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specialagentsergio · 3 years

Text

all we can do is keep breathing || chapter two

summary: Spencer’s doing better, but recovery isn’t linear, and some scars run deeper than either of you knew.

pairing: spencer reid x gn!reader

category: angst (eventual happy ending)

content warnings: swearing, drug abuse & addiction, substance use disorder, ptsd, descriptions of panic attacks/ptsd episodes, recollection of past bullying, unhealthy coping mechanisms, yelling/fighting, negative feelings towards other team members, body image issues

a/n: i was so taken aback by the response to chapter one--i didn’t think anyone would even read it tbh. thank you all and thanks for being patient with my lack of an upload schedule. i'm so sorry the word count is massive again. you get tummy appreciation, though, because 1) we all love spencer’s tummy, and 2) i personally gained weight when i was in residential treatment and it can be a bit of a mindfuck lol.

a/n 2: repeated disclaimer that i'm not a doctor, psychologist, psychiatrist, etc., just a direct care staff, past rtc patient and trauma recovery enthusiast. the horse therapy is pretty much entirely based on my own personal experience from nearly a decade ago, so don’t expect it to be an accurate portrayal of equine-assisted psychotherapy.

word count: 7.3k

song: you will be found from dear evan hansen

fic masterlist || masterlist

He’s been looking forward to the start of equine therapy since he got a spot in the program. But instead of being excited the morning of, Spencer ends up crying for an hour straight.

The day started off fine. It wasn’t hard to get up with the horses to look forward to, and he was able to get an extra plate at breakfast, so he could keep the pancake syrup from touching the eggs and sausage. Art therapy was a few hours later. He’d started to actually enjoy the pottery project—the recreational therapist had brought him a box of disposable gloves to use so the feeling of drying clay on his hands was no longer a problem.

Everyone’s projects were coming out of the kiln today and the next step was painting them. He’d been planning out the design and colors he wanted to use since the project started and was excited to finally start applying it.

Then he dropped his item, it broke into pieces, and he burst into tears.

He’d fled the room on instinct alone and curled up in a corner of the hallway, pressing his knees to his forehead. He was upset about the pottery, and upset that he was so affected by it breaking. He felt stupid and silly for crying over it, which only made him cry harder.

He heard distant laughter and he clapped his hands over his ears. He was being laughed at again for being a crybaby. He didn’t want to be a crybaby. He wanted to stop crying, he just couldn’t. The goalpost was cold against the bare skin of his back, and his wrists were starting to burn from the ties.

I want to go home. Just let me go home, please, I’ll do anything. Let me go, let me go--

“Spencer, it’s okay. You’re safe here. Can you repeat after me? I’m safe here.”

Safe here. Safe here.

Art therapy was over by the time he came out of it.

He has lunch at his therapist’s office instead of with the group. Lara asks what his flashback had been to.

He picks at his food. “It happened a long time ago. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Alright. Can you tell me how it felt instead?”

Spencer isn’t really hungry, but bites into his sandwich to stall for time. She doesn’t rush him. Eventually, he asks, “Do you know what alexithymia means?”

“No words for feelings,” she replies.

He nods. “That’s all.”

Lara opens one of her desk drawers and pulls out a composition notebook, which she then hands to him.

“What’s this for?”

“I want you to start trying to notice your feelings and sensations throughout the day. Make some kind of note, even if you don’t exactly have the words to describe it.”

He sighs. “Why?”

“Just noticing what you feel can help you develop emotional regulation,” she explains. She’s always been honest with him about the why of what she wants him to try and do. “It’s going to help you stop ignoring what’s going on inside you.”

I don’t want to do that.

“I know you don’t.”

“I didn’t mean to say that out loud,” he blurts. “That either. I—god.” He quickly takes another bite of food before he can say more.

“It’s fine. I didn’t expect you to like it,” Lara says with a small smile. “I’m sure the thought of confronting what you’ve been suppressing and avoiding is scary. But getting better requires you to do a lot of scary things.”

Spencer wants to protest. Being strapped to a chair in a shed and dosed against your will is scary. Your mother being diagnosed with Alzheimer's is scary. Being sent to prison for a crime you didn’t commit is scary. Feeling things? That’s not scary.

Isn’t it?

He tries not to think on it too much.

Despite the unpleasant thoughts running through his mind, Spencer finds himself nodding off on the van ride to the horse ranch. His eyes unfocus, his blink rate slows… and then he jerks back awake at the sensation of his head falling forward.

A frustrated noise escapes the back of his throat. He’s sick of feeling tired all the time. He’s getting enough sleep in theory, but still finds himself drowsy at least once a day. It’s to the point that he’s regularly wearing his glasses instead of his contacts to keep his eyes from feeling quite so dry. He pushes them back up now as he tries to tune back in to his surroundings.

“… don’t get how seeing some horse is supposed to make me feel better.” That’s Aiden’s voice. He��s Spencer’s new roommate. He wasn’t happy when he found out he was getting a new one, having much preferred having the room to himself, but it’s been okay so far, mostly because they keep out of each other’s way. Aiden seems uninterested in making friends, and that suits Spencer just fine. Lara’s been encouraging him to talk to fellow patients instead of just the direct care staff, but he’s resisted it. The last time he befriended someone, they ended up--

Spencer’s fine with the two of them keeping to themselves.

Melanie, one of the staff accompanying them, is leaned over the back of the middle seat as she talks to Aiden. “Well, I couldn’t tell you why exactly, but I’ve seen this program help a lot of people in my time here,” she says. “Spencer?”

“What?”

“You’ve been reading a lot about horses, right?” At his nod, she continues, “What have you found out?”

“Equine-assisted psychotherapy lacks the rigorous scientific evidence to demonstrate if it provides benefits in mental health treatment. Horses have been used to aid in psychiatric treatment since the 1990’s, though,” he says. He intends to stop there, but can’t stop himself from continuing. “It doesn’t necessarily involve riding, but may include grooming, feeding, and ground exercises. The goal is to help the client in social, emotional, cognitive, and or behavioral ways.”

He can feel Aiden’s eyes on him and takes a breath before meeting them. He knows all too well that his infodumps aren’t always well received. He doesn’t want to be friends, but would prefer for his roommate to not view him with disdain or annoyance. But Aiden looks interested, and says as much--”that’s interesting.” He looks like he wants to say more, but doesn’t, and there’s silence between them for the remainder of the drive. It’s not uncomfortable, though.

When the van pulls into a parking spot and everyone starts to get out, Spencer begins to feel nervous. He’s read everything he could get his hands on, but as a relatively new therapy, there’s no standard program; it varies by facility, so he doesn’t know exactly what to expect. He’s been looking forward to this, but what if it turns out to be a bad fit for him? What if the people here don’t like him? What if the horses don’t like him?

He hangs at the back of their group of ten—six patients and two staff—as they’re led to a shaded area. They’re introduced to the program director and assistants, and are given an overview of what they’ll be doing over the next six weeks. They won’t be riding the horses, just doing groundwork (he’s not sure if he feels relieved or disappointed). Then he learns that intention of this specific program isn’t just for the horses to help the clients—the clients are to help the horses as well. The animals all have the gentle temperaments suited for therapy, but also have their own struggles. A lot of them were adopted out of poor situations.

They’re led to a circular corral next and spaced equidistantly around the edge. Spencer’s heart rate picks up as the horses are brought in—the animals will be picking their therapy partner, the director says. As they’re let off their leads a jolt of anxiety runs through his body, making him twitch slightly. This feels uncomfortably familiar to school P.E. when teams were picked. No one wanted him then. What’s gong to happen if none of the horses want him, either? He looks down at his shoes.

But just a few moments later, he hears his name, and looks up to see one of the horses approaching him. “Looks like you and Chance are our first pair,” the director is saying.

First?

Chance is almost entirely black, save for a spot of white between his eyes and above his nose. His size is a little intimidating, but his demeanor is gentle. One of the assistants comes up to Spencer and instructs him to hold out his hand so the horse can sniff it.

His hand trembles slightly as he lifts it. Warm breath hits his fingers as Chance sniffs at it. Then the horse presses his nose completely against his hand. The moistness would usually bother Spencer, but for some reason it doesn’t. Instead, a smile slowly spreads across his face. The assistant tells him he can pet Chance now. He runs his hand up and down the horse’s snout, and despite the slight coarseness of the hair, finds it soothing.

The horse shuffles closer when Spencer is given his lead to hold. A startled laugh escapes him when Chance presses his nose into his neck. He pats his head a few times, then takes a tiny step back. He’s thrilled that at least one of the horses likes him, but feels a little crowded by the large animal. To his surprise, Chance seems to understand, and takes a step back of his own.

He absently pats his horse as he watches the rest of the group pair up. He still can’t believe he was picked first.

The rest of their time with the horses is very simple. They’re taught how to lead them, and after practicing in the corral, they take the horses back to their paddocks. Spencer’s disappointed to say goodbye already, but understands the need to not overwhelm the horses or even themselves. “I’ll see you next week,” he finds himself whispering to Chance.

There’s ten minutes left in the session, and it’s spent with the director telling them more about each horses’ specific background. Chance was poorly treated by his previous owner, mostly kept locked up in a small barn and not properly cared for. He has many talents and abilities, the director says. He needs to learn that he didn’t deserve to be treated the way he was, and be told that he is brave.

Spencer rests his chin in his hand and stares out the window on the drive back to the treatment center. He knows from his reading that horses are emotionally intelligent creatures, but he’s still… well, amazed by how the horses all picked who was most similar to them out of the group instinctively.

He feels more understood by an animal he’s interacted with for twenty minutes than he has by a person for months.

Before bed that night, he chews on the stem of his pen cap, thinking over the events of his day. Slowly, in a manner that could almost be described as cautious, he picks up the empty composition book Lara gave him and opens it. His hand hovers over the blank page for a few moments, then he puts pen on paper and begins to write.

---

You made dinner reservations for his visit this Saturday. You’re getting ready for it when there’s a knock on the front door.

“I’ll get it,” Spencer calls from the living room.

You return to fixing your hair up. You’re not expecting anyone, so it’s probably just a package or a neighbor. But just a few moments later, you hear Spencer raise his voice.

“No! No, I don’t—don’t touch me, please.”

You’re only half dressed, but hurry out to the living room anyways. When you round the corner, you immediately see what the problem is: JJ has dropped by unexpectedly.

It’s not that Spencer doesn’t want to see his team. They just bring memories with them, and he had decided shortly after his birthday that he wasn’t ready to confront that yet.

He’s standing a little ways back from the door, staring at JJ while she looks back with hurt on her face. “Spence--” she starts before she sees you.

At Spencer’s side, you place a hand on his arm and he takes a step behind you. “JJ, what are you doing here?”

She struggles to keep her eyes off of him as she answers. “(Y/N), I’m sorry, I just—Will and I made cookies with the boys today and we had a lot of extra, so I just wanted to drop some off for you. I—I didn’t know Spence was here. I didn’t mean to--”

You hold up a hand to stop her. “It’s okay, JJ. You couldn’t have known. You were just trying to do something nice.”

She nods, relieved at your understanding. “Yeah. Yeah, I….” She blows out a breath, then holds out a plastic wrapped plate of cookies to you. You take it from her with a quiet thank you. Then she looks back to the man that’s essentially hiding behind you as best as he can, despite how tall he is. “Spence, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you wouldn’t want me to touch you.”

There’s a tug on your clothing as he curls his fingers into the fabric on the small of your back. You tilt your head to look at him, but his gaze is on the floor. “You…” he glances up once, then looks back down. “You should ask next time,” he says quietly.

“Okay,” she replies, just as softly. “I will.”

You bite down on the inside of your cheeks to hold back a smile. Spencer often struggles to advocate for his needs, especially with his friends and colleagues, in fear of being a burden or more of a nuisance than he thinks others already perceive him as. He did it a lot with you when you first started dating. It took a lot of time and reassurance that yes, you really did want to know his wants and needs, for him to open up. Telling JJ to ask before touching him may seem small from the outside, but it’s a big deal for him.

After a rather awkward silence, JJ speaks again. “Well, um, I should get going. Just… let us know if you need anything, okay, Spence? We—the team, we’re all here for you.”

“That’s rich,” Spencer mutters behind you and you freeze. You recognize that edge to his voice. It’s usually accompanied by sharp words and remarks that he’ll regret later.

Please please please tell me JJ didn’t hear that.

“I’m sorry?”

Fuck.

“I hate to rush you out, JJ, but we have dinner reservations, so--” you try to interject but Spencer speaks over you.

“I’m just saying, why should I believe you’re here for me when you weren’t last time?”

JJ’s eyebrows come together. “I… don’t understand, I’ve always--”

“No, you haven’t!” It’s like Spencer can’t get the words out fast enough, the way he keeps interrupting before either of you can finish a sentence. This is clearly something that’s been weighing on him. You just wish he was unloading it onto his therapist rather than poor JJ, his best friend outside of you, who’s just trying to be nice. “Ten years ago I was shooting up in police station bathrooms and Emily is the only one who said a damn thing.”

His grip on your clothes tightens, forcing you to take a step back. You move the plate of cookies to one hand and reach back with the other, circling it around his wrist. “Spencer.”

Realization dawns on JJ’s face and she crosses her arms. “Spence, I couldn’t--”

“You couldn’t.” The little laugh he lets out derisive. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before.”

You don’t know where all this is coming from or what he’s referring to, but JJ does, her expression hardening.

“You know what would have happened if the higher ups found out,” she says. “I was protecting your job. We all were.”

“You shouldn’t have!” he cries, emotions other than anger seeping into the words. “This damn job is one of the worst things that’s ever happened to me! I got anthrax poisoning, I still have issues with my knee from being shot. I nearly died from a shot in the neck, and let’s not forget, I was framed for murder by a psychopath I arrested, who then kidnapped my mother while I was in prison! Oh, and what else? Oh right, this job is the reason I’m a fucking addict in the first place!”

JJ’s clearly trying to hold back tears now, but one slips out and your heart aches for her. You close your eyes briefly and take a deep breath, then speak quietly but firmly. “Spencer, you need to leave the room.”

You can hear him breathing shakily behind you. “(Y/N)--”

“Now.” You squeeze his wrist and he finally lets go of your clothing. He takes a few steps away, stops, turns back and opens his mouth to say something, but at the look you give him, shuts it and continues on his way out.

A sniffle draws your attention back to JJ, who’s looking up at the ceiling and swiping at the tears sliding down. “Sorry,” she mutters. “I shouldn’t have come by without giving you a heads-up. I’ve just made things worse.”

“No, JJ, don’t be sorry. It--” There’s thumping noises from further back in the apartment so you step forward and shut the front door behind you. She has her arms wrapped around herself when you turn back.

“It’s not your fault,” you continue. “You were just trying to be nice. You’re a good friend to him. He’s just… everything is really raw for him right now, if that makes sense?”

She nods, wiping at her eyes again.

“It’s, uh, not an excuse, though,” you clarify. “That’s not what I’m trying to say. You didn’t do anything wrong. That was all him, so please don’t blame yourself.”

JJ is quiet for a bit, staring at the floor. Then she says, “I should get going.”

“Yeah, that’s probably for the best,” you agree quietly. Realizing you’re still holding the plate of cookies in one hand, you lift it slightly and add, “Thanks for these. And, um… I’m so sorry about that.”

She shakes her head and glances at the door. “Don’t be. Like you said, it was all him,” she murmurs.

You know she’s right, but you’re still barely able to stop yourself from apologizing again as she descends the stairs. You can’t help but feel like you should have done more, stopped him somehow, even though you don’t know how you could have. The way his behavior changed… it was like he wanted to get it all out, and when Spencer Reid wants to say something, it’s nearly impossible to get him to stop.

The apartment isn’t quiet when you walk back in. There’s the scraping and clatter of a desk drawer, followed by frantic footsteps and the thud of books falling off the shelves. You know what he’s doing, and you know he won’t find anything, so you just lock the front door and continue on to the kitchen to put the cookies away.

You lean on the counter and cover your face with your hands. It doesn’t matter if you mess up your hair or face, or anything, really, because you’re not making it to dinner anymore.

You stay like that for a while, eyes closed, trying to think of a place to even start with Spencer after all of that. When the sounds of him tearing through the apartment stop, you lift you head back up and promptly jump—he’s staring at you from the nearest doorway.

“Jesus, Spencer--”

“Where’s my stuff?” he asks, and the seriousness in his tone of voice makes your anxiety spike. You know exactly what he means by stuff.

“It’s gone. What did you think was gonna happen?”

“Yeah, but it’s…” he trails off and his expression puzzles you. It almost looks like he’s confused. “It’s all gone.”

Ah. “Yeah, well, I know you think you’re sneaky, but you’re very much the opposite when you’re not sober,” you reply. “Finding your hiding spots wasn’t hard.”

He drops his gaze to the floor, frowning. “I don’t like it when you move my things,” he says quietly.

“I don’t like it when you use,” you counter.

He visibly flinches, then his hand tightens on the door frame. “I’m not going to—to take it, I just want to hold it. Where’s my stuff?” he repeats.

“Holding it, right,” you sigh.

“It’s comforting,” he argues.

“Even if I believed that, it wouldn’t matter, Spencer. I threw it all out. There’s none here.”

The humming noise he makes is angry, and he rocks back and forth on his feet in an agitated manner. “You shouldn’t… I don’t….”

I don’t have the energy for this. It’s a thought you feel terrible about as soon as you have it, but it’s the truth. Lara had cautioned you before his first visit that he was going to be hypersensitive to disappointment and frustration until he learned how to cope with the feelings he’d been using the Dilaudid to block out. Unfortunately, the information, while useful, didn’t always make his emotional extremes easier to deal with.

You run a hand down your face. “Spencer…” you start. You’re not sure what to continue with, but you don’t have to—for whatever reason, that sets him off.

He tears his eyes away from the floor to glare at you. “Don’t—don’t touch my things ever again!” Then he turns and all but runs to the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

You suck in a breath and drop your head to the counter. The marble is cool and you thump your forehead against it gently a few times, focusing on breathing in and out slowly to calm down. When you’re ready, you walk as quietly as you can to the bedroom door and press your ear against it to hear the unmistakable sound of Spencer sobbing into his pillow.

Part of you wants to go in and comfort him, but you suspect that you’d just make it worse right now since some of his frustration is directed at you. And truth be told, you’re frustrated with him, too. So you retreat to the living room, flopping down on the couch and pulling out your phone to call the restaurant to cancel your reservations. Doing so is more upsetting than you expected; a few tears of your own slide down your face after you hang up. Before you know it, you’re calling Tara.

“Hey, what’s up?” she asks you.

“I…” You swallow down the lump in your throat. “Spencer’s… we’re having a bad day. If you’re not busy, can I talk to you about it?”

“Of course,” is her gentle reply, and you pull yourself to your feet, moving to the farthest point away from the bedroom in the apartment so Spencer won’t overhear.

“He got angry when you told him you got rid of everything?” she guesses when you reach that part.

“Yeah. He told me that he doesn’t like it when I move his things. I already knew that; that’s why everything else is where he left it. I think he was mostly just caught off guard that I knew all his hiding places.”

“If he’s having a trauma response to seeing JJ, he’s not going to be thinking clearly, either,” Tara points out. “I wasn’t there, so I could be wrong, but from what you’ve said, it sounds like she was some sort of trigger for him.”

“That’s more than a fair assessment. It’s just… confusing,” you say. “He wasn’t like this with her when he first got home from prison. He actually spent a lot of time at JJ’s house before his relapse. He’d go over and hold Michael when he couldn’t sleep. Why is seeing his best friend suddenly such a bad thing?”

“I don’t know, but it doesn’t have to make sense to us. It only has to make sense to the traumatized part of the brain,” she explains. “He may not even know why himself.”

“Hmm.” You ponder it for a moment. “I think I’d find that interesting if I wasn’t living it.”

Tara laughs out loud at that. “Yeah, I’ve found that to be rather commonplace sentiment in the field of psychology.”

You take a deep breath and let it out slowly, feeling calmer. “Thanks for listening,” you say. “I feel better now.”

“Anytime, (Y/N).”

You exchange goodbyes, making plans to catch up properly over lunch next week. You hang up, then tiptoe back to the bedroom door. It’s quiet now; Spencer seems to have stopped crying. You knock softly. “Honey? Can I come in?”

When he doesn’t respond, you try the door handle. It’s unlocked, which is a good sign—he’s upset, but not upset enough to completely shut you out. You open the door just enough to look in.

Spencer’s on the bed as expected, huddled under his weighted blanket. His back is to the door and you see his shoulders shuddering in the little breaths that follow him crying. In your experience, he usually seeks out comfort before this stage, often having the breakdown itself in your arms or stumbling into them halfway through. This is a bit of uncharted territory. You know that after outbursts of negative emotions, he tends to need reassurance and touch from someone to help him decompress and feel better. You just don’t know if that’s going to hold true for this kind of reaction. A trauma response, Tara called it. You hope it will, because you don’t know what else to do.

“I’m going to come in now,” you tell him before taking a step inside. You leave the door open behind you so he won’t feel trapped, then slowly approach him, looking out for signs that he doesn’t want you near—tensing muscles, slight rocking, shaking his head—but he stays still.

Once you sit down on the edge of the bed you can see his face. His eyes are puffy and his cheeks are red and raw from wiping away tears. A few are still slipping out, sliding sideways down his face and dropping onto the wet patch on his pillowcase as he stares blankly at the wall across the room.

Hesitantly, you reach out and touch his arm as lightly as you can. He takes in a deep breath, but does nothing to suggest that he wants you to remove it. After a few moments to ensure that he’s okay with touch, you start running your hand up and down his back. He whimpers a little in response, closing his eyes and titling back into your touch.

“Are you okay?” you ask softly.

You don’t get a straightforward answer. He chews on his bottom lip for a bit before speaking in a scratchy voice. “Can you…?” he mumbles, lifting his head up slightly from the pillow, then dropping it back down. You don’t know what he’s asking for until you see some of his fingers poking out from under the blanket and the stroking motion they’re making.

You maneuver across the mattress to sit against the headboard, jostling him as little as you can, and he shifts to place his head in your lap. When you start carding your fingers through his hair, his eyes flutter closed and he lets out a little sigh.

“What’s going on?” you ask once the tension has faded and his body has settled fully into the mattress. He just shrugs and you press your lips together to hold back a sigh. You’re familiar with him going nonverbal and you know that he can’t help it, but it’s discouraging. One of the main things he’s been working on is being more open about his emotions. It’s been a welcome change to not have to pry things out of him. But he seems to have gone right back to old habits tonight and it’s… well, it’s disappointing.

The silence carries on for a long time as you continue to run your hands through his hair. He’s so still and relaxed that you think he may have fallen asleep until he takes in a deep, shuddering breath and clears his throat. “I… I want to go back,” he whispers.

“Back whe--” you start, then your heart drops as you realize what he means. “Oh.”

Your hands fall to your lap as he sits up and clambers out of bed, muttering, “gonna get changed.” He shuts the bathroom door behind him—for whatever reason, he’s not always comfortable with you seeing him changing or in the shower anymore—and you sit still for a few moments, processing what he just said. After over a month of listening to him express his desire to come home—begging you, even, in the beginning—you were unprepared to hear the opposite.

You shake your head slightly to try and clear it, then follow his lead, leaving the bed and changing out of your fancy clothes, trying not to think about how much you had been looking forward to wearing them to the restaurant.

Spencer remains quiet for the drive back to his treatment center, staring out the passenger side window, legs pulled into his chest. He mumbles a quick “bye” to you when you check him back in—no hug or kiss on the cheek like you’ve grown accustomed to. Instead he turns right back to the nurse and staff member running the process and asks, “Is Matt working tonight? I need to talk to him.”

At least he wants to talk to someone, you tell yourself as you leave, trying to soothe the sting caused by the fact that the someone isn’t you.

---

The next time you see him is six days later, on Friday evening. You’ve only talked once since Saturday, over the phone on Wednesday night, and it wasn’t a long call. He was upset about the horse therapy appointment being canceled that afternoon because of the weather—it had rained hard all day—and didn’t say much else. He ended the call before the ten minute mark, saying that he was tired and wanted to go lie down.

He also didn’t request a visit for the weekend—he either didn’t think his treatment team would approve it or he just didn’t want one. So you’re visiting him at the center today. You’ve brought dinner with you—you cooked one of his favorites yourself—but before you eat, you’re having an appointment with him and his therapist.

Spencer glances up only briefly when you enter the office, quickly looking back down. One of his knees is bouncing.

You sit down on the other side of the couch, looking between him and Lara in the chair across from you. “So, um, what’s going on?” you ask.

Spencer looks to Lara and she gives him an encouraging nod. He takes in a deep breath before speaking. “I… I wanted to talk to you about what ha—happened last week,” he says quietly, keeping his gaze on his lap.

You don’t know why exactly he wants to do it here, with his therapist, but wanting to talk about it at all is a good sign.. “Okay. I’m listening.”

“Right, um. Seeing… seeing JJ, it--” he stops abruptly, and his hands tremble slightly as he runs them down his thighs. “Sorry, doing… doing this is making me really anxious.”

“Take your time,” Lara says and you nod in agreement.

“Okay.” He runs his hands through his hair a few times before continuing. “Se—seeing her brought up emotions and, and memories I wasn’t ready to, um, confront. It… it really tri—triggered me.”

“Yeah, I could tell,” you say quietly.

Spencer grimaces at the words. He lifts his hand, puts it back down, then lifts it again and rubs at one of his eyes. “I…” he starts, then fixes his gaze on the floor and goes silent.

“(Y/N).” You tear your eyes from him and look at Lara. “Is there anything you’d like to say to Spencer about Saturday? Maybe what it was like for you?”

“Oh. Um.” You chew on your bottom lip for a moment. You’ve worried about how what you say could effect him since his relapse—one of your biggest fears is saying something that would drive him to use. But it’s stressful to keep up with, and with his therapist is probably the best place to start ridding yourself of your new habit of… well, of walking on eggshells around him.

“I think it would be good for him to know,” Lara says.

“Alright.” You lace your fingers together in your lap. “I guess it was just… startling to me. JJ’s your best friend and you’ve never acted that way to her. Or anyone, really, other than your father.”

Spencer stays silent, but flinches at the mention of his dad.

“Do you have anything to say to that?” Lara prompts. He shakes his head, so she looks back to you. “How did seeing Spencer like that make you feel?”

You take in a deep breath and let it out slowly; you’re a little scared to say, not wanting to make him feel worse. “It was… distressing. Especially when he got mad at me for getting rid of his Dilaudid. I know he doesn’t like having his things touched without permission but I don’t think it was reasonable to expect that I wouldn’t have done that.”

Lara nods. “That makes sense. But our feelings aren’t always logical.”

“Yeah, I understand. I guess I just wish he would have told me what was wrong instead of being silent--”

Spencer finally speaks up then, in protest. “I couldn’t help it!”

“I—I know that,” you argue back. “I just—I’m just telling you how I felt.”

He looks away, folding his arms and sinking further into the couch.

“Spencer,” Lara says gently. “You wanted to know how (Y/N) felt, remember? And we talked about how you were probably going to hear things you wouldn’t like.”

You blink, taken aback that this was his idea. And with that comes the realization of just how long it’s been since he’s asked how you’re feeling. Thinking back, you realize that the last time you had a conversation that wasn’t only focused on his feelings and well-being was the day you found him asleep and tied to his mother. This… it’s Spencer before prison.

You’re drawn out of your thoughts by him sighing and muttering, “Yeah, I remember.”

“Alright. Anything else?” Lara asks you.

There’s a lot else, you’re discovering, but you’re not sure you can unpack it all right now. “Maybe…” you say. “Maybe he could just tell me what I can do to help when he’s… triggered?”

“I don’t know,” he says dully, and when he catches the small frown on your face, insists, “I don’t.”

“Yet,” Lara adds.

He sighs again. “Yet,” he repeats.

“I know it’s frustrating,” she says. “Your solution to these kinds of feelings before was denial or using. A solution, not just a problem,” she emphasizes. “I want you both to try and think of it like that, and get comfortable with the fact that it’s going to take awhile to overcome those habits.”

A solution, not a problem. It’s… weird to think of his addiction that way, but you can try, so you give her a nod.

“Yeah, yeah,” Spencer mumbles. But behind the defensive body language, he just seems tired.

He seems to relax a little when the meeting wraps up and it’s only the two of you in one of the rooms used for visits. He remains quiet, but when you place the plate of food you dish him across the table from yours, he slides it back and sits in the chair beside you. “Sorry,” he whispers as soon as you take a bite of food.

“For what?” you ask once you’ve swallowed.

“For yelling at you on Saturday,” he says quietly. “I was upset but I shouldn’t have yelled.”

His leg is bouncing under the table; you put your hand on his knee to still it. “Apology accepted,” you say softly.

He shakes his head slightly. “You don’t have to. I was awful to you on Saturday.”

You frown at his skewed interpretation of events. “Spencer, you really weren’t. You yelled at me, yes, but other than that, you were fine.” And you’ve said much worse when you’ve been high.

“I ruined dinner. And don’t say it’s not a big deal,” he adds before you can speak. “You mentioned it every time we spoke in the week leading up to it. You were really excited about it, and I ruined it.”

Spencer’s read you like a book—that was exactly what you were going to say. “Yeah, I was really looking forward to it,” you admit. “And it sucked to have to cancel the reservations. But there will be other dinners, and it’s not like you did it on purpose.”

“But what if I did?” His voice is so quiet that you wouldn’t have heard him if he wasn’t right next to you.

“What do you mean?”

“I just mean…” he rocks slightly in his seat, which you immediately recognize as one of his self-soothing behaviors. You move your hand from his knee to his hair, lightly running your fingers through the curls covering the nape of his neck to try and help. His head tilts forward a little at your touch and after a brief silence, he continues. “I just mean that self-sabotage wouldn’t exactly be something new for me.”

“Oh.” You take your time considering it; he won’t believe you if you give in to your knee-jerk reaction to protest the negative feelings he harbors towards himself. But he grows agitated at your silence, rocking a bit harder and rubbing at his eye. You tug his hair lightly without really thinking about it in response.

“I’m just thinking,” you assure. “You deserve an honest, thought-out answer.”

After taking a deep breath, he nods. “Okay. I understand. Maybe you could just, uh… to help c--comfort…” He swallows and his voice drops back to a whisper. “Could you do that again?”

“Do what?”

“Um, pull… pull my hair. You did that a few moments ago. Please?”

You almost want to tease him—a year ago, you would have. But he’s been so timid and unsure when asking for any intimate touch other than cuddling since he got back from prison. You don’t want to discourage him from asking any more than he seems to be discouraging himself.

“Of course, baby,” you answer softly, and do just that. He closes his eyes and drops his head onto your shoulder. “As far as the self-sabotaging goes, you’re… not good at lying to me,” you muse. “And after six years with you, I feel like I’m pretty familiar with all the ways Spencer Reid self-sabotages. This never even crossed my mind until you brought it up, so I don’t see that as being what happened.”

You can’t tell if he believes you. A neutral “okay” is all you get from him, but at least he’s not outright disagreeing.

You gently pull his hair a few more times. “You should eat before it gets cold and we have to heat it up again.”

He takes the suggestion, picking his fork up, but you’ve never seen him less enthused about eating one of his favorite foods. He’s only cleared half of his plate when you’re done with all of yours.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

You can’t help but sigh at the habitual response, and consider your next words carefully. “Spencer, I don’t mean to be pushy, but you told me you were working on not dismissing people’s concern for you when they express it.”

“I am,” he mutters, but doesn’t say anything else, just continues to push his food around his plate aimlessly.

“Well, is something wrong with the food?” you ask. “Did I get the texture wrong, or--”

“No, no,” he interrupts, shaking his head. “It’s not the food. The food’s great. It’s… it’s me that’s the problem.”

Your eyebrows come together. “I don’t understand.”

“I…” He starts to blush. “I’m not eating it all because I think I need to lose some weight.”

“Don’t you dare,” you say immediately without thinking. He makes a startled noise at the same time you clap your hand over your mouth. You definitely don’t want him to lose weight, you just hadn’t meant for it to come out like that.

On the day he came home and agreed to treatment, you’d seen just how underweight he’d become as you helped him unbutton his shirt. The stark outline of his ribs against his skin had been scary, and you had no desire to see that again. It was a relief when he started to gain back what he’d lost in prison and afterwards. And you were happy to see him continue to put on even more than that.

You clear your throat. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to say it like that. You were just so skinny when you got here. You look good like this.”

“I’ve never weighed this much before,” he says, and the distress in his tone makes you think that this is a fact that has been bothering him for a while. “Some of my clothes are getting too tight.”

“We can buy you new clothes.”

“But we don’t know how much longer the insurance will cover my stay here. Residential treatment is expensive. We don’t need to be spending extra money on clothes when I could just lose the weight instead and not need them.”

“Hey.” You put your hand on his cheek. “I don’t want you to worry about money. The insurance is covering it for now. If they stop, that’s a problem to deal with when we get there. Just focus on getting better.”

He looks away from you, down to his lap. “I should still lose some weight,” he says eventually.

“Have you medical staff told you that?” you inquire, raising an eyebrow.

“No,” he admits with a sigh.

“Then you’re not allowed to worry about it,” you say firmly. “Finish your dinner.”

Spencer hesitates, but picks his fork back up. The corners of his mouth turn up just slightly when he starts eating again, telling you that despite his fretting, he’s happy not to stop himself from eating as much as he wants.

He seems to be in a much better mood at the end of the evening than he was when you arrived, though a bit more subdued and quieter than normal. He also appears to be very tired. It’s only 7:30 but he keeps yawning. He denies dozing off with his head on your shoulder while you were talking after dinner, but you’re sure he did.

During your parting hug, he nestles his face into your neck just like he always does when you’re sleeping in bed together. “Try and get some good sleep tonight,” you encourage, smoothing your hands down his back. “And Spencer?”

He pulls back to look at you and you settle your hands lightly on his waist. “I meant it, you know.” You squeeze slightly. “When I said you look good like this.”

It takes him a few moments to catch onto what you’re implying; when he does, his eyebrows shoot up and his breath catches. “Oh. O—okay. I’ll, um…” he glances down shyly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You better.” You look over your shoulder as you leave, and the small smile he’s wearing prompts one of your own.

---------------

tell me what you thought here!

i'd like to put it out there that i don’t hate jj and i really hope it didn’t come across like that. i hadn’t even planned that scene; it just wrote itself. i promise it’ll be resolved before the end of this fic.

another shoutout to the book The Body Keeps the Score for helping immensely with the planning and writing of this. i literally have pages of notes from it.

you can also find irl pictures of spencer’s therapy horse here.

all we can do taglist: @thatsonezesty13 , @jhillio , @elitereid

general taglist: @calm-and-doctor

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfic #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds self insert #spencer reid #angst #my fic #tw substances #one day i'll write something that's short

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bizarrestoriesfromtheabyss · 5 years

Text

The Border Between: Chapter 1

Kaia watched the steam rise from her cup of tea to avoid the gaze of at least twenty angel statues that fought for space in a room filled with motorcycle parts and pin-up posters of cars from the 1960's. By now, she ought to have gotten used to the ominous decor with how many times she had visited the house, yet it always managed to creep her out as it was in direct contrast with the boy who lived there. June Tennyson came down the stairs with an arm full of textbooks, highlighters, and notebooks. He dropped the cumbersome stack of study materials on the coffee table in front of Kaia. June was in his senior year of high school, but he dressed the part of a CEO with perfectly ironed clothes, a tie that no doubt he had meticulously redone until it fit perfectly into the collar of his shirt, and two ball-point pens resting in a pocket-protector, as if at any moment he might be bombarded with important documents that needed to be signed. Kaia smiled at him. “Thanks for helping me prepare for my exam. I’m so lost right now.” "Why is that anyway? You used to be really good at math?" Kaia picked up a mechanical pencil and started fiddling with it. "I guess, but I keep zoning out in class. It's just gotten kind of stale and boring, you know. I mean, I try to study, but then I think ‘what’s the point?’" June smirked. "Kaia, people have been asking that question ever since the first public school was founded. But, there's no point in complaining when you'll graduate in a couple of years anyway. Try to exercise a little discipline.” "What I meant was, why do we work so hard to graduate with flying colors? Does it really make much of a difference?" June paused to consider what answer she might have been looking for. "Well, because you can't get into a good college without a good GPA, of course.” "Yeah….that’s true. I just wish they would make classes more interesting.” She let out an exasperated sigh. “I’m so bored of everything in and out of school.” "I doubt that.” June checked his nails. “What about those ghosts and aliens you’re always talking about. Of course, you couldn’t make a career out of that, unless you wrote a novel, but even then-- “I don’t want to write a novel. Oh, but that reminds me I rented this really interesting movie yesterday." "Okay?" "Yeah, it was a documentary about this guy who said he had left his body. Apparently, it’s something called ‘astral projection’.” Kaia saw June instantly lose interest in the conversation. Normally, he was willing to put up with her rants about the paranormal, even if he didn’t share her fascination; however, he must not have been in the mood that day as his expression immediately returned to business-like seriousness. "That’s nice, Kaia, but what does it have to do with trigonometry?" Kaia slouched into the couch. "Nothing. Just thought of it. You know, I think it's possible to leave your body, don't you?" "Not particularly. That documentary was most likely fake." Kaia set the textbook down and crossed her arms. “Probably, but that doesn’t mean astral projection is fake. You know, there’s a lot of talk about it on the internet.” June rolled his eyes. “Are you serious? Look, are we going to study, or did you just come here to tell me about that some documentary you rented for three dollars at the video rental store?” As put as June’s comment put her off, Kaia couldn’t deny that she didn’t really come to studying. Although she didn’t care much for the documentary herself ---it certainly wasn’t the reason she wanted to see June that day-- the subject matter of leaving one’s body had been on her mind since the beginning of first period that day. It was a regular sleepy Monday. The late morning sunlight shined on Kaia through a dew-speckled window like a warm blanket. With one hand propping her face up, she traced the carved scratches on the wooden desk with her fingernail, only halfway listening to the video playing covered on a lecture the day before, and the day before that, and day before that. The teacher, Mr. Bernstein, had stated there was a lot to cover. Personally, Kaia had gotten sick of the subject halfway through the first lecture, and apparently Mr. Bernstein did too as he chose to spend that day reclining with his feet up on his desk and a cup of coffee in his hand while a video tape played on an old, fuzzy TV set. "Is this going to be on the test?" said a in a striped polo shirt and glasses three-times too large for his face. Mr. Bernstein sniffed. "’Might." The boy resumed hunching over his notes, while the rest of the class couldn’t have cared less, treating the TV as background noise. Like Kaia, most of them were lying with their heads resting on their elbows. Kaia had closed her eyes, letting the sunlight heat her eyelids. She was tired but not sleepy. She considered taking a nap at the moment, knowing the teacher wouldn't much care, but decided it wasn't worth the effort. The daily routine of a high school student was a drag no matter how you looked at it-- she knew that, and she had been willing to put up with it until just over a month ago. Since then, Kaia had spent much of her nights tossing and turning in bed. In truth, she had never been one to sleep soundly for fear that something was watching her outside her window, or that of what was causing those small floor-creaking sounds in her house after everyone had gone to sleep. However, now the thought that kept her up all night was "What if there's something else I'm supposed to be doing?" This thought started troubling her after she left the hospital the morning after prom night. In hindsight, Kaia didn't even know why she went to the stupid thing. She didn't particularly like dancing, loud music, or anything that was associated with prom, but the way seniors talked about it, it sounded like the most fun a teenager could hope to have, so, she signed up to go. As the prom night neared closer, Kaia started to feel anxious about it. After all, if she were to embarrass herself, everyone who went would remember it for the rest of their lives. When the day of the prom finally arrived on a Friday night-- the same night as tests in three of her different classes-- she didn't have the stomach to eat much that day. When she woke up in the hospital, the doctor informed her that she most likely passed out from a case of low blood sugar. Kaia was so afraid of doing something mortifying that she ended up doing exactly that. Regardless, it wasn't embarrassing herself that she thought about when she woke up on that hospital bed, it was what happened after she passed out. Kaia did not tell anyone what happened to her that night-- she was too afraid no one would believe her. Instead, she searched the internet and found out that what she experienced was a type of autoscopy know as "OBE" or "Out of Body Experience." This wasn't the first time Kaia had heard of the term; she had seen OBE's being discussed on forums about the paranormal. However, it was the first time she read extensively about the topic. She was surprised how widespread the phenomenon was with dozens of articles and forum posts where people shared their theories and experiences. A lot of it resonated with Kaia, yet her experience was different. Flying and traveling at the speed of light was apparently typical, but it was the end of her experience that differed. It was the grey entity the no one else described. Even now, the words it spoke were clear in her mind. "There is something we need you to do". What that 'something' is she could not answer. Kaia regretted not being able to stay in the astral realm long enough to hear the rest of it. Nevertheless, knowing she would probably never get the answer, she tried to forget it but couldn’t. What if it was something important? Something life-changing? Her life thus far had been pretty lacking in both of those qualities—it was frivolous and unchanging. When school ended that day, Kaia climbed onto her bike and set in the direction towards home as usual. The school was only a mile and a half away from her house, so she normally decided to take her bike instead of bearing the noise of the crumb-littered school bus. Kaia took her time riding home. It was the first cool day since the beginning of summer, three months ago. A gentle breeze brushed past her, carrying the scent of freshly cut grass, flower gardens, and cement that had been heating up under the sun all day. The streets of Gorgias Town had mostly straight roads and lines of nearly identical houses. They had burgundy tile roofs with off-white paint jobs to match their new picket fences. The elderly folks sat in their rocking chairs under the shade of their porches while they watched their young grandchildren play on a lawn of soccer balls and plastic flamingo ornaments. It was a nice day, or rather it ought to have been, yet Kaia couldn't enjoy it. It wasn't that she was depressed or even upset, but her days passed in a dazed monotony as she became a passive spectator to her own life. Was it going to be like this forever? Kaia stopped her bike a few blocks away from her house. She propped it up against a utility pole and reached into her pocket and took out her cell, a purple flip-phone with a black cat sticker stuck to it. That was when she called June, asking him if he could help her prepare for the mathematics exam that, in truth, she hardly cared about. June now sat on with his legs and arms crossed, wearing an I'm-disappointed-but-not-surprised look on his face. "So, you're not going to study then."

Kaia sunk into her shoulders. "Yeah, I'm sorry. You're right, studying was an excuse to see you. It's just that you've been so busy lately, and you've always got some reason why we can't hang out. It's like we aren't even friends anymore." June's face flushed but didn't loosen. "I can't help it I have a lot to do. In case you forgot, I'm going to college in a year and I want to get accepted into a good university." When Kaia didn't respond after some time, June said, "Well, you obviously have something on your mind, so go ahead and say it." Kaia had wanted to tell June about what happened on prom night, but she wanted to build up to it. Certainly, it didn't feel right at that moment to come out with it, yet she didn't want to keep it a secret any longer. "Yeah, something's on my mind, alright. I’ll tell you, but first promise you won’t laugh or say I’m making it up?" "Fine, I promise. Get on with it." So, she preceded to tell him everything in as much detail as she could remember, which was quite a lot considering the experience stuck with her vividly, even though it happened over a month ago. June pressed his hands together and inhaled deeply. "So.... in short, you had a really bad dream?" "No! It wasn't like a dream at all." "A hallucination?" "Also no." She stretched out her arms and looked at her hands. "I was really out of this thing." June raised a carefully-plucked eyebrow. "I'm not lying, June!" "I didn't say you were lying. I just think you're misinterpreting things a little. Look, what you experienced wasn't all that uncommon. I've read in books before that it's pretty common for people to have hallucinations during hynangognic states." Kaia frowned. "No idea what that means, but I'm serious it wasn't a hallucination-- you've got to believe me." "No, I don’t. One way or another, you have got to admit hallucinations are a more viable explanation then meeting a spirit-prophecy-maker or what have you." "You wouldn't be saying that if it had happened to you." June shrugged. "Agree to disagree. Regardless, even if it was real, what're you going to do about it now?" "Actually..." Kaia unzipped her book-bag and pulled out a printed sheet of paper from the disorganized mess. "You know how I mentioned that in the building I went to everything was slanted? Well, at first, I just thought that my vision was distorted, since everything looked kind of weird anyway. But, then I thought about it and wondered if the building was maybe like that in real life. Then I thought 'why would that be?' And then I remembered how there used to be earthquakes near here and..." She handed him the paper. June hesitantly took it and looked at the article printed from an online newspaper with a picture of a school that had been shut down after liquefaction from an earthquake had caused the building to sink into the ground. After he finished reading it, he looked up and said, "you think you went here? Now listen, you've never been to this place before, so how could you have dreamt of it?" "That's what I've been trying to say, it wasn't was a dream.” June dropped the paper on the coffee table. “Why are you even showing me this?” “Because I kind of need you to do me a favor, if you’re gain.”

#fiction #paranormal #supernatural #originial fiction #sci-fi

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notveryglittery · 6 years

Text

ssps prompt #4

summary: Logan opens his closet only to find that none of his ties are blue. words: 2,600 / ships: none really. bits of each logan ship, so. warnings: a bit of panic, hurt feelings. notes: some out of character moments bc it's an alternate universe and also i can't write logan ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ read on ao3 / read more prompts (if y’all wanted to draw art of the sides in the colors i picked for ‘em... that would be... really cool...) @sanderssidespromptsummer @fandersfic-logan

Logan’s alarm went off at approximately 6:45am and despite the absolute mundanity of it, something felt wrong. He’d opened his eyes to blurry vision, which was not surprising; the expanse of sky that made up his ceiling was shifting slowly into a sunrise. When he reached over to his bedside table to retrieve his glasses, they were exactly where he’d left them. He was still wrapped snugly in the quilt Patton had made for him two years ago. The smell of coffee and bacon had permeated throughout the house. While it was all perfectly normal, something still felt inaccurate.

Sitting up, Logan put his glasses on, and looked around. His room was just as much of a mess as usual (an organized mess, thank you very much). The towering bookshelves were still stuffed full, his numerous desks were still covered in various notes and charts, the doors to the Memory Archives were still securely locked. He got out of bed and slid his feet into the slippers left beside his bed. Tucking the sheets back in and making sure not a pillow was out of place, Logan went next to the bathroom. It was here that the something became slightly more clear. The towels were no longer blue, but instead a deep hunter green.

“Patton must be doing laundry,” Logan deduced aloud, though he couldn’t recall the last time they had any sort of fabrics in this color. He went about his morning routine: took a shower, washed his face, brushed his hair and teeth, flossed. He dressed in a more worn pair of slacks, knowing they weren’t filming a video today, and thinking that he was allowed to be more comfortable. He forwent picking a shirt that bore his logo and chose a simple black button down instead. It was all perfectly normal, right up until he opened the drawer that housed his ties. Not a single one of them was blue. He blinked. He rubbed at both of his eyes. He closed the drawer and reopened it. The ties remained stubbornly not blue. Instead, they were the same dark green as the towels in the bathroom.

Logan was by no means dreaming; he’d certainly have woken up by now. Closing the drawer once more, he headed out of his room. He could hear Patton singing in the kitchen but it would be a waste of time and effort if he started with Patton when Virgil and Roman’s rooms were on the way downstairs. He knocked first on Roman’s door, noting that the decorations were different from last he saw. The stars were still there but his name was written in purple instead of red. Logan wondered if Virgil had done it in the middle of the night, as a joke. The sound of Roman doing vocal exercises reached him before Roman actually did. The door swung open a moment later. The prince was still in his pajamas and his hair was only half styled and—

“What are you wearing purple for?” Logan asked before he could help himself.

Roman tilted his head. “Good morning to you, too, Specs.” He brushed a hand over his silk pajamas, which were not red and gold, like usual. “And why? What’s wrong with it?” His expression looked a little hurt and his tone had gone just a bit quiet.

“Nothing,” Logan was quick to answer, knowing an upset Roman this early in the morning would only lead to disaster for the remainder of the day. “It’s just… different.”

“I always wear purple, Logan,” Roman said, looking at Logan now like he’d grown a second head. “It’s my color. You know,” and here, he paused to strike a pose, “the color of royalty?”

“Ah, yes.” Logan deadpanned, knowing now he wouldn’t find solutions here. “of course. How could I forget.” After a few more sentences of back and forth, Logan left Roman to finish getting ready. He’d planned next to see Virgil but upon remembering that it was still only 8 o’clock, decided to head down to ask Patton next. Virgil wouldn’t be awake for another four hours, at least, if they were lucky.

“Good morning, Lo!” Patton chirped the moment Logan stepped foot into the kitchen. It was a disaster zone: the sink full of dishes that needed washing, flour dusted every countertop, and every burner on the stove was in use. Patton was spinning around the space with ease, however, and… He was not wearing his favorite, light blue apron.

This time, Logan took time to figure out how to word his question. Patton was more sensitive even than Roman and better at hiding it. He offered to begin cleaning the dishes and Patton thanked him with a hug and a kiss on the cheek before returning to his tasks. Roman wearing purple because it was the color of royalty wasn’t far from believable, but it was the fact that he’d said he always wore it. That was a downright lie. Roman wore whites, reds, and golds. It wouldn’t be surprising if Patton had a number of aprons to choose from but he almost exclusively wore the light blue one while making breakfast. Today’s apron was cotton candy pink. Beneath it, his nightshirt was lighter in shade, with little prints of piglets. His pants were magenta. He wore flamingo slippers.

“Is that apron new?” Logan asked finally, turning off the water, and drying the dishes he’d so far cleaned.

“What, this old thing?” Patton giggled, twirling from the oven to the refrigerator. “Gosh, no! It’s my favorite one! You’ve seen me wear it lots of times before!”

No, Logan thought, no, I really have not.

“Oh, right,” Logan said instead. “It suits you very well.” Patton squealed at the compliment. The pink did suit Patton well but there was no denying just how wrong it felt. Patton’s color was light blue where Logan’s was indigo. Roman’s was red and Virgil’s was purple. The fans were spot on with their Rainbow Theory and Logan delighted in reading their speculations; Patton and Roman thought it fun, so why were they throwing it all off?

An hour later found Roman sitting with Patton and Logan at the dining table. Patton was checking the clock on the wall. “Do you think Virgil will be down soon?” He asked, looking between the two. Logan was distracted by Roman’s thoroughly purple outfit. What would Virgil say when he did finally wake up and see Roman’s attire? Patton had changed into one set of pajamas to another. He was still very pink.

After waiting thirty minutes more, Roman began to eat. Patton went to go check on Virgil.

“What’re you staring at so much for today, Logan?” Roman asked after swallowing a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “You’ve never had a problem with my fashion sense before.”

“I doubt that.” Logan raised an eyebrow and gestured to all of Roman. “Your taste has always been far too extravagant for my liking. We’ve spoke before on your lack of practicality.”

“There’s nothing wrong with wearing heels!”

“I never said that.” Logan agreed, amused despite himself. “I only meant that your wearing heels when it least makes sense is something I simply do not understand.”

“Gotta agree with Lo there,” came a voice from behind them.

Roman’s head snapped towards the sound and he scowled at the speaker. “Well of course you would!” He returned to his meal, looking quite offended.

Virgil sat down next to Logan and gave him a sleepy smile. His hair wasn’t brushed and the bags under his eyes were very messily covered up with eyeshadow. Patton clearly hadn’t given him enough time to get ready. He was wearing orange. It wasn’t bad, by any means, but it confused Logan so terribly, that his mouth fell open.

“Seriously, Logan, what’s your problem with how we’re dressing today!” Roman snapped, dropping his silverware, and standing up. He stormed out of the room and Patton called after him, looking between the pair at the table and the prince stomping upstairs. He followed Roman.

Virgil was blushing under Logan’s stare. “What?” He asked defensively. His sweater was two sizes too large and he hid the lower half of his face behind one of the sleeves. It was also burnt orange, a deep enough shade that it wasn’t garish or harsh on the eyes. His pants were lighter, closer to peach, with pumpkins and bats printed across them.

“You… You’re wearing orange.”

“Yeah, and?” Virgil’s tone grew sharp and he was rising from his chair.

“No, wait,” Logan rushed to amend, getting up as well. Virgil stepped away, looking like he was accepting flight as the proper response to this situation. “I do not mean any harm. It’s just peculiar.”

“Oh, yeah, that helps.” Virgil crossed his arms over his chest, shifting on the spot, closer towards the stairs.

“I apologize. That did not come out right.”

“Thought you didn’t mind it,” Virgil mumbled, “thought you said it matches sometimes.”

“Did I?”

Virgil blinked, hard. “Are you suffering from foot-in-mouth disease?”

“Pardon?”

Virgil’s eyes narrowed. His gaze went to Logan’s throat. “You aren’t wearing a tie.”

Logan’s hand went to his neck. “I hardly see what that has to do with this.”

“You always wear a tie.”

“We aren’t filming today. I thought it unnecessary.”

“What?” Virgil asked. “We are, too. We talked about it last night.”

This was all getting very out of hand. Logan pinched the bridge of his nose, nudging his glasses out of the way as he did so. He sighed. He heard Virgil take a few steps closer to the staircase.

“You’re freaking me out, Logan.”

“My ties are all green,” Logan blurted before Virgil could move any further. “They are supposed to be blue. My color is blue.” He gestured to Virgil. “Yours is purple.”

Virgil’s eyebrows shot up, disappearing behind his bangs. “My color’s orange.”

“No,” Logan said, frustration coloring his tone. “Thomas dyed his hair purple and we changed outfits and you decided you liked purple. It’s the color you chose!”

Virgil was shaking his head before Logan had even finished. “Roman is purple. He always has been, even before you guys accepted me. It’s the color of—”

“Royalty,” Logan interrupted, “yes, I know, he told me.”

“Alright, Logan, for real, what’s going on?” Virgil looked less upset with Logan now and more concerned about why Logan was acting the way he was.

“I don’t know! I’ve felt strange since I woke up this morning but I couldn’t understand why. It can’t be something as simple as this, they’re just colors.” Logan ran a hand through his hair and began to pace. Virgil moved out of his way. “I know I’m not imagining it, either. Patton’s always light blue and Roman is red. It’s how things have always been. Before the videos, we had colors we preferred and Thomas worked around it. The Rainbow Theory…” Logan paused, turning to face Virgil. “That’s still accurate, is it not?”

Before Virgil could answer, there was a tugging sensation in the pits of their stomach. “Speak of the devil,” Virgil said before disappearing. Logan sank out and back in with him. Instead of his spot beside the staircase, he was stood in front of the window Patton liked to be near.

“What is happening?!” He groaned.

“Hey, guys…” Thomas looked between the two. Logan wondered why in the world Virgil was stood next to him, in Roman’s spot. “I was feeling a little… nervous. Thought I would check in.”

“Ask Logan,” Virgil said, crossing his arms. “He’s getting all worked up about our colors.”

“Why are you standing there?” Logan asked Virgil instead of addressing their host.

“Where does purple Virgil stand?” Virgil snarked. Logan pointed to the staircase. “Oh, no way. I’d never steal the stairs from Patton.”

“I’m confused.” Thomas cut in. “What’s going on?”

“The others are wearing the wrong colors. I had begin to think it a prank though it seems a bit much to get you in on it, Thomas.”

Virgil and Thomas shared a look. “It’s not a prank, buddy,” Thomas said. “We’re just as lost as you are.” Thomas did seem genuinely puzzled. Logan was wondering if he’d ever find an resolution to this conundrum.

“I need to check the Memory Archives,” Logan said before he sank out. He returned directly to his room and retrieved the key to the doors. Unlocking them and slipping in, making sure to close and lock them again behind him, Logan paused to stare up at the ceiling. It was made of forty three screens, each linked to six consoles each. Logan headed without hesitation towards Console #254. Entering the password, he used the touch screen to flip through memories from the last two years. They flickered to life on the screen it was connected to. Logan watched as Thomas’ recollection of filming the videos and interacting with the Sides played in fast forward.

Sure enough, every appearance of Roman had him dressed in purple, Patton in pink, and Virgil in orange. To Logan’s surprise, every time he showed up, his tie was green. He hardly wore much color in the first place but this seemed to be enough proof. There was no doubting his ownmemory, however. Virgil preferred purple, given that it fit his edgy and dark exterior. Roman appreciated that red suited his bold personality. Shutting the console off and leaving through the doors, Logan paused for a moment in his room.

Perhaps if he went to sleep, it would all be back to normal when he woke up? This… alternate universe seemed worth exploring but he’d already upset two of the others. He wasn’t particularly keen on the idea of staying in what could end up a hostile environment. There was a knock on his door.

“Lo?” Patton called. “Can I talk to you?”

“Of course,” Logan answered. “It’s unlocked.”

Patton let himself in and gestured to Logan’s bed. They sat side by side. “Roman’s pretty upset… Virgil didn’t seem too happy, either… Wanna tell me what happened?”

“None of you are wearing the colors that you normally do. I’m beginning to suspect I’ve woken up in an alternate universe of some sort.”

When faced with something he didn’t particularly know how to respond to, Patton laughed nervously. Logan thought it precious, not that he would ever say so. “That’s… interesting,” Patton said slowly, once he’d stopped giggling.

“I’ll apologize to Virgil and Roman. There’s nothing wrong with how they’re dressed. In fact, they wear the colors quite well. It is just… strange.”

“Oh, I’m sure!” Patton agreed, “that would be pretty weird to me, too!”

“I thought I might lay down for a bit. When are we filming?”

“In about two hours,” Patton answered, standing up and allowing Logan his space. “Do you want me to come check on you when it’s almost time?”

“I would appreciate that, thank you.”

“Okay, Lo.” Patton pressed a kiss to the top of Logan’s head. He skipped towards the door. “Sleep well! Sweet dreams!” He closed the door quietly behind him.

Puling the sheets back and tucking himself in, Logan removed his glasses, and stared up at the ceiling. It adjusted to his wants and needs so the room darkened as sleep overcame him. The last thing Logan thought of before he dozed off was how he hoped his famILY wouldn’t still be agitated with him when he woke up.

#sanderssidespromptsummer #sanders sides fan fiction #logan sanders #i HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THIS IS #IT'S A MESS AND I'M SORRY LMAO #dani writes

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blairette-on · 6 years

Text

Bonds to our Destiny, Chapter One

Hello there! ^^ Finally, the chapter two! Hope you’ll like it!

Yeah… This one hadn’t been beta read yet but… I wanted to post it so there it is! (It will be updated when my beta would have the time to do so! ^^ (Because I suppose it’s something that takes quite an amount of time to do, so…), so sorry if you found some English/grammar mistakes and all! ^^’’

Hope you’ll like it! ^^

By the way, in this chapter, there a little time skip, and for the following ones, some will be separated by months, other by nothing, but you’ll, and I hope that won’t bother you! ^^

And even if things seem a little… confused now, they will make sense later, promise!

(and yes, I tried to do a sort of « little child way of talking »… Dunno if it works!)

Tangled, movie and Series, belong to Disney, as the Moon theory to @ghostar, who created it on Tumblr!

Enjoy! o/

When I first saw you

oOoOoOo

As far as she could remember, Rapunzel had been always able to see strings get out of her chest and disappear into the air in front of her.

Well, to be perfectly honest, it was only when the sun shined very, very high in the sky, and never more than a few seconds at each attempt. Plus, it was a very exhaustive exercise so she didn’t try very often to invoke them. She was only six years old after all.

Nonetheless, she knew that she was connected to five people. First of all, there was the string that linked her to her Mother. It was a vibrant shade of red, fiery as her Mother’s temper could be. She deeply loved her Mother but, sometimes, she was very, very scared of her.

… Maybe it was because of Mother scared her sometimes that there was a taint of black mist on it…?

The second link bonded her to Pascal, her chameleon companion. It was made of a lovely shade of yellow, soft in is color, almost shy, but so comforting. After all, Pascal was the one who made her life in the tower a little less lonely.

The two seconds strings were almost transparent. They shined with a profound purple color and the only time she tried to feel them more, as faint as they were, she felt an overwhelming wave of confused feelings that she wasn’t able to stand up for several minutes. She hadn’t tried to feel these strings again. Maybe when she will when she’ll be older.

Maybe.

Then, there was the last string, the string that appeared only two years ago out from nowhere. Rapunzel didn’t know who it was linked, but an almost blinding light emanated from it. It was also a bit more elaborated in its composition. As the four other stings were some kind of rope-line like of faint colored-light, this one was made of two lines intricated in each other in a very complex way. One of them seemed to be made of gold as the other was made of silver. The six-year-old girl could have sworn the string was enameled with several little shining crystals.

Somehow, Rapunzel knew that she shouldn’t try to pull on this particular string, not yet. It’s was simply a feeling, a sort of instinct which told her so. And even if she was very curious about this string, in particular, she could wait a little longer. She was a very patient girl. She lived locked in a tower after all. She was used to waiting.

She heard her Mother climbing up the stair and the little girl shook herself off of the daze that came upon her when she summoned the strings.

She would try later to pull on it when the time will come.

oOoOoOo

It was not his room.

The four years old boy looked around him with curiosity.

At least, this dream wasn’t a nightmare.

He was in the middle of a black-gray nowhere surrounded by a sort of fog that lingered at his feet. Looking up, he saw the Full Moon shining in the strange sky of the place as a feeling of safety washed over him. He let out a long sigh of relief as he began to walk without a goal in the noplace that his dream brought him into.

But it all seemed amiss, like a void, as if something was lacking to this place, but Varian couldn’t point out what. Somehow, the young boy had the feeling that he had to be here, that someone was calling out for him and that this very nowhere-place was made for the only purpose of helping this person.

Then, he heard it. The footsteps coming his way. He turned on himself to look at what was approaching him from behind.

His baby blue eyes meet emerald one and something just shift within him.

The girl before him seemed as confused as he was and, after a few seconds of silence, she asked

“Where are we ?” her childish voice was soft and comforting. Varian, without knowing why, liked the sound of it.

“We’e in my dream !” he said with his babbling voice. He paused for a second and scratched his head, “Well… I think we a’e!”

The girl only nodded and stay silent. A few moments passed and Varian couldn’t help but stare at the stranger in front of him. It was at this moment that he saw that her eyes were a little red as dry tears still ribbed her cheeks. He tilted his head a little and knitted his brow. He didn’t like the sad look on the girl's face.

“Somet’ing wrong ? Why are you c'ying ? You’e hurt ?”

“N-no ! Not all !” said the girl frantically, shaking her head in denial as she wiped her tears away, « It’s just me…Well, you know, I just… I… »

The younger saw her fidget on her feet as a blush appeared on her cheeks. The four years old sighed a little, deciding that this situation couldn’t last any longer.

“Wanna play ‘ith me ?” she looked at him and at the hand he had extended her way, slightly confused before nodding, a smile returning to her face.

“Yeah, sure! Huh, well… I-I never got the chance to play with someone else before…” she scratched the back of her neck at this, looking away.

“You don’t ‘ave friends?”

“Well, I have Pascal but… “ she shook her head and smile at him, “Wanna play Hide and Seek?”

The younger flashed her a wide grin.

“ ‘kay ! But you count first!”

So she covered her eyes and the game began.

Varian didn’t know how long they play in this strange place, but the four years old was happy to see the older girl smiled at him. Once the ended their game, they sat in the middle of the nowhere and began to talk. She told him that she was eight years old and that she lived in a tower with her Mother and that it was forbidden for her to leave it. He tried to ask her why, but she wouldn’t respond, so he didn’t push the subject much and talked about himself, about his passion for science, or how deeply he loved his father.

He learned that the little girl was really, really lonely sometimes and that’s why she was crying earlier.

She asked him how was the outside world, so he described her his village, the way he lived and how far the Capital was from where he lived.

The little girl listened to him with wide eyes, a little gleam of wonder shining behind their emerald-like color, a grin spread across her face.

Looking at her, Varian felt something rose inside his chest, a warm feeling that washed over him like a sweet wave of sunlight. So, he smiled shyly at her in response.

It was as if had stopped its course as they continued to talk together.

Suddenly, he heard a loud crack resonate inside the noplace as if someone was tearing apart a sheet of paper. He felt a harsh burning bloomed across his chest as the floor beneath his feet began to disappear. One of his hand flew to his heart as the pain began to increase, almost unbearable for his little body.

In front of him, he saw the girl reached out to help him, but her hand was only meet by a wall made of glass that prevented her from coming closer. As the burning continue to consume him from the inside, he felt smooth, cold hands took hold of him and pulling him away from the immediate danger as a voice began to ring in the back of his mind.

The foggy world of his dream began to vanish as he saw the older girl disappear too. He tried to struggle against the invisible hands that pulled him away from her. While he had felt complete in the other girl presence, the void that he had first felt when he woke up in his dream was back once again.

Then he realized. He didn’t ask for her name.

He yelled.

“WHO ARE YOU ?!”

As the older girl tried too to stay in the dream too, he heard her say from the other side of the wall

“I’m-!”

“Varian, please! Wake up, son!”

His eyes snapped open as a cry died upon his lips. His throat was sore as if he was screaming. He was shaking badly, sweat covering his forehead as tears were rolling down his cheeks.

He was still feeling the ache of the burning rolled upon his chest, even if the pain began to dull a little.

Already, the little girl’s face was disappearing from his mind, leaving behind it only the feeling of a warm smile.

Varian looked around him, trying to figure where he was. But before he could understand what was happening, he found himself caught in a powerful embrace as fingers combed his hair, trying to soothe him.

“It’s okay, son, I’m here. It was only a dream, you’re safe now…”

The deep voice of his father anchored him to reality and he clung to the big frame of his father’s body, crying madly but not knowing why.

“I-It wasn’t a nightmare…” he said between two sobs, “It wasn’t a nightmare at all, Daddy… There was a girl, and she was sad, but then we played together and… Oh, daddy, the burning… !”

“It’s okay, son… Just, try to calm down a little, would you? I’m here, so hush, don’t you cry my little Varian, don’t you cry… “

It took several minutes for the young boy to stop his tears. His father’s embrace soothing his shaken nerves. A few moments later, tiredness took possession of his body and he felt himself drift into a peaceful dreamless sleep.

He didn’t notice the panicked look on his father’s face as he hadn’t noticed that his hair was glowing with a silver-blue light, illuminating the dark bedroom with their soft gleaming.

So this is all true… Thought the older man with a point of fear. Unconsciously, he hugged the sleeping boy a little closer to his chest in a protective embrace.

A ray of Moonlight fell upon the glowing freckles sprinkled across his son’s button nose. A few moments later, the faint light began to disappear but Quirin felt a shiver run through his spine a the simple thought of what the future may hold for his sweet little Varian.

And for the first time in a very, very long time, Quirin was truly afraid of what could happen to his dear son.

He didn’t leave Varian’s side for the rest of the night.

oOoOoOo

Rapunzel opened her eyes slowly as she felt a hand brushed her hair in a soothing way.

“Mother… ?” she asked in a sleepy voice

“Yes, my Dear, I’m here… You had a bad dream, sweetheart… “

“A bad dream? No, Mom, I-”

“Hush, my Little Flower, it’s okay now. I made them go away…” cut the sweet tone of her Mother voice, “Now go back to sleep, would you? I promise you’d be safe now.”

The girl frowned a little, but she didn’t try to argue with her Mother. They already had their argument earlier this day and she didn’t want to upset her again.

“Thank you, Mom…”

“You’re welcome, sweetheart…” she bent a little to kiss a forehead « I love you, my dear »

“I love you more…”

“I love you most… Goodnight.”

And with that, she was gone and Rapunzel was left alone in her bedroom. She snuggled under her sheets and thought about the dream she just had.

When she had fallen asleep after her argument with her mother, crying, she had wished to have someone to talk to, or to play with, just for once. And even if it had been only her imagination, the sweet little boy from her dream had been exactly what she had needed.

She couldn’t remember his face but that really doesn’t matter at this moment. She hoped that he was okay, as he seemed to be in pain the last seconds she saw him before waking up, but the little girl assumed it was the case. She fell asleep in a matter of seconds, a small smile on her lips.

What she didn’t know was that downstairs, her Mother was cursing in a hushed voice as she tried to reinforce the spells that protect to tower from any intruder.

She couldn’t take the risk that someone sneaked into her Magic Flower’s dreams once again, it was too dangerous.

But each of her attempts was sold by a failure. She cursed out loud once more deciding to try it again the next day.

And outside, the Moon snickered at her.

#fanfiction #tts #tts varian #tts Rapunzel #twin bond #moon!Varian

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raging-violets · 6 years

Note

36.) “Why are you looking at me like that?” for cade and ave and gabby and bo. so yes, two each >:)

Cadence

Cadence looked at her watch, sighed hard enough to breathe fire, and clenched her hand into a fist. It took a second for her to control the flames that shot from between her fingers before she slammed her fist against the door.

“Cisco!” She shouted, banging on his front door. The door rattled on its hinges. “Come on! We’re going to be late!” She dropped her hand from the door and waited for any sign of life from inside.

When that didn’t work, she pulled out her phone and dialed Cisco’s speed-dial number once more. Again. And again. And again. Humming, Cadence lowered her phone. What was it that’d keep Cisco from his phone. He practically lived on his phone. Not just because of the metahuman app, but because it was the quickest way for him to follow along with new memes and pop culture he showed the rest of Team Flash at a moment’s notice.

“Cisc-ooooo!”

Finally, she heard rapid footsteps coming to the door before it was flung open to reveal an angry Cisco. He glared at her, pulling his hair back into a ponytail. Cadence smiled sweetly in response.

“Hi, Cisco!” She lifted a hand and waved cheerfully. Completely ignoring how high she could sense his body temperature was, complete with red cheeks and and ‘I’m-going-to-kill-you!’ look in his eye.

“What. Do. You. Want?” he demanded.

What did she want? Cadence’s eyes brows rose in offense. “Um.” She gave him a pointed look. “We’re supposed to be going to the movies remember? All-day feature? We need to get to the theater in–” She cut herself off, noticing Cisco glance over his shoulder. “What’s going on?”

“I’m sort of busy,” Cisco muttered. He ran a hand through his hair–tried to, quickly running into his ponytail. “Can we do this later?”

“It’s a one day thing. And I’m not going by myself. No one else likes to talk back to the screen like you do.” Cadence pouted, sticking out her lower lip as far as she could make it go. “Please, Cisco? Please? Please?”

Cisco glanced over his shoulder once more. He sighed heavily, clearly torn. “I mean, it’s just, I have someone over and–” He stopped, noticing Cadence’s suspicious glance. Her eyes roved over the apartment, slowly shifting into her thermal vision. Okay, so there was someone there he didn’t want her to see, who could be so–?

Oh.

Cisco groaned, noticing Cadence’s eyes shift to orange. He hung his head, knowing he was caught, unable to keep the blush from his cheeks when he looked her in the eye again. “Why are you looking at me like that?” He asked.

“When did Gypsy get in?” She asked, unable to keep the sly tone from her voice. She cuoldn’t help it. Seeing a thermal image of a woman figure in Cisco’s bed–and very warm from the look of it–wasn’t something she could miss. And wasn’t something she could pass up teasing him about.

He leaned against the door frame. Looked past her. “Last night,” he mumbled then yawned.

Cadence giggled. “And I’m guessing you haven’t gotten a lot of sleep? Well, that explains why you missed my zumba class last night.”

And she laughed harder when Cisco’s blush deepened. Cadence’s inappropriate smile grew. “Well, you’ve got to get some exercise somehow.”

But she gave him a reprieve and promised to see him later. Though, he had to notice when she teleported away and he closed the door behind her, that she hadn’t said anything about not telling the others. That she hadn’t said anything about not wanting to talk about it later.

He could only imagine what was waiting for him when he got to work.

Averey

If looks could kill, Caitlin Snow would be six feet under. Cold. Stiff. And as far away from any iteration of Oregon Trail as possible. Who knew a simple game night at Cisco’s apartment could result in a game to see who could make it as far through a game. With Caitlin’s “expertise” there was no way Averey would make it to the end.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Caitlin asked, frustration laden in her voice.

Averey didn’t break her harsh stare from over the top of her computer. It was Caitlin’s fault she was put in this position. Any more losses and there was no way she’d make it through to Salt Lake City.

“It’s not my fault you started sending your crew in circles,” Caitlin commented, carefully spinning the wine around in her glass.

“It’s a bloody blizzard, it’s not like they had road signs back then,” Averey said with a scowl. She lowered her voice to a defensive tone, almost pouting. “It’s not my fault the only option was to double back.”

“Just like it’s not my fault you decided to leave in the middle of winter,” Caitlin pointed out.

“It’s better to get the winter months out of the way so you’re not dealing with it at the end,” Cisco spoke up from in front of the TV where the computer was connected - projecting the game onto the bigger screen. He started counting off on his fingers. “No snake bites, no having to ford a river, no drowning–”

“But, you can still freeze to death,” Eddie pointed out. He should have been bitter. He had died quickly upon the start of the game.

“If it were up to me you would have been attacked by the natives, mate,” Averey said darkly. “Gradually warm the area. Excellent advice, Dr. Snow.”

“That is how you would treat frostbite,” Caitlin said, defensively. “I mean, rubbing snow into the affected areas?“

“It was actually used for a while back then,” Averey explained. Finally removing her stare from Caitlin, she turned back to the game. “It was a well known theory around this time until it was debunked later on. I always thought it was more homeopathic.” Using her finger, she pushed her glasses up her nose. “But even then, people had to worry about rapidly heating their travel buddies with fire because then they’d have to deal with frostbite and burns. Although, I do reckon that numbing your body part so you won’t feel the pain wouldn’t be too bad and…” She stopped talking when she realized everybody was staring at her. “What?”

“If you knew all that, why are you asking me?” Caitlin asked, throwing her hand into the air.

“You’re the doctor, mate, not me.”

Gabby

“So, you have to tell me.”

“I have to tell you what?” Gabby looked at Cheryl with raised eyebrows. Weren’t they, just a minute ago, working on their history project? What in the world did she need to tell Cheryl about Ulysses S. Grant that she couldn’t already figure out from her own textbook?

“Who’s escorting you to the dance?” Cheryl asked. “We need to have the best dates.” Gabby gaped at her. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Cherry, homecoming is a few months away.”

Cheryl placed a hand to her chest. “And that’s not nearly enough time to get everything together. For our first prom, we need to make a statement.”

“Prom?!” Gabby repeated. She stared at Cheryl as if she grew a second heard. Or a triplet. Whichever came first. “Cherry, it’s September!” It was official. Cheryl Blossom, Cheryl Bombshell, Cherry Blossom, Gabby’s best friend, had finally cracked.

It was along time coming, she supposed. Her family was completely nuts with Cheryl and Jason the most sane of them all. And if that was sane, Gabby didn’t want to know what insane was.

“Yes, the month signifying change, the growth of a new harvest. And as the new captain of the River Vixens, I have to make sure I have the best piece of mindless man candy on my arm. We have a new crop of boys this year.” Cheryl waved her hand. “It’s up to us to take our pick, you can even ask Jay-Jay if you like. He’s plenty suitable.”

“’I’m not asking Jay to go with me as my date.” Gabby’s nose wrinkled. “He’s like, my brother. That’d be like dating you.”

“And I’m a catch,” Cheryl pointed out.

Gabby laughed.

Cheryl sat up straight, moving her long red hair behind her shoulders and laced her fingers together. She blinked once. “Just like cupid wrangling true love together with his arrows, I’ve compiled a list of suitable dates that we need to go through. I’ve put height and weight into consideration to us and each other–”

“–Did you mark down whether they’re friends, too?” Gabby teased. “And their hair color? Eye color? Future aspirations? Trace their family lineage? Determine if we’re going to take our last names or keep theirs? Spern count? You know,”–Gabby leaned in and whispered conspiratorially–”sperm count is really important.”

Cheryl’s eyebrows came together as she tilted her head. Not taking her eyes off her best friend, she unfolded a sheet of paper and spread it open. “Of course! I have to take all of it into consideration.”

Unfazed, Gabby laughed again. Cheryl’s antics would never get old. No matter what it was, it didn’t take long for Cheryl to get an idea and for Gabby to go along with it simply because, well, because she was Cheryl’s best friend. Her ride or die. Her sister from another mister. They’d done a blood pact to prove it. Even if I had to talk Cheryl into that one, Gabby thought, finding it ironic considering Cheryl’s favorite–and signature–color was the same crimson shade.

Gabby watched as Cheryl pushed the list into the center of their table, waving away the prying eyes of the rest of the River Vixens and started to explain the pros and cons of each of the boys on their list. As she did so, Gabby lifted her chin and looked around the library. The rest of their classmates were busy with their work; Reggie, Moose, and Midge sat at their own table, laughing quietly while Reggie and Moose played paper football. Kevin Keller sat a table away, taking obvious peeks over the top of his textbook while trying to appear inconspicuous. The rest of the football team slowly chanted louder and louder for their teammates to win. Archie Andrews, Betty Cooper, and Jughead Jones sat at their own table, working quietly all the while Miss. Grundy oversaw them from the circulation desk.

Had Gabby known that a year later all that happiness would’ve been torn apart, friendships changed and tragedy would strike the town of Riverdale, she would’ve allowed herself to stay in the moment as long as she could. Now, she stood on the front lawn of Riverdale High in her leather jacket, watching her classmates swarm inside for a new school year.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

It took a moment for Gabby to realize Cheryl stood in front of her, arms folded over her chest, staring at Gabby with a flat expression. The same expression she held since Jason’s death. Gabby’s heart hurt for her, but, selfishly, hurt more for herself. That she hadn’t been able to keep things the same between them. Cheryl had been the one to pull away, not Gabby.

There was nothing stopping Cheryl was taking a trip to the Southside to see her. Things didn’t have to change between them. Though from the disgust Cheryl showed while looking over Gabby’s Serpent jacket, Gabby knew she was lying to herself and she had to break that habit sooner than later.

Everything changed.

Gabby studied her former best friend. “Just thought I saw someone I knew.”

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Bonnie lifted her eyebrows, waiting for Ethel to glare at her over the top of her math book. Again.

Ethel clicked her tongue. She made a show of folding the corner of the page she was on. Slowly, she closed the book with a snap, and held it close to her chest. “Are we not going to talk about it?” she asked.

“Talk about what?”

Ethel took a step closer to her friend, lowering her voice. “Talk about the fact that you were busted for trespassing at the Sweetwater River?” Bonnie stared at Ethel, lips parting. “I was covering for you, remember? Imagine my surprise when your parents called mine asking if I was ok. You know. For being in jail?”

“I wasn’t in jail,” Bonnie protested. Ethel scoffed. “I was just stuck in the back of Sheriff Keller’s car until my parents could come get me.”

“Bo.”

“And i wasn’t trespassing. I was on my parents’ boat.”

“Bo!” Ethel hit Bonnie on the forehead with her textbook. “They found you in the river in a canoe. After hours. That’s trespassing.” Bonnie’s shoulders slumped. “And worst of all, you lied to me. You had me cover for your lie, and my parents were terrified thinking I had been arrested. Arrested, Bo! Me! Ethel Muggs!”

“I’m sorry,” Bonnie said quietly. “I just needed to check some things out.”

“Things you can’t tell me?” Ethel asked. “Still?” Bonnie just shrugged her shoulders, shaking her head. She turned back around to her locker and started shoving her books into her backpack. “I’ve got to study. Don’t bother me, Bo, I need to ace this test.”

Bonnie gave a half smile. “You always ace them, right?” she asked. Her eyes widened at the look of annoyance and frustration that Ethel shot her over her shoulder. “What? You do!”

“I need to keep my grades up even more right now, ok?” Ethel asked. She slammed her locker door shut. “My parents will see I’m still the same Ethel, and will stop worrying so much.” Clutching her backpack tightly in her arms, she hurried down the halls of Riverdale High.

Bonnie watched her go. She barely acknowledged Kevin when he stepped up beside her.

“You know, there are people who get excited about riding around in a cop car,” he commented, watching Ethel’s retreating form, “but it’s got to be getting old for you.” He finally looked at Bonnie. “Right, Bo?”

Bonnie rolled her eyes. “I could say the same for you.” She started following Ethel. After a few steps she turned around to face Kevin. “Thrill’s still kind of there. Especially when he puts on the lights.”

[ PROMPT LIST ]

#answered ask #ceruleanmusings #oc: cadence nash #oc: averey moore #the flash #the flash ocs #oc: gabriella rush #oc: bonnie evans #riverdale #riverdale ocs #authored by: riley #authored by: rhuben

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aion-rsa · 3 years

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Demon Slayer: Kimetsu no Yaiba – Breaking Down Every Sword Color

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This article contains spoilers for Demon Slayer: Kimetsu no Yaiba season 1.

Demon Slayer: Kimetsu no Yaiba is one of the biggest anime series of the past few years and with a feature film and second season on the way that’s not likely to change anytime soon. The thrilling action anime series depicts the journey of Tanjiro Kamado, a budding Demon Slayer who’s recently become orphaned by monsters and had his sister transformed into one of their own kind.

There are no shortage of anime series where underdog protagonists with some variety of supernatural powers hunt deadly monsters, but the way in which Demon Slayer differentiates itself is through the powerful blades that the characters wield. These swords are often the last thing that demons will ever see, but there’s a lot more to understand about these weapons beyond the fact that they’re pretty darn sharp.

What Are The Swords Made From And What Is Their Purpose?

The blades that Tanjiro and his demon slaying friends wield all look very impressive and that’s because they’re not just ordinary blades that have had something special done to them. In fact, these “Nichirin Blades” are constructed through special circumstances right from the very first stage. Nichirin blades can only be forged from scarlet crimson ore and scarlet crimson iron sand, two rare minerals that can only be found in mountains with incredibly high altitudes that allow them to be consistently bathed in light year-round.

These conditions allow the ore to be infused with sunlight, which is the only significant weakness that demons face. It’s a rite of passage and part of a Demon Slayer’s training to acquire the ore that’s used to construct their weapon. Once forged, these Nichirin blade swords constantly absorb sunlight, which allows them to be essentially the only tool that’s practically able to kill demons. Nichirin blades are therefore the primary weapon of the Demon Slayer Corps and an essential tool.

Additionally, an even stronger version of this weapon, Crimson Red Nichirin blades, can be achieved by raising the sword’s temperature to extreme levels, striking two Nichirin blades together in the right manner, or the application of the right form of intense Blood Demon Art. A Crimson Red Nichirin sword is even more efficient because the heat allows demons to be destroyed on a molecular level, which means that amputations or wounds from this blade won’t heal like the standard kind.

Why Do The Swords Take On Different Colors?

Nichirin blades are also referred to as “Color Changing Swords” and the reason for this is that the blades adopt a distinct color when they’re first drawn by their Demon Slayer owner. Granted, this color transformation isn’t mandatory and the Demon Slayer needs to already be at a certain level of skill to trigger the process in the first place. This makes the act even more special and an easy marker for when a Demon Slayer begins to increase in strength.

In terms of the colorful transformation itself, it’s supposed to be emblematic of the personality, technique, and general energy that lies within each Demon Slayer. For instance, someone with a fiery and aggressive resolve would likely see their sword turn orange or red, whereas a Demon Slayer that’s full of love might receive a pink blade. These unique colors make the swords operate as an extension of the Demon Slayer and their values.

Another aspect of individuality that’s present with each sword is the unique handguard that protects the wielder from its blade. These handguards don’t possess any special powers and are more in the control of the sword’s owner, but they’re still a fun element that translates to the Demon Slayer equivalent of flair. Tanjiro’s handguard is a subtle black ring with a wheel aesthetic, but others like Shinobu and Mitsuri’s flower and clover-shaped handguards are much more creative and reflect their respective Hashira arts.

Are Any Colors More Important Than Others?

The only sword color that’s considered to be problematic, or at the least a mysterious and unlucky omen, is black. The reason that a black Nichirin blade has such an infamous reputation is that previous Demon Slayers with a black sword have all met premature deaths, which also means that not much is known about the blade itself.

Yoriichi Tsugikuni is the previous Demon Slayer that received this bad fate, but as luck would have it, Tanjiro also draws a black sword, which immediately puts a mark on his head and urgency to his mission. It’s unclear exactly why Tanjiro’s essence leads to a black blade, but it’s likely that it’s connected to his Sun breathing style, Dance of the Fire God, which is an equally rare technique.

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It’s also worth mentioning that Zenitsu Agatsuma’s yellow blade is colored through a lightning motif that runs down the sword, rather than the solid color design that’s present with every other blade. This simply highlights that there are no absolutes here and that new discoveries behind Demon Slayer swords continue to happen.

Have All Of The Sword Colors Been Discovered?

As it stands, over a dozen different Nichirin blade colors have appeared or been referenced throughout Demon Slayer’s manga, but that’s far from all of the possible outcomes. In theory, there should be a largely infinite amount of varieties here as long as Demon Slayers present slightly unique attitudes. The series has already shown minor deviations in color such as gray versus indigo-gray, pink and light pink, or amber and yellow. However, considering that most of the major blade colors have been discovered, it will likely be some time or a significant situation when a new color does present itself.

What Does Each Sword Color Mean And Who Possesses Which?

There are ten major sword colors that have been explored in Demon Slayer, all of which have a pretty clear correlation to each pillar of the Demon Slayer Corps:

As initially stated, Tanjiro faces the double-edged sword territory that accompanies a black Nichirin blade. A black sword is considered to be a death sentence, but there’s also so little known about it that it’s likely that Tanjiro will redefine what a black blade means. There’s a lot of speculation over how a black sword connects with Tanjiro’s Sun breathing style since black is the color that has the greater capacity to absorb sunlight. There’s definitely more about the black sword to come in Demon Slayer’s future.

Zenitsu Agatsuma, a vital member in Tanjiro’s clique, possesses the yellow sword, which connects with his Breath of the Thunder style and the explosive, unpredictable nature that defines him. Zenitsu has already improved a lot since the start of the series and it’s possible that his blade and technique will only continue to mature and change.

The other major demon slaying member of Tanjiro’s party is Inosuke Hashibara, who’s definitely the most reckless and roughest around the edges of the group. Inosuke operates with two blades that are a cool indigo-grey in color, in response to Inosuke’s beastly nature. Breath of the Beast is certainly appropriate for Inosuke and it meshes with the sleek nature of indigo-grey.

Kyojuro Rengoku is an important member of the Demon Slayer Corps that plays a vital role in the upcoming Demon Slayer Corps movie, Mugen Train. Ryojuro represents the Fire breathing style and he has a gung-ho enthusiastic energy that makes a red sword make a lot of sense for the Flame Pillar. It’s exceptionally powerful and he has the ability to conjure a rain of fire through the immense energy that he channels into the weapon.

Kanae Kocho and her sister, Kanao, become important characters during Demon Slayer’s first season when they allow Tanjiro and company to recuperate. Collectively, the two Flower Pillar sisters have light pink blades and their Breath of Flowers technique gives them a serious advantage that compliments their excellent reflexes. It’s very fitting for these two.

Light pink correlates to the Flower Pillar Demon Slayer, but a richer shade of the color is reserved for the Corps’ Pillar of Love. Mitsuri Kanroji’s pink sword works together with her Love breathing style, which is full of emotion and empathy. It’s an impressive way to weaponize Mitsuri’s delicate and tender feelings through her weapon.

Blue is typically associated with water and Demon Slayer doesn’t mess with this formula when it comes to its Demon Slayer weaponry. The Water Pillar, Giyu Tomioka, controls a blue sword that’s just as powerful and uncontrollable as water itself. Every occasion when he brandishes the blade yields huge results.

A green Nichirin blade may seem like it’d be associated with jealousy or envy, but in Demon Slayer it’s representative of the wind, perhaps through a connection to nature. The wind can be volatile and destructive, which is also true about Sanemi Shinazugawa, the Wind Pillar, and one of the Demon Slayer Corps’ more unrepentant Hashira.

Gyomei Himejima is a Demon Slayer Corps member that hasn’t gotten much of a chance to shine outside of the manga at this point, but he wields one of the most creative Demon Slayer tools. Gyomei’s blade is grey, which makes sense since he’s the Corps’ Stone Pillar representative and stoic and relaxed in nature. However, rather than a conventional sword, Gyomei’s weapon is a hand ax with a dangerous spiked attachment. It certainly adds some variety to the swords and hopefully it will get more attention in the future.

The white blade belongs to Muichiro Tokito, the Demon Slayer Corps’ Mist Pillar who exercises the Breath of Mist breathing style. Muichiro operates like a blank slate who is completely empty of thoughts, which the white mist aesthetic compliments.

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The first season of Demon Slayer: Kimetsu no Yaiba is available to stream on Netflix, HBO Max, Funimation, Crunchyroll, and Hulu.

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ramblinganthropologist · 7 years

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Inkjournal Day 10 - A book you could live in

Summary: When it rains, you can always find Aeronwen and Ian Trevelyan in the library, reading the day away. This doesn’t change, even if time and location does. Some things just live on no matter what. Word count: 2033

---

And before her eyes, the little seed turned into a might bean sprout. It went up and up, past the houses and even the church steeple, pushing past the clouds and towards the heavens. Even as the little girl glanced up, she could see no end to it.

“Where does it all lead to?” She wondered, before reaching out to take the first leaf. If she wanted to find out, she would need to do it herself. And so, the little girl began to climb the mighty bean stalk, leaving the ground behind for greater adventure.

Outside the window, a typical Ostwick fall storm was raging. Buckets of rain splashed against the glass, turning the few bits of dirt on the rocky ground below into mud. If anyone tried to walk in it, they would be stuck fast.

Aeronwen was away from it all, sitting in an alcove in the library with her book. Really, she should have been doing her homework for tomorrow's theory class. That book, much larger than the one she was holding, rested next to her on the seat just below the edge of her robes. It was waiting for her, ready to swallow her whole.

She hated theory class. The teacher was old and mean.

“Just one more chapter and then I'll read it.” One more chapter was of course going to become another, and even she knew it. But it was sort of a promise that made something inside her feel warm as she turned the page to follow the rest of the well-worn adventure.

At the top of the bean stalk, far above the clouds, the little girl found herself standing in a field. There, colorful flowers in jewel shades blossomed in the sun. Their color bathed the cloud ground below in a hundred hues, looking like stained glass on a Chantry building.

In front of her, on a simple path lined with this flowers, was a large building made of shimmering blue stone. All around it were bright red flowers, producing a cheery sight to anyone that viewed it. Despite that, a shiver ran down the girl's spine.

There was something unnatural about this.

“Did you get to the part where the wolf-headed man tries to eat her yet?”

Shadow fell over the page, blocking the rest of the tale. Scowling, Aeronwen looked up, fully prepared to tell off whoever had interrupted her reading. However, her face softened as she realized it wasn't an older student or a teacher who had bothered her.

Instead, she was met by the freckled face and bright red hair of her cousin, Ian. He was grinning at her as he moved her theory book onto the floor, hopping up to the seat next to her. Even though they were close in age, she had quite a few inches in height on him – where her feet touched the ground, his still dangled.

“Glad to see I'm the only one putting off school work. The way it is around here, you'd think it was a capital offense.” He chuckled and brushed back an errant curl of red that was always falling across his forehead. “Besides, who can read in such lovely weather? I'm surprised they haven't taken us out to exercise.”

Thunder boomed outside for emphasis as the rain kept coming down. However, the two young mages were safe in their tower from the elements. Perhaps that was the only thing they were safe from; after all, from the other side of the room they watched as a Templar skulked through the stacks.

They always thought they were so sneaky, but anyone could hear their armor clanking from two rooms away.

“How'd you know I'd be in here, Ian?” Aeronwen at least made an attempt to look like she was doing her homework by retrieving her theory book. She cracked it open, inserting her story inside like one would a notebook. At any angle, it would've looked like she was just taking down details for class. It was a trick an older student had taught her a year ago, and it had served her well.

The boy next to her grinned and rested both his palms behind his head, elbows up so his robes slid down his wrists. “You always go to the library when it's raining, Aery. You like to read the story you're reading now cause it reminds you of home.”

Indeed, it did. The Trevelyan estate was miles away from the Ostwick Circle were both of them had resided since they were young. Most days, she couldn't remember much about her former home at all. Like the shimmering blue castle in her story, it was more a dream than reality. At least, it was for mages like them.

At least she could dream, she supposed.

“You should probably pick up a book before Master Wendell comes back. He'll grab your ear again if he catches you goofing off.” The aforementioned teacher wasn't far either if the top of his bald head was anything to go by. Next to her, Ian blanched and scrambled for something that looked like a class book.

It was enough to make her suppress a chuckle as she hid behind her book, watching him with a smile. Even on the worst days, he always managed to make her laugh. Maybe that was the good part about having relatives in the same Circle.

Well, if there was any.

---

“Great, another lousy ass day out there. I'm going stir crazy!”

Trevy picked up her head as she sorted through yet another pile of library books. A loud voice had drawn her attention – there were guard recruits there, complaining about their lack of anything to do for the last couple of days.

If only she could've had that luxury.

It was to be expected, of course. Ferelden was lousy in early spring as the winter storms changed to spring showers. Right now, they were caught in a mix of the two as rain pounded against Skyhold's defenses and a freezing cold win blew through any cracks. It might not have been snowing, but it sure felt like it.

“Days like this, it's good to be in the library.” She returned to her task, sorting the books into piles that corresponded to the shelves. Once that was done, she picked up a stack and started her next task for the day. With her in command, chaos was slowly turning into order as books were categorized and organized into some semblance of a system.

Now if only they could keep it that way. There were certain mages she was this close to throwing something at.

In fact, one was close to drawing her ire. Trevy sucked in her cheek as she spotted a book on primal magic smack dab in the middle of the entropy section, pushed in the wrong way. Before she returned it to her pile, she scribbled down the title. Whoever had returned it would be in her records, and they would be getting a stern talking to from her.

“Maker help me if it's Michael again. I told that fool the last time to just put them on the cart.” She shook her head, loose strands of white hair falling into her forehead. A quick swipe of her fingers put them back behind the thick cloth she wrapped around it, but the close proximity caused a brief twinge of pain. It wasn't anything to write home about of course, but it still hurt.

The good thing was, it was hurting less by the day.

“Right then, I'll just take this back to the primal section after I finish up here.”

The whole shelf was soon in order, leaving Trevy to hum to herself as she headed to the next bit of the library. Here it was quiet, probably because it was so close to the largest of the windows. Too close, and an unsuspecting reader could find themselves facing the full brunt of the icy cold wind that blew over the mountains their stronghold was nestled into. Thanks to her thick robes, she only felt a bit of it, but it was unpleasant all the same.

Outside, the storm was raging. Sleet and icy rain pounded against the windows and dripped down into the glacial valleys below. The snow hadn't started to melt, and now it would get a deadly coating of ice come nighttime. Tomorrow, anyone who had a good hand at fire magic would be hard at work to make sure nobody met their death on the battlements.

Luckily, she was crap at that too.

“I guess that's my one former Tranquil privilege.”

“What, not the stylish headgear? You're killing me, Aery.”

A warm voice caused her to turn. Another mage was standing there, chuckling as he crossed his arms over his chest. Unlike her, his robes were pitch pack and bore no Circle mark. In fact, everything he wore was black, right down to his boots.

“I'm surprised the quartermaster was able to get you back up to code.” A smile slid across her face as she wrapped her arms around the man's neck. “Good to see you back on your feet, Ian.”

He was a new recruit to the Inquisition after all – they had found him and some other mages in the dungeon of a castle. It had taken weeks to get him back to walking around health, and even now he looked a little pale.

Well, she thought so anyway. It was a little hard to tell under the skull makeup.

“The healers here did a good job of putting me back together. I'll have to thank them later.” He motioned her towards a small reading alcove. “Think you can ditch the books for a few seconds to join me?”

For a brief moment, Trevy's gaze went back to her stacks. They weren't growing, but they certainly weren't going anywhere. However, Ian's eyes were practically shining as he beckoned her on, so how could she say no?

“Just for a few seconds. I have work to do.”

Soon, they were both seated in the alcove, far from prying eyes. It was warmer there too, thanks to being so far away from the windows. Even the cold stone of the tower didn't feel as bad as she rested her back against it.

Ian, still beaming, reached towards a shelf to pull out a book. Memory reminded her it was in the folk tales section, and that particular row was centered in the Free Marches. Why he had called her there she had no idea until he slid the book over.

Jane and the Bean Stalk was written across the cover in curly font, and the picture was of a young girl climbing up a massive green shoot into the clouds. She had never seen a cover with illustration on it – the one they'd had at the Circle was plain, like all the books.

“Figured since it's such a crappy day you might want something good to read.” He nudged her arm. “Why don't you crack it open and get it started for me?”

There was a lump in Trevy's throat, but it was a good one. She blinked away tears she hadn't even realized were there as she opened the cover to the first page. Here too, it was illustrated in a delicate hand. Wherever they had gotten this book, it was special.

“Alright, but just a few pages.” She cleared her throat, forcing past the lump. “'Once upon a time, in a land far away, there lived a little girl in a little cottage...'”

And just like that, it was as if time had melted back to their childhood. Of course, she knew well that both of them were well past their apprentice days, but it was nice to return for just the afternoon. In the end, Ian was right.

She had wanted something good to read after all. Even better, he was there to read it with her. Maybe the Inquisition was on to something after all.

#Aeronwen Trevelyan #Ian Trevelyan #ramblinganthropologist's writing #I haven't written something with just the two of them in ages

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