NO MORE SHAME / NO MORE FEAR / NO MORE DREAD

He swallows their breath easily, one hand moving to their jaw as the other stays warm on their waist, circling their lower back. Tate keeps them steady against him - encourages their hips to roll against his, even though he doesn't have a dick for them to grind on.

well, maybe he understood that last thing.

privately, he thought both of them—aria and the man with philosophical opinions about gas prices—were being unreasonable. publicly, openly, he smiled as if in solidarity. but in solidarity with whom? both of them, perhaps. and consequently with neither.

he was still smiling by the time aria stopped.

' ah—excuse me. not ... ' ranta retrieved a flyer from his pocket. he'd spent some time and effort folding it neatly into fourths; now, he unfolded it just as methodically. blackwell's bizarre. ' ... here. '

rather than passing it through to her, he held the paper up to the plexiglass. aria was a zoo animal: she was to be entertained but not fed. not yet. not until she performed. until then, he would keep from sticking his fingers through the bars.

With the flyer now creating an opaque barrier between Ranta and Aria that the plexiglass alone could not, Aria allows her expression to contort into one of pure mortification.

This corny fucking place with its corny fucking advertisements. The tent's probably the same bullshit tent from before Aria's miserable time on this miserable Earth. Rhett will repair it and care for it and convince himself everything is fine, and Daniel's probably too cheap to replace it.

Raya—radiant, intelligent, promising Raya—features prominently. This is Stella's friend—who, as far as Aria knows, doesn't even need to be a carnie for a living! She has hopes and dreams and a future! AND! People still like having her around when she is generous enough to grace them with her presence! Her powers don't upset kids or freak anybody out!

"Euuuugh."

Aria pulls herself onto her feet and marches from the seclusion provided by the counter. She kicks a door, flings it open the rest of the day, and is stepping up to Ranta in an instant. This is not an option most zoo inhabitants have. It is not an option Rhett's fucking friends and colleagues have, either, if you really think about it.

Aria's reaching for her knife—not for Ranta. In this exact moment, anyways. Her snarl, the way her lips curl and her teeth gleam might manage to wound all the same.

Anakin is still her little Ani after all. No matter how tall, or wide shouldered, or deep voiced.

He's not used to looking down on her, though; it only increases his duty to protect her.

He doesn't back away. He can't.

"I have," he says softly. "Grown." He's undeniably proud of himself, though, so there's something concrete about his softness. It's a part of him his mother might not recognize.

There is, unfortunately, no technique he knows or has inherited that can render his ego less wounded—less completely eviscerated, really.

<<Great idea—!>>

SMACK.

Gojo stares at the space taken up by his hand colliding with Ino's hand. The thing about Ino is that, to The Strongest, he could never conceivably be a threat. Infinity knows this. The Six Eyes know this. Gojo, therefore, knows this.

But to feel the skin of Ino's palm against his own is, to Gojo, completely unacceptable. In an instant, his fingers wrap around Ino's wrist too tightly to resist. Ino was approximately an arm's length away; now, he is exceptionally close.

Too casually (at first): <<It's funny. You graduated from Tokyo Jujutsu High School. You were a student here. And now here you are, teaching me all sorts of things I had no idea about. I guess it turns out Nanami, who I thought never left the house except to come to work, loves to hang out with other sorcerers! ALL THE OTHER SORCERERS—except for Satoru Gojo, of course!>>

His eyes are wide and radiant. Ino cannot see them.

<<ME! Who knew?!>>

He releases Ino abruptly. Whether Ino recoils or not, he is repelled from Gojo's immediate vicinity.

this was blue. he was sure of it: he'd been sucked into gojo's orbit and now he was going to die.

ino didn't struggle; he also didn't protest, though his lip hung open as if he might try. and he would like to—try. gojo had it all wrong. he was exaggerating and misrepresenting nanami! and it was ino's responsibility to stop it.

' uh— ' his intent always surpassed his execution. he stood, too stunned to speak, while gojo held him like a ragdoll.

and then he was discarded. it was possible that his body was working faster than his mind: that he stumbled backwards without thinking, as far from gojo as a few steps would allow. or maybe ... was this red?

he rubbed his wrist. he even managed to look reproachful. but then gojo kept talking, and ino's expression became that of the habitual, stoic resolution he put on whenever somebody older—and therefore wiser—gave him advice.

' right! ' you shouldn't be so forgetful. ino nodded sagely. he felt that this was maybe the single most useful lesson gojo had ever taught him, or possibly anyone. ' i'll keep that in mind. ' and he would. forever.

anyone was trackable, for a price. and aria’s wasn’t even that high. nobody had made her invisible; she had been born that way, or else she’d grown into it. either way. finding her hadn’t been hard. ranta didn’t say that, though. it was rude to remind someone of their worth—or lack thereof.

' eyes, ' he said neutrally, pointing up at the ceiling. whatever that meant.

it didn’t matter that she didn’t want to talk to him. the plexiglass was a fishbowl: aria had bills to pay; aria couldn’t leave. he didn’t even have to do anything. circumstance trapped her, or at least compelled her to the point of paralysis.

it was convenient when that happened.

But Ranta isn't buying anything. One more reason to be furious at this arbitrary time on this arbitrary day. Her fingers curl and uncurl into tight fists. She's expending a lot of energy on this as she digs little half-moons into her palms.

Mercifully, Ranta surrenders when somebody who actually knows how to interact in a gas station approaches. The customer mumbles something about the price of gas—not really trying to make relatable small talk so much as blaming Aria personally for the whole thing, which she gracefully accepts by saying, Fuck yourself, man, and smiling a bland, unlovable smile.

Ranta remains; her smile fades.

"What were you saying?"

His casual, effortless surveillance leaves an impression. It shouldn't be flattering. She should lean into the whole caged animal thing. Right? That'll go over well.

"You were like, you work here, and not—where? What does that even mean? Where else would I work? How long have you been watching me?"

Shit, that sucks. For him. For anyone else who has to look at him, too, which presently includes Lila, but is usually only Spirit.

Lila could push back on this in one billion, million ways. She stares at Charles as she assesses the usefulness of getting him to admit that she's right, and then—what? She's aware that her sister's boyfriend sucks and doesn't love her properly? What's she, of all people, supposed to do with that?

maybe u could smile sometimes

but it does feel different with beck. like there's not an ounce of judgement. it's a little addictive, electrifying in this strange way, to be accepted so fully by another hero.

"pfft. no way."

Despite his solemn and pouty instincts, Beck cracks a smile. Beck even laughs. Something about Adrian's enthusiasm amuses Beck—but it's more than wanting to laugh at the guy. It's a desire to be in on the joke, to engage in this with him.

So—Adrian can be right. Beck can be the interestingest, or the most interesting. Beck will stomach that.

He looks his part. Desperate and despairing. And she understands his hesitation ... she hasn't said she wants to go back with him, because she is uncertain.

It sounds like she's not, and Kieran's wonders why he wasted the gas to leave the compound. Economically irresponsible - and environmentally violent.

"But you did hurt me," Kieran insists gently - not necessarily for the truth of that, but because he wants to see how guilt contorts her features and frame.

"Here's what I think," he continues, apropos of nothing. "I think we need to sit down and have a good, long chat about what happened before you left us. Fuck, Hara, everyone was so heart-" He cuts himself off.

almost as old as the universe, and yet this is the first time the world eater sits across from a darkness as deep and all-consuming as itself. it, of course, looks like a long-legged brunette in a tastefully revealing satin dress, and phil looks like any other phil would look. that's half of the fun, this play-pretend. a beautiful brunette leaning across the table to murmur seductively, knowing neither of them can be seduced.

“ aw, i know you are. but no need to hurt my feelings. ”

Human beings' physical appearances does very little for him. The sole exception seems to be maintaining and, frankly, obsessing over his own physique. Being attractive isn't the goal—not exactly. Feeling good in the way that only humans infuriatingly can is. He has long coveted their central nervous systems, their ability to touch and smell and taste.

He chews another forkful of his Chilean sea bass and stares at the World Eater as if he could will her to disappear—swallowed up by her own charisma. (He probably couldn't. His usual control over atoms and the space they exist within is not that expansive—as she's not unremarkable on her own.) 

but that’s not the operative, is it!

“i had a chick at one of those thai places nearly turn me into mincemeat once.” if gojo wants to turn a two step on her back, pash isn’t gonna say no—hours upon hours upon miles in the capri have surely put her shit out of alignment. but that isn’t what he has in mind, clearly.

pash sheds the last of what she’s got on. the cowboy boots topple onto their sides. she slingshots her thong across gojo’s living room. later they can play scavenger hunt.

her hand, his hand, a light bite and a nudge to his shoulder to make him go on ahead and lead the way. pash’s eyes mop up as much of his body as they can on the short walk to the bathroom.

"Ohhh. Aw. I wouldn't turn you into—mince—meat?"

He doesn't have time to be confused! There's a beautiful woman strutting across the gratuitous square footage of his apartment, and he gets to walk in her shadow! Her shadow!

They're checking each other out like crazy, stumbling, body parts swinging, he might be giggling, even, as well.

(He hopes she forgets all about the thong and it stays in his possession perhaps forever.)

The giggle persists at her indignation. He flips the on the faucet with a hasty, lazy flick. His hands are more eager to settle on her hips, which they do. He holds her close, body-to-body, knee bumping knee—and mouthing at her neck all over again. He takes shuffling steps until they're pressed against the slowly-filling tub.

"What are you saying? Are you mad at me?"

“Beck  –  ”  No  time  for  a  warning.  Only  the  sound  of  the  cars  crunching  together,  and  the  whiplash.  At  the  sudden  impact,  Kate's  lurched  forward,  and  her  head  lands  near  an  inch  from  the  dashboard. 

The  seatbelt  captures  her,  and  the  breath  is  caught  in  her  throat  too,  as  she  lands  back  against  the  seat,  expelling  it.  She's  rattled,  she's  aching  all  over.

She's  clear.  Clearer  than  before.  The  adrenaline  shoots  through  her  like  a  drug.

“Are  you  okay?”

The  question  is  lost.  Another  car  slams  into  them  from  behind.  The  wheels  grinding  together  allows  the  car  to  pivot,  rotate,  and  her  hand  instinctively  reaches  for  Beck's  arm.

She  looks  through  the  window  and  she  sees  they've  been  followed.  Mean,  angry  mugs  scowling  their  direction.  A  pistol  held  up  to  finish  what  the  smash  hadn't  ended.

“Get  down,”  she  doesn't  wait  for  him  to  move,  she  shoves  him  down  just  as  the  window  cracks  when  the  bullet  whips  by  their  craniums.  The  car's  still  spinning. 

They  don't  really  have  time  to  switch  seats,  so  she  sort  of  scuttles  over  him.  Her  head  is  searing,  and  she  has  to  sink  onto  his  lap  to  reach  the  gas.  It's  a  tight  squeeze,  but  it's  temporary.  She  spins  the  wheel.

Perfect.

It  rotates  out,  the  rear  nudging  against  the  other  car,  and  she  takes  over,  “I'll  teach  you  to  drive  another  time.”

The  tires  screech  as  they  peel  out.  “I  promise.”

Beck's not an experienced enough driver to have developed the instinct to protect his passenger when something like this happens. But when he sees Kate's body yanked out of the seat, he flings his arm out to stop her from going further than she should. Fortunately, the seatbelt helps where his reflexes fail. He's momentarily relieved.

Are you okay?

"I am okay!" He is shouting very loudly.

"Are you okay?"

The second collision doesn't matter for awhile. He needs to hear her say that she is okay—but she isn't paying attention to him.

Beck gets down when Kate ensures as much. he does not want to stay cowering. He's trying to straighten up as Kate settles onto his lap. His mind goes blank. He doesn't know what to do with his hands, his legs. He tries to push himself back into the seat. He doesn't know where the levers are to actually give them some more room up here.

"IIII—uuuuhhhh."

He drones this over their rear windshield shattering. It's an ultimately delicate sound. The way that the glass tinkles does not indicate to Beck that their lives are in imminent danger.

He grits his teeth. Through this:

"How fast are you going to go?"