#versus thirteen

[s-acrificium]

verses! Dion

“An oracle of a different kind. I’m the right hand of Bahamut, and he uses his vessel as he sees fit…”

no matter how much it revults me…

Dion Lesage, son of a prominent man who utilizes connections to many high ranking families. Sylvestre Lesage is descended from those who worshipped Bahamut, just as the Lucis Caelum family worshipped Etro. Power to glimpse the future, skill in war and conquest, might and dominion is what the Lesage family craved and Bahamut gave it to them. However, after the war of the eikons and the others turning their backs on Bahamut (not wanting to deal with his shit). In the Lesage line, they got afflicted with scorge and the people were turning left and right. Crying out for help, the dragon told them he needed a vessel. Those Chosen of Bahamut, could take on his power and given an ability similar to the oracle. Absorbing the scorge into their body…through intimate touch.

Dion is the latest chosen, and he is used as a grand soldier in protecting Sanbreque or being used by the nations his own have friendly ties with. He has known since his powers awakened that he was nothing but his father’s tool. Nothing but a weapon to be used. A container for the scorge that people made him take as some ritual. he stopped fighting it years ago. The sickness and pain is unimaginable by those not given this power…everyday he feels himself waning. Everyday he wishes for escape.

He wishes Etro would just take him.

He is Dion Lesage. And he has become ruthless in battle, and distant in heart, for no one wants him for the man he is. All they see is bahamut’s weapon. The body who they touch and takes the scorge from them. He is ….no one.

[july-19th-club]

seven or eight times now ive watched the episodes in which they take the andromache and this is the first time ive realized that during the initial battle, after they board, every time the camera is from dufresne's perspective it's blurrier than otherwise because. he took his glasses off for the fight

[figofswords]

the post grad why did i get an art degree what am i even doing what do i want in life where am i going crisis has finally hit i want to. lie down in the dirt. or something

[mockerycrow]

Emergency Contact (1/2) (Ghost x GN!Reader)

>> emergency contact concept here << PART TWO HERE!!

Summary: Simon is your roommate, and you haven’t seen each other in months, considering Simon’s job. An unfamiliar number pops up on Simon’s phone, and answering it makes his world turn upside down.

A/N: How you two moved in together is very vaguely inspired this ghost fic right here. please give it a read! If you finish the song above, I highly recommend listening to the entire album while reading. i’m not the happiest with this, but i’m happy enough to post!

[WARNINGS: Blood and injury, traumatic events/trauma brought up, gore, little comfort, medical inaccuracies, tbh ooc simon but it’s ok.]

Eight months, thirteen days, and nine hours. That’s how long it’s been since he’s been home, since he’s seen you. That’s how long he’s been stuck on base, or thrown into a foreign country to complete some mission, or to gather some intel, or to kill someone, just somewhere, anywhere but with you.

Eight months, thirteen days, and nine hours. That’s how long it’s been since you softly asked him to stay as safe as he can, and to come back alive, and to come back with at least eight fingers. It was a running joke between you two, a way to relieve the terrifying reality of his job; as long as Simon came home alive and with majority of his fingers, he could consider it a job well done. You didn’t know much of his job, of course—only that he’s military, and he’s gone a lot. You already guessed it was a lot of classified stuff, probably down top secret government type of things. That did make you scared, though. You didn’t want the day to come, the day where people in fancy uniforms show up at your doorstep like you’re some widow. The thought of someone informing you of Simon’s death makes your stomach twist.

Eight months is admittedly a long time. Simon.. he missed you, but he’s rather die that verbally admit it, but he sure as hell felt it. He missed the way he could hear you walk through the house, the weight of the floorboards creaking up your feet. Simon missed walking by the bathroom and the air vaguely smelled your shampoo and body wash, a clear indicator you had just taken a shower. Simon missed the way you carelessly have your shoes next to the shoe rack, not even on it, and despite his annoyance of your laziness? He misses it every single time he’s away. He never really realizes the difference of living on base versus being home with you, and he’s comfortable in both environments for completely different reasons. Simon is comfortable with you because you’re safe, you aren’t associated with anyone he has to deal with on a near daily basis. You don’t scan the kitchen to see which household items could be potential bombs in the vicinity like he does. On base, Simon finds comfort in the familiarity of being constantly on alert, the need for a gun to be against his hip—it’s not the best, considering he’s in fight mode majority of the time, but it’s comforting. It’s familiar. It’s.. home, in a way.

You and Simon call at least once every three weeks—it’s not more because you’re both busy, you have your life to tend to while he has to do something like protecting an American Embassy, or sneaking into a compound to retrieve some vital information. You two talk about all kinds of things; you complain about the neighbors for the nth time, or you talk about your job, just something that he hasn’t heard about in a while. Simon.. he’s limited on what he can talk about—what he wants to talk about. It’s a bit difficult, keeping details of his job hidden away from you. He also keeps you hidden away from them; his team. Price vaguely is aware of your existence, but all he knows is your name and your phone number—someone to alert when he eventually would pass away.

It surprised Price when he requested access to his own file to make a change. Simon went for years without anyone in that section, leaving it blank—and then suddenly ‘[Name] [Last Name]’ is written down, along with your phone number. Simon doesn’t want to die somewhere and then you sit at home, dreading the fact that you haven’t received a call from him for over six months. Other than that, no one is aware of your existence and he wants to keep it that way. It keeps you safe, and he doesn’t want the one thing he has going in his life to be taken away from him—not like everything else has been.

No, you and Simon aren’t together. You just are the one constant he cannot allow to die. How you and Simon became close was rather funny, really—before you were roommates, you bumped into each other at the local stores, the bank, even several public spaces like parks and such. You didn’t see him too often and you weren’t aware on why, but you didn’t really wonder why either. By this point, you knew each other for a couple of months. He introduced himself as SR—not Ghost or Simon, but as SR. You didn’t bother to question it because this tall, bulky man seemed like he was trying keep himself as anonymous as possible. Without fail, you always saw him wear dark colored clothing that hid any identifiable markings—tattoos and scars, that kind of thing. He usually has his hood up with a black face mask covering his nose down, but you do know one thing—he has to have bright blonde hair. Why else would his beautiful eyelashes and eyebrows be that bright? It would catch your eye every time you’d see them. Sometimes you would see him with a beanie on and the mask, with his hood down. This wasn’t too often, as it exposed some scarring he has on the back of his neck, as well as his forehead. This also silently lead you to believe he has a tough past of some sort, which is confirmed when you run into him somewhere you never expected to—your therapist’s building. You bumped into him right outside, and you apologized profusely before looking and going silent as you made eye contact.

A silent agreement was made between you two that day, one that you could never put into words. Something in that moment that dragged you two closer together. You had been through some shit in your life, shit that had permanent effect on you, shit that you wanted to work through. It was horribly tiring, but you knew you needed to work through it—so you could live a life you felt was worth living. Simon, was on the other side of the spectrum. He didn’t want this. He never wanted to tell anyone about anything, but Price, Price fucking made him. Simon spends his days and nights plagued with nightmares and memories—he’s woken up in the middle of the night enough times to know that he needs help, but he was so adamant about not talking to anyone about it. But seeing you there? Someone who he hasn’t known for long, someone who had always greeted him with a smile on your face, laughter spilling from your beautiful vocal cords, and someone who doesn’t touch him without permission? It made him so angry and hopeless about this world. Not even you, a stranger who he sees as the best human being he’s known in a while—despite not knowing you for long—could escape from the cruel and sharp jaws of the world. You found out you two accidentally scheduled the same days, so it became an unspoken agreement to wait for the other outside of the building so you can both go in. Even when you weren’t sure when his next appointment would be, you’d be right outside of that building, waiting for him. You would always be right there, and that’s something he quickly learned.

You lost your house to a fire, everything went with the burning embers that raged inside of the 4 walls of your previous home, the structure collapsing in on itself. You had gotten out in time, and you numbly watched the fire roar, the crackling burning it’s memory in your ears. The piercing sound of different sirens were approaching, but all you could do is stand there with your phone in your hand, watching the home you worked so hard for burn to the foundation built years ago. You felt a hand on your shoulder, but you didn’t bother to turn to see who it was. Everything was going so slow, almost like a movie scene in the worst way possible. Your nostrils burned from the smell of burning wood, drywall, and installation. The hand squeezed your shoulder and you slowly looked at who it was—and was him. Simon. His eyebrows were furrowed, eyes ever so slightly panicked and it was obvious he was asking you something, but you didn’t hear him. All you could focus on was that he was here. You blinked rapidly as your eyes began to burn from the smoke and from that choked feeling going from your chest to your throat. “I..” You croak ever so slightly. You couldn’t hold it back—you quickly grabbed onto Simon desperately, letting out a heart-wrenching sob because you just lost everything you owned, every memory, every piece of furniture, everything.. but he was here. He was the only thing was wasn’t crumbling away from your grasp, the only constant. Once you clung to him, Simon’s senses were flooded with you. Fuck, your touch burned, just like everyone’s else’s but he liked—no, loved how it felt. Despite the image of a burning house in his wake making dread bubble in his gut, your sobs and touch were the only thing he could focus on. Simon hesitates for only a second before pulling you into his personal space, his arms wrapping around you and weighing heavily on your body. Neither of you spoke, he just let you scream into his chest and sob, your fists gently banging against his chest—the anger, the sadness, everything was too much. Simon knew exactly how you were feeling, so he didn’t mind the twinges of pain your hands produced. Simon was the one who helped you while you chatted with the paramedics and the police. He was the one who helped you find your words when you had none left to share, the smell of the smoke imprinted on your clothes.

Without question, Simon took you to his house. He did not have another bed set up, so he had you sleep in his room while he slept on his couch. He hated the hollow look your eyes held, the way you were delayed with your answers, the ways your hands shook. Your everlasting smile had dissipated into a wobbly frown and he.. Simon couldn’t handle it. He grabbed you some of his clothes and helped you into his bathroom, quietly telling you to take a shower. He’ll take care of your clothes. Simon left you alone, and you showered for a long time. He didn’t count, but it was over an hour and a half. Simon didn’t say anything about you possibly racking up his bill, how could he when you had just lost everything? He wanted to.. to help you, and he wasn’t sure why. Even when he found himself scrubbing your smoke and tar covered clothes in his kitchen sink, he couldn’t find an exact reason why he wanted to help you. Maybe it’s because you made him feel human when he needed to be, maybe you were the one thing that kept him coming back to this town, the one thing that kept him from completely pulling away from the civilian world. You had found him in a corner like a dog, lips curled back and snarling—sharp teeth clashing together, and without a word, you gave him reasons to trust you. Although they may not be.. normal reasons to the regular eye, but they were enough for Simon.

You’re enough for Simon. He scrubbed your clothes until his arms burned, and then some.

That’s when he found out that you too, were also someone who could not stay asleep for long. When Simon awoke with his adrenaline pumping from the muffled sound of vomiting, he had to calm himself down because he’s safe, and you’re safe, most of all. Simon isn’t sure when he began to think that way, but it’s one of the many things he’s decided to not question—which also new for him. Simon is man who demands answers, yet with you? it’s like everything naturally falls into place, which is why he doesn’t complain when your stay at his house—which you swore would only be until you gathered enough money for an apartment—turned from a two week stay, to Simon carrying in an IKEA bed frame to put and assemble in one of his empty rooms. Many sleepless nights came and went, and each and every one you spent them with each other, sitting by a windowsill together, other times spending it in the backyard and looking at the sky. Sometimes you would wake up first, sometimes it would be him. You somehow always knew when he had woken up from a nightmare, his heart pounding in his ears—until your hands grab his and squeeze, to ground him. You burn him, and he welcomes the tickle of your ever-glowing flame. A year into this arrangement, Simon finally shows you his face and he appreciates that you don’t look at him any different. He usually hates the searching eyes, trying to memorize every inch of his face—but he’s greedy when you do it. When your eyes roam over every scar and acne scar, when you point out his messily cut hair and half-assed shaven stubble, he doesnt get angry. Simon doesn’t feel suffocated by your glances. He doesn’t wear his mask at home anymore, not when you’re there.

Then Simon gets the notice about his three month leave ending soon; and he knows that you need to know about his job. Or at least, the bare minimum you need to know. In reality, it’s how much he wants you to know, but he doesn’t want to admit that. He sits you down one morning, a cup of tea in his hand and he had a mug of your favorite morning drink on the other side of the table he had bought a few weeks you started staying here. Simon explains that he has a job in the military, that he can’t tell you much, but it means he’s going to be gone for weeks, even months at a time. You’re at a loss at first, because who is going to have an extremely positive reaction to “by the way, I work an extremely dangerous job and I can’t tell you anything and I’ll be gone for a while.. Oh yeah, you likely won’t know if I die!”? Despite your initial reaction, you grow to be okay with this situation. Or, we’ll, as okay as you can be with it. You also find out that he was here for way longer than he originally is, due to his boss demanding him to take a break—AKA, “go to therapy you dafty”.

For a little over two years, you two fell into a good rhythm. A call every three weeks, him coming home and you becoming the safest space he’s ever had in his life.

Which is why when his personal cell phone begins to vibrate in his pocket during some fuck-all meeting, his eyebrows furrow. The number is unfamiliar, but the area code is not. Simon quietly excuses himself from the extended round table, taking his call outside of the meeting room. Price’s eyes follow his figure as he exits, noticing it’s his personal cell phone in his hand. Simon answers the call and presses his phone against his masked ear, muttering a low, “Hello?”

A high-pitched, soft yet serious voice filters through the speaker, a woman. “Hi, is this Mr. Riley?”

Simon pauses, and so does his heart. “Who’s asking?”

He honestly regrets asking that in the moment—one part of him genuinely wishes he never answered this call, and the other part of him is glad he did. “I’m a nurse from Northern Manchester Community Hospital, you’re written down as [Name]’s emergency contact. They’ve been a victim of a hit and run situation, sir. They’re alive, but they’re in the ICU.” The nausea that suddenly bubbles inside of his guys, the stomach acid mixed with whatever he had eaten previously, threatening to travel up his esophagus, burn every inch and then exit with a horrific sound. Simon’s head began to spin—he’s your emergency contact? A hit and run, you were fucking hit?? By what, a car? A pick-up? A semi? God, Simon has seen the most horrible, gruesome, fucked up shit you would ever see in his entire life, yet he isn’t sure if he can handle the image of you spread out in a hospital bed, with one too many tubes circulating around you. His mind plagues him with intrusive images, ones he never wants to actually see played out. Fuck, his head hurts. It feels like someone is physically shoving a knife into his chest and twisting it, like God is laughing at him and playing with Simon’s pain for his own gain. How could he not think that, especially with everything that has happened to him? His friends, his family? His old CO? The fucking abuse he endured??

It’s like Simon lost his hearing for a moment, because he cannot bare fucking losing you, too. There’s a vague ringing in his ears, almost like there was an explosion and he stood too close. And then suddenly every sound comes rushing back to his eardrums, and everything suddenly everything is so fucking overwhelming. “Mr. Riley?” The nurse calls over the phone, her tone laced with worry. He clears his throat and when he speaks, he sounds wrecked, which he fucking hates. “I.. I’ll come as soon as I can.” Simon hangs up, not giving the nurse a moment to speak. He drops his phone and if he doesn’t sit down, he’s going to fall over like a tree that’s been cut down. Simon lets out a shaky breath, trying to ignore the way his stomach is screaming and twisting as he puts a hand on the wall, and he crouches down. It’s the first time he doesn’t look around to see if anyone is watching his sudden display of emotion. When he’s suddenly rocked with the feeling of home at work, especially with the news that you’re fucking injured—he’s overwhelmed and twisted all over the place. Simon finds himself stumbling back to his barracks.

Price finds his way to him after Simon never returns to the meeting. He knocks on the door, but his knuckles pause before they can knock against the door for the third time as he discovers the door is open—which is very, very, odd. He slowly opens the door while calling for Ghost, and is met with the sight of Simon shoving some of his clothes and belongings into a duffle bag, as well as his military travel documents. “Ghost?” Price questions, who stopped in his doorway to watch Simon lose his mind while packing. Simon doesn’t respond as he practically rips his phone charger out of the wall and stuffs it into the bag, zipping it up. He slings it over his shoulder and he turns around, pausing when he sees Price. Simon’s eyes tell everything he’s feeling—that something’s happened, something bad, and he needs to leave. Price bites his lip and quietly exhales, his fingers rubbing at his chin. “I’ll approve your leave. Just shoot me a text of how long it needs to be, yeah?”

Simon makes sure to note to send Price a thank you of some sort, because within the next two hours, Simon is boarding a plane, heading for Manchester, wearing some black clothing, a jacket, a black face mask, gloves, and his beanie. The entire time, he could not stop thinking about you—and how you could possibly die before he got there to send off his final goodbyes. Is that something he would actually want to do, though? See you in the hospital, knowing it’ll be the last place you’d ever be alive in? Go home, see how you left the house exactly as you left it? A house, but without his home in it? Simon stares out the airplane window blankly, his hands curled into fists, and his nails would be digging into his palms if he didn’t have gloves on.

He couldn’t lose you. Not like this.

The next part for Simon, it’s a blur again. Got off the plane, got his luggage, provided documentation, blah blah blah—he didn’t give a fuck about any of it. His focus was you. He didn’t bother to stop home to drop his stuff off, he took an Uber straight to the hospital from the airport. It was a fairly expensive Uber too, but he could worry about the costs of everything later. It took another half hour to get there.

His heart began to hammer in his chest as the sight of the hospital’s signs began to pop up on the road, the anxiety taking hold in his stomach and his head begins to hurt again. Simon quietly thanks the driver, tips them, and exits the car with a swiftness once they pull up. Simon walks through the main entrance’s sliding doors, going up to the desk. A woman behind the counter hangs up the phone, murmuring a goodbye, and then she looks at Simon with her pretty blue eyes. “How can I help you, sir?” She murmurs sweetly, noting how anxious he is. She can see the sweat on his brow line. Simon clears his throat, his voice rumbling in his chest when he speaks. It takes everything in him to not yell at this innocent woman and get thrown out. “My.. My name is Mr. Riley, I was called ‘cause my friend is here,” Simon manages to push out. “[Name] [Last Name].” The woman turns to her computer and clicks the couple of buttons and types a couple of words and holy fuck, Simon just wants to go to your wing already—“Ah, yes, I see you’re listed as their emergency contact,” The woman grabs a sticky note and writes with a pink pen your room number and elevator floor, handing it to Simon. He barely gets a “thank you” out before he nearly jogs to the nearby elevator. Fourth floor, room 283. Fourth floor, room 283. Fourth floor, room 283—it’s the longest minute long elevator ride in his entire fucking life.

Simon changes face masks whilst facing the wall, and then he finds your room number—and his heart is beating out of his chest. There’s cops standing outside of your room who stop him from entering. Simon’s anger flares up so quickly, he nearly makes a scene until a doctor exits your room. She’s wearing her usual blue scrubs, her coat, and she’s dawning a N95 and some sterile gloves. She’s holding a clipboard. “Mr. Riley?” She questions, holding the clipboard close to her chest. Simon nods without hesitation, and she responds, “I’m sorry, but due to the nature of this case, you’ll have to provide some identification for me and these officers.”

Usually, Simon would hesitate—he gives anyone outside of his team the bare minimum, hell, he only introduced himself as SR until he knew you for a while. This time, he takes out his military ID and shows it to the officers. He ignores their looks of surprise, and ignores the murmurs that come from them. Simon puts his ID away and he holds back the urge to shove them out of the way as he glares down at the doctor on accident. “Come in,” The doctor opens the sliding door and steps into the hospital ICU room with him. Simon follows behind her and he immediately smells the sickening smell only the ICU gives off. There’s a small wall blocking his view from you that he hasn’t past, and he can already hear the machines working. A heart monitor, a ventilator, combined with other machines he doesn’t know too well. The doctor flips through the papers pinned to her clipboard. “They were hit by a vehicle of some sort, the scene suggested they were walking home from the local corner store. [Name] has multiple broken bones and fractures, a punctured lung, a fractured jaw and internal bleeding. They lost a lot of blood at the scene.” Simon doesn’t respond as he slowly walks forward, and he finally lays his eyes on you. It’s.. traumatizing, to say the least. You were never supposed to be in a hospital bed like this, hooked up to machines he can’t even name. He slowly walks over to you, dropping his duffel bag somewhere on the floor. He doesn’t care to look where. Simon barely pays attention to what the doctor is saying—his hands tremble as he stands by your side, his heart thumping harshly in his chest. Fuck.

He drags over one of the chairs next to your bed. Simon takes off one of his gloves slowly, and then he tears the other one off in a frenzy. He feels so unlike himself, so.. different.. human. He reaches over to your hand and his fingers grab your wrist, so gentle as if you’re glass. Simon presses his fingers against your pulse point, counting your heartbeats despite the monitor. The thumping under your skin makes it more.. real. Feeling you, your heartbeat, your warmth and your skin—it’s comforting. Simon clears his throat and fights the urge to vomit once a gain, watching your chest rise and fall, produced by the ventilator.

He moves his hand to intertwine with your fingers and he uses his other hand to feel your pulse. Simon closes his eyes, muttering the beats per minute under his breath.

At least you’re alive—you’re here, you’re alive, and you’re with him. And that’s all he asks for.

tags;; @alwaystired--neversleeping @handsomeunderwear-art @indefenseofkara @kaysav608 @1-is-loneliest-number @rosee-sensuelle @kitty-satan1 @k4marina @rahmown @royalty-purple @bowtruckleninja — if you are not tagged, it’s not allowing me :-)

[esamastation]

Part thirty-eight of Shizuroth, aka, the SOLDIER General's Self Saving Shizun.

Ao3 link.

Previous parts: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven

-

What have we learned? Well, for one, Sephiroth really misses qiankun storages, and the fact that Final Fantasy VII infinite inventories don't seem to be actually real is very disappointing. Two, he seems to have brought back more than just knowledge from PIDW.

His meridian system, though still scarred and unyielding, has already adapted to a cultivator's natural defences against outward energies.

Which makes sense! If a cultivator lets stuff like Final Fantasy VII EXP into their system without properly working that energy into something safe they can use, they'd be courting Qi-deviation all the time. That kind of openness, in a world with the Five Phases and resentful energies - never mind demonic ones! - would be deadly to any cultivator.

One of the first things he'd learned as Shen Qingqiu was to shield himself from that kind of thing. Shen Qingqiu was prone to Qi-deviations in the original text, something he didn't have the time for! So he'd figured out what he was good at, what his element was, and he stuck to it. And he's proud to say he didn't have a Qi-deviation, not even once, in all his years as Shen Qingqiu. Not even with Without a Cure gnawing at his meridians!

But Final Fantasy VII works by different rules. They have different energies. Everyone takes in a portion of the Qi from their kills - a portion of their share of the Lifestream, maybe? And that's normal! The whole world is mired in this huge energy recycling and redistribution system, and Qi-deviations simply aren't a thing.

There's just, you know, madness and memory loss and weird mutations, though that was mostly Mako and Jenova… probably.

Running a hand over his neck, Sephiroth glances to where Angeal sits propped up against a crooked tree, arms folded and head nodding with his breaths, fast asleep. Angeal… who's been acting as a sponge to all the stray energy coming off from their kills.

The whole thing makes Sephiroth feel a little ill. It's probably fine - Angeal actually seems to think he'd benefited from it at Sephiroth's expense! It's what the people of this world are used to, it's what they've evolved with! They actually can grow really strong with it! Sephiroth should know, he grinded both Cloud and Zack to the highest level, and they were really OP!

And yet it… still feels wrong. Sephiroth feels kinda like an awful master, making ignorant disciples to absorb resentful energy so that he didn't have to. They were a couple of those in PIDW, awful shifus abusing Binghe's future wifes for their own benefit, and Shen Yuan hated each and every one of them. 

Ugh.

Okay, okay. EXP versus Qi. Maybe it's different? Since this world has an energy recycling system, not a rebirth system, maybe there are just aspects to it he doesn't get? There probably are! Honestly, for all that it all feels familiar, it also feels a little.. off.

Even here, in the middle of this very lively and monster-filled forest… Sephiroth can't feel much nuance from the place. The forest feels alive, just teeming with energy, but that's… kind of it? For a place that should be aligned with the element of Wood or maybe Earth, it doesn't exactly feel like it.

So, maybe instead of different elements, here there are different stages of energy. Like Lifestream and Materia are the same thing in different stages of matter, maybe everything else is… somewhere in between? MP, magic, and EXP, all just different expressions of the same energy? Hmm…

Maybe EXP is like - like natural photosynthesis? No, that doesn't make sense, uh… spiritual respiration, maybe? Energy digestion? A whole different, but fundamental aspect of local evolution, either way. It would make sense, on a planet that's literally alive, like an organism.

Ugh, he hates making guesses. Where's his wikis and fan sites full of meta analysis and worldbuilding theories when he needs them?!

Sighing with frustration, Sephiroth looks through his phone again, reading the pertinent tutorial entries. They aren't particularly useful. There's nothing about the Lifestream, very little about Mako and not much at all about Materia, aside from how to equip it and use it. People believe that the knowledge of the Ancients is trapped within the Materia, yeah, sure, but like. How? What kind of knowledge? 

Thoughtful, Sephiroth reaches for Masamune, resting on the tree roots beside him, and carefully eases one of the marbles of Materia out of its handle. Unlike the forest, the Materia definitely has an element. Specifically, Fire. Rolling the little green orb in his fingers, Sephiroth considers the feel of it at length, sending his spiritual senses, such as they are, into it.

It feels kinda alive. A bit like the ginkgo tree, actually, but much more. It feels like the accumulation of energy over generations and cycles, and lives.

It also feels a bit like Fire burns. Which is. Uh. Well. It certainly is a type of knowledge? 

What does that mean for other types of Materia? Ice is cold, lightning goes boom, maybe? Recovery means to heal? Huh.

Interesting. But not as much as the knowledge that the Materia, like Angeal, is still growing. Which, yeah, Sephiroth knew that was a thing, it happened in the games, Materia levels up and even spawns offsprings and everything, but man. It's something very different to feel it with your own spiritual senses. 

Materia are a breed of sorta-kinda awakened spirit stones! Wild.

None of which helps him with his EXP dilemma. At this rate he might have to just set aside everything that holds true about cultivation back home and write a whole new cultivation manual, or something. Call it… Lifestream Cultivation. Evening You Need to Know, Cultivating in a Sci-fi Fantasy Dystopia On the Brink of Collapse!

Yeah, Sephiroth would like to know what he needs to know, please. Not that it would probably help, he'll still need to do the work…

… and none of it makes his overall situation as Sephiroth any easier. It's anything, he's probably making everything worse, acting all weird!

Sighing, Sephiroth lowers the orb of Materia and puts it back into its proper place before looking up at the sky. There's a moon shining past the tree branches. The forest is softly rustling around them as Angeal quietly snores, and a gentle breeze moves through the treetops. Thankfully, the old edict of random encounters holds true - they only happen when you're moving! Very handy, that.

It doesn't quite sound or smell or feel like home. Spiritual Mountain Bamboo has its own distinctive vibe, and Sephiroth hasn't even seen any regular Bamboo in this place. Still, it's beautiful. Wild and full of life and extremely inhospitable to its hostile invaders.

Yeah.

Sephiroth isn't sure how long he can put off making a decision here.

[minimoefoe]

twelve telling missy she never learnt to hear the music versus thirteen being forced to watch dhawan!master thrust to rasputin

[rebeccathenaturalist]

Environmental Generational Amnesia: When We Forget Nature’s Past

Originally posted at my blog at https://rebeccalexa.com/environmental-generational-amnesia/

One of the most traumatic and formative experiences of my life occurred when I was thirteen years old. The woods that I loved exploring behind our yard were completely bulldozed one day; I discovered this when I got off the bus from school. It was part of the destruction of an entire wild area that would become yet another subdivision devoid of trees and vines and wildflowers, with no place left for bobwhite quail or garter snakes in the flat green lawns. I was devastated, and in an attempt to try to help me my mom chatted with the developer when she happened to run into her in town. “She knows how you feel,” my mom said. “Her woods were the ones that were torn down to make the junior high track.” Not only did it just not make sense to me that someone who had been through what I was experiencing would then go on to do the same horrible acts, but it was also my first introduction to the reality of environmental generational amnesia.

The term was coined a few years ago in a paper by Peter Kahn and Thea Weiss. It refers to how each generation considers how it first experienced a place as its true baseline, and any change that comes after it is abnormal or unnatural. So for me, the track at my junior high with just a line of trees along the creek was my understanding of its baseline, but the developer remembered that land as acres of woods. A hundred years ago it may have been a farm. Go back several generations to when only the Osage lived here, and it was probably undamaged oak savanna, or perhaps a tallgrass prairie.

When you multiply that shifting understanding of the “normal” state of a place by all the people in a given area, something is bound to be lost as generations die off, and new ones are born into the present state. Couple that with a serious lack of nature literacy, and you have fewer people discussing what the place is versus what it once was.

In cases where almost all the land has been significantly changed by human activity for centuries, it can be incredibly challenging to piece together what it was like before we came through and wrought such imbalances. The only evidence may remain in a few remote undamaged patches, scraps of partial plant and animal communities, and oral and written information passed down by people, whether indigenous or colonizing. Sometimes ecologists and other scientists need to look at the ecosystems of neighboring areas to get some idea of what might have been here before. It’s often a matter of trying to piece together an incomplete puzzle, giving best educated guesses as to what filled the empty niches.

If you have a population that has a dim memory at best of what a place looked like before it was changed at all, they’re less likely to understand when there’s a problem. I knew, for example, that it was wrong to tear down the woods behind my home, but my baseline was “mix of trees and shrubs of various species surrounding a creek with a limestone bed next to a twenty year old subdivision.” No one could tell me what that farm looked like before it became a farm, and I didn’t understand at the time that the mix of plants and animals I knew and loved were neither the complete original assortment, nor were they all native. How was I to know that my yard was once spacious grassland, dotted with white oak here and there? How should I have come to understand that the woods I had cherished were badly out of ecological balance compared to what had once been, that they were exhibiting signs of recolonization after multiple massive disturbances before I was even born?

And this is just one example of one person’s understanding of one place. This environmental generational amnesia has rippling effects worldwide, with people not understanding that the rivers nearby aren’t supposed to be as stick-straight as they are, that the coastline should be covered in wetlands rather than open sand, that the dense forest is only there because natural fires were suppressed and allowed the trees to take over the last meadows. There are even those who have no idea that their air, water, and soil aren’t supposed to be loaded with pollutants, because pollution is all they’ve known for generations. It’s tough to imagine an extinct wetland when you can’t even see the water for the trash, and the sky is brown instead of blue.

It’s not going to be an easy task to try to revive the collective memory of Lands That Were. A good starting point is to talk to our elders, both alive and dead. When we ask those who still live what they remember of a place, we can glean important details even if they themselves weren’t ecologists, or formal scientists of any other sort. If we can take them to these places and have them show us where important landmarks were and describe what has changed, we can start to see more clearly what’s been lost. And when we read the writings and view the landscape art of those who are long passed, we get important snapshots of what was there long before any of us today were alive, tracing that ecological story closer to its origin.

We also need, more than ever, to preserve what ancient ecosystems still remain, whether that’s old growth forests, or prairies that never knew the tearing of the plow, or wetlands never drained or polluted. We can’t just miraculously replace them in a matter of a few years, and they offer us crucial pictures of the end goal in places where  we are attempting long-term habitat restoration. They are living, breathing records of what places looked like before, of the biodiversity and other natural structures that were in place for thousands of years.

Finally, we need to be talking openly about the disconnect between what is and what was. If I, as an incredibly nature-obsessed kid, was startled to think about how my “normal” was only a faint shadow of past ecological glory, then imagine how jarring it must be for someone who is further removed from nature to understand that the forest they walk through is really supposed to be a prairie. (Especially after many years of being told that “planting trees” is the answer to all the ecological problems we face!)

With time and education we can bring about awareness, and that awareness will help us make better decisions for the future. There are so many people who want to undo ecological destruction and make the world a better place; we just need to have better, more accurate information out there on what can be reasonably done. Much of that hinges on having a clearer idea of what’s been lost, so that we can make plans to save whatever is left, and restore as much as we can.

Did you enjoy this post? Consider taking one of my online foraging and natural history classes, checking out my other articles, or picking up a paperback or ebook I’ve written! You can even buy me a coffee here!

[clonebrainrot]

You know what fuck it. You know what future story I want with Omega?



Give me a book where it’s just her versus Lando who is better at gambling cause I am convinced that our thirteen your old child prodigy gambler could beat the socks off Han and Lando combined even when both are cheating

Give it to me Lucasfilm you know you want to.

[spidervee]

easy (like you) • jake seresin x fem!reader

↳ marbles series // part 1

summary: jake doesn’t always think before he acts and you tend to do enough thinking for the both of you. this is the story of your friendship and five years spent apart; your budding romance and broken hearts. part one -> on a rainy afternoon you run into an old friend and realize that some moments make a friendship

words: 3.1k

warnings: 18+ only; cursing; reader's nickname is jersey; no use of y/n; frat parties and football players; flirting and sexual tension; heavy making out and some touching; virgin!reader; protective!jake; childhood friends to strangers to almost lovers; thoughts and validation always appreciated; not edited because reasons; part one of eight

You start work at the campus library on a Tuesday, the sky overcast and dull with the threat of rain and the air laid heavy with humidity. It’s still July, early enough that the semester hasn’t quite appeared on the horizon and the library hosts only a few scattered patrons, mostly graduate students who arrive upon opening, settle into a secluded corner, and hunker down for six or seven hours of frenzied typing. In their hunched shoulders and the dark circles under their eyes, you catch a glimpse of a possible future self—there are a few versions of her running around in your head these days, vying for attention and the plans to make themselves your reality. 

Fewer patrons translates to fewer books in circulation and your boss grants you the kindness of reshelving, suggesting it will help you familiarize yourself with the place. You appreciate the opportunity to get lost amongst the stacks, the smell of old books curling into your nostrils as you run your fingertips along delicate leatherbound spines. In the months to follow you’ll learn that your affections are torn between the aged Romantic poetry collections on the fifth floor and the crisp new medical textbooks that live on the second. But on this particular Tuesday, your first of many, you find yourself in the company of Walt Whitman—and the myriad of scholarship surrounding him—when you hear the telltale sound of a downpour against the tin roof overhead, as if the sky has opened up and let loose all its fury. Cringing, you suddenly remember the exact location of your umbrella—hung neatly off the back of your closet door in the dorm room you share with another freshman on the entirely opposite side of campus.

If you’re lucky, the rain will stop by the time your shift is over in—you check your wrist for the time—twenty-six minutes. 

You’re not. And it isn’t. 

In the front vestibule, you briefly debate the merits of dashing through an apocalyptic storm versus camping out underneath one of the uncomfortable-looking cubbies on the Humanities floor. 

“Wanna share?”  

A voice, thick with the Texan twang you’ve not yet grown accustomed to since moving back to Austin last month, draws you from your inner turmoil. Glancing over, you wish you’d just been decisive enough to scurry back to the safety of the stacks because there’s a man standing next to you who you’re pretty sure is a movie star, with his straight white teeth and his chiseled jaw and his carelessly confident posture. 

“Better yet,” he grins at you, offering you the handle of a bright orange umbrella emblazoned with a University of Texas logo, “Why don’t you just take it?”

There’s something familiar about him but you choose not to ask, lest he think you’re flirting with him. Still, the boyish grin that tugs at the corners of his lips is one that sends you reeling into years earlier and you nearly stumble over your own feet as recognition barrels into you. 

“Jake?” 

He blinks and for a moment you think you’ve made a mistake. But then he’s tilting his head and pulling expensive-looking aviators down the bridge of his nose—why the fuck does he need them in this weather anyways—and really looking at you. 

If you weren’t sure before, you are now because, sure, you might have been only thirteen the last time you saw Jake Seresin, but there was no forgetting those sparkling green eyes and the mischief that constantly simmered just beneath their surface.

“Holy shit, Jersey? That really you?” He sounds happy, if more than a little disbelieving, when he finally speaks. Inwardly, you breathe a sigh of relief that he remembers you as well—you’re not sure you could have survived the mortification otherwise.

“Yeah,” you try for a small nonchalant grin, as if your entire world hasn’t just exploded, “Hi.”

“Hey.” Jake laughs, and the sound is deeper than you remember—well, no shit, you tell yourself, he’s a man now. “This is fucking insane,” he says, his smile deepening and as puts the umbrella into your hands. “Here. Lead the way.” 

You’re not sure what possesses you to simply do as he says—take his umbrella, open it up against the wind, and start walking. A small bit of guilt eats at you because you’re not tall enough to maintain coverage for you and Jake so he’s getting drenched as he walks quietly alongside you, the wind and rain creating too much noise for real conversation anyways. His longer legs are easily keeping pace with your own hurried strides and, with that iota of guilt subsiding, you almost laugh at the confidence Jake exudes, as though he knows he looks good soaking wet with a t-shirt clinging to a lean and muscular chest and locks of blond hair sticking to his forehead, falling into the greenest eyes you’ve ever seen. It’s comical and you wonder if you’ve fallen asleep somewhere between the 19th century romance novels and awoken in a weird parallel version of your boring reality. 

What other explanation is there for running into the boy you’d first met in the seventh grade when your mother had been transferred to Austin for work? The boy who’d laughed when you told him you’d just moved from New Jersey but you absolutely were not from there, thank you very much, and who had bestowed the city’s name upon you as a way to playfully torture you for the two years you spent living down the street from him. The boy who you’d wanted to be your first kiss, more than anything else, who’d told you he was going to be the best pilot the Navy had even seen and, no Jersey I will not join the Air Force it is not the same thing, The boy who you’d wept over when your parents announced you were moving, again, because it wasn’t fair that you had to leave behind your entire life (Jake) and all your friends (Jake) and everything you loved (Jake) all over again. 

You’ve not much time to contemplate your unexpected reunion because soon enough you’ve reached your dorm building and are diving for shelter underneath the awning in the entryway while Jake takes his umbrella back, not that he’s got much use for it now. You mumble a shame-faced thanks, which Jake quickly shrugs off, insisting that the flu he’s doubtless going to catch will be worth helping you. 

And then, the words you’ve been hoping and fearing. “I’ve missed you, Jers. It’s been too long.” Jake reaches out to brush a drop of water off your shoulder in a way that is all-too-familiar. “You should come by mine,” he suggests, “We’re having a welcome back party next weekend.” 

*** 

Standing on the porch of Jake’s frat house the following Friday, you try not to imagine yourself as fresh meat, an unwitting feast for a house full of horny pledges. 

You’d spent an embarrassing amount of time trying to choose an outfit that you’re still not entirely thrilled with, worried that the thigh-kissing hemline sends the wrong message and that the red lipstick is too bold a choice. So worried, in fact, that you’d almost tapped out and just curled up in bed, but your roommate had already invited her boyfriend over and you really, really weren’t in the mood to listen to them try to have sex quietly while you awkwardly drank tea in the shared living room and pretending not to hear the bed creaking. 

So, with no other option, you slip into the house, hoping to go unnoticed for as long as possible as you’ve only rehearsed two bits of small talk on your walk over and have absolutely zero opinion about the Longhorns other than to smile and nod. 

A drink, that’s what you need. 

Unfortunately for you, the kitchen is empty save for one very large blond man who looks like he could play linebacker—you think, at least, as you’re not sure what size linebackers are meant to be in relation to all other football players. 

He begins talking and you can’t even pretend that you don’t know his words are directed at you because you’re the only other person there and he’s asking you about your name and your major and why’re you all by yourself, cutie and how’d you find your way over to this party?

Opening the fridge allows you a moment of reprieve from the conversation, its hum a gentle comfort as you mindlessly rifle through the various beers stocked on otherwise bare shelves. 

“Uh, Jake invited me.” 

“Seresin?” He sounds disbelieving, as though Jake Seresin would never have invited you to a party like this. It makes you wonder how much he’s changed since you once knew him. He’d obviously gotten hotter—Jake had always been a cute kid, the one that adults weirdly laughed over being a future heartbreaker. But you had the sense they weren’t wrong. That day at the library, before he’d realized it was you, had he thought you were some other girl, one he’d bedded? 

Things go downhill from there and before you know it, you’ve lost all personal space mr. maybe a linebacker and can’t quite seem to work your way out from where he’s wrapped a thick arm around you.

Jake finds you like that, and, for a moment, when his eyes meet yours he looks annoyed. Then, his expression shifts in such a way that it makes you wonder what he saw etched upon your face because he scowls and puffs his chest out at the man next to you.

“Tyler, get your fucking paws off my girl.” 

The man—Tyler—who’s been monopolizing your space immediately takes a step away from you and you welcome the relief of no longer smelling the beer on his breath. He mumbles an apology to Jake, something about not knowing, and you don’t keep track of where he slinks off to, instead focusing on how intensely Jake is watching you. 

“C’mere,” Jake breathes, reaching out and tucking you into his side, the smell of his cologne instantly making you feel safer—this, a smell you don’t mind at all. In a swift motion, he pulls the Longhorns cap from his head and sets it atop yours, grinning as it falls ever so slightly over your eyes. “No one else is gonna bug you if you’re wearing that, Jersey.” 

“Thanks,” you mumble, a little embarrassed at needing to be protected—or wanting to be. 

“And don’t you leave my sight.” 

You want to protest, argue that he should have met you at the door instead of being distracted by pretty girls in short shorts and crop tops, but he’s smiling at you again in that way of his; the one that makes your heart flutter. 

*** 

Somehow, you end up in Jake’s bedroom, two beers deep and a little tipsy and still wearing his cap, though now it sits backwards over your hair. 

“Never imagined I’d see you again, sweetheart.” 

“Sweetheart,” you roll your eyes to hide the pleasure such a nickname gives you, “Does that work on all the girls ‘round here, Jake?” 

“You’d be surprised,” he shrugs nonchalantly, spreading his thighs wide as he falls into a seat on his bed, and motioning for you to come nearer. You hesitate—Jake’s grown up now, but isn’t he still the same little boy you used to skip rocks with out by the pond behind his family’s barn? Aren’t you still the same shy little girl hiding a biting tongue between worrying lips? 

“Hardly,” you counter, taking a step closer to Jake, weighing your options carefully in your mind as you do. He doesn’t seem bothered by your slowness, watches you from under thick lashes as you kick across his bedroom floor, in your socks now because you’d kicked your sneakers off at his bedroom door. 

“So, first thing’s first,” Jake chuckles, changing the topic, “Why Texas?” 

The question catches you off-guard and you have to stop yourself from opening and closing your mouth as you formulate a response. This was decidedly not one of the rehearsed topics of conversation. Since when had Jake asked deep questions? 

“I missed it here,” you reply, because it’s the only thing you can think to say and it’s an honest answer. Because you did miss Austin, and the late nights you’d spent by bonfires in Jake’s backyard and the way he’d helped you learn to ride a horse and the treks through the corn fields on that horse. 

“Don’t be shy,” Jake coaxes, “You can say that it’s ‘cause you missed me.” 

By now you’re standing between his thighs and looking down at him, at the way his arms are taut where they’re supporting his weight and the way his gaze is tilted up to drink in your features and the way his shirt is unbuttoned just a bit more than when you first saw him downstairs. 

“Jake.” Your voice is little more than a whisper and suddenly everything seems serious. Jake’s hands move to the backs of your thighs as he sits up a bit straighter, his eyes near level with your chest, though he keeps them focused on your face. 

“You’re so pretty, Jersey,” Jake breathes against the fabric of your dress, “Always been so pretty and so sweet.”  He gives your legs a little squeeze and you part them slightly so he can slip one hand between your thighs, resting it just above your knee. You’re worried at how embarrassingly warm you feel and think, for a moment, you need to step away because you should not be doing this. 

But then another voice, a louder one, asks you why shouldn’t you? You’d been hoping to have your first time before starting college and now, with the semester only a couple weeks off and Jake magically reappearing in your life—why not? 

“I had such a crush on you when we were kids,” Jake continues with a chuckle, his fingers drawing little circles on the sensitive skin between your legs. “Wanted you to be my first kiss so bad. Damn near broke my heart when you moved again.” 

No, no, no. He can’t be saying things like that. Can’t be giving utterance to the thoughts you’ve long-since buried because that’s truly not fair. Still, his words send warmth blooming through your abdomen and you feel your panties getting wet as Jake’s fingers continue their exploration. 

Gently, Jake’s other hand guides your wrist towards his crotch, leading you to press your palm flat against where his jeans are bulging. You can feel him harden further under your touch and you gulp, unsure what to do, gently rubbing your open hand up and down his zipper a few times. 

Then his lips are on yours and he’s kissing you as though he’s been starved, as though you’re the thing keeping him tethered to this world. He squeezes you between his thighs, pulling you ever closer to his body as he forefinger finds your underwear and swipes carefully across their seam and you gasp at the sensation. 

It’s all a bit overwhelming—your brain fuzzy from breathing in through gasps between kisses, your fingers trembling where they toy with the buckle of Jake’s belt, awaiting instruction, your ears ringing with the music from downstairs and the pounding of blood in your ears. 

And you can think of nothing to do so you stop, a little panicked, a little afraid, and entirely confused. Your shoulders have tensed and your hand has frozen in its spot on Jake’s lap where you simply stare at it, willing it to move. 

“You don’t seem super into this.” Jake says lightly as he pulls back, hands immediately withdrawn from your body and thumbs hitching into the pockets of his jeans. He doesn’t sound angry, just matter-of-fact. You’re knocked back into reality like you’ve just been dunked into a cold swimming pool and pull your own hands back, wringing them together. 

“I am,” you insist, “I’ve just…it’s…” 

He tilts his head to look at you, as though he’s trying to read some great cosmic truth in your sudden hesitation. Then he sighs. “You’re a virgin, aren’t you?” 

Good lord,  hearing it out loud is mortifying. You want to up and run, but Jake is there, wrapping an arm around you and shaking his head as he pulls you gently into a seat on his lap—it strikes you as ridiculous that you think it gentlemanly he’s avoiding placing you near his hard-on. 

“I can’t,” he sighs again, “Not without buying you dinner, taking you to some museum you’ll love and try to explain to me, and truly earning it. Earning you.” 

“But, I want to,” you protest, trying not cringe at how whiny you sound. 

“Really? 

You say nothing, which is more than enough of an answer for Jake and he slides you from his lap to his mattress. 

“I can’t go home,” you whisper, “At least, I don’t think I can.” Jake looks concerned and you launch into an explanation about your roommate and her boyfriend and not wanting to be rude or spoil the delicate beginnings of a friendship. 

Jake nods along, amenable to the story even though you’re certain it’s silly, then stands and moves over to the unkempt bookshelf on the other side of the room. He rummages around for a long moment before turning back to you with an open gamebox and a devilish smirk. 

“You still play Scrabble?” Jake asks, tossing a stray tile up and then deftly snatching it out of the air. 

“Still not particularly well,” you shrug, “I’m bad at exploiting the bonuses.” 

“Figured you were still a nice girl,” Jake teases and you feel your stomach twist at his words. “Let’s do this. I’ll order a pizza, you’ll kick my ass at this game, and then we’ll see where we’re at, yeah?” 

You nod, grateful for his tact, if more than a little surprised at it. Maybe Jake’s three older sisters had managed to teach him a thing or two, despite the constant bickering you remember. 

“Yeah.”

Jake smiles and sets to work putting the gameboard out. “I meant what I said last week,” he says without looking up, “I missed you, Jersey.” 

“Missed you too, Jake.”

You don’t kiss Jake again that night. In fact, you don’t kiss Jake again until two years later.

[s-acrificium]

verses! Aulea Caelum

Just putting her whole google doc here.

[starsandhughes]

Penalty Box Series— Quinn Hughes Edition (Twelve)

ft. Cole Caufield

23-24 Season Masterlist

previous: eleven

next: thirteen

short bc i’m behind and trying my best and i high key hate this i’m so sorry😭 this game was boring as hell

NOVEMBER 12, 2023

yourusername

liked by _quinnhughes, lhughes_06, and 12,243 others

yourusername girlie pops, fantabulous theys, and frizzy haired beauties, welcome back to my postgame penalty box update show: best friend number one versus best friend number two edition!

best friend number one came out on top tonight with the canucks's 5-2 win, and he didn't even get a penalty! and he got his 18th assist of the season! way to go, quinner!

best friend number two tried his best! i won't even talk about how him being offside took away a habs goal! he didn't mean to! he was really sorry! (i'm sorry about your life, coley woley) (it happens all the time don't sweat it)

i had a great time tonight, boys! i loved getting some best friend time before the game and at dinner last night! i love you losers🫶 mwah!

p.s. cole also didn't get a penalty!

p.s.s stars beat their enemies the wild, my matty ratty and the rest of my baby panthers beat the blackhawks, and my quackies (sans jamie and trevor, may they rest in peace) beat the sharks! what a good hockey day! (except for cole) (sorry bb)

p.s.s.s. HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY BLONDE KING, PETEY! i love you with my whole butt! i hope you loved your present!💙

tagged _quinnhughes and colecaufield

view all 122 comments

colecaufield i feel like... you did in fact mention me being offside

yourusername no? that was you. just now. i was trying to protect you!

trevorzegras @/yourusername you're such a sweet girl for that!

colecaufield i'm not loving being on the other side of these posts

_quinnhughes @/colecaufield you get used to it

trevorzegras @/colecaufield it could be significantly worse

colecaufield @_quinnhughes @/trevorzegras it could be significantly better

trevorzegras @/colecaufield that's not how this works, buddy

yourusername @/colecaufield i love you!

colecaufield @/yourusername mhmm i love you, too

user67 nick tf you doing to quinn?😭

_quinnhughes i love you way past beyond, sissy! (@.colecaufield i’m not sorry about your life)

yourusername i love you way past infinity🤍 (don't be mean to my coley!)

_quinnhughes (it's out of love)

colecaufield @_quinnhughes (dick)

yourusername you two hugged for like five minutes straight and then decide to be dilholes in my comment section? smh

colecaufield @/yourusername why would you out us? we have reputations to uphold

yourusername @/colecaufield your reputation is "precious baby boy that belongs in my pocket"

_quinnhughes @/colecaufield i'd crush you if you were pocket sized like those danimals commercials

colecaufield @_quinnhughes i could do that to you right now

yourusername @/jackhughes awww, look! they're trying to be us!

jackhughes @/yourusername i could crush you right now

yourusername @/jackhughes in your dreams, jacky boy

user63 just give them the *** now

user9 i can't look at quinn sniffing the smelling salts without thinking about the time sissy called him "cocaine bear"😭 top ten sissy moments tf

trevorzegras i’m not dead??

yourusername you're gravely injured so you might as well be

trevorzegras i'm not gravely injured? and you'd be right by my side if i was and not in another country! just like i was by your side!

yourusername I WAS SILLY GOOSIN AND YOU THROW THAT AT ME?! divorce!

jamie.drysdale yikes z

_quinnhughes @/trevorzegras no.

colecaufield dude...

trevorzegras I'M FEELING ANGSTY BECAUSE I MISS MY FIANCÉE, I'M SORRY

yourusername it's okay, let's just leave the dramatics to me, my love! i can be dramatic enough for the both of us <3

trevorzegras @/yourusername i love you, forever, even though you're dramatic

yourusername @/trevorzegras and i love you, always, even though you're a ghost

_quinnhughes @/yourusername you're dramatic enough for all of us

yourusername @_quinnhughes you're welcome

user53 quinn looks so dainty in the third pic and i will not elaborate on that

_eliaspettersson thank you, y/n! i love you, too!

yourusername with all your height?

_eliaspettersson yep with all my height

yourusername that's so much love! you're so good to me🫶

_quinnhughes @_eliaspettersson i already told you happy birthday but i've been told to tell you again. happy birthday, petey!

_eliaspettersson @_quinnhughes thank you, that means a lot

_quinnhughes @_eliaspettersson i know

user21 i want a turn biting cole's lip! me next!

jackhughes this isn't as fun when we can't bet against trevor and quinn

yourusername i'm having fun

jackhughes i said AS fun! tell trevor to hurry up and get better

yourusername you're out, too! you hurry up!

jackhughes i can hear you whining that

yourusername it's the soulmatism

_quinnhughes @/yourusername @/jackhughes you two aren't supposed to bet anyways! good work @/trevorzegras

trevorzegras @_quinnhughes thank you? you're welcome?

yourusername @/trevorzegras i smacked him for you <3

trevorzegras @/yourusername thank you❤️

jackhughes @/yourusername smack him for me, too

lhughes_06 @/yourusername and me!

_quinnhughes @/jackhughes @/lhughes_06 SHE HITS HARD

jackhughes @_quinnhughes i know

lhughes_06 @_quinnhughes you did it! you found the point!

_quinnhughes @_eliaspettersson i’m sending sissy to your place

_eliaspettersson @/yourusername bring snacks

yourusername @_eliaspettersson 🫡

user5 quinn needs to act up to satisfy our need for chaos! get into a fight, captain!

_alexturcotte they barely showed quinn and cole on the broadcast, didn't they?

yourusername i was dealing with CRUMBS

_alexturcotte don't they know that you have a show?

yourusername clearly not🙄 i’ll be contacting sports net asap

_quinnhughes @/yourusername that's not how life works

yourusername @_quinnhughes my life works however i want it to work, quintin

_alexturcotte @_quinnhughes yeah, quintin!

_quinnhughes i don't like it when you two team up

colecaufield me either! i’m jealous!

yourusername @/colecaufield i still love you! don't worry!

yourusername @_quinnhughes sucks because i love my lexi

_alexturcotte @/yourusername i love you, too, girly hughes!

lhughes_06 @_quinnhughes could you get a penalty or something? spice things up, i’m bored

_quinnhughes @/lhughes_06 you could do that, too, you know

lhughes_06 @_quinnhughes she doesn't post me!

_quinnhughes @/yourusername yeah why is it just me???

yourusername @_quinnhughes you crime 100% more than they do. you make it like 10 games max

jackhughes @/yourusername ♟️

yourusername @/jackhughes 🎟️

_quinnhughes @/yourusername @/jackhughes I SAID NO

trevorzegras @_quinnhughes do you actually know what they mean? or do you just assume they're up to something?

_quinnhughes @/trevorzegras usually both

trevorzegras @_quinnhughes enlighten me

lhughes_06 @/trevorzegras @_quinnhughes I GOT THIS ONE! chess piece means "your move" and the ticket means "i'm in"

yourusername @/lhughes_06 ya nailed it, kiddo

_eliaspettersson added this post to their story

[khruschevshoe]

Thasmin & How the Changing of Showrunners Handicapped Their Story

You know what? I'm going to rant about it. I've been thinking about Doctor Who from a Watsonian versus Doylist point of view on a constant basis, especially when it comes to showrunners and how the doctor is handed over from showrunner to showrunner and how the exit of Yaz from the show is it possibly the clearest example in the world of this feeling of a showrunner being switched. I'm not talking writing differences, I'm not talking stylistic differences, I'm talking the way that she left the show. Because I would put all of my life savings on the fact that if Thirteen and fourteen had the same show runner, Yaz would have been able to stay around for 13's regeneration. You can feel the writing of the show STRAINING to justify why Thirteen would dump her/leave her behind. It feels abrupt because it IS. Rose got to continue her story with 10 until its organic end. Same with Clara. Hell, even River, though her circumstances were slightly different. There is literally no reason why Fourteen wouldn't go after her the moment the 60th specials end except for the fact that for some absolutely weird reason RTD didn't mention Yaz ONCE despite 14 being more "emotionally open" than the Doctors before him.

Like, I'm going to be honest. I'm mostly ambivalent on Thasmin. I think they're sweet and had potential and got screwed in the build up in seasons 11 and 12 (up until Revolution, even). But if I was y'all I would be PISSED. Because that kind of treatment of Yaz and Thasmin as a love story sucked from both the Power of the Doctor AND the 60th anniversary specials. No closure. No real explanation. No acknowledgement of the main love story of the last showrunner. (Even Steven Moffat name-dropped Bad Wolf/Rose in the 50th special, though he did also have the whole 10th Doctor running around with Elizabeth I thing so maybe that cancels itself out.) The mechanics of the show and how it's run screwed you over. And I'm sorry. I hope y'all get some acknowledgement in 15's Era. I'll be pleasantly and happily surprised if we get a cameo (or some miraculous wrap-up of the storyline ala Husbands of River Song), but seeing how the most logical place for a mention (the toymaker) came and went without a peep I'm not hedging my bets.

(Going to go check out some fanfic, though- and imagine that fourteen took off towards Sheffield the moment the 60th anniversary wrapped!)

[imperatorrrrr]

My Highlights from the Q&A: (I paraphrased some of the questions/answers, but most of it is direct quotes)

Q: Out of all the different jerseys that you wear, which one is your favorite? A: The Jersey Jersey

Q: What's the most fun/exciting part of the game when you're playing hockey? A: OT Win, especially at Home

Q: What is your favorite meal to eat here in New Jersey? A: The Italian spots here. I love Italian food, I grew up next to Italy

Q: Why do you wear number thirteen? A: I wear it because of my brother, my big brother always wore 13 and kind of also a little bit because both of us had the same favorite hockey player back in the day, Pavel Datsyuk.

Q: Besides the Rock, what NHL arena do you like playing in the most? A: Vegas, T-Mobile Arena -- its a vibe there, definitely fun

Q: Favorite and memorable goal you've ever scored? A: First NHL Goal in Ottawa

Q: Top Three Moments as a New Jersey Devil? A: My first NHL game, at the Rock versus Colorado, we won 4-2. Second one is first ever playoff game at the Rock versus Tampa, and, so far, the most memorable thing would be the Game 7 win against the Rangers. Gotta go with that one.

Q: Where do you still wanna go in the NJ/NY area? A: I've been to Asbury Park and I kind of want to see some more stuff from the Shore.

Q: What do you like to do to unwind and relax in the off season? A: I love the water, so lakes, rivers, ocean, I just try to be outside when its sunny. Don't like to be at home when its sun out.

Q: What is your favorite genre of music/band/artist? A: I do like Tom Petty

Q: Besides, Nico, what other nicknames do your teammates have for you? A: Hisch, HischSHAO, HischSHAO Jr

Q: What are you personally looking forward in the leadership position on and off the ice, going into this season as the Captain? A: Just to help the team as much as I can on and off the ice. I think obviously on the ice its clear, but also off the ice, just being as good of a person I can be for guys that need me in anything and I think thats the reason why I got Captain too, so thats what's I'm trying to do.

Q: What's your favorite ice cream flavor? A: Strawberry Vanilla

Q: Do you eat bagels and what is your favorite type of bagel to eat? A: Here in Jersey there are great bagels, I like the salmon cream cheese bagel, everything bagel.

Q: What's your favorite family tradition? A: Probably sit together dinners where we eat fondue or raclette where the dinner takes a little bit longer but you have enough time to speak with your family and friends, so thats always a good time. I feel like I always try to do it with them once I come back during summer.

Q: What's your favorite place in Switzerland? A: Bern

Q: Besides anyone on the Devils, who is your favorite current player in the NHL? A: McDavid

Q: Whats been your favorite year? A: I would say last year was pretty fun

Q: Who's your best friend on the Devils? A: Those are ALL of my friends. We got a really good group of guys, so I'm doing well with everyone, but I would probably say I'll do the most together with Jonas 'cause I've known him the longest. I've been playing with him in the Swiss National Team when we were younger so I would say that's kind of the guy I'd go with dinner and stuff but obviously I like ALL of them.

Q: Hardest team to play against? A: Carolina.

Q: What's your favorite Girl Scout Cookie flavor? Do you know what those are? A: (He did not know what those were and so he said) No cookies for me.

Q: (I didn't hear the question that well, but I think it was something like this) Who on the team would you want your daughter to date? A: I would say everyone because they know if they're not nice to my daughter they'd be in trouble.

[666writingcafe]

The Next Day

A Group Chat Between Levi, Diavolo, and MC

Levi: HELP ME!!!!!!!

Diavolo: What's the matter?

MC: ^

Levi: If I hear, "Levi, would you tell so-and-so...." one more time, I'm going to scream!!!!!!

Diavolo: *laughing emoji*

MC: *glaring sticker*

MC: Should you REALLY be laughing about this?

Levi: ^

Diavolo: I apologize. It just sounds like something straight out of a comedy sketch.

Diavolo: They're talking to someone who's literally right there in front of them, but they're funneling everything through you.

Levi: Well, could you DO something about it?!

Diavolo: Of course. After all, rehearsals aren't going to go very well if they won't even speak to each other.

MC: Simeon - "Oh dear."

Levi: You're with Simeon???

MC: Yeah. I'm usually at Purgatory Hall on Thursdays.

MC: Luke - "We MUST do something! Immediately!"

MC: Simeon - "I admire your dedication and commitment, Luke. You really are a good angel."

Levi: And he isn't??????

Diavolo: *side eye emoji*

Levi: *side eye emoji*?

Diavolo: Later.

Levi: Okay.....

MC: Luke has an idea. I'm handing my phone to him so that he can type.

MC (Luke): in the celestial realm we have this program called project friendship

MC (Luke): we have it for angels who dont get along

MC (Luke): in order to make up with someone, you have to be willing to listen to them and accept their point of view

MC (Luke): project friendship creates a space for that to happen

MC (Luke): the program lasts for three days and two nights and everyone has to stick to the system no exceptions

Levi: My brothers would HATE the idea of Project Friendship.

Levi: Let's do it.

Diavolo: Would this happen at the castle?

MC: Luke's nodding his head.

MC: He, Simeon, and Solomon have volunteered to participate.

Diavolo: Barbatos and I will join as well.

MC: So that makes thirteen of us in total.

MC: Luke says that we should have 5 groups of two and 1 group of three.

MC: Simeon has dibs on Lucifer.

Diavolo: That should be interesting. They haven't spent any time together since before Lucifer fell.

Levi: I can do the group of three. Me, Mammon, and Solomon?

MC: Solomon - "Why me?"

Levi: Being with Mammon will be more tolerable with him around. Plus, I don't think he and Mammon are that close.

Diavolo: Given that this will probably get chaotic at least once, I need to continue keeping an eye on MC to make sure they don't get overwhelmed or worse.

MC: *side eye emoji*

MC: *smirking emoji*

MC: *emoji of sweat droplets*

MC: Ignore that. Solomon snatched my phone away from me.

MC: Anyway, Luke says that he'll bunk with Belphie because he's the least intimidating out of the brothers.

Levi: Satan and Beel would make an interesting pair. You know, brain versus brawn.

MC: Which leaves Asmo and Barbatos.

Diavolo: I will definitely have to apologize to Barbatos after this. He does NOT like Asmo one bit.

Levi: Really?

MC: ^

Diavolo: There's been a few times where Asmo got so drunk that he started flirting with Barbatos and trying to get him to sleep with him.

Diavolo: You didn't hear that from me, though.

[fortheloveofwonderland]

Darkness Declares Glory | Chapter 15 | S.R

Previous Part | Next Part

A/N - this fic deals with some very dark themes such as drug use, self-harm and suicidal ideation. Please proceed with caution and Minors DNI. There is a reader insert but it is very Spencer-centric

Chapter Summary - Spencer finally comes to understand the truth about you and his fractured memories before facing off with Cat Adams for the final time.

Pairing - Spencer Reid / Fem! Reader

Category - dark angst | smut | eventual happy ending.

Warnings - false memories, past drug use, swearing, Cat Adams, brief mention of Tobias Hankel.

WC - 5.4K

Chapter 15 - How to Save a Life

The Mandela Effect. 

Coined online by a woman who detailed her recollection of Nelson Mandela dying in prison in the nineteen eighties. She remembered distinctive news coverage on his death and found others who had shared memories of the event. 

However, Nelson Mandela did not die in prison. He spent twenty seven years inside before being released, went on to become the President of South Africa for five years and passed away in twenty thirteen. 

The Mandela Effect is described as a clear memory of an event that never happened in this reality. It occurs when people believe that their distorted memories are accurate recollections. 

Other examples of it include The Berenstein Bears versus The Berenstain Bears and whether Curious George had a tail or not. 

There is evidence that our memories aren’t entirely accurate and can alter over time. People tend to over-believe their memories as a form of ego protection or cognitive dissonance. Some people would rather choose to believe their false memory is evidence of a parallel universe than admit they are wrong. 

It isn’t based on a lie or deception. Instead it occurs when a person or group of people have clear but false memories. The creation of such dissociative realities can be a crutch for people who have suffered extreme trauma. 

Like being imprisoned for a crime they didn’t commit. 

Spencer stared straight ahead at the wall in the interrogation room, straight over her raven head. He couldn’t even bear to make eye contact with her for fear of what he might see. 

He hadn’t spoken a word after he told Luke he wanted the truth about you. After that he’d shut down completely. 

Emily came at Luke’s insistence and found Spencer practically catatonic, staring at the same wall he stared at now, refusing to speak. 

“What’s going on Luke? Did Cat do something?” Emily glared at her colleague, keeping her voice low. “He shouldn’t be here. I didn’t want him to know.”

“I don’t think this is about Cat.” Luke whispered back. 

“What’s this about then?” She folded her arms, giving Luke a stern look. 

He pulled a face before leaning in close to her ear.

“He said wanted the truth about Y/N.” 

Spencer had heard everything they were saying but couldn’t bring himself to speak. Instead he twirled the theory of the Mandela Effect around and around in his fractured brain, trying to make sense of this. 

False memories. The belief in being able to recollect events that never happened. 

Or in his case, an entire series of events. 

It wasn’t until he'd stood thinking of the last time he’d seen Cat that it all became clear. He’d shattered the perfectly crafted illusion in his head. He hadn’t been thinking of you when he said those things to Cat over two years ago. He hadn’t been thinking about you because you didn’t exist to him then.

Two years ago was when Spencer thought you’d broken up with him, walked away from your relationship. And it wasn’t a coincidence that two years was almost the exact amount of time he’d started using again. 

His drug-addled brain had created false memories, manufactured an entire relationship that had never existed. And he’d broken the disassociation when he’d thought back to a time when you hadn’t existed in his life and tried to place you there. 

Obviously he’d met you somewhere during his drug binge. He hadn’t completely made you up, clearly you did actually exist. But you’d never been together. Not the way he thought you had. 

He’d dreamt of you countless times before he saw your face at PIW. He knew how dreams worked. He knew the brain didn’t have the capacity to create new faces. The fact that he dreamt of you meant he’d seen you before. The neocortex works to interpret images, sounds and sensations experienced during the waking day and build a coherent narrative with them. 

So he’d definitely seen you before. But it seemed as though his brain had just constructed its own story. One where you were an FBI Agent. One where you’d been his girlfriend and the two of you had fallen in love. 

But that’s all it was, a carefully conceived tale. 

He most likely met you the night Tara saw him making out with a woman wearing your bracelet. He’d spent a night with you nearly two years ago and your face and your name had stuck in his crazed mind. And he’d concocted a life for the two of you. 

Maybe it had been his brain's way of combating loneliness. Or maybe he was just completely fucking insane. In a way it all made perfect sense.

The team's reluctance to talk about you. The lack of pictures of you in his room. 

He’d even tried to tell himself, through you, in his dreams. 

“You know deep down that if this was real, I wouldn’t be here.”

“Emily must have called you.” 

“We both know that she didn’t Spencer. Think about it. Really think about it.” 

“Think about what?” 

“You still don’t get it do you?” 

“Get what? I don’t understand. Y/N please tell me what’s going on.” 

“You have to figure it out for yourself. I’m only a figment of your drug-addled brain.” 

“Please Y/N, tell me what’s going on. I’m so confused.” 

“You’ll figure it out. You’re a genius after all.” 

“Please Y/N, don’t go! I miss you! Please don’t leave me again!” 

“Close your eyes and rest. It will make more sense in the morning.” 

How did he not realise sooner? 

He felt Emily’s hand on top of his and it felt like it was burning him. His flesh felt as though it was seering off beneath her touch and he wanted her to stop. 

“Spence? Can you say something? Or at the very least, can you look at me?” She spoke softly. 

Spencer wanted to scream at her. He wanted to scream at her and Luke and the rest of his old team. He wanted to scream at Maggie and Nick and Cedric and Doctor Sanderson. He wanted to scream at Cat for having him arrested and causing him to relapse which had led him here in the first place. 

You were the only good memory he’d had and now it was destroyed. None of it was real. Everything he’d been clinging to was a lie. 

“Spence?” She squeezed his hand and he suddenly snatched it out from under hers. 

He tore his eyes off the wall and when he looked at her, his tears overflowed and started falling silently down his cheeks. 

“It wasn’t real.” He croaked out. “It was all in my head. It was never real.” 

“I’m so sorry, Spencer. I didn’t know how to tell you. When you mentioned her when you woke up…I didn’t know how to tell you she doesn’t exist.” Emily chewed on her lip. 

“She does it exist. Technically.” He tried to ignore the tears streaming down his face. “I must have met her when I was high and…I guess I created a whole life around it. And now she’s at the institute too and I can’t stop thinking about her as the girl in my false memories.” 

“She’s…she’s real?” Emily stuttered. 

“Yeah. She’s a drug addict. Not an FBI Agent. Not my ex-girlfriend. Just a drug addict I probably screwed when I was high out of my mind.” He hung his head and like in the car, his hand shimmied up his sleeve and his fingers pressed against the vein at the crook of his arm. 

“You were on a lot of drugs for a long time, Spence. It was bound to cause some kind of psychological effects.” She went to put her hand on his again but Spencer suddenly pushed his chair back. 

The metal chair screeched across the floor and he jumped to his feet, ignoring the pain that it caused his leg to do so. 

“I created an entire relationship in my head, Emily! I have vivid memories of being with her, of the two of us hanging out with you guys at Rossi’s. I imagined a whole relationship with her, one that still feels so real even though I know it isn’t! My brain was the one thing I could always count on. And now that has failed me too. How the fuck can I remember things so well that never happened?” He raised his voice, startling Emily a little. 

“Spencer, I wish I knew what to say.” She sighed sadly. 

“Why don’t you just say what everyone is thinking, Emily?” He glared at her wildly but she frowned. 

“What do you mean?” 

He slammed his hands on the metal table, the noise echoed around the small room. 

“It’s my fault. It’s all my fucking fault. If I hadn’t started using again, if I hadn’t put myself into this position…” he trailed off, grinding his teeth. 

“No one thinks this is your fault, Spencer.” She shook her head. “Everything that happened to you…you reached your breaking point. That is not your fault. You were pushed to it.” 

His eyes turned black with anger and for a moment she thought that rage was directed at her. 

“You’re right.” He growled, throwing his hands up in the air. “This is her fault. That fucking bitch! It’s all her fault!” 

“H-her?” Emily swallowed.

“Cat fucking Adam’s! She did this to me! She had me arrested which led to me relapsing. And relapsing led me to create these false memories with Y/N. She’s taken everything from me! Piece by piece she has slowly destroyed my life!” He was really yelling, spital flying from his mouth like a wild animal while the vein in his forehead pulsed aggressively. 

“Spencer,” Emily pushed her chair back and came closer to him, tentatively. “You need to calm down. I don’t think seeing Cat right now is a good idea for anyone. She’ll be dead soon and you won’t have to worry about her anymore.” 

“No, I have to see her.” He spat. “She is not going to her grave before she answers to what she’s done.”

“I really don’t think-“

“Screw what you think!” He screamed at her. “Screw you and screw the team. I don’t work for you Emily, you can’t tell me what to do anymore.” 

Emily took a breath, calming herself before she said something she’d inevitably regret. 

“Your memories might not be real but you said yourself that Y/N is. You should focus on that. She’s real and you have a chance to make real memories with her.” Emily tried to calm him to no avail. 

“The memories of her were the only thing I had left to cling to Emily! They were the only thing keeping me even remotely sane!” 

“Spencer, listen to me.” She grabbed him by the shoulders and he tried to break free of the hold but she held tight, forcing him to look at her. “You were going to find out eventually. And now you know and you have to deal with it. Being angry at Cat isn’t going to change anything. Being mad at her won’t make things different. What’s done is done and now you need to decide how you’re going to get through it. But marching in there and screaming at Cat is not going to change what’s already happened.” 

He stood still for a moment, staring at Emily and she had no idea what he was thinking. She hoped he would see sense, walk away and forget all about Cat Adam’s and the things she’d put him through. She hoped he was smart enough to know that whatever he hoped to achieve in that room would not come to fruition. She hoped he knew better, once he would have, but she wasn’t sure anymore. Spencer hadn’t been the man she’d known for a long time. 

He stepped back from her hold and shook his head, turning away from her and heading to the door. 

“I’m doing this. I have to see her.” He reached for the door handle as Emily reached for his arm but he shook her off. 

He threw the door open and practically crashed straight into Luke who was on the other side. Spencer briefly snarled at the other man before pushing past him. 

“And don’t you dare follow me. This is between me and her. Don’t get involved.” He spat harshly over his shoulder as he stormed down the hall towards the interrogation room that held his nemesis. 

He ignored the pain spreading through his leg at the effort of walking at this speed. It didn’t matter. He had bigger fish to fry. 

Emily and Luke exchanged a defeated glance, there were no words they could say that would change Spencer’s mind and they’d probably only find themselves on the receiving end of his anger if they tried. They watched him go, and they both just hoped he wouldn’t kill Cat Adam’s. 

***

Without preparing himself or even taking a second to calm himself, Spencer threw open the door of the interrogation room, storming towards the table in the centre of the room. 

Cat gave him that wicked smile that haunted his dreams as he pulled back the chair heavily and sat down in it. 

“Spencie,” she grinned at him. “I missed you.” 

“Cut the shit.” He shook his head. “I’m not here for your games.”

“But you love my games.” She leant her elbows on the table, threaded her fingers together creating a little bridge and leant on her chin on them. 

“Your games got me arrested. Your games forced me back on drugs.” He snarled. 

“Oh yes I heard about that.” She giggled and if he didn’t know any better he wouldn’t think her to be a threat. 

“Still keeping tabs on me?” 

“Of course. I have to make sure your life sucks as much as mine does.” She smiled so sweetly at him as though her words weren’t laced with poison. “How does a psychiatric facility compare to prison?” 

“You destroyed my fucking life.” He slammed his hands on the table and he saw her flinch. “You destroyed my life for what? Some sick fucking game? Because I arrested you first? You deserved to be in prison. I didn’t.” 

“Well now, that’s just a matter of opinion.” She sat back in her chair. “You said yourself you enjoyed hurting those men. And given half the chance, you would have killed me the last time you saw me. I think you know what kind of monster you are. You just hate that I bring it out of you.” 

“I’m nothing like you.” He shook his head. 

“You’re everything like me, Spencie. You told me, remember? You told me we were the same and that we were perfect for each other.” She leant forward and reached to cup his jaw. “Let me show you how perfect we really are for each other.” 

For a moment he let her hold his face in such an eerily delicate way it momentarily made him forget how much he despised her. But he soon snapped himself out of it, grabbing her roughly by the wrist and pulling her hand off his jaw. 

“Don’t touch me.” He spat, dropping her arm to the table. 

“Don’t pretend you haven’t thought of my hands all over you.” She smirked. 

He knew he had to change tact. He was losing his grip on the situation. He took a breath and focused himself. 

“What happened to your baby?” His words caused a frown to appear on her features at the sudden change of subject. 

“What?” 

“Last time I saw you, you were pregnant with another man’s baby you claimed to be mine. What happened to it?” He folded his arms over his chest. 

“I don’t want to talk about that.” She averted her gaze from his. 

“Did you miscarry? Or was the baby put into the system?” 

“I said I don’t want to talk about that.” She growled. “If it was your baby I’d talk about it. It should have been your baby. I wish it was your baby.” 

“You disgust me.” He rolled his eyes rather than confessing that he’d wished the same. 

He hoped she wouldn’t see right through him the way she usually did. She raised an eyebrow at him, crossing one leg over the other as she inspected him. 

“If I disgust you so much,” she tilted her head to the side. “Why are you here?” 

That was a good question, one he still didn’t have an answer to. 

“To show you that you didn’t completely destroy me. I’m still breathing. I’m still alive. I’m going to beat my addiction and I’ve got the rest of my life ahead of me. You don’t get to win this one, Cat.” He felt sweat gathering at his temples. 

The urge to use again was extremely high. 

“Oh Spencie!” She cackled dramatically. “I’ve already won.” 

“How so?” He desperately fought to keep his expression neutral. 

“Look at you.” She scoffed. “You’re a mess. I took everything from you. Your job. Your sobriety. Your sanity.” 

The look in her eyes told him she knew the full extent of it, but how could she? How could she know about you? There was no feasible way for her to know and Spencer knew that. 

“You did take everything from me.” He suddenly confessed, standing up and starting pacing the small room. Cat watched his limp curiously. “You even took the one good thing I thought I had left. The one good thing I had left in my life and you took that too. You took everything from me.” 

“You flatter me, Spencie.” She smirked at his admittance. 

He moved closer to the table again and without sitting down, leant on it with his palms. 

“You took everything.” He repeated, staring her right in the eyes. “But I’m still alive. And that’s more than will be able to be said for you soon. You lose, Cat. The game is over.” 

Cat’s smile faltered and he saw something flicker on her eyes. Then she leant closer to him, fixing her smile and reaching her hand closer to him. 

“I’ll be dead but I’ll still live on forever up here.” She tapped the side of Spencer’s head. 

He snarled at her and stood up straight so she couldn’t reach him. 

“My only regret is that it wasn’t me who got to end your life.” He spat. “I should have been the one to kill you. Not the state.” 

“There’s still time.” She smiled smugly. 

He clenched and unclenched his fists at his sides. He would love nothing more than her life to end at his hands. But he couldn’t. He’d already lost so much because of her. He wasn’t letting her have this too. 

“I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction.” He spat. “I’m done here. We’re done.” 

He turned on his heels and limped towards the door. Cat watched him go as she fished for something in the pocket of her jumpsuit. As he reached the door, he was haltered by her voice. 

“But I have something you want, Spencie.” She spoke in that sickly sweet tone that sent a shiver down his spine. 

He grinded his teeth and took a deep breath. 

“You have nothing that I want, Cat.” He stayed facing the door, afraid if he looked at her he’d be sucked back in again. 

“Oh really?” She rolled the item around in her palm. “Not even this?” 

Spencer tried his hardest not to turn around, he really did. But against his better judgement, he slowly turned back to her. She had a proud look on her features as she held her hand open showcasing the item in her palm. 

Spencer’s blood froze in his veins as he stared it, a flashing beacon in her hand waiting for him. She was waving a red flag at a bull. 

“Well? Don’t pretend you don’t want it.” She chuckled, proffering her hand across the table. 

He felt his heart start to race and he swore his vein on his left arm pulsated as he stared at the small glass bottle. The small, seemingly innocuous item that was the one thing Cat could tempt him with. 

His mouth went dry and his right hand subconsciously moved to grip at the crook of his left arm while he continued to stare at the small vial of dilaudid in Cat Adam’s hand. 

“W-where did you g-get that?” He swallowed, his voice hoarse. 

“I still have friends in high places.” She shrugged. 

“I d-don’t want it.” He refused to move, couldn’t come any closer for fear he would take it from her. 

“You might not want it. But you need it.” She held it up, shaking it between her fingers. 

“W-why?” He croaked. “Why are you doing this?” 

“Because I never lose, Spencie.” She grinned at him, reaching her free hand into her pocket. “Can’t forget this!” 

She pulled out a needle still in its packaging and placed both items on the metal table. Spencer felt his neck start to sweat and his hands were shaking. Five weeks he’d been sober. And for most of those five weeks he’d dreamed of someone handing him a vial of his old vice. 

He squeezed his arm, pressing against his vein as if it would help stem the cravings that snuck back up on him. 

“Please,” he shook his head. “P-please put it away.” 

“Why would I do that? It’s a gift, silly. My parting gift to you before I exit this plane of existence.” She looked between him and the drugs. “Don’t pretend you’re going to walk out of here without taking it. You and I both know you aren’t strong enough.” 

He felt tears gather behind his eyes and he frantically blinked them away. He felt like he was back in that graveyard kneeling over Tobias’ dead body while he contemplated taking the drugs from his tormentor. 

That decision had been an easy one. Pocketing those vials of dilaudid had been one of the simplest decisions of his life. And ultimately, this was much the same. Because Cat was right, he wasn’t strong enough to walk away without the drugs. He hadn’t been sober long enough to feel like he didn’t need them anymore. One more hit would solve so many of his problems. 

He knew Emily and Luke weren’t out there watching because if they were, one of them would have burst in here by now and dragged him away from temptation. He could take the drugs and they’d be none the wiser. He could take them back to PIW and as soon as he was alone he could shoot up. And the promise of the euphoria that came with the dilaudid forced him closer to the table without really meaning to. 

“Are you really so sick you have to resort to this just to win a fucked up game?” His voice cracked as he spoke, not able to muster his earlier bravado. 

“You started this game when you lied to me about finding my father. This is on you. You started it, Spencer, I’m just ending it.” She pushed the dilaudid and the needle further over the table towards him. 

“You’ll be dead. You won’t even know if I take it or not.” 

At that, Cat started to cackle again, holding her stomach as she did so. 

“Oh Spencie, you will take it. You’re a drug addict, of course you’ll take it.” 

“Recovering drug addict.” He corrected her. 

“Oh so that makes me a recovering murderer? Grow up, Spencer. Once an addict, always an addict. Who we are never really changes, you proved that by relapsing after all those years.” She folded her arms, signifying she had no intention of taking the drugs back. 

Spencer moved closer to the table and stared at the vial and the needle. He wanted her to be wrong. He needed her to be wrong. But he knew it was true, he knew no matter how many years he was sober he’d always be a drug addict the same way she’d always be a murderer. 

He knew he could stare at that vial all day but the outcome would always be the same. He’d known the minute he saw it in her hand that he wasn’t leaving this room without those drugs. No matter how hard he tried to pretend otherwise. His fate was already sealed. He was a drug addict and his drug of choice was within arms reach. It was as simple as that. 

Wishing he were stronger, he reached for the vial and the needle and snatched them up in his hand before quickly stuffing them in his pants pocket. A devilish smile appeared on Cat’s face as she sat back in her chair and folded her arms in triumph. 

“It’s been really nice playing with you, Spencie.” She chuckled. 

“Enjoy hell you bitch.” He spat, turning as fast as his leg would allow and limping to the door. 

He threw it open and exited the small room, slamming the door behind him. He could still hear Cat laughing from the other side. He pushed his back against the closed door and put his head in his hands. 

The dilaudid felt like a led weight in his pocket, weighing him down as though his pants were full of rocks. He’d let her win. He’d taken the drugs like she knew he would. She knew he couldn’t resist them. And they both knew he was going to take them. He didn’t have the strength not to. She might be about to be put to death but she had still won. She’s beaten him once and for all. 

He tried to compose himself, anger and anticipation filling his body as he thought about the drugs burning a hole in his pocket. He just had to get back to the institute and he could finally have that sweet release he’d been craving for five long weeks. 

He eventually pulled himself together and found Luke and Emily waiting outside the prison. He didn’t even so much as look at Emily, let alone speak to her as motioned Luke to follow him. 

“Let’s go.” He spoke to Luke, heading down the path to the barb wire gate at the end. 

Luke shot Emily a small smile and a shrug before following the other man. They got in Luke’s car in silence and neither of them spoke for quite some time. Luke periodically glanced at Spencer who had his eyes trained out the passenger side window. After close to a half hour of driving in silence, Luke tried to engage him. 

“So, uh…how did it go?” He asked softly. 

“As well as could be expected.” Spencer replied without looking at him. 

“Right.” Luke nodded. “Do you uh…do you wanna talk about Y/N?” 

Spencer’s neck practically snapped with the speed in which he turned to face Luke. His eyes were nearly black as he stared at him. 

“What’s to talk about? I fucked up my brain so much with drugs that I genuinely believed I’d had a whole relationship with a woman. A woman who I thought was an FBI Agent but turned out to be an addict I’d met one time. I fell in love with memories created in my own head. What’s to talk about?” He huffed, turning his attention back out the window. 

“There’s still a chance. It’s not like she didn’t exist entirely. You can make those memories Spencer. But not if you let this thing with Cat destroy you.” 

Spencer caught the look Luke gave him out of the corner of his eye. If he wasn’t mistaken, he could have sworn Luke knew about the stash in his pocket. 

“Don’t let her have the final say.” Luke muttered, focusing back on the road. 

Somehow, Luke knew, Spencer was sure of it. He wasn’t sure why he was being so cryptic about it and not just coming out and saying it. But he was sure knew Luke about the drugs. 

Spencer decided not to say anything and continued to stare at the passing landscape. Neither of them said another word until Luke pulled up in the parking lot of PIW. 

He got out of the car and held his arms open for Spencer. Spencer hugged him briefly before stepping back and scuffing his toe on the concrete. 

“Thanks for today.” He croaked, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He ran his fingers over the cool vial, feeling the anticipation flooding his whole body. 

“Any time man. Just remember what I said.” Luke gave him a small smile. 

“I’ll see you later.” Spencer shrugged, turning away.

Luke watched him limp towards the building entrance. He was sure something had happened with Cat that Spencer would never tell him. He just hoped after the events of today, Spencer would be able to keep his head above water. He prayed this wasn’t his friend's undoing. 

***

It was late by the time Luke dropped him back off and he made his way to his room. The first thing he did was get out of his suit and slip into his pyjama pants and an oversized sweater. He sat on the edge of his bed with the vial and needle and his hand. 

It would be so easy to take it. It would be so easy to shoot up and let his high consume, maybe even kill him. He even got as far as to fill the needle with the drug before twirling it around in his fingers. 

He rolled up his sleeve and used his tie from earlier as a tourniquet. But every time he went to pierce his skin with the needle, Luke’s words permeated his brain. 

“There’s still a chance. It’s not like she didn’t exist entirely. You can make those memories Spencer. But not if you let this thing with Cat destroy you.” 

He wished Luke wasn’t right. He hated that he was. He did still have a chance. You were real even if his memories weren’t. He had a chance to make real memories with you. 

But not if he did this. If he took the drugs he was back at square one. You were already several months into your rehabilitation and would surely have no time for him if he gave into his demons so easily. 

It was killing him to be so close to getting his fix and not actually getting it. It would be the easiest goddamn thing in the world to inject the dilaudid into his veins and deal with the consequences later. But what if those consequences meant losing you for good? 

“There’s still a chance. It’s not like she didn’t exist entirely. You can make those memories Spencer. But not if you let this thing with Cat destroy you.” 

Tears rolled down Spencer's cheeks silently as he fought an internal battle with himself. He was almost proud of how much deliberation this was taking. A few weeks, maybe even a few days ago, he would have taken it without hesitation. 

He paced the small length of the room, needle in hand until his leg screamed for him to stop. But even then he kept pacing a little longer.

He went end to end playing through the events of the day on a loop. Then he started recollecting the last five weeks he’d spent at the institute, everything from waking up with Emily by his bedside, to finding you, meeting Taylor and George and everything in between. 

And once he’d exhausted that he started reliving the small snippets of the past two years he could remember, mostly through the memories his friends had shared. Once his leg was throbbing he sat back down on the bed and stared at the needle once more. 

He spent so long looking at it his eyes started to grow heavy. Maybe things would make more sense after he got some sleep. Maybe he’d wake up in the morning with no reluctance and inject the drugs straight into his vein without a second thought. 

Leaving the tie around his arm, too drained to remove it, he fell back to the bed, tucking the needle and vial and under his pillow. 

And despite all the things playing on his mind, Spencer fell almost immediately into a deep sleep. 

@andiebeaword @muffin-cup @measure-in-pain @dreatine @matthew-gray-gubler-lover @justreadingficsdontmindme @spencer-reid-wonderland @thebloomingeagle @tiredmilky @thatsonezesty13 @1mechanicalalligator @elle-28 @academiareid

[anonymousewrites]

One Hell of a Love (Book 1.5) Chapter Thirteen

Sebastian Michaelis x Demon! Reader

Chapter Thirteen: One Hell of an Instrument

Summary: The Phantomhive household goes to the Trancy Halloween Celebration, and the Trancies plot their downfall.

Mouse Note: Time to catch Sebastian simping. Oh and of course I’m about to simp over MC, too. Comment what you think!

            “The Trancys are plotting something,” said (Y/N) as they and Sebastian loaded the carriage to head off.

            “Indeed,” said Sebastian. “We must both be wary. Every servant in that mansion is a demon. If it comes to a fight, it will be two versus five.”

            (Y/N) cocked their head. “I thought we were unusual in working together.”

            “The triplets seem loyal in some way to Hannah, the maid,” said Sebastian. His gaze darkened. “But I am unsure why she remains in the mansion. She is clearly powerful but bows readily to the Lord of the household.”

            “Whatever is going on there, I don’t like it. And that’s coming from a demon,” said (Y/N). “I’ll remain with the servants and anyone else we know at the ball to ensure nothing happens to them if you and Ciel are called away.”

            Sebastian nodded. “Good.”

            (Y/N) picked up a box and placed it in the carriage. “That’s the last of the costumes for Finnian, Baldroy, Mey-Rin, and myself. The Young Master’s is in a separate trunk.”

            Sebastian smirked. “They convinced you to wear a costume.”

            (Y/N)’s nose twitched. “They’re not afraid to approach me. You scare them more. Fortunately, I avoided doing a group costume with them. Unfortunately, I’m dressing as a vampire.”

            Sebastian tsked. “One of that kind? A true step down for a demon.”

            “I still wear black, at least,” said (Y/N). They smirked. “And the outfit…Well, it is fit for a demon, so I have nothing to complain about.”

            Sebastian sincerely hoped that he got to see them in it. But he absolutely didn’t want Claude to look at them.

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            “Alois Trancy,” said Ciel as the carriage rolled through the forest. “You said the late Earl Trancy died three years ago, didn’t you?”

            “Yes,” said Sebastian.

            “Three years ago…” Ciel remembered the tragedy of his own life that occurred three years ago. He pushed those thoughts aside and continued, “Alois was kidnapped when he was little and went missing for a long time, but then he came back, shortly before his father died, bringing with him a mysterious butler. Right?”

            “Correct,” said (Y/N).

            “I feel I have heard this story before somewhere,” said Sebastian.

            Ciel turned away. “It happens often.”

            The carriage came to a stop, and Sebastian stepped down. He guided (Y/N) down next as a proper butler and then bowed as Ciel stepped to the ground.

            “We’re going in through the back door,” said Baldroy, turning the carriage to park it.

            “See you later, Young Master,” said Mey-Rin cheerfully.

            “You can look forward to seeing our costumes!” said Finny.

            Sebastian stepped towards the door and raised a hand to knock. The door opened before he touched it. Claude stood in the doorway. His eyes slid off (Y/N) and Ciel.

            “You must be Earl Ciel Phantomhive,” said Claude. He bowed slightly. “We have been awaiting you. I am the butler of this house. My name is Claude Faustus.” He stepped to the side and opened the door wider. “Please enter.”

            Sebastian paused and looked up before entering. Ciel glanced at him. “What is it?”

            Claude followed Sebastian’s gaze. “Ah, yes.” There was a spiderweb in the corner. “Spiders form part of the Trancy family crest, so it is our custom not to kill them.”

            “Indeed. If you try to brush them off, they will just cling to you and never let go,” said Sebastian. His words were courteous but sharp.

            Claude didn’t have an answer. “Please.” He bowed to allow them to enter once more.

            Ciel, (Y/N), and Sebastian walked in. Ciel paused as he entered the foyer, his vision swimming as he took in the room that had the slightest air of familiarity. He stumbled back, and Sebastian steadied him.

            “Is something wrong, Young Master?” said Sebastian. He and (Y/N) exchanged a glance. It was a risk being here.

            “Not at all.” Ciel stood straight, furrowing his brow. He glanced at Claude. “Can my butler and maid come with me?”

            “That would be fine,” said Claude.

            “Let’s go,” said Ciel.

            “Very well,” said Sebastian.

            “Yes, my Lord,” said (Y/N).

            “I am sorry.” Claude spoke before they left. “Unfortunately, my Master is away on business. He will be back for the costume ball.”

            “I see,” said Ciel.

            “I have prepared tea for you in the drawing room,” said Claude. He bowed his head. “Everyone else is already there.”

            “Everyone else?” wondered Ciel as Sebastian opened the door to the drawing room.

            “Ciel!” Elizabeth ran towards him and hugged him eagerly.

            “Elizabeth!” exclaimed Ciel in surprise.

            “Call me Lizzy!” said Elizabeth insistently.

            “Aren’t you late, Earl?” said Lau, relaxing on a divan with Ran-Mao. (Sebastian and (Y/N) had thoroughly vetted him and decided he was back on good behavior, so that plus his usefulness for information allowed him back into Ciel’s life).

            “Lau?” Ciel hadn’t expected him, either. “Were you all invited, too? That means…” He looked around in confusion.

            “What?” asked Elizabeth.

            “I thought Madame Red would be here, too,” said Ciel. “She’s the kind of person that’d do anything to participate in such an event.”

            Everyone shifted uncomfortably. Sebastian and (Y/N) had informed them of Ciel’s “accident” during the fires of London, so nobody would tell him anything upsetting, but they all knew the truth of Madame Red being dead.

            “Ciel!” Soma jumped at the Earl and hugged him, successfully changing the subject from Madame Red, but also further confusing Ciel since he didn’t remember meeting Soma. “Ciel! Ciel!” Tears streamed down Soma’s cheeks.

            “Who are you? Let go!” said Ciel.

            “Who am I? So you don’t…!” Soma’s tears continued.

            “I told you to let go!” said Ciel.

            “Is he by any chance…?” whispered Elizabeth.

            “Yes. Prince Soma,” informed Sebastian quietly.

            “But this way, Ciel will figure everything out!” said Elizabeth worriedly.

            “Do not worry. Agni, the Prince’s khansama, is always with him and won’t allow things to go wrong,” said (Y/N). They smiled. “He is quite capable, I assure you, my Lady.”

            Sebastian was torn between his respect for Agni and his dislike for the obvious fact that Agni was (Y/N)’s favorite human since he was the most interesting. He didn’t like people gaining their affection in any way, not when he hadn’t secured their affections himself. That being said, Sebastian understood their respect for Agni. After all, all three were friends.

            “No, please don’t, Prince Soma,” said Agni, pulling Soma off of Ciel.

            “No! Ciel, Ciel!” Soma protested.

            “What’s with him?” muttered Ciel.

            Agni glanced at Sebastian, who smiled in acknowledgement of his human friend. Agni returned the smile, and (Y/N) added one.

            “I am sorry,” said Agni, bowing to Ciel. “He is the twenty-sixth son of the King of Bengal, Prince Soma Asman Kadar.”

            “Why does the Prince cry when he looks at me?” said Ciel.

            “Ciel!” Soma moved for Ciel again, but Agni intercepted him. “Even though we have finally met…”

            “He is moved to be meeting the founder of the Funtom Company,” said Agni, capable as ever. “Toys made by the Funtom Company are very rare in our country.”

            “Our memories will never vanish!” cried Soma.

            “These toys remind the Prince of a friend,” said Agni.

            “No matter what happens, our friendship will—!”

            “He was a very important friend to the Prince,” said Agni. He was being worked to the bone. “Unfortunately…that friend…he…” Tears gathered in the edges of Agni’s eyes. “How tragic, Prince!”

            “Agni!” Soma and his khansama embraced.

            “I think they are beyond hope,” said Sebastian, distracting Ciel. “Let us retire to your room, Young Master. You have to get ready for the ball. Come.”

            They walked through the halls, guided by one of the triplets. Once inside the room, Ciel turned to his servants.

            “There is something going on here,” said Ciel. “I want more information on the Trancy family. Sebastian, look around for more information. Investigate thoroughly.”

            “Yes, my Lord,” said Sebastian.

            This was it. (Y/N) would watch over the ball, and Sebastian would handle anything happening behind the scenes.

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            (Y/N) hovered at the edges of the ball to keep an eye on the Trancy servants. Even if he was busy, Ciel was still Sebastian’s responsibility, so (Y/N) was on “people Ciel claims aren’t friends but would upset him if they were hurt” duty.

            They watched Finny, Baldroy, and Mey-Rin, dressed as the three Chinese monster musketeers, try to convince Ciel, a pirate, to join them as another character from the fable, but he wasn’t having it. Elizabeth also wanted him to stay with her since she was dressed as a princess (“Who runs away with a pirate prince” -Elizabeth, very excited). Lau and Ran-Mao were wearing more dramatic traditional Chinese outfits, which didn’t surprise (Y/N) since it crossed Lau’s desire to show off with his laziness.

            (Y/N) stood in their vampire costume. They wore a black dress with a slit up the leg, and they had skin-colored gloves with black beadwork overtop to create a “magic” effect. Finally, they had the staple red lip and their canines sharply extended to give the vampiric effect. At least if they had to dress up as such a creature they looked good. (Y/N) wouldn’t stand to look like a fool.

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            “What a splendid room,” said Sebastian, turning from the bedside table he’d been looking through as Claude entered. “The bed making, the way it is cleaned, even the table’s interior; all perfect. I can feel your profound consideration for the person who will use this room. I have learned so much.” His words were a front of pleasantry as the other demon watched him.

            “Do not bother,” said Claude. “You are so devoted to your duty that you went as far as imitating a sneaky thief. I am the one impressed.”

            Sebastian smirked. “Thank you kindly.” He walked to the door and paused behind Claude. His gaze darkened. “I will not hand the Young Master over to you because I am one hell of a butler; the young master’s butler.”

            “I will obey my Master’s orders unconditionally. I am also one hell of a butler,” said Claude with equal seriousness. His eyes met Sebastian’s. “Just as (Y/N) is one hell of a maid.”

            “(Y/N) is a Phantomhive servant. Of course they are of the highest caliber, even amongst our kind.” He didn’t like Claude bringing them up. “You should know they are capable of handling anything the Trancy household attempts.” Sebastian’s eyes narrowed. “Just as I am. Whatever…interest you have in them…I’d advise you to find other diversions.” The warning was clear: Sebastian may not know what Claude wanted with (Y/N), but he would step in if necessary. He wouldn’t give up Ciel or (Y/N).

            “I have no need for diversions. What else could be more interesting?” Claude’s threat was equally clear: he designs against (Y/N) weren’t to be dissuaded so simply.

            Sebastian didn’t dignify him with an answer and brushed out of the room to continue his investigations. However, he knew that the Trancy manor wanted something with Ciel and Claude wanted something with (Y/N). He would remain on guard.

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            (Y/N) pulled Finny, Baldroy, and Mey-Rin to the side after they nearly destroyed the ballroom attempting to “help” the triplets. Of course, they were demons while the troublesome trio were humans, so the triplets were more capable. Since they weren’t causing an issue for (Y/N) yet, they let them work.

            They straightened and scanned the room again. (Y/N)’s eyes narrowed. Ciel was gone. Whether he was taken or left on his own accord, something was about to happen. They faced the Trancy servants and narrowed their eyes. Very well. Sebastian could handle Ciel. (Y/N) would handle the ballroom and whatever the Trancys had planned.

            The doors of the ballroom opened, and Hannah, dressed in a black dress designed to show off her assets and direct all eyes to her, pushed something covered by a red cloth in. The guests paused and whispered in wonder as she stopped in the center of the room.

            (Y/N) narrowed their eyes. They could sense malevolent energy radiating from both the demoness and the object beneath the cloth. Hannah pulled the cloth away with a flourish to reveal a seat and a strange instrument in black with white bones carved in.

            “What’s that?” wondered Mey-Rin.

            “Maybe a musical instrument?” said Finny excitedly.

            Hannah opened the instrument to reveal violet and gold bowls that could be rotated. (Y/N) knew it on sight—a demon’s instrument. Hannah sat on the bench before the instrument and slowly licked her fingers to wet them to play. The men (and a number of women) blushed at the action. (Y/N) nearly rolled their eyes. It was textbook seduction, a basic technique for simple-minded humans (which were abundant in the room).

            Hannah pushed the pedal of the instrument, and the bowls began to turn. She put her hands out, and a haunting melody began to surround the audience as she played. The song swirled in (Y/N)’s heart, as deep and dark as their own non-soul. They could feel the black magic in the melody, pulling humans closer with a siren song.

            And then, the demonic instrument struck. The mortals grabbed their ears as the songs of hell pained them. They clutched their heads in agony as the melody swelled with power. (Y/N) and Hannah alone stood unaffected, demons among humans.

            “What’s going on with them?” asked Lau innocently.

            Ah, so there were some humans unaffected. (Y/N) nearly deadpanned when they saw Lau and Ran-Mao, wearing earplugs, looking around at the mortals cowering in pain. However, they refrained from deadpanning since it showed a solution to the issue—stop the humans from hearing. At least that didn’t seem to give any other harmful effects.

            The other humans, however, were going worse. They straightened as the music infected them. Wild grins split their features. Their eyes glowed violet. The humans circled Ciel’s friends, grabbing various items as weapons.

            “Agni, watch them!” warned (Y/N), knocking an attacker to the ground unconscious. “The instrument is controlling them!”

            “Understood!” said Agni. He unwrapped his Right Hand of Kali and swiftly hit the Phantomhive servant’s nerves, blocking their hearing and saving them from the demonic music. “They’re coming,” he warned them, tying Soma’s deerstalker around his ears to shield him.

            Ran-Mao swiftly kicked several approaching people away. (Y/N) pinched the nerves on Paula and Elizabeth’s neck to gently knock them unconscious to protect them from the battle and the effects of the music.

            “Agni, stop them by knocking them unconscious!” ordered Soma.

            “Jo ajna!” said Agni. Finny, Baldroy, and Mey-Rin obeyed the order as well.

            As people were knocked down, though, Hannah’s hypnotic hymn awoke them again, and they rejoined the fight. The music thrummed in their veins.

            “Damn it! There are too many of them!” said Soma.

            “I will handle it,” said (Y/N).

            They leapt over the attackers and grabbed the wine bottle and glasses. They would fight fire with fire or, in this case, music with music. With demonic precision and speed, (Y/N) set out the numerous glasses and poured various amounts of wine in, deep red. (Y/N) looked down at Hannah and smirked, pulling their gloves off. In a purposeful movement, they licked their fingers, taunting Hannah with how easy it was to replicate what she did. It was a prelude to (Y/N)’s music that would surpass Hannah’s.

            (Y/N)’s fingers smoothed the edges of the wine glasses, and a soft tone echoed through the room, threading its way into the demon instrument’s song. They let the note hold before playing to their full ability. They moved across the balcony overlooking the ballroom, each finger drawing new melodies from the wine glasses, weaving new harmonies into Hannah’s demonic song.

            The attacking humans froze and turned to listen to the combination of melodies new circling them. The Phantomhive servants and friends watched in pleased surprise as (Y/N) played the cups.

            “I suddenly feel calm…” sighed Finny.

            “It’s so relaxing,” said Mey-Rin appreciatively.

            “Amazing,” said Agni. “The melody performed by (Y/N) is overlapping with that woman’s music, modifying its timbre. It sounded so eerie and ominous, and now it is so gentle and full of affection.”

            The watchers gazed at Hannah and (Y/N) as they played with pure focus, music soaring to new heights of beauty, nearly angelic in quality. Even the newcomers in the ballroom paused. Ciel stood beside the group, finally having made it back to the ballroom after Alois revealed he had planted a threat. The Earl was satisfied that (Y/N) had already handled the situation.

            Sebastian gazed up at the cat demon, nothing less than enraptured by their grace, music, and appearance. Dear Satan, he had wanted to see their outfit after (Y/N) declared it fit for a demon, but they hadn’t imagined this.

            Sebastian found (Y/N) sinfully attractive no matter what they wore, but that dress was seduction incarnate. It was temptation sewn into a gown of desire and lust. The neckline and high slit tempted the eye, and the silk of the gown clung to (Y/N) in all the right ways. Lace trailed over their thigh, skin gleaming in the slit of the dress. Skin-colored gloves hung over the banister as they played the cups, but Sebastian could easily imagine how the black beading overtop the gloves must have gleamed like jewels of shadow on them. The only color on them was a blood red lip.

            Sebastian could imagine the imprint they would leave on his pale skin if those lips were to touch him. It was the same way he could imagine the softness of the gown as he pushed it up, slowly tracing down to their exposed thigh where he could slip his hand under—

            Sebastian let out a breath. (Y/N) was sin incarnate.

            The only thing that ruined the situation was the golden irises gazing gluttonously at (Y/N). Claude’s eyes were nothing short of predatory as they took in (Y/N)’s appearance and performance. Sebastian could see the hunger for them, as intense as a demon’s hunger for a pure soul, covetous and obsessive.

            Claude desired (Y/N).

            Sebastian’s eyes narrowed. He wouldn’t let Claude have them.

            So even as the rest of the audience clapped when the demonic instrument shattered and the performance ended, Sebastian remained somber. He barely managed to rally his attitude when (Y/N) leapt down beside Hannah and bowed with her to the watchers. Sebastian slowly clapped, keeping up appearances. At the back of his mind, the threat of Claude’s presence and designs for Ciel’s soul and (Y/N) remained.

            “Very well handled,” said Sebastian, managing to slide a smile onto his face as (Y/N) approached.

            “I told you I would handle the ballroom,” said (Y/N), smirking as they pulled on their gloves again.

            Sebastian attempted (and failed) to ignore how the shift in their hips as they stopped walking exposed their leg through the slit of their dress. It was not an appropriate thought for the moment, not when so many threats were around.

            “What was that instrument?” asked Ciel, and Sebastian was thankful for the change in focus from (Y/N).

            “An armonica,” said (Y/N).

            “It was popular in the eighteenth century. People likened it to the singing voice of an angel,” said Sebastian.

            “But it became known as the a ‘demon’s instrument’ because it confused the hearts of those possessed by its song,” explained (Y/N). “Thus it was forgotten.”

            “I reckon a demon’s instrument created by man was no match for you,” said Ciel.

            “Indeed. To our kind, the music is quite pleasant,” said (Y/N).

            “So, what was that chaos?” asked Soma.

            “Mere entertainment,” said the voice of Alois Trancy as the ballroom doors opened to reveal him. “Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize for being late.” He walked to the center of the ballroom. “I am Alois Trancy. I am pleased to make your acquaintance. I am glad to see you enjoyed the show in my absence.” Behind him, the triplets pulled the armonica away and helped guide Hannah out. “It was a beautiful performance,” he said, standing before (Y/N). “It seems you have great musical talent.”

            “Thank you, my Lord,” said (Y/N) politely. “I was simply doing my job.” They glanced at Claude, offput by the intensity of his gaze.

            “You have good servants, Earl Phantomhive,” said Alois.

            “I do,” said Ciel curtly.

            “Young Master.” Sebastian spoke, and his voice was light and amiable, his face smiling, but (Y/N) saw the darkness behind him. “I wish to speak to Mr. Claude for a while. Is that alright?”

            (Y/N) glanced at him. It seemed like a risk to face another demon purposefully, but they wouldn’t interrupt him. Sebastian wanted to figure out how to handle Ciel’s soul, and Claude clearly had information. Ciel’s soul was none of (Y/N)’s business.

            “Why don’t you go, Claude?” said Alois, grinning in amusement. His appearance suddenly switched, and he scowled. “You have ten minutes to settle the matter. If you can’t do it, I’ll punish you.”

            “Yes, Your Highness,” said Claude.

            “Get this over with quickly, understood?” ordered Ciel.

            “Yes, my Lord,” said Sebastian.

            (Y/N)’s hand brushed over Sebastian’s arm. Their gaze was clear: be careful. They didn’t want him getting hurt.

            Sebastian was touched, and he nodded. Any softness in his gaze from looking at (Y/N) melted away as his eyes turned towards Claude. It was time to deal with him.

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