#wickedpraycrs

@wickedpraycrs​ said: "McDonald's! McDonald's! McDonald's! McDonald's!" .....Kokichi @ Kaito fjhsfg (tagging @damagecompiilation​ for reasons)

i’m new in town // accepting

Not that he doesn’t appreciate Kirumi’s cooking. Frankly, next to his grandmother’s, all of Kirumi’s cooking is the best thing Kaito’s ever eaten. And it’s not exactly like he enjoys agreeing with Kokichi, of all people. That little troublemaker...Kaito didn’t trust him as far as he could throw him - which, likely? Would be pretty far.

Still. For once...he makes a compelling point.

She was distracted today, it seemed. Maybe she was listening to music and he couldn’t make out the headphones from the far side of the subway car. Maybe she was thinking smugly about how gorgeous she was, and had little brain power left to focus on anything beyond herself. Either way, no less than ten minutes ago, Miles had caught sight of her, and he hadn’t looked away.

Fuck, it was annoying exactly how much of him was wrapped around that bitch’s little finger.

Was he an asshole too? Yeah, sure, of course. Neither of them had exactly given the other a reason not to be a dick, besides a few or twenty hours buried in each other every so often. He’d resisted the impulse to approach her relatively well, but before he knew it, Miles’s legs carried him through the sea of people, his hand tightening around the handle of his backpack slung over his shoulder.

"If they could see us they would tell us that we're crazy but I know they just don't understand.”

We go together better than birds of a feather, you and me

Ship Edits 3 / ? - Oliver “Mush” Meyers and Matthias “Sweets” Hendriks for @wickedpraycrs

The train brings him at night. Works out, really. Jack barely gets any sleep, which means when he stumbles his way off before the sun’s even risen, he doesn’t have any brain cells left to tell him which way to go. Instead, he’s carried on feet that know where they want him instead. Left, right, left, right, across a bridge, down a long street, until he sits down against a wall and shuts his eyes to rest.

He wakes from a bell. Sleeps. Wakes again from a police officer. This time he stumbles out of sight again, lips drawn into a tight line, until he’s not being watched, can wander back again. Behind him, there’s the sound of races already getting kicked off.

The likelihood of Race still selling at Sheepshead after a full year of Jack being in Santa Fe is slim to none. But he has to try anyway.

Time passes. Jack’s stomach rumbles. But he punishes himself, making himself stand there with his bag, staring into the distance. Waiting. And, finally, he’s rewarded when he turns his head and sees a familiar blond head and a bag of papes. Race is older now. Filling out just that little bit more. Grown into his eighteen years. Jack being near twenty hangs on him - not nearly as carefree as he used to be. No, that’s gone, left in a street he disappeared from the day the rally ended, just like he wanted.