#that was like the most vile moment in ST that still makes me sick | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

floralkittygambler · 3 years

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Based on the new signed work for hazbin

looks like shitty h/skerd/st may end up canon, even though once again husk looks uncomfortable and pissed off by angel, but you cant literally criticise angel without the whole fucking fandom and even staff get pissy with you. accept that not everyones gonna love him, and folks like me whove been victims to these sorts *really* dont fucking like him (to be clear, his predatory nature of not accepting husk saying no but magically accepting other's no, incl alastors. also he tried to force a kiss from husk, similar to how his boss does to him so theres no fucking excuses. its disgusting and male victims of sex crimes are fucking valid, so stop excusing angels actions. he didnt deserve to be a victim but hes not doing favours by making a victim out of husk. its clear harassment. not cute or tsundere either, vile fujoshis-). but most relate or love angel so validate this shit, much like viv and her staff and vas. revolting. he also gives sw a bad name when hes fucking harassing folks bc sw isnt like that - you dont just harass someone. nor is sex your entire identity.

ugh fed up man. im starting to enjoy this fandom so little yet the few characters i am attached to keep me around. hell ive said before ive been around husk like people and they often really dislike angel types, whereas angel types adore them rather shallowly tbh. yeah but honestly this fandom and the clowns running it will find an excuse for angel and avoid those actually affected as always. big surprise...

husk physically resembles angels brother, dad and client, and is similar to the first two. its this toxic bond of angel wanting that love he never got from them. basic science. plus both addicts and one being older than his fuckin dad means realistically it wouldnt work. love does not cure everything nor should be pushed to. ones uncomfortably forced into it, and his bonding moments makes husk ooc because hes portrayed totally different to how he would be. again, experience. overall we get enough of this toxic, forced shit in media. just stop.

angel needs to sort his own shit before being with a guy. and then he needs to be with a guy on his level, around his age and mentality whos in a healthy spot. someone similar to him. hell a male cherri bomb would suit. as for husk, he needs a lot more work thatll take far longer. he needs to love himself and work through his own shit and be like that for awhile first. seen it first hand kill so

before anyone goes 'its fiction' yeah? well then explain how shit like many toxic ideals in romcoms or hell, how male victims of sex crimes are treated as a fucking joke still when its not funny, or hey how about that the only chemistry is this bitter distaste and onesidedness thats shallow af. or how shit like 'killing stalking' and whatnot are seen as cute romances by fans very similar to the point its this sorta dumb shit people romanticise, fantasize and normalise - young people. hell adults too esp immature ones.

its not healthy.

its really not.

and being on the receiving end makes you sick to your stomach and paranoid on others intentions for you.

every glance or touch is an attack. every remark, a hidden message. thats what we're left with.

as for the blokes, they get the extra of being a 'joke' and not a 'real man', that they should 'enjoy' it.

fuck off

also to grow you need to accept not everyone will like or love you. angel irl and in fiction seems mostly adored whether its shallow or not. making a character that dislikes him be his lover is a shit cop out and bad writing just like helluva. we get it, he hates rejection. dont we all. but no one grows without it. hell angel wold benefit from a guy telling him no and sticking to that for him to just accept.

because media shows that fandoms and celebs are now littered full of spoilt folks getting their own ways, seeing any critique or disinterest as 'hate' and being the most entitled buncha twats going. not everyones going to love you or care and that doesnt mean theyre a hater. if viv actually wants a likeable character with flaws to grow, she'd actually show angel's bad as not just him being a fucking victim as its just a mix of victim blaming and entitlement to get what he wants for being a victim when life aint fair. show him with traits more widely despicable thatll shock fans. actually show him accepting people not liking him and being ok rather than forcing himself on them until they do. fucking disgusting. though everyone thinks thats cute. bloody weird-

just like his creator, he wont grow and improve. theyve hired a fucking r'pe fetisher for gods sake. the whole viv and hired folks are a mess...

#spindlehorse critical #hazbin critical #hazbin hotel critical #vivziepop critical #toxic fanbase #toxic romance #toxic ships #stans and antis dni #anti huskerdust #been there it aint pleasant #i dont like angel dust #myself and those close to me have been victims of those personalities #its not funny its traumatic yet we're to feel grateful and lucky #toxic fandom #the way angel is defended makes me concerned over the mindset of the staff and fans #to be venomously defended from critique in such a way isnt healthy #god this fandom genuinely makes me ill...

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rons-hermiones · 3 years

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Come Find Me

by rons-hermiones

Summary: Unplanned, Hermione is forced to spend Christmas at the Burrow due to her grandmother falling very ill. After being ignored by Hermione for weeks, Ron is determined to show her how much she means to him. Just before he gets the chance to tell her, Bellatrix Lestrange shows up with other plans for Hermione. Can Ron get to her before it's too late? (Ron/Hermione Half-Blood Prince AU)

Rating: M for language & dark themes in later chapters.

Warning: this chapter does contain sexual assault (non consensual kissing), it is nothing graphic, but please if it’s upsetting I’d skip this one.

Chapter Twenty One

Hermione isn’t sure how long it’s been. Surely it feels like a lifetime but she knows that can’t be.

She tried to mark the passing of time with whenever Draco or his mother would come with her meals. Eventually, that felt pointless. No matter how many times the cold porridge mixed with pain potion came, it didn’t help much.

Not when the Cruciatus Curse was being cast on her daily.

Sometimes Narcissa or Draco would speak in hushed whispers to her about how she was only to be dealt with by Bellatrix or the Dark Lord himself.

So basically, they were subtly telling her to count her lucky stars that someone like Dolohov, Greyback, or that vile man Scabior weren’t getting their hands on her.

It was a small mercy, but something she was having trouble appreciating as of late. Not when she’s vowed herself to silence, only speaking to herself when she felt her own sanity slipping away.

Yesterday she barely remembered her fathers name. Today it rang in her head too well. The day before last she convinced herself she had lived in Ottery St Catchpole, it was four hours later she recalled she grew up in Hampstead. And just a few days ago, she swore Draco was a boy named Thomas she hasn’t seen since Muggle primary school.

The only thing she seemed to hold onto was Hogwarts, A History, the very copy Ron gifted her. Despite all the horrors and torture, she just can’t seem to shake him. Not that she wants to.

Narcissa seems to notice her slipping away slowly. She tries to get her to talk about anything when she’s around. But she stays silent.

Speaking of the woman, the only thing she’s been grateful for since she arrived is Narcissa Malfoy.

From her understanding, magic in the dungeon has to be granted to you by some sort of keeper, who she assumes is Bellatrix or Voldemort. Only those granted access can use magic down there, or so Narcissa says. She thinks she’s read about magic like this, but she can’t be sure.

Narcissa enchanted a candle to light so she could read. The woman seemed to notice, but not outright comment on the book she clutched to. The candle was amazingly set to fizzle out whenever someone other than Missus Malfoy entered. It even burned out when Draco came.

So far she’s been able to catalogue the few able to perform magic down here.

Bellatrix, who apparated in here her first day and who has since used spells on her down here.

Hermione just assumes Lucius Malfoy also was granted access because he doesn’t exactly strike her as the type of man to let a woman have more power then he does.

Shockingly, Wormtail is also able to conjure up magic in the dungeons. This notion baffled Hermione. What feels like a lifetime ago, but in hindsight was two days, the man tried to perform some sort of stinging jinx on her. Of course, it failed, nearly causing a few hives on her ankle. Later, Narcissa came to treat her and explained Pettigrew was granted access down here because he often was tasked with tending to prisoners.

Other than that, the likes of Greyback, Dolohov, Scabior, Rookwood, and the rest of the filth that rots upstairs haven’t been down here. She would bet a sickle they weren’t allowed to use spells, being Greyback side-alonged in here not that long ago.

Voldemort obviously can do whatever he wants down here, but thinks the dungeons below him, literally and metaphorically. Instead he has someone else collect her, inflicting punishment upstairs.

Draco also can’t perform magic. Hermione doesn’t know Malfoy well at all, besides the fact he’s a right git, so it could be because he’s underage but she can’t be sure. It’s not like she’s ever sung his praises and she won’t start now.

So he comes down and gives her cold porridge, stale bread, and water, it doesn’t mean anything to her. It helps her survive, but she suspects he’s in charge of making sure she does so for some sick twisted reason.

And as much as she has begged and pleaded his mother to let her go, she knows she can’t because things are too complicated. Apparently Draco’s been caught in the middle of all this somehow and the best thing she can do is help Hermione heal. Ease some of her pain.

Narcissa pours her potions and casts charms that barely go unnoticed by Bellatrix. All while her son pouts and broods next to her, after all he’s only ever cared for himself. Merlin, he doesn’t even try to speak to her, just the occasional ‘Granger you have to eat, please.’ Other than that, Narcissa is her only decent company.

But she still longs for more. So, so much more.

However, there’s no time to dwell on it right now. Not as the candle blows out and heels click onto the steps.

There will surely be time to yearn for something better. When Malfoy’s mother comes down and asks her questions about everything she can think of. Hermione’s still not sure if it’s to keep her sane or to keep her busy. She doesn’t care. And even if she can’t always respond, she needs it.

But right now, Bellatrix apparently needs her.

“Up! Up! Up!” She chants wildly with a grin.

Knowing there’s no use fighting it, she peels herself off the ground and stumbles to her feet.

“I sure did wear you out yesterday didn’t I?”

And she had. Casting all sorts of spells on Hermione. Ones she didn’t even dare read about.

“No matter, we're going to have some fun today. You want to have fun don’t you Mudblood?”

This is usually how it goes. Bellatrix madly sounds off to herself as Hermione remains stoic and silent. No matter, it seems the crazy witch likes talking like this.

As she grabs her arm roughly and drags her up the stairs she goes on, “it’s come to my attention we’ve missed New Year’s Muddy.”

New Year’s has passed already? That means it’s been at least a week. The brunette implies it’s been more since she said they ‘missed’ it.

As she’s being thrown into the room that has become a product of her worst nightmares she sees three harrowing faces.

“I wanted to give you something special.” Bellatrix says feigning sympathy, “I figured since you didn’t have your New Year’s kiss you so longed to share with that disgusting Blood Traitor, I’d help you out. Girl to girl.” The smile she’s wearing makes Hermione ponder trying out wandless magic.

“So here with me today are three more than eligible bachelors! Perfectly capable wizards,” she pauses, eyes roving over Greyback’s hairy chest, “and then some...” Bellatrix faces Hermione again, “since I’m feeling in spirit of the New Year, I’ll allow you to pick your suitor. Who will it be Mudblood?”

And it’s like the most fucked up game show ever. She doesn’t want anyone in this room looking at her, never mind touching her.

“Indecisive I see. Let me help you make things easier,” she begins circling the men, “this one seems to rather like you despite the dirt running through your veins. But I must say his breath is horrendous.” The woman mock whispers to Hermione as Scabior dares to grin likes it’s a compliment.

“Antonin here, well you two have history, do you not? I reckon he’s dying to get his hands on you again, aren’t you?”

At this Dolohov eagerly shakes his head as she notices his fingers tick around his wand.

“And Greyback, well we all know how much he longs to taste you. You know how such creatures can be, you hang about the likes of Remus Lupin, my poor excuse of a cousin's poor excuse of a best friend.” She comments.

And that does it for Hermione.

“D-d-d,” she tries, but her voice is shaky and wavering under their gazes. It’s like there is some sort of mental block in her brain preventing her from speaking.

“D-d,” Bellatrix mocks with a laugh, “if you’ve got something to say, say it!”

“S-Sirius.” Hermione barely manages.

This makes her cackle even louder, “oh! Something to say about the traitor do you? No matter, I handled him! Not much left to say, no.”

Hermione somehow manages to ball her small hands into angry tight fists at the comment. This woman’s so nonchalant about taking a life, the life of an extraordinary man, her cousin's life no less.

“Who will it be? I haven’t to tell you how impatient I am.”

Her eyes roam over the three men in the room. Not that she’s actually deciding, no, she’s looking for a wand. Weighing who she could best.

Scabior is twirling his mindlessly between his fingers. He looks more enamored with Hermione than anything else. Dolohov is clutching his with fervor, she’s sure the only thing on his mind is cursing her. As for Greyback, the wand is slightly visible in his pocket, he’s too focused on licking his lips.

There’s really no right choice here. All are as bad at the other.

“Alright, new game!” Bellatrix claps.

Then like the crazy woman she is, she starts spinning. Round and round, a hand clutched over her eyes as she hums to herself.

A few moments later she stops, stumbling slightly and giggling like mad. Then, she points her wand, the end of it only centimeters from Dolohov’s nose.

As she pulls her hand away, she begins jumping with joy, “lucky day for you Antonin! Fate has spoken. The girl is yours.” Then Bellatrix steps forward and whispers to him, “remember the Dark Lord’s request. No fatal harm to the Mudblood.”

Instinctively, Hermione backs up as far as she can until she hits a wall. Dolohov is rounding in on her, his wall still hanging in his hand. Looser than before.

And before she can help it his dry cracked lips are pressed firmly over hers. Her first instinct is to kick him, much like she had to with McLaggen, or curse him. Then as he tries to slip his disgusting slimy tongue past her lips, she’s reminded what she needs to do.

Wand. Wand. Wand.

She says it to herself over and over as her hand slowly roves around for his own. That’s all she can cling onto, not wanting to accept the overwhelming feelings of being so violated.

Then she feels the wooden thing and is sickeningly grateful he seems so intent on claiming her, he’s forgotten his vendetta to finish what he started at the Ministry.

In one swift motion she yanks it from his hand.

“St-stupefy!” She channels all of her strength to say it.

It’s not a powerful blow, but he’s being thrown back. Whether the lack of her voice or the wand that so does not fit her, but it works.

“Pr-rotego!” She’s seemed to find her voice as the charm works wonders around her. Seeming to have blocked whatever Bellatrix just threw.

“Clever! But not clever enough! What will you do next Mudblood? Apparate? Go back to that boy you so dearly long for? Pay dear Mum and Dad a visit?” She questions angrily.

Hermione shivers at the mention of her parents. She also doesn’t think she has it in her to apparate. Sure she’s read about it in a book, but it’s risky, dangerous, and she’s so exhausted. To make matters worse, this wand feels as effective as an actual wooden stick in her hand.

“Ex-Expelliarmus!” She cries out next and surprisingly, Bellatrix’s wand flies into her hand.

“Oh!” She laughs.

Hermione’s confused by the smile painting her lips, but soon will realize what it means.

“Greyback, I’m afraid I’ve made a mistake. Have at her.”

And he doesn’t have to be told twice.

Before Hermione notices he pounces on her, knocking her to the floor as both Dolohov and Bellatrix’s wands roll limply along the floor.

She feels his nails plunge into her stomach as they scratch down the expanse of her skin. It’s like he’s taking his time with her.

Lestrange, like she said before, is an impatient woman, as she nudges Greyback from his spot on top of her. And even though he appears to be fighting every instinct, he does as he’s told.

Bellatrix assumes his position as she straddles her, settling most of her weight onto Hermione’s bleeding midriff.

She then leans in close, her hot breath fanning her face, blowing her tears to the sides of her cheeks, “if you think you can pull one over on me, you are sorely mistaken, you ought to know that by now. I have no choice but to remind you of it!”

Then she pulls a dagger from her waist band and slowly rolls up Hermione’s sleeve.

The young witch has no choice but to writhe and kick wildly as the blade slowly scrapes her forearm.

“Hmm,” she thinks, then her face brightens.

A pain, a searing excruciating pain like no other numbs her body. She has no choice but to scream.

Bellatrix pulls away and admires whatever it is she does before diving back in and cutting something else into her victim.

“J-just kill me. P-please.” She begs before she can help it. Hermione can barely manage the words through the pain.

The witch mock pouts at her, “and grant you such mercy.” Her tone then shifted to the one Hermione was used to cold and sharp, “dying is easy Mudblood. Pain lasts! Crucio!”

And she screams again. She’s not sure if it’s from the Cruciatus Curse or the fact that the damned knife is being plunged into her skin, but eventually her screams die out.

Instead the world goes black.

In her unconscious state Bellatrix stands and smiles down at her handy work.

The word ‘Mudblood’ branded onto Hermione.

#Ron Weasley #Ron and Hermione #ron x hermione #rons-hermiones come find me #Hermione Granger #romione fanfic #hp fanfic #hp #sixth year

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gloves94 · 4 years

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To Be So Lonely [Draco Malfoy] 9

Rating: PG-13 Pairings: Draco Malfoy/OC Chapter warnings: Bullying!

Raised as an orphan, Nel Saintday, endured years of torture from the Slytherin House. The Dark Lord only allowed her existence for her to serve a very specific vile purpose for him. Her birthright dictates for her to choose a side in the Wizarding War… But what would happen if she dares defy the Dark Lord and his wishes? And what happens when she falls for her tormentor? Will Nel fulfill her life’s purpose? And what side will her tormentor, Draco Malfoy, choose? The light that calls to him or the darkness…

CHAPTER MASTERLIST MY MASTERLIST

1 9 9 3

Holiday at Wool’s was exactly what one could expect.

Being locked up in the laundry room in complete isolation without the exception of Barberry, the owl that kept Nel company and allowed her to exchange letters with her few friends, and her magic books which kept her entertained and helped her pass the time. Any other year Lucy would’ve snuck her out or snuck in some pastries or anything to bring a little bit of light into the now fourteen-year old’s life, but that had been years ago. It had been two years since she had last seen or heard from her friend Lucy and wherever she was Nel hoped she was okay.

Her third year started pretty much the same as the last two. She started getting off the wrong feet with Malfoy which by now was a very irritating tradition. This was also the year that Sirius Black, a mass murdered, had managed to escape from the Prison of Azkaban.

She fainted in the train when dementors attacked and made Tracey and Theodore swear not to tell anyone. As far as she knew nobody else knew. Instead rumors that Harry Potter had fainted spread like wildfire as well. Earning him taunts from Malfoy and the other Slytherins during Study of Magical Creatures. A class Nel did not like in the least due to the distaste most animals had for her.

“Shut up you insufferable lot,” To everyone’s surprise she defended Harry to the taunts of the Slytherin boys.

Harry was- well they weren't particularly friends, but they were friendly acquaintances. Even having spent a Christmas dinner together with a group last year.

She hadn’t defended him because she wanted to defend Harry, she had done it because to her it was personal. She had also passed out from the Dementors, felt could still remember coldness that they brought with them and the numbing pain flooded her body when the dark creature had come near her.

“Oooooh, looks like you’ve got a girlfriend Potter,” Draco taunted. Rolling up her sleeves Nel had had enough of him, she was ready to go and take it up with him personally. She had already punched him in the face once she wouldn’t hesitate in doing it twice.

“Don’t,” Harry and Ron had to hold her back.

“What’s wrong Malfoy? Run out of hair gel?” She commented on his new hair do. He had shed his gel helmet and now wore his hair lose, blonde bangs falling carelessly over his face.

He flushed as several other male students laughed at her comment.

xxx

After class Malfoy tailed after as the two headed towards Divination a class Nel hated due to the fact that Professor Trelawny had made a prophecy about her on the first day of class.

“My child you carry a terrible curse!” She had cried and reached for her face with both hands. “You bear the mark of the serpent-bearer on your face! You undead one!”

It was all of course, complete nonsense. It simply made her feel self-conscious about the several moles scattered on her face.

She didn't know what Malfoy wanted, but she was a feeling it was going to ruin her day.

“I didn’t know you and Potter had a thing,” He said walking next to her. She hated that he was prying into her personal life, why was it any of his business anyway? She hated the way he said ‘Pottah’ even more. She considered saying yes just to piss him off.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” she retorted dully eyes frozen ahead to the staircase leading to the classroom.

“Of course,” he uttered with disgust. “Saint Potter and Saint Nel,” he gagged. “Makes perfect sense if you ask me. Both of you have so much in common. Parselmouths, Muggle-borns, the fact both of you fainted in the train-“

There was no way on Earth that he could've know that. With her patience running thin she pulled out her wand and pointed it against his face as she cornered him. She hated that she had to look up to him since he had grown so much over the holiday.

“What do you want Malfoy?” She hissed out. “Or are you just bored out of your mind? Aren’t you sick and tired of being at the end of my wand?”

He looked down at the tip of her wand before cooly moving it away from his face.

Whatever it was she was expecting him to say weren't the following words:

“Come to Hogsmeade with me.”

Her expression shifted from one of anger to one of pure confusion. He never ceased to stop surprising her. It was typical of third and fourth years to go on dates to Hogsmeade together with their sweethearts or with their friends to split butterbeers and go to Honeydukes.

She lowered her wand slightly, blinking twice as she processed his words. "Yes," she answered softly.

“Really?” He asked just as shocked that she had actually accepted.

“Of course, not you git!” She said zapping him with a head swelling hex. She turned around huffing not finding his latest trick to be the slightest bit funny.

Over the years Nel had grown more bitter and alone. The cause of this bitterness her isolation back at Wool's orphanage. Her abandonment issues preventing her from allowing anybody that weren't her two friends into her personal life and even then they were kept at an arms distance. She grew to be resentful over the parental figures in her life, specially over whoever her parents were.

Several days passed and Nel was surprised to find a note on her desk during Defense Against the Dark Arts. A class she enjoyed, for the first time they actually had a competent professor. Professor Lupin was lecturing about the dangers of grindylows, he had some in a water tank and was signalizing to them as he spoke. She looked at the note on her desk, it was folded in the shape of a paper crane also known as Draco's trademark. Who woul've thought the bastard was so crafty with his origami? She should've just swatted it off her desk but the contents of it were curious to her. She was expecting him to make a joke comparing her apperance to the one of a grindylow but instead the bold word starred back at her: 'Hogsmead?' She set the note on fire without a second thought. Her answer clear. Lupin raised an eyebrow at her? "Anything you'd like to share with the class Ms. Saintday?" She shrugged and shook her head. Thankfully Lupin let it go. Malfoy was insane if he thought she would willingly go with him to Hogsmeade.

Presently, Nel was keeping busy writing one of Crabbe's parchment during History of Magic. Also known as the most boring class ever and the one that Nel would use to catch up on her side gig of writing essays for other students. By now, with little expenses she had amassed what she considered to be a small fortune. One she was saving in case of an emergency. Afterall it wasn’t like she was allowed to go out and spend her money when she was locked up back at Wool’s. Who knows, maybe she'd treat herself to something nice when she visited Hogsmeade for the first time. Professor Bins didn't even seem to either notice or care what was happening in class, sometimes he’d just pass out on his desk which often times lead to a chaotic environment. She felt a hand pull at her shoulder length dark hair and ignored it already knowing who it was.

She ignored the pull, then she felt it again. That tug in the back of her scalp annoyingly commanding her attention.

This year was going to be different. She wasn’t going to spare Malfoy an ounce of attention. She was better than that.

"I know something you don't," She felt a voice singsong behind her ear.

"I could care less about anything you have to say Malfoy," she huffed quickly not removing her hand or eye from the parchment she was currently writing on Animagi. Completely disinterested in the Medieval Witch-hunts that Binns was lecturing about or in whatever Draco had to say. She had a feeling it had to go with his weird obsession to get her to go to Hogsmeade with her.

"Is that so?" She didn't see his expression, but the teen raised an eyebrow. He braced himself waiting for the bomb to drop and savor the bait he was about to dangle in front of her. "It's about your parents."

The only thing Nel knew about her parents was that they had abandoned her in an abbey on October 31st of the year 1981. She had always assumed they were muggle-born until last year when she learned she was a Parselmouth, a dark skill that only the descendants of Salazar Slytherin possessed. She had mixed feeling about them to the day. Sure, as an orphan she was naturally curious, but now she didn’t know if she would be happy or not when she found out who they were. After all being related to You-Know-Who was not a good thing…

Malfoy saw how her hand froze and her back visibly stiffened. She gripped the quill hard as she paused writing the parchment. He didn't stop to wonder just whose essay she was writing this time.

"Yeah, right," He saw her shoulders slightly move up before she scoffed shook her head in denial.

What would he know about her parents? He had to be bluffing.

Draco sat back on his seat and patiently waited for her to take the bite. After years of observing her behavior he knew just what would make her tick and what wouldn’t. He was sure she'd bite.

A moment later Nel turned around with a visible frown. Her dark eyes meeting his light ones. “What do you know about anything, anyways?” She eyed him warily with mistrust.

She had already trusted him once before and it had not ended well. It was something neither of them seem to speak about or mention. It was something she certainly hadn’t told Nott or Davis, nor she expected him to share with Crabbe, Goyle or Zabini.

"I know who it was,” he said slowly savoring the moment. “The person that left you on the doorstep of the abbey."

He saw her eyes go wide at the revelation. That was confidential information. A little-known fact that only a select number of people knew. How would he know? He probably wouldn't, but his father would. Lucius Malfoy, that odd man that seemed to be unreasonably interested in Elowen's life.

Class was dismissed and Malfoy stood up self-righteously and left his seat walking out of the class with a satisfied smiled.

"Wait!" She called after him. However, he did not stop.

"Wait!" She called again and trotted after him. Catching up to him and reaching for his arm holding him back. He slowed his pace and glanced at her with the edge of his lips turned up.

"How do you know that?"

The arrogant look on his face only stretched wider across his lips. Guess for once sitting in during one of his father’s dull conversations had actually paid off.

"How do you know?" She repeated. Draco remained silent secretly enjoying the attention he was receiving from the hostile girl. "Are you going to tell me?" She asked.

He remained silent, marinating in the moment.

"Tell me please!" She implored him slapping his arm roughly. Still he remained deadly silent simply walking away from her.

"Please!" She pleaded. "I'll give you or do whatever you want," she bartered. Maybe she couldn't buy Malfoy but she could offer her business and services to him.

She saw him come to a halt. Crabbe and Goyle who were walking with him also stopped on their tracks. He raised his hand indicating that he would later meet them at the Great Hall later.

"Anything?" He swaggered towards her, arching an eyebrow. A suggestive smirk on his face.

Her face flushed in unflattering red patches as she looked away from his icy eyes. "Well," She pondered.

Just how far was she willing to go for this vital information?

Also - this was Malfoy. Whoever knew if he was being sincere or not. If anything, it was probably a cruel trick he was playing on her. Also, Merlin knows just how twisted Draco's imagination could stretch when making his vile demands.

"Would I lie to you?" He said seeing the uncertainty in her face.

"Yes," She said with an incredulous scoff. He most definitely would. In a heartbeat and without hesitation. He was not to be trusted.

"Not about that," He stuck his hands in his pockets. "I wouldn't waste my time with such nonsense," he said self-importantly.

Nel strongly fought the urge to roll her eyes. His time? What did he spend his time doing? Talking Quidditch with Marcus Flint and the other Slytherin boys? Ogling the other Slytherin girls?

"What do you want Malfoy?" She crossed her arms over her chest growing impatient from walking around in circles with the conversation.

He didn't look away from her perturbing gaze. She was looking at him so intensely almost as if she was trying to read his mind.

"I want Parkinson off my back," He said slowly walking towards her. It was no secret that Pansy Parkinson was thirsting over Draco. She had warned all of her chamber mates to back off because she had claimed her ‘Drakey’ as hers. It was disgusting. Even the way she threw herself at him and always attempted to cling off his arm.

Nel was known for having the reputation of being a hustler in the school. You wanted something done you went to her.

Homework Check.

Test answers Check.

Wanted to hex someone? Check.

Slip a love note or potion? Consider it done.

Of course, her services did not come cheap.

"Consider it done," She clapped her hands together and licked her lips thinking of all the vicious things she could do to Pansy Parkinson. Someone she already despised. She would greatly enjoy this.

"It's different," He clarified almost as if he could read her mind.

"She won't take no for an answer which is why I need you to come to Hogsmeade with me."

So that’s why he had been so insistent… Wait-

"What?" She gaped at him. Horrified at the ridiculous request. At what he was implying. He was asking her out on a date? Why couldn't he just tell Parkinson to shove off? She had endured three years of Malfoy's torture, why couldn't he be just as crude to the insufferable girl?

She was still waiting for him to admit it was all a horrid prank, but his expression told her otherwise. He was dead serious. He really did want her to go to Hogsmeade with him. It hadn’t been some kind of trick. She didn't know what she had been expecting, but it hadn't been this.

"Please Saintday, don't flatter yourself," he scoffed at her shaken expression. Again, she felt vulnerable almost as if he could read her mind. "Believe me, I would've preferred asking anybody else, but seeing she already has it out for you - it makes things easier for me," he flashed her his most charming smile.

“Also, we’ve been civil to each other in the past and it wasn’t completely unbearable.”

She shushed him immediately. Not wanting to remember that Christmas Eve the two had spent together during their second year. It wasn't something she liked to remember, much less talk about.

Normally this would've come at a very expensive price for anybody else, but in these circumstances… He possessed something she needed. Priceless information about her life. What was one trip to Hogsmeade? Really, what was the worst thing that could happen? She'd get stuck having butterbeers with Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle and listening to them talk about this seasons Quidditch. There were worse things happening out in the world right now.

"Fine," She caved adjusting her bag strap.

He stretched out a hand and hesitantly she shook it. She didn't know why she had expected it to be slimy like a reptiles but instead his hand was soft and warm. He definitely had the hands of somebody who had never worked a day in his life.

"You're also to carry my bag and write all my parchments."

"What?" She looked at him incredulously pulling her hand back as if she had been burnt, as if she had just signed a deal with the devil himself. "For how long?"

"Until I feel like it."

"You're not being fair now," She said beginning to walk away.

"Fine," He bartered. "For a month."

"A month?" Her eyebrows went up so far they almost reached her hairline. "Make it a two weeks."

"Three," He pressed.

"One and a trip to Hogsmeade or you've got nothing."

"Deal." They shook hands again finalizing their deal.

He smirked pleased with the transaction. She rolled her eyes and began to walk away.

"Oh, and Saintday," he called after her making her stop and turn to face him. "Most girls would kill to go to Hogsmeade with me," he said pompously.

"I'm sure," She responded her tone dripping with sarcasm. "Who? Besides Parkinson and your mom?"

His eyes widened at the comment.

"Let me know so I can get in line," she flashed him a charming smile before turning away.

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stereksecretsanta · 4 years

Text

Merry Christmas, @Rebekahdarian93!

*****

Repentance To Reconciliation

The waiting room to Dr. Riley’s office is all cheap wood paneling and the original chairs from the nineteen-sixties when a real doctor graced the premise. The receptionist shakes her head before taking another drag of her cigarette. A haze develops on her plexiglass window.

“Mr.-” Stiles is used to the hesitation before someone butchers his name. He walks over to the nurse and she flashes the top of the file at him so he can read the name. It’s his.

“Just call me Stiles.”

“Alright, Stiles. We’ll just take your vitals then the doctor will see you.” The nurse is kind as she directs him to sit down. It almost feels like he’s in a real doctor’s office instead of a soul dealer.

“One. Two. Breath Out.” She pokes him with the butterfly needle but nothing comes out. “Hard poke?”

“Something like that.” In all reality, only phlebotomists from the bottom of the barrel programs are desperate enough for such seedy employment. “Try my wrist. Sometimes that works.” She unwraps a new needle.

“One. Two. Deep Breath.” The needle goes in and soon the blood is running through the tube. “Would you like to donate any while we have the needle in you.” Stiles is very queasy about his blood leaving his body and this conversation is not helping.

“Can’t do that. Ex-Boyfriend. Four months ago.” He can only say short sentences without puking.

“Oh. Our little secret? We both know those pesky laws are so outdated.” Stiles is not going to give to an illegal blood bank. (Even if it means an extra hundred bucks.)

“No. I just want the money I came here for.” Her demeanor suddenly changes. She rips the needle out a little to forcefully before applying a bandage making sure it stings.

“The doctor will be with you in a moment. We’ll send this into the database. Expect a call in about a week.” The door slams leaving him alone.

***

Thirty minutes later, Stiles leaves the clinic with a few hundred dollars in his pocket. Now to turn that money over to his landlord because he’s already a week late on rent.

When the technology to find your soulmate first came out it was seen as dignified and a small price to pay for ultimate happiness. That was years ago. As regulations became stricter “soul doctors” went underground. Now the practice is seen as trashy. You give up your identity and a little bit of blood and they give you results as to who your soulmate is and some money. Most people do it for the money, not the promise of happiness. That was Stiles’s reasoning. It’s tough being a college student. Especially after your much more financially stable fiancé breaks up with you.

Stiles puts in the code to the apartment building before taking the stairs two at a time. The heat gave out again. He can feel it in the air. As he unlocks the door to the apartment he shares with his best friend, Scott, he can hear the familiar sounds of his neighbor getting it on through the wall. Scott throws him a blanket and an extra pair of headphones before going back to the book he’s reading. “Thanks, but I’m going to clean up.” He digs out the money putting in on the coffee table before going to take a shower.

Wrapped in the blanket he sits on the counter waiting for the water to warm up as he listens to his ex-fiancé rhythmically fuck another dude. Yes, the annoying neighbor is Stiles’s ex, Derek.

It’s been four months since he called it quits out of the blue. The night before they were watching a movie. Everything seemed great.

***

Derek grips his coffee mug like it’s the only thing grounding him. When Stiles walks into the kitchen he’s none the wiser to his inner turmoil. That is until he sees his fiancés face.

“What’s wrong, Der.”

“I don’t think this is going to work. I think we should break this off.”

The Hello Kitty mug formerly in Stiles hand breaks in two as it hits the hard linoleum floor.

“Shit. Why?” Stiles is only half paying attention as he tries to mop up the mess.

“I don’t want to go through with marrying someone who’s not my soulmate.”

“Soulmates? What about soulmates?”

“We’re not. You’re not my soulmate.”

That’s when it sinks in. This isn’t cold feet.

It’s a breakup.

“I’ll be leaving now. Fuck you I guess.”

***

A month after that Stiles and Scott started renting a new apartment for the next year of college seeming unaware that Derek was soon to move in next door in an attempt to find a new normal. Derek refused to move and Stiles and Scott were too poor to move.

Soon the parade of men started. It felt like practically a man a night. That’s not bad if one isn’t living next to their ex, yet Derek very much is.

Stiles sighs and hops in the shower. In a sick and twisted way, he finds comfort in the sounds because it means familiarity. A pathetic familiarity.

***

A week later Stiles drops by the clinic to get the final results. In exchange for some paperwork saying that they can do absolutely as they please with the part of his soul that they took, he’s given an envelope with the name and address of his soulmate.

When on the bus he opens the package.

Derek Hale

As soon as Stiles’s eyes drop to the name he feels sick. It can’t be the same person.

Sundale Apartments 1563 Cardon St. Apt. 2D It definitely is the same person.

His soulmate lives in the apartment beside him.

His soulmate is his ex.

Fuck.

***

After walking the block from the bus stop to the apartment building Stiles takes the stairs two at a time like every day but tonight seems more urgent in a way. Instead of opening 2E like every other day he knocks on 2D.

No answer.

He knocks again. “Open up, Derek. We need to talk.” Finally, there’s shuffling inside and the bolt lock being undone. When the door opens Derek is clothed in only a pair of sweatpants. A pair that Stiles bought him last year for Christmas.

“You better not have a Grindr hookup in here.” Derek only silently motions around to prove that he’s alone.

Stiles shoves the envelope in his face. “What-”

“Just read it.” Derek looks at all sides of the envelope before pulling the letter out.

“Looks like you finally got low enough on money to sell your soul.”

“Not all of us can have a cushy job and an inheritance from all their dead relatives.” Stiles wants to bite back the last part. “Sorry.”

“You’re not sorry. Why are you freaking out about this?”

“Because you lied to me, asshole. You broke off our engagement saying that we weren’t soulmates when we were.”

Derek sighs. “Come in. We need to talk.”

When Derek closes the door behind them Stiles can’t help but feel like he’s home. The thought leaves as quickly as it arrives. They sit down on the couch.

“Explain.” Stiles’s voice is cold and to the point.

“I was scared.”

“You should have talked to me.”

“I didn’t want to burden you.”

“So instead you broke my heart. Noted.”

Their volley of rebuttals could go on for hours.

“Stiles. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that but it’s in the past.” Derek reaches out to take his hand but Stiles pulls back.

“I’m reminded of it every single day. You’re a terror on my life.”

“You think I don’t think the same about you. I have to hide every time I almost bump into you in the mailroom. I only do my laundry at odd hours of the night because I know I won’t see you. Sometimes I miss your cute snoring so I just stay awake listening to you through the wall. You’re the only thing on my mind all the time and I hate it. I hate how I’m still desperately in love with you.”

Stiles doesn’t protest as Derek leans forward capturing his lips. They fall back into how they were before the breakup. Years of practice pushing and pulling comes back to them.

That is until they hear Scott coming home next door. Stiles breaks the kiss.

“Fuck you. You can’t just kiss me and think everything will be cool between us.”

“Then what can I do?”

“I want to get back together, but we need to build this up from scratch. I’ll give you three weeks of us being a couple. We’ll go on three dates. One date a week. No fucking other guys. We’re completely committed to each other and If after those three weeks we realize we’re not in love we’ll never mention this soulmate thing and we’ll go our separate ways. If we realize we do love each other the engagement is back on.”

There’s absolutely no hesitation before Derek says one simple word. “Deal.”

Week One-The Repentance

*** Scott thinks Stiles is an absolute idiot. Just four months before he was supplying his best friend with Ben and Jerry’s after Derek shattered his heart, but now Scott is supposed to just let him hurt Stiles again with zero consequences? Stiles only rebuttal has been, “I’m fine.”

Stiles really is fine in a why-am-i-totally-not-fine kinda way. He should have never made that proposition to Derek but he was lonely and mad, and a little horny. It seemed right at the time. When he gets home from work he decided he’ll just tell Derek that he can’t do this. (Oh, the sweet irony.) That is until he opens up his apartment to put away his bag and see Derek in his kitchen. Stiles keeps enough composure to not drop his overpriced Starbucks on the ground but he’s still practically hyperventilating on the inside.

It’s not just Derek in his apartment or the fact that Scott lounges on the couch seemingly okay with this. It’s also the frilly pink apron Derek is wearing as he bops around listening to Britney Spears. “What are you doing?”

“Making cookies.”

“You never baked while we were together.”

“It’s a new hobby. Come here.” Stiles creeps forward unsure of what’s about to happen. Is this a trick?

Instead of doing anything vile Derek places a chaste kiss on his lips. “How was your day?”

“Terrible. A kid puked on me.” Derek looks him up and down. “I changed my clothes.”

“Oh. That’s what happens sometimes when working with children.” Stiles was going to school to be a preschool teacher. Most people thought it was weird but he enjoyed the little kids. That’s also what led him to get a part-time job at a daycare.

“Yeah, it is.” He takes a cookie from the cooling rack. “I’m going to go take a shower.”

Stiles proceeds to have a freakout while sitting on the ground in the shower for a solid hour.

Derek is being way too nice. He’s not normal.

***

Tonight is the night of their first date. Tuesdays always seemed like a weird day to go on a date but it’s one of the two days Stiles has off work. (The other being Sunday and it’s just weird to go on a date on a Sunday.)

It’s very much weird that Derek is “picking him up” for this date since they live next door to each other. Regardless Stiles pushes that out of his mind as he opens the door to Derek holding red roses. It’s exactly like the beginning to half of Stiles’s wet dreams.

“Thank you.” Stiles takes the bouquet and goes to find something to use as a vase. He settles on a taco bell cup. When he turns around, Derek is behind him. “Oh fuck. I forgot about your sneaking powers.” Derek laughs before kissing him. “We need to get going so we don’t miss our reservation.”

***

The restaurant that Derek has picked is nice. Like 80-dollar-lobster nice. It freaks Stiles out knowing that whatever he eats will be more than his weekly paycheck.

“Are you sure about this?”

“Of course. You deserve the most expensive meal in the world, my love.”

“Okay. If you insist.”

The rest of the night they catch up. Stiles finds out about Derek’s promotion he got about a month ago and Derek congratulates Stiles on passing his midterm in Educational Law. They’ve slipped back into the old way. Other than Derek’s chipper mood both could believe they had never broken up.

***

By Friday Stiles is ready to confront Derek. It’s not that he doesn’t like being treated like royalty but Derek has never been happy for the sake of being happy. He’s loving and kind but you’ll get your coffee with a frown and a kiss on the cheek. Not a full-blown smile.

He seems fake.

Derek had picked him up from work. Stiles breaks the air with a simple question.

“Why are you acting weird.”

“There’s nothing weird about me.”

“You’re not yourself. You’re smiling.”

“I can smile if I want.”

“We dated for three years and you were always grumpy. I expected it and I loved it.”

Derek sighs. “I just wanted you to like me.”

“And you’re plan was to freak the shit out of me. Noted.”

“I’m trying to make up for hurting you. The roses and cookies and Starbucks is just my way of trying to make it up to you.”

“Well, I like all that, but don’t smile. It’s weird.” Derek takes his hand squeezing it.

Week Two-The Familiar

***

Their second date is more simple.

They go to the movies (and make out in the back) then go out for ice cream. While Stiles is intent on licking up all the melted ice cream before it drips on his hand Derek says in his very serious way, “So I have a work event next week and I want to take you as my date.”

“Are you sure about that?” Chocolate trickles down the soggy cone.

“Absolutely. We are dating?”

“Yeah, but two weeks ago you were single then you show up and are like, ‘Hey, meet my fiance. He’s also my soulmate. This totally isn’t weird.’”

“Well, I don’t care. They can judge if they want, but it’s our life.”

The rest of the week passes in sleepy mornings and takeout in the evenings.

hat week was reminiscent of their last week together before. Week Three- Downfall and Reconciliation

***

Stiles suit feels weird and stuffy. He doesn’t even really know what constitutes such formal attire for a business party but he went with it when Derek told him to wear it. While Stiles looks like he’s still an awkward teenager Derek looks like a model with his suit tailored in all the right ways.

Instead of worrying, Stiles takes another champagne flute downing it like a shot. He’s not wine drunk. He’s fully drunk. Derek comes up to him and rubs his back in a gesture of im-so-very-sorry. “We’ll go soon. I just have to talk to someone first.”

“Go ahead. I’ll be right here.” Stiles reaches for another glass of wine when Derek stops him.

“You’ve had enough, babe. When we get home I’ll make you some pancakes to lessen your alcohol poisoning.” Stiles ignores the loving insult opting instead to focus on the fact that pancakes sound really good. Derek kisses his cheek before walking away.

As he’s leaning against a pillar observing the ballroom Stiles notices Derek talking to an equally as handsome man. The man leans in and whispers something in Derek’s ear causing him to crack a smile. Stiles takes a few steps closer out of curiosity.

“Come on Derry. Let’s skip this joint and get up to some fun.”

“Fuck off, Brad. I have a boyfriend. It’s over.”

“It doesn’t have to be. What he doesn’t know-”

“What he doesn’t know is none of your business. There’s two people in my relationship and you’re not one of them.”

“Maybe you should dump him then. You two might have history but we have chemistry.”

“I said no.”

“One night.”

“Fine. I’ll think about it.”

“Great. You just tell me when.” Stiles is heartbroken as he retreats back so the pair doesn’t know he’s been listening.

Derek walks up to him. “You’re officially free from this boring party. We’ll go now.”

“I’m calling an Uber. You can go home alone.”

“We live right next to each other.” Derek laughs at the absurdity of Stiles’s insistence. “I’m more than capable of driving you home.”

“But do you really want to go home with me or would you prefer Brad.” He spits out the douchebag name like venom.”

“Fucking, god. He’s just some guy I had sex with once or twice.”

“Yet you told him you’d be down for another time.” Stiles pulls out his phone. “Ordering my Uber right now. Leave.”

Derek bites his lip so he doesn’t say anything cruel yet he still does. “I can’t argue with you right now. You order your Uber and go ahead and overdraw your bank account because we both know you don’t have the money.”

“I’ll just sell my soul again. Maybe next time I’ll actually get someone who loves me.”

***

They don’t talk for three days. There’s also no strange Grindr hookups next door.

Everything is just silent.

Then on day four, Derek knocks on the door. Scott has the sense to know that maybe letting him in will end the mess, so he does.

When Derek appears in the doorframe of Stiles’s bedroom he gets a book thrown at him. He concludes that he deserves it.

“Can we talk?”

“Will it get you to go away faster?”

“Maybe.”

“Then I’ll allow it.”

Derek gently perches on the edge of the bed careful as to not touch Stiles. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s going to take a lot more than that.”

“I know. I’m sorry about what you heard. I swear I was never going to take him up on his offer but it’s easier to let him have the upper hand than to stand there and argue all night.”

“Block him.”

“What? I need his number for work reasons.”

“You both should have thought of that before being horny dicks.” Derek knew that Stiles had a point.

He pulls out his phone and starts thumbing through the contacts. “I want to do it.” Derek hands over his phone and Stiles blocks Brad’s number.

“Are we cool now?”

“No. We never addressed why you broke up with me in the first place.”

“I told you I was scared.”

“That could mean a million things.”

“Fine. I’ve always feared commitment. I’ve lost so many people that I love that I feel I’m a danger. Being around me is basically a death sentence.”

“Everyone dies. It’s better if you have someone to love.”

“Also I feel like marriage is a trap. Not that I’m going to be trapped but that I’m trapping you in a life you’ll hate.”

“I said yes to you for a reason. I wanted to take the risk.”

“I’m just scared of commitment because no one has been committed to me. I’m scared that soulmates are a scam and in twenty years we’ll both be miserable.”

“There’s no one else I want to be miserable with.”

“You’re really not going to say no.”

“I’m really not.”

As they kiss they realize that maybe soulmates are a scam but their love is real.

#Rebekahdarian93 #stereksanta19 #*fics19 #*gifts19

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liquidsensientdeity · 5 years

Text

If image is censored how about words?

The banned lecture:

GILLES de RAIS

THE BANNED LECTURE

Long ago when King Brahmadatta reigned in Benares, a gentleman whose Christian names were Thomas Henry – you possible have heard of him – he was no less a personage than Grandfather of the great Aldous Huxley – once found himself threatened be a predicament similar to that in which I stand tonight. He had been asked to lecture a distinguished group of people.

What bothered him was this: what assumption was he to make about the existing knowledge of the audience? He adopted the sensible course of asking the advice of an old hand at the game; and was told, “You must do one of two things. You may assume that they know everything, or that they know nothing.” Thomas Henry thought it over, and decided that he would assume that they know nothing.

I think that merely shows how badly brought up he must have been; and explains how it was that he became a kirty little atheist, and repented on his death-bed, and died blaspheming. Gilles de Raise was born sometime in 1404. He married Catherine de Thonars on the 30th of November 1420, arrest by the Church. He began alchemical studies under the instruction of Gilles de Sille, a priest of St. Malo. Montague Summers believes he sacrificed around eight hundred children and quotes the proceedings of ecclesiastical high court in which a Dominican priest named Jean Blouyn took over as the delegate of the Holy Inquisition for the city and diocese of Nantes. Needless to say, Gilles “confessed”, and was put on the stake and charcoaled on October 26th, 1440 leaving his estates and untold riches to Mother Church, who, wasting no time, added them to her list of material gains. Included in this particular catch were Gilles personal hand-painted manuscripts, which were eagerly welcomed into the Mother Lode’s vault where they sit to this day. Unfortunately, the Vatican’s library is inaccessible to “common folk”, and will probably remain so until the demise of Mother Church herself, at which time this author will assist other interested persons in converting it into a public library.

No! No! That would be quite impossibly bad manners. I shall assume that you know everything about Gilles de Rais; and that being the case, it would evidently be impertinent for me to tell you anything about him. So that we can consider the lecture at an end, and (after the usual vote of thanks) pass on immediately to the discussion, which I think ought to be more amusing, if scarcely as informative.

It is rather hard saying--however worthy of all acceptation in a university like Oxford, where, I understand, the besetting sin of the inmates is lecturing and being lectured, but discussions are always apt to turn out to be amusing, especially if conducted with blackthorns to shotguns, where as lecturing is merely an attempt, foredoomed to failure, to communicate knowledge which usually the lecturer does not posses.

I am sure that we all recognize that an attempt of this kind is impossible in nature in nature. No! I am not proposing to inflict upon you my celebrated discourse on Skepticism of the Instrument of Midn. I am not even going to refer to the first and last lecture which I suffered at a dud university somewhere near Newmarket, in the specimen of old red sandstone in rostrum began by remarking that political economy was a very difficult subject to theorize upon because there were no reliable data. Never would I tell so sad a story on a Monday evening, with the idea of Tuesday already looming darkly n every melancholic mind. I should like to be just friendly and sensible, though it is perhaps too much to expect me to be cheerful.

The fact is that I am in a very depressed state. My attention was attracted by that little work “knowledge” of which we hear so much and see so little. I don’t propose to inflict upon you the M.C.H., and demonstrate that the life and opinions of Gilles de Rais were inevitably determined by the price of onions in Hyderabad. But I do think that in approaching a historic question, we should be very careful to define what we mean—in our particular universe of discourse—by the work “knowledge.”

May I ask a question?

Does anyone here know the date of the battle of Waterloo?

Pause- - (Someone - - I bet - - tells me “1815.”)

Thank you very much. To be frank with you, I know it myself. I did not require information on that particular point. What I asked was, whether anyone knows the date. I felt that, if so it would have created a sympathetic atmosphere.

But since we are talking about Waterloo, we may ask ourselves what, roughly speaking, is the extent of our knowledge?

I have heard plenty of theories about why Napoleon lost the battle. I have been told that he was already suffering from the disease, which killed him. I have been told that he was outgeneraled by Wellington. I have been told that his army of conscripts was underfed and not properly drilled. I have also been told that the battle was won by the Belgians.

Now, all these things are merely matters of opinion. There may be a little truth in some of them. But we have practically no means of finding out exactly how much, even if our documentary support is valid to establish any of these theories. It is, also, almost impossible to estimate the causes of any given event, if only because those causes are infinite, and each one of them is to a certain extent an efficient determining cause.

Take a quite simple matter like the time of year. If it had been winter instead of summer, the hens would not have been laying and Hougomont and La Haye Sainte would not have been able to nourish the contending forces. But though it is profitable for the soul to contemplate the extent of what we don’t know, it is in some ways more satisfying to our baser natures to consider what we do know in a reasonable sense of the word.

It is not disputable that the battle of Waterloo was fought and won. It is not disputable that it was the climax, or rather the denouncement, of campaigns lasting over a number of years. And there is no reason for doubting that Napoleon was born in Corsica, that he entered the French army, and rose rapidly to power by a combination of military genius and political intrigue.

There is a vast body of indirect evidence, which confirms these statements at every point. Taken as a whole, they would be totally inexplicable on any other hypothesis. But when we consider the character of Napoleon, we are at once involved in a mass of contradictions. Probably no one in history has been more discussed, and every writer gives a totally different account. Each seeks to buttress his opinion by incidents, which we have no reason to suppose other than authentic, but seem incongruous. So far as we can get any truth out of the matter at all, it is that the character of Napoleon, like that of everybody who ever lived, was extremely complex. And the writers are more or less in the position of the Six Wise Men of Hindustan who were born blind and had to describe an elephant.

Spiritually fortified by these simple meditations, we may apply their fruits to the problem of Gilles de Rais, and ask ourselves what we really know about him as opposed to what we have heard about him.

We know that he was a gentleman of good family, because otherwise he could not have held the offices, which he did hold. We know that he was a brave soldier, and a comrade of Joan of Arc. We know that he had a passion for science; for the basis of his reputation was that he frequented the society of learned men. We know finally that he was accused of the same crimes as Joan of Arc by the same people who accused her, and that he was condemned by them to the same penalty.

I do not think that I have left out any verifiable fact. I think that all the rest amounts to speculation. The real problem of Gilles de Rais amounts, accordingly, to this. Here we have a person who, in almost every respect, was the make equivalent of Joan of Arc. Both of them have gone down in history. But history is somewhat curious. I am still inclined to think that “there ain’t no sick animal.” In the time of Shakespeare, Joan of Arc was accepted in England as a symbol for everything vile. He makes her out not only as a sorceress, but a charlatan and hypocrite; and on tope of that a coward, a liar, and a common slut. I suspect that they began to whitewash here when they decided that she was a virgin, that is a sexually deranged, or at least incomplete, animal, but the idea has always got people going, as any student of religion know. Anyway, her stock went up to the point of canonization. Gilles de Rais, on the other hand, is equally a household work fro monstrous vices and crimes. So much so, that his is even confused with fabulou8s figure of Bluebeard, of whom, even were he real, we know nothing much beyond that he reacted in the most manly way to the problem of domestic infelicity.

A moment’s digression; in fact, the main point. What is the most precise and most atrocious charge that is made against him? That he sacrificed, in the course of alchemical and magical experiments, a matter of 300 children? I submit that, a priori, this sounds a little improbable. Gilles de Rais was the lord of a district whose population would not have been very extensive, and even in that age of slavery, dirt, disease, debauchery, poverty and ignorance, which seems to Mr. G. K. Chesterton the one ideal state of society, it must have been a little difficult to carry out abductions and murders on such wholesale principles.

Whenever questions arise with regard to black magic or black masses, invocations of the devil, etc., etc., it must never be forgotten that these practices are strictly functions of Christianity. Where ignorant savages perform propitiatory rites, there and there only Christianity takes hold. But under the great systems of the civilized parts of the world, there is no trace of any such perversion in religious feeling. It is only the bloodthirsty and futile Jehovah who has achieved such monstrous births. Such up as-trees can only grow in the poisonous mire of fear and shame where thought has putrefied to Christianity.

There is thus no antecedent improbability that Gilles de Rais (or any other person of that place and period) was addicted to black magical practices, for they were all Catholics. The power of the Church was, at that time, absolute, and even research was limited by the arbitrary theology imposed upon the mind of everyone. The abomination was at its height. But its decline has been rapid. True, one hundred years later it was still possible for Queens to be bulldozed by Presbyterian pulpit-eers, but the time was already predictable when their best was for undergraduates to be bluffed by homosexual ecclesiastics. I suppose it is all in the family.

While these profound thoughts were producing a hypochondriac obnubilation of my mental faculties, it suddenly occurred to me that after all, I had heard this story before. And I saw the connection.

In the pitch-dark ages, when Christianity held unchallenged sway over those portions of this globe, which it had sufficiently corrupted, the pursuit of knowledge—knowledge of any kind - - was justly estimated by the people in power as the one and only dangerous pursuit. Even so, as late as 300 years ago, it was not considered very gentlemanly to be able to read and write. I am not sure that it is.

In any case, it is a great error in education to teach these things. Grammar, we must never forget, appears in the word “Gramarye,” beloved of Sir Walter Scott, and “grimoire,” a black magical ritual - - that is to say, any written document.

Precious little knowledge filtered through Christianity. It was against the interests of the Church, and in those times it was much easier to suppress people and ideas than it is now, though even today we find priests - - at least in Oxford - - who appear not to have heard of a certain recent invention by a notorious Magician inspired by the Devil - - the Printing Press.

But they feared. So those who pursued knowledge were at the best under strong suspicion of heresy. I need not quote the obvious names. But there were certain bodies of people who did carry on the old knowledge, mostly by oral tradition, and who were perforce tolerated to a certain extent, because even the little knowledge that they did possess was so exceedingly useful. The best way to make armor, or to build Cathedrals, or to heal sickness would enable the Christian to get ahead of his friends. Therefore, although conscience evidently demanded the maximum amount of persecution compatible with the existence of villains, the Jews and the Arabs were at least allowed to live. Besides, the Arabs saw to themselves.

But no one was better aware than the Pope that knowledge was power. For all he know, and he probably knew that he did not now much, the Jews and Arabs might get together and overturn the whole construction of society. Had he not in his own records the very best example of such a catastrophe?

There are a large number of excellent people, possessed of even less that the minimum amount of brains required to grease a gimlet, who are always boring us with the bogey of the Jew-Bolshevist peril. But as most of them are Roman Catholic and unaware that Rome is laughing in its sleeve at them, they conveniently ignore what should be - - if they realized I - - their best argument. What was the ultimate cause of the destruction of the great civilization of Rome? What corrupted the spirit of a people unconquerable in arms? What but the spread of the slave morality of Jewish communists of the period? If you will take your New Testaments from your pockets, you will find in the fourth chapter of the Acts of the Apostles and the thirty-second verse: “and the multitude of them that believed were of one heart and soul: and not one of them said that aught of the things that he possessed was his own, but that they had all things in common. “ Of course one of them, and he too was a Jew, tried to hold out on the kitty, and was struck miraculously dead for his pains. Lenin and Trotsky never did as well!

So, as Roman Catholics are always telling us, the Church has a monopoly of logic, and The Pope argued that all Jews were communists. Anyone who had or wanted knowledge must be a Jew, and therefore a communists, and therefore - - well, the Pope too believed in preparedness, though he probably called it a program of disarmament. When people scrap battleships in the name of peach on earth and goodwill to men, it means that they have found battleships useless and too expensive, and that they have found something cheaper and more deadly. So the Curia kept a weapon in reserve, in order to be sure of having a nice jolly pogrom whenever they gave the word. And what was the word to be?

Nice quiet peasant folk, or genial hard-working hunters and fighters, are not easy to arouse to indiscriminate slaughter without reason. In order to get them going, there are only two things which you can play on - - greed and fear. The motive behind the Crusades was the story of the fabulous wealth of the East. We find, in fact, that well-organized armies of buccaneers, such as the Templars, did not bring back incalculable spoils, while the honest pious mugs ruined themselves in the process.

Now, in this particular sport of suppressing earnest enquirers, it was not much good trying to play on people’s greed. For everyone knew that even if the Jews had wealth, the managed to hide it very successfully, and that they had a nasty way of arranging for protection with people who were too powerful to be bullied, and too good business men to be fooled into killing the goose that laid the golden eggs. So the only motive available was fear, and in those ages where ignorance was fostered with infinite devotion, it was even easier to create a scare about bogies than our propaganda in the recent scrap found it.

I was in Venice just before the war, when Halley’s comet was around, and although the Pope himself sprinkled holy water over the comet, and sent it his special benediction and told the people it would do no harm, in his most ex cathedra manner, the Venetians gathered themselves in panic-stricken crowds in the Square of St. Mark and waited, howling for the end of the world.

It was accordingly easy enough to associate the pursuit of knowledge with the most abominable crimes, real or imaginary or both. For the reason, we hear - - not as a demonstrated thesis, but as a commonplace of inherited knowledge - - that Jews were sorcerers and wizards. In other works, they know something about grammar. We heard that they transformed themselves into cats or bats, and sucked people’s big toes. I have never, personally, investigated the question as to whether this form of nutrition is palatable. But, alas! Even in those idyllic Chestertonian times there was a little shrewd common sense knocking about; the instinct - - sometimes very splendidly described as horse sense - - which comes from intimate wordless un-intellectual communing with nature (please do not take that word “communing” in any bad sense; if it were not for Baldwin. I would be a Conservative myself) - - the instinct of some people, who at the bottom of their hearts, did not so much believe in these phantasms. I was not so easy to get them to go out and murder a lot of inoffensive people at the word jump. They had to be supplied with something a little more tangible.

You will notice how all this fort of argument is invariably of the ad captandum variety. It is produced out of nowhere for a definite purpose; and, as the French say, does not rime with anything. If it did, of course, it would immediately be exposed as nonsense. It is satisfied that nobody can disprove it any more than they can prove it.

Take a concrete example. A nice young gentleman the other day wanted (very properly) to earn his living, and not being peculiarly endowed by Nature in the matter of original invention, he thought he might make a story out of the idea of a Suicide Club. In this he was evidently correct. Robert Louis Stevenson had in fact proved the point. So he took Stevenson’s story and transferred it to Germany, and driveled on about the ace of spades, and quoted statistics of suicides, and said that I was the president of the Club and that the Berlin police were after me.

Now, I am afraid it would be a little bit difficult for anyone to prove that I am responsible for any suicides that may take place in Germany. But, on the other hand, it is quite impossible for me to disprove it. So now, if you want to attack anybody without the slightest fear of contradiction, you know how to set to work.

I omitted to mention that all these suicides were excessively beautiful and even voluptuous young women of high social position, and that the wicked president had blackmailed them out of vast sums. You see, the people for whom this dear young gentleman was writing all get sexually excited by pictures of young women, and also by any statement about large sums of money. For they immediately have a wish phantasm - - if they had large sums themselves, what terrible fellows they could be.

In the Middle Ages, the art of exciting the people was not very different. The Jew had always an immense hoard of ill-gotten wealth, and of course every penny that was exacted by Reginald Front-de-Boeuf was laid to the Jews’ account. But there was another treasure that the peasant was afraid to lose, the dearest treasure of all, his children. As little boys, thank God, have a habit of straying in search of adventure and getting lost in the process, which is good for their souls, the peasant naturally has moments of serious disquietude as to whether something terrible can have happened to little Tommy. Very good, all we have to do is to play on the alarm.

We put into his mind, that little Tommy (who turns up all right, if rather muddy, half and hour later), has almost certainly been kidnapped by the Jews for purposes of ritual murder.

I don’t know over how many years these practices were supposed to have spread. As I think you must all feel sure by now, I know nothing whatever of my subject.

But scientific experiment in those days was always a very prolonged operation. They thought nothing of exposing some unknown substance to the rays of the sun and moon for periods of three months at a time, in the hope that in some mysterious way the first stage of some dimly - - visaged operation might be satisfactorily accomplished. And even if they sacrificed a child every day, it would have taken a matter of two and a half years to dispose of 800 children. Besides, it must have taken more than a few minutes to kidnap a child with the secrecy obviously required. Did the disappearance of the first 400, say put no parents on their guard?

I think, at the best, it is a cast of little Tommy who told his mother there where millions of cats on the wall of the back garden, but under cross-examination, in the style made popular by the dialogue of Lot with Almighty God, admitted that it was “Tom and another.”

Of course, it will be obvious to you by this time that I have been seduced by Jewish gold, and the only way that I can think of to disarm your suspicions is to bring forward another cast the same kind, little more then a century old, with which Jews had nothing to do.

There was a poet laureate - - I am not quite sure what this species of animal is - - but his name was Robert Southey, and he lived, if you can call it living, about the time of William Blake. He wrote a number of words arranged in some scheme connected with rime and rhythm; apparently, like golf clubs, “a set of instruments very ill-adapted to the purpose. But, anyway, he called it a poem, and the title was something to do with the old woman of Berkeley and who rode behind her. The person who rode behind her was Mr. Montague Summers’ friend, the Devil. What she actually did to merit this favor is to me rather obscure, because I have forgotten the whole beastly thing. But I do remember two lines, because I am in the same line of business myself.

I have candles make of infants’ fat,

I have feasted on rifled graves.

Southey was an ambitious man. He was not content with the brilliant success of this masterpiece of the poetic art. He immediately sat down and wrote another alleged poem all about infants’ fat and rifled graves and the Devil coming for the villain at the proper moment. This poem has nothing to do with witchcraft. It is called “The Surgeon’s Warning.”

I think this is the best evidence in support of my thesis - - whatever that is, I am not quite sure - - that it is possible to adduce.

In the minds of the kind of people who believe in their neighbors making candles of infants’ fat and digging up corpses to economize on the butcher’s bill, the surgeon - - that is to say, the man in pursuit of knowledge which it is hoped may alleviate human pain - - is the same kind of animal as the witch and the ritual – murdering Jew.

It is, no doubt, because it is a part of the old taboo complex about the corpses of one’s relatives, that the clerical attack on surgeons concentrated itself on one fact - - the fact that to learn to be a surgeon you must have corpses to dissect. For at that time, it will be remembered, hospitals were not as flourishing as they are today, and it was very difficult to find living people whom you could cut up to see what came of it. The surgeon was, in fact, not understood at all, except in the one way which such people were capable of understanding; i.e., as the body-snatcher. The rest of his proceedings were perfectly mysterious to them.

You notice that even Charles Dickens - - who may yet go down in history for having wished to prosecute Holman Hunt, of all people in the world, for painting indecent pictures - - take very much this popular view of medicine and pharmacy in Pickwick.

I think, then, it is not altogether unfair to assume that Gilles de Rais was to a large extent the victim of Catholic logic. Catholic logic: and the foul wish-phantasms generated of its repressions, and of its fear and ignorance. He wanted to confer to a boon on humanity; therefore he consorted with learned; therefore he murdered little children.

I think it is about time that somebody got after J. B. S. Haldane. It is too late to do anything more to Fidley and Latimer, but I am quite sure that the candle they lit was made of infants’ fat. It is no use your starting to rifle Graves, because his publishers might resent you interference.

Those in favor of the motion will now please signify the same in the usual manner. Any way the Lord have mercy on your souls!

The above article was a lecture given at the University Poetry Society by Aleister Crowley on Feburary 30th 1930. Later published in Occult Digest Vol. 2 Issue 3 (1972).

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echoesofcanons · 7 years

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Fuck Father’s Day

I want to talk about Father’s Day. I did this two years ago on a different site. Apparently every few years I need to write this out. That’s fine. It’s a lot better than living it. My father hit me when I was a kid. Not spankings; though I’m against those as a parenting technique, that’s not what I’m talking about here. I mean he hit me like I was a grown man in the military when I was a small girl of 9. A short list of the worst stuff is pretty awful, but just recall as you read that this doesn’t cover a tenth of what he did. He picked me up and threw me so hard into a bookcase that I bounced off and still had enough force to go through my closet door. It dislocated my shoulder. He punched me in the chest so hard I fell onto the ground. It hurt for a week. He kicked me while I was running up the steps away from him; it was a kick so forceful that it lifted me two steps, where I again sprawled on the ground. I had trouble sitting down in school for a while after that. I can’t count the number of times he slapped me upside the head. He threw a wrench at me twice, once at my legs (I think that one was throwing it aside in anger and he didn’t mean to hit me, but no pass on that) and once at my head. He missed both times. Sometimes I wish it had hit me. Then I’d at least have a scar to point to. Then I think about traumatic head injuries and shudder; no, I don’t wish it had hit me after all. Thinking on that makes me think about how close he came to doing that, and I get angry and afraid and depressed all over again. This is to say nothing of the emotional abuse, the racism, homophobia, misogyny and transphobia I endured on a constant basis. It says nothing of the times he threatened to kill me with the words “I brought you into this world, and I can take you out.” (It’s a Bill Cosby quote.Bill Cosby was thought of as a parenting role model for a long time. I never liked Cosby growing up. I didn’t know anything about him being a rapist. I just knew my Dad liked him and that he joked about killing his son on the show.) Threatening to throw me out of the house to live on my own was so mild by comparison that it didn’t even register as abuse until much, much later. He never hit my younger brother or my even younger sister. He was disgusting about women and weight, so both of them got plenty of abuse of their own, but no on else got hit. Into that reality, I realized around 10 or 11 that I wanted to be a woman. Not exactly that, at the time; I just knew I identified more with female characters, and I wanted to dress in women’s clothes. I thought I was sick. Being raised in a Catholic family can do that to you. You think their sickness and vileness in hating people they’ve never met is yours, because it’s all you know.

Even if we’d been atheists, though, my father’s rage towards me combined with his sexualization of every female comic book, cartoon, and novel character I was interested in who was female made me terrified. He was hitting me already. What would hitting look like combined with sexualizing? I didn’t know. I thought maybe rape. What he did was awful; what I imagined he would do, as a creative young woman and a writer fully capable of imagining the worst, was even more terrifying.

When I first started sleeping with a man, in what I thought was a gay relationship but was, counter to my then limited understanding, a straight one, I insisted we keep it quiet from my both of my parents. I meant my father. I was worried he’d hurt me. Worse, I was worried he’d hurt the guy fucking me. Even though that guy was a rich asshole who used, hid, and shamed me, he didn’t deserve my father’s fury. No one did. But I got it. I hadn’t worried when I’d slept with a woman for the first time a few months before that. I didn’t tell him about that either, but that was because I couldn’t bear to hear him talk about it. I couldn’t bear that he would be proud of me, but for all the wrong reasons. It would dirty what she and I had shared. Again, that was a gay sexual experience. I couldn’t even frame it that way. The idea of being a woman, of being who I really was? That was unthinkable. That was too dangerous to even contemplate. So I didn’t.

I don’t talk to him anymore. I held back from considering transitioning until I was 30. That’s the year I realized I was holding back in part because I was afraid of my father. He’d only stopped hitting me when I’d started working out and getting into sports my junior year of high school. When I shoved him back and was clearly ready to punch him at 16, he backed down and never did it again. He was an ex Marine, so I don’t think it was fear. I think he wanted to get some sort of manliness check out of me, perhaps, or was such a bully that he instinctively backed off people who were strong enough to stand up for themselves. Or maybe he was just a coward, and I’m even now giving him credit where it isn’t due. My ex-wife was just like him. I fell into the abuse trap so many childhood abuse survivors do, clinging to a new abuser to escape the old one. She was an abuse survivor too, if she was telling me the truth. It’s hard to tell; she lied about so much, most of which I didn’t find out about until leaving her. I think she was, though. The types of abuse she faced matched her abusive behaviors. He was bad; she was worse. He was an idiot at least, and I knew he was wrong. She hid things so she could shame me for my mental health. Where his abuse was blatant, hers came with the promise that only she would ever love me so much. Where he was violent in rage, she hit me while she was laughing. Where he drove others away, she brought them into the abuse and made mocking me a fun game for others. She gaslit me terribly, so that I still have panic attacks when I lose my keys for a moment because of all the times she would hide my things right before work, or a trip to my family, or interviews, then harangue me about my lapses. Maybe worst of all, she used the fact that I’d shared my deepest secret with her, that I was a woman or at least liked dressing as one, to manipulate me through fear and shame. I escaped her the same year I cut off contact with him. It was one of the hardest years of my life. I had no job, as I’d been fired for coming out as potentially transitioning soon at work under the pretense of it being for forgetting to call a customer back. It was a crucible of a year. I had a screaming match with my father and mother, walked out on both of them at my brother’s graduation from basic training, and took a year away before speaking to my Mom again after she profusely apologized, acknowledged his abuse, and promised to work on our relationship from the understanding that she had failed to protect me. I’m 34 now. It took me two years after my ex to feel certain enough in myself to transition. I’m two years into electrolysis and a year and a half into HRT. I’ve been mildly assaulted on the street three times, four if you count the old woman who tried to spit on me. I get stared at constantly. People routinely talk about how they’d kill a trans woman, or hurt her, when I’m on the bus. Having a beard and breasts is not something people are willing to let slide. Every time it happens--every damn time--I flash back to my father. I don’t think these people realize how lucky they are that I’ve embraced nonviolence. It wasn’t out of lack of capacity or skill; having an abusive father like mine has meant knowing how to fight lethally while other people were still posturing and swelling their chests. No, it’s not lack of capacity. It was and is a conscious ethical choice. I’ve chosen to turn my father’s violence, his pain and suffering from his own abusive father, inwards on myself rather than ever let it escape and hurt someone else. Just learning to stand up for myself without the violence he always used has been a trial. I always want to please everyone, and when I’m upset or hurt I either cringe or have to walk away. I’m forever bowing and scraping. I often hate who I am. I often think I’m a violent monster at heart. I try hard to remember that’s his voice, his hate. Father’s Day is a shitty day for me. It’s a shitty day for a lot of people who had abusive men in their lives who dared to call themselves “dad.” If you’re out there reading this and you’re remembering similar terror and pain from a man who was supposed to be your protector and parent, your guardian and loving father, I’m sorry. He might never say it, but I will. I’m so sorry you suffered and you deserved better. So did I. So does everyone with an abusive father. If you’re in it now, please know that it can get better. Please hold on. Don’t kill yourself. I thought about it constantly in those years, and I still do, but I held on and it did get better. It’s still getting better. It’s not that your pain isn’t enough to make death a desirable alternative. It is. It’s that such pain isn’t eternal, and you will be able to escape it if you can just hold on. Please do. It gets better. I’m a happier person today. I’m in several romantic poly relationships with people who treat me with dignity, respect, and gentleness. One of them has been going on for five years now. I have good friends, and I’ve never been closer with several members of my family. My dad isn’t one of them. So fuck Father’s Day. Today’s the day I mourn the life I could have had. Today is the day I hold out hope for those caught in situations like mine. Most of all, today is the day I remember that I was and am a woman strong enough to survive everything he did to me as a little girl, and to still have compassion for the pain he suffered to turn him in to what he was. Compassion doesn’t mean forgetting or forgiveness, but I’m damn proud that I don’t think he’s a monster. He just acted like one. Fuck Father’s Day. Heal where and when you can. Escape when you’re able. Know that you’re worthy of love and affection that isn’t coerced through fear and violence.You’re stronger than he’ll ever be, and you’re beautiful and brave in a way no one who hasn’t suffered like you will ever understand.

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soundofawesomeblog · 6 years

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100 songs for the ultimate 2017 playlist: this is Estelle’s picks for the best DAMN. tracks of the year.

2017 is the year when everyone is tired of all the bullshit. It is the year when you can’t just be a silent witness. It is the year when whistleblowers brought horrible people down, some of which managed to keep a shiny facade for decades all while being pieces of crap behind closed doors. It is the year (Afro-)American football athletes acted like heroes. It is the year Australia voted in favour of same-sex marriage and realized that love was the answer.

Don’t get me wrong: 2017 was horrible in an awful lot of ways. But we need to look at the positive if we want to be able to advance in 2018. Many artists felt the need to address the state of the world as it is right now and managed to make diamonds from the coal. Some were confrontational, some were loving and caring. But all of the artists behind the 100 songs on this list helped on their own scale to make our lives more bearable.

As usual, this is my personal list of the best jams of 2017; Léa's list of 100 songs and Mathieu’s choices are also available now. If you want more music, you can revisit my lists of 2014, 2015 and 2016. This time, however, the top 50 tracks will come with a short description so you can know what to expect from them.

100. Cardi B – Bodak Yellow 99. Nilufer Yanya – Golden Cage 98. Wolf Alice – Don’t Delete The Kisses 97. Priests – Nothing Feels Natural 96. Tove Lo – Disco Tits 95. Vince Staples – Crabs In A Bucket 94. Sampha – (No One Knows Me) Like The Piano 93. Future – Mask Off 92. Tops – Petals 91. Cuesta Loeb – Grass It Grows 90. Sleigh Bells – Rainmaker 89. Kesha – Praying 88. Tyler, The Creator feat. ASAP Rocky – Who Dat Boy 87. Father John Misty – Pure Comedy 86. Remo Drive – Art School 85. French Montana feat. Sae Lee – Unforgettable 84. Miguel – Told You So 83. MØ – Nights With You 82. SZA feat. Travis Scott – Love Galore 81. Methyl Ethel – Ubu 80. Carly Rae Jepsen – Cut To The Feeling 79. Alex Lahey – I Haven’t Been Taking Care Of Myself 78. Paramore – Hard Times 77. Jay-Z - The Story of O.J. 76. Charly Bliss – Westermarck

75. King Krule - Dum Surfer 74. The Courtneys - Minnesota 73. LCD Soundsystem – tonite 72. Jay Som – Baybee 71. Slowdive – Don’t Know Why 70. Charli XCX feat. Uffie – Babygirl 69. Lorde – Perfect Places 68. Kelly Lee Owens feat. Jenny Hval – Anxi. 67. Haim – Want You Back 66. Naomi Elizabeth – When You Got The Best You’re Like Wow 65. Japandroids – North East South West 64. Hannah Diamond - Never Again 63. Washed Out – Get Lost 62. BROCKHAMPTON – GUMMY 61. Mura Masa feat. Charli XCX – 1 Night 60. Lana Del Rey feat. The Weeknd – Lust For Life 59. Tkay Maidza & Danny L Harle - Bom Bom 58. Phoebe Bridgers – Motion Sickness 57. St. Vincent – Los Ageless 56. Charly Bliss – Percolator 55. Haim – Right Now 54. Real Estate – Darling 53. Pale Waves – There’s A Honey 52. Makthaverskan – In My Dreams 51. Julien Baker – Appointments

50. Saya - Cold Fire

Canadian newcomer Saya proves that the coolest pop happens North of the border with Cold Fire, the sonic equivalent to a dark thick and sexy cloud of smoke. And it feels just as dangerous as the title implies it.

49, Beach Fossils – Down The Line

Driven by a bouncy bass line worthy of Joy Division, Down the Line sees Beach Fossils revealing a 4am indie text message of a track, a low-key anthem to living a slacker life and trying to find someone to share it with.

48. Calvin Harris feat. Frank Ocean & Migos – Slide

Calvin Harris created with Slide the dancefloor number we always knew Frank Ocean had in him, with inspiration from Thinking 'Bout You's echoed handclaps and Nikes' pitched up vocal hook. More important, Ocean sounds fun in a way we rarely see in his solo work. Migos' verses only add more spice.

47. The Drums – Blood Under My Belt

One of the best songs of the summer, Blood Under My Belt is a catchy slice of effortless indie pop that should stand the test of time like The Drums' best material for decades to come.

46. Lorde – Supercut

Lorde embodies the millennial generation through one of our best guilty pleasures: supercut videos. The song feels as dizzying as the lyrics, with various moving parts stitched together better than any supercut you'll find on YouTube.

45. Kendrick Lamar – DNA.

Kendrick Lamar's attack mode is something to behold. On DNA. he raps about his blackness and attacks FOX News' divisive and clueless stances, all while riding one of the hardest beat of the year on the track's back end.

44. Selena Gomez – Bad Liar

Selena Gomez gets serious indie cred for sampling Psycho Killer's bass line, and the fact that it's pretty much all that backs her up on Bad Liar showcases her talent as a charismatic interpret for this year's best low-key pop moment.

43. Courtney Barnett & Kurt Vile - Over Everything

Two of the greatest slack-rock icons of today pair up for some serious hammock soundtrack as Courtney Barnett and Kurt Vile stop time together in the chilliest of ways on Over Everything.

42. Björk - The Gate

"It’s about rediscovering love", said Björk to Dazed about her latest album, Utopia. Lead single The Gate showcases the veteran artist surrounded by reverb and deep love, pleading for the unnamed "you" to care for her until Arca's production finally takes over.

41. LCD Soundsystem - call the police

James Murphy and his friends have lost nothing of their dance-punk instincts and LCD Soundsystem builds another snowballing number with call the police, a track that becomes so manic you might as well text the cops.

40. Colour Of Spring - Love

Leeds' best-kept secret, Colour of Spring is yet to release a full album, but Love sounds like it came from a classic shoegaze band with years of experience, all while keeping the urgency of someone trying to break out into the scene.

39. Kelela - LMK

Kelela came of age on Take Me Apart, her first full-length album and LMK is the sound of an artist finding her own, unique lane. Here, Kelela mixes Smooth R&B vocals to a bass-heavy beat from the future.

38. (Sandy) Alex G - Bobby

(Sandy) Alex G's latest album was a little less lo-fi than his earlier works, but Bobby proves that he can still make charming and honest folk music when he wants. Emily Yacina's voice only adds more warmth to a track as comfortable as a blanket.

37. The War On Drugs - Holding On

Channeling the gods of classic rock and indie, The War On Drugs deliver one of the band's most immediate and blown up song of its catalogue with the urgent Holding On.

36. Mac Demarco - My Old Man

Freak folk icon Mac DeMarco realizes he is becoming like his father in the worst ways on My Old Man, but his trademark no fuss delivery renders his uh-ohs as charming as he can be.

35. Lil Uzi Vert - XO TOUR Llif3

The exact moment where grunge, SoundCloud, hip-hop and mainstream collided together, XO TOUR Llif3 is one of the most depressing but also fascinating singles to make it to the top 10 of the Billboard Hot 100.

34. Kevin Morby - City Music

Even with a limited set of lyrics, folk rock artist Kevin Morby channels his inner Marquee Moon on the ambitious City Music, a musical trip that starts with a soothing guitar riff and turns into a damn fine jam.

33. Miguel feat. Travis Scott - Sky Walker

It's no news that Miguel can do sexy, but with Sky Walker, he injects a whole dose of fun and raunchy one-liners to his music for a smooth party number.

32. Alvvays - In Undertow

On In Undertow, indie pop darlings Alvvays' comeback single, the Canadian band sounds more direct and confident than ever. With its waves of guitar wooshes and Molly Rankins’ unique voice, it’s a real heartthrob.

31. Frank Ocean - Chanel

Frank Ocean is on a streak; after releasing the outstanding Blonde in 2016, he came back with several singles in 2017. On Chanel, he blurs the lines between rapping and crooning, carrying the sparse production all the way over the high expectations he now has to deal with.

30. Alice Glass - Without Love

God bless Alice Glass and her comeback. There was no better way to start the next chapter of her career than with such a devastating electropop single, one where she channels a mix of the darkest parts of Samus from Metroid and Grimes for unique results.

29. SZA - Drew Barrymore

Perhaps the biggest revelation of 2017, SZA exposes all of her flaws and insecurities on Drew Barrymore, an honest R&B ballad set to a gin-fuelled backbeat. Her skilful flow in the verses is only a bonus.

28. Miya Folick - Give It To Me

Miya Folick showcases a sweet voice over a sparse guitar riff until she really, really wants you to give it to her. Then, her voice launches into the stratosphere as goosebumps emerge from your entire body.

27. Slowdive - Sugar For The Pill

Sugar for the Pill is quite the ballad, but it is still the most pop Slowdive has ever been with Neil Halstead's voice front and center over the dreamy guitars.

26. Vince Staples - Big FIsh

Don't let the banging beat or an uncredited Juicy J fool you with its club-ready hook; Vince Staples is not praising partying, money and booze on Big Fish. He instead reflects on his past misfortunes and how he can try to leave it behind him.

25. Thundercat - Friend Zone

No one did groovy in 2017 the way Thundercat did. Friend Zone is the best example of this, with its dizzying synths, bouncy bass line and Thundercat's unique voice.

24. Jay Som - The Bus Song

Jay Som is a low-key girl. She makes bedroom pop and likes the bus. Yet on The Bus Song, she hints at bigger ambitions with her rich arrangements and undeniable sense of melody.

23. Jay-Z - 4:44

One year after Beyoncé called him out for cheating on Lemonade, Jay-Z takes the blame and faces how he fucked up on 4:44. And unlike the wave of apologies that came out in the last few months, this one feels sincere. Oh, and it's got quite the beat too.

22, Waxahatchee - Never Been Wrong

Katie Crutchfield opens her fourth album as Waxahatchee with a solid rock single, ready to defeat someone who wronged her badly - and who is definitely going to regret it.

21. Screaming Females - Glass House

This post-punk number is driven by an incessant bassline and start-stops from the rest of the band while Marissa Paternoster gives an unforgettable vocal performance.

20. The xx - I Dare You

Oliver Sim and Romy's voices intertwine perfectly on I Dare You, pleading to fall in love over a Jamie xx beat that recalls the band’s early days.

19. Charly Bliss - Glitter

Real glitter is apparently as toxic to the environment than the relationship Eva Hendricks details in this track, one that matches powerpop and indie aspirations with melody, fun and one hell of a hook.

18. Pierre Kwenders - Sexus Plexus Nexus

Polyglot, Montréal-based Pierre Kwenders offers a smooth as hell mix of world music on Sexus Plexus Nexus, a track that should bring bodies closer to each other on any dancefloor.

17. Tyler, The Creator feat. Frank Ocean & Steve Lacy - 911/Mr. Lonely

Tyler, The Creator enlists Steve Lacy and Frank Ocean for a breezy complaint about being lonely on 911, a trend he flips on the Mr. Lonely part of the song. There, he quits playing games and admits that he can't even lie, he's been lonely as fuck.

16. Mount Eerie - Real Death

Death became a common theme in music lately, and Mount Eerie's mourning of his wife on Real Death might be the most honest, direct and arresting testament of grief yet.

15. The War On Drugs - Thinking Of A Place

It's not the first trick in the book to release a comeback single that runs for eleven minutes. But The War On Drugs pulls it off with Thinking Of A Place, a song that embraces classic and indie rock in a laidback way. After all, we've got all our time.

14. Slowdive - Slomo

Slowdive's Slomo is seven minutes of pure bliss. Three decades in the scene, the British band manages to bring a track that already sits up there as one of the best shoegaze anthems.

13. Khalid - Young Dumb & Broke

"Yeah we're just young, dumb and broke, but we still got love to give" sings the newly Grammy nominated Khalid. Here, he delivers a laidback anthem for a generation that has nothing else to do but get high and live its life like there are still plenty of tomorrows.

12. St. Vincent - New York

St. Vincent is now an insane BDSM lord, but her most powerful single in 2017 was still a tender ballad called New York. Is it a love letter to the city? To David Bowie? To her ex? No answer can be as satisfying as the way she says "motherfucker" in the track.

11. Julien Baker - Turn Out The Lights

Julien Baker knows how to strip naked her emotions in her songs. In Turn Out the Lights' finale, she lets it all out as she realizes she needs to get out of her lowest point on her own.

10. Julie Byrne - Natural Blue

Singer-songwriter Julie Byrne looks as peaceful as ever on the cover of her latest indie folk album Not Even Happiness, and highlight ballad Natural Blue feels just as comforting.

9. Japandroids - No Known Drink Or Drug

All Japandroids songs are propelled by a crunchy riff and a big rush of passion. No Known Drink Or Drug just happens to pack an unmatched level of it all, as rock and love triumphs in a truly life-affirming anthem.

8. Alvvays - Dreams Tonite

Dreams Tonite unfolds like a flower in Spring, with Molly Rankin's voice as sweet as a late-night milkshake for a soothing and timeless twee pop number.

7. Perfume Genius - Slip Away

The single most uplifting moment in a song this year comes exactly 49 seconds into Slip Away. Perfume Genius opens the curtains wide to show his love to the world in the loudest chamber pop number.

6. Kendrick Lamar - HUMBLE.

Kendrick never really left, but HUMBLE. hits harder than any comeback. Kung Fu Kenny's first solo #1 saw him take the throne and shut down all pretenders as hip-hop biggest force.

5. Lorde - Green Light

Lorde is all grown up now and she knows how to build a memorable, if quirkily constructed, hit single. Green Light is the sound of a popstar hitting her zeitgeist, a dance song that feels vital.

4. Charli XCX - Boys

My favorite emoji lately has hearts in lieu of eyes and Boys sounds like its favorite song. Here, Charli gets lost in her pretty boys' fantasies, laying in a bed full of heart-shaped pillows, and forgets about her problems, one game coin sound at a time.

3. Lana Del Rey - Love

After years of dark and bleak songs, Lana Del Rey decided in 2017 to look out for us. For the first time, she sounds happy and bubbly: Love was the unexpected rush of hope we so desperately needed this year. "Don't worry baby..."

2. Vince Staples - Yeah Right

With boundaries-pushing production from SOPHIE and Flume, Vince Staples provides the most forward-thinking rap song of the year. Add Kendrick flexing one of his best flows in a guest verse and you've got the biggest banger you haven't heard yet on Yeah Right.

1. Sorority Noise - No Halo

Written by Cameron Boucher as he pulled off in front of his friend's house, forgetting he passed away a year ago, No Halo is emo's most essential single in this decade. An arresting number, the song reaches a whole new level on its gut-wrenching chorus.In a year when our heads spun out of control in all directions, No Halo is a reminder that life is short and that you should tell your close ones that you love them before it’s too late.

This is it for this year, one in which I found myself toying with the top 10 up until the very last minute. If you want to listen to these songs, I encourage you to check the Spotify playlist at the bottom that should contain almost all of the tracks you’ve seen here.

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