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kentopedia · 3 months

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I loooveee the way u write nanami 🥺🥺 was wondering if u could do a mini fic on nanami x reader but when they were in high school :O I feel reader would constantly flirt with him but he stays unbothered until she stops 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫 thank uuuu

౨ৎ ˖ ࣪⊹ HIGH SCHOOL SWEETHEARTS — nanami kento

omg thank u so so much, you're very sweet <3 i think i was taking requests when you asked this, so im so so so sorry i took forever to answer :( this isn't exactly what you said but i hope it's close to what you had in mind <3

contents: sfw, high school nanami & reader, mutual pining, silly teenage emotions, fluff, it's not even really romantic but they're best friends that won't admit they have a crush on each other, reader is shorter than him, gn!reader — 1.2k

“you can’t stay mad at me forever, kento.”

your best friend — or so you thought — stayed silent as you walked through the abandoned warehouse, searching for the curses that needed exorcising. so far, they’d evaded you, just as kento had all of your questions.

he glanced over at you, mouth drawn into its usual line. “i can if i want.”

“oh really?” you huffed, crossing your arms over your chest as you continued forward, following him through the building. “are you fifteen or five? you’re supposed to be the mature one!”

kento rolled his eyes, but didn’t dignify that with a verbal response, letting his blade dangle loosely at his side. an odd sound echoed through the hallways, but it wasn’t quite menacing enough to be a curse.

you groaned. “don’t you know everyone will just keep pairing us up on missions until we work this out?” if kento was going to continue to be a pain, you wouldn’t allow him the silence he wanted so desperately. he’d been ignoring you for over a week. “haibara’s lucky. he gets to go with the second years.”

nanami glanced over his shoulder, raising his eyebrow, before looking ahead once more. “you mean he’s lucky he gets to go with gojo.”

though you weren’t sure if it was supposed to be an insult to you or not, you laughed. “maybe.”

“yeah,” kento scoffed. “i thought so.”

the tone was flatter than usual, even for someone like kento, and you raised your eyebrows, letting the words settle between you.

“you’re being so sour. you know, you never even told me what i did wrong. you’re so mad at me, kento, and i don’t even really know why.”

kento watched his feet take one step, then another, the opposite ones moving ahead. he’d grown a lot over the summer — a fact you’d somehow only realized. since when had he been that much taller than you?

“i’m not mad,” he finally settled on. a weak argument as to why he’d been ignoring you for the duration of your mission, and the week before.

you frowned, chewing the inside of your mouth. although kento had a kind heart, you knew how nasty he could be to people he didn’t like. you didn’t want to be one of those on the list. “kento… i really am sorry. if i’ve done something wrong.”

the tension drained from his shoulders. he sighed. “you haven’t.”

despite wanting to push the issue further, you let it die, deciding to listen to the silence in case of any curses. though, it had been nearly half an hour, and you hadn’t found any yet. you were beginning to think that maybe your teacher had led you astray.

“can i ask you something?” kento, after ten minutes, finally interrupted the quiet again. and though that sort of phrase was never a good sign, you would’ve taken anything to get him talking to you again.

“of course, kento.”

he sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, seeming shy, almost. had it not been so dark, you would have seen the slight tint of pink on his cheeks, that you only assumed was there to begin with.

“what is it about gojo that you like so much?”

you blinked. “what do you mean?”

“you’re… interested in him, aren’t you? like that?” kento shifted awkwardly, holding his body as if it wasn’t quite his own. “i mean, i just assumed…”

all over, you great hot, your cheeks burning with embarrassment, a wave of dread heaping onto your stomach. “you think i have a crush on gojo?”

“don’t you?”

you thought about it for a moment, staring at the ceiling. “i don’t know. maybe.”

“maybe?” kento pinched his eyebrows together. “what the hell kind of answer is that? you either do or you don’t.”

“i think he’s...” you stumbled over the words, not really sure when you’d started talking to nanami kento about these sorts of things. the words tasted sour in your mouth. “well, i suppose he’s attractive, isn’t he? he’s certainly charming. he makes me laugh.”

“you’re always flirting with him," kento said skeptically.

you shrugged. "i'm just teasing. if you consider that flirting, then i guess i am."

“hm. you sound like you think you’re supposed to be interested in him, just because he’s gojo.”

that raised a small laugh out of you. “maybe you’re right. i think i might just be interested in people i know won’t ever like me back.” kento’s eyes flashed, and before he could say anything, lips parted, you continued. “but what do i know about anything, anyway? teenagers are supposed to be dumb like that, aren’t they?”

kento frowned, brown eyes softer than you’d seen in awhile. “i don’t think you’re dumb.”

“thanks.” for some reason, that made you bashful, darting your eyes away as you smiled at the ground. “have you ever had a crush on anyone, kento?”

he gave you a tiny little smile, poking you in the temple, before repeating your words from earlier. “i don’t know. maybe.”

“you’re so stupid.”

kento laughed, then, a light noise that was more familiar to you than it was to a lot of others. “you know, if it makes you feel better, i think gojo likes you. really, i do. he thinks you’re pretty. he likes when you laugh at his jokes. geto told us. he talks about you to him all the time.”

and though you’d expected the words to send a wave of glee over you, the sort of silly emotion that came with a teenage crush, you didn’t feel excited as you should've. perhaps because satoru had never been the one you wanted.

“gojo just likes to be admired. besides, everyone likes when people laugh at their jokes. that's not special.” you kicked at the floor. “anyway, geto’s probably just telling you all that so you’ll tell me and i’ll make a fool of myself in front of them. that would really make them laugh.”

kento frowned, contemplative. “i don’t think he would do that.”

he wouldn’t. it just seemed the only good way to diverge the conversation.

you threw your hands up, expelling a loud sigh. “well… whatever. honestly, it doesn't matter. i don’t think i even want a boyfriend.”

kento gawked at you for a moment, lips slightly parted, before he shook his head, another snort of a laugh leaving him. “you’re so confusing.”

“you should be relieved. wouldn’t you be miserable if i started dating gojo?” you were only teasing him, bumping his shoulder with your own, a playful grin on your face.

but kento’s voice was gentle when he returned his answer, and the relief was evident on his face. “i would.”

whether you knew it then, or not, that little confession had changed the course of your life. you brushed it off easily, gripping your cursed tool tightly as you turned the corner again.

“hey kento?”

“what? the curses are going to sneak up on us if—”

“you’re my best friend, by the way. even if i was dating gojo, you’d still be my best friend. you’ll always be my best friend.” you stopped him, serious now. “no matter what happens.”

kento smiled softly, barely there at all. he squeezed your hand in return. “i hope so.”

#kento nanami x reader #jjk x reader #nanami fluff #nanami kento x reader #nanami kento x you #nanami kento x y/n #kento nanami x you #nanami x reader #jjk x fem!reader #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #xoxo rylie 💌 ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

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semperama · 9 months

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at any given time i am thinking of your ex-husbands with benefits fic 😍🤯😵‍💫

I love how much you love that ficlet!! Thank you so much. :') I wrote a little more of it, just for you!! <3

---

“I’m retiring,” Max tells him after the Melbourne Grand Prix.

They’re sitting in a bar. It’s one Daniel hasn’t been to before, one that seems to fit this moment. Soft jazz piano in the background, liquor and large round ice cubes in their glasses. It fills him with vertigo, the difference between where they are now and where they were five years ago, ten years ago.

“I’ve heard that one before,” Daniel says. He tries to smile, make it a joke, but it feels too stiff.

“I mean it,” Max insists. “I’ve already told Christian. He wants to be done after this season too.”

Daniel knew that part. Christian told him weeks ago on a phone call that left him baffled for days afterward. Daniel has been retired for five years, and he and Max have been divorced for nearly four. He’s well past needing updates from Christian, either in his capacity as Max’s minder or as Daniel’s ex-boss.

He’s supposed to be beyond needing updates from Max, too—but here they are.

“Alright. Well.” Daniel wraps both hands around his glass, letting the cold seep into his skin. “Congratulations, I guess?”

He has no idea what he’s supposed to say. He has questions, but he knows better than to ask him. What did Max get out of these last five years? Is he happy about what he sacrificed? Two more championships and another handful of records broken. If Daniel had those things, he’s sure he’d be happy about it, but it’s hard to be the one sitting on the other side of the table.

“You are not happy,” Max says. It isn’t a question.

“Max.” Daniel sighs. He grips his glass harder, imagines it shattering under his palms, slicing his skin. “You want me to be happy?” He pastes on a smile, wide and fake. “Here. Happy.”

Max clenches his jaw, and his anger makes Daniel’s rise in answer, the feeling of it more comforting than it should be. Like a shield.

“I don’t know what you expected me to do,” Max says.

Of course he doesn’t. He never listened. Not really. He won’t listen now either, so why even bother? Daniel lifts his glass to his lips instead and drains it, holding Max’s gaze. “Let’s get out of here,” he says as he clunks the crystal back down on the table. When Max frowns at him and starts to shake his head, Daniel stands up anyway. “It’s what you wanted, right? Don’t pretend it’s not.”

Max finishes his drink too, but his expression still says no. He’s about to leave alone, leave Daniel here alone, and—fuck that. Daniel comes around the table and leans over him, one hand on the back of his chair and one on the table, boxing him in. He’s never been great with words, but he lets himself fantasize for a moment about saying something cutting. The feeling fills him up, words crowding his throat, but then it passes. Instead, he says, “I got our usual room.”

It has the desired effect. Max sucks in a sharp breath and tips his head up, but Daniel hovers just out of reach, their lips barely brushing. Their usual room—where Max first told him he loved him and fucked him up for good. They’d just had their first podium together since Daniel came back to the team, and Max’s mouth was sticky sweet with the champagne they hadn’t stopped drinking for hours. Daniel’s checked into that room every year since, even after the divorce. Every inch of it is overlaid with Max’s presence; he spends the whole weekend seeing double.

“I don’t want you to hate me,” Max says against Daniel’s mouth.

It’s too late for that. Daniel hates him—a terrifying amount, sometimes—but he loves him more. Loves him always. And that’s the part that really sucks.

“Come on,” Daniel says, and he tugs Max to his feet, wraps an arm around his waist and gathers him in close. People are probably watching, but he stopped giving a fuck about that a long time ago. He kisses Max, and when he pulls away, he can finally say, “I’m happy for you, really,” and make himself mean it. Because if Max isn’t happy, this was all for nothing. Daniel’s been miserable for nothing.

#maxiel #f1 #my writing #the power of someone telling you they can't stop thinking about something you wrote...#it makes me want to write 50k words!!!#it makes me feel like i could write 50k words in one afternoon!!!

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myysaints · 2 years

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don't make promises you can't keep (p.m.)

PETE "MAVERICK" MITCHELL x f!reader

⌗︙・ summary — months after you and maverick's... "thing"... ended, you find yourself face to face with the one that got a way. there's a reason why people don't make promises they can't keep.

contains — angst, pining, reader and mav have ~history~, fluffy ending!!

note — you can interpret this as being tg1 or tgm mav! i purposefully left the identity of the vice admiral (reader's boss) vague, but if you're going for tgm mav i recommend reading him as cyclone :) hope you enjoy! this one's a long one, i got way in over my head for mav 😵‍💫

Parties aren’t really your thing, you’ve decided.

Well, military parties, at least. Alright, to call this function a “party” would be giving it a great deal more praise than warranted - What it really is is a large charity gala hosted by General Kazansky, one in which only the highest-ranking officers and lieutenants are privy to attend. And somehow, you’ve made your way inside.

It all comes with the job. You suppose you should have known that being the secretary of a Vice Admiral would get you on the guest list of one of these… things, eventually.

In due course, your superior had said to you when you inquired on the possibility of these out-of-office functions. You’ll be representing a part of my office.

That’s why you’re now smoothening down your dress for the umpteenth time tonight, flashing your politest half-smile at some retired general in front of you. You don’t have a clue what he’s talking about - Something about the Top Gun programme, which, of course, you’re extremely familiar with by now. And, bored of having mansplained to you.

“-But you know, in all my years of flying and instructing at Top Gun, I’ve never, ever,” here the general laughs, and you smile politely, albeit distractedly, back, “Come across a man as brave - and as stupid - as Pete fuckin’ Mitchell.”

You blink, surprised. Pete Mitchell. Lieutenant. Or is he Captain, now? Well, whatever he is, you know him by-

Maverick.

It’s a name you’re familiar with, one that carries a tugging of heartstrings and brings a lump in your throat when you think about it.

The admired pilot with balls of steel and a nerve to match. Always hitting the mark on missions, but always defying the higher-ups while doing so. The man, the myth, the legend - Your one who got away.

Your memories of Maverick are a blurry daze of sweltering late-nights, legs tangled up in bedsheets, tracing stars on his back. Giggles smothered by messy kisses. Warm hands on your waist.

The empty bed when you awoke. The lonely nights that only grew longer once you realised -

He wasn’t coming back.

You still aren’t sure what exactly happened in your short stint with Pete Mitchell. You’d been head over heels for him, and you’d been so sure he felt the same - But as soon as you were ready to call what you two had love, he’d been called away to a mission in Iraq. Leaving you with nothing but a five-minute long call and a hesitating “I’ll miss you”.

You’d met when you were but a temporary administrative assistant at the Air Station, tasked with doing impossibly insignificant tasks, like filing papers and delivering coffee.

And Maverick? He’d been the suave golden boy who visited you at breaks, who asked around the office to find out which flowers were your favourite, who taught you how to play - and win - pool for the first time.

You fell for him instantly.

But that was all months ago, almost a year from now, so you don’t want to get your hopes up. You and Maverick, you try to convince yourself, are a thing of the past.

Still, you find yourself scouring the party for the rest of the night, cautiously sipping on your glass of champagne, praying to any God left. Though, praying for what, you don’t quite know.

You bid a hasty goodbye to the general and slip away as fast as you can. The flute in your hand is empty and screaming for refill. You have the feeling you’ll need it tonight.

Sighing, you make your way to the bar, silently gesturing to the bartender. As you rest your chin on your palm, eyes travelling through the crowd, you feel a tap on your shoulder.

Jumping, you whip around, only to hear a surprised “Shit!”. Then, something wet, dripping, on your arm.

“God, Y/N, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to-” The stranger laughs in frustration, running a hand through his hair. “Jeez, this is not how I planned for this to go.”

Then it hits you.

“Maverick?” you say, feeling your cheeks heat up, involuntarily.

A small smile graces the features of the man before you.

“The one and only.”

Your heart - stupidly - does a little flip.

He looks good, dammit. Too good. It seems that in the weeks and months that have passed since you last saw him, he only got better - A better pilot, and better looking.

All these months, these days and nights, holding back tears of silent, unwilling yearning. All that crumbles in the face of his glorious, unwavering, being. All this time, and you’re still drawn to him. Magnetic.

“Here,” he begins to shrug off his suit jacket, “Take this.”

“Mav, that’s really not necess-”

“No, I insist.” He hands you his coat. “It’s the least I can do for ruining your dress. I just hope I haven’t ruined your night.”

You smile half-heartedly, shrugging before turning back to search for your missing flute of champagne. “Not really much to ruin, I suppose.”

You feel his gaze - soft, firm - as he helps you into his coat jacket. “So, how’ve you been?”

You’re unable to stop the scoff that escapes past your lips, and you don’t miss the slight frown that makes its way across Maverick’s face.

“How have I been?” you repeat emptily, observing the hurt that flits across your face.

“Is it a crime to ask?”

“Well, no, but considering you up and left my life like I was nothing, I guess I didn’t expect you to be at all interested in ‘how I’ve been’.” Your words come out in a breathless, angry rush, a flood of hurt and bottled up emotions threatening to break loose.

Something in his eyes deflates, and remorse courses through you. You try to ignore the way your heart hurts at the way his face crumples.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, rubbing his face, guilt written all over his face.

“Do you even know what you’re sorry for?”

It’s meant to come out harsh; An aimed jab at your shared history, complicated and short-lived as it was. But it instead leaves your mouth sounding like a plea, a quiet play at his heartstrings.

Maverick seems to relent, however, averting his gaze.

“I know.

"It was stupid of me. It was stupid of me to leave you, to not call, to pretend like what we had was nothing. But the truth, Y/N, the whole and honest truth, is that I was afraid. I was scared and I was a coward because I couldn��t face that what I felt for you was- was-”

His voice cracks, and your heart thrums. It beats for him.

“…It was love.”

Your breath hitches, and all at once, the world goes quiet. It’s a stupid cliche, overdone and overwrought, but the moment those words leave his mouth, everything else fades away.

No wine on the front of your dress. No bartender working behind the counter. No superiors to appease, no unnamed generals to smile at, no life-threatening missions to worry about, no distractions.

Just you and him.

Maverick gives a weak smile, laughing quietly in embarrassment. “But I guess I’m too late, huh?”

You frown. “What?”

He shrugs, though the jealousy glinting in his eyes betrays his faux nonchalance.

Nodding towards your boss mingling amongst the crowd, Maverick says, haltingly, “Your husband, right?”

You splutter, eyes going wide.

“No, no-” you hurry to correct, “-That’s my boss! I’m just- I’m his secretary, see.”

Maverick lets out a soft “Oh” of surprise. A soft blush settles over his cheeks.

You resist the urge to reach up and cup his face.

“So…” he ventures, hesitating. “You’re… single?”

You laugh lightly, nodding. “Indeed I am.”

A moment of silence lapses, though it’s a comforting one; Maverick smiles, and you’re pleasantly surprised to find that his jacket - after all this time - still feels just as right.

“Did you mean it? That you loved me?”

At the word “loved”, Maverick seems to flinch.

Was that not what he meant? That he loved you? It was love that he had for you, it was love that you had for each other. He said it himself for Christ’s sake.

Just as you’re about to double down, he speaks, his words rushed, “Iloveyounotloved.”

You blink.

What?

You stutter, with your heart in your throat and your lungs on fire, “I- You… love- You love…”

“I love you.”

Maverick’s eyes shine with hope, and you feel your heart clench and unclench and do a million somersaults.

“You do. You love me.”

He laughs, breathless, carelessly running a hand through his hair. “God. Yes. Of course I do, sweetheart, I’ve loved you ever since I first met you. I’ve loved you ever since you gave me that pink pen and laughed and said my signature looked good in pink. I’ve loved you ever since I first woke up to you beside me and I’ve loved you every morning since. I’m so fucking sorry I couldn’t be the man you needed, the man you deserve.”

He smiles sheepishly now, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck. “I get that this is all really… really sudden, so I totally get if you want me to go and disappear from your life-”

“No!”

The conviction in your voice surprises even yourself, and you wrench yourself away from him.

Embarrassed, you say, tentatively, “I want you to stay.”

Maverick blinks. “Huh?”

“I want you to stay,” you say, louder, but still soft enough so that he has to cup his hands over his ears and mouth “What?”.

You sigh in frustration, nearly yelling as you exclaim, “I WANT YOU TO STAY!”

An unsettling silence settles over the whole party, and you blush, not missing the pointed - but amused - glance your boss sends you.

But that doesn’t matter. All of it - the disapproving frowns of generals, the raised eyebrows of fellow party-goers, the snickers and chuckles rising from the crowd - none of it holds any weight. Not when Pete “Maverick” Mitchell is standing in front of you, smiling like he just won the lottery.

And he practically did, he thinks.

“Alright, I’ll stay, you don’t have to yell,” Maverick grins cheekily, wrapping an arm around you. His chest is strong and warm against you.

“Promise you won’t be going anywhere?” you murmur, leaning your head against his sturdy frame.

A deep laugh rumbles in his chest, and you fight back a smile at the familiar sensation. Butterflies erupt in your stomach and threaten to spill.

“I promise.”

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my-mt-heart · 10 months

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Please humour me, and thanks in advance for putting up with my rant.

I recently started a rewatch of twd to help pass the time while I wait for twd:dd in September, and this question keeps coming back to me.

How long has Daryl been in love with Carol, while she has no idea? What do you think?

I think from season 1, but he didn't really know it himself till the start of season five, where they reunited in the forest, and since then has either been too scared to do anything about it, too occupied by everything that has happened to the group in the years since to allow himself to feel/pursue it, or he's genuinely felt that he doesn't deserve her/she deserves better, OR all/combination of the above.

Carol, on the other hand, I think only realised the extent of her own feelings at the end of season 11. The looks they shared while Magna's group was crying over Luke (almost like they were so grateful that the other was still alive, and it could have so easily been one of them crying over the other's death), and then the looks again later when they were waiting for Judith to wake up after surgery, really tells me that in those moments they both realised something significant about how they feel for each other, and how a future isn't promised and that they could lose each other for good at any moment.

And don't get me started on their farewell scene because it broke my heart; once again, these two did the selfless thing and put others' safety and happiness over their own. They each decided to go on a journey to help/save someone else. The way Daryl looked back at her for one last time after getting on the bike was almost like he was hoping she'd tell him to stay.

In Judith's words, "You [Daryl] deserve a happy ending too"!!! and he'll only really come to believe this once it's too late and he's stuck across an ocean, trying to get back to them.

And my queen, Carol, will cross an ocean to find him; I'm gonna cry just thinking about it. I love them so much.

Let me know what you think. Am I being delusional? I want to know how someone else sees this.

I’m overdue for a rewatch myself, I just haven’t felt motivated lately. I think there are a lot of clues pointing to Daryl and Carol developing feelings for each other early on like you said, but they *both* needed time to sort it out for themselves. Grief kept piling on over the years, insecurities deepened, and while their love only grew, they both went through periods of believing they weren’t good enough for each other. I think Daryl overcame it in the last couple seasons, hence “I know where I’m supposed to be.” Hence, why Daryl’s alleged uncertainty in the spinoff makes zero sense.

To be completely honest, I hated their last scene(s) together. I hated that one of the most anticipated moments—exchanging I loves you’s—was used to distract the audience from what was really happening i.e. Daryl leaving Carol. I don’t think it was a selfish or a selfless choice on his part because I don’t think there was any emotional realism to it at all. He had a spinoff to get to 🤷🏻‍♀️😑 I do think Carol was trying to make it easier for Daryl to go, but that just exposes a much sadder truth which is—after 11 seasons and even a time jump of one year—Carol *still* hasn’t healed from her insecurities/trauma. She *still* thinks Daryl could be happier without her. In an EW interview, Melissa chose the song “Crazy” by Patsy Cline to represent the end of Carol’s story. That speaks volumes. There were a handful of characters TWD owed honorable endings and they butchered all of them, but Carol’s was the worst.

The point I’m getting to is no, you aren’t delusional. It’s just that the spinoff has *a lot* to make up for. Do I think it can? Based on what we know about S2, yes. Am I ready to give up my cynicism? No. Not yet, but I hope to soon 😵‍💫

#caryl #caryl spinoff #carol peletier #melissa mcbride #darylneedscarol

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miracleonice87 · 1 year

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“Don’t call me cupcake in public, I have a reputation!” with Tyler Seguin (1) - from m’s two year tumblrversary prompt list

9 months later and I’m finally fulfilling this request from @starshine-hockey-girl, though the original ask just got eaten by my inbox 😵‍💫 thankfully I remembered who this was for! hope you enjoy after all this time 🫶

- - -

Game 5: Minnesota Wild at Dallas Stars

Stars win, 4-0

You stood scrolling your phone postgame, shoulder leaned against the cool, painted cement block corridor wall deep in the hidden heart of American Airlines Center, across from the entrance to the families room as you waited for your boyfriend to exit the locker room. The corners of your lips automatically pulled upward as you pored over the Stars’ Instagram stories showcasing Tyler’s legendary pregame stretching and warmup routine, followed by the numerous goal celebrations throughout the night, including one of his own. You were so engrossed in your feed that you didn’t hear the sound of footsteps falling down the hall toward you.

“What are you smilin’ about over there?” a deep, unmistakable voice rang out a few yards in front of you.

You immediately stood up straight upon hearing Tyler, tucking your phone into the pocket of your playoff jacket and crossing your arms casually over your chest.

“You, Mr. Four-Goals-in-Five-Playoff-Games,” you retorted. He beamed, now just a few steps away.

“Do I get a kiss for that achievement?” he inquired, the way his one brow quirked above his playful honey brown eyes eliciting a tingle up your spine.

You tapped a finger against your chin and hummed, feigning contemplation. You were now toe-to-toe with your partner, though his frame towered over yours and melted you instantaneously.

“Well, I suppose,” you muttered, barely getting out the last syllable before he dipped his head down to capture your lips with his. The kiss lingered despite the bustle of the surrounding staff and fellow players and families, and you physically had to press a hand to his chest to bring it to a halt, though you wrapped your arms around his waist to keep him close.

“Easy, tiger,” you joked softly, making him giggle.

“Sorry, guess I’m a little keyed up,” he admitted.

“No wonder – you were amazing,” you praised. You pressed a chaste kiss to his neck, inhaling his familiar post-shower scent as you nestled your head against his. “I’m so proud of you,” you whispered against his skin.

He let out a low chuckle and squeezed you appreciatively.

“That’s what keeps me goin’,” he told you sincerely, kissing your cheekbone before you pulled away.

“How you feelin’?” you asked, your hand falling from his collar in favor of rubbing his back through his suit jacket.

He exhaled through pursed lips. “Tired,” he admitted, rolling his head from one side to the other. “Sore.”

You hummed in understanding but couldn’t resist the urge to tease.

“Don’t worry, I’ll go home and run you a bath, cupcake,” you told him, playfully patting his bearded cheek.

Tyler gasped dramatically, smirk on his lips, and he pried your fingers from his face.

“Don’t call me cupcake in public! I have a reputation!” he exclaimed, hand still clasped around yours.

You chuckled devilishly as he turned your hand to press a kiss to your wrist.

“But seriously, thanks for taking care of me, especially this time of year,” he said, allowing your joined hands to fall as he spoke. “Couldn’t do what I do without you.”

You smiled, squeezing his hand affectionately. “Nothing I’d rather do, babe,” you assured him softly. “See you at home.”

Tyler nodded, kissed you one last time, then, with a wink, disappeared down the hallway.

#requests #tyler seguin #prompt list #my writing #tyler seguin blurb #tyler seguin fanfiction #tyler seguin fanfic #tyler seguin fic #m’s 2 year tumblrversary

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ded-and-gonne · 1 year

Text

by @firstpersonnarrator || Header gif by the divine @salvador-daley || possession prompt by anon

Part 4: Somebody’s in the garden

<<———😵‍💫———>>

TW: main character injury; possession; two not-brothers flirting; my absurdist sense of humor heavily featuring a not-so-bright, omniscient-first-person narrator; a hazy grasp of Pilgrim-speak; bad gardeners; mimes.

AN: The night before Halloween is Devil’s Night, when the veil between the living and the dead is at its 2nd thinnest. After Klaus’s delightfully successful Devil’s Night prank, he’s feeling moderately guilty for scaring the shit out of Ben. So he has decided it would be best to target Ben’s vanity, and boost his not-brother’s self esteem by finally giving in and substituting ‘Evil’ in place of ‘Mean.’ Don’t worry, it doesn’t last.

<<———😵‍💫———>>

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<<———😵‍💫———>>

“Evil Ben? Is it just me, or is this garden surprising?”

They’d agreed to attempt a search for a hypothetical concept called a “kitchen” somewhere in their wing of the building. It had worked. But instead of being knee-deep in champagne like Ben prefers to be, they’re off bumping, unintentionally, into creepy buried gardens, and things of that nature.

Klaus had popped wood at the mere thought of owning a secret garden. To be fair, he had also just been fondling a green man.

Now, atop a set of low, rough-hewn steps, Klaus and Evil Ben stand looking out over a broad, circular patio of stone, surveying the strangeness beyond.

A perfectly Devil’s Night-ish kind of garden lies beyond, full of dead things that had formerly been alive.

It’s clear that the flagstones had once been leveled, engraved, and polished to a high shine. But the frost heaves that bedevil New England in winter have utterly destroyed the flat perfection of the patio over time. Flagstones thrust up like fallen gravestones, with ropes of ivy pulling at the gaps between.

Sad patches of brown grass dot bald earth where once there had been a lawn. The remains of an ancient orchard have devolved into nothing but a twisted stand of five skeletons and their splintered deadfall, all of it jagged and aggressively stabby. An intricate design of garden beds has been overtaken and strangled to death by tall weeds, persistently poking through years of matted, decaying leaves. Darkness. And urns.

Ben is currently scanning with intense eyes beneath matchingly intense eyebrows, and croaks, “What?”

“Wow. Bennerino, you still don’t sound so good,” Klaus unhelpfully points out. “Huh. I wonder how your threats will sound now. Will you be miming them?”

Ben turns a face full of anger and accusations on Klaus. But he’s forced to admit to himself that he will not be picking any more tantrums for the foreseeable future. He deflates, and finally mimes *huh?* followed by *I fucking hate you.*

“No you don’t,” Klaus replies, exaggerating the shaking of his head no, as if he, too, has to mime.

Ben rolls his eyes, then nods with exaggeration, accompanied by miming, *Yes, I do. I really do.*

“This is fun! We should make up our own miming language!” Klaus exclaims. “We can use it as code when we get our first job detecting supernatural stuff and things.”

Ben mimes, *That’s stupid.*

“No it’s not,” says Klaus, once more exaggerating his head-shaking.

Ben mimes, *Yes it is. It really is.*

“We should probably discuss this when you don’t have to play charades. I hate to say it, babe, but you’re not very good at it.” Klaus flaps his hands, effectively miming *Nevermind all that.* “So, hey. Remember what I was saying before? About the surprising garden?”

Rolling his eyes, Ben huffs a deeply frustrated breath.

“Is this place supposed to have a garden?” Klaus asks, side-eyeing the vegetation.

Ben again looks to the heavens, then gives in and mimes, *I am unrolling invisible architectural blueprints with my hands, see me pointing? See me shaking my head no? There was no garden in the blueprints.*

Klaus mimes back, *You’re getting better at this, good job!*

Ben again mimes, *I hate you. I really do.*

*No you don’t.* Klaus is again exaggerating his head-shaking, when he remembers that he’s the one who can speak. “Blueprints? What blueprints? You got to see blueprints? I don’t believe you.”

Ben starts tapping his foot to indicate annoyance.

“So what was I saying?” Then Klaus remembers what he was saying, “Oh right.” He puffs himself up a bit to declare, “I, too, find this garden surprising.”

Ben slumps, indicating to Klaus that his not-brother is experiencing strong feelings of negativity, and should probably be left alone in contemplation. Lucky guess.

The entirety of the secret garden is enclosed by the building’s stone walls. Ben’s hidden excitement mounts as he descends the steps and takes in the view from a new vantage. It appears that the only point of access to this world of death and dead things is through the head of a green man.

Klaus wonders aloud, “How old is this place? Hey, Bennerino.” Ben bothers to turn and face Klaus, which is a start. “How old do you think this place is?”

*How the fuck am I supposed to know?* Ben really is getting better at being a mime. Especially the swear words. The next one’s easy: *I am feeling snarky and Evil as I ask you, ‘Why?’*

“Well, for starters, there’s the fact that this place looks really old.”

Ben’s eye rolling is just a safe assumption at this point.

“I mean, look at the walls.”

They both gaze about, mounting interest still mounting.

Klaus is correct. It does look old. Really old.

Ben needs Klaus’s attention in order to mime, so he yells “Klaus!” as loud as he possibly can. Unfortunately, that isn’t very loud. His cracked wheezing hasn’t managed to break through the sound of Klaus thinking thoughts. In the meantime, Ben is gripping his poor, damaged throat with both hands, eyes scrunched in pain, and wishing he could whimper. Self care would help, but this is neither the time nor the place.

“Did you say something, Benji?”

Ben mimes, *There are no windows.*

“Anywhere!” Klaus agrees. “I know! That’s why I asked!”

*Yes, I too would like to know why there are no windows,* is hopefully what that body language conveyed to Klaus.

“Friday,” Klaus answers.

Yeah, that one was unclear. Maybe Ben just needs a little more practice.

*Same stone,* Ben mimes, gesturing toward the patio. *All the way,* Ben mimes, gesturing at the walls. *Nobody builds stuff like this anymore. It’s probably old old.*

“Tuesday,” answers Klaus. “Kidding! Just kidding. Old old. Yeah, real old old. Like maybe even Harvard-old. Did you know that our prissy ol’ dame was founded in 1636? I’m serious, silly! First institute of higher education in America. I looked it up in case it affected our property taxes.”

*Are you shitting me?*

“No, Ben. I don’t kink shame, but no, I will not take a shit on you. Not if I don’t want to. I do not give you my consent.”

*I hate you. I reeeelly do.*

“That’s ok. I grow on people.”

*Gross,* Ben mimes. A bentacle shoves Klaus away.

Ok, what was that? Ben hadn’t been able to keep himself from doing it. Literally and precisely, he had not been able to avoid doing it. One of his bentacles has just shown free will.

Ben comes close to that realization, or pretty close, and shies away before he can take in the full impact of that truly horrorfying thought. Ben is so nauseous right now.

Rough one. Meanwhile, Klaus is blissfully unaware of what has just taken place. “Very funny, Mr. Grumpy Guts. My guess is,” Klaus strokes his beard to increase the suspense, “it never had any windows. ooooWOOOOooooo” [insert scary twinkle fingers here]. “I mean, there’s no way to know that for sure, other than tracking down the architect or the stonemason’s ghosts. How deep do you think we are?”

Ben looks uncharacteristically tongue-tied.

He keeps miming what might mean *under* or *underneath,* or even more likely, *inside,* and pointing at his nauseous bellybutton.

“What? Under? Under what? Oh, are you hungry? I gotta be honest, babe, these charades are getting a little old. A little tired. No offense.” Klaus sighs, and pats Ol’ Grumpy Guts tenderly on the shoulder. “Nevermind, I’ll do the talking. Ok, ready? 3 words, 1st word, 6 syllables.”

Klaus is taking his life into his own hands by talking. He should know that by now, but he’s still happily pushing Ben’s buttons. “Kidding, kidding! Ok, so,” Klaus begins counting, “this is the sub-sub-basement, and these walls are wicked high, so that includes the sub-basement, too. Ben, I really think it might be as tall as the basement! That’s tall!”

All Ben can do is nod.

“I know what this feels like!” Klaus crows. “This feels exactly like I’m in a box with no lid. Buried in the ground. Doesn’t it feel a little klaustrophobic?” he asks. “Now that you know we’re at the bottom of three basements?”

Ben mimes in agreement, *Like I’m at the bottom of an open grave, looking up at a rectangular patch of sky.*

Klaus scratches his beard again, trying to look like he’s ruminating on whatever it was Ben just acted out. “Ben, I’ve thought about it, and there’s never a good enough reason to mime shooting yourself in the head. That’s not funny. I’d miss you.” Klaus is 100% serious.

*No no no, that’s not what I meant. Look,* Ben mimes, and draws a knife across his throat.

“Ben,” Klaus looks hurt. “Stop offing yourself. It hurts.”

Ben goes to grab handfuls of his hair in frustration, then realizes his fingers would just get stuck in all the product. He tries again. *You, look at me. I am digging in the ground with a shovel. See me shoveling? Good. Thumbs up. Second word: I have dug a long rectangle with four sides. A four-sided rectangle. See it? Good. Thumbs up. Third word: I have two fingers that are pretending to be legs walking. But they stumble into the rectangle and look upward to the sky.*

“Huh?”

Ben continues. *All of that, see me drawing a circle, it means all of that, all of it taken together = a grave.*

“Huh?”

Ben tries to growl, and grips his throat in pain. It’s obvious that Klaus thinks he’s miming strangulation.

*No, no, no, look at me, you.* Ben tries to mouth the word ‘grave,’ skipping all the theatrics.

“To blave? To klave? A rave? What, you want to go dancing?” Klaus shakes his head in acknowledgement that that’s probably not what Ben is saying. “Nah, that can’t be it. Took me way too long to make you shake a tail feather at the wedding, why should a pit in the ground be any different. OH! Now I get it. A grave! Where?”

Ben wants to take a nap. Instead, he points at himself, then points toward the bracken vegetation beyond. It’s a wise choice, and evidence that Ben is capable of practicing self care. Maybe some peace and quiet will keep him sane while he contemplates the potential that his belly monster is sentient.

There’s something wyrd and wrong about the direction Ben has chosen to walk, but no matter how hard he squints, Klaus can’t quite make it out in the macabre gloom. Being Klaus, he naturally wants to explore it. But he also wants to naturally explore everything else, and anyway, Ben needs some alone time.

But, being Klaus, he gets distracted and addresses Ben, anyway. “Hey look!” Klaus excitedly points out a small rise to one side of the lawn. “We get our own tiny little miniature grassy knoll!” More like a lump in the lawn. A bump, a tiny mound.

Ben is past caring about something called a ‘grassy knoll.’ What the hell even is that, anyway? He’s also past paying attention to Klaus.

That happens a lot. With Ben and people other than Ben. Sometimes Klaus minds, but other times the lack of supervision suits his purposes nicely. It’s just that today, he minds. Because it’s Devil’s Night, and they have to be paying attention to each other if anyone is going to get scared. He would have thought that went without saying, but Ben seems to be playing dumb about this whole Devil’s Night business. They all had the same Dad, so they should all play the same games. Flawless logic. More or less.

Watching Ben follow a stone path off into the murk, Klaus tisks at the sere remains of their lawn. “We need a new gardener. This is just shameful.”

<<———😵‍💫———>>

Klaus is now tip-toeing through the frost heaves.

Looking about, he calls after Ben. “Would you call this a garden? Or a courtyard? Courtyard sounds way too much like the Academy, and that is not my idea of heaven, so it’s a garden. Officially. It’s an official garden. Even if it’s a court- Ben, wait, hey wait a minute.” Ben has been ignoring him, ever since he started wandering away.

“Rude!” Klaus squawks in disapproval. “Has it ever occurred to you that I might have- Hey, wa-wait! Baby, baby, stop. Ben’nuh!”

Klaus decides that the frost-heaved patio is difficult enough to walk on even without falling to his detriment. At least falling to his detriment would give Klaus a chance to take a closer look at the swooping, interlocking designs carved on the stones beneath his feet. He makes a mental note to come back and fall elaborately (so as to catch Ben’s attention), and then moves on to poke about the patio’s periphery.

Dotted at regular intervals around the edges stand five huge stone urns, and — possibly to his own detriment — they have drawn Klaus’s attention. From a distance, it looks a bit like there might once have been some kind of dense, black liquid flowing over their lips, coating the outward swell of the great pots with slow droplets of the black, sticky-looking stuff. Up close they give off a sickening sweet molasses smell. Yet a faint note of something perfumy can be caught quietly lingering beneath the brutish odor of the burnt substance. Almost as if someone set fire to flowers, consigning them to the flames licking skyward from the urns. It’s as though Klaus can see the phantom flames — an image so strong and clear that he reaches up and rubs his eyes.

“Who the fuck were these people, and why?”

Klaus has to remember where he stashed his self control, if he wants to keep himself from touching. But despite all his stupidity, Klaus is not stupid. There’s enough about this space that seems just a bit off (or a whole lot off), that Klaus decides against living his most chaotic life. Under these wyrd circumstances, he decides to lean conservative, instead, figuring now is as good a time as any to give self-conservation a try.

“Wow. These guys were serious,” he observes aloud as he walks toward the tiny little miniature grassy knoll. “I don’t know what these people were up to, but it involved five mammoth burning urns filled with fire to accomplish it.” He kicks at the weeds as he passes.

He wants to know if Ben has any theories. “Yoo-hoo, Benneriiiinooo,” he calls after his not-brother, but Ben is busy following the path to the dark side.

<<———😵‍💫———>>

Ben has set his sights beyond Klaus’s grassy knoll. It looks as if all this dead vegetation might be screening something beyond. There’s an impenetrable darkness back there, which strikes Ben as rather concerning.

He sniffs the air, and pulls back. Freshly turned earth, and a faint rotting smell. He flashes back to the Oily Darkness of Terror in Klaus’s room. The hair on the back of his neck stands up once more. He whips around, but neither Klaus nor anyone else is behind him.

Ben is coming to terms with the fact that he will be doing a lot of post-traumatic jumping from now on, whenever he gets that foreboding prickle at the base of his skull. Or his Bentacles announce they have (always had?) a mind of their own.

*Focus, Ben,* he mimes to himself.

“Sorry, did you say something?” Klaus calls out. Ben just flips him off while walking away. It’s his favorite way to end conversations. Second favorite being hanging up on Klaus, but he doesn’t get to do that much anymore.

A phantom gust of wind buffets him and sets the dead leaves still clinging to the trees a-rattling. Like teeth. Like bones. Rattle them bones. Like a death rattle.

Ben jolts at the sound of something distinctly alive, skittering off the stones ahead of him. It’s a purposeful sound, and Ben shivers. Was that something moving out of the corner of his eye? Something too big to skitter. Much too big.

Ben refuses to be terrified again tonight. He doesn’t have any terror left to give. It’s just not going to happen, he promises himself. But he’s still unsure of exactly what he’s walking into. Particularly because the light has gone dim and heavy, and all sound from the world behind him is dulled.

<<———😵‍💫———>>

Klaus tries the Yoo-Hoo approach again. “Yoo-hoo, Bennerino!”

He descends the mound, ready to take off after Ben, like a little brother who keeps following you around, being annoying to get your attention. Exactly like that. But after only a few steps he halts, goes still, and stays still.

Klaus does not usually stfu without being told to. Ben is intrigued enough by the silent stillness to pause. Swinging around to see what could possibly have caused this miracle, Ben watches slack-jawed as Klaus is yanked backward with a jolt, heels dragging parallel lines in the dirt back up the knoll. Ben’s no engineer, but quite frankly, whatever just made that happen to Klaus’s body clearly considered the laws of physics more as suggested-guidelines-of-physics than laws.

“Klaus?” Ben’s voice sounds small to his own ears, because it is. It’s tiny, if it actually has a sound at all.

But the memory of Klaus’s prank still really gets under his nails. And anyway, he’s panicking.

*Oh, no. No no no noooo.* Ben gets his whole body into it.

*You are not doing this to me again, you. Whatever nasty little joke you have fumbling through the darkness in your skull, you can forget it. You, I’m not falling for your shit again, you Klaus.* This tirade featured pointing really hard, a lot.

Eyes glazed and oblivious to Ben, Klaus starts to sing. Or not so much singing as chanting. Picture a little kid reciting a nursery rhyme, and name him Klaus. It would be cute if it wasn’t so worrisome. Something about that flat monotone.

Somebody is in the garden

Somebody’s in the garden

Somebodies in the garden

Some body is in the garden

Some body’s in the garden

Some bodies in the garden

Ben mimes at Klaus. *This possession-face you’re trying to sell me? I’m not buying. No really, Klaus, stop. You’re embarrassing yourself.* ‘Embarrassing’ is actually a rather difficult word to mime, but nowhere near as difficult as ‘possession-face’. Ben continues, undaunted. *This is sad. And boring.* He huffs and again turns to the dark side of the garden. *Whatever,* he mimes.

Klaus’s unflagging chanting is eerie, nonsensical. Every line sounds the same to Ben, like a Gregorian chant, and he can’t decide if the words are relevant, or just blather.

Ben finally digests what he’s heard. “Somebody is in the garden,” he mouths to himself. His nerves are now amped to full alert. Somebody’s in the garden?

Klaus’s phrasing is all running together. There’s no pause, now. No rhythm. As if it’s all just an infinite series of syllables. It’s fucking creepy, is what it is.

“Ok, Klaus. That’s enough!”

Klaus hasn’t heard him, because Ben can only mouth the words, stomp his foot, and hope he’s understood. Especially when Klaus with his eyes closed is a blind Klaus. And even with his eyes open, Klaus is somewhere else. In a galaxy far, far away.

It has to be said, and it has to be admitted, that Ben isn’t usually the first to jump into battle. He likes to peacock, in red leathers, and to snap at people, literally, to indicate that it’s their time to do his bidding. And the Sparrows did do his bidding. Until they quickly agreed not to do that anymore, twice. But as proven unto Oblivion, when Ben needs to step up, he does. And he’s certainly well trained.

Meanwhile, Ben is just standing there slack-jawed, and he probably wouldn’t want you to know that. Moving on.

“Some bodies in the garden some body’s in the garden somebody’s in the garden…”

Ben powers up his courage and rushes the knoll. Charging purposefully, he’s half way up when he hits an invisible wall. In the blink of an eye, Ben is dragged backward, leaving two jagged marks in the dirt just as Klaus had done. The moment he reaches flat earth, Ben is tossed aside like an argumentative drunk from a bar (which Ben has no experience with whatsoever).

Oh Jesus, that looks like it hurt. Yeah, so, Ben has just been flung into the air at a high enough height that 1. he is flying, without touching the ground; 2. sailing straight over the stabby orchard of trees; 3. into the formerly impenetrable darkness beyond which no one can see except Ben; and finally, 4. so far that he crumples painfully against a hedge. Understandably, this causes Ben to have a fear-based emotional response. Looks like Ben, acts like Ben, but a Ben with his eyes huge and round, and a permanently ‘oh!’ shaped mouth.

From between Klaus’s normally-flirtatious lips blasts a harsh, grating baritone — a blast far louder and lower than Klaus could ever achieve, not in his wildest, most depraved dreams. “The key!” it booms. This is sufficient to distract Ben from pretty much everything else in life.

*Huh?* Ben is quick and to the point when he’s buying time. Which has never been terribly helpful.

“Seek, and thou shalt findeth to this prison a key! Such key that hidest in sight most plain. Do this bidding with haste, or thy next breath shall grow weak. The next, so much the weaker. Telleth me, shall I press thee to death as thou hast hastened and chastened me?”

*Do you ever shut up?* Ben’s compulsion to snark overrules any pesky fear he might be experiencing. The ghost had lost Ben at the beginning, when the first ‘thou’ dropped.

“What am I to shut up?” Mr. Mouthy Withoutamouth is confused. “But no! I shan’t be diverted by thy Devil’s word-perversion. You speak it so recklessly, heathen sorcerer!”

No he didn’t just call Ben a heathen. But actually yeah, he did.

*What did you just say?* The ghost has crossed a line. In addition to allllll the other lines already crossed. Starting with possession. *Say that again.*

“Which part dost thou wisheth me to repeateth, heathen sorcerer?”

As Ben officially loses his shit and once again rushes the mound, the ghost expands his bouncy rubber force field beyond the mound in every direction. Ben is bounced back at the shrubbery like a ricochet from a trampoline.

Take a short break from contemplating what might be happening to Ben next, and instead take a moment to contemplate one of Ben’s key characteristics. During interrogation training, Dad had impressed upon the Sparrows that someday they might need to interrogate each other, and possibly even themselves. Ben defaults to training whenever he loses his mind. ‘First question,’ he thinks to himself. ‘How does this whoever-it-is have powers? He can’t be one of us, can he? He sounds wayyyy too old to have been born in 1989, even if he’s only talking all old-timey like that to get into character for Halloween. Or maybe for community theatre.’

The deep-voiced possessor of Klaus growls, “I pledge to thee an oath! This body shalt tear itself to shreds most small, shouldst thou tarry in thy quest.”

*I never agreed to a quest! Kiss my ass, Dusty McRotsalot.*

“Know of this McRotsalot, I do not. But of thee, Hargreeves? Thou art known to me.”

*I am?*

“Thou art, young Hargreeves. Thou art he who wakes the dead with screams. Thou dost dissemble in thy feigned ignorance! By the pricking of mine thumb, thine head dost now stand hexed. Hear, oh Hargreeves, thou art hexed! Be it ever so! Didst thou takest Giles Corey for a man to be so vexed?”

Most unwisely, Ben dost snarketh, *Are you done yet?*

To prove his hex genuine, the threat real, The Ghost of Giles Corey splits Klaus’s mouth as wide open as it will stretch. The spirit of the dead man gathers aether to itself, accreting his physical form in a way Ben never dreamt possible. In a feat of what can only be called magic, or possession, or the exorcist, or an exorcism, a head that is not Klaus’s head attempts to squeeze out of Klaus’s mouth. And not in the cute, messy way that Ghost Ben did. Remember? Way back in the olden days? The ghost accretes aether steadily until wispy, smoke-like hair and one eyeball try to emerge from an orifice that truly cannot open further.

Does Klaus scream? No. Does Ben scream? In his own way. Plus tears, because he’s afraid for Klaus. Deeply afraid for Klaus.

There is only one thought in his mind: getting his superhero on and saving the fuck out of Klaus.

Ben has just come to the startling realization that his damned not-brother Klaus is a light-bringer to this jaded world, even if it’s a red flashing light accompanied by sirens.

*So? What? You want me to find some key, is that it? Hey, moron!* he mimes through his tears. *I can’t find it if you don’t tell me where it is, now can I! Is it on one of the key rings?*

“Strange is thy speech. From whence dost thou come, and wherefore?”

*LA, and because it’s LA. Not for…other reasons. It’s not cuz I wanted to live here in Boston, or anything.*

“CAMBRIDGE!”

*Yeah, whatever.* Ben flips The Ghost of Giles Corey off. Or at least the Ghost of Giles Corey’s eyeball.

“Thou dost err most grievously, when thou mistaketh mine own self for a moron.”

*Do you ever stop talking? Threats, pfft.* Ben sneers in disgust. *You are talking to the only threatener in this household, Bitch Cassidy, and that’s me! See how I’m pointing at myself in the chestal region? I will be making all the threats in this house.*

“But I, young Hargreeves, I maketh good on mine own threats.”

Klaus drops to the ground, head bouncing off the dirt.

“HEY!” Ben attempts to shout. Though it comes out in barely a whisper, the eyeball hears him well enough.

Again Ben rushes the knoll, and again he flies backward into the hedges.

Ben takes a little longer to get up than he did the last time he hit shrubbery from a height. Rolling to his stomach, he catches a glimpse of Klaus.

His not-brother is on his knees atop the knoll. Ben’s eyes burn with hot tears. Klaus is digging. Klaus is digging with his fingers.

“STOP!” Ben whispers. “MAKE IT STOP!!!! Klaus! Can you hear me, too? Klaus!” he whispers with everything he’s got.

Klaus does not stop. The two wet tracks down his cheeks are enough for Ben to know that Klaus is still in there somewhere. And he’s in pain.

*STOP! Stop,* Ben pleads. He drops to his knees and mouths the words, “Please. What do you want? Some kind of key? I’ll get you the key, I’ll get it for you, I’ll do it, please, just stop!“

“I was of the mind that thou wouldst. Given the encouragement most right and good in the eyes of-”

*STOP! You got what you want! I’m helping! So stop!* Ben mimes as loud as he can.

“Why shouldst I? Verily. Let the sight serve thee as thy inspiration.”

*But you’ve given me NOTHING! NOTHING! Some key? Is that it? That’s supposed to be enough to go on?* Ben jangles two mammoth key rings.

“Such tiny things as these?”

“In this century they are!” Ben whispers.

This century.

Despite not liking history, Ben is certain that Giles Corey is not of this century.

*A skeleton key?* Ben asks, then realizes that with this guy, they might get hung up in a debate about bones. *About this big?* Ben’s back to miming illustratively.

Aaaand now back to whispering again. “Black, solid, heavy, metal. Iron? It wouldn’t be lead, would it?”

“Bone.”

Giving him Ben’s signature head bobble/shoulder wobble, Ben sneers. *Ah. Of course it is.*

The entire conversation turns to bones after all.

“AND?! COME ON! LET HIM GO! You fucking bastard bitch, sad, BORING fuckin…violence…in your face!” Ben is trying so very hard to mask the feeling of panic overtaking his body, by getting pretty bitchy.

“Speakest thee English?”

*Get talking, asshole!* Ben vibrates with rage as he mimes.

“No sane, godly man would suggest such base, vile blasphemy,” the ghost declares in horror. “To speak from thy- Thou art no sane man.”

Ben looks again at Klaus’s poor, bloodied hands, still brutally attacking the baked earth.

Ben realizes he can see bones, and finally lets himself panic. *WHERE? WHERE? WHERE AM I SUPPOSED TO GET the bone key, fuckin asshole, motherfucking fuck my life, I-*

‘I can’t do this,’ is what Ben had intended to say. The feeling of inadequacy is stifling. Ben can’t breathe. For the second time tonight, Ben hyperventilates from sheer, blinding terror.

Which is not a thing that Ben would want you to know. Moving on.

“Thou art weak, heathen blasphemer. Thou art repugnant.” Ouch.

*Tell me what to do,* Ben whispers, in abject defeat.

The Ghost of Giles Corey begins to laugh.

Cold, man, cold. That’s just cold.

Two trickles of blood wend their way down from the corners of Klaus’s splitting mouth. Two trickles of tears wend their way down from the corners of Ben’s streaming eyes.

Klaus’s hands. His poor hands. Klaus. Maddening and lovable. His poor, mangled hands.

This, friends of the occult, is called ‘leverage.’

“The key, young Hargreeves. The key of Solomon ist what thou seekest. Fashioned of skin and bone, thou shalt find it in the ground amongst the bones before me. Seek, and ye shall findeth the key in the ossuary.”

“*Where?!*” Ben both whispers, and mimes. Ben is all in, raging and ready to bring this thing to an end. “*And WHAT THE FUCK is a motherfucking OSSUARY?*”

<<———😵‍💫———>>

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<<———😵‍💫———>>

I’m kinda hoping you won’t look up Giles Corey. I’m kinda hoping you will reblog, though. 🙏

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