no matter about that. You know that look in his eyes. He’s gone. Albeit for a split second, but he’s gone.

           It’s almost like he’s gone to his mind palace.

           The glass shatters as it hits the floor, the noise startling Sherlock back into the real world. He blinks, looking down at the mess he made and tries to brush past it.

           “Oh, sorry, I—” He shakes his head, clearing his throat.

           “Another glass, sir?”

           “Thank you, yes. Thank you. Now, where were we?”

           “Sherlock…” You whisper.

           He looks to you briefly before continuing on. “Ah, yes, raising glasses and standing up. Very good, thank you… And down again.”

           You sit down quickly, casting a worried glance in John and Mary’s direction. The rest of the guests follow, confusion coating their faces.

           “Ladies and gentlemen, people tell you not to milk a good speech. Get off early, leave them laughing. Wise advice I’ll certainly try to bear in mind, but for now…”

           “Sherlock!” You hiss as he jumps over the table.

           “Part two!” He walks down the middle. “Part two is more action based, I’m gonna walk around, shake things up a bit.

           “Who’d go to a wedding? That’s the question? Who would bother to go to any lengths to get themselves to a wedding…? Well, everyone!” Sherlock turns around, clapping his hands. “Weddings are great. Love a wedding.”

           Mary leans forward to look at you. “What’s he doing?”

           “Something’s wrong,” you whisper back. “I don’t know what.”

           “And John’s great, too,” Sherlock points back to the front. “I haven’t said that enough, barely scratched the surface. I could go on all night about the depth and complexity of his jumpers. And he can cook, does a thing – A thing with peas, once. Might not be peas, might not be him, but he’s got a great singing voice – Or somebody does…

           “Too many, too many, too many, too many!” Sherlock screams. He stops himself, turning back around. “Sorry, too many jokes about John. Now, uh… Where was I? Ah, yes. Speech! Speech. Let’s talk about…murder.”

           “Christ, Sherlock,” you smack your forehead.

           “Sorry, did I say murder? I meant to say marriage. But, you know, they’re…quite similar procedures when you think about it, the participants tend to know each other and it’s over when one of them’s dead. In fairness, murder is a lot quicker, though.”

           You watch as Sherlock pulls out his phone and begins texting behind his back – something you hate when he does, but now it’s only worrying you further.

           “Jeff, the gents.” Sherlock looks at Lestrade.

           “It’s Greg!”

           “The loos, please.”

           “Why?”

           “Oh, I don’t know, maybe it’s your turn?” Sherlock nods toward the door as Lestrade’s phone beeps. So, Sherlock was texting him. You wish he’d text you to let you know what the hell is going on right now.

           Lestrade looks at his phone and his eyes widen. “Yeah, actually, now that you mention it.” And he disappears through the doors.

           “Sherlock,” John calls out. “Any chance of an end date to this speech? We’ve gotta cut the cake.”

           “Oh! Ladies and gentlemen, can’t stand it when I finally get the chance to speak for once – Vatican Cameos.”

           Your eyes widen. Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

           “What did he just say?”

           You scoot over to Sherlock’s seat next to John’ careful of the broken glass. “Vatican Cameos,” you murmur. “It means someone’s going to die.”

           “Not you, not you, you,” Sherlock points to John. “It’s always you. John Watson, you keep me right.”

           John stands to meet Sherlock. “What do I do?”

           “You’ve already done it,” Sherlock whispers, glancing to you. “Don’t solve the murder. Save the life.

           “Sorry,” Sherlock inhales sharply, turning back around. “Off-piste a bit, back now, phew! Let’s play a game. Let’s play murder. Imagine someone’s going to get murdered at a wedding. Who exactly would you pick?”

           “I think you’re a popular choice at the moment, dear,” you hear Mrs. Hudson say, bringing a small smile to your face.

           “If someone could move Mrs. Hudson’s glass just slightly out of reach, that would be lovely. More importantly, who could you only kill at a wedding?”

           Your eyes widen. They lock with Sherlock’s. There’s a brief moment where you wonder if it’s you. After all, this morning was the only time you traveled without Sherlock in a long time. But it doesn’t make sense, you don’t fit. He’s here with you now, and no one was close to you when he wasn’t.

           Sherlock shakes his head slightly. You’re safe.

           “Most people you can kill just any old place,” he continues. “As a mental exercise, I’ve often planned the murder of friends and colleagues. Now, John, I’d poison. Sloppy eater, dead easy. Y/N is a different story. To poison her would ultimately insure my own death sentence. Lestrade’s so easy to kill, it’s a miracle no one’s succumbed to the temptation. I’ve got a pair of keys to my brother’s house, I could easily break in there and asphyxiate him…if the whim arose.

           “So, once again, who could you only kill here?”

           Sherlock’s eyes lock with yours again and you mouth, “Isolated.”

           “Clearly, it’s a rare opportunity, so it’s someone who doesn’t get out much. Someone for whom a planned social encounter known about months in advance is an exception. Has to be a unique opportunity. And since killing someone in public difficult, killing them in private isn’t an option. Someone who lives in an inaccessible or unknown location, then. Someone private, perhaps, obsessed with personal security. Possibly someone under threat.”

           When Sherlock looks to Major James Sholto, you sigh, letting your eyes fall closed. You should’ve known from the minute your brain told you it had to be someone who is truly isolated. Major Sholto is the only one true fit to that statement.

           “Or, a recluse,” Sherlock speaks, now obviously filling the time as he writes something on a card. “Small, house hold staff. High turnover for additional security. Probably have all signed confidentiality agreements.

           “There is another question that remains, however, a rather big one. How would you do it? How do you kill someone in public? There has to be a way. This has been planned.”

           Your eyes widen. “The Bloody Guardsman,” you blurt. “The killer that can walk through walls. The weapon that vanishes.”

           Sherlock stares off when he hears you, Major Sholto standing and leaving in the meantime. Sherlock nods to you. “Not just planned, planned and rehearsed.”

           He slides back up to the front, grabbing a random glass. “Ladies and gentlemen, there will now be a short interlude. To the bride and groom!”

           Everyone stands for the toast, but Sherlock whirls around, leaning down to the table. “Major Sholto’s going to be murdered. I don’t know how or by whom but it’s going to happen.” Sherlock abruptly kisses you on the forehead before turning and moving his way through the crowd. “Excuse me, coming through, consulting.”

           John gives Mary a kiss before standing, looking to the both of you and saying, “Stay here.”

           As soon as he gets around the table, though, you and Mary look at each other and nod. You stand, linking arms and pushing your way through the crowd, careful not to trip on your dresses as you search for where Sherlock and John went.

           You round the corner just as your brother is laying into Sherlock for not remembering Major Sholto’s room number.

           You roll your eyes and say, “207,” as you and Mary push between them.

           The four of you bound up the stairs and to the left, Major Sholto’s door right at the end of the hall. Sherlock immediately begins banging on the door, trying the handle.

           “Major Sholto!” Sherlock yells, hitting the door with an open hand.

           The Major speaks from behind the door. “If someone’s about to make an attempt on my life, it won’t be the first time. I’m ready.”

           “Major,” John steps forward. “Let us in. Or I’ll kick this bloody door down.”

           “I really wouldn’t,” he calls out. “I have a gun in my hand and a lifetime of unfortunate reflexes.”

           “You’re not safe in there. Whoever’s after you, we know that a locked room doesn’t stop him.”

           “Yes, I know. The invisible man with the invisible knife.”

           “I don’t know how he does it, so I can’t stop him and that means he’ll do it again.”

          ��“Solve it, then.”

           “I’m sorry?”

           “You’re the famous Mr. Holmes. Solve the case, on you go. Tell me how he did it, and I’ll open the door.”

           Sherlock shakes his head, stepping away.

           “Please, this is no time for games. Just let us in, you’re in danger!” John’s voice cracks on a matter of urgency, and the knot is your stomach is twisting dangerously tight.

           “So are you, so long as you’re here,” the Major counters. “Please, leave me. Despite my reputation, I really do not approve of collateral damage.”

           “Solve it,” Mary blurts.

           “Sorry?”

           “Solve it and he’ll open the door, like he said.”

           “I couldn’t solve it before, how can I solve it now?”

           “Because it matters now!” Mary cries.

           “What are you talking about? What’s she talking about? Get your wife under control.”

           “She’s right,” John replies, deadly serious.

           “Oh, you’ve changed!”

           You smack Sherlock’s arm harshly, finally succumbing to the urge you’ve had all evening. “Shut up!” Sherlock looks back at you, dejected and holding his shoulder where you hit it. “She’s right. You are not a puzzle solver, you idiot, you never were. You’re a goddamned drama queen. Now, there is a man in there about to die, the game is fucking on, solve it.”

           Sherlock’s eyes widen, though you can’t tell if it’s in shock or realization, but then he turns to the door, and you hear he’s solved it. “Major Sholto, no one’s coming to kill you. I’m afraid you’ve already been killed several hours ago.”

           “What did you say?”

           “Don’t take off your belt.”

           “The belt,” you mutter. “Of course.”

           “Bainbridge was stabbed hours before we even saw him. But it was through his belt – tight belt, worn high on the waist. Very easy to push a small blade through the fabric and you wouldn’t even feel it.”

           “The belt would bind the flesh together when it was tight. And when you took it off…” John trails away.

           “Exactly. Delayed action stabbing.”

           “Neat,” you mutter, then realizing what you’ve said, you grimace. “Sorry.”

           “You’re supposed to open the door, Major, he solved the case.”

           Silence.

           “Whatever you’re doing in there James, stop it, right now, I will kick this door down!” John yells.

           “You and I are very similar Mr. Holmes,” the Major continues. “There’s a proper time to die, isn’t there?”

           “There is.”

           “And one should embrace it when it comes. Like a soldier.”

           “Of course, but not at John’s wedding!” Sherlock screams. “We wouldn’t do that, would we, you and me? We would never do that to John Watson.”

           Sherlock steps away from the door, and right as John is getting ready to ram his foot through the door, it opens.

           John and Mary disappear into the room, leaving you and Sherlock in the hallway. He suddenly picks you up by your waist and spins you around, setting you down to press a firm kiss to your lips.

           “You’re a drama queen, too,” he pouts.

           “Shut up,” you shake your head, pulling him back into you for another kiss.

[donnerpartyofone]

honestly don’t even bother reading this, but

so look, everybody knows i’m too old to be on this stupid website, but can any of you millennials or whatever explain to me whether or not “try not to gasp” is now, or has ever been, a real thing that real people say to each other? lemme back up on a minute: i get abnormally annoyed with advertising of almost any kind. more to the point, i take it extremely personally, to an irrational degree. just the thought that somebody thinks they know how to force me to buy something sends me into a mindless rage, almost no matter what it is. the problem is that i’m hypersensitive to the way that an advertisement describes me, their target, as a person. it assumes that i lose my goddamn mind at the sight of an adorable baby with a gently sarcastic adult VO, or a high school graduation with swelling arcade fire-type music behind it, or a musclebound jock suspended in a bubble of his own sweat, or a dumb-looking broad with humongous knockers, or whatever. every time i see something like this, attached to the idea that i’m gonna pay money for whatever is associated with this imagery, i just feel like somebody is calling me a fucking asshole right to my face. i have no ability to distance myself from it, or keep in mind that ads represent a net cast as wide as possible, trolling for the lowest common denominators. i actually have this reaction to almost anything with a promotional aura around it. like, i don’t just *hate* bad music for the way that it sounds; when i hear bad music, i start to picture what kind of person i’d have to be to actually like that music, like what kind of mind i would have to have in order to perceive the signals coming from the bad music as pleasure, and then i start to imagine the ideal circumstance under which the bad music is playing, and i imagine myself at some gigantic horrible fucking rave or whatever completely filled with the kinds of dumbasses that the music is reaching out to, and i just feel like maybe i’m going to die of humiliation just from listening to the music for one second, and like i shouldn’t let anybody call me out as a stupid fucking piece of shit on this level, but i don’t know how to like...get revenge or whatever, so i just stew in my own loathing. so anyway, i have the same type of problem with clickbait. i look at the grainy, poorly cropped stock photos and read the deliberately half-formed sentences, and i start imagining exactly how stupid and tacky i would have to be to actually click on one of these things. it’s not even the fact that they’re like 80% extremely poisonous sexual garbage, and then 20% some melange of laughing at fat ugly people, positing violent disasters as jerk off material, or just making totally unreasonable claims--you know, that you’ll die of shock forever if you look closely at whatever is inside the one single pixel they’ve circled in red buried inside a boring arbitrary frame from Disney’s Hercules or something. (the circled secrets are possibly the worst; it’ll be like an already pretty horny picture of a barely-clothed woman, with a red circle in the middle of her elbow and the caption will go YOU WILL LOSE YOUR MIND FOR ALL ETERNITY WHEN YOU SEE THIS ONE SMALL DETAIL, and i’m like, what could the person who wrote this even HOPE that i will think? are they gonna show me all her germs after the jump? like am i gonna click on the picture hoping a dick pops out of her elbow and sings By a Waterfall to me? what is this shit even about?) the thing that pisses me off is the assumption that this content seems to make about me, the viewer. most obviously, it assumes that i’m frantically worried about which forgotten child actors are fuckable now, or which morbidly obese reality stars are fuckable now, or which ugly celebrities are fucking hot people now...or like, what happens when a duckling meets a puppy for the first time, which apparently i *will not believe*. but there’s this whole other thing--the “try not to gasp” thing. clickbait doesn’t just think i’m such a dumb piece of shit that i’ll click on these things, but it thinks that i am so mortally fragile that i will GASP. it thinks my entire respiratory system will spasm helplessly when i see what hermione looks like now or whatever (as if that isn’t current, heavily circulated information). there’s some guy on the other end of this picture of haley joel osment that he got off reuters, going, TRY NOT TO GASP WHEN YOU SEE WHAT HE LOOKS LIKE NOW! ARE YOU READY? BE CAREFUL THOUGH, YOU MIGHT GASP IF YOU LOOK! YOU SHOULD TAKE A BREATH BEFORE YOU CLICK ON THIS PICTURE! OR HOLD YOUR BREATH! OTHERWISE, A KIND OF BREATHING MIGHT HAPPEN, WHICH IS NOT THE KIND OF BREATHING YOU NORMALLY EXPECT! YOU MAY LOOK AT THIS PICTURE AND GASP, AND THEN THINK TO YOURSELF, “MY GOODNESS, I GASPED! I DID NOT THINK THAT I WOULD GASP! I THOUGHT, IT IS OK, I CAN GUESS WHAT HALEY JOEL OSMENT LOOKS LIKE TODAY, SURELY HIS FACE WILL NOT MAKE ME GASP. BUT I WAS WRONG! I GLIMPSED HIM, AND BREATH RUSHED INTO MY MOUTH, MAKING A LITTLE SOUND LIKE ‘GASP’! OH MY GOLLY, I NEVER THOUGHT IT WOULD HAPPEN TO ME, THIS GASPING! WEATHER.COM WARNED ME TO TRY NOT TO GASP, BUT THEY JUST KNEW I WOULD GASP ANYWAY! WHAT A SILLY FOOL I WAS TO EVER TRY NOT TO GASP!” like what is this? even in the world in which a person would actually gasp at something they found on aol.com, what are the consequences supposed to be of gasping? or like what do i fucking get if i DON’T gasp? every time i see one of these things, i picture a bunch of extremely virginal college freshmen squeezed onto the lower bunk of a dorm room at some parochial school bobbling all over each other in front of a gateway computer, turning koolaid red at the sight of veronica mars in a dress or something. and like...isn’t the internet all about becoming totally and completely jaded? just from the sheer speed at which shocking material circulates, to the point that it has eliminated the need for things like ogrish and rotten by now? hasn’t everybody with the internet seen at least one example of every kind of porn or accident video imaginable, even if you genuinely didn’t mean to? isn’t the internet all about how information wants to be free, so there’s just nothing remotely surprising about anything related to public figures, or videos that had their last view before vine even became a thing? who are the people who are supposed to be so scandalized by this stuff, and why do the people who actually create clickbait have such a hard time figuring out what’s ACTUALLY trending? you pretty much have to try HARDER to NOT find out what’s popular at any given moment. and yet, we still have this clickbait that seems to harken back to a world in which people might still sit through eternal buffering to ogle angelfire sites full of low res screen caps of hollywood actresses in R-rated shower scenes; a world in which the Family Computer is still a thing, and the potential harbinger of the devastating end of your personal life. MEN, DO NOT WATCH THIS VIDEO IF YOUR WIFE IS AROUND! warns the caption under a stock photo of a young woman in a tank top, wearing a neutral expression, sitting in a park. who are these MEN whose main source of stimulation are these tiny thumbnails littered all over msn news, who can only access them in a time and place where their WIVES are lurking nearby watching internet videos over their guilty husbands’ shoulders? i bag on how arcane these things are, but i (we) see them at the bottom of fairly popular contemporary websites too, which only confuses me more. it seems to me that the target audience for clickbait is just, todd and rodd flanders, and i’m trying to figure out how these innocent flanderses of the world could even have gotten their little luddite mitts on a computer in the first place, in order to be so massively and persistently victimized by this shit. i don’t get this at all. is “try not to gasp” a real thing that real people say to each other? was it ever?

[skellylicious]

Doll 6

Warning for intense/disturbing imagery.

Spot’s door was locked, again. Grumbling to himself, G strode over to the offending door and unlocked it with one hand, then paused. Voidster hadn’t done this in quite some time. Suspiciously, he turned the handle of the door, silently opening it to peer inside. The shaft of light from outside the room fell upon two figures lying together in the bed. Spot was lying on her side, staring blankly at the wall. Doll was behind her, arms wrapped around Spot’s torso and face buried in her hair. G sighed.

Spot glanced down at him, and gave a small, helpless shrug. Leaving the door open, the lich stepped into the room, kneeling beside her as Doll slept on, oblivious. “Did Voidster do this?” he murmured, barely audibly.

Spot grimaced, rolling her eyes. “What do you think? Apparently it’s my job to babysit whatever the two of you adopt; whether it’s a half-starved kitten or another human being. Voidster said the lock on her door is broken, and she wouldn’t stay in her room.”

G scowled, propping his chin on his hand, his elbow balanced on his knee as he muttered, “Why does he insist on keeping such a broken, useless, girl?”

He had intended the question to be rhetorical, but Spot surprised him with an answer. “Haven’t you noticed yet? That’s what he likes, G. This is your house, but all of us are here because of him. He likes broken people. Me...you...her.” She ignored his glare at being included in this category. “You know I’m right.”

She was right. G had never considered this before, and the reality of it stunned him. Voidster had always held a fascination for damaged people. He liked vulnerability. He liked to manipulate, to control. It was no surprise that he had taken in a girl who was both damaged, and prone to irrational adoration and obedience.

G had loved Sun for her sassy intelligence, her fearlessness and brilliant soul. It was what attracted him to her. He appreciated those traits in his mate as well. Voidster had none of Sun’s compassion or sense of Justice, but he was just as strong-willed and fearless. If G had a “type” of person that he felt attracted to, then that was it.

Voidster’s type was as Spot had said. Broken. Vulnerable. Easily manipulated. It didn’t sit well with the lich to realize this. He knew that Voidster had some respect for him, that the man treated him as an equal, usually. And yet, would he feel any interest at all in G, if G did not possess those “attractive” traits that his mate preferred? It disturbed him.

He was broken from his reverie by movement in the corner of his eye. Doll had woken up, and was watching him. “I used to have beautiful hair, like this,” she murmured, reverently touching Spot’s scalp. “The people who give you scars take everything away. It’s what they do.”

Disturbed, the lich stood up, ignoring the troubled look in Spot’s eyes. “Keep her out of my study,” he said shortly, then left, closing the door behind him.

***

My Angel didn’t know why I was crying, that night. I was showered, wrapped in a fresh towel, and carried back to my room. My bandages were removed, lest they become wet. I saw my face in the mirror. With the sight of the scar, like a hideous centipede attached to my temple, came a flood of memories.

***

They were screaming again. I cradled my younger sister against me and tried to shield her from the words. My parents hated us. They hated each other. The walls were thin, and we were too young to do anything but hide. We held each other and cried silently, lest the sound of our grief inspire further wrath.

She was a beautiful child, my sister. Auburn curls, hazel eyes. I always envied her those hazel eyes. We were best friends, only a year apart in age. We learned quiet games, and to read before our classmates. Reading was a safe thing; it made no noise, and took us away from the nightmarish world we lived in. The school was generous with books, which was good, for we could afford none of our own.

I was reading to her the day it happened. It was a fairytale. I remember it, like I remember the scent of her skin, and the warmth of her body in my lap. It was late afternoon, and the sunlight filtered into our filthy home, temporarily gilding the ugliness before the shadows came.

My mother had been drinking, staring out the window like she was waiting for someone. Perhaps for my father. He had left a vivid bruise on her arm, like maroon grapes imprinted on her soft flesh. She came into our bedroom, and I saw the bruise when she bent to take my sister’s hand for her bath. She saw me see it, and said nothing. I was not unintelligent. There was no explanation needed.

If I had known that would be the last time I saw my sister, I don’t know what I would have done. I rehearsed it in my head, afterward. Bravely taking her hand in mine, running out the door and into the streets. Pushing my mother’s hand away. Later, when I learned how it had happened, I imagined breaking the fingers of that hand. Curling my fist in the pretty auburn hair my sister had inherited, and dragging her head back while a blade slid across her throat.

Those awful thoughts didn’t come until later. Now, all I heard were the gentle sounds of the bath, the splashing of water. It was some time before I realized how long it had been. Much too long. When I listened, I heard my mother’s quiet sobbing from the bathroom, and the slosh of water against the tile. I think I knew, then. But my mind protected me for a little bit longer.

The walk down the hallway was long, and solemn. Shadows were beginning to form. Father would be home soon. I was worried that he would be angry our baths had taken so long. Dinner wasn’t ready. I saw the uncooked pasta lying on the countertop.

Hesitantly, I pushed the bathroom door open. And the fluorescent light flickered over a scene that embedded itself in my mind like a parasitic worm, burrowing, and burrowing. I saw my sister lying naked in the tub, face down in the water. Her beautiful curls floated serenely in the tepid waves. I screamed.

My mother sat helplessly on the floor, staring at her hands, weeping. I dragged my sister’s body from the tub, though it seemed to weigh more than anything I could imagine. Her lips were blue. Her beautiful eyes were cold and blank. I shook her and screamed again. My mother wept. My sister flopped limply in my grasp- like a doll. The neighbors came. Then the ambulance came. They took us all to the hospital. I held my sister’s hand so that she wouldn’t be afraid. Her hand was cold. She was silent. My mother wept.

The nurses at the hospital were kind, but soon the police came. They led my mother, unresisting, away. I called out to her, but she did not meet my eyes. They had seen the bruises. I could not live with my father, and my sister was in Heaven now. I was sent away. For failing to protect her, I was sent to Hell instead.

Girls can be cruel. They teased me for being an orphan. They said that my parents didn’t want me. They said that my mother had killed my sister. They said that she should have killed me, as well. I couldn’t disagree.

The beds in the orphanage were cold. The food was tasteless. There were no books to read. The other children invented games, as children are wont to do, and I watched them. I could not find myself. I was still on the bathroom tile, screaming. The worm burrowed deeper into my mind, my sister’s body rigid, her face with eyeless sockets and an open mouth, silently screaming. My stillness unnerved the other orphans. They let me be, when they found I did not react to the usual taunts. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

When I was old enough for swimming class at the school, I stared at the ultramarine water. It seemed as vast and endless as that porcelain ocean my sister had died in. We jumped into the water, and I let myself sink. At first, nobody noticed. I took one gushing breath of liquid in, before the lifeguard pulled me out, and forced me to expel it. I didn’t die that day, but I found myself again. Briefly. The worm went still, but my sister’s screaming face remained embedded in my dreams.

A new craving built in me, poisoning my spirit. I yearned to see my mother one more time. I built violence within my soul until I quivered with it, slicing my own skin with a piece of glass to watch the blood run. I imagined it was my mother’s throat. Vengeance drove me to eat, to sleep, to survive. Without it, I would not have lived. Perhaps that would have been best.

It took only a few quiet altercations for the other youths to learn that I was better left alone. I began carrying a knife; a tiny, easily hidden switchblade. One day I would use it on my mother. For now, it merely leant me a reputation. Girls stopped being cruel. They feared me. Until a few made the mistake of forgetting why I was feared.

It was only a matter of time, really. Until somebody learned of my past. Until a pack of cruel, taunting girls made the mistake of mentioning my sister’s death. I don’t remember what happened. One moment, they surrounded me, laughing and jeering. Then the screaming began. Somebody grabbed my wrist, forcing me to drop the bloody knife in my hand. A girl lay beneath me, bleeding from her eye and cheek. The skin had been so deeply slashed, the muscle was exposed.

I didn’t realize that I was screaming, that I had been screaming, until the other teachers wrestled me away from her. It was my sister’s name. A battle cry. A mantra. I would burn the world to bring her back. I would kill them all. That’s what I was saying, when the ambulance came. Two, actually. One for the girl I had wounded. One to take me away.

When you’re a “violent” patient, you’re treated like an animal. I paced like an angry tiger when they didn’t sedate me. When they did, I mumbled fever dreams and threats. I told them all the plans I had, I described my mother’s death. I asked for my knife. They didn’t give it to me. I told them I would kill them all and lay their corpses on my sister’s altar. They wrote down what I said, with interested expressions.

When an orderly tried to drag me into a dark closet, running his hands over my body, I didn’t scream. I tilted my head up, let my lips brush against his throat, then sank my teeth into it. I didn’t scream. He did. I took a chunk of flesh with me, his blood smearing my face like a crime scene. It sprayed from his neck and dripped down the front of my stained gown. Yes, I did it. His body’s meat was in my mouth. He didn’t come back.

There was but one solution for my incurable violence. They strapped me to the bed and shaved my head. I thrashed and struggled, spitting obscenities at them until I was gagged. They wheeled the bed into an operating room. The lights were so bright, it was like staring into the sun. I was furious. My heart beat in my ears and my body was like an overstrung bow. The surgeon put the mask over my face, and the last thing I saw before I slept, was my sister’s hollow-eyed, screaming face.

***

I woke with my arms wrapped around her, my mind blissful and hazy. I could feel her smooth locks against my cheek, feel the warmth of the blanket in the bed we shared. It was as if I were transported to my childhood, safe again with my sister.

But then I heard her voice, and it was low. Not the voice of a child at all. And I heard the static-laced voice of the man. Slowly, I truly became aware. The sharpness of my memories faded into the wandering haze of my new awareness. I wasn’t home. Nor in the hospital. My emotions, that had felt so real, were lost as the dreamscape disappeared. I was complacent again.

When the man left, the woman turned to me, gently touching my face. I realized that tears had dried on it again, and wondered why. She didn’t make me sad. She was kind.

“Do you want some breakfast?” she whispered gently, and I nodded. Carefully, she disentangled herself from my arms, helping me out of the bed. A vague unease had settled in my mind, but I could find no reason for it. The light from the lamp glowed a warm gold, like a sunny afternoon. It hurt a little, to look at it. It reminded me of a fairytale.

“Doll?” Her voice was hesitant, and I turned to face her blankly.

“My sister was a doll, once,” I said softly, not really sure what I meant. A sister? Why would I have a sister? “I don’t have a sister,” I amended, before the woman could speak. Stupid. Not making sense. No wonder the angry man didn’t want me here.

Struggling to focus, I smiled at her. She returned the smile, but it was tired and lonely when she wore it. It made me sadder than if she hadn’t smiled at all.

“We’ll have some fruit and toast,” she said, and I nodded, taking her outstretched hand. For the briefest moment, her face transformed. Maggots squirmed in the darkness of her empty eyes, her mouth torn open and fanged, screaming. I stared, but I did not flinch. The worm moved sluggishly through my brain, and the vision was gone as suddenly as it had come. I didn’t question it. It meant nothing to me.