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rwprincess · 3 years

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Midnight Sun'd Prologue (Brian Johnson x Fem!Reader)

Masterlist

Word Count: 10.5K (She like...20 pages long. Sorry).

Synopsis: My movie/Canon Prologue, but from Brian’s POV. That’s right, I’m Midnight Sun-ing this b*tch.

CW: Underage marijuana smoking, suicidal ideation, self-deprecating thoughts/self-doubt, low self-esteem, swearing, child abuse, parents being terrible, sexuality (since this is based on the movie, nothing is really outside the scope of the movie in terms of content).

Saturday, March 24th, 1984

Shermer High School, Shermer Illinois

Brian knew why he was here. In fact, he thanked his lucky stars that Saturday school, or detention, rather, had been his punishment. If this hadn’t been an extremely out-of-character first offense for him, he surely would have been suspended, or even expelled. His family had made their disappointment clear, especially when his mother told him to find a way to study and make amends today, even if he was asked to just sit in a room with strangers and reflect on what he did. When he arrived in the library, he was surprised to see Claire Standish already sitting there. She, of course, did not look up or make eye contact with him, but he chose to sit at the table behind her nonetheless. Before he could gather the courage to ask her what a popular, polished girl like herself could possibly be doing here, another two figures approached the doorway. Andrew Clark’s large, stocky frame loomed there for a moment before excitedly spying Claire. Again, no attempt was made to include Brian; he was practically invisible at this school, which was a big part of his underlying problems and self esteem here at Shermer High. It wasn’t so much that Brian wanted or needed popular people like Claire or Andrew to notice him. He didn’t really look up to them or desire their attention. It was just that, sometimes, it felt like everyone looked through him, as though he wasn’t even there. Adults acknowledged him, sure. He was polite and an overachiever, the perfect student. But his peers didn’t take much stock in him. He had a few loyal, true friends, but rarely did anyone outside of his particular interest groups reach out to him.

As Brian settled into a seat behind Claire, he took note of the second figure who had entered, the one who came in shortly after Andrew. It was her. Brian had to restrain himself from gawking when she entered the library, as she was one of the absolute last people he could ever picture earning a detention. Brian knew her from his English class last year; he had been stunned by her beauty the moment she entered the room that first day of high school and felt the same nervous, heart-pounding sensation he felt now, seeing her enter the library. He lamentably had zero classes with her this year, but he would see her in the hallways sometimes and that old familiar feeling would come rushing back to him, reminding him of the crush he had on her all last year. Back then, he had sat behind her, across the room and would catch himself staring at her or admiring her answers and volunteered opinions. His strong suit was in the more concrete subjects: science, math, that sort of thing. So the insightful analyses she would give always impressed him, and through them he got the sense that she was smart but also kind. This was precisely why he was shocked to see her here now, having earned the same consequence he had for bringing a weapon into school. But he couldn’t imagine her doing anything like that, anything to warrant this. He not-so-discreetly watched her as she hurried across the room and took a seat in the front row opposite to him. She, like Claire and Andrew, had not made eye contact or acknowledged him. Her seeing right through him hurt more, though.

Brian had sat down, but had not quite unpacked as he was still reeling from the revelation of Y/N being in the same detention as him, and that meant he would be in the same room as her for nine hours. He hadn’t even noticed John Bender stalk into the library, surveying the landscape that he was clearly king of. That is, until Bender stopped in front of him and snapped his fingers to get his attention and indicated for him to move out of his seat. Even if Brian weren’t the type to try to accommodate someone, a people pleaser, he would have followed John Bender’s instructions. Everyone in school knew of his reputation, and while some things were probably a lie (like throwing flaming toilet paper over Mrs. Applebaum’s house), some were definitely true, including his penchant for getting into fights. Brian had never had to fight someone before and he was pretty sure he lacked the capability to do so. Simply put: he would get his ass kicked. So he got up immediately and moved to the next seat over...right behind Y/N. He noticed that she stiffened, sat up straighter, as he slid into the seat behind her. So she had noticed his existence. But from her body language, he assumed that she didn’t particularly enjoy his presence. ‘Great. Perfect way to start this whole shitty day,’ he thought. At one point, Brian would have fancied himself an optimist, but lately that attitude was all but gone...not that his current situation helped much.

He also noticed the girl with black clothes, heavy makeup, and messy hair quickly walk along the outside of the tables and sit behind him, facing away from not only himself, but the entire group. He raised his eyebrows in disbelief, ‘Should be an interesting time,’ he thought while taking stock of her, Bender, the populars, and...Y/N. It still puzzled him that she could be here. Bender made total sense. Everyone knew that he practically lived here in detention. Based on how she looked and seemed to make herself comfortable, Brian guessed that the girl behind him also was a regular here. While he didn’t exactly expect Claire or Andy to be here, he wasn’t hugely shocked by it. Claire probably skipped school or was rude to a teacher or something and Andrew was an asshole anyway. He fit into the jock stereotype pretty well, all brawn and no brains, picking on those that he saw as weaker than him. Maybe that’s why he was here.

Vice Principal Vernon walked haughtily in, looking down on each and every one of them; a lord surveying his fiefdom. Brian’s posture stiffened as he both tried to show respect and unconsciously showed his fear of the man. The last conversation with him had also involved his parents and that was abhorrent, a total disaster. The recollection of the event made him nauseous. Right after he spoke, Claire raised her hand, “Excuse me sir, I think there’s been a mistake. I know it’s detention, but, um...I don’t think I belong in here.” Internally, Brian rolled his eyes. He didn’t really know Claire (he suspected that no one really truly did), but he had always been under the impression that she was full of herself. All of the popular clique seemed to be that way, just full of arrogance. And here she was announcing how she was better than all of them in front of them. Vernon completely ignored her statement and told them it was 7:06, on the dot. Brian quickly looked down at his watch and aligned it to Vernon’s time. He was very particular about organization and precision.

As Vernon started his speech about rules, Brian tried to shift slightly over, get comfortable. But Vernon looked right into him and Brian could swear he saw into the depths of his soul as he said, “You will not move from these seats,” and pointed right at him. He froze like a deer in the headlights and quickly moved back. Brian had almost always blindly followed authority and now was definitely not the time to change that. Vernon continued and Brian only half-listened, looking around to gauge how the rest of the group was reacting, until he heard him say, “Good. So, maybe you’ll decide whether or not you care to return-” He saw this as the perfect time to redeem himself and started to stand up, raising his hand.

“Um, you know, I can answer that right now, sir. And that would be a no for me-”

“Sit down, Johnson.”

“Thank you, sir.” Brian sat back down, gulping. His embarrassment was only made worse noticing that Y/N had turned around to look at him when he started speaking. He wasn’t so invisible now, just his luck.

*~~~~*

There was little to no surprise that Bender antagonized the group. His main targets seemed to be Claire and Andrew, but he was making snide or crude remarks to everyone, and this made Brian very uneasy. He hated conflict and confrontation, which was probably why he had brought a flare gun to school rather than talk to his Shop teacher about replacing his failing grade or talk to his parents about how much he was truly struggling. He tried to take his mom’s advice about just doing work. He tried to convince the others to just write their assigned essays and not end up in a fight, but it didn’t work. He reasoned that he could at least do the right thing, but he couldn’t help but keep getting drawn into their conversations. It was almost like watching a trashy soap opera...or a staged wrestling match. “Go to hell!” Claire screamed at Bender, and Brian looked nervously to the door. Vernon surely heard that and would come storming back in, right?

But he didn’t, so Andy continued their conversation and got in a new dig at Bender, “You know, Bender, you don’t even count. If you disappeared forever it wouldn’t make any difference. You may as well not even exist anymore.” Brian gulped, thinking about his recent and frequent thoughts about how he himself ‘may as well not even exist anymore.’ He was doing...okay since the day he had had a semi-plan to take his own life, but the feelings didn’t just stop. He was still failing Shop, of all classes. He was still a disappointment and burden to his parents. He was still invisible at school, to Y/N. None of that went away when Mr. Ryan found the gun in his locker. Bender turned Andrew’s comment around and said he’d go out and join some clubs.

Now, Brian saw his opportunity to be less invisible, maybe. “I’m in a math club!” He blurted out. No dice. Bender and Claire just continued bickering, ignoring him completely. But he couldn’t help it when he stated “I’m in the Physics Club, too,” in their direction just hoping, praying that someone would acknowledge him. He hadn’t counted on that person being Y/N, though. She’d turned slightly towards him and his blue eyes flickered to hers and he froze. Having been lost in the argument between the others, he had almost forgotten that she was there. She gave him a gentle smile and a nod that made him gulp. He’d suddenly failed to remember how to breathe, how to function and his mind was only filled with a channel of ‘Oh shit. She’s looking at me.’

But then she added, “I’m in the Drama Club.” Of course, he knew that, but it was still nice for her, of all people, to be making conversation with him. He was immediately forced to snap out of it, though, when Bender addressed him.

“Excuse me a sec. What are you babbling about?” While Brian hated the look John gave him (it was much too similar to his parents’ frustrated looks when he was clearly ‘bothering’ them with something), Brian felt compelled to answer. He had wanted to be noticed, to be involved in the conversation, right?

“Well, what I’d said was, I’m in the Math Club, the Latin Club, uh, and the Physics Clu-Physics Club,” he stumbled through his words nervously. He felt regret instantly as Bender turned it around as a slight on Claire, and also managed to insult him by calling him a dork in the process. Still, he yearned for his attention and approval, so he eagerly answered John’s follow up questions. He just wanted to get along with everyone and have them accept him, and even though John was just using his input as ammunition against Claire, he liked that he was at least being included.

*~~~~*

It was a long, dragging morning. It was only around 10AM and topics of conversation seemed to already run out. Everyone was now more or less keeping to themselves. At first, Brian thought about writing his essay, as he said he planned to, but why bother? There were still many hours to fill, and how was he possibly supposed to answer the prompt of Who Am I? He truly did not know. He’d actually been pondering that a lot lately. All of his life he was praised for his smarts, but the ‘real world’ was showing him that that didn’t mean jack shit. Sure, he could understand difficult concepts and dissect complex equations, but that meant nothing if he couldn’t apply it. He thought he was taking the easy way out with Shop. It was meant to be a class he didn’t have to worry about; a stress-free A to keep his GPA up while juggling various clubs and volunteer opportunities to put on his college applications next year. But it ended up being a total nightmare. He was absolutely terrible at it, and he had never failed at anything before. Now the burn-outs and underachievers had the upper hand and were able to make their projects work and look good and he had...nothing. He failed so miserably that it tanked his self-esteem and now he was stuck in an identity crisis. It was much too early on a Saturday to confront those demons, so instead he chose to sit and daydream. And subconsciously, as with many teenage boys, his attention fell to girls. As much as he thought Claire was self-centered and spoiled, he had to admit that she was attractive. She carefully curated herself to be so. She had perfect, beautiful red hair that was never out of place, flawless makeup, perfectly fitting chic clothes...and she was staring into space licking and biting her lip, which had him completely flustered. Y/N only added to it by adjusting and stretching in her seat. Her beauty was more effortless than Claire’s, or at least seemed less...intentional. She did not have the designer clothes and her hair was more natural than trendy but alluring in her own right, and the way she was pushing her chest out was not helping. He could feel the shift and tightness in his khakis and tried to nonchalantly clear his throat, but now Y/N was turned three-quarters around and could clearly see him, so he tried to sneak his hat into his lap and acted like nothing was going on by setting his head on the desk. ‘Oh shit. Oh fuck.’ were the chorus of his thoughts as he could see her quickly turn back around and face forward. ‘I’m sure she thinks I’m a creep now. Great going, Johnson,’ he chastised himself.

Vernon was almost a welcome sight when he strode into the library at 10:20 to allow them to use the “lavatory.” Brian almost let out a sigh of relief. Almost. When they returned to the library and it was clear that Vernon wouldn’t return for a while, Bender started ripping up a book and when he threw it at Brian, the latter took that as his cue to walk away. He spotted Y/N looking through the catalogue of books and approached her. “Hey.” He nodded in her direction, trying to play it cool and seem neutral. ‘Smooth. Great opening,’ he thought. But to his surprise, she actually said ‘Hi’ back and smiled. He had no idea what to talk about and didn’t really think this through, but the black-clad girl let out a startling, “HA!” that made them both jump.

Brain looked back to the others and heard Andrew sarcastically say, “Oh, you’re breaking my heart,” to Claire.

“Sporto?” Bender asked, “Do you get along with your parents?” Brian started to look between the two of them nervously.

“Well, if I say yes I’m an idiot right?” Andrew responded. Bender leapt over the ramp’s banister and started at the other boy.

“You’re an idiot anyway. But if you say you get along with your parents, then you’re a liar too.” Not only did Brian not like being involved in confrontation, he also hated being witness to it. As Andrew followed Bender, he felt compelled to go break it up, put a stop to this.

“You want me to turn it up?” Bender asked, flipping off Andrew as Brian stepped between them, placing a hand on one of each of their shoulders. They smacked his hands away, almost in sync and he withdrew, but he knew words could be just as powerful as actions.

“I, I don’t like my parents either. I don’t know. Their idea of parental compassion is just...whacko.” Brian confessed.

“Dork? You are a parent’s wet dream, okay?” Bender replied, clapping him on his shoulder. It was a friendly enough gesture, but it actually dealt a devastating blow. Brian knew he was a disappointment to his parents. He was being open and honest with the group and was shut down immediately anyway. “...face it, you're a neo-maxi-zoom-dweebie. What would you be out doing if you weren’t making yourself a better citizen?” Another hit. This one made Brian sink against one of the tables. He hung his head and didn’t even notice Y/N approach him until she softly placed her hand on his shoulder.

“You okay?” She offered, gazing into his eyes. He was terrified that she would be able to read him and to see the truth, to see the sad and scared kid he truly was inside. Instead, he stiffened up and sat rigidly, clearing his throat of emotion.

“Yeah, thanks.” He also tried his best to ignore that she was touching him. If he weren’t in detention being told he was the epitome of geek by John Bender, he’d have sworn this were a dream. Bender now moved his disdain to Claire, asking if she were a virgin. Y/N shifted uncomfortably away from Brian and crossed her arms over her chest, but still stood next to him, watching the same drama unfold. Bender and Andrew soon stood in front of them, fully in a heated argument and Bender took a swing. Brian didn’t think twice and reflexively shot his arm up to shield Y/N. Sure, his crush on her might be stupid or silly, but he was not about to let her get caught in this crossfire and get hurt. He watched as Andrew wrestled Bender to the floor and Bender said, “I don’t want to get into this with you, man...cuz I’d kill you.” Andrew let him up and they seemed to separate and cool down, so Brian finally moved his arm back down, assuming the danger towards Y/N was gone but he was on-guard still, ready to move again if he needed to. “It’s real simple. I’d kill you and then your fucking parents would sue me and it would be a big mess, and I don’t care about you enough to bother.” For some reason, this hit Brian hard and he had to look away, look down to escape. But then he heard a click and his head shot up. Bender had pulled out a switchblade. His eyes went wide and he looked cautiously at Y/N who looked just as shocked. They all relaxed a little when he stabbed it into a chair instead of Andrew’s flesh, but immediately panicked again when the door audibly unlatched and opened. They scrambled to get to their seats, Bender quickly striding to the front and sitting far away from Andy so as not to implicate himself. But that meant that he had stolen Y/N’s seat. On her original route to it, she diverted and sat quickly and silently next to Brian. He swallowed hard in response.

Instead of Vernon, Carl the janitor walked in. They collectively sighed with relief and he addressed Brian. “Brian, how ya doin’?” Brian quickly averted his eyes, both embarrassed to be seen here by Carl (he stayed late in many clubs and had built up a good rapport with the man and didn’t need him thinking less of him for being in detention) and by being seen as associated with him by his peers. Carl was a great guy, really funny and nice; accommodated every need each one of his clubs had...but Brian was still a teenager and image was everything and being thought of as ‘dweeb who is friends with the janitor’ was not how he wanted to be seen.

“Your dad work here?” Bender inquired, smirking deviously. Brian just shook his head in response and didn’t answer Carl, either. “Carl, can I ask you a question? How does one become a janitor?” Bender continued.

“You want to become a janitor?” Carl asked, knowing that Bender didn’t really want to know.

“No, I just want to know how one becomes one. Andrew here is very interested in pursuing a career in the custodial arts.” Bender glanced over at Andrew and smirked again, pleased with his implied put-down.

“Oh really? You guys think I’m some untouchable peasant, serf, peon? Maybe so. But following a broom around after shitheads like you for the last eight years, I’ve learned a couple of things.” Carl looked towards Brian and Y/N, “I look through your letters.” Brian thought he saw her stiffen and freeze, just a little bit, as if Carl were addressing her. She suddenly shifted away from Brian and he wasn’t sure what to make of that. “...I am the eyes and the ears of this institution, my friend.” Carl stopped and smiled, “By the way. That clock is twenty minutes fast.” Brian looked at it and then his watch, noting that he was right. He wasn’t sure if he should adjust his wrist piece or not; to go with the time on the wall or the time Vernon was keeping. But he couldn’t be bothered with the choice when Bender stood up and faced his table. He was afraid of what he might do or say to them, but he simply nodded towards Y/N’s seat, indicating that she could have it back.

“I’m good for now,” she said, surprising Brian. He assumed she would have moved back, a moment ago she moved away from him, but now she was looking at him out of the corner of her eye before glancing back up at John, who was raising an inquisitive eyebrow. “Thanks for not dicking with my stuff though,” she said.

“Oh, shit.” Bender said “Do you think I should steal something or has the moment passed?” The tension seemed to drop and they all smiled as he went back to his seat, but he turned his attention back their way. “So, you’ve been pretty quiet, what’s your name?” Brian had a bad habit of blurting out. He liked answering questions as it was, showing his knowledge. A lot of the time, it didn’t matter if he was being asked or not. So, without thinking, he responded to Bender’s question and told him Y/N’s name. It was a reflex, but one he instantly regretted, feeling like he just shot himself in the foot. Bender gave him a look and he steeled himself for his worst, for the mockery sure to come, but instead he just looked at her and followed up with “Is that true? Is that your name?”

She didn’t acknowledge his weirdness either. She simply nodded and told John, “Yeah, (Y/N). Or, I guess you could call me (Y/N/N) if you want,” and Brian let out a quiet shaky exhale in relief. That could have been...disastrous. After a moment, while Bender was otherwise occupied, she turned to him and said, “Thank you, for earlier. I mean, blocking me when those two were getting into it.” He felt his heart race; he wasn’t sure she had even noticed that earlier, even though he wasn’t exactly subtle.

“N-no problem.” He responded, trying to restrain the smile creeping up onto his face. He wanted to play it cool, like it was no big deal, like that’s just what manly men such as himself do: put themselves in harm’s way for others.

Vernon came in to dismiss them for lunch much too early for his liking. He didn’t really have much of a chance to talk to Y/N while she was sitting next to him, and as soon as they were allowed to mill about like the caged animals they currently were, the remaining members of their detention gravitated towards Bender near the center of the library. Brian was slightly disappointed when she wandered off into the stacks as Bender looked through books and Claire continued her daydreaming. Not really sure what to do with himself, Brian folded his long legs over one of the ramp railings and sat atop it, hunched over. He looked up when Bender called out, “Hey, Peachy!” There were a few moments of silence before Y/N looked back over in their direction and Brian froze, immediately disliking Bender addressing her as such and worrying what uncouth thing he might say to her. But he just asked her what she could be in detention for, because she didn’t seem the type, which Brian wholeheartedly agreed with. He waited intently for the answer, as every interaction he had with her (or every observation, rather), she seemed so...sweet.

“Oh. Well, you know how in Biology they dissect like, frogs and shit every year?” She looked a little defeated and a blush crept up her cheeks as she continued, “I---sort of stole and freed the frogs.” Brian couldn’t help but laugh. That seemed like something you shouldn’t get detention for, anyway, but it was definitely on-par with the personality he knew her for. He felt relieved that the reason aligned with how he thought of her. She was in here for something nice, and debatably, the right thing. His heart melted a little when she told Bender that she had researched enough to let the frogs go responsibly; that she would have adopted them if they wouldn’t have made it on their own and he couldn’t help but smile in her direction. Bender, of course, moved on quickly, scanning one of the books in his stack to find new material to talk about, to bother the girls with, but Brian’s gaze was still fixated on Y/N. She was running her fingers along spines of books, seemingly in her own world. He felt like maybe it was fated that they were both here, like he was getting a second chance. He still hadn’t really conjured up the courage to talk to her yet, but they were only half-way through their day; there was still time.

“Claire? Y/N? You wanna see a picture of a guy with elephantitis of the nuts?” Bender asked, “Pretty tasty. How do you think he rides a bike? Oh Claire, would you ever consider dating a guy like this?”

“Wait,” Y/N’s eyes lit up and she looked their way again. “Elephantiasis? Like the movie The Elephant Man? Great movie! Really sad though.” Brian grinned at the way she scrunched her eyebrows together in remembering the emotion from the movie. He had seen it, too. It was really good...and touching. Maybe that could be his ice-breaker. Movies were normal things that normal teenagers talked about, right? He didn’t really notice that Bender and Claire were still conversing until it implicated him, though.

“Oh! Watch what you say. Brian here is a cherry.” Brian looked at him, startled.

“A cherry?” He asked, indignantly, cheeks flaring up with a red hue. “I am not a cherry.” He didn’t need Bender calling him out like this, embarrassing him. He didn’t need the obvious association that the nerd was a virgin. Especially in front of beautiful girls, particularly Y/N. She didn’t need to know that he was an inexperienced loser.

“When have you ever gotten laid?” Bender asked, doubtfully

“I’ve laid lots of times.”

“Name ONE.” Bender said, sarcastically, hoping to catch him in a trap.

“She lives in Canada. Met her at Niagara Falls; You wouldn’t know her.” Brian said, prepared with this answer from previous conversations about this topic. It wasn’t the first time he’d been involved in a conversation about virginity that he couldn’t be entirely honest about, nor was it the first time he had been mocked for being a virgin or doubted about the non-existent relations that he didn’t have. Even though part of his brain felt like it was glaringly obvious to the outside world and must have been stamped on his forehead that girls did not typically talk to him, nor had he even kissed a girl before, but he still lied about it anyway. He knew he didn’t precisely have an ‘image’ to protect, but he didn’t want to seem like a total lost cause or dweeby stereotype.

Bender, however, wasn’t having it. “You ever lay anyone around here?” He scoffed and Brian panicked. He had noticed that Y/N had turned back to the aisle of books and was praying she wasn’t listening, and Claire didn’t seem to be paying attention, so he tried to gesture to Bender to keep it down, to let him off the hook before either girl noticed him or this conversation. Bender immediately twisted it around and attacked him with it, though. Brian felt his heart being squeezed and felt overwhelmed, instantly, as Bender said, “Oh. You and Claire did it.”

“Oh, uh I-Let’s just drop it, okay? We’ll talk about it later,” Brian attempted to get out of it again, praying that John would have one ounce of mercy on him. However, Brian was never really very lucky.

“Well, Brian is trying to tell me that in addition to the number of girls in the Niagara Falls area, that presently you and he are riding the hobby horse.” Brian’s eyes slammed shut in embarrassment.

“You little pig,” Claire growled at him and his eyes shot back open wide. He scrambled to defend himself.

“No! I’m not! John said I was a cherry and I said I wasn’t. That’s it. That’s all I said.”

“Well then what were you motioning to Claire for?” Bender followed up, not giving Brian any wiggle room.

“You know, I don’t appreciate this very much, Brian.” Claire sounded more disappointed and hurt than anything, which made Brian feel like a slug, instantly. He didn’t mean to implicate her or to bring her down. He was just trying to hide his embarrassment from John and the girls.

“He is lying!” Brian tried one last attempt to deflect.

“Oh, you weren’t motioning to Claire?”

“You know he’s lying, right?”

“Were you, or were you not motioning to Claire?” Brian hated this. He’d been stuffed in lockers before and yearned for that over the torture Bender was inflicting now. He couldn’t save face; either he was a disgusting creep saying he had had sex with Claire when he didn’t, or he’d have to tell them the truth and feel humiliated at telling everyone he was a virgin. He grit his teeth and chose to go with the latter.

“Yeah, but it was only- it was only because I didn’t want her to know I was a virgin, okay?” They looked almost...shocked by his response, which he wasn’t expecting. He thought it would be a ‘Well, duh, you’re a virgin, Johnson! Who would want to touch you?’ But Claire and Y/N looked surprised. “Excuse me for being a virgin, I’m sorry.”

“Why didn’t you want me to know you were a virgin?” Claire asked honestly, like it was no big deal. If she only knew...

“Because it’s personal business. It’s my personal, private business.”

“Well, Brian, it doesn’t sound like you’re doing any business,” Bender snuck in another jab and Brian was brought down to what he knew all along, that they were just going to laugh at him.

“I think it’s okay for a guy to be a virgin.” Claire’s unexpected response gave him instant relief. She was taking his side and Bender had no more ammo. Brian perked up even more when Y/N agreed with her. It wasn’t an embarrassing secret for him now because they didn’t mind. They almost seemed to admire him for it. The thought caused his lips to twitch and he hid his smile by leaning his head against his knee.

*~~~~*

During lunch, Bender didn’t have any food, so his appetite turned to targeting the rest of the detainees again. He started in on Claire for a bit, but then came over to taunt Brian. It seemed like it could be friendly, at first, as John just examined his lunch. But as he drew out each item, his tone became more and more sarcastic. “Here’s my impression of life at Big Bri’s house.” Bender went on to mock him, painting his life like it was some episode of Leave It To Beaver where the family would all hug it out at the end. Brian’s throat became dry and he could feel eyes on both Bender and himself, trying to judge his reactions to John’s farce. He hated being such an easy target. He hadn’t done anything towards John personally, but he was still constantly in the hot seat because John could get away with it and the others would laugh and enjoy it. At least Andy fought back...even Claire did. And Bender didn’t even really bother to mess with Allison. She had an aura of ‘don’t fuck with me,’ and he didn’t even touch her as a subject, even though she was just as odd and out of place as Brian. Not to mention, he was wrong. It wasn’t all peachy-keen happy endings at Brian’s house. If it were, Brian wouldn’t be here today.

Still, it was hard not to be drawn in by John, and he watched his next dramatic retelling of his own home life in stunned horror. John’s dad called him terrible names in this act and hit him. “Is that for real?” Brian asked, brows furrowed. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe John, it was just that...well, the situation sucked and he needed to be told it wasn’t true. Like a kid hearing that a ghost story was made up and there was nothing to fear. But he knew by John’s pained expression that it was, even before he spoke.

“Wanna come over some time?” Bender asked him and he flinched away. Andrew didn’t believe him though, and questioned it so John revealed to them all his very real cigar burn scar on his arm, claiming he got it from spilling paint in the garage. The group collectively flinched and no one moved for a few moments while Bender said, “I don’t need to sit with you fuckin’ dildos anymore,” and raged through the library.

“You shouldn’t have said that,” Claire admonished Andrew.

“How would I know? I mean he lies about everything anyway.”

“That doesn’t make it okay.” Y/N snapped at him and looked back towards Bender as though she wanted to follow him. Brian tried to will her silently not to; he didn’t really trust that Bender would control his emotions and she might get hurt. He felt relieved when she turned around, but then his heart began pounding once more as she gathered her lunch into the sack and stood up. ‘No, don’t do it, Y/N.’ He stared at her, but she didn’t seem to notice as she cautiously walked past and crept up the library stairs to where Bender was and sat next to him. Brian felt a little calmed when Bender didn’t lash out; he just rolled his eyes but stayed rooted to the spot. Meanwhile, the rest of the group at their lunch in silence.

*~~~~*

Brian felt guilty for leaving Bender behind, for allowing him to sacrifice himself for the group. Hell, they all did. Especially when Vernon started shoving him around and saying he was going to be in jail. Brian couldn’t help but wonder if he could become like John. It’s not like he was born into that life. But he had it tough at home, struggled at school, and had problems with authority (particularly when they lied). Brian could see some parallels. He, too, was unhappy at home. While his parents didn’t beat him like John’s did him, or berate him to the same degree, he couldn’t help but feel like a disappointment. And he felt like he was just slipping. Now he had broken school rules, brought a gun to school, watched as others destroyed school property, and was gaining a healthy distrust of authority by seeing how Vernon acted today. He’d even corrected him once, when counting Bender’s detentions, not that the truth seemed to matter to Vernon anyway. What if he continued down this path? What if things just kept getting worse at home? Would it really be that bad to be like Bender? Despite being a total jerkwad, he had the charisma to draw people in. He’d even had Y/N eat lunch with him! It just didn’t seem like the deal was all bad when he looked at it that way. ‘What’s next? Are you going to take up smoking?’ His brain scolded him, even though he had completely forgotten that he had drugs stashed in his pants right now...until Bender fell through the ceiling and asked for them back. He dug them uncomfortably out of his underwear and handed the bag over. Bender took off to smoke in the library and Brian realized he had a choice to make. Boy, was he tempted. ‘What’s one more rule broken today?’ He felt more emboldened when Claire stood up and followed John. Andrew tried to talk him out of it, shaking his head. Brian drummed his hands on the desk. He wasn’t sure he’d have another opportunity. Most of his friends and acquaintances didn’t do drugs...to his knowledge, anyway. He thought momentarily about his cousin Kendall, and how he started smoking pot and didn’t feel like he belonged anywhere. ‘You already don’t feel like you belong anywhere,’ His mind reminded him, and with that, the decision was made; what did he have to lose? So he slunk off to join Bender and Claire.

It was...definitely a different experience. Brian didn’t care for the way his thoughts seemed so disjointed, that he couldn’t keep one train of thought going. For someone who was known for his intelligence and felt like his brain was his one good quality, it was a little scary to have that slip away. But, there was a sort of numbness that came with the drug that made him worry less about that. He felt less worried and anxious in general, actually. His focus was being pulled in too many directions to wonder what his parents would think or if he was saying the right thing, or if this could even be a mistake. He felt relaxed and oddly open. He was even making Bender and Claire laugh, which he hadn’t expected. It was like there was a new persona underneath that was unlocked. He didn’t know what he was doing, but it wasn’t the worst thing ever. He was, however, surprised by how long the effects lasted. It was a little more than an hour later and the whole group was sitting in a circle (Y/N and Allison never seemed to have joined them in the marijuana. Not that he had noticed, anyway) and Allison was telling the group that she was a nymphomaniac, which was exciting. Particularly to someone with zero experience, to hear someone claim she’d done ‘almost everything’ was utterly fascinating. However, his head was still swimming and he seemed to have a lack of filter between his brain and his mouth. He couldn’t catch his words fast enough, which was often a problem for him sober, but now it wasn’t just supplying corrections or information, the more cruel thoughts slipped through, too.

“Obviously she’s crazy if she’s screwing her shrink,” he added to the group without even thinking. Y/N was sitting to his right and promptly hit him on the arm with the back of her hand.

“Brian!” She hissed and gave him a glare. ‘Oh shit. Did I say that out loud?’ He thought, looking at her with wide-eyed fear. The realization sobered him up pretty quickly and he was much more in control of his thoughts and words after that. Despite the weed taking away most of his worries, he still cared how she perceived him. From then on, he was more focused on the conversations in front of him and how he added to them, but it was harder to control his emotions when Andrew began telling them about why he was here today.

“You guys know what I did to get in here today? I taped Larry Lester’s buns together.” Andy said, with a hint of a smile. ‘How can he just smirk like that? He has to know it was a shitty thing to do and that he hurt Larry.’ Brian thought. He knew Larry had been attacked this week by one of the sports, but he didn’t know who. Larry didn’t even know the kid’s name, had never talked to him, but still got jumped anyway. An experience that Brian was all too familiar with.

“That was you?” Brian asked, somewhat surprised, but started to get angry.

“You know him?”

“Yeah, I know him.” He said quietly, trying not to let the anger bubble past the surface.

He had to bite his tongue when Andy made Larry into a joke, “Then you know how hairy he is right?” Bender and Claire chuckled at his joke, at him bullying one of Brian’s friends. ‘I guess I shouldn’t have expected anything different,’ Brian thought dejectedly. But he was hoping that they were all better people than...this. The realization that they weren’t better than that, coupled with Andrew expressing his feelings about his father got Brian thinking. “I...hate him. He’s like this mindless machine that I can’t even relate to anymore.” Brian felt so disconnected from his parents, too, even though the rest of the group thought they lived in a fairytale. He was their pride and joy once, but it felt like ever since he started high school, he just wasn’t good enough. He wasn’t a good enough student, he didn’t do his chores right, he wasn’t setting himself up for college correctly, he wasn’t a good role model or brother to his sister...it all just added up and weighed on him immensely. He covered his face with one of his hands to hide his emotion and expression from the group. He didn’t even react when Andrew started screaming what his father had told him, but when everything settled down, he took the chance to speak.

“That’s like me, you know, with my grades. Like, when I step outside myself. A-and I look in on myself...and-and I see me, I don’t like what I see,” it was a difficult thing to admit but after what Allison and Andrew shared, he felt like maybe this could be the space to do so, too.

“What’s wrong with you? Why don’t you like yourself?” Claire asked. He knew it was meant to be nice, encouraging even, but it just made him feel worse. This beautiful, popular, and rich girl asking someone why they weren’t happy with themselves? Like she could have any sort of clue. No wonder it baffled her; she had everything. But he could also see Y/N nodding vigorously, agreeing with Claire. He didn’t want to put her on the same plane as Claire, he felt like she would be above that. But she clearly didn’t understand the way he felt, either. That just made him feel more alone.

“It’s stupid, but,” Brian said, “because I’m failing shop. We had this assignment to make this, uh, ceramic elephant. Anyways we were supposed to-it was, it was a lamp. When you pulled the trunk, the light was supposed to go on. But my light didn’t go on. I got an F on it. I’ve never got an F in my life. When I signed up, y’know, for the course, I thought I was playing it smart. I was, uh, ‘I’ll take Shop, it’s an easy way to maintain my grade point average.’”

“Why’d you think it would be easy?” Bender chimed in, not making eye contact. Brian had been lost in his own thoughts and his story and not looking at the group either, really. He had wanted to be honest, but he was also embarrassed. Honesty would have been hard to maintain if he was looking at them and seeing their judgments in real time.

“Have you seen some of the dopes that take Shop?” Brian asked, not realizing it would strike a nerve.

“I take Shop.” Bender responded, now turning his eyes to him, “You must be a fucking idiot.”

“I’m a fucking idiot because I can’t make a lamp?” Brian snapped defensively. He should have known it would be a mistake to put himself on the line like this, to open himself up to their judgement. He knew Bender was lashing out because he was insulted, but that didn’t make his jibes hurt any less.

“No, you’re a genius because you can’t make a lamp.” Bender shot back, sarcastically.

“What do you know about Trigonometry?” Brian fought back.

“I could care less about Trigonometry.”

“Bender, there’s no engineering without trigonometry.”

“Without lamps, there’d be no light.” Bender replied grumpily, grasping at straws for a fair comparison.

“Okay, so neither one of you is any better than the other one,” Claire jumped in. Before either of them responded, Allison added her own odd addition.

“I can write with my toes!” Both Bender and Brian looked at her incredulously, but she did calm the two of them down and add levity to the moment.

“I can make spaghetti!” Brian said cheerfully after a moment. Y/N smiled at him and his heart fluttered. He returned the smile and for a moment, forgot all about his blunder. Maybe that smile had given him the courage to participate again, to be open and vulnerable. Claire and Bender began fighting again, which wasn’t a surprise, but it opened a door for Brian to ask what had been weighing on his mind since their circle began. He felt like they had all bonded. They had told each other some of their deepest secrets and biggest pains, but did that really make them friends? “I know it’s kind of a weird time, but you know, I was just wondering...what’s going to happen to us on Monday? I mean, I consider you guys my friends,” he continued, looking around the circle, “I’m not wrong, am I?”

“No,” Andy reassured him. So, he wasn’t imagining it, they felt like friends, too.

“So on Monday, what happens?”

“Are we still friends, you mean? If we’re friends now?” Claire asked.

“Yeah.”

“You want the truth?” Claire couldn’t meet his eye, and Brian knew from the question she posed, he really didn’t want the truth. He knew what was coming, but he continued anyway.

“Yeah, I want the truth.”

“I don’t think so.” Claire responded and he somehow still wasn’t prepared for the blow. It still hit him hard, causing a squeezing pain in his chest and he looked away, clenching his jaw to hold the tears back that were welling in his eyes.

“With all of us,” Allison asked, “or just John?”

“With all of you,” Claire confirmed, looking away from the group.

“That’s a real nice attitude, Claire,” Andrew said gruffly.

“Oh, be honest, Andy,” Claire groaned, “If Brian came up to you in the hall on Monday, what would you do? Picture it, you’re with all the sports.” Brian glanced up at his name and looked at Andy hopefully. In his heart, he knew Claire was probably right, but he wanted to believe that Andrew was really his friend, that they all were. “You know exactly what you’d do. You’d say hi to him and then you’d laugh and cut him all up so your friends wouldn’t think you actually like him.”

“No way.” Andy denied, and that gave Brian a glimmer of hope, one he so desperately wanted to believe.

“What if I came up to you?” Allison asked.

“Same exact thing.”

“You are a bitch!” Bender yelled at Claire.

“Why?! Because I’m telling the truth? That makes me a bitch?”

“No. Cuz you know how shitty that is to do to someone and you don’t have the balls to stand up to your friends and tell them you’re gonna like who you wanna like…” Bender continued berating Claire, but Brian now started to fail to hold back the tears that had been threatening so long to fall. He didn’t make eye contact with anyone in the group and tried to quickly wipe the tear away, hoping no one was paying attention to him; that they couldn’t see how they had impacted him. But he still felt eyes on him, particularly when he wiped the next tear away. He let Claire and Bender’s argument surround him. They called each other out, that neither would associate with him or Allison, that their image was too important to protect to reach out. It was a story that Brian had lived all of his life. ‘How could I think that one day would change everything?’ He thought, pitifully.

“So I assume Allison, Y/N, and I are better people than you? Us weirdos?” Brian interjected when Claire and Bender were silently fuming from their spat. “You, would you do that to me?” He asked Allison.

“I don’t have any friends,” she replied, which made Brian smile a little, even though he rolled his eyes some.

“Okay, but if you did?” He let out a light chuckle, urging her to answer.

“No. I don’t think the kind of friends that I’d have would mind,” Allison replied and Brian nodded, then steeled himself to turn to Y/N and ask the same question. He saw her quickly swipe at her face with her sleeves and realized, suddenly, that she had been crying too. He wasn’t sure why; she had been very quiet through this whole exchange, but maybe that was because it hit home hard for her, too. He felt a painful pang in his chest, both from seeing her tears and from fearing the possibility of her answer. He had spent the day hoping that this was a second chance, that he could get to know her. This was a bold move and would tell him if there was even a chance or not; and he feared the ‘not.' She locked eyes with him and he gulped, petrified to dive in but knowing he had to.

“What about you, Y/N?” He asked, quietly. It felt like the question hung in the air for an agonizing eternity, even though she answered right away. Time worked differently when you were waiting to hear if your world was going to be shattered.

“I would be honored to be your friend,” she replied with a shaking voice. Even though it was strained, it filled him with instant relief. He believed her as he had believed Allison and nodded, biting his lip.

“I just want to tell, each of you, that I wouldn’t do that,” he turned to the group,” I wouldn’t and I will not. Because I think it’s real shitty.”

“Your friends wouldn’t mind because they look up to us.” Claire told him and he couldn’t help but laugh derisively in response. Next to him, he heard Y/N give a sort of squeak but figured that it carried the same disbelief towards Claire as his gesture did.

“You’re so conceited, Claire. You’re so conceited. You’re like, so full of yourself. Why are you like that?” Brian noticed the tears falling again and swiped them away. He didn’t want Claire to think she wounded him, that she had the upper hand. While it stung to have all of his beliefs about how the popular kids perceived him and his friends confirmed, that wasn’t what really was bothering him. It was more that it reminded him that he was invisible, he didn’t matter, which was exactly why he was here today.

“I’m not saying that to be conceited. I hate it. I hate having to go along with everything my friends say.”

“Then why do you do it?”

“I don’t- I don’t know,” Claire sighed, and Brian noticed that she was drying her own tears. He didn’t necessarily like having caused them, but it was nice to know she was still human, that she was feeling the way he was, too. “You don’t understand, You’re not friends with the same kind of people Andy and I are friends with, you know? You just don’t understand the kind of pressure that they can put on you.” That, however, lit a fire within Brian. ‘Pressure from other assholes is so important? Try your own parents, Claire.’

“I don’t understand what?” Brian began, gesturing towards himself and planting his fingers into his chest. It relieved some of the dull ache there. “You think I don’t understand pressure, Claire? Well, fuck you! Fuck you!” ‘Also, fuck ‘bravery’ or saving face,’ Brian broke down into sobs in his elbow before calling out from his hiding spot, “do you know why I’m here today? Do you?!” He sat up to look at the group, the people he considered friends, to share his pain with them. “I’m here...because Mr. Ryan found a gun in my locker.” The words turned thick as they left his mouth and took on a life of their own. His eyes darted quickly around the circle, noting Claire’s dropped jaw, Allison’s tearful eyes that couldn’t meet his own, the way Andrew looked away and Bender seemed to know how he had felt, but also how he was surprised that Brian had the balls to do such a thing, and finally...tears silently and consistently slipping down Y/N’s face.

“What’s the gun for?” Andrew asked, interrupting Brian’s thoughts.

“I tried. You pull the fuckin’--trunk and the light’s supposed to go on and it didn’t go on, you know?” ‘You’ve said too much. They all thought you were a weirdo, now they think you’re a psychotic weirdo.’ “Forget it. Just--forget it,” he said in an attempt to brush it off, as if everything could go back to normal with the bombshell he just dropped on them.

“You brought it up, man,” Andrew insisted.

“I can’t have an F. I can’t have it and I know my parents can’t. Even if I aced the rest of the semester, it would only be a B. I’m ruined.”

“Brian…” Claire started, but there was nothing she could say to make this alright. ‘You’re a failure, Brian, and now you’ve become a freakshow. Look at her pity,’ his brain taunted him and he lashed out to hit the stool on his right, not even thinking about it until Y/N jumped up in her seated position, startled. The last thing he would want to do is hurt or scare her. ‘Shit, great. Another fuck up.’

“Sorry,” he mumbled in her direction before setting his head on his knee and continuing with his story from before, “Just considering my options, you know?”

“No, killing yourself is never an option!” Claire yelled at him, which made him scoff.

“Well I didn’t do it, did I? No, I didn’t think so.” ‘She really just doesn’t get it, does she? She still can’t picture why I’d want to--’

“It was a handgun?” Allison asked

“A flare gun. It blew up in my locker.” Brian sighed, but then he heard Andrew start to laugh. “It’s not funny.” Brian asserted. Andrew tried to clear his throat to stop laughing, but he couldn’t and Brian bit his lip and smiled in realization, “Yeah, it is.” The laughter was contagious...and better than crying. “Fucking elephant was destroyed.”

“You know what I did to get in here?” Allison asked the group, and Brian almost feared her answer. “Nothing. I didn’t have anything better to do.” That completely brightened the mood and Brian fell over laughing. It seemed like he was forgiven and that no one here was judging him for the failed lamp or the gun nor would they tell anybody about it. They...they had accepted him in the end after all.

*~~~~*

“...we trust you.” Claire was trying to talk him into writing one essay to cover all of them, and she was using flattery. Lucky for her, it worked. He looked down the row to seek approval from the others and they all nodded. But he liked knowing that they thought he was the smartest and the most capable, that they trusted his words would win over Vernon in a way that they wouldn’t be punished for not doing their own essays. It was a big task and a lot to entrust to him, so he took pride in fulfilling it. Claire took the other girls with her somewhere and it was just Andrew and him sitting silently in the library, so he decided to get to work. Andrew was just lurking about, playing with his jewelry, but he wasn’t a distraction. However, Allison passing by looking completely different was. Brian looked up, shocked that this was the same person he had spent all day with. Her hair was away from her face and he could actually see her brown eyes and she was wearing...white, the opposite of all of the layers of black before. He caught her glare at him staring at her so he tried to give her a reassuring smile, that it was a good look for her. She said, “thank you,” and moved on toward Andrew. Brian turned back to his essay and finished the last couple of lines, not noticing Y/N approaching behind him. If he had, he probably wouldn’t have kissed the essay or given himself a ‘good job’ punch in the arm.

He sat up in startled revelation when she spoke, “That good, huh?” He realized she had just seen everything. He had never felt more like a dork in his life and a blush crept up into his cheeks.

“Uh...yeah, I-I guess. I mean, do you want to read it?” He asked as she started to pull back the chair next to him to sit down.

“If you want me to, but I trust you.” She took her seat and placed her arm gently on his forearm. ‘Holy shit. She is touching me! She’s looking at me. What do I even say? Do I acknowledge the touch or do I just--’ “I’m impressed that you came up with something so quickly though.” Brian felt pride bubble up within him, knowing that she noticed...no, she was impressed by him. He cocked his head and looked at her sideways, trying to figure her out. She quickly looked away and pulled her hand back, now fiddling with her sleeves. ‘Is she...nervous?’ He thought, trying to decode her reaction. “So, um…you said earlier that you were in the Math Club? Um, I mean, if you have the time, do you think you could tutor me? I’m like totally lost in Clarkson’s class.”

He blinked. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t exactly that. Not that he would say no to spending more time with her. He had wanted that second chance, after all. “Yeah, no, I could do that,” he told her and watched as she twisted away and looked behind her, grabbing paper off of Allison’s desk. She leaned back forward and reached for his pen in front of him. She was actually close enough now that he could smell her shampoo and his body threatened to turn into jello on the spot.

“Here...is...my...phone number.” She said as she wrote it out on the paper and handed it to him. “Call me so we can set something up?” She looked up at him and knocked the breath right out of his lungs.

“You--You want me to call you?” He asked with raised eyebrows, wholly surprised by the request. He’d not only not kissed a girl, but one had never given him her phone number before.

“Yeah.” She smiled at him and his heartbeat picked up even faster, if that was possible. She cleared her throat and nodded towards Andrew and Allison. “So, those two, huh? Unexpected, right?”

“Oh. Yeah.” He was suddenly hurtled back to Earth, to reality. “Definitely. Wait, where’s Claire?”

“She...she said she was going to go ‘check on’ Bender.”

“Wow. So them, too.” ‘Everyone is coupling up maybe we should--’ he interrupted his own thought and shot it down. All he could say was, “That’s really...weird.”

*~~~~*

After they were finally released and Brian left his essay on the desk for Vernon to collect, and hopefully reflect upon, they all walked out together. It made sense as they all had to go to the main entrance, but there was a feeling of solidarity within it that made Brian think that the members of what he dubbed The Breakfast Club would continue their friendship come Monday.

Allison and Andrew branched off together, as did Claire and John. Brian looked quickly at Y/N as she walked down the steps with him. His dad was there to pick him up, which he was thankful for. His mom would definitely notice him walking with a girl and have a million questions and a lengthy lecture lined up, but his dad would barely notice, much less think anything of it. He reached for the door handle as Y/N was about to depart, but then she called his name, “Hey Brian,” he looked up, not sure what else she could possibly have to say, especially since they had been silent while the couples had veered off. “See you Monday.” She reminded him and gave him a small smile. He gave a grin in return.

“Yeah. I’ll talk to you on Monday.” He replied, beginning to get into the car, her phone number burning a hole in his pocket. For the first time in a long time, he was actually looking forward to another week school.

Tags:

@criminalwipes

#the breakfast club #breakfast club #breakfast club movie redeux #midnight sun'd prologue #you're not the only one stephanie myer #brian johnson x reader #brian x reader #brian johnson #john bender #claire standish #allison reynolds #andrew clark #80s fanfic #reader-insert

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alastaircarstairsdefenselawyer · 3 years

Text

champagne problems (part 1)

here's my first part of my modern no magic "champagne problems" singer-songwriter quarantine thomastair AU! happy birthday to @foxglove-airmid even though I don't think it's your birthday where you live anymore (and I still haven't posted zia's birthday fic, it'll happen I swear)!

no content warnings for this part (besides maybe quarantine), but future parts will include discussions of mental illness, substance abuse, and a suicide attempt

obviously, the song alastair "wrote" in the fic is not mine, it's by taylor swift! and a few of the lyrics have been changed!

Masterlist | AO3

Thomas breathed out a sigh of relief as he lugged his suitcase up onto the fifth floor landing.

“‘Ere we are,” Piers announced as he unlocked the door.

Thomas was utterly exhausted, such was the result of taking a redeye flight across the Atlantic during a global pandemic, but any idea of rest that he’d had was interrupted when he heard the sound of piano flood the apartment.

“Ah, sorry about that,” Piers nodded, “One of my flatmates, the walls are paper thin. He can’t record at the studio right now, but he’s trying to finish his EP, so it’s been a bit noisier around here. He’ll take a break soon, hopefully.”

Thomas shook his head. “It’s no problem. Thank you, again, for allowing me to stay here. I’ll be looking for my own place as soon as the quarantine is up.”

“Of course. You’ve got the couch as long as you need it. Couldn’t just hang you out to dry, could I? Although, you did pick a god awful time to move to the city, if I do say so myself.”

Thomas sat down on the couch and tried to make himself comfortable. It was more comfortable than the flight or the airport, at least. “I know… I considered postponing the move, but the visa was so difficult to get, I just couldn’t pass up the opportunity. They say this will all blow over in a couple of weeks, but borders are closing and I heard talk of them suspending all pending visa applications. I didn't know how long it would be if I waited, if the job was even still here for me at all.” Although at first entrance, the music had seemed to be a nuisance, it now comforted him. It wasn’t bad at all, in fact, it quite reminded him of the days Alastair’s playing had filled their flat…

“Where did you say you were working again? At a record company?”

“Yeah. I’m just doing pretty basic stuff for now, but if I ever do want to record my own music, I’ve got to start somewhere.”

“Hm,” Piers said, gesturing to the room the music was coming from. “Perhaps you’ll get on with him well, then. Would you like some tea?”

Thomas nodded and Piers went to start the teapot. Piers continued, “Though I suppose he's more of the tortured artist type. Very reserved, quite prickly. I didn't even meet him until a couple weeks after I moved in here because he was off in some psychiatric hospital.” Thomas shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He was never one for gossip. “My other roommate’s nice, though, I think you’ll like him. He-”

“How did you end up in New York, again? I don’t think I ever asked.”

Piers dove into the subject change quite readily, explaining his uni - or college - years in New York City and his decision to stay afterwards. Thomas had tuned most of it out, truthfully. It wasn’t that he was trying to be rude, but he was rather exhausted, and Piers was wearing thin on his patience.

As the kettle started to whine, Thomas heard the musician begin to sing, and he froze. It sounded so much like Alastair. But it couldn't be, could it? With over 8 million people living in the city, he would not end up in Alastair's apartment by accident. His Alastair was certainly reserved and prickly, but it wasn't possible. It must be like all those times he thought he saw him on a street he'd never walked or heard his laugh in a café he'd never been to. Just his mind, tricking him. Even if he knew that voice so well, despite not hearing it in so long.

“It’s quite good, isn’t it? His first single just dropped.” Piers asked, bringing over his cup of tea. He hadn’t realized it, but he’d been staring intently at the door.

Thomas took the cup. “Hm? Yeah, I guess. Thanks.”

“You should look it up. It’s called “champagne problems” by Simurgh. That’s spelled- Well, it should come up.”

The name Simurgh sounded familiar, but Thomas couldn’t put his finger on where he knew it from. At Piers’ insistence, he pulled out his phone and brought up the song. As he skimmed through the first few lines, a cold feeling settled in his stomach.

“You booked the night train for a reason So you could sit there in this hurt Bustling crowds or silent sleepers You're not sure which is worse”

“Simurgh,” Thomas realized.

“Yeah, I think it’s Arabic or something.”

It took Thomas a moment to process that Piers was responding to him. “It’s Persian.” He was certain that Alastair would have some very stern words to say if he heard Piers confusing the two, actually. Thomas had admittedly let his Farsi skills deteriorate quite a bit since the breakup, but he was fairly certain the name came from the Shahnameh. There was no doubt in Thomas’ mind now: he was staying in Alastair’s apartment, and Alastair’s first single was about one of the most painful days in Thomas’ life. “I, er, I used to study it.”

“Oh, yes, that’s right!” Piers launched into a tangent that Thomas tuned out as he read through the rest of the page.

“Because I dropped your hand while dancing Left you out there standing Crestfallen on the landing Champagne problems”

“Thomas? Are you alright?”

He realized then that his hand was trembling so badly that his tea nearly spilled. He used his other hand to steady it. “Oh, uh, yes, I’m just tired.”

“Perhaps you should rest. I can ask Alastair to quiet down for a while-”

“No!” he exclaimed rather too forcefully. “No, that’s not necessary. I’d just rather not talk, if that’s alright.”

Piers nodded.

Thomas kept reading.

“Your mom's ring in your pocket My picture in your wallet Your heart was glass, I dropped it Champagne problems”

Of all the songs, why did he release the one about him? Why was it about a memory still so painful in Thomas’ heart, all of these years later? He remembered it so well, standing there, alone, shattered into a million pieces.

“You told your family for a reason You couldn't keep it in Your sister splashed out on the bottle Now no one's celebrating”

He was fairly certain that Barbara had been more excited than even he was, confident that Alastair would accept, and so very proud of her baby brother, all grown up. She’d been furious when it fell apart, but it was her who stood with him during the aftermath, who boarded him onto a train to Edinburgh to visit Eugenia when he couldn’t stand to be in the same city as him any longer, who went through his phone, blocking all of Alastair’s accounts so that he could obsess over him no longer, who comforted him as he wept and held him as he picked the pieces of himself back up again.

And all the more sour was the memory in light of her death.

“Dom Pérignon, you brought it No crowd of friends applauded Your hometown skeptics called it Champagne problems”

He looked up at Piers, who had fortunately become enthralled with something on his phone and was no longer paying Thomas any mind. He lifted the teacup gingerly to his lips, but he felt far too sick to take a drink.

“You had a speech, you're speechless Love slipped beyond your reaches And I couldn't give a reason Champagne problems”

A reason, that’s all Thomas had wanted. Just any explanation. He understood if they were moving too fast, or perhaps he’d misread something, but he just didn’t understand it.

Why? Why can’t you tell me why? I deserve an explanation, Alastair. Please, anything.

I… I’m sorry, Thomas.

Stop it! Stop apologizing! We can just go home and pretend this never happened, please, forget about all of it, it was a stupid idea-

Thomas, stop. I shouldn’t’ve… This was a mistake. I’m sorry I didn’t see that sooner.

That was the moment Thomas felt his heart stop beating.

“Your Midas touch on the Chevy door November flush and your flannel cure "This dorm was once a madhouse" I made a joke, "Well, it's made for me" How evergreen, our group of friends Don't think we'll say that word again And soon they'll have the nerve to deck the halls That we once walked through”

Despite the nearly two decades Thomas had spent in London before Alastair, it was never the same without him. He saw him everywhere he went, despite knowing he was thousands of miles away. After graduating uni that May, he accepted a spot at a graduate program in Spain and didn’t look back.

“One for the money, two for the show I never was ready so I watch you go Sometimes you just don't know the answer 'Til someone's on their knees and asks you "You’re the only one I want by my side, What a shame you’re fucked in the head," you said”

Those were the words that haunted Thomas’ nightmares, even now.

It’s you! It’s only you for me! It was always going to be you! But I can see now that I was never going to be enough for you, you and your secrets and walls and your lies. It’s a shame… it’s a shame you’re so fucked in the head, Alastair. You’ll never truly love anyone, will you? You’re not physically capable of it.

Alastair hadn’t responded. Thomas had wanted a rise out of him, any reaction at all, despite knowing how lethal and volatile Alastair could become when provoked. But there was nothing. Not a flicker of anything in his steeled expression. He’d simply looked down, apologized again for any pain that he’d caused, and left.

That was the last time they’d spoken.

Thomas and his sister left for Edinburgh that night, and when he’d returned to London, Alastair was gone.

“Well, you'll find the real thing instead Who'll patch up your tapestry that I shred And hold your hand while dancing Never leave you standing Crestfallen on the landing With champagne problems”

Thomas couldn’t imagine giving his heart to anyone again, not now and certainly not then. He’d dated in Madrid, but it had always stayed casual. He’d made sure of it. He could see now that he and Alastair had gotten together quickly, moved in together quickly, done all of it very quickly. After all, he’d fallen hard and fast. He gave all of himself to Alastair, and he’d nearly lost all of himself in the process.

“Your mom's ring in your pocket New picture in your wallet You won't remember all my Champagne problems

“You won't remember all my Champagne problems”

Now, he wondered what the rest of the story was. He’d convinced himself that Alastair had never loved him, that he was heartless and cruel, though he’d known that wasn’t true. Could Alastair have written this song if he’d never truly loved him? Perhaps he was a sociopath.

Thomas felt like he should run. Like he should pick up his bag and dart out of the apartment before Alastair could notice him, find some hotel somewhere with undoubtedly extraordinary high rates and just pretend like this never happened. He could get back on a plane and go back home to his parents and delete his phone browser history and pretend like this was all just a bad dream. But he could not move.

He didn’t know how many minutes had passed before Alastair’s door opened. He looked up with a start.

“Thomas,” Alastair breathed. He stood wide eyed, flushed.

“Do you two already know each other then?” Piers asked.

There was a moment of silence before Thomas cleared his throat. “We used to,” he said, looking down.

“I, er, I forgot that your friend was coming today,” Alastair told Piers. “It’s quite a long journey from London, you should have told me, I would have been quieter.”

Thomas considered correcting him for a moment, but decided not to. “Don’t worry about it. I heard you had your first big release. Congratulations.”

Alastair gave an awkward nod. “Thank you. Right, well, I’ll just…” He rushed over to the kitchen and pulled a bottle of water from the fridge. “I’ll try to be a bit quieter.”

“Don’t- It’s fine, really. In fact, I’m sure there’s some hotel in the area I can stay at for now, actually-”

“Well, don’t leave on my account,” Alastair interrupted. “We agreed to let you stay here, and the city’s a bloody mess right now. I’ll stay out of your hair, Thomas.”

Thomas only nodded as Alastair disappeared back behind his bedroom door.

Thanks for reading! Taglist (ask to be +/-): @stxr-thxif @chaos-and-starlight @zosiaenrique @lifewouldbebetteronmars @littlx-songbxrd @dianasarrow @eugeniaslongsword @bookswitchcraftandcats @jamesherondaleofficial @thomas-gaypanic-lightwood @livingformyself @anarmorofwords @foxglove-airmid @writeforjordelia @sapphic-in @jem-nasium @fortheloveofthecarstairs @alastair-esfandiyar-carstairs1 @shadowrunner2000 @thewarthatsavedmylife @fair-childd @itsjusta-j-really

#alastair carstairs #thomas lightwood #thomastair #tlh #the last hours #fanfic #fanfiction #champagne problems au

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constancelaufeydottir · 3 years

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Help me, help you

Pairing: Bucky x reader

Word count: 3.1k

Warnings: Attempted suicide, mentions of mental illness and eating disorders, angst, fluff(?)

Summary: You seek help from the stranger who saved you the night you sought for an escape, maybe you weren’t the only one who needs saving.

A/N: This is my first ever fic here! I’ve never written anything before and I’m really anxious to put this out here, please bear with me if I make any grammatical mistakes and let me know what you think!

You probably shouldn’t be doing this. They said you’d disappoint your family and people around you would be sad. But the water, it’s tempting. A dive, and your problems would be gone.

To be honest, you don’t think you family cares at all. They’ve got bigger things to worry about, you sister’s engagement, your brother’s enrolment in college. After all, you were the unwanted kid, an accident. The only time you caught your parents’ attention was when you butchered your job interview. You had prepared thoroughly but a stomach bug ruined it all and your parents blamed you for it, saying they always knew you were a failure, a disgrace to the family.

They didn’t even ask where you were going tonight. They never cared unless you had big achievements in your life or maybe when your failure was too huge for them to ignore.

The sloshing of the water is luring you to jump into it. The deep dark waters inviting you to join the others who had succeeded before you. You moved your feet a little towards the edge of the railings, embracing the chilling midnight wind as you closed your eyes. This is the end, you thought, your foot dangling over the railings ready to plummet into the river.

You felt an arm circling your waist and pulling you backwards until your back hit the ground, a palm caging the back of your head, preventing it from hitting the hard ground.

“Ma’am, are you alright?” You heard a deep voice coming from the right side of your body, hands were on your shoulders gently shaking. You blinked a few times, the blinding lights made you wince as you closed your eyes again with your hand shielding them.

The man who saved you helped you sat up, kneeling beside you to ensure your safety. You took time to have a close look at the good Samaritan. His hair was long, stopping a little lower down his ears. Eyes was the colour of the ocean, almost enticing as the water. His chin adorned with a scruffy beard, lips curving in a small smile. If it weren’t for your bad mood right now, you would have joked that he looked like a modern version of Jesus.

“Why?” You whispered, so quietly if not for his enhance hearing, the man wouldn’t have heard you. “Why did you save me?” You cried out, hands trembling as they grasped the collar of his bomber jacket. Your teary face surprised him and your sniffles made his heart tightened.

“I- I can’t let you die!” He exclaimed. The tears in your eyes spilled out again as you collapsed into the stranger’s chest, crying your heart out. He felt the vulnerability in your voice and hugged you tighter, palms meeting behind you and patted your back to comfort you.

You didn’t know how long you sat there crying in the man’s arms. Your tears soaked the dark red Henley underneath his jacket, causing it to stick onto his firm chest but he did not utter a single word, instead opting to calm you down.

You had no idea how you got home, except for the fact that you vaguely recalled ending up in the arms of a certain stranger, the rest was a blur.

You woke up on the couch the next morning, your phone alarm blaring. The hard rectangular metal was digging the soft flesh of your butt and you groggily dig it out of your back pocket turning the alarm off.

There was a sweet smell of pancake wafted from the kitchen and you sniffed at the smell, face scrunching when you didn’t remember having someone over. The thought of someone unfamiliar inviting themselves into your house alarmed you and your hastily got up from the couch, a pillow in your hand as you inched slowly towards the kitchen. Peeking your head around the corner, you found a tall and broad figure in the space, hands fumbling around with something. You couldn’t see clearly who that was, your glasses were in your bedroom the last time your saw it.

You knew the stranger in your house could never be your brother because one, he was an asshole who gave no fucks about his sister’s life and two, your both hated each other’s guts. Your breath quickened as the intruder suddenly turned his head towards your direction. You yelped as you threw the pillow at him, or the general direction where he was standing.

Of course, you missed the target when he walked towards you. “Shit, I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die.” You shut your eyes as you heard his footsteps getting closer and closer to you.

“Hey, you’re awake!” You squinted at the man, trying to make out the features of his blurry face. He looked oddly like the guy who saved you on the bridge last night. He moved closer to you when he realized you couldn’t see him clearly. Your eyes widen at the sudden close proximity, your lips were slightly parted. You could feel his breath against your face, his long lashes and that steel blue eyes.

“Y-you!” Instantly, you were conscious of your own appearance, your eyes must have been puffy from last night’s non-stop crying. There were probably still dried tears on your face. Adverting your gaze from his, you looked to the side as you slid out of the slightly awkward situation. Walking towards the counter, you pulled out a wet tissue and wiped your stiff face with it then retrieving the cold spoons you kept in the freezer.

He laughed when you put the spoons on your eyes, you sighed at the cool sensation soothing the puffiness of your eyelids. “Don’t laugh. It’s effective,” you glared at him.

“Alright, alright.” He threw his hands up. “I’m Bucky,” his hand extended outward, waiting for you to shake it. “Y/N.” He smiled, eyes crinkled as you reciprocate the gesture.

He cooked you breakfast, although it was a simple one, you were still grateful.

“Thank you for last night,” you gave him a genuine smile as he was seated across you on the dining table, stuffing his mouth with the pancakes. “It’s nice to see that someone cares.” This time you smile didn’t quite reach your eyes and he caught it.

Grabbing your hand across the table, he looked at you in the eyes with sincerity. “It’s the least I could do.” Taking a deep breath, cautiously he spoke up. “Y/N, I know it’s not my place to say this but seek for professional help if you aren’t feeling fine. Maybe just talk to someone or … go see a therapist.”

“Are you insinuating that I have depression?” You scoffed. Your eyebrows furrowed in annoyance as you snatched your hand from his grasp and crossed your arms in front of your chest defensively.

Depression? No, you couldn’t have had depression. It’s a sign of weakness, you father said. Depression is just a fancy term to describe one’s laziness, that’s what your mother told you.

“I’m not insinuating anyt-”

“Get out,” you interrupted, “get out of my house!” Enraged, you pointed towards the door while snapping at him. How dare he, a stranger suggested that there was something wrong with you.

Sighing, Bucky gave you a taut smile while nodding then placed a piece of paper on the coffee table on his way out. “Here’s my number in case you needed any help.” He paced towards the door opening it, giving you a last glance before leaving.

It’s been weeks now since you yelled at Bucky to get out of your house. You felt bad and deep down there you knew he was right, but the stigma surrounding mental illnesses was extremely terrifying to you. Not to mention what will happen if your family found out. You were a major disappointment in your household already and you definitely wouldn’t want to add a mental illness into the mix.

You were sitting in your office, typing on the keyboard furiously. Honestly you didn’t know why you were still here. This job sucks, even though the salary was high and you’d just been promoted to manager of the department. Chewing on your nails and bouncing your legs under the desk, you felt the need to just leave everything and go home.

The drive home was painful, you simply had no energy to do so but you still had to go home, your only safe place. Taking off your shoes, changing out your clothes, you lied on the bed. Your stomach grumbled, protesting at the lack of food in your system but you just couldn’t get yourself off the bed to make something for yourself. Your mind travelled back to the day you were on that bridge. You didn’t actually seek for death, all you sought for was an escape. An escape from reality, from your parents, from the constant judgements of people surrounding you.

As you closed your eyes, you wished that tomorrow never comes.

Another day, another disappointment. You were still alive, and the world seemed a wee bit duller than before. Skipping breakfast, you went to work as usual, plastering the faux smile on your face which everybody seemed to liked and expected from you. In this workplace, everybody’s gotta put on a façade and that included you but you dreaded the day where there would be a crack in your mask. Until then, you just had to work harder to reinforce it because according to your parents, nobody would want to see the real you, it was unpleasant … and ugly.

“I gotta say. Miss Y/L/N, you are spectacular. Being one of the Y/L/N, I bet it was a lot of pressure but you have done such amazing job, I think your parents would be so proud of you.” A client who was a family friend was seated across you, a wide grin on her face as her face crinkled rambling about how lucky you were being born into a family filled with successful people.

You smiled and thank her for her compliments, cutting the steak your ordered into bite-size pieces. Poking into one of the pieces with your fork, you lifted it up to your lips. Taking a deep breath, you put it into your mouth and instantly you felt like you were about to throw up. Fighting the urge to spit it out, you endured the taste of the meat as you bite at it mechanically. Looking down at your plate of steak, you no longer feel the appetite to consume any more of it.

Everyday you woke up, you wondered how long would it be until the colours faded into grey. Perhaps it was the only thing keeping you alive right now, counting the days until the beautiful hue of the sunsets no longer amazes you; the sight of puppies doesn’t excite you; the thought of having ice cream whenever you can no longer sounds appealing to you.

You should get some help, you really should. Your body was deteriorating, you could feel it. You weren’t in denial anymore; you knew there was something gravely wrong about you. Your body couldn’t afford being in denial. The loss of radiance in your face, the hair and weight loss and most importantly, you couldn’t put on a façade anymore.

Bucky rushed towards your apartment when you called, he could hear how shaky your voice was. He was extremely worried the past weeks even though he had only met you once. Maybe it was because he was in that dark place before and was able to relate or maybe he took a liking to you. He found himself constantly wondering whether you were well and how long would it take for your stubborn ass to call him.

He arrived at your place as fast as he could, probably drove past a few red lights but he couldn’t care less. He was more worried about you that the fine he would have to pay.

Bucky stormed past the hallway, straight to your unit and knocked on the door when he couldn’t open it. He received no response from you and his mind immediately went straight to the negative thoughts. His heart raced as he banged on the door, shouting your name several times.

He was about to break his way into your apartment when he saw the door opened slightly, your tired eyes meeting his concerned ones. He made his way into the space and immediately got the wind knocked out of him when you hurled yourself into his chest.

“Imsorryimsorryimsorry.” You kept chanting your apologies as you broke down in his embrace. You felt as if you were floating in the middle of the ocean succumbing into nothingness and he was the anchor, helping you to stay in one place. He was a mere stranger to you yet he witnessed every vulnerable side of you, if only your family could share the same level of concern as he did.

“Shh, shh. I’m here now,” he guided both of you to the couch with you still tightly in his arms, smoothing a palm on your back gently patting you. You hiccupped, eyes teary while you tried to calm yourself down. The tears however would not co-operate, it was like a broken faucet and no matter what you try it wouldn’t fix itself. “I’m really sorry for lashing out last time.”

He didn’t say anything, only wiped your tears with the sleeve of his sweater instead. Maybe it was the fatigue of crying too much or the absence of food in your body, you drifted into sleep in his arms while he hummed songs to you.

You woke up in the middle of the night when you heard the heavy breaths of the man. Half awake, you blindly reach out for your glasses on the night stand, vision clearer as you saw the door to your bedroom was wide opened. Getting on your feet, you moved towards the source of the noises carefully and realized it came from Bucky who was now thrashing on the couch in your living room.

He was groaning, clutching at his left arm painfully as if it was burned. A sheen of sweat could be seen on his forehead, strays of hair sticking onto the sides of his face. The front of his wife beater clung onto his chest soaked by perspiration. His groans soon turned into agonizing screams as he tossed and turned on your couch. You noticed webs of burn scars littering the expanse of his left shoulder to his arm and felt your heart tightened at the sight of it.

You hastily knelt in front of the couch, hand gripping on his shoulder and his face. “Bucky! Bucky!” His eyes shot open at your voice, flinching at the sight of you. Hands balled into fists in front of his chest, he was ready to take on any attack coming at his way. He visibly relaxed when he broke out of the haze, pushing his hair back with his hand with a bashful look on his face.

His muscles tensed when your hand reached out to his shoulder, but then slackened when you pulled him into a hug. His head fell onto your shoulder as you patted on his back like how he did for you just a few hours ago, ignoring the sweat gliding down his skin.

It must have been hours; the two of you sitting there in an embrace on your couch, not wanting to let each other go after what you both have been through. No one spoke a word and there was only silence in the large apartment of yours. The faint ray of sunlight peeked through the blinds, gleaming into your apartment reminding you to start the day.

He was the one who broke the hug, an awkward silence now surrounding the both of you. “Thank you … for helping me, even though I was supposed to be the one helping you,” his voice was raspy from the groans and moans. “It’s … uh nothing,” you shrugged, dragging your worn body to make some hot chocolate for him even though your body was screaming for you to lay in the bed, rotting your day away.

Your hands trembled as you passed him the mug. “Where’s yours?” Your head tilted at his question, not quite sure what he was asking about.

“Y/N, how long have you not eaten anything?” You turned your head away, not meeting his determined gaze. You wished he didn’t catch the glint of guilt in your eyes, but you knew he did.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He clenched his jaw at your statement.

“You called me, Y/N. You called me because you need help and I can’t help you if you’re not honest with me.” You gulped at his words. His eyebrows were furrowed and it triggered a fear in you; you didn’t want to disappoint him like you did to your parents.

Your lips quivered a little, eyes darting to the carpet. “I couldn’t find the energy to eat, it’s just too much work. These days it’s either eat or shower. Since I don’t have any appetite anymore, I dedicated all the energy to shower then. But I have a feeling that I might not even have the energy to drag myself to take a shower or even get up in the mornings soon. It’s just so tiring, where do people even get those energy from?”

“Well, we’ll deal with it one step at a time, okay?” Bucky tilted your chin up to make you look him in the eyes. You whispered a meek ‘ok’, suddenly tired at the lack of sleep.

He handed you the now warm hot chocolate, a stern stare on his face. “At least have some fluids in your system, please.” His gaze softened when he saw you gulping at the sight of the warm brown liquid, nose scrunched up in disgust.

He noticed your discomfort and gestured you to wait while he went to your kitchen and rummaged around the drawers only to return with a spoon.

“Baby steps, okay? Just 5 spoons of it then we’re done.” You nodded while he passed the spoon to you.

The whole morning was spent with Bucky in the living room, him giving your warm encouraging smiles whenever you managed to swallow a spoonful of the chocolate drink.

“Go get some sleep,” he gave your knee a few light taps before proceeding to pull you off the couch and guide you back to your room, then went back to the couch himself to get some shut-eye.

Sending a message to your assistant that you would have to take a few days off, you didn’t wait until you get a reply and plopped yourself on the bed, once again drifting into sleep hoping tomorrow would be better than today.

#bucky barnes #bucky fic #bucky x reader #bucky imagine #bucky fanfic

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magnusmysteries · 3 years

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Part 32: When Rituals Fail

The Magnus Archives was a horror podcast. It is now completed. Many of the show’s mysteries were never explained on the show. I intend to explain them. Spoilers for the show, but also spoilers if you wanna solve these mysteries yourself.

Elias thought that the reason the rituals failed was because the fears could never be separated. That it would be impossible to bring just one through, it had to be all. I think he was wrong, for three reasons.

First reason. Here’s a quote from Elias, where he explains why it is impossible to separate the fears “To try and create a world with only the Buried makes as much sense as trying to conceive a world with only down.”

But we have seen such a world. Quote from Entombed “This is forever deep below creation. Where the weight of existence bears down. This is The Buried, and we are alive. There isn’t even an up.”

The Buried is a world without the Hunt. The Hunt can’t reach Daisy there, because the Hunt and Buried are opposites (See Part 3). Elias uses the absence of up, as an example of an impossibility. But John says in the Buried there is no up. I think this was specifically written to clue us in to Elias being wrong.

Second reason, every time we hear of a ritual there is always a reason why they fail. The reason isn’t always obvious, but I’ll go through most of them in this post. Elias based his conclusion on the assumption that there was no reason for the Dark’s ritual to fail. He was wrong, as I’ll explain.

Every attempted ritual, except the ones involving John and Agnes, has a group of people choosing something related to the fear. (With a broad definition of choice.) If only one person does not make the choice, the ritual fails.

The Lonely. A group of people in an apartment building were all supposed to choose to be lonely (rather than move out of the nice cheap apartment). Gertrude wrote about it in a paper, the people got help, they weren’t lonely, the ritual failed.

The Slaughter. The soldiers are supposed to brutally murder each other. But the statement giver doesn’t like killing. He is not swayed by the music, he does not join in on the violence. The ritual fails.

The Hunt. Daisy speculated this failed because the Hunt doesn’t like to complete things. She was wrong. The people were supposed to join in the obsession of the hunt, to kill vampires and probably to die. But the statement giver was only pretending to be obsessed, the ritual fails.

The Corruption. This is from the episode Love Bombing. (John was wrong that the Prentiss attack was a grand ritual.) Here the choice is to love. First they take care of a sick dog. That is, they love it. Then they have to love and join the monster mass of people.

The part where they have to say they love each other, it's a test, to see if they are ready for the ritual. The protagonist did not love the other woman, and so she is told to leave. She is jeopardizing the ritual.

Note that she is not forced to leave, or killed. Had there been force or violence the ritual would have failed. That’s another rule for the rituals.

I think when she left, it was already too late and the ritual failed. Or maybe it failed when it got blown up. Probably by Gertrude.

I think nobody in the cult was working for the Corruption originally. The Corruption just found a cult that was really into love and thought "Jackpot! Send in the dog!"

The Buried. The choice here is for everyone in town to get into the pit at the same time. When the statement giver comes to town, he is told to leave. But not forced, significantly. He is jeopardizing the ritual, because he might not climb into the pit with the others.

The statement giver has a “dream” where he willingly climbs into the pit and puts his arm into the hole. Though it’s not really a dream. This is a test, and he passed. Whoever’s in charge decides to go ahead with the ritual.

This is a mistake. The statement giver does not go into the pit with the others. A woman in the pit suddenly begins to scream. Not because she is in the pit, but because she noticed the statement giver is not in the pit. She knows the ritual is about to fail and it does.

Later Gertrude shows up and dumps Jan Kilbride into the pit. She thinks she stopped the ritual, but she was too late. The ritual had already failed.

The Flesh. The choice is for everyone to throw meat into the pit. (I’m guessing they also all have to die from exhaustion and get thrown in the pit or jump in, but we don’t see that part). When Tom Haan notices Lucia Wright is present, he hands her meat. He hopes she will take it and join in, which she does. Had she not done so, the ritual would have failed. If she had left, the ritual would have failed. If Tom had killed her or forced her to join in, the ritual would have failed.

The ritual fails anyway, because Gertrude blows it up.

The Spiral. Quote from Michael “A thousand staring morsels stood, and not one of them believed themselves sane to look upon it.”

If one of the humans there had believed themselves to be sane the ritual would have failed.

Actually there was a person there who believed they were sane. More from Michael: “Michael did not go mad, though no words you could have said would have convinced him otherwise. (...) If Michael thought he had lost his mind, it was only because what he saw with crystal clarity was simply not something that could be real. But Gertrude Robinson did not waver. (...) She gave no indication that she saw anything more or less than was expected. Hers was not a mind that left room for doubt.”

Gertrude didn’t realize, but there was no need to sacrifice Michael Shelley. The ritual would have failed simply by her presence.

The Stranger. When John and the gang set up the explosives to blow up the Unknowing, Nikola does nothing to stop them. She knows they are there. She waits until they have set up the explosives before she starts the ritual.

There are no other victims there than the Magnus crew. They are the ones that are supposed to make the choice. The choice they are supposed to make is to use logic and reason during the Unknowing. Nikola has to give them a chance to win, and part of that is she lets them set up the explosives.

In the 1787 attempt at the Unknowing, the ritual is stopped by a soldier from the Slaughter. The soldier is not confused: “I was sure he was a soldier, and he was nothing but a soldier.”

In Nemesis Gertrude speculates that the Unknowing can only be stopped if the explosives are detonated from within Unknowing. Meaning, someone has to “choose” to use enough reason to set it off.

Just four victims is a small number. But I think John counts extra, since he is the Archivist and should be harder to confuse.

Maybe Elias made a deal with Nicola, told her about their plan. After all, Elias wants John to get blown up, to get the End scar.

Elias advised John not to bring Tim to the ritual. Tim seems pretty suicidal at this point, earlier he dared Elias to kill him. Elias is worried that if Tim is the one to blow up the ritual, John won’t get the End scar.

The ritual fails because Basira reasons her way out. Or maybe it fails because Breekon uses violence against Daisy, not sure.

John is at first very confused, but then he starts to see more clearly. That is because the ritual is already failing, because of Basira (or Breekon). There is no need for Tim to blow up the place and sacrifice himself.

The Eye. We don’t know much about Elias' first attempt at a ritual, but it seemed to take place in the panopticon prison, with Elias in the middle, watching the prisoners around him. The prisoners were probably supposed to make some kind of choice, and at least one of them failed to do so.

The Dark. The darkness ritual first begins to collapse at Hither Green, where it is led by Natalie.

Quote from Manuella “Natalie and the others followed, but they did not truly understand. Not truly, with their talk of peace and unity and Mr. Pitch. A friendly name, to try and hide from a concept they couldn’t grasp.”

In the episode Police Light the darkness creature inside Rayner is trying to get a new host, by entering Callum Brody. Then the police intervene and shoot Rayner, saving Brody from being possessed. But a droplet of the monster hits the police officer Altman. Altman is in the process of being possessed. Then Altman is stabbed and killed by Natalie Ennis.

There is misdirection here. We are supposed to believe that Natalie stabbed Altman because he was a cop. But actually she killed him because he was possessed. She was secretly working against the darkness cult.

Why? Gertrude must at this point have realized how a ritual will fail if one person makes the wrong choice. She must have talked with Natalie and explained to her that Mr. Pitch is a lie. That the Darkness is not about peace and unity. So because of Natalie the ritual failed.

The third reason for why Elias is wrong is the most important, and I’ll cover it in the next post.

If Elias is wrong that a ritual must draw in all the fears at once, why is it that no ritual has succeeded throughout all of history? I think there just hadn’t been that many attempts.

In Family Business Gerard says if a ritual fails, it takes centuries to build up enough power to attempt one again. Yet we hear of several ritual attempts happening very close together in time: the Lonely circa 2007, the Spiral sometime after 2007, the Buried in 2008, the Flesh in 2008, the Corruption circa 2012, the Dark in 2015, the Stranger in 2017 and the Eye in 2018. How can that be?

In the Architecture of Fear, Smirke says he wrote down several rituals. Since Smirke lived a couple of hundred years ago, it could mean most of his rituals were attempted back then, and that’s why most of them were due to be attempted again around 2007. But that gives us the same problem, just further back in time. Why was it that most of the rituals could have been attempted about the same time, back when Smirke wrote them down?

I think the reason was, most of the powers had never attempted a ritual before Smirke designed them. The Powers have no creativity (see Part 9) and could not have attempted a ritual until a person came up with one. Smirke says he is unsure if all the powers had rituals before he put pen to paper.

I think there were two rituals that Smirke designed that were attempted relatively long after his death. The Slaughter ritual probably needed a great war to succeed, and therefore did not happen until War War 2. And the Hunt ritual took over a hundred years to set up, as it included two groups of explorers from over a hundred years apart.

Three rituals predate Smirke’s creations, those of the Dark, The Vast and the Stranger.

Smirke got his ideas for rituals after hearing of the ritual of the Dark. In Heart of Darkness, Manuella implies her ritual had been planned for three hundred years, after the failure that birthed the thing inside Rayner. I think when Flamsteed drowned Reimer in The Movement of the Heavens, he stopped the first ritual of the Dark. Reimer was drowned May 2 1715. On May 3 1715 there was a Total Eclipse that could be seen in London. (That date is from real life, not mentioned on the show.) I think that’s when the first Darkness ritual was gonna happen.

The first Unknowing happened in 1787, Smirke was born in 1780. So unless he invented it as a child, it predates him.

In Big Picture Simon talks about the last ritual he attempted, in 1853. That implies he’s had at least one earlier attempt. Simon became an avatar in the 1500s, so he’d probably only had time to do two ritual attempts in total.

#the magnus archives #tma #magnuspod #elias bouchard #gertrude robinson

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punkpoemprose · 4 years

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The Love Talker- Chapter 10

Universe: Gancanagh/ Fae AU Rating: M (Finally bumping it up because this is where things start getting dub-con-esque, and includes more dark preoccupations) take care of yourself dear reader) Length: 4753

A/N: Long chapter. Heed the warnings & tags. This one gets a little more heavy handed with the suicide by sex talk, but I promise there's no graphic violence or death in this chapter. And there isn't going to be. For Anna at least. No promises Hans (you all know he’s been slated for the chopping block since the start, but it won't be graphic either, promise!). Shit is going to hit the fan in this chapter. Sorry <3

TW: dubcon (not much here, but a little more in the chapters to follow, think along the lines of sex pollen but for kissing), suicidal thoughts, self loathing, addiction

Hans had barricaded himself in the Arendelle Family House. Some in town were saying he’d gone mad with grief. No one had seen Anna in a few days, and many thought that maybe she’d gone off into the woods and wound up dead. Others thought more charitably that she’d left the man to go with her sister to the city. In either respect, no one was going near the house. There were sounds of screaming inside, the ravings of a mad man.

Folks were keeping their kids indoors. Rumor had it that someone had sent for a wagon from the asylum to come and take him away, but that had to come from the city. It would undoubtedly take a couple days, and in the meantime the town was gripped with terror. No one knew what the man might be capable of.

Kristoff grinned to himself in the shadows. He knew that he shouldn’t be taking so much pleasure in the fact that by the time a wagon from the asylum arrived, Hans would be dead. Yet, knowing this, he did take pleasure in it. He thought that even if he wasn’t the creature he’d become, he’d still enjoy the knowledge. Killing a killer wasn’t really making a right of a wrong, but it was keeping Hans from murdering more women.

Most importantly it was keeping Anna safe.

He lit his pipe and leaned against a tree in the wooded shadows behind the house. The smoke swirled around him as he puffed on it, sweet on his tongue and in the air. It was a comfort and ritual that calmed his nerves.

He wasn’t nervous about-facing Hans of course as there was nothing that he could do to him that Kristoff couldn’t stop. The perks of having someone addicted was that they couldn’t strike against you, or while they could try, it wouldn’t really do them any good, halting just before landing a punch, falling over themselves making an attempt at what old magic wouldn’t allow them. He was safe from Hans, but still nervous, mostly about traipsing through Anna’s home.

After a short time he extinguished the pipe and shoved it back into the pocket from whence he’d drawn it out. Because there really never was any real fire involved, just the illusion of it, he didn’t need to worry about burning himself. Recalling life before he’d become a monster was difficult, but he always retained the feeling that as a man, he would’ve liked the trick as much as he did now. No holes in your jacket, no need to carry matches, and no need to ever buy or grow your own tobacco. If there was a silver lining to his curse that was it.

The air around him was still. The screaming and raving had ended, but he knew that the man was skill alive. He could sense it. He’d know when he was dead. Or at least he thought he would. He was a bit worse than rusty.

It hadn’t been quiet for very long, but he’d take it as a good sign on any level. Perhaps the man had exhausted himself, or gone to the basement where his screams couldn’t be heard. Kristoff would apologize to Anna later for the fact that the man was tearing her home apart instead of his own, but he had a feeling that she wouldn’t be too upset. She wasn’t the sort of person, from what he could gather, who had much of an interest in things. However, he could tell from the grandeur of her home compared to the others in the village that she’d been raised with plenty of them.

She hadn’t even seemed too worried about her ruined dress, or what was less a dress and more a dressing gown.

The ruined gown was why he’d come to her home. He hadn’t expected for Hans to be there, he’d just come to get Anna some clothes.

She hadn’t asked. He just thought that after she’d agreed to trust him he should give her some kind of good faith gesture in appreciation. He wasn’t sure that he’d trust himself if he were her, so procuring some things to bring her some greater comfort seemed prudent. He also couldn’t deny that his interest in her, although he knew nothing could come of it, stretched to wanting to know where she’d come from before she’d made the mistake of stumbling across him in the wood.

He walked through the back door, not particularly caring if he ran into the mad man or not.

It had been a long time since he’d been in a home other than the cabin he kept, but when the back door opened up into the kitchen, he knew to keep walking into the space. Past the stove and pantry was a dining area with finely carved chairs and a table longer than he thought Anna might ever need herself. He let his hand rest upon the top of one, trying to imagine her sitting in it, carefree, eating her dinner in quiet solitude. Maybe, he imagined, she played host to others at times. She seemed the generous sort.

Adjoined to the dining room, through an entry way painted white with rosemaling that felt familiar to him, was a common area and no sign of Hans. He found instead, through the doorway of that room, an open front hall with a staircase leading up to where he assumed her bedroom would be.

He didn’t pass the mad man in the upstairs hall where he found bedrooms and a study, all with the doors open. There were broken bits of furniture here and there, papers strewn about and clothes and other personal effects intermingled. He wasn’t sure of what was Annas and what belonged to the rest of her family, but when he saw a hairbrush, he picked it up and stuffed it into the satchel he’d brought with him. He smiled to himself thinking about Anna’s messy braids and the mussed waves they’d revealed.

He’d like to brush them out for her. He could imagine her back resting against his chest lightly as he brushed and fussed with her hair, wrapping it around his fingers, humming a tune in her ear. He liked to work with his hands, something he thought may be a leftover from his life before, and to replait her hair seemed a simple task. It was an impossible dream, too much contact, just one slip would damn them both, and yet he thought of it fondly.

In another life, perhaps.

He walked from room to room, without any sign of the man he’d cursed. He didn’t know what to make of it. Everyone he’d heard talking had said that he was there. He’d heard him screaming and crashing just shortly before entering.

Perhaps, he thought, he was in a room he hadn’t found yet. Maybe he’d gone to the basement or entered a room after he’d left it. It didn’t really matter. He couldn’t hurt him.

When he passed by one of the bedrooms, he stopped. It was Anna’s room. He wasn’t sure why he was certain of this, but he was.

It was the biggest mess of all. It had thoroughly tossed, and there were clothes and bits of this and that scattered about the floor. A mirror had been smashed, and Kristoff did his best to shove the bits of glass into a small pile with his foot on the wooden floor as he walked through the space. There was a rosemalled armoire with its doors wide open where the mirror glass was concentrated. There was a frame within still hanging on to a few pieces of jagged glass. He saw himself in the fragments, frowning. He hadn’t looked at himself in anything but water in many years, and he found himself unchanged as he’d ever been. He wasn’t wearing his jacket. That and a bit of mussing to his hair was all that differentiated him from any other day. He combed his fingers through his hair and hoped that Anna wouldn’t be too upset about what had happened to her mirror. It looked as though it might have been an heirloom.

A few items of clothing were still within the cabinet, and while it felt odd to snoop through her things, he searched for anything that seemed sufficiently warm for the cool autumn weather in the area of the mountains she currently resided in. He wouldn’t make her stay inside alone. That would be torture for Anna, that much he could tell simply from the spirit she had about her. She hadn’t been built to be cooped up, she was animated and adventurous and full of life, so he chose clothes he thought might be warm enough for her to walk about in.

He knew extremely little about women’s clothing, more proof that he was terrible at being a gancanagh. The last time he’d… partaken… fashions had been different. He tried not to think about it too terribly much as he lifted up some garments from the floor. Still in the armoire there was a heavy cotton skirt, and one sprawled nearby on the floor that seemed less full, but that was made of wool. He crammed them into the bag and added a few blouses. He thought maybe she’d laugh at the assortment he brought to her, as he imagined that none of the items matched.

He found that the drawers beneath the main portion of the cabinet, had been mostly untouched and upon the revelation that they contained underthings, he flushed and nevertheless added them to the bag with the rest.

He took a look around the room and imagined what Anna had been like there. A writing desk had been razed, ink wells broken, and papers strewn about, but he found a book covered in dried ink and opened it to find the mess contained to the cover and a bit to the page edges. Written in neat hand upon the pages were dates and short entries of daily events. He wanted to read it but thought better of it and tucked it into the bag. She deserved her privacy, and he supposed she’d like to have the book with her if she’d spent so much time writing in it.

Her supplies for writing were destroyed, littering the floor around him. He thought maybe he’d find some way to procure more for her, but shook his head at the thought. She’d return soon enough and perhaps it would be better for her to not chronicle her time with him. Better that she think of it like a and dream after she returned.

Surveying the room again and finding nothing that he thought she’d require, and nothing that jumped out to him as particularly important, he lingered a short while longer and exited. There was no evidence that Hans had returned to the upper floor. Kristoff heard nothing, saw no change in the ruined environment, and could not imagine where the man might have gone. Perhaps, he thought, he’d already expired without his notice. He’d never intentionally done something like this before, so he wasn’t exactly certain about how long someone could last away from the gancanagh that touched them. He wasn’t certain about much of his own nature, and it was no accident on his part.

He’d never wanted to be gancanagh.

He huffed and strapped the satchel closed, deciding it best to at least locate a body if there was one to be found. Maybe, he thought, his sense of life and death in those afflicted by his curse wasn’t as acute as he’d always believed. If there was a body, he’d tip off someone in the village to take care of it.

Another of the “benefits” of being a gancanagh was that so long as no one knew his name, so long that they weren’t prepared for him, they couldn’t do anything to hurt him. Another was that he was quite persuasive, so it would be no trouble to talk someone into investigating the home. Perhaps, he thought, he might even be able to plant the evidence of his plan to kill Anna to ensure that when she returned to the village, she’d have little to explain. He didn’t want her to have to worry about such things.

He didn’t want her to have to worry about anything for as long as she lived.

Which is why she needs to get away from me as quickly as possible.

Quickly walking through each room he found no trace of the man, and after delving through the downstairs rooms and basement, he found no evidence that Hans was still in the building, dead or alive.

He thought, walking through the detritus that had once been Anna’s life, that he should have just told the man to walk off a cliff or something, take care of business and save himself the annoyance of needing to locate him. But no, he’d seen the names in the book Anna brought him, the women who he’d killed for money. He needed him to suffer for that.

He imagined there were many that would hold the same opinion of him.

He sometimes, in his darkest moments, thought that maybe he should hold himself to the same standard.

He could still remember the way they looked, all the women he’d spent time with before. He hadn’t been the one to ensnare any of them, but it hadn’t meant that what he’d done to them was right. He’d been young, so new to a life that he now couldn’t imagine ever being without, and he’d spent time with his own kind. The trolls had warned him against it, but it had seemed logical, surrounding himself with the only others who could teach him about what he was.

They’d ensnared so many women. And he’d thought it was necessary because he was told that it was. He’d not known about what happened to them at first.

They, the other gancanagh, would bring them out of bars, out of towns, and he’d been foolish about the consequences. He thought they’d come for a night of debauchery in the forest, maybe to stay a week or two, but always to return to their homes after. To be charmed and kissed and then to return to less doting husbands with an excuse and nothing more.

“Their youth feeds us, keeps us well,” they’d said, “they like the interruption, to have someone’s interest, you can give them your affection and they’ll take it insatiably.”

He’d never been with women before, and he never truly was with them either. He’d touch them and hold them and kiss them because they begged for it, and they’d dance so lithely around. It was only much later that he saw what became of the addicted mortals they left behind.

Half mad women burning down their homes while still inside, waifish shapes wandering the woods, empty eyes and gaunt cheeks, so addicted to their “merry band” that they cared neither for food nor water, only for the touch of the fae that addicted them.

He hadn’t addicted them, but he fed into the addiction. He hadn’t known that they weren’t in their right minds, that they couldn’t say no, but he should have. He’d kissed them and danced and had seen right past the spell they were under because he didn’t want to see it. Then when he did see it, he thought he could help. He raged when the others took women when he didn’t himself. He would find the women they left in the woods, try to satiate them while they dwindled away, but he could only prolong the inevitable for so long. They all died eventually, whether from madness or malnourishment or from their bodies giving out from the magic surging and waning in their veins.

He’d left the other gancanagh after a time, unable to stop them, but still human enough to know that he didn’t want to do what they did. He saw so much gancanagh in Hans. He’d taken women and used them up, leaving bodies in his wake. That he could use his curse to return the favor was the best use of it he’d found in a long time.

Finding the man gone, Kristoff did his best to shake off his thoughts. He needed to collect himself because he needed to know where Hans had gone and whether it was safe for Anna to return.

He did his best to pick up what he could on his way out and then slipped out the back door and walked through the woods until he found a path into town. He supposed it would be best to simply ask a townsperson whether or not they’d seen Hans of late, as he’d be happy enough to learn that the man had died in the streets, or had been taken away, or was, at least locked back in his own home.

He needed to know if it was safe for Anna to return.

She needed to go home, because while she wasn’t safe with Hans, she wasn’t safe with him either. Every moment he was with Anna, every moment he wanted to reach out and touch her, reach out and give her the sort of gentle intimacy he saw she craved. It was the sort of affection he’d love to give her if he was anything but what he was because as it stood he knew that he would be the death of her. He couldn’t justify killing her would-be-killer if he turned around and addicted her.

He walked into town as confidently as he could, holding his head high, and generally exuding as much of the attractive air his being would allow. When he chanced upon a young lady, a bit older than Anna, and yet still a maid, she was instantly enraptured. That he felt no need or interest in reaching out to touch her was unsurprising. He’d never had much trouble in fighting his nature before Anna, and now when the only woman he wanted was her, the young lady was no temptation. Still though, the charm was easy enough to turn on despite his general disinterest in her, and people in general.

“Hello Miss! Might I inquire as to where I might find a man by the name of Hans?”

***

The water was cold, and she shivered as she submerged herself in it. What she wouldn’t do for a tub and some warm water, and yet, she was simply happy to wash away some of the dirt and grime from her skin. She supposed that it was a good idea to do so given the time she’d spent in the woods, and with Kristoff off for the day, a dip into the river hadn’t seemed like the worst idea she’d ever had.

Sven was ashore with her clothes and a blanket. The creature brought her infinite comfort despite the fact that she hadn’t wandered far from the cabin. At least she had the comfort of not being lost, and as far as she could tell, she might still be on the land that she presumed to be protected by her gancanagh.

She flushed at the thought and not from the cold. To call him her gancanagh as if anyone could have a gancanagh as their own. It was a foolish thought, she was much more his than he was hers, though she did like the idea of it in either respect. It was proof that she might be going a bit mad.

Damn yourself Anna.

She splashed cold water on her face and gasped. There was time before winter was to arrive, but she may as well be bathing in ice. She leaned back best she could into the water, soaking her hair and running her fingers through it in an attempt to at least knock away most of the dust and dirt.

She recalled the look in his eye when he’d asked her to trust him the night before, the way they’d been so dark and intently focused on her own. She let her fingers slip to her wrist, where he’d first touched her through the fabric of her shirt cuff. The skin there felt hot as she focused on it, despite the chill of the water. She’d almost shown him then and there how prepared she was to trust him, how willing she was to curl her fingers forward and touch him.

How willing she was to addict herself to him.

Asking him to touch her had been unwise enough.

She was a damn fool. She always had been.

As a child she’d believed in fairy tales, and as she’d aged she’d never let herself grow out of it. That was why she’d accepted Hans’s proposal so easily, because she’d longed for a happily ever after so strongly, she’d been unable to see through the façade it had all been. And now, so acutely aware of the danger she was in, she was still willing to believe in the ending she’d wanted since she was a child.

Of course she knew that getting herself addicted to a gancanagh could allow nothing but a swift death, but it would be one in which she’d feel good the whole time, and she thought maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

It had been years since she felt wanted, and even if it killed her, she thought that being wanted by Kristoff might be the best way she could go. Particularly because at least it would be her choice to addict herself, and it was a choice with an ending she could choose. It was a way to fade away, and she felt the tears pooling in her eyes as she had to shake herself from the thought. It wasn’t an option.

She focused herself again on washing the dirt from her skin, letting the icy water shake her from her dark fantasies. She didn’t want to die. She wouldn’t leave her sister like that, even if she’d left her almost as surely.

She pulled herself from the water when she began to lose feeling in her toes, the cool air feeling much icier than the water as she removed herself from it and moved to the place she’d left a blanket at Sven’s side.

The deer quickly moved, surprising her as it took off behind her and toward something that surprised and terrified her in equal measure.

A man with torn clothing, mud and sticks in his hair such that it was almost impossible to identify him at first.

Hans.

***

Kristoff, once again, found himself running through the woods, shouting “Kjekk!” at the top of his lungs. He wouldn’t endanger her by calling her true name, even if he was still on the safety of his protected lands. She’d left the cabin again, and while it was in her rights to do so, he was terrified to see her gone. He’d sent himself to the building as soon as the young woman in town had told him that Hans had set off into the woods like a mad beast over an hour before.

Kristoff hadn’t thought that he’d been in her home nearly as long as he had, but he’d evidently entered the back of the house not long after Hans had left through the front. He’d hoped, upon realizing that the man had entered the wood, that he’d gone anywhere but towards the mountains where Anna resided, but he had no faith in his luck. He knew that the most desperate of the addicted were sometimes able to feel their way to the home of the gancanagh that addicted them if they didn’t travel far enough away, but he hadn’t even thought it was a possibility with Hans.

“Kjekk!” he screamed, running through the wood, only to hear a shriek coming from the direction of the river, causing his heart, or what was left of it, to race.

He sprinted in the direction of her voice, hearing with it the sound of laughter that was anything but sane.

He’d done it. He’d managed to undo everything he was hoping to accomplish by taking her to his home and addicting Hans.

He’d found her, and there was nothing he could do about it.

***

Anna watched in terror as Sven ran straight for the madman who she’d once imagined herself marrying. The beast ducked his head down, charging him with his antlers, clearly ready to gore the man to defend Anna.

She screamed out, terrified for everyone involved, herself included. She knew Hans probably deserved to be killed as violently as he’d lived, but in the moment she wanted anything but for Sven to do it. The beast was kind and gentle and deserved better than to have to attack to defend her. She didn’t want anyone to have to defend her. She wanted to go back in time and refuse Hans and to run off to the city with her sister or join a nunnery, or to be in any situation other than the one she’d managed to get herself into.

Frozen on the spot, she stared numbly as the scene played out in front of her. She felt as if ice were flowing through her veins, and then, she warmed, hearing Kristoff’s voice from behind her.

She didn’t decide to run to him so much as she operated on instinct to do so. Being with him meant being safe, it meant that Sven might not need to kill the man that was fully trying to kill her.

His eyes went wide as he broke though the copse of small trees along the bank she was running down, and by the time she thought about what she was doing, it was too late. She threw herself, bare as she was, into him, his forearm grazing her side in the process.

He’d promised her that he wouldn’t touch her, and it was a promise he’d kept.

She’d touched him. She’d damned them both.

***

He felt it instantly. The sensation of her chill, bare skin against his. He’d barely registered the fact that she was naked as he exited the woods and took in what was going on. Sven was charging Hans, Hans had the good sense to run away, returning to the wood from whence he’d come, cursing up a storm and looking every bit like the mad man he was.

“No,” he breathed, “Anna…”

But it was too late, it was already done.

He looked down to see her eyes, her beautiful expressive blue eyes, glazing over with a vacant unknowing that he’d seen too many times before. It was the first step, the beginning, what happened before victims starved or went mad. It was the pretty stage, the bit where they went all soft and pleading and wanting.

He stumbled back, as if he could move away from her and undo what he’d done to her so simply. But there was nothing simple about what was going on, layers upon layers of curses and fae law meant that there was no easy out for either of them.

Sven, in Kristoff’s periphery, had stopped charging, and Hans had managed to take off far enough in the woods quickly enough that he was no longer their problem at the time being.

Anna clung to him, even as he tried to move away from her. She was bare and shaking and holding him around the chest.

She’d been bathing in the river, he realized. None of this was her fault. She hadn’t asked for Hans to interrupt her bath, she’d taken Sven with her, followed his every instruction to not move far from the cabin, and still she’d run into trouble because of him. He should have killed Hans when he had the chance. He should have sent her home.

Her hands were wandering across his back, little icy fingers that he could feel through his shirt. They might as well be stabbing him.

He’d wanted her, but not like this.

Carefully, trying his best not to look down at her, he wrapped his arms around her in return. He knew that she needed this, needed his touch, but it made him want to vomit.

“Come on Anna,” he whispered, pleading gently, “Lets get you covered up. It’s very cold.”

She complied. She had no choice.

#the love talker #tw dark themes #kristanna #gancanagh au #fae au

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hedonisthierophant · 4 years

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Aching abyss

The doctors proclaimed that he was alive, crowed over their victory, their triumph in snatching his fragile form from the jaws of death and conspiracy. Clay wasn’t so sure that he believed them. Oh he knew intellectually that he lived. His eyes beheld what unfolded before them, he was aware of various scents perfuming the air, he heard the constant drone of life around him, he was able to process the flavors of his food, his body was warm, his lungs filled and emptied themselves of air in a regular fashion, his bones muscles ligaments and tendons obeyed his commands, he felt sensation against his skin, and most importantly, his heart beat. This could be objectively verified, all he had to do was press a hand against it and feel its steady rhythm. Yet, despite overwhelming empirical evidence to the contrary Clay felt that he had died during the faithful procedure and what the doctors had so pridefully revived was merely an empty shell, a purposeless, empty husk of a man.

Before the operation Clayton had always looked forward to it as the door through which he would step into his new lease on life. Now he looked back on it ruefully as a pyrrhic victory. The result of a twisted covenant with some deity who was spiteful at worst and apathetic at best, they had given him a new life and in exchange taken away Clay’s sense of being alive. Yes his body was here, but was Clay here? That was a more complicated question altogether.

Clay tried first to explain his situation to his physicians, they assured him that these sorts of feelings were par for the course in transplant patients and would pass in time. Clay next set up a meeting with a therapist, discreetly and through a series of intermediaries. He didn’t have the courage to go on any websites or call any numbers for himself. Instead he delegated what he assumed was the more burdensome task to an assistant, he was certain he’d known her name at one point but since the transplant everyone who worked with him seemed to lose their individuality in a sea of faceless underlings, drones whose existence was based around snapping to his soft commands. His sleek black town car pulled up to an equally sleek glass skyscraper. The glass had been tinted green and was interspersed with frames of obsidian. He mumbled the name of his destination to a security guard in the lobby.

He was directed to the 151st floor, some hopeful, grateful voice buried in the back of his mind spoke with an abrasive cheer and reminded him that he’d never have been able to walk up 151 flights of stairs before the operation, maybe he should just to say that he had, after all he had plenty of time before his appointment. A petulant, bitter, far louder voice simpered in return that perhaps he should and his unfeeling misery and run up all 151 flights until his new heart gave out and he ended up in the ground where he belonged. The loudest most omnipresent voice spoke next, it commanded him to simply ride the elevator instead, this voice was the herald the emptiness inside him, a mouth that spoke for the vast abyss where his feelings had once been. He rode the elevator, contemplating whether this parody of life was the price for cheating death? He had been so afraid of the silence and stillness of the grave he’d never considered the idea that they could be draped over him like a burial shroud before he passed away. As he strode down the hall he was steeling himself for some unimaginable and invasive horror. The things his mother would say if she knew that he was seeing shrink. A much younger Clayton had actually mistaken the word “shrink” for a slur such was the venom with which he heard it passed his mother’s lips. He’d used it as a weapon hoping to strike back at a girlhood called him to fragile to play and had been met with laughter that was cruel and worse yet laced with pity.

He entered an upscale reception area suffused with an aura of enforced calm. Diffused light came from a few lamps that had been covered in simple cloths in addition to their shades. Some well concealed noise machine was causing an approximation of the sounds of the surf to bleed through the space, the floor was covered by an enormous, lush, pale green carpet. A portly woman with mousy hair and oversized spectacles handed him the intake forms. He stared at them, his brain lazily processing words like “health conditions, medications, prior diagnoses, history of treatment, presenting issue, drug use, alcohol use, suicide attempts and ideation,” he stared numbly at the forms wondering what the correct pattern of checkboxes was that could possibly communicate what was wrong with him. After several idle minutes the receptionist looked over “don’t worry about it dear many people find it difficult to put in writing, you just have a talk with our provider and she’ll fill one out for you afterwards, it’s no trouble at all.” His mother was laughing at him berating him for his inability to fill out a simple form, his dawdling would make this person’s job that much harder, he was already inconveniencing them and he hadn’t even met them, he was overwhelmed by the feeling that his mirror presence here was a bother.

This entire endeavor was a mistake. For once his body reacted, his pulse hammered, beads of sweat carved frosty path down his brow, he couldn’t get enough oxygen, he was dizzy, his deal with death had only bought him a minor reprieve apparently, he’d come here to discover how to feel alive again and instead he was going to die in this waiting room. Distantly, some part of him wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it. The rushing of his blood and the incessant pain in his head brought back memories of the table and what was left of his composure shattered as it was assaulted by those recollections. He heard a faint whirring, it grew louder as though some angry machine were approaching him. His beleaguered mind wandered if perhaps the Grim Reaper rode a scooter? A powerful voice broke through the chaos within him. He was commanded to raise his head, instinctively he did so.

A woman sat in front of him he thought but he couldn’t be sure, his vision swam, threatening to blur into unconsciousness. “Mr. Beresford?” Hearing his father’s name brought a fresh wave of turmoil it felt as though his throat completely closed, in a few moments it was possible that he might be face to face with his father and bare the full brunt of his ridicule for this display of frailty, for the disappointment he caused his father, for the failure of a son that he was. “Clayton?...Clay?” Someone was calling him, it’d be rude not to respond, he couldn’t be rude he would be punished. Reflexively he fought to bring the image before him into focus. He failed, but he was able to force us stammered “Yes?” past his tremulous lips. His effort was immediately rewarded, “Clay I’m Dr Mensah. If you would like I can lead you in a breathing exercise that may provide you with some relief. Would you like me to do that? If not I would like you to know that panic attacks pass and I will stay here with you until this one does.” Her voice was infused with an iron certainty. Clay gave her a weak nod of his head that was almost perceptible amidst his twitching and hyperventilation. She spoke in a calm voice , “I would like you to inhale whilst I count to four, then hold your breath whilst I count to four again then I would like you to exhale whilst I count to four, and hold your breath a second time whilst I count to four final time. We will repeat the process if necessary. She began to count in a determined rhythm. One… Two… Three… Four. As though he was experiencing this from far-flung distant place he was aware of the ritualized pace of his lungs filling, waiting and then emptying. The chaos that gripped him receded ever so slightly. They completed the exercise twice more.

Clay was finally able to open his eyes and properly take in his rescuer. But he had some difficulty parsing the vision that greeted him. Her voice filled his ears again almost hypnotic in its steadiness and placidity. “I imagine that was quite a difficult experience. Would you like to talk about what you are feeling or would you prefer to rest? Perhaps some water? Clay nodded mutely. She turned away from him and the whirring returned, she made her way over to a low table he had noticed before that had the trappings of a miniaturized café. She retrieved a recycled paper cup from a pile and extracted a glistening portion of water from an expensive looking machine. She crossed the space between them accompanied only by the sound of whirring. She offered the cup to Clay. He reached out and nearly splattered it over the both of them. His hands and started to shake just as he may contact with the edge of the cup. He was already prepared with a thousand apologies ready on his tongue, already hearing a lecture from his mother about making a full of himself. But the woman’s grip was steely and sure. The cup hardly moved despite Clay’s embarrassing flailing. Her expression remained unchanged “may I assist you?” Clay’s face was burning with shame that all he could do was nod unwilling to risk another bout of tremors. With one hand she brought the cup to his lips and placed the other at the back of his neck as a sort of support as she tipped the cup up and he drank in the cool liquid. Clay should’ve been humiliated, should’ve been outraged should’ve been indignant. Yes he given his permission but how dare this woman presume to help him in this way as though he were an invalid or worse yet, a child. He was about to make her regret her trespass with some scathing remark but he was consumed by the thought that this woman was the first person to touch him in months since his mother died. He looked down at her and realized for the first time that the source of the whirring had been the wheelchair that she was occupying. “Would you like to accompany me to my office?” All Clay could do was nod, he rose, his limbs being more cooperative than he anticipated. The sound of Clay’s shoes against the carpet was all but inaudible so close to the whir.

He followed Dr. Mensah into a lushly appointed space. Gently lit by fairy lights with a single enormous couch arrayed against one back wall. Round the space there were several chairs pointed in the general direction of the couch. The wall was painted a pale green broken up by paintings of forests, mountains, and oceans.” Please sit wherever you’d like, or stand if you prefer. Make yourself comfortable.” Clay obediently perched on the edge of the couch fighting the natural instinct let himself sink into it his mother had disapproved horribly of anything that ruined his posture. The woman parks her wheelchair directly across from the couch, and waits. They sit in silence for about a moment before Clay blurts out the first thing on his mind. “I don’t like doctors.” “Perhaps it would be better for you to think of me simply as Beatrice then?” Again the only tool in his repertoire was to nod . “I would like you to tell me about what brings you in today if you feel so inclined, I got a glimpse of the distress you experience but I’d like more information so that I may place it within the proper context.” Years of being and vandalized and thought of week have left Clay with a bit of a sore spot around being anything less than perfect in the view of other people. He makes an effort to straighten his back even further and speaks in the distant tone his mother had employed when dismissing other people’s preposterous ideas as she so often did. “Distress? You must be mistaken ma’am. I’m fine.” He stares at her impassive face. The woman before him is perched in what Clayton assumes is an extremely high-end model of wheelchair looking for all the world as if she were in a throne and questioning an errant peasant. Her body framed by black leather and paint of the same color. Her right leg sits crossed over her left, giving Clay the impression that he is but a subject addressing a monarch, he hasn’t felt that way since his mother died. She is dressed for all the world as though she is one of the many high-stakes powerbrokers that have surrounded Clay’s entire life. Cream colored pants and a cream-colored blazer adorn her form, Clay’s first impression of her would have been that she was distant and inaccessible, unconcerned with those beneath her but this train of thought was derailed by the decidedly more human touches that graced her ensemble. Bangles that would’ve been out of place in Wall Street office, a tribal necklace, nails done to perfection but not merely buffed and coated in clear polish as was the habit of ladies on Wall Street face painted with only the lightest coding of makeup, a subtle red to her lips and black around her eyes.. Her nails glimmered a soft lavender color and several rings adorned her fingers. Her hair was in locks and gathered into a regal looking knot atop her head, secured by a lavender colored cloth. As they stared at each other Clay felt that he was being examined by some class of being several orders of magnitude beyond his comprehension. Finally she spoke, her voice bathed in a quiet authority, “people who are fine do not often experience panic attacks in our waiting room, Clay.” With that simple sentence it’s as though she’s drained all of Clay’s reserves of hostility. She continues, “I would imagine that this was the first time you’ve experienced something like that, perhaps your standard experience is more that of numbness?”

The floodgates open and Clay imparts to her all the apathy that has infused his existence since it was restarted that day on the table. She listens as he describes feeling like a windup doll merely going through a set of preprogrammed motions, acting alive but not feeling it. He describes the profound disconnect between himself and his emotions. The well of nothingness that has consumed him. She listens without interruption and when Clay can no longer think of anything to say they are enshrouded in silence. Clay can’t bear silence, it was quiet times like this that he hated the most before the transplant. When there were no distractions around and he could hear his own heartbeat. He’d made a macabre game of counting the beats wondering how many he had left before he hit zero. The average person’s heart beat 3,195,648,000 during their lifetime Clay had been obsessed with cardiology as a child after learning about the ticking time bomb inside his chest. He been able to recite all sorts of minutia related to the organ and its functioning, of course a particular attention was paid to transplants and the various gruesome fates that could await poor souls who had no choice but to undergo them or worse yet be denied the opportunity to do even that. Clay had always known with certainty of the doomed that he would experience but the smallest fraction of that instead. People were supposed to live to around 80 and yet it was a miracle that he made it to 22.

Clay imparts all this to Beatrice in the same unfeeling monotone because the crushing silence summons the screaming voice of his mother commanding him to take control of the situation, do something say something, be the performer that she had raised and not the useless lout. It is with a serene tone that Beatrice tells him that all his feelings are be expected from someone who’d been living on borrowed time, with one parent absent in the other abusive, suffered a near-death experience brought on by betrayal, followed by the trauma of a string of losses. Her words were cloaked in validation and understanding, enshrouded in a sincere seeming empathy. Hearing her speak made Clay want to cry but he knew he would be unable to. The session lit a tiny spark of feeling within him for the first time since his rebirth. Clay instantly became an addict, he booked a session next week and mustering what dignity he could left the office bed goodbye to the receptionist and descended back to the mass of scurrying mortals living their lives far below the glittering towers that had made up Clay’s. His town car was waiting at the entrance to the building, piloted to perfection by Mercy. Mercy was his chauffeur, assistant, bodyguard, confidant, and the closest thing he had left to a friend. She wore a simple black chauffeur’s uniform and, her face bare of any makeup, red hair concealed. Since his death he found it hard to trust people, to let them near him either emotionally or physically. Mercy had impeccable references, a degree in management from Harvard. She was proficient in three forms of martial arts and possessed a frightening level of accuracy when wielding firearms. She was the only one allowed anywhere near Clayton, any requests from his father’s company all were filtered through her, she ran his calendar, made all the arrangements for every facet of his day, and so shepherded him through his life. These two women were the light houses in Clayton’s so-called life. Mercy roused him each day, presented him with decisions that needed to be made, drove him aimlessly through the city, provided his meals, kept up with his medication, she was an almost invisible, almost silent, benevolent guardian. Beatrice in their weekly sessions helped Clayton begin to assess the level of damage that had been done to him long before you died. She helped to foster that flicker of life within him. Until he confronted her with a dilemma that he was certain would cause her to leave him.

Clayton tried his best to bask in the pleasures of life, to rekindle the flame of actually living life. The finest food tasted like bitter ash, and had to be forced down his throat. He walked the galleries and viewed great works of art, pieces that had once stirred his soul. Before he died he could’ve stared at those paintings for hours and been absolutely captivated, now they did no more for him than a child’s fumbling scribble. He visited the Opera and bought expensive equipment with which to listen to his favorite music, everything sounded as though he were hearing it from underwater, dull, distant, and boring. Films that he loved as a child played before him on the vast expanse of his home theater screen, he couldn’t bring himself to connect with a single scene, to feel anything whatsoever. This is where Clayton ran into trouble, he was forbidden from doing anything strenuous, for anyone else that might be fine. However, when you lived in the condition that Clay did nearly any activity that could bring the faintest spark of enjoyment was considered strenuous. No more gentle laps in the pool, no more mild jogs in the park, no more calm morning workouts, anything like skiing or basketball was completely out of the question. So yes, Clayton lived but he wasn’t alive. He took his questions to the Internet he figured what he needed was some shot of dopamine or else a blast of adrenaline but every activity suggested by the thrill junkies in their wild and free death-defying corners of cyberspace was well beyond Clay’s current ability. He was not permitted to travel by plane as the elevation might put stress on his heart, so visions of some faraway location where he could simply bask in the beauty of nature or a new culture would have to remain so. What drove at Clay the deepest however was the physical manifestation of his loneliness, there were days when his limbs failed him and Mercy efficiently helped him dress, her steady hands doing work that his had been ,capable of since he was a mere child. Fastening buttons here, tying laces there. The experience would leave him burning with shame every time despite the fact that he had no pretenses at an invalid such as himself ever being afforded much modesty, let alone dignity. Worse than the shame though was the ache that burrowed deep within him, the lightest touch of her fingers against his flesh soothed the hollow throb within him reducing all-consuming agony to the slightest aching twinge for an exquisite instant. Vicious vultures circled constantly in his mind filling his thoughts with wicked whispers imparting upon him the knowledge that he may as well already be dead, that this wasn’t a life worth living. He laid all of these burdens at Beatrice’s feet, she sent him to a psychiatrist who prescribed first this antidepressant, and then that, the happy pills gave him energy, but no purpose or drive, he was merely a remote control toy whose batteries had been supercharged. He no longer slept until two in the afternoon and the vultures screeching had been reduced to near silence but the absence of that cacophony and the less time he spent in blissful unconsciousness, unburdened by his reality for precious hours he wished he could stretch into eternity, the more he was enveloped in emptiness. When you were always drowning in pain its briefest absence induced an incredible sense of euphoria, there was no pleasurable feeling but the sheer existence of even a single iota of life, of a moment free of agony became a dangerously addictive high, the sort of sheer bliss that all hedonists would trade their souls for. Clay’s realization came through his dreams. The nocturnal adventures that his subconscious conjured for him were often replete with reminders of his suffering. His father’s abuse and death, his mother’s disappointment, Sam’s betrayal and Jack’s complicity, his mother’s death. It was as though his psyche was daring him to find even the single weakest reason to go on, as though some demon, livid that it had been cheated when he escaped death, embarked on a quest to torture Clay night after night, to remind him of all his pain and loss until he saw the price he paid for the cursed gift that was his second chance and chose to reject it, this malignant creature would use his own mind to rake him over the coals, to turn his only sanctuary into a place of torment until he gave in and died, probably by his own hand, then the demon would be satisfied and absconded with his prize back to hell, satisfied in having righted this imbalance of the cosmic scales that had allowed Clay, however transiently to escape his fate.

Having survived the table and experiencing the visions or astral projection or whatever type of hallucination he had during the process had left Clay with at least some ability to command his mind to come to his aid. Like a mantra he hurt himself repeat over and over, “show me something nice, make me feel alive.” Once, twice, thrice, upon the fourth repetition there was a change. It was early morning and the once brilliant light of dawn that would’ve drawn a smile from Clay no matter what his mood had saturated every inch of his apartment. Clay was lounging in his favorite chair, luxuriating in the feel of the plush cushions conforming to his body, Mercy stood over him gently carting her fingers through his hair draining his worries away and causing the slightest flicker to spark in the candle that had come to represent Clay’s joie de vivre…for the first time since his death he awoke hard.

Clay was groggy at first and then conscious of the delicious friction of his cock rubbing against his underwear, the ghosts of dream-Mercy’s hands still gliding over his scalp. He reached down to cup himself astounded at the arousal he felt, it had been so long, since the morning before his death that his body had given him even a phantom help that he might be able to indulge one of his most base urges. He’d miserably resigned himself to subsisting on half memories of his last morning with Sam before he discovered her betrayal, the colors bled from those images and he hated himself. Distantly he wondered if he’d given himself the opportunity to seek other inspiration some thought not tainted with her memory to make him hard if it would’ve worked, but his body was so thoroughly uninterested in the possibility of ever feeling pleasure again right up until this morning. A happy sigh escaped his lips as he teased himself through the fabric of his silk pajama bottoms. In his nascent pleasure his eyes open sleepily and he realized that Mercy was due to enter his room in a matter of minutes to wake him and begin their daily routine. His arm darted out with the speed and urgency he had not felt since that day and he fired off a terse message to her informing her that he intended to sleep in for at least another half an hour. Predictably, Mercy responded with a simple affirmative nearly the instant after his finger pressed the send key.

Without her Clay was free to bask in the return of at least a fragment of what it felt like to be human. Sure, it was the most primitive and unworthy fragment but it was something. He slid his clothes off with trembling h hands gasping at the feel of smooth fabric rubbing over the most sensitive parts of his body. He shivered and his nipples became rock hard as he was exposed to the chill air. The illicitness of the situation alone was enough to have him leaking, he brought a shaking index finger to slit and sent it on a slow journey back to his mouth. The taste of himself sent a spasm of shocked pleasure through his whole body. He had worried somewhere distant in the far dark reaches of his mind that he forgotten this. But resonance of recollections guided his movements and he moaned in quiet pleasure as his hands trailed up and down his body causing every hair to stand on end. He circled the shaft with his right hand and gave it the gentlest squeeze, a spurt of precum issued from the head and he laughed in boyish delight, delirious in the joy of rediscovering the art of self-love. Clayton spat into his hand and returned it to his twitching cock. Under normal circumstances he’d of turned his nose up at the idea of using saliva as lubricant but desperate times called for desperate measures and he was willing to abandon some of his principles for the chance to make this feel even the slightest bit better. He tweaked one nipple and almost embarrassed himself with the keening sound that it tore from his lips, rather he would be embarrassed if enough of his mind was not submerged in an ocean of want and could muster enough conscious thought to care. He brought his hand up to the other nipple and began playing with them in unison delicious shivers and twitches racing up his spine crossing him to cross and uncrossed his legs curl and uncurl his toes throw his head back and moaned as he wallowed in wildly wanton madness, mesmerized by the long forgotten pleasure he was capable of bringing himself. For the stolen half an hour he wasn’t Clayton Beresford Jr, the poor fragile billionaire, he was Clay, a horny 22-year-old like any other across the world who had the strength to do something about it. Delirious laughter escaped his lips as he began to massage his balls rolling them between his fingers gently tugging on the sensitive skin as it sent breathy gasps and moans up his throat. His head thrashed this way and then that in response to his ministrations his body giving a rapturous response to its own performance. Some faraway part of him was aware of the sweat that was beginning to soak his skin and distantly ever so faintly as though he were listening to the memory of the shadow of an echo from deep beneath the surface of water he heard his heartbeat. Clay let out a joyous little whoop as he brought himself closer and closer to that elusive peak of pleasure that he was chasing. His body on fire from the delicious torture, screaming at him that it wanted this, no that, that if Clay failed on this quest to satisfy himself that his very form would punish his loss by severing the single gossamer thread that allowed him to remain tethered to this mortal plane. Retribution for teasing himself and failing to deliver on the ultimate few instance of pleasure that would silence all the noise in his head and the complaints of his overtaxed body would be death, brutal in its suddenness. He felt as though he was quite literally, jerking off for his life. If he didn’t ascend to the peak of ecstasy the fire would reach his heart and it would stop once and for all and there would be no one to sacrifice themselves this time for the sake of him getting his rocks off. The train of thought made him laugh deliriously, winds and moans escaped his lips as reedy, needy breaths were all his lungs were capable of producing. He felt absolutely soaked with pre-come, a glance downward confirmed that there was so much of it that it spilled over his significant shaft and coded the light dusting of pubic hair and had spread to drip off his hips on both sides. He rutted mindlessly against his own hand for a few minutes more chasing ever ascending bubbles of bliss. His jaw hung open, his hair and body covered in sweat, heat rolling off him as though he were running a fever yet still he could not reach his peak, his moans turned to sobs of anguish as he pursued a climax that was constantly just out of reach. His muscle contracted, his heart beat like a machine gun, his cock twitched and spasmed, all to no avail. No! No! No! He wanted to scream with every fiber of his being to roar out his anger and sadness at the uncaring gods who cursed him to live this way, tears streaked down his face as he felt the waves of pleasure begin to crash further and further away from him, for the storm that had gotten him this far to subside. Part of his body began to relax, this was for the best he was pushing himself too hard, this was his new normal and he was condemned to adjust to it. Was he to be denied final satisfaction even after all this momentum had been built up? He snarled in rage, no he looked down at himself and saw that his cock had turned a pained shade of purple and was gushing precum with anticipation, he was so close just a few more strokes, just a bit of a tighter grip, and he would come, come like people all over the world did every day and, he would spend a precious few seconds gliding on a cloud of euphoria. He would be alive again. Clays hips jerked and bucked wildly as, his stomach clenched and his toes curled in anticipation of Nirvana. He let out a guttural, wanton moan, half pleading with his body and have commanding it to finish this, to let his live for just a few seconds, to let him feel. Tears streamed down his face as the pleasure turned to pain and his body refused. Clayton’s desperate wail of sorrow was cut off by a sharp pain in his chest. Agony brought him back to himself and through eyes that could see all too clearly he heard an alarm shrieking on his phone and Mercy burst through the door, her fingers keying in 911 and bringing it halfway to her ear before she got a good look at her employer. The shame roasted Clay alive.

An hour later after a litany of apologies and offers to find her better employment elsewhere and incoherent sobs, he whispered a stuttered explanation of his situation to Beatrice through the phone that Mercy held to his shaking body. His salvation arrived an hour after that. Mercy opened the door to his sprawling penthouse apartment and brought him a simple black blindfold which she affixed for him with customary professionalism. Clayton’s world was reduced to sounds than, he heard the enticing click of high heels on tile as a third person entered his bedroom. “Hello Clayton, I am Madame Olivia, I am a professional intimacy expert, a sexual surrogate, I’ve been informed of your difficulties and asked by Dr. Mensah to lend my talents to provide you with some relief and sense of normalcy. The blindfold was my suggestion as I worried that seeing my face might cause you to feel a sense of shame or unworthiness.” Do I have your consent to proceed?” Clay nods, her voice rings out, gentle yet firm, “Speak when spoken to Clay.” He shudders as a breathless Yes” escapes him. I am going to start out with small but intimate touches and we shall go from there until you give me a safe word.” Clay, what shall be your safeword?” she asked in a tone that spoke in equal measures of clinical competence and indulgent care. With absolute certainty Clay spoke the word “awake.” “And what shall be your return signal if you wish to resume our activities after you’ve used your safeword?” “Starving,” he says with an unfiltered honesty that surprises him.” “Very well.” Her voice is like warm honey, enticing and comforting all at once, but she speaks no more she advances upon him.

Clay has started to drip with anticipation again as he hears the click of her heels signal her approach. Each sharp, sure step a herald of his impending salvation. He whimpers as delicate, elegant fingers encircle his own, he’s only able to stand the rush of emotion and Ron need it comes from the simple pleasure of holding her hand for a pair of minutes before tears prick his eyes and he’s reminded of how pathetic he is before he gasps out his safeword. Instantly the hand is gone from his, as if by magic. If her touch had lit him aflame, her absence had frozen him he’s only able to bear one minute of wintry isolation and a fear of never having this opportunity again before he gasps out the return signal. They spend hours like that in a tortuously slow dance of advance and retreat, her hand moves from his to his forearm to his shoulder to his neck. He can only stand a few minutes of each touch at a time but even sooner he’s calling out for her again. She gently massages his neck and he mewls with pleasure. Only stopping her because he feels as though he could come from this alone. After his retreat is canceled and she moves forward once more her enchanted, soft hands caress his hair and rub gently against his scalp. He’s floating on waves of satisfaction. Eventually her fingers brushed delicately over the blindfold and he imagines that he can feel them running ever so gently over his eyelids themselves. Over the course of another few minutes she makes her way down to his nipples and begins to work them so much more softly than he had, he cries from the pleasure. She trails her hand over his abdominal muscles rubbing gentle circles into the quivering flesh. When he thinks that she’ll at last reaches caulk she takes a detour and skips over entirely and begins rubbing gently at his feet, massaging them with oil, that warm and has him twitching and gasping from the sensation of pleasure it’s causing to run through his body. They have to take five separate breaks before she is able to complete her work with his feet. Satisfied, she runs her hands back up his body and gently encircles his drenched caulk in her hand, his fluids mixed with the oil on her hands and create a divine sliding sensation free of all but the barest trace of friction behind the blindfold his eyes rolled back in his head. It feels so different from when he had done it in that ill advised session earlier, her hand is much smaller and more delicate than his own, the feel it creates is velvety. It smelled different the first time too, his fumbling attempts had filled the room with the smell of sex, sweat, and desperation combined with the odor of sadness. Now his senses are filled with the gentle floral notes of her perfume, some spice that seems to be emanating from the oil she uses, the faintest trace of his own arousal. The sounds are different as well, before they had been wild and desperate now his soft sighs, whimpers, groans, and moans, along with murmured pleas gently collide with the otherwise quiet air around them. She fondles his balls and works his shaft, tweaking and pulling just so. They are however engaged in a delicate balancing act, her mission is to help them achieve orgasm without putting too much strain on his body. It would be easy this would be over in a matter of minutes instead of the hours it’s taken so far if he could handle even the slightest bit of rougher or more frantic treatment. But the flame of pleasure inside him needs to be gently stoked and built up over time so that it does not burn him again. Eventually her hands wander back up and down his body in soothing patterns that he is not quite aware of. She returns and applies a helping of oil here and there massaging his chest tweaking his nipples in a heavenly rhythm and allowing his cock to relax and soften again before making another attempt. The edges of anger and desperation well up inside Clay and he begs her to be just a bit rougher with him let her nails dig into his skin to get this over with so that he no longer has to be spread out and vulnerable before her so that he can get off just like any other god damn young man in the city. She gives no verbal response instead she merely places her hand against his throat and squeezes gently, the most gentle of threats. His mouth goes dry as she massages his Adam’s apple and he murmurs an apology even as he can feel himself spilling a bit of pre-come at this change in dynamic.

There’s one part of his body that she’s avoided so far the garishly ugly scar that came with his new hollow existence. Clay can even bring himself to look upon it in the mirror. Eventually she slowly let her fingers trace it and he gasps as the sensitive scar tissue reacts to attach and waves of pleasure rolled down his body. He wants to stop her he wants to beg her not to do that not to remind him what he is not here in this safe place where it’s just the two of them under Mercy’s watchful eye. In response to his mumbled protests she merely presses harder against scar rubbing soft little circles into it that have him making a high keening sound somewhere between distress and pleasure. Tears fall freely from his eyes and soak the blindfold as he shakes his head vigorously but he cannot bring himself to use the safeword. She must sense that he’s conflicted about this because she redoubles her efforts rubbing it gently and stoking the flame of pleasure that she spent hours coaxing to life and to reaching new heights safely. Clayton can feel himself dripping, that’s not new he’s been absolutely soaked and alternating between rock hard and soft but hypersensitive in this slow burn arousal he’s been feeling for what feels like an eternity now. “Let go,” she commands. Clayton can only desperately shake his head filled with the new fear that if he does come that the fire will burn him again and stop his heart and he’ll die right here right now, he doesn’t like the way he’s living but he doesn’t want to die he’s terrified suddenly petrified of what the end of this night of pleasure will mean. “You’re safe, I’ve got you,” let go she impresses upon him yet again. Clayton is openly sobbing now. He knows he could use the safeword and bring this to an end but he’s trapped between death by fire and death by ice because he knows that stopping her before she’s done will kill him just as surely as allowing her to finish. “Let go,” Her words are infused with an unshakable authority as though she’s an angel giving a pronouncement from on high. Faced with that command, Clayton begins to relax, plenty of people say they want to die during sex. If this is how his life is going to end it’s not such a bad way to spend his final few moments he thinks, wryly. She leads him right up to the edge. No longer fighting his resisting body he allows himself to get closer and closer to oblivion pre-come pouring from his cock and his entire body shuddering, loud noises of pleasure leaving his mouth, but he’s unable to take that final step, to allow himself to plummet into a free fall of pleasure, until she presses a lingering kiss to the scar adorning his chest and says “Good boy.” Clayton’s world explodes. He hadn’t ever realized what the slow journey up the hill of pleasure could feel like, always concerned with raising up the mountain. It’s as though he’s burning but not with heat, as though he swallowed liquid sunlight all his nerve endings dance in pleasure, as electricity travels up and down his spine, his muscles clench for all their worth one final time and for the moment right before release he suspended in beautiful agony before his muscles relax and a euphoric moan leaves him as his cock spurts wave after wave of cum in the air, painting his stomach, torso, lashes and brows in his own seed. Tears, sweat and cum stain him and blend together as he collapses back onto his pillow and falls asleep, a beatific smile, his first since he died, adorning his angelic face He’s finally alive again.

#clay beresford #smut #awake

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sweet-cynical-writer · 4 years

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One Last Night

Odazai Angst

WARNINGS: Depression triggers, Toxic Behaviors, Drug abuse, Alcohol abuse, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt.

FOR THOSE WITH WEAK HEARTS PLEASE DO NOT READ!

Dazai rolled on his side in bed, his hand searching for that familiar warmth of his partner. Except he felt nothing besides the empty space of cold sheets beside him when he opened his eyes. It was like a splash of ice water to his face waking him up. There must have been some sort of work emergency if Oda decided to leave like this. It made his face scrunch into anger. He blamed Mori for using his friend as an errand boy of the Port Mafia. As he wrestled his clothes on, it occurred to him there should be a note somewhere. Odasaku made sure to always leave notes to reassure Dazai he wouldn't go off on a suicide mission. The note would contain his location and any information on his enemy.

The executive began searching the room for that specific note, his mind racing at the idea Odasaku went back on his promise. He was checking the drawers, the top of every nightstand or table, somewhere that would be obvious to be found. But his heart was breaking more with each failure at finding that note from his partner. A piece of paper that kept him from doing the one thing Dazai desired so much. Odasaku was the one to keep him from leaving this world by making the promise of keeping him grounded.

"I can't find it.. I can't find it... Where.. is it.."

Dread was filling his head and it was pouring in fast. He was tearing the house apart, clothes littered the floor and papers scattered everywhere. By the time he flipped the entire house upside down practically, Dazai's brown hues became void of any emotion. There was no note.

"..He lied to me. He didn't love me after all.. hah. I'm a fucking idiot for believing he would always be here. I bet all his sweet words were to toy with me. Well fuck him. This makes it easier on me to cut it off."

Dazai went into the medicine cabinet and grabbed a bottle of acetaminophen-hydrocodone. He was humming a tune to himself as he walked to the kitchen to pour himself a full short glass of whiskey.

"I'm just a little messed up..Ooo~ I'm just a little messed up, like you~"

He sang softly as he slipped the pill into his mouth, the bitter powdery taste lingering on his tongue before swallowing it. Dazai lifted his glass as if toasting to something before drinking down a good amount.

"To the fucking Stray Dogs eh, Odasaku?"

The Port Mafia executive swallowed a good handful of pills. The alcohol only increased the mental cloudiness going on in his head. He was grinning with a dark stare that was beyond the word of insanity. As he stood from his seat he stumbled into the nearest wall giggling and he swayed side to side for a good few minutes before getting to the bedroom.

His movements were slow as he dragged his feet to the nightstand on his side of the bed. He fumbled in the drawer to pull out a gun. Dazai's smile never fell short as he checked the chamber to make sure it was loaded and the safety was off. He brought the gun to his face, giving it a tender kiss to the barrel.

"Won't you give me a clean and energetic suicide? You look so wonderfully polished.. I saved just one bullet for this occasion. I'm sure I won't miss.... If.. I point.. here."

The suidical maniac had the gun shoved into his mouth, angled upwards to shoot through his brain delivering a swift death. When he was getting ready to pull the trigger he suddenly heard ringing in his ears and the muffled sound of yelling. His vision blurry until it was slowly fixating on a familiar figure. The red hair blazing in the lighting of the bedroom and royal blue eyes glaring with concern.

"DAZAI!! YOU FUCKING SUICIDAL IDIOT WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?!"

Dazai couldn't respond, his speech had slowed down so much he forgot how to move his mouth. His lips parted only slightly and Oda leaned in to smell whiskey on his breath. He also saw that his tongue was chalky from what he could safely assume was from pills.

On instinct, Odasaku forced Dazai's mouth open and got him to induce vomiting. The bandaged bastard was letting out all the pills and alcohol he had consumed all over the floor at their feet. He was gagging then repeating the cycle until nothing more came out. His eyes glazed over and he stood there with his head hung low.

"Stupid Dazai... You promised you wouldn't do this as long as I left you a note when I leave for missions."

There was a brief pause as Dazai coughed violently and he fell forward to have Odasaku catch him in his arms.

"You.. didn't.. leave... A note... I searched...."

The red head checked his coat pocket and he sighed loudly as he held onto Dazai. The note he was supposed to leave behind had stayed in his pocket when he left. He tucked the note away and shakily brought one hand up while the other kept a tight grip on his partner.

"I'm sorry. I didn't leave the note. I ended up taking it with me. I.. I almost lost you."

Dazai chuckled weakly as he brought his arms up to hug Odasaku with what little energy he had remaining. He simply forgot to leave the note. How dramatic of him to go and attempt suicide.

"Odasaku..."

He whispered but it felt like Dazai was in his ear, making the Flawless ability user shiver with chills. Then suddenly his eyes widened. His ability giving him a glimpse of Dazai darting for the gun in his back pocket to shoot himself anyway.

Odasaku reacted fast to knock the gun out of Dazai's hand and pulled him into a tight embrace making the man groan in discomfort. Dazai choked on his laugh as he held onto his partner.

"Ah.. looks like I'm too weak to cancel out your Flawless ability... Well I tried..."

He rested his face into Odasaku's chest feeling his body shut down from exhaustion. His partner, with the same blank expression that was so unreadable to Dazai held onto him. In that moment, Odasaku just wanted to hold Dazai. To feel his slow heartbeat pang like a man who was sick of living.

"I won't make the same mistake again, Dazai."

Odasaku swallowed hard and he felt Dazai go limp against him. He picked him up and sighed softly with relief when he noticed Dazai's chest rise and fall. He gave him a soft kiss to the cheek and laid him gingerly on the bed to rest. Odasaku decided to sit beside him all night to make sure he didn't try something stupid when he came to.

"I love you, beautiful bastard."

#bungou stray dogs #osamu dazai #dazai osamu #bungou stray dogs dazai #odazai #odasaku sakunosuke #odasaku x dazai #bsd odasaku #sakunosuke oda #pure angst #zai writes

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d2kvirus · 3 years

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Dickheads of the Month: January 2021

As it seems that there are people who say or do things that are remarkably dickheaded yet somehow people try to make excuses for them or pretend it never happened, here is a collection of some of the dickheaded actions we saw in the month of January 2021 to make sure that they are never forgotten.

Once again, we knew that Donald Trump wasn’t going to take losing well, but when a legion of his most boneheaded supporters storm the Capitol demanding the election result be overturned because a certain thin-skinned orange gobshite had spent several weeks screaming about electoral fraud and, by the way, also set the date of January 6th for some major event, even Mike Pence couldn’t sanction his buffoonery any longer - especially when said buffoonery involved him saying “I love you” to people who were guilty of sedition and, by the way, murder - all of which led to him finally, finally, getting the boot from various social media platforms

...all while Lauren Boebert appeared to be trying to help out the insurrectionists by livetweeting the location of Nancy Pelosi, presumably because Boebert forgot about that Glock she claims to take to work with her every day and was looking for a convenient meat shield, which naturally has nothing to do with her tweeting the day would be like 1776 earlier that morning

...but the real victim in all of this was Melania Trump as it interrupted a photo shoot she was doing, which she somehow thought it was a good idea to mention several days later in a statement riddled with two opinions: “both sides” and “me, me, me” which shows she didn’t realise the optics of rearranging the china as Washington burned around her

...but according to Laura Kuenssberg it was merely a “scuffle” at Congress, as opposed to an organised group attempting to stage an armed insurrection against the government complete with at least one member carrying zip ties

...and finally, we had Ian Austin reminded us that he’s still alive by saying the exact same thing would have happened in the UK with Jeremy Corbyn supporters storming parliament, as if that happened in the four years Corbyn was wishing Austin would go away, then did go away, but sadly didn’t go away

Once again the Tory government think they know better than virologists, epidemiologists and pharmacists with their one-two punch of thinking they can just mix and match the various vaccines available rather than give people two doses of the same vaccine, but they further weaken any chance of vaccination succeeding by ignoring Pfizer’s recommendation the second dose be given within three weeks of the first by adopting a policy of the second dose is given three months later, and it it’s just as likely to be the less effective but cheaper Oxford vaccine they get a dose of

...swiftly followed by the BBC did their bit to encourage people to get vaccinated by reporting a story of a nurse getting a dose of Covid six weeks after her first vaccination jab not by reporting how she was three weeks overdue for the second dose (or, if you prefer, six weeks before her second one) but simply saying that people vaccinated can get Covid, which goes beyond the BBC’s sociopathic inability to criticise Tory fuckups into being downright fucking dangerous - as does their putting sentient testicle Toby Young on Newsnight to say how we’re all overreacting as it's not as bad as all that

Of all the things proven liar Boris Johnson should have said when the UK’s Covid death toll officially passed 100,000 (as opposed to unofficially, which would have been last December), “We have done our best” was not it, because if their best includes not going into lockdown in order to protect landlords, having Dominic Cummings dictate herd immunity in spite the fact that you need vaccinated people for it to work, refusing to have quarantine at airports until July, thinking it would be a bright idea to tell people it’s their patriotic duty to go to the pub, giving them £10 vouchers to go to restaurants, putting children going back to school ahead of any concerns about every single school could become a petri dish and countless other horrifically mismanaged instances, then we should be kept up at night dreading what their worst would be

The fact that Chartwells were given a contract to provide free school dinners with a budget of £30, and the supposed lunches that arrived had £5 worth of food in them which begged the obvious question where the other £25 went, is appalling - but not surprising, as the Tory government gave them the contract and, equally unsurprising, Chartwells was founded by a Tory donor, and equally unsurprising their response to their grift being exposed was to tell all the public school clients they cater to a pack of lies while hoping nobody found out about them doing so...which worked about as well as you can guess

Something possessed the EU to ramp up the row over the AstraZenica vaccine not passing the rigorous tests for over-65s by threatening to trigger Article 16 and limit the number of vaccines that Northern Ireland received, and that something was it was hopelessly misguided as it allowed the Tories to get their hapless response to the pandemic off the front pages for a few days and let the Leave headbangers say this is why we left the EU...in spite this threat would have never been in play if we were still in the EU

There is no way to make jokes about Kellyanne Conway posting what was, in effect, revenge porn photos of her 16-year old daughter, because that sentence is so far out there that it is borderline incomprehensible

In the space of less than twenty seconds proven liar Boris Johnson claimed that there was no prior warning of the new strain of Covid, he had the SAGE paper stating it was coming which was handed to him last September held up in his face, and then said the government acted accordingly. Yes, you read that right, he claimed the government acted accordingly to something they had no prior warning about, which is literally impossible, all in the space of ten seconds

In the latest hire by the BBC which is cause for both comment and concern, they announced their new chairman would be Tory donor Richard Sharp, whose credentials for the position are being Rishi Sunak’s ex-boss at Goldman Sachs, donating at least £400,000 to the Tory party, and having no background in journalism whatsoever

Smirking bully Priti Patel said that the UK should have closed its borders in March 2020 in order to prevent the spread of Covid. Presumably she forgot that she was a.) Home Secretary in Marsh 2020 so could have done that, and b.) Home Secretary when she said that the borders should have been closed as that indicates she doesn’t know what’s going on

The terrifying world which Alison Pearson lives in has now started to cross over into our reality due to her responding to one of the four people she hasn’t blocked on Twitter calling her what she is - namely a liar - by siccing the Torygraph’s lawyers on them claiming libel, doing the usual cry bully tactic of learning the person she is harassing works for GlaxoSmithKline so promptly went to their CEO demanding he be fired, and howling about the hate campaign being waged against her - while telling the person, who was saying he was thinking suicidal thoughts after the pile-on that Pearson had instigated even after he had deleted the tweet and apologised , that “You’re finished”

Someday in the future, scholars will study Ted Cruz responding to Biden rejoining the Paris Climate Agreement within hours of getting his feet under the Oval Office desk by pontificating about how terrible it is that Biden is more interested in the citizens of Paris than the jobless of Pittsburgh and wonder just how somebody who doesn't know why the Paris Climate Agreement was named the Paris Climate Agreement ever got to be a senator

...and judging by how Lauren Boebert also latched onto this brainless rhetoric, not only can it be asked how she got to be a senator when she had the opportunity to actually realise Cruz’s mistake, she also begs the question how she can be a senator after her publicly trying to use Nancy Pelosi as a meat shield during the Capitol riots

Unifying force Keir Starmer stated that Labour should be devoting their time to fighting the Tory government rather than fighting court cases, somehow forgetting that by breaking the guidelines of the EHRC report (which he pledged to follow without question months before it was published) is the reason that they’re fighting court cases, and just so happens to be the reason why people are asking how a meeting attended by Starmer, Angela Rayner, Len McCluskey and others either didn't have a single person taking notes, which is David Evans’ entire defence, or they did take notes by quite conveniently lost them

Oh boy, did Wall Street cheerleaders not take it well when r/WallStreetbets exposed to the entire world that the stock market is little more than a game people play with other people’s money - because the teams the Wall Street cheerleaders support started losing, and all it took was a few Redditors investing in Gamestop and Bed Bath & Beyond

Nice of Shaun Bailey to remind everyone that he’s a Tory by giving his suggestion for how the homeless could get on the property ladder, namely by saving a minimum of £5000

Clearly Marjorie Taylor Greene didn’t get the memo about the Streisand Effect, as the first thing she did after taking her seat in the House of Representatives was go on a mass deleting spree of Facebook posts - which only served to draw attention to her video saying that Nancy Pelosi be executed for treason, her track record of spreading conspiracy theories about the Parkland and Sandy Hook shootings, and her claims that a Jewish space laser is responsible for the 2018 California wildfires

Insufferable self-promoter Jess Phillips got her 2021 off to a good start by tweeting out that, as Britait has happened, we should shut up and accept it. To the surprise of nobody other than insufferable self-promoter Jess Phillips, this led to a lot of people saying that, no, they will not accept an advisory referendum somehow being bolted onto the Ten Commandments, especially as numerous things that were promised wouldn’t happen such as a border in the Irish Sea, leaving Erasmus, losing freedom of movement, leaving the Common Market have all happened

It is wrong to say that smirking bully Priti Patel has lost 150,000 police files. The actual figure is closer to 400,000 - which begs the obvious question as to what those files were, for example if those files also happened to fall under the same category as the ones that 55-year old ex-minister Mark Francois might want to have disappear for the sake of convenience

At last CD Projekt Red took some responsibility for Clusterpunk 2077 being such a cyberfuck...if by “taking responsibility” you mean “taking responsibility, dumping it all on the QA testers, and saying that everyone should blame them for everything” - and then with perfect comedic timing CD Projekt Red released an update for Clusterpunk 2077 that was so broken they had to release a hotfix for their broken patch

Expenses-fiddler Robert Jenrick decided that the most important thing to protect in the United Kingdom at this exact moment in time is...statues. Not key workers, not the vulnerable, not any human life at all. Statues.

So either Rafael Behr wrote a column for The Guardian where he tried to blame Jeremy Corbyn for his heart attack which saw Guardian higher-ups remove that passage from their print edition but forgot to remove it from the online version of the article, or The Guardian deliberately left the passage in the online version of the column in order to get some form of engagement from rage clicks while allowing Behr to act as if he is suffering some great injustice

Of course it wouldn’t take long for Steve Baker to try and claim some spurious victory for Britait, namely him claiming that tampon tax he spent so long fighting against being abolished is proof of the sunlit uplands of our post-EU nation...which ignores the fact that a.) It had nothing to do with the EU in the first place, and b.) The fact that Baker voted to keep it in place in a 2015 Commons vote

Employer of the year WWE went for an interesting twofer, as one minute they were proudly stating that WrestleMania would go ahead with a prospective 30,000 in attendance without any concerns for social distancing or any other Covid preventative measures, and the next telling the wrestlers on their roster that they would not be supplying them with Covid vaccines at the exact same time the NBA were floating the idea of providing vaccines for all their players

Make no mistake, the criticism that Erik Lamela, Sergio Reguilon, Giovani Lo Celso and Manuel Lanzini have received due to the four of them flouting lockdown regulations to attend a New Year’s party is justified - however, the fact that Duncan Castles tried to chase a headline by claiming that Lo Celso and Lamela had tested positive for Covid in a swiftly-deleted tweet is a new low for the noted barrel scraping rumour monger

Self-awareness sceptic Laurence Fox was entirely predictable in his response to the news that talkRADIO had been booted from Youtube for repeated violations of their ToS, specifically the part about spreading Covid misinformation, screaming the usual things about being “cancelled” - and then, within hours, responded to the BBC announcing a plan of educational programming to help during Lockdown III by saying he will be shielding his children from being “indoctrinated” by the BBC’s “left-wing bias” - which not only means he’s cancelling the BBC, but also had people remember that Billie Piper has custody of his children so it's not like he can even enforce his rules on what his children can and cannot watch

...by the way, Fox said nothing about Lord Sumption appearing on the BBC’s Question Time (the same show where failed actor on the grift Laurence Fox announced his new career as a clueless right wing irritant) where he told a woman with bowel cancer that her life wasn’t valuable, it was merely less valuable as she has less life left. Yes, that is eugenics getting free airtime on the BBC, thanks for noticing

Somehow the best choice of words the BBC could find when reporting the death of Phil Spector was “talented but flawed” as if murder is some character flaw instead of, oh I don’t know, a criminal activity?

You would have thought that Twitch would have simply retired the PogChamp emote permanently in the wake of Gootecks going all insurrectionist, but no, instead they thought of having a rotating cycle of emotes of various creators, in spite of those creators telling them this would be a bad idea - and those creators were proven right when Critical bard was inundated with racist and homophobic abuse in his chat that led him to close his social media profiles when he was selected for rotation, with Twitch doing fuck all about it

Fashion editor no matter what she claims she is Hadley Freeman had a really clever take about The Sopranos...actually, no she didn’t, she had an absurd belief that it’s the exact same show as Sex in the City but people overlook it Because Misogyny, and when she was lambasted for missing the point so badly she had noted dipshit David Baddiel rushing in to her rescue to mock those getting “triggered” by her insipid take while saying he never liked The Sopranos because, as he isn't an Italian-American mobster, the show did not speak to him - in other words, he made himself a subject of equal mockery

...but there was no sign of Baddiel when Hadley Freeman then jumped on the BidenErasedWomen bandwagon alongside the TERFs of Twitter as soon as Biden got his feet under the desk, which also happened to show hard centrist extremist Freeman say how she thought Trump did far more for women than Biden ever has, which as takes go is so bad that the best explanation is that she briefly forgot the difference between the words “for” and “to”, before she then deleted the tweet and tried to deny ever posting it with increasingly nonsensical explanations that rapidly looked uncannily like gaslighting

...although David Baddiel wasn’t quite done being a bellend, as he was soon yukking it up with professional victim Rachel Riley about his latest book which accuses the entire progressive left of antisemitism

The oppressed underclass known as Manchester United fans really showed their colours, first by responding to a loss to Sheffield United by sending racial abuse to Axel Tuanzebe and Anthony Martial on social media, and a couple of weeks later responded to a draw with Arsenal by sending racial abuse to Marcus Rashford, because apparently when your team drops points the most important thing is to look for which member of your team you can racially abuse

And finally, oh so finally, we have Donald Trump and his discovery of electoral fraud at last - electoral fraud that consisted of Donald Trump calling Georgia Secretary of State Brad Raffensperger demanding he change the result and all he needs is Raffensperger to “find” 11,780 votes while also saying that he had proof of vote-counting machines being removed early...and when told they were still in Georgia, changed his lie to say the inner workings had been removed without anyone noticing. By the way, the only reason anyone knows about this is because Raffensperger told Trump that he wouldn’t release the call to the public if Trump didn't say anything about it - so, of course, the Orange Overlord took to twitter, ran his mouth, and the Washington Post had one hell of an exclusive as a result

#dickheads of the month

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dangerous-mess · 3 years

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Loki, Come Down

Characters: Loki, Avengers (mentioned), Thor (mentioned), Tony Stark (mentioned), Chitauri (mentioned)

Contains: Mentions of a suicide attempt, mentions of self harm, mentions of the attack on New York (2012), childhood mentioned, religion and an afterlife mentioned briefly, self hatred

Word Count: 2.1K

Achilles, Achilles, Achilles come down. Won’t you get up off the roof?

After the invasion on New York city and the events that had happened in Asgard, Thor and Loki had returned to New York. Of course, once the brothers moved into the tower things were different. Everyone got along well with Thor as he was included and involved in every meal and activity hosted between missions. Loki, on the other hand, was not. He knew he wasn’t wanted as the room became quiet every time he walked in. It didn’t take a genius to know what was going on. Sure, he should have known everything he did all those years ago won’t go unforgiven overnight, but yet it was as if all of them, Thor included, held his mistakes over his head.

Being the proud god he was, he refused to let how he felt show around anyone. He kept up the same façade, not letting anyone see how he truly was feeling. He slowly spent more time in his room, mostly reading any form of literature he could get his hands on. When he and Thor had first moved into the Thor he was forced to join particular missions and tasks Thor or even other members of the team were called upon to perform, but slowly he was let go and forgotten, as why would anyone trust the deceitful god.

You crazy assed cosmonaut, remember your virtue. Redemption lies plainly in truth

The team had once again been called away on another mission, one that from what he had overheard, would last a while. Which only left him completely alone in the tower. That itself was a blessing and a curse. A blessing as he could roam and not being holed up in his room all day. But unfortunately, it also meant that Stark would most likely be watching the tower, through whatever means possible.

The weeks the Avengers were gone, Loki spent most of his time reading or walking through the halls of the tower. Although he was free to leave the tower whenever he pleased, a part of him was scared to walk through the streets as himself, afraid of how the mere folks of New York would respond to seeing him. Of course, no one knew this. He was a god, and everyone on this planet were mere mortals, he could crush them with the bottom of his boot if he so desired. Yet, after everything he had gone through, specifically everything that had occurred over the last several years, his confidence and self-esteem had slowly gone down the drain. He had begun to hate himself, if he were to be honest, hate himself more than he had prior to being cast out of Asgard. More than he had when he tried to take over New York alongside the Chitauri Army.

He truly realized now, more than he had ever noticed before, that he was a monster. He was much more than feared by the creatures that walked across Earth, he was hated by them as well. He was hated by the Avengers and he knew even his own brother hated him, even if Thor never said so. It was clear to Loki, he wasn’t a mere fool, he was a god. A god who is the master of lies, so of course he can see through the false statements his brother made. He had heard from Thor himself that humans tended to be forgiven creatures, if given time, but that was clearly a lie as well.

The self is not so weightless nor whole and unbroken. Remember the pact of our youth.

Days turned into weeks as weeks turned into months and it eventually felt as if the god himself was simply going through the motions. He began to realize he was losing weight from not eating as much, only going to get food when he was positive everyone within the tower was fast asleep. Even then only taking a bit, no longer wanting to feel as if he was an incontinence or more of a villain for wanting to eat. The time Loki had once spent reading was now spent either sleeping or standing on the balcony looking as everything else was moving, while he felt trapped.

The confidence that once could be seen on the god was gone. His hair is more of a mess, tangled and greasier than it had ever been before. He wasn’t sure when he bathed last and at this point, he had no energy to do so. Any time he attempted to shower, he ended up stripping down completely and staring at his nude self in the mirror. He stood there criticizing every little thing about himself, everything that was wrong with him. Although he was a god, Loki knew that he wasn’t immortal and if he continued down this current path he was on he was bound to kill himself. And for the first time, he wasn’t afraid to die, if anything he wanted to die. He just wanted to rid the world of the monster he was, to ease the stress he put on his brother for existing, and to make the lives of the Avengers better.

In many cultures across history, Loki knew that the act of suicide was considered an honorable act. In many religions however, it was considered a selfish act and would not secure a person’s place in the afterlife. Loki being a god, was unsure what would come of him if he went through with his plan. Would he be allowed into some afterlife or if he would just be gone forever, a corpse lying within a grave who is not welcomed anywhere. Regardless, at this moment, what would be there for him, was not a concern for him in the moment.

As he reflected on his life up to this point, his thoughts often brought him back to his childhood, before things turned sour. Back when his mother was still alive, back when he and Thor were close. Thinking back to that, brought a small sad smile to his face. He longed and missed the sibling rivalry and friendship Thor and him once had. He remembered all the times, Thor would tease him for reading, studying, and practicing magic whereas Thor led a completely different life. But at the end of the day, Thor was his brother and he always made sure to let Loki know before bed how proud of a brother he was and how one day, Loki would be a great King and leader. The smile that he had thinking about the past slowly turned into a frown as tears rolled down his cheeks.

It is empty Achilles, so end it all now. It’s a pointless resistance for you.

Originally he had planned not to write a note, but he felt that he owed his brother that much. So a few days before, Loki sat down on the balcony and using the moonlight, he wrote out a goodbye. He had only meant it to be a few short paragraphs, no more than a page at least. Though, that slowly turned into pages of grief and self-hatred. He wrote pages of apologizes and wishes to take back every mistake and foul sentence he had ever done or spoken into existence. His once neat writing became a mess as he neared the end of the note, the paper stained with his tears. Everything was becoming too real, and as much as the cocky and confident part of the god wanted to back down from this plan, he felt it was far too late. That he had to go through it, soon for that matter.

The day arrived and like every other day, Loki spent most of the day sleeping. When he woke up, he forced himself out of his bed and took a shower for the first time in a long time. He made sure to scrub all the grime and filth that he could psychically wash off himself. He took the time to wash his hair, undoing all the tangles slowly, making sure his hair was back to the way it used to be. After he felt clean enough, he stepped out and dried himself off. As he brushed his teeth, he stared at himself, one last time in the mirror. He could see his ribs poking out, and how thin all of him had become. His skin was paler than it usually was and when he turned to close the door attached to the shower, he saw many strands of his hair covering the shower.

The rest of the day after cleaning himself, was spent sitting on the balcony enjoying the sun and fresh air as he read his favorite book, one last time.

You may feel no purpose nor a point for existing. It’s all just conjecture and gloom

Loki finished the book several hours later, and night had fallen several hours prior. He had used the moonlight as a source of light to finish reading his book, as well as turning the light to his bedroom on. He walked back into his room and sat his book down on his dresser, as he pulled out an outfit. It was the same outfit he wore all that time ago, during the attack on New York. He slipped into it, fixing his hair as he wanted to look perfect. He grabbed the note he had written just nights prior and stuffed it into the pages of the book he was just reading. He grabbed the book and made his way to the bedroom door. As he went to open it, he glanced around his room, taking it all in one last time. He sighed as he opened the door and turned off the light to his room.

He made his way to the stairwell, knowing it would be less likely that he would be stopped or caught by any of the Avengers. He slowly made his way up several flights of stairs, in no rush, taking everything as he knew it would all be over soon. As he made it to the top of the building, he stopped and stared at the entrance to the roof. It was now or never, and he slowly began to have second thoughts. Was this really what he wanted? His hand was shaking as he grabbed the door handle, opening the door. He stepped onto the roof before stopping. He was frozen with fear, one of the few times he truly experienced fear.

And there may be no meaning, so find one and seize it. Do not waste your self on this roof.

Still struck with fear, Loki got his feet to move again and slowly made his way to the edge of the roof. He wrapped his arms around his favorite book, clutching it tightly to his chest. He sat down on the ledge, his feet dangling off, watching as the city was still wide awake even in the middle of the night. Multiple thoughts ran through his head, a split in what he should do. Half of his thoughts were screaming at him to jump, trying to convince him even more that he was a monster who needed to die.

Be real and just jump, you dense motherfucker

While the other half calmly whispered for him to get off the roof, to reassure him that he wasn’t a monster. That if he just went and talked to Thor and Stark as well as the rest of the Avengers maybe things could change.

Don’t listen, Achilles. You’re worth more, Achilles.

Soon enough both thoughts were overlapping and he could no longer tell right from wrong. He was becoming frustrated just wanting an answer, just wanting to know what to do. He wasn’t sure if it was out of frustration or anger but before he could stop himself, he let out a scream. He just screamed and yelled at the universe, cursing it for all the pain and sorrow it had brought upon him and his life. Tears rolled down his cheeks, as he spilt out all the emotions he had bottled up inside for so long. Soon his voice became hoarse and all that came out was whimpers as the tears just kept coming. The dam within him had broken and everything was spilling out.

Clothe yourself in beauty untold and see life as a means to a triumph.

As Loki began to calm down, he realized he didn’t want to go through with this, at least not today. He slowly turned and moved his legs back onto the rooftop, clinging on to the book even tighter than he had earlier. He made his way off the roof and snuck back to his room. He would live to see another day, maybe things would get better with time, and if not the rooftop would always be waiting for him.

How you will heal and you'll rise above. Crowned by an overture bold and beyond. Ah, it's more courageous to overcome

#marvel fanfic #marvel fanfiction #marvel avengers fanfic #marvel loki fanfic #marvel loki fanfiction #loki (marvel)#angst #fanfiction #fanfic #songfic #marvel #the avengers #the avengers post 2012 #mentions of tony stark #mentions of thor #mentions of the avengers #asgard

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degenerate-perturbation · 3 years

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Chapters: 23/36 Fandom: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening, Dragon Age II Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Female Amell/Female Surana Additional Tags: Established Relationship, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Self-Harm, Blood Magic, Prostitution, Drowning, Wilderness Survival, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better Summary: Amell and Surana are out of the Circle, and are now free to build a life together. But when the prison doors fly open, what do you have in common with the one shackled next to you, save for the chains that bound you both?

Chapter 23

Garahel had served well enough at first. He didn’t know what to make of his commander, but he followed her readily enough. He had a soldier’s mind, regimented, ready to obey. It had hardly hurt him at all when Loriel had made him forget about the massacre Anders and Justice had left behind. She had even told herself that she was doing him a favor—who would want to remember something like that?

That was one little nudge—it did no harm, just like the handful of times Loriel had borrowed Alistair’s mind did him no harm. His mind was not much like Garahel’s—flimsy like paper, not rigid like iron—but it was weak, and she had only done it twice. It did him no harm. She was sure of it.

She never did figure out whether it was her fault after all, the way Garahel started to forget, to lose track, to be otherwise inadequate. It would not have shocked her, but perhaps it was that her own demands rose so sharply, in the months after. She could not afford to tolerate any mistake. That was her policy—things in her Keep were done right the first time, or they were done by somebody else.

Garahel was better off back in the barracks, anyway. It was better for him.

And that had left Loriel needing a Seneschal.

Half a dozen men and women must have done the job incompetently until Brigit.

Brigit had arrived in the second year as a pilgrim. She had been an orphan raised within the Chantry—Loriel suspected that her mother had been a mage—and when the Blight had struck, she’d been utterly wasted in the employ of some traveling Orlesian merchant. Within months of her coming to the Vigil she had made herself indispensable, as clerk, assistant treasurer, recordkeeper, and finally—when yet another candidate proved disappointing and had to be dismissed—as Seneschal. It had been a meteoric rise, one well-deserved. She was fervent, professional, and effective, and worth a thousand Wardens. Sometimes weeks and weeks would pass in which Brigit was the only person Loriel spoke to.

Brigit still wore a Chantry amulet around her neck, and Loriel had never asked why—whether out of sentiment, or true belief. She never spoke of Andraste or the Maker, and it seemed likely that if she truly believed, it would have been impossible to conceal. Brigit believed with a fire like the sun,

The only thing Loriel did not like about Brigit was the awed and breathless way she looked at her Commander. Brigit was a faithful woman. Loriel sometimes wondered just what she put her faith in.

Loriel relied on her, depended on her, believed that anything she asked Brigit to do was good as done. But she did not trust her.

It wasn’t her fault. Loriel didn’t trust anybody. A maleficar, even a famous and beloved one, could not afford to.

tck

But after the fresh spate of assassins, she came as near to it as she ever would.

Brigit had only had the job for a few months when it happened. Loriel was still nominally carrying out most of her duties as Commander and Arlessa. She had yet to build most of the Underkeep—wasn’t even calling it that yet.

The assassin had caught her sleeping—or didn't catch her. He’d triggered one of the traps at the window as he’d come in, but somehow avoided the paralysis it was meant to bestow. It didn’t end up mattering—now Loriel was fully awake from her thin sleep. That there was a struggle at all shamed her, brief as it was. It ended with the unfortunate man smeared on the floor, splattered into the walls, sinking into the upholstery, dripping down from the ceiling. She’d panicked and reached for a messy spell. Embarrassing.

The assassin was thoroughly dead, but she could feel an enchantment lingering at the edges of her consciousness. At first she worried it was a suicide-trap and moved to counter it—after all, if she were an assassin trying to kill a mage of her caliber, a suicide-trap is how she would have done it. Sacrifice a man to let the mark think she was safe, and only then spring the real trap. But it was only the assassin’s amulet. She dug it out from the remnants of a ribcage and probed it. This was an object of power; she admired the skill of whoever had made it. No wonder he’d almost entered undetected. Whoever had sent him equipped him well—but who? Someone from Tevinter, if she had to guess, for no Circle mage could have made something like this.

While she stood in her nightgown, admiring the amulet and wishing she hadn’t killed the assassin quite so quickly, the door opened. Brigit stood there, one hand on the doorknob, the other loosely at her mouth.

Outwardly, Loriel looked at her neutrally. Inwardly she shuddered at the thought of having to find a new Seneschal. Brigit was so good at what she did, absolutely one of a kind. There would be no point in bending her mind with blood magic; her will was too strong, her mind too sharp. If she tried to bend her mind, it would break, and she would be of no more use whatsoever. She wouldn’t kill her, but to make her forget would as good as kill her. Loriel was already regretting it even as she prepared to do it.

“I...commander,” Brigit said, schooling her face. “I heard a disturbance. But I see you have it handled.”

Loriel waited a beat too long to respond. “Most likely the Crows,” she said, then cleared her throat. “In the future, you will knock.”

Brigit bowed her head. “Of course. I apologize for the intrusion.”

“Accepted. Regardless, I thank you for your concern.”

Loriel’s gaze bored into her, and she didn’t so much as flinch.

Perhaps it wasn’t obviously a blood spell that had done this. She knew spells of pure spirit that could turn a man into a walking bomb. Brigit wasn’t a mage; how would she know that it hadn’t been ordinary, Chantry-sanctioned spirit magic? Of course she couldn’t.

“You will be discreet,” Loriel said.

Brigit inclined her head once, deeply. “I saw nothing, Commander.”

...no, of course she knew. She was not stupid. She knew there was something not to see .

“Shall I have a more secure place for you to sleep made up?” said the Seneschal, surveying the remnants of the assassin as he dripped from the ceiling.

“No. I prefer this attempt on my life not to reach too many ears, and servants will gossip.”

It was a risk, of course it was. Perhaps a stupid risk. But there was no one like Brigit. She could hardly believe her luck in finding her in the first place. It would be foolish to waste her for something that may well turn out to be nothing.

And truth be told, Loriel was not all that worried about what would happen if word got out about her, though she didn’t realize it until that moment. She was not a little girl cringing before powers greater than she anymore. She was the only power that mattered here.

With a flick of her wrist the blood and viscera rotted and dried to dust, years of natural corruption compressed to moments. It was a good trick—not even blood magic. She’d learned it when she was twelve. The room was still a mess, but she didn’t much care. She didn’t intend to use it any longer.

tck

After the first incident, Loriel moved her quarters to a room of not-quite-perfect security, a high tower just barely scalable by somebody very determined. The summer was hot, and the window left open. She didn’t have to wait long. When the next assassin came, she was careful not to kill.

She peeled open the woman’s mind, but learned nothing of interest from it. She was indeed a Crow, and knew nothing of the man who had paid him to die in this fruitless attempt on the Warden-Commander’s life. She shaped the remnants of the the Crow’s mind into something bent on the murder of her master. Her body was finely honed; it could kill without thinking. She wouldn’t need her mind for that. Most likely she would fail, but Loriel didn’t need her to succeed. She only needed to send a message.

Soon after she received word from Master Ignacio himself that the Antivan Crows would no longer be taking contracts for her.

Message received.

Of course, that did not mean that there would be no more assassins—only that there would be no more Crows. Though there was reason to believe that any mark that even the Antivan Crows would not touch, other players in the game would not go after, either.

Regardless, Loriel would not be so foolish again. She slept only underground, so wreathed in enchantments that no assassin could even begin to hope to pass through. No more waking with the sun—she set a timed rune of light instead.

At first she feared she would miss it—but after some months had passed like this, she found the sun to be as unnecessary as everything else.

tck

Her work was stagnating.

Months had passed since so much as a sighting of the Architect. Years since a real conversation. Each morning, she still asked—and each time, the answer was the same. How fine, how fitting, that now of all times, did she realize that the Architect was exactly what she needed to make progress.

The Architect could control the Blight itself, without apparent effort, without apparent thought. Whatever the secret to curing the Calling, Blight-magic was part of it. Maybe the ancient creature could cure the Calling himself at will, and simply chose not to—or maybe he couldn’t, and something Loriel could do would make it possible. She had gathered everything there was to know about him, and the more information she had, the more confused she got. She just needed to talk to him—properly, not just the cryptic scraps of scrawled messages she managed to exchange with him via the Deep Roads. And now even those had dried up.

She occasionally had news of the Messenger, wandering the countryside cloaked and hooded, saving farmers from bandits and doing all manner of good deeds—or some cockney story of that nature. On one occasion, she even managed to catch up with him and requested he get a message to the Architect. But the Messenger, it turned out, was no longer taking messages—he was no longer in contact with the Architect. He was his own man now, insofar as he was a man.

Useless. She had nothing.

Except the strange black crystal delivered to her by Velanna, years ago, now.

That thing was all she had, and it drove her mad. She could make no sense of it. It had no structure that she could detect, no enchantment she could touch. It didn’t even rightly seem to be a crystal, not in any meaningful way. It was a piece of the Void itself for all she could divine of it.

Why leave this to her? Was she supposed to know what it was and what to do with it? Was it a puzzle, a challenge? A joke? A mistake?

Finally, despairing of making any progress herself, she brought it to Avernus.

It was humiliating. Infuriating. The old man was not better than her, she could not stand to believe it.

“This?” he said, peering at it hungrily. “Very well, seems simple enough. Disappointing that you could not manage it yourself, but always wise to know when to ask for help, eh?”

“Shut up,” she said impassively. She simmered, but only a little; she was too relieved to finally have help. “I suppose you will be wanting my notes?”

“Yes, yes,” said Avernus, and Loriel gave him her exhaustive and close-written account of everything that she’d used to fail to unlock the crystal’s secrets. He skimmed, and proceeded to try several things she already knew would not work.

“I’m not an idiot,” she snapped, after thirty minutes of this. “Assume I already tried everything a fool might think of.”

“Anyone can make a mistake when working alone, not only fools,” he replied flatly, without so much as looking up. “That I am diligent in my work has nothing to do with whether or not you are an idiot.”

“If you have nothing to contribute, then what was the point of my coming here?”

“Of course I do, child,” he said, snapping her notebook shut. “It is already quite clear to me just what this crystal of yours is.” But an hour later he was still muttering and rotating it before an enlarging glass. And hours later, maybe days—it was hard to tell when neither collaborator needed to sleep, eat or drink very often—the both of them surrounded by reference tomes and testing reagents, they understood, if anything, less.

“Enough,” Avernus barked finally. “We will make no further progress like this. I have the vague beginnings of ideas, but nothing further yet. I’ll keep it here and try my guesses later, and maybe then I’ll make some sense of it.”

Loriel’s head was full of cotton fuzz. She did not need to mind her mortal needs very often, but she did need to, and she was realizing she had found her limit. She couldn’t tell if she needed rest or food or water more—all she felt was deprived. Even so, at his words, she was suddenly fully alert. “Keep it here?”

“Yes, child. Rest and go home, come back in a month. Or don’t come back—the journey is long. I’ll send word when I have something.”

All tiredness fled from her. She was flint-sharp and cold as steel. “No. No, I do not think so.”

“Don’t be foolish, child,” Avernus snorted. “You wanted my help, I’m willing to grant it.”

“It was entrusted to me, and with me it will stay.”

“I need the damn thing in order to help you with it.”

What did he think he was playing at? Had he grown so bold as to steal from her? She couldn’t think of any reason he would want it—unless he meant to contact the Architect first? To conspire with him against her? Did he resent her hold over his life? “I am ordering you to give it to me.”

His eyes flashed. “Ordering me?”

“Yes. Indeed. Ordering.” She sounded manic even to herself. “As your superior officer. Not to mention the sole reason that you are still alive.”

“What you are is a stubborn child, jealous and irrational.”

Loriel had been gathering power almost without realizing it. The temperature in the room had dropped to near freezing. “Do not think,” she said softly, “that because I value your assistance in my work, that I also value your life. You are a betrayer and a murderer. There is nothing you know that I cannot find out myself, even if I had to rip it from your head myself. Do not push me.”

For a moment he hesitated. Was that fear? Or was he merely judging his chances? For a moment, Loriel thought this disagreement might really escalate to a full-blown wizard’s duel.

But it was not a long moment. Avernus scowled and bowed his head and submitted. “Very well. As you wish, Commander.”

The haze passed. She was no longer sure why she felt quite so threatened. Why feel threatened? She was in charge here. Had always been so. Foolish to doubt it. Childish. Absurd.

After that she did not hear from him for nearly a year.

tck

Returning from Soldier’s Keep, a detachment of inconveniences awaited her.

Brigit was waiting at the gates, standing pin-straight with her hands gripped tight at her front. She bowed as Loriel’s coach approached. “Commander. You have visitors.”

“Get rid of them,” Loriel said irritably. “I am not available.”

“I tried, ser,” Brigit said, distressed. “I promise I did, I’ve been holding them off for months. I didn’t expect them to come in person.”

It occurred to Loriel then that Brigit was competent enough that if it was possible to get rid of these visitors, then they would already be gone.

“And who are they?”

“Emissaries from Weisshaupt, ser. They have questions for you.”

Ah.

“Can you hold them off for another hour? At least so I can change.”

“Of course, ser. Will you—?”

“I will not require assistance.”

She changed into a less dusty uniform, washed her face, combed her hair. There wasn’t time for much else; Brigit was very good, but she wasn’t a miracle worker.

This wasn’t the first angry communication she’d received from the Anderfels, but the first who had come in person. Loriel had been batting away their letters and ignoring requests to come to Weisshaupt for years. The First Warden was not terribly happy about her predecessor’s policy of transparency for new recruits. And she was terribly curious as to how Loriel had survived slaying an Archdemon.

She just managed to seat herself at her desk when Brigit let the detachment in.

Three of them, two women and a man. The man was a dwarf, the women both human. One was certainly a mage—Loriel guessed she mostly used primal magic, and classified her as a moderate threat—but the other was an unknown quantity. She was big, that was for sure—if she got her hands around Loriel’s throat she would have to act fast. They were blue and silver still coated with the dust of travel, and they didn’t look happy.

“Wardens,” she said by way of greeting.

“Commander,” the dwarf said eventually. He introduced himself and the two women, and spent nearly a minute on pointless pleasantries before saying anything of substance.

“We came to speak of sensitive matters, Commander. Warden business.” His eyes slid to Brigit, standing off to the side in a protective stance, as though at any moment she would be called upon to defend Loriel with her body. “If you would?”

“I trust my Seneschal completely,” said Loriel. “I can’t imagine there is anything we might speak of that she shouldn’t hear.”

“Nevertheless.”

Loriel sighed. “Very well. If you would, Brigit.”

Brigit left, unable to resist glancing back as she did. Kind of her to worry—but it would be easier this way.

The dwarf—Henrick—waited for Brigit’s footsteps to fade before fixing Loriel with his bright blue gaze. Loriel smiled back politely, utterly vacant.

“The First Warden is interested in you.”

“Yes, I know. I received her letters.”

“But you did not see fit to report to Weisshaupt.”

“I did not think it was necessary.”

“Orders are not generally something left to the discretion of those who receive them.”

“As you may recall, the Grey Wardens of Ferelden were nearly destroyed during the Fifth Blight. It has not been trivial to rebuild the Order here, as the First Warden herself requested of me. Traveling to Weisshaupt would take me away from the Vigil for months.”

“We understand that. Nevertheless, the First Warden has weighed these concerns, and decided that, on balance, such a journey would be valuable.”

Yes, very valuable—very valuable for getting her out of the way and replacing her with someone more tractable. Loriel’s eyes carefully did not narrow. “Then the First Warden and I must agree to disagree. She is certainly welcome to come here, if she feels a face to face conversation with me is so important.”

“It seems that there is a great deal that you and the First Warden disagree on. Such as the importance of our carefully guarded secrets.”

This again. It had been a thorn in her side ever since it had become standard procedure at the Vigil. “If you are referring to the Ferelden Warden’s policy of transparency for new recruits,” Loriel said delicately, “then rest assured that no sensitive information has been made public. The details of the Joining remain strictly guarded. All that the public knows now is that the Joining is sometimes fatal, which any fool could have figured out on his own. In telling them up front, we build trust with those we protect. In the long run, we will be stronger for it.”

Privately Loriel thought it had been a stupid idea to make that information public. It had caused her no end of headache out of Weisshaupt, and probably made no difference to the recruiting rates. The kind of man—it was usually young men—who came to give his life to the Grey Wardens would not be deterred by knowing that the Joining could easily kill him. Every single one of them was absolutely certain that he would survive.

Anyway—she hadn’t gotten a choice. Why did anybody else deserve one?

Loriel picked up her recently-sharpened quill pen and twirled it around her finger.

“Be that as it may,” said Henrick. “You had no authority to do it.”

“I am Commander of the Grey. I rule my Wardens as I see fit.”

“To a point. Warden-Commanders have a great deal of discretion, but not this much. The First Warden has questions.”

“I’m sure she does,” Loriel said icily, dragging the sharp quill across her palm, calming herself.

“For instance—how you survived the slaying of Urthemiel. This should not be possible. There are rumors that Urthemiel is not dead—that he still lives in the Deep Roads in another form, and that you send good lives after bad on patrols to find and slay him. Have you anything to say to that?”

They mean the Architect, Loriel realized with a start, and it took effort not to laugh. “I say it is absurd, but I do not control what the First Warden spends her resources on. By all means—if she wishes to waste everyone’s time in investigating a Blight that has been over for years, she is welcome to. The patrols are purely routine. To read anything else into it is, to be frank, bizarre.”

“That is wonderful to hear,” said Henrick. “I am sure the First Warden will understand when you explain it to her yourself.”

With great effort, feeling rusty and incompetent, Loriel put on her most gracious, diplomatic tone and expression. “I am sorry if I have been curt. Please rest assured that all these concerns will be addressed. All letters will be responded to, all questions answered. Everything will be explained. I may be an unorthodox commander—but I am loyal to the Order.”

“The time is far past for letters,” Henrick interrupted. “We did not come here idly. Our orders are to bring you back to Weisshaupt to answer for all that has transpired since the Blight—by force, if necessary.”

“I see,” Loriel said eventually, her hands in her lap. She looked between the three of them, the blue-eyed dwarf with the tri-cornered beard, the ruddy Anderfels woman, her slight and silent companion. “And there is no dissuading you from this course of action, I suppose?”

Their stony glares were all the answer she needed.

She sighed. “Very well. Then I have only one thing to ask of you.” Pain bit at her palm. “Go back to Weisshaupt. Tell the First Warden that the situation here is far more dire than she believed—that it hangs by a thread—and that it would be dangerous and irresponsible to call me away now. Be persuasive—because it is true. You saw it all with your own eyes. You were very convinced. Convince the First Warden.”

The Anderfels Wardens stared blankly at her. Silence in her quarters. “Now,” Loriel said evenly, her blood pooling in her hand, “ Go away.”

The Wardens went away without another word.

Loriel slumped in her high-backed chair as the door closed behind them. She would maintain some hold on their minds for a while yet, but for now she released enough of them that they wouldn’t look strange departing her office.

Not that she had been really afraid that it wouldn’t work—but the mage might have noticed something before the spell really took hold, and then it would have been so much harder to take her mind. She doubted the three of them would walk away from the experience entirely unscathed, but this way, the damage would be limited.

When Brigit entered, Loriel had sealed her cut and composed herself.

“Is all well, Commander?” the Seneschal said. “I know how you detest interruptions to your routine.” She seemed genuinely concerned. How sweet. How stupid. “What did the Wardens want?”

“Nothing you need worry about. I have addressed their concerns adequately.”

For a beat Loriel met her eyes. Did she really not know? She had to know. Brigit was no fool. Surely she knew.

Brigit slowly nodded. “I see...and do you still want your morning tea, Commander?”

#please read my wizard lesbian fanfiction #amell #surana #dragon age

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jakattax · 4 years

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I was a lucky kid growing up, my family were largely bohemian and didn’t really pressure me at all to fall into a particular crowd or scene. For the most part I was left to decide my own hobbies and interests, which I feel as a working class northerner is an oddity. I was largely uninterested with anything considered the norm, I found the perception of normality to be terribly boring. I lived in my own mind, fuelled by my still present wild and colourful imagination, and nothing fuelled my imagination more than the idea of magic. Films like the ‘Wizard of Oz’ and ‘Excalibur’ were Bible to me, any media with witches, wizards and sorcerers utterly enamoured thing. I believe this fundamental obsession revolves around the concept of power, that these mystical men and women could achieve the impossible and bend reality by possessing a power that no hero-knight or any other could possess. The wizard or witch was a solitary creature, usually ostracised or eccentric, both qualities I possessed as a child. And so it was a common pastime for me to find the best stick that would act as my staff and to jump around the woods pretending to be Gandalf. I knew that magic could only ever exist in my own imagination and I stuck to this falsehood for many years. After a trip to the goth haven of Whitby with my grandparents, I realised that magic was very much real and was not limited to book, screen or my own closed mind. I bought a hazel wand (inscribed with ‘Blessed Be’ in futhark) from a Wicca supply shop and my first book of magic. This book of shadows was my prized object, with only the media portrayal of magic at my disposal I knew that every enchanter possessed their own book of spells, while mine wasn’t bound in human skin and written in odd runes, it was magic, real magic. Another very vivid memory was that a bought a handsome besom from the same shop, a gorgeous birch broomstick wrapped in colour silk, and so on our trip to the north York moors I placed the broom between my legs and jumped up and down over the heather. Alas I did not fly. Only in my mind.

Wicca was truly my gateway into my magical studies, even though I was very young I had absolute conviction that magic was very much real and tangible, I even recall having a particular fondness for a rain spell which seemed to work without fail. Naturally my new obsession with real magic just pushed me further from the grain of normality, thank God. Yet the older I got I started to become disenchanted. Like all teenagers I went through a period of abandoning childhood fantasies to focus on my image or popularity. Who I socialised with and how I looked over-rided any past passions. It is something I feel remarkably ashamed over, yet adolescence is a period in life in which one wears many masks for the sake of an easy time, even though I was bullied none the less for my bookish and overall weak disposition. But no-one could know I use to dress up in a pointy hat and make it rain. I killed that part of my childhood. This abandonment of magic continued until I was 16.

I was now in college and was the worst sycophant to a particular friend who I followed blindly. He was the coolest kid in college, a Casanova, I was discovering my own sexuality and realised too that I was deeply in love with him. Again I was sacrificing my core personality, but not for long. I was a theatre kid, and bloody good at it too, our first year assessment was based on the performance of a classical monologue. Know I don’t know exactly how I decided on it, or how I even knew of it, but I settled on Marlowe’s ‘Doctor Faustus’ to perform. I was a committed and serious young actor, finally in s subject that I cared for and excelled in so I conducted research into how i wanted to stage the piece. In my mind I wanted the stage littered in books and scraps of paper all bearing occult symbols, yet I didn’t know any. I didn’t want to cheapen the performance by having blank scraps of paper, they needed to be Faustus’ magical and alchemical work, so I used the library computer to find some.

And the gates opened.

Like a child again I was reading about magic, real magic again but this time I found a new mindset. In my research looking up Occult symbols to litter my set with, I came across a name, a name steeped in controversy to this day, the wickedest man in the world; Aleister Crowley. Reading up on Crowley and MacGregor Mathers brought me to a new and dangerous form of magic, the magic of the ceremonial magician. While indeed Wiccans and witches take their art and practise very seriously, there was something about the strict Methodology and science like nature of ceremonial magic that appealed to me more. Changing the weather was great and all but demon conjuration? Intricate magic circles and glyphs? Spirit evocation? Yes please, this was the magic that I wanted. And so I purchased my first Grimoire of ceremonial magic, the Ars Goetia.

This was a book I carried with pride, it was a conversation starter, I was the kid who studied demons. My image had changed after my then best friend moved to university, gone was the preppy and popular false Jack, now was the time for a brooding, dark clothed Jack who read Shelley, Byron and books of demon summoning in his spare time. To be frank it’s not a phase I’ve quite broken yet either.

As enamoured as I was by the Ars Goetia, I was no fool, I knew that in terms of practicality it was something I could not attempt, yet. The magic was complex, the tools seemed impossible to acquire and so I sat on my grand schemes of being a conjured per excellence, yet the flames in my mind were raging.

Three years later I moved to Nottingham for my university education, wonderful city. for the first time in my life I was with strangers who had no preconceived notions about me. I could wear a new mask. Yet I chose the hard path, I was at university so one should act as a university don should, I bought tweed suits from charity shops, wore a bow tie and started to smoke a pipe. I found rebellion by not being normal, fuck normality, the new Jack would never bow down to popularity again. I call my university years some of the darkest of my life, not only because of the daily cocktails of alcohol, drugs and severe bouts of depression but because these were the years in which I honed my craft as a goete.

I had the good fortune of renting flats with basements and because my flatmates were dull football types brainwashed by heteronormative coding, they were naturally scared of it and didn’t go down there. And as horribly cliched and Hollywood as it is, I began conjuring demons in the basement. Even though I had been studying the Goetia for a few years now, I still lacked pretty much everything needed, other than my own conviction. I used chalk for my circle and triangle of art, candles for mood lighting and some sticks of incense and began conversing to the shadows. The crazy thing is, the shadows spoke back. I knew that I had the crossed a threshold in which there was no return, while I had achieved magic with fairly simple effects, now I had truly pierced the veil and was openly seeing, speaking and listening to demons. The glass of reality had cracked, I was in a new world in which magic was the only truth. I had demon spirits perform many many tasks for me, some failed, some excelled. I tried to hone in my skills, realise mistakes and amend them. Then I started branching out, with my knowledge increasing I came into contact with more books, more new information and magic to discover; the Verum, the Cyprian texts, Agrippa, Abra-Melin etc. Etc.

Yet this was closeted. While I was unashamedly eccentric, I had too much against me as a gay man and an oddity. I suffered extreme bullying again and thanks to my depression made a suicide attempt, if anyone knew I was in the basement ordering demons to attack those who wronged me, it would be fatal to me. Or so I thought. The layman perceives magic as nonsense, Harry Potter glitter Magic that simply isn’t real and if you believe in it you either have too many cats or are just delusional. They do not understand that magic and only magic is the highest form of science there is, the microscope or telescope can see hidden things that the eye cannot yet so can a scrying ball. For all the wonders that science can perform and demonstrate, it cannot lift the eyelids on the falsehoods of reality, only through magic can we truly see between the lines and realise that the mundane world is shrouded in mysteries that only magic can answer. And so due to this fear of being stigmatised, I kept my magic a secret.

For the best part of a decade I studied and practised Ceremonial magic in private. Whenever my parents or housemates we’re out I’d grab my tools and begin my work. My library was growing, my collection of magical tools too, I was growing and flowering into a proficient 21st century Magus. Then two years ago I decided fuck it. I was tired of keeping a fundamental part of my spiritual beliefs and occult practises silent and so I outed myself as a ceremonial magician. Not to much fanfare however, everyone seemed largely indifferent, probably just another one of jack’s eccentricities. But no, magic is no hobby, no idle pastime or frivolity to me, magic is in my Veins and every breath, it is my true calling in life to study, explore and understand my place in this world through the Occult sciences. I am a magician who can charm you or tear you to pieces just as easily, I live in a demimonde of illusion, I achieve the impossible.

When you sit before the scrying glass and see a spirit looking into your eyes, you must reject all notions of a normal reality and accept wholeheartedly that magic is real.

#going mad again #dunno why i wrote this #i was told to #24/7 scrying is frying my brain #fuck it #its like my life story #someone play a tiny violin #i need sleep #bye #i saw weird shit tonight #im writing a book of prophecies

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intensitystoner · 4 years

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Verglas

Shallow mood-snippets on that damsel-rescue trope, post-Endgame AU with Tony alive. Life after adopting a tortured Loki.

mildly Frostiron fluff ~ T+ ~ 2,700 words ~ incomplete

Even after playing paper football with a blue alien cyborg, 3D chess with a genocidal god was not among his long term plans. Then again, he was kind of renowned for his spur-of-the-moment plotting, so the Universe didn’t manage to catch him off guard with it. Not even when he lost every single game. He kept a good face for it. He took away from it what he delved in for anyway: data.

FRIDAY was present in this safehouse as well, monitoring the brain activity, amongst all, of the sorcerer. Or ex-sorcerer, possibly sorcerer-on-a-break-from-magic, given that he was unable or unwilling to produce a spark of the impressive unexplainable shit he showed off with back in 2012. Tony was in the middle of a lengthy project: exploring the change (damage, to be crudely exact) these New Asgardians had done to their local devil.

He had detected the trickster during one of his virtual trips among SHIELD’s ultra-private guardian satellites that were overlooking that particular snippet of land Thor’s people were huddled upon; and the nosy twat he was, he soon learned about the inhuman circumstances of the prisoner’s keeping. That was a suicidal move, since he’d have suffocated if he had stayed put from then on. He infiltrated the still developing land without much hassle and rescued the sinner from his well earned penitence, not to distort justice but to stop a living being from such abasement. Then he sent an obscure goodbye to his wife and baby daughter, and he hid away with the shell of Loki for an unspecified length of time, until he evaluated his freshly made decisions and got over what an idiot he was.

As observed through the satellite records and the signs personally noted, Loki had appeared in New Asgard two years after Thor had left Earth with his new pals, the A-holes of the Galaxy. Little did he know, apparently, that his good old people were waiting specifically for said target to show himself. It took no longer than half a day for them to lure the distrusting god into their trap, which, Tony derived, must have been the filthiest one ever set around here. Some friendly meekness flashed, telltale signs of an amateur organisation scattered, they had the sorcerer practically walk into their arms trusting his so-called silver tongue or his ambitions or whatever.

(SHIELD had been watching. Did they let it happen for diplomatic reasons? Did they deem it satisfactory punishment in their place? Did they command the homeless god-wannabes to destroy their own kin? Was it blackmailing or bribing?) (Questions in brackets: things Tony did not acknowledge and delve into, unless he wanted to destroy himself along with his loved ones, or simply go mad. Brackets were strategic avoidance, a fence with crimson self reminders yelling keep out, moron.)

Since the formerly imprisoned god’s arrival, they had managed to seal that silver tongue entirely back into Loki’s mind. They were highly efficient at presenting him to the greatest fears and weaknesses fished out from his nightmares with some shamanistic ballyhoo.

Tony found the hidden chambers in an underground dungeon carved out by the relentless hands of these newcomers, lit by crystalline torches whose light only Tony could see because Loki was blindfolded. His ears plugged. Body bare and freshly scarred, hair trimmed to curled stubble. His swollen limbs floating mid-air, captive to cruel bondages, genitals and anus capped, plugged with tubes leading into the ceiling. His mouth gagged by another one. A strap holding two small disks on each side of the Adam’s apple. Tony had felt his heart and stomach crowd up in his throat at the sight and craved to turn away, to lessen the indignity; but he needed to take in every detail to be able to free the (mass of flesh) without further harm. He’d brought along no allies with himself, as usual.

The silence, the slackness of the body should have alerted him already while he, in the Ironsuit, lifted it off the distasteful hooks that held it up for the public’s service (see the cushioned seats and ornamented tables around); but he settled with relishing the even, listless trembling of the muscles and the arrhythmical, hoarse breathing of the scarred throat as signs of life. He didn’t have much time before he‘d be discovered and overpowered, he had to leave with his loot immediately.

The records dated back to half a decade ago, and Tony wished now that he had been less on his good behaviour and found out earlier. He had no idea why he felt guilty, really. Not even Friday could answer him this.

As mentioned, he couldn’t have breathed without doing what he felt right against the less attended shadowy bits of the Universe, and during the first period of this elopement, he was actually suffocating, despising each atom of stupid inside himself. He was tending to a body with a snippet of life awkwardly trapped in, muscles ceaselessly tugged at by some neural stress he and Friday couldn’t find the base of; none of Earth’s virtual libraries had answers, not even on the esoteric bullshit-shelves. It resembled the fine tremor of fear, but it didn’t show on the languid facial expression and it would never stop. It made spoon feeding difficult, and sleep impossible. The trickster broke Tony’s record awake time at the first run.

Loki healed rapidly from the scars, and he perceived his surroundings, but he was cocooned in a thick wall of disinterest. And Tony was choking in place of the human race, and went on in the single-storey, two-bedroom wooden cottage in the middle of a bird-ridden forest, his dark eyes lit with a peculiar light in (exhaustion) his passion for outplaying magic. If any.

He never found out before the problem solved itself – either the supposed spell wore off, or the god caught up with the events, possibly his mood changed. Tony was habitually sharing his wit about the silly T-shirt he laid by the bed for Loki’s later use. His startled jump was a moment late compared to the trickster’s, who suddenly shuddered and attempted to back up into the wall on his elbows, a groan or a moan stuck deep in his throat.

“Whoa, that’s some entry,” formed the billionaire’s exhale, which probably went unheard: the teal eyes (glowing faintly in the shutter-dimmed room like the sunlit ocean) were fixed on the Ironsuit cosily sitting in the opposite corner’s armchair.

Loki rose cautiously like the slightest breeze could have woken the beast. Or triggered a defensive mechanism, to stay on a realistic ground.

“He’s okay,” Tony informed him from the side. “He’s friendly now. I’m here. That guy is sleeping, see?” He waved with an arm to catch the scattering attention and only spoke again when Loki proceeded to take him in from head to toe. “I’m here to help you. Remember me?”

The trembling ceased gradually from then on, it faded out of the god’s posture. He remained inside his head for most of the time, however, looking at the billionaire distantly like he was made of glass.

Tony suspected and soon experienced that it helped if he had a routine – if they had a routine. It made Loki responsive, if only as much as Dum-E, bless his resting soul, minus the mistakes. He comprehended rules of games, for example, and though those brain graphs didn’t detect enjoyment in them, the thought processes were there: he understood speech, he remembered, he obeyed suggestions; at least on the outside.

His inability to fall asleep remained, for example, even though he did such biddings of Tony without a counterargument, like his lagging presence in the world didn’t leave him any other choices. Each time he was advised to try taking a nap, regardless of the time of the day, he spent several hours lying on the bed or couch appointed for him, breathing in heightened alertness, his body motionless but mind wakeful, revealed by the brain functions recorded without his knowledge. Well, at least he tried.

If he did fall into some exhausted coma, the buzzing of a fly could stir him up in the roughest manner. He was clearly a species that needed sleep, though, Tony could recognise dark circles of insomnia well enough. He had yet to tackle that problem for the sorcerer-on-a-break.

Whatever these god guys were doing with their hocus pocus to punish him or better him or gain his knowledge, they had pretty vile means at it. And the earthen authorities had deemed it acceptable to let these creatures live among humans. Fully aware of what they were capable of doing, and simply trusting some superstitious belief that they wouldn’t.

The thought made the hairs stand up on Tony’s back.

Loki was terrified of bodies of water, anything larger than a measuring cup. So a bath to cool or comfort him in the mid-summer heat was out of question. Even when the shower got a little clogged and the ankle-high basin started filling up, he was instantly out of the bathroom straining to wind the hand-towel around his waist area on his way to his room, probably the only one he could reach in his hurry. Leaving a trail of puddles behind, mightily ignoring Tony’s inquiry from the kitchen. In the two minutes the billionaire detected the running water in the bathroom and cleaned up the floor, Loki snuck into Tony’s bedroom and stole some fresh clothes instead of the ones he had left in the dangerous area. Tony found him back in his own territory by the time he went to check on him, sitting in the armchair, chewing his nail ragged, glaring out the window, holding onto the notion with claws and teeth that this was the most natural thing in the world. Tony’s Black Sabbath shirt had soaked through around the chest area and the shoulders, the dark cotton pants stuck to the pulled-up shins, the bare toes were clawing at the cushioned seat in tension.

He abhorred from the basement where the tinkering chambers and the gym were, or the entrance leading down there. Figures.

He started speaking shortly after he let himself be convinced to do activities for and with Tony. Some exercise started it all, the billionaire wanted to try measuring his protégé’s physical abilities – try, mind you. He didn’t really expect Loki to comply exactly as he wanted. The mental pushback, the fear was only present in the first few minutes in his brain, and it ceased as Tony stopped his reassuring comments that nothing vile was going to happen and the process became natural. Loki did the required push-ups or sit-ups alongside Tony in the grass before the house without complaint; they jogged together on the forest path around the residence, although only the billionaire panted heavily at the end of each round. On the third day, Loki left him behind and waited for him idling under the pear tree near the entrance, perhaps he didn’t even cheat it off.

Elated, Tony initiated exercise that required more creativity, like boxing and wrestling, but Loki pulled out of those regardless of whether he was asked to do it alone or invited for a duel.

“Please, no,” were his first words answering the billionaire’s insistence then, before he went back into the house. Tony decided not to make a big deal out of it; he invited him for a game of chess instead; as it occurred, very wisely.

The God of Fears smelt and avoided hot cooking oil from the next room. Before Tony discovered the trait and started with food preparation in the American kitchen whenever it felt fit, the sorcerer tended to leave the bathroom through the window, enter his quarters through the closed terrace door (ruining the lock and making an innocent face afterwards each time) while oil sizzled in the pan for lunch or dinner. The kitchen was a mine field of triggers in itself, it occurred.

He reeled back out of the kitchen-lounge like a virgin in a brothel once as he caught Tony making dumplings.

“What are you doing?” came the muffled question from the other side of the wall; his second sentence uttered aloud.

“Food,” Tony answered while squeezing small pieces of the paste through a gap between his thumb and index finger. “Not poison.”

It took about half a minute to guess the subject of the god’s abhorrence. This meaty, sticky-slippery mess did remind of guts, if you thought hard enough. If you had a well conditioned imagination.

There went Tony’s plan to eat something natural once in a lifetime; to eat at all that evening, in fact. Pepper might have been able to make the dumplings irresistible even for a traumatised god, they were her speciality. Tony missed them.

“Loki,” he leaned forwards in the chair on an idle afternoon, while they were sitting out on the shaded porch like two cowboys in jogging pants. He looked deep into the teal eyes to have their attention while sharing the important truth. “In case you’re wondering why I’m so keen on fathering you, it’s not to be pushy or demand anything in return. You don’t owe me anything. It’s a favour to an old friend, okay? Your brother has asked me to look after you in case of your return.”

Well, it was almost entirely the truth, Thor did scatter shyly grumbled notes in defence of his brother when it came up among the remaining Avengers. And the feeling might have been mutual because the trickster perked up subtly at the mention of the thunder god, his head still bent down but his eyes watching intently for the continuation.

“Sorry, pal, I can’t tell you where he went,” Tony threw up an arm apologetically. “I only know he left for Space with a bunch of whackos. A raccoon, a tree, some demigod, a moth girl… and a few more chaps. In an orange spaceship, if that helps; I don’t know how many orange ships fly around out there. Is it a popular colour in the Galaxy-?”

He found himself blinking a few times because the sight was unbelievable: Loki was smiling. Leering. Laughing maybe; though he made no sound, his shoulders were shaking while his palm slid over his lips, then his eyes, head bent down amongst a curtain of hair.

“Pretty expectable, huh?” the billionaire agreed. “Oh. You haven’t seen him in the past decade, have you? Boy, are you in for a treat.”

He stood up during the latter note and stepped into the house, to find the suitable device for displaying his digital photo albums.

He had Friday order McDonald’s to the end of the forest path for safety reasons, then took a cap and sunglasses to head out.

“I need to accept delivery out there,” he told the god lounging in an armchair. “A fifteen-minute walk with birds and bees. Wanna come?”

He put on his shoes while waiting for the never-coming answer. He caught sight of the trickster lingering in the doorway afterwards.

“We can go by car if you prefer,” he noted. “I just thought to get some air, to satisfy my wife’s voice in my head. But the car is fine. We can pull down the windows, that should suffice for her.”

Loki shook his head and then added verbal confirmation.

“No. Thank you.”

The latter was soft and sounded intensely desperate to Tony’s ears, but he wasn’t the one to tell. He might have been projecting his own nervousness from leaving the god here alone for the first time.

“I’ll be back in thirty,” he reassured himself and maybe Loki, and he descended the steps of the porch. He decided to take the car, after all.

He jogged from the car to the house with the bags in his arms, seeing no reason to be careful with the lidded cups and all anyway.

“Schmo’s back,” he announced from the entrance. It sounded a tad more commanding than he intended, but at least his stomach’s uneasiness was out of it.

Loki only spoke up when the billionaire stepped into the lounge with the rustling bags.

“So slow,” he muttered, occupied with the mixing of cold water and instant tea at the kitchen counter.

“Missed me?”

Tony tried not to judge on his own, but he strongly felt like the following silence was rather sassy than nonchalant.

TBC never

#frostiron #tony & loki #fanfiction #da orky writing

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morbid-n-macabre · 5 years

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Bart Corbin: The murders of the dentist:

Bart was a very successful dentist in Lawrenceville, Georgia, and he was married to Jennifer Corbin. Together the couple led a nice life, they owned a beautiful new home, nice new vehicles, and they had two perfect little boys, Dalton and Dillon. The family had the means to take extravagant vacations, like cruises to Italy; everything seemed to be so perfect, on the outside anyways.

Jennifer had not been happy for some time now. She was aware of the affair her husband was having with his secretary. Jen had been lonely, and Bart was not exactly kind; he could be abusive, not only towards Jen, but also their young children.

In January of 2004 Jennifer decided to work on herself, she was determined to get her confidence back. She began working out to lose her extra baby weight, and she picked up a day job working at a church's preschool while the boys were at school. Then Jen's mother surprised her with an online game called EverQuest, mom had been playing it and decided that her daughter might want to join.

Jen was soon obsessed with her gaming, and she and Bart were fighting more than ever; she'd even asked Bart for a divorce!

See, Jen had met someone on EverQuest; his name was Chris, a man from Missouri. They had been sending constant emails, and chatting on the phone at all hours. Jen felt special again, she fell hard and quick; this new couple began making plans for a new life, plans which did not involve Bart Corbin. The dentist, having had his own affairs, quickly picked up on the signs of infidelity.

On Friday, November 10th of 2004, Jennifer's new world game crashing down. Chris couldn't keep up his charade, and admitted that he was really a she. Her name was really Anita Hearn, she was a married mother with children of her own; Jen had been catfished. She was absolutely devastated; Jen told her sister about her affair, and admitted that she still loved her online lover, regardless of the person's gender. The couple were planning to meet on Thanksgiving weekend, and prove their love for one another.

The Corbins spent Thanksgiving at her sister's house; Jennifer seemed happy enough, but Bart was brooding; the dentist had spent most of the holiday locked in the basement. At 6 pm, Bart demanded that it was time they returned home; the dentist made a pit stop at a local grocery store and Jen ran inside real quick. She made the mistake of leaving her phone in the vehicle with Bart, and this is when he found proof of his wife's affair. There were love poems on the device, and Bart confronted Jen immediately. Bart punched Jen right in the face as the boys in the back seat cried. Jen called her father, she and the boys went to stay at his house for a few days.

On Monday, November 29th of 2004, Bart Corbin filed for divorce. The dentist asked for custody of the children and to be awarded all of the couples’ assets, including the home. The very next day, Bart discreetly drove to Troy, Alabama, where he met with his friend Richard Wilson to borrow a .38 Smith & Wesson. He told his friend that Jen had been having an affair and he was afraid for his life. Meanwhile, Bart and Jen's young son had a premonition: the 7 year old child was telling everyone at school that his father was about to kill his mother. Somehow he already knew what was coming.

By December 1st Jen had left her parent's and returned home temporarily, just until she could acquire her own place. When she woke up this morning, Jen found her purse on the floor; her new cell phone, a credit card, and some personal papers were missing. She knew Bart had been in the bedroom as she slept, and that he'd taken her belongings. The couple quarreled, and she called 911; the operator listened as Bart ran over Jennifer's foot with his car. Still Jen refused to press charges; the two decided to try and get along, for the boys sake. Jen wanted peace, but she would never have it.

At 1:45 a.m. on December 4th, Bart's parent's neighbor, Steve, noticed the dentist pull into the driveway of his family's home. Just a few hours later, little Dalton ran to a neighbor's house in his underwear; he was crying, saying that his daddy had killed his mommy. 911 was alerted.

While Jen and the boys slept, Bart had snuck into the house. Using a pillow to muffle the sound, he shot her in the back of the head at point blank range, instantly taking his wife's life. He then pulled Jennifer’s body into a semi-sitting position and placed the gun in her hand, attempting to make the murder look like a suicide. He then left his boys alone in the home to discover their mommy's corpse.

After Jen's murder, Bart didn't even take his boys with him, they were left in the care of Jen's sister. The dentist lawyered up immediately.

This wasn't Bart's first murder. He had gotten away with it years before, and he fully intended to get away with it again.

Nobody left Bart Corbin and survived.

Back in 1987 Dolly Hearn had been enrolled in the Medical College of Georgia School of Dentistry in Augusta. Her father had been a dentist, and she wanted to walk in his footsteps. Dolly was drop dead gorgeous, she reminds me of a young Delta Burke; she was vivacious, intelligent, and charming. Again, you'd be hard pressed to find someone who disliked this bright young woman. It was in dental college that Dolly met Bart Corbin; they had fallen in love and began spending every waking moment together. Within months Bart had proposed; this took Dolly aback, and she politely declined. The ambitious college student had no intentions of allowing anything to come between her and her dreams, and a man wasn't gonna hold her back. But Bart wouldn't take no for an answer, he pestered her to accept his proposal and he became controlling, domineering. Dolly told several friends of Bart’s obsession with her; friends watched helplessly as Dolly began withdrawing into herself. Finally, she gathered her courage and broke off the relationship.

Bart simply couldn't handle the rejection. At first he begged and pleaded for a second chance, he even threatened suicide. Taking pity on him, Dolly began seeing him again, but not in she serious manner. In November of 1989, Dolly was ready to move on, she broke it off for good. Within days of the break up, bad things began to happen. Dolly was finding different windows and doors in her apartment left open, openings which she was certain had been closed, plus her car was vandalized. She knew it was all Bart's doing, and she did report it to police. Still, Dolly's heart was too big; she was aware that pressing charges would ruin Bart's career before it even began, so she dropped the charges. But Bart didn't stop here, he began stealing her dental tools, messing with her contact lens solution, he even stole her beloved cat, Tabitha! Then he ruined Dolly's senior project, a set of dentures which she'd been painstakingly working on throughout the year to make perfect; suddenly this bright young woman was flunking out of dental school. Bart wouldn't stop, and Dolly became so afraid that she borrowed her father's gun for protection.

Wednesday, June 6th of 1989 started out like any other: Dolly went about her usual routine, and Bart called her; she hadn't been home long when a friend knocked on her apartment door. Said friend came into the apartment, and noticed a man standing alone in the dark bathroom; sadly this friend didn't say anything to Dolly about it. They thought that Dolly must know he was there, and maybe she hadn't wanted anyone to know she had a man over. If only this friend had said something, Dolly might still be alive.

Later that day, Dolly’s roommate came home to find her sitting slumped over on the couch, covered in blood; a .38 revolver was laying in her lap. Despite the harassment, despite the fact that everyone said she would never commit suicide, police deemed the death a suicide. For the next 15 years there would be no justice for Dolly. When his first victim's parents heard of Jen's demise, they promptly contacted Jen's family. They immediately knew that Bart had done it again, and these two families who had never met before suddenly had a very strong bond; together they were determined to get justice for the women in Bart's life. Dolly's case was finally reopened, and police realized that the college student had not shot herself.

At Christmas of 2004, Bart was finally indicted for the murder of Dolly Hearn, and the next month he was charged with killing his wife. Thankfully the man who had given Bart the gun just a week prior to the murder came forward; because of this Bart plead guilty to the murders of his wife and former girlfriend. There dentist was sentenced to two concurrent life sentences and will be eligible for parole in late 2020.

There's actually a third murder in which Bart was suspected, a colleague and an acquaintance.

Jennifer’s sister, Heather Tierney, has officially adopted Dalton and Dillon. She has raised them alongside her own children. They are reportedly doing well. 17 years after her murder, Dolly Hearn was posthumously granted her Doctor of Dental Medicine Degree.

#true crime community #true crime #murder #serial #serial killers #serial killer #crime sorry #true crime blog #domestic violence #see something say something

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hedonisthierophant · 4 years

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Aching Abyss

Aching abyss

#Awake #clay beresford #smut

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