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foggyparadisecandy · 10 months ago

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On Healing Childhood Trauma and Insecure Attachment

Let's do this. I have been working on self-improvement and that starts with understanding my own nature and behavior.

Therapy has been useful - to have someone to bounce stuff around - including my many many frustrations with my "non-productive behaviors" as I'm doing my best to identify and shift them.

But the biggest help has been learning about Attachment Theory, which Style I tend to display, and how to heal the core wounds from that style.

[For those of you familiar, I'm Anxious Preoccupied so that's the style I know best. Just a heads up if you are one of the other styles.]

Attachment Style Overview

I'm not going to go into all the details and history here - google it for more background info - it's based on psychological research into how people respond to different stimuli as infants and later on in life.

Instead of going into the background, I'm jumping into how it shows up in our lives and ways to claw your way to a better place.

At a high-level, there are people with Secure and Insecure Attachment Styles. You can think of Attachment Style as the way you interact with other people in relationships.

Your Attachment Style is based, mostly although not completely, on how you were treated as an infant. It's important to note that Attachment Styles can morph and change over time, and you might manifest different styles based on the particular relationship you are in.

So as you read on, please keep this in mind. You aren't hopeless and lost if you are not the Holy Grail of "Secure" style. You are ok. You are going to be ok. It's going to take a lot of work but you can shift and heal. I promise.

The Two "Big Buckets" of Attachment Styles - Secure and Insecure

Our Attachment Styles are formed when we are kids and we need our parents to literally survive. If you have sketchy parents, well, depending on how they act, you might learn - down to your very core being - how to act to get their attention SO YOU CAN SURVIVE.

Remember this part please.

When you are young, you don't have a logical brain. You are working on impulse for pure survival. If you need to scream and act out and do different things to get fed, that leaves a mark. If you find that your crying is unwelcome and gets punished with absence or pain, that leaves a mark.

You learned this in your soul. You aren't a bad person for any of this. You were surviving. Literally your life was on the line. Think of that and please show yourself compassion.

From a definition standpoint, these lessons lead to what is called an Insecure Attachment Style - and there are three flavors of Insecure Styles based on exactly how your parents acted and treated you. We'll get into that in a bit.

Now if your parents are working their A game, and responding to your needs in a healthy way, and your feeling like a happy baby and happy kid, you are going to develop a Secure Style. You're going to be rocking life because you know that you are safe and secure. You know your needs will be met or, hey, you can meet your own needs over time. Life is going to be ok.

The Balance in Our Souls

Beneath the surface, there are two big drivers in our lives:

The Desire for Connection. Most people hunger for companionship and connections. It's wired into us. Human beings are social animals and you are no different. Even Avoidants *want* connections.

The Desire for Independence and Self-reliance. Most people also want to feel good about themselves and their self-mastery. It's a core part of a healthy person to be ok with being on their own. Even Anxious Preoccupieds *want* to feel ok by themselves.

The challenge becomes when you want one of those more than the other. Some of us (Anxious attachments - about 20% of the populatoin) fiend for connection and short-change independence. Some of us (Avoidant attachments - about 20% of the population) fiend for independence and short-change connections.

The Secure among us (about 50 - 60% of the population) are perfectly fine being in balance. Happy to be in a relationship and happy to be on their own. LOL #jealous

There is a fourth category called Fearful Avoidant (also known as Disorganized - a very small <5% of the populatoin) that exhibits the less productive behaviors of both Anxious and Avoidant. My heart goes out to you if this is you.

Which One are You?

As you read up on them, be careful before self-diagnosing.

Lots of Anxious people will diagnose themselves as Fearful Avoidants because they will think "oh yeah ... I get really into relationships and then I blow them up and I can avoid them." But that's not exactly how Fearful Avoidants manifest.

And ... Anxious people will often blow up relationships as a tactic (called Protest Behaviors) to actually draw their partners in closer. "You don't love me." "I'm breaking up with you." "It seems like we aren't a good fit." Those things are done to manipulate a response of love and attention from our partners when we need to feel the blast of Connection.

Lots of Avoidant people will diagnose themselves as Secure because they think "oh yeah ... I totally am ok with relationships and I love to be on my own too. I only break away from awful relationships" But when push comes to shove, Avoidants often find reasons a relationship is "awful" so they can justify severing ties.

And lots of Secure people will diagnose themselves as Avoidant because they think "oh wow ... I really do sever relationships a lot. I guess I'm resistant to love." Nah. The truth is Secure people generally don't want to be with Insecure people. Secure people see an Anxious person getting all clingy or an Avoidant person getting all distant, and they say ... "You know what? You do you. I'm ok being by myself here because I don't want all that dysfunction in my life. I'll wait for the next one or just chill on my own for as long as it takes." That's healthy as shit. That’s not avoidant at all.

[As a side note, I love myself some Insecure folks. Lol]

Remember to Love Yourself

Remember that these things were conditioned into you. As an infant, or possible due to later childhood trauma.

For me, I have no idea how my parents treated me as a baby. But I do know later in life - when I was about 10 - shit got real fucked up in my house. So maybe my style was set early on. Maybe it was from later trauma heaped on me by my folks.

Either way, you have to keep it in mind because it's the core of healing yourself: It's not your fault. But it is your responsbility to heal if you choose to (Pro-tip: you should choose to).

Show yourself compassion. Love yourself. Be kind to your learned behaviors.

For what it's worth, Avoidants get a lot of hate. Anxious people are the "fun" ones that star in rom coms and are clingy and needy and oh gosh, their plucky attitude wins over their love interst by the end.

The Avoidants are the villains because they spurn the hero - who just wants love! - and feel a need to be on their own to feel good about life and avoid feeling trapped.

It's nonsense. If you are Avoidant, you are responding naturally and as you were programmed. Be kind to yourself, despite what others or the media would have you believe.

Let Go of Fault and Self-Blame and Shame

It's not your fault, friend. Let go of the blame and the shame behind your behaviors and actions.

I have said this so many times because it's so important.

It's not your fault how your parents treated you. Don't judge yourself. Don't blame yourself. Let go of the shame. Let go of the guilt.

Use that energy to start treating yourself with love and compassion and start to heal (more on this in a future post).

Summary (For Now)

Ok ... whew ... this one is long enough. I will do my best to add another part later about healing.

But the key is here:

It's not your fault, but it is your responsibility if you want to heal.

So next time you blow up a relationship and want to get angry and frustrated and go into a doom spiral, pause and remember this. "It's ok. It's what I learned. I'm not a bad person. I do my best and I'm going to work on this."

Don't let those conditioned responses - that are HARD AS HELL TO EVEN SEE!!!! - make you feel "bad" or "wrong" or "fucked up."

Look: I've been doing this for decades so I'm not judging anyone. I'm suggesting that you ease off that line of berating yourself and treat yourself with kindness and love and care and concern.

I've started doing that and it has been instrumental in putting other things into place to evolve my behavior and change my programming. It's hard as hell. It hurts. I question my identity regularly these days. I still want things that I know are part of my Anxious style and are "non-productive" (ie; fucked up lol).

But a lot of things have already shifted for me. I already see progress.

You can do this.

#self love #self care #on topic

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poge-life · 3 years ago

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⚠️ obx² spoilers!

hii, idk if you're accepting requests for long smut stories at the moment, but I love 365 days so much that I instantly thought of you when I had this idea. Would you write an imagine based on that scene where Rafe is at Ward's closet (you can change the context if you want), and then the reader walks in when he's looking in the mirror and she leans against the door/wall saying something like "Looking good Mr. Cameron", but in a teasing way so it leads to smut ofc, you can choose how it happens, but with dom!rafe, basically the same energy as 365 would be fantastic! I love your writing 💞

I am so flattered that you thought of me to write this and i knew as soon as I read it, I had to write it. This does not take place during the 365 timeline, but the OBX timeline. Please do not read if you haven't watched Outer Banks or finished this season because this does contain spoilers for OBX2 beneath the cut.

Also, it took me fucking forever to figure out to get a clip of Rafe putting on Ward's jacket, so enjoy!

Summary: After needing space after everything that happened this summer, you decided to go and see Rafe, just not expecting him to look good in Ward's jacket

Warnings: OBX2 spoiler, smut, daddy kink, name calling, spitting, spanking, hair pulling, and angst towards the end if you squint.

This past summer was...eventful. To say the least. Rafe had asked you to spend the summer with him instead of going to Florida with your family like you do every summer. And of course, you said yes. Spend the summer in Miami with your family or stay in the OBX with your hot-ass boyfriend? That was a no brainer.

You just didn’t expect this summer to turn out the way it did. Topper and Sarah had broken up because she ended up with John B, the Pogue who worked for her dad, Rafe’s drug habit had gotten bad, his dad had decided he needed to get a job, Rafe ended up beating Pope Heyward up with a golf club, and then proceeded to try and beat the shit out of JJ at Midsummers, annnnd Sheriff Peterkin was dead.

Oh, and Sarah and John B were alive after getting lost in the storm that they were chased into by the police.

And the cherry on top was that Rafe was the one who shot Peterkin and his dad killed himself to keep Rafe from going to jail.

You had distanced yourself from Rafe for a while, needing a moment to process everything that had happened. You didn’t know what to do. Rafe had come to you after everything that had happened and told you he knew something was wrong with him. That he had all of these thoughts in his head that made him want to hurt people but he didn’t want to do it.

He had gone to Ward about it but as usual, he had brushed it off and told him there wasn’t anything wrong with him and that he was going to be okay.

You could tell something wasn’t okay with your boyfriend. Ever since Peterkin’s funeral, he had been acting differently. His movements were sluggish and he seemed to zone out a lot and he acted more impulsively. Well, more than usual.

He came straight to you once he found out that his dad had killed himself. And that was the first time you had ever seen him cry. He was scared of what he was going to do and didn’t know how to stop it. He wanted help but no one was willing to get him the help he needed.

So, you vowed to help him in any way you could.

Sarah had texted you and told you Rafe was having a hard time processing everything that had happened with Ward. She had told you that their father had left behind a video, explaining everything; how he killed Big John Routledge, stole gold from John B, and killed Peterkin.

So, yeah. You could understand how Rafe would have a hard time processing what was going on.

You parked your car, grabbing your phone as you made your way up the driveway of Tannyhill. Letting yourself in through the side doors that you knew they never locked, you made your way up the stairs. Taking the way you knew like the back of your hand at this point to Rafe’s room, you peeked in to see his room empty. Pushing the door open, you made your way to the bathroom, not seeing him there either.

Realizing where he was, you made your way to Ward’s room. The light from the lamp gave the room a soft golden glow. You saw shadow movement from the closet and slowly made your way over to it.

Rafe was standing in front of the mirror with one of Ward’s jackets on and you hated to admit it, but he looked good. Really good.

Your eyes raked up his figure from his reflection and you leaned against the door as you called out, “Looking good, Mr. Cameron”

Rafe turned to look at you in shock before relaxing when he realized who it was, “Hey.”

“Hi.” You softly said, making your way over to him. You stopped with just a few inches in between the two of you. You brushed your hands over the front of his jacket as you looked up at him through your lashes, “You do look good, Rafe.”

He turned back to look at his reflection in the mirror, “Really?”

“Mhm,” You hummed, wrapping your arms around his waist from the side, “looking all professional. Really gets me going.”

Rafe couldn’t help the laugh that came out as he looked at you through the mirror, “Yeah? What about it, baby?”

You shrugged, running your fingers over the top of the band of his jeans, “Just thinking about you sitting behind a desk and in comes your beautiful girlfriend, hoping to distract you from all your hard work...only for you to get frustrated because you have an important client to work with so you have no choice but to bend me over your desk and take those frustrations out on me”

You let out a teasing sigh as you pulled away from him, “But then again, you’re just wearing a jacket.”

You barely made it a foot away from him before he tugged you back to him, his hand instantly finding its way around your neck, causing you to look up at him. He had a smirk on his face as his eyes roamed over yours, “good to know that even in your little fantasies, you know who’s in charge.”

“Who said it has to be a fantasy?” You whispered

And that’s all it took for him to snap.

Rafe leaned down and smashed his lips onto yours, tightening his grip around your throat, causing you to moan as you wrapped your arms around his neck, one of your hands going straight to his hair, giving it a tug.

You were so glad he had decided to ditch the hair gel and just leave it natural. You loved it that way.

Rafe pulled away, causing you to whine, “I want you in my room, naked on all fours. Do you understand?”

You had never been so glad to have his hand around your neck because you knew you couldn’t hold yourself up after what he just said to you.

You nodded but you should have known that wasn’t gonna fly with Rafe.

He shook his head, kissing his teeth as he titled your head up even more to look at him as he delivered a harsh slap to your ass, “C’mon baby. You know better than that. Use your words.”

“Yes sir.” You whispered, biting down on your bottom lip.

He released the grip he had on your neck as he nodded his head towards the closet door, “Go on. And I really wouldn’t test my patience right now if I were you.”

You all but scrambled out of the closet, making a beeline straight towards your boyfriends room. Kicking your shoes off by the door, you made quick work of the button on your shorts, pulling them down along with your thong, basically ripping your shirt in half to get it off, tugging off your bralette as you made your way to the bed.

You did as you were; on all fours with your ass in the air. You felt a little embarrassed at the situation, considering this was going to be the first time you guys fucked in the house with Sarah, Rose, and Wheezie home. But you didn’t care. You just needed Rafe. And you needed him bad.

You heard the door shut and the sound of the lock clicking in place.

Rafe stopped in his tracks at the sight of you on his bed. On all fours, just like he asked. He knew you were going to listen. You always did when it came to him.

He slowly made his way over to you, lightly trailing his fingers up the back of your leg, watching in satisfaction as goosebumps appeared. He grabbed your ass with both hands, kneading the flesh in both hands.He spread your cheeks apart and had to bite back a moan at the sight of your glistening pussy.

He knew you had gotten worked up earlier, but jesus, he didn’t know you were this worked up over him.

“You know why you’re being punished, don’t you, sweetheart?” He softly asked, ghosting his fingers over the place you wanted him the most

You had to fight the urge to moan at Rafe’s words, looking back at him over your shoulder, “No, sir?”

Rafe raised his eyebrow at you, “You have no idea why I’m punishing you? I suggest you think real hard.”

“I interrupted your work.” You mumbled, letting out a yelp from the hard smack he delivered to your ass, “You know I don’t like it when you mumble.”

“I interrupted your work.” You spoke louder, looking back at him once again, him nodding in agreement, “You did. And you know how I feel about that. You could have lost me an important business partner. But lucky for you, all I had to explain to him was that my girlfriend was a needy little slut who’s desperate for me to put her in her place.”

You couldn’t help the moan that slipped past your lips at his words. You loved his dirty mouth and he knew it too. Which is why he always took advantage of that fact.

Rafe let out a dark chuckle at hearing you moan, “Yeah? You like hearing that I have to tell people that I have to put you in your place because you're desperate for my cock? You like people knowing that you’re my little cock whore?”

You let out a whimper at his words, nodding your head, “Yes, I like people knowing I’m your little whore.”

“Good girl.” He smirked, slowly inserting a finger into your pussy, “Yeah, you’re my good girl.”

You pushed yourself back onto his hand, making his finger go deeper. Rafe quickly pulled his hand back, kissing his teeth, “You always seem to forget I’m in charge, baby. I thought you were my good girl?”

You quickly nodded your head, “I am. I am your good girl.”

Rafe shook his head at you, shrugging off the jacket, “See, I don’t think you are. Because good girls take what I give them. But you decided to be greedy and wanted more.”

“I’m sorry.” You said.

“C’mere.”

You moved from your position, turning to kneel in front of him on the bed. Your eyes raked over his appearance, lingering on his arms, because good lord, they look really good in that shirt (I am not kidding. I watched him put on the jacket an embarrassing amount of times just to watch his arms flex)

Rafe stepped directly in front of you, causing you to lean your head back a little bit to look up at him, noticing his eyes had gotten a shade darker. He dragged his hand up the front of your body and you shivered from the feeling, Rafe smirking at the reaction.

He rubbed his thumb on your bottom lip, pupils blown as he watched you take his thumb into his mouth, lips wrapping around it as you sucked on it, going down to the knuckle.

“Fuck me.” He let out, causing you to release his finger with a pop, nipping at the top of it, “Then fucking do it, Cameron.”

Rafe reached for the back of his shirt, pulling it over his head as you worked on unbuttoning his pants, tugging them down and tossed his shirt to the side, kicking off his jeans as you rubbed your hand over his cock.

You hooked your fingers on the top of his calvins (you can’t tell me that both Drew and rafe aren’t the type of guys to wear Calvin Klein), slowly tugging them down, not breaking eye contact. Rafe kicked them off the rest of the way as he tangled his fingers in your hair, yanking your head back.

“Open.”

You smirked as you opened your mouth, sticking your tongue out as Rafe leaned down to spit in your mouth. You closed your mouth, swallowing before showing him.

“Good girl,” he smirked, “back on all fours, baby. You know how I want it.”

You nodded as you moved your body back into the position you were in only minutes ago. Except this time, you were facing the mirror that was attached to his dresser. You watched with your heart racing as he kneeled behind you on the bed, stroking his cock, never taking his eyes off your pussy.

You leaned down so your chest was on the bed, back arched, with your ass in the air, just how he liked it. Rafe ran the tip of his dick up and down your pussy, collecting your arousal, making it easier for him to slide in, not like that has ever been a problem before.

He didn’t even give you a heads up as he slammed into you, causing you to let out a loud moan as he quickly set the pace. Going slow but bottoming out at a hard pace. Just the way you liked it.

“Fuck, baby,” He moaned, grabbing onto your hips, throwing his head back, “you always feel so good.”

You threw your hips back against him, causing him to stop, holding you tight against him, a vice like grip on your hips, “what did I just fucking say? Good girls take what I give. But you’re not one. You’re a needy little whore.”

He leaned over your back, wrapping his hand around your throat, pulling you up so you were flushed against his chest.

“Look at you, baby,” he whispered, both of you making eye contact in the mirror, “you go from this sweet girl in public to my little slut as soon as I touch you.”

“Please.” You begged, wiggling your hips against his, causing him to let go of your waist only to bring his hand back down on your ass. Hard.

“Please what, baby?” He teased, smirking at the way you leaned back into him.

“Please fuck me.” You begged, wrapping your arm around his neck, tangling your fingers in his hair.

“Please fuck me, what?” He teased, tugging on your ear, waiting for you to say the word so he could give you what you both wanted.

“Please fuck me...daddy.” You whimpered, leaning your head back on his shoulder, turning to leave kisses on his jaw.

Rafe turned his head to the side to pull you into a bruising kiss. Teeth clashing, spit dripping down your chin. It was hot. Rafe pulled away, pushing you back down on all fours as he pulled out so just the tip was in before pushing back in hard.

You let little moans and whimpers at the brutual pace he was going. And you knew it was all the frustrations he’s built up these past few weeks.

Rafe leaned forward and tangled one of his hands in your hair, tugging your head up to make you watch in the mirror. He had a light coat of sweat on his skin and his hair was messed up from you running your fingers through it.

“Such a good girl.” He moaned, pulling you up so you were flush against his chest again, “C’mon baby. You want this dick so bad, fuck yourself on it.”

You moved your hips back at a fast pace, locking eyes with him in the mirror as he leaned down to press wet, hot kisses on your neck. You pulled away from him and turned to face him, tangling your fingers in his hair as you pulled his head down to bring him into a kiss.

Rafe leaned forward, causing you to lean backwards, moving so you were laying flat on the bed with him hovering over you. Rafe wrapped one of your legs around his waist as he moved to push back into you. You both let out a loud moan at the feeling of being connected again.

You pulled Rafe down for a kiss as you wrapped your arms around him, digging your nails into his back. He pulled away, placing both of his hands next to your head, not breaking eye contact with you.

You see just how much he was hurting just by looking at him. And it made your heartbreak. He was never one to ever show his emotions but after everything that happened this summer, you knew he was slipping through the cracks. And it was only a matter of time before he broke.

You tightened your grip around his waist as he sent a hard thrust that spot that had you letting out a loud moan. Rafe smirked at you and did what every guy was supposed to do when this happened, just keep doing it. He kept the same angle as he leaned down and buried his face in your neck, sucking on your sweet spot.

“Fuck Rafe.” You dragged your nails down his back, causing him to let out a groan at the feeling.

“C’mon, baby,” he leaned up, brushing his lips over yours, “you know what you need to do if you wanna cum.”

“Please make me cum,” You whimpered, tugging on his hair, “I wanna cum.”

“Yeah?” He spoke, “You wanna cum?”

You nodded, leaning up to press your lips to his.

He pulled away, pulling out of you, causing you to let out a whine at losing the high.

“Ride me.” He said, laying down next to you. You quickly climbed ontop of him, his hands sliding up your thighs and to your hips. You reached inbetween the two of you and rubbed the tip of dick along your pussy before sinking down on him.

“Oh, fuck.” You moaned, throwin your head back. You placed your hands on his chest before slowly moving up before sinking back down again. Rafe tightened his grip on your waist, his eyes never leaving your chest.

Even after all this time, your tits were still his favorite thing. And he kept his word and somehow managed to find bars with an ‘R’ on them. And of course, there were many pictures taken that night as he could barely keep his hands off of you.

Rafe leaned forward and attached his mouth to your tits, his hand going up to grasp the other one, kneeding it between his fingers. You tangled your fingers in his hair, pressing yourself closer to him, moving your hips back and forth.

Rafe pulled away from your tits, looking up at you as you looked down at him, just keeping eye contact for a while. He leaned back on the bed, causing you to lean forward with him, placing your chest directly on his as he placed his feet on the bed, driving his dick into you at a fast pace.

He let out a moan at hearing your whimpers in his ear, nails digging into his skin. He turned his head to the side and pressed his lips to yours, not once faltering in his pace. He felt you tighten around him and pulled away from the kiss, “Shit, baby. You’re squeezing the fuck out of me.”

“I wanna cum,” you begged, leaning forward to place kisses on his neck, “Please make me cum, daddy.”

How he could he not give you what you wanted when you begged for him like that?

He flipped you both over, pulling your legs over his shoulders as he fucked into you at a brutual pace. All that could be heard was the sound of skin slapping on skin and the occasional moans from the both of you.

Rafe placed a kiss on your ankle as he watched you play wih your tits, squeezing them in your hands. He felt you tighten around him once again and licked his thumb before bringing it down to rub your clit.

Your back arched off the bed as his thumb moved in circles, bringing you closer to the edge. You grabbed onto the sheets, closing your fist around them as you felt the knot begin to grow in your core.

“You wanted to cum,” Rafe growled, thrusting hard after each word, “So cum.”

And that’s all it took for the knot to snap. You let out a loud moan as your legs shook around his shoulder, gripping the sheets tighter in your fists as Rafe never stopped the brututal pace he was going at, chasing after his own release.

His hips faltered as he began to slow down as he felt his cock twitch, shooting out his cum as he began to catch his breath.

Rafe pulled out, causing you to let out a quiet moan at the feeling as he laid next to you. You turned to look over at him, watching as his chest moved at an irregular pace. You shot up as you looked closely at his face, noticing the tears that built up, looking for a chance to escape.

“Rafe…” You spoke in a quiet voice as he sniffled, looking over at you. His lip quivered as his tears started to fall. You scooted closer to him, pulling him into your embrace, wrapping your arms around him as he buried his face in your chest, tightening his grip around your waist, letting out sobs.

You looked up at the ceiling as tears of your own began to show up, placing a kiss on his head as you rubbed his back, “It’ll be okay. Everything will be okay.”

But both of you knew that it wasn’t going to be okay.

#drew starkey #drew starkey x reader #drew starkey smut #drew starkey imagine #drew starkey imagines #rafe cameron fic #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron imagines #rafe cameron imagine #obx rafe #rafe imagine #rafe fic #rafe obx #rafe #outer banks x reader #outerbanks rafe #outer banks smut #obx imagines #obx smut

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ephemerlskies · 4 years ago

Text

constant craving | jjk

⇢ pairing: jungkook x reader

⇢ genre: drabble series, angst, unrequited love, idiot!jungkook, idiot!oc, basically everyone's an idiot

⇢ word count: 1.7k

⇢ warnings: unreciprocated pining, explicit language, themes of hopeless romanticism (!!), (slightly) unedited

⇢ summary: your best friend decided to confide in his best friend on how to win his girlfriend back after a fight. you tell him exactly what to say to her, however he is unaware that what you were saying was a sincere delivery of your once undeclared love.

♪ playlist: constant craving - k.d. lang, bad religion - frank ocean, misunderstood - lucky daye, neu roses - daniel caesar ♪

╰ series index: 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 (final)

a/n: hello my little loves!! this was definitely ;) not ;) an impulse write and release ;) ;) sorry for being so inactive lately. i've been focusing on myself (i know how cliche that sounds but it's true). anyway, enjoy this incredibly angsts fic i wrote at 2 am for absolutely no reason at all other than i'm an emotional sadist and a masochist. love u!!!! <3

part one: control

He was coming over for the third time this week. Third time. Three times is two more times than he'd gone over his girlfriend's house, but you did everything in your power to convince your inconvincible heart that it meant nothing. Friends see each other more than their girlfriends, right?

It was making a racket in your chest, that muscle that strained much harder for a man who had his pumping for the girl of his dreams.

But, he was coming over for the third time this week.

The first time he said this visit ranked, in his words, 'out of the question' on the degree of necessary that he come over and show you Star Wars. You played a good game of reluctance when asking if it was the entire series or just one movie, and in your head, you hoped to God it was the entire series. For him, you'd watch the series four times over if it meant you sat through this outrageously nerdy movie next to the even more outrageously nerdy love of your life.

The second time was particularly funny to you. He called while you were cooking dinner, almost as if he was in stride with you in a way that was an ounce too synchronized to be platonic, and asked if you were whipping up a delicious meal that he could mooch off of. Knowing he was a terrible cook, plus the fact that when he begged so politely you felt your posture unbind into to a puddle, you more than happily obliged.

This time, the circumstances made it harder to say yes, but not yet impossible. And it was a second or two before you heard that knock on the front door that had your once pounding heart come to a complete halt. It was still, waiting for you to make a decision.

Since it was Jungkook, of course, you'd say yes. And your heart would continue beating. Beating, as in sending sharp jabs that stained the inside of your chest with bruises. Beating, as in when the time came, the final blow of your constantly craving heart would devastate your entire being.

"Thank you so much, ___. God, I'm such an idiot." He walked in with all the confidence of someone who was a bit too familiar with your company. Jungkook's feet reintroducing themselves to your floors in the same manner as he would the night before, and the night before that, and the countless nights you kept secured in your collection of memories. As if he belonged there; as if he was coming home.

"An idiot with a great friend." That last word nearly withdrew the bile you had been ever so gracefully holding in.

"Yeah yeah." And he was comfortable with that same word, 'friend', that deepened your bruises into scars. He had absolutely no clue. Idiot. "I can't believe I broke up with her. I was so angry and acted on that instead of logic. Fuck, why would I do that to myself? I love her."

"Well, you never know. Maybe..." You hated yourself for not resisting the selfish temptation that was about to fall from your lips. The words you've been internally screaming to him to leave her and fall in love with you instead were diluted to something much more tame when your tongue formed them into sound.

"Maybe it was for the best. Maybe you guys are better off apart? To, um, grow or whatever."

"No." He said that with too much certainty and too little hesitance and just enough conviction to sink another wound in the organ exhausting itself in your chest. "She's the one. I know it"

"Jungkook."

He looked at you with all the earnestness of a man who carved his utmost and unchanging dedication to her. A look that any love-induced sap would kill for. A look he would never direct towards you.

Your eyes weren't under your control as of now. The glue that held them to his eyes, his lips, his hair, and every other part of him you dreamed of was more than a marathoned yearning. It was an adhesive twelve years in the making, not showing the slightest sign of wearing away.

"The way you love is something to die for..." And then he smiled at you, but still not for you.

You were utterly crushed.

"She'll take you back in a heartbeat. I mean, she has a brain, so of course, she will. Anyone would."

I would.

"I hope you're right." The couch was four feet wide at most, but there was an impressively vast space between you and the man who was sitting next to you. "Can you tell me what to say? You know I suck with words."

"Uh... Yeah. Of course. Anything."

If breaking hearts were a crime, then Jungkook would have much to atone for. You'd be convicted as a willing accomplice for holding on this long. Up until this point, you've let every small glance, every shy smile he sent your way, every eyebrow twitch conveying a meaning only you knew well enough to retrieve him from whatever awkward situation he needed rescuing from, every accidentally brush of his hand against yours, every purposeful embrace that lasted so long your tears stained his right shoulder string you into a knot of miserable, unrequited love.

And up until this point, you had hope he would choose you.

Each ring of his phone worked in tandem to reduce your undying devotion to Jungkook into a compressed seed of denial.

I don't love him. He's just my best friend.

Your pulse pronounced itself loudly in your ears, as a not-so-gentle reminder of how much you hated him for loving him. Somehow, your heart beat faster. Then again, anything was possible when it came to him. Anything except the miraculous event of him hanging up, declaring his love for you, and living in the land of happily ever after that only existed in your deluded imagination.

"Hey Irene! I'm so fucking glad you picked up."

He gave you that look. With the arched eyebrow, his widened doe eyes, and the slightly hung jaw, you read each feature better than words and nodded to signal you knew exactly what he needed.

"I'm sorry about what happened." You said, in a whisper, though the deflated volume of your words carried no implication of the unbridled sincerity sealed in them.

"I'm sorry about what happened." He repeated, laying down that same Irene-contrived smile on you that fostered a smile of your own, knowing fully it surfaced as a reflex from hearing her voice.

"It might be crazy to try this, because I don't know how you feel."

If the thing people say about your life flashing before your eyes during encounters with death, then you were sure your heart was about to consume its last pulse of blood. The scenes of you and Jungkook spending your Friday nights when you were a ripe city dweller in your shoebox apartment doing everything and nothing at all had convinced you that you were certainly about to go into cardiac arrest.

"It might be crazy to say this, because I don't know how you feel." Jungkook was so many things, however emotionally perceptive was not one of them.

"But I love you. I have loved you since the moment I met you." Those words tasted sweet despite fermenting in a chamber of your heart you kept preserved since, as you said, the very moment you met him.

"But I love you. I have loved you since the moment I met you."

"No matter what, I'd choose you. It doesn't matter how mad I am or how annoyed I am, I will choose you because if I know anything in this damn, cruel, punishing world, then I know that I'd rather be angry, annoyed, or anything else with you than without you."

He repeated your words, but dehydrated all of your sentiment from them. You were left with the remnants of the feelings, and none of the words from him you were so desperately starved of. He took them right from your throat, along with the very breath that seemed to keep returning because of Jungkook, molded them into his own, into a sequence of sounds that were meant for Irene. You were left hungry, breathless, and forever wanting.

Irene must have been smiling right about now. Who wouldn't smile hearing those things from someone like Jungkook?

"Because with you, I'm complete. My story can't end if I'm incomplete. Please, choose me back. Complete me. That's all I ask."

Then, you began to ask yourself another question.

If you make me complete, Jungkook, will my story ever end?

You knew the answer to that. You swore your heart beat in a morse code that told you everything you needed to know.

"Because with you, I'm complete. My story can't end if I'm incomplete. Please, choose me back. Complete me. That's all I ask."

Jungkook looked to you, before Irene could form the proper response, and smiled. It was the third time he smiled at you today because of course, you were keeping track. You knew it was his own physically linguistic version of a 'thank you' or a 'you're a life saver' but somehow, to you, it translated to something similar to a 'goodbye'.

Your legs miraculously rose and carried you to the back porch. The sun was just beginning to dip in the horizon, proliferating a warm orange that was about to subside to an indistinguishable and unpredictable dusk. Whatever color came after the sunset, you were ready to accept it, to memorize how it reflected against a world without the possibility of him. And even though the night will always embody undertones of orange, it was time to focus on the colors around it.

It was time to let go.

a/n: i might make this into a drabble series!!! if anyone would be interested in that please let me know :)) thank you for readinggggg <3

#bangtanarmynet #btsgoldnet #ficswithluv #bts fanfic #bts angst #bts writing #bts x reader #jungkook x reader #jungkook fanfic #jungkook angst #bts drabble #jungkook drabble #jungkook #constant craving #rubycoast

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sabraeal · 3 years ago

Text

We Seek That Which We Shall Not Find, Ch 8

[Read on AO3]

Written for @eveluboi for winning the Obiyuki Trope Madness 2021 betting kitty! I meant for this to be out way back in June, but it quickly slipped from a 4-5K projected fic to 7K 😂

Cold porcelain presses up against her palms, slick from where her fingers wrap around the sink’s edge. Shirayuki bows her head down, watching the water spiral down the drain, and breathes. In and out; in and out. If she hadn’t left her phone out on the table, she could look at one of those gifs she bookmarked; the one where the triangle becomes a decagon maybe, or where the star burst becomes a mandala. But she did, so instead she has to visualize it, counting out the shapes behind her eyelids.

It doesn’t work, but at least it’s something.

There’s something distinctly high school dance about hiding the the bathroom-- though in here, it’s impossible to just sit on the toilet and brace her legs against the door. Not that she needs to; unlike a bathroom stall, this door actually locks. A feature she’s sure has nothing to do with whatever the Wisterias plan to get up to in that Jacuzzi tub.

Shirayuki frankly refuses to speculate on what that might be. She still has to look Izana in the eye tonight, and the last thing she needs is to be thinking about him doing-- things in here, with people. Maybe he just has a compressed spine at the ripe old age of twenty-five, the kind that can’t be alleviated by anything less than eight massage jets.

In any case, this whole strategy of retreat isn’t really her style. Or at least, it hadn’t been, until...before. Which was a blip on an otherwise spotless record of confronting her problems head-on, with the sort of determined attitude Jaja fondly refers to as foolhardy, and Busha calls bull-headedness.

Her fingers grip the bowl firmly, levering herself up to stare into the mirror. She can do this. She can go right out there, sit down, and have Lynet reject this proposal. Because a normal person wouldn’t hide in the bathroom to avoid a fictional conflict.

Right. Shiaryuki drops her hands, giving her reflection a steely nod. It’s not like this is her first time turning down a boy; even if Shuuka throws her in a dungeon, he’ll still have taken her rejection better than the last one did, and that was a real live person. Not that Raj is much of a measuring stick for any kind of model behavior, but-- still. The point stands.

The door gives beneath the pressure of her hand, opening with a silence that’s confusing rather than comforting. Zen’s house might not be as old as hers, but it’s still not new; the apartment went up in the last five years, and its doors still hang crooked, screaming every time they move more than an inch. She can’t imagine Izana going around oiling hinges.

“Hey.” A hand catches her, strong fingers banding around her wrist. Pale ones, slender and well-trimmed; she traces them right up a crisp flannel to find Kiki frowning down at her. “I would give it a minute.”

Shirayuki blinks, and suddenly the world refocuses. It’s oddly silent in the basement, only the thin tumble of dice from the floor above. Obi’s either up to something or Beaumains is in trouble; she can’t even beging to guess which one would be worse.

And Kiki’s leaning here, right against the neutral paint, waiting for her. She shifts, casting a worried look toward the game room. “Is something--?”

Mitsuhide clears his throat; it echoes down the empty hall, a sound that fills the space like thunder overhead. Shirayuki bites back the impulse to count until next lightning strike; even though she knows it should be the other way around, that light travels faster than sound, but this--

“Is something wrong?” Zen drawls, sounding nothing like the boy who sits next to her in homeroom. No, sounding like this, he’s every inch Izana’s brother.

-- this is different. Bedwyr uses his words before he dares draw his blade, and it comes too naturally to be anything besides pure Mitsuhide, just like Beaumains’ quick tongue is the same one that wags in Obi’s mouth. He rumbles before the strike, and this one is destined to hit too close to home.

“Zen.” There’s something about how Mitsuhide wields a name; Shirayuki hardly knows him-- not as much as Zen and Kiki, anyway-- but when he says hers, it’s like having those giant arms cradling her tight against his chest, in a way that is less romantic and more like a tiny kitten living in a jacket pocket. When he says Obi’s, it’s a buzz, a burr, the sound before a siren wails, a warning that will never become a threat.

And when he says Zen’s right now, it’s a weight, a boulder to bear like Atlas shoulders the earth. It’s the moment before the punishment comes in the last act; the last temptation to turn the antagonist back onto the path of the righteous. “You should rethink your behavior tonight.”

“My behavior?” Zen squawks, chair clattering beneath him. “I haven’t even done anything.”

Mitsuhide’s silence speaks volumes.

“I haven’t,” Zen insists, though it’s weaker this time. “You’re the ones who are just letting Obi act like the rules don’t apply to him.”

“We are?”

“Well...” The pout sits sullenly on this tongue. “Izana is. And you guys aren’t doing anything about it either!”

Mitsuhide heaves a sigh that would make trees sway. Kiki’s fingers flex in sympathy against her shoulder. “I think you’re being a little unfair.”

“Unfair?” The word squeaks at the end of Zen’s range. “What’s unfair is that Izana invited that guy for the specific purpose of scaring Shirayuki off, and no one seems to care.”

Shirayuki only realizes she’s moved when Kiki’s grip holds her back, one foot still hovering over the floor, poised to make a very determined stomp. Words are welling up in her like ground water during a storm; a whole monologue that threatens to flood the basement of her common sense. The whole night comes back to her in inches; every slight, every complaint is magnified tenfold now that she knows it comes to this, and she--

“Give them a minute,” Kiki murmurs. “Sometimes Zen just needs a swift application of a boot to his ass.”

She blinks up at her, body vibrating with a need to do something. “And Mitsuhide will do that?”

A picture might be a thousand words, but somehow Kiki’s eyebrows could compose a novel. She lifts them a bare, dubious inch, and Shirayuki knows that chapter one starts with, and you think you’d do any better? “You’ll see. He’ll come around. Have a little faith.”

Bitter words lick up her throat, a carefully composed diatribe furiously scribed by her irritation. A list of all Zen’s petty squabbles, of all the times he’d tried to sideline her or sequester Obi ready to spill out, but--

But she swallows it down. Tonight’s tried her patience for sure, but it’d been Zen who leaned across the aisle in homeroom her first day. The one who’d stuck out a hand and said, you must be new. The one who had made sure she’d had somewhere to sit at lunch-- sure, Kihal had found her by then, adopting her like a baby bird fallen from a nest, but he’d swung by even though his wasn’t until next period.

That’s what’s so frustrating, to be honest-- she knows how good he can be. So the fact he’s choosing to act this way instead...

Her shoulders sag under the weight of Kiki’s hand. “I’m trying to.”

When Mitsuhide speaks again, it’s even, patient; she’d be tempted to say it was like a parent to a child, but there’s no condescension, no sense of speaking down but rather across. “That’s possible. But you’re still the only one acting hostile at this table.”

Zen’s huffs, indignant. “So you want me to just sit here and let them ruin Shirayuki’s experience?”

Kiki pushes past her with a parting pat, sauntering into the room. “How could they when you’re doing such a good job of it yourself?”

Shirayuki can’t see either of the boys, but she can see Kiki when she spins a chair around, dropping down to straddle it. “You may not have noticed, but it doesn’t look like Shirayuki minds Obi being here. At least, not as much as you do.”

“Kiki,” Mitsuhide sighs, a warning. “That’s enough.”

Kiki must not agree, since she leans in, smile sharp enough to cut glass. “Maybe you need to lighten up, brother dearest.”

Zen sucks in a hard breath, like he’s been hit. “Don’t--”

The door rattles at the top of the stairs, a muffled voice turning to a dry laugh as it opens. Her stomach lurches like that moment at the top of a coaster, looking down at the track below. It’s Obi.

Kiki is a flurry of motion; her chair flips beneath her, and she sits back down hard, feet kicking up onto the table. When Izana and Obi emerge from the stairway, it looks like she‘s been idling at a casual tilt for hours, not seconds, but still, still--

Izana lifts one elegantly arched eyebrow. No matter how cleverly they all compose themselves, he almost certainly knows every word that’s been said.

“You’re back?” Zen coughs, his words hobbling awkwardly, dragged down by guilt. Izana’s other eyebrow joins the first. “What happened?”

Obi drops into his seat, cradling chin in hand. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“I would,” Zen snaps, irritation already rising. “That’s why I asked.”

“Oh, don’t worry--” Obi tosses him a wink designed to send him through the roof-- “you’ll find out.”

“I--”

“If there’s any other business, tell me now,” Izana says, taking his place at the head of the table. “Otherwise, you’ve slept through the night.”

Obi flutters his eyes, grin taking on a feral edge. “Well, you know I’m all taken care of, Majesty.”

“Anyone else?” Izana sighs, long suffering. His eyes flick out over the table, settling into a frown. “Does anyone know where Shirayuki is?”

“Bathroom,” Kiki offers too quick, gaze cutting over to where she hides in the hall, before darting back. The corner of Izana’s mouth pulls deeper, and his eyes lift--

“Ah, I’m here!” Shirayuki hurries out, slipping into her seat. When she looks up Zen’s watching her with wide eyes, gears clunking along behind them as he looks from her to the hall and back, doing the exact equations she was hoping he couldn’t. “Sorry.”

“It’s not a problem,” Izana assures her, keeping his eyes fixed to the screen in front of him. “Did you have anything you needed to do before the night is over?”

“Ah, um.” Her fingers stretch wide over Lynet’s sheet, tips gripping at the table. “Yes. One last thing.”

The stars are bright tonight, shining in the firmament like jewels in velvet. Ancient poets would invoke Diana at the sight, at the thousand heroes and maidens consigned to shine above for defying their fates. Older ones still would call upon Arianrhod, the silver wheel, mother of wind and skies alone, praising the complexity of her beauty.

But when you raise your eyes to heaven’s glorious vault, you see only kingly gift laid at your feet, unasked. And when you lower them, another waits for you in Shuuka’s smile, devastating and earnest.

“A fine night, is it not?” His breath mists in the air between you; a lucky thing, since it obscures your grimace. “In all Our Lord’s creation, a man could not find one finer than this.”

“It is a wonder,” you murmur, stirring the fur at your cloak’s collar. “But I have seen so little of this world that I hesitate to say that in a thousands nights there would not be one that could surpass it.”

His mouth spreads wider still, the pearl of his teeth glimmering in the moon’s light. You’ve pleased him, somehow. “You can only say that, my lady, since you are graced with your own presence every moment, and I have only these. For now.”

Your feet stutter beneath you; the leaves crunching makes him turn, brow raised in concern. “Shuuka...”

“Ah, yes. You wished to speak with me, did you not?” His boot heels clack against the cobbles, coming to perch on the raised bed beside you. He is not close, even still, but having his eyes level with yours makes this moment too intimate for you to keep him fixed in your vision. Instead you turn, leaving him looming at the corner of your eye. “I am your servant in all things, my lady. Speak.”

“My lord,” you begin, for politeness seems the only kindness you can extend to him, “I believe there has been some misunderstanding.”

His head tilts. “A misunderstanding?”

His voice is lower, a manly rumble instead of its usual reedy melody; a child playing at a man. A man he only wishes to become because it might make you happy.

You sigh, your gut tangling as easy as your fingers do above it. Were you any other woman but yourself, you would be pleased to have made a match as fine as this. Perhaps even mere months ago, you would have been comforted by the thought of marrying a man you had met before, even if he had been a silly, sobbing boy at the time. But now, as you are, you cannot care for this-- this life your father wished for you, with no thought to your own.

“About the state of the agreement between our fathers.” Your breath catches in your chest before you manage, “They are both gone.”

Shuuka peers at you with shining eyes, and oh, if only you could choose your words as gently as he deserved. But you know better; a man who wears a hard helm often keeps a harder head beneath it, and women’s words only penetrate such a barrier if they are drawn to a point.

“That I know,” he says, so soft. “And I am sorry for it. But we may yet do what they willed for our future.”

“That is not all,” you continue, each word stinging with guilt. “This understanding was dissolved long before either of them was brought back into the great shepherd’s fold. When my family fell upon misfortune...”

You had hoped it would be easier to speak of it, but the words stick to your teeth, refusing to leave the safety of your mouth. Shuuka reaches out, clasping his hand in yours with far too much understanding for what you wish to say.

“I am not proud of what my father did,�� he tells you, sincerity ringing from his words, clear as a church bell. “Though I am certain he thought it would be for the best, at the time. He never pledged my troth to any other, and above any other woman he had entertained to be the Lady of Laxdo, it was of you he spoke most highly.”

“That is--” hard to believe. Not when you spent most of your betrothal dance trodding on his son’s toes-- “Kind of you to say. I know that you value the words of your father above all others--”

“My father’s esteem is exceeded only by that of the Lord in Heaven, may he ever sit at his right hand.” Pain hollows his eyes, so raw that even in health he gleams gaunt beneath the moon’s light. You have both lost your fathers, but this wound is fresh, bleeding still, and yours--

Well, yours sewed up just fine with a little needle and thread. How quickly a wound heals when you must see to it yourself.

“Would that I could talk to him,” Shuuka rasps, fingers clenching around stone. “But I trust that if he could see you now, he would see a daughter still.”

His grief burns brightly, a halo that surrounds him-- no, a shroud, the sort that might bury him beside his fathers bones if he did not take care. It is that which makes all this worse, which turns what you must do from a discomfort to a cruelty. But it is better yet than what it could be if you indulged him, if you let pity and kindness stand where only love should.

“Yes, I understand,” you murmur, gathering every last draught of courage. “But I must admit, my lord, that I do not hold my own father in such esteem. You are a kind man, Lord Shuuka, the sort any woman would count her blessings should she find you as her husband, but I...”

You flounder, the night pressing in thickly around you. What you wouldn’t give for crickets, if only to break the silence.

“Ah.” There is a wealth of hurt hidden in that breath. “But you mean to say that it shall not be you, Lady Lynet.”

“What?” Zen’s eyes blink wide, so bright, so blue across from her. “You’re turning him down?”

Shirayuki stares. “What do you mean?”

“He’s a lord, isn’t he?” It’s a strange thing to ask, especially when they just spent the last week and change-- well, four hours really-- at his castle, but here was Zen, looking toward Izana like he needed clarification. “Wouldn’t Lynet, you know...?”

“Um.” Even with a sweep of Zen’s wrist and the emphatic lift of his eyebrows, Shirayuki still can’t see how that sentence might finish itself. “No, I don’t.”

It’s quiet enough to hear a pin drop, so when Obi lets out a hiccup, isn’t not exactly inconspicuous. She glances over at him, and from the way his mouth twitches at the corners, she’s hardly the first. “Is something...?”

Wrong, she means to say, but Obi gives a single solid shiver and collapses onto the table, head buried in his arms.

There’s a breath where her fingers go numb on the table, where her heart beat practically deafens her as it pound in her ears. She’s not here in the room, she’s out in the yard, a wrinkled arm reaching out to her, and all she can think about is where her phone is, whether she can reach it from here--

“My, my.” Izana’s drawl rattles her back to the table, gaze skittering over Zen’s forbidding glare, the clasped hand over Kiki’s mouth, Mitsuhide’s wide-eyes-- “Isn’t that an interesting question. Now just what does make Lord Shuuka such an attractive partner?”

Obi lifts his head, still trembling, but it’s not some medical event. Oh no, he’s just-- just laughing. Shirayuki catches her breath, holds it, and thinks of a triangle becoming a decagon.

Nothing is wrong. Everyone is safe. Healthy.

“W-well.” Zen’s voice creaks from the reach she suspects he’s about to make. “He has ah, hmm...”

“Large tracts of land?” Obi offers, so helpful.

Zen hands stiffen where he holds them out in front of him. “I wasn’t going to say that.”

His brows give a wiggle. “Looks like it.”

“I--”

“Castle Perilous already has land,” Shirayuki interjects, hoping the tremble hasn’t reached her voice. “Plenty of it.”

Obi leans back in his chair with a grin. “Castle Perilous has everything! Large tracts of lands, at least two level or dungeons, an ominous name...”

She flicks him a flat look. “My point is, Lynet doesn’t need a manor to maintain-- she already left that to save her sister. She has a quest, she doesn’t need--” she waves her hands, steady now-- “romance.”

Obi’s brow ticks up, just the tiniest bit.

“I mean, not with a man she’s only known a week,” she blurts out, feeling heat simmering beneath her collar, licking at her ears. “Why would I be playing D&D if I just wanted to-- to marry Lynet off to the first guy she saw?”

Zen’s mouth fall slack, eyes glued to his character sheet. “Huh.”

“Gee,” Kiki drawls, “all that production for nothing.”

“Shut--”

“If we’re all quite done?” Izana suggests pointedly. “I believe Lady Lynet is not quite done breaking her beau’s heart. Also--” those pale eyes cut toward her, eyebrow quirked pedantically-- “it’s Pathfinder, by the way.”

Kiki lets out a huff. “It’s the same thing.”

With exaggerated care, Izana nudges her character on the map. “It’s really not.”

You take Shuuka’s hands in your own; they’re soft, callused on the mounts like Arturius’. A swordsman’s hands, though not a warrior’s. He flushes beneath your touch, and you wonder if he is bothered by the rough touch of your own, marred by scrapes and scars, so unlike a lady’s that you might as well be a different country. That is what your father had called you once: a different country, the fondness thick in his voice.

That had been before. He had been a different man. You had been a different Lynet. A time you would long for, if you thought it might make any difference at all.

“I have my own path I must tread, my lord,” you murmur, “one that cannot be turned aside for my own comfort.”

He nods, head heavy. “I see. You too have your own quest of honor, like His Grace. A glory that only you can seek.”

“If only it were for glory--” your fingers stiffen in his hold, teeth gritting down on the troubles that long to pass through them-- “instead of to right the wrongs that have been done.”

His brows lift, and you do not imagine the offer in his eyes, the one that says you would only need to breathe the word, and he would raise his own blade in your honor. “To you?”

Your tongue would tie itself in knots if it could. “Among many.”

“I understand.” His hand squeezes yours so gently, as if you were a thing that could break, a glass woman cradled in his palms. That is a thing these lords do not understand; glass may be delicate once blown thread-thin, but it is first forged in fire, born at a temperature that would char flesh. “Perhaps, though, when you are done...”

It feels cruel to reject him, a man that loves the lady you could have been, but it is crueler still to give him hope where there is little to spare.

“Perhaps,” you say, stilted. It is too mild an answer for the passion in his eyes, but you learned long ago that fate’s whims could not be foreseen by any mortal heart. “But please, my lord. Do not wait for me.”

“It will be hard not to, my lady, for a woman like you is not easily found. However--” he lets out a raw chuckle-- “I do know what love sounds like when I hear it, and it...does not warm your voice when we speak.”

“I...”

Shuuka holds up one hand, chagrined, the other still wrapped in yours. “You owe me no explanation. I only mean to wish you well.”

He lifts your hand to his lips, laying a soft kiss to its back. “May God go with you, my lady. I pray you will not forget your loyal servant in your trials.”

“I...will not,” you breathe, wishing you might be the girl that could love this man. You cannot, you cannot, but oh, how much easier your road would be if you did. “Thank you.”

“Well,” Mitsuhide hums, smile hung awkwardly. “He seems nice!”

Zen nods, pink looming just under the apples of his cheeks. “A good, ah, potential ally.”

Shirayuki stares.

“You two,” Kiki starts, every syllable so overflowing with derision they practically leak, “are ridiculous.”

Obi looks fit to bursting as well-- at least, if the state of his twitching mouth is anything to go by-- but before he can get one word in edgewise, Izana clears his throat.

“Now that this little interlude is complete,” he drawls, casting a wary glance over the table. “I expect that we can move on?”

“No, wait, I’m sorry!” Shirayuki bursts out breathlessly. “Just--” she glances at Obi, squirming under the question in his eyes-- “just one more thing. I promise.”

Izana settles back in his chair, brows raised. “Oh no, by all means. Color me...” His mouth curves into a smirk that would cause a cleverer woman to reconsider. “...Intrigued.”

Your neck aches; beneath your veil, your hair lies heavy on your scalp, pinned and tied to within an inch of its life. There is no more of it than usual, you are sure, but it weighs on you now, a fetter meant to hobble your steps. A shackle meant to drag you down, to halt your progress forward. Perhaps that is always what it was meant to be.

A proper lady would not remove her covering until she was safely ensconced in her chambers; such manners had been pressed upon you since your first courses, first by your nurse and then again by your father. Modesty was a woman’s shield, and you clung to it then as if it could protect you, afraid of what might happen to you without it. No, afraid of who you might be.

But you are no fine lady, not by anything but birth. Such trappings were ripped from your hands, and now--

Now you are Lynet, alchemist and arcanist, and you keep nothing that will not serve you. Your fingers wedge beneath the fine linen, pins falling to your feet as you work them free. Everything about Laxdo may squeeze you, trying to fit you back in the mold your father made, but you will not, not ever again.

It may have been years since you last stepped in Laxdo’s halls, but this past week has made it something like a home, your feet carrying you with ease through the twisting corridors. A different answer but a moment ago and these would have been yours, your home in truth, but to stay here, to forget the power that you tamed with your own two hands and become nothing more than Shuuka’s wife--

It’s unthinkable. A life not meant for you. Though your sister would like it fine enough.

Your feet stutter beneath you, breath caught tight in your chest. Who are you to say what she would want, when you--

You shake yourself. This guilt won’t serve either, not if you let it hold you in place. Your gaze lifts, and finally you see where your industrious feet have brought you: Beaumains’ door.

It was inevitable that they would; your own chamber is on the same hall, mere steps away. But you had not meant to come here, to linger, save that-- that you had, for he has been on your mind since he delivered you to the dais, since Arturius had him sent from it to the revelry below. His voice has thrummed beneath your veins since you looked across the hall and saw him missing from the tables below, your mind turning over every word he spoke this night to see if his disappearance is merely a missing piece to a puzzle you have already solved. But no solutions have appeared before you, and now--

Now you stand here, head bare at his threshold, wondering whether you will be welcome.

You hand raises, hesitating above the grain. You could leave now, and no one would ever know. But if you did, if you simply left with no word, and found him gone on the morrow...

You knock twice. Then thrice. There is not a whisper from the other side of the door. You know better than to assume that means there is no man, not such a one as Beaumains.

“Beaumains,” you murmur, palm pressed flat against the wood. “Beaumains, if you are there...”

Your lips press to a thin line. You had not planned this, planned any of it, and your words will not come. You do not even know which ones you speak if they would.

Your forehead rests against the door, the ridges of its grain digging into your skin. “If you are there, I am here.”

There is no answer but silence.

“Goodnight,” you say finally. “I will...” You hesitate, breath catching in your chest. “I will see you on the morrow.”

Izana, at least, is happy to move on.

“If you have spells to prepare,” he offers graciously, “you may do so now, before we start the morning.”

Kiki raises an imperious brow. “I take it we’ll be doing combat, then?”

With a beatific smile, Izana informs her, “You may prepare for any eventuality you see fit.”

“Yeah.” Zen sighs, flipping to his spell list. “Combat.”

Shirayuki shuffles through her index cards, chewing on her cheek. Next to her Obi has affected a casual slouch, arm thrown haphazardly over his chair back and legs stretching well onto Zen’s side of the table. He doesn’t seem stressed, not like how she feels sitting in the splash zone of of their high stakes game of I’m Not Touching You during this fantasy field trip.

Her phone slides into her hand easier than it ever has, thumb sliding surreptitiously across the keyboard. Are you okay?

Her teeth grit down as soon as it’s sent, regret bitter on her tongue. It’s a stupid thing to ask; a feeling that grows when she watches him work his phone out of his pocket, eyebrows lifting as he reads.

His mouth curls into a satisfied smirk. peachy keen

Are you sure? Shirayuki peeks up from her cards, casting a subtle glance toward the end of the table. Izana’s bowed behind the screen, pen gracefully curving over page-- notes. He’s taking notes. I wanted to make sure Zen isn’t scaring you off.

lol impossible

A breath hisses out her nose, fingers tightening around the case. Leave it to Obi to make this into a joke. He’s really not a bad guy, I promise. I don’t know why he’s choosing to act like one.

A smothered noise hiccups out beside her, too loud in the room’s silence. Four heads bob up, three blond and one brown, and Obi smooths the noise out into a cough, a gentle clearing of his throat.

“Dorito,” he says with a tight wheeze, mouth twitching. “Musta gone down the wrong pipe.”

“Ah,” Izana hums, his eyes narrowing. “Of course.”

Zen, however, frowns. “We have Doritos?”

Obi’s mouth stretches into a smile. “You did.”

“How--?”

“Are we done with preparations, then?” Izana asks smoothly, settling back in his chair. “Should we continue...?”

“Ah, no!” Zen grimaces, ducking his head. “Just-- another minute.”

i got a good idea, Obi texts once. heads are down. but don worry im not going newere His teeth flash as he sends, jus had 2 take care f s/t

She glances up, and his grin is there to greet her, only growing wider when he reads the question in her eyes.

“Don’t worry, my lady,” he murmurs, shifting close enough for the words to ghost over her cheek. “Trust me.”

You wake to hue and cry, to chaos in the halls. A lord’s daughter might lay abed still, waiting for her maids to fetch her, but you were the Lady of Castle Perilous; when Morgaine comes to fetch you, you are already dressed, tucking the last tresses of red beneath your coif. She blinks, those midnight-dark eyes going wide before her expression settles into something far more grim, something more resigned than surprise.

“Beaumains isn’t in his chamber,” she tells you, no cushion in her words, only the bruising impact of the truth. “We suspect he never made it back to it.”

Your breath catches in your chest, struggling against its cage. “That can’t be true. Last night I...”

Spoke to his door, with not a single sign of him within.

“When the maid came to tend his hearth this morning, his cot was undisturbed and the fire burnt down to embers.” Morgaine fixes you with a steady gaze, braced as a man about to take a blow. “We mean to look for him.”

You snatch your cloak from where it hangs, winding it about your shoulders. “Then let us go. If he has been taken, then--”

“I suspect he has been taken by naught by stupidity, the same as any man,” the princess grouses, falling into step beside you as you hurry down the steps to the yard. “My brother wounded his pride, and he sought to restore it. Or at least commit some feat to let it scab cleanly.”

It rankles how much each word rings true. You had no brothers at Castle Perilous, but men you had in spades, and every one fool enough to put himself in mortal peril to salve his pride. “Let us hope you are wrong?”

Morgaine lets out a rasping laugh. “You prefer him to be in the hands of the enemy, then?”

“Rather than his own stupidity?” you ask, breathless, waiting for the yard’s door to open. “Always.”

When they do, your heart stops, stuttering right up into your throat.

“Alas.” The word hisses through Morgaine’s smile. “You are destined to be disappointed.”

Beaumains sits in the yard, perched merrily atop a cart drawn into the middle of it. You cannot, from this angle, divine what it is filled with, only that it is solid enough to hold him and his ego. Temper climbs up your neck, as choking as any ivy; to think, you worried about his heart enough to trouble your own, and now he sits here as if naught but a moment has passed from the night into the evening, as if this were but yet another day he spent in your company.

Oh, how you could climb that cart yourself to give him a piece of your mind. You do not-- would not, before all these men of Laxdo-- but the temptation lashes yours soles as thoroughly as any devil.

“Beaumains.” Arturius marches forth from the crowd, wrath crackling in the air as he walks. “What is the meaning of this? We awake to you missing, and now--?”

“So I heard.” His smile shines in the morning sun, just as brightly as his horns. “I was here, of course. Waiting.”

The Prince of the Angles flushes crimson, the whole of his frame shaking. “Then why would you not--?”

“For a lark.” His teeth flash; fitting since he wields his words like a blade. “Though I did leave last night. You see, something bothered me, and not just your manners.”

“Demon--”

“Devil,” Beaumains corrects, as fastidious as any tutor. “And you see, all this celebrating, it didn’t make sense. Not when we hadn’t solved who cursed our friend here.”

He holds one dark, clawed hand out to where Shuuka stands, gaping. “Me? But I thought--?”

“You know as well as any that we have been searching tirelessly,” Arturius snaps, temper well and truly frayed. “And now you come to mock us for it? Is it a fight you ask for? Is that what you desire? For I am happy to give it to you, if you do not--”

“I want no fight,” Beaumains scoffs. “I want results. And so...”

With a desultory kick, the back of the cart falls open, and out of it--

Ah, and out of it pours forth a mound of bodies.

“And so,” he continues with relish, “I got some.”

“You can’t do that,” Zen murmurs, but it’s not in anger. No, that’s shock that slackens his jaw, and with the number of tokens Obi just dropped on the map, it’s working on Shirayuki too. “That’s not-- he can’t do that, can he?”

“He just did,” Izana replies, somehow both weary and amused at the same time.

“But...” Zen stares at them, more than a dozen tokens sprawled over the grid. “How.”

Obi grins. “Skill.”

Izana casts him a dark, yet exhausted, glance. “He rolled very, very well.”

Shuuka skirts nearer, his face pale with shock. “Those are the men who sold us firewood. The very same you pulled from our hearths.”

“That they are.” Beaumains sits back on the cart; now that you can see inside it you see his seat is not a crate, as you had assumed, but two bodies stacked atop each other, the blood drying around their mouths and necks. “Or at least that’s what I was hoping, Master, since otherwise I’d have made a mortifying mistake indeed.”

Arturius has not moved, instead staring down at the hand that laid at his feet, at the twisted grimace the deceased’s face has twisted into. “You did this alone? With no other man to help you?”

“I surely did,” the devil sing-songs, his grin honing to a point. “Could you find me such a one, daring enough to help on a night so dark as the last?”

The prince’s jaw sets hard as granite, but his eyes belie his sternness, shining with heady mix of admiration and something that savors strongly of jealousy. “Well,” he grits out, shoulders jerking towards his ears. “I cannot fault you your skill, devil, but now there is no chance of us learning how or why this deed came to be done.”

Beaumains scoffs, enjoying every moment he sits above the Prince of all the Angles. “Have a little faith, O Master Mine. Before they met the fates they bought with their cursed coin, I asked them what man or beast compelled them to act. And they told me--” his eyes flash with triumph-- “a man in red.”

There is no chance for you to stifle your gasp, not when you see that armor shining before you, crimson in candlelight. Not when even now, that spiked gauntlet reaches toward you--

“Lynet?” Morgaine’s grasp brings you back to yourself, to the moment you inhabit. “Are you well?”

“Fine, fine,” you assure her. “It is only--”

That you may know who this enemy of Laxdo is. That you yourself have come to see him vanquished, but yet--

You cannot speak of it. Not even if you wished.

“You may thank me at your leisure, sirrah,” Beaumain crows, getting to his feet. Even now your stomach roils as you look, the blood nothing more than a black sheen on his boots. “I am ever at your--” he leaps, landing on the ground before Arturius’s gaze. “At your service.”

And with a singular, extravagant bow, Beaumains tips face first into the cobbles.

“Wait.” Shirayuki blinks down at the toppled figure, resting on a spray of tokens, right next to a white-painted 1. “What just happened?”

“Beaumains--” Izana’s mouth twitches at a corner-- “had but a single hit point left.”

Long fingers pluck the die from its resting place among the bodies, as if quick reflexes could keep them all from seeing the rock Obi just dropped. He glowers down at it-- all black and golden and glimmering, just like him-- and shoves it back into his bag. “And glass ankles, apparently.”

A low, heady laugh rolls across the table, Kiki kicking up her feet with a smirk. “This is why we invest in CON.”

Obi scoffs. “Please, I made it out with HP to spare.”

“Yeah,” she says, “one.”

“Well,” he grumbles, “it was enough, wasn’t it?”

You stoop to where Beaumains sits, propped up by the stable’s post and Bedwyr’s shoulder, hand raised to heal--

“Please.” Bedwyr’s impressive hand gently guides yours away, his smile tight and concerned. “You must save your strength, my lady.”

“I just awoke, sir,” you remind him, mouth pulled into an irritated line. “I am as fresh as I shall ever be.”

The knight cants his head, though you know him too well to believe he might fully acquiesce to you. “I know that well enough. But it is your talent we will need, should any challenges arise before day’s end. And this is entirely within my--”

“No, no.” Beaumains stirs at his side, eyes sliding open to relieve the unrelenting shadow of his face. “Let the pretty lady lay her hands on me, paladin. Her touch is far softer than yours.”

Ah, it would have been best for him not to say such things before the whole of Castle Laxdo. Or at least, not in front of its lord. The weight of his gaze already presses heavy on your back, growing only more weighty as Beaumains sears a bleary line up you with his gaze.

He’s far to gone to keep it steady; already it wanders, tracing Bedwyr’s lines as well, and--

“Wait, no, never mind,” he slurs, squinting up at that giant of a man. “You’ll do too, sir, if you’re so eager to put your hand--”

Bedwyr presses a palm to the center of Beaumain’s forehead, and with an authority you know can only come from the Lord in Heaven, he intones, “SLEEP.”

“You know, big guy,” Obi drawls, grin already stretching from ear to ear. “I’m pretty sure paladins don’t get those spells. And fighters definitely don’t.”

Mitsuhide glances up from his sheet, straight at Izana.

He smirks. “I’ll allow it.”

Beaumains sleeps the slumber of the ensorcelled. That is, complete and utterly quiet.

Bedwyr peered down, and with a nod of his head, declares, “That’s much better.”

#obiyuki #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #dungeons & dragons au #my fic #ans #listen i know i said ONE chapter until the end of this arc #but like #TECHNCIALLY next chapter is gonna be the OOC wrap up for this arc #the session is complete though!#fans of this fic may REJOICE #you have two updated planned over the next two months too #Ch 9 is already in progress #and provided it does not grow out of proportion...should be complete by mid-september #and there's another update planned for late october that should hopefully kick off next arc #and perhaps...a POV CHANGE >:3c

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razorblade180 · 4 years ago

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RWBY vol8 ep4 review

So far, this volume doesn’t miss. It also keeps me upset with certain characters which I guess is good because it’s consistent? Anyways...

The scene with Robyn and Qrow was pretty nice. He seemed to call down but doesn’t really give the audience anything we don’t already know. For a moment, I was kinda happy he realized he made a stupid decision and was overwhelmed, but that to me is pretty weak considering how bad decision was made from Clover fighting him. It really all comes to Qrow lamenting over losing friends, and I still hold the belief that Qrow could’ve flown away.

Marrow has been acting as Harriet’s impulse control and reason for so long now that I’m starting to ship it. Not sure how to feel about it. Robyn is right about her being angry, it’s weird how quick she wants to check Harriet about it and we didn’t see her response to when Qrow talked about murder. Can’t tell if she wants to bandaid situations or just pour alcohol.

This sequence was phenomenal. Everything moved by so fast that screenshots felt criminal. Jaune was MVP though. He really kept that momentum going as long as he could. The fact that Ren has aura left is also incredible. Also I know someone will bring this up so I will. It’s a little strange Yang didn’t propel herself with Ember Cilica. She even talked wishing one of them could fly. My only explanation for this is she wanted to preserve ammo or the bike just in case. Or maybe it would’ve been slower than the bike.

They’re in the same house again! Please have a moment. I know there’s bigger things at stake right now but Whitley literally just said how Willow decided to lock herself up in her room so he’s been alone, stewing in frustration. People are gonna complain about how whiny he is and yes, he’s a bit whiny, but wouldn’t you be. Every time your sister comes home things get worse for you. Now you’re an accessory to a crime and James is the one they’re against. Then you’re sent to your room. Like his life sucks lol. I only need a solid 4 minutes of schneeblings talking openly. I’d be really surprised if Winter doesn’t think to look here.

It’s very heated in the tundra. They chose the most beautiful place to have a fight. Ren is the perfect example of me loving a character and having conflicting feelings towards for a good reason. This beautiful man basically said volume 4-6 had us fumbling and thinking we hot stuff when we weren’t and volume 7 proved just how terrible our decision making is. For the most part, they’ve been lucky and barely functioning. It’s hard not to agree with him that they were never ready for this.

I just wish he wasn’t so mean about. 😭 He’s throwing potshots at people. They’re factual but hey man, you don’t have to say it out loud. The only bullet he didn’t fire was telling Yang about herself when it comes to Blake, but nobody wants those problems in the tundra.

So I took a lot of screenshots of this next part but I think I’m gonna sum up the entire thing in two.

Oscar is having the absolute worse day of his life. I feel terrible for him, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say I’m living for this absolute energy from the villains that is “Fuck them kids” He can’t do anything about it and bringing Oz out would be disastrous. They’d only beat him harder.

Cinder is on some shit again. She had the same job as Whitley, to stay in one spot. This will only blow up in her face spectacularly and now Emerald is involved because she’s as desperate for Cinder’s validation as Cinder is for power. Now that opening makes me think Mercury and Tyrian will be sent to bring them back for punishment. It will be crazy if we get a similar scene from last volume where Mercury is now in Qrow’s spot as Tyrian and Emerald fight. It be even crazier if it’s a simple decision for Mercury and he proceeds to help beat up Tyrian. It would hilarious honestly. He’s just like “Who would side with you to fight anybody? Especially people that I have a better history with.” I’d cackle.

This particular scene rubs me the wrong way a little. I’m talking about what you are seeing right now on the screen. Everything outside of this moment is fine, but this scene. It is 100% reasonable and makes sense for Blake and Ruby to have had the scene at the manor where they’re worried about the others because Nora is currently resting and the team is out of harms way. Realistically, Ruby’s team did their mission successfully.

Now I know Yang’s team is technically in downtime, but I don’t like how the biggest concern on Yang’s mind right now is if Blake will think badly of her for not helping with Amity. Why does that have priority over Oscar, Ren’s words, the other team’s status, and your argument with Ruby. Blake and her weren’t really at odds in the argument. Blake, Jaune, Weiss, and Oscar were the only people in that room that were concerned about making sure the group was okay and were fine with plans. Also, you can have Blake worry for Yang and not have to have it go both ways. The audience knows RT is pushing BB. We understand they care for each other. Having Blake be at the forefront of Yang’s mind right now really makes her seem like she cares less about everything else and makes her boring. It’s like beating a dead yorse. I love Yang. She continues to upset me.

#rwby #rwby volume 8 #yang xiao long #rwby spoilers #oscar pine #jaune arc #lie ren #whitley schnee #weiss schnee #qrow branwen #rwby salem #hazel reinhart #harriet bree #marrow amin

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inae-dirri-man · 4 years ago

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DSMP S2 FINALE

I couldn’t sleep cuz of it so hear me out. I’m writing this while still riding the hype!

YOU BAFOONS!YOU IDIOTS! YOU THINK THIS IS OVER?! Who do you think this is they’re dealing with?! This is Dream! The literal god of the server! The puppet master the one pulling the strings! You think he doesn’t have a plan? You think he’s not 5 steps ahead of you?

-Punz and Dream had a plan where Dream specifically told him to betray him!

-Sam is the person Dream payed to build it!

-Techno still owes him a favor!

-Sapnap is Dream’s oldest friend

And don’t get me started on the hypocrisy of the people!

They put Dream in prison but Wilbur and Schlatt get to roam free? Wilbur blew up L’manburg. Schlatt exiled Tommy and Wilbur, traumatized Tubb, started a war, broke friendships and families apart...but Dream is the bad guy??? Don’t get me wrong! What he did was awful and shouldn’t have happened EVER! But EVERYONE did awful things on the server for different reasons! People just love to point fingers at Dream and say that without him there’s no conflict but that’s wrong and stupid!

PUTTING DREAM IN A PRISON WAS WRONG

Let me show how I see Dream’s perspective of this.

The server started WITH the Dream team FOR the Dream team and their friends to enjoy the game. Then Tommy shows up and starts the disk war and the fighting. Now it was all for fun no harm done they’re still friends! Dream is still SANE! Then the L’manburg war starts! Why? Because Dream said the rules and Tommy and Wil broke them. By the logic everyone who supports Dream being in a prison, they should be punished. But they weren’t! Dream TOLD them “Hey don’t do drugs, please!” and they started a fucking nation! Dream felt like he was losing his friends so he went to war to try and get them back, but he lost, even tho he got the disks he lost. From the beginning it was never about the disks for him, he was willing to give them up for Spirit (his dead horse) because he had an attachment! But somewhere along the way, probably the whole POG/SWAG war he lost the attachments, he lost his sanity! Remember the early days? Where Tommy, Tubbo and Dream fought for the disks? Where Skeppy got Spirit and Dream literally didn’t care how Tommy felt about the disks he wanted his horse back? Remember how it was all fun and games? Well it’s not anymore. Dream went INSANE! He didn’t want power when the server started, he wanted peace. But somewhere along the line his perspective changed and it’s easy to see how broken the leader of the SMP actually is. Just rewatch the scene where he yells at Tommy but LISTEN to it! Hear it! It’s not the same is it? In his mind attachments are what’s solving him down. And in a way they are, I’ll have to agree a little, but they also aren’t. Relationships are extremely complicated, because humans are too! Tommy LOVES to throw word psychopath at Dream but according to the DSM 5 he’s not... Psychopathy is a VERY COMLICATED mental illness and to normal people it’s hard to spot! They blend with the background and work from the shadows. Dream LOVES to be the center of attention so that’s one thing that is stopping people from calling him one. The other would be the simple criteria of a person with ASPD which is:

A pervasive pattern of disregard for and violation of the rights of others, since age 15 years, as indicated by three (or more) of the following:

The individual is at least age 18 years.

Evidence of conduct disorder typically with onset before age 15 years.

The occurrence of antisocial behavior is not exclusively during schizophrenia or bipolar disorder."

Failure to conform to social norms concerning lawful behaviors, such as performing acts that are grounds for arrest.

Deceitfulness, repeated lying, use of aliases, or conning others for pleasure or personal profit.

Impulsivity or failure to plan.

Irritability and aggressiveness, often with physical fights or assaults.

Reckless disregard for the safety of self or others.

Consistent irresponsibility, failure to sustain consistent work behavior, or honor monetary obligations.

Lack of remorse, being indifferent to or rationalizing having hurt, mistreated, or stolen from another person.

Now for those who don’t wanna read this or don’t understand let me put it simply Dream by the simple definition isn’t a psychopath. Tommy just throws the word around and people go along because they don’t know better. Simply putting it psychopaths are BORN, NOT MADE! Someone who is made a psychopaths is NOT a psychopaths because it can be “reversed”.

What I’m trying to say is while I am happy that Tommy and Tubbo aren’t dead I am not happy with the outcome for Dream (I love the memes tho), mostly because they just put a mentally unstable person in prison. This isn’t going end well, for anyone. It’s going to end with Dream either COMPLITELY losing it to the point where he’s going to destroy everything or destroy HIMSELF or he’s going to kill the ENITRE server. None of these options are good! Now is what he did ok? ABSOLOUTLY NOT! EVER! Should they have put him in there? NO! They could have solved the Dream problem SO much easier! For example having someone watch over him at all times but not in prison! A prison should be a place for rehabilitation, which let’s be honest....not gonna happen’! Anything other than what they did! This is EXACTLY why I love this roleplay! It’s COMPLICATED! EVERYONE is the bad guy while at the same time being the victim of government, themselves or others! There’s no good or bad, black or white, everything is SMUGED, hard to see and recognize! NOTHING is clear. It shows that real life is complicated, hard, hard to see thru! And the actors are AMAZINGLY showing every emotion and thought! I CAN’T WAIT FOR SEASON 3! And remember this is all roleplay don’t get too invested like me! (It’s not healthy!) Time to get the sleep that I missed just for this shit!

#dream smp #dsmp #technoblade #punz #tommyinnit #dream #awsomedude #tubbo #wilbur soot #jchlatt #am i doing tis right #this isn't even the quarter of the essay i wrote #i love the finale #yes #this is why i didn't upload anything do not question me mortal

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there-must-be-a-lock · 4 years ago

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Sharp Edges

Sam Winchester x Spencer Reid

Word Count: ~4880

Warnings: BDSM. Pain play and impact play (hands only, no tools) and discussion of sadism/masochism. The working title for this was “Reluctant Sadist Sam.” Memories of a time Sam pushed the limits of a previously negotiated BDSM scene. Very brief non-explicit masturbation. No actual sex, but it’s very sexy... or at least I think it is?

A/N: This pairing just, like, snuck up and made itself my OTP when I wasn’t looking, and I’m kinda obsessed with it. Big thanks to @mskathywriteswords for a super helpful edit, to @stunudo for an early read and characterization cheerleading (plus this whole Spencer Reid Thing, which is pretty much her fault), and to @fookinghelljensensthighs, for a brainstorming sesh about crucial jizz-related plot questions.

Sam hesitates outside the door for longer than he wants to admit. He’s been thinking about this for years, now. It’s not like there’s any doubt left in his mind, but stepping through that door makes it real. Until he steps through that door, he can brush this off; he only acted on the impulses when he didn’t have a soul, right? They’re not his. Not really.

They are. He knows it.

Years of wondering, guilt, self-loathing. Months of research, asking around, making connections. Weeks since he got the invitation, weeks of nervous anticipation and doubt. Fuck if he’s backing out now, even if he does feel like he’s choking.

He wipes sweaty palms on his jeans and goes inside.

He’s not expecting Lindsey to remember him, but she does, and she greets him with a smile and a kiss on the cheek. She’s wearing knee-high boots and a corset that shoves her cleavage up toward her chin, and Sam feels underdressed in his plain black t-shirt, not to mention painfully inexperienced.

“Want a soda or anything?” she asks brightly, like she’s the head of the PTA instead of the dungeon mistress. “Need me to show you around?”

“No, thanks,” Sam says, tucking his hair behind his ears nervously. “I think… I think I might just want to hang back for a bit.”

“Of course, sweetheart, whatever you need.”

Sam’s good at hiding his fear; he’s practically made a career of it. He puts on his most confident mask and starts walking.

He’s not really sure where to look, at first. His immediate instinct is to avert his eyes. There’s a startling amount of skin on display, but more importantly, there are scenes being played out all around him that are straight out of Sam’s fantasies - the dark, secret ones - the ones he couldn’t admit to, for most of his life.

It took losing his soul to ask for what he really wanted.

The memories from that time, back when something important was missing, are tinted red and foggy. He was selfish, when he didn’t have a soul. It’s the one thing he’s always vowed not to be.

He met a girl in a bar, somewhere in Colorado, and he took her to whatever grimy motel he was calling home that night. When he asked, she giggled, giving him some stupid line about needing to be punished, but when she realized he didn’t just mean a couple light smacks on the ass, she asked him to stop. He shrugged, fucked her anyway, and told her to leave.

The next night, he found a professional, and he made sure they negotiated the price before he took her back to the motel. Even then… Sam feels a twist of guilt when he remembers the moment her moans became whimpers of pain, the look of apprehension in her eyes when she realized she might be in over her head. She never used her safeword, but he knew she wasn’t comfortable with it.

He’d made it up to her, of course, afterward, even before he paid her, but it wasn’t out of any selfless desire to see his partner enjoy herself. It was just ego, just another game. The predator in him just wanted to see if he could make her beg for more after she’d begged him to stop.

When Sam got his soul back, there was a laundry list of foggy red memories that made him feel slimy and sick with shame, but that little vignette was one of the worst.

Sam doesn’t want it to be like that. He doesn’t want to be that brutal, selfish person who got what he needed, no matter the cost.

He wants romance: dinner and a movie, flowers, shy first kisses. He wants those things, but he’s starting to realize that he needs more. He needs that sharp edge of pain with his pleasure. He knows, logically, that there are people out there who need to feel it, in the same way he needs to cause it. It’s a matter of finding the right puzzle piece, is all.

All around him, now, he hears people asking for more, yes, harder, and there’s a sweet, breathless relief coursing through him. He pauses in front of a couple, watching the dom unclip his partner’s leather cuffs from where she’s chained to a ring in the wall. She’s smiling as he murmurs something Sam can’t hear.

“Please,” she says, beaming up at her partner with this incredible blissed-out expression on her face.

Sam’s stomach swoops with such an intense longing that it’s almost painful. He looks away.

He wants that.

Sam glances around the room again, and his eyes catch on a man who looks like he should be in a college lecture hall, instead of a BDSM party. The guy sticks out like a sore thumb in this sea of black and red and leather; Sam can’t help but notice him, and once he notices, it’s hard to tear his gaze away. He’s wearing a sweater-vest and a tie, for fuck’s sake. He’s got a mop of long, messy hair that makes Sam want to tug.

The longer Sam looks, the more he notices the sharp edges. The guy is tall and twig-thin, gangly, all elbows and angles. The line of his jaw looks like it was cut with a razor.

It’s not just the shape of him, though, that’s making Sam think of glinting steel and the rasp of a whetstone. The guy is on his own, hanging back in the same way Sam is, observing… his eyes dart around the room, glancing back and forth, taking it all in with a bright, clear, whip-smart awareness. He’s not smiling, and there’s nothing about his body language that’s welcoming. If someone handled him the wrong way, he’d slice them open.

Sam’s hands twitch. He wants to fit his fingers to the angle of those bones, thumb along the underside of the jaw, index finger running up to the cheekbone. He imagines it would be a perfect fit.

Sam shivers and looks away.

He sneaks a glance again, a few seconds later. The guy’s looking right at him. Sam’s stomach flips. He smiles hesitantly, and gets a blatant assessment in return, an appraising up-and-down. Sam feels like he’s passed some sort of test when the guy starts walking toward him, weaving easily through the crowd.

He stops abruptly when he’s in front of Sam, and Sam feels off-balance, somehow.

“I’m Spencer,” he says, in a soft scratchy voice that makes Sam want to lean in to hear better.

“Sam.” He sticks out his hand.

Spencer doesn’t take it; he waves instead, an awkward little gesture that’s oddly goofy and endearing, even with the frown line creasing his forehead and the shrewd expression on his face.

“You’re the new guy Lindsey was telling me about.” He tilts his head, almost birdlike as he blinks and waits.

“I… guess so? Why would she…”

“I assumed she meant new here, but you’re new to all of it, aren’t you?” It’s not a question.

Sharp, Sam thinks again, flustered. He shrugs.

Spencer’s eyes flick over his face like he’s reading lines of text. There’s something closed-off about the way he’s holding himself, tension in his features, mistrustful or maybe defensive.

Spencer licks his lips as he thinks, and Sam stares at his mouth. His mouth isn’t all points and angles like the rest of him; it’s plush and pink, wide, expressive.

“Hey, Professor,” says a woman, brushing a hand down Spencer’s arm as she passes, and Spencer gives her a quirk of his lips that’s not quite a smile.

“Are you really a professor?” Sam asks.

“No. It’s just because of the way I dress.” He says it matter-of-factly, but Sam notices the way his eyes drop for a second. He’s self-conscious.

“I can’t picture you in leather pants,” Sam says wryly.

“But you’re trying, aren’t you?” Spencer asks, with a flicker of an amused, mischievous smile. It’s gone just as quick as it came, but it leaves Sam feeling warm and pleased. He already wants to see that smile again.

“I think I missed the memo about the uniform,” he admits.

Spencer glances around and says, “I can see how adhering to a certain set of aesthetic cues would help members of a subculture identify each other in everyday life, but it does seem unnecessary here. Something about dressing up just to meet expectations seems disingenuous.”

“You’re really not a professor?” Sam asks, almost unbearably curious.

“No.” Spencer hesitates. “To answer your earlier question, Lindsey told me to keep an eye out for you because she seemed to think we were here for… similar reasons.”

“Oh,” Sam manages. He feels hot and cold and panicky, and he wishes he’d gotten a drink, if only to have something to do with his hands. “You, um. You like…”

“Pain,” Spencer says crisply, with an almost clinical detachment. “I enjoy experiencing pain. And you enjoy inflicting it.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, mouth dry.

Spencer’s watching him closely, frowning again. “There’s nothing wrong with it, you know.”

“I… yeah,” Sam says. “I guess I know that? Just, um, I always thought of myself as pretty traditional. Not big on one night stands, I like… relationships.”

“And you don’t think people who are into BDSM can have traditional relationships?” Spencer asks, smirking slightly.

Foot, meet mouth.

“No, not like that, I just - if I’m into someone, I want to treat them right. I’m a romantic.”

“A beating can be very romantic,” Spencer deadpans.

Sam sputters out a laugh. “I - I guess. Sure.”

“So, what, you’ve always been about the Al Green and missionary, and you figured you’d try something new?” His voice is dry and amused, and he’s watching Sam, just waiting for a reaction to the needling.

“Not exactly,” Sam says, grimacing.

“What, exactly, then?”

Sam can’t remember the last time anyone made him feel like this, like the conversation is a fencing match that he’s losing spectacularly; Spencer disarmed him already and is still toying with him, landing one glancing blow after another, just to see if he can.

Sam stammers for a second before saying, “I’ve always been interested in this, I just - never had an opportunity, really.”

“Don’t lie. You don’t have any reason to be embarrassed,” Spencer says, frowning.

Sam sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. He forces himself to spit out the truth: “I always wanted to think of myself as a nice guy. The things I want… there’s nothing nice about what I want, when it comes to sex. I couldn’t admit that until recently.”

Spencer smiles, and his whole face is incandescent with it. He tamps down the wattage of the smile with a twitch of his lips, eyes darting around as he thinks. Sam gets the feeling he already knew the answer, and was just waiting to see whether Sam would admit it.

“It’s not always about sex,” Spencer offers. “Sometimes you just… want to get out of your head, you know?”

Sam considers that for a moment, and he looks at Spencer, watching his fingers as they tap a silent rhythm against the side of his leg.

“Is that what you want?” he asks, and he’s proud of himself for how steady his voice sounds.

“Maybe.” Spencer meets his gaze evenly. “But you’re very strong, very inexperienced, and very anxious, and that’s not usually a good combination in someone who gets off on being in charge.”

Sam bristles instinctively before he hears the question in it.

“That’s not - it’s not like that,” he says with a sigh. “It’s not a power trip thing. It’s not about overpowering someone, I don’t want to tie you up, I don’t - it’s not like that. And I’m not inexperienced.”

Spencer’s eyes narrow. “You said -”

“I’m new to this,” Sam interrupts, and gestures around them at the party. “I’m not new to… pain.”

For the first time, there’s a hint of curiosity in Spencer’s eyes, an inkling that he doesn’t have Sam quite as figured out as he’d thought.

“Why are you here, then? What do you want to get out of this?” Spencer asks.

Sam thinks about that, trying not to fidget as he figures out how to say it.

“I don’t want it to be just about… what I get out of it,” Sam says slowly. “I want someone who - who needs it the same way I do, so that it’s not… I don’t want it to be something I do to someone, I want to do this with someone.” He hesitates and adds, “With you. If you want.”

He can see Spencer analyzing him, analyzing his words, weighing the odds, calculating the risks.

“I’m not going to have sex with you. Not tonight,” Spencer says coolly. “You can touch yourself, but I’m not going to touch you.”

Sam shrugs. “Okay.”

“No tools, no toys, no restraints, not the first time.” His voice is dispassionate, matter-of-fact, like he’s reading out a grocery list. “Just your hands. You can scratch, but don’t draw blood.”

“Okay,” Sam says. He’s glad Spencer said it before he had to admit he wasn’t confident enough, yet, to use a flogger on a stranger. His voice cracks. “Safeword?”

“Lateral orbitofrontal cortex.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, I’m aware that it’s three words.”

It startles a laugh out of Sam. “That’s not what I meant.”

Spencer’s mouth twitches as he suppresses a smile. “Seriously. But I only say ‘stop’ if I really mean it.”

“I understand. If I didn’t get the joke, would you have called this whole thing off?”

Spencer’s lips twitch again. He just shrugs. “Anything else we need to talk about?”

“After?” Sam asks. “What can I - how do I help, afterward?”

Spencer pauses, a strange expression flickering over his face for a moment before he says, “Don’t leave?”

It sounds like a question. Sam doesn’t think it was supposed to sound like a question.

“Of course. Is that all?”

Spencer shrugs. “That’s all. Just. Stay, for a minute. I’ll tell you, if there’s anything else I need. That’s the only thing I… can’t always bring myself to ask for, in the moment.”

He gives Sam a very practiced, casual sort of smile, nonchalant, blinking up at him innocently as if to say I’m fine! See?

The protector in Sam is snarling. He just nods calmly.

“What about you?” Spencer asks.

Sam frowns, taken aback by that. It didn’t occur to him that he might need to be taken care of.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Is that okay?”

“Yes. That’s okay,” Spencer says. This time his little half-smile is sweet and genuine.

Sam looks around nervously. “Is there anywhere more private? This isn’t really...”

“Agreed,” Spencer says. “There’s an open door policy, I’m sure Lindsey explained, but there are other rooms where there won’t be a crowd.”

He leads Sam through the living room, heading up a flight of stairs and down a hallway. Sam catches glimpses of scenes through three open doors before they reach the last room. It’s small, some sort of office, he thinks, lit dimly enough to feel comfortable. There’s no bed, just a loveseat, an end table, and a desk with an office chair, but the desk holds an assortment of toys, chains, and condoms instead of a computer.

It’s quieter, here. It feels warmer, too, but that might just be Sam’s nerves kicking in. He glances at the open door instinctively as Spencer starts to loosen his tie.

Spencer notices, of course. “There’s an understanding, with the regulars, that this is where you go if you don’t really want an audience.”

Sam nods and turns to get a better look at some of the implements on the desk, skin prickling with adrenaline. He runs his fingers over the sleek handle of a riding crop, imagining the sound it would make on skin.

He’s all too aware of his own inexperience, and he’s all too aware of how badly he could hurt someone with a misplaced blow from the gorgeous leather whip that’s lying next to the crop. He’d want to practice, first, and he’d want to be with someone he trusts, but there’s no denying that he wants.

Someday, he thinks, and shivers.

When he turns around again, Spencer’s putting a neatly folded pile of clothes on the loveseat. He brushes his hair out of his eyes as he straightens up, tilting his chin almost defiantly to meet Sam’s gaze. He still looks sharp around the edges, from the angular shape of his Adam’s apple, bobbing as he swallows, to the jut of his hipbones. There’s something brittle about the way he holds himself.

“Where do you want me?” he asks quietly, with a crack in his voice that belies the careful blankness on his face. “Um, bearing in mind that most of this room is probably highly unsanitary and I’m something of a germaphobe. Minimal contact with furniture would be… ideal.” He wrinkles his nose and Sam huffs out a laugh.

“Over here. Brace yourself against the wall.”

Spencer walks over silently and settles with his forearms on the wall, his head bowed, and goes completely still.

Sam lets himself stare for one long moment, taking it all in: the delicate curve of his bent neck, the prominent ridge of his spine, the lean muscles that shift under pale skin, shoulder blades that Sam wants to run his thumb across to test whether they’d cut him as easily as he imagines.

There’s tension in the way he’s holding himself, though. Sam frowns to himself and steps closer.

Sam’s been hiding this, his whole life; he’s been burying this sharp, nasty piece of himself, ignoring need in favor of romance, affection, emotion. He didn’t think they could coexist.

He has a feeling that Spencer’s been doing the opposite: slipping into this formal, scripted exchange of limits and safewords and scientific explanations, being perfectly clear about what he needs but never admitting what he wants.

The party is still going on outside, but the silence between them is heavy enough to drown out the noise of it. Sam takes one deep breath, then another, syncing his inhales to the steady rise of Spencer’s shoulders, and sidles closer, standing at Spencer’s side where he’s visible.

He hesitates for a moment, wondering if he’s crossing a line, before following his instinct and resting a gentle hand on Spencer’s back, right between his shoulderblades. Spencer doesn’t flinch at the touch, but Sam can tell he’s surprised.

“You good?” Sam asks quietly.

Spencer turns his head slightly, looking sideways at Sam through long lashes.

“I’m good,” he whispers, in that soft, smoky voice.

“Okay.”

“Sam?”

“Hmm?”

The corner of Spencer’s mouth crooks up in a shy half-smile. “I’m not gonna break. I’m stronger than I look.”

“I’d fuckin’ hope so, cause you look like I could snap you with my pinky finger,” Sam says bluntly. Spencer ducks his head and laughs, bright and surprised, and Sam can feel the vibrations of it under his palm.

“Fair enough,” Spencer says, grinning as he goes still again. He’s not tense any more, though. He’s calm, breathing evenly under Sam’s hand.

Sam rests his fingertips on the nape of Spencer’s neck for a moment, making his intentions clear. The first drag of his nails is gentle, nowhere near enough pressure to sting. He twists his wrist to drag them back up along the same path, still gentle, and then moves to repeat the process on a new strip of skin, once and then again. He can see the goosebumps running down Spencer’s arms, the way his neck arches, silently asking for more.

“Are you sure?” Sam asks.

His voice is quiet, but there’s no hesitation when he whispers, “Yes.”

Sam curls his fingers in and drags one knuckle down the knobby bumps of his vertebrae.

“Okay,” he repeats.

Every lingering bit of doubt and hesitation and anxiety disappear with the first sharp crack of his palm coming down. Spencer hisses in a breath, shivers, and Sam exhales with him.

His body goes fizzy and focused, suddenly. It’s like in the last moments of a fight, when Sam knows he’ll win, he knows exactly what to do, he sees what needs to happen with absolute clarity, and all that’s left is to trust his muscles to get the job done. It feels good. It feels like this is exactly where Sam’s meant to be.

Two more blows, in quick succession, and the next exhale is more like a gasp. The sound sends heat lancing through Sam’s gut.

He’s careful about it, precise, still holding back, as he moves lower. He knows how to use his hands, how to hit with just the right amount of force, which spots will hurt, which spots he should avoid unless he wants to cause real damage. Sam’s been practicing for this his whole life, in a way.

He lands a light smack on one thigh, then the other, then harder, on the same spots. Sam’s vision tunnels down to the red flush that’s already blossoming on Spencer’s pale skin. Something dark and possessive curls in his stomach.

The next impact pulls a rough, gorgeous sound from Spencer’s throat. Sam gives him a second to recover before doing it again, and then again, until his palm is smarting with the force of it.

He pauses abruptly. He can see the way Spencer tenses, waiting for a blow that doesn’t come. Instead Sam brushes the tips of his fingers over red, heated skin, feather-light, making Spencer shudder, before dragging three fingernails delicately up his spine again.

“I like the way my handprints look on you,” Sam says quietly. Spencer sucks in a shaky breath. Sam rakes his fingernails down again, digging in this time, and Spencer’s exhale breaks on a low, gravelly groan.

The raised red lines trail down his back, a perfect set of three all the way down the right side of his spine. Sam takes a moment to admire them before giving him a matching set on the left. He traces those lines again, smoothing them with his fingertips, fascinated by the feel of raised flesh.

Spencer is trembling, but he’s still, waiting, ready, and there’s a dizzying level of trust implicit in that stillness.

Sam’s blindsided by the gut-punch of arousal he feels at that realization. He takes a deep breath, putting it to the side. He’s determined to prove to himself that this doesn’t have to be selfish.

He brings his hand down again with a powerful snap of his wrist that makes Spencer whimper. His skin must be sensitive now, blood rushing to every spot Sam’s marked, pulsing in time with his heartbeat.

Sam puts some muscle into the next one, and that’s saying something. He’s strong, he knows he is, and he pauses to gauge the reaction. Spencer lets out another of those breathy, beautiful whimpers, and Sam can see the shudder that goes through him. Sam rakes his fingernails up the tender, overheated skin he just hit, nothing gentle about it, and Spencer arches his back, squirming slightly.

He’s panting; they both are. Sam realizes that they’re breathing in sync, and he takes another deep heaving breath that matches the rise and fall of Spencer’s shoulders.

Sam gives in to the urge, finally, and tangles his fingers in Spencer’s hair, tugging his head back so Sam can see his face clearly: eyes closed, lashes fluttering, a sheen of sweat on those lethal cheekbones, his mouth slack. There’s a flush decorating the pale skin, patchy, spilling all the way from his cheeks to the hollow of his neck and down his chest. He looks totally relaxed, peaceful, like he could melt under Sam’s hands.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” Sam bites out, before he can help himself, and then asks, “You good?”

“Yes.” It’s a gasp more than a word. Spencer’s eyes are still closed.

“More?”

Spencer licks his lips and swallows hard, and Sam watches the way his throat moves with it. He whispers, “Please.”

Heat thuds through Sam’s belly, urgent and overwhelming. He ignores it, ignores how hard he is, ignores everything but the way Spencer’s head lolls forward when Sam releases his hair and the way he moans at the next hit.

Sam’s not holding back any more.

There’s a rhythm to it: the sound of his palm, crack, and the choked, rasping sound that it pulls from Spencer’s lips, nnngh, and the steady thump-thump of Sam’s heartbeat pounding in his ears, and it crescendos quickly, until the ragged cries turn desperate and wrecked.

“Last one,” he warns.

Crack.

“I need -”

Sam thinks of Spencer’s “no touching” rule, but he can’t bring himself to move away entirely. He tangles his fingers in Spencer’s hair again, tugging gently and then combing through the messy curls, and Spencer leans into it, catlike. He lets out a deep, ragged groan as he touches himself, movements fast and urgent.

“Did so good,” Sam says fiercely. His fingers twist and tug, sharp enough to sting, and he curls the other hand around Spencer’s side, digging his thumbnail into the ridge of his hipbone. That’s all it takes; he can feel the head-to-toe shudder, the last surge of tension before Spencer shakes almost violently under his hands.

Spencer crumples like a puppet with his strings cut.

“C’mere, I’ve got you,” Sam says hoarsely, getting an arm around him and maneuvering so that they both have their backs to the wall as they slide to the floor.

Spencer ends up tucked against Sam’s side, folded under his arm like he belongs there. He’s breathing harsh and heavy, and Sam cups the round of his shoulder with one hand, running his thumb in mindlessly soothing circles, waiting for him to come back to himself.

As for Sam… he’s hard, still, more turned on than he can remember being in a long time, but there’s the strangest sense of calm settling into his body, a bone-deep satisfaction that has nothing to do with sex.

This isn’t the same vicious, feral sort of satisfaction that he remembers. It’s nothing like crimson-tinted memories of lashing out rough and wild, like some sort of savage animal he’d unleashed. There’s nothing selfish about this.

He closes his eyes for a moment, breathless at the wave of blissed-out relief that’s crashing down around him.

“You good?” he asks, falling back on what seems to be his mantra for the evening.

“I’m… no, not really, hang on,” Spencer mumbles, and Sam flinches, moving away instinctively.

“Shit, sorry, what -”

“No, wait, that’s not - just… can you reach the tissues, or do I actually have to stand up right now?” Spencer asks, with a disgruntled sort of glare at the box of Kleenex on the end table.

Sam laughs, awkward and self-conscious. Spencer blinks owlishly up at him, shaking his hair out of his eyes. Then a smile spreads over his face slowly and he’s laughing too as Sam leans and stretches over to grab the box.

“The male orgasm is really inconvenient sometimes,” Spencer mutters.

Sam lets out another snort of laughter, looking away to give him some privacy as he cleans up. He’s not sure what the etiquette of this whole situation is; it’s such a strange thing, oddly intimate, and even though Sam’s still fully-dressed, he feels exposed in a way he’s not used to.

“Now I’m good,” Spencer says quietly. He’s got his knees tucked up to his chest, arms wrapped loosely around them, but he tilts his head back against the wall and aims a hazy, heavy-lidded stare at Sam. His lips part and curl up in a barely-there smile, and his tongue flicks out over the pink curve of his lower lip.

Those edges that Sam first noticed are harder to see, now; he’s all soft eyes and softer mouth, flushed skin, messy hair… all except the line of his jaw. That’s still wickedly, unmistakably sharp.

Spencer should come with a warning sign: handle with care. Sam’s not sure who that sign would be protecting. It could be handle with care: fragile, or, just as easily, handle with care: sharp edges.

Either way, there’s a good chance of someone getting hurt here.

“Can I kiss you?” Sam asks.

Spencer’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly with surprise, and his pupils are huge and dark, liquid-looking, hypnotic. He blinks, slowly, and suddenly looks about ten years younger. He’d been so self-assured ordering Sam not to draw blood; that confidence is gone, now, like he’s had less experience with kissing than with telling people how to hit him.

Oh, Sam thinks, and tries not to let his own surprise show on his face.

“Yes,” Spencer whispers. He licks his lower lip again before adding, thready and shy, “Please.”

Sam reaches out slowly. His pinky, ring, and middle fingers curl around the side of Spencer’s neck, sliding through thin, sweat-damp strands of hair. The L-shape of his thumb and index finger slots to the angle of Spencer’s jaw. He can feel the bone under thin skin, the way the pad of his thumb nestles so neatly between the hard edge of jawbone and the soft give of vulnerable throat.

It’s a perfect fit.

#spencer reid #sam winchester #spn #criminal minds #sam winchester x spencer reid

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bookandcranny · 4 years ago

Text

Beatrice - Chapter Four

“Doc-- Petra,” she greeted with a polite nod. She wasn’t really in the mood for chatting, but she tried to relax her expression into something resembling friendly nonetheless. It wasn’t her fault she was so on edge.

“Where have you been?” the professor asked. “I came looking for you but everyone I asked said you were out sick.”

“I was, but I’m better now.”

Again and again she replayed the events of that day in her mind. At night she lay on her side staring at the lowered blinds until frustration or exhaustion or both forced her to roll over and at least try to sleep. She was still struggling to make sense of all that Dr Rappaccini had told her, unsure how much of it she should even take to be true considering how obviously unstable the old man turned out to be.

In the end she decided it didn’t matter. Whether Beatrice was some test-tube baby in the shape of a second-coming, whether she was the daughter of a mad doctor straight out of a 1970s B-movie, first and foremost she was Beatrice. She was still the girl Gianna had fallen for. There had to be some way to reach her, to free her from her father’s control.

In the meantime however, between bouts of mourning her relationship that wasn’t and fanatically drafting and scrapping plans to whisk her away from her troubled life, there was work. Now feeling recovered from whatever had been ailing her, Gianna couldn’t justify taking off any more days, not even for her own heartbreak. She allowed herself the weekend to sulk and then woke up early the next morning prepared to throw herself back into her work.

Despite her best intentions however, the encounter with Beatrice’s father still weighed heavy on her mind. She tried to let work serve as a distraction, but then out of nowhere she would look down and remember the weight and feel of a hand twined with her own, or find herself touching the back of her fingertips to her lips, light as the flutter of a butterfly’s wings, and wondering what might have happened if she’d had the courage to kiss her before her father had walked in.

The strange dreams had begun again as well. She wasn’t exactly surprised. All through the night her head was filled with visions of a feminine figure draped in green, then red as the blissful scene became dirty and blood-soaked before her eyes. Gianna would wake up gasping, grasping for someone who wasn’t there and aching down to her marrow with the absence.

Shaking herself, Gianna stepped out of the arts building and gave herself a moment to linger in the breezeway, taking in fresh air that never seemed quite fresh enough anymore. Once again she was fighting a losing battle with her impulse to brood, when a familiar voice called out to her.

“Gianna, good heavens,” Dr Bagnol exclaimed as she hurried across the courtyard.

She was acting like they hadn’t spoken in years, Gianna thought with some annoyance, when she knew it had only been… how long? A few weeks? A month? Time has been moving so weirdly lately.

“Where have you been?” the professor asked. “I came looking for you but everyone I asked said you were out sick.”

“I was, but I’m better now.”

“I asked after you for days, Gianna.”

For some reason, the old woman’s concern grated on her.

“Yep. I was out for a few days, but I’m better now. Was there something you needed?”

Surprised hurt flashed in her eyes for less than a second. “I’d remembered something I wanted to ask you about. It had to do with that thing we talked about, about Dr Rappaccini. After you left I got to thinking, reminiscing on those days when we worked together. I decided to dig up some of my old research and journals and such from around that time and I realized there were some… loose ends I never followed up on the way I should have.”

Gianna bit her lip. This was the very last subject she wanted to talk about. “I don’t know how I could help. The guy’s just my neighbor, you know.”

Petra’s eyes raked over her face and her expression grew stern. “Ah. So you did speak to him after all, didn’t you?”

“We met, briefly,” she confessed with a grimace.

“Is that why you’ve been avoiding me?”

“I haven’t been avoiding you. I was out sick.”

She hummed her disbelief. “Well you look well enough now. Very well in fact. Why, you’re glowing, Gianna. And,” She paused and tilted her head to the side. “What’s that smell?”

Gianna felt a prickle of cold sweat on the back of her neck. It was true; that tea must have packed a bigger punch than she thought because, in addition to waking up feeling fully restored the next morning, her hair had also gained a vibrant shine and her skin was softer and clearer than it had been since she was a young child. She half wondered why the Rappaccinis were sitting on a recipe like that when every celebrity influencer would probably trade their left tit for the brew. But then again she supposed it wasn’t as thought Dr Rappaccini needed the money. As for the smell though, she hadn’t noticed.

“Acetone? Epoxy resin maybe?” She nodded toward the building she’d come out of. “Actually, I should probably get back in there.”

The professor grabbed her wrist. “Has he taken you into his garden?”

“Hey, that hurts.”

Her grip tightened. Petra was surprisingly strong for her age. “Gianna.”

“I barely spoke to him!” she insisted. “I only went over there once, to see Beatrice.”

“Beatrice? You mean, the girl is still alive?”

Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean by that? Of course she’s alive. She’s… she’s wonderful. And she’s not like her father at all. She’s smart and sensitive and loving--”

“Gianna, listen to me,” Dr Bagnol interrupted. “Dr Rappaccini does not have any children. He has experiments. However dangerous the doctor himself is-- and he is-- whatever else is living with him in that place is far worse. This girl… you can’t trust her. You can’t trust anything she tells you.”

Gianna tore herself away from the professor, disgusted, and took several steps back. “Don’t you say that about her. Beatrice is-- I’m in love with her, don’t you understand that? Doesn’t anyone understand that? I don’t care what you think she is, I know Beatrice.”

Petra called out in one final attempt to reach her, but she was already gone.

It revolted her to turn her back so coldly on someone she’d considered to be a friend, but she couldn’t stand to listen to those lies any longer. Whatever animosity lay between Petra and the old doctor, his daughter did not deserve her spite. And the way she spoke about Beatrice was just as bad as the man himself! They acted as though she weren’t even human.

But I’m not really any better, thought Gianna. Walking home alone that night there was nothing left to keep her from these idle guilty thoughts. She might feign righteousness, but when Beatrice had gone all silent and subservient like that, she’d been unable to get past her own discomfort and defend her. Between her bizarre behavior and her insane father’s outrageous claims, it had just been way too much.

So she had left her there, abandoned.

I spent all that time building her up in my head, thinking of her like she was some perfect heaven-sent angel, and ditched the second the reality became too complicated for me. That can’t be how I act with someone I care about. That can’t be how we leave things.

Gianna charged into her apartment and wrenched open the blinds. She had braced herself for the worst but when she looked down on the terrace, there was Beatrice, watering her plants like nothing had happened.

“Beatrice!”

The woman looked up, mouth hanging open, and for a moment Gianna thought she looked hopeful. Then again, it might’ve been wishful thinking on her part. As she descended to the lower platform Beatrice pursed her lips together and looked away, focusing intently on her work.

“I-I’m not supposed to talk to you.”

Gianna glanced over at the sliding door half-hidden in greenery. “Is he listening?”

She hesitated a moment then shook her head. “I don’t think so. He doesn’t come out here very much on his own. There are cameras hidden in a couple of the planters-- that’s how he knew I was meeting with you, I think-- but they don’t pick up sound. As long as I keep working like normal I don’t think he’ll bother to check up on me.”

Gianna frowned but bit her tongue. “Well, good, I guess.”

An uncertain silence fell between them.

“I sort of thought… I was afraid I wouldn’t get to see you again,” she admitted.

Beatrice kept watering, watching drops of water roll off the waxy bell of a foxglove.

“Father can punish me all he wants but he can’t keep me away from my garden. Someone has to take care of it and he doesn’t have the strength anymore.”

This time Gianna couldn’t control herself. She scowled. “About that, Bea. You’re an adult. He can’t treat you like this. It’s sick, you understand that, right? Spying on you, ordering you around, talking about you like you’re his property. That’s not normal.”

“I know that,” she said. “But there’s nothing I can do.”

“Of course there is! You can leave!”

“You make it sound so easy.”

“I mean, if it’s a matter of money or needing a place to stay…”

“You don’t get it. I’ve never even…” She trailed off, closing her eyes. She took in a deep, quavering breath. “He’s my father, Gianna. He’s all I have.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way. I--”

“You don’t understand!” she repeated. The watering can clattered to the ground. “This is all my fault. I was stupid to think I could have this. Look, take a look at this plant.”

She pointed to one of the many flowering shrubs. Gianna squinted at the merry looking pink blooms.

“Um, Latua Pub-- Pubiflora, right?”

“You remembered.” She smiled despite herself, giving the specimen an affectionate touch. “It’s common name translates to something like ‘sorcerer’s tree’. Most people are more familiar with its cousin, the deadly nightshade, although ironically she’s probably the less poisonous of the two. Now look at this one.”

Gianna looked and saw blood red blossoms in a sort of fan shape. “I don’t think I know that one.”

“That’s because, officially, it doesn’t exist. It’s a hybrid species of my father’s own making, the only one of its kind. It can’t survive in the wild. It needs to be pollinated by hand because the smell of the nectar it secretes kills any insects before they can so much as touch it.” She knelt and lowered her face into the flowers’ embrace, breathing deeply. “She’s just one of my father’s many projects. And me too, I’m the same way. I’m a hybrid, a splice, a hothouse orchid; designed to be pretty from a distance but never touched. I can’t survive outside of the walls of my father’s world.”

“What do you think will happen if you leave?”

She wrapped her arms around herself. “I don’t know. Something terrible.”

Gianna leaned heavily on the railing. “Beatrice… I know you’re scared, but you can’t let him keep brainwashing you for the rest of your life. You’re not a flower. You don’t stay rooted wherever you’re planted. Don’t you want more than this?”

“You know I do,” she sighed.

“Then run away with me!” she blurted out. “We can leave all this bullshit with your dad behind. We’ll get out of the city, go somewhere where you can stretch your legs, where you can feel the earth beneath your feet, someplace beautiful and green. We can figure out the details later, just-- the way he talked to you, the way you looked. I never want to see you look like that again. It was like you weren’t even really there.

“You told me before that you didn’t want to lose me. Well I don’t want to lose you either. I care about you, Beatrice.” She felt her eyes grow wet. “I care about you so much. And I wasn’t strong enough to say so before. I wasn’t strong enough to help you. That’s why I was afraid to face you. I should’ve done something, I should’ve seen what was happening sooner.”

“No, Gianna,” Beatrice shuddered out. “It wasn’t your fault. I knew the risk when I went against my father and I took it anyway. I’ve never wanted anything as badly as I wanted to be able to touch you. I still do.” She balled her fists. “I’d take that risk again a thousand times. I will. I’ll go with you.”

-----

Day by day their plan began to coalesce. Gianna did all the research, staying up late into the night scrolling through articles and the firsthand accounts of abuse escapees, mapping routes and making plans, but it could still be argued Beatrice had the harder job of the two.

While they could see one another under the guise of her daily gardening, Dr Rappaccini had been keeping a sharper eye on his daughter than ever. The man hardly went outside as it was so finding times to meet and share their findings without prying eyes was tricky, and trying to arrange the time and date of their ultimate escape that much more so.

Then Gianna had an idea. Although the other caretakers came and went in the Rappaccini home, Beatrice remained the most consistently responsible for her father’s care, and prepared many of his meals. With her expertise on medicinal plants, it would be a simple thing to mix the right combination of herbs into his food and put him out of their way.

At first Gianna was afraid she was asking too much of her, that requesting she drug her own father was going too far, but when she cautiously proposed it as an option, Beatrice lit up.

“That’s perfect! I’ll just give him something to make him sleep for a while. I used to do the same thing with my babysitters when I was a kid so I could stay up late.”

“And there’s no chance that you might, you know, give him the wrong dosage or something?”

“It’s harmless,” said Beatrice. “I’ve known these plants my whole life, I know exactly what to do.”

In spite of all their scheming, when the day finally came, Gianna felt as much dread as she did excitement. Everything had seemed so certain, so flawless in that initial flurry of adrenalin and heady heartsick longing. Only when she was staring down the suitcase laid open on her bed did the enormity of what she was about to do strike her full-force.

It felt like just yesterday she’d been unpacking this same bag, getting ready to begin her new life in the city. But she had made a promise to Beatrice and she didn’t intend to go back on her word now. She needed for her to be safe, for her to be free. The rest, she figured, they could work out along the way.

Bag packed with some time left to kill, Gianna made a quick detour to the market a block over, where a regular vendor could be found selling flowers from a stall outside. She bought a bouquet in rich romantic hues which she hoped would make her friend smile even when she was forced to part with her own beloved garden. She knew she loved that terrace more than anything. She would probably stay there all day and night if she could, sleeping on a bed of earth with leaves for a pillow. Hopefully they wouldn’t have to be parted for too long.

Gianna was feeling more lighthearted by the time she arrived at the apartment. 6pm on the dot, giving Beatrice enough time to serve the old man his dinner and let the drug take effect. She punched in the passcode, but in place of a chime and cheery green light she was met with a low, admonishing tone. Someone must have changed the code. Perhaps Rappaccini himself had had a word with the super or whoever after their attempted date. No problem, Beatrice could just buzz her in.

“Hey, it’s me,” she said into the receiver.

“Gianna?” The break in her voice was lost under the buzz of feedback and Gianna was too silly with love to notice.

“Yup! I’m downstairs. Are you all packed?”

“Gianna… I’m sorry.”

“What’s wrong? Talk to me.” It didn’t surprise her that she might be having second thoughts now that the moment was at hand, but she was confident that whatever her hesitation, they could work through it.

There was a pause, then a muffled voice in the background, a shuffle of motion.

“This was a bad idea,” Beatrice said in a near whisper. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The intercom cut off. Growing panicked, Gianna yanked furtively on the door but the lock held firm.

“Shit. Shit!” She dropped her bag. She dropped the bouquet. She didn’t stay for long enough to see it wither and die.

next chapter

#writeblr #original fiction #horror romance #gothic #lgbt #rappaccini's daughter #my writing

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c4-weeb · 4 years ago

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Hey, I know everyone on here doesnt like.....know me at all but I just want to get this off my chest. Cause what if someone else out there is going through the same thing you know?

. . . In reality I dont even know why I'm posting this. . .

Not gonna lie I'm REALLY afraid to post this

But anyways welcome to my Ted talk lol

Tw: this is about sexuality and being confused about it and it's like my little breakdown over not knowing how to handle this... so fair warning lol

So....you all know how nurse rachet on netflix goes through a lot of lgbtq+ topics? Especially lesbianism and puts it together with religion telling us how sinful it is, while others think it's not and others think it's a disease..... I just.... I feel so confused.

Like am I asexual because I seriously dont feel any sexual attraction to people and I dont particularly care for intercourse. Like I'm on that spectrum of having little to no sexual attraction to any gender, but I have a very take it or leave it thing about sex. Like i dont want it, nor crave it, or need it. I dont get turned on by someone's looks but if I participate in sex I do it mainly for their pleasure but that doesn't mean that in the act I cant feel it and dont want any release of my own. I mean it's the human body, how can someone's body not react to it if done right?

But then theres bisexuality of where I've dated men and women before and I dont really care, as long as I like them as a person but I do still have my preferences in looks but that doesnt mean those preferences turn me on exactly. Just means I feel more comfortable and right to be with someone that looks or acts how they do and make me feel loved in the process.

Then there are times of where I wonder if I'm just a closeted lesbian trying to deny it when I just have such a big impulse to make out with another woman. Like I keep imagining having a woman kiss me deeply or when I hug another woman I think about how fitting it feels to hug their curves and how it feels right but I've been surrounded by my family during quarantine and having a ton of sisters it's weird. It's not like I'm attracted to them but its not like if I was hugging another lady and it not feel right. I mean plush skin, nice curves, and beautiful hair I can play with whether it's short or long.

. . . But it's so confusing I had to stop doing everything and just go in the bathroom as the lyrics "Oh hannah, I dont wanna be your friend I wanna kiss your lips" haunts my mind. Dont get me wrong it's a great song and it's just what I relate to right now. It's not influencing me to think these ways (at least i dont think, but again not the songs fault, nor the artist) but it's just what I relate to so badly right now.

My minds been buzzing for the last 2 hours over my intrusive thoughts and it's gotten to the point of where I understood why exactly the actors in movies, when worked up, splash water in their face.

At first I turned on hot water to wash my hands to make it seem like I used the bathroom but then, while hunched over the sink I felt the burning feeling of the water as it hit my hands. It reminded me of when I would turn the water on so hot it would burn my skin red when I was upset and wanted to punish myself or calm down my burning anger for what ever reason I had.....but as I had my hands under the scolding water I asked if this was sinful to think this way.

Then the question of "what would my family say if I showed up with a girl one day?" "How would they react?" And then more and more overwhelming thoughts over took my mind.

It got to the point I had to switch the water to cold and splash my face with cold water. In that moment I felt better for a second. So I did it again, and again,and again, until i felt like I was in a cold pool diving into the deep end, as the cold water engulfed my body in this pure calmness.

Of course I still looked like a panicked mess with teary eyes as if I had just been told a deadline for a school project was tomorrow and nothing was done yet and I had a breakdown over it. (Might have happened more than I'd like to admit lmao)

Other than that I just dont really know what to say now.... like just dont think you're alone if you're going through this too alright? One day everything will be clear (I hope lol). But if you have any advice I'd love some. Other than that this was just another stupid Ted talk I'm sorta afraid to post.

#lgbtq #lgbt rant #confused #guidance #ted talks #someone please help lol #coming out

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rotationalsymmetry · 3 years ago

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I feel like that last paragraph (about how punishment is by definition harmful) requires more explanation and I’m not sure how.

What I know: when I got put on time out for throwing a tantrum, it did not teach me how to control my anger. (Fuck, I still don’t really know how to do that.)

Generally people have been understanding about me being late, which is good, because I am extremely bad at not being late even when I try very, very hard. I can manage for one-off things or otherwise if there’s a great deal of urgency, but I can’t be on time five days a week for weeks at a time and I can’t be on time for events that I see as low-urgency, like meeting up with a friend. Any sort of punishment would not have helped at all. “Hey, it really bugs me when you’re late” would be effective if I had any fucking control over this bullshit.

I remember being spanked at least once and it was officially part of my parents’ disciplinary agenda, but I don’t think it happened very often. I remember being furious. I have no recollection of why I was being spanked and I certainly don’t recall any sort of “well, I’d better not do that again, if I get the impulse to do it again here’s what I’m going to do instead” thought process.

Punishment assumes the people being punished are fully capable of acting differently and are choosing not to. It’s assuming the fundamental problem is motivation to not do bad. Now, I could go off about ADHD and impulse control and whatnot, but I don’t actually think this is an ADHD specific thing. I think what it comes down to is, if someone is acting in ways that aren’t good for the people around them, one of two things is going on:

1. Either they don’t know how to act differently. In which case punishment just hurts them without giving them the tools they need to act differently.

Or, 2. They don’t want to act differently. In which case... there’s a very good chance punishment won’t get them to change what they want, but will convince them they need to figure out how to not get caught next time.

Or both. And in either case, it’s establishing that it’s OK to get what you want by hurting someone less powerful, especially when the person being punished is a child. (And parent-child relationships, unless the parent actively chooses otherwise, are set up like dictatorships. There is one final authority and all power goes one way and there’s no democracy, no law except that created by the parent who can change it at any time, often no rules that apply to the parent unless the parent is acting badly enough to get child protection involved, no appeal.

But punishing adults in a situation where there are rights and laws and appeals and a jury of your peers doesn’t make punishment anything other than harming people who have caused harm, at best.

There are adults who say that they were spanked as a child and it taught them to respect authority or whatever, but I am skeptical that those claims are actually coming from a place of genuine introspection, rather than just wanting to rationalize their own behavior or the behavior of parents who presumably loved them. I can’t think of, not have I ever heard of, a way in which being hurt would actually cause someone to develop respect. That isn’t how people usually respond to suffering.

#punishment #personal #long post #kinda thinking as I go #again this is strongly worded #out of proportion to how confident I actually feel about the ideas being expressed

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justkeeptrekkin · 5 years ago

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OCD! What the fuck is it? WELL-

Recently, I started to find out more about OCD and what it means. It was with research that I realised that I fit into the criteria- I’m now talking to my therapist about how to work on my more distressing obsessions and compulsions.

There’s still a very strong voice in my head that i’m making this up, that i’m being a self-diagnosing idiot (that’s anxiety for you!), even though I have my therapist’s support. But the truth is: the reason I feel that way is because I spent so long misunderstanding OCD, that it seems impossible that I could have it. There is almost no real awareness of what OCD means.

OCD stands for Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Obsessions and compulsions can be many, many different things.

Obsessions= the thoughts

Compulsions= the subsequent behaviours

Compulsions

Let’s start with compulsions, since these are the things that people notice first about an OCD sufferer.

1. Common Compulsions/Behaviours

The most well-known compulsions that you might come across:

Checking

Tidying and cleaning

Rearranging objects

Washing/grooming yourself

These are the compulsions that you’ll SEE. You see them on telly. You’d expect to see these in someone with OCD. Everyone does some of these things to some extent- which is how you get people being like

“OMG I’M sooooooo ocd ahahaha”

Not only does that trivialise the intense anxiety and suffering that people with OCD go through, it’s also just like. Wrong.

2. The Undiscussed Compulsions

It’s the huge lack of awareness and misunderstanding of how OCD works that means that it wasn’t until a few months ago that I found out that these are also examples of compulsions:

Over-apologising

Constantly seeking reassurance

Mental compulsions/punishments

guilt-tripping yourself

special words repeated

special prayers repeated in a particular way

going over past events over and over (perhaps trying to convince yourself that you’ve done something terrible)

Avoiding places or situations

Collecting/hoarding

Counting

Bodily habits such as rubbing skin, or dermatillomania (which is when you obsessively pick at your skin)

Being overly-superstitious (eg. if I don’t salute that single magpie, I’ll get in a car accident)

Compulsions can be covert. That means, they can be mental- like praying to yourself obsessively in your head- so no one else witnesses them. An example of overt compulsions, that is a habit that is physical/seen, is tidying.

“Typically, the individual experiences a sense of resistance to the act but this is overridden by the strong, subjective drive to perform the action. Most often the principal aim behind the compulsive behaviour is to generate relief (usually only temporary) from the anxiety elicited by the preceding obsession.”

Obsessions

Now that we’ve talked about the compulsions, the things that people might see in their OCD suffering friends and family: all these behaviours/compulsions are all caused by obsessions.

1. Common Obsessions

Sometimes, an obsession is seeing something and your monkey brain saying THAT DOESN’T LOOK RIGHT. IT’S WRONG. VERY WRONG. so you get a huge bout of anxiety and uneasiness- maybe feelings that something will go wrong if you don’t fix it immediately. So then you have to fix it somehow- maybe tidying or rearranging or cleaning. (These are the compulsions.)

This is probably the most well known obsession associated with OCD. I get this a little bit, but not a lot, which is why I didn’t realised I had OCD till like, last week.

There are so many ways that OCD manifests. They are very often to do with an anxiety, or fear about:

Contamination

harm/being unsafe

body/physical symptoms

symmetry and ‘perfection’

Feeling that you have done, or will do something bad (for example that you’re going to cause an accident whilst driving, or that the thing you did three years ago will get you arrested)

These all can overlap with each other. A fear of being unsafe is linked to a fear that something bad will happen, for example.

2. Intrusive Thoughts As Obsessions

BUT HERE’S THE BIGGEST MISUNDERSTANDING ABOUT OCD: WE ALSO GET INTRUSIVE THOUGHTS, AND OBSESS OVER THEM.

Intrusive thoughts are weird, random, sometimes violent thoughts that just pop into your head seemingly out of nowhere. For example: “Hey, how about we just like drop kick that toddler lol” or “how about we stand up in the middle of this silent meeting and shout BOLLLOOOOCCCCKKKKS”

Now, everyone gets intrusive thoughts, to some extent. We tend to look at that thought and go

- and then move on.

So like, people with OCD can’t just move on. We obsess over the thought. We wonder why we got the thought; we punish ourselves for the thought; we avoid particular situations for fear that we’re going to act out the thought; we give the thought weight. We develop compulsions to negate the thought.

Examples that cause OCD sufferers intense distress and recur, are thoughts of the following nature:

Violence (towards yourself or others)

Sexual

of being a pedophile

of assaulting someone

of cheating

of incest

of being homosexual/straight when you aren’t

Suicidal thoughts (this is not the same as planning suicide. If you are planning your suicide in detail rather than suddenly experiencing a distressing thought about it, then you should call Samaritans xxxx)

That you’re about to hurt someone (such as accidentally poisoning someone)

The way that these intrusive thoughts work tends to be self-sabotaging. It’s your mind’s way of identifying what you care about most, and trying to ruin it for you. For example, a mother might have the sudden, unwanted thought of throwing their baby out of a window. Or, a parent/guardian/teacher might have the intrusive thought that they could be a pedophile. There could be many reasons why your mind does this, and the triggers are personal. Each OCD person should discuss these thoughts with their counsellor or therapist to find out what the route of this thinking is.

3. Do I Have OCD? Does My Friend/Family Member Have OCD?

The main thing to remember for anyone out there who suffers intrusive thoughts is: these thoughts don’t mean that you are what they say you are. It’s kind of the opposite. Because if they disgust you and cause you so much distress, it means that you are desperately, urgently NOT that thing. Intrusive thoughts telling you that you want to sleep with a family member, for example, doesn’t mean that you actually want to. Your OCD brain has identified something/someone you care about, and is trying to ruin it for you.

“To sufferers and non-sufferers alike, the thoughts and fears related to OCD can often seem profoundly shocking. It must be stressed, however, that they are just thoughts, and they are not voluntarily produced. Neither are they fantasies or impulses which will be acted upon.”

About me: Obsessions: I have every single one of those intrusive thoughts, a lot. I get them when I’m particularly stressed; I get them when I’m in a really good place, and my mind is trying to ‘save myself’ from failure/rejection by ruining it. I also get the feeling of intense dread that I’ve done something wrong: even though I can’t think of a single reason why I would. I obsess over flu/cold symptoms, thinking I have meningitis. I obsess over my spending. I obsess over not being comfortable in bed, specifically my duvet (it’s not in the right place, it’s not symmetrical, the duvet isn’t in the corners properly....) I obsess over the presence of a person next to me in a bed; regardless of who it is, it gives me intense anxiety if I’m sharing a bed. Honestly- not many people have witnessed my physical/tidying obsessions because they’re all routed in sleeping habits and beds. My compulsions range from over-apologising, seeking reassurance, dermatillomania, over-counting my finances and spending, guilt-tripping myself, praying in A Particular Way Or Satan Will Find Me, repeating mantras, going over past events at every angle until I want to cry because I’ve made myself feel so guilty about something that wasn’t actually my fault. And messing with my bed until it looks like I’m lying under a perfectly straight, unwrinkled sheet of paper. And also kicking people out of my bed, or sleeping on the floor to avoid sharing.

If you think you display some of the above in this post, you may or may not have OCD! Either way, you are not alone.

If you know someone who displays some of the above, listen to them. Try not to judge them. Try not to give them reassurance that their intrusive thoughts will never come to fruition: as odd as that sounds, that tends to fan the flame of the compulsions, rather than help.

Go forward and be free. Lots of love. x <3

#ocd #cw mental health #tw suicide #tw violence #tw sex mention #obsessive compulsive disorder #i chat shit

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kimkymury · 4 years ago

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Blue Rose Tears - Chapter 13

Hey everyone, another chapter of Pascal x Carl fanfic is here! Sorry for the delay, the next chapters will not take so long to be ready.

I really liked to write this chapter, so I hope you enjoy the story ~

Warning: Just a little warning, some characters have distorted views about sexuality, and those views do not represent what I think in real life. This was written on purpose to suit the environment and the time that the story takes place, since at that time people were more closed minded.

The Portuguese Version of this story is avaliable on Wattpad: https://www.wattpad.com/1018668258-as-l%C3%A1grimas-da-rosa-azul-cap%C3%ADtulo-13

Under the cut!

Chapter 13

P.O.V Narrator

The words that came out of his monologue did not provoke immediate reaction, the stillness of the laboratory was disturbing, as if both reflected what they heard. He had done what he feared so much, said everything that tormented him and that was in his mind, created a distance both physical and emotional. The two boys no longer wrapped their arms around each other, they could barely maintain eye contact. The sensation of realizing what had just happened took time to reach them, but when he did, it desolated the interior of both, drowning them in even more doubts. Carl deeply regretted every syllable he uttered, but there was no courage to go back, seeing the scientist's sullen countenance was enough to make him feel even more despicable.

Pascal's face was marked by an expression of emptiness, it was not similar to when another one of his experiments failed, or when he was angry with someone, it could not even be compared to the frustration of his own failures. A part of him left him the moment I heard the monologue of the religious boy, he felt totally helpless, what he feared most and what was the reason for his concerns, had finally happened. For a second, deep in his innermost thoughts, the red-haired boy still thought that there was hope. He imagined himself with a different ending, that he could be with whom he so longed for. Frustrations always accompanied him, and the feeling of emptiness was replaced by desolation. He was adrift now, his brilliant mind could not reason in any possible solution, it was not something that involved exact numbers or formulas. Humans were intriguing creatures, he himself had thought this several times, they can be down for something considered so superficial.

"I'm sorry ..." - Carl's voice, which expressed so much unhappiness, said in a failed attempt to lessen the scientist's suffering.

What he had done was considered enmity and could even be worse than betrayal, he had renounced his friendship. The scent of lavender no longer as pleasant as it seemed, made them feel sick, perhaps thanks to the sudden stress. What surprised the scientist the most was the way he received this news, he expected to see a look of anger or at the very least disgust on Carl's face, but the only thing he could observe was the dejection. Pascal sketched an expression of contentment, together with an empty look. He had imagined that there was a possibility that something like this could happen, but he did not expect that the reality could be so distressing. He was angry, not at Carl, but at himself. In other times, he could have been around without even worrying, but now he had ruined their relationship, guilt now haunted him.

"Are you sure about this?" - He still felt a hope within him, an expectation that refused to die, yearning for the religious boy to change his mind.

He remembered all the moments they shared, it was as if they were being reduced to dust, whoever else was at his side was about to abandon him. He could see that the younger boy was not feeling well in that situation, his slightly watery eyes showed everything he kept to himself. He controlled himself intensely not to withdraw everything he had said and ask for forgiveness, but succumbing to his wishes was out of the question. He kept telling himself that he would only do that for Pascal's sake, because he liked him so much that he would not hesitate to guarantee his salvation, even if it meant hurting him.

"There is no other alternative, it is the only way to save us ..." - After nodding, the dark-haired boy answers the question that was asked, hoping that the redhead would understand his real intentions.

Pascal's suspicions were confirmed, he knew that his friend would not be able to face the fact of the attraction he had felt for him without worrying about his own salvation. They were perfect opposites when it came to religious themes, there was not even one topic they could agree on. Carl, was an immensely Catholic devotee, and Pascal, on the other hand, did not believe in the existence of a god or superior force, preferring only to believe in science. Opposites are completed until a shock occurs, where each one see the same situation in different ways. The scientist could not even understand what all this had done to the religious boy's mind, and he did not even know how long this departure would last. What comforted him was Carl's description of his own feelings, he felt the same way, although this news was quickly drowned out by what was to come.

Now he imagined all the suffering he put into his friend, the same as a friend who was always by his side and never knew how to deal with his own thoughts. For Carl, it was all a delight and a torture at the same time, the redhead's presence comforted him and made him fear what was ahead. He was not surprised that he saw the situation so naturally, after all, it was Pascal. He humiliated himself inside his head, both for exposing himself in this way considered outrageous, as well as for everything he felt.

"I will pray for you later ..." - The scientist knew the real meaning of this sentence, and how it could sound ironic, considering his lack of faith.

Still with his head down, the dark-haired boy said goodbye and turned to go, preparing himself for the punishment he would receive for not attending class the day before. Carl would spend more time in the Church from now on, both for his devotion to religion and to redeem himself from his sins. He preferred to think positively, even if he was deceiving himself, and that after a while, everything would be as it was before. His slow steps took him towards the laboratory door, not before holding his books against his chest, in a failed attempt to contain himself. The scientist, who watched everything without spontaneous reaction, thought quickly about what he could do. Everything was over, he had nothing to lose, now would be the opportunity to do what he thought for so many nights. The dark-haired boy might come to hate him, but Pascal couldn't let him go without first admitting what he felt, it would probably be the last time he could talk to his friend for a long time.

"I also have something to say." - The redhead said, taking a few short steps while trying to reach the younger boy, who stopped immediately after hearing these words.

Carl turned quickly, waiting for a sign of understanding or anything to ease his pain. The scientist stopped and stared at him for a few seconds, before lightly pushing his glasses up with his fingers. He imagined the suffering he caused in his friend, he knew about his problems, worries and self-deprecations, and yet he set it all aside for a selfish desire. If this were really the last time that it would be appropriate to talk to the dark-haired boy, he would ask for forgiveness for any affliction caused.

"It wasn't right for me to have acted so impulsively, I'm sorry for all the anguish I caused, I should have think about your emotions." - Pascal said, again without sarcasm, showing his most vulnerable face while asking for his absolution.

That somewhat comforted Carl, it seemed that the rational scientist had finally understood why he was denying his friendship, and being available to collaborate. The religious boy listened attentively, not knowing if it was the right time for an answer or thanks, he chose to wait a longer pause and continue listening to what his friend had to say.

"I don't think there is a need for such a rigid distance, because ... Your presence makes me experience something that is not literally rational, however, it is something I like to feel." -The older boy continued to say, no matter how embarrassing he might say this, since he was not used to expressing himself that way.

Bewildered by what he had just heard, the dark-haired boy reflected on these words again, trying to understand their real meaning. He remained static, just watching while his thoughts took care of the rest, while the redhead approached slowly. They faced each other again, this time they managed to maintain eye contact for longer than they should have, losing some sense of time and space. Pascal seriously considered whether to proceed or retreat, but since he received no reaction from Carl, he decided to continue with his monologue.

"You were the only one who believed in me from the start, the only one who was willing to listen to my daydreams, no matter how bizarre they sounded." - The scientist said being a short distance from the boy who listened without showing an immediate reaction.

"Whether to rejoice or regret, you have always been here, you have never belittled my eccentric way of looking at life or my exotic interests." - He tried hard to sound as honest as possible, not letting his lack of practice in demonstrating complex emotions hinder him. - "Your presence is what cheers and motivates me, I just wish it would never end, that we would stay that way forever."

Open-mouthed, both because he never heard anything like this, and because these words were coming out of Pascal, the religious boy felt his own heart racing. Even though it sounded almost unlikely to happen, deep in his thoughts, he believed that he could feel the scientists' beats increase along with his. The shadows of both mixed on the floor of the laboratory, forming a single figure, thanks to the position of the Sun and the proximity between them. Carl was able to feel his own heat up, as if his own blood was circulating faster, as he analyzed the scientist's expressions.

We are halves of the same soul, divided into different faces. The same reflex seen from different perspectives, created on the basis of the same matter. In addition to being corporeal or mystical, it is irrational and plausible.

For a young man as ingenious as Carl Messier, that situation still seemed extremely confused, his own daydreams did not allow him to see what was right in front of him. All the statements made by the friend the previous day, amid the greenhouse light, made reference to him. Pascal tried to be as clear as possible, leaving no doubt about what his monologue was about, much to the delight and panic of the dark-haired boy.

"I used to think that this kind of feeling was purely rational, perhaps due to the lack of logic that is imposed on it, however, it would be hypocrisy on my part to deny that my feelings for you exist." - Apprehensive, and at the same time, a little indifferent, Pascal expressed his thoughts while preparing to finish.

The words that were usually so simple to understand, seemed to need more time to be absorbed by the religious boy, who tried to calm himself at all costs. The scientist would then say the sentence that would end any questioning that would follow, putting at risk a friendship that, according to Carl, was practically eroded.

"I love you, Carl. It took me a long time to reach this result, but I suppose that is the only conclusion."-

His heart had stopped beating for a few seconds, returning to an accelerated rhythm shortly thereafter, causing even a certain physical discomfort. He felt as if his throat was closed, blocking the passage of air in the way he was used to, which resulted in a failure in his voice. He did not understand what most intrigued him, he had heard these words before, and they were always spoken by his parents or his brother. He wanted to believe that this phrase had a different meaning, something more than a simple fraternal consideration, a sentimental meaning.

Not even a lady had even gone so far as to confess to him in this way, and he never thought he would hear anything like that from a friend. He had stopped deceiving himself some time ago, he recognized that it was reciprocal, which made everything even more dangerous in Carl's distorted conceptions. Both realized that they appreciated each other in ways beyond what was considered acceptable, what they would do next remained a mystery. The dark-haired boy gave himself the task of putting an end to this situation, considering himself a heretic from the moment he started to look at what he felt more closely.

"I'm sorry, but ... that's not true." -Carl replied after a considerably long period of silence, denying what he had just heard.

"I will go to confession before dinner and all this will pass with time, we don't have much contact with women, it can just be the imagination!" - The religious boy said with false hope, in the expectation that his positive thoughts would dispel worries and the desire to go back - "After graduating, we will meet ladies and marry them, and we will not even remember this day."

All torment will disappear, only if we have the strength. Doing what is right corrodes me inside, maybe I can even make myself unhappy. Reality can be cruel to us, although we prefer to close our eyes to this.

The disappointment was evident on the face of the red-haired boy, that was not only the denial of his friendship, it was the denial of the veracity of his feelings. He knew more than anyone about what was going on inside him, he carefully analyzed each behavioral change in order to discover the cause, he understood exactly what he felt. This was no longer just a fantasy or the fruit of his imagination for a long time, he was not a hypocrite and recognized his desires, he could dream of the presence of a girl if he was bored, but even then he was unable to do so. Carl's purity, considered by many to be one of his greatest qualities, could become a flaw in other aspects of his life. The scientist understood that this was the way he saw the world, and did not reject it, it was just another reason that made him be charmed by the religious boy. With a small, slow step forward, Pascal questions his friend again about the accuracy of what he had said, while giving him a curious look. Slightly embarrassed, both by the situation itself but by the intensity that they looked at each other, Carl nods before saying "yes".

As most of the time it was there, that lab really stopped time from setting it up to determine if this was a quality or defect. The dark haired boy remembered that he should hurry up for his punishment, after all, he felt that he deserved it for more reasons than he could count. It was time to go, he wasn't sure how to end that dialogue, he just wanted everything to go back to how it was before. He lied to himself and to Pascal, he was not sure of anything he said, just did what he thought was right. It hurt, the fact that knowing that if he was redeeming himself from his sins did not help ease the pain, it just made him feel more miserable.

"I'm sorry ..." - The younger boy said, looking at the floor and getting ready to leave.

The scientist did not fully understand that last sentence, because knowing the friend well, he did not know if he asked forgiveness for him or for God. He imagined that the second option was the most plausible, within that context. Comforting people was not the redhead's strong point, he struggled, but his condolences usually ended in philosophical reflections that contradicted religious doctrines. Nothing came into his mind so that he could alleviate the situation of the younger boy, all he wanted was to make him forget what tormented him, even though he knew it wouldn't be so simple. At times like these when the fact that they were perfect opposites damaged their relationship, they did not see life in the same way, and managed to be so close at the same time. He regretted not having said anything, remained silent while the religious boy hurried towards the door, leaving the scientist alone afterwards. The sound of the wooden door closing quickly, but still in a discreet way, was like a sting in Pascal's interior, he knew what was coming next.

He did not plan to inform his friends about this sudden separation, and he imagined that Carl would prefer his discretion, since the reason for his conflicts were more complicated than they would have liked. He did not fully understand, he thought that the reciprocity of the feelings of both would cause a completely different result, his extremely rational mind had a certain difficulty in reflecting on more subjective themes, such as what occurred inside the minds of other people. The scientist returned to the table where he was doing his experiments, stared in dismay at the variety of flowers displayed on the bench, his empty gaze was enough to worry anyone who saw him at that moment. He sat while he leanned both arms on the table, watching the large laboratory window as he felt the sun warm his skin, marked by small freckles. Somehow, he saw himself in Carl's confused and desperate expression, he could slightly understand how he felt about it all. He remembered the moment he realized when these feelings came to light, they were accompanied by a surprised feeling along with several doubts.

He did not consider them immoral or sinful, just pointless, irrational. He believed that a type of attraction that could not lead to reproduction was devoid of logic, which was against his purely rational principles. He knew that relationships of this type were not well regarded by most people, he had used the situation of two close friends as an example, Serge and Gilbert had to endure countless problems, implication, hostility and rejection by the affective bond they had. Why should there be one more obstacle in his life? His life choices and eccentric interests already did the job of complicating everything, feelings, which the scientist deemed as "unnecessary", would only put everything to waste. But there was no alternative, he tried to forget or stop thinking about the dark-haired boy in more affectionate ways than he considered acceptable, and to no avail. Leafing through his notebook, which was on the table, where he recorded each new discovery he made, he decided to reread his notes on the aspect of human feelings.

He was more confused than he could have imagined, what he wrote was perfectly consistent with reality, the mind was an unknown quantity that could hardly be unveiled. He used all of his knowledge to find out what had happened to the religious boy and the reason for his attitudes, and without making much effort, he knew that these were religious matters. Continuing to think about what happened would bring nothing but more frustration, the best thing to do would be to be distracted by something that would grab his attention. Immediately, a white rose stained by dyes of different colors, mainly blue, aroused his interest. He would work on his beloved and dreamed blue rose for as long as he used to, he would spend the next entire weeks focusing only on it, in order to forget what was hurting him. The blue rose was his escape valve, his goal for a long time, he would not be fully satisfied until he completed it. He forced himself to perform calculations and remember chemical formulas while choosing each plant he would use, he repeated to himself that everything would be fine with time, but the image of what had happened earlier was still present in his thoughts.

After some time, the plants were cut, crushed and distributed in small containers. The petals of Violets, Orchids and Lilies formed different shades of blue, which made the scientist observe them more closely. He wasn't thinking about the colors themselves, but about how those colors reminded him of Carl. There was no logical explanation for this, he just thought that blue matched the dark haired boy, it was a color that conveyed sadness and peace at the same time. Reflecting more deeply, the religious boy always had a sad aura, not in a depressing way, but that managed to be melancholy and peaceful. His experiments failed to keep him distracted for so long, as everything reminded him of Carl. Looking at the small calendar that hung on a nearby wall, Pascal could see that winter was approaching, and along with it, the end of the school year. As he had always done, he would repeat another year to continue his research, he imagined that he would see his friends graduate and continue in school.

He had always been determined about this, never thought or cared about the consequences, but this time he hesitated. A few years have passed since he began to dedicate himself entirely to his so unrealistic blue rose, and he did not feel that he was making as much progress as he wished, which brought even more frustration. Everyone in Lacombrade knew his purpose, although they did not always fully understand it, but his great intellect was never doubted. He wondered what he was doing there, he used to reject his father's advice, he had always said that his son should become a doctor, that he would succeed in that way. Pascal always rejected this idea, although medicine was something of interest to him and one of his talents, the red-haired boy still did not approve of the possibility of studying something just for capital. He had a natural tendency, a genuine interest in nature and chemistry, although he was inclined towards biology.

When asked why he was still there, he always answered using the laboratory and his blue rose as a justification, but he used to omit some more reasons. He felt the need to stay in Lacombrade for his friends, especially after getting close to Serge and Gilbert, he couldn't leave them alone without knowing if they would be okay. Also, he would miss Kurt and Neka's jovial and somewhat reckless personality, he knew he would do his best to help the pianist and his blond companion, but he still feared for their safety. Lacombrade was his home, it was where he grew up and lived with people he dared to call his second family, he couldn't imagine himself anywhere else. But, there was one more specific reason that made the scientist not want to leave school, someone who motivated and inspired him. Staying away from the religious boy was what he feared most if he left boarding school, the mere thought of not being able to see him every day as he had always done was a pain. However, he recognized that his presence there could become a burden on Carl's life, and knowing all his motivations for ending that friendship, he imagined that both would suffer from that separation.

He looked thoughtfully at some sheets of paper that were next to an inkwell, considering what would be the right thing to do and becoming even more frustrated by it. His hands were stained by the blue color of the petals, it was as if he had touched a part of the sky.

We feel empty, because we leave a part of us in what we love.

The sun had been covered by some clouds, which made the whole atmosphere of the place a little more gray. The tracks left on the grass around the school indicated that someone had come by in a hurry, perhaps in an attempt to take refuge. It was a few minutes before Carl was due to appear at the Church for his punishment, he felt that the quietest place to wait would be outside, on the outskirts of Lacombrade. He just needed to calm down from everything that happened, sitting and breathing fresh air could help. The sleeves of his coat were busy drying up the few tears that could not be contained, he just wished that no one saw him at that moment. But it was when something caught his eye, from a distance, he saw a pale boy with equally dark hair sitting on an old wooden bench, entertaining himself with a book. Occasions like this were rare, seeing his agitated younger brother, who always ran and played, focused on a single activity.

He decided to get closer, any time they could spend together was good, since they were most of the time apart. It didn't take long for the boy to see his brother walking towards him, he smiled sweetly at him as he watched him approach. Sitting side by side, they started a calm conversation, which was great for Carl, since distractions were what he needed most at the moment.

"It is unusual to see you reading of your own free will, which title did the grace to attract your attention?" -The older boy asked in a cheerful way, both to hide what he felt and to amuse his brother.

The already leafless branches swayed as the wind dragged through them, causing some last leaves to fall around the two brothers. The elder tried not to extend the conversation for too long, as he would be late for his punishment, and the younger brother just had fun without worries. After marking the page he was reading with a small piece of paper, Sebastian closes the book and shows the cover to his brother, not long before saying:

"Sense and Sensibility, a Jane Austen novel." -He responds looking at his brother, showing an excited expression to share something he likes with Carl.

The religious boy had never read the book, although he had heard about it and saw it a few times in bookstores, but he knew that the plot was about themes that little Sebastian might not understand. He had no idea how he managed to get his hands on it, his parents would definitely not gift him with such a thing, even though they were more understandable than they used to be. The school library did not have many popular books, mainly of this genre, being focused only on educational purposes. Carl trusted his younger brother, acknowledged that he was much smarter than other children of the same age, but worried that he was consuming something that was not aimed at someone so young. He wanted Sebastian to live a happy childhood, without the worries he would have when he was older.

"Where did you get that? As far as I know, there are no books of this type in the library." - The older brother I ask curious and somewhat apprehensive, I just hoped that the answer would not be very worrying.

He did not want his question to sound like a sermon, he expected to be seen as companionship by his younger brother, not an authority figure.

"Liliath lent it to me, he brought it with him the last time he went to Arles." - He says looking at the cover of the book for a few seconds, before turning to his brother.

How to explain Carl's feelings for Liliath Florian? The older boy saw him as someone unreliable, had a certain dislike for him, especially after the conflicts he had had with Serge and Gilbert. Even so, that blond boy was still esteemed by some people, had affinities with those considered delinquents and participated in the "Pretty Boys Club". Liliath had the company of some close friends, just like Carl, and such a group was made up of Necroix, Sebastian and a few other members that he did not insist on remembering the name. He did not like the idea of a helpless child like his brother always being with people of doubtful nature, what comforted him was knowing that Necroix was always around, because he knew that his nature was not questionable.

"I don't think it's appropriate for someone at your age to read novels like this, you know you're too young for books of this type." - Trying to appear understandable, but still a little strict, he advises the boy thinking only of his well-being.

"That's what most people say, but I don't mind, I learned a lot about different subjects in books, especially with this one." - The little boy responds, in order to prove to his brother his own point of view.

That sentence might have seemed foolish coming from a child about Sebastian's age, but Carl knew that his brother had the greatest intellect that he could have imagined. He had become accustomed to the boy's precocious personality, but he was distressed by what he might be learning.

"Give me an example." - The elder boy said, curious with possible responses.

"Using romance as an example: during the history of the world, at different times and in different places, there were people who could not be with those they loved by the judgment of others." - Sebastian began to explain what captivated him so much in romance books, in an attempt to convince his brother not to tell his parents about this - "It is a synonym of injustice, there were so many who gave up their own happiness or even their own life, just to fit what was expected of them. "

Admired by what he had just heard, and still reflecting on some information, Carl could feel a shiver down his spine when his brother finished his monologue. He had remembered what had happened a few minutes ago, in that laboratory. He looked at Sebastian with a confused expression that at the same time conveyed pride, he had always been considered the most brilliant by his family, but the truth is that not everyone had the ability to see his younger brother's intellect. He wondered how they could share the same blood and at the same time be completely different, the youngest son in the Messier family was really a mystery.

The religious boy's prolonged silence worried the little boy a little, he imagined that Carl had heard all that with a disapproving look, and that perhaps he would tell his parents everything.

"Please don't tell anyone about my interests, Mom and Dad may find out." - The boy asked his brother, hoping he would understand and help him.

Carl did not consider himself a cruel brother, like those presented in stories, on the contrary, he was overly concerned for Sebastian. He knew that his parents would not approve of him reading it at such a young age, and he would not want to take away a source of learning and leisure from his brother. Throughout his life, he had completely obeyed his parents, reported all the antics done by the youngest son and took responsibility for his well-being. But only this time, he would break this rule, he could not bear to see an intellect so developed having its source of information forcibly removed.

"What I'm doing is not correct, but let's say that no one else but me will know this." -The older boy said, still a little thoughtful about what he had heard.

Grateful for what he had just heard, the boy tries to show his gratitude in some way, even without knowing how.

"Thank you very much Carl, I am glad we are brothers!" - He says smiling, before being interrupted by the sound of church bells.

It was time for the religious boy's punishment, he should hurry up so he wouldn't be late. After saying goodbye to the younger boy, he starts walking quickly towards the Church of Lacombrade. His legs stop moving when he hears a childish voice calling him, he turns to listen to what his brother wanted to tell him.

"I feel bad about letting you go without a proper thanks, you swore to keep a secret, so the least I can do is return the favor ..." - Sebastian said, trying not to speak slowly, as he saw that his brother was in a hurry - "I promise not to tell anyone that the real reason you didn't attend yesterday's classes involves leaving without permission with Pascal."

The older boy could feel his heart rate accelerating when he heard that, he couldn't imagine how Sebastian knew it. How much did he know? Was he watching them? He had a lot to ask, but the words didn't come out of his mouth and the seconds ticked by as he thought. With an innocent laugh, just like the ones he let out when he was doing some mischief, the younger boy was amused by Carl's confused and frightened expression. This was not his initial intention, but he still managed to be funny.

"Hurry up, don't be late!" - Sebastian said as he watched his brother run towards the large building that was close to the school, wondering what had happened to him.

The temperature dropped a little, which made some students retire into the school, leaving Carl more relieved. As he headed for his punishment, there was someone still in the lab, with his hands stained with ink. Pascal rewrote a letter several times, he just needed to find the right words. He wondered if it was the best decision, but a simple analysis of the pros and cons was enough to end his doubts. He had at his side a dictionary that helped him to correct his own grammar, as his dissertation must be impeccable. When he finished again, he reread it carefully several times, looking for any errors. His writing was excellent, the redhead placed the letter, which was quite extensive, in an envelope. The recipient was the Medical University of Düsseldorf, Germany.

His admission letter was ready, he explained all of his goals, from the reason he was still at that school and why he had failed so much. The scientist would finally leave Lacombrade after so many years, become a doctor who had attended a renowned college, and perhaps return to France after many years. Sighing, he closes the envelope and keeps it in a safe place, far from where it could be lost or spotted, was inside one of his favorite books. Writing was not the most complex step, he had no idea how he would tell this to his friends, especially Carl. He knew the boys would be happy, they would miss him, but he didn't know how the religious boy would react. He didn't want to cause him more pain, that was one of the reasons that made him want to leave.

Church candlelight illuminated Carl's pale face, marked with desolation and anguish, as he repeated long verses from the Bible. His knees hurt, he could imagine they would have bruises, but even the discomfort couldn't bother him. The thoughts of better times were what kept him sane, he just wished he could go back in time.

Continued in Next Chapter

Written by KimKymury, thank you reading <3

5 notes · View notes

mateoweston · 3 years ago

Text

A First Punishment → PARA

who: mateo weston, rory flanagan ( @rory-flanagan )

when: april 4th

where: mateo’s room

warnings: n/a

Mateo Weston

There was a little bit of worry tugging at the center of Mat's chest as he finally arrived at Rory's door. Not unreasonably so, but he suspected that the uncertainty of midterms was what might be at least part of the cause for Rory's bad mood and he wanted to make sure he wasn't sitting in that by himself. Letting himself into the room, he walked straight through to Rory's room and knocked only briefly to announce his presence before pushing in. "Hey," he greeted once Rory was in view, beelining over to press a quick kiss to his lips before his arms wrapped around him.

Rory Flanagan

Sometimes it was difficult to gauge why exactly Rory was in a bad mood. It could have been his bipolar disorder, his addiction issues, lack of sleep from his annoyance at his manager at The Wave. It could have even been the knowledge that there was some creepy Dominant hanging around making weird moves on his mates. But the news of these midterms, and randomised pairings is really what did him in. But he acted out with Mat, and he was just grateful that his boyfriend knew him better than to start getting shouty, coming over instead. "Hey," Rory said, smiling at him, allowing Mat to envelope him, kissing back slightly harder, needing to feel something solid and real for a second.

Mateo Weston

Mat's hands stroked broadly and firmly over his back, feeling the tense muscles as he went along. It had been a whirlwind of a month, really, between them getting together, the lapse in administration and now midterms and honestly, it was no shock some of that was hard to keep up with. "We'll figure it all out," he assured again, voice gentle and a bit muffled where he'd pressed his face into Rory's hair. He wasn't sure how much time had passed by the time he pulled back enough to look at Rory again but he knew they had a few things to do before they could curl up for good. Bringing one hand up, he carded through Rory's hair, almost beginning to scratch his scalp -- but he stopped himself in time, not wanting to distract him too much. "Go sit at your desk and get a piece of paper and pen out. And then I want that list we talked about. At least five reasons, more if you can think of them. Either way, you'll fill the page up by repeating them, okay?"

Rory Flanagan

Though his spine seemed to shift in protest at Mat rubbing it down at first, he soon found himself relaxing, wanting to stay in this way forever, but knowing that wasn't what the Dominant was here for. But he could pretend, pretend Mat's face was in his hair, his muffled words ticklish against Rory's scalp, his hands wrapped round him tight, forever. It could have been, for all Rory knew, until Mat spoke and broke the silence. "Yeah..." He murmured, not in the mood to back-talk today, "Yeah, Sir," He repeated, definitely not wanting to add anymore difficulty to the situation. He walked over to his desk, getting his seldom-used notebook out and a pen, staring at his wall for the reasons to come to him. Nothing but snide remarks and sarcastic comments so far. But one weak reason came, and he wrote that down because it was a better start than a blank page. 1. by talking, you both are on the same page about a situation which is better than leaving them guessing.

Mateo Weston

Mat let Rory go and set up shop and stayed in the background. While he did want Rory to know he was there, he didn't want to pressure him by hovering and give him the time and space to get through his task without interruption. So he made himself comfortable on Rory's bed, watching him brood over his page for a bit before he got out his phone to absently keep busy with while keeping an eye on his boyfriend. Only when a good amount of time had passed did he finally speak up again, sure he wasn't interrupting him too soon now. "How're you doing, sweet boy?"

Rory Flanagan

It got easier the longer he went on, though he only had 3 in total when Mat spoke up. Rory blinked, glancing up from where he had been staring at his paper, face relaxing from where he had been frowning. "Um, okay, Sir," He said, glancing back down at the two additional reasons. 2. communicating will help find answers to solve the problem at hand, as two heads are better than one. 3. talking is a better, healthier emotional release than keeping it all bottled up, "I only need to think of two more...it's harder than I thought it was going to be," He admitted.

Mateo Weston

Rising from where he'd been reclining on the bed, Mat crossed over to his boyfriend, hands settling on his shoulders from behind. Glancing over the points he had jotted down already, he hummed approvingly. Those were real promising already and Mat couldn't help the pride that once again swelled inside of him at Rory being so incredibly good for him. Ducking his head down, he pressed a kiss to the top of his head. "You're doing great, sweet boy. You can find two more. I'll be right over there in the meantime." With another gentle squeeze to Rory's shoulders, Mat withdrew again, settling back down but keeping more of an eye on Rory for the time being.

Rory Flanagan

The Irish lad let out a little hum of disappointment, half expecting Mat to give him the answers. He did smile at the kiss on his forehead though, and the encouragement, staring back at the page with new confidence and determination. When two more points came into his head, he let a smile form on his face, scribbling them down. 4. Communicating with others helps you easily get your point across and therefore allows others understand you and your needs better. 5. Communicating helps with your skills in socialising, helping you handle feedback and criticism in a healthy way, promoting self growth. "I think I'm done, Sir," He announced, feeling accomplished, "Do you think these points make sense and stuff?"

Mateo Weston

At the mention of Rory being done, Mat stood again and crossed over to him, one hand on his shoulder while he read. He knew Rory liked to pretend he had but one braincell, liked to joke about his supposed lack of smarts. But it was moments like this that proved him wrong and made Mat admire his intellect even more than on any given day. "Those are great," he assured, squeezing at his boyfriend's shoulder. "Now you're just gonna repeat those until the page is full and then we're all done with this."

Rory Flanagan

He felt lighter when Mat approved the points, because he really did try to think of serious notes, instead of falling back to the safety of his jokes. “Thank you, Sir,” He said in response to his Dominant’s assurance, turning back to write the lines, trying not to let his handwriting turn too sloppy, until he reached the last line, barely squeezing the few words onto it, each point engraved in his head clearly. “All done,” He announced, putting the pen down, hoping Mat wouldn’t just scrumple it up, becoming rather fond of the scribbled page in front of him.

Mateo Weston

Mat watched quietly as Rory finished up, keeping in the background once more as to not make him feel too hovered over. Once Rory announced he was done, Mat was back behind him, glancing the paper over before he nodded. "You did very well. Good boy. We're gonna keep that so we can look it over again if we ever want or need to," he decided, then reached his hand out for Rory to take. Pulling him up from his chair, he lead him over to the bed and settled down against the headboard with him, arms wrapping around his boyfriend with ease. "I know talking isn't always easy -- lord know I'm not always the best at it either. But I want us to make an effort - for all the reasons you've just written down. I want us to be able to solve problems together, to understand when something's wrong and for you to not have to deal with them alone. You know?"

Rory Flanagan

Relief washed over him when Mat informed him they would keep it, leaving the paper on the desk, brief musings in his mind about laminating it forgotten when Mat held out his hand. Rory took it gratefully, letting him get led to the bed, still feeling a little sub-spacey, but it only added to the comfort of cuddling with his boyfriend. "Yeah," He agreed, nodding, "I just...sometimes it's hard to explain in words, but I'll try and get better, and even if it sounds like utter nonsense, you'll know I'm trying my best right?" He asked, looking at him for assurance.

Mateo Weston

"I will. And you don't need to have a perfectly planned speech prepared. Sometimes it'll be enough just to tell me you feel weird or overwhelmed or just bad. Then at least I'll know to be there for you and we can work out the details later," he assured, one hand coming up to cup his cheek. Leaning in, he pressed a kiss to his forehead, then slipped his hand up to gently scratch at Rory's scalp. "You've got me to lean on, no matter what."

Rory Flanagan

Rory was so grateful to have someone like Mat in his corner. Logical, rational, firm and fair. It was the complete opposite to what Rory was used to, normally surrounding himself with people who encouraged his impulsive nature, who tended to fly off the handle themselves. "No matter what," He murmured, laying into Mat's chest, eyes fluttering shut. "Thank you, Sir." Upon entering Devereux, if someone told Rory he'd be thanking a Dominant for giving him a punishment, he'd have laughed and told them to go fuck themselves, but it seemed the right thing to do now. "I love you."

Mateo Weston

As Rory leaned back into him, one of Mat's hands moved to the back of his head, idly playing with a few strands of hair there. This was one of the many reasons he considered punishments important and had taken a whole class on them -- the utter peace and relaxation afterwards, when whatever issue had come up was totally forgiven and done with. "You're welcome, sweet boy," he returned, pressing a kiss into Rory's hair and then deciding that it was the perfect place to simply let his own head rest -- nestled into his boyfriend. "I love you too."

#para #rory

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