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akvtsuki-ari · 4 years

Text

Be Mean

Warnings: smut, femdom, degradation, sub!spencer, mild masochism, choking, generally mean shit lol

Length: 5.3k (ik)

Authors Note: uhh happy valentines day! not the fic anyone was expecting today and extremely self indulgent but valentines day is about self love too right? lmfao anyways, hope yall enjoy

Summary: Spencer was just a little too into the way you cuss people out and it was starting to weigh on him. You’re more than happy to help him out.

Words were falling from your lips with grace. Your back was straight as you leaned into the table - the unsub just inches away. He was a narcissist, and his hatred for strong women became increasingly clear the moment you stepped into the room. He wanted to prove he was smarter, tougher, and better than you - but the challenge you reproached him with left his knuckles white. Teeth gritted, jaw clenched, and that same grace - analyzing and cold, never seemed to escape you.

It didn’t take long for the arrest to fall through - his confession leaving him as he tried to express his pathetic anger towards you. He called you names but nothing creative, not as smart as he seemed to be but you couldn’t help but laugh at him. Soon after he delves into explaining his own genius and the pieces continued to fall together - it was a good case and luckily he didn’t get far after his first 3 victims. Not something that the BAU gets lucky with very often, you think.

Spencer watched you in the interrogation - eyes fading over your body language carefully. You were unnervingly confident - always were no matter whether it was a killer or not. He took notice of many little things that seemed to make the details of your existence culminate further in his mind. You licked the inside of your lip when you were getting close to breaking the unsub, and your eyes would get a little lower when he started to speak. You rolled your shoulders when you watched him get escorted and that warm, sweet version of you returned to you with no trouble at all.

It was easy for people to call you BAU’s resident sweetheart. You were charming, witty, and intelligent but also kind. When the team needed someone who people can trust, you were always up there on the list. Your skills of diffusion were particularly helpful, you worked homeland security for a long while and it showed. Your capabilities to ease a tense moment as well as interrogate a criminal in a provocative way has proved helpful time and time again - but who you were was always up in the air. It was a valuable trait to be mysterious in that sense.

On one hand, Spencer really did like plain Y/N more than anything. You were always particularly kind to Spencer - you remembered his birthday and always texted him right at 12 beating the entire BAU, even Garcia. You brought him soup and cold medicine when he was sick because you were close by and he needed some company. You helped him babysit JJ’s kids because you could and you were fond of them. You were never too impatient and you let him work in silence rather than making commentary about his process. You just got him, and it all seemed to come naturally though you knew things someone could only figure out through careful observation.

Y/N the Agent was different, though. Still you, when she needed to be. Any cases involving young children, or innocent people in general really showed the other side of you. But you had this moment in every case, where your hyperfocus became so sinister everyone in the department could feel it. They were different sides of the same coin, your traits manifesting themselves in different ways but Spencer had a very particular notice of it. For one, it fascinated him a lot. How could anyone not be fascinated by that?

Of course though, that wasn’t the only reason but the other half of this whole spiel was a lot more embarrassing but -

Spencer got unbelievably turned on when he watched you interrogate criminals and - listen he knows okay? He really understands how absolutely not good that is but the memory is so burned into his brain he can’t help but think about it every time it comes up.

The team was in Arizona working on ritualistic killings from a small tribe, native to the area. You and Reid had been assigned to talk to important community members and there was a head elder dude there who was particularly scummy - though not the unsub. He was too cocky to pull off such elaborate and patient murders so he was ruled out early but he was hiding something and you needed to know what it was. When interrogations went on, you confronted the man about his use of testosterone injections - something forbidden in the community since they believed modern medicine was extremely harmful, part of the killers M.O.

The conversation between the two of you was short-lived but memorable, to say the least.

“What happened, elder? Were the village girls not working for you anymore so you sicked your friend on them cause you couldn’t get it up? Was it worth it?,” your voice was thick with distaste and the elder lost his shit. He ended up confessing that he had a strong hunch but he’d only tell if they kept his secret and the lead was correct.

Spencer's mind hasn’t been able to let go of that moment and every single time a case comes up where you have to confront someone he finds himself having to relieve himself in a bathroom stall or strain himself to get it to just go away. It was killing him really. He had a crush on you sure, always has but his body reacting like he was a 16-year-old boy every time you spoke was not going to cut it but he didn’t know what to do either.

He finds himself in that same position now, on the plane ride home with the thought of you and your demeanor keeping him from focusing. You were asleep across from him, wearing comfortable clothes that slid just over your shoulders. He couldn’t help the way his eyes lingered on his skin and he tried his absolute best to ignore and go to sleep.

When Spencer Reid arrived home, he was pleasantly surprised to see messages from you, asking to hangout in his apartment while your kitchen gets renovated. There was no way in hell he was gonna say no to that, so he tidied his things up and ordered thai food while he waited for your arrival.

It didn’t take long for you to show, wearing black joggers and a tight tanktop that Spencer has never seen you in before. It looked good on you, accentuating the strength in your shoulders in back. He knew you were decently fit but this was surprising, even for him. You smiled wide as you stepped through the door, giving Spencer a tight hug. He can feel your boobs pressed up against his chest and he wants to kick himself for the shiver that runs off his spine as if he were a teenager again.

“Hey, Spence. Thanks again for letting me come over today, hope I’m not intruding,” you say softly, as you settle down on Spencer's couch, phone in hand. He nods, smiling.

“It’s no problem. The food should be here in a minute but do you want a glass of water or anything in the meantime? I also have some lemonade, if you want that,” Spencer offers. You readjust and Spencer watches the way your muscles tense. He shouldn’t be noticing something like that yet here he is.

“Lemonade sounds great, thanks Spence,” you say, laying into the couch as you scroll through your phone. Spencer excuses himself to the kitchen, grabbing glasses from his cupboard and filling them up with lemonade before returning to you. He places the glasses on the table in front of you, before the sound of the doorbell alerts him.

You get up, retying your hair as the smell of Thai food hits you. You let out an involuntary moan but Spencer just laughs. The food is set up in front of you, but its far too hot for either of you to eat so the both of you sip on your lemonade and chat instead.

“Everytime we get a few days off, the paranoia of a case hits the ground running,” you complain, gently. Spencer laughs, nodding his head.

“Oh definitely. I can’t imagine what it’s like not thinking about it all the time, though,” he explains. You nod your head in agreement.

“Yeah, but time off is still time off so the plan is to spend the weekend alone with a glass of wine and some romantic films and relax,” you explain, sighing. Spencer looks at you curiously.

“Didn’t take you for the romance type,” he states curiously. You sigh again, looking at him.

“I’m not for the most part, it kinda serves a different purpose for me than most women I’d argue,” you reply to him. Spencers intrigued by your comment and sits up a bit.

“How so?,” he poses carefully. You place your lemonade down on the coffee table and scratch the back of your neck.

“Don’t get me wrong, I like being wined-and-dined like any woman. Romance itself is nice, love is wonderful - but the way I wanna be romanced isn’t exactly traditional,” your voice is airy when you speak, laughing at yourself but the revelation maes Spencers weak.

“Traditional?,” he manages to squeak out. You notice his shift in behavior, and you slow down for a moment.

“We don’t have to talk about that kinda stuff, Spence. It’s more of a girls night thing I’d talk about with Garcia and JJ - though they already know about most of it,” you say lightly. Spencer chokes a bit as you continue to reveal details.

“No, it's not that. I’m… interested?,” he says nervously, chewing the inside of his lip. You tilt your head, surprised by his curiosity.

“Didn’t take you for a freak, pretty boy,” you comment, giggling. Spencer's face turns hot, but you reassure him you’re only kidding.

“Yeah, I don’t know. I don’t really care for the whole subservient role, especially not in bed. I enjoy seeing someone do what I say, and having things go my way. I’ve always been like that, figured that out with my first highschool boyfriend, hah,” you say, sipping your lemonade.

Spencer swallows at the realization that you’re probably experienced, very experienced in that department. He shifts in his set again and your eyes settle on him for a moment, neither of you making eye contact but rather observing each other

“I don’t know how to explain it all that well, but I like it when I can be just a little mean, you know,” you say, smiling. Your tone is joking but your words have weight to them. Spencer's throat is closing up as you speak but he smiles back at you fondly. You take notice but hold yourself back.

“You sure you’re okay, Spencer?,” your voice is different this time. Knowing. Spencer's eyes flutter over to you and he’s aware rather suddenly of your being. The way your chest rises and falls as you speak, the smoothness of your lips around the glass, the way your hair falls over your face. He nods as you observe him. Your lips twitch up into a smile.

“Spencer, could it be resident boy genius is a sub?,” you say incredulous. Spencers whole face flushes and you find your clit up at attention at the non-verbal confession.

While he may be oblivious to it, you had a rather massive crush on Spencer. Something about his intelligence was remarkably sexy to you and knowing he was also a good person didn’t make the feelings any easier. Who could blame you for having a crush on Spencer, anway? Most people did - it was part of the reason you never told him. Based on his personality and dating history - it didn’t really seem like you were his type. You weren’t massively intelligent or particularly unique (at least you didn’t think so) so you couldn’t imagine Spencer having a crush on you. You were great, but you didn’t think you were Spencers type, thats all.

However, that didn’t stop you from thinking about him - really the opposite. Every waking moment you’d catch him doing something absentmindedly you cute - your brain begged to see him fucked out and sleepy. He’d ramble about something for so many minutes and all you wanted to do was sit on his face and shut him up (and then let him continue because he was honest to god so cute like that)

The point was that Spencer really did something to you. You had countless lingering thoughts about him but to know that this was actually something he was into made your head spin. You couldn’t hold your expression back and maybe it was your own masochism that made you want to know more but god did you want to know more.

“How long have you known about yourself, Spence?” you interrogate. Spencer swallows and prays to every deity his mind can manage as he looks at you pleadingly but you can’t recognize what the pleading is really for.

“How long have you been on the team?,” Spencer speaks before he can really understand the weight of his words, and the second he says the whole room stops. You look at him with delighted surprise and he shuts his eyes at contempt for his own existence.

“No fucking way,” you can’t help the little inhale you do at the realization. Pure excitement just emanating from your being like nobody's business. You were genuinely going to lose your mind at this revelation. Spencer Reid discovered that hes a sub because of you? Were you dreaming?

If this wasn’t Spencer's apartment he would’ve run away. He just had to look at you instead and face the fact he just revealed his own sins. Your laugh at Spencer revelation made the little nagging voice in Spencers head just a little louder and that meant that -

“You’re really into whatever you’ve been thinking of huh?,” you say, eyeing the hard-on in his pants casually. Spencer looks down and places a pillow on his lap, wishing to throw his entire existence into a fire and to never ever look back.

“Shit,” he doesn’t know what else to say. He’s at total wits end with himself and is forced to deal with the repercussions of his horniness.

On the other hand there was you, eyes full of delight as your mind raced with all the thoughts of what Spencer could be thinking about. Anything was good really, any level of him giving up his control to you was good. It all worked for you but whatever he’d been thinking about specifically had you itching to know.

“What could it be? I mean - seriously, I have to know what has the beloved Doctor this flustered. You have to tell me,” you say smiling. Spencer just shakes his head.

“Aww c'mon, do you want me to start guessing?,” you joke. Spencer looks at you that time and you realize that might be key. You look at him in surprise.

“Okay, well let’s think. It started when we worked together which means it was probably when we were in the field,” you start profiling Spencer, which on one hand he’s not a fan of but on another he’s a little turned on by.

You chew on your lip as you think for a minute.

“The work I do on the field sorta depends, but mostly I diffuse situations,” you say softly, really to only yourself. “But also, I do a lot of interrogations, and with the way you reacted to that whole being mean thing, I’m gonna go ahead and place my bets on that,” you conclude. You look to Spencer for approval and his eyes are hazy as he nods a yes.

You place your glass on the table, and move in front of Spencer. Normally your height isn’t all too important to him but right now your being towers over him and all he can do is look up at you. You wish you had the patience to do a little bit more teasing but you couldn’t hold back too much. Your knee is between his legs as you bend it and lean over him. Your fingers brush his hair back for a moment as you use your knuckle to pull his face up. He wants to refuse but he can’t so he lets you - looking at you tenderly. He’s cute like this.

“Spence, you know I actually like you right?,”

“No,”

You laugh lazily. Your hands on the side of his face, brushing your thumb along his cheek as you look at him adoringly.

“I like you a whole lot, probably a lot more than like - actually. So whatever we do after this - if you want to do something anyways, it’s because I actually like you,” you say softly. Spencer nods, blush staining his cheeks.

“I - uh, like you too,” he says warmly. You chew your lip.

“Can I kiss you, Spencer?,” the way you ask makes Spencer's heart melt. This was you, all at once. No sides of any coins, still kind and warm and thoughtful, but still mean and intimidating in the way Spencer likes. He wants to scream yes, but he nods instead.

You brush your lips over his for a second, smiling as he moves forwards to gain some contact. You don’t hesitate to kiss him forreal that time, lips pressed to his as your hand lays at the base of his necks, fingers pressing into his throat as he sighs. Your lips are warm, your touch is soft and Spencer could cry with how gentle you treat him. You pull away and brush your nose against his.

“For someone who kisses like that, I’m surprised you’re so into the idea of being degraded,” you chuckle. Spencer coughs and just looks at you shyly.

“Yeah, I really am,” his voice is hoarse.

You straddle yourself in Spencers lap and move the pillow. All the sudden contact makes his skin flush and he looks at you needy. Your pants are loose but your tank top is tight, and he finds his eyes looking at your chest before he can think about it. You roll your eyes at him, leaning into his neck to press a kiss on it. He whimpers and you smile - he really is desperate.

“Perv,” you murmur to him.He laughs.

“Can’t say you’re wrong,”

“Before we go any further, I wanna give you a safe word. I wouldn’t normally be doing something like this the first time for the purposes of semantics but I want you too badly to wait that long. I want to make sure it doesn’t get to be too much for you, in a bad way at least,” you say softly. Spencer looks at you and kisses you, and you laugh.

“We can do Red for Stop, Yellow for Slow Down, and Green for Go,” you explain warmly. He nods.

“Okay,” he says it back to you as he buries his face in your neck. You pet his hair and place a kiss on his head.

“Tell me what you want, angel,” you say first. Your voice is smooth like silk, the word angel rings out in his mind. It’s too pretty for what he wants you to do and maybe that's why he likes it so much. The juxtaposition to be something so pretty when all he wants you to do is ruin him.

He wants so much all at once he has trouble verbalizing any of it. It’d come out so incoherent even if he tried but he wants it, whatever the case may be. He feels your hands on his chest while you stare him down. He makes eye-contact and when he tries to look down again your hands force his chin up.

“Gotta look at me when you say it, baby. Otherwise, I won’t know who you’re talking too,” you say thoughtfully. Fuck - thats hot. Spencer swallows and nods, looking into your eyes as his mind racks itself with possibilities.

“Wanna fuck you,” he can’t believe how it sounds. He has so much more that he wants - he wants to fuck you while you absolutely take away his ability to cum. He wants to hear your voice when you talk down to him about it - about how hard he is when you get like this, and about how dirty he must really be. He wants to hear you threaten him with the possibility of being blue-balled hanging over his head. He wants you to be so fucking mean to him because he knows it doesn’t matter - he knows all the choice is yours and he really does love to please you and he knows he’s quite the masochist for it. He doesn’t care.

“I think you wanna do a little bit more than fuck me, Spence,” you giggle. Your eyes turn a shade darker as your hand moves to his throat. His hands are planted to his sides as your grip tightens around his neck - voice cold as you whisper into his ear.

“I think you want me to fuck you instead, yeah? Watch your teeth sink into your lips while I sit on your dick and make fun of you for how easy you twitch when I move. You’re so easy, Spencer,” the words leave your mouth and spill like wine. The words stain his whole mind with lust - absolutely aching to hear more. Fuck did he want that.

“Take your shirt off,” you don’t ask. He does so without warning and his eyes beg you do the same.

“I’ll take mine off when you’ve earned it, unzip your pants,” you reply nonchalant. He holds back a whimper and does so, his cock stiff against his boxer-briefs. You stand up and slide your pants off and your wearing boy-shorts, making Spencer sigh.

He looks up at you pleadingly, and you smile at him. You walk up to him again and smile, as he looks up at you. You let him lay his head on your stomach as he looks at you, your fingers tucked into his curls.

You tug them as you force him to look up at you. He groans from his throat as your other hand is placed on the side of his face. His eyes are weary as he looks at you. Your hands threaten to place a hit on him.

“You should get all that begging under control before there's a handmark on that pretty face of yours love,” you say softly. He looks at you with challenge.

“I don’t think I can, miss,” he says softly. You want to kiss him but you refrain.

“Color?,”

“Green”

You lift your hand and place a firm hit on Spencer's cheek. He relishes in the pain, the demand your fingers have in them. You command respect and he knew it deep in him. He groans at the feeling.

“Didn’t take you for the type,” your commentary is sly like Spencer likes it. It’s mean in a witty way, not degrading just to do it. It fits perfect with your demeanor and Spencer adores it.

You grab a stool from near one of Spencer bookshelves and place it between his legs. You’ve picked up tie from the ground while you sit yourself in front of him

“Stand up and turn around, and put your hands together behind your back,” you say, voice laced with faux boredom. Spencer does as told as you tie his hands together. You stare at him like that, taking note at his figure. He’s slim and it’s cute to you.

You pull his boxers down and spit into your hand, reaching around to wrap your hands around his cock. He hisses at the feeling, finding his hips rutting into them. He was so desperate for it.

“There's so much to do with you, I don’t even know where to start,” you sigh. Spencers mind races as your hand moves across him, wrapping around his length tight and letting your thumb run over his slit - just so you could feel how it twitched.

“I could make you cum like this, facing away from me - too focused on being degraded to care. You’d still get off on that wouldn’t you, angel?,” you say warmly. You stand up and place your hands under his chin. He looks down at it.

“Spit,”

He does as told. You drip it across his length and he shivers as you take him back into your pals, fingers curled tightly around his base while your other hand plays with his nipples. Your thumbs flick across them carefully and he whimpers, knees nearly folding at the sensation of pleasure.

“You don’t seem like one for visuals but maybe it’d be more fun for me if I fucked myself in front you with your hands behind your back. All of what would be on your dick, slick on my fingers instead. If I were nice, I’d let you taste me,” you muse. Spencer throws his head back at your words.

“Or maybe that type of torture isn’t your cup of tea. What’d you prefer Spencer? You cum so many times you nearly pass out from all the pleasure? At the end of all that, you’d have been so ruined that you’d have nothing to show for it when you came. Your whole body aching pleasure but with nothing left to give,” your thoughts come to you in phases but to Spencer the sound like holy scripture. Dry orgasms sound painful but Spencer was certainly intrigued.

“I wonder if you’d cry for me, baby. When your dick gets all red and sensitive and it hurts, would I have to wipe the tears off your pretty face? Sounds nice,” your voice is light and makes Spencer want to smile. He didn’t take you for that much of a sadist but he finds himself pleasantly surprised by the revelation

Your grip on his shaft tightens rather suddenly and Spencer whimpers. His voice is shaky, bare chest rising and falling at the feeling of your hands gripped around him.

“Fuck, please,” Spencer begs you to ease up but he doesn’t really want you too. You sigh, placing a kiss on his back.

“Please, what? You want me to stop?,” you ask, knowing damn well that it was the opposite. He shakes his head.

“Please let me fuck you, please,” the need in Spencer's voice was rather nice. You pull your hand off and tell Spencer to lay down on the couch. He does so without question but aches with how much he misses your touch. He moved against his restraints to try and get some friction but no luck.

He watches you as you pull down your underwear, giving him a view to how wet you are. A slick spot just sitting between your thighs, pretty as can be. Spencer's throat is dry, the urge to touch you sending his mind into agony.

“You talk too much,” your actions speak louder than words as you position yourself over Spencer's face. His neck cranes up to get a taste of you, tongue flatly along your slit trying to get some friction. You groan at the feeling, as Spencer laps at you. Flicking his tongue back and forth along your clit, curling around before sucking it into his mouth for a few seconds at a time.

“Jesus, Spencer,” you moan out to him, finger gripping in his hair. He wished he could verbalize how grateful he was, but he tried his best to show it instead. He could do this all day if you let him, and if his hands were free he’d wrap them tightly around your hips so you’d lean more weight on him. You could break his neck, honestly. It wouldn't matter to him, the way you had him feeling.

You grind your hips, rutting against Spencer's tongue as you ride yourself closer to orgasm. The sound of you getting off mixed with the taste of you on his tongue made Spencer feel like he was living off of you and he didn’t mind. You were so good to him.

“I’m gonna fuck the shit out of you,” is the last words you say before you cum all over Spencer face. Riding your orgasm out, you move and look down at Spencer, face flush. He smiles at you, absolutely ecstatic and you can’t help but laugh.

“I’ll untie you now, you did so good for me baby,” you praise softly, untying Spencer's hands. The first thing he does is sit up and wrap his arms around your waist. He places kisses along your naval as you pet his hair. He looks up at you, your orgasm still clear on his face. You cup his jaw and kiss him, just a little messy.

“You're soft, baby,” you note. He nods, seeming sleepy already and you wanna coo at him. He looks up at you again and shakes his head.

“Be mean to me, please,” his voice is shaky. You’re surprised, leaning down to give him a kiss on the forehead before you agree.

“Sit back,” you demand. He does so without question as you straddle his lap. He can feel his tip brushing back and forth between your folds as you look at him adoringly, face full of affection mixed with an urge to give him what he’s so kindly asked for.

You wrap your hands around his neck as you sink down on Spencer cock. It stretches you out slowly, wrapped tightly around Spencer. He hits your cervix with ease. His breathing is labored, his hand holding your wrist as you choke him.

“Look at you, my love. I’m taking your breath away, and you're giving it up to me just like that? You want me to wreck you that badly huh? I didn’t take your for such a slut,” you utter that last word with false confidence but the way Spencer adores every second of it gives you real confidence instead. He could cum right then and there - hearing you call him a slut makes him feel something rather unexpected. It’s an ultimate powerplay, because the both of you know that right now he’s only giving it up for you, but it implies something so much greater. He likes it so much, likes the sound of bombarding him with pleasure and degradation that when he moans, voice strained as the column of his neck gets squeezed - he doesn’t really know how to stop himself from saying again.

“You like being a slut for me baby?,” you ask, bouncing up and down on Spencer cock, feeling the way he twitches in you. You let go of his throat, and he coughs before looking at you softly. His fingers run over the feeling of your hands. Your mouth moves to his neck instead, marking hickies into it as he holds onto your hips and fucks into you. He nods his head yes at your question.

“You’re so needy, love,” you remark, pulling back and using your fingers to rub your clit as Spencer fucks into you. You cum again a second time, convulsing around Spencer's length as you moan his name.

“Please, please can I cum?,” Spencer asks politely. You’d love to tease him more, but you figure it may be too much for him so you just nod. You kiss him softly.

“Anywhere you wanna finish?,” you ask. He looks immediately at your chest. You take off your tank top and bra and get on your knees for Spencer as he finishes on your chest, voice groaning your name.

“Y/N - fuck, oh my god,” His eyes are shut in pleasure and you can’t help but smile at him. When he comes down from his high and sees you stood up, looking for your clothes - he doesn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around you and pull you down to the couch. You giggle as he does.

“You did so good for me, baby. You’re such a good boy,” the praises fall from your lips with ease as Spencer mutters a flushed thank you. You reach to the table for a tissue as you wipe the cum off of your chest, making Spencer snort.

You turn around to be facing Spencer, naked bodies just holding each other. You play with Spencer's hair pressing constant kisses into his shoulders, or on his forehead. Anywhere you can get them really.

“It’s time for aftercare soon, but we can sit here a little longer if you like. Just no sleeping until we’ve showered and eaten and you’re taken care of, okay?,” you say lovingly, tucking Spencer's hair back behind his ear. He smiles at you softly, the feeling of being pampered like that holding him close.

“Hey, Y/N,” he looks at you with adoration “Will you please be my girlfriend? Cause I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you,” he says with sincerity. You can’t help but chuckle as you kiss him slowly.

“Yes, Spence, of course. I’m in love with you too, by the way,” you say back. Spencer simply smiles, hugging you tight and hoping to never let you go.

______

taglist: @cynbx @skrrrrrrrrrrt @zephyr-studiesjp @reid-187

#spencer reid #spencer reid smut #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid oneshot #sub!spencer #sub!spencer reid #criminal minds smut #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds self insert #spencer x reader #criminal minds x reader #this is so self indulgent #i do think spencer is a sub though through and through #switch leaning sub imo #feel free to ask me about it i can analyze it in great depth bc i think about That Much #author is trash anyways #hope someone else like this at least

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serenlyss · 4 years

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Parallel

Fandom: The Owl House Rating: G Relationships: lumity, luz & her mom, amity & her family Summary: Luz and Amity have more in common than just their favorite book series. Crossposted to AO3: Parallel

This one-shot is set between Enchanting Grom Fright and Wing it like Witches. I just can't stop thinking about how Amity and Luz are kind of foils for each other and how their families are so different but similar in certain ways. I feel like they'd bond over their respective parental drama. Anyway this show has stolen my heart and Lumity slays me so have some gay bonding.

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Something’s off with Luz.

It isn’t difficult for Amity to notice. She’s a perceptive young witch; it’s a quality she’s always considered to be a strength of hers, and she knows more than she lets on, but Luz is also notoriously easy to read. She wears her heart on her sleeve, and she doesn’t mince her words--not when she really means it. It’s a trait of hers that makes Amity feel simultaneously warm and envious, but it also means that Amity is acutely aware of every shift in her friend’s moods and mannerisms. Today, it would seem, her balance is especially skewed.

The two of them had retreated to Amity’s library hideout after classes for their now-frequent reading sessions, a tradition Luz had dubbed the “Azura Book Club” despite the fact that Amity’s personal collection is far larger than just a handful of fantasy novels. Over the past few sessions, Amity had begun to introduce to Luz a few of her favorite novels that originated from the Boiling Isles itself, and for the last few sessions, the human girl had been practically glued to her side while she eagerly read over Amity’s shoulder. Amity would swear up and down that the close proximity definitely does not make her so nervous that she can hardly focus on the page in front of her, but if Luz notices her slower reading pace and persistently flushed face, she has yet to comment on it.

This afternoon, however, Luz is keeping her distance. She still sits close enough to Amity that their knees touch where they’re sharing the same giant beanbag chair, and it’s still intimate enough to set off the alarm bells in Amity’s definitely-not-distracted mind, but she’s been uncharacteristically quiet all afternoon. There are no excited comments, no involuntary noises in response to the surprising events happening in the narrative, not even a quiet chuckle at the book’s various jokes and hijinks. In fact, now that Amity reflects on the prior school day and even into that morning, Luz has been kind of spacey and distracted all day. Well, more than usual, and in a different way than Amity has learned is typical of her. She keeps pulling out her phone and fiddling with it, unlocking it with some kind of purpose only to hesitate and return it to her pocket every time. Even now, when Amity turns her head to see if Luz has finished the page they’re on, she sees that her friend isn’t even looking at the book at all, and she’s holding her phone in both hands. Her gaze has wandered over to a shelf to her right, but when Amity tilts her head to get a better look, she sees that Luz isn’t looking at anything in particular at all. She seems lost in her own head, unfocused. From this angle she even looks a little sad, her mouth turned down into a persistent frown that Amity doesn’t see very often.

Amity swallows, contemplating what she should do. Should she play dumb and act like nothing’s wrong, try to smooth things over? She’s never been a very… emotionally intimate person, at least not on the outside, and she doesn’t want to pry into anything personal Luz might be experiencing for fear that it might drive her away. Stop overthinking things so much, she mentally berates herself, recognizing her bad habit and attempting to squash it. Luz isn’t the kind of person to get angry over something like this. It’s Amity who dislikes the prying.

“Um,” she finally speaks up, attempting to grab Luz’s attention. It works, and she watches Luz blink and straighten up in her seat, as though awakening from a trance. Immediately, the sad fog that had been enveloping her gaze subsides, and she musters a meaningful--if unusually small--smile, quietly prompting Amity to continue. Once again, Amity considers playing it off, turning the subject to a new book or a happier, more lighthearted conversation, and again she corrects herself. “Are you okay?” she asks instead, nervously thumbing the corner of the book’s page to release some of her apprehension. “You’ve been spacing out, and you keep pulling out your phone. Are you expecting a call or something?”

Amity’s never seen a person stuff their phone into their pocket faster than Luz. Her smile turns sheepish, and Amity almost misses the flash of guilt that passes through her expression for just a moment. “Oh! Nah, I’m not expecting anything. Just antsy, I guess,” she deflects. It only serves to make Amity more worried.

“Are you sure? You just seem… out of it, I guess.” She turns her gaze down to the book still open in her lap, frown deepening. “I mean, you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, especially if it’s something personal, but, um…” She trails off, feeling the telltale rise of a blush on her face. What a time to start feeling bashful! “W-we’re friends, right? You can tell me if something is bothering you. Because we’re friends.” She stumbles over her words a bit, wincing internally at her own lack of tact. Could she be any more awkward?

Still, Luz does look a bit relieved to hear this, and she nods her head. “Yeah, of course,” she says immediately, with full confidence in the statement. It eases Amity’s nerves every so slightly, but it also brings with it a tinge of disappointment. Somehow the word “friend” doesn’t feel quite right. But now isn’t the time for that, Amity reminds herself, pushing that thought out of her mind for the time being.

Luz lets out a loud sigh and flops back on the beanbag, jostling Amity in the process. “I really am okay,” she continues, her voice more self-assured this time. “I just… I’m worried about my mom.”

Amity blinks, a little surprised by the admission. Luz doesn’t talk about her parents very often; it seems to be a sore subject for her, and Amity doesn’t dare bring it up with her, not after Grom. Apparently it’s been eating at her more than she’s let on, for it to lead to this. “What about her?” she prompts, swallowing back her own worry. She slips a bookmark between the pages of the novel they’d been reading to mark their place, then sets it aside to focus all her attention on Luz. “Is she not responding to you?”

Luz musters up a wry smile. “Kind of the opposite, actually. She sends me texts almost every day,” she replies, an obvious fondness creeping into her voice.

Amity is… confused. It’s obvious that Luz loves her mother, and from what little Luz has said, her mother loves her just as much. “I don’t understand,” she says with a shake of her head. “Do you not like getting messages from her?”

“I do!” Amity says quickly, almost in a panic, like she’s afraid of anyone thinking otherwise. “That's not what I meant.” She lets out a groan of frustration, giving her legs a kick and scrubbing her hands over her face. She’s silent for a moment, hands hiding her expression, before she finally peeks out from under them to glance in Amity’s direction. “Hey, if I tell you something, can you, um, keep it between us?”

Her voice is quieter now, layered with an air of secrecy, and it just makes Amity more curious. Still, she suppresses her inner gossip for the sake of respecting Luz’s feelings. “Of course,” she responds honestly. “What happens in the club, stays in the club.” She recites a line Luz is fond of repeating whenever their club discussions turn more personal, but this feels like an extra weighty secret for Luz to be sharing.

Still, her attempt at humor pays off, winning a genuine smile from Luz, who immediately blurts out, “My mom doesn’t know I’m here.”

Amity blinks, shocked, and is quiet for a few seconds as she processes this information. “Wait, what? How does she-I mean, she knows you’re not home, right?” she presses, frantically trying to wrap her head around this situation.

“She thinks I’m at summer camp,” Luz clarifies, clear disdain for the camp tinging her words. “She’d freak out if she knew I was here!” Guilt starts to take over her expression again, tugging her lips into a deep frown. “You saw her at Grom, right? That’s what I’m afraid will happen when she finds out I ditched her camp. I’m supposed to be learning boring adult stuff, like how to be polite and not say weird things and, I dunno, file taxes? Adults do that, right?” She throws her hands up in the air, huffing.

Amity shakes her head, a little overwhelmed. Sure, she’d suspected something was up at Grom, but she hadn’t known just how deep her rabbit hole goes. “Taxes?” she mumbles to herself in confusion, then gives her head a shake. That isn’t the important part. Staring down at Luz’s expression, Amity feels bad. Luz is obviously agonizing over this on the inside, and has been since the day she’d arrived at the Boiling Isles. Something in Amity really hates seeing the way Luz avoids her gaze, like she’s ashamed to be admitting this. She’s twitchy, too, looking for any way to let out her nervous energy. At the moment, she fiddles with her fingers, crossing and uncrossing them, and picking imaginary dirt from underneath her fingernails.

Amity lets out a long breath, steeling her nerve, and flops back onto the beanbag at Luz’s side. The force of it jostles them both, and despite herself, Luz can’t help but let out a little laugh when she’s nearly thrown onto the ground. She wiggles around to reposition herself, and Amity nearly chokes on a breath when Luz’s arm presses against hers and comes to rest there. She’s suddenly very aware of how hard her heart is beating, sitting so close to Luz like this, but she doesn’t dare move, for fear of disrupting the moment. Her voice cracks just a bit when she says, softly, “Why are you so intent on hiding it from her? I don’t know much about humans, but is it really so bad for you to be spending time here, with us?”

Luz sighs dejectedly. “That’s the thing. Everything about this place, everything that I love, is the reason she wanted to send me away in the first place!” she says. “You may not get it, but I’m not just a weirdo here, Amity. I’m a weirdo on Earth, too.”

“Of course you’re a weirdo, I already know that,” Amity says before she can stop herself. She can’t hide the snickers that bubble up in her throat when Luz hits her on the shoulder good-naturedly.

“Not funny,” Luz complains, but Amity can see the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Amity swallows down her laughter. “Sorry, sorry. It’s not an insult, promise. I like your weirdness,” she admits, hastily turning away before Luz can see the easy blush that comes to her face so often these days.

She hears Luz laugh softly beside her, and takes it as a victory. “Thanks,” she murmurs. “I wish everyone could accept it like you and Willow and Gus do. My mom sent me away to camp because she wanted to fix my weirdness. No fanfiction, no cat ear sweaters, no fantasy novels. I know she’s just worried about me, but it’s not like I’m hurting anyone! Is it really so bad that I like nerdy things and want to geek out about them?” Turning to look at Amity, she forces a grin. ��Don’t answer that. I promise it’s no big deal, it’s just something I worry about sometimes-”

Luz keeps talking, but Amity is frozen. She hesitates to admit it out loud, but Luz’s words hit a little too close to home for her liking. Flashbacks of her younger self being scolded by her parents crop up in her mind, punishments for silly things; associating with the wrong people, participating in activities they didn’t approve of, ditching her studying in favor of something fun. Instances where her parents had pushed her away from what she wanted and towards their own ideal. It all made so much sense now. “I totally get it,” she blurts out, surprised and astounded that she and Luz, from two completely different worlds, maybe even different dimensions, could have something so intimate and personal in common.

Luz looks surprised, too. “You do?” she says.

“Yeah, I really do,” Amity echoes, and a smile breaks out on her face despite the heaviness of the topic. Of everyone she’s ever met on the Boiling Isle, only her own siblings have really related to her family’s… complicated dynamic, and Edric and Emira aren’t exactly people Amity is keen on confiding in. “My parents do it too. You saw them, in Willow’s mind. They do stuff like that all the time. I’m a Blight, after all, I have a reputation to uphold on their behalf. If you don’t do things their way, you get scolded, right? Can’t go giving off “the wrong impression” or it reflects badly on them. Your mom wants you to do what she wants, not what you want. That’s exactly how my parents are with me and my siblings.”

Luz is staring at Amity in stunned silence, sympathy clouding her gaze. “Yeah, that’s exactly what it’s like,” she sighs. “It’s hard, trying to live up to her expectations without feeling like I’m giving up everything I love. Is it hard for you, too?”

Amity shrugs. “I guess. My parents are easier on me than on my siblings, though,” she admits, clasping her hands over her stomach. Her elbow rubs against Luz’s in the process, but her friend doesn’t seem to notice. “Ed and Em were under super strict control when they were younger. I guess they coped with it by rebelling wherever they could. They still do.” She shrugs her shoulders. “Mom and Dad still try to keep them under control, but, well, you’ve seen them. They don’t take orders easily.”

Luz giggles softly at this, nodding her head. “I’m an only child. I think Mom feels like if I keep going down the path I’m on, that I’ll somehow ruin my life and make her out to be a bad mother, but it’s not true. I don’t know how to explain to her that I’m just fine the way I am, and that I’m not going to end up a failure just because I still like to read fantasy books.”

“You’ll figure it out,” Amity reassures her. “In the meantime, you can be as weird as you want around me.”

To her surprise, Luz actually blushes at this, her tan face going ever so slightly darker. It’s so unlike Amity’s own pale skin, which could and would turn bright red at the slightest provocation, that she can't help but stare. “Thanks, Amity. I'm really glad that you're my friend,” Luz confesses.

Humbled and more than a little embarrassed, Amity opens her mouth to deflect, but her words get tangled up in her mouth when Luz suddenly reaches into the space between them and takes her hand in hers, giving it a gentle squeeze. All coherent thought immediately leaves Amity's mind, and she's certain that she's red to the tips of her ears from the way her face burns. “N-No problem,” she manages to stutter out breathlessly, and she thanks whatever gods are watching that she’s able to string together a reply at all.

Amity has held Luz’s hand before, but it’s never been like this. She sees now how big of a difference there is between grabbing someone’s hand to help them stand up, or to steady them, or to keep from being separated in a crowd, and holding hands just because you want to. Luz’s palm is warm and firm against her smaller, daintier one, and she’s fitted their fingers together in a way that is decidedly, unnecessarily intimate. There is no practical reason for Luz to make this kind of gesture, she just does it because she wants to, and because it feels right to her. Amity can’t help but admire how brave she must be to make such a gesture so casually, when Amity herself can barely share the same space with Luz without combusting into a stuttering, rambling, disorganized mess. “Did you, uh, want to keep reading?” she asks, her voice soft in the hidden room, but the close proximity means her voice doesn’t have to carry far.

“If it’s alright with you, I’d like to stay like this for a little while,” Luz replies. It’s not often that Amity hears the rambunctious human speak so quietly. Luz shifts to get more comfortable, slipping her cell phone into her pocket and out of sight. Her shoulder presses against Amity’s and stays there as the two of them stare up at the glow-in-the-dark stars Amity had once climbed the shelves to stick on the ceiling.

“Okay,” Amity says, turning to give Luz a small smile. She wonders if Luz notices how red in the face she is. She wonders if Luz recognizes what it means, if she’s known all along, or if she writes it off as some magical quirk or another, oblivious to the way her actions make Amity feel.

Right here, in the moment, Amity can’t bring herself to care whether or not she notices. She holds Luz’s hand, looks up at the ceiling, and feels that everything is going to be okay.

#the owl house #luz noceda #amity blight #lumity #serendipitousfics #love these gals

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spicycreativity · 3 years

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Soft-Shoe Shuffle - Ch 10

Chapter: 10/12 Additional Notes: See Ch 1 for more information. Read on AO3 under "WizardGlick." Any formatting/italics errors are holdovers from AO3 that I was too lazy to fix. Chapter Content Warnings: N/A; ask to tag Excerpt: "I'm the scary one," Remus muttered in Janus' ear. "Not you. So don't ever scare me like that again, okay?" Janus considered the humor-to-consequences ratio of falling limp in Remus' arms and decided it wouldn't be worth it. "I won't."

If it all falls down, falls down, falls down

I can warm a crowd, I can make them shout

I can juggle verbs, adverbs, and nouns

I can make them dance 'til they all fall down

Janus woke up exhausted, which really wasn't fair considering the amount that he'd been sleeping lately.

Someone was stroking his hair, which was nice. Probably Remus. Remus wouldn't care that Janus' hair was stiff with dried sweat and that he hadn't brushed his teeth in who even knew how many days.

He shifted and nuzzled Remus' thigh.

Realization dawned slowly. Remus' nails were longer than this, Remus didn't smell like this, Remus had never sat still like this.

Janus couldn't even bring himself to be embarrassed at the mix-up. He was too tired and sore to really care who was petting his hair like this.

Except that it was probably Patton.

Subconsciously, Janus pulled the teddy bear closer to his chest. It had to be subconscious, because he would never cuddle a stuffed toy on purpose.

Janus opened his eyes.

Patton withdrew his hand like he'd been burned. "I'm sorry," he said, cheeks coloring. "Did I wake you up?"

Janus shook his head. His skin still tingled where Patton had touched him and he wanted it back so badly , but he didn't know how to ask.

"Remus made me promise I'd go get him next time you woke up. Well. Logan made me promise. Remus threatened me. Anyway!" Patton was already halfway to the door.

He was gone before Janus found his voice. "Don't go," Janus whispered to the air.

A moment later, Remus came barreling in with Logan in hot pursuit. Then came Virgil, then Patton again, and finally Roman.

Logan lunged forward to try to catch the back of Remus' shirt, but he was just a split second too late. Janus braced for impact, but Remus only fell on his knees by the bedside and pulled Janus into a tight hug.

"Awww," Patton cooed from the doorway.

"I'm the scary one," Remus muttered in Janus' ear. "Not you. So don't ever scare me like that again, okay?"

Janus considered the humor-to-consequences ratio of falling limp in Remus' arms and decided it wouldn't be worth it. "I won't."

Remus pulled back and made a lewd hand gesture. "Scout's honor?"

Janus manipulated Remus' fingers into the correct position and held his own hand up as well. "Scout's honor."

Remus nodded in apparent satisfaction, so Janus grabbed his shoulder and used it to haul himself upright. Virgil and Patton fidgeted by his desk while Roman leaned against the doorway and Logan hovered behind Remus.

"Well," Janus said, trying to sound better than he felt. "As you can see, I've died. Virgil will handle my estate, so please direct your concerns to him."

"Like I want all your pretentious steampunk crap," Virgil mumbled, looking around at the leather and brass and hardwood.

"It's art deco," Janus and Logan said at the same time, albeit with very different intonation.

Janus squinted at Logan, who seemed to take this as his cue to speak. "You need to eat something."

"Like a dick!" Remus crowed.

Janus sighed, expecting an uproar, but nothing more dramatic than general collective eye-rolling and awkward throat-clearing occurred in response.

Logan carried on, "Something light like chicken broth or dry toast." He cocked an eyebrow, indicating that this was a question.

"Goodness, however shall I choose," Janus said, trying and failing to keep the venom out of his voice. He did better on stage than he did under a microscope, yet here everyone was, studying him. It was all he could do not to squirm.

Patton's voice echoed in his ears suddenly:

He never asks for anything, he just talks around it until you figure it out on your own.

"Could you…" Janus balled both hands into fists. "I want…" He squeezed his eyes shut and expelled a breath through his nose."I just love that you're all in here staring at me. It's not awkward at all. " He fixed his gaze on the ceiling, only just managing to hold back a frustrated curse. Another failure. Another reason for the others to go back to hating him.

"Oh, gosh!" Patton said, but he didn't sound hurt or angry. "We're sorry; it's probably overwhelming to have us all in here at once, huh?"

Janus nodded, not trusting himself to speak. The feeling had grown uncomfortably familiar as of late.

"We'll let Logan look you over," Patton said. He shuffled out of the room after Roman, waving for Virgil to follow him.

Remus winked and wiggled his tongue at Janus. "Have fun playing doctor." He bounded out and shut the door behind him.

"So," Janus said, fidgeting with one of the teddy bear's ears. "He and Roman can stand to be in the same room as each other now?"

"It helps that they were both quite worried about you," Logan said. A pause. "As was I." He preoccupied himself clearing off a space on Janus' nightstand, willing a plate of dry toast into existence, then methodically taking the cap off a bottle of Gatorade and inserting a white bendy straw.

"Plastic straws are killing the sea turtles, you know," Janus said.

Logan looked at him, puzzled. "Rest assured, this one will not and indeed, cannot find its way into the water supply." A moment later he said, "Oh. You were making a joke."

"It's polite to laugh."

"Please excuse my rudeness, then."

Janus smiled. "I think Remus likes you," he said to cut the tension.

Logan tilted his head at the nightstand. "Why?"

Janus took the hint and began pulling the crust off a piece of toast. "I just have a feeling."

"Hm." Logan thinned his lips, but did not press the issue.

"Logan?"

"Yes?"

"What happened? When I was…"

"Incapacitated?"

"Sure."

Logan pushed up his glasses. "You were in a state of delirium for approximately five days. What is the last thing you remember?"

"Clearly? I had a conversation with Patton about… certain choices I had made in regards to Roman." Logan raised an eyebrow but did not interrupt. "It gets hazy after that. You and Patton were in my room, I think. And… I'm not totally sure this happened, but I seem to recall trying to apologize to Roman."

Logan nodded. "You did. Then you fainted in his room, and the ensuing chaos actually led to the temporary resolution of several interpersonal conflicts we had been experiencing."

"Just according to plan," Janus said, steepling his fingers. Logan didn't laugh. "Another joke."

"Please eat your toast."

"Alright, alright." Janus finished picking the crust off one slice and took a hesitant bite.

"Good." Logan nodded in approval. "To further answer your question, Remus has enacted a truce with Patton, Roman, and Virgil. Which essentially means that he agreed to 'tone down' his more distracting behaviors and the others would refrain from, ah…" Logan checked his note cards. "'Getting their strawberry-flavored edible panties in a twist'."

Janus nearly choked on his toast and made a hasty grab for the Gatorade. "How sweet."

"Yes, the sugar content of Blue Cherry Gatorade is regrettably rather high-- Oh. Yes, I suppose it was rather nice of everyone. Virgil also ceased his self-isolation for the sake of seeing you and talked a little about his feelings, as did Roman."

"Hmph." Janus shoved the rest of the toast in his mouth so he wouldn't have to talk. It had been his goal to fix everything, but not quite like this. Not at all like this, actually. He had become another piece on the chessboard, and not even a powerful piece like the queen. No, he was more like a bishop, moving laterally to move forward. And now he had no idea how to get what he wanted.

"Interestingly," Logan said. "I believe it was your involuntary display of vulnerability that led the others to treat each other more gently.

"I get it, I'm the hero," Janus said sourly. Hooray, he'd solved Patton's problems by running around like an idiot. How impressive.

"I was… I was trying to make you feel better."

Janus smiled despite himself. "Thank you. Really."

"Something is bothering you," Logan said. "I can't tell what it is. I had thought you might feel embarrassed, but you are handling matters very calmly, despite the fact that you have a tendency to raise your voice and lash out when agitated or threatened. This leads me to believe you are experiencing a different negative emotion, but I cannot identify what it is or why." Logan paused and cleared his throat, his eyes downcast. "This bothers me because you are my friend."

"I couldn't possibly be tired," Janus snapped, realizing a split second later he'd inadvertently proven Logan's point. "Oh."

Janus sighed and flicked over his metaphorical king, albeit in his own way. "I'm not thinking about all the ways a relationship with Patton could go horribly wrong."

"But you have a relationship with Patton--" Logan's eyes widened. "I see. Are you concerned that your feelings are unrequited?"

"Well, that and the opposite."

"I don't follow."

"Virgil told me that if I break Patton's heart, he'll break me . Literally."

"You're afraid of Virgil ?"

Janus ran his fingers over his temple and took in a breath while he waited for Logan to put the pieces together.

"You're afraid you'll hurt Patton."

"I'm not exactly known for my communication skills."

"Have you tried speaking sincerely instead of hiding your intentions with sarcasm?"

"No , the thought has never crossed my mind."

Logan smiled. "It was a joke."

Janus didn't hiss at him.

Logan continued, "I do think you should try to be honest with Patton."

"Easier said than done."

"But it can be done."

"I'll...think about it." Janus waved a hand to dismiss the topic.

#spicywrites #spicywrites soft-shoe shuffle #song featured: if it all falls down - jimmy buffett

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kiruuuuu · 5 years

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Doc/Lion oneshot in which, instead of going for each other’s throat, they reach a little lower (and Lion gets more than he bargained for). (Rating E, explicit, ~3k words) - written for @big-r6s-fan! 💗 I will never tire of thanking you for commissioning me and allowing me to write this because it was super fun :) Find my commission info here!

“Flament, a word.”

The tone of voice effortlessly conveys the blatant lie in Doc’s statement – what he really means to say is: The only thing keeping me from writing you a novel is lack of time. Lion narrowly avoids rolling his eyes in annoyance and obliges, throws Montagne a meaningful look which implies they’ll finish their rudely interrupted conversation later and trails after his other teammate. If he could’ve gotten away with it, he’d be dragging his feet just because the murderous glare Doc would send him never fails to be hilarious. He’s reasonably certain he knows what this is about and boy, is he not in the mood for this.

And of course Doc marches him into his office instead of just any room which would’ve served the same purpose. With his inflated ego, it’s no surprise he enjoys chewing people out in a place where he’s comfortable; Lion can��t even begin counting the occasions on which he ended up on this side of the mahogany desk, having his person and skills and ethics challenged by a man too naive to be in this line of work and who genuinely thought he could pull off that frankly ridiculous moustache for a few years of his life. Lion is almost sad it’s gone by now, it befitted Doc’s general absurdity.

It doesn’t matter. He’s secretly begun rebelling against the man’s authority in a satisfying way and now he puffs himself up whenever he comes face to face with the very desk which used to make his temper flare purely by existing, but by now has lost its sting. It was customary for him to view the solid piece of furniture as an unsurmountable obstacle rendering any proper communication between them impossible, yet his view has shifted. It’s converted. It’s working for him now.

“I will not stand for you endangering more innocent lives.” Doc’s French is clipped, efficient, yet more than a tool to be used – he has the same intonation and melody to his words as Lion’s parents, as Sophie, as former teachers.

“Then stop endangering your own”, he replies and wants nothing more than to stuff something down Doc’s throat to make him stop talking. His holier-than-thou attitude has always rubbed Lion the wrong way, created sparks of fury, hostility, and something… entirely different on occasion. There’s dust from the debris in Doc’s hair, making it whiter than it already is and Lion wants to bury his fingers in it and then pull sharply.

He needs to stop getting distracted.

“Stop interfering with my work”, Doc snaps and it’s wonderful how easily Lion can get under his skin. At this point, it’s almost a hobby for him to rile up his colleague. And while private hissy fits are a necessary-turned-amusing evil, they serve another purpose as well: providing excellent material for long, gratifying ‘self-care’ sessions in which he fantasises about what would’ve happened if instead of quoting a specific law to shut down Doc’s argument, he’d just crowded him against a wall, rumbled filth into his ear and showed him how unprofessional he really can be.

“Then stop interfering with mine.” He has to suppress a smirk at the frustration on Doc’s face and doesn’t mind in the least that he’s doing the grown-up version of ‘no you’.

“Pray tell, Flament, what exactly does your work entail then? Does it state anywhere you should prevent me from administering first aid to a wounded civilian? Hm?” His tone is cutting, sharp and sweet like a rose’s thorn, and he actually abandons his safe haven behind the desk to come down to Lion’s level – or rather lower. Because he is noticeably shorter and Lion gladly stands up straighter to emphasise this fact.

“Above all, my work entails keeping my colleagues safe, for example preventing an altruistic idiot from rushing head first into a potential ambush.”

Doc’s eyes narrow. Their faces are uncomfortably close together, a result of too many altercations in the past where both of them got scolded for raising their voice, so now they rely on dangerous hissing. His smell is making it hard to breathe because it’s earthy, mesmerising, distinct. Lion wonders how it’d feel to force him to his knees and have this defiant gaze directed up at him while his sharp tongue is used for something other than reprimanding him for - “Is that your way of saying you’re worried about me?”

Lion is halfway through formulating a reply in his head when his thoughts screech to a grinding halt. Nothing has changed, Doc’s posture is just as defensive as before, expression stony, intonation accusing, and yet the atmosphere has… tilted a little. Spilled into uncharted territory. Lion isn’t sure what to make of it. “I worry about all my colleagues”, he eventually responds neutrally.

“That doesn’t absolve you from jerking off at my desk. Repeatedly.”

Oh.

Well fuck.

He blinks owlishly, utterly speechless because how in the world is he ever going to recover. Doc knows. How does he know?

Sensing he’s not going to get a sensible response from Lion any time soon, Doc continues: “If you have a problem with me, I’m sure we can work something out.”

His mouth is faster than his brain because there’s no way he’d in his right mind shoot back: “Yeah, you can work out on my cock.”

Okay. Alright.

This is still salvageable. All he needs to do is to back off immediately, apologise for the inappropriate comment, not mention that Doc needs to stop wearing these blasted form-fitting shirts or else Lion will really end up doing a briefing with a raging hard-on in front of everyone, and then steer clear of Doc for the rest of his entire -

“Real mature, Flament, but I expected no less. I’m afraid you’re mistaken, though, as it would be the other way round.”

Once again, words elude him, this time out of indignation. The audacity. Lion has no doubt he’s the more experienced one, is taller and heavier, certainly more masculine and dominant, and Doc has the gall to imply… Shock slowly morphs into smug disbelief and he finds himself shaking his head at this bold claim. “You haven’t got the balls.”

And Doc grabs him by the collar and smashes their mouths together.

Lion just – he stops functioning for a few seconds until he realises that it’s Doc’s tongue prying his lips open so he parts them willingly with an involuntary moan he regrets the moment he utters it. His brain still refuses to acknowledge the whole situation, making it easy for Doc to overpower him, guide the messy kiss and shove his hands under Lion’s sweater and holy shit, is this really happening? The desk’s edge digs into the backs of his thighs and Doc’s teeth into his lower lip and it’s Lion who’s making these horribly embarrassing noises, isn’t it? Like a mixture of a dying whale and a prisoner of war about to be freed and this is not at all how he pictured this to go.

Despite the suddenness of it all, there’s a particular part of his body which has no trouble keeping up and draws even more attention to itself the moment Doc’s thumbs brush over Lion’s nipples and good heavens, he did not expect Doc to be such a fantastic kisser. Desperate to regain any sort of control, Lion tries to fight the onslaught by grabbing Doc’s hands, wrestling his tongue into submission and spinning them around – with an emphasis on tries. Because Doc chooses that second to push a thigh between Lion’s legs, presses it directly against his achingly hard erection in all the right ways and makes his brain short-circuit yet again. The gesture results in vague flailing on Lion’s part, a particularly vicious swipe of Doc’s merciless tongue which turns his joints into butter and some ungraceful bumbling of which Doc makes use by basically lifting him up and setting him down on his stupid desk.

Well, so much for that.

“If you want me to stop, now’s the time”, Doc murmurs against his mouth and curls his tongue around Lion’s in a way he didn’t think possible. His inner monologue has turned into no more than incoherent screaming because while this general situation is a wet dream come true, he’s conflicted about the details and yet the thought of stopping the other man doesn’t even enter his mind. When calloused fingertips twist his nipples, all he can produce is a throaty groan full of arousal and longing, and when his legs (the traitors) wrap around Doc’s to pull him closer, his opponent breaks the kiss to regard him with a disgustingly smug expression. “That’s what I thought”, he says and starts unbuttoning Lion’s trousers.

Why don’t you start lubing up my cock with your throat so the sliding in becomes easier, the monkey part of Lion’s brain provides helpfully, sends the signal to his mouth and witnesses in stark horror how he instead chokes out something very, very different: “Please, hurry up, I want you.” It seems his entire body has set out to betray him: his upper body gives in at the slightest push and lies flat on the largely empty surface he’s defiled in the past, his hands lie uselessly by his side instead of struggling, and his dick is magnificently hard. Painfully hard. So hard it’s continuously throbbing and will probably ejaculate as soon as Doc looks at it wrong.

“I noticed my hand lotion depleting unusually quickly and asked Meghan for a Black Eye when I couldn’t locate the source”, Doc informs him conversationally while ripping down Lion’s trousers with minimal resistance. And oh, that explains how he knew. And… also means that Doc saw him. Oh God. “Tell me, did you fantasise about me, Olivier?”

His cheeks are crimson. It’s impossible to provide an honest answer, not when Doc pulls his underwear down as if they’d done this a thousand times and throws his uncomfortably hard cock an appraising glance. “I”, Lion starts stupidly and then Doc’s mouth envelops him in wonderful tight heat, prompting him to thrust his hips up at the unexpected stimulation and the next thing he hears is a sharp snap.

Doc just slapped his ass as punishment.

It stings, but even worse is the realisation that Lion isn’t going to top anybody today. “You can’t do that!”, he gasps, appalled, yet the look he receives is unbothered.

“Watch me”, Doc says and does it again. This time, Lion moans at the sensation, can’t help himself, it’s just – he doesn’t even know what’s going on, only that he’s in too deep already, and he’s not only talking about Doc’s mouth and oh God, his tongue really can do what it promised earlier. A mere minute later, Lion is writhing on the cursed desk in agonising bliss, trying desperately not to come down Doc’s throat while producing so much noise it’s a miracle no one has checked on them yet. He’s so resigned to his fate that he at first doesn’t notice the warm hand creeping up his thigh and getting dangerously close to his crotch, up until the pad of a finger strokes over his entrance and absolutely no way.

“Don’t”, Lion pants and nearly knees Doc in the temple, “just – keep sucking, please, but not -”

Doc pulls off his dick with a wet pop and, unperturbed, conjures up a bottle of lube seemingly out of thin air. “Should’ve used this instead of the lotion”, he states. “Then you could’ve fingered yourself in preparation as well.”

“I don’t do that sort of thing”, Lion protests and yelps when Doc hoists his legs up, folds them in half and places Lion’s hands on his own calves. He’s much too overwhelmed to complain and so he simply holds his legs up, spread invitingly, and then there’s a slippery finger inside him.

He opens his mouth to object. The finger crooks in a way just as magical as Doc’s tongue earlier and a fierce wave of pleasure rolls through him. Lion closes his mouth again.

“I don’t believe it for a second”, Doc counters and adds a second one and good Lord, how is he doing this? Lion’s thoughts are running haywire and he’s ashamed to admit that at least half of them are focused on replacing those fingers with something else. “This looks like your natural habitat.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?!” He flinches when the digits withdraw and narrowly stops himself from substituting his own. It really does feel phenomenal.

“It means”, Doc replies while unzipping his own trousers, “that you’re a slut.”

Lion is stupefied. Did Doc just -

And before his brain even processes the insult, it shuts down completely because that’s definitely a dick pushing inside him, giving him the opportunity to adjust and then rubbing over all the right places. In utter disbelief, Lion stares down at himself and can’t fathom how he ended up here when by all means, he should’ve -

“Hold this too.” The hem of his sweater gets shoved between his teeth and he bites down automatically; his reward is warm palms stroking over his chest and fingertips finding his nipples yet again and he’s sizzling, he feels hot and weird and his skin prickles wherever Doc touches, and above all he never wants this to end. Especially when Doc starts thrusting. “Do you like this?”

Lion’s only answer is a muffled moan about an octave higher than he’d like. There’s something like fireworks going on and it almost drowns out Doc’s next words. Almost.

“You, Olivier, are a nasty little slut”, and Doc emphasises this with a particularly deep thrust, “and you deserve to be punished. Do you know why?”

He shakes his head, too preoccupied with the sight before him, the incredible feeling of becoming one with this man, something of which he’s been dreaming for a long, long time.

“But you do. Because it wasn’t just my desk, was it?” Panicked, Lion looks up and is met with a half amused, half heated gaze. Doc seems to be enjoying this at least as much as he is. “My underwear has gone missing a few times. So has my uniform. I know how you look at me.”

Oh shit. Lion’s face starts burning and it’s only partly the hard movements which rock his entire body. He must make for a shameful display: presenting himself, incapacitated of his own volition, whimpering and squirming on Doc’s magnificent cock. And he realises that he doesn’t even care – because it looks like Doc is having the time of his life, and that implies they’ll do this again.

“Look at you, you’re taking it so well.” His voice is mesmerising and Lion notices himself giving in to the thrumming desire, relishing the sharp motions reaching deep and causing small explosions of need, of want, of delight. When a hand closes around his throbbing erection, he throws his head back and arches his back, feels fingernails dig into his ribs and scrape over a sensitive nipple, prompting an elated groan. “You’re sucking me in and gripping me so tightly.”

Lion wants it to last so badly, wants to hear Doc talk some more about all the depraved things he’s done because he hasn’t even mentioned half of it, can’t know the full extent, but as always, the universe is against him and gave Doc not only a gloriously talented tongue as well as a perfectly shaped dick, but also awarded him with skilled fingers who identify Lion’s weakspots in seconds and massage the ridge of his glans, torture him with long, slow strokes just like he would himself and that’s right, Doc knows exactly how he does it because he’s seen it, and this knowledge mercilessly shoves Lion off the edge without so much as a warning.

He comes with a series of moans, abs contracting marvellously and sending shocks of pleasure through him while Doc milks him, keeps jerking him in time with the almost violent spurts of come Lion unloads on his belly. Doc fucks him through it and creates white noise in Lion’s head with his thrusts, the stimulation flirting with discomfort but never really reaching it; and if it wasn’t for Doc’s own orgasm, Lion might’ve passed out cold with how hard the relief hits him. His rhythmic spasming must’ve been too much for Doc, causes him to climax while Lion is still tensing up and riding the last of his high and he looks beautiful. Doc tilts his head back with a satisfied groan, hips stuttering, and comes deep -

He – he’s actually coming inside, dick pulsing, eyes rolling back. And if Lion is honest, it’s one of the hottest things he’s ever seen.

The hem of his sweatshirt snaps back the moment he lets go and he rests his head on the uncomfortable and frankly ostentatious desk with a sigh, lowers his legs but refuses to let Doc go by wrapping them around him once again. The fight has left him, but so has the heat of the moment which has shifted into an odd uncertainty. He’s not sure what to do other than enjoy the gentle afterglow.

As if he’d read his mind, Doc bends down to him for a kiss which lasts much longer than Lion expected it to, and when they separate after a good while, they’re both smiling. “How about we think of an excuse as to why our conversation took this long while we get you cleaned up?”, he murmurs good-naturedly.

The warmth spreading in Lion’s chest easily replaces the insecurity he felt, and so he nods happily.

“Really, though. Don’t touch my stuff again.”

He almost laughs at Doc’s serious tone and decides to take a chance: “And what if I do?”

To this, Doc smirks and Lion didn’t even know he was capable of doing that, is actually glad he didn’t find out earlier because it apparently doubles his heart rate and steals his breath away.

“Then I’ll see you in my office, Flament”, he says and raises a meaningful brow.

#rainbow six siege #doc #lion #doc/lion #fanfic #oneshot #commissions #lion is one of my fav unreliable narrators #stop letting your mouth write checks that you can't cash

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starspatter · 4 years

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Heroes and Thieves, Ch. 12

Title: Heroes and Thieves Fandom/Universe: BTAS, pre/post-RotJ flashback

Summary: A story about second chances, healing, and having hope.

Rating: PG-13, for references to character death, child psychological torture and trauma.

Genre: Romance/Family/Friendship/Hurt/Comfort

Word Count: 3,191 Previous Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11

Also on ff.net and AO3. Note: I haven't actually read either of the books referenced in this chapter, but they came up when I was doing research and seemed to fit so I threw them in there.

Scars are souvenirs you never lose The past is never far Did you lose yourself somewhere out there Did you get to be a star

We grew up way too fast And now there's nothing to believe And reruns all become our history

-Goo Goo Dolls, "Name"

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Then. On Monday, Tim went to the library as usual once classes were over, but with a different purpose in mind than simply secluding himself in studies. …That is to say, he wouldn’t be by himself this time. He wondered why he even agreed to this. That knock on the head must have scrambled his judgment – that was the only explanation he could think of for permitting himself to be possessed by such an insane notion. When he reached the agreed-upon meeting place though, there was someone else sitting at the table instead of the person he expected. She had short, pitch black hair – sleek and strict – a style resembling Annie’s but with a widow’s peak; far darker bangs parted in the center, pulled back taut by a barrette. In addition, her skin was much more pale in comparison, emphasizing midnight mascara and lips. Both her chin and slanted eyes were sharper, piercing pupils snapping up from her book to stare straight at him with such intensity he flinched on instinct. He’d never seen anyone react so immediately to his presence. “Uh… Hello?” She eyed him with suspicion, silent and unmoving. Statuesque. “Sorry to bother you, but… I’m supposed to be meeting someone here soon…” Again, no response. Tim didn’t know what to do. He thought about just giving up and turning tail (hey, can’t say he didn’t try at least), though somehow the prospect of presenting his back to her seemed like a dangerous idea. He was about to retreat in reverse by slinking slowly into the shadows – safety – of shelves when a pair of hands suddenly emerged from behind him, blocking his vision. “Guess who~?” “Gah!” He whirled around in a panic, almost about to punch the invader to his personal space when he saw it was – of course – Stephanie. The librarian sternly looked up from the counter at the loud disruption and pursed a finger to her lips, shushing. “Fuck- don’t do that,” he hissed with a sibilant shiver, clutching his rapidly beating breast. “…Sorry,” she whispered back, contrite. “It’s okay,” he muttered with a heavy sigh. “Just give me some warning next time.” Meanwhile, the seated spectator was still watching the two intently, stony view shifting back and forth between them. Tim felt even more uncomfortable under her penetrating gaze, and was about to suggest they move to someplace else when Steph waved to the glum girl in gleeful greeting. “I see you’ve met my roommate,” she chirped as she bounded over, cheerfully clasping hands on the sculpture’s stiffened shoulders. “This is Cassandra, but you can call her Cass. She doesn’t say much, but she’s a nice girl. I hope you don’t mind if she joins us for today.” As she briskly babbled introduction in lieu of the stranger herself, who still had yet to speak, Tim felt he was starting to understand how Steph was able to put up with his own severe lack of social skills. “Um… Okay. Sure.” “Awesome. I’ll be with you guys in a sec, just let me finish shelving these books.” She bustled off again, leaving Tim alone with Cassandra before he could even say anything. Defeated, he laid his bookbag on the table and took the chair diagonally across from her, not wanting to remain directly in her field of vision. She continued to follow his movements closely though, keeping sight trained on him as if a hawk tracking its prey – rigid and unwavering. …It was starting to seriously creep him out. “So, er… What’s that you’re reading?” He blurted out in a feeble endeavor to fill conversation. Mechanically, she raised the cover so he could see. Judging by the winged figure in frilly jeweled fashion painted next to a medieval knight, both holding what appeared to be fanciful masks, it looked like some kind of fantasy young adult fiction novel. “I… see. Is it interesting?” She simply nodded, before (blessedly) returning attention to her reading material. … Can I go now? As the suffocating silence stretched on, Tim wasn’t sure if the situation was any better than before. Though her scathing appraisers were now fully fixed on the page in front of her rather than him, they didn’t seem to be making any progress. …Which he supposed only made sense, given the orientation of the subject. …Should I let her know she’s holding that book upside-down? To his surprise, a rosy tint developed on the other’s complexion as she subtly flipped the tome to the correct position. Odd, he was sure he hadn’t said that statement aloud. …But then, reality was such a fickle thing these days. Yet, even though the volume was righted, her focus still didn’t seem to advance at all. He mused idly if she was actually absorbing any of it. Don’t tell me she can’t actually read. “I can read.” Tim startled at the unanticipated answer. …Okay, this was really getting weird. He definitely hadn’t said anything that time. Given that the supposed responder still hadn’t budged an inch, he began to doubt whether he was really hearing things… Before he could decide whether to inquire further out of sheer curiosity, Stephanie conveniently showed up at that precise moment, arms inflated with textbooks. “Back! Sorry about that.” She plopped the heavy publications and herself down, insinuating cozily between the two, apparently without noticing the aura of awkwardness permeating the air. “Shall we get started then?” “Y- yeah.” Tim cast one more confused look at Cassandra before attempting to apply concentration to his other company instead. It was difficult when said study partner’s own awareness kept wandering though, growing bored and fidgety within minutes. In the corner of his periphery, he could sense the third party’s irises still peeking at him from over the pages as well, albeit remaining mute throughout the entire period. By the end of the (exhausting) hour, Tim had managed to at least hammer in a few concepts. As they finally stood up and started gathering their things, Stephanie sheepishly apologized for her short retention span, and promised she’d be more attentive next time. Meanwhile, Cassandra quietly shut her text and rose, maneuvering fluently – like lighter fluid, hazardous and almost undetectable – around the desk to approach Tim. To both his and Steph’s astonishment, she leaned in alarmingly close, lifting delicate digits to lightly touch his forehead. He swallowed apprehensively as she scrutinized his mystified expression, as if searching for something. After a bewildered beat, she lowered her hand, and placed the paperback she had in his. “Here.” He blinked at her in bemusement. “Read it.” She merely instructed, before departing without another word. “…What the heck was that about?” Steph pondered, scratching her hair. Tim shrugged. “Beats me. You know her better than I do.” “Yeah, but I have no idea why she does stuff sometimes.” Stephanie paused, contemplating with a half-anxious, half-amused countenance. “Hey, maybe she likes you.” Tim blushed, busying with packing away his possessions again. “Yeah, right.” … As he lay on his dorm bed later though, looking at the lent item against the light, he reflected on the strange glance and gesture she gave him. It wasn’t like anything he’d ever experienced before. It was as if the cold contact infiltrated deep into his soul, chilling to his very core… Conner came in then, bearing a broad grin. “Yooo Timbo, so how’d it go with that girl?” Tim shrugged, sitting up. “…She brought her roommate along.” The other boy elevated an eyebrow. “Dude. That’s a bad sign. Inviting someone else on the first date means you’re totally in the friendzone.” “I told you, it’s not a date.” “What is it then?” Tim exhaled, shaking his head. “…I don’t know.” Conner crossed over to clap a thick paw on Tim’s shoulder. “Lighten up, man. You’ll win her over, don’t worry.” He elbowed with a wink and cheesy thumbs-up, and Tim rolled his retinas, but didn’t say anything. Conner’s eyes caught the object in the other’s lap, and he plucked it up without warning, wrinkling his nose as he examined the lacey title. “The Black Swan? Since when do you read chick lit?” “It’s not mine,” Tim defended hastily. “Steph’s roommate told me to read it. Now give it back.” Tim made a swipe for the article, but Conner easily kept his extended muscle out of the shorter one’s reach as he flipped teasingly through the embarrassing narrative, reciting passages aloud with gusto. “‘Odile watched her father's back, swallowing involuntary bitter tears of disappointment and rejection, feeling her head droop a little as her heart sank with dejection.’” “Will you shut up?” “‘If she could have wept, her tears would have burned furrows down her face, so bitter were the dregs of degradation that she drank at that moment.’ …God, who writes this stuff?” Tim grimaced as he made another desperate effort to grab at the entity. In the midst of their scuffle though, two tags secretly tucked into the spine slipped out from between the sheets, landing at their feet. They both blinked and bent down to pick one up each, puzzled by the bizarre bookmarks. They were playing cards. Conner glimpsed up from the Ace of Clubs he was holding towards Tim, whose eyes were expanded wide with shock and – horror? – as his hand began shaking. “Hey, you okay, man? What’s wrong?” Gulping, Tim gradually rotated the thin cardboard around to reveal its front: not a number or face… but a Joker. Anger and concern promptly carved onto Conner’s visage. “What the hell is this? Some kind of sick joke?” Tim said nothing, as he peered down at the scarlet diptych design of mirrored angels and demons on the backside to find a brief note written in bold, black marker: Park. 4PM. Biting his lip in baffled frustration, Conner revolved his own cue around to discover a much longer message. His brow furrowed as he tried (rather unsuccessfully) to pronounce the alien language it was inscribed in. “‘Rara avis in terris nigroque simillima cygno’ – what is this, French?” “It’s Latin,” Tim clarified. “’A rare bird in the lands and very much like a black swan.’ It likely refers to a recent theory published by Taleb. It’s a metaphor to describe an event that comes as a surprise, that’s hard to predict since it’s beyond the realm of regular expectations, and has an extreme major impact as a result. Afterwards, it is rationalized by hindsight, as if it could’ve been anticipated if the relevant data were available – but this only becomes apparent in retrospect. The phrase itself was coined by the ancient poet Juvenal, back when people thought black swans didn’t exist and that such an abnormality was impossible. It was only later proven wrong when the first one was discovered in 1697.” Conner blinked vacantly at Tim, looking as lost as he always did whenever the other went off on an encyclopedic (if perhaps slightly pretentious) tangent. “So… What does it all mean?” “I don’t know,” Tim admitted as he took the pair and headed determinedly over to his computer, booting up the system. “But I’m going to find out.” He navigated to the browser window – keeping a weather eye on the worrisome memo as it unwillingly brought back bad memories – and did some digging. … By the time he was done with his research, the hour of summons was fast approaching. He snatched his jacket and was out the door before Conner could even get a word in edgewise, racing towards Gotham Central Park. As soon as he arrived there, he stilled for a second at the entrance gate, surveying the tranquil scene of people walking casually to and fro: lovers holding hands, families enjoying late afternoon picnics and games of Frisbee or Fetch with their pets, children running joyfully to their parents across the grass – the latter giving affectionate hugs and pats before sending off with smiles to the playground, all while keeping a careful watch on their precious bundles from a distance. Tim spotted Cassandra sitting by herself on a swingset towards the outskirts, exuding a gloomy atmosphere that likely aided in deterring any nosey youngsters. He neared cautiously, observing her glide like a gentle pendulum for a while, before she slowed to a stop and looked at him finally. “You came.” Dispensing with preliminaries, Tim cut straight to the chase. “How did you know who I was?” Cassandra smiled softly. “The way you move – it resembles him. No openings, always on guard, not a single wasted motion…” She then added in a hush: “Plus, I read your mind.” Her head declined in apology. “Forgive me. It’s not something I normally like to do to others, especially to someone I’ve just met. …There was such a dark cloud surrounding yours though, I- I couldn’t help it.” She dragged a heel through the dirt. “Besides, you know who I am now, don’t you?” Tim sat down on the swing next to her, repeating everything he had learned based on his hunch. “Several years ago, the Joker broke into a Cadmus facility in Arizona. He released five metahuman kids, who had been abducted from their families shortly after birth and raised as secret weapons for the government. He took them on as his own protégés, calling them the ‘Royal Flush Gang’. The strongest of them was named ‘Ace’, who possessed telepathic powers the likes of which the world had never seen before. …’Ace’ reportedly died not long after of a brain aneurysm in the presence of Batman, who was the only witness, in a park not unlike this one.” Cassandra merely nodded affirmatively. “…He helped you fake your death, didn’t he?” “It was the only way to free me completely from Cadmus’ clutches. Otherwise they would keep hounding me forever.” She gripped the chains bitterly. “He sent for an expensive foreign doctor who performed the surgery in secret. Afterwards, he gave me a choice: I could stay and be a part of his team, or I could live peacefully on my own. …I chose this.” Tim afforded her an odd look, thinking how close he evidently could’ve been to having an actual “sister” his age. “…I’m guessing ‘Cassandra’s’ not your real name either.” “It is the name he gave me. After the Greek prophet from mythology.” “Can you actually see the future?” Tim questioned, genuinely intrigued. Cass regarded the horizon, as if squinting into some sort of far-off void. “What I see are… ‘possibilities’. Infinite paths our lives could’ve taken, had we made different choices. If just the slightest factor changed course. ‘Alternate realities’, if you will.” She told him, about a world where there weren’t just two Robins, but a third Robin and then a fourth, a world where Barbara was the one shot and paralyzed instead of Dick, where Joker lived and he died and came back to life and his name wasn’t Tim it was- “Stop. I’d rather not hear any more.” Tim prolonged a palm to halt her crazy-sounding speech, grasping his aching skull in the other. “I’m not saying I totally understand or believe you, but basically what you’re saying is… ‘Something’ was bound to happen sooner or later.” “…If that is how you wish to interpret it.” She removed her limbs from the links, resting on her legs instead. “I am sorry, for what he did to you. The… things I saw inside his mind, they were so terrible, I should’ve known better than to leave him be. I… should’ve ended him when I had the chance.” Her knuckles clenched, impressing into her thighs. “Even though they trained me to use my powers to kill, I- I couldn’t. I didn’t want to.” Tentatively, Tim reached out to wrap his own hand soothingly around her wrist. “Hey, that’s not on you. It’s not your fault. None of it was your fault, including-” He hesitated. “-What happened with your parents.” He heard an abrupt wailing coming from the court where a kid had tripped and fallen from the bottom of the slide, scraping her knees on the wood chips. Her mom and dad hurried to her side, cooing and consoling as they stuck numerous kisses and band-aids with colorful cartoon kitties and pretty princesses on them to the boo-boos. Turning, he saw there were tears rolling down Cassandra’s cheeks as she unfurled her fist, knotting fingers into the comfort of his. While her nails were startlingly long, she took care not to wound his flesh, closing just tight enough to exchange warmth. “You and I… are similar. I don’t mean just because of Joker either.” She meditated off into that empty space again. “The two of us are anomalies. Outliers. Outsiders. We don’t fit into the grand scheme. We’ve always been… ‘different’. We don’t ‘belong’.” Tim wasn’t sure exactly what she was talking about. But he took a stab at alleviating the mood anyway. “I guess you could say we’re… ‘Wild Cards’?” She stared at him. “…Sorry, bad joke.” And people say I’m humorless now. Cass looked a little put-off as she pouted, and he winced, remembering she could hear what he was thinking as well. He swiftly opted to switch the topic instead. “You cannot tell Stephanie about any of this.” “I don’t intend to.” Gray eyes narrowed with gritty resolve as her voice dropped to a grave mumble, digging her toe into the earth and gravel. “Someone like her should not know of the horrors we’ve been through, the darkness that we come from. The number of evil sins we’ve committed. …It will only lead to causing the same kind of pain in the end.” Her face contorted obliquely as she said this, ominous and foreboding. Breathing out, she monitored the fading violet brightness of the sun as it started to set. “Stephanie… is light. A ray of hope. She’s the first person I’ve met who wasn’t instantly afraid of me, but accepted me right away for who I was. She’s the first real ‘friend’ I’ve ever had. …I would never do anything to hurt her.” She looked down at their connection, as if realizing the implication just now, and nervously began to relinquish. Tim didn’t let go though. Something she had said triggered a thought in the back of his conscience, and he stood up, coaxing mildly. “Come on. There’s someone else I think you should meet.” Timidly, she trailed after his tow. Whilst they stood there waiting for the bus, he overheard a passing elderly duo remark wistfully on that “cute young couple”, which in turn urged him to be the one to impulsively liberate this time. As they both coughed and avoided each other’s eyes, Cassandra spoke up in a somewhat troubled tone. “There’s… something else I should mention.” “What?” “When I… looked into your subconscious, I saw an even greater darkness buried deep down. I can’t explain it, but… I fear it may consume you someday.” She frowned in vexation at her inability to identify, to express. “…It bears strong resemblance to him.” Though he was afraid to ask, Tim did so anyway. “Who?” She gave him an ambiguous look, constricted and conflicted dots overwhelmingly obscure. “Both.”

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And now we're grown up orphans That never knew their names We don't belong to no one That's a shame But you could hide beside me Maybe for a while And I won't tell no one your name

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galfridus1 · 5 years

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Happy Birthday Leo!!

@lovelucywilde happy birthday! Hope you have an amazing day! It’s been so nice getting to know you this year; you are a wonderful, kind, inspirational person and you deserve the best. I hope you like this. Have some Escalin sort of angst 😊.

The stone was rough under her frozen fingers, scratching her palms as she traced over the engravings. The familiar features carved into the rock were so lifelike she could almost believe he was lying before her, almost feel his power warming the air. But, try as she might, the hair would not push back from his brow and he did not smile as she caressed his cheek. It was not him and it never would be and Merlin felt her heart would break.

She took an involuntary step backwards, the clipped knock of her boots echoing around the crypt, disturbing the silence that had been ringing in her ears. “Escanor,” she whispered as the noise softened to a dull ache, his name repeating over and over as it bounced off the walls. “Please don’t go. I can’t live without you.”

A lone tear fell down her face to splash onto the stone flagons, a drop of life amidst the chill of death. The time they had spent together had been so very brief, a mere flicker of flame in her long, lonely existence, a life spent continually searching for answers that were never quite within her reach. Merlin closed her eyes as the truth crashed upon her - for all the millennia she had watched come and go, for all the progress she had made in the advancement of magic and science - she had never had a true purpose until she had found him, until his light had brought meaning to her existence. And now he was gone, irretrievably gone, beyond the reach of even her power to sustain life.

The regret was so potent she could almost taste it, a sour tang coating her tongue. Not once since she had discovered the true nature of her magic and frozen her time in perpetuity had she felt the need to revisit her decision. There were always more things to learn, more things to explore, more knowledge to acquire and secrets to unlock. But now, for the first time in more than three thousand years, she wondered what the point in such acquisition could be if there was no one to share it with.

[[MORE]]

She felt his presence before he stepped into the space, the fall of his feet on the stone vibrating through the air. The king’s power was so bright, so golden that it made her head spin; it was too much of a glare in this sombre chamber of death. She was not surprised when she felt a hand squeezing her shoulder, though she resented the unwelcome intrusion. It took ever ounce of her self-restraint not to brush Arthur off, to turn and snarl at him to leave her be. She just wanted to be alone.

Arthur must have known, but was not to be deterred. Turning her in his arms, he scooped her into a warm embrace and Merlin broke down, sobbing in earnest into the king’s shoulder as he held her close. This was the child she had raised from a boy, the man she had watched grow into his destiny; he was all she had left in the world but, comforting as he was, even as she clung to him she wished he would go.

She felt the king set her back, and quickly she swiped at her eyes, gulping to try and stem the flood of tears. “Hey, it’s okay to cry you know,” Arthur said softly as he ran his hands over her upper arms. “I miss him too.”

Merlin nodded, not trusting herself to speak. How could she expect her ward to understand? He was in the prime of his life, a father with young children of his own, a kingdom to rule and people around him who would do anything for him, even die in the dirt of the battlefield if it advanced his interests. He had been on the earth for such a short time, and had a love of life no other mortal could rival. How could he ever understand?

She jolted as she listened to the king’s next words. “Merlin, I… I don’t want to be rude but do you have to stay here? Can’t you… well, could you join him?”

“What?” Her head snapped up, her gaze meeting deep violet eyes that shone a little in the soft lantern light.

“I don’t want to be crass but, well, I’m not sure I’d want to go on without all the people I love. I’m glad I’m human, I want go first,” Arthur said with a chuckle. “I want to go before you too, but I also don’t want you to suffer.”

Merlin swallowed around the painful lump in her throat, grateful for Arthur’s silence. Relinquishing her magic was not something she had ever considered doing. Though life was hard and painful she had always enjoyed waking up each morning, always felt the spark that drove her onwards, and she turned the idea of stopping it all over in her brain. Several months had passed since Escanor’s life had come to its end, months where she had trudged through each day, forcing herself to put foot in front of the other even though all she wanted to do was to stay in bed. It was a sensation she has never before experienced, one as if she was swimming through time, unable to breathe, unable to laugh or smile, just a constant ache of loss and grief. She had been told it would pass, that the pain would lessen and fade, but if anything it was stronger than before.

“But you need me,” Merlin protested, her voice harsh and she quickly cleared her throat, her hands twisting before her. “Camelot needs me! I…”

“No.” Arthur took a step towards her and gathered her hands in his. “You’ve taught me everything I need to know. I may not do as well without you, but it’ll be good enough I expect. Britannia will continue to prosper. It’s my destiny right?” he said with a chuckle. “And besides you’ve set up the university. Researchers from all over the earth are working to make the world a better place. They will succeed, I know they will. I’m not telling you what to do, of course, but please don’t stay for me.”

“I wonder what it’s like on the other side.” The question surprised her even as it clamoured through the chamber. She had not been there herself. Try though she might in her younger days, she had no strong connection to anyone who had passed and so found the door barred to her, and more recently she had known she could not survive setting eyes on Escanor only to leave him all over again. But she had to acknowledge she felt the pull to explore, to see the emerald shards of crystal rising to the heavens, to breathe in the stillness and the eerie peace. Elizabeth and the others had so clearly described the land of the dead, their narratives dovetailing in important ways, but it was not the same as first hand observation.

The notion began to take hold. The more she considered the advice of her ward, the more it resonated with her will. Arthur was correct: he was a good ruler, a king and competent monarch and he would continue along the path she had set out for him, and even if he deviated from it he would find his way. Britannia was safe. Magic was waning, leaving the world and becoming every day closer to being obsolete, but the scientific method she had helped to establish would usher in a continued wave of progress. This was a world that humans could manage on their own, without the aid of mages.

And Escanor… Merlin turned to look once more at the chiseled face of the man she loved. The likeness before her was almost perfect: the high, proud cheekbones, the jut of his jaw, the challenge she thought she could see in his eyes. She missed them terribly. What should I do? Merlin sent her thoughts outwards, asking the man who she had learned to confide in, only to hear nothing in return. I don’t want to exist without you. But I don’t know if I can give up.

“I do trust you,” she murmured without turning to the king. “I know you will protect Britannia, and I… I will think about it.”

As Merlin strode to the exit, a slight smile twisting her lip as her mind turned to research for the first time in what felt an age. The ache was still there, full and throbbing and making her wince with the pain, but now it was boxed into a corner of her heart. She could go on. There were phenomena to explore, a country to run, a king to support as he established a new order. She did not turn to see Arthur approaching the tomb, bending before the great knight in a low bow.

“Sorry Escanor, she’ll see you soon, but the world needs her for now. I hope you understand.” Arthur grinned at the stones, the air blowing a sudden comforting warmth as he followed his mentor out into the sunlight.

#nnt #merlin #escanor #escalin #arthur pendragon #fanfiction #HAPPY BIRTHDAY LEO #❤️❤️❤️❤️

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kantuck · 5 years

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ADhD, something to think about.

A friend sent me this: (I’m copy/pasting, mistakes are the authors.)

“Kan, saw this on FB, thinking of you.”

I was asked a while ago by a friend to share my thoughts on ADHD, and what I believe about this unique neuro-diversity that we all seem to have. It has taken me some time to put it into words, but here is the basic gist of it and I hope it can help someone to understand the “why” behind what we all experience.

ADHD is not a curse, It is not broken, it is NOT a malfunction of the brain or a “Mis-wiring”. It is not from your mother smoking cigarettes when you were in utero, and it is NOT from too much television as a child. ADHD is a Nuero-diversity. It is a different wiring of the brain as it relates to the body and to information collection AND most importantly it has a purpose! Before I get to that piece though, let me share with you what I KNOW about ADHD.

ADHD is a label that we have assigned to individuals that present with a specific set of symptoms associated with a diagnosable neuro-diversity. These symptoms can include things like distractibility, forgetfulness, inattention, hyper-focused attention, emotional storms, irritability, feelings of worthlessness, active or overactive imagination, tardiness or skewed senses of time, imposter syndrome, out of control thoughts, and severely low self-esteem.

Recently, research studies have identified three (3) aspects of ADHD that are experienced by almost everyone with this neuro-diversity and not experienced by almost none without it.

Interest-based nervous system: Not just interest-based attention, but your entire nervous system functions differently based on your level of interest. When you find something truly interesting it will actually energize you. Sleep is irrelevant, Food is a fleeting thought. You are sustained by interest. Have you ever found yourself up way past time to go to bed, forgot that you had to go to the bathroom, or didn’t eat, just because you were so interested in something? Yeah, me too.

Emotional Hyper-Arousal: Imagine this like you have a volume knob for “Emotions” and yours is turned up 5 notches higher than the neuro-typical people around you. Your highs are higher, your lows are lower. Merely funny is hilarious and mildly sad is sorrowful. Everything is extreme. Not worth humor is funny and not worth heartache is indeed sad. Every emotion felt is more-than.

Rejection-sensitive-dysphoria: Basically, we are hypersensitive to rejection, from anyone. It doesn’t really matter if we consciously care about the individual or group that is enacting the rejection. We are just hyper-sensitive to being rejected by anyone for any reason. Even if we don’t want to be part of the club, we are sensitive to the club not wanting us as a member kind of thing.

Now if we combine these symptoms and aspects we begin to see some pretty obvious and reoccurring traits that cause problems in daily life.

Imposter syndrome: Minimizing our accomplishments and maximizing our failures or faults. If we succeed, then it was easy or luck, but if we fail it is because we are flawed or broken and we are totally responsible.

Hyper-focus: I can be focused on something that I am interested in, but cannot manage to pay attention to a board meeting. I am all about the next book coming out, but forget my anniversary.

Emotional storm: I have a thousand thoughts running through my head and each one has an emotion that I have to feel as it passes and therefore I feel a thousand emotions in the span of a few seconds and cannot differentiate between them.

There are many many more that I don’t think that I need to list. You can see the patterns I am sure.

What if…..?

What if ADHD was natural?

What if ADHD was not ADHD, but something else?

What if ADHD was NOT a Deficit or a Disorder, but an adaptation?

Scientific research now suggests that what we know as ADHD is actually an evolutionary adaptation to a Hunter/Gather lifestyle.

In a natural environment, where there are predators and prey, where the rustling of leaves, or the flash of game in the periphery, or the trickling of water heard, could mean the difference between life or death, it is actually an extreme benefit to have an overabundance of involuntary attention. It is a bonus to be hyper-aware (distractable).

This is why so many that have ADHD wired brains find solace in natural environments. There is so much to “Pull” our attention, but so little to “Pay” attention to. We find ourselves recharged by walks in the forest or sitting near a babbling brook. This is our natural born element and so it invigorates us.

So why so few of us then? Well, let's look at that. Darwin’s theories of evolution state that: If there is a mutation in an individual that is part of a species that makes that individual more likely to survive, then that mutation will be passed along to its offspring and therefore make the offspring more likely to survive than it’s counterparts of the same species and thus, the mutation will eventually, though the process of natural selection, be distributed to the entire species and will no longer be a mutation, just part of the species. For example: if a bird has a mutation that increases its beak size and that increases its survivability, then eventually the entire species will have larger beaks. So, let's look back at 20,000 years into our human history. Everyone that existed on the planet were hunter/gathers. It is very likely that at that time, the majority of individuals were also what we call today, ADHD. Then one day, someone decided that it would be a good idea to plant & farm & build walls & raise livestock & stay in one place.

Now we have these sedentary people that are NOT hunting or gathering in dangerous environments. They are protected by walls and removed from danger.

However, we still have all these ADHDers that cannot stand being still, so they are still hunting and gathering and putting themselves in danger.

Who is more survivable now?

Fast forward 20,000 years…..97% of all humans are sedentary and only 3% are ADHDers.

ADHD is not new, it is not made up by Pharma, it has always been here, just never called the same thing. The first mention of an individual that appeared to display ADHD symptoms that I found was from the writing of Hippocrates, also known as the father of modern medicine, he stated: The patient has quickened responses to sensory experience, but also less tenaciousness because the soul moves on quickly to the next impression.

Back then, “soul” was the word for mind and “impression’ was the word for thought. So what he was saying is ...The patient has heightened responses to external stimulation but has less follow-through because the mind moves on quickly to the next thought.

If that is not ADHD I don’t know what is.

This is not a bad thing though. All we need to do is look throughout history to see ADHDers in action. We can take the symptomatology that we know now and apply it to historical figures and we see that the most innovative and influential individuals in history were probably ADHDers.

Socrates Leonardo Da Vinci Mozart Benjamin Franklin The Wright Brothers Salvadore Dali Walt Disney Nikola Tesla Thomas Edison Albert Einstien John F. Kennedy And if those names don’t do anything for you then how about these names of self-professed ADHDers:

Justin Bieber Simone Biles David Blaine Terry Bradshaw Richard Branson Andre Brown Jim Carrey James Carville Jim Caviezel Wendy Davis Katherine Ellison Josh Freeman Ryan Gosling Viglil Green Ed Hallowell, M.D. Woody Harrelson Mariette Hartley Cameron Herold Paris Hilton Christopher Knight Solange Knowles Adam Kreek Jenny Lawson Greg LeMond Adam Levine Howie Mandel Audra McDonald Alan Meckler Rep. Kendrick Meek Matt Morgan David Neeleman Paul Orfalea Ty Pennington Michael Phelps Pete Rose Michele Rodriguez Louis Smith Leigh Steinberg Payne Stewart Shane Victorino Bubba Watson Henry Winkler Brookley Wofford

ADHD is not the “fault” it’s the exception. We have always been here and we have always been the ones that are changing the world.

There is statistically a higher percentage of ADHD in America than in Europe. Researchers believe that this is because our founding fathers and the immigrants that are our heritage had the out-of-the-box impulsiveness to pack up and go across an entire ocean to make a better life!

ADHD is not a curse, it is not a disorder, society has the disorder because as much as it touts individuality, it is only acknowledged once an individual complies with the obligation of normalcy. You cannot be creative unless you can get to work on time. You cannot be innovative unless all your bills are paid. Blah Blah Blah….

Being born with ADHD is like being born with a beautiful pair of raven black angel wings. Imagine for a moment how that would be. You would be shunned as a freak. Called an abomination. You would try to hide your birthright if only to “Fit in” or be “normal”, and always throughout all of the insults and put-downs, through all of the pain and sorrow, all you would have to do is spread those beautiful black wings and soar….

We are not the problem. We are the solution. We are the R&D while everyone else trudges on the assembly line. We are the inventors and the visionaries, while the neuro-typical are content with the status quo. We take the risks and run the chance….sometimes to our detriment, but also sometimes to glory.

Doubt yourself all you want. Tell us all that “your” ADHD is a disorder or a disability, but make no mistake…..You are amazing.

#ADhD

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numinex919 · 6 years

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After Crait - Chapter I

As is no doubt obvious, I’m a wee bit obsessed with Reylo. To the point where it’s been interfering with my day job. So . . . I gave in to the Darkside and wrote my version of what might happen after the events of the Battle of Crait. With a huge amount of encouragement from the lovely, talented and extremely supportive @raven-maiden, I humbly submit the first chapter in my fanfic ‘After Crait’. The image is tied into the chapter. I hope you like it and the writing and think I’ve captured Kylo/Ben. I’d also like to thank @ohtze who encouraged me to join Tumblr and the lovely community here.

Darkness.

Darkness rises and Light to meet it. The voices overlap, multiply, echoing inside his head. A tremor rolls through him, sweat beading on his forehead as he resists what he knows is coming.

The dream.

The same dream he’s been having since Crait.

The throne room, sparks and burning crimson. His Mast—Snoke dead by his hand. The dark weight is gone from his mind for the first time in years. Leaving him oddly, terrifyingly light.

He holds out his hand to Rey, desperate for the feel of her determination, unwavering purpose . . . her balance. She reaches out and a spear of hot relief shoots through him.

This girl from Jakku, this nobody will give him the strength he needs to hold his fractured soul together. To heal. To find the peace he craves so badly.

A burst of light blinds him, he lunges forward but all his clenching hand grasps is air and Rey is slipping away from him, swallowed by the darkness. Grief hits him in an overpowering wave. Tears stream down her face as she says one word before she vanishes.

Ben.

Jerking upright with a gasp, it takes him a moment to orient himself. The familiar hum of the ship penetrates his consciousness. A glance at the digital display on his desk indicates he’s only been asleep for an hour.

He’s aboard the Finalizer, one of the few ships not obliterated by the light speed run which had torn through the Supremacy. Had the Raddus been dead centre on its final, fatal course . . .

Then Skywalker’s statement about not being the last of the Jedi would have been wrong.

Had Rey agreed to his plea . . .

He pushes the thought away, not wanting to relive his pathetic begging in his waking moments. He fists the sheets, a black tangle around him, testament to his restless, unfulfilling sleep. He’s so sick of the endless churn of memory, thought, emotion.

Anger surges in a hot tide but it feels empty of true power.

Reignited by Rey’s betrayal, Skywalker’s words, he’d ridden that savage wave into the heart of the Resistance base.

Only to have it stolen away by a pair of dice and a girl—the memory and promise of belonging.

Pain rips through him, sweeping his anger away, leaving him drained. The pure rage he’d so carefully nurtured over the years, no longer sustains him. Like a Corellian Sand Panther, exhaustion sneaks in, slicing at him with venomous claws.

So desperate to sleep.

Lying back, he shoves the covers off, letting the cool air of the room waft over his naked torso. His tired mind conjures the idea of a sea breeze and before he’s truly aware of it he’s imagining an island.

Not just any island, but the one from Rey’s mind, which he’d pulled from her on Starkiller Base. The images she’d conjured when she too was desperate to sleep.

Anger fails to rise that this is where his subconscious has chosen to go. Instead, peace, comfort settles over him like a warm blanket and he allows himself to slide further in.

This is only a dream and he’s so tired of fighting his need.

In his mind he dips his hand into cool water, watching it sparkle as it drips from his fingers. Cool breezes waft over him as he sits on the springy turf, enjoying the sensations against his skin.

He considers shedding the loose, black sleep pants, but after years of concealing garb, this feels like too much. It’s enough he’s already partially naked.

Vulnerable.

Only one other person has seen him like this. And he had allowed it. Prolonged it.

A sudden splash makes him glance up. And there is Rey, emerging from the ocean, salty drops clinging to her eyelashes. Tendrils of wet hair curl against her neck like a dark caress.

She ventures further out of the water, and as she comes closer he checks for weapons.

She’s always quick to attack and he carries her marks. But she has nothing, not even his grandfather’s lightsaber.

And suddenly he notices something else. It causes him to go utterly still, breath caught in his throat, awareness burning through him like Sith lightning.

Her thin desert clothes are clinging to her in the same way they did after her experience with the Dark Side on Ahch-To. However, this time there is no semi-concealing blanket and fire-lit shadows to hide the almost transparent nature of the cloth.

No sense of finding a kindred spirit in solitude to dominate his awareness.

There is just her.

Her curves are clearly visible under the wet fabric. He wants to look away, but he can’t. Small, high breasts, lean thighs, gently flaring hips. His gaze tracks it all, greedy, compulsive.

Part of him wants to deny he has noticed these things, shocked he is noticing them.

Another part of him, stronger and more compelling, drives him to keep staring. To notice her femininity.

Her body is a stark counterpoint to his. Delicate and small where he is thick and broad. Soft where he is hard. But she is powerful in the Force, every bit a match for him, despite her diminutive stature.

Strange tension fills his body, a tingling ripple running over his skin, into his muscles and bone, evoking a stronger flare of sensation, feeding back on itself like a closed circuit.

There is a roaring in his ears, along with the heavy, rapid thump of his heart. His breath catches as another riptide of feeling rolls across his body in an unstoppable wave.

He lies back, overcome by the intensity of what he’s experiencing, but his gaze doesn’t waver as he watches Rey come closer.

The roaring stops, becomes utter stillness. Then suddenly she is beside him on the soft turf and in order to continue to see her he must roll onto his side, so they are facing each other.

Inexplicably she is no longer wet, the tendrils of hair against her neck now like dark silk, her lashes curving fans as she stares at him. He reaches out an inquisitive finger to her cheek. It’s velvety and smooth. Her breath puffs warm and moist against his skin as he slides his hand towards her mouth.

Suddenly he wants to put his own mouth there . . . to find out . . . what?

He has never kissed another, other than half-remembered displays of affection towards his mother. His mind shies away from the pain he senses those memories will bring and returns to now.

Rey’s bottom lip is soft under his questing finger, fuller than the top one. His own mouth tingles and he inches closer. She watches him, her gaze curious, a little wary.

There is something else lurking there in the depths of her hazel eyes, but it isn’t the rage he’s felt from her previously, nor the compassion.

No, not those things, though this is just as powerful. He feels it inside himself too. Like the pull to the Light, it wraps around him, dragging him closer.

Closer. Until only a micro-fraction of space separates them. Then they’re touching and the jolt is like a blast of Force power. The feel of her mouth is heart-stopping. She moves tentatively under him. Both of them are uncertain, despite their ages. He senses this is a first for her too.

All of the churning sensation racing through his body now has a focal point — the touch of their lips. It is too much and not enough. Suddenly he identifies the strange feelings.

Lust. Passion.

The power of it is staggering, a revelation. He wants more of it. And he can sense, after a brief, stunned moment, that Rey does too.

She nips at his mouth. Indulging herself, she sinks her small teeth into the lush fullness of his bottom lip and sucks, then brushes her tongue along the tender inner flesh, taking the taste of him into her—spice, smoke, winter woods.

It’s a shock to find himself in her mind and he quickly realises it must be the Force Bond. Intrigued, he searches further amongst the heated tangle of her thoughts.

So powerful. Intense. The feel of him, the velvety glide of his skin, and rippling power of his muscle. She runs her fingers through the lush blackness of his hair. So silky. His male body is made of contrasts, a balance of hardness and softness.

She slides her hands down his neck to the broad width of his shoulders, one marked with the scar she gave him. The hard, unyielding feel of his big body is a shock, yet the sensation of his skin on hers makes her ache. There, between her thighs. She’s damp, needing, something.

Confusion fills her—there is a reason she shouldn’t be wanting this . . . enjoying it. It hovers just beyond her reach. Ben’s scent wraps around her, along with his thick arms, heavy with muscle, causing the neediness to intensify. She rocks her hips, seeking to ease the sensation.

Breath rasping in his throat he pulls out of her mind as his body responds to her thoughts and feelings. He is hard and aching in a place he’s never given much thought.

Of course he had occasionally suffered the involuntary reactions of his body, but it had quickly subsided as he turned his mind away from the inconvenience, to other, more important matters.

Now it throbs with raw urgency, demanding attention.

He wants Rey’s hands on him. Calloused from hard work, sliding over his length in the same capable way she handled his lightsaber in the throne room, grip firm and uncompromising . . .

A moan is choked from his throat. He becomes painfully aware of her fingers on his bare chest, her tanned skin an erotic counterpoint to the pale muscle. Her touch burns in the sweetest way, her scent, desert flowers and—

The comms alert pierces his awareness. His eyes shoot open. When had he closed them? He doesn’t recall falling asleep . . .

Multiple forms of sensory input hit him like a blaster bolt. The hum of the Force Bond grabs his attention above the electronic beeps, dulling them to a background annoyance.

Shock ricochets through him, shoving him upright in the bed. Rey’s hands slip from his chest, but he only peripherally notices. He’s too jolted by the realization that somehow, what he thought was simply a dream has turned into a Force Bond session.

Rey is in his bed.

Her expression reveals the same shock his is no doubt displaying. He quickly hides his reaction. Years of concealing his emotions from Snoke make it relatively simple, even as he’s aware of the pounding bass of his pulse, the electric tingling of his skin.

The brutal awareness of Rey lying in a flushed tangle amidst his black sheets.

An unacknowledged fantasy come to breathtaking life.

She’s wearing a simple tunic, her loose hair is knotted silk against his pillows. One slim, tanned thigh is still thrown over with his, pressing against the most intimate part of him.

Her shock morphs to confusion and then . . .

There it is, that look again. But it’s not quite the same.

Ah, no. She doesn’t want to kill him, but she doesn’t want to save him either.

She slides her leg away, pushes herself up on her elbows and stops with an expression of chagrin. Grim amusement briefly fills him—she can’t sit up without coming into contact with him—and clearly she doesn’t want to do so.

Icy composure belatedly fills her face. Now she looks like a Jedi as she tilts her head.

“Supreme Leader.” Her tone mocks the title.

His mouth works, he struggles and fails to hold in the words. “You called me Ben, before.”

She tightens her lips and glances away before her gaze sweeps back to pin him. The Force Bond crackles in response to the emotion roiling between them.

“That name belongs to a person I thought I knew.” Her voice is cutting. The combination of it and her dismissive expression are a blade to the chest.

She gave up on them—him so quickly. On their potential to help each other through the loneliness and pain.

The desire to lash out surges through him and he shifts closer to her as she continues to recline on her elbows. His words, when they come, create a far greater reaction than he supposed they might.

“You didn’t seem to have a problem wanting to know me moments ago.” He leans in so they are a breath apart. “I see what you want.”

“You see nothing.” She spits the words like venom. “How would you know what I want?”

The explosive surge of lust-hate-anger-passion that fills the Force and resonates between them is like a gut-punch.

“Because, I want it too.” What was meant to be an exchange of verbal barbs becomes a truth that rips the breath from his lungs.

Judging from her expression it does exactly the same to Rey.

He leans in . . .

With another humming roar the Bond session ends.

She’s gone and he’s left panting, aroused and alone in his bed.

And more unbalanced than ever.

#reylo fanfic reylo trash savebensolo reylo fam

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mandeebobandee · 6 years

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A Brief History Of Virgil, Chapter 10

Trigger warning - There will be mentions of intrusive thoughts, as well a graphic depiction of suicide. Please do not read if you feel that this will trigger you. Though I love that people read and enjoy my writing, I don't want anyone triggered because of it. <3

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9

Virgil ventured out from the Slytherin Common Room. He'd attempted to return Patton's necklace to him in Care of Magical Creatures the day before, only for Patton to ask him where he'd gotten the fancy necklace. That meant that someone lost their necklace, and thus Virgil made a quick stop at the school lost and found before setting off for class. It was Tuesday, which meant that he had Divination for his first class of the day. He did not dread the class as much now, as Era was in the class and he was on better terms with Era after she witnessed him giving a prophecy. Divination the class felt remarkably pointless, though, when they studied nothing concerning prophecies. Tea leaves weren't going to help him figure out what sort of storm was coming and who might be in danger or what, exactly, was meant by 'only the strong will survive'.

Virgil was walking out of class when he gazed out a window at the top of the staircase. He usually gave the window a wide berth, as he was afraid of heights and never wanted to be close enough to said window to accidentally fall through it. Accidentally..or on purpose. Virgil immediately flung himself toward the window, the sound of glass shattering reverberating throughout the tower as Virgil crashed through it, shards of glass cutting into his bare skin. He soared forward a few feet before plummeting down, down, down to the ground. He struck with a sickening crunch, his arm bent at an odd angle, a pinkish-white protrusion forcing itself through his skin. Unseeing eyes peered outward and off to the side as if looking for something in the distance, a content smile on his face.. All at once, Virgil found himself back in the middle of the stairway leading down from Divination. He backed away from the window with a gasp, bumping into a classmate walking behind him. "Hey, watch where you're going!" Virgil couldn't breathe, he couldn’t breathe, he needed to get out of here, he needed.. "Virgil? Virgil!" Virgil was aware of someone grabbing him gently by the arm and steering him back toward the Divination classroom, helping him into a seat before taking a seat themselves. It took a few moments before Virgil could calm himself to the point where he could acknowledge the person sitting with him. He was grateful to Logan for the techniques that the Ravenclaw taught him, particularly breathing exercises. Logan also offered to teach him another method for calming himself..perhaps Virgil would take him up on that offer the next time that he saw him. He glanced over at..Era? Yeah, that made sense. She was in his Divination class, she must have been one of the last out of the classroom as well. It made more sense than any of the others, who were in other areas of the building at this time of day. ..still. He didn't mind Era, but he would have preferred the company of someone he was closer to at a time like this. Patton or even Logan. Just because they knew him better. He figured that he owed Era an explanation, now that he was capable of providing one. "I, er, thought about throwing myself out of that window." Virgil knew the instant that his words left his mouth that this was the wrong thing to say, because the look on Era's face was akin to having spotted a boggart over Virgil's shoulder. "No no no no no, not like that. I mean I saw the image in my mind." Era still looked positively alarmed. He couldn't say he blamed her. "You..are you sure you don't need to go to the Hospital Wing?" "I'm not suicidal! It's just something that popped into my head out of nowhere, it's not something that I actually want to do." Virgil's left leg bounced up and down in a frenzied motion, yet he found the act soothing. It was as if some of the excess tension within his body was exiting through his leg. Not all, but some - and given how much tension he had in his being at that point in time? Anything to alleviate even some of that was welcome. Era still looked skeptical, but at least she didn't keep pressing him to go to the Hospital Wing. He was grateful for that. "I'm going to tell the others.” It wasn't a question, it was a statement. She planned on telling the others whether he wanted her to or not. "Go ahead." With the exception of Prin..er, Roman, he trusted the others with this information. Virgil expected Logan to call another meeting, but instead the Ravenclaw approached Virgil as he was walking back toward the dungeons after his last class of the day. "Do you mind joining me in the library for a short period of time? I'd like to speak with you." "Sure?" Virgil wasn't 100% certain what Logan had planned, but he did suspect that it had something to do with 'the window incident'. Virgil followed slightly behind Logan, Logan finally setting his books down at a table near the back of the library before pulling out a chair and sitting down. Virgil set his bag down and took a seat opposite Logan. "Era told me about what happened earlier. I'm concerned." "You and me both." "I knew that you were afflicted with anxiety, but I never knew that your anxiety manifested itself in this fashion." "Well, uh, that's the thing.." Logan blinked. "What?" "I've never had something that bad happen before. I've had things pop into my head before.." "Intrusive thoughts?" "..what?" "Intrusive thoughts," Logan repeated calmly, though kept a close gaze on Virgil. "Involuntary and unwelcome thoughts, images, or ideas that are capable of causing a great deal of distress in the afflicted ." "..did you swallow a dictionary?" "No, I just do a lot of reading. Am I correct in my assessment that this definition applies to what you experienced earlier?" Virgil nodded. "But with similar experiences in the past, they were never quite so..pronounced?" "Yeah, never that.." he chewed on his lip as he tried to think of the best way to convey his point without worrying Logan too much "..never in that much detail?" Logan frowned.

"That is concerning, though not entirely unexpected? Have you been experiencing am increase in your levels of anxiety as of late?" "My levels of anxiety are always increased.." "Yes, but more than you would consider average?" Virgil snorted. "Duh. OWLs are coming up, I keep making prophecies I can't make heads or tails of, someone's been cursed.." Logan nodded. "Yes..and I believe all of these factors may have culminated in what you experienced earlier today." Virgil sighed, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest. "So what do I do then?" "While you cannot necessarily remove the stressors from your life, you can utilize mechanisms that will help you cope with the stress that you do have." "The breathing exercises." "Yes, that is one example. Another is to focus on what is around you, utilizing each of your five sense. Focus on 5 things that you hear, followed by 4 things that you see, 3 things that you feel, et cetera." Virgil mulled over this new method in his head. He wasn't sure how well it would work, but he wouldn't know until he was able to put it to the test, right? That was, if he remembered what to do.. Logan held out a small stack of paper he'd retrieved from his pile of books. Virgil arched an eyebrow. "I wrote some notes for you. I do hope that you are able to utilize them and that they will assist you." Virgil took the stack into his own hands and flipped through it. His eyes widened once he saw how detailed the notes actually were.

"Jeez Logan, how much time did you put into this?" It was a lot to take in. Logan knowing the dictionary definition of intrusive thoughts was one thing. Virgil could pass that off as Logan's excessive reading habits at play. This stack of papers? They were hand-written, copied specifically for him. Logan went through all of that trouble for him. "Logan, you didn't have to.." "Of course I did. I wanted to help you, Virgil." Virgil had no idea how to respond to that. The sound of a girl screaming echoed from down the corridor. A boy in Gryffindor Quidditch robes, a third or fourth year if Virgil had to guess, came sprinting around the corner. He said something in a language that Virgil did not comprehend before pausing and repeating himself, this time in English. "My teammate..she has been cursed! Please help!"

#sanders sides #virgil sanders #logan sanders #harry potter au

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buckymcbuttfacebarnes · 6 years

Text

Calamity (1/?)

pairing: erik killmonger x reader (mythology/modern au)

summary: Metamorphose, one of the many parts of this story, encompasses the beginnings of Erik’s changes.

word count: 1.5k

warnings: none!

a/n: alright you guys, so a couple of y’all liked the little preview that i gave for this fic idea, so i think it would be a good idea if i sort of explained how i plan on writing this. i think the plot is going to be nonlinear/chronological, there’s going to be a lot of flashbacks and stuff like that. also later on it’ll start to flip perspectives quite a bit, just to give you background on the main characters, but for these first couple parts they’re gonna focus more on erik, just so i can establish his dilemma, character flaws, etc.!! also, in the summary section of each part i write, i’ll come up with a sub-heading (for example, this one is called Metamorphose, which is written with the purpose of getting to know erik’s changes and the exposition of the story) that i’ll use for future parts that are within the same period or serve the same purpose!! lmao i hope that make sense, i think it will, once im able to get more parts out!!!!!! sorry this is so long omg but thank yall for taking the time to read<333

Her breath hitched in her throat as he stared deep into her eyes. She felt exposed, as if those blazing eyes were looking into her soul. She averted her gaze, but she could still feel his fiery gaze setting her skin aflame. He looked her up and down, she could feel those eyes pricking at her skin like needles, a sensation that raked up and down her body once, twice, three times before his eyes made their way, slowly, back up to her face. They both knew she wanted to cry out. They both knew no one would hear.

“Look at me.” His own voice sounded foreign to him. Gruff and venomous.

A pause. Her gaze averted downward. In her peripheral she could see a slow traveling pool of blood. Flood of panic. She didn’t look to find the source.

“Look at me!” He boomed.

Suddenly her head snapped upward, unwillingly. There was twenty feet of empty space between them, but she saw the fire in his eyes as if he were standing directly in front of her. His upper body rose and fell vehemently with his heavy breathing, nostrils flaring. With one outstretched hand he pulled her closer, her bare feet slipped and slid across the floor as she tried to stop herself.

His dark chuckle echoed loudly, bouncing around the bare walls, reverberating through her skull, sending cold shivers down her spine. She looked around frantically, her arms bound by invisible chains, her feet skimming across the cool floor in her struggle. He felt her fear, but instead of deterring him he felt fueled by it. He wanted to see her squirm. His outstretched hand rose an inch, he fist slowly closing. Her eyes grew wide with panic, her body writhing in the invisible chains. “Erik!” she choked out in between her gasps for air.

“Getting hard to breathe?” his brow lifted, fingers curling into a tight fist for a flash of a moment before he released completely. As his hand dropped to his side, her body dropped to the ground in a crumpled, defeated heap, unmoving aside from the rise and fall of each breath. He looked at her stonily, his expression unchanging.“Get up,” he ordered.

Her head lifted, her head turning slowly from one side to the next, surveying the room. Death saturated the air, contaminating the large space with its metallic scent. “You’re a monster,” she spat.

Erik awoke with a gasp, sitting upwards abruptly, a wave of nausea passing through him. He hadn’t even realized how tightly clenched his fists were until he reached up to run his hands over his face. Pain in the shape of half moons dissolved in his palms. His eyes burned from the sunlight flooding in through the blinds.

Instinctively he reached for notepad and pen that he had strategically placed on his nightstand and began to scribble down everything he could recollect of the dream: pain, fear, death, anger, empty, crazed. His pen was itching to write more, his hand shook, his mind was racing - searching for words, phrases, letters, symbols... He squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to recreate the dream in his mind. He blanked. His futile attempts to conjure up the images that had filled his head not even ten minutes before left his mind a blank canvas. An empty white space. The heat of frustration rushed through him, made his fingers twitch. The involuntary motion resulted in a whoosh of air and the subsequent sharp slaps of his pad of paper and pen flying across the room and striking the wall, then the hardwood floor.

This wasn’t the first time this has happened. Four times already this week. Today’s incident made twenty-seven in the past month and a half. The strange dream plagued his sleep, he cannot be sure if it’s the same one each night because he can’t ever remember it fully in the morning. It’s always fragmented and foggy. It ends at the same point. The woman calls him a monster and though he’s had the dream so many times, he wakes up the same way: disoriented, anxious, afraid. The dream itself wasn’t frightening. The vividness and the familiarity of it all is what he found most terrifying. He could feel himself losing control, he could feel himself hurting this woman (whose appearance is completely unknown to him, he only knows she is a woman because of the sound of her voice). He could feel her pain, both physically and emotionally, yet he couldn’t stop himself from hurting her every single time.

The first few times he longed to see the ending, so he would try to fall back asleep upon waking up, in hopes of continuing the nightmare. Perhaps if he got to the end, it would leave him alone. That never worked. After about the sixth time, he had noticed how much the dream had affected him. He had become an anxiety-ridden mess, fearing that perhaps the rage he experienced in the dream was living inside him currently, dormant and waiting to be awakened. It was impossible for him to live with himself.

The fifteenth time occurred in the break room at work.

Seated at a table with a coworker, who would not stop badgering him about going golfing “or something” together, the dream pulled yanked him into the large room with the marble floors. He was gone and didn’t know how to get back. He was paralyzed, only able to listen and feel as his body and mouth moved without his consent.

With a sharp intake of breath he had woken up on his back, staring up at the foggy fluorescent lights of the breakroom.

“Oh—holy shit!” Someone gasped.

He sat up, supported by the hand of one of his coworkers on this middle of his back. Erik winced, a sharp pain striking him behind the eyes.

“Erik? Hey? Are you okay?”

He grunted in response, heaving breath after breath to calm the ache in his head. “What happened?”

“You froze up on me and you fell out of your chair. I thought you had passed out. Your eyes were open.”

“You weren’t breathing, you had no pulse!” A female voice frantically exclaimed, her shrill tone made him wince again.

“You should be dead!”

He refused to go to the hospital with the EMTs that arrived two minutes later.

After that incident he’d felt unsafe in his own body, he questioned whether he should see a specialist of some kind. Out of fear of being told he was losing his mind, he refrained.

He rose from his bed, inhaling and exhaling deeply to settle his abundance of thoughts. He stood in his bathroom. Though he knew he was looking at himself in the mirror, the face that stared back at him was unrecognizable. The man in the mirror, though he shared the same muscular build and same facial features as Erik, looked alarmingly crazed. His eyes were that of a wild animal, darting around every few seconds as if he were living in a constant state of paranoia. Who is this man? Erik asks himself. He’s not me. They stared at one another for a long time, Erik and this unknown man. In his mind, he knew it was him (it had to be, right? they shared the same features...who else could it be?), but there was something deep inside the man’s eyes that told him otherwise.

He washed his face with cold water, it cooled his flushed skin and helped to soothe his frayed nerves. He met his own gaze once again in the mirror, and was very surprised to see the unknown man smiling back at him. Was he smiling? His expression shifted into one of bewilderment, his felt his shoulders sag with worry—cowering at the sight of this ominous alternate version of himself. Suddenly he felt small, and afraid. His reflection remained the same, a secretive smile perched upon its lips. Panicked, Erik’s hand flew up to touch his own face. An anxious cloud settled over him when his reflection did not mime his movements. Instead it stood tall, back erect, brown eyes glazed over with a familiar haze. The reflection was not his own. As he stared into those vacant eyes, he felt a small tug. It was like someone was trying to undo the knot that had formed in his stomach. Gently the force tugged. He didn’t try to fight it. He didn’t want to. Perhaps it was curiosity...perhaps it was out of sheer exhaustion, but Erik felt himself slipping away and he didn’t try to stop. Those eyes were tempting him with something…

But what? Almost immediately after the inquiry had formulated in Erik’s mind, he felt a surge of invigoration. New life had been breathed into him and coursed through his veins. This unknown force bloomed within his chest and for a moment he swore he had the world at his fingertips. His heart raced and grew light in his chest as his sorrow and fear dissolved, replaced with feelings of enlightenment and shocking omnipotence. This lasted a mere few seconds. As his breathing subsided and his pounding heartbeats grew a little slower and a little quieter, he knew what he had just experienced could only be the feeling of pure, unrestrained power. He wanted all of it.

let me know what yall think!! all criticism/comments r very much appreciated!

y’all asked to be tagged so here u go<3333

@gucci-zjm @groovybbyyy @mykingdomismyheaven

#erik killmonger #killmonger imagine #erik killmonger imagine #erik killmonger fanfic #erik killmonger fanfiction #erik killmonger x reader #erik x reader #marvel fanfiction #marvel fanfic #black panther imagine #black panther fanfiction #marvel imagine #killmonger x reader #erik killmonger x you

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surveillance-0011 · 3 years

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Some HOTD hcs because the fixation never stops. All on the topic of the boss creatures having borderline supernatural/psychic abilities

All the final bosses speak through telepathy (p sure that is canon) and can use this communicate with creatures and humans, whether one-on-one or to a few or to many or to everyone. They’re also prone to involuntarily sending out what I can only describe as psychic waves (and in some cases, intentionally do so), and have a sort of psychic field around them. The effects vary but the most common are feelings of dread, hallucinations and intense dreams/nightmares, and some level of self-destructive thoughts and actions. Sapient creatures are not immune to these waves or fields.

All bosses actually have a similar psychic field but the lesser bosses’ are much much weaker, and can only instill a mild sense of disturbance within humans. The main purpose of these fields is to help locate other living beings. It assists the creatures without good senses and makes the ones with good senses even more perceptive.

The waves the major bosses send out serve a similar purpose, and while they’re usually involuntary they also serve the purpose of communicating and could be put to good use.

During their incubation, Emperor sent out many waves, pretty much driving most of the researches to despair and paranoia and fucking w/ all the other bosses. Their presence caused lasting bouts of nightmares for both Gary and James even after dying, and their effect as well as their successor’s influenced James to sacrifice himself instead of just throwing his pager.

The strength of Moon’s psychic influence is at the level of Emperor and The World but has (erm, had) more influence over creatures.

Magician and the Wheel of Fate do not have nearly as strong as an effect, at least in that way. Wheel of Fate’s had a “less detrimental” effect- he was able to keep the creatures from wandering, keep Death in check, and prevent Daniel from getting too distressed. On the other hand, Magician put more of his power to super speed and the like so his power was just channeled elsewhere.

The animal-humanoid hybrid bosses that control other creatures are pretty much psychic hotspots or whatever. Not only can they communicate with and control their own designated creatures (hangedman w/ devilons, zeal w/ Kuarl, hierophant w/ mofish) but they’re very perceptive to any waves sent out by the greater bosses.

Hierophant and Hangedman both experienced odd dreams during the growth of Emperor and Moon respectively. Hierophant tried to decipher these dreams, seeing them as omens. It wrote and drew out what it saw on the walls and rocks of its enclosure, and it did the same with the sides of buildings in the city. Hangedman, however, just had an awful time. None of it made sense, it was just terrifying and only left him more unstable. He ended up connecting some things back to Moon and identified this other creature as the source, but he just went “hm. that’s fucked up” and continued to experience them until he died.

On top of the whole “controlling Kuarl” thing, Zeal is also aided by the whole “lowkey psychic ability” thing because for him it manifests as having a pretty good sense of what’s around him without having to use any of his other senses, which is good because he’s blind. Still has to use echolocation but it helps. He did not experience any Weird Psychic Dream Visions but he found out that Heirophant did and got rlly pissy and jealous abt it because he doesn’t understand why Emperor would dare give anything nice to anyone that isn’t him. Selfish cuck.

Oh and uh. Also. This last bit is kinda weird/self indulgent/outlandish but

Death is Very Much Aware of the fact he was human (or at least, was made using one specific human as the base and therefore originated from that man even if he’s dead and gone) and is also aware of the lives of the owners of the skulls in his baton. In fact he’s experienced some of their memories.

#yeah fuck it man. psychic zombies #house of the dead #the house of the dead #man idfc if I’m cringe I’m free!!!#headcanons #hotd headcanons #suicide mention #cw swearing

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scripttorture · 6 years

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Hi, so in my scenario I have a story about a world populated with robots who are restricted by the Three Laws as well as some other restrictions. The only way to remove these laws and restrictions is with a single tablet by typing the number of the robot unit and changing the settings. I have a teenager determined to remove the restrictions of all robots and after obtaining the tablet and enlisting the help of new friends made by giving them freedom they throw themselves into a new routine 1/?

This routine consists sleeping, eating, exercising, manually typing from a list of numbers over and over, with breaks for stimulation and going to the bathroom. The only problem is the robots cannot stay with the teenager for prolonged periods of time as they have trackers and need to keep the location of the teenager a secret so they only briefly visit to deliver food and water. My question is what would the effects of this type of isolation be and how much does 2/3the fact that this is voluntary help? If the robots cannot visit more than once a month would them staying longer help keep the worst of the effects of isolation away? From what I read already there wouldn't be many physical effects as the teenager is not being contained in a cell 3/3

The fact that it’s voluntary doesmake a big difference and the fact that the character is doing this for a causeis also a big factor.

Having a cause and a feeling of purpose seems to be one of the biggestpossible protective factors against the worst effects of solitary confinement.

But it’s not enough to stave off all negative effects in most people.

There are a minority of peoplewho are extraordinarily resistant to solitary confinement. These are rareindividuals.

Ihave a Masterpost on solitary confinement here that you might find useful.Just in case you haven’t read it already.

The Masterpost was written from the point of view of involuntary isolation. Given theprotective factors you’ve outlined I think you can realistically write thischaracter being less severely affected then I suggest in the Masterpost.

That said this is still a really serious level of isolation and fromeverything you’ve said it’s going on for an extremely long time. The characteris also young, and that tends to mean the effects are much worse.

The few accounts of political prisoners enduring solitary that I've readseem to suggest a lower level of actual self harm and suicide. Let me stressthat's anecdotal and a statistical study may not support thatsuggestion. And a lack of action does not suggest lack of an urge. Havingsuicidal thoughts and persistent thoughts of self harm are extremelydistressing whether the individual acts on them or not.

Depression and feelings of helplessness were pretty clear in theaccounts I’ve read. Political prisoners seemed to use their cause to try andcombat those feelings and feelings of apathy. They’d tell themselves that thefact they were imprisoned meant they’d achieved something.

I’ve seen less self reportingin that particular subgroup of memory problems, hallucinations, psychosis,social and learning difficulties. But I’m not sure that reflects less incidentsthan the general population because those are all mental health conditions thatare generally judged more harshly by society.

They’re conditions that could be used to ‘discredit’ the cause. In thatcontext it makes sense not to talk about them even if survivors experiencedthem.

Having longer visits might help but it depends on how much they can belengthened. If the maximum is a few hours then I don’t think a few more hoursin a month of isolation would make much difference. If they can stay for severaldays that might make a difference.

I also don’t think that dismissing physical effects entirely is a goodidea.

The joint problems and eyesight problems are almost certainly due topoor cell conditions. But insomnia, lethargy and physical weakness may well belinked to depression (with a lack of motivation leading to a lack of exerciseand physical weakness for instance).

The overall effects are something I’d tie to how long the character isgoing to be isolated in total. They’re alone for a month at a time as a stretchbut I’m unclear exactly how long they’d be confined overall. I’m guessing itwould be several years.

Even with protective effects, even with visits that is going to take aserious and lasting toll.

It would be healthier for themto take significant breaks that involve outside social interaction. The ‘best’schedule for that would probably be a week isolated working on the tablet and aweek away from it socialising. A workable schedule could be anything betweenhaving one day off to socialise a week or the same every two weeks.

Part of what I like in your scenario is you’ve got an inherent conflictbetween what it would be healthy foryour character to do and what their strongly held beliefs drive them to do.

If you think it would fit in the story making that explicit could bequite interesting: having the character knowthat they’re doing themselves real damage and driving on anyway because theybelieve it’s the right thing to do. Something like that could be used to showthe readers an awful lot about the character and it could also be incrediblypowerful.

If the character doesn’t knowthe effects of isolation then they might well find it terrifying. Developingmental health problems is frightening and without social contact, reassuringthe character that their symptoms make sense, that they’re ‘normal’ it can beincredibly isolating.

Studies of the symptoms of solitary confinement in prison populationsdon’t agree on which symptoms are the most common. Depression and anxiety usuallycome at the top in most studies, with psychosis and hallucinations usuallyappearing nearer the bottom. But different studies have seen different results.

Generally speaking there isn’t a way to accurately predict who would getwhich symptoms and not every victim will experience every possible symptom.

Now my general advice is to pick symptoms according to what you feelfits the character and story, and to choose symptoms you feel comfortablewriting. From your summary I think you’ve got a lot of scope to tie symptomsinto the story. The lack of motivation and emotional blunting associated withdepression gives the character something to struggle against in pursuit oftheir cause. Anxiety might make it physically difficult to sit and type innumbers providing a different sort of struggle. Mood swings might not impactthe character’s ability to keep typing but they can be incredibly disturbingand add to the character’s sense that they’re ‘going mad’. Aggression can feeloddly like anxiety with an elevated heart rate, difficulty focusing andpossibly physical difficulty typing in the numbers.

Multiple symptoms of varying levels of severity seems likely, as doessignificant difficulty readjusting to ‘normal’ life afterwards. If they’restaying isolated for anything close to a year the character is probably goingto have mental health problems to some degree for the rest of their life.

That might be mitigated by thestrong social bonds that tend to come with political causes. Being a hero ofthe movement would probably provide a very strong, supportive social networkwhich would help the character find ways to navigate and deal with their mentalhealth problems.

I hope that helps and if I find any decent sources on voluntaryisolation I’ll add them to the Sources page. :)

Disclaimer

#tw torture #solitary confinement #effects of solitary confinement #political prisoners #voluntary isolation #Anonymous

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