#my nose cannot sit still for lack of a better way to describe it

[snzluv3r]

i feel like my allergies have gotten worse overnight again but it’s freezing outside so there’s no way anything new is suddenly in bloom to set me off but i’ve gone from my normal level of sniffly and sneezy to multiple full blown allergic fits in public a day seemingly overnight

[shallahi-and-snowflake]

Hybrid observations:

Physiological:

• I’ve been… more tired than I usually am. This is probably because of the Luxray Vision.

• The Luxray Vision—which I call Gleamsight—is… odd. When I see through walls, I can just about see the wall I’m looking through as a nearly-transparent version of how it actually looks. The closest comparison I can make to this special sight is Steelsight: the ability of someone who has undergone a specific Hemalurgic procedure to see metal and its lack instead of light and shadow.

• I am also able to see electricity using these new eyes. I call this ability Stormsight. The best I can describe it is as a halfway point between normal sight and Gleamsight, but it can be used in tandem with the latter.

• Normal sight is also different. I see much better in the dark now, but my eyes have a noticeable slit pupil in daylight, which is a little weird to get used to. There’s also a reflective membrane in there, as with most catmon species.

• My ears are more sensitive, and can swivel to locate the origin of a sound. This plays havoc with my noise sensitivities, unfortunately.

• I can… feel Vinette speaking to me with electricity. Somehow, these electric signals become words and phrases: electric-speech. An extrapolation from an electric-sense that has been less evident than most new senses.

• My nose is far more sensitive than it was before, and thus my sense of taste is also more sensitive.

• My teeth are sharp, electrically-conductive, and more carnivorous in nature, and my tongue has miniscule hooks like most catmon.

• My mane is big and fluffy and made of soft fur, as Luxray manes are. Vinette has decided to live in there!

• My claws are electrically-conductive and semi-retractable, and take the place of my nails.

• My tail is quite long, and is annoying when I want to sit in a chair with a solid back. It’s fun to mess with, though.

• My cat’s-whiskers are a major sensory apparatus for the electric-sense and electric-speech, and are also annoyingly sensitive to being touched.

Psychological:

• The “If I fits, I sits” denning instinct is quite present, but while I feel like sitting in a compact, defensible space helps with my anxiety, I cannot entirely tell if this instinct is also contributing to it whenever I am in a space it deems indefensible.

• The protective instinct is not as strong as it was, but is still present. As Jigen illustrated: “…instinct dictates small = needs (to be) protected = be the protector = drag off to a nest of pillows and blankets.”

• Scruffing me is both entirely possible and I react to it as expected. I go floomp. I’m going to be wearing more high-collared jackets because of this.

• Booping me acts like a “reset button,” much like in full Luxray. Please don’t do this unless I give you permission.

Other:

• The Type Effectivenesses and Weaknesses do come into play sometimes, like when being hit by a clod of mud. It hurt.

• I can use Moves, potentially more than four. This seems to be related to catchability in hybrids, but... doing research on this would likely be detrimental to my wellbeing. Though it might be necessary, considering the state of the patch. And if he’s found his way here… Then it is all too likely that they would be here too. Regardless of if they would recognise me or not, they would be an active threat.

[secondhand-trash]

Sun Shower

Kinktober 2020 — knotting

A/N: I need everyone to know that anything I write that has something to do with foxes is immediately self-indulgent, I cannot begin to describe you the joy I feel whenever I write about it

Pairing: kitsune!Miya Atsumu x f!reader

Description: Foxes, they mate for life.

Warning: feral foxtsumu, biting, oral (receiving), vaginal penetration, knotting, creampie, borderline cumflation but just putting it here to be safe

Word count: 4551 

(more of the modern magic au here)

-

The sound of sizzling filled the small apartment you called home, the weak venting system of the old complex far too incompetent to truly stop the blended smell of oil from spreading everywhere.

You were laying on your couch that you bought from a second hand store when you moved in, one that could barely fit in the two of you if you sit any less properly. Atsumu had claimed that it would be alright, saying with his loopy accent that he could just turn back into a fox when you cuddle to save space. That, on its own was far too tempting of an offer to give up and so you used the money that you had saved from buying the couch that was technically a love seat to get high quality tuna sashimi to celebrate your first night in your new home.

It was a lie, he never did willingly turn into the cuddly fox like he said he would when you tried to get him to scooch over because his much larger frame was squishing against you, only pulling you above him in a position that defied human anatomy before dozing off to his nap again.

“You should know that foxes are deceitful creatures,” he mumbled in his sleep when you smacked his arm for him to loosen up his grip, “should have known better...”

Deceitful creatures indeed, who were infamous in folklores for casting illusions on innocent humans only to run away leaving nothing but echoes of laughter once their tricks were see through. Sometimes you would walk up to him and poke his chubby cheeks out of nowhere, replying with a smirk that you were checking if he would eventually show his true form when he winced.

You wondered if he had pulled any tricks to get you to be with him. You fell for him little by little with harmless bickering and occasional moments of sudden charm that had your heart beating faster. Even though you were groaning inwardly that you couldn’t believe you were swooning for Miya fucking Atsumu of all people when he was just deliberately pissing you off with his grinning face just moments earlier. But before you knew it, you had already gotten used to making space for him and his flicking tail that always accidentally hit you when he turned around.

You couldn’t say you were surprised when he brought you to the neighbourhood Inari temple that day, pulling you close to him by your wrist and confessed to you in a voice that he thought was incredibly swoon-worthy. You rolled your eyes when he tilted his head at you with a smirk that seemed out of place for what he just said, mostly because you could not believe this really was the guy you stayed up at night thinking about. 

You could never forget how almost immediately after you returned his feelings. a droplet of water fell from the sky. You gasped when you felt the rain soaking into your shirt but was far too mesmerised by the way sun filtered through the rain and made it looks like threads of gold and silver appearing in the middle of a sunny day. Atsumu looked up at the sky and laughed, opening his palm to catch the rain while his other hand held you close to him.

“They say sun showers are the signal that the band to welcome the fox bride has set off,” he said, golden eyes glimmering brighter than the sun as he leaned down. His breath was warm against your lips when he spoke again before closing the gap, “the gods must be sending a message.”

Much later into your relationship after his perfect confession, you would learn that he seemed to be very friendly with the god that resided in the exact same temple he brought you to. If the god seemed to be casually good friends with your lover, who was to say that the “message from the gods” was not deliberately planned?

But trick or not, you could not forget the way he smiled when you told him that you also liked him with a grumble. Not one of his usual lop-sided grins or mocking lift of his lips, a real smile, the kind where his mouth could not be wider and he had to force them shut so he wouldn’t be showing his teeth. Nor could you forget the feeling of his tail that appeared out of nowhere curling over your leg when he held you close, the soft fuzz of his fur sending tingles all over your skin as if the feeling of his lips on yours was not enough to have you going haywire. 

You could not say it was a scam when you fell for it willingly, that was what you believed. 

Right now, the cunning fox was standing in front of the stove with one hand on his waist, his tail swaying side to side as he whistled a tune you had never heard of before. Sometimes, when you blinked, you would see the shadow of what seemed to be more tails swooshing around only for it to return to just that one brush when you focused again. 

The number of tails a fox had was a sign of status and power, he had told you one time while he was forcing you to give him scratches with his head on your lap. The dart of red at the outer corner of his eyes furrowed when he scrunched his face up in comfort, whimpering in content as he moved his head around to make you scratch down on the right spot.

More often than so, his antics would make you forget that beyond grinning faces and smooth words, he was indeed a powerful youkai much unlike yourself. Until he would crouch down in front of you after an argument, turning leaves into all sorts of strange objects just to make you laugh even though you were determined to give him the cold shoulder. The soft glow on his skin when he curled up next to you on the bed after just coming down from his high making you admit that he did look whimsical at times.

Some foxes were the gods’ messengers, even though the same fox that might have been worshipped centuries ago was here singing off tune in your kitchen while cooking dinner.

Calling it “off tune” was a bit of a merciful statement, you sighed and stared at the ceiling as his singing got louder and louder. Standing up, you made sure your steps were light enough that even his superb hearing would not catch onto as you slowly made way to the kitchen. His tail was swaying like a gigantic paintbrush, and you held your hands out to focus on your target.

“Heh??????”

The chopsticks he was holding in hand dropped onto the frying pan with a clink as he felt the sudden grip on his tail. You could feel his fur standing up like a pompom under your hand, your lips curling up at his reaction as you continued to rub your face against the soft fleece.

“What, what, what are you doing?” he stuttered, his nostrils flailing when he felt a very untimely wave of heat rising in his core. Shivers run down his spine as you handsily toy with his tail, your nails scratching lightly at his skin beneath the coat as you ran your hands up and down.

“Nothing, just checking on your progress.”

Atsumu gulped at how nonchalant you sounded, your hands not once stopping. If you had peeled your eyes away from the floof that had taken up all your attention, you would see that his ears were twitching uncomfortably on his head. His shoulders tensed as he bit his lips, focusing on anything but how he could feel himself popping a boner if you don’t stop it with your hands anytime sooner.

His breathing halted to a paused when you put your chin on his shoulder, your hands still around his tail as you pressed up against his back. He could feel the softness of your chest through your thin shirt and it was not helping with how hypersensitive he was. 

“The patty is starting to burn.”

“Huh?” he let out an incomprehensive string of curses when you let go of him with a light shove, his hands flailing to save the poor piece of meat that was crisping up under his lack of attention earlier.

He huffed, wincing at how long it would take him to get the burnt bits off the perfectly fine pan while thinking that he was definitely going to let his frustration be known later.

-

Atsumu leaped on you the moment you were about to pull your phone out to do some scrolling before bed.

“Tsumu, what is it?” you asked, letting your phone slide out of your palm as you stared flatly at the man that was pinning you down. He was smiling, like the scheming foxes straight out of a fable as he looked down at you. His pupils were squeezed into two thin lines, slicing his golden eyes into two halves. You could see the pattern like amber as he stared you down, the dart of black pulsating as he exhaled through his nose.

“You knew what you were doing.”

“Know what?” you asked again, this time slightly more amused than the last when the answer you were seeking for slowly appeared in your head. His ears were standing up on his head, the thin strand of fur at the very tip flicking as it twitched. His tail was swaying between his legs that trapped you under him, his position much like a predator that was ready to feast on his prey.

The chase was part of the fun too.

“You were railing me up,” each word fell off his lips with a short pause in between, his tone a special kind of sultry as he exaggerated the slight raise of his voice after the sentence.

Still laying flat with your face right below his, you glanced down at where a slight tent was poking against the material of his sweats.

Horny bastard.

“How did I rail you up?”

He snorted in bafflement, his head tilting like he could not believe what you just said as the wagging of his tail got wilder. “You know that my- hmph!”

You bite your lips to stop the chuckle from slipping past when he let out a choked whine the moment you hooked on leg over his waist and brushed the heel of your feet along his tail. 

“Like this?” you said, widening your eyes to forge innocence when you could physically felt the fur on his tail standing up at the stimulation. His face was contorted, the nonchalant smile on his face replaced by a scrawl. You would not mistake the grumble from the back of his throat when your hand reached up to rub his pointy ears between your fingers, scratching your nails down on the soft fleece at the bottom as your feet not once stopped.

He glared at you, his eyebrows locking together in place when he felt the dull ache in his groins growing. His face was on fire, a flush dusting at the top of his cheek and threatening to spread everywhere else too. 

“Or this?”

You were grinning ear to ear when you press your pelvis up against him with the help of your leg around his waist. What was only a small tent before was now a full on bulge and his tail stiffen under your foot at the pressure. His arms that were at both sides of your head was shuddering, his muscles flexing as you continued to blatantly feel him up.

One press of your heel on the base of his tail where the fur met with his hips was what made him snap. The animalistic growl that rumbled out from the back of his throat shaken you to the core when he latched on you, pinning you down by the shoulder with one hand while the other gripped onto your thigh that was still at the side of his waist. His lips were messy on you, forcing your mouth open with a bite on your bottom lip before his tongue dominated your senses. Muffled moans and breathy groans slipped out between heated kisses, his hand trailing down and groping anything he could get his hands on when you melted under his force and let him take the lead as he pleased.

You let out a breathy sigh when he released your lips and proceed down your neck, leaving trails of saliva as he went with the bites and sucks he left. His canines brushing against the sensitive skin had you whimpering, giving him the perfect opportunity to bite down. You yelped at the pain, your hand shooting up to find leverage in his hair as he licked at the sore spot he just clamped down on. The warmth of his spit left your skin tingling, the mark of his teeth still apparent to your senses with the dull ache that remained. 

His hands clawed impatiently at the thin shirt that clad your body, slipping underneath immediately when you scurried to peel it off of you with a slight arch of your back in the brief removal of his weight on you. You arched against him when he took your nipple in his lips, licking and sucking on the sensitive bud that sent you into an overdrive of pain and pleasure. You moaned when you felt his bared teeth brushing against the perky tip, the air of the room feeling exceptionally chilly with the slight sheen that was left on your skin. His fingers replaced his lips when he moved to the other side, his hand kneading and fondling roughly with your breast while his tongue swirled around the other bud.

His hips were held up as he lost himself in the want to feel more, taste more of you. Out of the corner of your eyes that was threatening to shut tight in reflex, the vigorous flick of his tail was all you can see between your lashes. He looked like a wild animal waiting to pounce on his defenseless catch, the pointy tips of his nails hooking onto the band of your shorts before yanking down with a forceful pull. You arched yourself off the mattress while his lips trailed down from the valley of your breast to the center of your stomach. Nothing could stop you from whining out loud when he shamelessly shoved his nose against the thin cotton of your panties where a damped spot was starting to form, the loud inhale making you squirm underneath him and wanting to push him away in embarrassment.

“Tsumu, don’t-”

Your breath hitched when he cut you off with a snap of his head upwards at glare at you. The low growl that was gritted out from his bearing teeth had your knees weak, the sharp tip of his canines on show as he warned you from stopping him. The look in his eyes was dangerous, like he was about to tear you apart and it was shameful how it made your cunt clench around nothing.

You could still hear the purr from his throat when he dipped his head back down, his tongue poking out to lick a stripe up the crotch of your panties. He had your knees hooked on his shoulder, holding you in place as his tongue mapped out the print of your folds and making you threw your head back against the pillow. You bucked your hips forward, urging him to give you more and his ears twitched at your antics.

One finger hooked under the strip of fabric and you hissed when he shoved it to the side, revealing your pussy that was already coated with a thin shine. He did not waste a moment before latching onto your folds, his tongue that had always been anything but well-behaved parting your pussy and delving in. He groaned at the taste of your arousal, his tail tugging neatly to the side as he dug his fingers into the soft flesh of your thighs and pushing them back further. 

He was lapping at you like he had been starved and you were the first meal he had, salvaging every inch of you as far as his tongue could reach and drowning in your scent. His hips were humping against the mattress, trying to relieve some of the ache in his pants that was fueled by the feeling of your skin right under his hands. Your voice came out as broken moans and pants as his tongue plunged in and out of you, the brief moments when he slipped his tongue out of you to catch a breath was when he smeared your juices coating his lips over your clit and sucking on the engorged nub. 

Your panties were shoved to the side but the flimsy cotton was still too much of a constraint to the greedy fox and he let go of your legs with a displeased hiss before pulling it down until it was out of his way completely. He did not bother to fling it to the ground before scooping your knees up again, a high-pitched moan ripping from the back of your throat when he flicked his tongue furiously against your sopping folds, your toes pointing in pleasure with your panties still barely hanging on your ankle with how hasty he was at removing it from you just earlier. You felt your limbs numbing at the coil that tightened every time he growled between his teeth against your cunt, kicking your panties off of you before letting your eyelids fell from the white you were seeing in your vision. His name rolled off your lips in a cry when you cum around his mouth, his tongue rubbing against your walls encouragingly as he basked in the sweet sounds you were making.

The fox perked up from between your legs, his long tongue swiping across his lips to lick up your juices that was tinting across his face and strong jaws. His eyes were glinting when he rose up, ears pointing upwards as he took your quivering lips in his once again while his hands fumbled to pull down the band of his sweats. You whimpered into the kiss when you tasted yourself on him, his tail brushing against the side of your waist as the comb of fur swayed behind him now that he was bare. His cock was pressed against his lower stomach, the vein at the side pulsing and beads of pre-cum rolled down his length from the leaking tip. He held your legs up once again, the time pushing your knees all the way back until they were right against your chest. 

He sucked in on your scent at the crook of your neck in satisfaction, loving how you were always smelt more euphoric after you were lost in bliss. Rubbing the side of his chin on your neck, you whined at the stretch pulling at the side of your thighs as he messily glided his cock across your folds that was dripping with the mixture of arousal and his spit.

Your soft moan overlapped with the feral grunt he let out when he pushed his tip inside of you with ease from the wetness, the stretch making your fingers dug into his back as he filled you up inch by inch. 

Atsumu’s warm huffs of breath was moist against your neck, his nostrils flaring at how warm and tight you were around him. The first thrust set him loose as he focused on breaking you into pieces, each surge of his hips hilted deep inside you with how you were bent in half underneath him. Your brain was in a mush as his tip rubbed against your velvety walls, the vein at the underside of his cock creating extra friction and making your skin burn.

He was not shy with letting you know how much he was enjoying himself, grunting and growling in your ear as he jackhammered into with frigid snaps of his hips. His tail was stiff at his back, the fur on it spiking up as his stomach spasmed. His nails were almost painful on your thighs as he gripped onto you tightly, his broad frame completely towering over yours as he drilled inside of you in a force that felt like he was not going to stop until he shattered your bones. 

“Tsu- tsumu!” 

He groaned at the way you mewled out his name, your eyes struggling to stay open as a wall of mist glossed over your pupils that were blown out in wanton lust. Your hands clawed at his back for leverage before they found hold on his hair, a loud grunt falling off his trembling lips when your fingers scratched down on his ears. 

His thrusts were short and fast, not bothering to bottom out of you completely before slamming back in. The position he had you in allowed him to plow as deep as he wanted, making your toes curl each time his tip slammed against the spongey spot in your lower stomach.

Your breath hitched when you felt the swell at the base of his cock starting to form, stretching your cunt out even more than he already did. He panted in your ear, nibbling at your collar and trailing his tongue along the marks that he had left as his primal desire started to kick in. You whimpered at the feeling of him filling and growing in you, your hands fisting his golden hair egging him on to keep slamming his hips down on you.

“So big...” you whimpered as his knot grew larger and larger, feeling like you were being pulled apart by the seams when he pushed the rounded base inside of you until it locked him in place. The burn from the stretch had you seeing stars and you felt the band in your core snapped when his thrusts turned into rigid humps from your cunt clenching down around the thick base of his girth. His chest was heaving as his breath got heavy, your legs pressed up against his shoulders as his brows twisted together. 

Your head was thrown back but if you could look down and see your stomach, you could imagine the outline of his knot being visible even in your belly, pressing up against you and filling you up like nothing else. 

The first time you experienced that, you jokingly told him that you could never try anything else after having a taste of getting your brains fucked out with his knot to which he replied with a humph that you should not even think for a second that he would give you the choice of having anything else. 

That was a useless statement to make, because you were certain that no one could make you feel as good as he could.

Your pussy was fluttering around him from your high and the tension made him moan. His shoulders were tensed, shuddering as his cock pulsated inside of you. His jaw felt painful from how hard he was clenching it tight, his hands no doubt leaving bruises on your thighs with how hard he was gripping down on you.

A choked whine leaked out from his lips when he finally felt the pent up frustration in him coming out like a river. You whimpered at the warmth that rushed over you as he shot ropes and rope of cum in you, his body stiffening on top of you as he bit his lips from the pleasure that had his mind in blank with no thought other than how you were all wrapped up around him. The was a faint glow on his skin as his muscles clenched, the dart of red at the corner of his eyes like they were actual spurts of flames as he lost control of his power at a moment of vulnerability. 

The specks of gold reminded you a lot of the sun shining through the droplets of rain on the day he told you that he was in love with you.

He held you there for a while, the fat load of his release making you felt like you were about to combust from how much he was cumming. The knot at the base of his cock slowly eased down, allowing him to give a few sloppy thrusts before pulling out of you. The last few spurts of his cum splattered across your lower stomach as he heaved, the sticky substance that filled you up gushing out with each flutter of your sensitive cunt. You felt used and worn out, the feeling of his fullness still lingering even though it was just his release mixed with your juices that stuffed you now.

“You,” you said with a pant as Atsumu flopped down on you in content, “are an animal.”

“Low blow...” he mumbled, his cheeks squished out as he laid on top of your chest. It was an amazement how fast he went from feral beast to this harmless looking baby that had his face buried between the soft mounds of your breasts. His tail was now swirling happily behind him, brushing against your legs in a steady rhythm. The softness did help to coax you down, and he grumbled in satisfaction when you put your hand on the back of his head and rubbed his ears gently.

“You better clean up the mess you make later.”

“You’re ruining the atmosphere," he complained with a pout, smiling a little at the snort you made. He pressed a light peck onto the center of your chest, nuzzling his face against you before looking up at you with his jaw leaning on you.

Fine, you would have to admit that Atsumu always looked cute when he was in his post-sex clingy form with his tail curling around your leg and ears flicking at the top of his head.

“You know,” his words sounded off with how he could barely move his lips. His eyes were squinted into two thin curls on his face that was tilted to the side, pressing his ear against you to hear the steady rhythm of the pounding of your heart, “foxes mate for life...”

You wanted to tell him that you do know, because he told you that every time he was feeling mushy. When he just woke up, when you two were in the bath together, when he was in your arms like he was now, he liked to remind you every now and then that he was ready to do all that with you for the rest of his life as long as it might be, like how he seemed genuinely overjoyed when the drops of rain fell from the sky as you told him that you loved him too.

So you stayed silent, and basked in the simple bliss of knowing that the universe had sent a message and it was that you made the right decision choosing each other.

[retrievablememories]

tokyo 2112 | baekhyun (m)

title: tokyo 2112 pairing: rich guy!baekhyun x reader genre: sci-fi/cyberpunk au, enemies to lovers, angst, non-explicit smut request: “hi, how are you? 💕 could i request some cyberpunk x baekhyun fic? i have in mind Tokyo, neon lights and explosive lovers. please feel free to choose the amount you want to write or you can. and thanks! ✨” word count: 12.8k warnings: body modifications/prosthetics, attempted robbery, physical violence (not between bh x reader, though reader does think about fighting him 💀), blood, non-graphic wounds, mentions of sex/one non-explicit sex scene, mentions of a car accident, frequent alcohol use/unhealthy reliance on alcohol, smoking, mentions of classism/poverty, mentions of experimentation, surgery is performed on the reader but not described, one mention of being weighed on a scale-like device a/n: this is my first real, lengthy attempt at enemies2lovers (or maybe just the genre “reader’s an a-hole who makes a lot of assumptions”) because i’m a clown and like to challenge myself for no reason...and this is why i don’t fool with this particular romance genre 💀 feedback is appreciated, this fic is just a whole lot of me experimentally punching above my weight and i’m a bit undecided on my feelings about it

also, i imagined the reader’s arm with a similar structure to the winter soldier’s, for reference

Tokyo, year 2112

You meet him in a Lower Tokyo club, the neon lights bleeding into each other and creating a deep, vivid landscape. It’s an unnaturally pretty scene—unnatural like everyone and everything else inside this club.

There’s a look of subdued wonder on his face, which makes you roll your eyes. He’s all made up and way too pretty to be in this dingy club with his gaudy piercings and expensive rings. Still, he enters the building in all his affluent glory, standing out against the crowd of gritty and cobbled-together androids and half-humans.

He’s a rich man’s son and an even richer man’s grandson. He’s known for being attractive, intelligent, and ridiculously rich—and that’s about all you know of the man himself. Him and his family have been excellent at keeping their personal lives air-tight, only ever letting the public know what they want everyone to know. But ultimately, they are only human. You know they cannot be as perfect as they try to maintain, and you can only imagine the unsavory things in their family history that go much deeper than anyone could ever think up.

“Do you think he wears all that to make up for the lack of enhancements?” Your friend Valor asks. He’s gesturing specifically to the man’s lip piercing and the chains hanging off of it, attached to the collar of his shirt. It’s a little strange, but it’s a signature look for him, and certainly not one of the weirder things in here.

“I’d like to rip it right out,” you reply in lieu of an actual answer to Valor’s question.

The man appears misplaced—like a researcher conducting a study of alien beings rather than a regular club goer—though he doesn’t seem to mind this. He just observes everything around him.

Valor chuckles and shakes his head at the display, throwing back another shot. “Weird.”

“Hm. Come on.” You steer Valor in the other direction, looking to get away from the man before he can get near your area of the club. Though this is your first time being in such close quarters with Byun Baekhyun despite his popularity across Tokyo, you’d like to cut things short if at all possible.

Another hour passes, and the drinks keep flowing. Your mind has gotten pleasantly hazy by now, almost enough to make you forget about the trespasser in your club scene. Almost.

You, Valor, and three other familiar faces sit at a small table near the back of the club. One of the guys is recounting some run-in he had the other week with the Droid Commission, though you can barely hear over the music that’s only getting louder, so you just nod and pretend to understand. However, he suddenly falters in his tale and his eyes dart up to a spot above your head. Turning back, you see that he is standing just over your shoulder. Without thinking, you recoil.

Baekhyun slides from behind you and comes to stand in front of you all now, a strangely convivial smile on his face. He acts like he’s merely visiting you all at brunch instead of standing in a club in the roughest part of the city.

“Exquisite work here,” he says, though his words drown in all the noise. None of you know what he’s saying, or who he’s saying it to. Noticing the acute confusion, Baekhyun lowers himself to your level, his scent passing across your nose as he does. Some robust and fancy cologne you don’t know the name of. Your eyebrows furrow at his proximity, and your blood rushes; maybe out of anger, or maybe just from being drunk. Then he touches your left shoulder, right where the metal of your arm connects to your living flesh.

Yeah, definitely anger.

“I said, this work is exquisite. Quite fascinating, really. Who made it?” Baekhyun has to get fairly close to your ear for you to hear him above the commotion, and you can feel the heat of his mouth next to your skin. His eyes travel the length of your arm, which is fully exposed in your tank top. His voice is irritatingly smooth, and the chains of his lip ring lightly brush your shoulder when he pulls back after he finishes speaking. Though your arm may be made of metal, it still has artificial sensory “nerves” running through it that connect it to the rest of your nervous system—and right now, they are screaming from that slight touch.

Maybe you really are just too damn drunk.

You look into Baekhyun’s dark eyes, which are imploring, coy, and playful all at once. The others at your table watch this interaction as if suspended in time, probably trying to process the sheer nerve of this dude.

“Fuck off,” you blurt out, and brush him off your shoulder with your flesh hand.

He remains unoffended; he even looks entertained by your blunt rejection.

The man who was previously telling his story speaks up. “You heard her. Fuck off, pretty boy.”

Baekhyun straightens up and nods, then reaches into his jacket. Two of the men leap to their feet, thinking he’s about to pull out a weapon—which would not be the first or last occurrence in this club—but he only brings out a business card, tucked between two of his fingers.

“Ever vigilant, aren’t you?” Baekhyun says, laying the card on the small tabletop. Then he directs his next sentence to you. “If you decide you feel like telling me more...get in touch.”

Then he disappears back into the mass of moving bodies just as quickly as he came. You flex the fingers on your metal hand, trying to figure out what the fuck just happened.

Both men at your table sit back down, although they’re still a bit disgruntled. Valor picks up the card to inspect it. “You gonna call that weirdo?”

“Please. You know me better than that by now.” You pluck the card from his hand and rip it up without a second thought. However, it takes a little longer to forget about the heated imprint of Baekhyun’s fingers on your shoulder, or his whispering voice fluttering against your eardrum.

Getting the arm was merely an act of survival, the way you saw it.

Money was low and jobs were scarce—ones that weren’t dangerous, straight-up unappealing, or low pay. There had been a scientific research trial for a new cybernetics program, and it paid much better than many other opportunities around—enough to live on for at least a year, give or take, especially with the cheaper cost of living in your area. You’d been terrified about giving up a part of your body, thinking your body might reject the foreign technology and kill you for the offense, but your desperation outweighed the fear.

Thankfully, it worked.

That was nearly two years ago, though, and the trial was long over. Even with you spending as frugally as you possibly could, the money was close to running out.

Odd jobs here and there help you out some, but they are few and far between and don’t pay nearly enough to make a living on.

You’re getting increasingly anxious about the lack of options and dwindling money, though you also spend half of your time getting drunk, hitting up the club, and simply trying not to acknowledge your crumbling life. If worst comes to worst, you can always think about finding another research trial and exchanging another body part. Maybe. These cybernetics programs often crop up more in Osaka, which would require you to leave the city, but maybe you could get another gig and scrape up enough money for travel...

For now, however, you are back at the club’s familiar bar and making small talk with the bartender, who’s an android without a real name or identity. Everyone just knows it as T-4000, though it appears to be fine with its little niche in the world. Sometimes it teases you about your arm and wonders when you will make a complete transformation into a “metalhead” like itself. Though you cringe, the company is better than nothing when the others aren’t around, so you allow the jokes.

Alone at the bar, you’re too preoccupied with staring into your drink to register the body sliding onto the bar stool next to yours until you hear The Voice flowing out again.

“One Blue Lagoon, please.”

Oh, fuck. You put your head in one hand and angle your body away from his in hopes that he doesn’t notice it’s you. But just as your fortune turns out, he happens to be facing your metal arm.

“Oh, it’s you again.” Baekhyun sounds pleased to see you, like this is some great unexpected coincidence, though you know that’s not likely true. You lift your drink to your mouth and pretend you don’t hear him, though that doesn’t deter him. “I never did hear back from you. How sad.”

“I have no desire to talk to you or anyone like you,” you say, still with your head turned.

“Anyone like me?” He chuckles.

“You don’t belong here, in case you didn't notice.”

“By whose definition?”

“Everyone’s,” you retort. T-4000 comes back with Baekhyun’s drink, and it gives you a look of bright amusement and curiosity with its digital-screen face as it rolls away to help another customer.

“I don’t concern myself with ‘everyone’s’ opinions,” Baekhyun replies, drinking from his glass. “Just the ones who matter.”

“Right, like your rich friends,” you scoff. “Why the hell are you even here?” You turn to him then, though looking at him feels like a mistake—like staring into a solar eclipse. He’s still wearing his chains, like always, and his eyes are smoked out with dark shades of eyeliner. The makeup makes him look eternally tired, but in some high-fashion model way.

“Because I don’t like being around my so-called ‘rich friends’ any more than you would.” Baekhyun smirks.

“So sorry.” You roll your eyes. “Maybe you should become a hermit, then.”

“You seem to be doing a good job of that right now. Where’s your friends from last time?” He looks around as if they’ll materialize.

“None of your business.”

Baekhyun leans on the bar counter, placing his arms on top of it, and his cologne hits you again. You try to hold your breath against the scent, though you can almost taste it in the back of your mouth. Shaking your head, you peer directly into his eyes now, which are as exceedingly curious as the last time. They’re still inky dark under this lighting, reminding you of black holes that absorb all light and life.

“Is it bad for me to want to know more about your arm?”

“Like I just said, it’s frankly none of your business.” You cast a forlorn glance at your drink, which has gotten dangerously low.

“Fair enough.” He sips again. “Now. What if I want to know about you?”

The back of your neck flares with heat, though you can’t fathom why. “You must be truly bored if that’s what you came here for. Unfortunately, you aren’t as interesting as you seem to think you are.”

“You injure me.” But you both know he’s not hurt at all by anything you can think of to say to him. “But this isn’t about me—it’s about you.”

“What about me? How you want to steal my arm and use it for scrap metal, maybe? Or to build yourself a body mod, even? You really stand out in here being the only one who’s not partway made of tin or some shit, and it makes people distrust you. You can figure that out, right?”

“You make a lot of assumptions.” Baekhyun swirls his drink around in his glass, the blue liquid swishing around the sides. “Let me make some, then. You seem like a mysterious, closed-off, and perpetually discontented person. And despite what you might think, it’s not my first time seeing you around. I guess I can’t interest you in entertaining my presence just for company’s sake?”

You pause, wondering where Baekhyun could have possibly spotted you. You don’t hang out in any of the places someone of his standing would usually be seen in. But then again, does he even frequent those areas of Upper Tokyo? He’s always spending his time mingling in Lower Tokyo’s notable haunts instead. “...Are you some kind of peeping tom or something equally pathetic?”

T-4000 perks up at that, even from its distance on the other side of the bar, and it scoots a little closer as if it’ll need to call the Droid Commission in another minute. Which, in actuality, is a terrible idea—calling on one of the city’s many vigilantes would have a more effective outcome, if need be, but sending them for Baekhyun of all people might land you all in prison.

“Tokyo is big,” Baekhyun deadpans, like it’s something even a baby would know. “You can see anyone anywhere.” Then his voice melts back into its normal suave tone. “I’ve noticed you in passing, once or twice. Your arm is something special, but it’s hard to forget a person like you.”

Despite yourself, you don’t totally hate the comment. That alone makes you want to leave the club and not look back for at least the next month or so, knowing he’s probably said this to dozens of other people before. You stay in your seat, though, trying to see what easy line this man is going to throw out next.

“I wonder why I’ve never noticed you, then.”

“You seem to be too consumed with your own problems half the time, even though I don’t know what those are. The stress is written all over your face, though.”

Can never miss a chance to be insufferable, it seems.

“Okay Mr. Psychoanalyst.” You knock back the tiny bit of drink left in your glass and push it away from you. You shake your head at the android when it gestures for a refill.

“Not a psychoanalyst, you’re just achingly easy to decipher.” His tone is casual, like this isn’t meant to be an insult, though you take offense anyway.

“You’re not very good at whatever this is,” you say.

“What do you think this is? Flirting? Maybe you wouldn’t be wrong there.” He laughs.

“Yeah, well. Get some more practice and then maybe you can convince some other poor sap to get to know you better and sign over the rights to their cybernetics, but I won’t be falling for it.”

“I guess that means I’ll just have to try harder, then.” And then he finishes his drink, too. “Not the stealing your arm bit, but the getting to know you part.” He pauses for another moment, and then says, “It’s easy to become enamored with this place.” He waves his hand around at the club’s surroundings. “Expect to see me around more often. I think I’ve already taken a liking to you.”

Baekhyun tips his empty glass to you and gets up from his stool. His cologne swirls around you as he leaves, not overpowering, but enough to make its mark on your olfactory memories. You don’t look back to see where he walks off to, too busy trying to ignore the small headache building behind your eyes and your elevated heart rate.

He’s already taken a liking to you. Why would a ridiculous comment like that even get to you?

God. You really need to get laid.

So, you do just that.

Not with Baekhyun, but with someone from the club whose name you don’t even remember before it’s even over. It was painfully uneventful sex, and it did nothing to banish the man from your mind, which makes you feel even more irritated.

Walking back to your tiny apartment afterwards feels like a certified Walk of Shame even though it’s late at night and no one really cares to notice you. You spit on the sidewalk as if that could properly convey your disgust. You think of Osaka again—and what the fuck are you going to do to even get the money to get there?—and of the business card that you’d ripped up without remorse.

You shake your head, sending that thought back to the depths of your mind. Nevermind. That doesn’t matter. What could he possibly have for you, and why would you want it? Tucking your hands tighter in your pockets, you keep your head down and remain inconspicuous until you get back to the not-so-welcome sight of your own place.

You, Valor, and a few others sit around a makeshift bonfire at Tokyo’s Rainbow Bridge—or what remains of it, anyway, with weeds and tall grass sprouting up in the space that was once its parking lot. For the past hour, this impromptu hangout been nothing but smoking cigarettes and drinking cheap alcohol and shooting the breeze. The nights are always much colder than the days, the chill biting into your skin and seeping into your clothes, but you try to ignore it and huddle closer to the fire. Maybe there is something, anything else you could be doing other than this, but you are just a bit too weak—and a little too lonely—to say no to the companionship. Even if it means listening to the uninteresting conversations of men who you barely know outside of the club or without a bottle of whiskey in their hands.

Your hangout session remains sleepy and boring for a while until someone makes a suggestion. One of them keeps going on about some steady, reliable work he’s supposedly found from a trusted friend, though he refuses to elaborate on what kind of work it is when asked. You make a sound of disgust and tune him out. Useless suggestions are as bad as none at all.

“Maybe we oughta rob that Baekhyun dude.”

You look up from the flames, fixing your eyes on the one who said it—a man called Lockjaw—and someone else chuckles in disbelief.

“You serious?” Valor asks.

Lockjaw sits forward in his ratty lawn chair, and with the way the light hits his face, it’s easier to see how his bottom jaw and teeth are completely metal. It makes you wince internally every time you see him, though you always feel kinda bad afterwards. That must’ve hurt exponentially worse than your own procedure. “Why the fuck not? He struts around Lower Tokyo like he has it all...and the bastard does. We sit and grovel for scraps, yet there’s a walking goldmine right in front of us.”

The idea of taking Baekhyun’s riches had never quite appealed to you or fully manifested in your mind. You didn’t want anything belonging to him, mostly because of your own disdain towards the man. However, the suggestion appears in sharp relief now, so obvious that it’s hard to believe no one else proposed it until now. You don’t immediately respond to this concept being thrown around, but something uneasy settles in your chest.

Valor sits back with a mildly disinterested look. “And you think someone like him doesn’t have major security hanging around waiting to incinerate someone with a ray gun if they tried it?”

“Do you ever see anyone hanging around him?”

“Doesn’t mean they’re not there. Somewhere.”

“Then we’ll be strapped up,” Lockjaw says, throwing his hands in the air. “And any of his little ‘security team’ who tries it will be blown into the stratosphere. That’s how we take care of that.” You shake your head only slightly, a movement not noticeable enough to be picked up by the others. You rub your tongue against the inside of your cheek, picturing all the ways this plan could go belly-up. To your irritation, Valor decides to drag you into the fold despite your efforts to stay out of the conversation.

“What do ya think, Y/N? Baekhyun’s been on your tail lately, maybe you could help lure him in.” That stirs up several murmurs and targeted stares in your direction.

“Yeah?” Lockjaw leans forward even more, his ass nearly slipping off the edge of the chair. “Think you can get in good with him?”

You shift uncomfortably in your seat. “Uh...it’s not like I’m buddy-buddy with him—”

“You don’t need to be, just tell him to bring his ass here and we’ll do the rest.”

Your mouth tightens. With all eyes trained on you, some expressions less friendly than others, it feels impossible to refuse. “I guess.”

“It’ll provide the money you’ve been worrying over for the past year.” Valor offers, and you shoot him a side-eye. Not like you needed him to broadcast your business to the world.

“That’s how life around here works,” another man chimes in, putting his cigarette out on the dirt and getting off his makeshift stoop of an upturned bucket. He stretches his arms and legs, and though you can’t see them under his long pants, you can hear the soft whirring and clicking of his metal legs. “Eat or be eaten. I’ve made my choice.”

Lockjaw gives a wolfish smile. Your apprehension rises, though you say nothing. “Eat, we will.”

You try to act nonchalant the next time you see Baekhyun at the club. You only notice him as you’re leaving, having already waited most of the night to see if he’d show up this time. You slow to a stop as you spot him in the alleyway behind the club, speaking to another club-goer—you’ve seen the person around before. You can only imagine what they were talking about before you’d interrupted their little scene, and the person scurries off, perhaps somewhat reluctantly, once it’s clear they’ve lost Baekhyun’s attention. Maybe that was the poor sap he’d finally found who’d be misguided enough to give up their cybernetics.

Baekhyun approaches you with a smile, his chains catching in the light of the flashy neon sign above. The kohl is dark and smoky around his eyes, in perfect sameness with every other time you’ve seen him.

“Hello, one who’s name I still don’t know—”

“You should come see me,” you interrupt. You want this to be as quick as possible, not wanting to dwell on any fake niceties.

Baekhyun lifts an eyebrow. “See you? At...your place, or—”

“At the ruins of Rainbow Bridge. Thursday night, around 9. Unless you’re too busy doing rich people stuff.”

“Rainbow Bridge…” He draws the words slowly across his tongue. Probably thinking of what a ruin the bridge is now—and has been for the past few decades—and wondering why you’re asking him to meet there of all places.

“I have a friend who lives around there—no fucking place to stay, you know, just holes up wherever he can. But he can...let you see the inner workings of my arm. Pick him up, take him back to your place; I’m sure you have a lab.” And because you know what he’s really looking for, you throw in, “He’s studied the technology, knows it inside-out. He could help you build...whatever it is you want.”

Baekhyun’s eyes, which you normally perceive as two lightless voids, sparkle at that last part. You can practically see the light increase in them. “Oh really?”

You roll your own eyes. “Yes, really. I’m not going to let you walk off with my damn arm, but you can...take notes on the mechanisms and shit. It’s up to you. I just got tired of you fuckin’ asking, so don’t think this is going to turn into some weekly meetup or whatever.”

He nods, slowly at first, and then more assuredly. “Alright, then. I’ll come.”

“So...yeah.” A sudden wave of anxiety crashes over you now that the trap has been laid. You feel as if you make one wrong move now, it’ll blow everything. He’ll find out and hate you for it. But why should you care about him hating you? “Then...see ya Thursday. Bye.” You decide to make your exit, walking briskly past him in the alley.

“Leaving so soon?” Baekhyun asks, turning back to watch your figure retreat. You wave one hand behind you in a dismissive gesture.

“I’ve been here all fuckin’ night, Byun. I’m going home now—to get some sleep, if I’m lucky.”

He chuckles, the sound fading behind you as you walk away. “Sweet dreams.”

Your steps falter just slightly when those words leave his lips, and several emotions begin warring in your chest. You ignore them all and continue on your walk back to your place, though you almost wish you could turn back to the club and ask for another drink or three. Something to get your mind off that ridiculously simple phrase that’ll be spinning around in your mind all night.

The night of the plan, you begin having major second thoughts.

It’s not as if you didn’t already feel shitty about it, but your mind keeps racing with how ridiculous of an idea this really is. It’s far too late to talk anyone out of it, as they’ve already stocked up on contraband weapons and laid their gameplan, but you feel less and less “okay” about being a part of it.

Most of all, you feel increasingly guilty about using Baekhyun’s trust in you for this; he never seemed to assume you had any other motives behind your invitation. Even if it’s ridiculously, oddly naive of him to trust you—someone he knows nothing about—you don’t feel great about exploiting that for your own gains.

It takes him less time to show up than you’d hoped. He’s right there at the agreed time, annoyingly punctual, his sleek black luxury car pulling up in the dirt and patchy grass. It looks like it was cut out of a magazine and placed there—almost comically out of place. Just like him.

Baekhyun gets out of the car and walks out onto the grass to meet you, uncaring of the mud and dirt he’s stepping in. He smirks, his hands in his pockets and his chains dangling. “Would now be a good time to get your name, or are we in too deep at this point?”

There’s no one else but him. Definitely too trusting.

You nervously chew your lip as you mull that question over. If everything goes like the others intend it to, there won’t be a point in telling him your name. But if he’s still alive by the end of the night, you could be exposing yourself. Still...a name won’t matter either way if he can give a perfect description of you to the Droid Commission.

Suddenly, you decide not to give it any more thought. “It’s Y/N.”

“Y/N, Y/N...” He says your name like he’s tasting a charming new food. “I like it. It suits you.”

Baekhyun’s smile is too sincere, and it doesn’t make you feel any better. “Come on.” You turn your back to him as you lead him through the tall grass and toward a broken section of the bridge’s main road. It leans against the main structure of the bridge and sticks halfway out of the muddy ditch that was once Tokyo Bay, its jagged edge reaching toward the night sky.

It’s darker under here, with the broken bridge blocking out the moon and stars and lights from buildings nearby. Your stomach rolls.

“So, who is this friend of yours?”

You turn to Baekhyun then, and you don’t know if he can read the anxiety on your face. Maybe he can. He’d proudly bragged about his own abilities for figuring people out.

It happens all at once, somehow slow and fast at the same time.

One of the men—the one with two metal legs—slinks out from behind the broken bridge and sneaks up behind Baekhyun, a stun spear in his hands. Its two large metal prongs are lit up with electricity. Those metal prongs are aimed directly at Baekhyun’s back, ready to make contact, but that never happens.

“Look out!” you scream, and shove Baekhyun out of the way. He stumbles off to the side, falling against the concrete bridge, and you wildly grasp the long spear with both hands, blocking the man from reaching Baekhyun.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Metal Legs shouts. He drives the spear’s metal bar forward, knocking it into your upper chest and collarbone with a force that makes your teeth chatter, and the pain and shock take your breath away for a few moments.

You’re not a fighter. You usually try to stay out of any ridiculous brawls when they do happen, whether at your apartment building or the club, but you do your best to hold the dude off. So even though you stumble back, you keep your hold as tight around the spear as you can and shove it back, putting your weight behind the movement and cracking it against the man’s chin. He howls with pain and anger and his hands momentarily loosen on the weapon. You take that opportunity to snatch it completely from him.

Nearby, Baekhyun is busy fending off Lockjaw with a long knife, both of them fully engaged in a fierce clash of blades. You feel a burst of surprise. He was armed this entire time? Had he realized something was suspicious after all? Most of all, how does he know how to fight?

You don’t have much more time to think about that, though. Metal Legs is recovering from the hit, his hand reaching for his side like he’s about to pull out his own knife or gun. You leap forward and shove the prongs of the stun spear into his ribs. He quickly collapses to the dirt, motionless after a handful of frightening convulsions. You feel cold fear at the idea that you might’ve just killed him, but you can’t dwell on that when you see the others bursting out of the tall grass a few yards away from you and Baekhyun. The backup, in case something went wrong—which it most definitely has.

Lockjaw has Baekhyun up against the concrete of the bridge, his knife near Baekhyun’s neck and Baekhyun trying to block the blade. The sharp metal inches increasingly closer to its target. With your legs shaking, you run up behind Lockjaw and dig the electrified prongs into his side, sending more volts through his body than you can imagine.

Lockjaw’s weapon drops, and Baekhyun stumbles away. The man takes a little longer to be knocked unconscious than Metal Legs, but you are relieved when he’s out a few seconds later.

You look at Baekhyun, who appears dazed and winded; you belatedly realize he might’ve received some of the shock too, with both men’s arms locked together when you initially used the spear. “Get out of here! The rest are coming—go!” A shot from a ray gun zips through the air between you two and burns the concrete of the bridge.

Baekhyun looks at you wordlessly. Then he grabs your wrist as tight as a vise. You glance at him questioningly, and your confusion mounts when he drags you along with him as he takes off towards his car. The red smearing across your hand and wrist tells you he must be bleeding from somewhere, and shock blooms in your chest for a wild moment.

The car door opens without him even touching the handle or speaking a command, and he jostles you into the backseat, trying to avoid the spear’s prongs; you’re still holding it tight, as you expected you’d need it to face the others—however futile that would’ve been. You’re so frazzled once you get in the car that it takes you a moment to realize Baekhyun is in the backseat with you. “What are you doing?!”

“Get on the highway,” Baekhyun speaks, ignoring your frantic question, and the engine roars in your ears as the car peels out of the grassy lot. The vehicle narrowly escapes another round of angry shots fired by the others, and the grass sizzles where the shots land.

A self-driving car. Of course he’d have one of those. You stare at the steering wheel as it turns on its own, maneuvering you both away from the scene of the crime and back onto the paved roads.

“Your arm…” You look at the sleeve of Baekhyun’s jacket. It’s torn now, and you can see the skin of his forearm underneath, which displays a long cut. Lucky for him, it’s not deep enough to need stitches. He has similar, smaller ones on his hands.

Baekhyun examines the wound and makes a sound of disgust. “It’ll be fine,” he says decisively. “The bastard wasn’t as good with a knife as he wishes he was.”

You nod silently, though the movement feels mechanical. As the reality of the situation seeps in, a whirlpool of dread forms in your stomach.

“Fuck, I-I’m fucked.”

Baekhyun gives a humorless laugh. “You’re fucked?”

“I’ll...need to lay low for a while.” Then you glance at him. “Unless you’re driving me to the Commission. Then, well…at least they can’t get to me while I’m in prison.” Your laugh is equally humorless.

“You’re going into hiding?” Baekhyun asks, and the corner of his mouth lifts. You don’t expect this reaction. Not after him almost being jacked and led into the situation by none other than you.

His smirk exasperates you. You almost want to roll your eyes at him not realizing why you’d need to hide. Or maybe he’s just playing coy about it; but you give him a break for now. “I ruined the plan and helped you out, so yeah, my own place is not gonna be safe anymore. ‘Friends’ are fleeting out here. Especially if you fuck with someone else’s money.” Valor crosses your mind, the only one you could really call a friend out of all the others—and only because you knew more secrets of his than they did. Your chest tightens with a strange guilt. You should’ve just said no from the beginning.

The car is quiet for a few long moments. Then Baekhyun shatters the silence with, “Come home with me, then. You can stay there for a little while.”

You bark out a laugh. “You can’t be for real.”

He sits back against the leather seat. “I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t. It’s a waste of time otherwise.”

“After I just—could’ve gotten you killed?”

“I said it before—you’re like an open book. Your emotions are practically written on your face. It’s pretty damn obvious to me you were never truly up for this plan. Unfortunately, you aren’t the badass you think you are, but at least your efforts saved me.”

“But I still—”

“You certainly don’t have to take the offer if you don’t want it.”

You become quiet at that. Even if you don’t think you deserve this level of mercy, you don’t want to shun this offer of safety and be left to contend with the streets alone. Your voice is tense and quiet when you respond. “I’ll take it.”

Baekhyun’s home is a penthouse in the heart of Upper Tokyo, which doesn’t surprise you. The contrast in his neighborhood’s appearance with what you’re used to seeing in Lower Tokyo is stark and painful—spotlessly clean streets with sweepers continually traveling up and down them, bright holographic billboards, people walking around with personal androids accompanying them. You begin to feel resentful again, and you wish you could swallow those feelings after he’s been gracious enough to rescue you, but you can’t help it.

You two must make quite a sight once you pull into the apartment building’s parking garage—you holding a stun spear, wearing a slightly shabby outfit of a T-shirt, jeans, and jacket, and Baekhyun walking out with disheveled, torn clothes and bloody hands. Someone gets out of the parking garage elevator once the doors open, and they give a startled look when they see you two.

“Good to see you, Jongin,” Baekhyun greets the other man. His tone is friendly, but his expression dares the other man to ask any questions—which you both know he won’t.

“Good evening, Baekhyun.” The man gives a slight nod in your direction as he walks past you two, though there’s no hiding the distaste he thinks he’s disguising. His eyes linger on your metal hand, and you feel exposed; you try to convince yourself he’s just looking at the spear, which would also make sense.

You try to shake the feeling off as you and Baekhyun step into the elevator cabin, but confusion rushes over you to replace it. The floor of the elevator is more like a scale, sensing the weight of your bodies and sinking slightly further into the floor once you step onto it.

“What’s that all about?” you ask.

“Oh, yeah. That. This isn’t like your typical elevator, it’s a teleportation channel,” Baekhyun says this nonchalantly as he reaches for the touchscreen panel on the wall.

“Um, what? I don’t want to be teleported anywhere.” You jump right back out of the cabin before the doors can close, and Baekhyun gives you a weary look as he holds them open with one crimson hand.

“It’s safe, you don’t have to worry about anything. All it does is take the atoms in your body and replicate them elsewhere; the floor measures your mass. I’ve done it hundreds of times.”

“You don’t say.” Sarcasm drips from your voice. “Yeah, no thanks. I’m not interested in turning into ground meat on the other side of that thing.”

“There are no stairs in this building, just teleportation channels. If you want to climb the side of the building to get to my place, be my guest.” Baekhyun starts pressing on the panel as if he’ll leave you behind, and panic spikes in your chest. You decide to get back on with him, much to your displeasure.

You close your eyes tight just as the inside of the cabin starts glowing with light, and you can only hope your last lived experience won’t be riding a teleporter with Baekhyun in the same night you tried to mug him.

Surprisingly, the transportation doesn't feel like anything. One minute you’re there on the parking garage ground floor, and the next minute you hear the whoosh of the doors opening again. It’s like you never moved an inch, but you obviously have when the doors reveal the lavish interior of Baekhyun’s home.

Grateful to be at your destination, you step out of the teleporter as quickly as possible. “How did we end up right inside your place?”

“Clever, right? It uses fingerprint recognition so no one else can get access but me, but you’d know that if you hadn’t slammed your eyes shut.”

For all your talk of Baekhyun being out of place in Lower Tokyo, you suddenly feel like the fish out of water inside his penthouse. There’s metal and glass and holographic materials everywhere, which is the same stuff you’d find in Lower Tokyo, but here it’s all much more sleek, shiny, and well-maintained. His living room alone looks bigger than your entire apartment.

“Come on, don’t just stand there.” He gestures for you to follow him further down the hall, and you hesitantly do.

“Um...I don’t really want to carry this all night,” you say, referring to the stun spear still in your hands.

Baekhyun turns back to you, blocking the path to the rest of the hallway. “Do you even know how to turn it off?” It’s still charged with energy. You look at it up and down, but it isn’t immediately obvious to you. You don’t want to admit that, though, and keep awkwardly looking for some sort of Off switch until Baekhyun can’t stand the silence anymore. “Look, just give it to me.”

Your mouth twists at that. It seems nonsensical considering he’s just given you a safe haven, but you’re wary he’ll try to turn the weapon on you. Maybe he was waiting to get you alone and dispose of you himself. He appears to understand your thought process, because he scoffs loudly and holds his hand out for the spear.

“If I really wanted you dead, I could’ve done it in the car—or better yet, let your friends take care of you. Just hand it over.”

“Mm, I think not. I don’t think you’d want to get blood on your pretty leather seats.” Still, you give him the spear, if a bit reluctantly. You don’t know what he does with it, but he takes it into another room and tells you to wait in the hall. When he returns, it’s gone.

Baekhyun leads you to a clean and unoccupied guest room. It’s large, with floor-to-ceiling windows that give an expansive view of the city below. It’s also nicely decorated, much like one of Upper Tokyo’s many upscale hotels, but it seems like it hasn’t seen a warm body in months. There’s a certain lack of warmth to it. “Don’t get many visitors?”

“Now is not the best time to make jokes about me filling my perpetual loneliness with frequent trips to your club, if that’s what you’re attempting to lead up to.” He steps through another door, which you find out leads to the bathroom. “Everything you need should already be here—except clothes. I’ll get those in a moment.”

“Right,” you mumble, your eyes carefully tracing over everything in the bathroom. You know your skeptical behavior is probably pissing him off at this point, but distrust has long become an inherent feature of yours. You’ll keep this act up if you know it’ll get under his skin.

The hot water in this shower doesn’t run out after five minutes like the one back home. You can’t shake the old habit, though, and you wash yourself as quickly as you can, body tensed with adrenaline as you expectantly wait for the warm flow to stop after the five minutes are up. When that doesn’t happen, your muscles relax a little. Though it feels good, you don’t know if you’ll get used to this any time soon.

The clothes he lays out for you on the bed are plain and black, but still better quality than what you’re used to seeing and wearing. Soft on your skin. Smell good. You wonder where he’s went off to—maybe to wash up and patch up his wounds, if he has any sense. You also wonder if you should try exploring his place, but you feel like that’ll be risky; he has too much advanced technology around here that would probably find a way to kick you out of the penthouse window at the first sign of nefarious activity.

...Which is how you end up merely sitting on the bed and waiting to see what will happen next. But not before checking the entire room for any signs of surveillance tech or something else foreboding. This is also when you make the joyous discovery that your phone is missing, and you reason it must’ve fallen out of your pocket in the earlier clash; you know you had it when you first met up with Baekhyun. That pisses you off, but there’s nothing you can do about it now. Though you feel disconcertingly cut off from the outside world without it, who would you even contact anymore? One of the others, who’d probably try to track you down and enact a cold, hard revenge for you blowing up the plan? Lockjaw’s face flashes into your mind, along with the other scalding looks you received the night of the planning, and you shudder slightly.

When Baekhyun comes back to your room—and you’re almost surprised that he does—he looks significantly smaller in presence without his all-black clothes, glittering face chains, and heavy makeup.

Indeed, the man standing in front of you with damp hair, baggy pajamas, and bandaged hands doesn’t seem like the same suave person from the club at all.

“So now what?” you say, raising an eyebrow at him.

He shrugs. “Well, if you’re going to be living here, you need a tour.”

Living with Baekhyun isn’t quite what you expected it to be. He’s home more often than you’d think, for one. You would’ve thought he’d always be in business meetings or off somewhere finding more luxury goods to buy or just doing whatever. You can’t really get mad at him for being in his own home, but you try to keep space between the two of you. With your own designated spaces, it’s not hard to do this, which you are at least marginally glad about.

Trying to deal with Baekhyun while completely sober isn’t your idea of a walk in the park. Despite yourself, you wish you could go back to the club even once; Baekhyun certainly won’t let you drink up all his liquor, nor will he tell you where he’s hidden it. For your own good, he claims. Sure.

To your surprise and slight relief, he doesn’t ply you for any more details about your arm, though you’ve definitely caught him running his eyes across it more than once—studying it like words on a page. Whatever’s spinning around in that mind of his, you can only guess. His lingering interest only makes you think he’s scheming for a way to take the arm off you when you’re sleeping or equally vulnerable, though, so you remain guarded around him.

“One day, you’ll have to understand that I’m not the evil villain you think I am,” he tells you. He regards your attempts to avoid him with a certain bored amusement, like how one might think of a particularly entertaining pet cat.

You let the steam of the food you’re cooking billow up across your face, making your eyes water from the slightly-too-warm heat before answering. Leave it to him to bother you during one of the times when you can get some undisturbed, Baekhyun-free peace. “Maybe you should stop dressing up as one whenever you go out, then.”

He chuckles. “It’s like you’ve made it your personal mission to throw verbal stabs at me whenever possible.”

You shrug. “I have to do something to pass the time here.”

Baekhyun rolls his eyes. “You could do that just by having a normal conversation with me.”

You cross your arms, looking at him from where he stands at the kitchen island. He’s in his dressed-down form now, sans eyeliner and jewelry.

His kitchen is not like any other you’ve encountered, fully equipped with the capabilities to make every single one of his meals by itself—and order more ingredients whenever necessary. It’s undoubtedly convenient. But you often still like to make food of your own, just so you don’t have to feel so...dependent on him for every little thing. “About what?”

“About who you are. What you like. What you dream about—I don’t know, something.”

“What I dream about.” You make a noise of disbelief. “How can you waste time on dreams when you live the life I do? I just focus on trying to survive. That’s it.”

Baekhyun opens his mouth automatically like he’ll say something, but he pauses as if he’s just absorbed the full weight of your words. Suddenly, there’s a certain sadness pooling in his eyes and pulling at the corners of his mouth, and you hate it—intensely. You don’t want his pity or sympathy. And yet, he’s already given it to you by letting you live in his home.

“Before you say something pathetic, just don’t,” you blurt out, wanting to stop him before he can start. “You want to talk? My favorite color is green, and my favorite food—alcohol. I have an arm made of fucking titanium, the club was my main hangout spot, and I hate entitled people. Talk about that.”

Baekhyun’s sympathy evaporates into an unimpressed expression, lost just as quickly as a whisper on the wind. “Closing the door again, I see. Alright. Have it your way.” He leaves the room then, giving his back to you and shutting you out similar to how you just did to him.

This should be what you wanted. But it only makes you feel oddly unsatisfied.

“Here.” Baekhyun slides something across the table towards you after dinner one day—another dinner where you sit on opposite ends of the table and where you try to ignore his existence. You instantly recognize the small, glistening package as a cellphone, though it’s a model much more advanced than you could’ve afforded.

You look up at him as he stands in front of you, one of his hands shoved into the pocket of his black pants. “...What are you doing?”

“Giving you something to communicate with so you don’t feel like some princess stuck in a glass castle.” You roll your eyes at that. “I’m not sure who you’d talk to since all your friends do hate you, but the thought counts. And everyone needs a phone.”

You sit forward to look at the phone in its packaging, tracing your metal fingers against the surface. The sensation circling around in your stomach is an odd one. “Please don’t tell me that you hosting me in your penthouse was just an easy way to get a sugar baby.”

Baekhyun looks slightly flustered at that accusation, and you’re gleefully, childishly pleased about taking him off guard. His surprise is quickly replaced with a shit-eating grin, though. “It’s nothing like that; I could’ve already had that kind of arrangement 100 times over.” His tone suggests that he has, which sends a chill crawling up your spine. But maybe not 100 times over. “I did it to help you out. But if thinking of it that way gets you off, be my guest.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Byun,” you say, taking the phone out gingerly. It’s a lightweight thing, looking like it might dissolve if you look at it too hard. Its screen is clear raised glass—which you assume will project out the hologram technology this phone is inevitably equipped with—and has silver backing. It’s a piece of work. Though it appears fragile, you know it’s sturdier than that—or it wouldn’t be such a popular model as it is now. “It’s...nice, though.”

Baekhyun waves his hand noncommittally. “I wouldn’t settle for anything less—even if it’s for someone as eternally pissed-off as you.” You bite your lip against the rebuttal that wants to come rolling out, instead preoccupying yourself with figuring out the controls on this thing. Which takes an embarrassingly long moment. Baekhyun watches you for the duration of it, biting his own lip against the urge to laugh at the frustrated furrow between your brows and the crinkling of your nose. Really, the phone looks like a thin sheet of metal with a slice of glass over it; how are you supposed to operate this? Eventually, he says, “There’s a button on the bottom that activates it...you have to press that.”

“Right, clearly.” You try to rid yourself of your embarrassment as you turn the thing on, but even as Baekhyun leaves the room you can hear his chains clinking together as he laughs silently at your confusion.

As if your life could not get any more chaotic, your metal arm begins malfunctioning. 

The metal is not as flexible as it was just a few days before, and it gives you a hard time whenever you try to do simple maneuvers. Your arm is overtaken by a sensation that feels like nerve damage with how the entire limb and shoulder tingle and burn from wires that no longer want to do as they’re told. You’re not entirely sure what’s wrong with it—a good oiling could usually fix any stiffness when necessary, but this nervy feeling is new.

For a while, you try to hide it from Baekhyun, which feels kind of ridiculous even to you. You’re only hurting yourself more, but you are a little too prideful to give him the pleasure of inspecting your arm like he’d always wanted to from the start. You don’t want to be his science experiment.

However, it comes to a point when you must ask for help when your arm stops working entirely.

You wake up to this terrible realization. After another morning of having gotten only a little sleep the night before, something immediately feels wrong. Your arm is dead weight beside you. When you try to sit up, it doesn’t respond to your movements. You can only feel the painful tug on the flesh part of your shoulder where the weight of the metal pulls at it, and you groan in pain and annoyance.

You support your arm with your other hand to prevent the tugging, which quickly gets exhausting and annoying as you try to go through the morning motions. You can’t keep this up while washing, so by the time you get out of the shower, your shoulder is killing you from where the arm dangles.

When you get to the common room, Baekhyun isn’t there. He isn’t anywhere else in his penthouse, either. You don’t even know how long he’s been gone. When you bring yourself to finally call his number, you bitterly remember that you still don’t have it saved in your phone. You want to scream in irritation. You can’t leave to go look for him—yeah, right—or get help from anyone else, either, because of the fingerprint recognition on his apartment entrance. Now that you think about it, you are like a princess in a glass castle here. That reawakens another bout of anger in you. Safe haven or cage?

Baekhyun appears an hour or two later—you’re not totally certain, having refused to expend the strength to move from your current spot to check the time—wearing his usual getup. You don’t know if you should be relieved, but an emotion similar to that sweeps through you despite your lingering apprehension and dislike.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. His eyebrows crease when he sees you splayed across his couch, your metal arm propped up on the couch back.

Don’t be combative, you think to yourself. But it’s like an impulse; you can’t stop yourself. “Why do you immediately assume something’s wrong?”

“You’ve never been so casual,” he gestures to your posture, “around me or in my place before, so I’m trying to figure out if your brain has been infected by cyber bugs or something. Because if we need to quarantine, then—”

“Well, you’re not totally wrong for once.” You struggle to sit up, your movements stiff, and your arm slides off the couch back and slumps limply to your side. Baekhyun's eyebrows shoot towards his hairline at that, and he looks at you questioningly, stepping closer to you.

“What happened to your arm?”

“Don’t even fucking know…it’s been feeling weird for a week.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

You look up at him, cynicism coloring your expression. “I’m sure you can take a wild guess.”

He gives the familiar sigh-and-eye-roll combo, like he’s done probably a hundred times since he’s met you. “Yeah, I can.” He waves his hand. “No matter. I’m calling Yosuke.”

“Who’s Yosuke?” You turn to watch Baekhyun retreat—probably to his bedroom or office. He turns back to you momentarily.

“Someone who can fix your arm.”

— 

Yosuke turns out to be a man around the same age as Baekhyun—a big contrast to the older, wizened cyberneticist you’d pictured in your mind. He and Baekhyun act overly familiar with each other, apparently being long-time friends since their younger years.

There is no difference in how he treats you and Baekhyun, which is another thing you didn’t quite expect. He is clearly wealthy like Baekhyun, coming in with a nice suit and expensive jewelry and a suitcase full of more tools than you’ve even seen before, but he doesn’t have the haughty rich man aura. That makes you feel a little more comfortable, and you are glad that Baekhyun let you have some privacy with this and left the lab for the actual procedure. Even if it meant he didn’t get his wish of poring over your arm’s wiring like some kind of cybernetics kinkster.

To your relief, the fix is simple enough. The implanted electrodes in your shoulder that help send signals between your brain’s neurons and the artificial nerves have failed, but those are relatively simple to replace.

“Shitty tech, I guess,” you mumble, casting a displeased look at your arm. You aren’t sure why, but you feel embarrassed about it failing on you. Maybe you just thought it’d be reliable forever. “I got it as part of an experimental research program, so it was probably never going to be the most dependable thing anyway…”

“Hm.” Yosuke smiles. “Maybe not, but it’s still an extraordinary piece of work—especially in this early form. Some of these mechanisms are new even to me. Was that the 2110 Tokyo trial, by chance?”

You nod, though you feel a tiny bit less relaxed with knowing that even Yosuke doesn’t recognize all the intricacies of your limb. Hopefully you’ll still walk out in one piece. “Yeah, the very one.”

“Excellent work,” he reiterates. “It was an early research trial, but still yielded some of the most functional and human-like large-scale cybernetics of the last few years. You could’ve done a lot worse. Maybe you already know that, though.”

“Maybe,” you repeat quietly, but you are mostly speaking to yourself now.

—

After the electrode replacement is done in Baekhyun’s home lab, you can finally feel your arm like normal again. Yosuke does a few sensory feedback and dexterity tests to make sure your arm can function as it should, and he promises to come back the next day for another round just to be sure.

You almost don’t want Yosuke to go when he finally does pack up to leave. It feels nice to be around someone who doesn’t inspire some wretched, nonsensical anger in you.

Baekhyun slips back into the lab after Yosuke leaves, and you glance up from your arm at his arrival. He looks at your bandaged shoulder and watches appreciatively as you flex your metal fingers. “All good now?”

“It’s fine,” you mumble. “Thanks.” Saying that word to him is not easy, but you relent, figuring you should at least give him that much. “You should be thanking the gods you don’t have to go through this kinda shit.”

“Really.” It’s not a question, the way he says it. It’s filled with sarcasm. Baekhyun reaches down and rolls up his left pant leg, his chains hanging as he does, and you recoil, confused. Why the fuck is he showing you his bare leg?

“It’s cybernetic,” he says, barely concealed pride in his voice. “You can’t even tell, the work is so good.” Something like jealousy and anger stirs in your chest. Even if you had wanted to tuck those emotions back in, they’ve escaped from the cage now and are intent on running rampant.

“So. Byun Baekhyun is part-metalhead, after all?” You slide off the surgical chair you were sitting in for Yosuke’s procedure, coming to stand a couple feet in front of Baekhyun. You look down at his leg—which, for all intents and purposes, looks like a completely flesh-and-blood limb. “You joker. Quit fuckin’ around.”

“It’s not a lie.” He knows you won’t believe him, so he taps a spot behind his ankle twice. A long, thin panel that stretches from just above his ankle to his upper thigh opens on his leg, exposing the wiring and metal within. You can’t school your expression in time, and your mouth drops. “Incredible, right? Custom-made. So, yes…I do have an idea what it’s like.”

“Custom-made, huh.” You bite your lip so hard you think it might bleed. “Unbelievable. You’re the kind of person who does these things because you want to, because you can, not because your survival hinges on it. You must truly think you’re special.” The words come hurtling past your lips like venom.

“I didn’t choose this on a whim,” Baekhyun argues, straightening up to face you and letting his pant leg back down. The look on his face says his patience has finally run out, presumably tired of you throwing insult after insult at him since you’ve been in his home. “You don’t know anything about me other than what you’ve seen and heard on screens and from others. I’ve tried to get familiar with you. You reject it at every turn.”

“I don’t want to ‘get familiar’ with someone who gets custom cybernetics that cost hundreds of thousands just because they fuckin’ felt like it, while the rest of us have to do it just to get enough money to live for maybe a year on.” You’re gritting your teeth so hard that your jaw feels like it might crack.

Baekhyun steps closer to you, diminishing the space between you further. His eyes burn with animosity. “I was in a car accident, Y/N. I was just a teenager. No one even knows this but the people closest to me, and I don’t want anyone else to know it. I lost my leg and nearly my life with it. Before you start preaching to me about choices versus survival, realize that you aren’t the only fucking person in the world who’s ever had to do what was needed to survive.”

Your breath catches. You feel like the wind has been knocked out of you. Suddenly, all the fight drains from your system, and you are left feeling deflated and cold. His blazing eyes feel like two bullets trained on you, and your gaze falters.

Baekhyun doesn’t wait to see if you’ll have another response lined up for him; he turns heel and stalks out of the room.

As promised, Yosuke returns the next day for your additional tests. Your conversation with him isn’t as enjoyable as it could be. You are still reeling from Baekhyun’s revelation and unsure how to approach him. Neither of you spoke to each other for the rest of that night, instead choosing to actively avoid each other. You know you can’t keep this game up forever, though.

“Baekhyun’s in a sour mood today,” Yosuke remarks. “Rare for him. Any idea why?”

You shake your head, worrying your lower lip with your teeth. “Mmm...no.”

The slight smile on Yosuke’s face tells you he doesn’t believe you. “Well...I’m sure you two will figure it out sooner or later. He seems to have an affinity for you.”

“What?”

“He was pretty concerned when he contacted me about your arm. He’s mentioned you before then, too. He seems fascinated by you.”

You purse your lips together. You remember his days of annoying flirting in the club, which feel so far away now, and how he’d come to you with a bunch of flowery words and told you he’d taken a liking to you. Perhaps he was really telling the truth about that. You wonder if he possibly mentioned the attempted mugging to Yosuke, and you cough nervously.

“Well, he’s…” you wave your flesh hand, “...a character.”

Yosuke chuckles. “You two seem kind of fitting, I don’t know why. Similar love for recklessness, maybe—from how he describes you, anyway. Like peas in a pod.”

Fitting? Peas in a damn pod? The next words come thoughtlessly rushing out of you in an effort to change his mind and slap away whatever outlandish idea he has of you and the other man. “I don’t want Baekhyun.”

Yosuke raises an eyebrow, though he keeps his gaze on your arm as he watches the movements of your metallic fingers for any irregularities. “I never said you did, Y/N.”

In your haste, it occurs to you that maybe Yosuke really was just referring to your similarities—which you’ll continue to vehemently deny—rather than suggesting any deeper connection. Though that’s what it sounded like to you. Fuck. You don’t know anymore.

Is this what they’d call a Freudian slip, then? How wonderful. You rub your temples with your free hand and shake your head. “Then let’s just forget the last few minutes of this conversation.”

Yosuke smiles. “Whatever you’d like to do.”

—

Yosuke leaves soon after he’s finished testing your arm, but he reassures you that you can see each other again if you feel like having the company—just have Baekhyun arrange things.

Speaking of Baekhyun. You should probably say something to him. You’re not enthusiastic about puttering around his home feeling even more awkward than you did when you first arrived there. So, you walk to his office and knock on the door, turning your ear to it to see if he’ll give a response. You don’t have to wait to hear one, though, because the door panel slides back on its own.

You’ve never been in his office before, though you knew where it was—it was one of the places he decided not to show you on his little house tour—but it’s just as obnoxiously streamlined and full of tech as every other part of his home. Baekhyun sits behind his desk, elbows propped on its surface and fingers crossed together.

“Y/N.” His voice holds none of the playfulness, casualness, or even cool sarcasm you’ve heard from him before.

You step a few feet forward into his office. You feel like you’re standing underneath a spotlight, lit up for the entirety of the world to see. In reality, it’s just you and him here—Byun Baekhyun, one of the richest men in Japan.

He stays silent, presumably waiting for you to speak first. That is what you came here for, so you do, even if it makes you feel like you’re going to peel out of your skin.

“I was a dick. I’m sorry.”

Baekhyun blinks. “An apology? From you? The world must be ending.”

“I’m trying to be serious here, Byun.” You sigh. “I was...wrong to assume what I did about you. I guess...I don’t really know anything about you...but. I felt like I had you all figured out already. So, I’m sorry.”

The tension in Baekhyun’s shoulders releases, if only a little. His expression shifts into something not quite as impenetrable as it was just a few moments ago, but not completely open, either. “Apology accepted, then.”

“Thanks.” You shove your hands into your pockets. “Well, I thought...if I’m not to make any more assumptions about you, I should probably get to know more about you?” 

Baekhyun looks interested now, and he releases his hands from their formerly tense position. He leans forward slightly. “Then I should do the same with you.”

Your hackles raise, despite you trying to keep yourself more open-minded. “I...don’t want to. You know enough already.”

Exasperated, Baekhyun spreads his hands out in front of him. “Here we go again. What are you so afraid of? And why even ask me about myself if you don’t want to share anything about you?”

“You can think of it as gathering intel—not making friends. I’m not asking you about your life story so we can have picnics together and talk about our wildest dreams.”

Baekhyun scoffs in disbelief. “When are you ever going to be honest with yourself? Emotional constipation isn’t a good look for you.”

“Honest with myself about what?”

“You are attracted to me. You are interested in me beyond supposedly gathering intel. And for some reason I can’t conceive, it enrages you.” The words come off his lips with the trace of a smirk, and though they make your skin prickle with heat, his smirk makes you want to jump across the desk and land one good punch on him.

You snort. “You’re a piece of work. Attracted to you? Everyone doesn’t throw themselves at the first person with a whiff of money or notoriety.”

Baekhyun gets up from his desk to step closer to you, much like he did the other day. He’s close enough for you to count the moles on his face, barely noticeable except for when he’s at this proximity. His cologne wraps its scented arms around you and pulls you in. You didn’t notice it as acutely yesterday, too embroiled in the argument and trying to process what he revealed to you, but now it hits you full on. How is this not considered some kind of olfactory warfare?

“Then tell me you don’t want me.” He whispers it to you in that same stupid, silky voice he’d always used in the club. That voice, combined with his scent, transports you straight back to that environment—the pungent taste of alcohol, the blinding neon lights, the ear-splitting music. And the one man who you just can’t figure out.

You open your mouth only slightly, afraid to breathe in more of his fragrance and lose yourself to it like a fool. “Fuck you.”

“That’s not an answer.” Baekhyun’s voice remains in the same low whisper, and he grins like he already knows the truth. “But I can do that, if you’d like.”

It doesn’t take much effort for him to close the rest of the space between you. When he kisses you, you don’t slap him, stomp on his foot, or knee him in the balls like you might’ve thought you would. Instead, you kiss him back—gradually, tentatively, but your lips fall into a rhythm with each other’s.

His lip piercing is unyielding on your skin; the edges of it press into your lip. The kiss is not rough or even frantic. You think this all might’ve been easier if it was—easier to allow yourself to keep hating him so intensely and channel that energy into your actions. However, all your previous thoughts of knocking his head off or pulling his lip ring off fall away; you just allow yourself to exist solely in this moment and absorb the feeling of his lips on yours.

Maybe now you could allow yourself to admit—internally, at least—that yes...you did want this. You wanted it from the first ridiculous time you met him in the club, and when he put his insolent hand on your shoulder. Whispered into your ear like he knew exactly what effect it was going to have.

Baekhyun’s bedroom—the one other place he hadn’t shown you besides his office—is neatly arranged and smells entirely like him. Other than those base things, you don’t care what the rest of the room is like. When you both somehow make it there, Baekhyun backs you up onto the bed, his lips still attached to yours.

The weight of his body is solid on yours. His tongue nudging against your lips and asking for entrance makes your body flush with heat. Before you can get fully invested, you pull away. He looks at you questioningly.

“Take this off,” you mutter, pushing his face chains away from you. He laughs lowly, pulling away from you to take his piercing out and put the chains away.

Pulling your clothes off comes naturally; it doesn’t feel clumsy and stilted like it did the last time you slept with someone. Baekhyun’s hands flit over every inch of newly exposed skin he can access.

The way Baekhyun touches your metal arm is reverent, worshipful, and you hadn’t realized how much you needed this—this kind of unabashed admiration—until it happened. No one has ever touched your metal arm in a way that wasn’t clinical or otherwise similarly detached. His fingers glide across it like it’s still made of skin and blood and bone, and he kisses the length of it, up to your neck and all the way back down to your metallic fingers again.

Water beads at the corners of your eyes. You try to ignore it. You don’t even acknowledge the few tears that do slip out, sliding towards your ears from your supine position.

Baekhyun lifts himself to be level with your face again. You turn away from him, too afraid to see whatever emotion will be lying in his eyes—not wanting to reveal the full magnitude of your vulnerability to him—but you don’t say a word when he presses his lips against the tear tracks on your skin.

Funnily, ironically, every motion comes instinctively. Him rocking against you, his heavy, dark breaths echoing in your ears, his long and low moans—your lips searching for his, your teeth creating blooming bruises on his skin. Though you have pushed him away and dismissed his proffered company at every opportunity, this intimacy feels like a grand coming-together—something that was bound to happen at the end of every road.

—

The sheets are twisted, the sweat is cooling on your skin, and you are both tired but satisfied. Content in a way that neither of you have truly been in a long time. You rest your head on Baekhyun’s chest, closing your eyes and listening to him breathe underneath you, the metal of your arm still warm from the heat of his skin. 

“I could give you an upgrade.”

Your mouth twitches. You think you might have imagined the words, so you stay silent for a while longer until Baekhyun nudges your arm, checking if you’ve already fallen asleep.

“Upgrade?”

“Your arm. I could...have a new arm built. One like my leg.”

You sit up to look at him, the sheets falling from your body. “Don’t say pretty things you think I want to hear just because you’re still in the post-orgasm haze.”

Baekhyun blows air out of his nose, too tired to properly argue or even scoff at you. “Like I said before, I don’t waste time saying things I don’t mean.” His voice quiets. “We both know you can’t get your limb back, but...I could...give you something to help, at least. It’s...easier to deal with the cybernetics when they actually look like they belong on your body.” You know he speaks from experience there, by the way his gaze falters and drops to his lap.

“To feel more like a human again, huh.” Some part of you—multiple parts of you, maybe—had still been grieving over the arm you’d given up almost two years ago. Maybe it was a silly thing to be hurt over compared to the many other problems in your world, but it was difficult to stop feeling like you’d sold away a portion of yourself for nothing. Nothing but fleeting money.

Baekhyun’s offer stirs something in you. You turn your body away from him, feeling the tingle in your nose and eyes again that could only signal one thing. “Stop doing this. Being so...I don’t know, forgiving. Not after all I’ve done and said to you.”

Baekhyun sits up then, resting his hands on your arms. “I want to do this for you. Stop acting like you don’t deserve anything good in the world.”

You turn back to face him after a long moment, though the tears still linger in your eyes. “I don’t want to be the only one who benefits.” You shake your head slowly. “If you really agree to give me a new arm...you have more than enough resources to help change the nightmare Lower Tokyo has become. Help them. Help us. I don’t want to be some one-off experiment or pet project you discard once you’ve gotten your fill—some broken bitch from Lower Tokyo you think you can fix and turn into one of your family’s many success stories.”

Baekhyun is breathless from your admission; this is the most transparent you’ve been with him since you’ve met. Though part of him wants to shrivel back from your words, he clings to your long-awaited honesty, even if it is only shared with him to rebuke him and his family’s selfishly opulent ways. He thinks of why you pushed so hard against him trying to make a personal domain of Lower Tokyo, leaving the comforts of his own place to absorb the shadows of yours, and a better understanding of your rejection begins to dawn in his mind. Tentatively, he brings one of his hands from your arm to your cheek, thinking you might still wince away from him, but you don’t move.

“You’re right.” His voice is tight with the knowledge of it. “I can help, Y/N. You, and everyone else. I mean—I will. If there is one thing you can trust me on…let it be this.”

You stare into his dark brown eyes, trying to hunt for any signs of dishonesty, though you find none. There is only the heat of his hand on your face, and his open, yielding expression. “I will hold you to that, Byun Baekhyun.”

[fbfh]

light up the dark [V] - leo x reader

genre: romance + action + enemies to lovers kinda

word count: 2.4k

au: none

pairing: Leo x gothy!child of eros!fem reader

requested: yes teehee

warnings: spoilers for HOO but like what’s new, at least one fuck, mentions of breakfast foods and burger king, one “cranberry fucknut”, brief visit to a historical memorial site, I think that’s it????

summary: you have a very weird dream that leads you to realize you’re actually on some kind of quest! very fun! you, Leo, and Jason follow a lead, find out Chiron’s sending you guys some backup, and realize you’re going to need a very large airbnb

listen to: making mirrors - gotye aka the best dream sequence music

                also we’re the rats. it’s not relevant just living in my brain.

a/n: honest to god it tookme so long to write this i forget what happens in the first half rip

also requests r open uwu

Your dream is unnerving, and not just because you had spent years in a dreamless sleep and forgot what dreaming was like. Okay, partially because of that, but also because of the atmosphere. 

You’re standing in a dark room. It’s pitch black, but you can make out the shape of the room, which is unusual to say the least. It’s long and rectangular, and the ceiling has cylindrical indents, almost as if giant logs were supposed to fit there. The indents go across the short side, with another in front of it, like a rope bridge across a river. Giant curved metallic discs like flat mushrooms are embedded in the ground at regular intervals. 

You get the feeling something’s missing. You stare up at the ceiling trying to get more information, when something hot and glowing presses against the roof. It shines through, casting everything in a strange pink light. You can’t see it, but you know what it is. A translucent sundial that gave off a glowing orange cast.

Sunstone. 

You look back down not wanting to hurt your eyes, and they fall on someone else in the room. He hadn’t been there a second ago. He’s blonde, and looking up at the ceiling, seemingly unbothered by the blinding light. 

“He has it,” he says, wistfully, almost regretfully. 

"Who?" You question. 

"I can't pronounce his name, no one can."

"How can we get it back if we can't find him?" He smiles, liking how you know what he needs you to do before he even tells you. 

"I can't tell you his name, but he's very old… some may even say archaic…" He looks at you with intention, searching for a spark of understanding. He doesn’t find what he’s looking for, and continues, “and not far from here. Which is good, since I need you to get it back for me.” 

“How do we find it?” He tosses you a small, clear container filled with what looks like yellow slime. You look at him, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. 

“It’s a drop of sunshine,” he explains, “don’t touch it or you’ll burn up. It’ll glow when you get closer to what you’re looking for.” You tuck it in your jacket pocket.

“Can-”

Before you can get out the rest of the sentence, you feel like you’re being pulled out of deep water. Your eyes shoot open, and you take in a quick breath through your nose. You open and close your eyes a few times, and push yourself into a sitting position. There’s a weight on your stomach and you trace the hand back to Jason, who had gently nudged you awake moments ago. His mouth is open and there’s a stale smile, like he was about to tell you to rise and shine. Your stare is unwavering, and he retracts his hand. 

“Uh… breakfast is ready,” he says, turning back and heading over to the couch. 

“Kay,” you mutter, still groggy and disoriented. Maybe sleep just isn’t for you. Jason hesitates about half way across the room, noticing the lack of cat-like vengefulness in your tone of voice.

“...You okay?” he asks softly. 

“Fine, just a weird dream,” you roll your shoulders, back sore and stiff, to try and loosen the two stubborn knots just below your shoulder blades. His eyebrows furrow at your words and you continue, “I’m starting to think I should add a little chloroform to my sleepy time tea.” 

“What happened?” he asks, sounding way more serious than you’d expected.

“I dunno, I-” he cut you off, calling for Leo. Jason encourages you to tell them what you’d dreamed about as in depth as possible once Leo comes in from the sitting area, so you don’t have time to gauge how he seems after last night. You feel a little silly trying to describe a surreal dream to them, especially since they seem to be paying such rapt attention. After recalling as many details as you could, they sat in silence for a minute. They share a look, then sigh in unison. Jason pushes up his glasses and squeezes the bride of his nose as Leo lets out a soft ‘fuck’. 

“I’ll go iris message Chiron, Leo, do you want to get some food and offerings to burn?” Jason says. Leo agrees, and Jason’s already in the sitting area, misting water in the air with a squirt bottle. Leo puts a hand on your shoulder.

“Why don’t you get dressed, I already made some coffee,” he says, the spike of hesitance that shot through his stomach at his instigated physical contact dissolving when you nod sleepily. An unusually warm feeling clouds through you, less distant and detached than normal. You realize while digging through your bag that for whatever reason, you didn’t hate the feeling of Leo’s hand on your shoulder. You grab your clothes from your bag, and feel a weight in your jacket. You reach into the pocket, and pull out the “slime” from your dream. It glows briefly, fading as you walk towards the bathroom. Huh, you think, at least now we know what to look for. You’re grateful for the example as you get dressed and freshen up, wondering what the hell happens next. 

Burning the food doesn’t take long. Leo throws the extra breakfast they’d ordered onto the metal table on the patio, except for a piece of toast he held in his hands. He summons fire until the toast is engulfed in flames, and drops it with the rest. He fans the smoke and asks for guidance, protection, typical pre quest stuff. After a minute or two, he pours out a pitcher of water to extinguish the flames, and heads back into the sitting area with Jason. On his way, he watches you through the open bathroom door for a second as you put on your makeup. You sure are different from girls he’d liked in the past. A strong twinge of pain from the previous night makes him flinch. He shoves it away, and takes a seat, greeting Chiron through iris message. Jason had just finished filling him in on the dream and the sundial, and he looks worried.

“I was afraid this might be the case. I'd gotten word that something like this might have happened, but I hoped it was just hearsay… I'm sorry boys, but you're most definitely on a mission from the gods. The story behind that sundial is long and complicated; in summary, if Apollo does not have his sundial by june, summer cannot happen."

"Wh- like, time will stop?" Leo says. 

"Will it just skip to autumn?" Jason adds. 

"What about Persephone?"

"Can Demeter do anything?" 

Chiron holds up his hands to quiet them. 

"I wish I could say, but no one really knows what will happen, only that we do not wish to find out."

"So, what do we do?" Jason asks. 

"Who can I send?" Chiron says to himself, "Dear gods, this is… unfortunate."

"Chiron," Jason says again, getting his attention. 

"Right, I'm sorry my boy, this whole situation is… preoccupying." Jason agrees, and asks what they should do next. 

"Get as much information as you can from what Apollo has told you. I'll gather some people to send over at once, they'll be on their way shortly. This is most distressing…" he trails off, lost in thought again, and the iris message cuts out. Jason's stomach is in knots. 

After freshening up, you get dressed, having chosen your clothes deliberately before. If shit’s about to hit the fan, which it looks like it is, you’re going to need a strong balance of comfortable and kick ass. Plus, it’s still the cold part of spring, and New England weather is no joke. 

You assess yourself in the mirror, satisfied with your choice; half black half gray cargo pants with chain belts, a long sleeved fishnet top with a black crop top over it, and one of your favorite pairs of platform boots. You topped it off with a layered choker studded with black jewels and delicate chains, asymmetrical earrings - one attached to an ear cuff, the other dangling - and a ring that looks like a snake wrapped around your finger. Last but not least, a dark olive green bomber jacket with ‘god save the queen’ written on the back in paint. 

Your mind wanders as you lean closer to the mirror, laser focused on perfecting your eyeliner. The memory of Leo’s hand on your shoulder creeps back up, and your brow furrows at the panicked flush to your cheeks, wondering why you didn’t push him off. 

‘Some cranberry fucknut broke his heart last night, I didn’t want him to feel worse’, you think deliberately, refusing room for any objections or alternative solutions your brain keeps offering up. You finish your makeup relatively quickly, pleased at how much better it looks when you don’t sleep in it for years. Your hair is… hanging in there, but you can’t drop everything and redye it now. At least you know what color you want next - a nice, coral tinted red. You’ll have to keep an eye out the next time you go shopping. 

Finally, you’re ready. You put away your makeup and pajamas, and make your way over to the boys. You grab some coffee and pick at a muffin, the strategy session beginning. 

Jason takes a sip of his own coffee, scowling at the slightly burnt taste.

“Where should we start looking? Do we have any decent leads?”

You sip your coffee, your face mirroring Jason’s moments before.

“The guy from my dream-”

“Apollo,” Jason interjects.

“Right,” you continue, “he said whoever has what we’re looking for has a really hard to pronounce name or something. Maybe we can start there.”

After some back and forth, and consulting of travel guides, you find a memorial for some historical figure with a name that definitely would have gotten him bullied. 

“Wasn’t that guy a demigod?” Leo asks, and Jason confirms. You’re already checking the maps scattered around for a route.

“It looks like it’s pretty much just further west from where we are, we can probably get there pretty easily,” you remark. Jason and Leo look at you, then each other. No one has any better ideas, and at least it’s some kind of lead. 

~

Four and a half hours later, you sat in the car in stumped silence. It took almost three hours to get up to the memorial site, an hour to look around and realize there is absolutely nothing there that can help you at all, ten minutes to debate what to do next, and twenty minutes to get burger king, since no one had eaten since breakfast. 

“Well, that sucked.” 

Leo and Jason give you a look, knowing you’re right.

“Yeah, it did.” Jason agrees matter of factly, earning a small chuckle from you and Leo. 

“So what do we do now?” Leo asks. 

“Well, no one’s around, we could probably iris message Chiron-” before he could finish his sentence, a shimmery image of a tan girl with choppy dark hair appears in front of him. 

Jason and the girl - Piper, apparently - greet each other enthusiastically, then Leo follows suit. It looks like she’s in a cab, holding something at arm's length. You make it out to be a phone, probably to trick her cab driver into thinking she’s on a facetime call or something. Two other people lean over, one blonde and smiling, the other dark haired and irritable, and more greetings are exchanged. You lean slightly to the side so you’ll be out of site and hopefully won’t have to make any introductions. Leo seems to catch onto this, and when Piper’s eyes land on the edge of your shoulder.

“So did Chiron send anyone else?” he asks before she can say anything. 

“Yeah,” she replies, “Frank and Hazel are coming from camp Jupiter; Frank’s flying, and Hazel’s getting a ride from Arion,” Leo and Jason nod in understanding, picking up instantly on her deliberate word choice. Christ, you’re going to have to get a bigger place than that hotel room.  

“Uh… Percy and Annabeth just started spring break, so they’ll be coming soon. Hazel should get there first, for…” she glances at the cab driver, “obvious reasons, and me, Nico, and Will are on our way now, we should be there in a few hours.” 

Your skin is already feeling prickly from the idea of being around that many people. They talk for a few more minutes, and Jason says he’ll tell them the specific address as soon as possible before ending the call.

Thankfully, you all had repacked the car with your bags from the hotel room before you left, just in case you needed anything, so there’s no need to make the two and a half hour trip back to the hotel. You sigh and turn to the boys.

“Why don’t we go get some groceries and stuff, and I can get us an air bnb.” 

They agree, pleasantly surprised and grateful for the normalcy of something like grocery shopping,  and you ask how many people there are going to be.

“Uh, should be te-”

“Eleven.” Leo says firmly. Jason looks like he’s going to say something, but he bites back whatever it is. Leo’s hands normally dance around like swirling snow, light and natural with subtle patterns if you can figure them out. But right now, his normal subconscious movements seem to be heavier, more intentional. His relaxed expression is set in stone, a silent plea to move on, act like everything’s normal, and you know he’s covering up the depth of the wound that girl left on his heart. A twinge of concern flares in your gut, and you blink, looking away. 

“Okay,” you say, pulling out a pen and notepad from your bag to write out a grocery list, “Let’s go. What do we need?”

Jason pulls out of the parking lot, and begins to head to the nearest box store. Your eyes dart over to Leo involuntarily a few times, and by the time you’re almost there, he seems to be almost back to himself. Subconsciously relieved, your mind starts to wander back to the list, skimming it one more time to make sure you don’t forget anything. 

Maybe you can pick up some hair dye while you’re here.

[some-dr-writings]

Korekiyo and Nagito x SHSL Military General

Korekiyo Shinguji:

·       “Simply beautiful.” Korekiyo found himself saying those two words often around The Super High School Level Military General. Everything about such a person was simply so, how could anything else describe them.

·       At first he had heard the rumors of you, the strict, stone cold, military general whom had taken over their entire class. With a simple snap of the finger you’d summon your entire class, utter one word and they were already off obeying your coded command. Your every movement was stiff, yet effortless. Everything had a deliberate purpose, even a twitch of the nose. You had such control over everything and everyone around you, all bending to your will.

·       Kiyo was content simply observing you at a distance, and yet a part of him wanted to disturb your space, to know you better. Though from a single glance he could tell idle chit-chat was not something you’d partake in, so he was fine. What did surprise him though was you approaching him.

·       “I need your expertise.” “AH! Oh… It’s you.” He took a deep breath, placing a hand over his heart. “You startled me. I hadn’t even realized you had come in. How may I help you?” “Anthropology, you study human beings, their culture and traditions, the origins of those, that is what you do, correct?” “Indeed, it is.” In one swift movement you took off your hat, holding it over your chest before bowing. “Please teach me. The better I understand people, I may better understand my soldiers and our targets. I must learn all I can to make conflict end with minimal damage to all sides. I must learn how to form people into as powerful, independent, a team player, and dependable as they can be so that they may survive, even without my direct guidance. That is my sole goal in life, would you assist me in my endeavor?” “… Simply beautiful. I would love to help in any way I can.” And that was how you had begun to regularly meet with Kiyo and visit him in his lab.

·       Any and all stories Kiyo would tell you or any artifacts he’d show, you’d always take detailed notes, dissecting them in order to find the humanity behind such fables, find what compelled people to do what they did. Kiyo could not but help to notice how you did seem to have a preference for specific tales, ones of trickery such as Odin and his many escapades. It was not for the aspects of humanity it explored, you seemed to simply enjoy it for yourself, something… quite rare.

·       All you did was for others. That selfish love of being the one to protect others or bring them joy, that part of you reminded him so much of his classmate Kirumi, so much so, he introduced you two, thinking you could get along well together, and that he was right on. You and Kirumi instantly clicked, often meeting with one another, exchanging advice and stories. You allowed Kirumi to assist you when you were leading your classmates in study or work and even went out of your way to seek her out. You both did what you loved out of this, assisting others and leading them into becoming their best selves. Seeing such a friendship blossom was extraordinary, especially so between two amazing individuals such as yourselves.

·       You seemed to change a little after meeting Kirumi. You were still stark and quiet, rarely speaking, but on occasion he found you’d just sit beside him as he read or went about his own business, both keeping to yourselves while still keeping one another company. Soon though you became more direct. “Follow me.” And that he did, even keeping in time with your foot falls. Soon he found himself on the field where Kaito, Shuichi and Maki were as well. “Oh, Shinguji’s your new sidekick?” “…” “Alright then! Let’s get to training!” Every evening there after you had brought Korekiyo to those raining sessions, strictly making sure he improved every day. Then you also took him to watch Himiko’s magic shows, play tennis with Ryoma, whom Korekiyo thought would not play the sport again till he spotted you speaking with the man, of course a person like you could lead Ryoma back to his old passions. You got Kiyo to regularly spend time with just about everyone, one day he’d be playing piano with Kaeda as he discussed the history of the piece they were playing, the next you and he were in a week long prank war with Kokichi.

·       “Here.” Kiyo looked between you and the clothing you had passed to him, most notably those boots. “Be at the front gate of the school dressed in these in half an hour.” Without another word you simply left. When he got to the gate you simply walked away from him to follow. You went hiking. “Winded already?” “N-No… Just… catching my breath.” “I know you can do better, keep up.” You simply marched on as Kiyo tried keeping up. Eventually you had reached the top of the small mountain. “Ah, the city.” You could clearly see it, along with Hope’s Peak. “Keep up hiking. Seeing the greenery should be enough motivation to keep going.” “Oh, you won’t be joining me? I may forget, you know.” “You will not. I train all those under me to be independent and be able to survive without me.” “… So, you’re saying you won’t be around?” “…” You didn’t speak for a moment, your gaze unwavering from the city with your arms crossed. “All day every day you simply tended to your books and artifacts or watch others. You care not for your own health. That cannot do. I… I wish you to survive and have connections. And I certainly believe you wish to live to see the beauty of humanity firsthand. That you cannot do when dead or bed ridden from lack of caring for yourself. Even if introverted, humans are social creatures, so you need to speak with others on occasion on topics other than your passions. You must learn of others, how they see the world in order to connect. Because of you and Kirumi, and others… I’ve learned that making connections is so vital, even if it will hurt in the end, some connections are worth making.” Finally, you locked eyes with him. “My country calls for me, I must protect them, but I… I wish to see you in particular… See you… thrive. Experience the beauty of humanity firsthand, no longer be a bystander. Become unrecognizable when next we meet, become the greatest person you can. Do not die, and do not stagnate. Keep improving and learn what you taught me.”

·       “I see, you shall be leaving then…” “… Hmm? What’s the matter, it’s unlike you to become so down cast.” “I have? Well… I love you. You are the most amazing person I have met. I’ve taken advantage of our time together, and seeing it… Y/N?” You still so stoically stood there, but your entire face was flushed pink. “you… love me… I, y-you can go on, why did you stop?” He laughed. He laughed in that almost strange way only he did. His eyes were half lidded, and you saw the crow’s feet in the corners. He was so clearly, gently smiling, you felt as if your heart would beat right out of your chest from the mere sight of it. “Adorable.” “I…” That blush only darkened and darkened, as you had instinctively taken a step back, fearing being so vulnerable in the moment, yet… liking it also. You… you never allowed yourself to be vulnerable like this, or at least so rarely did, you had almost forgotten the feelings. You buried your face into your hands. Kiyo simply took your hands into his own, gently leading them down so he could see that slightly wobbly smile, and the red that so elegantly dusted your cheeks.

·       Not even a week later and you disappeared as if you had never even attended the school. Despite the years that had passed Korekiyo made sure to stay connected too his high school classmates. Kiyo had taken to traveling with Rantaro who was searching for his sisters, Shuichi who was putting his detective skills to use in searching for them, and Kirumi who acted as Shuichi personal maid believing with the right assistance he could become a truly amazing person. They were a rather fun group to travel with. In the evenings when time permitted, he and Shuichi would do some exercises and reminisce on the training they had done in high school. Any time they found themselves in your home country, Kiyo couldn’t help but wonder how you were the whole time. Kiyo and Rantaro would often chat through the night when in your country, Rantaro of his sisters and Kiyo of you. They also spoke of the travels they had taken before high school. Being with them… it was simply amazing, and Kiyo was eternally thankful for all you had done for him, and he was the determined to not disappoint your expectations for when you’d meet next… you just had to meet again.

    Nagito Komaede:

·       Many were confused to see the Super High School Level Military General always hanging around Nagito; you never spoke with him, you didn’t even seem to like him, you were just always near him, even when he left campus you still followed him. Eventually rumors had begun sprouting up that the pair of you were in a relationship of some sort, but even that didn’t make sense. If any asked, you never said a word. Some asked Nagito but even he didn’t know, he just accepted the fact that you were around now.

·       “… Weapon, I can hold my tongue back no longer.” You spoke! Nagito was amazed! In your following him around, you had also dragged him around so that you could do your own work and though that Nagito saw your command in action over and over again, but with your gaze locked to his own, that sharp voice resonating deep within himself… the experience was unlike any other. “Am I to see you as human, or a weapon, I do not know any longer.” “Oh? A weapon?” “Yes, a weapon.”

·       Nagito felt his breath getting caught in his throat, his heart pounding against his rib-cage in a steady pace, like a taiko drum. It were as if his other senses had gone numb, they existed only for you, your intimidatingly kind visage, your solid unwavering voice, even touch, he could only feel the barest, slightest bit of your body heat. There was only you… So, THIS was the power of the Super High School Level Military General. No wonder all listened and heeded your every last breath.

·       “Clearly you hold no self-worth, always calling yourself ‘trash’, always doing everything you’re told by others you see as superior, us ‘Ultimates, beacons of hope’ as you’d phrase it. You have no drive or ambition other than pleasing ones you see as great… That…” You simply stared at him for a moment, you just didn’t move at all. “… I find myself compelled, compelled to take you under my wing, get you to see yourself for how truly amazing you are, and yet I too fear that. If you gain personhood, you would become the most dangerous weapon the world has ever known. You don’t just have luck, you can influence it and predict it to an extent. If you gained self-worth and ambition and decided to use your talent you could destroy the world single handedly. If you wanted too, and yet you are also just as dangerous in your current state. In this state you’d willingly go along with any and all who’d wish to use you as the weapon you are, and with no substantial will of your own, you would be used without fuss and all the while not worry about any destruction you’d cause, believing hope would overcome any despair or tragedy no matter how great. So… to attempt to give you will so you’d be less likely to be manipulated by others, or leave you as you are so you grow no ambition of your own. That is what I cannot decided. As I see you now, I know not what you think, if you gained any ambition what you could possibly want. My goal in life is to protect everyone, even my enemies, and you… You are the greatest threat I have ever met. Your ‘luck’… the travesty it could cause is worse than any atomic weapon I know of and I must be rid of you.” “… It sounds like you could solve this by killing me. Nobody could use me than and I wouldn’t be able to want to use my luck.” Many would find it strange just how matter-of-factly Nagito had stated that, and yet, being around him for so long you were not surprised.

·       What… what happened? Nothing about you had changed, and if you had, it was so subtle Nagito did not notice. He was terrified. Something in him screamed to run and hide, yet he was frozen. “Life is never to be weighed lightly. From the tinniest flea to the smartest and biggest whale. Life is never to be spoken of, let alone treated of so flippantly. Even that of your most despised and hated of enemies… At times, death is the only option, but if there are others that exist, they must be taken into account. Life… Life is the weightiest thing in existence. Never underestimate the impact the death of any single creature can have on everything. All life matters, even yours, though you yet to see it. You may deny it but heed my words. You matter. You matter more than you can ever realize. So, should there be a way to defuse the catastrophe that is laying dormant, only building more the longer you exist, I WILL find out how.” That terror that entrapped him faded and he felt as if he were gasping for breath after almost drowning. “You, I yet know what to do with, but for now we shall be retiring to my room so I may go through with planning.”

·       Then you turned and walked away. Nagito followed, in aw and amazement at you! You were truly a force to be reckoned with, simply astonishing! Though he didn’t believe he deserved it, if you saw fit to exchange so many words with him, he was truly honored. And he could not wait to see what decision you’d come too; he was quite looking forward to see what you were going to do to him.

·       “I need more data. I can not come to a conclusion. We shall proceed as we have before.” Despite saying that, things were never quite the same after that day. You would talk to him on occasion. Not much, but those brief exchanges were captivating none the less. Nagito became your assistant of sorts, keeping count as you did pushups or other exercises, or tidying up and cleaning so you could focus on more important things such as training yourself or others, perhaps even cooking or bringing you food so you didn’t have to interrupt that mental exercise you were trying out. Always being around you, he was kind of forced to pick up some of your habits in order to keep up, like trying to keep pace on your morning jogs. It became a sort of challenge for you to protect Nagito from his bad luck. You tried your damnest to stop the chaotic results no matter how small, whether it affected others or not.

·       Despite how Nagito always went on and on about how he was trash, you were impressed with how smart and capable he was, even going over military strategies with him. This quickly spread to other things. You started playing board games, seeing if your strategizing could out do the boy’s good luck, even playing luck-based games to challenge yourself into finding some strategy, even if it were underhanded. No matter what you tried though, Nagito was unflappable, much like yourself. Playing games with him became your favorite pastime- TRAINING! It was training… not for fun. Though relaxing is important, so plaything with him served a dual purpose… yeah, th-that’s it.

·       It was late spring on the cusp of summer. “Hey! Y/N! That’s thirty laps!” You waded in the water for a moment, catching your breath before allowing the crashing waves to push you to shore. As the gulls cawed you marched up the shore across the reds, purples, and oranges of the setting sun behind you so beautifully reflecting off the sand. There Nagito stood, a towel draped over his arm, a small bowl of ice cream in each hand. “A small burst of energy before I can get you a more calorie rich meal. “… I thank you.” Nagito simply passed you a bowl before patting your face with the towel, then wrapping it around you… Sometimes he wondered if you always had that light blush on your cheeks. He had been with you for so long, it was difficult to separate how you looked back when you first had met to now. He thought he’d remember, but he just wasn’t quite sure. Though he found himself deliberating on this because it seemed that blush was spreading… “Something the matter Boy? You’ve been staring for a while, and just… kind of holding the towel over my shoulders.” “a-ah! So, I have! I, I deeply and sincerely apologize. I just love yoooooouuuuu-” Oh no. “Your face! I love your face!... So much!” Internally Nagito was screaming about how he just let that slip out despite how he just so calmly smiled like this was an everyday occurrence. Truly, he was a mess of a person. “Y-you too?” Then you squeaked, realizing what you just said. And there you both just stood starting at one another. “Dinner, we’re supposed to get dinn… dinner…” “Y/N?” “Boy, how long have we been dating?” “Huh?” “We’ve been inseparable, and… we do more than train like watch movies an… stuff, so…” You then just walked away. “W-wait, Y/N!” “I can’t speak, I’m eating ice cream!”

·       Even after years the pair of you were still inseparable. The only time you seemed to be apart was when you went to war, but no matter the distance or trials you faced, you’d always return to him. As for Nagito… he thought this was for the best, after all, you were a humanitarian, if realistically possibly you’d protect life, so a person as dangerous as himself always under the watch of someone so amazingly strong… always protected by you from the world and even himself… the thought sent his heart a flight.

[lifeofkaze]

An Art of Balance #6

A/N: If anyone’s interested, the perfume Lizzie is wearing is one of my all-time favourites, Aqua di Gioia by Giorgio Armani. It’s really poorly described here because my olfactory recognition doesn’t go beyond ‘good’ and ‘bad’, but well. It’s divine though. Also, bear with me if sth astrological is wrong, this stuff is complicated! Katriona Cassiopeia (aka KC) belongs to my lovely friend @kc-needs-coffee

  Word Count: ~ 2.100

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Chapter 6: A New Perspective

As it turned out, Orion’s decision to name Everett Hufflepuff’s new Beater had been the right one. He still had a way to go, but he immediately fell in line with the rest of the team. What he lacked in precision, he made up in strength.

Orion had taking his individual training on himself. As the team’s captain, he saw it as his personal responsibility to ensure every one of his teammates was able to reach his full potential. Everett was a fast learner, but it would take him a few more sessions to even be remotely able to hold a candle to the Ravenclaw Beaters.

Rath and Cassiopeia had been a well attuned team for many years now, both as skilled a Beater as they came. They would need any protection against them they could get, and the match against Ravenclaw was approaching fast.

Although Orion wasn’t the type of person to let his mind be clouded by worries, he had to admit he wasn’t entirely sure they could get Everett into proper form in time. He had been voicing his concerns to Lizzie the other day, during one of their tutoring sessions. If anyone knew what it took to become a Beater in a short amount of time it was her.

Lately, Orion had found himself looking forward to their meetings in the greenhouse, despite his already tightly packed schedule. It was refreshing to discuss their team matters with someone that didn’t flood him with a multitude of statistics for a change. Lizzie had a different approach to things than him, but they weren’t polar opposites like he and Skye. Exchanging views with her had provided him with a new impulse more than once.

In fact, he had come to enjoy her presence in general, even more so than before. They had always been friends but his knowledge about her had pretty much begun and ended at the Quidditch pitch. Seeing her outside team meetings and practise had allowed him to get to know other sides of her. He’d had no idea Lizzie had been part of the duelling club until last year. Or that Arithmancy was one of her favourite subjects. Or that she used a perfume smelling distinctively of jasmine and mint.

Orion had a harder time bonding with her friend Rowan. He hadn’t had any points of contact with her before he had started tutoring them. Now, several weeks later, he still knew hardly anything about her. She seemed to be exceptionally smart, but also equally as shy. Most of the time she would consult her textbook about the plants he tried to teach them about, while Lizzie paid it no mind, listening to his explanations instead.

Orion couldn’t help his impression that Rowan was struggling with his unconventional style of teaching. He didn’t refer to books more than he had to, rather letting his instinct and experience guide him.

Having trained with him for years, Lizzie knew his way of conveying knowledge was not always straightforward. Rowan, however, had a hard time letting go of protocol. She was clinging to the academic theory as if her life depended on it. Following the rules could help with a lot of problems, but she would never master the delicate nuances advanced Herbology had to offer, if she wasn’t willing to tread paths unknown to her.

“And what exactly is the difference between dried foxglove petals and desiccated foxglove petals?”

McNully snapped him out of his thoughts and back to where they were sitting in the Great Hall. It was study time and most of the students were gathered at their House tables, brooding over their homework.

They had been discussing their latest Potions essay, covering the effects sourcing methods had on the quality of ingredients.

“That is what we are supposed to illustrate, I believe.” Orion dipped his quill into the ink bottle they were sharing and tried to pick up where his wandering thoughts had let him off. His eyes wandered casually across the other Hufflepuff students lining their table.

It lingered where Skye and Lizzie were sitting. Lizzie was rapidly flicking through the pages of her textbook with a puzzled expression. Skye was talking insistently at her, looking equally as bewildered.

Several heads shot up as Lizzie audibly slammed her book shut and clambered off the bench. When Skye made no move to follow her, she jerked the other girl up off her seat and motioned with her head towards where he and McNully were sat.

They quietly walked towards the head of the Hufflepuff table. Seeing them approach, McNully reached for his wheelchair that was blocking the way. He moved it aside to allow the girls to join them. Orion smiled.

“What can we help you with?”

Wordlessly, Lizzie held up her copy of Unfogging the Future and slid into a seat between Murphy and him. She reopened the page she had been examining before and gave a frustrated sigh.

“I cannot tell you how much I hate Divination, I really can’t. You’re good at this, aren’t you?”

Orion supressed a smile. “So I am told. What bothers you in particular?”

“It’s those bloody birthstones,” Skye explained. “No matter how often we go over it, Lizzie and I always come to different results and we can’t find the mistake.”

They handed him their notes and Orion quickly gave them a check before returning them.

“That is because both choices are correct. There is more than one birthstone for each of the zodiac signs. You both chose the right stone for the right sign, but in different parts of the time span covered.”

Skye groaned in frustration, earning her a chiding glance from Professor Flitwick, who was supervising them today. “What do you mean, more than one? Why can’t this stuff be straightforward for once?”

“Everyone is different and such is reflected in the stones fortifying our inner strengths. Why should there be so little birthstones when there are so many traits to represent?”

Both girls looked at him with blank expressions.

Patiently, he flipped the pages to one of the star charts at the back of the book. “The astrological year is divided into the twelve zodiac signs. Each zodiac sign is subdivided into three decades, meaning a set of ten days. There are additional factors to consider, but simply put, there are three birthstones for each sign, representing one decade each. That is why you come to different conclusions, you didn’t factor in the time of the month.”

He contemplated telling them about the stones meant to counteract each signs weaknesses. But seeing Skye pinching the bridge of her nose, while was Lizzie trying to process what he had just said, muttering “I hate Divination” under her breath, he decided against it. Better not too much at once.

“How do you know all this nonsense?” Skye was shaking her head in disbelief.

“I know all this because it is explained in the introduction of the chapter you two apparently weren’t reading too diligently.” He turned the pages back to the beginning and pointed at the paragraph on the first page.

Lizzie’ cheeks flushed a bright read as she quickly scanned the text. “I can’t believe I overlooked this.” Embarrassed, she quickly snatched the book out of Orion’s hands and got up. “Thanks for helping anyway.”

They made their way back to their places, the scent of jasmine and mint lingering behind. Orion was always glad if he could help a friend. A few seats down the table, Lizzie was discussing what he had just told them with Skye. He thought back on what Penny and Murphy had said on the train ride to Hogwarts a few weeks earlier.

Lizzie really had changed a lot. She seemed to be standing taller, an air of effortless confidence around her. The blush on her cheeks had made her look really pretty, reminding him of how the rush of the wind brought the colour to her face when she was flying. She was moving differently as well, more graceful and fluently, her hips swaying ever so slightly with every step she took. He had never noticed her hips swaying like that before.

McNully nudged his shoulder. “Uhm, Orion… if you don’t want to rewrite your whole essay, I’d move my quill if I was you.”

He snapped out of it and looked down at his parchment. The ink was dripping from the tip of his quill, forming a large black puddle at the end of his last sentence that was quickly spreading onto the rest of his half-finished essay.

Orion cursed under his breath, immediately drawing his wand to vanish the excess ink. Fortunately not too much of his work was ruined.

McNully raised his eyebrows. “Such a strong language, my friend. I have only heard you curse three times, so far. One time was when you crashed your broom into the commentary box and broke your wrist, the second time when you forgot the time while broom balancing and almost missed your Defence Against the Dark Arts O.W.L. exam and the third time when you burned yourself on your cauldron and spilled Wiggenweld Potion all over Professor Snape. This reaction is 87,9 % surprising.”

He felt the heat creeping up his neck. McNully was right, he wasn’t easily enticed to displaying his emotions verbally. He hadn’t meant to let himself slip like that.

Choosing not to answer his curious friend, he committed himself to restoring the missing part of his essay. But McNully wouldn’t let it pass like that.

He was nodding in the direction of Lizzie. “I wonder if she knows how much attention she is attracting.”

Orion gripped his quill a little tighter, concentrating on finishing his sentence. He fought the urge to follow McNully’s gaze.

“Our friend has a captivating personality, for sure. But would you mind lifting the veil of ignorance from my eyes and tell me how you reached such a conclusion?”

For a moment, McNully smirked knowingly before he directed Orion’s attention over to where their roommates were sitting. He could easily make out what McNully had been referring to. Everett was eyeing the girls up without even trying to conceal it.

“Him, of course. He’s been checking Lizzie out ever since she came over to us.” He smiled innocently at him. “Why, who did you think I was talking about?”

Orion’s brow furrowed in concern. He didn’t like the predatory look on Everett’s face. This guy had somewhat of a reputation.

“Yeah, I don’t like the looks he’s giving her either,” McNully echoed his unspoken thoughts with a scowl. He leaned closer to him, putting his elbow on Orion’s shoulder in conspiratorial way. “I think we should do something about it, don’t you? And by ‘we’, I obviously mean ‘you’.”

Shaking off McNully’s hand, Orion gave him a disapproving look. “And why would I do that? He is our new Beater if you don’t recall.”

“For the sake of the team, of course!”

McNully started reciting his calculations. “I’d put the chance of him going for our little Chaser prodigy at roughly 80 %. There are some variables unaccounted for, but I’d say the chances of Lizzie falling for him lie at something around 54 %. Which would affect the team’s dynamic gravely. And we can’t have that decreasing our- I mean, your odds on winning the Quidditch Cup.”

Orion blew onto his parchment until the ink had properly dried. “You talk as if he was actually hitting her up. All he did was looking at her.”

And there was certainly nothing wrong with looking.

“Lizzie can fend for herself if need be. Besides, who am I to interfere with the course the heart is deciding to take.”

McNully looked at him as if he had lost his mind. “Mate… I don’t think the heart has much to with it if you get my drift. Seriously, do something.”

“Don’t worry, I will.” He stood up and handed Professor Flitwick his work of the day.

McNully raised one eyebrow at him. “And what would that be?”

Orion gathered his strewn books and notes. “Finding balance inside and outside of my mind, my dear friend. See you at dinner.”

[therovingstar]

Like a Spark of the Wick

Summary: “Fire is a being of the Father, the Sun. One who walks its path is one who dares to walk at His side, fearful of neither danger nor death. It is a title given to those believed to be exceptionally brave.”

Then she shrugs. “Or exceedingly stupid.” Her gaze on him narrows slightly, and she smiles again, the amusement this time clear as day on her pretty face. “Sometimes both.”

An enlightening conversation by candlelight, on the eve of revolution. Hien/f!WoL, pre-relationship, friendship, humor, hurt/comfort.

CW: Alcohol/drinking/inebriation.

Also available on AO3. Link through my blog.

She does not drink. Two half-filled ochoko out of six emptied flasks of sake, and it is no wonder that she is the only one of them still sitting with perfect poise; even Yugiri succumbed somewhat to her own thrice-refilled cup, unable as she was to resist her lord’s affable insistence. She has since escaped topside, both to clear her head and maintain her vigilance over the Fierce. Gosetsu is a long-lost cause; three out of their six bottles were his alone, and he hoarded them jealously, one downed in time with each impassioned speech until he had little else to say but half-muttered ramblings that reminded Hien distinctly of his age. “Old men should be careful in their cups,” he japed, knowing his mentor would take it as a challenge. Which he did, and met it by grabbing the mostly-filled remainder of a fourth bottle and swallowing as if it were water from a stream and not, in fact, some of their best, boldest bold, kept hidden in cellars buried right under the Empire’s nose, one of a hundred small, dogged defiances. Hien himself has only consumed spirits of similar strength on the Steppe; and he admits, the Xaela’s may have been a touch stronger.

Regardless, all of them have been feeling the effects, save one. He surreptitiously chances a glance out of the corner of his eye, curious to see if it still holds true.

Or not surreptitiously at all. Perhaps he is actually deeper in his own cups than he thought, because suddenly, the Warrior of the West – as his people have apparently taken to calling her – is meeting his gaze, one eyebrow lifted. “Yes?” she asks plainly. Hien smiles.

“Merely wondering if you are enjoying the fruits of our labor.” He grabs one of the porcelain bottles from where they rest at the center of their small table near their only immediate source of light: a single, simple candle. “Would you like more?” he offers, noting the mostly-full ochoko cradled in her palm, its pale coloring a fetching match to the scales marking the back of her deep brown hand.

Odzaya eyes the bottle, blank-faced but for a lightly-raised brow. Then, with a modest upturn of her hand and head, she half empties her cup, the wine slowly disappearing past her lips. “Sure,” she answers after a subtle out-blow of breath, and sets the saucer down near him.

Hien grins as he pours for her. “A smart move, if I may say so. This brew in particular is quite strong.” As if in agreement, Gosetsu lets out a loud, rumbling snore. Odzaya’s mouth quirks upward.

“It is good,” she compliments, as she daintily retakes the cup into her hands. And makes no motion to drink it.

“Do such spirits exist in the west?” he asks, pouring another round for himself. Odzaya shrugs.

“I am not the one to ask. I tend to avoid most of them.”

As he guessed. Hien grins. “You are one to keeps her wits about her, then?” She makes a noncommittal noise in reply, though her smile teases upward a little more.

“Preferably.”

“Well,” he begins, and lifts his ochoko as he leans forward, “on behalf of my people, let me say that I am beyond flattered that our brew is appealing to your palate,” he says. “And on behalf of myself, that my khagun feels comfortable enough in my presence to allow her keen wits a respite.”

Indeed, if they even are. They certainly do not seem to be as Odzaya huffs something that sounds like a laugh and raises her cup in tandem, only to down another half and no more. She has had how many now? Three in total, over the course of nearly as many bells. As many as Yugiri, technically, who is also not a drinker. Being of somewhat similar build, one would think she would have begun feeling the effects at least somewhat.

And yet, after another subtle sigh, the Raen woman maintains impeccable composure, resting her chin in her other hand and eyeing the top of Gosetsu’s head where it weighs down their table, almost too close to the candle’s lit wick. “Is he comatose?” she asks abruptly, and shoots him a questioning look. Hien pauses in his observations to chuckle.

“‘Twould be a relief if he were; perhaps then he could receive proper rest, and stop obsessing so much over past regrets and so-called failings.” They will kill him more surely than any enemy blade. Hien leans back on his stool, contemplative, the creak of the wood echoing throughout the cavern. “Tis why I suggested we indulge, and egged him on to continue by inviting you and Yugiri to join us. He drinks more readily when with company. And, coincidentally, the more he drinks, the better he sleeps.” He grins at her lifted brow. “An unorthodox strategy and one I rarely employ, at the least for the sake of his liver, but one that has served me well in the past.”

Her eyebrow drops only minimally; the healer in her, perhaps, taking concern despite his attempt at assurance. Then she smiles again, as if amused. “You are rather unorthodox,” she muses aloud, her quiet tone suggesting it is almost to herself.

“Am I?” he asks, tilting his head in genuine inquiry, only to quickly right it as his equilibrium begins to falter. Odzaya looks at him, seeming as if to ponder, before she continues.

“The name you were given on the Steppe. ‘Fire Walker’. It is an acknowledgment, a marker delineating your penchant for the unexpected.”

“Is that what it means?” Honestly, he never took the time to truly consider, beyond simply assuming it to be at least mildly insulting in some way. So that was its meaning, then.

Odzaya nods once in confirmation. “Fire is a being of the Father, the Sun. One who walks its path is one who dares to walk at His side, fearful of neither danger nor death. It is a title given to those believed to be exceptionally brave.”

Then she shrugs. “Or exceedingly stupid.” Her gaze on him narrows slightly, and she smiles again, the amusement this time clear as day on her pretty face. “Sometimes both.”

Hien gives thanks to the Kami for the sake that is currently running through his veins; it means there is none left in his mouth, and therefore none being spewed across the table as he blinks, and then nearly loses himself to laughter. He also gives thanks for his stool; it allows for purchase, however precarious, as his balance tilts again, dizzyingly, and he threatens to tumble to the floor in his fit. He still seems likely to fall, truthfully, at least until Odzaya saves him and his dignity by way of her own (amazingly non-drunken) reflexes. Hien startles quiet at the heat of her hand, like a brand, suddenly clutched to his bare shoulder, angling him back into his seat, the other hovering over his mouth, poised, no doubt, to shut his trap and prevent him from disturbing their comrades (always thinking of the small things, he observes, recalling the sight of her expertly rearranging the Leveilleur twins’ slumbering forms so as to avoid discomfort come the morn). When he follows the path of her arm, he finds her standing, both eyebrows lifted above a wide, intensely red-eyed gaze.

And then, suddenly, she is the one succumbing to laughter, a bright, rasping thing that he can only describe in his state as mildly enchanting, even subdued as it is. Those eyes crinkle at their corners, teeth gleaming oh-so-briefly from between wide, full lips. Her palm solidifies even more on his shoulder as she presses down slightly, ensuring he won’t topple again, before she finally steps back. “See?” she says, still clearly amused. “Fire Walker.”

Hien grins. “Mayhaps there is some truth to it.”

Odzaya huffs another near-silent laugh. “Mayhaps,” she echoes, and goes to return to her chair, swaying ever-so-slightly. Her tail periodically shifts as she goes, like the rudder on a rocking boat.

Aha. Hien’s smile widens at the sight, though he tries to school his expression as she sinks back onto her own stool, another of those mellow sighs coming out as she does. When their eyes meet once more, she blinks slowly.

“I am not drunk,” she says, as if she has read his thoughts.

“Of course not,” he agrees, grinning again, tickled in a way he blames on the wine. “Merely weary, I would guess. Mayhaps it is time you retired?” Lack of windows notwithstanding, he suspects morning is not terribly far off. They should all be turning in, and yet...he looks down at his ochoko.

Odzaya once more leans on the table, her chin coming to rest upon her upturned palm. She eyes him, and he gets the distinct impression she is reading his mind once more. “You plan to continue?” She drops her gaze briefly to indicate the remaining flasks near Gosetsu’s head. “Alone?”

She caught the phrasing of his suggestion, then. Hien casually shrugs one shoulder. “For a time.”

Her brow furrows slightly. “Really?”

Hien chuckles. “Worried about my liver now, are you, friend?”

“Wondering if you are planning to become so inebriated that you will not remember issuing the order to destroy your own home on the morrow.”

The Warrior of Light could be a blunt one; he noted it some time ago, watching her dealings with her Scions, as well as the Xaela. The way she carried herself – modestly, almost conservatively – belied a tongue that could, at a moment’s notice, move with surprising impunity.

He likes it, and responds by smiling easily. “Would you judge me?” he asks, finding himself curious.

Odzaya lifts her own shoulder, looking down at the table. “I cannot. The Steppe tribes are largely nomadic, as you know; most of us have no concept of a permanent home beyond the land itself. Even in Eorzea, I tend not to settle in one place too long.” She pauses, her mouth pursed, as if weighing her tongue and the words upon it. “I do, however,” she continues, quietly, “understand ties, the connections one can make to a place, and the difficulty in seeing those ties undone, by whatever means.” She pauses, then looks at him. “I imagine it would be worse, having to undo them yourself.”

Aye, could speak with impunity. But never seemed to forgo care.

Hien remains silent for a time, thinking on her words, before he meets her gaze. “May I confide in you for an indulgent moment, my friend?” he asks softly.

Those red eyes widen slightly, but eventually, Odzaya nods. Almost imperceptibly shifts, as well, as if to show he has her attention. His smile deepens.

“I do not mourn Doma Castle,” he admits. “It was my home, yes, for all of my six and twenty years, and because of that, it has indisputable sentimental value. It is the home of my ancestors; every square inch has a story, every room an entire history, and I spent my growing years being told them all by my parents and tutors.” He chuckles. “I never cared for them much, truth be told. They were fascinating and inspiring tales, to be sure, but only that: tales. Read back far enough, and your great-grandsire becomes more a figure of ancient legend, rather than someone whose lap you once sat in, though apparently I did. No, I much preferred seeing the history being made by my father and mother, who I could see and touch. That, and daydreaming about the lines I would add to our storied annals.”

Odzaya smiles slightly. “A high-flier, then.” Hien laughs.

“Quite so! And rather doggedly, if the frustrations of my teachers were anything to go by. However much I truly enjoyed the literary pursuit of knowledge, I still preferred a bokken in my hand over a book.” By now, the wine is well enough into his system to feel less like a hindrance burning through his veins and more like a soother warming him from the inside out, eliminating the cavern’s cool draft. He sighs and sinks further into his chair, his gaze finding the high stone ceiling. “I would dream of chasing the Empire back across our borders, of returning home victorious at my father and fellow samurai’s sides. I would dream of inheriting the throne and continuing my parents’ legacy, and implementing policies to make our people’s lives easier; of marrying and raising children – more than one, mind you, as I always wanted siblings to play with, but never received any – and giving them a history to take pride in, stories to inspire them.”

So many dreams, locked away in that palace, and hardly just his own. He counts them among the stalactites piercing down from that cavernous ceiling, substitutes for the stars he cannot see.

“Losing the past will hurt, aye. The books, the scrolls, the paintings, the tales. But it is the future of that place, my future, the future I imagined, for which I truly mourn.” He sighs again, and knows it is bittersweet. “Twas a foundation for much I wished to build, that castle; it will be hard to be without it, however worth its loss, a hundred times over, my people’s futures are.”

Silence reigns for what feels like an age, exposed as his heart and mind now are, alcohol still thrumming through his blood like a pulse. Somehow, though, with the Warrior of the West, of all people, on the receiving end, it feels freeing to speak his innermost thoughts. Mayhaps because not too long ago, their roles were reversed, and she, in the midst of dealing with what seemed an impossible choice, shared her sentiments with him under an endless, star-studded sky.

The closest thing to the stars here is the single candle lighting the edges of his vision, the stalactites with their tips gleaming with hints of dew and precious minerals. The prince in him wishes he could have at least provided a better venue for his selfishness, something more stimulating – and, dare he say, a touch more intimate – than an underground cavern filled with beleaguered, fitfully-sleeping soldiers.

“Rebuild it, then,” he hears suddenly, and Hien looks down to see Odzaya’s craned neck as she stares up at those same stalactites. Her gaze is half-lidded, her lashes fluttering when she blinks, as if she fights to keep her eyes open. Still, her voice rings quiet but clear in his ears. “The land will still be there, will it not?” she asks. “And so will the potential. And even if not, there is nothing stopping you from building something entirely new, perhaps even better, than what was there before.”

Would it be so simple a thing to do? he wonders. Of course not, and yet she makes it sound so, as if she speaks from the very knowledge she declared she did not have. He recalls her previous words, about undone ties; remembers the blanket she lovingly placed around the twins’ shoulders, and how the look in her eye was the same she had when Cirina first recognized and ran for her in Reunion’s square. “Is that what you’ve done in Eorzea, then?” he asks, just as quiet. “Settled a new land, with a new tribe to call your own?”

Odzaya huffs, just a lazy breath gusting past her lips. “In a way, I suppose. But…” She pauses, then shifts slightly, the creak of the stool almost startling in the silence. “It is what I am trying to do here, too. Rebuild that which I undid, hopefully into something better.”

Then she snorts, her tone turned half-cynical, such a contrast to the soft look in her eye when she angles the candlelit line of her neck to look at him. “Or mayhaps I am merely like you,” she says, smirking. “Another Fire Walker.”

No, she does not make it sound simple, Hien thinks, rendered momentarily speechless in the wake of her admittance. She merely makes it sound possible. A subtle power entirely separate from her ability to move the earth and control the stars; the kind of power that, in the right hands, can move minds, strengthen hearts. And build nations.

Quite the woman, this Warrior of the West.

“If you are,” he says, grinning and feeling just a little awed, as if he is seeing the stars, after all, in a place wholly unexpected, “I will consider it the highest of compliments to be called thus.”

Odzaya’s eyes narrow in amusement, two glowing shards of an ember ignited by the wick. “I would not,” she says bluntly, and Hien cannot resist another hearty guffaw.

The little sake left remains untouched, after that. He is drunk already, after all, and keenly feeling the effects as the world gently spins around him, threatening at any moment to turn upside down. Every noise is a distant, muffled thing: the creak of a chair, the murmur of idle conversation, Gosetsu’s snores, as well as the quiet breath expelling from Odzaya as he watches her ever-so-slowly succumb to slumber. It surprises him, at first; on their journey across the Steppe, her eyes were always the last to slip shut, and the first to open in the pre-dawn. A habit born of a turbulent past, or simply a quirk? Regardless, now she is utterly still, draped over the table as she is, a comical mirror image of Gosetsu’s still-slumbering form. The single candle gilds her horns and the scales adorning her face gold, heats the soft ropes of her hair purple to pink. Strangely enough, her eyes are also slit the barest bit open – as if she fought slumber only for it to sneak past her defenses – the thinnest sliver of limbal red showing past her dark lids, like the sun just beginning to peek out from the horizon.

Mayhaps it is too presumptuous, given what awaits us on the morrow, he thinks, fighting his own daze as he watches the gentle in and out of her breath, but if the spirits of fortune dare to smile upon us, I would invite you to return here one day, when I can give you my due best of a proper royal’s welcome. That, and show you what I and mine have built with the courage you have given us.

He briefly contemplates leaving once more, to ensure that she – and Gosetsu – are not disturbed, before ultimately settling into place. She has kept steady vigilance near from the moment they met; he can do so for one remainder of a night. In the ensuing silence, his gaze once more on the stars he cannot see, it comes to him again: the deliberate loss of his past, as well as the future it will bring.

“Fire Walker,” he murmurs to himself, and smiles.

A fitting title, after all. And one he will wear proudly.

[writingwithadinosaur]

“90″ - Oneshot

“90” - Oneshot

My Masterlist - Here

My Tag List - Here

Plantonic!Gil Arroyo x Reader

(Mentioned) Sibling!Malcolm Bright x Sibling!Reader

Word Count: 2,145

Key: Y/N = Your Name, H/C = Your Hair Color, E/C = Your Eye Color Chunks or lines of text that are in italics means that it's (Y/N)’s thoughts.

Warnings: Cursing, mentions of murder, mentions of trauma (Whitly)

Summary: While out on a lunch break with your boss, you find out that your brother is back in town. Unsure of what to do, Gil tries to give some advice. 

Author’s Note: So I had an idea while at work because I find myself thinking a lot about crime shows at work. The line that Gil says “Should have said 90. 100 I know you’re lying” really stuck with me for some reason. So I thought, what if he was told that by Malcolm’s sister, only to use it on him later? And boom, here we are.

It’s not my best, but I thought it was a cute oneshot ramble thing. 

This takes place right before season 1 episode 1. 

This was not beta-read, so please let me know if there are any errors! 

If you would like to be tagged in any of my future pieces, check out my tag list above and let me know! And as always, feedback is greatly appreciated!

<3

- DreaSaurusREX

~~~~~~~~~

Thanks to your father messing your family up from a young age, abnormal and criminal psychology seemed to be a “natural” path for you and your brother to end up going down. Words cannot describe the negative effect that Dr. Martin Whitly had and continues to have on your life. Growing up and really realizing the awful things he did to those women, your brother, and you made you see the world for what it truly is: Chaotic, painful, and full of surprises (both good and bad.) You saw that there were more monsters like him out there and you wanted to figure out who and where they were. 

While Malcolm went on to change his last name and run off to Quantico to try to help catch more of these deranged killers, you changed your last name and stayed closer to home. If there was one monster living in your own home, they really could be anywhere. 

Gil Arroyo was the officer that caught your father and helped make sure that your family was alright after The Surgeon was put away in Claremont Psychiatric. He helped you and Malcolm bond and grow as much as you could. While you did drift away from the rest of your family, you kept in contact with Malcolm and Gil.

As soon as you graduated college and walked into his office asking to be on his team, Gil knew he had to say yes. Not only to make sure you were safe, but also because he knew you had the ability to help get into a mindset that could help the team solve some of these trickier cases. 

Which leads to today, a normal lunch break. 

You and Gil went to a sub shop not too far from the station and got your usuals from Mr.Santos. While waiting, Gil was slightly shifting his feet, slightly visibly unsettled by something on his mind. You made your way to a table off to the side of the room and motioned for him to sit across from you.

“Go on and tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“Whatever's got your headspace all worked up.” Gil looked down and sighed out a slight laugh.

“What gave it away this time?”

“Do you really want to know?” Gil shrugged his shoulders and leaned back, trying to feign being comfortable even though he knew he was going to have to speak his mind sooner or later. You leaned forward, elbows on the table, slightly squinting your eyes, preparing for the rare chance to put the Gil Arroyo in his place.

“Well, for one, you haven’t been able to make eye contact or even look at me since we left the station. You’ve also had your arms crossed more than usual, which could be an attempt to make a physical barrier to whatever is creeping its way out of your mental barriers. Your jaw has been clenched for at least the last fifteen minutes, which means you’re at least slightly stressed about something. Do you want me to keep ripping you a new one, or do you want to just tell me what’s going on?”

Gil looked down to see that his arms were indeed crossed over his chest, he let out another sighed laugh, shook his head slightly, and dropped his arms. He took a deep breath.

“Malcolm is coming home.” Gill didn’t look up until after he spoke, trying to gauge your reaction. 

When Malcolm applied for Quantico, you were happy for him. That same day, you found out that he had been meeting with Dr.Whitly. You had made a choice to try to stay as distant from his as possible, and yet, Malcolm was visiting as if he wasn’t locked in there for murder. You didn’t even hear him out, you couldn’t fathom the idea of anyone wanting to visit that creature.

 It drove a spike between your relationship with your brother. You knew that you two would mend it and make up eventually. But you didn’t expect to have to talk to him so soon. 

One of the downsides to growing up like how you did and knowing so much about psychology now, you knew how to hide your emotions fairly well. Some would call it a blessing, especially working with the NYPD as a psychological analyst assistant. But right now, Gil hated it. 

“(Y/N)? You still with me?” Gil tapped your hand to try to get you to focus on the real conversation as opposed to your inner monologue. You shook your head and tried to put on a small smile.

“Yeah. I’m here. I’m fine.”

“Now I know that’s a lie.” 

“Oh really? And how do you know that?”

“Your real smile reaches your eyes. This one,” Gil pointed to your face, “is as fake as Pamela Anderson’s boobs.” A small chuckle left you at his choice of comparison. Gil now matched you and leaned on his elbows on the table. “Talk to me, kiddo. What’s going on in that big ole brain of yours?”

Leaning back, you started to play with your fingers as you tried to settle on a single question out of the handful that were swimming around your mind to ask right now.

“Do you know why he’s coming back?”

“From what I know, he got fired. Assaulted an officer.” 

“Must have deserved it.”

“Which one? Him or the officer”

“Honestly, either one.” Gil slightly chuckled, knowing your brother as long as he has, he could definitely see the punch landing either way.

“Well, I don’t know. But... you can ask him that yourself.” You raised a questioning brow at Gil as he paused, trying to choose his phrasing. “I think it would be good for you two to talk. Go get coffee, take a walk, something.”

“Really? You think it would be a good idea to reopen that broken door labeled ‘Warning! Malcolm Bright! Do not open?’”

“100%” Gil tried to smile, but similar to how he pointed out on you moments ago, his smile didn’t reach his eyes. 

Mr.Santos came to your table with your sandwiches wrapped up and some chips. The two of you thanked him before getting ready to head back to the station to eat. As you got back out to the sidewalk and fell in step with him, you spoke about the case that you were both working now. It wasn’t until you got back to the station that you spoke on what was bothering you.

“You should know better than to lie to me, Gil.”

“And what am I being accused of lying about now?” He couldn’t help but sound a bit annoyed as he opened the door to the conference room where you had all of your notes and evidence board set up. The two of you setting up lunch as you continue.

“When you were saying that it would be good for me to try to meet up with Malcolm, I asked if you were sure, and you said ‘100%.’” 

“And?” Gil asked, mouth half full of chips. 

“You should have said 90.” Gil looked at you, waiting to hear your reasoning. “100 I know you’re lying.” 

“You know I’m lying by me saying 100%?”

“There are very few things that we can say we know with 100% certainty. You of all people question the certainty of things. And with the subject being Malcolm, then there is no knowing how us trying to reconnect could go. And you know that. So--” 

“I just think that you could help him out.” Gil interrupted, not wanting to hear your whole dissertation on probability and chance. 

“So could you. You’re basically a father figure to us, albeit thanks to unfortunate circumstances.” 

“Yeah, but he knows that I usually bring cases, not social visits.” A slight sigh exhaled through your nose, knowing that he was at least partially right. “And I know damn well that he would like to see his sister.” Gil pointed his sandwich at you before taking a bite.

“That's the great thing about him having two sisters though. He can go talk to Ainsley. Although, I know she is like mother in the way that they are dreadfully draining to talk to.” Gil put his sandwich down, looking down at the table and taking another deep breath. “There’s more you’re not telling me.”

The only response you got from him was a hand pointing towards the evidence board. You looked at the board, trying to see if he was pointing to something specific. When you couldn’t make anything out, you looked back to meet Gil with a questioning look.

“I think having two profiler brains on this killer could be helpful.” You took a deep breath in through your nose as you leaned back in your chair, looking up at the ceiling slightly, everything clicking into place. 

“I see. You want us to make up so we’ll play nice when you eventually wave a case file in his face and drag him to the next crime scene.” You looked at Gil and saw him holding his hands out getting slightly defensive. 

“That’s not the only reason. I know you two are some of the best profilers in New York. You are also the only ones that can truly understand and help each other thanks to your... life experiences. So in order to try to help catch bad guys like how we want to, and help you two finally get the relationship back to where you want to, yes, I want you to make up and play nice.” 

You knew he was right and that this would be a smart move. You reach for your drink and take a sip. Your lack of response let Gil know that he had “won.”

“Plus, he feels bad for how things left off before he moved.”

The next few minutes were silent as the two of you finished your lunches. Gil got up to throw away your wrappers and such. As you thanked him, you turned to the evidence board and sipped on the last of your drink.

You tried to find more correlations or similarities between these victims, but you kept thinking of the same ones you already had written down. As much as you loved your team, they weren’t trained much when it comes to the thoughts and motives of a killer. 

You haven’t been able to have a psychologically focused and interesting conversation with anyone since Malcolm left for Quantico. He was always one of a select few that didn’t completely drain your social battery and understood how far to push you to challenge you without causing any damage. Malcolm understood your humor, your ups and downs, and how to really help you. And you understood the same thing for him.

You missed that. 

Maybe a mind like his would be refreshing and helpful nowadays.  

JT knocked on the door’s threshold before poking his head in, phone in hand. You swiveled your chair around, knowing what he was going to say.

“Uni’s called in from east side of 42nd. Something weird. All I could make out was ‘blood paint’ and ‘skin mural’ before they begged for backup.”

“Sounds like something right up your alley, (Y/N).” Gil turned to you. You nodded and started to stand up, gathering the last of your trash and tossing it in the can. 

You stopped before leaving the room. Looking down at the piles of case notes along the table, you couldn’t help but feel a little bit guilty about not finding this guy yet. All of these victims with no answers yet. Gil noticed and put a hand on your shoulder. Before he could say anything, you spoke.

“I’ll try and reach out to him. I can’t let this guy walk around doing this shit again and again. I need a brain like Malcolm’s to jump off of.” Gil just squeezed your shoulder before moving his hand gently to the scruff of your neck, ushering you towards the door so you could get to the crime scene. “I’ll see if he wants to go to that nice place off 16th. But I can’t promise anything.”

You stopped again before getting into the front seat of Gil’s car. Looking at him over the roof, you were a bit nervous now about meeting up with your brother. 

“Are you sure he actually wants to try to make up?”

Gil nodded his head side to side with a slight frown, as if he was weighing options in his head. 

“I would say 85, maybe 90%.” You rolled your eyes at him. “Hey! I’m learning this all from you! I’ll have to use that line next time someone says 100.” 

Gil smiled as he leaned down into the driver's seat, you followed and soon you were on your way to catch another monster. 

~~~~~~

Tag List - @melconnor2007 @ashenfallsof @geeksareunique @all-by-myself98 @sj-thefan @malindacath @shadowfoxey

[thewolfisawake]

Since I’m in this brainrot alone, of course I’m just gonna end up thinking of a Hypmic AU with muses and their friends because I’m trash like that. Anyway, to avoid spamming my discord with the ideas, I’m just writing it on here. So a couple muses and those from @arcxnumvitae and @shxtteredillusions​.

Starting with Kesil just because he honestly doesn’t fit with the rest. His actually came first as I thought of him with his friends from a different platform. He would be rolling with his delinquent/probably doing some illegal shit friends. Their style is more like MTC with the rough and tumble, down and dirty sort of thing. His MC name is actually Shinigami because I gotta stick with his ‘thing’ no matter the AU! I do not know what his mic nor speakers would end up like. I think most of his themes are related to him as a killer as he in this verse likely only learned and became good with a hypmic just because it’s the only weapon he could have. I mean...he probably could sneak one regardless but since most weapons were phased to mics, he probably learned. His rap ability would probably be something like Death Reversal, basically he could deny himself or his comrades of being knocked out as it fits with his actual ability of death force manipulation. Of all the guys I think he’s most like, it’s probably Rio as I don’t feel he’s overly expressive. Not because of lack of feeling but just that cool under pressure sore of thing

--

Anyway onto the Bastion Kids because they’re my faves to mess with

Ofc Lucien’s the easiest to think of this crap for. I do not have a MC name because unlike the creators, I have shame. But probably something wolf related. I feel his mic would be pretty old so look like a carbon microphone (because I think I’m funny) and be pretty simple. Don’t know what his speakers would be like. I think his themes are actually rather mundane when outside of battle. But in battle, cutthroat bastard. He’s like absolute annihilation of his enemy, his words are like the maw of a beast, he’d rip you to shreds. His ability is Cornered Counter, basically as his energy dwindles, his attacks get more powerful. Basically you gotta be decisive with him because the longer he lasts, the more dangerous he is. So obviously his is most like Samatoki’s as it fits his aggressive tone and no back down attitude. 

I have a feeling he probably pissed off the Party of Words and thus if they had the chance to deal with him, they would’ve. Maybe he and his fam had differing views as to how to take this change in the world. I feel like he preferred the old ways but had to adapt to using a hypnosis mic in order to survive. And survive he did. 

Katarina’s was somewhat easier to do because she’s very clear in her presentation. I debate if she’d just straight up use her name or if it’d be something like Prima (either by itself or being Prima Donna), something denoting her regality. Her mic is likely a stand one fashioned like crystalline ice. Her speakers kind of hard to describe other than like a metallic feminine figure that kind of looks like a warlord, armed to the teeth with swords. Her themes are of betterment of the state of her surroundings, how she’ll change it with her own hands and utmost confidence of herself. Her rap ability I am still working on since while the idea currently works with her actual ability...what it ends up doing runs counter to her personality. It’d be called Dazzle and would basically redirect an opponent’s attack to someone else. However the issue is Kat can’t choose who it goes to. Since there’s not much I can draw from with the ladies of hypmic, I would go with CL for her sound although I found Chanmina while searching and thought this hits me for Kat. But if I had to choose a character, it’d be Ichijiku.

 I actually think her mother might’ve been a good soldier for the Party of Words but then she kinda sorta ended up falling in love with the enemy. Whoops. Except like the Party of Words didn’t know she did (supposedly). And so she left and went to be with Kat’s dad, who was a resistance member but wasn’t able to use a mic. So Kat is like the kid that was like...y’know we could live in peace if we’re not super oppressive. I feel like Petra taught her how to rap as it’s the only viable weapon for Kat so that’s what she uses. 

Crowe’s is a pain because he’s a pain. I don’t have a MC name either maybe Shadow? Too basic? I dunno. His mic either a headset or futuristic kind of shades he wears. I’m sure everyone finds it odd. His speakers look more like cameras and briefcases with like a dicey looking umbrella. It’s huge frickin’ homage to spy stuff y’all. And you’ll figure out the function of them when he turns his speakers on you. Electric volt briefcases, umbrella gun, that kinda stuff. His themes are pretty pessimistic, the secrets of others, the ability to get his hands dirty and what those dirty hands can and can’t do. His rap ability I feel would be based on his gorgon blood so likely named such (Gorgon) or Eyebite and would work where he paralyzes an opponent from taking their turn. Who I draw most for him is actually Jakurai although obviously his voice is no where as deep. 

If there had to be a traitor, it’s probably Crowe. He isn’t particularly happy about it but at the same time, it’s not like he’s brave enough to deal with his overlords. Not when he knows the things they COULD do. Or maybe he’s doing spy stuff on Chuuoku and is in a continuously perilous position but can’t or won’t talk to anyone about it. Basically he still has his paranoia but for a different reason. 

Hmmm Taylor’s giving me a lot of problems because I just can’t pin down a lot for her. I don’t have a name for her nor any idea what she’d go with. Maybe something food based? The only ones coming to mind are Red Velvet and Matcha. Her mic? I think she’d use a hand held mic. Kind of like the ones you do karaoke on in terms of shape. Her speakers? * confused noises * Her themes mmm....I think hers are rather upbeat although not without bite! Her rap ability still eludes me. If I’m thinking of sound, I would put it as something like Calliope although again her words are lighter than hers. 

I feel like Taylor’s family ended up with her parents not surviving the war and thus was left with Rhett to try to keep his siblings from being separated from him. She didn’t view a need to learn how to rap--after all a lot of the population doesn’t seem to--but her mind was changed after being kidnapped for ransom and subjected to the effects of a hypnosis mic. She ended up saved by then then ragtag kids and wanted to learn so that she was never in that position again.

Hooo boy, Emil has that instinctual attention to tone shift going mad. Oh god. I do not have a MC name for him either. I feel Prince would be far too on the nose. So something else. I think he’d have a stand mic, I think his would be like I think it’s a certain kind of ribbon mic? Like this? Makes me think of like old school announcers that fits with his lively personality. I feel like his speakers would be more like ice fragments that feels like they should be falling but don’t. His themes are like half light-hearted and inviting, about having a good time with others. But the other times it’s about masks and charades. He is the kind that has that tone drop and you can tell it’s another ‘presence’ to Emil. One that is vicious and will have you sinking. His rap ability is Frostbite, which would essentially have any battle of his become a race against time. His ability starts sapping the energy of his opponent and of course if they drop...it’s game over for them. His sound when light-hearted is more like Hifumi in like vocal tone but with Ramuda’s flow. Yet I feel like the perfect sound for his is Gentaro’s verse in Stella (Emil, I hope you know you are the biggest pain in terms of style) in terms of like how he sounds in alternating between cutting and light. 

I feel like his mom had stayed in the Chuuoku under the Party of Words but had seen Emil’s dad while outside of the ward. And then she fell pregnant and was in love with Emil when he was born despite him being a son than daughter. And when faced with either handing Emil over to his dad or leaving Chuuoku, she chose the latter. This was her baby. Emil had grown up with both but his mom passed away...his father suspecting it to be Chuuoku’s doing, moved away far from the ward. However Emil grew curious of the hypnosis mic that his mother had used when she was alive and so he ran off near Chuuoku, where he met a...unkind mentor (basically his grandma in normal verse stuff) that did teach him but did affect his candor. 

Cipriana I have also am having some trouble thinking things of. I do not have a MC name but I think it’d be cool if she chose one that’s like...reclaiming and being proud of her ‘runt’ status. Also am not sure about her mic. I think she’d have a handheld one though. As her mic, maybe they’re in the shape of spools with like threads all around and at least one connecting her her mic. Her themes I feel would be a bit like that somber hope? Like it sounds a little sad but it’s ultimately about a better day eventually. Which contrasts to how she is in a battle as I imagine she is very loud in presence since this is more or less a fight and she isn’t getting knocked down again (her mindset of chasing down Lucien absolutely frightens and intrigues me). I just thought of her ability being like By a Thread, where she essentially she cannot be ringed out and can be a little harder to knock out. Her set up kind of makes like a net or wrap around her to keep her from falling (also makes her look like a doll in some aspects, oooh callback). I think of her sound very much like Nemu. 

I do not know how she runs in this story except maybe that she was normal and just simply ended up in the whirlwind of hypnosis mics. Although sitting here now, I’m thinking if Arsenio had a mic and had used it against her--since it’s basically inflicting psychic damage--on her even though she didn’t have one (which is illegal btw). And Vini had it with his shit and used his own and having the same mindset as in her original verse, she actually took one of their mics and used her words against Vinicio, still causing their original rift...just worse. A lot of the same plotting from there maybe? Eventually she meets the rest of the kids.  

Aspis has been rather hit or miss. I am still thinking on his MC name but Yaksha has been in there. I am thinking of his mic to be handheld and I can’t think of anything particular for its design. I think of his speakers looking like demon masks with the speaker part within the mouth. It’s kinda intense looking especially since you know he’s so sweet. Gotta keep his contrasting aesthetic somewhere. His themes are usually about mundane things as well. Musings about those of his past and present. I feel he’s the least biting towards others in battles? Like a lot of battles are attacking something about your opponent or about one’s own ability. I think Aspis would rely less on tearing someone down. Not saying he can’t but I feel like it’s gonna be a bloodbath if he does. His rap ability would be called Katashiro, where he links to another person (usually an opponent) where when he is injured, that damage is shared between him and the opponent. Which coupled with his odd endurance, could drop whoever he linked with before he falls. If I think of his sound, I think of Kuko’s flow but also Ichiro’s lyrical way.

I feel like Aspis gonna have all the crap things of being a war orphan for himself. Pretty self-reliant and not one to take help because he kinda doesn’t know how to. But I think music saves him, I think Daza might be a DJ who even if she didn’t have a mic, she got him understanding of flow and the like. And it was just a comfort for him. She probably helped him obtain a mic. And he was friends and the like with Yukina until she went with the Party of Words. 

Aya’s is like Aspis’ hit or miss in terms of what I can think of. MC names are harrrrdddddd. I feel like her mic I alternate between it being the kind you see a cabaret singer use or a handheld. Maybe one of the first that does both??? I can’t think much in design other than ‘shimmery.’ Not like gaudy but like you watch her move or light hits just right and you see it shine...like her. Her speakers looks more like a theater. With like velvety curtain backdrop and everything. And her attacks look pretty until they hit you. I’m thinking like razor flower petals sort of thing. Her themes...mmm, I feel like overall it’s just ‘pop-y’ and light. It’s nothing like her battling. I feel she just sounds pleasant but then has some serious cutthroat bars. Despite this, I think of her rap ability being Renewal, being able to make others’ attacks stronger and cutting the damage they take. Super supportive skill which she probably took a while to figure out about. I actually found her sound while looking at other stuff. Which I think is Jeon Soyeon easily. 

Also not quite sure where she would be in the story other than I think Meg would’ve procured her a mic for her protection. And I think she cultivated her rapping to have a rap ability. And I feel like Meg was worried about it and wanted Aya away from eyes that would witness it. Because although it has no offensive power for Aya herself (at least not that anyone’s made her come to that point), it is useful for like...a team or ally situation. So useful for the Party of Words and what Meg wants to avoid. But she can’t really stop Aya from doing what she wants with her mic. 

[battlestar-royco]

Let’s settle this once and for all: are the Illyrians MOC?

So, in writing the answer to this ask, I FINALLY put two and two together on something: another reason why SJ/M’s constant use of “golden-brown” to describe the I/llyrians doesn’t sit right is because that’s literally the only indication that they are MOC. Looking at fan art, it’s clear that some artists are going for a non-white skin tone. If so, then why don’t they look like MOC? Why is there so much contention and confusion around whether or not these men are white? I have been subconsciously baffled by this phenomenon for years, since AC0MAF came out in 2016. I don’t know why this took me so long to conclude, because people have been essentially saying the same thing about POC in SJ/M’s books since AC0MAF dropped, but here is the reason: in both the books and the art, their complexion is the only thing that indicates they are MOC. There’s a lot, as they say, to unpack here. This is gonna get long (seriously, RIP to your thumbs. I promise it’s half photos). Snip.

The Golden-Brown Suitcase

So. We have descriptions such as these (all emphasis mine; special thanks to @longsightmyth​ for pulling many quotes and citations!)...

1. about C/assian and A/zriel: “Like their High Lord, the males---warriors---were dark-haired, tan-skinned. But unlike Rhys, their eyes were hazel...”  (AC0MAF, pg. 140 B&N ebook).

2. “Cassian surveyed Rhys from head to foot, his shoulder-length black hair shifting with the movement” (140).

3. about A/zriel: “But the second male, the more classically beautiful of the two... Even the light shied from the elegant planes of his face” (140).

4. “I could have sworn Rhys’s golden-brown skin paled” (AC0WAR, pg. 223 Kindle edition).

5. “Color bloomed high on Azriel’s golden-brown cheeks” (254).

6. “I tried to catch Cassian’s gaze, but he was monitoring them closely, his golden-brown skin unnaturally pale” (280).

7. “But Nesta’s pale fingers gently probed his golden-brown skin” (514).

... spawning fan art en masse like this:

art courtesy: x x x

What’s wrong with this (these) picture(s)? They are white men with the complexions of MOC. The fandom (and thus artists) have nothing but “golden-brown” (a term that is notably introduced in AC0WAR, one installment after the I/llyrians first appear) to go on, so they default to imagining the I/llyrians as tanned Henry Cavill, Nikolaj Coster-Waldau, Viggo Mortensen types. You could simply lighten the value of the above artworks (but please DO NOT do this) and have white men. THIS is why, despite the golden-brown descriptor and the Darker-Than-Fayre skin tones in the fandom art, there is so much debate and confusion around whether or not the I/llyrians are MOC. Golden-brown skin with straight black hair, straight noses, and round light eyes do not a man of color make. Why not? Because “golden-brown” is a very nebulous term that can apply to countless skin tones and ethnicities. Some examples (... your THUMBS I’m so sorry slafajklsk):

^ Indian,

^ Mexican,

^ Guatemalan,

^ Hawaiian,

^ Afro-Caribbean,

^ and Filipino. For starters.

Now, why is it that upon first glance, you can tell that all the men in these photos are not white? Because race is constructed such that we can immediately identify it, whether subconsciously or consciously. We’re socially conditioned to recognize this in other people and immediately ascribe our own perception of their race and ethnicity onto them. Not only can you tell they are not white, but you also have a ballpark idea of where in the world they are from. Note the wide variance in thickness and texture of hair (head, facial, and body); the cool and warm undertones that change by the person; the wide, ridged, and/or downturned noses; eye shape, body type etc. So why can’t we put a finger on what the I/llyrians are supposed to look like as MOC? Why do so many people perceive them as white? Because SJ/M has no target ethnicity for the I/llyrians, meaning that they have no clarifying features to imply one specific ethnic background in the text or fan art. All we know for sure about the I/llyrians is that they are dark-haired, darker complected than the A/rcheron sisters, and they pale and blush. Vagueness regarding race always causes fandom to default to white, thus the general “tan white dudes” interpretation of the I/llyrians.

The Illyrian Suitcase

We’ve now come across another suitcase within this entire I/llyrian Ethnicity Moving Truck of stuff we need to unpack: the smidge of evidence that the I/llyrians are inspired by somewhere in the MENA region. Given the harem pants and henna-reminiscent tattoos that appear in the Nite Court, plus the mosques and clothing that appear in fandom edits and art, general “MENA” may be the closest approximation to I/llyrian ethnicity. However, the problems snowball from here.

1. The MENA label is far too general to treat as one single race/ethnicity. General fandom perception/depiction of I/llyrians does not nearly encompass the multitude of appearances someone could have if they are from the MENA region. Harem pants and henna are used in multiple countries, so it is impossible to pin down a non-monolithic appearance with just the Nite Court attire and “golden-brown” description.

2. The Nite Court and the I/llyrians are two separate entities. Not all V/elaris residents are I/llyrian, not all Nite courtiers are I/llyrian, and not even all Inner Circle members are I/llyrian. Therefore, we cannot conflate the Nite clothing and tattoos with I/llyrian culture.

3. This leads me to my next point: we still have white and non-I/llyrian characters wearing harem pants and tattoos. Fayre, M0r, and A/mren’s attire is not culturally meaningful to the Nite Court. It also clashes with sweaters and leggings, dresses made of chiffon, bell sleeves, and Elie Saab-reminiscent designs (ie Starfall, Court of Nightmares). Thus, the attire loses all internal consistency and meaning beyond the mood SJ/M wishes to set for a given scene, making the implication that their outerwear is meant to be sexy or aesthetic rather than culturally significant.

4. The I/llyrians as a race of POC meaninglessly perpetuate stereotypes. Granted, sexism exists in high fae society (ie Fayre being paraded as “Rice’s whore” in the CoN, M/or being treated as a commodity and broodmare, the lack of High Ladies), so the misogyny and violence against women are not unique to I/llyrians. We also get more than one I/llyrian main character, so they are not a complete monolith. But there are still issues. One, the I/llyrians are oppressed by the high fae. It is well documented that the high fae are the dominant race and look down upon lesser fae. This dichotomy has yet to be unpacked by SJ/M. Two, I/llyrian women are oppressed by I/llyrian men (wing-cutting, commodification, gender roles, etc). There are absolutely zero fleshed out I/llyrian women, so the only information we have about their experience and existence is through Fayre’s eyes and Rice’s word. This framing is white feminist at best, white savior-y at worst. Three, we only know I/llyrians who have assimilated into high fae culture. Rice, the High Lord, is half high fae and half I/llyrian. Only he and his friends, I/llyrians who have been “elevated” from bastard/oppressed I/llyrian status, know better than the other more “savage” I/llyrians. Coincidence? I think not.

The Lucien Suitcase

All this gets even more confusing when you consider the fact that SJ/M uses “golden-brown” as a blanket non-white coding tool. In the T0G series, at LEAST the following characters are described as golden-brown: S/artaq (T0D, pg. 345 Kindle edition), Nesrin (K0A, 180), and Irene (403). In AC0WAR, at LEAST the following are described as golden-brown: the I/llyrians, Vassa (685), and L/ucien (183, 302, 456). Our best approximation is that S/artaq and Nesrin are South Asian given their southern continent origin, Irene is part-black given her E/yllwe father, Vassa is... golden brown, and L/ucien is part black and part white. The term is used so frequently that it is meaningless as an indicator for race. We’ve again found the golden-brown suitcase, which in SJ/M’s novels encases allll the aforementioned ethnicities and more. Again, this causes very anglicized and/or inconsistent looks to pop up in fan art:

x

x

x

Conclusion

it seems that the I/llyrians are MOC, based on the fact that they and other POC are frequently described as “golden-brown.” That said, the golden-brown descriptor is not enough. The I/llyrians do not serve their purpose as representative characters because they are not easily identifiable to their target demographic, nor are they a positive representation. In a social context where we are so trained to recognize these things, explicit media representation is much preferred, if not necessary. It is the reader’s prerogative---namely, non-white readers’ prerogative---to interpret these characters how they wish. We’d be unpacking a whole other house if we were to go into the meaning behind L/ucien as a black man, Irene as a black woman, Nesrin as South Asian, etc, and that is for another day. Thanks so much for reading all this way if you got this far. I know I’m extra, sorry. The creative writing/women’s and gender studies major jumped out lmao. My inbox is always open if you want to parse that out or if you have any further questions!

[sopwithwhump]

After the Collapse

Day 31! Wow, I cannot believe I made it! 31 whumpy stories in 31 days! I learned a lot this month, mostly about how to write succinct stories that still have heart. Thank you so much for this, @whumptober2020. It was an amazing month and the flexibility and amount of different prompts y’all had were amazing. And thank you all for reading my fics, I’m glad you enjoyed my little writing experiment here. 

Enough fluff, today I’m doing alt prompt #3: Comfort. Wasn’t feeling torture today, sorry. My character gets trapped in an elevator during a building collapse, and during and after her rescue has trouble processing it, gets some much-deserved comfort. Tw: building collapse, mass disaster.

Riley stepped in to the elevator, having just finished a routine dental appointment and ready to go home. She hummed to herself as the elevator made its way to the ground floor from 15 storeys up. Suddenly, with the floor counter at “2,” the elevator stopped suddenly, violently jerking and shaking as it did. More muffled banging followed, the elevator shaking.

           “Whah… what?” whimpered Riley, holding on to the rail inside the lift. She looked around, starting to panic. What happened? Suddenly, the elevator shook again; the lights flickered. Then they went out. Emergency back-up lights came on.

           “No… oh no, no, no, no, no…” she whimpered, rapidly pressing the “door open” button. Nothing was happening. She then began to press the alarm button over and over, causing a loud buzzer to go off, which only overwhelmed her further.

           She sat down in the corner of the lift and brought her knees to her chest. She felt tears come to her eyes. What was happening out there? She swallowed back a sob, trying to stay focused.

           Riley didn’t know how long she was trapped in the elevator; all she knew was that she wanted to get out. She began to cry and panic more as time went on, she paced around the elevator, banged on the doors and walls, anything that could get someone’s attention. The alarm was on a back-up, so she pressed the alarm button again. At this point, she was sobbing.

           When it felt like all hope was lost, she heard a grinding noise, which at first scared her. But then, she saw some sort of crowbar being used to pry the inner set of doors open. She then saw a firefighter reaching out. The floor was three feet up.

           “I’ve got you,” he said reassuringly, “come on, take my hand.” Riley held in her tears as she took that strong hand for help, her bottom lip quivering.

           The hallway was unrecognizable. To her right, the building was gone. To the left, the power was knocked out and the ceiling was crumbling. “We’ve got a ladder truck to the right; follow me,” said the firefighter.

           As she tried to keep up, her crying reduced back to quiet tears, a baseball-sized piece of ceiling dropped and hit her right on the head. “Ah!” She squeezed her eyes closed as she held a hand to her forehead.

           “You ok?” said the firefighter, looking back.

           “It… h-h-hurts…” Riley stuttered in her tearful voice.

           “I’ll get a look at it once we get to the ground, ok? You’re still with me, right?”

           Riley nodded. “Yep…” she was helped down to the ground by the ladder truck. The scene on the street was chaotic but also seemed like it was under strict control. She was directed away from the building and to the curb across the street, and was sat down by the firefighter.

           “Look at me,” he said, paying attention to the forehead wound. Everything felt numb and surreal at this point. Like everything was a blur. She had trouble paying attention to what was happening as a tag was tied around her wrist.

           “Ok, I need you to head to the right, you’ll see a big group of people. Can you do that for me?”

           Riley didn’t catch what he said, she was too busy looking at the partially collapsed building in disbelief. It wasn’t real… it wasn’t… “I-I’m sorry… can you… rep-p-peat?”

           “Over there, miss,” he said, helping her stand up and pointing to where a group of walking wounded were gathered near a few city buses, “can you walk over there?”

           “Oh… umm… yeah…” she said, turning and walking in that direction. She felt helpless. She needed someone. Someone to tell her what exactly is happening. But that request wasn’t filled.

           Instead she stood there waiting. Someone dressed in a high visibility vest gave her some gauze to hold to her forehead. There was only confusion and alone feelings. Riley looked around. Were there people still trapped under the rubble? How, and more importantly, why was she still alive and barely hurt? Why was no one talking to her?

           The gravity of the situation suddenly hit her when they started loading the walking wounded onto the buses. She was told that she would be taken to a hospital about a half hour away. This actually happened, people got hurt, the building was pretty much destroyed. She swallowed a lump in her throat as she sat down. As the bus started to move, however, she began to cry. Softly weeping, the de-escalation of the situation paired with it finally hitting her, as well as the lack of a comforting person explaining what had happened causing it.

           She hadn’t stopped when the bus arrived at the hospital. Once she was sitting on a bed in an examination room, her soft weeping turned to sobbing. A male nurse with gentle eyes behind his horn-rimmed glasses walked in shortly.

           “Hey there…” he said softly, “I’m here. You just came from that building incident, didn’t you? That must have been very scary. I want you to know that you’re safe now, okay?”

           Riley looked up and nodded. “Th-thanks…” she whimpered.

           “I’m just going to get a look at that cut on your forehead, is that okay?”

           “Y-yeah… yeah, that’s okay…” she closed her eyes as the nurse gently examined the cut with gloved hands.

           “It won’t need stitches,” he said, “I’ll just clean it up for you. Do you want to… take a breather before I continue?”

           Riley looked up at him. “Y-yeah… actually,” she said, wiping her eyes and sniffling, “c-could I have a t-t-tissue?”

           “For sure, for sure,” said the nurse, quickly bringing over a box. Riley took one and blew her nose. “My name’s Bryan, by the way.”

           “I’m Riley…”

           “Ah, yes. It says so here on my clipboard. Riley, can you take some deep breaths for me? Would you like me to guide you?”

           Riley nodded. Bryan began to count slowly, guiding her to inhale, hold, and exhale. She started to feel a little more calm. It was good to have a comforting human presence here. That’s what she needed right now.

           “There we go. Doesn’t that feel a little better?”

           “Yes,” said Riley, “thank you…”

           “Ok… I’m just going to take care of that wound… just irrigating it with some normal saline. Could you lay back for me?” He gently washed the debris out of the cut, making sure it was clean. He then covered it with a gauze pad.

           “There we go, that’s all done. Are you okay?” Bryan asked again, pulling off his gloves, “do you need anything?”

           “I… is it okay if you stay with me for a little bit? I mean… if you’re busy…”

           “No… I can stay with you. Would you like a glass of water?”

           “Umm… yeah… yeah, that’ll… that will be good.”

           “I’ll be right back.” Bryan left the room briefly and later returned with a plastic cup full of water. “There you go, Riley.” She drank the water, it felt good. All that crying had made her thirsty. Bryan put his hand on her shoulder. Riley accepted the kind gesture; it was just what she needed.

           “Thank you, Bryan… today was… it was… I don’t even know how to describe it…”

           “It may take a while to process things. Just know that you have resources available to you if you need someone to talk to, ok Riley?”

           “Ok. Thanks Bryan. Thank you so much for being here for me.

[spacegaywritings]

“All Time Low” - Bad Therapists have a special Place in Hell

Summary: Patton describes depressive episodes and being unable to live life. The therapist tells him it is okay and normal to feel sad and to stop being a wussy when Patton tells him life does not feel worth living at the moment.

Disclaimer: writing based on subjective experiences based on therapy, mental health issues and (LOCAL) stigmas. You might have better/worse/different experiences with your struggles and how they were perceived and treated. Your culture or surroundings might have different bias. This is for venting and does not objectively apply to everyone’s experience of their mental illness or struggles.

Tags: u! emile, bad therapists, mental health issues, depression, invalidating mental illness, suicidal thoughts, feelings of hopelessness/worthlessness, self-deprecation, no perspective, bad memory, worried family, worried doctors, shitty Emile lmao, depression being seen as lazy, drastic weight loss, implied self harm, implied suicide contemplation/plan, mentions of sex, mentions of pretence, repression, bad coping mechanisms, someone revoke the dude’s license lmao.

My KoFi  - Support me ♥ or Commission me

Note: If you miss any tags, have issues with links or any other concerns, please feel free to contact me. Anon is on and my DMs are open.♥

Links broken? Inform me, please!

Overview of this series on tumblr / ao3.

Story under the cut ( Wordcount: ~2,1k)

Dull eyes took in the white walls framing the therapist’s office. Patton took in the sight before him. It felt as boring as life, as uneventful and tasteless.

Looking at these walls made him feel as if his state had gotten much worse. If it had not been for his general practitioner to send him over and for his daily life to become so unbearable to him, he would have stayed at home and just not have gotten up to this appointment. His family was being persistent. He did not think it was that important. He just wanted to sit it out in his bed and not do anything for a little bit longer.

 “Hello there, Patton!”

 A friendly face rushed in. It was just as blank as the walls to him. He tried to smile back at the person who beamed so nicely at him. His lips barely moved. He could taste the bitter bile of guilt taking up the back of his throat.

 “Hello.”

 The therapist narrowed his eyes.

 “Oh, well, I have heard more cheery responses today. This is the first time we meet and you show up like this? A little disappointing~”

 The singsang voice made Patton want to crawl back under his bed’s quilt. It smelled bad but only if he left his bed for long enough to realise the smell again. He had become dull to it like to anything else in life.

Might as well live in a stinky bed and a stinky life.

It was not like these words, as cheery as they sounded, could lift him up. They only pushed him deeper into the darkest corners of his own feelings.

 “I- I’m sorry.”

 Patton’s words were slow and he curled deeper into his big big hoodie. He had parked his greasy hair underneath the actual hoodie part of his clothing and he had messily put on some jogging pants. The pant’s legs were lanky around his own legs, even his thighs. They looked like he had taken his older brother’s pants to be his own and he had yet to “grow into it”.

It was at least comfortable enough for his body to drown in the gown and hide his pathetic existence away.

 Not that this really mattered anyway.

 “Oh, there there. It will be okay. I just made a little joke! You really are not up for the smiley treatment today, huh? Well, I am your therapist - Doctor Emile Picani! The reception said you are all good to go and I checked in your insurance card, too. Now, would you be so free to tell me what brought you here today?”

 The adolescent shrugged his shoulders.

He was not worth the therapist’s time anyway. His thoughts were a soup made of dirt and grass and it revolved only about how he was stupid and selfish for going to the appointment made for him. He should have resisted harder and let someone in need have this session.

 Still, a little bit of fire in him pushed him onto the couch as if to lay down or at least crawl as far away from the sunlight and the big, observant eyes of this world.

 “I, uh.. my family thinks I need help”, he slowly explained. Emile was tempted to yawn. Even a turtle would be faster at walking than Patton was at speaking. This was going to be a long session, a stretching act like pulling at sweet, juicy gum.

“My doctor said I am, uh, losing weight. My family says I don’t have a perspective.”

 His hands found their way to a little piece of crumbled paper in the front pocket of his hoodie. He slowly pulled it out, adjusting his round glasses.

 “They wrote it down. Uh- I lost weight, don’t remember things and lose focus or something.. um, something about not doing anything, being really slow and uh.. they just said weird.”

 Patton shrugged, sniffling a bit.

He tried not to cry at the note but a part of him had become apathetic enough for him to not break into tears. The world was better off without him anyway. He just wanted to go back and sleep or pretend to sleep in his little room.

Not interact with people, not be with anyone and disappoint them with his terribly low performance in life. His existence was enough failure already.

 “Uhu.. they said you are being “weird”? Well, aren’t we all a bit weird sometimes! Are you dieting at the moment, perhaps increased the amount or intensity of exercise you are doing?”

 The younger male shook his head.

 “You did lose a lot of weight, though?”

 A nod, this time.

The therapist hummed in thought, scribbling onto his clipboard.

 “Now, how have you been feeling the last days?”

 The client pulled his thin shoulders up in a shrug, his face slightly distorting into a weird expression. His nose seemed to turn upwards.

 “Uh, I would say... not so .. great?”

 Another shrug fell from his shoulders as he sighed.

 “I just feel.. nothing, I guess. Or bad. Maybe.”

 More shrugs were countered by Emile’s rapid nods.

 “Alright. Have you been doing things these days? Did anything happen in your life? Maybe a breakup, maybe a loss in your family.”

 Patton hugged himself, gently blowing through his heavy hair strands. The grease kept it down. The strands fell into his sight and covered his eyes but moving his hands seemed out of the question. He tried to blow it off again but the strands fell right into his eyes.

Well, he deserved that, probably. Not that fixing his hair was worth the effort.

 His head shook itself.

 “No. Graduated.. um.. “, he trailed off, his voice fading into hums.

 Emile snapped his fingers to gain Patton’s attention.

 “You graduated? Congratulations! Me too.”

 Shoulders rose, barely as much as his chest rose with every breath he took.

 “I guess... You made it to a phD, though. I just hang in my room..”

 His lips twitched for a moment. Patton looked onto the floor. Always has been looking at the floor. He spared Picani the miserable sight of his whole face being exposed to him. Or even his soulless eyes. Oh no, he should spare anyone his own presence.

 “Well, you can work on that! So, you are feeling bad a lot, don’t do anything and this has been ever since your graduation?”

 This time, his shoulders as much as flexed as if to mimic the shrugs he did not have the energy to repeat once more.

 “I don’t really.. no.. I guess graduation was my peak.”

 The therapist nodded with the energy Patton lacked.

He hoped the other would gain something from this session. Maybe money. Yes, the insurance paid money for this.

 “Oh, this looks pretty direct. You have issues with sadness”, he revealed, his emphasis on the sad part reminding Patton of puppets. Oh, he wished he was a child again. Full of life and enjoying simple puppet shows on TV.

“But! Sadness can be helped! You only have to do things again!”

 Emile let his pen drop onto the clipboard and put his hands up, palms stretched out to face Patton.

 “Things..?”

 The therapist nodded, his tone alive, his body rising as he started pacing back and forth like a mad scientist discussing his ultimate invention. It was a great plan, a perfect plan! It had to be revealed because it was! Perfect! Perfect! Perfect! He was such a genius with his phD and his comfortable desk job!

 “Yes!!!”, the doctor practically screamed back at him, “you have to make plans and structure your life and go out there again! Stop being so lazy and boring! You need to go out and stop sulking in the corner like a kicked dog! Nobody wants that!”

 The dull blue eyes filled with water. They looked like wet buttons more than actual human orbs.

 “I... nobody wants me?”

 He felt like a child terribly reprimanded by their parents.

 “Nobody! I promise. You are being a real party pooper but you can just change and be nice again, so people will stop feeling bad for you. You are blowing all of your feelings waaaay out for proportion!”

 Emile’s hands moved to illustrate an invisible line that stretched the more his arms moved apart.

 “Everyone feels a little sad sometimes. It is normal! It is important to recognise your feelings and move on. See the sadness? Call it sadness and move on. Work through it. If you have time to be sad, you have time to literally be doing anything else. Mental illness is a matter of having too much time. It is a luxury and you cannot afford this. Your family has been waiting for you to take flight like a bird! But you are staying at home, neither working or studying nor looking into any other things to do. Do you even do chores?”

 Patton’s eyes were drowning in tears. His throat was tight and suffocating Patton in upcoming cries that were stuck enough for him to choke on his own sadness. His ears were covered by an overwhelming sound of static, muffling the sounds of his environment.

He was always on static.

This time, his heart seemed to stop and the tears burned pain into his face. The streaks they left were like whiplashes to his heart and he could feel himself barely able to breath.

 Emile smiled, nodding.

 “You are doing great, Patty! Really great! Feel the feelings, listen to your heart, listen to your pain and your thoughts - amplify it!”

 He squatted before the crying creature like a motivational coach in gyms. His yelling made Patton cry harder as Emile instructed him to listen to his thoughts dragging him through the mud and sing songs of suicide and happy pills.

 “Now stop.”

 Patton looked up at him, petrified.

The therapist put his fingers close to his thumb as if to squeeze Patton’s will to live between them. Slowly, painfully so, the fingers inched closer until they met.

By then, his tears were gone and dried. The shock and messy anticipation too intense for him to wail further in his miserable feelings and adverse state.

 “I want you to go out and put on some makeup if you want to, if you need to. Go and hook up with someone and feel like a person. Go out with friends, get drunk and take anything you can to make yourself happy. Go out there and make me happy, make yourself happy! You don’t need therapy to get over a little bit of heartbreak over graduating.”

 He approached Patton, turning to make space for him. His movements asked Patton to get up but he felt too wonky and wobbly to even twitch or blink. Breathing was too much.

The therapist helped him up. It was a blur. He was patted on the back and internally, he wanted to cry at how ironic it was that he was Patton and got pats on the back.

 Doctor Picani lead him to the door, spouting more nonsense about “going out more” being the cure to his issues.

 He has never felt worse.

Patton slowly retreated to his family’s car and curled up. When he was asked how it went, he did not know how to respond and bit his tongue.

 “You cried? I hope you got it all out, then. I am sure that helped a lot but I can be in contact with them if you need me to. Anyway, let’s go have some lunch.”

 It was the last things Patton heard.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ +++++ +++++ +++++ +++++

End Note: This is not how a therapist should treat you. If someone treats you or your issues like that, please make sure you leave immediately and report this. A real therapist will validate your concerns and try to redirect your thoughts. If you have mental health issues, please reach out for help. Depression and sadness can have several different causes. If you are worried about similar issues as the character depicted in the story, please try to keep a journal or a mood tracker to help yourself. It makes sense to contact a GP and work with a therapist and even psychiatrist if needed.

Please take care of yourself and don’t anyone call you lazy for having mental health struggles. Do not listen to depression or anxiety talking you down.

[sterling-starlight]

Setleth Week Day 1; First Kiss

The aftermath of a war that nearly lasted six years wasn’t joyous, per se. It was more like the entire continent breathed a collective sigh of relief.  But with that relief came a great sorrow. One half mourned the loss of their Emperor, who had promised equality and reformation. The other half mourned their Archbishop, a guiding light in the chaos and uncertainty. In the middle of it all was Byleth, who cried for hours over the death of Edelgard, and felt a deep ache in her chest –no, in her very bones- as Rhea peacefully passed away in her arms.

To admit that she mourned one would cause her to loose favor with the opposing side, and as the newly crowned Queen Byleth had to work to make sure she stayed firmly in the realm of neutrality. On the outside, all she cared for was the restoration and the continuing peace of Fodlan. It seemed somewhat hypocritical, lying to the masses in order to avoid negative pushback. It also seemed hopelessly pointless, since Edelgard’sstaunchest supporters seemed like they would never accept Byleth as their Queen. Ferdinand despaired over his inability to use any status to try and sway the public opinion. The words of the son of a disgraced and deposed Prime Minister meant little to the Imperial supporters who still had lands and titles to their name.

Only a small amount of Imperial-supporting nobles attended Byleth’s coronation, to the surprise of no one.

“They are all disingenuous,” Ferdinand whispered disgustedly into Byleth’s ear. “Do not be fooled; they are only acting cordial so they can keep their status.  I can almost guarantee you they are slandering you behind your back.” His face twisted into a scowl, and he spat upon the ground.

Byleth pat his arm soothingly. “I know, and I don’t care. They can slander all they want, but I’m going to do my best for them, too.” She gave Ferdinand a coy smirk, “It is best to kill them with kindness, so the saying goes.”

Ferdinand balked, and then hid a laugh politely behind his hand. “I see my lessons finally sunk in. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were born into Imperial nobility; passive aggressiveness is like a second language in the court.”

“Oh? Is that why you were sometimes so impossible to teach?”

“Why must you wound me so, Your Majesty?” Ferdinand placed a hand on his chest and sighed melodramatically. Byleth laughed and waved him off.

“Bernadetta has been glancing your way for the past half an hour, trying to gather up the nerve to ask you for a dance. It isn’t very noble-like to keep your lovely fiancée waiting so anxiously. Off you go.”

Ferdinand floundered, but quickly regained his composure. He bowed before rushing over to Bernadetta and, after a brief exchange of words (and her chugging an entire flute of sparkling wine for courage), swept her into a graceful waltz.

The next hours were a haze of tense conversations and formality. Byleth eventually had to excuse herself, claiming that the ballroom was becoming frightfully stuffy and that she needed some air. She fanned herself delicately, curtseyed, and swiftly took her leave.  Finally away from judgmental eyes, she took off her high heels and sighed heavily in relief. In a perfect world, she would have ripped the lilies from her hair and undone the fishtail braid, but she knew that sooner or later she would have to rejoin the crowd. And as much as diving into the pond and sitting at the bottom until she smelled like herself again sounded like paradise, she would have to abstain.

Byleth padded across the cobblestone and wiggled her toes on the cool, damp grass as she walked into the courtyard. When she got to one of the benches, she fell down onto it in a way that was entirely inappropriate for a new Queen. Just for added defiance she spread her knees, thankful that she had chosen to wear a dress that didn’t restrain her legs.  Briefly she humored the idea of throwing her shoes into a bush and returning to the ballroom barefoot. With the length of her dress no one would notice, and she would probably be a much better dancer without her feet in constant agony.  Alas, she decided to be a responsible adult and just set the shoes next to her.

Byleth leaned back, draping her arms over the bench, and sighed up at the sky. Now that she no longer had to put on the act of a composed and regal Queen, she was suddenly hit with the weight of everything. It was like someone had cut the rope holding a large sandbag that had been precariously hanging over Byleth’s head since it was decided she would take the throne after the war.  She knew how to bark orders through pain, devise strategies, negotiate with merchants, and ration supplies because Jeralt had taught her all those skills. She knew how to be a warrior and a solider; not the Queen of an entire continent.   She felt horrible for thinking it, but she missed the wartime. She knew how to navigate a battlefield, but she didn’t know how to heal the hurt of such a long and bloody war.  Her expertise was in commanding troops, not leading an entire country.

Not for the first time, Byleth wished Jeralt was still alive to impart some wisdom onto her. He would be just as clueless about governance as she was, but he had always found a way to make things click that no one else had.

“Your Majesty,” Seteth’s voice was as clear as it ever was. Byleth yelped in surprise and quickly composed herself, closing her legs and smoothing out her skirt as she looked towards him.  Seeing him in blue and white regalia made of cotton and silk, rather than blood-stained silver plate, was almost foreign.  He crossed the courtyard in long stride before coming to stand before her. His expression softened, “you came out here for some peace, I take it? I cannot say I blame you. The ballroom has become,” he paused to inhale through his nose, “suffocating, for lack of a better word.”

“You caught me,” Byleth admitted with a small smile. She looked around Seteth, blinking in surprise at the noticeable lack of Flayn, and looked up at him. “You’re leaving Flaynunguarded?” She teased lightly.

“Fighting alongside the students has shown me that most of them can be trusted. For a night, at the very least.  Likewise, she has proven time and again that she doesn’t constantly need me in her shadow,” His expression turned somber for a moment, but he shook his head lightly.

“My, my, I never thought I’d see the day.” Byleth laughed. She scooted over and patted the empty spot next to her. “Come and sit. You’ve been on your feet all night, I know you need it.”

Seteth looked torn because what he wanted and what was proper, his shoulders tense. Byleth clicked her tongue and reached out to pull him down. He gasped in surprise, and actually needed a moment to right himself.  “There, see? Don’t you feel better?”

“You didn’t even give me time to respond.”

“The only way you would have sat down is if I ordered you to.”

Seteth scoffed, “Being so presumptuous doesn’t flatter you at all.”

“It isn’t presumptuous if I know it as fact.”

“If you insist.”

Byleth pouted and nudged him with her elbow, but said nothing else to continue the argument.  Seteth lightly smirked triumphantly.

They sat in a comfortable, familiar silence for a long time. It wasn’t unlike the rare and cherished times when it was just them, a pot of tea, and a book of myths between them, or  times spent at the fishing pond (although Byleth burst out laughing when Seteth admitted he didn’t even know how to bait a hook). It was peaceful and grounding, almost liberating in the wake of having to put on the façade of a composed and regal Queen. But even still, Byleth’s uncertainty gnawed at the back of her mind, and the words tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop them.

“Do you think I’ll be a good Queen?” She could have slapped herself. But why stop there? “I don’t want to hear ‘You’ve been chosen by Rhea and the Goddess; of course you will’. I’ve heard that all night. I want to know your honest opinion.”

Seteth looked at her in the eye, expression contemplative. After a long pause he replied, “As a man of faith that poses some difficulty.” He began evenly, “I’ve made it no secret that I believe the Goddess always intended this to be your fate. You are a brilliant tactician and a charismatic military commander. In an ideal world, that would translate to being an unparalleled monarch. But this world is anything but idealistic, and you are brash, reckless, and quick to jump to conclusions. Your first reaction is to strike first, and ask questions later.  Do I think that makes you unfit to rule? No.  But I do think those hot-headed tendencies of yours need to be tempered by time and experience. There is no such thing as a ruler who is perfect immediately after taking the throne.”

Byleth mulled over Seteth’s response, chewing on her bottom lip. “That’s… reassuring. Thank you.” She said quietly. Boldly, she reached up to cup Seteth’s cheek. “So, can I trust you to be there if I need help?”

“Always,” Seteth breathed, slowly placing a hand atop hers. “I will remain by your side until the day I die.”

“I’m so glad.”

Byleth’s heart didn’t beat. It never did, and it probably never would. But as if to compensate for that, warmth blossomed from her chest and radiated all throughout her body as her and Seteth’s lips met. The first kiss was awkward, because she had never been kissed in her life. The second was less so, and the third… Goddess the third was everything she’d ever hoped for. Poets described kisses like fireworks. Brilliant, shocking, spectacular things that sparkled and sizzled. Kissing Seteth was soft and tender and warm, like being wrapped in a thick blanket in front of the fire on a freezing winter night.  

The love ballads Dorothea sang Petra suddenly made all the sense in the world, and Byleth felt like her head had been stuffed with feathers when she and Seteth finally pulled away. She felt warm and dizzy and weightless like she had too much mulled wine. “That was-” She began dazedly.

“Inappropriate.” Seteth cut in. He stood up abruptly. “Forgive me; I shouldn’t have let my emotions cloud my judgement.”

“I was going to say amazing.” Byleth said sternly, catching his hand. “If what I feel for you right now -what I’ve been feeling for the longest time- is inappropriate, then so be it. I don’t want to stop feeling this way. Ever.” She gazed in the direction of the ballroom, where the orchestra had just begun playing another suite. “I know I have to go back soon, but let’s enjoy this moment just a little longer.” Byleth laced her fingers through Seteth’s ,  keeping them loose enough so he could pull away if he wanted to. “If you feel the same, that is.” She finished lamely.

Seteth’s fingers tightened around hers, and he sat back down without a word.

[returnsandreturns]

WIP Amnesty: The Ultimate Drunk Married Fic That Never Was

Foggy’s TV is ancient, the same one that he lugged up the stairs on move in day for sophomore year, that sat quietly buzzing on his dresser. It made nice white noise when Foggy would mute what he was watching and read the captions so Matt could study in relative peace, only interrupted by Foggy stifling his laughter.

It takes about five minutes to turn on. Matt rests his hand on it dutifully when Foggy says, “Pray it’ll turn on, buddy. I’m pouring shots.”

“I will not take more than four,” Matt says.

“We’ll see,” Foggy says, skeptically.

“No more than seven,” Matt says, smiling over his shoulder when Foggy laughs. The TV comes on underneath his hand, the low murmur from the Supreme Court chamber filling up Foggy’s living room which now smells like pineapple rum.

Matt turns to brush his fingers carefully over the coffee table until they reach a shot glass, taking the shot and then coughing dramatically.

“Oh my god, I know, deal with it,” Foggy says, dryly. “I would have gotten something without artificial flavoring, but I already had this and we’re poor.”

“Maybe it gets better as you go,” Matt says, raising his eyebrows before he takes another shot, pulling a face afterwards. “Ugh.”

“Pace yourself, Murdock,” Foggy says, distractedly, finishing filling up shot glasses and moving them around the table. “Okay. Pizza’s coming any time. You’re gonna be drunk in like ten seconds—”

“Objection,” Matt says, contemplating another shot, but he is already feeling it.

“Dismissed,” Foggy says, laughing. “I think we’re settled, though. You ready to watch history unfold before my eyes and your—ears, I guess?”

“Nose,” Matt says, leaning into Foggy immediately when he sits down next to him. “Two shots, catch up with me.”

Foggy leans forward and takes two shots in a row, coughing at the end before he falls back again, saying, “Shit, okay. Let’s do this. Take a shot every time Scalia fills you with rage.”

“We might die,” Matt says.

“At least we’ll die together,” Foggy says.

*

They’re trashed by the time they hear the verdict; Matt’s on his side with his head in Foggy’s lap, originally for the purpose of keeping him there so he wouldn’t get the last slice of pizza but then it was nice, so he just kind of stayed. Foggy’s fingers are splayed partially in his hair and partially over his face.

Matt only hears it vaguely, sitting up and saying, “Did they just—” at the same time as Foggy says, “Holy shit, it happened,” and then there’s a long pause before they’re laughing and simultaneously trying to hug each other. Matt knows it’s simultaneous because they just kind of hit bodies before they figure things out, Foggy’s arms wrapped around him, Matt’s face smushed against his neck.

“This is so great—I mean, shit, it took way too long, but it happened,” Foggy says, into Matt’s hair. Matt feels kind of like the room is moving but also like he’s very centered, gravity-wise, pressed up against Foggy like this. He’s soaking it in when he realizes that Foggy’s still talking, saying, “We should—we should celebrate.”

“Isn’t that what we’re doing?” Matt asks, muffled against Foggy’s skin—Foggy’s heartbeat gets even faster, but he’s just excited.

“That was anticipation drinking,” Foggy says, letting of him so Matt raises his head.

“I cannot do celebratory drinking,” Matt says, thinking about how to say the word celebratory way too hard. Foggy pats his cheek. His hand is kind of sticky, but Matt doesn’t mind.

“Of course not,” Foggy says. “We have to do something bigger than that.”

Matt thinks for a second then smiles.

“We could get married,” he says.

It’s a joke. It’s totally a joke, just—he’s drunk enough that it’s possible there’s the slightest, smallest bit of truth there, because it’s legal everywhere and Matt loves Foggy and maybe sometimes, in the back of his head where he doesn’t go very often, he’s not exactly sure what kind of love it is.

“We,” Foggy says, seriously, “could get married.”

*

Matt wakes up in Foggy’s bed. He knows it’s Foggy’s bed because it smells exactly like him with a fresh linen scent underneath it and it’s soothing to Matt’s pounding head for about five seconds before he realizes that he’s in Foggy’s bed. They haven’t slept in the same bed since undergrad, like someone flipped a switch and they were suddenly too adult for it, and Matt’s pressed up against Foggy’s back with his arms around his waist.

He’s sliding away slowly, feeling like he’s been caught in the act, when Foggy starts awake then goes still.

“. . .Matt?” he asks.

Matt’s hands are on Foggy’s waist, stopped in the process of letting him go.

“Good morning,” Matt says, hoarsely. He lets go of Foggy and Foggy sits up slowly beside him.

“Oh god,” he says, gagging suddenly, hurrying out of the bed and to the bathroom. Matt groans and turns to bury his face in the pillow, hoping that the smell won’t linger too much even though he can already smell it.

He stays there until Foggy wanders back in.

“Do you remember what happened last night?” Foggy asks, standing by the bed. His voice is strained and hoarse; Matt turns over so Foggy can see his pained face when he shakes his head.

“I remember the verdict,” he says, “and then we were outside for some reason.”

“Uhm, I—found the reason,” Foggy says. There’s the sound of crinkling paper and then Foggy’s sinking down to sit on the edge of the bed, heart rabbiting. Matt sits up, reaching out to touch Foggy’s arm.

“What?” he asks. He feels like his head’s going to detach itself from his body.

“I apparently took your last name,” Foggy says, softly.

“. . .what?” Matt asks, again.

*

“Married,” Matt says, for what might be the fourteenth time.

“Yes, Matthew, our first instinct when we got wasted was to marry each other,” Foggy says. He’s possibly frustrated by the fact that Matt’s brain is still a little bit drunk and is taking a lot of time to catch up to this situation.

Matt’s sitting on the sofa, head tipped back towards the ceiling.

“Foggy Murdock,” he says.

“God, that sounds like a—really terrible drink,” Foggy says, despairingly. He hasn’t sat down yet, nervously pacing, the sound of bare feet on carpet crawling up Matt’s spine. “Or something involving golf. Doesn’t it remind you of golf?”

“I was thinking, like, Tolkien,” Matt says. His voice sounds very distant, even to himself. “The hobbits did not dare to travel into the Foggy Murdock.”

Foggy’s silent for a long moment before he swears under his breath and says, like he’s angry, “See, that’s why I married you, you nerd,” and finally sits down next to Matt, their legs pressed together.

Matt sits up more, turns his head towards Foggy.

“We can get an annulment,” he says. “It’s not even been 24 hours.”

“. . .what would drunk us do in this situation?” Foggy asks.

“Uhm,” Matt says, thinking for a minute before he says, “Get a mortgage, I guess.”

Foggy laughs, leaning more heavily into Matt, who shifts to better accommodate him. He wraps an arm around Foggy’s shoulder and tries to remember anything that happened last night past brief flashes that peek out of the blurry darkness in his head.

He wonders if they kissed.

“Can we go back to sleep first?” he asks, before Foggy can drag him to the courthouse to fix this. His head aches, and he just wants to wait. Foggy makes a soft noise that Matt has no idea how to translate.

“Yeah, buddy,” he says. “Let’s sleep.”

*

They don’t make it to the courthouse that day, sleep on and off curled up together like they did last night (“We’re married, it’s cool,” Matt said, when Foggy had hesitantly laid down next to him) until they finally get back up and stand in the kitchen arguing about what to have for dinner.

“Let’s just get delivery again,” Matt says. “I don’t want to eat your leftovers.”

“Too good for my leftovers,” Foggy says, airily. He’s making coffee, the pot sputtering and spitting.

“I’ll pay,” Matt says.

“You have no money,” Foggy says.

“I’ll—barter,” Matt says, and Foggy snorts.

“I’m not going to let you trade sexual favors for food,” he says. “I’ve got a box of spaghetti somewhere, how do you feel about that?”

Matt sighs but says, “Sure.”

Things have been tight, for lack of a word that more emphatically describes how little money they have, since they left L&Z and had to pick up temporary jobs to save up enough for their first office. Any day now, they’ll have enough, but in the meantime—spaghetti, probably without sauce.

“Get out of my kitchen,” Foggy says, but his voice is warm and makes Matt smile automatically, raising his hands when Foggy shoves him gently.

“Yes, dear,” he says.

The kitchen’s technically also the living room and every other room besides the bathroom and the renovated closet that Foggy calls a bedroom, so Matt can’t go far. He sits on the couch and listens to Foggy moving around.

Eventually, he sniffs the air and says, “More garlic,” and laughs when Foggy throws a dish cloth at him.

Living together always felt natural like this, once they learned each other. Moving into separate places felt necessary when they graduated—being real adults for the first time, making their own way even though they’re working to make sure they get to be together all the time. Also, Matt comes home with blood on his clothes in the middle of the night too often.

If he could tell Foggy that, though. He could be this person.

He could be married.

*

A few days later, Foggy shows up at his door and says, “I have a proposal for you.”

“Think it’s too late for that,” Matt says, but Foggy just lets out a shaky breath instead of laughing.

“Look,” he says, walking past Matt, who shuts the door and follows. “Why do you think we got married?”

“Rum,” Matt says.

“And?” Foggy asks.

“And. . .I don’t know. We love each other,” Matt says, trying to hide how he’s feeling, nervous and pained and hopeful somewhere underneath it all. “It’s friendship. Wires get crossed.”

Matt never really caught up to his memories of that night, but he has a feeling he might have been the one to push it. He should be the one to let Foggy back out.

“Right,” Foggy says, softly. “Right, of course. Wires.”

There’s a noteworthy silence before Matt asks, hesitant, “Why do you think we haven’t gotten an annulment yet?”

“. . .the paperwork,” Foggy says.

“Bureaucracy’s the worst,” Matt agrees.

“Also, I’ve been thinking about it,” Foggy continues, sinking down heavily on Matt’s couch, “and all of our assets are basically tied up together anyway? We could just—stay married for the tax benefits. As friends.”

Matt smiles.

“Okay,” he says, nodding.

“Okay?” Foggy repeats. “Just like that—okay?”

“Just like that,” Matt says.

[enterprisetrampstamp]

The Martinstown WIP Part 3

Part 1 Part 2

This is Part 3 of what is likely to be a nice, long t’pura fic once I’ve banged it out. It’s a bizarre length and actual amount of plot by my standards, so I’m in want of comments and breaking my usual rules to post sections of it before it’s fully complete. Please, holler at your ambiguously gendered author with any #thoughts you have!

This one goes out in particular to the one lovely anon who cares about this fic as much as I do.

***

Vulcans do not dream. But- on occasion- a lack of focus during their nightly meditation can lead a Vulcan to ruminate so deeply upon past events that they relive them, in a strange and filtered way. "Through the looking glass," a human may describe it.

T'Pring does not know why her mind lingers this night on a day long past--one where the heat of Vulcan's sun beats heavily on her shoulders, and her robes are filled with fruit they have foraged. She is accompanied by Spock. They sit huddled on a rock, deep in the craggy valleys of the desolate mountains, with only I'Chaya as supervision.

They speak of everything and nothing, in the way of children. They become sticky as they eat, and their skin grows hot and flushed with the sallow yellow-green of sunburn, for they have not heeded the words of their mothers.

"No," she insists, as he demonstrates a hand gesture, a tiny furrow of focus between his slanted brows. "That is too close to the regular word."

"We should not wish to forget our symbols," Spock argues, "or we will lose our ability to communicate in secret."

"I will not forget." She peels the skin from her fruit, sniffing. "Are you saying you would?"

He bristles immediately. "I would not."

"Then why would I? I am smarter than you."

"You are not!"

"This argument is illogical."

"You are illogical."

It is her turn to bristle. "I am not!"

"You are always angry. Anger is illogical. Therefore, you are illogical!"

T'Pring remembers how this is meant to go--she should consider her fruit for a long second, the colors red and orange and juicy in her palm. "If you wish to see angry," she should scoff, and then reach over to shove the fruit in his face.

But this time she is older, in her thirties and sitting next to a Spock so small she could easily hold him aloft with one hand. Her fingers are still sticky; she can still feel the heat of her planet's sun against her shoulders--now bare, in the modern style of the rebellious Vulcan woman. A flyaway of hair is caught in the breeze. She stares at the fruit in her palms, feels the roughness of the rocks against her ankles, and something inside of her is screaming. It has been for a very long time now.

"Yes," she says. "I am often angry. I think perhaps that is why our minds were found compatible. You have always struggled to maintain a Vulcan lifestyle, and I have always struggled to accept one. That has not--gotten easier.” She breathes out into the air of a dead planet. “Since this.”

"I do not understand," Spock says.

He is so small. It is illogical to doubt her own memories and more illogical still to question the realities of biological aging processes, and yet still she finds herself questioning how it is possible that either of them were ever so small as he is sitting next to her.

"You would not," she says. "We had not lost this, yet. The innocence of childhood. Our people and our planet. Each other." T'Pring does not look at him in pity, because he does not need it--not as a child, trying to find a place on a world which could not accept him, and not as an adult who has found his place on a starship far away. "There is nothing so illogical as grief, Spock; not even anger, for all that they so often go hand in hand. You have not learned that yet. I regret that one day you must."

"You should not say such things," he tells her, looking worried. In time, he will grow better at hiding these feelings, but she will only grow angrier. "T'Pring, you are being emotional."

"Yes," she says. "But no one is around to know. You do not exist outside of my mind, tiny Spockling." She reaches out to ruffle his hair, and he squawks much the way he had once upon a Vulcan afternoon, with his face covered in fruit.

"I find your behavior illogical and unsatisfactory," he says, all harsh and small. It is adorable. "This will be the first thing I say to you when we complete our private code."

"That is exactly so," she tells him, fond. "Although I think you have secretly always enjoyed seeing another Vulcan behave in this way, no matter how you raise your little eyebrows."

She grows quiet, pensive, and then says quietly, "I miss you, illogically. I was the one who ended this easy camaraderie, fearful that the scrutiny our classmates placed on you for being half-human would reflect back on me to reveal my own struggles. It was the logical move to protect myself, I believed. Now I must wonder if I did not hurt us both instead; we were never on the path to romance, but there was a time when I regarded you as a friend."

There is no one here but yourself, she chides. You need not twist your words to obscure the truth.

"That time continues now," she admits, begrudgingly. "I maintain sentiment towards you, despite our divorce. After all, though it was I who initially suggested our severance, you held nothing but support for my decision despite the future peril in which it places you, should you enter pon farr without our bond to fall back on."

(It had not been her motivation behind the divorce, but she is grateful in a desperate and primitive way that she has been spared from the decision to either kill him by inaction or be forced to cure his fever herself--she is grateful because she knows what she would have chosen, and his agreement to divorce her has denied her conscience the weight of his death.)

"Is this what your meditation seeks to have you acknowledge?" Spock asks in that young voice, but with all the perception of his older self. Or her own, perhaps, since there is no one in her mind but her. "That your path of solitude is a choice you have made on your own?"

T'Pring peels the rest of her fruit, and feels the heat of a sun that she will never again encounter outside of memory. "If that is the case," she says, "I struggle to see the logic in regretting what has already come to pass. My family has perished in the genocide of our people, my friendship with you has long since wilted, and I cannot bear to set foot on our supposed new homeworld. I am alone, but for the humans among whom I live."

"You like these humans," the Spocklet says. He has a handful of freckles along the bridge of his nose. “But you find it difficult to trust them.”

T’Pring does not see a point in answering, even within the meditative construct of a conversation.

The crew of the Martinstown is a self-described family, and that T’Pring finds difficulty with such a concept should be self-evident. They are also of a largely psi null race; to obtain mental intimacy with them would require a deliberate conscious undertaking, and to trust without knowing the inside of another's mind… The very concept is unnerving.

There is a role she plays for her crew, much as there was a role she played for her family on the lost sands Vulcan. Unlike the silence and stoicism of the past, she enjoys the teasing and bluntness of her new persona--but it is a persona nonetheless. 

"You like me," her diminutive companion says, thoughtfully. "Do you trust me?"

She slants a sharp, sideways look at him. "I might," she says begrudgingly. "Though I do not prefer to say so, even within the privacy of my meditation. Must you force me to admit these things?"

"The only one here is you," he reminds her. "You are, as you always are, alone."

"I prefer it that way," she says. "Isn't that what we decided a moment ago?"

"No." Spock stares up at her, his thin arms wrapped about his knobbled knees, and his too-human eyes are small, and dark, and troubled. "We decided that it is what you have chosen; not that it is what you prefer."

T'Pring's heartbeat is quick and loud in her ears. "I see," she says. "I shall need to meditate on this properly at a later date. And there is no logic in telling you goodbye, as you do not exist."

"Very well," he agrees.

She opens her eyes.

The smoky haze of incense fills the air of her quarters- barely large enough for her to stretch her arms to either side and not brush the wall with both fingertips- and her ankles chafe not on Vulcanic rock but on the fibrous fabric of her meditative mat. That this particular hour is classified as “morning” is, of course, arbitrary, but she can smell coffee percolating and hear the distant sounds of movement as the Martinstown’s other habitants likewise stir.

Upon waking after a poker game, the crew is often quiet by their usual standards; Cristobal and Elina will sit in the kitchen among the detritus of the festivities, sharing their dark, bitter coffee as they skim their PADDs for the news, and Pinga and the Captain (whose camaraderie stretches back the longest) can often be found sharing a peaceful silence- and occasionally a stiff drink- on the ship's modest bridge.

(No matter the circumstances, the Leiman siblings independently and uniquely refuse to arise before the theoretical sun. "Artists," Pinga says, as if this word explains everything.)

T’Pring rises from her meditation, first dousing the last smouldering heat of her incense before bending loosely at the waist to roll the mat into a neat cylinder and tuck it beneath the austere desk which takes up nearly a third of the room.

(She uses the surface and the wall behind it to meticulously track not only the Martinstown crew's path through the stars, but also their adventures within them. T'Pring had been hired on, originally, as a record keeper; it has proven a difficult habit to break, even now that her position aboard this ship has little to do with a need for employment.)

T'Pring moves about her routine without haste, but neither does she linger in reflection as she brushes her teeth and hair and sheds the simple robe- of a silken, Terran style- which she had chosen for her meditation.

The revelations of the hallucinatory Spock-child are undoubtedly worth considering--but at a later date, in the darkness and stillness of her quarters, among the smoky haze of the alien scents she has adopted as a meditative focus. (Not only have many Vulcanic spices been lost among the rubble of her planet, but those that remain are difficult to obtain this far away from major Federation outposts.)

She thinks of other things, instead, such as how the braid of her hair is not entirely unlike the elaborate hairstyles of her youth--though less cumbersome, not being piled high atop her head. It is left hanging loosely down between her shoulder blades, tracing the straight slope of her spine.

So too does her manner of dress evoke a reminder of Vulcan without mimicking it; there is the freedom of movement of a traditional robe, combined with the metallic sheen of formal dress. T'Pring typically clothes herself in a simple, lightweight, sleeveless jumpsuit which cinches at her ankles but flows loose about her legs, as well as a stiff, tight vest in a heavy fabric which cuts a sharp line at her shoulders and reaches high up her throat. Both are a deep purple in color- matching her gloves- though the vest is slightly darker and shimmers with the play of light across its surface.

T'Pring has found this combination of garments to be comfortable, casual, and in keeping with the common fashion trends across the galaxy, thereby rendering it inconspicuous.

For economy of space aboard their small ship, the crew have few items of clothing and opt instead to clean them frequently; their choices in attire must therefore be well-suited to a variety of tasks. The combination of sleevelessness and drapery allows her a wide range of motion, while the stiff vest provides additional protection to her torso--a flawlessly logical combination, given the life she leads.

Flawlessly logical. She would roll her eyes if she were human. As if logic is something more than a tool--as if it is the beginning and end of the argument, when incomplete or incorrect data can result in a perfectly logical decision which is nonetheless wrong.

Such scandalous thoughts. T'Pring wishes she could blame the humans for them.