#and analytical with your own thought processes and who you’re pointing fingers at

[aimfor-theheart]

i can litcherally connect every issue people complain about within fandom in recent years to late stage capitalism

[obscureamor]

❝𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭❞ 

❥     sakusa kiyoomi x fem! reader

❥     t/w  |  nsfw, noncon, slapping, degradation

»     a/n  |  initially started out as a thirst, then my brain went ‘slapping.’

You’re too disgusting for somebody like Komori… is what he wants to think, but truth be told Sakusa only wanted you for himself.

You always used to be close with the two cousins, but as time went on Sakusa grew colder towards you, while his feelings grew warmer... you took it the wrong way. He admired you in a messed up sense, admired the way you were so carefree and in the moment, but he hated it. He hated that part about you. In a way, Komori is the glue that holds you all together. You’re just a straggler though. You come and go as you please and Sakusa hates it.

And you can tell…

You can see it in the way he looks at you, the way his eyes analyze your every move. Just waiting, hoping you’d mess something up. When you did something wrong, it gave him a reason to talk to you. He didn’t care that it wasn’t in a positive light, that the memories you’d have of your conversations would only be negative. Sakusa hasn't had a normal conversation with you since you were kids.

He didn't expect you to come back from your trip so soon, so when Komori calls him, frantically telling him he can’t pick you up because the roads are starting to become frosted… he has to pretend it’s no big deal. 

He doesn’t live that far from the train station, but having to walk back home with Sakusa in the dark isn’t anyone’s dream. You have to stay over with the way the snow is visibly picking up and from what Komori told you, he should be able to come and get you by tomorrow. 

You’re bundled in a nice scarf and coat over your outfit. The walk is silent, the only sounds being the occasional ‘hurry up’s from Sakusa and you sniffling. Every breath is visible as you two walk towards his house. The way the snow is getting caught in his hair makes you smile, but you can only wonder how you look at this exact moment. You hope snot isn't dripping down your face. You're shivering but it's such a contrast to the way your body feels hot all over.

-

You can feel the tension in the air as you enter his home. It’s been a while since it’s only been you two. He watches as you take off your shoes, silently judging the way your hands shake or how you keep messing with your shirt.

‘Stop fidgeting,’ he wants to say but bites his tongue.

He takes off his mask watching as you walk to the kitchen to wash your hands. He follows shortly after making sure you did everything right.

“Sakusa?” you question, turning to look at him only to find him already staring. “W-Would you like to stay in the living room or—?”

“The living room.”

It’s nerve-wracking as you follow him and suddenly you can’t remember how to breathe. The hotness you were experiencing earlier has turned into icicles. It's festering, weighing you down, and you can feel your eyes watering even though nothing has happened yet. You're hit with a barrage of worry, goosebumps rising on your skin because suddenly the house feels too cold. When did you start being afraid of Sakusa? You're afraid of him. It’s something you never admitted because who could you admit that too? So when did it start? Was it when his eyes became over-analytical of you? When every word that came out of his mouth had a biting edge to them even though he didn't mean it?

You're taking deep breaths as you reluctantly take a seat on the couch, watching as he leaves to check on something before taking a seat beside you. Your eyes are darting all over the room before they settle on the window. It’s dark out and you can’t see anything with the way the snow is hitting the glass. You can feel his stare on you, so you do what you do best… try and fill the silence.

“How was your day?”

You turn to look at him, staring at him with those stupid eyes, a shaky smile on your lips as you await his answer.

“Good. And yours?”

You inhale a sharp breath. His day was only…  ‘good.’ Well, you don’t know what you were expecting with someone as straightforward as Sakusa. You’re just glad he asked you about yours too.

“Today was… well, um—” your voice trembles as you feel his cold stare on you. “—kinda boring… the train ride wasn’t that long, but nothing interesting happened. I’m sad Komori isn't with us though.”

His hands clench into fists and you’re so dense that you take his silence as a signal to keep going.

“Did I ever tell you about the time Komori and I went to go eat at, like… I don’t know— it was really early.” There’s a chuckle that you try to mask before you continue, “Maybe about 3am…  but! That’s not the point. He ended up getting caught between some fence and I really don’t know how.”

You’re too busy caught in your own world, reminiscing memories of your little adventures with Komori, that you don’t realize the way Sakusa is staring at you. The way his lip is curled into a scowl and his eyes are squinting in disbelief. He never knew that you two hung out alone. As far as Sakusa’s knowledge went, if Komori is there then so is he. When did you two start to see each other without him? Did you act differently when you were around Komori? Was there a whole other side to you Sakusa doesn't know about?

You’re still going.

How can one person talk about another this much?

There’s a yelp that leaves you when Sakusa pushes you to the floor, his body on top of yours. Your head feels like it's pounding as his hand slaps over your mouth. He’s relishing in the way your wide eyes are focused on him and him only.

“I’m so tired of you talking about him.”

He can hear your muffled words behind his palm, eyes frazzled and wide. Your hands are laying limp at your sides. The overwhelming feeling of dread washes over you— the icicles break in half and stab you in your gut.

“I’m better than him in every way, so pay attention to me.”

The way his eyes have no emotion behind them other than pure annoyance scares you. It was a look he gave to strangers when they touched or bumped into him, not a look he gave you. It’s silent as the wind picks up and the beating of your heart could be heard loud in your ears. His hand moves to hold your jaw, forcing your lips to pucker out. Your hands scramble to grab his wrist, pulling and tugging to let go so he squeezes harder making you cry out in pain at the way his nails start to dig into your skin. You don’t expect it when Sakusa spits in your mouth, the defining ‘ptuh’ making everything seem worse. He watches with monotonous fervor as you struggle and shake your head trying anything and everything to not swallow. It’s all futile as he watches his spit mingle with yours before finally, it goes down.

You can feel something tug at your pants before you process what he’s trying to do. He’s pulling them off, fingers then looping into the waistband of your panties before he pulls them down messily, albeit swiftly.

“Omi! ‘op!” you cry out.

The sound of his belt being worked off rings in your ears.

If there was one thing you knew about Sakusa, it’s that he liked to work smoothly and efficiently. He can’t do that with the way your legs are trying to kick at him, with the way your nails are digging into his wrist to let go of your jaw. So when his hand leaves your face you’re relieved, almost crying in relief as you go to soothe the ache, but it’s short-lived when you can hear the sound of his hand meeting your skin. The pop against your cheek and the crackle of the sting.

You finally realize that he wasn’t one of the top three aces for nothing.

“You’re just a stupid whore,” he mutters as he lines himself up with your entrance. “You have no idea how lucky you are for me to even think about fucking you.”

“Kiyoomi, please stop.”

There's anguish in your voice, but the thought is fleeting. It dissipates as if it’s snow after a sunny day. He likes the way his given name sounds coming out of your mouth too much for him to think about how you feel.

You can feel him rubbing himself along your lips and every time his cockhead catches on your entrance a whimper leaves you.

“Saku—”

When his hand meets your cheek for the second time, you feel him swiftly push in, hands settling on your hips. You throw your head back in a silent scream, back arching and chest flush against his. Your cunt is squeezing him and the groan Sakusa lets out echoes within the desolate house.

You sob out and you already know your skin is red, probably welting at the force. He hates the way your nose is leaking snot and how your disgusting tears are dirtying his floors.

“P-Please, stop, Saku—!”

There’s a ringing in your ears as he backhands you.

You don’t know what you’re doing wrong. What’s wrong? You can feel your cheek bruising. Your skin is stinging like the bad sunburn you got when Komori forgot to wake you from your nap at the beach. When your vision finally clears up as you blink away the tears… the look in Sakusa’s eyes scares you. He’s always had an apathetic look to him, but this… his eyes seem as black as the winter's night, and it’s only now that you realize— you’re stuck in a house alone with him until tomorrow.

“Kiyoomi…” you gasp. Your eyes scrunch tight and your shoulders raise as you brace yourself for another impact that doesn’t come. “Omi… I-I don’t— what did I do to you?”

You look so pathetic as you try and understand, but your small brain wouldn’t understand anything as complex as a man’s emotions.

“Omi-chan, please tell me what I did,” you sniffle, trembling hands coming up to grip onto his shoulders.

He’s reminded of when you all were younger at that nickname, reminded of when you would cling to him as you do to Komori now. You can’t save yourself no matter how much you plead and beg for him to stop.

He blinks at you once, twice, before rearing his hips back and slamming into you. There’s a choked out cry that leaves you, hands twisting his shirt as you grip onto him tighter.

“It hurts, Kiyoomi! P-Please stop!”

You’re so dry, but it’s not like it matters. Sakusa relishes in the way your pussy starts to tremble around him as it gets slicked up with every thrust. He wonders how much of a slut you really are and at the thought of Komori being the one to fuck you he slaps you again.

“You’re so dirty it makes me sick.”

His hands are pawing at your tits and it’s only seconds before he gets tired of your shirt being in the way. He shoves the piece of clothing up and you can hear Sakusa ‘tsk’ at your choice in bra color. He starts thrusting into you with such ferocity that makes your tits bounce with every thrust.

“Are you gonna cum like the dirty whore you are?”

You’re shaking your head, but you’re such a fucking liar. The way your stupid hole is drooling around him and clamping down tells him everything he needs to know. His hand leaves your hip, coming to rest on your throat.

“I’m going to cum in you. Komori won’t want a tainted whore.”

“Please no Kiyoomi! Please don’t! Please! I-I—” you’re trying to think of anything, but you only cry harder when your mind comes up blank.

He says nothing as he keeps moving, hand growing tighter around your throat. It’s not enough to choke you, just enough to tell you that he’s in control of the situation— he always has been. Sakusa gives no warnings as his breath hitches and he releases his load into you. He’s still going, not stopping until you cum. It’s just to prove his point that you really are a mindless whore.

There’s an earth-shattering sob that leaves you when you feel his seed flood into you. It’s so overwhelming that you cum, gummy walls riveting him in place as your body trembles. It’s moments later that Sakusa is left staring at you in awe for reasons unknown to him. Your pussy looks so pretty when it’s his cum that’s leaking out of it. He knows you’ve never slept with anyone, knows you’re untainted, but none of that matters now.

You can feel his eyes boring into you as you try and muffle your sobs... they’re as black as the winter’s night— void of emotion but full of plight.

[candychronicles]

yes sir // i. midoriya

A/N: my take on the bnharem workplace au collab! this is pretty much porn with plot, there’s no real interesting background. i just wanted to write sexy times with midoriya hehe

CHARACTER PAIRING: Izuku Midoriya x F!Reader

WORD COUNT: 2,765

WARNINGS: an obnoxious amount of pet names, soft-ish dom, dubcon maybe?? if you squint??, power dynamics, possessive izuku

SYNOPSIS: an infatuation with one of your bosses turns into something much more interesting. 

Click here to go to work on admiring all the other pieces!

work was never fun but when you directly responded to three equally attractive ceos, it tended to make things easier. despite them all being incredibly attractive, you found yourself particularly drawn to one man in specific: Izuku Midoriya.

he was the face of the operation, the one who greeted the media with a smile and ran lectures, pep talks and gatherings with the employees. not only did he have the charm, but he was smart and analytical, something that came in handy when dealing with other businesses and creating interpersonal relationships. he strived to make everyone feel like they belonged and that’s why you never put any thought into the bright smiles and big waves he gave you as he passed your office every morning.

Bakugou was who you usually worked under, the man being brash and loud but incredibly intelligent and covering a lot of ground when it came to running the company, especially when it came to logistics and timelines. you weren’t his secretary and yet often found yourself in his office helping whenever he called. you would say it was annoying except it meant that he favored you and you often got added perks because of that, like a flexible work schedule and unlimited premium coffee from his personal stash. 

Todoroki was a man who you seldom interacted with but had nothing but pleasant things to say. he was cold and standoffish at first but as you chatted he became more relaxed and willing to talk. he handled a lot of the behind the scenes, keeping up with IT and using his connections from his wealthy family to bring in new business. nonetheless, he was a pleasant man and tried to interact in his own odd way at any appropriate chance he got.

you never realized you had any special treatment outside from your own boss but it became more apparent over the months that they had all taken a liking to you in some form or another. you became absolutely ecstatic when you learned you had a chance with Midoriya, an awkward and yet sincere drunken love confession thrown dramatically your way outside of a business gathering. since he wasn’t technically your personal boss and you harbored a secret crush on him, it was all too easy, with the alcohol flowing through your veins, to say yes to a date with him.

despite his inebriated state the night before, he stayed true to his word and took you to a relaxed and private restaurant, one that you were sure wasn’t cheap as there wasn’t even prices on the menu. he told you to not worry about it and just enjoy the night and enjoy you did. after some awkward laughs here and there, you really got to know him and what he was like: funny, charming, truthful, determined, emotional, raw and bursting with the desire to be understood the way he understood other people. 

you took his truth and ran with it, confiding in him about anything you could think of that was appropriate for a first date and then some, over time learning all there was to know about one another. you spent many a night laid on his chest, confessing your hopes and dreams, listening to his own and promising each other that you would both work towards your desires as hard as possible. 

things outside of the bedroom, however, stayed incredibly private. you understood that he was a shy man by nature and was nervous that your position would be undermined or belittled by the other employees if they found out that you two were together but as time went on, you grew more and more frustrated about him keeping you a secret. all of his reasons, he claimed, were to protect you but you didn’t care and if he didn’t tell you the honest truth soon, you were going to burst.

it only took a few more weeks before things took an interesting turn. you had yet another argument with Midoriya, begging and pleading with him to not hide you anymore, to wear you on his arm with pride and shower you with even the tiniest of affection, but he was not budging, claiming he didn’t want you to get hurt and sad over the other employees judging you despite him not being your actual boss. when you confirmed to Midoriya that this wasn’t a real relationship and cut things off, you were intrigued to find Todoroki at your office door with a bouquet of flowers asking you on a date.

whether it was out of spite or a sheer desire to be seen and acknowledged, you accepted without any hesitation, donning your best dress and heels for the icy man. he took you to a much fancier and flashy restaurant than Midoriya did, flaunting his wealth without a care in the world. you tried some of the finest wines and foods, enjoying the live music and chatting casually with Todoroki. outside of his awkward demeanor, it was a good first date and you had fun, certainly appreciating all that he did for you, but you realized it didn’t matter because you were still head over heels in love with the green haired guy with the golden heart. every little thing Todoroki did, you caught yourself comparing and contrasting with what Midoriya would’ve done and with a sad smile, told him you had fun but that you were going through some personal problems and needed some time before trying anything else. he was nothing but a gentleman and insisted that it was okay but despite his words, you still felt a pang in your heart, guilty for leading him on in the first place.

work the next day was rather uneventful, time spent chipping away at paperwork and organizing events for the next day, Bakugou sliding into your office with an unusually sad look on his face as he handed you your favorite coffee and slid back out, not acknowledging you otherwise. you hummed appreciatively nonetheless, savoring every sip like it was your last. just as you were walking out the door, the last person in your department to stay behind, you got a text from Midoriya asking you to meet in his office to discuss something.

you swallowed thickly, knowing there may be another argument approaching and hoping your heart could handle the pain. with a soft knock to the large wooden doors, you stood, waiting for him to invite you in. 

the door creaked ominously open before you were yanked into the room, wood slamming heavily back into place as he crashed his lips against your own without any warning, harsh and fierce and nothing like he had ever been before. 

you tried to create some space, some sort of distance between you two in order to process the situation but he was relentless, attacking you with such fervor that you had no choice but to follow along, desperate to know what he was thinking.

you didn’t have to wait long before he slowed down, pressing his forehead against your own, breath fanning against your face as he collected his thoughts.

“you went on a date with Todoroki,” he stated simply, eyes shut as he focused on you, your body movements, the way your heart leapt into your throat and your pulse point jumped at the comment. 

“i did,” you replied, squinting your own eyes at him as best as you could in your position, trying to figure out what his next move was.

“why would you do that?” he questioned, hurt laced in his voice.

you contemplated for a few moments on what to say, finally deciding on the truth: “i was hurt and thought that maybe i could get over you by going out with him but i couldn’t. i just wanted someone to show me off for once, not be ashamed to be seen with me.”

“sweetheart,” he sighed into your mouth, lips ghosting over your own. “i was just trying to protect you from the judgement you’d get being with me, but if you’re that insistent in being shown off, then let me show you off.”

one gentle kiss after another was placed on your face, from your temple to your nose to your cheeks to finally your lips, sealing them with yet another searing kiss. you whined into his mouth, enamored by the taste of coffee and mint on his tongue. he pinched your ass and smiled when you squealed, taking advantage of the sound to pick you up against the door, hiking your skirt up to your waist and pressing one experimental finger to your clothed slit, noticing each and every breathy moan that left your body.

“let me take these off, yeah?” he asked, not waiting for a response before he not so delicately ripped your panties off your body, assuring you he’d get you a new pair after you protested against his actions. 

he walked casually over to the desk, setting you down and spreading your knees apart as he kneeled, face cooing over your cunt. you tried to squeeze your knees together in embarrassment but he only pulled them open again, tsking as he brought his thumb pad up to your clit, rubbing delicate circles around the bud as he watched your mouth open into an o.

he continued to rub in circles, changing the pace and pressure as he analyzed your every move, watching to see what made you feel the best. when he was satisfied with the pace, he brought his other hand up to delicately insert a finger into your dripping hole, curling to try to find the place that made you see stars behind your eyelids. it only took a few moments before he hit the spot, your head fallen back and toes curling in pleasure. 

“look at me and nowhere else or i won’t let you cum. do you understand?” he asked, forcefully grabbing your chin.

“y-yes sir.”

he nodded, satisfied with the eye contact before resuming his movement, eyes boring into your own as he watched you struggle to breathe and watch him back, his cock straining in his pants as he watched your eyes water, tears spilling over your cheeks as he brought you so incredibly close to your orgasm.

“sir, please let me cum. p-please, i don’t think i can hold on any longer,” you finally begged, giving into what you knew he secretly wanted.

“my sweet angel wants to cum? i guess she’s been such a good girl that i’ll have to indulge her,” he cooed, picking up the pace and inserting another finger, making it just enough to have you unravel in seconds. 

your head remained still, eyes locked on his own, but your body shook from the mere exhaustion you felt as you forced yourself to not throw your head back in pure ecstasy. he helped you ride your orgasm out with steady thrusts, his long, scarred fingers hitting all the right ridges. 

“look at you being just a doll,” he murmured, opening your mouth to stick his dripping fingers in, pressing down harshly on your tongue, smiling when you gagged. 

“i think my sweetheart deserves a bit of a reward for being such a good girl, hmm? what do you think?” he asked, removing his fingers from your mouth to allow you to speak.

“please sir, please, i need,” you stopped, hiccuping, not realising you were crying as you begged for him.

“you need what angel? c’mon, use your words.”

“i need your cock, please, i need you inside of me. i’ll be good, i’ll be so good, i promise. just please fuck me.”

before you had a chance to realize what was going on, he pulled you off the desk, flipping you around so that your ass was on full display. he gave it one appreciative slap before his belt was being unbuckled, his pants falling to the floor as he pulled out his cock, aching to be buried inside your wet cunt.

“relax for me sweetheart. i’ll take care of you.”

the tip had you instantly pressing yourself into the desk, but as he continued to push into to you, you relished in the way he stretched you out, making you feel so full and warm.

“more, m’need more, please,” you begged, squirming around as you tried to fill yourself up with as much of him as you could.

he obliged without hesitation, sheathing himself fully into you, eyes rolling back into his head as he felt you squeeze around him, pulling him impossibly closer. he placed his hands against your hips to steady himself, pinching the flesh and breathing deeply through his nostrils as he attempted to control himself but once you started begging again, hands gripping the other edge of the deck as you attempted to ground yourself, he lost all control.

“don’t say you didn’t ask for his angel.”

his hips snapped out before surging forward, thrusting hard and deep, his tip kissing your cervix and fingers bruising into your flesh. you cried out, not sure what you were feeling but incredibly happy anyways. his cock pounded in and out of your squelching cunt, your cream dripping down your thighs and his. you felt every little vein, the curve of his shaft, how he fit into you so perfectly, how he was made for you. your vision went white and you held onto the desk for dear life as your legs gave out from under you, your cunt clenching aggressively around his cock as you came.

“i’ve got you, just relax.”

your body went limp as he leaned over you, propping you up against the desk as he continued to thrust into you, moving smoothly as your liquids pooled around his pelvis. your hands kept gripping the desk for dear life as you tried to catch your breath but with every snap of his hips, every nip to your shoulder, every searing hickey left on your neck, had your head reeling and the coil in your stomach building once again.

“‘Zuku, i don’t know how much longer i can hold out. m’gonna cum again,” you whined, breathing heavily as you tried to prolong it for as long as possible.

“c’mon sweetheart, you can do it one more time, just cum for me, it’s okay. i’ve got you.”

it only took three forceful swirls of his fingers on your aching clit to have you squirting all over his cock, your cum gushing everywhere as you arched your back and dug your nails into the glass of the desk. as you squeezed around him, you felt Midoriya cum, burying himself deep inside your pussy, head coming down to rest on your shoulders.

without saying anything, he pulled out gently, wincing as he saw the disheveled state you were in. he helped you sit back on the desk, pulling out some napkins to clean you and then himself up, offering you some water and helping to pour it in your mouth, wiping away your mascara stained cheeks.

“are you okay?” he asked once you had settled down a bit, pulling down your skirt and shakily standing on two legs.

“what are we Midoriya?” you replied, not wanting to let the post sex haze ruin what you had orignially come for.

he sighed, walking over to you and holding your hands in his own, bringing them up to kiss them before responding, “i wanted to protect you but i see how selfish that is now considering the fact that you didn’t care. i’m sorry i didn’t listen but i won’t hide from you anymore and i won’t hide you from the public, no matter what.”

you nodded at his response, eager to be with him again and not be held in the shadows. 

“but in order to do that, i have got to put a few mutual friends in place.”

quizzically, you watched as he sat down in his computer, motioning for you to sit in his lap. he tapped away at a few folders, watching in confusion and then embarrassment as he pulled up a video, one of the encounter you just had. 

“i’m sending this to Bakugou and Todoroki. they always talk about how they could fuck you better, how they could make you scream louder, make you listen, make you theirs. this will prove otherwise. you want me to show you off, have you be mine unconditionally? well you’ve got it babe, loud and clear. you’re mind, understood? and nobody will get in the way of that, not even them.”

[lorei-writes]

Impression of Infinity

Vincent x Reader Fluff (?) Fantasy AU

Word Estimate: 1.5k

I blame @cheese-ception​ for this. Also, excuse typos, I literally wrote the last parts with closed eyes, because I can’t see anything just regardless - it’s all blur.

Content Warnings: none Disclaimer: Reader & Vincent are of the same age, Vincent just found himself in a very peculiar situation

Vincent’s finger twitches – and green grows between the rows of students, translucent, reaching up to the very ceiling. His wrist twists the brush by what could be an error margin, the swing of his arm summons purples, invites them alongside violets, to rest between the stars – and you watch very carefully, although you know you should observe his work, not him, that you should listen to his words, not the thumping filling your head… Yet how could you, if he has you charmed, if you cannot turn your eyes away? Vincent nearly dances, his cheeks growing redder from exercise, the canvas he chose being much greater than the body he inhabits. To paint it must be tiresome, you reckon, although your concerns vanish, the spark in his eyes causing something inside of you to sting. Clearly, he is not the same boy you used to know, not the one sentenced to the fate of failure due to his inability to enchant with his voice alone. Yet… Is there anything wrong with that? After all, his greatest flaw turned into what made him a prodigy, as you always claimed.

The heat does not hold against the chilly air of the corridor, you think, the soles of your shoes clacking against the granite floor. The air vibrates outside, kept ablaze by merciless sun, the dreaded celestial body refusing to set even at night, its halo extending from one end of the horizon to the other – and even as your eyebrows furrow, you cannot stop and stare through the tinted-glass windows for even a moment, a steady stream of humans behind your back pushing you forward. In this world of yours, rather secluded from the outside realm, it is another sort of movement that agitates the air, lively chatter lifting in clouds, further replenished by curious students.

The lecture theatre is a marvel in its own right, rows of wooden benches and bookrests refusing to fall apart despite all the centuries passed. You take your seat, in the very front row – and although you try to, you cannot help wondering who sat there before you. Have… Have they discovered anything? Gained some fame? You cannot tell for sure, that much is certain, yet… It would not be unthinkable, it would not be impossible in any way. The Seventh Century University have had quite a number of excellent graduates.

Your hands beginning to hurt, you forcibly unclench your fists, your gaze lifting up from the floor. Right in time, as the chatter stops abruptly, killed by the shriek of the walnut door. A man, no taller than average, steps inside – and something perhaps stings inside your chest, just a little bit. His robe is somewhat crooked, just the way you remembered it to be, the traditional pointy hat (much dreaded by any student, in all fairness) seemingly glaring at him from its place in his arms. He looks around, as if lost, mildly dishevelled blonde hair appearing not to have grown any more obedient the past year. Your throat tightens. He is already at the lectern. “Good evening,” he laughs awkwardly. “My name is Vincent van Gogh and I will be your Practical Astronomy professor.”

The room grows dark, obsidian seemingly crawling over all stone spaces and consuming them whole. Your jaw tightens. Was it truly just a year? To think, so much would have changed… For you both to start at the same time, and then…

It happens as if a sea of fireflies was released into the room, a single twitch of the brush in his hand colouring the nothingness anew. “As we all know, Tralangea is located within the Galatos triad, in the galaxy of Saana. Little is known about the outside universes, however, the most recent findings indicate the remaining splatter points present different variants of the reality known to us. As you should already known after going through Analytical Divination, it would align well within the still-standing model of inter-crossings. In this moment, I want you to imagine the infinite number of elements, circulating through space and interacting with one another. I will give you a second.” The light dies down again, the previously invoked golden specks splashing against the ground. “How does it look?”

No one dares disrupt the silence. How can he ask? It is impossible to answer, of course – and you are very well aware of that. How to picture an infinity? Is it… A trick question, perhaps? You go over the possibilities in your thoughts. A void? The light? You do not know. Something completely abstract, the end of all times? For all you know, it may be just that, and your fellow students seem to agree, confused whispers beginning to hum behind your back. The hushed voices growl, a sea of flies united in mere human distrust. “Professor?” some brave soul asks. “Yes? Do you have an answer?” “I… I think this is impossible.” “Oh? Why so? I might have given you too tough a question at the start,” Vincent laughs, seemingly mildly unease. “It is infinity, professor.” The room quiets down, the concern of all having been spoken out loud. “It is impossible to picture infinity with a finite mind. It would fry it up!” A smack, a couple steps. “I see, you are not aware,” Vincent muses, something swishing in the air. “Your life already is an infinity, in this very moment.”

The room begins to glow, the brush in Vincent’s hand seemingly coming to life with a mind of its own, streaks of navy blue and petrol painting below the dome, swirling and tying with shades of orange, lined with golden dust. “We do not need perfection. We need a model,” he explains softly, almost tenderly, his gaze focused.

Vincent’s finger twitches – and green grows between the rows of students, translucent, reaching up to the very ceiling. His wrist twists the brush by what could be an error margin, the swing of his arm summons purples, invites them alongside violets, to rest between the stars – and you watch very carefully, although you know you should observe his work, not him, that you should listen to his words, not the thumping filling your head… Yet how could you, if he has you charmed, if you cannot turn your eyes away? Vincent nearly dances, his cheeks growing redder from exercise, the canvas he chose being much greater than the body he inhabits. To paint it must be tiresome, you reckon, although your concerns vanish, the spark in his eyes causing something inside of you to sting. Clearly, he is not the same boy you used to know, not the one sentenced to the fate of failure due to his inability to enchant with his voice alone. Yet… Is there anything wrong with that? After all, his greatest flaw turned into what made him a prodigy, as you always claimed. You were right. You were right in not telling him not to…

Vincent lifts his arm over his head, a halo emerging above him. His lips move, a barely audible charm seeping out of his lungs and pulling his creation into a newly created sphere. The room lights up again, granite having conquered the walls. You blink fast. Is it over already? “We have a little more time, so allow me to repeat myself. It is not about creating perfection, but much rather… An impression,” Vincent laughs, perhaps a little shy of what they have just witnessed. “The universes are infinite and so are their interpretations. With our current state of understanding, we cannot provide an accurate depiction. However, different stances on them can be beneficial in certain contexts. Do you know what my model could be used for?” “Map of the stars!” somebody shouts in the back. “Exactly,” he agrees, nodding happily, his lips curled into a smile. “It is what I focused on. By the end of the year, I want you to be able to process an infinite amount of information and take only a fraction of this information. Starting next week, we will be deconstructing our universe. Any questions?” Silence. “You’re free then, thank you.”

The seats around you empty at a gradual pace, some pooling around the lectern (it appears the shyness is quite infectious, you note) while others speed out of the hall, seemingly terrified of classes which are yet to come. You, however, you stay still, as if unable to move, although there is nothing holding you back. Is it you? Is it a mean spell somebody has cast? You do not know, although it seems it is not your day for knowing anything, Vincent, the very Vincent you knew so well, emerging right before you, from who knows where. He graces you with the brightest smile you have seen in a year. “Hello. I didn’t know you were taking my class,” he says, a trace of laughter in his voice. “I saw you listed as the professor and could not believe it, so of course, I had to see it for myself,” you reply, shaking your head, perhaps mildly amused. “Congrats! That internship must have been so hard, you skipped so many years! I hope they didn’t torture knowledge into you there, professor Van Go –” you stop before you finish the word, Vincent scratching his head, his eyes drifting way from you. “Vincent?” “Well, emm… I didn’t skip any years,” he laughs. “It is just those models. The rest, well…” “You still need to pass them?” “Please, tell me you have not chosen my subject over Astral Projection this year,” he forces out of himself – although you barely hear it, laughter shaking your arms violently. “I haven’t. How does this even work?” “I don’t know. I don’t think they know either.” “Oh, Vincent. Well, professor van Gogh, get ready for failing Astral Projection, Miss Szajna took over it this semester and I do not see anything painting in bright colours, unlike your models.”

You get up, the both of you walking to well, the next class. How does it all work? You have no clue. However, it does not matter in the slightest, a weight having been lifted off your heart. You can still tell him those three words. You have not lost your chance.

Tag List: @cheese-ception​​​​, @kisara-16​​, @nad-zeta​, @rikumorimachisgirl​ @bestbryn​​ If you want to be tagged under my future works, let me know (any way works)! ^^ Also, do remember to specify fandoms (and characters, if you are interested only in some) :D If it ever happens that you wish to be removed from my taglist, for any reason, do let me know. I will not ask why, it’s all fine ^^

[fishingforyolos]

That Awkward Moment When...

What if Dean got Castiel back from the Empty, and DIDN’T confess his love right away? What if instead, Dean and Cas just...didn’t know how to bring it up to one another, and forced Sam to endure the most intense third-wheel moment that he’s ever experienced, while these two emotionally constipated dumbasses sat in awkward silence?

This is here to answer that question.

________________________________________

Ahem.

It was the fourth time within two minutes that Dean had cleared his throat, and pretended to look out the window.

Sam was counting, now, in a desperate bid to distract from the incredible, palpable awkward silence emanating from the front seat of the car.

He had given Cas the front as a KIND gesture. He was being nice! It was only FAIR that the guy who had just escaped from super mega turbohell got to have a free pass at riding shotgun.

Or, so he thought. When he sidled into the backseat an hour ago, he did not anticipate the absolutely lethal levels of weird that Cas and Dean would be radiating—all pretending not to look at each other, conspicuous rubbing of the back of their necks, and god DAMN it Dean was fake-looking out the window AGAIN! There was nothing out there but corn, Dean!! Corn for miles!!!

Sam sat back and groaned. This was one of the most intolerable hours that he had ever witnessed in this godforsaken car, and that was saying something.

He allowed himself to drift off into his thoughts, letting his analytical side take over. Whatever it was, it probably happened in the bunker, right before Cas was taken by the Empty. Dean had been very...vague, about that situation, which only made Sam all the more curious. What could they have SAID to each other? Sam was no stranger to having a tense relationship with Castiel, but...if they were mad at each other, they’d be doing that stupid stony-faced silent treatment. But no, they both seemed too full of nervous energy. Cas was currently rifling through the glovebox, of all goddamn things, and Dean was toggling the blinker back and forth on a two-lane highway.

Click, click. Click, click. Click, click.

“Are these...salted?” asked Castiel, holding up a box of bullets as if they were a sale item at Costco.

“Huh? Oh, yeah,” said Dean taking a quick glance, “We bought those for the uh...for the ghosts.”

“I see,” said Castiel, nodding for just a bit too long.

Click, click. Click, click. Click, click.

Sam scrubbed his face with his hands. He had been to hell before, but listening to bad small talk was its own special kind of hell. What happened in that bunker room that would make them behave like-

Like-

Sam’s mouth fell open.

Like the awkward morning after.

“Oh, my God,” Sam blurted, before he could stop himself, “Did-did you two have a one-night stand?”

Castiel dropped the box of bullets.

Dean choked on nothing.

“Sam, what the HELL?!” he coughed.

“Well, SORRY,” Sam said, in a way that he hoped conveyed how NOT sorry he was, “But you guys are acting, uhhh, really weird, and I thought maybe, I dunno-”

He shrugged, and held his hands up in defense against Dean’s murderous glare, “I thought maybe you hooked up! Y’know, last night on earth style!”

“Wha-no. No, no, no,” Dean said again, gesturing forcefully with one hand before pointing directly at Sam, “That’s-that’s not what happened in there.”

“Indeed,” Castiel murmured lowly, throwing a glance to the backseat, “I can assure you, it was worse.”

Dean nearly swerved off the road.

Sam’s jaw fell open again, eyes flicking from Dean to Cas. “W-WORSE?!”

“Oh my FUCKING god,” Dean whispered into the steering wheel.

“What I mean is, it was more...personally humiliating. To me,” Castiel clarified.

Sam blinked several times, trying to process this new bit of information. 

“But I thought...you said, that the Empty's deal was about you experiencing happiness,” Sam said, shifting back into analytical mode, “Does it make an...exception, for humiliation?”

He sat back and grimaced, as he weighed the horrible possibility in his mind. “Is it into that??”

“W-well,” stuttered Castiel, his gravelly voice betraying his discomfort, “Regardless of the...preferences, sexual or otherwise, of the Empty-”

Dean suddenly slammed the steering wheel with his palm.

“Can you two PLEASE, shut up?!” he roared, “And let me fucking DRIVE in PEACE?!”

Sam and Cas fell silent, the atmosphere of the Impala even more tense than before.

Sam put his head in his hands. God, he should have just kept his mouth shut. Or maybe, he should have just taken shotgun in the first place, and stuck Cas in the back. Would've saved everyone all this trouble, maybe.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Castiel said, finally breaking the silence.

Sam pursed his lips in annoyance. He could already tell, simply by the look on Cas’ face, that this was going to be another heart-to-heart where they completely forgot he existed. 

Dean, meanwhile, didn’t react.

“I…” Castiel sighed, “I don’t...mean to make things awkward, it’s just that I didn’t-I never expected to SEE you again.”

“Really, Cas?” Dean exploded, “Really? After all we’ve been through, after all the times we’ve dragged each other out of the clutches of-of Hell, Heaven, you name it, you didn’t-you didn’t even consider the POSSIBILITY that we’d get you out?”

“Of course I considered it,” Castiel said quietly, “It was my most desperate desire."

He sat back, and turned to direct his gaze out the window.

“But there is a sort of...freedom, in confessing directly before death,” Castiel said, speaking a fog onto the window with each word, “All the vulnerability...none of the consequences.”

Sam’s eyes flew wide open as it all finally clicked. 

No way. No way. NO WAY.

He shot up straight, incredulity plastered across his face that the other two were too preoccupied to notice.

DId Castiel...confess his feelings in that bunker? Make a move? Shoot his shot? And then DIE?! 

What the fuck, Cas?

Sam sat back, reeling, running his fingers through his hair as Dean and Cas continued to stare out separate windows. He quite literally didn’t think he would LIVE to see the day that they acknowledged their...thing, and now they were doing it right in front of his eyes.

“I...I meant what I said, Dean,” Castiel said, fixing Dean’s profile with a longing stare, “Every single word. And I still do.”

Sam turned back toward Dean, hunched defensively over the wheel of the Impala. He still wouldn’t look at Cas. 

Please, Sam prayed silently, Don’t fuck this up.

“But, I’m acutely aware that it made things different between us,” Castiel sighed, “And I’m sorry for that. I can’t take it back. However-”

“I love you.”

If he wasn’t literally watching Dean’s mouth move as he said it, Sam wouldn’t have believed his ears. Holy shit.

He whipped his head back to Castiel, who was stopped in his tracks like a deer in headlights.

Even the rain, beating against the windshield at 70 miles an hour, didn’t dare interrupt the moment at hand.

Dean was still staring out at the road, hands gripping the wheel like he was clinging to sanity itself.

“You didn’t let me say it back,” Dean said through gritted teeth, “In the bunker, you just-you dropped that on me, and then you were GONE, and you didn’t even let me say it back.”

Sam’s mouth was agape once again, eyes flicking back and forth between his brother and the equally speechless angel. The air between them was charged, and ready for a lightning strike.

“W-when you say that,” Castiel said, after a solid ten seconds of trying to find his voice, “Do you-do you mean it-”

Dean DID swerve off the road this time, sending Sam sprawling across the backseat as he skidded to a stop on the shoulder.

“Ow! Dean, what the-”

“Yeah, Castiel,” Dean said, finally taking his eyes off the road to fix him with a wild look, “I mean it. Same way you did. When you said that-that the one thing you wanted, you couldn’t have, it-it didn’t make any sense, because I always thought that I was the one wanting what I couldn’t-who I couldn't-”

He sniffled.

“Fuck, I didn’t want to do this in the CAR,” Dean said, wiping his eyes, “Not in front of Sammy.”

“Honestly? I prefer this over the past miserable hour,” Sam said, leaning back, “Do what you gotta do, man. Just...pretend I’m not here.”

Dean actually chuckled at that, but turned his attention back to Cas, who was still blinking in shock.

“Cas, you...you gotta understand,” Dean said carefully, reaching across the seat and cupping Cas’ cheek in a hand, “Come hell or high water, you have me.”

He swallowed hard. “You don’t have to...to want, I-I’m yours, a-already in the bag. Got it?”

Tears tracked down Castiel’s face as he nodded.

“Yeah,” he said, trying unsuccessfully to stop a wide, tearful smile from spreading across his face.

Dean visibly softened, and brought Castiel’s face in, kissing him right on the mouth.

Sam hoped he wouldn't come to regret the "do what you gotta do" comment, but they broke apart just a moment later to touch foreheads like a couple of saps.

“...Yaaay, congratulations!” Sam said, waving celebratory arms in the air as widely as he could in the cramped backseat. He searched around him and found some crumpled receipts, which he tossed into the front seat. “Whoo! Confetti!”

“Sam…” Dean said, closing his eyes and shaking his head.

“I appreciate your jubilation, Sam,” Castiel said, dead seriously, looking back at him with just his eyes, “Your approval means a lot to me.”

"Hey,” Sam said, clapping Castiel on the shoulder, “This changes nothing. You're still like a brother to me, man. You’re still family." 

Cas smiled at him. “Thank you, Sam.”

“Aww, look at that smile, Sammy,” Dean said, tapping Cas on the cheek, “Look at it! How could anybody resist that smile?”

“I dunno, Dean, it’s pretty easy when you’re not in love with him,” Sam smiled.

“Welp,” shrugged Dean casually, as he shifted the car back into drive, “Guess I wouldn’t know, then.”

Sam was taken aback by the...ease, with which all that just rolled off of Dean’s tongue. 

“God,” Sam groaned, “You’re going to be an INSUFFERABLE couple.”

Dean just laughed, light and loud, as he merged back onto the highway, offering out his right hand.

"I'm sorry, Sam," Castiel said, taking the offered hand with a twinkle of mischief in his eyes, "But as you can see, I cannot resist his charm."

Sam rolled his eyes at that, but he couldn’t keep the grin off his face. It was insufferable, yes, and Sam was going to have to have a LONG talk with Dean later, but...for now, he just laughed, as the tension bled out of the car, and Dean FINALLY turned on the stereo, letting the soothing sound of Led Zeppelin carry them into a lighter mood.

Sam took a deep breath, and let it out slow. Maybe sometimes, good things do happen.

[sector-i-closed]

*shyly* 👉🏽👈🏽 inexperienced and shy incubus Yeosang being gentle femdommed by the reader as she shows him how exactly to pleasure his partner?

Incubi!Yeosang. I hope you like it @atiny-piratequeen :3

Tagging: @yunderful @delicatewerewolfsoul @youneedapiratekink @mirror-juliet

Warning: smut

 "I'm completely worn out!" You exhaled sharply as your head hit your pillow. The comfort of your bed was something that you were thankful for after having a long, grueling day at work and the birthday party that your closest friends had put on for you was exciting but tiring as well since mingling wasn't exactly your thing to do but you made an exception for your birthday. 

A wide smile graced your face momentarily when you switched the bedside lamp off, shrouding the entire room in blackness that seemed a bit eerie to you on this particular night, especially when it felt as if something physical inhabited the blackness in the room. 

There was nothing to be seen and you brushed the feeling off as merely your hyperactivity that was the result of your day. Weariness overwhelmed you as your eyes fluttered shut, sealing out the external darkness while your fatigue urged you to slip into a deep sleep. 

You had not been asleep for very long when you sensed something hot to the touch press against your body, the 'something' feeling like a masculine body weighing you down against your mattress. 

"This is quite an interesting dream..." You spoke mentally without uttering your voice out loud. It felt as if a dead weight was on top of you and you found it difficult to breathe.

 Your mind's eye opened and what you saw stole your breath away. A male with an angel's face was looking down at you quizzically, appearing quite baffled as if he was confused as to what he was supposed to be doing with you? You gazed back into his brown eyes which were tinted with a reddish hue deep in their dark depths.

 "What are you here f-for?" You blush, sensing that you were still sound asleep which made sense because this moment could only be explained as a strange dream. 

The male's pale cheeks blossomed into a soft shade of pink, making him appear even more angelic and his hair was almost completely white, lending to his heavenly appearance as well.

 "I'm here... I'm here to make you feel good..." The stranger's cheeks flushed an even deeper shade of red after he spoke, determination registering in his eyes in spite of the apprehension in his speech.

 "Who are you?" You surprised yourself with your own voice, wondering to yourself as to why you didn't recoil after he said those words until you reminded yourself that you were still asleep and it would be a normal ocurrance to react uncharacteristically while in your sleep state. 

"I'm Yeosang." He managed a weak smile that prompted your internal organs to feel as if they would melt away into nothing, let alone the intense heat that radiated off of his body that added to the warmth that circulated in your own body. 

"Are you an angel, or an incubi?" You asked with piqued curiosity, the angelic appearance of this person was far from demonic to you but this dream felt unusual and your neediness was gnawing at you constantly as he watched you. 

"Y-yes... Incubi" His voice trembled, his eyes lowering to avoid your analytic gaze.

 "Why haven't you taken what you wanted from me? I could have sworn you were an angel." You quirked an eyebrow, feeling a smirk tug at the corner of your mouth. 

"I- I don't know why." He bit out in frustration, glancing at your face briefly which didn't seem to help his condition since his eyes reddened even more. You watched the conflicted incubi with a look of compassion filling your eyes, more words that didn't make sense to you tumbled from your lips.

 "I want you to kiss me, Yeosang." You smirked, watching the naked demon look down at you with shock flashing through his eyes.

 "I don't know how..." He murmured, his voice nearly inaudible to your ears. 

"I can teach you some things baby, if you want me to." You reassured him sweetly while instinctively reaching out to cup his cheek in your hand.

 "Sure." Yeosang's voice appeared a slight bit more steady as you guided his face closer to yours, closing the distance between you and himself with a gentle brush of your lips planting themselves against his. 

You took notice in the stiffness of his mouth but you maintained patience, placing soft, continuous pecks across his lips to coax him to relax. 

The incubi shuddered vaguely when you snaked your arm around his bare waist, caressing his back softly in controlled motions that mimicked the movements of your kisses which began to aid in him in loosening up to being receptive of your oral ministrations. 

A quiet taste of sweetness that lingered upon his lips beckoned to you to deepen the kiss, finding more of his alluring flavor the farther you sneaked your tongue into his hot mouth. 

You moaned into his hot mouth, showing him that you were enjoying yourself and was delighted when his tongue began to sensually stroke yours, tantalizing the sensitive cells that were receptive to his magical touch.

 A louder moan leaked from your lips and a lustful growl resonated in the incubi's throat, prompting your toes to curl as a sense of weightlessness enveloped your body. 

You sighed softly, breaking the intense kiss that swept your senses from your mind. Kisses were ghosted along Yeosang's neck, the action suddenly making you aware of the hard length that was poking at your stomach, prompting an amused smile to spread across your features as you kissed the demon's skin fervently.

 "You like this don't you, Sangie?" You purred, continuing to plant kisses across his chest, gradually scooting your body downwards until you were facing his torso. 

"Mm I-?" Yeosang started, cutting off his response to his question when your tongue flicked out and caressed one of his nipples, massaging his hardened bud teasingly while your other hand busied itself with pinching his other nipple, alternating between rough movements of your fingers to slightly gentler pinches of his sensitive flesh. 

A sharp curse slipped from the demon's mouth as your lips encircled his nipple, sucking in the most erotic way that could prompt him to moan even more. He looked as if he would collapse from the sexual energy of your enjoyment of what you were doing to him. 

You watched his face closely as you directed your attention to his other nipple, sucking it and watching what you could see of his face contort into ecstatic expressions that you felt would have prompted the incubi to blush had he seen himself, though currently he seemed quite caught up in the moment to not care about anything except for what you were doing to him. 

Your tongue flicked against his searing hot, sensitive flesh for several moments until you were satisfied that Yeosang had enough of a demonstration. 

"Do you have an idea now of how foreplay goes?" You asked with a teasing smile, quietly chuckling at the slight flustered expression on his face that nearly disappeared as fast as it came. 

"I do now, love." He stated, his body seeming to become even hotter than before or you imagined it. 

"Now, I want you pull my sleep shorts off and use your tongue to make me come." You commanded, watching the incubi quickly move off of you and grip the waistband of your shorts, slipping them off of your hips, followed by your panties.

 "Touch my thighs with your hands and kiss them as you get closer to my pussy. Take your time in getting to your partner's sex because it makes the experience better for your partner." You spoke as your legs shivered beneath the fiery touch of the incubi's hands rubbing your inner thighs, caressing the soft skin beneath his fingertips. 

A soft gasp interrupted the silence after Yeosang pressed his lips against your skin, doing as you had told and pressing sinful kisses to your thighs that tantalized your senses thoroughly. 

"You're doing really good, just keep it up." You smiled down at him, not fully registering that his mouth had just reached your heat and that he appeared to instinctively pick up on what you liked with each stripe that he licked up your clit, sending tingles and jolts of electricity resonating from where the intense heat of his tongue touched your velvety soft folds. 

"So good for me..." You cooed, locking eyes with the demon who's own eyes was shifting into a beautiful red hot shade that made you imagine that you were staring into the pits of hell. 

The thought encouraged a knot to tighten in your stomach, pulling taut with the friction of Yeosang's tongue efficiently running up and down your moist, sensitive folds.

 "R-right there..." Your chest heaved, the overwhelming heat of his mouth was driving you crazy and the knot in your stomach was pulling even tighter, snapping almost immediately after he began to concentrate on your most receptive nerve endings, dragging you beneath the wave of the climax that overtook you. 

"YEOSAAAANGGG!!!!" You screamed suddenly when you weren't expecting to, your hips bucking to remove yourself from the demon's hold on your body. Still he firmly held you in place with both hands, taking all of the arousal and sexual energy from you and satiating his own hunger. 

Slowly you came down from the orgasm, unable to fathom your surroundings and you had even forgot that you were still dreaming.

 "I think I practiced really well for you. Thanks for the lesson, I might come back and visit again to gain more lessons from you." Yeosang smirked, even though you could see a hint of a blush coloring his cheeks.

 "Take your time and come back to practice again someday." You smiled lazily, watching his pointed tail swish behind him and black wings sprout from his shoulders, which contrasted greatly with his angelic features. 

"I'll be back around." He promised, suddenly dissipating into a black cloud of smoke and leaving you to wake up from your slumber and process what happened on your own. 

[meltangospelhour]

Notes on Reverie & Discipline: Chapter 1

Format: 1st Person Narrative

Chapter Rating: R / +17 [Implied Sexual stuff/it's smut]

Summary: This story was written after and based upon the 2020 GOFest that's been collecting dust. It's a first person recollection of thoughts after certain events, as well as repressed feelings coming to the surface between three characters in particular.

Chapter 2 // Chapter 3

Blanche

Comparing notes is how we’ve come to conclude our daily routine. It has been logical to do so; our research overlaps quite a bit. As you know, I oversee the handling of evolutionary components and deducting the requirements; Spark is an expert when it comes to breeding and handling Pokémon in their infancy; and Candela, in matters of improving overall stats of a Pokémon, which can involve a combination of stardust and candies.

To address it as Spark would: “Candy makes the candy.”

...Ahem.

So, because candies can trigger the evolutionary outcome of a Pokémon, it is inevitable and without question that I would be working alongside Candela quite often. It’s a fate inescapable. Even if we’ve discovered nothing new, she and I will come together out of a habit that’s formed over the course of these years. If one of us is too sick to appear in person, we’ll connect virtually. In all matters of candy, stardust, and now Rockets, there is always something to discuss.

Such evenings are somehow intense, yet still quiet. Cozy, if you will. The way my partner shifts from being so analytical in one moment, into a giggling fit the next, was a pattern that alarmed me in the beginning. Are you really a scientist, I’d wanted to ask countless times during our first sessions. Now, I’m happy to be a witness to the gamut of personalities that find themselves called into the field that are Pokémon studies.

Candela is far more crafty and even more calculative than I had come to imagine. If she loses, she still somehow wins. I have to work hard for my victories against her; she loses gracefully, but you will have most certainly earned that victory. Countless times, I have created elaborate defenses, counting on her weaknesses--proven and potential. And, repeatedly, I have seen her sidestep them before she’d even touch the surface of my hard work.

As if I were the purest ice, she sees right through me.

With her, there is no hesitation in matters of reading my face, my eyes, the way my fingers move, the pace of my breath, the tone of my voice, the quivering of my lips. Even down to the way I dress, she knows the language I speak past my mask, intentionally and not.

I could, at times, feel where those eyes went. It was distressing, yet oddly… alluring. That reaction has yet to change.

Within six months of observing me, she once asked of me: “You’re upset; aren’t you?”

“And why do you think this?” I sharply quipped.

“Your braid; it’s underhanded. When you’re in a better mood and have your hair braided, you’d usually opt for an overhand technique. Right?”

I found myself paralyzed; she was right. My Lapras had come down with Pokerus. While the virus itself is generally beneficial, it doesn’t make the course of the disease any easier to endure. Seeing someone you care about in pain and discomfort weighs heavily on the mind. As always, I kept my more guttural emotional responses suppressed. The issue of anyone knowing what my Lapras was going through wasn’t the problem; the issue was the potential of my raw emotions stifling my work.

I found myself angry; I had lost control. To opt for a euphemism so many are wont to make: she thawed past my glacial barrier. With this knowledge, would she take advantage of it?

She did, only…not in the way that I’d feared.

Candela stopped by to make sure my Lapras was comfortable, and told a story about how her Infernape, then a Monferno, came down with it. The Pokémon's massive head now resting in her lap, my research partner sang to it a lullaby that I’d never heard--Only to realize along the crescendo that it was Lugia’s Song in a different key. My Lapras, for the first time since falling ill, found enough will to make sound beyond agonized moaning and hummed along with her.

I looked on at the scene that churned impossible-to-pinpoint feelings from within: a woman who I’d feared, and, in a panic, further embraced water-types into my repertoire. Only to find that she seemed relieved I had done so while jovially complaining about needing a real challenge. Now doting upon the very Pokémon who could potentially, with its gains in its newfound recovery, could likely better withstand her team, if not devastate it, if I calculate my strategy accordingly.

It dawned upon me that she saw herself as a small part of something much bigger. If we were strong together, it was all that mattered to her.

She’d said to me some time ago, not the exact words, but akin to: Battles are frequent. They are won, they are lost. But war only has one victory, and that is the victory to focus upon.

That resonated true, especially now.

The feeling of partnership and friendship remained stable. However, something else within felt threatened.

...Something deeper that I’d repeatedly denied myself.

❄❄❄

I’ve worried. I’ve found myself knotting up within. I hadn’t fallen ill. I began to follow the pattern that was behind this sudden nuisance. One of the GO Rocket leaders we were up against is a person from Candela’s past. Someone close to her. A rival and a close friend. In a passing and annoyingly irrelevant thought, I immediately processed the possibility of them being doubles partners in that not-so-distant past.

I found myself thinking about it more, wishing to see the fight they’d engaged in in that field. I thought more about them than I did Cliff. I feel so terribly sorry for Cliff; Giovanni is unworthy of a man that loyal. But I found my thoughts wandering more often to a point that could be deemed unhealthy at worst, counterproductive at best.

The Salamence were the ones that drove my thoughts into this descent. Candela had one that she loved so dearly. That is not to say that she didn’t love her Pokémon equally, but her closeness and address of the dragon seemed so very unique in of itself. To compare, she addressed her Moltres with a certain deference, as we often did with our signature birds. To further illustrate the relationship, one could say that they were our patrons and we, their scions, in a sense. With the Salamence, however, there was a certain reminiscence and determination that I could never understand--

--Until I learned of Arlo’s possession of a Salamence. Though, his was tainted--as far as I was aware. Likewise, this could all be fallacious; I could be bringing up Sierra and Candela’s Houndooms, mine and Sierra’s Lapras, or Spark and Cliff’s Tyranitars. These coincidences potentially had just as little-to-no grounds for concern.

...Right? Of course. Of course, I’m right.

The Salamence themselves shouldn’t be a detail worth my mulling over; however, it drove my curiosity as to who filled the ranks of Arlo’s non-tainted team that Candela had, from what Willow said (who recounted what Candela told him) requested to battle. For old friends who dedicated themselves to the world of Pokémon battles to have matching Pokémon, or Pokémon who were romantically involved, it was often seen as what one might call a ‘cute’ gesture.

A cute gesture between old friends…

...Old friends who could be considered to be of ‘marrying age,’ no less…

To share a pair of dragons was no small matter in certain cultures. After all, Arlo is presumably Kantonian, or perhaps Johtonian; Candela is--

If the dragons are or were mates, then, possibly--?

(I still do not know Candela’s exact age. Her appearance is considerably younger than Spark’s, despite her being the eldest. I attribute this to a number of factors alongside her own healthy habits. One of my admins even teased that Valor’s old guards biologically engineered their higher ranks to fit a certain ideal, to which I immediately dismissed, but considered the potential sciences for my own personal application in terms of enhancing my own mental aptitude permanently.)

In addition, I suppose Spark being very open to discussing Sierra, but Candela’s withholding of Arlo, fuels my ruminations. Spark and Sierra have shared no past, but the level of transparency he was willing to offer is to be appreciated.

“...Has she mentioned him to you?” I asked Spark while watching Elekid and my Metagross play together.

“Nope.” He was careless and quick to reply. I wish he’d not assume before speaking.

“...You’re aware of whom I’m asking about?”

“Yeah,” Spark laughed. “Candela and Arlo. It’s all over your face.”

He wasn’t being careless, and I was wrong about him.

Sporting the audacity to gesture around the proximity of my own face with his finger just to drive his point home, I felt anger well inside of me. And yet, I wasn’t sure who or what I was angry towards. I quickly deducted that I was mad at the situation itself; that I had let my feelings over the situation shatter my façade. He didn’t need to ask “who” due to the fact I had, apparently, exposed my emotions out in the open more than I’d anticipated.

“I suppose that Professor Willow is the only one that Candela had spoken with in-depth about him. Are you not curious?” I asked Spark.

“Of course I’m curious!” he said as Elekid went flying. Nonchalant, Spark raised his hand to catch the flying ball of flailing and laughing energy. He was many things, but the manner that his ‘mother Beartic’ side often activated, as effortlessly as taking a breath, never ceased to impress me.

“You know what, though? When Candy’s ready to speak, she’ll speak! ‘Sides, it’s not like she’s got anything we can actually use! I mean, what’s she going to say? Dude likes boxers over briefs? What are we gonna do with that? Mail him thongs?”

I was fortunate that my anger had found focus. Spark was right; it was pointless. The thirst for my knowledge was driven by my own selfish desires, nor was it hampering Candela’s performance. If anything, it was a fuel.

And yet, my desires persisted. And grew.

...How would she know what sort of undergarments he preferred? Why would you even use such a crass example, Spark? They were only close friends. Nothing more.

I have had days where I absolutely abhorred Arlo. I’ve yet to speak with him; and yet, the reports from trainers and the fact he’d hurt Candela was beyond enough.

I had nights where I reveled in our time -- OUR time -- comparing notes with one another. That time Arlo could have shared with Candela, had he behaved and not fled like a spoiled coward, now belonged to me. Her closeness as she leaned over to see my work along the scattered papers and array of holo-screens...

...The firm, caring squeeze of her hand upon my shoulder;

...The warmth voluminous breasts brushing against my back when she leaned in for a closer look;

...The tenderness and melody of her voice uttering my name, telling me how proud she was to be my partner.

...The scent she wore that often compelled me to lick my own lips.

...I’ve experienced guilt for this indulging. We are working. I always kept still and drank in those moments. I dismissed the apologies from her when she soon realized how close she leaned over me as I worked in my seat and at my desk. For the record, I do not like it when anyone invades my space uninvited. I’d not prefer it.

But this? This was acceptable.

Desirable.

I always kept my voice to a whisper when I forgave her, and kept my face close to hers. At first, it was never planned; a pleasant accident. But, after conducting enough research regarding such gestures, I found that it was a way to sate this growing need for her I had within. To quell the steam without crossing the professional line, so to speak.

I began to realize that part of myself had lost control for her. Close to my proximity, I could feel her warmth, combined with that warm, sweet, spicy perfume that most certainly had traces of Salazzle pheromones imbued within. Alone and in the darkness of night, I then found myself yielding to the temptation of vivid fantasies and succumbing to the will of my own wandering hands.

I felt safe to do so.

Then, from within a dream, something clicked.

Awakened by epiphanies is the norm for my course of sleep. I keep a notebook upon my nightstand for such moments. However, this was the first time I felt too horrified to write. I didn’t want the degradation of my thoughts towards carnal desires to be committed to any tangible memory.

Still; it was a thought that felt as if I were gazing down a void that could envelope me at any time. I kept wanting to know just how close they had been.

Why are the notes on him so vague?

Why so much hatred just because of Candela?

Did she break your heart, losing a Pokémon battle?

Or stealing your potential title?

Am I missing something?

You seriously cannot justify abusing Pokémon because you lost against her!

You wanted the leadership position; didn’t you?

No, that’s too easy. That can’t be it.

Sometimes that’s all there is to it, Blanche.

Perhaps I’m committing the sin of over analyzing things. I still recall Cliff’s message, chiding me for ‘thinking too much.’

(While his observations are… sound, that did nothing to gain the upper hand against me in our previous battles.)

Perhaps these concerns I ruminate upon weren’t merely carnal desires. Perhaps they were more...

[He is sly and manipulative.]

That note. Who’s being manipulated? Why mention this useless detail in our dossier?

I can only compare him to anything but. I’ve met Rattata who were more sly than he.

Small. Loud. Does nothing but preach. Preoccupation with humiliation, and announces frequently for his desire to not be embarrassed. And yet, he seems so simultaneously proud and disgusted of Rocket. That isn’t very manip--

“Wait.”

My need to annotate took precedence over my stubbornness. This might be important. I took only a few notes; short ones for column [A]; extensive ones for column [C]. [C] would come to explain [A]. I will make [C] explain to me [A].

And yet, weeks later, we found ourselves standing beside one another. The subsiding heat from the summer sunset radiated upon us in the glow of victory as we watched the GO Rockets flee. With the aid of Victini’s blessing, we were able to overwhelm what could have become a potential disaster beyond words. One may call such a scene ‘romantic.’ Perhaps that would have been the moment where I should have confessed to her. Perhaps share a kiss? That’s how that sort of thing works; yes? Two warriors, victorious in their pursuits, succumbing to their long-repressed desires. In those stories Candela loved so much, it always seemed to play out that way.

Almost always. There was that one spy novel she complained for an entire week about.

Despite my successful duel with Cliff fresh upon my mind, I set aside enough space to recall what I’d observed of Candela and Arlo.

(Due to the sheer number of witnesses, Spark and Sierra’s battle was not worth recalling and was quite straightforward; to this day, and apparently to Sierra’s chagrin, people still speak of it extensively.)

I had witnessed the Valors; leader and traitor, from a distance; the unreadable faces; the wordless, pre-battle lingering. The reflection of the sunlight in Arlo’s spectacles from my position obfuscating the legibility of his emotions--while Candela, so expressive as can be with her enrapturing eyes, was no more different from when challenging one of our trainers. She radiated so much vivacity; and yet, she told me absolutely nothing.

...That was the point; wasn’t it?

My recollection was suddenly interrupted by that familiar voice so warm and bubbly: “I guess we won’t have any notes to compare tonight, huh?”

“...I suppose not,” I replied. Of course not; we were uncovering details at an amazing pace; my personal concerns aside.

Still, my chest began to ache, caused only by what I could only ascertain was due to tension. Candela; invite me to something after our dinner with the Professor. Ask me something, anything. A showcase battle? A doubles battle with Spark and the Professor? Chess? Would you… Care to spend the night? Anything? I couldn’t look at her. I looked at everything and everyone else around me but her. I knew that if I did, she’d call me a Piplup and ask what was wrong. Not that I minded, but I wasn’t ready to allow myself to react to that the way I desired to do so in public.

She said nothing.

Before I could take command of the situation and extend my own invitation, I finally directed my eyes where she was supposed to be.

She was already gone.

I last glimpsed her waving to Spark and Professor Willow before mounting her Rapidash and taking out beyond the valley’s treeline.

I took a step forward to call out to her, to simply give her the similar dismissal/greeting that I often did by announcing her name; but the echo of the sound of my heel clicking down on a flat rock seized me by surprise, thus disrupting my usual vocal range into a far more embarrassing octave.

It was the reverberation of both my voice and that step that suddenly alarmed me. Something about that echo, in my mind’s auditory hallucinations, made it feel as if I were speaking in a chamber.

No, a theatre.

What would have been something of a charm in a natural, open space--to hear one’s voice echoing in such a way--triggered a visualization of all the notes that I had taken, and what I had bore witness to today.

Something’s up. I was now beyond determined to find out just what it was.

Chapter 2 // Chapter 3

[sighmurderbot]

Irish Coffee Chapter Two

Title: Closing Time

Chapter Rating/Warnings: G, I don’t think there’s even any profanity in this one

Word Count: 2.4K

Summary: They meet over coffee and Kierkegaard. There was a spark in his honey-brown eyes that drew her to him. There was a sadness behind her bright smile that drew him to her. Spencer Reid/Original Female Character. Slow burn coffee shop meet. Strangers to friends to lovers. This fic is also available on AO3, it’s ahead of tumblr currently!

previous chapter//next chapter

“Friends are those rare people who ask how we are and then wait to hear the answer.” 

- Ed Cunningham

It had been a tiring Thursday, which is saying something. Thursdays were the one day a week I only worked at the coffee shop, just coming in for a few hours to close, meaning it was the closest thing I had to a day off. That being said, somehow the denizens of DC had decided this was the Thursday to descend on this coffee shop and just...be assholes. My head ached from the amount of focus and energy it took to process complaints and orders simultaneously while making drinks and keeping the cafe clean.

It might only be a three hour shift, but sometimes it’s a long three hours.

I finished wiping down the table in front of me and stood, arching my back to stretch it out. 

I’m not sure what caught my attention. A flicker of movement, perhaps, or maybe just the sense of someone else nearby.

I glanced towards the front of the store, scanning the city street on the other side of the floor to ceiling windows.

And there he was.

He looked a little worse for wear, his clothes wrinkled and hair mussed, as if he had only slept briefly and in uncomfortable places. Light spilled from the streetlamp above him, his high cheekbones casting harsh shadows across his skin.

His eyes widened a little as I spotted him.

I couldn't stop the smile that spread across my face upon seeing him. He intrigued me, and...I'll admit it, I thought he was cute. The door was still unlocked and I waved for him to come inside. 

Maybe my Thursday is starting to look up!

He seemed confused at my gesture, glancing over his shoulder and pointing a hesitant finger to his chest.

“Me?” he mouthed, eyebrows drawing together in a confused frown.

I rolled my eyes and grinned, quickly making my way to the door and holding it open with one arm. Cool air rolled in off the street, ruffling a few flyaways around my face.

“Come on in!” I exclaimed. “We don’t close properly for another ten minutes.”

He shoved his hands into his pocket, rocking back on his heels a little.

“Are you sure? You-you probably already cleaned everything and I don’t want to be in the way.”

“Don’t be silly,” I smiled. “Just come in, sugar.”

He ducked his head and stepped inside. I watched his shoulders relax slightly as he stopped a few feet into the store.

“What can I get ya?” I asked, crossing to behind the counter. His eyes flicked from the menu to me and he tilted his head a little, as if in confusion. I felt my lips twitch in a small smile.

I wonder what he’s thinking, he looks baffled…

“Sir?” I asked, thinking it was perhaps not a good idea to let on that I overheard and remembered his name.

“Why do you call me sugar?” He asked. His tone wasn’t accusatory or upset, simply curious. My cheeks reddened slightly.

“Well, that’s your order, right? Uh...large mocha with extra sugar?”

He nodded, a pretty frown still wrinkling his forehead.

“You remembered?”

I looked down, chuckling a little. 

“It’s not every day a nice man reading Danish philosophy comes in and is kind enough to talk to me like a person,” I said honestly.

More confusion from the man before me. I worried that I had said too much, scared him off. I serve hundreds of people a day, remembering one customer might come across as creepy or weird or-

He cut off my train of thought as he spoke.

“You think I’m nice?”

The question was genuine, he blinked a few times like he was having trouble processing what I said.

“...yeah,” I laughed a little. “I mean, I obviously don’t know you, but I get feelings about people. My feeling is that you’re nice.”

“Huh,” he said, eyes returning to the menu above me.

“So…” I gently prompted him. “What can I get you? Same thing?”

“Oh! Yeah, same thing please.”

“Have a seat anywhere!”

It only took me a minute to finish making the drink, and instead of calling it out at the counter I walked it to his table.

He looked up as I set the drink in front of him, giving me a closed-lip smile and wrapping long, delicate fingers around the warm cup.

“Reid,” he commented into his cup. I almost missed it. “Doctor Spencer Reid. That’s my name.”

Doctor Spencer Reid. That’s a nice name, I decided.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Doctor Reid,” I said with a smile. “Katie, but, you already knew that.” He nodded and looked back down at his coffee. 

“Let me know if I can get you anything else, Doctor,” I said, then turned to finish closing. He seemed like the quiet type who preferred to be alone, or maybe he’d just had a long day.

“Uh, Sp—” he said as I turned around, so quiet that I missed most of what he said.

“Sorry?” I turned around, pushing some hair back towards the ponytail it had slipped out of.

He looked up and his gaze swept over me, analytical and probing. I found myself nervously twisting my apron tie around my fingers.

What is he looking for? What does he see? 

“You wear a hearing aid,” he said matter-of-factly.

Oh.

I nodded silently, my face falling before I could catch it.

What’s he going to say? Berate me? Mock me? My thoughts were perhaps a tad more bitter than intended, and I tried to keep that out of my voice.

“Yeah, sorry,” I said, cringing inwardly at how flat I sounded. “I can’t pick up certain frequencies.”

“You know,” he said, taking one hand off his coffee cup as he began to gesture with his words. “The use of hearing aids has actually been proven to reduce cognitive decline and lower the risk of developing dementia.”

What’s he doing? I thought, thrown off a little, but not upset by this turn of events. Is he...trying to make me feel better?

“There was a study conducted in Europe, two out of three people who used hearing aids wished they had gotten them sooner,” Spencer continued, both hands involved in his gestures now. I began to fear for his coffee. 

“They lead to a better social life, mental and physical health, and job performance. So...it’s a good thing. That you have them.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” I accepted, watching him with a small smile. He seemed embarrassed after his small outburst.

I gestured to the chair across from him.

“May I?”

He nodded, taking a sip of his sugary drink.

“So,” I said, taking a seat. “You’re studying philosophy but you’re also a doctor. How’s that work?”

If I thought he looked embarrassed a moment ago, he was downright flustered now.

“I, uh…” he fiddled with the cardboard protector around his coffee cup. “I am a philosophy student,” he said. “But I already have my doctorates in Mathematics, Chemistry, and Engineering. And another bachelor’s in Psychology.”

He suddenly fell silent, eyes fixed on the steam coiling out of the slit in the cup’s lid. I couldn’t keep my impressed admiration off my face, smiling as I opened and closed my mouth, trying to process something to say.

After I hadn’t replied for a few seconds he looked up at me from beneath his lashes. He was almost wincing, as if bracing himself for ridicule, mockery, disgust.

Just like you, my mind prompted. 

I gave him a wide grin and set my folded hands on the table, leaning forward a little.

“Doctor R— Spencer. That’s amazing, you don’t look much older than me.”

“I’m 26,” he replied, almost automatically, then frowned. “Wait, what?”

“That’s amazing,” I emphasized. “You’re amazing, that’s a huge accomplishment.”

I watched a light shade of pink spread up his cheeks.

“Oh, uh...thank you,” he said unsurely.

Waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“I mean it,” I said, meeting his eyes. “You must have worked incredibly hard for those.”

“Well, I have an eidetic memory and an IQ of 187 but...college isn’t friendly to 12-year-old high school graduates.”

I gave him an empathetic grimace.

“Sometimes it’s not the course load that’s the hard part of college.”

“You can say that again,” he agreed, taking another sip of his coffee. “I thought you weren’t a student though.”

I pressed my lips together, looking down at my hands.

“Not anymore,” I said shortly.

“Oh. I’m sorry,” he said, but it sounded like he was reading out of a book. I didn’t really mind. People don’t understand, they can’t, not really. 

“I’m working to go back.” I don’t know why I said it, why I told him. It wasn’t any of his business, but for some reason I wanted Spencer to know I didn’t drop out because I screwed around, I didn’t want him to think that I didn’t care.

“Everyone has their own pace,” Spencer said. “At least, that’s what my mom told me.”

I felt my breath catch in my chest, and I gave him a small smile that I hoped wasn’t as sad as I suddenly felt.

“My mom told me something similar,” I found myself admitting. “Run your own damn race, she told me.”

Spencer tilted his head, as if asking me to explain. His eyes were fixed on me, I felt almost shy about being the complete focus of his attention, but I also had a feeling that anything Spencer did was the absolute center of his focus.

“It means that everyone has a race they’re running,” I said. “And you should focus on yours, not anyone else’s. If you focus on someone else’s race you’ll probably trip while trying to run your own. If...if that makes any sense.”

“It does,” Spencer assured with a small smile. 

“Heh, moms, right?”

I let out a slightly nervous laugh, but something in Spencer’s eyes, an understanding, calmed me.

“Moms,” he agreed with a small smile.

We shared a quiet moment, just looking at each other. His face was too harsh and angular for a man with liquid honey eyes and perfectly curved lips. I wondered where he worked, what stressful career painted dark circles like bruises under his eyes and stripped the softness from him.

“I should close up,” I said finally, regretfully. 

“Oh, yeah, of course,” Spencer hurried out of his seat, almost knocking over his coffee but deftly catching it before it could tip too far. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” I replied, maybe too quickly, as I stood as well. Spencer arched an eyebrow.

“I just-” I started, then exhaled a laugh and looked down at my shoes. “I don’t get to have a conversation with...well, anyone, very often.” 

I twisted my apron tie around my finger three times, then unspireled it. 

“I don’t really talk with anyone outside of work,” Spencer admitted. He didn’t seem upset about it, it was simply a fact of his existence. 

“That’s kinda sad,” I said, my hand flying to my mouth right after. 

“I’m so sorry,” I said quickly, hand returning to harassing my apron ties. “I didn’t mean-”

“No, it’s okay,” Spencer cut me off with a shrug.

He really doesn’t seem upset, I guess some people are happy that way.

“Well,” I smiled up at him. “If you ever want to talk to someone you don’t work with, you know where to find me.”

He nodded, returning my expression.

“Thanks.”

I noticed how he kept a respectful distance between us, and remembered how he hadn’t offered to shake hands when we swapped names. 

Touch avoidance.

He seemed to notice everything, and with an eidetic memory he’d remember it all, so I carefully filed this away. Even though I might not be able to compare to him on memory, I could still try and remember something important to someone who had gone out of his way to be nice to me.

“Can I walk you out?” I asked, glancing around the room to make sure I had finished closing.

“Uh, yeah, sure.”

“Great.”

I gave him a bright smile.

“Wait here, I’ll be right back.”

I hurried to the back room to grab my coat and bag. A few moments later I returned, and Spencer was still there. For some reason I had almost expected him to disappear, almost as if he wasn’t ever there.

But there he was, tugging on the sleeve of his cardigan and shuffling in place.

“Ready to go?” I asked, tugging my coat around me. It was old, and too big for me, and frayed at the bottom, and I had to patch the elbows last winter, but it was warm.

And it was hers.

Every time I pulled the old blue coat on it was like a memory of a hug from my mom.

Spencer nodded.

“Andiamo!” I exclaimed cheerfully. Spencer’s attention perked.

“You speak Italian?”

“A little, you?”

“I’m passable.”

I grinned. 

“I’ve only spoken with you a little, but something tells me you’re a sight more than passable.”

Spencer cracked a smile, ducking his head to hide his pleased expression.

“Maybe I’m closer to fluent, but I’m not there yet.”

I made my way to the door, hitting the lights on my way. The shop fell into darkness, the only illumination the emergency lights and the city ambience outside. 

“It was really nice to meet you, Spencer,” I said earnestly as he joined me on the sidewalk outside. I locked the door and gave it a rattle to make sure it was secure, then turned to him. He tipped the last of his coffee down.

“It was nice to meet you too, Katie.”

“I’ll see you around?” “Yeah, probably.”

He raised the now-empty cup.

“You’re the only one who puts enough sugar in,” he joked, and I laughed with him. 

Raising my hand in farewell, I set off to catch the bus and he began walking the other way. Once I reached the corner I glanced back at the tall figure, passing in and out of sight under streetlamps as he drew further away.

When was the last time I talked to someone who wasn’t a coworker? I wondered. No time was easily coming to mind and I grimaced. It wasn’t easy to maintain a social life while working three jobs.

It’ll be worth it, I assured myself, Friends can come later, I need to do this.

I was dedicated to my goal, and I’d stick to it, but deep down I was hoping to see the handsome Doctor Spencer Reid again. 

A friendly, casual acquaintance. It’ll be nice to see a friendly face every now and then.

And that’s truly all I hoped for, for now.

[xmxisxforxmaybe]

Decryption_Error: “Out of Reach”

Summary: Mr. Robot protects Elliot when Y/N pushes too hard; she’s left to wonder if she’ll ever see the man she fell in love with again.  

A/N: My tech lingo is gibberish—don’t @ me, tech peeps, unless you want to rewrite my dialogue because that would be super cool 🙃

Decryption_Error: All Chapters

Word Count: 4000

Tags: @sherlollydramoine​ @rami-malek-trash​​ @teamwolf2411 @limabein​ @txmel​​ @alottanothing​ @ouatlovr @backoftheroomandnotbelonging​ @moon-stars-soul​​ @free-rami​ @ramimedley​ @hopplessdreamer​ @sweet-charmie @polarcrystall​​ @hah0106​ @clumsybookworm18​

Warnings: ANGST, shouting, aggressive posturing and grabbing/hurting (let me know if I need to warn for anything else)

It was the second Monday of March which meant it was time for a monthly status report. This was one of the hundreds of meetings I attended in which I usually had a razor-sharp focus because this was the part of my job I missed. I missed having a direct role in operations, subverting attempts at data breaches, and working on scripts that would improve day to day operations.

I looked around the table and my eyes settled on the new Senior Manager, although I guess I couldn’t call him “new” anymore. Tim Millner-Brown had already weathered three anonymous hacks and managed to keep everything (and everyone) calm.

Since Dad retired in January and this was now considered a transitory time, it was all the more important operations ran without hiccups. I fixed my gaze on JaLeah, then switched to Ali as he began to speak about a new script to assess WiFi network vulnerabilities. As I listened, my mind flashed back to the meeting Colin and I had with Ali to reprimand him and a wave of disgust prickled through me. I swore to Elliot that his attackers would pay, but here was Ali, confident and happy, leading Elliot’s team.

Tim interrupted Ali, asking, “Why can’t a two-way handshake be enough? Less connections, less chance for an attack?”

Ali was quiet before he said, “Let’s get Alderson to explain. He’s leading the work on the new script.”

Jayne returned after a few moments, Elliot following her like he had been summoned into the principal’s office. He scanned the room, his eyes lingering on mine until I gave him a quick smile, reassuring him he was here to do what he did best.

Tim redirected his question to Elliot who thought for a moment before clarifying, “A three-way handshake is necessary to avoid half-connections. If one ISN changes their mind and doesn’t want to connect, the server doesn’t see the re-sent SYN so it thinks the ISN got its ACK and the connection was established, but it wasn’t—it won’t ever be closed. If we can cut the time it takes for the GTK to associate with a device, we can cut the time a hacker has to gain an access point.

“Without compromising data flow,” he added.

This was not the same Elliot who was ready to quit a year ago rather than give a presentation. I felt a swell of pride at how far he had come, the confidence he had gained. All he needed was someone to believe in him and to push him. And along with my swell of pride came a surge of anger as an image of Elliot, blacked out and bleeding in a broken server room, flashed through my mind.

“Tim, work with Elliot to determine how much time he needs, then work with Ali to find out how much that time will cost. I want a report by Wednesday. And if everything adds up, you can start on Friday—or should we make it Monday so as not to infringe on anyone’s weekend plans?”

My eyes never wavered from Ali’s face as I watched it pale, but from my peripheral vision, I could also see Elliot’s eyes widen. Then, Miles’ voice echoed through my mind on the day I was forced to appoint Ali as Colin’s replacement: You bet the house, and you lost.

But as long as I was in charge, Ali would know I’d never forget what he did. And in that moment, I wanted Elliot to know I hadn’t forgotten either. Never mind that the secret I was keeping from him was burning a hole in my stomach, pushing me to feel even more protective of Elliot than usual.

JaLeah smirked, but she played the placater better than anyone. She peppered Elliot with questions, then Tim dismissed everyone so he and I could go over his analytics.

“Thanks, Elliot,” I said, as he left the room, his lips turning up in a soft smile.

“The two of you are dating?” Tim asked as soon as the door shut.

I raised my eyebrow and turned to look at him.

“Yes?”

“So, it’s not against company policy to date someone you supervise?”

“Elliot and I were in a sort of unique circumstance. We signed a contract with HR, but I ended up being promoted almost immediately afterward, which eliminated the direct conflict.”

“Hmm,” Tim said as his fingers tapped on the folder in front of him.

“Why?”

“JaLeah is . . . well, she’s—”

“Say no more. Obviously I’m a proponent of shooting your shot in the workplace, but Elliot and I were sure to be super transparent about it. And that’s all the advice you’re getting from me. If you want to know if she’s interested, ask her.”

Tim smiled, and I felt like I saw him as a person for the first time instead of just as my replacement.

“And I would be happy to take over her evaluations in the event she is interested.”

Tim’s smile grew a bit wider and he thanked me, twice, before we dove into the data.

It was close to lunch time when Tim and I finished, so I sought out Elliot to see if he wanted to go out. As I walked toward his workstation, he was oblivious to the world, his eyes glued to the screen and his shoulders almost perfectly still despite the furious pace at which I knew his fingers were moving over the keyboard. A pang of guilt resurfaced for the thousandth time this month as I reminded myself I needed to make a decision about what I discovered.

Since I found the grand jury’s testimony, I had been conducting some “research” on my own. All 23 members of the jury, even the one who had voted not to indict, had been receiving the same amount of money for the past 13 years: 2,500 a month.

All 23 people claimed the money on their tax returns, but in 23 different ways—gas leases, oil leases, rental properties, gifts, renting their parking spot in the city, tips, bonuses, and on and on. It was clear someone had met with them and told them exactly how to keep this money under the radar. And if someone met with them to lay out the process for receiving money, then there had to be evidence of that meeting—or that person.

A part of me was dying to share this with Elliot, but another part of me was adamantly against it, afraid of what I would unleash within him if he was given the opportunity to pursue vengeance. My mind kept returning to who he was on the night of Dad’s party and wondering if I could trust that part of Elliot, that part who seemed ready to do something a lot more rash than scratch an itch or even just file a lawsuit. There was a part of Elliot, hell, there were still so many parts of him I didn’t know, didn’t understand.

What I did understand was that every time I looked at him, I felt guilty. And when Elliot’s eyes glanced up and noticed me, he stopped and smiled, a sweet, open grin and Miles’ words flickered through my mind again.

You bet the house, and you lost.

* * * * *

Time has a funny way of making decisions for you, especially if you’ve been riddled by indecision. Once enough time has passed, the control is going to be taken from you—the decision will be made for you, rather than by you.

By the end of March, something uncomfortable had settled between Elliot and me. He was growing distant, closed off, and I stopped working to maintain our open line of communication. The more guilty I felt about hiding the grand jury transcript, the less I wanted to see him. I knew I needed to tell him, but if I had found out about the juror payoffs, Elliot would be able to, and in half the time.

And everything could lead back to my father.

And something deep inside of me knew he knew—I didn’t know the how or the what, but I was certain he knew I was hiding something.

It was after 10:00 pm on a Thursday night when I got home from a dinner party, a business meeting disguised as a social gathering, something I never invited Elliot to anymore after his vitriolic rant.

I was more than surprised to find Elliot sitting on the floor near the balcony, the door open as a wet March wind blew in, smoking a cigarette as nearly half a pack of butts were already stubbed out in the ashtray I knew had been empty.

He was drinking a beer and he was clad entirely in black, topped off with his well-worn hoody, which was something I hadn’t seen on him in a long time.

His hood was up, probably to fight off the chill of the wind, but I wasn’t sure if the explanation was so simple tonight.

“Hey,” I said softly as I pushed the door shut behind me. “I told you I had a thing tonight, didn’t I?”

Elliot nodded yes, as his lips wrapped around the end of his cigarette.

“Is everything okay?” I asked, dread settling over me like a weighted blanket as I watched him take a long drag, the cherry flaring red in the dim light of my apartment.

I slid out of my coat and hung it up on the rack before reaching down to unzip my boots. As I kicked them off, I waited for Elliot to answer. I was tired and wanted nothing more than to change out of my clothes, maybe shower away the day, and go to bed.

Except the smarter part of me knew that wasn’t going to happen and filled me with a sudden desire to just  get this over with—just blow the lid off the box and let the scraps settle so we could get back to our normal.

But that would require fixing Elliot’s biggest flaw: his inability to move forward because he never really addressed the root of his problems.

I watched as he stubbed out his cigarette and tipped his beer back, finishing the last swallow.

I sighed in frustration.

“Either tell me what this,” I said as I gesticulated to and around him, “is all about or let me go to bed. It’s been a long day.”

“Where were you?”

I blinked, irritated because we just went over this.

“I told you where I was—at a dinner party. You know, those things I don’t invite you to anymore because you hate everyone?”

Elliot stood, reaching back to slide the balcony door shut. He didn’t take his hood down as he walked to the kitchen sink and rinsed out his bottle before setting it on the counter next to the others.

Chalk that up to something else out of character; Elliot never drank alone.

“You’re lying to me,” he said quietly, his back still turned.

“About the dinner?”

“No. Maybe? How am I supposed to know when you’re the one who’s always lying?”

“I can’t do this,” I said, running a shaky hand through my hair.

“You can’t do this?” Elliot said, his voice rising as he turned around. “You’re the one keeping things from me!” he shouted, his eyebrows raised, making his eyes look impossibly huge, and the cords on his neck standing out as he pointed his finger at me.

“How did you find out?” I asked quietly as I leaned on the counter, looking at the swirled pattern within the granite, unable to meet what was surely an intense gaze.

“I’ve been waiting, Y/N. Waiting for over a fucking month, wondering why you wanted to hide it from me. Wondering what else you decided not to tell me. Wondering if everything you have told me is just a way for you to manipulate me—”

My head shot up, my eyes finding his instantly as I asked, “Why would I want to manipulate you?”

Elliot didn’t answer; his eyes were dark, a stormy grey as they swirled with clouds of emotion. He felt betrayed, and I watched as his eyes settled on my tote that was sitting on the kitchen stool.

“You saw the transcript,” I said with a sad sigh. “You weren’t supposed to find out like that.”

I lowered my gaze back to the granite of the countertop, a strange relief pushing off that weighted blanket of dread. No more hiding. No more agonizing over whether to tell him.

The silence that followed my realization was dreadful, stretching out until my ears rang and my eyes blurred as I stared at the countertop.

“I can’t trust you anymore,” Elliot said, his voice cracking.

But that was the wrong thing to say. My nostrils flared as a thick, white-hot anger rose up in my throat like bile.

“You! You can’t trust me because I withheld something from you? Once! When have I ever done anything like this in our entire relationship?” I questioned, my voice bordering on shrill, so unlike my usual tone that it didn’t even sound like my own voice.

“You’ve broken promises.”

“When?”

“After the server room. You promised me ‘the fucking assholes’ would lose their jobs. And now one of them is my supervisor.”

I stared at Elliot dumbly until he dropped his gaze, leaning back onto the counter.

“We talked about that,” I said, my tone a few octaves closer to normal. “I offered to refuse to promote Ali. You told me things like that happen—it’s a part of the way to ‘enact change.’ You told me not to fight back against his promotion.”

“You promised,” Elliot mumbled, his knuckles growing white as his grip tightened on the countertop.

Once again, Elliot said the wrong thing. If this was all he could come up with, I was livid. Every thing he did that I had to work to let go of, to not make a big deal over, every hurt I had to swallow because I loved him, came rushing out.

“And how many promises have you broken to me? Fuck, Elliot! Not even promises. How many times have you bailed on me? Hacked me? Hurt me?

“No,” I scoffed, “You never meant to do it, but you fucking did do it. I have been so patient with you—”

“I’m not a child!” Elliot interrupted through clenched teeth.

“You’re pissed at me for something you told me to do!”

“I told you to withhold information about my dad’s death?”

“I needed time, Elliot. I needed to analyze the risk—”

“I’m not a piece of fucking data, Y/N! You can’t—” Elliot paused as he pushed off the counter and stepped toward the island. “You can’t analyze me. You can’t predict my next move or maybe that’s the problem? Maybe that’s what you’ve been doing all along? Manipulating me because you think you’re smarter than me.”

“That is not what I meant,” I said, my brows drawn and my mouth closing into a frown.

“You begged me to trust you and I knew—I fucking knew someone like you couldn’t be trusted!”

“Someone like me?” I shouted back, pushing away from the counter and marching around the island to stand in front of him. “Someone like ME? Surely you’re not going to throw Dad’s money in my face again. You’re starting to sound like a broken fucking record!

“You know what—no,” I said, shaking my head and turning away from him pacing to the balcony door before turning around and slowly walking back toward Elliot. “You don’t get to do this and get away with it this time. I can’t walk on eggshells while you get to be shitty to me whenever you have a bad time. Don’t you want to know why you’re like this? Don’t you want to know why you’re so paranoid, why you push away people who fucking love you? Don’t you want to know why you don’t trust anyone?”

I was a breath away from him as he began to withdrawal further and further into himself. And because I was watching his face, my eyes desperately pleading with him to see reason, I saw the change—Elliot looked away, seemingly in exasperation, and his eyelids fluttered so subtly that if I had blinked at that very moment, I would have missed it.  

When he looked back at me, Elliot Alderson was gone; now, I was met with the steel gaze of the same person who had demanded I leave Elliot alone as he sat on the floor of my closet during the Fourth of July.

I took a step back, my mouth dropping open as fear rushed through my body, my eyes filling with tears as I realized I was afraid of him—afraid of Elliot.

“You should be afraid, little girl,” he chuckled darkly, his voice low, the intonation different. “Now get the fuck out of here and leave him alone.”

“You’re—you’re in my apartment,” I stammered, still clinging to anger despite my fear.

He looked around, remembering, and he fixed a glare at me, his eyes unwelcoming as his jaw clenched, the muscles twitching before he moved toward the front door.

As I watched him walk away, my anger and fear turned to desperation. Darlene’s words rang through my mind, ‘If he bails on you, tries to push you away, it’s not really him.’”

It’s not really him.

“Stop—Elli—whoever you are! Please. Don’t go,” I pleaded. “Stay. Talk to me. Help me understand.”

He paused, his head turning to slightly look over his shoulder before he moved toward the front door again. I raced to it and wedged myself between him and the door, placing my hand over the knob.

“Stay,” I begged. “Don’t leave like this. After everything—please don’t leave us like this. I want to help you, Elliot—if you’re in there, come back to me.”

His hands flew up and slammed into the door on either side of my head.

I jumped, flinching as he leaned into me, his lips beside my ear as he growled, “I fucking warned you!”

“During the Fourth. I remember,” I whispered.

He pulled back and looked at me with those icy eyes.

“That was the first time you pushed too hard, came too close. I can’t allow you to do that, sweetheart. Elliot’s had enough time with you. It ends now,” he said as he grabbed my shoulders and pulled me away from the door.

I grabbed his arm and he shook me off, but I grabbed him again and pulled him back enough to allow me to wedge myself against the door again.

“I told you,” he yelled, his voice harsh and unrecognizable. “I can’t protect him if you keep forcing him to open up!”

I didn’t let my fear stop me as I pressed him.

“Protect him from what? Did someone hurt him? I read about what can cause—”

His hand flew against my mouth with enough force to knock my head against the door. He pressed hard and cut off my words.

Never did his eyes leave mine as Elliot’s would have, especially in a situation of such discomfort and intense emotion. Never once did he look away.

“Shut. The. Fuck. Up.”

I held his gaze, refusing to waver. He pressed harder, the pressure on the back of my head becoming a painful throbbing.

“Can you shut the fuck up?” he asked, his brows nearly reaching his hairline.

I watch his face transition to a look of smug satisfaction as I manage to slightly nod.

He released his grip, and I deflated, the fight leaving my body as I stepped away from the door. I leaned against the wall before slowly sinking to the floor.

I didn’t raise my eyes as I quietly asked, “Are you going to keep Elliot from seeing me again?”

He sighed, some of the fight leaving him, too.

“Elliot loves you—this wasn’t supposed to happen, Y/N.”

As he said my name, my head jerked up, the syllables so foreign on his tongue I knew, without a doubt, that whoever was standing in front of me was someone completely different than Elliot Alderson.

“You have to understand that it’s my job to keep him safe. Not yours, not Darlene’s. No one else’s. No one else can keep him safe.”

“What about a psychiatrist?”

“Don’t be fucking ridiculous. If they don’t fuck him up with 15 different kinds of meds, they’ll just throw him in an institution. Is that what you want? Elliot locked up like some kind of sick-o creep?”

“I would never let that happen.”

“Daddy’s money gonna buy Elliot a happy little place in the Adirondacks? Get him a nurse, someone nice to take care of him like his worthless mother never could?”

“Is that why you hate me? I have money? Or because I consider Elliot family?”

“My job is to protect him, and I’ve decided you’re not worth the risk, sweetheart.”

Without another glance, he opened the door and slammed it shut behind him.

I buried my head in my hands, the tears I had held back throughout the entire ordeal bursting out in a harsh sob. I crawled over to the door and locked it, pulling myself up by the knob in order to secure the deadbolt.

Not that it mattered since Elliot had a key.

Not that it mattered since Elliot was being held prisoner inside of his own body.

And no one, except himself, held that key.

* * * * *

Elliot didn’t come to work on the next day.

And then he didn’t come for another three days.

When I read the email from Ali questioning Elliot’s whereabouts, I wasn’t surprised. I called him up to my office and had the secretary shut the door after she let him in.

Ali had the good manners to look concerned, but I could detect the haughtiness underneath.

“I’ve noticed that Alderson’s been out for the past few days. Can you provide some insight? He was the lead on our new WiFi scripts, as I’m sure you remember.”

The lie came much easier than any other lie in my life had.

“He’s had a death in the family, Ali. I suggest postponing the project until he returns. Ask JaLeah for someone who can handle white hat duties if your team needs another hacker.”

Some of the haughtiness fell from Ali’s face.

“Oh. Well, my condolences to him when you see him.”

“Thank you. Will there be anything else?”

“Nope—you’ve always got the answers, boss.”

“Don’t call me that,” I said as I rolled my eyes and offered him a crooked smile in an attempt to subvert his attention from the abnormality of Elliot’s absences.

Ali grinned and shrugged his shoulders.

The partial smile fell from my face the instant the door shut behind Ali, and I felt sick as my mind worked over my lie. I didn’t live my life in the shadows. I lived with integrity.

And I had just told a boldfaced lie, one that would surely make its way around the office, and if Elliot never came back to work, everyone would know I lied for my boyfriend.

What a fucking mess.

I had to see him; I had to try to talk to my Elliot, the one I was in love with, and not this other who seemed to want nothing more than for me to fuck off for good.

I made a promise to Darlene not to let Elliot bail, and clearly, the Aldersons took promises made to them seriously.  

[i-write-shakespeare-not-disney]

Director’s Commentary- Forever//It’s You, y’know...THAT scene.

you already know :)

"Can I ask you something?" Keith whispered. Lance nodded, closing his eyes. "What made you change your mind about marriage? You'd said that after Allura-"

“I don’t know. There was just… this day when you kissed me three times in a row when you came home. And how they all felt like they meant something different. The fact that I knew that, that I could feel that. Okay I’m not gonna lie I’d rediscovered Paper Rings by Taylor Swift and that’s where this concept came from. Also because it reminded me that my abuelitos used to give each other double kisses when my abuelito came home, like it was their Thing. So I wanted to add that here, and I wanted it to be a small moment that made Lance go ‘you know what, yeah... I could do forever with him. I want to give him a ring.’ The way our routine works and it doesn’t feel boring, it just… feels like home.” He smiled and shrugged. “But I know we have that with or without a paper that says we’re married. What’s it matter?”

“I want to know what you’re thinking,” Keith said, pulling him back in with a slow spin so Lance’s back was pressed against his chest, their arms crossed together. “Because it isn’t just a paper is it?” KEITH ALREADY KNOWS THE ANSWER HEREEEEEE. Like. He’s known Lance’s thought processes for a long time by now. He just wants the build up like a dramatic ass little shit. 

Lance sighed. “No. It’s never been a piece of paper.” Keith rested his chin on Lance’s shoulder. “It’s a vow. It’s devotion. And I know the world doesn’t need to know, but there’s something beautiful about being able to profess all of it in front of friends and family. Especially us. Not only can a boy give another boy flowers- he can give him a ring.” I didn’t wanna perpetuate the idea that marriage is necessary for forever or that it’s the end goal. Couple can be and are happy without it. But I mean, they’re both romantics. Lance does have a relationship with the church that has been mending. So to me it made sense that marriage was on the table. I just had to be sure the reasoning made sense for them as individuals, and it wasn’t this broad ‘i just wanna get married because it means forever’ kind of thing. I also felt that the “not only can a boy give another boy flowers, he can give him a ring” line really tied it all together nicely considering the coming out scene, the repeated motif of flowers, and the final poem in the last chapter. Lance smiled and tilted his head toward Keith’s, squeezing his hands. “And I personally like the idea of telling God, ‘Look. I’m giving myself over to the person you placed in my life.’” The song ended, and melded into another. Lance shook his head and laughed softly. “We should go inside. We have work tomorrow.” Lance kissed his cheek and let go of his hands. At this point, Lance was getting sad again and he didn’t want to end his anniversary on a sour note. So he was like let’s just go inside and forget the whole thing. 

Before he could take more than five steps, he heard Keith say, “Does that mean you’ll say yes?”

LISTEN. I HAVE HAD THIS PLANNED. SINCE. LIKE. Idk, like since they first talked about marriage and had an argument. I acted this whole thing out. This has been up my sleeve for so long down to the “Does that mean you’ll say yes?” Though it is hard to put cross that sense of shock you get when you turn around and see someone down on one knee... so i did the best I could. 

“Wha- Oh my God. What are you doing?” The sight of Keith down on one knee, holding out a ring between his fingers, made Lance feel like ice water had been dunked on him. His stomach flipped and twisted, and his entire body suddenly felt unsteady as he stepped back towards him. “Keith, what are you- No, mi vida, you don’t need to do this! You said-”

“I know what I said. But it was all bullshit,” Keith said in a single breath, looking up at him with a desperate look in his eyes. “I’ve been wanting to give you a ring for a long time…. Because of everything you said and so much more.” I really wanted it to be clear that Keith wasn’t proposing out of guilt or this idea of like “i mean he wants marriage and I’m willing to give that to him.” I wanted it to be “I want marriage just as badly as he does.” 

Lance shook his head as tears blurred his vision. “Keith….”

“Lance-” Keith let out a shaky breath. “I thought I was one of those people who just had to live life without falling in love. I’d told myself I made peace with that. Wi-with never having someone stay. Never having the same person next to me in the morning. But you came into my life and you proved me wrong a-and you showed me… you showed me so many more parts of love I didn’t even know I’d be missing out on.” Tears began to fall down Keith’s cheeks, I just love crying Keith because that’s when you kow he’s being vulnerable yknow? and Lance fell to his knees in front of him, unable to believe this was real. “All my life, nothing was stable. I jumped around homes, and it took me so long to trust the family I have now and by then I had to make my own life. I got my heart broken enough that I never thought it would feel whole again. But it does. With you. You’re my stability. Heh. You see what I did there? You have been my constant. From the best days to the worst days, you stay and we figure it out and….” Keith’s free hand touched Lance’s cheek, wiping away the tears. “I want to give you forever. And I want to promise you forever in front of everyone we know. And I want Thanksgivings inside your mami’s house, and I want to think about a future where we can have kids, Anyone else remember when Keith straight up panicked at the concept of a family when Lance threw that comment at him lmfao and I want to see those rings on our fingers telling the rest of the world that we found our forever.” This paragraph managed to flow out of me because I’d just written pieces of Placebo Effect (Keith’s prequel) so I was still in the headspace of him being used and hurt and guarded and closed off. And seeing the change while I was writing this and how he is with Lance and Shiro now was so lovely to me and I felt that Keith would be aware of it too. That he’d gone from someone with nothing, with everyone leaving or unable to trust to someone who loved with his whole heart and had permanence and believed in good things again. And while not all of that stemmed from Lance directly, his relationship with Lance did have an effect on these other factors (ie his parents in Lovesick) 

“Oh my God. Oh my God,” Lance leaned into him, holding him tightly, letting his words wash over him. “Are you serious?”

“I am. I want to marry you. I want it all with you.” Keith pulled back and held out the ring in the palm of his hand. It was a thick silver band with a line of small diamonds around the middle. An infinity sign was engraved around two of the diamonds. I’m surprised that the most analytical readers didn’t pick up on what I dropped here, but no worries the dose from Keith’s pov will show. Also something I had planned WAYYYYY back. “Will you marry me, pretty boy?”

[go-whump-in-the-night]

Two paladins - Lorenzo and Thaddeus - hide out in a cave on a rainy night, after escaping from a group of bandits who had a personal grudge against Tad. Both are grievously wounded, but Lorenzo has taken the brunt of the vicious torture that had been inflicted on the two knights. Now, Tad is trying his best to patch up a feverish Lorenzo’s left hand, which has been mutilated beyond recognition.  (A/N: This is an excerpt from a much longer collab between my partner and I. It’s got some nice cartaker fluff, as well as some painful healing and a good deal of caretaker angst. Enjoy!) TW: Graphic depictions of gore/body horror

Thaddeus smiled and glanced back down to Lorenzo, “Well, shall we lie you down and have a look at your arm then?”

Lorenzo nodded and braced his good arm on the ground once again, gritting his teeth and pushing himself off of Tad's lap and onto the bedroll. He felt an uncomfortable tugging from the sensitive flesh on his back, but ignored it and quickly rolled over.

Perhaps a bit too quickly; Renzo hissed in a sharp breath of air as he laid on his back and felt the fabric of the mat press into his injuries. He pushed past it though. Even injured as much as he was, Renzo's pride was enough that he wanted to do at least some things on his own.

“He really did a number on it, figlio di puttana…” Renzo spat, holding up his left arm and forcing himself to glare at the hideous mess that had been his hand.

Tad moved to sit cross legged at Lorenzo’s left side, holding his hands out around the arm, “Oof. Yes he did. Gods damned monster…” He gently grasped hold of the ruined appendage, careful to let Renzo see his movements so the ifrit could brace for the touch.

“Hm… Renzo I’m going to need to feel the arm and hand a small amount, just to assess the damage. Tell me if it’s too much at any point and I’ll stop.” Tad gave a serious sidelong glance, “And no bravado, alright? I’m checking the extent of the damage, I don’t want to accidentally cause any more! Anything more than a twinge or ache and you tell me.”

Tad began to press around the flesh of Lorenzo’s forearm, “Tell you what, let me ask a question whilst I check this. What’s your favorite kind of weather? Me, I actually like rainy days on most occasions. I find them soothing.”

“Tch…” Lorenzo winced, watching Tad closely as he pressed the badly bruised flesh, “I s’pose...I mean, sunny is pretty cliche, but I like sunny days. Bright sunlight at just before noon, when the rays are shining through the tree line.”

His voice took on a wistful quality and he smiled slightly, though his brows were still furrowed a bit with pain. “And those mornings where there's a mist on the ground and the sun sort of shines through it. What do you call that? Dissipates? I love that...It's sort of, I dunno, dreamlike.”

Tad smiled, “Ooh, I’d never considered that. You’re right, dreamlike is a good way to put it. So many different ways for the sun to greet the horizon…”

Tad tried to keep from frowning as he felt up Renzo’s arm. Gods, Kraes broke both forearm bones, and then twisted. Ugh, torn and damaged muscle, bone fragments. Going to need to set this…

Tad gently moved his way up Lorenzo’s arm to his mangled hand, “And dappled sunlight is probably my favorite. I love the patterns the light makes as leaves move in the wind. It’s like the ground is dancing.” Tad laughed, “Actually, would you believe I used to dance with the shadows of trees when I was very young?”

“Y’know, Tad, somehow I find that very easy to believe,” said Renzo with an amused smirk, “You strike me as someone who's been in motion for as long as you could- mph! B-be careful…”

Renzo's tone had suddenly changed as Tad moved up to his bisected hand, a note of fear and trepidation entering his voice. Tad felt him instinctively flinch his hand away a bit, though only slightly. Here was where it hurt the worst, where Kraes had pulverized the tiny bones in his fingers and then stabbed straight through the hand itself. Looking at it now, the pain seemed worse, and Renzo grit his teeth, bracing for Tad’s touch, gentle as it was.

“Oh dear.” Tad hesitated, holding Lorenzo’s wrist as he looked over the hand. A worried expression furrowed his brow as he held finger out, tracing in the air over the mangled digits of the hand without touching it.

“Renzo, I won’t sugarcoat this: It’s bad. If you’d like to know the um… exact details of the damage I can oblige. But just looking over this, I…” Tad paused, gathering his thoughts.

“We can heal this.” He said deliberately, “With mundane preparation, we can make the limb usable with a good dose of healing magic.” Tad motioned at the line where the hand had been bisected. “This will essentially be healed. As will the fingers. But it will be very stiff, not good for fine manipulation, and the bones will be fragile. But!”

Tad held up a finger, “After the first bout of healing, your hand will be fully healed with a single casting of Regenerate. Which I… can’t do.” Tad frowned, “The best I can do is take away the pain.” He sat for a moment, the sound of the rain outside filling the silence as he held Renzo’s wrist.

“There’s just one problem. I can set the arm just fine, but the fingers…” Tad grimaced, “They’re  bad. Very bad. I’m going to need to um… to twist them back.” Tad glanced to the side nervously, “Back into shape, basically. And I don’t have a way to numb them.” He looked down to Renzo with a look of apology.

“But I do have something you can bite down on.”

Lorenzo exhaled slowly, flicking his gaze up to the ceiling of the cave for a moment. He could feel his chest tensing up in dismay and forced the sensation back. This was Tad here, after all. Renzo was safe, he had to remember that.

“Yeah, alright…” he said, voice tight, “If it's gotta be done, it's gotta be done. What the hell.”

He looked back over at Tad and forced a sudden grin onto his face. His heart beat roughly in his chest, making his breaths a little shallow. He fought to disguise the fear welling up inside him.

“Don't worry about me; do what you have to, Tad.”

Tad took a deep breath, “Okay. I don’t want to delay too much, best to get it over with quickly.” He stood, wincing, and walked over to Aria. “I will say, it’s best if I just do each finger in short succession.” He pulled out a small strip of leather, and walked back over to Lorenzo, sitting down with a grunt.

“That said, if at any point it becomes overwhelming, tell me to stop and I’ll stop. We should do this now, but we can take it at a pace you can manage.” Tad offered the leather to Lorenzo, “Here, you can bite on this.”

His voice was calm and matter of fact, but Thaddeus’ face betrayed the worry he felt in that moment. 

Taking the little leather strip, Lorenzo took a few deep breaths and then lay back into the bedroll. He placed the leather in his mouth and readjusted so his mutilated hand was resting on Tad’s lap.

Renzo looked over at Tad, trying to keep his expression neutral. He nodded that he was ready; his whole body was tense, but Renzo tried to reassure Tad with his eyes. The last thing he wanted was for Tad to feel guilty for helping him.

Tad tried to steady his breathing. He frowned as he looked over the fingers again. Gods, his little finger is practically backwards. Tad looked to Renzo once more, straightening himself a little as he saw the look in his friend’s eye, “I’m going to start with the pinky, and work my way over. I’d advise against spitting the strip out until the pain fades, just slap the ground with your good arm if you want me to stop.”

Tad moved his hands into position around the broken digits, mentally going over the movement he’d need make. Need to do this quickly and smoothly. He took a deep breath, “If you must arch your back, try to press into the ground, you’ll move less that way.”

With a small nod to himself, Tad grasped Renzo’s pinky and wrenched it around, pressing it back into roughly its former position with his fingers. There was a faint sound of grinding bone. Tad grimaced in concentration.

“Nnnnnghhhh…!!” Renzo shut his eyes tightly, gripping at the bedroll with his right hand as he felt the hideous sensation of his pulverized bones being twisted along with the flesh.

Four more to go, just four more…

Already Lorenzo’s breathing was shallow. It didn't hurt as badly as the initial breaking, but it was damned close.

Tad held the finger firmly in place for just an instant. This was his element. His mind was racing, but his thoughts were calm and analytical.

Hold it for an instant. Don’t press too hard. Just need the basic shape. Healing can do the rest.

Tad gave the finger a final gentle press, as if to encourage it to keep its shape, before moving to the ring finger. Repeat before the pain fades. Don’t give it time to register. Hold his palm don’t let him jerk.

Tad grasped the finger and repeated the process, wrenching it back into place. He tried not to let his disgust show on his face as he felt the shattered remains of Lorenzo’s fingerbones shift about inside the flesh of his finger.

“Stay with me, Renzo, I have you.” Tad muttered as he moved to the middle finger.

Renzo gripped the fabric of the bedroll tighter, another low, agonized moan pulling out of his body as the finger was twisted back into shape. He breathed harshly through his nose, a tremor moving through him as intense waves of pain rushed out from his hand.

A few beads of sweat trailed down the side of Lorenzo’s face, where his hair stuck around his cheekbones. Already his canines were pressing indents into the thick strip of leather he was biting down on.

Tad paused for a half-second as he maneuvered his grip onto the middle finger. He was caught briefly between trying to avoid brushing against the other fingers. Press on, Thaddeus. He’s going to hurt no matter what. Minimize time, not pain. Make it quick.

“And again.” Tad twisted the finger back into place. This time there was an audible pop, and Tad winced as he realized some part of the bone scraping against itself had caused the finger to crack.

Don’t let him move. Tad reflexively shifted his grip to Lorenzo’s palm, reaching down with another hand to grasp him by the elbow to avoid him moving the broken forearm.

“NGHH-!!” Renzo twitched harshly in Tad’s grip, forming his good hand into a fist and slamming it down once, hard, onto the ground next to him. His chest heaved as he gasped for air, his face turned away from Tad, hidden by his damp hair.

How many was that?! Two? Three?! Gods damn it...two more, two more…

He braced himself, every muscle tensed for the next burst of pain. His hand felt like it had been dipped up to the elbow in molten steel; he felt almost sick with the agony of it.

Tad’s face was twisted in concentration as he moved his grip back up to Renzo’s pointer finger. With a deft motion, Tad grabbed the crooked digit from where it sat and pulled it up and back into place.

Tad’s face was beginning to sweat as well. Moisture from the rain outside mixed with the beads on Tad’s brow, and he blinked away the forming drops as he moved over to the thumb.

“One more Renzo, one more! We’re almost done, just bite and focus…” The last reminder was more for himself than for Renzo, as Tad cocked his head to the side looking at Renzo’s ruined thumb.

Oh gods, I can’t tell which way he twisted it.

Renzo shook hard, gripping the bedroll again; as Tad looked at Renzo's thumb, he could hear the harsh dry sobs now leaving the ifrit. He couldn't quite catch his breath, the pain seeming to push down into his lungs and compress them.

“Ngh...c’mon, c’mon…” he muttered, the words muffled by the leather strip and slurred by the pain that was flowing through Lorenzo.

Tad grabbed Renzo’s thumb, pressing into the digit with his fingers as he tried to determine how he needed to move it back into shape. Left? Right? How did he do this? It’s totally reversed. Renzo it hurting, MOVE idiot. Can’t tell can’t tell can’t tell-

There was a flash, and a loud boom of thunder echoed just outside of the cave. 

Tad’s instinct to flinch turned into a sudden decision, and he twisted the thumb around. 

SHIT.

For a moment, Tad held the thumb thinking he had just utterly ruined the digit. Then he felt the feeling of the bones sliding sickeningly into shape, and relief flooded him. He clasped Renzo’s hand briefly to flatten the fingers before moving back down to grip his palm and arm, “Done. Gods… I’m done.”

Renzo spat out the piece of leather, panting with exertion. He looked back over at Tad, his stomach turning unpleasantly as he caught sight of his hand in his periphery.

“Gods...damn it…” Renzo said softly, wanting to force a smile. He couldn't do it, though; he was too exhausted, “Tad...it's been a...really long fucking night...ugh…”

He shut his eyes then, reaching up to push his damp bangs out of his face for once; his good hand swept over his horns and then remained above his head, fingers coiled slightly through the mahogany locks.

“I know, Renzo. Gods, I know…” Tad suddenly let go of a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He gently laid Renzo’s hand down on the ifrit’s bare chest.

He moved his hand up to feel between Renzo’s horns, relief and concern mixing across his face, “How’s your fever? That certainly can’t have helped.” Tad paused, hand on Renzo’s forehead.

It’s been a LONG night. Tad suddenly cracked a sad grin, laughing a little. “Gods, how absolutely fucking ridiculous has this night been?” Tad shook his head, starting to laugh a little more, “I mean, at some point it just becomes absurd, doesn’t it?”

Renzo opened his good eye to look at Tad, expression softening a bit at the expression on the paladin’s face. He smirked, more than a bit amused to hear such strong language in Tad's posh accent. 

“Mm. Like one of those comedies where a million things go wrong for one person, all in a row,” he agreed. Renzo noted Tad's hand on his forehead but, oddly, didn't feel any particularly strong urge for it to move. Perhaps it was just that he was so tired.

His fever didn't seem to have gotten any worse, but it was still pretty bad. Renzo's normally warm skin was positively radiating heat, and Tad could feel sweat on his exposed brow.

“Truly, we are in the midst of some divine comedy.” Tad said.

[space-saihara-archive]

Hey, hey! Can I get the 40th angst prompt (“Smile. Fake a laugh. Anything.”) with a side of Saihara/Kamukura?

angst prompts ; accepting

Despite the general consensus of his classmates, Saihara has never found Kamukura Izuru’s cool demeanor to be off-putting. Those piercing crimson eyes and that expressionless face, along with Kamukura’s general dislike of social interaction and their tendency to speak in clipped, disinterested sentences, combine to create a person that most of Saihara’s friends generally steer clear of; opinions on Kamukura range from morbidly curious (Amami) to active dislike (Chabashira) to downright fear (Kiibo, due to an unfortunate interaction late at night in the dining hall), but no matter what any one individual opinion might be, they all seem to have come to a silent agreement to just... not bother Kamukura.

With the way things pan out, Saihara ends up being the only one in his class who’s actually made any sort of effort to befriend Kamukura. Sure, they’re generally cold and unfriendly, but Saihara would be a liar if he claimed his own social skills left nothing to be desired. And while Kamukura’s blunt manner of speaking and, ah, eccentric behavior certainly took Saihara aback at first, he’s more than gotten used to it by now. Sometimes he even finds it endearing, in a way. The point is, since the very beginning, Saihara has never been upset by the way Kamukura expresses themself.

At least, not until now.

It’s not a good day. There’s a knot in the pit of Saihara’s stomach that won’t fade, a light buzzing that he finds impossible to ignore. Saihara doesn’t have bad anxiety days like this often, which means it hits even harder when it happens, when he goes spiraling around and around in his head until he’s sick of his own thoughts.

He knows Kamukura notices. Of course they do; Kamukura notices everything. Saihara doesn’t miss the way their eyes track the small tremors in his hands and the hunch of his shoulders. Sometimes he thinks about how Kamukura could easily reach into his chest and pull those feelings right out of him, could lay out every single one of Saihara’s anxieties, and they just choose not to. Normally, it wouldn’t bother him—Saihara is usually content to let things like that go unspoken, and Kamukura doesn’t ask.

But today it makes him feel jittery and uncomfortable, shifting under Kamukura’s analytical gaze. The idea of being seen makes Saihara’s skin crawl.

(Which begs the question of why he even sought out Kamukura in the first place, if he didn’t want to be seen, but.)

Saihara fidgets, sitting across from Kamukura, playing with a loose thread on the hem of his jacket. They’ve both been quiet for a while, the silence seeming to stretch on endlessly, and with every passing moment Saihara feels the coil of tension in his chest wind tighter. It’s oppressive, heavy, and he itches to break it.

“Your heart rate is elevated,” Kamukura says, abruptly. It surprises Saihara enough that it takes him a moment to process the words.

“Sorry.” The apology falls from his lips, reflexive.

Kamukura tilts their head. “It is fine.” They pause. “You are anxious.” It’s not a question.

Averting his gaze, Saihara shifts again, winding the thread around his index finger. “Yes,” he says, doesn’t bother denying it. It would be nice, he thinks, a touch bitterly, if they would ask. That way, he might be able to pretend that they care.

In response, they hum, but are silent otherwise. It grates on Saihara’s nerves, and before he can stop himself, he’s opening his mouth again.

“You know, saying it like that is almost worse than not saying anything at all.”

Kamukura looks at him. “What do you mean?”

Frowning, Saihara tugs at the thread, feeling it dig into his skin where it’s wrapped around his finger. “I don’t know. Never mind.”

There’s another pause. “You are free to share what you’re thinking, Saihara.”

“That’s the thing,” Saihara exhales. Frustration rises up in his chest, a flare of heat. “Why don’t you ask, instead of just... making a statement?”

Kamukura’s expression doesn’t change. “Hm. Are you angry?”

“No.” He is, a little bit, and he’s not even really sure why. He knows what Kamukura is like. He shouldn’t be getting mad about this. “It’s just—it feels impersonal, is all. Like you don’t care.” God, he hates how pathetic that sounds. Like he’s begging for reassurance that he’s not going to get.

“I see,” says Kamukura.

A beat, in which Saihara waits for Kamukura to continue. They do not.

The thread snaps off the hem of Saihara’s jacket. He’s shaking worse, he realizes. “So tell me you care,” he says, and the tremor is in his voice now, too. “Ask if I’m okay. Get upset. Get angry. Smile. Fake a laugh. Anything. Show some emotion for once.” He swallows around the lump that’s starting to rise in his throat. “I just—”

He regrets the words the moment they leave his mouth, because he knows that, if they wanted to, Kamukura could emulate an emotional response. It would be believable, too, a perfect imitation, and that’s the worst part. Would a lie hurt more than cold, apathetic honesty?

At this point, Saihara isn’t sure.

Kamukura is quiet for several moments. When Saihara looks up at them, he thinks he sees the faintest crease between their brows, but it’s gone in an instant, as though it was never there. “I was not aware this bothered you,” they say.

Saihara presses the heels of his palms against his eyes, breathing deeply. “It—it doesn’t,” he says, and his voice breaks a little. “At least, not usually. I...”

“Would you like me to? Pretend, that is.” Kamukura’s voice is as even as ever, showing no signs that Saihara’s words ruffled them, and Saihara feels tears prick at the corners of his eyes. Kamukura isn’t a judgmental person, but Saihara thinks he would prefer judgement over indifference.

He shakes his head. “No,” he says, “no, I don’t... I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—” His throat feels tight. The brief flare of anger is already dimming, leaving behind a dark, sticky sort of guilt.

“Saihara,” Kamukura says, so quietly that he isn’t sure if he imagined it.

Suddenly, the last thing Saihara wants is to be here, in this room, crying in front of Kamukura. He stands, roughly wiping his eyes. “I think I should leave,” he says unsteadily, breath hitching on an aborted sob. “I’ll—I’ll see you later, Kamukura-kun.”

When Saihara leaves, Kamukura doesn’t stop him.

[thoughtsfromaclutteredbrain]

Wonderwall [Kai Parker Fanfiction]

OK guys, I feel the need to start this chapter with an enormous apology. I can't believe it's been over a year since I've updated this fic! That seriously wasn't my intention, and please believe me when I say that I truly never forgot about it.

In this time that I haven't updated... Welp, it's been a year. i got a huge career opportunity that I jumped on, that suddenly crumbled very badly very fast. i had made friends during this time that completely stabbed me in the back, and I fell in love with someone who I thought was a friend, but it turns out that that give a damn about me. I got a new job recently that completely stole all of my writing time, but now I think I've figured out how to manage my time enough to start posting again, even if it's not as regularly as I would hope. I am still working on pursuing that career opportunity again, since it's a dream and I miss it, so I'm hoping when the opportunity comes again, it won't mess up my writing time this time. But I can't be sure, so please be gentle with me and know that I'm trying my best.

Anyway, that was a long thing just to say that it's seriously been a year, but I honestly do appreciate all the comments I've got on this fic while it's been sitting seemingly abandoned. I love each and every one of you, and I can't put into words how happy I am that you love this fic, and how grateful I am for all your comments.

With that said, this is the second part of the fic, where we time jump a bit. The chapter is a little different because of that, and the next one will be different too. I hope you enjoy this chapter, and don't forget to leave kudos and comments. I read and respond to every one, and I really hope to be able to write and post the next chapter very very soon. Love you all. <3

You can read it on AO3, or you can read it here. Comments and kudos are very much appreciated, and I respond to every anon and comment.

[Table of Contents for the entire fic can be found here]

CHAPTER 11: VISIONS

"I think I'm losing my mind."

I couldn't deny my words, but they tasted like failure in my mouth.

Eighteen years. I had survived eighteen years without reaching this level of helplessless, without feeling so out of control, without feeling like my grip on sanity was slipping.

I thought I had put all of that behind me. I went to anger management for years, trying to reconcile my anger and learn how to control and silence it. I spent years rebuilding my relationship with my mother; it was nowhere close to the bond that we used to hold before everything had happened, but it was something I could live with. We had moved from Oregon to Pennsylvania, moving us across the country in the hopes of giving ourselves a clean slate and a fresh beginning. Therapy had become as normal to me as breathing; going every week to try to work through two lifetimes of baggage and dirty laundry, with the hope of getting to a place where I felt like I was me again. And with those words, it felt like everything, all of those years of self-work and effort, was for nothing.

Mina looked up from her clipboard at me, and I noticed that she had stopped writing to study my face. Her silky auburn hair was falling over her shoulders as she looked at me, her head cocked to the side and her eyes squinted ever so slightly, giving me a view of the winged eyeliner adorning her monolids. My answer had caught her off guard, that much was for sure. After being my therapist for as long as she had been, she was probably just as surprised by my backslide as I was. I had been making such good progress, as she liked to say.

She didn't ask anything else, still processing my response to her standard opening question of how are we feeling today?

I forced myself to look away from her, the weight of her judgment too much to bear at the moment. My eyes landed on the door to her office, tracing over the letters of her name plaque instead.

Mina Lee had been one of the volunteers at my anger management meetings, and once I had been deemed "okay enough" to not have to attend anymore, she had offered to take me as a client for continued therapy. She had been a lifesaver for me, dealing with my breakdowns and anger and years of pain. She was young and a natural at getting me to open up, something I was grateful for. Unfortunately, she was human, not a witch or any other fancy supernatural creature, so I had to hide the details of some of my trauma from her. I felt guilty for doing it; I surely wasn't making her job any easier by withholding information, but it definitely made her much safer. I tried not to let myself care too much for her, despite the fact that she was probably one of the people I was closest to in my life. I had learned years ago that nothing good ever came from getting close to me.

My attention was drawn back to her when she tapped the back of her pen on her clipboard. My eyes shifted to her again, and then down, trying to get a peek at her clipboard. She was used to me doing this though, and was holding it at just the right angle to prevent me from seeing anything.

"I'm not judging you, if that's what you're wondering," she said, knowing me way too well. I knew that she took notes every meeting, and I had told her once that I tried to look at her papers to see if she was pitying me, but I was astonished by her memory nonetheless. She always seemed to remember every detail that I told her, no matter how small. Kai was the only person who had managed to do that before, but I found it easiest to attempt to push his memory as far down as I could. It was better that way, when my memories of him were pushed so far down that I could recall them if I wanted to, but that I was still somewhat shielded from the pain they brought me. But it was getting harder to do that by the day, especially with everything I had been experiencing recently.

"I was just wondering what you meant by that," she continued, her features soft and open, but still looking at me with a hint of an analytical gaze.

I stayed quiet, and the room lapsed into silence again. I knew that she was waiting for my answer, but I was still too rattled by my own confession to answer her.

She let out a quiet sigh, one that she probably didn't want me to hear. I had become a lot more willing to share my feelings in the past year, to the point where therapy felt less like an interrogation and more like a conversation.

But not this time. Not with this.

"Okay..." she started, measuring her words. "Did you have another incident?"

"No."

Incident was her polite way of asking if I had let my anger run wild again. I had never fully disclosed to her the details of my previous 'incidents', but she knew that they were bad and that people had gotten hurt, and I'm pretty sure she was able to figure out that I caused the fire that burned down my childhood home. That was all that she needed to know.

"Well, that's good," she replied, flashing me a quick smile before she made a little note on her clipboard. From what I could see, it looked like she made an x, but I couldn't be sure. I had the urge to use my magic; cast a spell that would allow me to see from her eyes and see what she was writing, but I resisted. It wouldn't feel right to do that to her.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she prompted.

Not really, I thought, but now that I brought it up, there was no way she'd let it go, and she always managed to see straight through my lies.

I grabbed the tips of my hair in between my fingers, playing with the strands as I thought. This had become a habit of mine ever since I had dyed the ends aqua again. The roots remained brown, and faded into the blue color. It had felt like a good way to blend the old and new me, reminding me of the people I had been while still giving me room to become someone else. Seeing this always brought me a strange sort of comfort.

I sighed before I managed to get my words out.

"I've been having... These dreams," I started, and already I was lying. Vision was a better word for what I was experiencing. Dreams don't hit you in the middle or the day, paralyzing your body and clouding your mind with nothing but it. Dreams weren't so terribly vivid that you felt like you had become someone else, were seeing things through someone else's eyes.

Her features faltered as she looked down at her notes for a second, so quick that I could've missed it if I wasn't looking straight at her. It felt like she was trying to remember if I had ever mentioned anything about dreams before.

I hadn't. This was definitely a new experience.

"Something tells me you've been dealing with this for a bit?"

I stayed quiet, forcing myself to tear my gaze away from her and look down at my shoes instead. She could always tell when something was off, and in this case,  she knew that the only reason I was bringing this up was because it was becoming too much to bear. I replied with a soft nod.

More pen scratches on her clipboard. I didn't even try to look this time, not wanting to know what she was thinking about me in the moment.

"What is it about these dreams? What has you rattled?"

"They... Aren't me," I started, knowing that the words coming out of my mouth didn't make any sense. I wanted to have more time to think over what I was saying, but knowing Mina, she would continue to push until I answered her. I was sure she was already judging me, so I decided to just go for it. "Like... it doesn't feel like me. I'm seeing people I don't know, places I've never been before, having reactions that I wouldn't have. And..."

I cut myself short, not willing to finish the sentence. I could feel the cracks in my heart starting to open up just thinking about it. I feared that if I spoke it, it would make it real.

"I hear him. In my head."

Her expression faltered for the quickest of seconds, flashing momentarily into surprise before she regained her stoic posture. She didn't even dignify that with an immediate response. She just immediately went to scribbling down notes onto her clipboard.

I wanted to snap that pen of hers in half, but I resisted.

"Okay," she started slowly. I could tell she was tiptoeing now, not wanting to say the wrong thing and trigger me even more than she knew I already was. "I'm going to assume here, that when you say him, you mean you're hearing... Kai?"

"Yes," I whispered, scared of the quiver my voice would hold if I spoke above that volume.

Years of sessions had been filled with stories about the mystery boy Kai from my past. I had never given her enough information for her to identify him, and tie him to the murders of the Parker family years ago in Oregon, but I had told her enough about the trauma that had been left in his wake before he left me and died.

The love I had for him. The fear I had for his safety, day in and day out. The pain he caused me. The abandonment I felt the last time I spoke to him. The shock at finding out about his death. And the trauma that finding out about his crimes caused me.

Mina nodded, and in that simple movement, I could tell that surprisingly, she wasn't judging me. I had been her client for years, and somehow, she still managed to shock me. I was sure this wasn't a claim she heard every day, and with the progress I had been making in her care, surely she wasn't expecting me to suddenly be hearing the voice of a dead man.

But she didn't ask any of that. Instead, she capped her pen and placed her clipboard facedown on the table between us. I could reach out and snatch it up before she even had a chance to reach out for it. But we both knew that I wouldn't. She leaned forward, directing all of her attention to me.

"And are these memories?" She asked. "Are these things that he had told you before, echoing in your dreams?"

I was shaking my head before she had even finished her sentence. "No, this... This is different. He had never said any of these things to me before. It's completely new. And, the people I'm seeing... I don't know who they are."

That was the part that was most troubling to me. I could chalk Kai's voice up to my mind finally betraying me and playing tricks on me, but I couldn't explain the images I was seeing in the visions.

She grabs the clipboard again, rearranging it so she had a fresh page. "What do they look like?"

"A blonde girl. Wild curly hair, young face, blue eyes. She was bleeding. Screaming."

As I describe the girl, my mind recalls the visions I had with her. She was on the floor, clutching at her head and bleeding from her nose, as if someone was hurting her with magic. Her scream rang out through the air, coupled with his voice ringing in my ears.

I get my emotions mixed up.

"A girl. Dark skin, short hair, sad eyes. Beautiful. She was in a club."

The red and white lights flash across my vision as I describe her. She was staring at me with glassy, wide eyes, and looked absolutely terrified, like she was seeing a ghost. The faint sound of music played in the background, but I wasn't able to make out the song. It didn't matter anyway. I was more concerned about his voice. The words I heard then were different.

I wanted to apologize for anything I did that hurt you.

"A guy. Blue eyes, dark hair, sharp jawline. Looked shifty."

He was in a dark room with stone walls surrounding. He was in a dark leather jacket, and nerves were filling his features. The words didn't make sense with the image to me, but they seemed to anger the man in the vision.

Not if she were like you.

"A guy with long blonde hair. Short. He was far away. I couldn't make out his features too well. It was nighttime."

He was standing far away, but squared up directly at me. His posture looked confident in himself, and like he was trying to challenge me in some way. The voice sounded just as confident.

I always win.

"A girl. Tan skin. Lots of brown hair. She was in chains. She looked tired."

She hung limply from the ceiling of what looked like a high school. Her hair was falling over her face in waves, but it did nothing to hide the exhaustion evident in her features, nor did it hide the terror in her eyes. The words that coupled the image sent a chill down my spine.

Anyway, do you mind if I try to turn your blood to acid again?

"Young boy. Long brown hair. Dark eyes. He looked angry."

He was in a house I had never seen before. The walls were made of a dark wood, and there were ornate furnishings all around. I had a feeling that there were other people in the room that I couldn't see, and that the words I heard were directed at all of them, not just him in particular, but that didn't help them to make any more sense.

I tried every method in the book.

"Short blonde hair. Older guy. Rage in his eyes."

He was standing in a doorway, and from the look on his face, I couldn't imagine how he hadn't slammed the door in my face yet. His entire face was set in an expression that couldn't make his disdain for me any clearer. His voice echoed the sentiment.

I know you hate me.

"Black hair, blue eyes. A girl with super pale skin. I think she was sick. She looked like she hated me. She looked familiar, though."

I found my brain replaying this one the most. The person I saw had a weird sense of familiarity to her, like a memory that had somehow fallen through the cracks. Behind the hatred burning in her eyes, I could sense a bit of concern. This vision was stronger than the others, his voice booming louder in my head.

Could you please fix me? Like now?

Mina stayed quiet as I spoke, not even looking up at me, keeping her focus on her paper as she scribbled down everything I was saying. We fell into another silence, but this one felt emptier. It felt like my claims were hanging between us, making the air heavy and thick with my insanity.

"I feel crazy,"  I continued, desperately wanting to fill the empty air. "But it's real. I know it is, and I see it, and I don't even feel like me when it happens. It feels like I'm in someone else's body."

I let out a chuckle, but it was devoid of humor. "I know it sounds crazy. I'm sure you have a lot to write from that, But yeah."

At that, she looked up at me. I couldn't place the look in Mina's eyes, but it looked pretty damn close to pity. I hated the sight.

A knock sounded through the room, tearing our attention away from each other and to the door. We both knew what that meant; session over. She was always fully booked, and so even if I wanted to get some more time with her, I could never manage to. She had given me her personal cell number to text if I ever needed to talk more, but I felt guilty using it. I already threw enough onto her plate. I didn't need to add more when she wasn't even on business hours. Plus, texting her about my problems would make my brain start to see her as less than my therapist and more as my friend. I needed the buffer there; I needed to see her as anything but my friend. Bad things happened to people who got close to me.

Mina sighed again, a sound she seemed to constantly make around me. She rose to her feet, and despite not wanting to, I followed her lead, standing up as well. She took one last look at her clipboard before once again placing it facedown on the table.

"I, for one, don't think you're crazy," she told me, and I could see that she was sincere. But it did nothing to ease the sick feeling in my gut when I thought about the visions.

"I just think that you have... A lot of trauma. And maybe something we did in one of our previous sessions triggered trauma that you had buried before. Things you wished he would have said, fears about his mental state towards the end."

I nodded slowly, processing her words. It was possible, but it felt like something bigger. Something... Less normal, but I couldn't tell her that. "And the people?" I asked instead.

"I think that's something we have to dig deeper into," she said simply. Which, to me, meant she had no freaking clue either, but I nodded anyways.

She came around the table, placing a hand on my shoulder. I flinched at the contact.

"You've made great progress," she said, her voice soft. "Don't let this make you forget it, okay?"

I nodded. I couldn't bring myself to look into her eyes, and I couldn't bear to be there any longer.

I rushed out of the office, letting the cool night breeze hit my face and blow my troubles away. I closed my eyes and tried to take in the serenity of the night. That was, until I felt someone tap my shoulder. I turned around to face the person. Mina.

The streetlamps bounced her honey skin, almost illuminating her in the darkness. She stepped closer, until she was by my side.

"Let me walk you to your car," she said, and as I looked at her, I didn't see any judgement on her face. What I saw was genuine care for me. It shocked me, but I allowed myself to nod and fall into step with her.

Being near Mina was easy. It was normal, the closest thing I had had to normal in quite some time, especially since everything that had happened with Kai. I knew that she didn't see me as anything more than a patient and a friend, and it was for the best. I tried to avoid moments like this with her, moments where my mind could run wild and think of us as anything more than patient-client, but I let myself indulge today.

I'd put my walls back up tomorrow.

Conversation was effortless with her. It was ever flowing and natural and made me feel like I didn't have to take myself too seriously, and it was no different this night. It was a feeling I hadn't felt in a while.

I wasn't sure if I had been so lost in conversation that I didn't notice, but two men appeared in front of us suddenly.  We both stopped, shock filling us as we looked at the two guys in front of us.

The first had light brown hair standing up all over his head. His features were soft, with sad, old eyes, and had a backpack slung across one shoulder. But it was the second man who gave me pause. His features were sharp, a stark contrast to the features of the other.  He was wearing a leather jacket, and his blue eyes looked determined but also mischievous.

Sharp jawline. Leather jacket. Shifty eyes. It was him. One of the men I had seen in my visions.

"You..." I whispered, too startled to say anything else. Mina was silent beside me, and I prayed she was seeing him too, and that my visions hadn't upgraded to full blown hallucinations.

"Hi," the familiar guy said, waving his hand to dismiss my words. "Which one of you is Halyn Chase?"

I didn't reply, my brain still too busy trying to process the events happening before me. Mina took a step forward, blocking me with her body, and stepping to the man. It gave me relief.

He was really here.

"What do you want with her?" Mina asked him, her voice protective and stern.

"Oh okay," he responded, sounding sure of himself. "Then it's not you."

He stepped forward and placed his hands on her shoulders, locking eyes intensely with her before I could say anything.

"Go home," he demanded. "Forget this ever happened."

He removed his hands, and she started to walk away, as if in a trance. I tried calling out for her, but she didn't even acknowledge my voice.

"What did you do to her?" I asked. My voice rose as I felt anger building in my chest. Who did this guy think he was, and why did I see him in my mind?

"Good, now that you're alone," he said, completely ignoring my question, and sounding so smug that all I wanted was to slap him. I resisted. "You need to come with me."

"Like hell, I will."

"Well, I tried. Time for the easy way," he said, and started to take a step towards me, before the other man grabbed his arm.

"What are you doing, Damon?" the other asked him. "You can't just compel her."

Compel?  Where had I heard that word before?

"Well, if you have another idea, I'm all ears. We don't have time to convince her of things."

The familiar man, Damon I guess, pulled his arm free of the other and stepped towards me, locking eyes with me in the same way he had just done with Mina.

"Come with me," he commanded.

I waited for a spell to activate, for something to happen... Nothing.

So I did my own spell.

Damon went flying, my spell throwing him across the park until he hit the back of a tree stump. He looked taken aback, but not completely surprised at my use of magic. I walked forward with my hand still outstretched, the gesture keeping him securely pinned to the wall as if my hand was around this throat,

"A witch? Seriously?" He sounded more annoyed than bewildered at the discovery.

"Who the hell are you guys?" I asked.

"I should be asking you that," he countered. "Why on Earth are you on vervain?"

Vervain? Vervain was one of the first things I had added to my routine once I got my memories back. My mom had worked to help me to better control my powers, and to protect me from the darkness that had threatened to consume me, the darkness that bubbles under the surface when I'm not careful. I had been wearing an anklet laced with vervain for years at this point, remembering her warning of how it protected my magic from getting into the wrong hands. But most of all, I remembered what exactly she had told me vervain would protect against. Or who, for that matter.

"You're a vampire?" The question was more rhetorical than literal, but with the way his face blanked, I knew I was right. "I've read all about your kind. The dangers."

"Says the girl who's has me pinned against a tree."

I didn't say anything to that, instead just rolling my eyes at how he could still sound so sure of himself and cocky when he clearly didn't have the upper hand in this situation.

I muttered another spell and slowly started to close my grip, watching as the effects of the magic started to run its course, tightening my magical grip on Damon, pulling him off of his feet and lifting him into the air a bit.

He groaned. "You psycho," he breathed out, the tightening obviously impairing his ability to speak. But it did nothing to prevent me from hearing his next words.

"No wonder Kai knew you."

My jaw dropped at the mention of his name, that name I hadn't heard in so long. The name that had echoed in my dreams whenever I closed my eyes. The name that's been on my lips for eighteen years. The name that could instantly make me breathless.

My focus faltered, and the spell was broken. My hand fell to my side limply as Damon followed suit, crashing hard to the ground as he sputtered for breath.

"Thanks for the help, Stefan," he rasped out when he got his breath, scowling at the other man with him, who had done nothing to prevent me from suspending him in the air. For the briefest of moments, I wondered what that was about. But I was too preoccupied to let myself be concerned with that.

"How do you know that name?" I demanded,

"I wish I didn't," the man replied from the floor. "He's been a real pain in my ass. Making everything a lot more difficult."

"What are you talking about?" I growled at him, taking big strides until I had closed the distance between us. "He... he's dead."

Saying those words never ceased to send a chill through my body. After all this time, and after all the therapy I had went through, I still could never fully come to terms with what had happened. How everything could've been so much different. After everything he did; to his family, to me, I still couldn't help but long for more time for him. I couldn't help but wonder what would've happened if we had more time.

Damon scoffed from his spot on the ground, the sound turning into a cough as it left his hoarse throat. "Yeah, see, he's not dead yet."

"What..." I started, but the word died on my lips, coming out as a breath. I felt a hand on my shoulder, and turned to see that the man addressed as Stefan had come over to me. His eyes were full of concern.

"Kai isn't dead, Halyn." He stated with confidence. At my reaction, his voice softened. "He's in Mystic Falls, and he's about to do something terrible. We need your help to stop him."

My brain couldn't process any of his words. How? How was it that Kai could be alive? Josette had told me herself. He was gone. But I couldn't help the ache in my chest at his words. I wanted so badly to believe him.

"Why should I believe anything you say? And how did you find me?" I asked him, my voice coming out small.

"Why would we drive hundreds of miles to trick some random girl?" Damon questioned as he rose to his feet, his voice dripping with sarcasm and annoyance. I ignored his words.

"A friend did a tracking spell for us. It led us here to you" Stefan responded.

He swung his backpack around to his front, and I watched in a daze as he unzipped it and rummaged through the contents for a second. He passed me a map, showing the trail of blood that led them to me, emanating from the spot that reads Mystic Falls.

With what? I wanted to ask him. I was so in my head I wasn't even sure if I had voiced the words or not. My thoughts were still running at lightning speed, trying and failing to make sense of any of this, desperately wanting it to be true almost as much as I was trying to disprove their words.

My eyes were still fixed on the map when Stefan removed another item from the bag, and I felt it before I even saw it.

The unmistakable pull of Kai overtook me, drawing a gasp from my lips and leaving me breathless. The wave of energy was so strong, or maybe it just felt that way after eighteen years of it lying dormant. My bones began to buzz immediately, and the feeling of pure light in my veins was something I hadn't felt in a long time.

I looked up at Stefan, gasping for breath as my gaze fell from his eyes down to his outstretched hands. His words sound muffled in my ears, as if the energy is drowning me and he's speaking to me from above water.

"We found this with Kai's belongings. It seems important to him, but..."

His words trailed off as he extended his arms even further, practically putting the item into my hands. My whole body felt numb as I recognize it immediately, lightly letting it fall into my hands. There was no denying it, but my brain couldn't help but turn it over in my hands. This entire thing was impossible. I had to make sure it was real.

But there it was, my old black scarf back in my hands. The material was worn and thin, and looked more gray than black at this point from years of wear. There were some holes in the fabric, some blood, and a stain that I knew was made by someone wiping pork rind crumbs onto the fabric. It smelled partially musty, the way that old material starts to smell over time, but there was another scent mixed in that was undeniably Kai.

My breath got caught in my chest as I found what I was looking for. I felt tears begin to fall from my eyes, but I was too preoccupied to even attempt to wipe them away. My heart seemed to stop as I looked down at the tag, where I had written my name in Sharpie pen many many years ago. The letters were faded from time, but there was no mistaking my penmanship.

This was it. This was the scarf I had given to Kai all those years ago, and with it, I felt him again. Our connection. Our magic calling out to each other.

My mind was screaming at me, drowning out the millions of thoughts I was thinking with one phrase, repeating over and over again.

He's alive. He's alive. He's alive.

When I found my voice again and spoke, the words came out clipped, leaving no room for debate, and full of determination.

"Take me to him."

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[greyias]

FIC: Smoke and Mirrors - Chapter 6

Title: Smoke and Mirrors Fandom: SWTOR Pairing: Theron Shan/f!Jedi Knight Rating: T Genre: Pre-Relationship, Slow Burn Synopsis: Something’s rotten on Carrick Station, and Theron won’t rest until he finds out what. But picking at the frayed threads of suspicion quickly unravels a conspiracy much larger than even the Republic’s top spy can handle on his own. (A mostly canon-compliant retelling of the Forged Alliances storyline, as seen through the eyes of Theron Shan.) Author’s Notes and Spoilers: See Chapter 1.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Crossposted to AO3

“You zigged when you should have zagged.”

“Excuse me?”

“Unless you’re wanting to take a stroll through the Tomb of Naga Sadow, you may want to backtrack a little.”

There was a snort of frustration picked up over the mic, but the dot on the fuzzy projection of Korriban halted its progress, and after a few moments, started to retrace its steps.

“I’m glad you have a map,” Highwind said, but he couldn’t tell if the slight trace of irritation in her tone was directed at him or herself. It didn’t really matter in the long run, just as long as she stayed on track.

“At least someone does.” Kira’s dark mutterings were probably meant to be under her breath, but the overtuned mic still picked them up. “With all the rubble it’s easy to get turned around here.”

“The first wave may have been a bit… overzealous,” her partner agreed.

Theron thought about pointing out that the first wave of the operation had been completely for her benefit, but bit down on his tongue before the comment formed completely. He needed to keep her focused on the task at hand, and that was easier if she didn’t get irritated with him chiding her over the comm. Half a galaxy away, it wasn’t as if he could march up to her and physically set her back in the right direction, and the incident with the slave pens had already strained Darok’s patience dangerously thin. The taller man was still stalking back and forth, and in between coordinating the rest of the teams on the ground and in the air, was flashing both Theron and his holographic map a thoroughly displeased glare.

“So, does Mapboy have any other helpful tips? Maybe a nice food stall to pick up a quick bite before we go face down the most dangerous Sith in the Galaxy?”

“Kira.” Highwind’s recrimination sounded almost like an exasperated older sibling who was tired of lecturing her younger sister, but still did it anyway out of habit.

“Mapboy?” Theron echoed. “Is that all I am?”

“You are more than a map, Theron,” Highland was quick to reassure him, almost as if she didn’t pick up his undercurrent of sarcasm.

“Yeah, you’re a voice in her ear too.”

“Kira.”

“What? I’m only getting half of this conversation, I have to amuse myself somehow.”

“Perhaps you should remain focused on the mission.”

There was a quiet series of beeps and trills barely picked up by the microphone.

“See. Teeseven agrees with me.”

“I am fairly certain he was confirming we were heading in the right direction.”

“You are,” Theron piped in, “just take a right and it should be straight ahead.”

“A… right? Are you certain?”

“Yes. Why?”

The hum of a lightsaber being activated nearly drowned out Kira’s exclamation of: “Exactly when did the K’lor’slug population explode into an infestation?”

“Thank you for the directions, Theron.” Another hiss of lightsabers sizzled over the comm. “But I’m afraid I need to cut our conversation short.”

“You’re so polite. Go take care of your bug problem.”

“There’s always time for diplomacy. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

His eyebrow arched of its own accord, and he couldn’t help but wonder if he had just been on the receiving end of a very, very subtle dig. He shook his head, trying to ignore his rising curiosity about his asset and focus back on the job at hand. Once the package was secured and safely in SIS’s hands and the mission complete, his role as her handler would be done. Unless Jace decided to inelegantly smash through Dromund Kass (and Theron wasn’t sure he could put it past the Supreme Commander completely), there wasn’t going to be much need for him to make smalltalk with the heaviest hitter in the galaxy for the foreseeable future. She was a bit too… flashy for the shadows that Theron preferred to lurk in.

The apparent “horde” of K’lor’slugs seemed to not be that much of a match for the two Jedi and their little astromech, but the sounds of lightsabers crashing and blaster fire continued over his audio feed. The closer they got to the Academy, the heavier the opposition it seemed. The deep furrow in Darok’s brow seemed to ease the closer Theron’s team got to their objective, but there was a larger issue at hand. His map got even sketchier once they reached the interior of the Academy, and unless he was able to get eyes in there, the strike team would be wandering around blind.

His fingers flew across the keys, mind already processing a workaround. If that little T7 unit was as good at slicing as his file seemed to indicate, there might be an opportunity for Theron to get some eyes inside — as well as extract a little something extra for his old pals in the Analytics division to sink their teeth into. Those data nerds would just love the chance to pick apart every piece of the Academy that they could. He just needed to make a few programming adjustments to prep the communication relays for the data stream. He listened with half an ear, keeping one eye on his programming and the other on the dot representing the strike team’s progress towards the Academy.

The cacophony of the seemingly endless series of encounters faded, and the sudden silence was a bit eerie. The mic picked up the sound of footfalls echoing through what was a large cavernous room. From the position of the dot on his holomap, apparently they had finally arrived at the entrance to the Academy. Jace and the Highwind Fanclub Division of the SIS had been right about one thing — this woman seemed to be able to fight as if she was an entire army.

“Going to be a lot more close quarters combat in here.” The mic picked up Kira’s soft mutterings. “Even before those bombings this place was always a death trap.”

“It will be okay, we just have to stick together,” the older Jedi assured her. “Do you know which way we should head?”

Theron was about to pipe in about his need for an access point, when the voice on the other end of the line cut him off. “Not really. Things look different at this height.”

Theron frowned, wondering what the hell that meant, but the conversation on the other end continued, oblivious to the third party listening in.

“I’m going to guess we follow the highest concentration of Sith standing between us and something else, and just go that way.”

“Do you think they were able to evacuate the students when the bombings began?”

“I don’t know,” there was some reluctance coloring the younger Jedi’s tone, “do you really think that’s a priority?”

“If this were Tython being attacked, the Masters’ first instinct would be to try and protect the initiates and padawans. The highest concentration of Jedi would be defending the students.”

“The Sith aren’t Jedi, and Korriban isn’t Tython.” There was an undercurrent of steely fury to Kira’s tone that was a bit of a surprise to hear her taking with her partner. “It has a way of corrupting people. Nothing good ever came from this place.”

“That’s not true.” Highwind’s reply was just as firm, but instead of fury it was laced with affection.

“Name one thing.”

“You.”

“I… Master…”

The rest of their conversation was drowned out by the sudden rushing in Theron’s ears, as he suddenly put the pieces of the conversation together, and had to physically bite down on his tongue to keep from cursing aloud. Of course the Jedi Order had recruited from within Korriban’s walls, they preached about forgiveness and redemption all the damn time. If they had been a bit more open about their personnel records, perhaps the SIS could have gleaned valuable intel from the converts, instead of having to scrap pieces together from everything else.

Had Theron known that a member of the strike team had first-hand knowledge, even outdated knowledge, it would have been something he could have leveraged. He snorted an angry breath, wondering what other key pieces of intel the close mouthed Jedi were keeping under wraps. 

He keyed his mic, probably a little more forcefully than necessary, and let out a long breath before speaking in the most even voice possible. “Looks like you’ve made it to the Academy.”

“We have.” There was a brief hesitation. “Is there a problem?”

“Yes,” he said, a little more terse than he cared for, “I don’t have eyes in there. You’ll be walking around blind.”

“That might be a problem. It’s rather large in here, how are we looking on time?”

Theron glanced at the chronometer and grimaced. “We’ll be cutting it close. Do you see anything that looks like a data or security terminal?”

There was the sound of shuffling, before her voice filled the line again. “Yes, I think we can make something work. Why?”

“If you lend me your astromech’s slicing skills for a few minutes, between the two of us we can probably slice into the mainframe. Piggyback the data off your comm signal and I should be able to get a layout of the whole place. Maybe a little more, depending.”

“You can do that?” She actually sounded impressed.

“You’d be be surprised what I can do with a few loose security protocols and enough free time.”

“See, I knew you were more than just a man with a map.” 

He didn’t know what to make of the light teasing tone, and instead focused on his fingers flying across the keyboard, finishing the final line of programming. “To be fair, I’m just getting a new map.”

“Is that all you’ll be doing with this uplink?”

Sharp one, that Jedi. “My primary concern is getting you to the Dark Council chambers. Any extra data I find on my way there, well, that’s just a side benefit.”

“I admire your dedication to your profession.”

Now that he couldn’t tell if it was meant as a jest or not. There was only so much subtext one could determine without facial cues, especially if the other party tended to be a little deadpan in their responses.

He was making some final adjustments to the relay when a message pinged from the far end. The HUD in his left eye implant superimposed a text read out of the message, and his lip curled ever so slightly into a smirk.

Modifications to Jedi comm unit = unauthorized use of Republic equipment // Violation of Regulation C1726 + Galactic Communication Act SR.7628

Theron’s fingers flew across the board as the tapped out a quick response. T7-01 I presume. You going to tattle on me?

The response was immediate and succinct. T7 = here to help // You = help?

That’s the plan. I’ve got a fun little surprise for the Academy’s security system if you can get me a connection.

T7 = slicing access point now //  Imperial security algorithm = predictable; layers deep // Sith Academy = closed network

Theron nodded absently, even though the little astromech couldn’t see. He’d expected that, but luckily his unauthorized modifications would be a temporary patch for that. With a few more keystrokes, his last minute programming was being sent half a galaxy away. 

Got a code packet incoming, might make that whole place a little more accommodating for digital visitors.

Code packet = virus // T7 = unfamiliar with program  // Safe for Republic network?

Code is brand new — but targets the closed system, two-way data transfer will be safe. Don’t worry, I’m not going to scramble the comm systems and leave you guys running around there blind.

Theron waited, but he didn’t see an affirmation via text whether the astromech had uploaded the spike into the access point. Not for the first time that day he wished that he was physically there. It was easier to just do things himself rather than trying to convince various personalities to follow his lead. Asking for forgiveness was generally easier than asking for permission — although he probably needed work on that whole apologizing part of that tactic. But usually his results negated much of the need for an apology.

His fingers remained poised over the keyboard, ready to send a ping on the status when a rush of data started flowing across every available port. A smirk threatened to form as the entire Sith Academy’s network was laid out before him. It was possible he was one of the first Republic agents to actually see all of this (and live long enough to tell the tale). 

Good job. Thanks, T7.

Theron = talented slicer // unorthodox; talented

Thanks. I think. I should have what I need now to get you guys the rest of the way. Just need to sort through it. 

Theron = need T7 here? 

No, you guys should stay together. As long as I’ve got a connection to the comm we should be good. 

It was easy to see why Highwind was so fond of the little astromech, willing to stay behind even in a place crawling with Sith that wouldn’t hesitate to hack him in two. Then again, this was the same droid that supposedly had helped take out the Sith Emperor with the Jedi in question. Teeseven might very well have been capable of taking them on.

Theron focused back on the task at hand. There was too much intel to completely sort through at the moment so he diverted the majority of it to a data silo that could be safely mined once completely disconnected from the Republic grid. For now he only needed the facility’s blueprints and way to access the security feeds, even if there was a part of him wanting to rub his hands together greedily at the possibilities of what he now had in hand. Whatever was locked behind the Dark Council’s doors was a far more valuable prize — but just because it wasn’t the motherlode didn’t mean valuable intel still couldn’t be gleaned from what he had just acquired.

There was only so much that the hijacked comm channel could handle though, so once he found what he was looking for, he stopped the upload so he didn’t overload his connection. No need to be greedy, they were already lightyears ahead of where they had been in terms of intel now as opposed to when the day started.

He flung the wireframe projection of the Academy’s layout on the holotable on top of the little dot representing Highwind’s strike team. It filled him with no small amount of glee as Darok’s eyes nearly doubled in size as he got his first look at the layout of the Sith stronghold. It was an unseen deviation in his plan, but as his initial shock faded to grim satisfaction it was apparent that it wasn’t an unwelcome one.

The glitchy visual feed from some of the still functioning security cameras Theron kept limited to the HUD for now. The last thing he needed was Darok breathing down his neck as the strike team tried to navigate what was clearly a crumbled mess. The state of destruction inside of the Academy was quite extensive, as bombings and their aftershocks had done a number on the place. He pivoted around the camera he had hijacked in the foyer, ignoring the way the twisted faces carved into the giant obelisk taking up the center of the room sent a shiver down his spine. Perhaps it wasn’t all bad being stuck on Carrick Station.

Deciding to cut out eavesdroppers, he activated the subvocal portion of his comlink implant. “So, is the Sith’s new decorating scheme courtesy of Darok’s overzealous bombings, or did you get in on the renovations as well?”

On his HUD he saw Highwind’s head head swivel around, taking in the room. Even with the distance of the camera he could see her frown. “You can see us?”

“Part of that ‘little more’ I mentioned earlier.” 

“The voice in your ear is being creepy, Boss.”

He saw Highwind shoot the younger knight a look, but didn’t respond to Kira verbally. “I hope this means you have a map.”

“Of sorts. From what I can see here, the Dark Council chambers are on the upper levels. There’s an elevator on the second floor that you’ll have to take to get there.”

“I am hearing some hesitation in that statement.”

Theron let out a sigh, minding to keep it quieter than he truly felt. Mostly so he didn’t have to involve Darok in this conversation.

“Apparently the access codes for the elevator aren’t stored on the Academy’s main network.”

“Main network?”

“Paranoid Sith. Apparently they’d rather have several closed networks rather than have everything all together. It’s almost like they expected to be invaded.”

“Fancy that,” Highwind remarked dryly.

“Teeseven and I might be able to slice the elevator manually if we work together, but that’s going to take a while.”

“That sounds like a big ‘might’,” she returned. “Is there time for you two to try that?”

Theron glanced at the countdown, pressing his lips together. “We can try, but there’s no guarantee we’ll crack it before your return window closes. Pretty sure that encryption is going to be pretty complicated. Have I mentioned the Sith are paranoid?”

“Is there any other way to get access to that elevator?”

“Are you talking about the elevator to the Dark Council chambers?” Kira piped in. “If it’s anything like it used to be, the high level instructors always had access codes. The Sith don’t change their game plan much if everything is working.”

“It’s worth a try. Theron, can you find them?”

“Hold on,” he muttered, cycling through the various security feeds of the destroyed rooms. 

Almost all of them were empty. Having never stepped foot in the building before, it was hard to say how occupied everything usually was, but it appeared that the younger students and acolytes might have been evacuated. That would probably make his very perplexing knight on the other end of the line somewhat happier. There were still Sith crawling through the hallways, clearly defending something at the far end. That something turned out to be another Sith, whose importance was marked by the fine robes and markings indicating their high status. A quick check on other hallways confirmed a few more individuals.

“Found them.” He frowned at the map, trying to calculate the best path to take the team through. “First one’s down that hall on your right — if you can get past all of their faithful guards first.”

“We will manage.”

That was starting to sound less and less like overconfidence and more a statement of fact. He sat back, monitoring their progress through the map and available security feeds. Her fighting style changed to accommodate the closed quarters, and the acrobatic flips and twirls incorporated the walls and rubble. The finer details of the lightsaber work was lost to the fuzzy, unstable connection, but even with that it still looked more like some frenetic dance.

By the time they had the codes in hand and stood in front of the elevator, it was clear that even the Jedi super endurance was getting a test today if the sheen of sweat he could make out on the security cameras were any indication.

“I don’t really have much on the upper-level defenses,” he said quietly, this time out loud as Darok’s impatience was starting to show again. “You can try to find an access point once you’re up there—but I’ve got a feeling you’re going to face some heavy opposition.”

“Will your modifications to the comm allow you to talk to me up there?”

He glanced at the weak signal stretched to the limits, and the heavy shielding indicated by the blueprint. When the Sith wanted to protect their communications, not even his best slicing tricks could get him in remotely. His experience infiltrating the Orbital Defense Command Center on Ziost proved that.

“It’s unlikely.”

This was the worst part of the op, the one thing that he couldn’t account for. Despite Darok’s planning, Theron’s intel, and his entire bag of slicer tricks, once she stepped through that door it was all out of his hands. He shifted his weight and crossed his arms, trying not to glare at the giant hole in the map that represented the Dark Council chambers. 

“It will be all right,” she said quietly, and it took him a moment to realize she was talking to him. “You have gotten us this far — the Force will take us the rest of the way.”

He almost snorted aloud, but caught himself at the last moment. Whatever beliefs or mental exercises she needed to lean on were fine, especially if that’s what helped her accomplish the mission. It wasn’t his place to comment on that, especially when he needed her to stay focused on the end goal.

“Good luck,” he said instead.

He watched on the security feed as they stepped inside of the elevator until the doors closed and they disappeared from his view completely. He glanced back up at the map on the holotable, where the dot representing the strike team started to move up before suddenly winking out completely as they hit the shielded area.

“They’re in,” he said to Darok, and for once, the colonel was silent.

All that was left now was the waiting — and hoping that the little Jedi lived up to her larger-than-life reputation.

[thelastspeecher]

Recoil - Chapter 3: Collateral Damage

Chapter 1   Chapter 2   Chapter 3   Chapter 4   AO3

Whoops, this went up a little late.  I was busy eating too much food for Thanksgiving and then traveling yesterday; I didn’t get a chance to post it.  But here it is!  And here, I’m beginning to unravel a few of the plot threads I spun up.  Hopefully this chapter answers a few questions and raises a few more.

(Again, this fic was inspired by “1 Step Forward, 20 Years Back” by @infriga)

Collateral damage (noun): damage that is unintended or incidental to the intended outcome

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              The kitchen was filled with a surge of hyperactive energy so strong that Stan could feel his own fingers and toes buzzing from merely being in the room. The source of the energy was Ford, who couldn’t seem to decide what exactly he was doing.  He manically rocketed from the table to the counter to the stove to the fridge.  Stan managed to grab Ford during one of the short sprints.

              “Okay, here’s the deal,” he said firmly.  “You’re at twenty.  I’m gonna need you to dial it back to about three.”  Ford wriggled in his arms.

              “But Fiddleford is-”

              “I get that you’re excited your friend’s coming over, but you’ve gotta calm down.  I swear, I’m gonna trip over you if you keep this up.”

              “But-”

              “The best way to rein in an out of control child ain’t exactly calm discussion,” a voice said.  Ford froze. Fiddleford appeared in the entryway to the kitchen.  “A sit’ation like this is resolved by threatenin’ to withhold the thing the kidlet’s excited ‘bout.”  Fiddleford fixed an analytical gaze on Ford.  “Of course, my experience comes from dealin’ with actual children, not scientists what landed themselves in hot water.”

              “Uh, hey, Fiddlesticks,” Stan said.

              “Fiddleford,” Ford and Fiddleford corrected.

              “Yeah.  That.”

              “Hope ya don’t mind that I let m’self in.  Still had my old key.”

              “Your old-”  Stan frowned. “Did you live here with Ford?”

              “Fer a while, sure,” Fiddleford said vaguely.

              “You guys really need to fill me in on your history,” Stan said.  He looked down at Ford.  ��I’m gonna let you go now, but if you try to tackle Fiddle…ford, I swear, I’ll lock you in your room.”  Ford pouted.  “Don’t make that face at me.  Are you gonna be calm now?”

              “…Yes,” Ford mumbled.

              “Good.”  Stan released Ford, who, after a split second of standing completely still, bolted out of the room.  “Son of a- he better not break anything.”  Stan looked at Fiddleford.  “I think once he runs off some of that energy, he’ll be ready to talk.” Fiddleford merely nodded silently. “Last week, he caught something that put him in bed for days.  I forgot how wild kids get once they bounce back from being sick.”

              “Mm-hmm.”  Fiddleford looked in the direction Ford had rushed off.  “Say, has he been actin’ like a kid a lot?”

              “Uh, depends.  Some days, he seems more like a kid than others.  Like today, he-”  Ford ran into the kitchen again and skidded to a halt in front of Fiddleford, papers in his arms.  Fiddleford looked at Stan meaningfully.

              “We’ll have this conversation later,” he said.  Stan nodded.  Ford looked back and forth between Stan and Fiddleford.

              “What conversation?”

              “Sharing parenting tips,” Stan said, playfully ruffling Ford’s hair. Ford shoved his hands away.

              “Fiddleford told you about his son already?  Did he show you the pictures he keeps in his wallet?” Ford asked. Stan frowned.

              “What?”  He looked at Fiddleford.  “You’ve got a kid.”

              “…Yes,” Fiddleford said quietly.  He cleared his throat.  “Tate’s in California with his mom right now.”

              “Oh.”  Stan looked at Ford again.  “What you got there?”

              “Data!” Ford said cheerfully, holding up the papers in his arms.  “I thought that once we convinced Fiddleford to help, he could go over the data with me and we could work on coming up with a cure.”  Fiddleford raised an eyebrow at him.

              “Well, the first step there is convincin’ me to help.  So we best start with that step, ‘cause I ain’t leanin’ in yer favor quite yet.”  Ford grinned.

              “Right.”  He gestured at the kitchen table.  “Please, Fiddleford, take a seat.  Stanley and I will make our case.”

              Despite – or maybe because of – Fiddleford’s protests that he still might not help, Stan didn’t believe it for a second.  Fiddleford kept watching Ford with a fondness that Stan guessed came from having a son of his own.  Every now and then, Fiddleford’s expression sharpened, like he’d remembered who Ford was, but overall, Fiddleford seemed much softer than he’d been in the library when he’d cursed Ford’s name.

              “So, like I said, Stanley has done a remarkably good job at assisting me in general care, but he lacks the scientific expertise to assist in the discovery of both the cause of my regression and the potential cure,” Ford finished.  Fiddleford sat back in his seat, feigning a thoughtful demeanor that Stan could see right through.

              “I see,” Fiddleford said slowly.  He took a breath.  “Well, I ain’t exactly the kind of person who would turn down such an eloquent request from a child.”  He looked at Stan.  “Though I’d like to hear yer perspective on this, Stanley.”  Stan blinked, surprised.

              “Uh, basically, just what Ford said.  I can reach things for him and take him places, but I can’t do anything in the lab.”

              “Hmm.”  Fiddleford steepled his fingers.  He let out a small sigh.  “I’ll help.” Ford jumped up in his chair.  “I ain’t goin’ near that portal, though. I’ll look over the data you’ve collected, see if there’s somethin’ Stanford missed.”  Ford beamed.

              “Excellent!”  His stomach rumbled.  “…Oh.” Ford looked at Stan.  “Stanley, would you-”

              “I can see about doin’ something for dinner,” Stan said.  “Why don’t you and Fiddlewhatever start going over some of that data of yours while I whip up some spaghetti and meatballs, huh?”  Ford beamed again.  Out of the corner of his eye, Stan could see Fiddleford’s look shift to contemplative.

              “Will do.”  Ford gathered the papers he’d brought into the kitchen.  “Fiddleford, we can talk in the living room.”  He shot a glare at Stan.  “Stanley claims he needs silence to cook well.”

              “I can’t help it.  Gotta be able to focus,” Stan said airily.  Ford rolled his eyes and hopped off his chair.

              “If you say so.  By the way, his name is Fiddleford.  Say it correctly.”  Ford marched into the living room.  Fiddleford glanced at Stan as he followed Ford out.  Their eyes met.  Stan felt a shiver run down his spine at Fiddleford’s expression.  He shook the feeling away and began gathering what he needed for dinner.

              That bag of skin and bones is damn perceptive, isn’t he?  He won’t be as easy to fool as Ford.

----- 

              Most engineers had the reputation of being better with machines than people. Fiddleford considered himself an exception.  Sure, there were days that he felt more comfortable with nuts and bolts and scrap metal, but he’d never been one to struggle to understand people.  Growing up with five siblings and more cousins than you could shake a stick at would do that.  So he knew from the second he walked into the eerily clean house that something odd was going on.

              Luckily, after bein’ in Gravity Falls fer so long, I’m experienced in oddities.  Fiddleford sat silently at the kitchen table while he watched Stan attempt to get Ford into bed.  A process that began with verbal commands, then progressed quickly to Stan physically picking Ford up and taking him somewhere else.  Fiddleford pursed his lips.  Stanford’s never particularly enjoyed sleep, but I haven’t seen his protests be so immature before.  He looked down at the data spread out on the table.  That fits with what I’m seein’ here.  At some point during his visit, it had begun to rain.  The distinct drumming of raindrops soothed his frazzled, frantic mind.  This data tells me what happened, but not how.  How did the portal malfunction in this way?

              “Sorry about that,” Stan said, walking into the kitchen again.  “Ford hates that I make him go to bed at 8:30, but if he doesn’t, he turns into a gremlin the next day.”  Fiddleford waved a hand.

              “That ain’t no problem.  Children need their sleep.  Even if they’re really in their late twenties.”

              “Heh.  Yeah.” Stan sat down across from Fiddleford. “You want something to drink?  Ford had a years’ supply of coffee when I showed up. Or if you want something stronger, I’m pretty sure there’s some liquor around here somewhere.”  Fiddleford shook his head.

              “No need fer drinks.  I’m a bit surprised ya haven’t just tossed the coffee out, though.  Stanford’s addicted to it somethin’ fierce, and it ain’t good fer children.  It’ll stunt their growth.”

              “Well, I tried hiding it at first,” Stan said, “but then he found it and made some while I was out.  For some reason, though, he didn’t have more than a sip.  He said it tasted terrible.”  Stan shrugged.  “I tried some.  It wasn’t the best coffee I’d ever had, but it definitely wasn’t the worst.” Fiddleford nodded, not surprised by this.  Again, it seemed in line with the readouts from the portal that Ford had showed him.

              Immature tastes to match an immature body.

              “I have to say, Stanley, I’m impressed,” Fiddleford said.  He clasped his hands together and tried to ignore how his fingers were far too thin.  Stan eyed him suspiciously.

              “Really?”  Stan’s tone was doubtful, bordering on incredulous.

              Almost like he don’t believe someone would be impressed with him. Fiddleford chewed on that thought for a moment.  That’s somethin’ to pursue later.

              “Yes.  You seem to have taken to this like a fish to water,” Fiddleford replied calmly.  Stan blew out an impatient breath.

              “With what? The weird shit here?”

              “Well, yes, though that wasn’t what I was referrin’ to.”  Fiddleford met Stan’s eyes.  Stan stared determinedly back.  “I was referrin’ to fatherhood.”  He’d expected Stan to either brush off the compliment or soak in it – that was how Ford tended to respond, after all.  Stan did neither.  Fury clouded his eyes.  Stan shot up, the force of his movement tossing the chair he’d been sitting in. It slammed against the wall.

              “Listen, Fiddledork,” Stan snarled.

              “Fiddleford-”

              “Ford’s not my son.  He’s my brother.”

              “I know.  I wasn’t tryin’ to imply otherwise.”

              “Then what the hell were you implying?”

              “It’s just…”  Fiddleford trailed off.  He glanced down at his worn and stained clothes.  “I mentioned my son, Tate.  He’s ten now.”  Fiddleford looked up again.  Stan locked his gaze with Fiddleford’s once more.  “I know from experience how difficult it is to be in charge of a young boy. Sure, the circumstances here are dif’rent.  Stanford’s technically an adult, after all.  But just judgin’ by the few things I saw earlier and the information you’ve given me, I get the feelin’ it’s not quite as dif’rent as one would expect.” Stan reddened.  His gaze immediately dropped to the table.

              “…Fine.”  Stan rubbed his face.  “It- it feels like I’m taking care of a kid more and more.  Ford refuses to take baths, won’t eat vegetables, and fights with me when I try to get him to go to bed.  At first, he did those things without arguing.  He knew that he needed to in order to stay healthy.  Kids can’t run on fumes all the time like Ford had been before I showed up.  And he knew that.”  Stan grabbed his chair, brought it back to the table, and sat down.  “But lately, it’s like he’s forgotten all of that.”

              “He hasn’t forgotten.  He’s just slippin’ into a more childlike mindset.  It’s more difficult fer him to think rationally and logically right now.”

              “Why?” Stan demanded.  “He was fine at first.  What-” Stan’s breath caught in his throat. “Is it my fault that he’s becoming more of a kid?”

              “No!  No, not at all,” Fiddleford said quickly.  “It has to do with the source of his regression.”  Stan straightened.

              “You figured out what caused it, then?  Already?”

              “Yes and no.”  Fiddleford clasped his hands.  “Luckily, Stanford has been runnin’ some tests on himself from day one, usin’ equipment I designed myself.  He wasn’t able to interpret the data, but I could.”  Fiddleford began to shuffle through the papers on the table.  “The output from the portal on the day this whole thing started indicates that the energy you saw hit Ford was from another dimension.”

              “Another dimension?”

              “Another reality,” Fiddleford said.  “Multiverse theory holds that there’s an infinite number of universes, some similar to ours, some drastically different, all of ‘em theoretically accessible if one punches a hole in the fabric of the space-time continuum.” Stan furrowed his brow.

              “That’s what the machine in the basement does?” he asked.  “It rips the fabric of the universe?”

              “Essentially, yes.”  Fiddleford cocked his head.  “Have ya heard of multiverse theory before?”

              “Uh, no, not exactly.”  Stan rubbed the back of his neck.  “I read a lot of comic books when I was a kid, though, and this sounds like some of the stuff that happened in my favorite titles.”  Stan let out a small, dry laugh.  “Of course my brother would be making the stuff from comic books real.” Fiddleford smiled slightly.  “How do you know the lightning I saw was from a different dimension?”

              “The sensors in the basement recognized it as havin’ a dif’rent energy signature than things in this universe.”

              “What do you mean by energy signature?” Stan asked slowly. Fiddleford hummed.

              “How familiar are ya with quarks and wave-particle duality?”

              “…I don’t know what either of those things are.”  Stan looked away.  “I dunno if Ford told you anything about me when you two were nerding out earlier, but I didn’t even graduate high school.  I’m not a genius like Ford.  I’m not smart at all.”

              “I highly doubt that,” Fiddleford said.  Stan snorted.  “There are dif’rent forms that intelligence takes.  Fer example, my pa, he didn’t graduate high school, either.  But he knows how to run a farm and manage a fam’ly. Two things that Stanford, fer all his brains, would have no idea to do.  I have the philosophy that everyone is smart in some way.  It’s just that all ways of bein’ smart don’t get recognized as such.”  Stan was silent.  The sound of rain hitting the roof filled the room.  Fiddleford cleared his throat.  “…Anyways, if yer not familiar with the concepts I mentioned, ya prob’ly won’t get much out of my explanation.”

              “Probably,” Stan mumbled.

              “Just know that the energy what hit Ford wasn’t from this universe.” Stan nodded.  “And right now, Ford isn’t from this universe, either.” Stan’s eyes widened.  He whipped his head back around to stare at Fiddleford.

              “What?!” he yelped.  Fiddleford held up his hands.

              “Maybe I should’ve phrased that more delicately.  The lil boy sleepin’ right now is still the Stanford we both know.” Stan relaxed.  “But at the same time, he’s not.”  Stan pinched the bridge of his nose.

              “I’m not in the mood for riddles,” Stan said, exasperated.

              “Okay.”  Fiddleford took a breath.  “He’s currently givin’ off the same energy signature as the electricity ya saw. Every part of him is.  I’ll see ‘bout runnin’ some tests tomorrow to confirm this, but it seems to me like every cell was rewritten to match the Stanford of the dimension that energy came from.”  Fiddleford drummed his fingers on the table.  “That would account fer the behavioral and mental changes both you and Stanford have told me about.”

              “How?”

              “He’s essentially a child again.  Just with the memories of bein’ an adult.  A lot of skills can only be developed once yer brain finishes properly developin’.  An eight-year-old don’t have a well-developed brain, so Stanford doesn’t have access to those skills he used to know.  Skills like logical reasoning or emotional regulation.”

              “That might explain why he’s been acting like a kid, but why has it been getting worse?” Stan asked.

              “I don’t have a definitive answer, but I think it’s ‘cause he’s beginning to adjust.  Initially, I’m assumin’ he struggled against his new body’s limits, and that new body also fought against him a bit, too.  But as he’s gotten used to this, his mind is adjusting to fit his body.” Fiddleford shrugged.  “That’s my theory, of course.  Could be completely wrong.  I ain’t a psychologist or a biologist by any means.”

              “Does that mean the longer it takes to fix Ford, the more difficult it’ll be?” Stan asked hoarsely.  “The longer he stays a kid, the less likely he’ll be able to act like an adult when he’s back to normal?”

              “I doubt it.  Once we figure out a way to turn Ford back into the Ford from this reality, his mind should follow suit.  The mind is more malleable than ya think.”  Fiddleford pursed his lips.  “The bad news here, though, is that I don’t have the foggiest idea of how to fix this. My, uh, my mind ain’t quite what it used to be.”

              “Why?” Stan asked.  Fiddleford tensed.  “Does it have to do with why you and Ford are on the rocks?”

              “I’d rather not get into it,” Fiddleford mumbled.  “It ain’t relevant to this.”

              “You just said that it’ll make it difficult for you to fix Ford.  Sounds relevant to me.”

              “I can handle it.  Especially with Ford to help here and there.”  Fiddleford eyed Stan.  “While we’re alone, I have to ask ya somethin’.”

              “Shoot.”

              “Stanford never told me he had a twin brother.  Why’s that?”

              “I-”  Stan tensed, just like Fiddleford had moments ago.  “It’s a long story.  And one I’m not gonna tell if you don’t tell me about your history with Ford.”  He smirked slightly, like he’d won some sort of argument.

              “Fair,” Fiddleford said.  Stan seemed a bit disappointed that Fiddleford hadn’t fought back further. He cleared his throat.

              “We know how Ford got turned into a kid.  But why?  Why did the portal do this to him?”

              “Honestly?”  Fiddleford looked out the window.  He could see a few gnomes scampering at the edge of the woods, despite the rain.  “I have no idea.”

----- 

              Over breakfast, Fiddleford told Ford what he had discovered.  Ford pushed his plate of toast away angrily.

              “Hey, it took me forever to figure out how to turn the toaster off of the ‘possessed’ setting,” Stan protested.  Ford glared at him.

              “You spoke about important matters while I was sleeping.  Sleeping, might I remind you, because of your inane rules that I currently lack the physical capability to circumvent,” Ford spat. Stan picked up one of Ford’s slices of toast and took a bite.

              “Now I get why you’re not hungry.  You ate a dictionary for breakfast.”

              “I-”  Ford crossed his arms.  He turned to Fiddleford.  “F, are you sure of your conclusions?”

              “‘Bout as sure as I can be,” Fiddleford said gently.  He’d left the previous night after talking to Stan and returned in the morning.  Stan assumed he had gone to his own home, but wasn’t completely sure, since Fiddleford was dressed in the same rumpled clothes as the day before.  Despite that, he had clearly showered or bathed, judging by his damp hair, something Stan was relieved by.

              I had to literally drop Ford fully clothed in the tub two days ago. Stan took another bite of the toast he’d made for Ford.  He doesn’t need to get any ideas about not bathing.  For what seemed like the millionth time, Stan felt the irony of the current situation beating at him.  Of all the people in the world, I’m the last one who should be telling someone else to shower or eat or sleep.

              “Effectively, the portal used the Stanford Pines of this alternate reality as a blueprint,” Ford said slowly.  Stan shook away his thoughts and focused on what Ford was saying.  “And for materials, used me.”

              “Yessir.”

              “It also used that blueprint to remake my clothes, using what I was wearing at the moment,” Ford said with a small sigh.  He rubbed the fabric of his pants – the same pair the portal had created weeks ago – absentmindedly.  “I have to admit, I’m rather relieved by that.  Dealing with being a child again is bad enough.  It would have been even worse if I had been left without clothes that fit me properly.”

              “Or without your glasses,” Stan said.  Ford grimaced.

              “Yes, it would be remarkably difficult to find the appropriate eyewear for me, had the portal not provided it.  I dare say that even you would have difficulty stealing glasses with my prescription without knowing what the proper prescription was.”

              “Hmm.”  Stan frowned thoughtfully.  “I’ll have to think about that one.”  Fiddleford raised his eyebrows.

              “I certainly hope yer not plannin’ a heist, Stanley.  After all, Stanford’s perfectly fine with the glasses he’s got now.”

              “Yeah, yeah,” Stan said dismissively, still trying to work out how he would handle stealing glasses for Ford.  Fiddleford sighed.  He looked at Ford.

              “Do ya have any questions fer me?” Fiddleford asked.  Ford shook his head.

              “I understand everything you’ve told me.  I- I’m still struggling to understand how you interpreted the data, but I don’t need to in order to understand the results.”  Ford slouched forward in his seat, resting his arms on the table.  “I’m not looking forward to the gradual loss of my adult behaviors and skills that this seems to entail.  I wonder if I’ll even notice when it begins.”  Stan silently raised an eyebrow at Ford.  Ford’s eyes widened.  “Has- has it already started?”

              “Yep,” Stan said.  Ford swallowed.

              “How do you know?” he asked, his voice small.

              “Remember two days ago?  When you wouldn’t take a bath?” Stan asked.  Ford’s eyes widened further.  “Or last night when you refused to eat a single vegetable?”

              “The- the taste is-” Ford started.  “And- and bathing isn’t- current research suggests washing your skin every day is harmful to-”

              “Yeah, that was your third day in a row without taking a bath or a shower,” Stan said.  “And you know that eating vegetables is important when you’re a kid.  Even if it tastes bad, it’s good for you.”

              “I- yes, I know that, I just-”  Ford fell silent.  His head fell to the table.  “My immature urges are getting the better of my logical mind,” he said, his voice slightly muffled.  Fiddleford gently rested a hand on Ford’s back.  Ford’s head shot up.  “Son of a bitch, that’s why I thought the coffee tasted horrible!” he gasped.

              “Language,” Fiddleford said immediately.  Ford glared at him.  “That was on instinct, okay?  I didn’t think ‘fore I said it.”  Fiddleford removed his hand from Ford’s back.  “But it wouldn’t hurt ya none to clean yer vocabulary up a bit,” he muttered. Ford let out a loud groan.  His head hit the table again.

              “Even if I purchased coffee from a high-end establishment, I wouldn’t like it. Children have a higher sensitivity to bitterness than adults.”  His words turned into a whine near the end of the sentence.  “And I like coffee!”  Stan rolled his eyes and began to gather the plates from breakfast. Fiddleford got up to help.  They met at the sink.

              “Is he goin’ to be all right?” Fiddleford whispered to Stan.  Stan glanced back at Ford, who hadn’t moved.

              “Probably.  Why? Do you think he’s not?”

              “I mean…”  Fiddleford chewed on his lip.  “He seems genuinely distraught.”

              “He’s just being a drama queen,” Stan insisted.  “Kids do that.  He’s not even crying.  If he was crying, I’d be concerned.  But he’s not.”

              “He might be forcin’ himself not to, to prove he’s mature,” Fiddleford pointed out.  “I’ve seen my son do that ‘fore.”  Stan rested his hands on the counter, thinking about what Fiddleford had said. “He’s been given some rather distressin’ news.  Not only will he continue to act more childlike, but the process started without his knowledge.”

              “That’s a fair point,” Stan mumbled.  He sighed.  “Fine. You’re the one who’s actually a dad. You know kids.  If you say he’s upset, I- I-”  Stan grimaced.  His mouth was coated in a sour film, his stomach churning, like when he’d drunk spoiled milk on a dare in high school.  “I’ll trust you.”

              “Thank you, Stanley.”  Fiddleford’s soft, gentle tone took Stan by surprise.  He resisted the urge to look at Fiddleford.  “I ‘ppreciate it.”

              “…Whatever.”  Stan took a breath.  “So, kid expert, what should we do to cheer Ford up?  I don’t want him to be upset for ages.”  Stan thought back to Ford’s sensitivity to stress when they were children, which he grew out of by the time they were teenagers.  “He’ll get a stomachache.”

              “Well…”  Fiddleford pursed his lips.  “If it were Tate, I’d take him to the park.  Tate likes nature.  He’s a Boy Scout, actually.”

              “Good for Tate,” Stan said under his breath.  He ignored Fiddleford’s frown.  “Ford likes going in the woods and seeing the spooky weird shit in there. Maybe we take him on a hike?”

              “It ain’t safe fer a child to go in the woods ‘round here,” Fiddleford hissed.

              “Yeah, which is why I haven’t let him go look for fairies or whatever,” Stan shot back.  “But if we’re there with him-”

              “I ain’t exactly bodyguard material.”

              “Good thing I am.”  Stan flashed a cocky grin at Fiddleford.  “Don’t act like you haven’t noticed my arms yet.”  To his disappointment, Stan had lost some of the fitness he’d had in high school, when he was boxing almost every day.  But one thing he’d been determined to maintain was his right hook, so when other forms of exercise had fallen to the wayside, Stan still found time to go a few rounds with whatever he could use as a punching bag.

              Fiddleford rolled his eyes.

              “And like I said, I haven’t let him go in the woods.  Honestly, that’s the thing that would cheer him up the most.” After a moment, Fiddleford nodded. Stan turned around to face Ford. “Hey, Sixer.”

              “What?” Ford asked, lifting his head.  Stan felt a slight twinge in his chest.  Like Fiddleford had said, Ford was evidently more upset than he was attempting to let on.  Unshed tears shone in his eyes.

              “Wanna go for a hike in the forest?” Stan asked.  Ford looked down at the table.

              “You’re trying to placate me,” he mumbled.

              “Well, I was plannin’ on bringin’ some equipment, tryin’ to see if anything gave off energy similar to the kind you are,” Fiddleford said.  He inspected his raggedy nails idly.  “Thought that it might be nice to look fer a natural cure, since I ain’t settin’ foot near that portal any time soon.  But if ya don’t want to come with ‘cause yer sure we’re only doin’ this fer you…”

              “No, I want to come!” Ford blurted out.  Fiddleford shot Stan a sly grin.  Stan raised an eyebrow silently in response.

              He really does know kids well.  Another reason he’ll be good to have around.

----- 

      ��       Ford might have been eight, but he wasn’t an idiot.  He knew that Stan and Fiddleford were talking about him when they stood at the sink for an awkwardly long time.  And he knew that Fiddleford’s reasoning behind the hike was thin at best.  But as he tromped eagerly through the forest, hot on Stan’s heels, he was willing to let it slide.

              Few things agitated him as much as being confined unwillingly.  Yes, on his own, he’d been known to hole up “like a mouse”, as his mother used to say.  Those instances, however, were of his own volition.  He’d wanted to hide away for hours on end.

              Stanley forcing me to stay cooped up with him in the house is almost as bad as being a child again.  Being outside is wonderful.  The fresh, cold air being brought into his lungs was revitalizing.  Every step landed on the snow-scattered ground with a satisfying crunch.  Ford beamed at the sound.

              “So, uh, how long do you guys usually go on research hikes or whatever?” Stan asked.  Ford shrugged.

              “For however long until we make a discovery.”

              “Great,” Stan muttered.  Fiddleford cleared his throat.  “I mean, um…that’s…neat.”  Ford looked up at Stan.  Stan’s face was contorted in a wince at his own subpar phrasing.  Ford let out a small giggle, amused.  Stan looked back at him and smiled before returning his attention to the trees.  “Ford, can you identify any of these trees?” Stan asked in a light tone.

              “Some of them, yes.  The deciduous trees, however, are more difficult to identify, as they’ve lost their leaves.”

              “If you were a botanist, you’d know,” Stan said.  Ford punched his leg playfully.  Stan’s grin widened.  A faint beeping sounded in the mostly still forest.  Stan came to a stop.  “What the hell is that?  It sounds like a bomb.”

              “It’s not,” Fiddleford said.  Ford and Stan turned around to see Fiddleford take something out of his pocket. Fiddleford looked down at the object, bemused.  It resembled a brick made of some kind of dark blue metal, with a few lightbulbs attached to one end.  The largest lightbulb was flashing a green light.

              “You didn’t answer my question,” Stan said, crossing his arms.  Fiddleford tapped the brick a few times.  The lightbulb flickered but remained lit.

              “This is the equipment I was referrin’ to,” Fiddleford replied.  “It can detect energy abnormalities due to interdimensional interference.”

              “And in English, that means?”

              “It can locate pockets of energy leaking from other dimensions,” Ford said eagerly.  Fiddleford nodded.  “I knew that the oddities of Gravity Falls were due to interdimensional leakage, but I never brought a device into the forest to measure it.”  Ford hit himself in the forehead.  “Why did I never do that?”

              “You, uh, you built that pretty fast,” Stan said.  Fiddleford shook his head.

              “I built this ‘fore Stanford and I…parted ways.  All’s I had to do to adjust it fer this trip was to install an interference shield to keep it from pickin’ up on Stanford’s current energy signature.”

              “Okay.  What do we do with this, then?” Stan asked.

              “Locate whatever is being registered, of course!” Ford said, exasperated. He grabbed the device out of Fiddleford’s hands and rushed off into the forest.

              “Ford!” Stan shouted after him.  Ford ignored him, instead watching intently as the green light grew brighter and the beeping louder.  He could hear Stan and Fiddleford crashing through the undergrowth after him but didn’t care. After what felt like ages but was probably just a few seconds, he arrived in a clearing.  In the middle of the clearing was a single plant, green despite the surrounding snow and glowing faintly.  Ford came to a stop.

              “Stanford, ya can’t run off like that,” Fiddleford said as he and Stan caught up.  “This forest ain’t safe!  You know that better than anyone.”  Fiddleford caught sight of the plant in the clearing.  His eyes widened.  “That’s an odd lil plant.”

              “Yeah, it’s glowing and not dead, even though it’s winter,” Stan said shortly. He put a hand on Ford’s shoulder. “Ford, give Fiddleford back the thing, we’re gonna head back home.”

              “Not without gathering that plant,” Ford said firmly.  

              “Hell, no.  I don’t trust it.”

              “It should be fine,” Fiddleford said reluctantly.

              “It’s glowing.”

              “A lot of things glow,” Fiddleford said.  “As plants in Gravity Falls go, this one seems harmless.” Ignoring the bickering, Ford handed the device to Fiddleford, shook Stan’s hand off his shoulder, and strode forward determinedly.

              “Stanford,” Fiddleford sighed.  Stan also let out a long sigh.

              “Fine, you can get the plant, then we’re heading back.”  As Ford approached the odd plant, he could faintly hear Stan and Fiddleford talking.  “So what’s the deal with this plant?”

              “If I can observe something that has a lot of dimensional energy in it, particularly interdimensional energy, I’ll learn more ‘bout how it affects living things and can try to reverse-engineer a cure.”

              “How?”

              “I haven’t figured that part out yet,” Fiddleford said quietly.  Ford carefully plucked the plant from the snowy ground.  “Stanford?”

              “It smells amazing,” Ford whispered.

              “Sometimes plants do that,” Stan said.  “C’mon, we gotta go back.”  Ford plucked a single leaf from the plant.  He brought the leaf to his nose and inhaled deeply.

              “It smells like cinnamon donuts,” Ford whispered.  Crunching sounded behind him.  Stan crouched by his side.

              “That’s nice, but we’re gonna go now,” Stan said firmly.  Ford looked up at Stan.  “What?”

              “It smells exactly like the donuts we used to have on snow days,” Ford said, his voice still soft.  “When Mom would take us to the kosher bakery down the block and we had our pick of the first batch they made.”  Stan’s eyes softened.

              “I remember that.  Okay, lemme smell.”  Ford held out the leaf.  Stan took a cautious whiff, then recoiled.  “Ugh, that doesn’t smell good at all.  Your nose must be screwed up from the cold or somethin’.”  Ford shook his head.  Holding this plant, he felt calm, but at the same time, a slight fizzing sensation spread across his skin.  He looked down at the leaf again and brought it up to his mouth, unsure of why he was doing it, just knowing that it was the right thing to do. Stan’s expression broke into panic. “Ford, don’t eat that!”

              “It smells good,” Ford said.  Stan attempted to take the leaf from him, but before he could, Ford popped it into his mouth. It tasted just as good as it smelled. Ford was transported back to the first time his mother had taken him and his brothers to the bakery, when he was too small to have formed any coherent memories.  He only remembered warmth, safety, and the sweet taste of cinnamon. Ford swallowed.

              “Stanford, you little shit, you don’t just eat random plants you find in the woods!” Stan scolded, shaking him.  “Especially if they’re glowing!”  Ford merely smiled at Stan, feeling content for the first time in weeks.

              There was a flash of light.  The fizzing sensation now permeated through his body.  The last thing he heard before darkness overtook him was more crunching of the snow, a sucked in gasp, and a southern voice.

              “Oh, Lord above, we’re in big trouble now.”  

[aliceslantern]

Beyond this Existence: New Life, short 15--Smoke

Recovery is a tedious, nonlinear process. Demyx, Ienzo, and the others living in Radiant Garden's castle have to learn to come to terms with their pasts and their memories, learn to grow, and begin to understand what, exactly, it means to be human. While there is unexpected joy in this, there is also unexpected sorrow. A series of oneshots set after Beyond this Existence.

Current short: “Smoke.”  One of Aerith's tests leaves Demyx with an unanticipated award.

Read it on FF.net/on AO3

--

Demyx was tired of looking at leaves. His eyes burned, and there was a crick in his neck from being bent over the countertop for most of the morning. He was pretty sure he was going to permanently smell like anise seed. He stuffed the pills he'd made into their pouches and wiped his hands on a damp rag.

Aerith offered him a glass of lemonade. “I’m surprised you haven’t complained.”

He took it. The tart sweetness almost, but not quite, masked the taste of the herbs he’d been breathing. “My strategy now is to try and ignore it.”

“I was hoping you would.”

“Ignore it? Or complain?” He sat gingerly on the stool and felt his feet throb.

She appraised his handiwork. “A lot of our work has to do with endurance. I gave you too much to do, in a manner that was intentionally confusing, on purpose.”

He held back the urge to groan. “So this was a test?”

She smiled. Aerith had a mischievous side, one he was still getting used to. She sorted through the pills and packets he’d made. Anxiety only made the ache in his feet worse. After a long, long moment, she said, “Not bad.”

““Not bad” can also mean “not good.””

She brought her eyes to his. “You made no awful mistakes. The medicine would do its job. It’s the finer points that you seem to have trouble with. Like this migraine powder. There’s no oil or anything to mask the flavor. It’d work--but it’d taste very bitter, which is the last thing a person in that much pain wants.”

Demyx exhaled. “Right. That makes sense.”

She squeezed his shoulder. “It’s only been a few months. You’re bound to make some mistakes. This will all be second nature at some point.”

He stood and flinched when he took back his weight. He really needed to invest in some better shoes. “I want to be good at it now .” The only thing that had ever come effortlessly to him was music, and even that was hard won these days. He started to put away the excess herbs in her apothecary chest. Aerith’s handwriting was notoriously bad; reading the labels felt like something of a test too.

She touched his shoulder. “And I’m happy you’re so passionate. But don’t rush the process.”

He nodded and made himself smile. “Right.” He was just about to shutter the cabinet when one of the smaller drawers in the corner caught his eye. It wasn’t--no. He pulled it open and saw the buds neatly wrapped in cheesecloth, probably to cover the smell.

He didn’t need training to be a healer to recognize this plant.

“Is there a particular reason you just have a drawer full of weed?”

She raised an eyebrow. “It can be used as medicine, you know.”

“Yeah, I… know.” He shut the drawer.

“Did you want to take some? I don’t mind.”

“I don’t need it.”

“But do you want it?”

Demyx didn’t know how to read her sometimes. “I… don’t know.”

“So take it. Smoke it or not, I don’t care. Just give me a heads-up if you want the night off.”

“...Sure.” He held the drug, feeling like he was doing something wrong even though he’d easily carried far more potent painkillers. Embarrassed, he tucked it into his pocket. “Thanks. I think.”

She smirked. “We all need to cut loose every now and again.”

---

Demyx made dinner that night for Ienzo. His own cooking was never inspired, and it all seemed to come out bland no matter what he did to it. Ienzo’s food tasted better, but it wasn’t necessarily fair to always make him cook, especially now that they lived together.

He thought a lot about fairness, these days. He guessed it had something to do with getting continually trod on his whole life.

Before he could spiral along that path, he heard the door open. “Hey. How was your day?”

Ienzo set aside his glasses and phone before giving him a kiss. “Productive. I started my first draft.”

“Can I see it?”

“It’s not nearly ready.”

They took their meal at the small oak table. “You’ve got a funny look on your face,” Ienzo said. “Something happen today?”

“No, not really.” He stirred his rice aimlessly. It was a bit undercooked. His rice always came out that way, or else it was mush. He blamed the front stove burner; it was a bit too hot. “Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“Have you ever done drugs?”

This seemed to amuse him, more than anything. “Why is it you ask?”

“It just hit me that I kind of have easy access to them.”

“Well, most of the substances you work with aren’t exactly for recreational purposes.”

“Mm. True. Except Aerith kind of gave me a bag of weed?”

His eyebrows shot up. “Really?”

“Yeah. Really.” Demyx took it out of his pocket and put it on the table. Ienzo poked it with the tip of his fork.

“I suppose she must use it as a painkiller,” he said.

“You can look at it, if you want.”

“I’m… fascinated, despite myself.” He cleared his throat. “I suppose that answers your question. What about you?”

“Huh?”

“Have you… indulged in such things?”

Demyx rubbed at the back of his neck. “A few times,” he admitted. “It was usually offered whenever Luxord had one of his poker nights.”

“I do wonder what happened to him. I hope he’s well.”

“He was fun to be around.” Demyx sighed. “If his Nobody was killed, he’s whole now.”

“I hope he’s as happy as we are.”

A moment passed. They contemplated the bag on the table.

“Should we do something with it?” Ienzo asked.

“Like smoke it? Would you want to?”

“I’m… curious. That is if you want to.”

“I think it would be fun to get high with you.”

“Exactly. Fun.” There was something analytical in his gaze, though.

“I just have to let Aerith know I’ll be out of commission. Then we can do whatever.” He felt a blush heat his face as he texted her. Though how was this worse than drinking? Not that he did that often anymore, either. All she sent in response was a thumbs-up emoji. With slightly trembling fingers he took the fragile papers out of the bag and tried to roll a joint. He’d never done this, only seen it done. Ienzo watched with interest. Demyx half expected him to start taking notes. “Let’s go over to the couch.”

Ienzo handed him the box of matches they usually used for candles. They sat, knee to knee, as if about to commit a crime.

“I’ll start it.” It took two tries to get it lit, and he coughed. Already he could tell this stuff was stronger than whatever sketchy stuff Luxord or Xigbar had purloined. He handed it off to Ienzo.

“How do I--”

“Just breathe, but not too deeply. And hold it for a few seconds.”

Ienzo did so. Demyx had to admit that seeing him do it was funny. He coughed as well.

For a few minutes they passed it back and forth, not saying much. Already his head was feeling light, watery.

“I’m not sure I feel anything,” Ienzo admitted. “Am I supposed to?”

“You might not.”

“It tastes… interesting.” He tapped some ash into an empty glass. “How odd, the things people will do for fun .”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“I’ve seen some interesting things. On missions and whatnot. But then there’s always this veil of impersonal...ness.” He trailed off, and touched a hand to his brow.

“You alright?”

“It stopped.”

“What?” A little wave of fear broke over him.

“The anxiety. It stopped.”

He breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s part of it too.”

Ienzo leaned back heavily. “How strange . I feel so…” He stumbled over his words. “Things feel more the same than I thought. Just slightly… bigger.”

Demyx laughed. “You’re stoned.”

“Am I?”

“I think.” He took the last drag off the joint and ground it out. He felt warm, sleepy.

"The silence is just so lovely," Ienzo said. "My head is always so full of noise--you have no idea. Everything is always too much."

"I can help you, you know. I can give you medicine which will help. Er. Well, like, actual medicine, not this."

He lay on his back and rested his head in Demyx's lap. "I'm afraid."

"Of what?"

"Afraid who I'd be without it?" His eyes were glassy. Demyx brushed the hair from Ienzo's face and looked at both his eyes. "It's the most constant thing in my life. From the past, I mean."

"I don't want it to eat at you, though."

"No." Ienzo took Demyx's hand and began to toy with it, feeling at his fingers absently. It was hard to tell how much of this was weed or how much of this was true blue Ienzo, without the weight of fear or inhibitions. "I will consider it. Truthfully. This is the happiest I've ever been. It may just be my nature."

"Could be."

Demyx stroked his hair. It was so soft. He couldn't believe how soft it was. "God, I'm high," he mumbled.

Ienzo snorted. "You're not so above it all."

"Do I normally seem that way?"

"I can feel you detach yourself sometimes. That you take care of me sometimes instead of yourself."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

Demyx looked at him for a long time. "I feel like I'm pretending to be the person I want to be. I want to be better than I was. But it's hard. I get mad. I get frustrated and upset. Slipping into old habits would be so easy." Ienzo shut his eyes.

"I am listening. That feels very good."

"You're like a cat. Independent. Curious. Stubborn."

"Hard to win over. Hard to get rid of."

"I don't ever want to get rid of you."

He smiled. "How sweet."

"I can be very sweet. When I want to be."

Ienzo touched his cheek. "It is in your nature."

“I’m not so sure about that.”

“Well, I am.” He opened his eyes. “We’ve changed so much. And we’ll probably keep changing.”

“I know.”

“It feels… strange.”

Ienzo’s expression was sharp and serious, but Demyx couldn’t contain the bubble of laughter that caught in his throat.

“What’s so funny?” he asked.

“It’s not funny ,” Demyx said, and it was true; the laughter was divorced from his actual emotions. “As it is terrifying .”

“We’ve nothing to be afraid of.”

“It’s hard to get myself to believe that.” His eyes were watering. “Sometimes I swear I’m going to wake up and this will all be gone.” He was verbalizing thoughts he hadn’t been aware of.

“I know. I feel the same. But that is simply… simply not the case.” Ienzo sat up and tried to fix his hair. “I wish I could prove it to you.”

“...Zexion would never have been this nice to me.”

He smiled. “Demyx would never listen so emphatically.” Ienzo kissed him. “Our lives have been full of odd coincidences, but I’m glad you were one.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

“To even calculate the odds of us existing at the same time--much less falling for one another--it must be one in a trillion.”

Demyx groaned. “I do not want to think about math right now.”

“I second that notion… I feel a tad dizzy.”

“Lay back down. It’ll pass.”

He did, pressing his face into one of the couch cushions. “This sensation is so curious,” he mumbled. “I should like to… examine it in more detail.”

Demyx laughed. “I can do that.”