A/N: I was messing around with small things while giving my brain a break from my main writing projects, and this happened. Each piece is 100 words according to Scrivener.

1.

The first night they set their futons out side by side in the kōban's living quarters, it's with the heady sense they're getting away with something. It's their space, but Reo keeps thinking that someone's going to walk in and catch them making out, laughing like kids sneaking candy. They're going to get yelled at. Sent to separate rooms. Somebody's probably going to make him write a letter of apology to the chief.

Mabu has no such concerns. Mabu is, as ever, straightforward about his desires.

No one walks in, which is good, because they don't sleep much that night.

2.

It's different, sleeping with baby Sara between them, but good. Of course she fusses sometimes, and it's weird never really being alone together anymore, but—a kid. They're raising a kid.

Kind of raising. Sooner or later somebody's probably going to notice and tell them to knock it off. Reo's not sure what he'll do then. Yell, probably. Throw things. Lose his job. He's got options.

There's a contented "dish" from Sara; Mabu, sound asleep, mumbles "more sugar" in response. Reo grins like an idiot at both of them. One day at a time, and this day—this day's good.

3.

They find out their daughter is kappa eventually; this answers some questions, sort of. They find themselves kappa, sort of, and also a prince's vassals; this raises new questions and also makes Reo's skin itch.

The prince has a castle. On their first visit they're shown to luxurious quarters, as his honored guests.

There's a single bed, king sized.

Reo blinks at it, speechless. They've always been careful, in public. People aren't supposed to know—

Mabu only smiles, pulling him down into a kiss on silken sheets, and Reo thinks maybe he can learn to live with this vassal thing.

4.

Mabu has set their futons out side by side, like always.

Reo stands frozen, fingers twisting in his hair as he stares, something choking swelling up in his throat. He can't. He can't.

Quiet footsteps behind him, weight and tread exactly the same as they've always been, but Reo is rooted to the spot, blocking the door.

"Reo?" A perfectly familiar hand on his shoulder. He can't stop his flinch.

"Oh." The hand withdraws, and then silence. Then Mabu's squeezing past him, ducking to pull his bedding away to a more respectable distance.

"Sorry," he mutters.

Reo has no answer.

5.

With Otter gone, the police finally start noticing some shit. Keppi's sorting the worst of it out, but their kōban days are over. Reo's just fine with that, thanks. He's not actually sure he could go back there without throwing up.

They find a cheap hotel, using money guiltily borrowed from Sara. "One bed's enough," Mabu tells the receptionist, and ignores her startled look.

Is it? Reo bites down on the bitter question as it surges up on his tongue. Is it really?

"There's a couch," the receptionist says dubiously, not quite meeting their eyes as she hands them keys.

6.

The hotel room is small, but it's clean. There's a couch.

The bed sits in the center of the room like an elephant Reo's trying to ignore.

"Look." Reo runs a hand through his hair like he might pull the memories out: the anger, the nastiness, the moment he slapped Mabu's hand away. "I was—if you don't want—" He swallows. "I fucked up. I know. I'm—"

"Reo—"

"I'm just saying, I can take the couch, if you—"

"Reo." Mabu's finger lands gently on Reo's lips. "Come to bed. We can talk about it in the morning."

Beat can't quite get used to the wings. He thinks they itch, where they sprout out of his back, and he can't quite reach the base of them, and Shades told him they shouldn't itch. Said it was probably psychoso—psychosemanti—in his head. Whatever, there's no time to sit around remembering words. Point is it's a relief when the wings go away, squashed into nothing by the decal at the corner of the cafe.

Except the small, sharp nails pricking his shoulder go away, too, and for a second he panics, slapping a hand to his shoulder to feel the empty space there, spinning and scanning the air and the ground to see where she's gone. She's been sticking close, she shouldn't have just—

"It's the decal," H says behind him, voice quiet. "She'll come back when you leave."

Beat shuts his eyes, feeling like more of an idiot than he usually feels like. The pin—his hand dives into his pocket, closes into a fist around it. "Right," he says. His voice comes out unsteady, unbalanced. "I knew that. Yeah."

H sighs. "New job, huh?" he says, like he's asking about the weather. "How's it treating you?"

Beat turns to face him. "Sucks."

H laughs, still quiet, raises a cup of coffee in an ironic toast. "Don't they all?"

"Not like this. They want me to—" Beat shakes his head, looks down. "I'll do it," he says after a moment. "It's for her, right?"

"You asking me, or telling me?" H takes the lid off one of the hot pots he's got sitting behind the counter, and the smells of fresh seafood and tomatoes and spices hit Beat's nose, make his mouth water and his stomach growl. Coffee he can take or leave, even good coffee, but he pretty much lived on bouillabaisse while he was holed up here.

H ladles out a bowl of it for him without asking, and Beat takes a stool at the counter, pulls the bowl close and stares into it. He's hungry, he should eat, but Rhyme's a squirrel stuck in a pin and they want him to kill people just to keep her even that much. "I'll do it," he repeats, tries to sound like he believes it.

"What is it they got you doing?" H is casual. He's been watching the Game a long time, Beat thinks. He's used to all this shit by now. "Wall duty?"

Beat shakes his head, swallows a spoonful of stew. It's heavy on the garlic. Another time he'd love it, but right now the heat going down his throat isn't much comfort. "Special op," he says around his second mouthful.

The words come out muffled. Beat glances up just in time to see H's face go carefully still for a second, in about the same way his dad's usually did right before he started shouting. He swallows hastily. "Sorry."

"No, you're good." H waves this away with a cheerful grin, and Beat relaxes. "Special op, huh? What's that about?"

Another bite of stew. "Kid from last week," Beat says. He hates this, but H is easy to tell things, somehow. "Phones? He's playing again." He raises a hand to the back of his neck, scratches at it uncomfortably. "Dunno why, but Shades wants him taken out—him and his new partner. He's with some prissy kid now."

The words land in a silent space, sit there in front of him, impossible to take back or look away from: taken out. He's got to. He's going to. His hand goes back to his pocket, back to the pin.

"So there you go," he mumbles. "I'm some kinda monster for saying I'll do it, right?"

There's a tired sigh. "Everyone does what they gotta do to survive, kiddo," H says. Beat looks up at him, startled and wary, but sees only shrewd, knowing sympathy.

If you don't like it, stop his heart.

The heart pulses in Reo's grip, and he wants to. He wants to. Better stop it than leave this obscene ghost in Mabu's body. Than let the otters keep playing with their doll, molding it into an ever viler mimicry of the man who used to live there.

But they dance through the city, unseen and deadly under everyone's noses, and Mabu moves with easy grace, and as long as Reo doesn't look in his eyes, he can't look away.

Another long one, so I won't be posting the full thing here.

AO3 links: Together, pt. 2 | From the top

Preview:

"What do you say, Mr H?" Joshua's arms are shaking with the effort of holding up the gun; the grip is slick with sweat; he's grinning from ear to ear. "I look done to you?"

From behind him, a hand lands on his shoulder, and a low, feminine voice purrs: "Actually…"

Joshua's finger squeezes convulsively down on the trigger, but it's locked in place, and he can feel the force of Sanae's psychokinesis closing around the weapon, half an inch away from wrenching it out of his hand.

Oh.

Keep fighting when it's not fun for you anymore, Sanae said, and—oh. This—this is what he meant, isn't it?

Sanae leans in, and her breath is hot against his ear as she drawls, "Absolute last chance to back down and say sorry, kiddo. That was a hell of a shot, but you've got nothing left."

Joshua's out of options; he's dizzy and hurting and exhausted, and it hits him that in this moment he really doesn't want to goad Sanae any further than he already has.

He doesn't want to. The realization's a strange, giddy warmth bubbling up in his chest, a relief from a force he hadn't realized was pulling on him.

"C'mon, J," Sanae says, more quietly now. "Make nice, and this'll go a whole hell of a lot easier on you."

And Joshua almost laughs from the freefall lightness of it as he opens his mouth and says, simply: "No."

Full chapter on AO3

Wrote another short thing for the fan_flashworks comm on Dreamwidth.

Title: Cruelty

Fandom: The World Ends With You

Rating: M

Pairing: Joshua / Megumi

Wordcount: 1650

Content notes & warnings: Power imbalance, angry/violent makeout, mind reading, mind games, manipulation, very poor communication, frustrated masochism, and honestly just frustration all round. Spoilers.

Summary: Joshua's good at hurting people, but would it really be too much to ask for them to return the favor once in a while?

(In which: it might not be, actually, but Joshua will never find out because he is terminally incapable of asking for what he wants like a damn adult.)

Title: Its Own Kind of Gift

Rating: T

Relationship: Joshua Kiryu/Megumi Kitaniji

Warnings: Power imbalance, references to mind control, dubious consent (very brief and non-explicit, but it's there). Megumi is probably the only person pretending any of this is healthy. Spoiler-heavy.

Summary:

"Sir." Megumi's voice does not shake. It will not shake. "I attempted to erase You."

"Yes." The Composer's voice is amused. "I recall. Did you want to try again?"

There is an order to things. This new Composer refuses to understand that. But to go against Him would be unthinkable, and Megumi will not—cannot—lower himself to such depths.

Notes: Written for the @twexwy 2018 holiday gift exchange.

Fandom: The World Ends With You

Characters: Sho Minamimoto, Megumi Kitaniji

Rating: PG

Word Count: 1646

Summary: Nothing at the top stays there forever, and Sho Minamimoto's going to make sure the city knows it.

A/N: Nothing fancy, but my first stab at writing Sho. Written for challenges in the fan_flashworks prompt community on Dreamwidth; prompts were 'Reflect' and 'Up.' Will be posted on AO3 after the challenge closes.

(Previous: Black | From the top on AO3)

(Note: This one got long; the intro is below, but please go to AO3 to read the full chapter.)

How was Paris?

The question hangs in the center of Neku's living room like a bomb about to explode.

The worst bit of it—the worst bit of it, Neku thinks as he stares at the apparition smiling at him from the couch, is that he's not actually surprised. He's not remotely fucking surprised, because of course this is how it goes. Of course Joshua shows up now, all smiling innocence and How was Paris, Neku?

Neku gives Joshua a flat stare, kicks his shoes off, and walks past him, hauling his suitcase behind him into the bedroom. He shuts the door behind him and throws the suitcase on the bed. He looks at it for a long, blank moment, thinking about unpacking, and then pulls his phone out of his pocket to check the time. It's five past midnight. He'll unpack after he's (a) gotten some sleep, (b) had some food, and (c) either kicked Joshua out or gotten murdered. Not in that order.

He sits heavily down on the bed and buries his face in his hands and just stays there for a moment, trying to breathe, trying to be still, because he thinks he might explode if he moves. He wants to scream, wants to kick something, wants to find something good and breakable to throw at the wall and hear it smash.

It's also five past midnight, and there's an elderly lady living in the apartment above him who would probably call the police if she woke up to that kind of noise coming through her floor, particularly after his place has spent the last three months empty. And gods, the police are a tempting thought, but the odds that they'd be able to do anything about Joshua…

…No. There are too many ways that calling in backup could go horribly, horribly wrong. Against someone who can steal memories with a snap of his fingers and stop bullets in midair, there's not actually a lot that could go right.