#the picture of her he sees as he's drifting back to conscious with the cigarette in her mouth | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mochegato · 4 years ago

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Pixie Spy

Chapter 3

Chapter 1 Chapter 2

Adrien was resting lightly on the hotel couch as he waited for Marinette and Constantine to return from their mission. It probably would have been wiser to just wait until the morning to check on Marinette but he wanted to be available to leave immediately in case something happened. Plus he wanted to see Constantine before he went home so he could make sure they all agreed on the next steps. Which led to his current position in their base of operations, covered in popcorn from an overturned bowl, in front of a table full of caffeinated drinks that hadn’t been as effective as he was hoping, the credits for the latest movie in his movie marathon rolling by on the television, and Plagg snoring loudly atop the overturned bowl.

Their Base of Operations was a penthouse room in Le Grand Paris Hotel next to Chloe’s room. She had convinced her Daddy she needed to have the extra room so she could have a gym and meditation area nearby. After all, was she really expected to share a gym with other people and their germs? Did he have no concern for her health at all! Did he want her to get sick? And with the whole Hawkmoth situation, she needed to meditate to relieve stress. Did he really think there was any way she could relax sharing a meditation area with other people!? Stressed people had trouble focusing in school. Did he want her to fail out of school? Did he want her to be stressed out and stress eat? To be sick and unhealthy and uneducated and miserable and get AKUMATIZED? Again? Is that really what he wanted for his only daughter?

The speed at which he caved was a personal best for Chloe and will forever be used by the team as a measure of speed, “yeah, that was fast, but not like meditation room fast”. And if the room she selected just so happened to have a balcony the heroes could use to swing in on and an extra bed they could use to collapse into after a tough fight and gym mats that could be used for sparring and a fully stocked refrigerator and pantry with the snacks the kwamis liked best and soundproofed walls (I mean honestly how was Chloe supposed to be expected to meditate in an unsoundproofed room?), it’s not really anyone else’s concern, now is it.

However, after hours of watching bad movies, the resolve he had earlier in the night of staying up until they returned had waned and he had involuntarily drifted off to sleep. It was almost sunrise and not long after that was when he would normally wake up for the day. Thankfully, he didn’t have anything scheduled for the day to ‘work on a large project’ with Chloe all day, so he would be able to sleep in and try to catch up. But as it was, he was running on almost no sleep for about 24 hours, after a full week of late nights and early mornings preparing for tonight, and consequently he was a little out of it. So perhaps he should be excused for having a very loose grip on reality at the present moment.

As soon as the portal opened behind his couch, he bolted up sensing the change in pressure more than reacting to any actual sound and immediately collapsed back on the couch when the sudden rush of blood made him dizzy. He blinked heavily as he watched Marinette and Constantine walk through the portal. He kept his focus on the portal behind them, mesmerized by the shimmering waves it created and still trying to get his hazy brain to focus on the present even after the portal had closed. He rubbed his eyes and squinted, still not sure if he was dreaming or conscious or if the two were bleeding together. “Is that… did you bring me a cat?” he asked in an uncertain voice still trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

“A what?” Marinette asked whipping around. “Oh for God’s sake. Seriously, cat. You’re not allowed to eat the kwamis,” she chastised the cat who dutifully ignored her and jumped onto the coffee table in front of Adrien to get a better look at the new kwami he had discovered, knocking over a few of Adrien’s drinks along the way.

Constantine huffed out a single laugh and tossed a cigarette into his mouth as he made his way toward the balcony, “Persistent little bugger. Good luck with that. I’m going out for a smoke.”

The cat cocked his head to the side and stared at the kwami. He cautiously raised his paw toward him as if to bat at him and started making chirping noises at him. When Plagg didn’t respond to the chirping, the cat moved a few steps closer to the black cat kwami and tried meowing at him.

“Back off fleabag,” Plagg hissed eyeing the infiltrator hostilely, “there’s already one cat here and I don’t share.”

“Only one?” Tikki asked amused.

“He doesn’t count his isn’t a real cat,” Plagg spluttered out motioning towards Adrien.

“Neither are you,” Adrien pointed out blithely.

Plagg flew into Adrien’s face to glare at him, “Look here you little…”

“Relax Plagg, I’m sending him back now,” Marinette interrupted rolling her eyes. “Voyage,” she called out picturing the Batcave and moving her arm to create a much smaller, cat sized portal she could push their stowaway through. She attempted to pick up the cat, but he apparently had other ideas. He twisted smoothly out of her hands, struggling to stay near the kwami. “Ugh,” Marinette grunted after a few more failed attempts, “Stop being a liquid!” she ordered the cat who continued to ignore her, but still rubbed against her legs on his way past her. “Tikki, Trixx, can you help out here?” she asked exasperated.

“Sure thing,” Trixx chirped and Trixx and Tikki flew around the cat’s head, gaining his attention. Once they were sure the cat was paying attention to them and willing to follow their movements, they both flew toward the portal at top speed, splitting up just before going through the portal. The cat raced after them but wasn’t quick enough to change his direction in time to avoid the portal. His momentum and Marinette’s well timed push caused him to slide through the portal. As soon as he was through, Marinette closed the portal, sealing him on the other side. They may be data thieves, but they were not cat thieves and she was not in the mood to deal with Plagg’s territoriality.

Marinette called off her transformation and collapsed into a large arm chair, letting out a long, tired sigh as she pulled off her shoes and tossed them on the floor. She rested her head against the back of the chair and closed her eyes, trying to meld with the chair and become one. She was ready for this night and this mission to be over. She didn’t even want to check that they got the data, she just wanted to go to sleep and never think about this night or blue eyes ever again. The gala was the past. It had no place in her future. Except that after all the information she had so stupidly shared both in the cave and at the gala, to a member of the Batfamily at that, they could definitely expect an immanent visit from the Batfamily and they would have to be prepared for that.

Adrien glanced over at Marinette amused at her exhaustion. He hoped her exhaustion was due to her having fun at the gala. Maybe she had met someone, at least for the night. Or maybe she had been able to network a bit. With the dress she had… his eyes widened as he suddenly noted her dress. That wasn’t what her dress looked like when she had left. That wasn’t a good sign. She was in the escape plan version of the dress, the shit-went-to-Hell version of the dress. It was supposed to be a last resort option. Well shit… On the bright side, that version of the dress was a lot more appealing and would have gotten more attention, so she might have gotten something out of the night after all. He shook his head and plastered on a fake smile, “So, how did it go? Was the mission a success?”

Marinette opened one eye to glare at him, the effect of which he thought was quite impressive considering she was only using one eye, honestly. “How did it go?” she repeated back to him in a belligerent tone opening both eyes to fully glare at him. “How did it go? How do you think it went?” she asked moving her hands up and down over her body indicating her dress.

“It looks like you got to show off that amazing design. So… any commissions? Get any phone numbers? Get the data?” He tried again still with a forced optimism.

“Oh he got the data alright,” her voice was dripping in false sweetness before switching to venom. “From the batcomputer in the Batcave as he was stealing it from Batman.” She replied intentionally avoiding the commission question because like hell was she going to hand him that win.

“What?!” Adrien exclaimed in shock.

“Yeah, that was the mission. Keep eyes on Batman while Constantine stole from him.”

“But you were supposed to keep an eye on the Waynes…”he commented confused.

“Exactly,” she confirmed with an acerbic smile.

“Wait… what! Bruce Wayne is Batman!!” he jumped up off the couch.

“Yep” she said popping the p.

“Shit,” he ran his hand over his face and collapsed back on the couch.

“That was roughly my response as well but with a lot more hostility and cursing.”

“But, I don’t understand… doesn’t he know Batman? Haven’t they worked together before? Why would we have to go through all of this if it was his friend?” his brain was still waking up and this was a lot to process and clearly his brain was not ready to do so.

“That is an excellent question my young Padawan,” she stood up moving closer to him.

“I’m older than you,” he interrupted with an annoyed look, but Marinette continued on ignoring him.

“And who does Constantine avoid at all costs?”

Adrien thought about it. They didn’t know Constantine extremely well, but they had managed to get a pretty good feel for him, “Legal authorities, debt collectors, his exes…”

“Exactly,” she interrupted “and since he doesn’t consider Batman a legal authority based on having worked with him before, and he doesn’t owe him money…”

“Oh my God!! He was screwing Batman!”

“It would seem so,” she nodded picking up one of the drinks on the table and contemplating the benefits of drinking it vs just saying fuck it and going to bed now.

“All that stuff we did? All that prep work, all that studying, the planning, the stress, the lost sleep, it was all because he wanted to avoid his ex?” Adrien needed clarification on this because they had gone through a lot in the last few weeks, unnecessarily so if that was true. Why had they allowed Constantine to help them again?

“He wanted to avoid him but get him involved with us. He figured this little undercover operation would achieve both.”

“Wait, how was you going to the Gala supposed to help?”

“Oh that’s another brilliant part of this clusterfuck of a night. The whole ‘stay undetected’ proviso was a fake out. The entire point was to get noticed. That’s why he sent me instead of you.”

“But, I’m famous so me going would have done that better.” Adrien couldn’t figure out if none of this made sense because his brain was still turned off or if it really didn’t make any sense, but Marinette’s reaction seemed to confirm that it wasn’t just him that was struggling with this.

“He didn’t just want us to get noticed, he wanted one of the bat boys to get invested, and he thought that was more likely if it was me rather than you. Apparently I look a lot more pathetic than you, so I worked better in his little plan,” she grumbled before smirking at him. “Personally, I think he vastly underestimated your ability to flirt and apparently the oldest brother is something of a slut so you could have possibly gotten a date out of it or at least a make out session. You should talk to him about that.”

Adrien stared at her as she ranted, trying to process everything she was telling him. One phrase caught his attention though, “which one is the oldest one again? Is he the one with the hair and the eyes and the…” he motioned toward his shoulders trying to indicate broad shoulders and firm body, “the gymnast?”

“Yep, that’s the one,” she nodded.

“Shit.” Adrien looked dejected. But turned back to her with a rakish smile. “So did his plan work? Did one of them ‘invest’ in you?”

“Not in me… ugh” she fell onto the couch. “So, on top of everything else, the brother we thought was dead? He’s very much alive. A wonderful fact which Constantine knew and I discovered WHILE I WAS DANCING WITH HIM! I mentioned the Hawkmoth situation to him in a very vague way before I knew who he was, which I would never have done if I’d known who he was, and I would have known if Constantine had fucking TOLD us about him.” She shouted toward the balcony.

“So…” Adrien prompted her.

“He seemed invested in stopping people getting hurt when I ran out, not in me.” She clarified, though whether she was trying to convince herself or him, she wasn’t sure.

“… you were dancing with him?” Adrien cocked his head to the side and gave her a smirk. “How closely were you dancing, exactly?”

“It wasn’t… that’s not how… It wasn’t like that. I was using him as a cover to get onto the dancefloor to observe the Waynes.” She floundered, her cheeks starting to turn pink as she forced down the ‘not close e-fucking-nough’ that wanted to break out.

“Don’t let her lie to you like that,” Constantine said coming back into the room. “She and Jason were getting cozy.”

“You were not there. We were NOT getting cozy,” she lied through her teeth, pointing a threatening finger towards him. And they certainly hadn’t been as cozy as she would have liked, so it isn’t really a lie, only kind of a lie.

“How cozy were you getting? Should I start planning a shovel talk?” Adrien grinned, enjoying every second of this.

Marinette sputtered at him, her blush turning darker, “This is not about my non-existent love life, this is about Constantine’s fucked up sex life. It is about him going though all this so he could avoid having to talk to his ex. He could have just asked Wayne for the information if he wasn’t so focused on his stupid little lover’s spat.”

“It wasn’t a lover’s spat.” Constantine corrected offended by the suggestion.

“Just a prank on your boyfriend then?” Marinette hissed at him, “at the expense of our time and Parisians’ sanity.”

“He isn’t… we aren’t… I have never and will never sleep with Batman. God, of all the vigilantes to suggest… I mean not the worst but not even when drunk and desperate.”

“You’ll screw a shark but not a bat?” Adrien asked with a cocked eyebrow.

“Okay, first I didn’t screw a shark, I got screwed by a shark, a lot. There is a difference. I highly recommend it actually... well maybe not to you two sunshine children… but the loud, blonde one seems like she might be into having fun.”

Adrien made a gagging sound and Marinette turned away quickly, shuddering and closing her eyes against the thought of Chloe and… anything. She didn’t want to think about Chloe doing anything with anyone. “I think I need to scrub my brain with bleach.”

“Second,” Constantine continued on, pretending he wasn’t enjoying their reaction to his statement, that it wasn’t the exact reaction he was trying to illicit, “ew. Too much drama involved. And, I’d still like to know how you found out about that anyway.”

Marinette looked over to Adrien to answer but noticed he was completely lost in thought, probably still trying to think of something to take his mind off of Chloe before glancing over to Plagg. Plagg looked up from the pillow he had settled on and shrugged, “you smell like fish.”

Adrien cocked his head to the side still deep in thought. “So… does that make him a Furry?”

“What the hell, Adrien! Is that really the focus here?” Marinette exclaimed hitting him on the shoulder. She was desperate to stop thinking about Chloe but Constantine doing anything with anyone was not an improvement over that. On the bright side, she wasn’t thinking about the gala anymore but God, at what cost?

“I mean, sharks don’t have fur so… finny?” he said still looking at nothing while he thought through the implications. “But furry is a reference to their skin and shark skin is made up of denticles, really tiny scales, so… scaly? No, that doesn’t sound nice. ‘Furry’ sounds cute, being into non-mammals should get a cute name too. Yeah, finny is definitely better. But since, a bat is a mammal, sleeping with the bat would’ve made him a furry. So he’s a finny, not a furry.” He said with a nod, proud of himself for working that out.

Marinette stared at him incredulously and ran a hand over her face, “Never has your scientific experience been more inappropriately utilized.”

“Oh no, you don’t know the conversations Red Cap, Glasses, Skater Girl, Monkey Boy, and he have. It gets much more inappropriately utilized and quite often.” Plagg said with an evil grin.

“You’re both wrong. Furry refers to people in costumes meant to evoke an animal. One really is a shark and the other isn’t trying to actually look like a bat so neither qualify, if we’re getting technical.” Constantine said leaning against the arm chair, arms folded over his chest. “As much as I like to discuss people’s sexual proclivities, is that really what you want to discuss before I leave? No better questions you want to focus on before I go?”

Marinette was almost grateful for him voicing his concern and changing the topic. Almost. Because she knew his concern wasn’t with staying on topic. The waste that the last two weeks were stood as testament to that fact. He didn’t care about wasting time. He had a point he wanted to make and he wanted their attention for it.

She wanted to get mad at him. She wanted to lecture him, but everything about this night was messy and frustrating and aggravating and it was all his fault so he didn’t get a pass even if she knew he was trying to help. At this point in the night… morning? God it was so late. At this point in the morning, she just wanted to drop it and let sleep wash away the night and the memories. Thankfully, she had Adrien. And Adrien takes Parisian suffering just as personally as she does.

Adrien looked at Constantine in feigned naïve confusion, “What did you want to focus on? How you made us unwitting accomplices to stealing from a superhero? How we are now on the Justice League’s radar as possible villains? How you lied to us the entire time you’ve been working with us? How you manipulated us against our express wishes to try to force our hand? How you ignored all of our expertise and thought out conclusions and instead of talking with us, played games with ours and other Parisians’ lives? How you wasted our time? During which time approximately 3 million Parisians died as a result of 8 akuma attacks. Which one did you want to focus on right now?”

Constantine rolled his eyes and huffed out a breath. “Dramatic much? Two weeks and one or two more deaths for someone who has already died a dozen times isn’t going to make much of a difference, but getting Batman involved might.”

“It makes a huge fucking difference to the people going through it. One more on top of so many others can be enough to cause a break that might take years or decades to recover from, if they ever do, to drive someone irrevocably insane. It makes a difference to the child who lost their innocence because of it.” Marinette hissed at him, suddenly very much awake.

“You swore to keep the Justice League out of this,” Adrien growled next to her. “That was the one condition. We were very clear on our opinion on the matter. You agreed. You swore you would abide by our rules.”

“I agreed to abide by the rule. I never said I agreed with it. I swore I wouldn’t communicate anything with or to them. I didn’t,” he said pointing to Marinette, “Spots did. And us being there did. I didn’t break anything… I just bent it a bit and if you’re asking me for my opinion…”

“We didn’t,” Marinette snarled.

“…I think that rule needs to be finessed. An exception made,” Constantine finished ignoring Marinette’s interjection.

“You don’t get to make that decision, you don’t even get a say. This is our city. You don’t dictate the terms here,” Adrien gave Constantine a dark look, rising from the couch to his full height. “You’re welcome to give advice. You’ve certainly had more experience with magic and fighting, but you didn’t do that. You didn’t offer your opinion or advice. You manipulated us and the situation to force us to do as you want. You involved Batman. That is...”

The rest of Adrien’s rant was interrupted by the sound of Constantine’s phone ringing. Constantine pulled out his phone and grunted as he saw the caller id, “Bollocks, speak of the Bat and the Bat shall appear. Took longer than I expected. He must be slipping or he isn’t worried about you.”

“What are you doing? Turn your phone off so they can’t track you.” Marinette ordered hurriedly jumping up when he didn’t immediately turn it off only calming down when he had turned it off. “And why wouldn’t he be worried about me? I am very worrisome.” She defended herself.

“I can attest to that,” Adrien nodded from her side.

She glared at him, then shook her head and cleared her throat, “I mean, good. We don’t want them to show too much interest. The less interest the better. Maybe if we make it hard to find us, they’ll just move on.” She winced as she finished saying it, not even believing it was an option herself.

“Yeah, that’s not going to happen and they’re going to know I’m in Paris.” Constantine scoffed.

“Probably, but they don’t have to know you’re in this room. Just leave it off until you leave. And remember you aren’t going to tell Batman anything.” Adrien ordered him pointing his finger towards him and levelling him with a steely look.

“Oh well thank you so much for your permission,” he snarked at him. “And just to be clear, I’ve been abiding by the no speaking rule… more or less, but this is Batman. It’s a losing battle. He’s going to find me and I’m not getting tortured by one of his kids for you. They’re all pain and no pleasure.” He opened his coat to put his phone back in his pocket and discretely sniffed the air between his body and his coat and furrowed his brow. He looked up and saw the two watching him. He stood back up nonchalantly. “And my advice is it’s a good idea for you to talk to him. He can help.”

“Does Batman have some insight into magic that we don’t? Or the ability to control his emotions? Would he respect us and listen to us? Is he trustworthy?”

“No, God no, that’s laughable, and fuck no. But what he does have is detective skills and a shit ton of backing money.”

“But we can’t trust him,” Marinette clarified.

“Sweetheart, you trusted me so… your judgement is suspect to begin with. I would have trusted him before I trusted me.”

“We needed you for your knowledge of magic, the history, the limits, how to wield it, how to manipulate it, where to find more information on it… and how to steal that information.” Marinette conceded the last bit. “That offset the trust factor. Batman doesn’t have any of that to offer.”

“I’m just saying…” he sighed quietly, “think about it. Or one of his kids. You could let one of his kids come or help you from a distance. They really are good detectives and you kids really do need a break. You’ve been doing a good job, but until you find Hawkmoth, this isn’t going to end. You won’t be able to move on. You could use a good detective for that. They don’t call them the world’s greatest detective for no reason.” He stopped to consider the title for a minute, “although Tim might actually be better than Bruce and better at controlling his emotions too.

“But your best bet might just be Jason,” he grinned devilishly at Marinette as she fought her blush. She was not going to blush just at hearing his name. She had more control than that, damn it. “It sounds like you’ve gotten his interest in the project already. He’s a good detective too, some experience with magic, and if he trusts you, you can trust him. He’ll have trouble with his temper so you’ll have to keep an eye on that, but you won’t find a better fighter.”

“Oh, that sounds like a great combination to have here, amazingly skilled fighter with no capacity for anger management,” Marinette bit at him. “That’s not Hawkmoth’s ideal candidate or anything.”

“Hard to control though, the best have tried. Even if Butterfly Man tries, he’s your best bet at resisting it,” he said knowingly. “And as tough as he looks, and is, he’d give the skin off his back to help someone in trouble, especially a kid.”

“Isn’t the phrase ‘shirt off his back’?” Adrien asked with a raised brow.

“He’d be more upset about the jacket. Just consider it. Maybe the information we got will be enough, but you can use all the allies you can get on your side. And maybe you could use a new approach, a new perspective.” Constantine sighed and looked back at the two teens noting the darkening bags under their eyes. “Now, get some sleep, you look like hell.”

“Personal knowledge?” Adrien quipped at him.

Marinette rolled her eyes, “You better be careful. If anyone were to hear you now they might think you give the slightest care about someone other than yourself. What would happen to your reputation then?” He huffed at her and she smirked back at him.

“I’ll just have to be extra careful to show my true feelings around other people, so nobody gets confused.” He responded.

Marinette hummed in response. He wasn’t fooling anyone and everyone there knew it. She sighed and stood up, calling for her transformation. “Voyage” she said quietly and motioned near Constantine to open a portal to his next destination.

“Let me know when you get it deciphered. I’m just a voyage away if you need anything. And if you need someone to talk to… definitely don’t be afraid to think better of calling me,” he said gruffly. Marinette rolled her eyes at him. “And think about what I said,” he said looking her in the eyes with a meaningful look. She nodded in understanding and offered a quiet “Good Night and thank you” to him. He turned to give a small nod to Adrien before walking through the portal.

“Want to talk about anything?” Adrien asked coming up behind her and bumping her with his shoulder.

Marinette shook her head, “We can talk about everything later. There isn’t anything you need to know right now. Let’s just go to sleep. It’s been a rough night.”

<><><><><>

“Constantine turned off his phone before I could get his exact location.” Tim called out loudly not bothering to look up from his spot in front of the computer in the Batcave. He hadn’t left his seat since returning from the gala. He had barely waited until the limo was stopped before jumping out and reporting immediately to the batcomputer. Unlike the rest of the family, he hadn’t even bothered to change out of his suit from the gala yet, too focused on trying to glean all the information he could from the breadcrumbs Constantine had left behind.

They needed to track down that girl and figure out how much of a threat she was to them. She had already proven herself to be a clear and present threat and they needed to establish if she needed to be neutralized. First priority was Constantine though. He seemed to be pulling the strings and had broken into the cave for a very specific reason and they needed to know what he knew and why he did it. That meant figuring out what files he had accessed and where he was hiding.

“Were you able to get a general vicinity before he turned it off?” Dick asked coming up behind him. Unlike Tim, he and the rest of the family had changed out of their suits and into pajamas before they started the post mortem on their night.

“Of course,” he scoffed at the audacity of the doubt. “He didn’t turn it off that quickly. He’s somewhere in Paris.”

“He likely left it on so we would know where to start our search,” Bruce nodded knowingly. “Did he leave us any messages?

“Just this note,” Tim motioned toward a section of the screen with a typed message, ‘You need to up your security. Your move, Bats.” Bruce sighed and rubbed his temples.

“What did he get?” Jason demanded from his spot leaning against a wall.

“A file on something called a ‘Miraculous’.” Tim responded.

“What the fuck is that?” Jason asked annoyed. Something had to make sense tonight, just one thing. Sooner or later, something had to make some fucking sense.

“I’m not sure. There isn’t much here. Or rather there is a lot here but only a small portion of it is in a known language. The part I can translate says the Miraculous are magic jewels that grant powers that are potentially devastating on a global scale. The rest is in a language that neither the computer nor I have ever seen. I’m running translation algorithms but not getting anything... yet” Tim answered distractedly, still trying to read as much as he could as he was talking.

“It says they wield a lot of power. The League had plans a couple hundred years ago to try to steal them from something called ‘The Order of the Guardians’ but before they could enact their plan the Order’s compound was destroyed by an unknown force. The League surmised it was a power of the miraculous. They found no evidence of survivors or the miraculous. They were able to gather some texts from the ruins, scans of which is what is in the files, but without the miraculous themselves, it isn’t much good. There isn’t any translation offered so either we didn’t get that file from them, they weren’t able to translate it, or they gave up on trying to translate it.

Magic. Mother fucking Hell. There went any hope Jason had of anything making sense. Nothing ever made sense or went their fucking way when magic was involved.

“Any indication what that has to do with this girl or Paris?” Dick asked.

“None, but if I had to guess, which I do, I would say they are being used in Paris.” Tim responded.

“It isn’t like the League to give up, especially on something that could grant them power on a global scale.” Bruce noted.

“Agreed. And there would have been reference to a translation here if there was one, so they likely were never able to translate it.” Tim nodded.

“That isn’t a good sign for us.” Jason commented.

“They aren’t me. I’ll translate it. Give me a week.” Tim said confidently.

Dick stared at the video of the earlier events in the cave playing on the far side of the screen. “What do you think the odds are that the portal thing was somehow related to the Miraculous? She seemed to have to transform to use it.” Dick noted.

Bruce nodded, “Good point. Tim, go through the information in the files and the video and write up a summary,” Bruce ordered Tim. Turning to Jason he said, “What do you know about her?

He snorted, oh now they fucking trusted his intuition. He thought through the night with her. She hadn’t said too much during the first part of the night, but he was a detective damn it, and a damn good one so he didn’t need words to figure someone out. She had been fidgeting, she took care of the sexual assaulter quickly and discretely but hadn’t tried to fight Jason when he grabbed her later, she helped cheer up the kid with him, she kept up with his banter, she had a brilliant smile and looked gorgeous when she blushed… that probably isn’t relevant… accurate but not helpful in this particular situation. She had figured them out after just observing them for a few minutes, she had cursed the hell out of Constantine and was damn sexy doing it, she said people were depending on her, she had somehow arranged a way to change her dress unnoticed with people around and looked hot as hell in both dresses. It all came together to help form a personality profile in his mind and make the room feel significantly warmer.

“Has Anxiety. Can protect herself but doesn’t like using violence. Kind. Witty. Creative. Smart, like Tim level smart. Dick Syndrome, shouldering the blame for everything that happens around her. Does not like being lied to or manipulated. Not wealthy. Don’t think she was invited and she definitely didn’t want to be there.” He listed off.

Tim nodded along with the last part using it to springboard into another way to track her and Constantine, “Likely acquired by someone else who gave it to her, probably Constantine. But since we would have recognized Constantine’s name and clearly he was trying to go under the radar on this, he asked someone else to get it.” He rolled the chair to the left and focused on a different monitor while starting the search for the list.

“Do we know if anyone asked for a ticket last minute?” Dick asked jumping on Tim’s train of thought. If they could figure out who Constantine was working with they could ask them questions, get some leads.

“I’ll look through the invitation list and see if anything stands out,” Tim responded.

“This seems like a waste of effort, whoever that is probably doesn’t know anything more than Constantine wanted a ticket,” Jason countered. Why was this the focus? The more important thing to focus on was what she said about Paris, not how she got in.

“Whoever it is may be working with them as well and may know something. It’s worth at least a look,” Dick explained. “Anything else?”

Jason rolled his eyes, at least it meant they were looking into it and finally taking it seriously. “She said there has been a supervillain in Paris for the last 5 years. The data Constantine was getting was related to that. That data was supposed to help them fight the villain. She said people were counting on her, which makes me think she’s a hero there….” he turned toward the sound of Damian scoffing as he made his way into the cave. “And Alfred likes her better than Demon Spawn.” Jason smirked turning back towards the rest of the family.

“I will get my katana and gut you. I only just succeeded in calming Alfred enough to rest.” Damian glared at Jason.

“Yeah, because he was upset he wasn’t still with her,” Jason snarked quietly, but loudly enough for his words to be heard by everyone in the cave.

Tim chortled from his spot at the computer, “she does seem to have a way with demonic creatures, doesn’t she? Constantine, Alfred… maybe we should send Demon Spawn to her too. She can tame the Hell Spawn.” He kept his focus on the computer as he made his comment missing Damian’s face shift from anger to rage. Jason snickered at the comment, pushing Damian over the edge after all the comments and events of the night.

Damian jumped up from his chair to rush toward Jason, yelling something about a hussy and sullying. Honestly, Jason couldn’t make out his exact words. Tim only glanced back with the briefest of looks before returning to the computer. Damian attacking Jason was nothing new. It always ended with them getting separated before any real damage could be done and Jason chastised for defending himself because ‘Damian never meant to actually kill or seriously damage anyone during the attacks. It was more of a venting session for him’.

Damian lamented that he hadn’t prepared properly for a confrontation as he rushed toward Jason. He had prepared for bed, like the rest of the family and had left his katana and weapons in his room. The weapons he used for patrol were on the other side of the cave, too far away to be of use right now. But he was confident he didn’t need weapons to best Jason.

Damian jumped on the meeting table just at the last moment, using it as leverage to add height to the flying kick he sent towards Jason. Jason anticipated the kick, Damian had been dumb enough to announce his attack, expecting everyone to react as they normally did. What he didn’t anticipate, what none of them anticipated, was for Jason to not be in the fucking mood. This was a long night already and the only good part of it they were belittling and to top it off Damian was attacking him again and no matter how it ended, he was going to get in trouble for it.

Just as Damian’s foot was about to land on Jason’s face he pushed it to the side and twisted, redirecting Damian’s momentum, causing him to crash harmlessly to the floor. Damian jumped back up and ran at Jason. He threw a punch to his side just a beat too slowly. Jason twisted slightly again, just enough for the fist to fly past him then encouraged Damian’s momentum with a slight push of his own causing Damian to slam face first into the ground. When he stood back up, ready to try again they could hear Dick in the background starting to intercede but Jason was too pissed to listen or to back down peacefully and Damian was still looking for a way to vent his frustration.

“Stand still you giant oaf,” Damian screamed at Jason, running at him again. Jason squared up against Damian and punched him in the center of his chest. Damian went down hard as all the air left his lungs. Before he could take a breath Jason pulled him up by the back of his shirt, bringing Damian’s face close to his own, “how many times do I have to tell you, don’t start a fight you can’t finish, Shorty” he hissed at him before letting him drop.

Dick was next to Damian before he hit the ground checking him to make sure he was okay. “What the hell, Jason! Was that really necessary? He wasn’t trying to hurt you. You didn’t have to hit him that hard. He was just letting off steam.”

“Then he should have gone after a practice dummy, not me. And he should stop acting like a little jealous, elitist bitch. I don’t understand why you dislike the galas so much, Damian, you’re right on track to be exactly like all those people there. And for the record, if I’d wanted to hurt him, his sternum would be shattered right now instead of just bruised.”

“How dare you, you dimwitted, boorish, buffoon!” Damian hissed out, still breathing heavily and unable to yell. “You’re so ready to defend that uncultured streetwalker over your own family. You have no loyalty and no honor.”

“Way to prove his point, Demon.” Tim muttered from the computer.

“Alright, enough,” Bruce glared at Jason and Damian. “We don’t have time for this. Jason and you too Tim, Damian is a kid. You’re adults. Stop baiting him.”

“Y’all are going to have to decide if he is a kid or a vigilante assassin because you seem to blur the lines a lot. Is he a kid or a tool to achieve your vengeance?” Jason seethed at the two older men in the room.

“As amusing as this show is and as much as I would love to hear the answer to that question,” Tim interceded, “let’s bring the focus back to the matter at hand; Constantine exposing us and bring a stranger into the cave. I started looking for evidence of heroes in Paris and whatever she may have told you, I can’t find any news on any villains or superheroes in Paris or even France. The only thing I have been able to find is a note on an official Paris city calendar about a Heroes Day to celebrate heroes. But, it doesn’t specify particular heroes though so it could be everyday heroes or even heroes anywhere on Earth. And we have to consider the very real possibility that she played Constantine. If there was anything going on in Paris, let alone for 5 years, we would be able to find something, anything, but there is nothing.”

“Whatever else you want to say about him, Constantine is a good judge of people, when someone is playing an angle and when they are on the level, when that angle is really bad and when it’s just ‘bad’. He didn’t break in here and leave that message for no reason. The Miraculous is in play in Paris. We need to decide what we are going to do about that.” Jason retorted.

“That inept excuse for a hero clearly isn’t doing a proper job of handling it. We should intervene and handle it for her. Show her what a hero really looks like.” Damian responded snidely still hunched over a bit. Jason glared at him.

“I’ve already taken you down once today, kid,” throwing the term in Damian’s face as a taunt, “I’ll do it again. And if you believe that, then you also believe there is something going on there. You’re admitting she was telling the truth.” Damian scoffed in response and looked away.

“We know almost nothing about the situation in Paris. The League’s notes said the Miraculous’ power could potentially affect the entire planet. At the very least, we should gather as much information as we can on it, talk to the heroes there if there are any, see what we can do to help.” Dick suggested calmly.

“Them,” Tim corrected. “The files indicated there is more than one miraculous.”

“And each one can affect the entire planet?” Bruce asked concerned.

“It is unclear from the data available.” Tim responded.

“Constantine’s phone was definitely in Paris, he left it on so we would know to go there. He’s too experienced to make that mistake. It was a clue about what our next step should be. We should follow it.” Dick observed.

“So we are deciding to do exactly as the deranged dullard wanted us to do and playing into his plans,” Damian muttered from his spot at the table. After everything that had happened that night they were going to just let him win. “Brilliant plan.”

“There is too much at stake to ignore it. We follow the leads we have. So we go plain clothes as reconnaissance, see what we can pick up by being there, but bring the suits so we can meet with the heroes there if we find something. Dick, you and Damian can stay here and watch over Gotham while we are gone.” Bruce ordered, standing up to end the conversation.

“I’m going too. Someone has to keep that wench from turning Todd against the rest of us.” Damian responded coldly.

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. He was not in the mood to deal with this right now. There were too many unknowns. “Fine. I’ll ask Clark to be on call as backup for you Dick. The rest of us go to Paris tomorrow. Use the rest of today to get ready.”

“I’ll make the arrangements, Master Bruce.” Alfred announced from the doorway.

Chapter 4

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#maribat #jasonette #Pixie Spy

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smallblip · 4 years ago

Text

Come down when you’re ready.

Jeankasa | Pretty PG, they did the deed, but nothing explicit

It’s on Ao3! https://archiveofourown.org/works/28873656

“When this war is over, I would like to take you out.” Jean says. He thinks maybe he’s tired. That’s the reason he’s being so bold. He’s tired and he simply can’t care enough to dam the thoughts rushing behind his eyes.

“Where?” She replies, teetering on the edge of wakefulness and sleep. She chuckles, drawing self-conscious laughter from Jean. It’s silly. He’s spent so much time in his childhood thinking about bubblegum kisses and girls in babydoll dresses. They would hold hands, take a walk in the park, have ice cream, the works. But when it comes to her and the time he’s spent dancing with death, he’s slightly embarrassed at how frivolous they now sound.

But Jean remembers going to town for supplies in the Summer and watching the crowds near the riverbanks. And he remembers Mikasa watching the families on their picnic mats, something he reads as longing crossing her face. “A picnic?” He muses, “we could take a picnic basket to the markets in the morning, gather some food, head to the river...” He trails off, suddenly hyper aware of how he must sound. Like a fool throwing rocks at shut windows, serenading the winds. He bites the inside of his cheeks.

“What would you like to do?” Jean asks after a moment of silence.

Mikasa hums, “I haven’t really... Thought about it...” and she leaves it as that. Jean doesn’t push further, because her shoulders are tense, like she’ll scurry for cover if he does. They’ve been at this so long- this practiced dance, ginger steps balanced on tip toes- one wrong move and the lights come on.

Thankfully, she shifts a little closer to him, head on his chest, listening to the thrum of a heart through flushed skin- a heart that beats for her. Past the guilt, she allows herself to relax into the warmth.

Even though he knows her in ways only a lover would, even though he’s seen the curves and lines of her body, has trailed his palms over every scar, the proximity never fails to make his breath catch in his throat. There’s a squeezing in his chest and it’s becoming increasingly hard to tell if it’s love or the pain of knowing she’ll never love him back.

“I’m sorry...” she says, as if she hears the war in his mind. Her fingers pad over imaginary lines on his chest.

“It’s alright.” He replies without missing a beat. They’ve been through this before. Talked about it one too many times because she doesn’t want to hurt him or promise him more than she can afford.

You know I can’t give you what you want, Jean... she had said when he had first undressed her. The reality of the situation settles in the pit of his stomach like sediment. But he had dreamt of this moment for years, since they were children, a little too curious for their own good. I know, he had said. I know, once more for his benefit.

But night after night, Jean asks if he can kiss her, and every time the answer is a breathless-

Yes.

So he night after night he peels back her skin like a lover, with shaking hands, painfully gentle. He hopes that he can take her mind off everything, off the hot sear of blood on skin, off the orders to kill and destroy and take, and off the boy with the green eyes. The rest of the world be damned. He kisses her until they’re both breathless and lightheaded because the feeling that blossoms in his chest is exquisite. The feeling of being impossibly close to her is exquisite. They are almost always gentle. After years of fighting, there’s little pleasure in brute force.

Mikasa you know how I feel about you. Jean says when they’re both slick with sweat, their hearts steadying. It’s for his own benefit. He doesn’t need to hear it back. He already knows the answer. This proclamation of love is one of the last things he owns on this mortal coil. He thinks about getting a cigarette, but he wonders what she would think about his new habit, if she would mind. So he doesn’t. He leaves the cigarettes to stolen moments by the trees, sometimes joined by Connie, sometimes by a sheepish Armin, sometimes by Hanji who never seems to have a stash of her own.

I know... And I’m sorry... she says. And Jean hates how she always feels the need to apologise. He wasn’t looking for an apology.

Nothing to be sorry about, he smiles, I just wanted you to know. He tells her again that he expects nothing in return. But a part of him feels sorry for himself. He thinks about the girls back when life had been simpler. Wonders about a future with them. But all he can picture is her raven hair, her porcelain skin, the blush on her cheeks, her brows set with the determination of a soldier.

In another life maybe... she says.

And Jean had understood what she had meant. He thinks about it now as he holds her flush against his chest, fingers stroking her arm absentmindedly.

Mikasa thinks she’s cursed. She has to be. Everyone she’s ever loved or cared about in her cursed life ends up getting hurt. The only boy she’s ever loved has pushed her away more times than she can count. Everything is clear now in the light. He’s never wanted her- will never want her. And soon they will have to kill him.

And yet Jean is here. He’s drifting off to sleep, she can tell. He’s breathing in a way that can only mean he’s only partially conscious. Mikasa allows herself to smile at the sight. And a part of her wonders why he stays, why he allows himself to hurt over and over. This life has given her nothing, and yet, there is beauty in the way Jean chuckles when she trips while pulling her trousers on in the morning, and he’s looking at her with such endearment that she almost thinks she could be the luckiest girl on earth. She would return a smile then, sheepish, hoping her inexperience with anything tender isn’t showing.

Jean on the other hand, has always been a natural. He tells her who she is when they’re making love, whispered sweetly in her ear-

you’re beautiful, Mikasa, you’re so beautiful.

He pulls her close even in sleep, he gives her his last piece of meat, he has saved her more times than she remembers.

Mikasa reaches tentative fingers to his face, cupping his cheek where stubble has grown, he’s a man now, features as handsome as ever. And she’s a woman. Her body taut from years of fighting, her breasts tight against her chest, and the softness around her hips fading. Sometimes she wonders what Jean sees in her still.

“You’re so good to me...” she whispers, half hoping he wouldn’t hear. But he does-

“My mother taught me well...” he winks, a try at suavity, but his eyes had widened from her hand on his cheek, and the tips of his ears have gone red. “You deserve it...” he says, quieter, so quiet that Mikasa almost misses it.

Your maman would hate me... Mikasa thinks. The cursed girl with the cursed life, everything withers under her touch. “She sounds lovely...” Mikasa says instead.

“She would love you.” Jean shrugs.

“Really?” Mikasa says, completely absorbed in how gentle his gaze is, her hand slips from his cheek to the back of his neck where she plays with the soft fuzz of hair.

He presses a chaste kiss on her forehead. “What’s there not to love?”

She laughs. Mikasa you’re so loved... her mother had said to her once when she had been a child, wide-eyed and innocent. Perhaps she is the luckiest girl on earth, she thinks, surprising herself with her sudden defiance.

“My mother...” Mikasa starts, hesitant. She never talks about her parents, not to anyone. So this is unfamiliar territory. “She would love you too...” Because she remembers the things her mother had told her about gentle boys, the ones who are patient, who will look at her like she’s treasure.

And Jean looks at her now, like she’s the best thing in the world- something amazing to behold, even though her hair is now cropped short and she has traded in her softness for callouses from gripping her blades- like treasure.

“Your dad... Would he chase me with a shotgun?” Jean attempts at humour and it works because she’s giggling. What a beautiful sound, bright like a bell.

“He’s a very good shot...” she teases, “but no... He’ll offer you some of the jerky he makes... I think... And if you tell him they’re good, you’re essentially family.”

“Jerky huh... Got it...” Jean says and Mikasa thinks this is nice. It’s nice to laugh and talk about the past, to talk about what ifs. It’s especially nice talking with Jean. He doesn’t push her away, doesn’t expect more of her than she can give. In fact, he doesn’t expect anything of her at all. It’s nice inhabiting this space with him, where a kiss on the lips can mean nothing or everything all at once.

So Mikasa pulls him down towards her and presses her lips against his. He deepens the kiss, brushing his tongue against hers exactly the way she likes. And she pulls on his bottom lip the way she knows would drive him crazy. When they pull apart to breathe she can’t help but chuckle at the dazed expression on his face. Jean scoffs, but there’s no harshness behind the sound, he grins, ever so charming, and reaches to tuck her hair behind her ear.

Mikasa thinks maybe she’s tired. That’s the reason she’s being so bold. She’s tired and she simply can’t care enough to dam the thoughts rushing behind her eyes. So she starts with-

“A picnic sounds nice...”

#jeankasa #jean kirschtein #mikasa ackerman #jean x mikasa #jeankasa fanfic #shingeki no kyojin #mine #my fic

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olivinesea · 3 years ago

Text

A Mixed Blessing

Chapter List

chapter eight: starting to rust

a/n: Just barely coming in at under a month, oops. I think I’m going to take a break from this one for now, it seems to be a little too much while my thoughts are occupied with school things. When I planned this all out originally, this chapter was a possible ending point but then I got ambitious and there’s quite a bit more plotted out after this. But it might be a while before I come back to it, we’ll see. Anyway, thanks for coming along for all the torture, I know it wasn’t a pleasant time but the hurt can be nice occasionally? I’ll try to write something a little kinder in the future. Warnings for all the same things —substances, abuse, some very dark thoughts and themes. ~5.7k

Aaron tries to keep it all together but the world is indifferent.

He tried to stay away, he really did. As if he could see into the future, he could imagine how quickly he would tarnish her smile, could picture it fading right in front of him. He had nightmares where Haley sat, unresponsive and slowly dissolving. But she was insistent, seeking him out, towing him along with her through her day. She’d find him at lunch and push half a sandwich at him once she realized he hadn’t brought anything to eat. Brought him along after school to loiter in the sun with the other theater kids killing time between the end of class and the start of rehearsals, loudly asserting their presence on the world. Aaron hung back, uncomfortable around such casual chaos, everyone moving too fast, speaking too loudly. Compared to his world, Haley’s life was bright, unrestrained, and viscerally present. He didn’t fit there. He stuck out in his silence, dressed in his dark clothes, still too big on him though he was finally starting to grow.

The other kids eyed him suspiciously, muttering quietly about him when they thought he couldn’t hear. Only Haley’s position at the top of whatever social apparatus they operated by kept them from outright excluding him. He didn’t mind too much, he’d heard worse, what did he care what these kids thought of him anyway? What did they know with their golden lives, their excitement, their expectations for the future? Haley’s people believed that the world was for them, would provide what they wanted when they wanted. He found it odd, watching them as they screeched and tackled each other, a blur of color so jarring he had to squint.

He could feel how his difference was noted, their eyes making the back of his neck itch. More than once he tried to disappear but every time Haley slipped her hand into his, squeezing gently, pulling him back toward the group. She’d smile, encouraging, her belief that it would all work out, that he could assimilate given enough time, was unwavering. Her optimism baffled him, sometimes even irritated him. He would inevitably feel guilty about that. Surely it was ungrateful for him to find fault in this girl who had welcomed him when there was absolutely no need for her to do so.

Not everyone was tolerant of Aaron’s presence. The drama teacher regarded him with suspicion, allowing him to stay but making it clear that she was doing him a favor. It helped that he was able to sing, shoring up the weak lower register of the female dominated cast. He was given a minor role, nothing too complicated, nothing that would embarrass them if he failed, as she assumed he would. Some of the other kids caught on to this disapproval, emboldened by it they became less subtle in the ways that they mocked him. Aaron tried to mind his own business, even skipping out on rehearsals when the attention became too much. But Haley inevitably found him, running to catch him after school as he tried to escape out a side door. She dragged him back again and again, refusing to give up on him. Insisting she had seen something special, something she thought she could coax out if given enough time—like a stray dog, so used to mistreatment that he bristled when people came near but still craved affection.

He followed reluctantly, acutely conscious of the growing dislike, mutiny thickening the air. Everything was too sharp these days, he’d lost his sources for getting high. All he had were his cigarettes, too afraid to steal alcohol from his father. He desperately wanted to go back into the woods, to fall back under the quiet spell of muffled words about nothing, watching the light filter through the branches, sparkling as the leaves moved with the breeze. He hated it here, in the building, surrounded by these people with their constant need to be heard, each louder than the last. The smells of the theater, new paint and old fabrics and so much dust made it hard to breath. The too bright lights, unnaturally hot against his skin, and the way every sound echoed made his head ache. He’d be long gone if it wasn’t for the way Haley’s touch made his heart skip, her fingers lightly brushing across his arm to get his attention. Or the way she looped her arm through his as she caught him in the hallway and insisted on walking with him to class, leading him along her sheltered path.

Aaron wondered at the lightness of her head rested against his shoulder as they sat in the grass, sticking her tongue out at something stupid another kid said, then smiling when she heard his smothered laughter. He let his attention drift, eyes wandering until he saw a group in the distance. He watched as they moved away from school, easily guessing where they were headed. He felt a pang of longing as he watched them leave, wishing he could still be part of that. He wasn’t sure he had been happy with Cole but he had at least felt like he was in the right place, like he had found someone who understood him. No one here was like him, no one less so than Haley. He was attracted to her in a different way, fascinated at how she viewed the world and how the world viewed her. He’d never known anyone who moved so easily through life, who was loved and desired by everyone she met. He couldn’t begin to imagine what that felt like though he agreed with the rest of them, she was something special. He didn’t understand why she wanted him around but he wasn’t going to contradict her. Still, he wished to be gone with the group as they sought out unobserved spaces.

“Aaron?” Haley squeezed his knee, drawing his attention back.

“Hmm?” He had no idea what she had been saying.

“Do you want to come to Mike’s house after rehearsal tonight? His parents are out of town.”

Aaron looked dubiously across the group at Mike, someone who was clear in his dislike of Aaron.

“Please?”

Aaron shrugged a shoulder, shifting uncomfortably and causing Haley to sit up.

“It’ll be fun. And it’ll be good for you to get to know everyone a little better. You’re so quiet all the time.”

“I don’t think he likes me very much,” Aaron murmured, watching as Mike narrowed his eyes in their direction.

“Don’t be silly,” she said as she hopped up. “C’mon, let’s go inside, it’s almost time.”

He looked up at her, now standing above him. Their eyes met and she smiled. She was pleased with how much he’d been softening. It had only been a few weeks and already he seemed more comfortable, at least with her. She congratulated herself a little, privately, on her success. People had gone out of their way to warn her when she started hanging out with him, bringing him places with her. He was bad, he was dangerous, he would hurt her. But she knew, had known from that first time she saw him looking at her, he wouldn’t hurt her, not ever. He wasn’t so complicated, she reasoned, they were all just scared away by his dark features, his perpetual scowl, the whispered rumors about his family. She, Haley Brooks, was better than that, deeper and more sympathetic. He wouldn’t be the first broken creature she’d healed, but he would be her biggest project yet. She didn’t imagine it could be that hard. Everyone was always happier around her, she could fix this.

He sighed, shaking his head and stood up. Sometimes he could see her watching him and he wasn’t sure he liked the look on her face. Like she was assessing him, marking his progress along some scale she had in her mind. Noting when he ate, when he was rested, when he laughed. He felt a little bit like an animal in a laboratory. But then she would smile at him and he forgot all his hesitation, forgot how he disliked being watched, how much he hated people thinking they knew what he needed. No one had ever cared like her before and he wasn’t sure what she expected in return. But he let himself forget all that and follow her where she led for another chance at that smile, another chance to hear her say his name, sounding so different coming from her lips that it might be a different name entirely.

One of her friends, already halfway back to the building, called Haley’s name and she skipped over to her, confident that Aaron would follow. He watched her go before turning back to pick up his backpack. When he straightened up, Mike was standing very close to him. Aaron wondered at how he’d moved so quickly.

“I hope you don’t think you’re coming to my house, loser.”

Aaron stared at him, debating what to do. He didn’t particularly want to go to this party, he’d really prefer not to go. But Haley had invited him and he didn’t like the way this guy was always looking at her possessively, then looking at Aaron like he’d like to strangle him. Not exactly subtle.

Mike stepped in closer. “Did you hear me? Or are you too high?” He turned to his friends and forced a laugh, “Maybe you shouldn’t have fried your brain with your little homo boyfriend.”

Aaron didn’t think, he just reacted, fist swinging up and punching the other boy in the jaw. He stumbled back, holding a hand to his face, eyes frozen wide in shock. Aaron didn’t pause, only advanced on him, swinging again. It felt good, the anger that was always simmering in his chest, the anger he only barely distracted himself from, finally had an outlet. It probably wasn’t a fair fight, Mike had been expecting Aaron to quietly take the insults as he’d been doing, pretending to ignore them as they needled him whenever Haley was out of earshot. But this insult was too far. More of a mean jab in the dark than an actual accusation, his words had hit a nerve and unlocked a force within Aaron.

Once he landed the first punch, his vision clouded over with anger and he continued to swing at the other kid. The other boys quickly jumped in, once the surprise of seeing Aaron actually fight back wore off, once they realized he meant to do real harm to their friend. He already had Mike pinned on the ground, lip bleeding, hands covering his face, before two more of his friends managed to drag Aaron off. He swung at them too, no technique but plenty of experience on the receiving end. He knew what would hurt and he had enough rage to power him through a dozen opponents. One of the others pulled him off balance, using his grip on Aaron’s wrist to fling him to the side. They blocked his path to Mike, who was scrambling backward on the grass, putting more distance between himself and this suddenly rabid opponent. Breathing hard, Aaron glared at the group, realizing he didn’t have enough strength to overpower them all, despite his murderous desire. He spit in their direction, then grabbed his bag and stalked away.

He didn’t have to think about where he was going. There was only one place to go. He’d tried to be a part of the regular world, a part of a world where time continued evenly, where lights turned on when it was dark and spotlights burned brightest on those with merit. He’d tried to fit himself into that space for Haley’s sake but he had only been fooling himself. They’d known he didn’t belong and he’d finally overstayed his welcome. It was time for him to retreat to the unlit corners of the world, return to the margins of society where people could avert their eyes, where it was easier for them to pretend they didn’t see the wrongness of the boy in front of them. He’d go back to the place in the woods and hope there was someone there that could give him what he wanted, could help him disconnect from this too bright reality. He was as sick of it as they were of him. He allowed himself a brief flicker of hope that he might find Cole out there, with his understanding and their shared history he didn’t have to think about his walls so much. But he stomped down hard on that desire, reminding himself how he had still ended up alone. No, it didn’t need to be Cole, it didn’t need to be anyone in particular, as long as they had something to get him high he didn’t care. It wouldn’t matter for very long anyway.

He crashed across the grass, his anger making his steps heavier, his thoughts louder. He didn’t realize he was being followed, that someone was calling his name. He didn’t notice until there was a hand tugging at the elbow of his jacket. He spun around fast, ready to fight. Haley shrank back at the anger in his face, the wildness in his eyes. He clenched his fists when he recognized her, trying and failing to pull back the storm of emotion that had been knocked loose. He never wanted to scare her but she was following where she didn’t belong. He only had so much control.

“Go away.”

“Are you hurt? Where are you going? Why’d you attack—”

She didn’t even have the question fully formed before he turned and started walking again, unwilling to be accused of something that wasn’t remotely his fault. He didn’t like the way it stung him, hearing that she assumed his guilt. He didn’t like that he’d let her get so close, let her have such influence over him. She ran a little to get ahead of him, taking a deep breath to steady herself. She was frightened by his fury, but she wouldn’t let him go this easily. Not after she’d spent so many hours persuading him to join her world.

“Aaron.”

He stopped short when he heard his name, looked at her with some of his anger melting into sadness, feeling betrayed even though he knew he had no one to blame but himself.

“I didn’t start it,” he could barely get the words out, hated how much he wanted her to believe him, hated that he had to explain himself.

She rubbed her face, trying to think as she pressed her palm against her lips. She found she was more frightened of this new emotion than she was of the anger. He looked so hopeless.

“I’m sorry, I just…” she didn’t know what to say now that she’d gotten him to stop, now that she could see past the heated front of anger and could see some of the broken edges he did so much to hide. Wasn’t this what she’d been asking for?

He watched her struggle with what to say, saw the moment the pity started to creep into her eyes. Before she could say anything else, before she could make him feel worse, he started walking again, pushing past her. “Just leave me alone,” he muttered. He didn’t bother to check if she followed.

When he reached the clearing it was empty except for one person stretched out on a broken down couch. At first all he could see was the back of their head, the dirty blond hair sticking up in places. The recognition was a visceral feeling, clawing through his chest. He almost couldn’t believe it was real, that he was getting exactly what he hoped for. Cole sat up when he heard Aaron’s heavy footsteps cracking through the dead leaves and sticks littering the ground. He remained seated, looking at Aaron idly, as if no time had passed, as if he’d only been waiting for Aaron to turn up after class. Aaron felt so many conflicting emotions, had so many things he wanted to say that he could only stand with his jaw clenched against the flood of words he knew he would regret. Cole twitched the corner of his mouth in a slightly mocking smile and Aaron snapped. He grabbed Cole by the collar, pulling him to his feet, unsure whether he meant to strangle him or kiss him. Cole’s gaze shifted to look behind him.

“Why’d you bring your girlfriend with you?”

Too caught up in the charge of the moment, Aaron didn’t understand what he was talking about. Cole pulled away and lifted his chin in the direction he was facing. Aaron turned and saw Haley. She’d continued to follow him, concerned about what he was planning on doing, haunted by the hollowed out look in his eyes. She stood, apprehensive, eyes darting between the two.

He scowled. “Go back to school Haley.”

“But—are you okay?” She stumbled over her words, staring openly at Cole. She’d seen him in the distance, even noticed how Aaron sometimes watched him when their paths crossed. He looked even more menacing up close.

“I’m fine.” His mouth pressed together, biting his lower lip to keep his composure. He didn’t understand why she was being so persistent, why she wouldn’t just go away like everyone else. When she still hesitated he got impatient. There were things he needed to handle and he didn’t need her here getting in the way. He waved his hand at her, brushing away her attention. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

From behind him Cole fluttered his fingers at her with false sweetness. She hated the way he was grinning at her, his obvious confidence that he was the one in charge of the situation. She glared at him and he laughed.

She looked one more time at Aaron, who was no longer paying attention to her, had turned back to Cole entirely. She shook her head. Fine, if he wanted this it was hardly her problem. What did she even know of his life anyway? Trying not to feel like she’d lost, she retraced the path back to school.

As soon as she was out of earshot, Aaron started in on Cole. His thoughts were disorganized and barely coherent but he’d spent weeks trying to understand the sudden distance. He needed Cole to explain, to know his reasons for turning on him so quickly after all that they’d shared.

“What the fuck—” He hadn’t finished his question before Cole clamped his hand over his mouth.

“Shut up.”

Their eyes met and there was a mental struggle for the upper hand. One thing that had changed in the past few weeks was Aaron’s strength. No longer constantly submerged in a haze of intoxication, he felt everything more pointedly and he was ready to direct that pain elsewhere. He wanted to bite Cole, to scratch at his face, to scream at him for way he’d been abandoned, the sickness and shame he’d had to endure on his own. But the warmth of Cole’s palm, the familiar smell of his skin, the muscle memory of being in this exact position was too much. He relented almost instantly, sinking into the couch, pulling his knees up against his chest and waiting to see what Cole would do next.

Cole watched him thoughtfully, interested by this new spark of resistance but also pleased that he hadn’t made it too far on his own. A little fight kept things interesting, staved off the boredom Cole so often felt. It was probably that girl he’d been with, giving him ideas. He could see he’d have to do some damage control to bring Aaron back completely.

“I’m sorry,” he looked down, measuring drops of sincerity. “My grandma, she saw…she said she was going to report you.”

Aaron was confused, he didn’t know exactly what she could report about him but he heard the edge in Cole’s voice, knew better than to dig deeper. Cole sat down beside him, pulling one of his hands loose from where he’d wrapped it tightly around his legs. He traced Aaron’s palm with his thumb, looking into his face again.

“You know I didn’t mean it right? I didn’t have a choice.”

Aaron recoiled, sickened by the number of times those words had echoed through his life. Worse though was how easily he was willing to give into them if it only meant he could have back a little of that warmth he had found. He ducked his head and shrugged.

Cole squeezed his hand. “Good, cause I think I’ve got something you’ll like.” He let go and dug around in the couch cushions, pulling out a crumpled paper bag. When he smiled at Aaron, that familiar greedy smile, Aaron admitted to himself that he wasn’t here to fight with Cole, that he had never been coming for that. This was all he wanted, was all he was good for: to be lied to and to be led astray. He didn’t mind as long as he didn’t have to be fully present for it. He sat up a little straighter.

“Alright, let’s do it.”

They fell back in with one another but it remained uneasy. Aaron was still not allowed back at Cole’s house and he was afraid to miss too much class. Lately his father had been grumbling about sending him away and he wasn’t entirely sure he meant away to live somewhere else or away from life entirely. There were no peaceful interactions between them, only lucky days where Aaron successfully avoided being seen. A sudden increase in truancy calls would not work out well for him. If he had been a little more mature, a little less caught up in his own teenage drama, he might have noticed the changes in his father’s face, the way the lines grew deeper as his frame grew thinner. As it was he only noticed as much as he needed to know to keep himself out of the direct path of destruction. He once might have cared to notice his mother crying more, even when his father wasn’t there to be the cause of it but he was long past feeling any sort of connection to her. If she was troubled, she could find someone else to support her. She certainly hadn’t done anything to help him all these years. Nothing that he could see.

At school Haley continued to pester him. She stood up for him against the accusations that he had attacked Matt for no reason so he was still allowed at play rehearsals. He went grudgingly, only because he couldn’t shake the way he felt bewitched by Haley. Now he tried even harder to stay out of any social situations, to keep things strictly professional with the group of theater kids. However, he couldn’t help but enjoy Haley’s company at lunch and in between classes. Much as Aaron had disliked her friends, he couldn’t resist the brilliance of her personality. She made him feel like being a whole person was possible, made him forget for a few moments what he really was. She may have made him a little uncomfortable but she was relentlessly kind, and he was more than expert at keeping things hidden so he let her think she was doing some good as she badgered him into eating more and forced him to study. Even if it was only pretend, they were both getting something from it.

Only after the school day was over would he would slink away to the woods where he’d meet Cole. Cole still wasn’t speaking to him on campus, too aware of how their obvious closeness before had been risky. He hadn’t changed in their time apart either, his mood still swinging wildly from affection to disgust. It didn’t feel great but Aaron needed him, needed what Cole could give him. Attention and a steady supply of drugs. He didn’t have to worry about his insufficiencies around Cole, they were too similar for him to care about hiding the difficult parts of his life, didn’t have to worry about being pitied, about someone trying to fix him. They’d dragged more furniture into the abandoned shed, found an old metal trashcan they could burn things in to warm the place as the months crept deeper into the dark end of the year.

By the time Aaron’s sixteenth birthday came and went he felt like he was leading a completely fractured life. At home he was a ghost at best, a target when not; with Haley a treasured curiosity, constantly examined and prodded into a more acceptable shape; and with Cole, he was himself, angry and violent but self-medicated to the point where none of it mattered. Any gentleness that had existed between them over the summer was gone, every interaction was rough and scrambling, followed by a shame that only dissipated once the high kicked in.

It became harder to hold all the pieces together. He would look at himself in the mirror and struggle to remember his own name. He started smoking pot during the day again, just to ease some of the jarring transitions. At lunch, Haley talked and talked and he wouldn’t notice when she asked him a question until she poked him in the bicep and he jumped like a startled cat. When she tried to ask him about it he got annoyed, snapping at her and walking away from school, not caring that it was the middle of the day and that this bad choice was sure to come back to him that evening.

The show opening got closer as he missed more rehearsals. He missed so many that he didn’t know what he should be doing when he was there, very obviously sticking out when he went one way while the rest of the corps moved in the other direction. The drama teacher pulled him aside, giving him an ultimatum that he needed to be present at every subsequent rehearsal or he would be cut. Not so secretly hoping this would be enough to get him to leave. He started to say he didn’t give a shit about her stupid play when he saw Haley anxiously watching their conversation and swallowed his insults, only nodding, looking away so the teacher wouldn’t see his contempt for someone who could think something like a high school play mattered at all.

He made it to all the rehearsals but he was sure to be high, not enough that he would be caught but enough to be clear that it didn’t matter to him if he did. He wasn’t sure why he continued to come, why Haley had such a pull on him. It didn’t make sense that he wanted so badly to make her happy when she was so different, so far removed from everything else in his life. Maybe it was that he knew that without her, there was nothing tying him to the regular world, the place of school and society and jobs and futures. She was the only person that seemed to care if he was around, an emotion he was long past feeling for himself. She was the last reminder that he was a human being, that he mattered to someone. It was the only thing standing between him and completely giving in to the destructive force that had been whispering promises of an easy solution to his problems.

It was just enough to keep him behaved around these people who hated him without knowing anything about him. They hated what he represented, hated the way he forced them to see that the world could be ugly and painful. They were offended that he dared to show himself among the normal people when he so clearly belonged to the underside. He kept quiet and kept close to Haley when he was at school, when he was in the theater. He wore the stupid costume, the silly hat, followed the directions barked at him, sang just loud enough to carry the rest. Then he slipped away as soon as he was able.

The week of the opening performance was a bad one. Cole, having recently gotten his hands on some speed, was off on a manic high. Aaron had tried it once but hated the way the uppers spiked his anxiety, the way he felt every eye on him like his skin had turned inside out. After that first time he had declined, preferring to find oblivion in whatever downers were available. But Cole liked it quite a bit. It made his already unpredictable nature even worse, even more dangerous. He’d spend these highs running all over town, breaking car windows for fun, stealing anything worth a couple dollars. Aaron hated it and did his best to hide from him while he was strung out like that.

The afternoon of the show’s opening he’d gone to an old, private hiding spot after school with the intention of getting so stoned he couldn’t feel anything that might come his way later. He succeeded only to remember belatedly what day it was. Haley had tried to remind him several times during the day but he’d been too high, too distracted to listen. Swearing, he ran back to school, not sure what time it was or what time he was supposed to have been there.

The house lights were already off, the audience quiet as the opening bars played. He raced to get into his costume, having to re-button his shirt more than once as the tiny objects refused to line up properly. He gripped his hat as he stumbled into the wings to the sound of the chorus coming in—the chorus he was supposed to be a part of. He thought he could probably just slide onto the end of the line without attracting too much attention. Unfortunately, he found his path blocked by the drama teacher, her face dark and angry, completely out of patience for this mess of a teenager. She stared at him, his eyes red and glassy, skin pale, insultingly obvious in his intoxication.

“No.”

He looked at her unfazed, barely registering her as more than an object to move around. When he tried to step past her, she blocked him again.

“Go home Aaron,” her voice was quiet but unfriendly.

He shook his head, “I’m going to miss my cue.”

She frowned, surprised that he was aware enough to even know when his part was. “You’re high, you can’t be on school property.”

Aaron glanced into her face now, paying attention. No teacher had ever mentioned being able to tell he was not sober before.

“If you don’t leave now, I will call the police.”

He stepped back, narrowing his eyes, gauging how serious she was, if she would really draw that much attention to the situation. Her expression didn’t change and he could tell she meant it. He looked past her once more, seeing Haley step forward into the spotlight to begin her solo. His heart twisted, thinking about how disappointed she’d be that he couldn’t make this happen for her. He’d tried, tried so hard to keep it together for this. She’d been so excited and even though he couldn’t feel any of that, he liked the way it lit up her face when she talked about the performance, about how her parents and her sister would be in the audience, about how she wanted them to meet him. He’d never planned on staying for that but he’d wanted to at least be part of the show, to at least give her that.

“Now, Hotchner,” she insisted, voice cold and unsympathetic. He shrugged and tossed the hat on the ground by her feet before turning and walking out.

He headed straight for the shed, knowing there were supplies there that he had slowly siphoned away when Cole was too high to notice. He’d been saving them, watching his little stockpile grow larger. He wasn’t sure exactly what he was saving it for, exactly what his intention was but now seemed as good a time as any to find out. He hoped Cole wasn’t there, at least not until he could get his fix. Nothing would matter then.

Once inside he turned on the camp lantern he’d stolen and climbed onto a rickety chair to reach the seam between the roof and the wall. He pulled out his supplies, examining them as he settled back down on the dirty old cushions on the floor and wrapped a blanket around himself. It was an old army surplus thing, scratchy and smelling of smoke but effective against the chill. He considered his options. There was a good amount in there, probably enough for two people if he waited for Cole to turn up. He could maybe ease him out of his frenzy, bring him down to Aaron’s level, to the place where they could float through time without moving, without worrying. He thought about the last time he’d seen him, the way his eyes had moved past him without any real recognition. He thought about the dark purple bruises on his wrist where Cole had grabbed him, twisting his arm and insisting Aaron give him whatever money he had.

Fuck him, he decided.

Cole would probably be angry if he came here and found Aaron high without him, would be suspicious of how that had come to be. He would probably regret not leaving any for him but just at that moment he didn’t care. Hurt and love and shame and desire were all the same to him, all more than he wanted to feel. He just wanted to feel nothing. He set himself up quickly, well practiced and sure of his movements. He glanced around the shed once, really seeing his surroundings, seeing how far he had sunk and he laughed as he pressed the plunger down. Anyone who heard him would have been alarmed, the sound more like an animal caught in a trap than an expression of human joy. His last thought as he sank back into the ground was that it really was too much for one person. Too much to be doing alone. Then he got what he wanted and everything was just black.

#criminal minds fanfiction #aaron hotchner #young hotch #young haley brooks #tw substances #tw abuse #a mixed blessing

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justkeeptrekkin · 5 years ago

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1975.

Crowley crosses Abbey Road.

It’s a quiet residential street, totally normal, other than the fact that one of the world’s most famous recording studios is plonked right in the middle of it. And, aside from all the tourists trying to re-enact the Beatles album cover.

Crowley invents the photo bomb a few decades early as he wanders across the road behind a nice German family taking picture on the zebra crossing.

He’s here to see Freddie. Crowley hasn’t seen Freddie in a while, and he’s a little apprehensive. Only because a call from Freddie on a Monday morning means he’s got something to say, and doesn’t just want to go for a few drinks or traipse around Vauxhall or Soho in their glad rags. The message on his answering machine (which is brand new, and still a little confusing) makes it sound like it’s good news, at least. Either way, the moment Crowley’s phone chimes with Freddie’s voice saying Listen, lovey, come on over to the studio tomorrow morning, I want to show you something, there’s very little that’ll keep him from going.

It’s a little chilly today. Crowley zips up his leather jacket and puts out his cigarette on the pavement, stamping it out under black boots. He saunters over to the studio and hops up the stairs two at a time. Nudging the door open with his shoulder, a wave of warmth and cheap vanilla air freshener hits him. Crowley wanders straight past the reception desk towards the room that he knows Freddie usually takes.

The receptionist doesn’t look up from her computer when she announces the usual, “Hello sir, how can I-” and it’s interrupted when she eventually casts her eyes over the rim of her glasses. “Oh- Mr. Crowley, sir- go right on through.”

He’d been planning to, anyway. He flicks his hand in a dismissive wave of thanks and idly makes his way down the corridor.

It’s filled with the sound of the band members chatting. The first thing that Crowley notices is Brian’s cloud of hair; it’s the first thing most people notice when Queen enter a room. They’re all bickering about something, or maybe they’re just talking enthusiastically; the success of Bohemian Rhapsody has made them all excited and ambitious and perhaps created a little bit of strain between them all. Crowley slows his pace and watches them pop out the back door, realising that Freddie isn’t with them.

A stream of piano notes flows down the corridor. Crowley follows the sound and pushes open the door to the studio.

Freddie is half hidden behind the raised lid of a grand piano, a cigarette in his mouth and a small frown as he watches his hands run up and down the keyboard. “Hello, Crowley.” “Alright, Freddie.” “Ciggie?” “I’m fine.”

His hands remain in his leather jacket pocket where they’re still warming up, and he makes a circuit about the large studio- the wooden floors and abandoned instruments, chairs where choir members might have sat for some other band. Overhead lights unflattering and bright. Crowley winces up at them through sunglasses and listens to the jaunty chords that Freddie plays on the piano. Humming something tuneful as he goes.

“Said you wanted to show me something,” Crowley starts.

“That’s right,” Freddie confirms, “I’ve got you a present.” “A present?” he grimaces, turning around and staring at the back of Freddie’s head. He wanders slowly over to the piano, where he can see some sheet music. Hand written, with lyrics on a scrap of paper that’s been paper-clipped to the side. “I don’t like presents.” “Let’s not call it a present then.” He doesn’t elaborate. Freddie’s always had a gently playful sense of humour, and on this occasion, it makes Crowley grumble. Without glancing away from the keyboard, he asks Crowley, “Still dressing up like Robert Smith, then?” “What’s wrong with that? I like The Cure.” “I liked your moustache. It was a shame you shaved it off. I’m thinking of growing one like it myself.” “I’d been informed that it didn’t suit me.” “Ah,” Freddie replies vaguely, again.

Crowley leans against the piano, watches the hammers and strings inside the belly of the piano jump about. And the tune that Freddie’s humming gains lyrics. He sings quietly, as if only to himself. “I can serenade and gently play…”

“So,” Crowley presses, looking at his watch. He has some sins to sow at midday. And he needs to be in Hackney after this. “How was Japan?” “The tour? Oh, yeah. It was great. Lots of people chasing after us in the streets.” “That doesn’t sound great. Sounds awful.” “We had to be bundled up in laundry baskets in our hotel and wheeled along so people wouldn’t spot us and chase us to our rooms. That's because I'm a good old-fashioned lover boy… Ooh let me feel your heartbeat...”

Crowley releases a loud, pointed sigh, and looks about the room. Drums his fingers against the side of the piano. Freddie continues to sing to himself, albeit a little louder, his dulcet tones filling the auditorium. “You going to?” he shrugs. “Tell me? Why I’m here?”

“A present, or don’t you remember?” “Yes, alright, but what is it?”

And then he finally looks up at Crowley, a little mischievously. He removes one hand from the piano to put out his cigarette in the ashtray at the far end of the keyboard. His right hand continues to trill its sweet tune. “Haven’t you been listening?” For a moment, Crowley doesn’t catch his drift. Freddie looks down at the keyboard and keeps playing. Then:

“Dining at the Ritz, we'll meet at nine precisely

I will pay the bill, you taste the wine

Driving back in style, in my saloon will do quite nicely

Just take me back to yours that will be fine

Ooh love,

Ooh loverboy

What're you doin' tonight, hey boy

Everything's all right

Just hold on tight

That's because I'm a good old-fashioned fashioned lover boy.”

The song comes to its satisfying, light-hearted end, and Crowley listens. Frowning, despite himself. He doesn’t know who the song could possibly be about, and why it should be of any importance to him. It’s always been clear that Freddie isn’t attracted to Crowley, and vice versa, so it can’t be about him. Suffice to say, he wouldn’t be giving Crowley that look if it were about one of his own boyfriends. Least of all, Crowley and Freddie have never been to The Ritz together, so he really can’t figure out what-

When it eventually clicks, Crowley scowls at him. “Oh fuck right off.”

“I was inspired,” Freddie says innocently.

“Inspired my arse, you’re sticking your nose in my business and trying to profit off of it!” Crowley gestures angrily at the keyboard and paces. He paces angrily. Paces like a politician might, having found out that someone’s splurged his deepest, darkest secrets to The Mirror or The Sun. Suddenly too warm, he shucks his leather jacket and announces, “You’re a twat, Freddie Mercury.” “So, you don’t like it. I’ll have you know I wrote it, and that makes it one of the good ones.”

“Inspired,” Crowley mimics disdainfully. Turning on the spot with an irritated flourish, boots knocking against the wooden floor. “What makes you think I’d enjoy having a song written about me?” “I know you’re self-conscious-”

“I’m not self-conscious-”

“Stop it with that shit, yes you are. And I know that our conversations about your man-”

“Don’t call him that-”

“Were in confidence. And trust me, I haven’t said a word.” Crowley points an accusatory finger at Freddie, who looks entirely unperturbed. “You better not have fucking done, Mercury.” “But,” his friend continues, “A little part of me thought it might be nice for you to hear about it out loud. In the open. Something cathartic about it.”

“Oh, yeah, sure, definitely, really nice fluffy feeling. To have your unrequited love sung about and flung in your face. Cheers for that.”

“Don’t be daft,” is the all the response he gets, before Freddie starts playing again.

He starts from the beginning. Slow and romantic and yearning. And then it picks up and takes that jaunty tone again, something fun and mischievous- like a dare, or an inside joke. And Crowley listens- to all of it. The tune, the lyrics, the way that Freddie sings it. It’s happy. It’s loving and it doesn’t sound at all unrequited, the way Freddie sings it. In this song, both the characters are old fashioned lover boys. And something about that soothes the defensive little monster in him that’s gnashing its teeth and screaming at Freddie to shut up.

“Nobody would know,” Freddie pipes up half way through, no longer singing, rattling off a piano solo. “It’d be totally anonymous. Well, actually, I reckon people would think it was about me. Nobody would guess it was about you.” “He would,” Crowley says. But as soon as he does, he doubts himself. Because when has Aziraphale ever been that observant? This is the angel who’d inadvertently wandered into the midst of the French Revolution for crepes.

And brioche.

Freddie continues to play and sing. And Crowley listens. He finally listens without any retort. He sits on the chair behind the drum kit and listens to Freddie play it over and over, until he can almost convince himself that he lives in a world where Aziraphale loves him back.

***

2019

One of Crowley’s favourite things in life is hearing Aziraphale hum.

Crowley has lived a fairly isolated, quiet life. It’s largely self-inflicted. Some of it is Hell inflicted- which one could argue is a problem only because he’d been enough of an arse to fall from Grace. Either way, it’s quite solitary and silent. But with Aziraphale, his life is filled with sound. Not with sickening celestial harmonies, but just the sound of Aziraphale existing.

One of his favourite sounds is Aziraphale making a cup of tea. The sound of him pottering about in the kitchen and clinking the tea spoon against the mug. Humming Mozart to himself. Asking if Crowley wants two sugars or one today (which is Aziraphale’s indirect way of begging Crowley to stop taking so much sugar in his tea). On this particular occasion, Aziraphale isn’t singing Mozart, however. Nor is he singing Liszt.

Crowley looks up from his phone. Sat on the sofa that he and Aziraphale had argued over for three hours in DFS because neither of them could pick one that they both liked (and neither of them had managed to miracle one that they could agree on, so they thought it best to see what the shops offered as inspiration). He puts down his phone in his lap, mutes the television (which Aziraphale had also argued with him over, but Crowley had put his foot down), and listens.

“Crowley, dear, two sugars or one?” He hesitates, tries to tell himself he wasn’t imagining it. “Uh- one, just the one today- angel?” “Yes, love.”

“Were you just singing Queen?” There’s a quiet, knowing chuckle, and the sound of Aziraphale shuffling in his slippers from the kitchen to the living room. He’s wearing corduroys, and his bowtie has been abandoned in favour for a cable knit jumper and shirt. A relaxed look that Crowley had rarely had the luck to see, until recently. Aside from all that, the angel is also wearing a pleased little smile as he hands Crowley his tea and sits beside him on the sofa. “Oh, yes. It seems I was.”

“That’s bebop, that is,” Crowley jokes dryly.

“I know. You must be so proud of me. It’s all that time in your Bentley, it’s a bad influence on me.”

“Just the right amount of bad, clearly.”

Aziraphale smiles. That smile he has when he knows just how adorable he’s being and is supremely proud of himself. He buries his feet under Aziraphale’s bum to warm them up, and Aziraphale tuts, shuffles to get more comfortable.

Crowley steels himself. Clears his throat. “You do know what that song’s about, don’t you?” He prompts.

Aziraphale’s rings clink against the mug he’s holding. He looks up at the ceiling as he thinks. “Just a very nice love song, really, isn’t it? You knew Freddie well, you probably know better than me.”

Crowley blinks at him. This might take some time. “Ye- yeeeees,” he encourages slowly. “I did know him well. Well enough that he might even write a song for me.” That little o-shaped gasp. “Really, Crowley?”

“Yes. And. You. You have listened to the lyrics, yeah?’

“Absolutely. It’s my favourite song by Queen, you know. The lyrics are perfect. So lovely. And relatable- you know it’s a song that reminds me a lot of us.”

Crowley looks at him with a wide-eyed, pointed gaze. Aziraphale looks back, eyes darting about the room in confusion.

“You’re staring at me,” Aziraphale accuses.

“You’re being really thick,” Crowley replies.

“Excuse me?”

“I knew Freddie. Very well.” “Yes, I’ve understood that much.”

“He wrote a song for me.”

“Right. You had mentioned that.”

“It’s. Uncannily relatable. Talks about old-fashioned lover boys and The Ritz.”

“Yes, I follow so far.” Crowley sighs and rubs his face. “Aziraphale, when are you going to realise that Freddie Mercury wrote a song for me about you?”

He peers at Aziraphale between his fingers. Aziraphale’s eyes widen comically. And he makes the very business-like decision of putting down his tea to give Crowley his full, undivided attention, turning towards him.

“Crowley. Really?”

“Yes, really, you silly bastard, how did you not put two-and-two together?” “Because it’s me, what were you expecting,” Aziraphale complains, a little flustered.

It makes Crowley take pity on him, putting his tea aside too and leaning forward so he’s kneeling beside Aziraphale. “Well. There you are. Now you know. Whole song, dedicated to you. And, um. A few more out there too. Without lyrics, so it’s less obvious.” Aziraphale’s expression softens and brightens all at once. Something totally indescribable and beautiful. Like the sun behind a fluffy cloud. It’s miraculous. “Oh, Crowley. No.” “Yes, ‘fraid so.” “Will you tell me-?”

“Nah. Make it more fun to see if you can figure out which songs they are.”

Aziraphale smacks him playfully on the arm.

“I do have a small confession,” Aziraphale says a little coyly. Eyes looking up at him, then away again. Then back at Crowley. Teasing.

“Go on,” he says through a smirk, anticipation building. So much so he finds himself leaning in for a kiss before Aziraphale can speak.

“There may be one or two out there dedicated to you, too.” “Oh, really?” he murmurs against Aziraphale’s cheek. Hiding his face, because he’s not quite ready to show how happy that makes him. How much Aziraphale completes him.

“A few,” Aziraphale replies. Then, “A fair few.”

Crowley places the gentlest kiss he can on his cheek. “Do I get any clues?”

He feels him smile against his skin. “That would ruin the fun.”

***

happy birthday to my darling @duocreatix!!! Here’s some Freddie Mercury inspired ineffable husbands content for your consumption <3

#good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #my writing #fic prompt #fanfiction

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fics-not-tragedies · 4 years ago

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In a Week: Chapter 10 🌲

Yes, I have a thing for walks in the woods and no, I cannot be stopped with them. So you can bet it’s another chapter they spend in the forest.

Words: 2472; Warnings: none, unless you want another warning for smoking then you have it; Summary: Andrew and Flo go for another walk in the woods.

Hozier tag list:

@letoursilencebreaktonight; @angelpeachamber; @sgt-morgan; @julessbrown;

Monday, 3pm

Her hand was wrapped in his, like they were walking that way all the time, the gesture was quite natural for them when he was guiding her through the forest he seemed to know like the back of his hand.

The woods welcomed them both with juicy grass and tall trees with moss covered trunks. They were walking alongside the creek, stopping here and there to have a closer look at the colorful flowers or just to breathe in the fresh summer air.

Suddenly he stopped and Flo bumped into his back, “Hey, take a look” Andrew whispered to her, slowly taking few small steps to the side, so she could finally see why he stopped.

There was a little deer that stopped few meters from them on the other side of the creek that stopped by to have a refreshing drink.

He crouched down, pulling her to his level, so their appearance wouldn’t scare the animal. Flo sat on the nearest rock close to him and they both watched as the deer was taking slow sips from the cold creek. There was some movement in the bushes behind it and another three deers gracefully walked over to the creek and joined the first one.

“I wish I had my camera with me” Flo breathed looking at Andrew now.

“You’re a photographer?” He asked her with little sparks in his muddy eyes.

“I wouldn’t call myself that… I kinda made my wish come true and got myself an analog camera last year and I’m just taking photos whenever I can.”

“I must admit, em, it’s a moment worth capturing” he moved closer to her, so he didn’t had to speak louder.

“Yes, the deers and us here on a rock by the creek.”

“The deers and us?” Andrew asked, like he was stunned by her words.

“Yes, those two. I feel like the only way I can take you home with me is by pictures.”

“Em… or you can just ask” he giggled almost soundlessly, brushing his locks away from his face.

“Mister Byrne, are you flirting with me?” Flo wiggled her eyebrows at him and he had to hide his face into his large hands to avoid laughing out loud.

“Just… maybe a tiny little bit.”

“I’ll remember that Andrew” she had to look away from him, move her gaze back to the deers, because she knew that if her eyes would long for a little bit more on his face she’d give in and kiss him.

Monday, 4pm

“Do you really got the marshmallows?” Flo asked him, slowly sitting at the wide stump next to him.

The small fire was already lit, thanks to the lighter he carries around and Andrew just silently kept stabbing the marshmallows with a stick.

“I did” he placed them over the fire watching them carefully as they started to melt really slowly.

“What made you think I like roasted marshmallows?” Her eyes were glued to his face, carefully studying every little detail, every little wrinkle formed on his skin, she’d desperately try to remember it all after this week ends and they part their ways forever.

“Everyone loves roasted marshmallows” Andrew took one off the stick with his long fingers and pressed it to her lips.

“Well… you’re right” she smiled and gently took the warm candy in her mouth, desperately trying to avoid any contact with his fingers, but they both knew it wasn’t possible, when he brushed her lower lips with his fingertips, “Does every girl gets feed by you?” Flo asked chewing vigorously at the melted marshmallow.

Andrew chuckled a little, before placing another one in his own mouth, “Not really, em, you’re the first one, Flo.”

“Oh, delightful” she snatched another one from the stick he was gripping and now she was the one who was pressing the marshmallow against his lips.

“I feel like Dionysus would be proud of us” her fingers gently brushed his mouth when he took the candy from her and she let herself long them there for a little bit longer than she should.

“It’s not a real feast Andrew, also we don’t have wine and naked girls, also we’re in the middle-” his other hand gently grasped her hand, his long fingers wrapping around her wrist and he planted a little kiss to her fingertips, “... the middle of a forest.”

A little untamed gasp left her mouth and she shook her head, seeing the little grin forming on his narrow lips.

“You don’t have to be naked to have some fun” Andrew winked and she tamed another gasp with a marshmallow stuffed into her mouth.

“Do men like you hide under the moss?” Flo joked, taking another candy into her sticky fingers.

“No ma’am” he laughed a little, eating another marshmallow, “we just don’t get that much recognition.”

“Such a shame.”

Monday, 7pm

“I need a smoke” he announced, patting his pockets down and wandering a little down the hill. She followed without question.

“You say that a lot, Andy” Flo pulled the sleeves of her jumper down to cover her hands and crossed her arms, staying close behind him.

“I’m saying what?” He replied, looking back at her for a second, the gold sun bright on her bare face.

“That you need something.”

They found a spot that was grassy and only slightly moss covered. Even though the incline of the hill was uncomfortable on their backs, neither of them wanted to move once they had settled. Flo quickly pulled her knees up to her chin, staring out at the sky and the city below. Andrew was directly to her right and he lit his cigarette, legs stretched out, taking a long drag before asking what she meant.

“What’s wrong with, em, saying that I need something?”

She turned back to him, almost having forgotten her point, tilting her head to observe him properly, her hair wild from the bun it had been in. He squinted a little as the brightness of the sun rolled gradually away from them.

“I just think people who say the word need all time have an addictive personality” she suggested teasingly.

He raised his eyebrow, nodding slowly, amused. He considered the truth in her statement wholly, knew how excited and obsessed he could be over small things that he got lost in. She was just another example - he knew her for less than twenty-four hours and already he was enamored, completely mesmerized by her. He blew smoke away from her and flicked the ash, his bare arms pricking a little at the sudden blow of wind.

“I get what you have on your mind…” then he coughed, nudging her softly, “addicted to you, aren’t I?”

Flo’s lips pulled into a smirk identical to his and she shook her head in disbelief at how quick he was, how he turned nearly everything into some variant of flirtatious joke.

“Wow, Andrew, that was almost good.”

“I’ll keep trying” he chuckled deeply, scratching his nose with his free hand.

“I’m sure you will.”

“It’s not my usual self, em, I haven’t been like that around anyone” Andrew beamed so intensely at her that she thought he had malfunctioned for a moment. It was only when she shivered against the cold that he moved, shuffling slightly closer to her in a quiet panic.

“Cold?”

“Actually, a little bit” she sighed, blinking at him through her lashes, knowing she couldn’t resist what he was inevitably bound to offer.

“C’mere then.”

His long arm draped around her instantly and she had no desire to fight it, so she didn’t. She held her breath as her head fell against his toned chest, tucking her body snugly against his. There was an immediate comfort in being this close to him again and she exhaled sharply at last, her breath a little shaky as it drifted from her lips. Unsatisfied, the palm of her hand stretched out on his abdomen, his eternal warmth seeping through his shirt despite the cold.

“Is this weird?” He hummed gently, resting his chin on the top of her head and inhaling the scent of her floral shampoo, before taking another quick drag of his cigarette, making sure to blow the smoke away from her.

“Only if we let it be weird” she mumbled back, too obsessed with the quiet, focused so intently on only the rhythmic patterns of his heart, to raise her voice over it. The fingers of his free hand tucked a few strands of loose hair behind her ear, then he stroked over it softly, letting it fall between his fingers, unable to resist the chance. Flo didn’t dare to flinch, scared for a moment he’d stop and felt her eyelids automatically closing at how gentle this tall man was with her, the golden light fading.

Monday, 7:45pm

“Flo… Honey…”

Flo woke slowly to the hushed sound of Andrew repeating her name, his thumb brushing casually over her arm to stir her. She hadn’t planned to sleep, hadn’t realized she was tired at all, but he was so overwhelmingly soft and warm and his hand in her hair had been a complete comfort, so much so that it was unavoidable. She lifted her head from his shirt gradually, shocked by the audacity her past self had had to touch his lower chest in the way she had, peeling her palm from his abdomen with a hint of embarrassment.

She prayed to every god there was that she hadn’t snored, or dribbled or done anything remotely humiliating whilst she was out. Flo squeezed her eyes as she readjusted to the light, everything much darker than it had been before. Andrew’s arm was still around her, eager to keep her close and she brushed over her hair nervously, remembering the way he combed it with his fingers, suddenly worried about her appearance.

“What?” She mumbled sleepily, finally able to bring herself to look at him, his eyes deep and muddy, his beard a little harsh yet still fluffy.

“You’re missing the sunset now, love…” he announced, his voice a mere whisper, pointing towards the sky she failed to even notice, too desperate to find his face the moment she was conscious. Flo hung on his face for a moment more, breathless at the way his lips parted when he called her ‘love’ and found herself filled with an irrefutable need to press hers against his, just to ease the fire he had rekindled inside her. Instead, she turned her head immediately to the view, a little too sharply to be subtle, the stiffness in her neck now very apparent.

The sunset was anything but anticlimactic. If it hadn’t been beautiful before, it certainly was now, the sky erupting with more colour than should’ve been possible. It was more intense than she’s ever seen from where she lived in the city, more shades of orange and red, pink and even purple than she could count on one hand, shrouding the skyline elegantly.

“Did you plan this?” Flo giggled breathlessly, obsessed with the way the colors bounced off his skin, his nose illuminated with a bright orange hue.

“Well, I asked the universe for a favor” he hummed, licking his lips as she turned back to him, “and it seems like, em, someone was listening to me this time.”

She rolled her eyes, baffled by just how immature he could be while simultaneously having one of the most complex minds she’d ever witnessed. She settled back against him for a moment to watch the sun sink out of view. It was a little awkward, neither of them sure how to soothe the absurd tension, but the crook of his shoulder was so inviting and he was more than happy to oblige in holding her. They were quiet for a while, each blinking at the horizon in awe.

Andrew felt for a while like a teenager all over again. It was the combination of Flo making him idiotically nervous and the vague deja-vu he felt from sitting in the grass holding her, watching the sun go down, like he had so many times in his youth. He had a beer in hand and a sudden breakout of spots too, the similarity would’ve been uncanny. Of course, the girls he sat with back then were merely girls, not women and were nowhere near as gorgeous as he thought Flo was.

Flo was lost on the idea of staying in this moment forever, wanted nothing more than to come back to it whenever she felt bad or alone or angry with the universe, because it had given her this beautiful memory now that she already held so close to her heart. It was confusing being away from the hotel, outside of the walls she spent every memory with Andrew. She told herself over and over again that it was cruel to think of anything other than Monday being the end of the line, but watching the sunset, on the hill, his closeness so comforting, it felt like a blind promise that their whirlwind of an adventure was genuine. She knew that it wasn’t just the hotel or that week that worked - it was them.

Monday, 7:50pm

The sun disappeared moments later with a last desperate dash of colour streaking through the clouds and then everything was suddenly navy and dark. To both of their annoyance, it wasn’t clear enough to make out many stars just yet. Flo’s bum felt numb, Andrew’s hands were blue, his shoulder cramped from where she’d been curled against him and they were simply too cold to be comforted by each other anymore.

“We should’ve brought our coats… or a blanket” she decided as he stood, brushed himself down and pulled her to her feet with both hands, disappointed when he let go straight away, “That’s why I don’t do spontaneity.”

“If being a little bit cold is, em, all that’s holding you back from living your life, then maybe, em, you should reconsider.”

“I just like being warm, that’s all” Flo fixed her hair, tucking the straw strands behind her ears.

“All I can offer you now is a really warm hug, from a really tall man.”

“I take that offer” she breathed out and his long arms wrapped around her back pulling her into a tight hug.

“So what we do now?” A mumble left her lips as she inhaled the scent of his perfume.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll figure something out in a minute” Andrew let himself press his nose into her hair, smell her herbal shampoo, before the realization that this wasn’t his girlfriend, nor she’ll ever be one, hit him like a train and he had to choke in few tears that were threatening to fall from his muddy green eyes.

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minichedders · 6 years ago

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flame

mobster!tom holland x reporter!reader

"With crime and terror constantly ruling the streets, the only question left to ask ourselves is; will we ever be free from the Holland crime family?"

-Y/N Y/L/N

Thomas read the back printed words with his teeth grinding and jaw clenched; this was the third report in the month that Y/H had written about him and his mob, and with this much attention from the public eyes, police force and FBI, it was too risky for his business to move around discreetly, even with all the secret eyes and rats within the goverment forces. Tom was annoyed that his generational crime family business was being tethered by one female reporter with a cocky, nosy attitude.

Although Tom had gathered all information and pictures about you and often got his men to follow you so you arrived home safe late nights, he couldn't help but feel an angered attraction towards you, of course, the idea of you writing about him and opening your mouth to spread news made his blood boil, but the soft delicate skin and kind eyes that you had made his heart thump, not to mention how you looked in your gala dresses and office outfits. Now, Tom's thoughts were drifting in the idea of watching you tonight at the gala, you no doubt would be there, trying to worm yourself in more gossip and dramas within the London crime families; and no doubt you would be wearing one of your infamous red dresses that adorned your perfect figure.

"Aye mate! hurry up daydreamer, limos here," Harrisons said, busting the door open only to leave just after. Tom let out a short sigh, taking a final puff from his ashed cigarette and popping a mint into his mouth before leaving his dark marron office to join his best man in the long sleek black vehicle.

"Is she going to be there?" Tom asked, or grunted in Harrison's direction, leaving the blonde man to laugh in response. The affection that Tom had towards you was insanely deep, even if the words you wrote caused the heeps of trouble.

"Why don't you just admit that your head over heels for her mate?" Harrison laughed again, watching the city lights ass by in the window, sipping n the tall flute glass of champagne.

"Because I'm not, you fucking twit," Tom responded with a rather harsh bite, but the outburst only made Harrison chuckle more to himself, as they drove the rest of the way to the Gala in silence.

There you were, standing directly in the centre of the ballroom, all eyes and lights seemingly focusing around you laughed with a group of men and women talking about nothing imparticular whilst your hand tightly grasped the liquid bubbles. During the dull conversation, your eyes continuously wondered around the room, searching for any stories or dramatic people to write up next weeks storyline about, and when you found the man you wanted, you couldn't help the smirk that rose on your painted lips as you downed the last remaining glass of bubbles.

Toms eyes where focused on you as you watched each other across the room. The cross back red fishtail maxidress floated around your feet, the lighting making your hair glow against your skin and the gentle makeup making your eyes scream out at Tom, almost controlling his movements as you stared him up and down. It wasn't long before Tom had reached you on the dancefloor, both your hearts reaching out to each other, eyes trained on each other and your fingers shaking in anticipation to touch him.

The idea of the infamous rough and tough Tom Holland holding you gentle and passionately drilling into you all night made your head dizzy and stomach flip with excitement, however, your entire workforce and operation against the Holland crime family would be destroyed, as well as your professional matter and reputation; but the closer Tom came to you, the more professionally flew out the window.

"Miss Y/L/N," Tom spoke in his low, gentle voice. And you weren't sure if it was the heels or his effect on you, but your knees almost stumbled and gave way to your weight as soon as you heard his voice.

"Holland," You bit back, trying to keep a stern face and attitude whilst he was standing so close to you. "Hows that illegal gun ammunition trade going with Greece?" You smirked, getting under his skin easily as you saw his jaw clench leaving you beyond flustered.

"It would be fine if you kept your big nose out of my business, darling," The words few like venom out of his mouth, and a touch of sadness could be seen in your eyes if you looked closely enough, which Tom did.

"I think you forget it's my job, darling," You replied, huffing and beginning to turn to walk away; but Toms' hand reached out to yours, pulling you in close, wrapping his arms around your waist, a huge cocky grin plastered on his face.

"Dance with me," He demanded, leaving you to roll your eyes, but nonetheless comply to his wishes. The two of you stayed together in silence for a while, one of your hands leaning against his shoulder, and the other resing n the peck of his chest, as he remained on the lower stretch of your back, touching your bare skin from the low cut back dress, and dangerously low. You tried to avoid his gaze by searching the room, taking notice of Toms men dotted around the outskirts, conveniently blocking the exits, but Toms' eye pulled you in like a temptress.

"Your bushing you know," Tom said slowly, his sensual voice once again affecting your body. You had already felt the heat in your checks rise the first time you had caught Tom's eye, but ow you were close and touching, they had burned considerably brighter.

"It's just hot, don't flatter yourself," You scoffed, you were building a wall, protecting yourself from seeming gullible and week in front f his tough mobster exterior.

"Oh sugar," To leaned in, his face close to yours, his hot, minty breath against your skin as goosebumps rose to the surface of your skin, "you look fucking ravishing,"

The comment had left you stunned, as you turned your head to avoid his leaning kiss, capturing eyes with Toms best man, Harrison, who was standing and watching the two of you smirking, making you feel more conscious about the proximity between you and Tom. You didnt reply to him, and instead dug your pointed fingernails into his chest causing him to loosen his grip as you slipped away quickly, rushing to the bathroom before you could explode.

Rushing through the white door into the pristine dark marble bathroom, you clutched your hand at your chest, wishing you could solve the itch that felt deep in your chest. You pulled out your mobile phone from under your breast, calling your best friend and co-worker.

"Fucking help me, babe, I'm in some deep shit here," You spoke before your friend could even answer. You know this was a risk, every event that you bumped into Tom this happened, well not the dancing, but the butterflies, dizziness, and headaches that he gave you. It was a dangerous compromise, to be infatuated with the man you swore to yourself to destroy. The irony was laughing in your face and you were blinded to its harsh words.

"Ahhh, Tom Holland is it? I told you, you just need to fuck, get all that pent up energy out of your system, and then write about how shit he was in bed," Your friend replied, munching on a packet of crips through the line. You rolled your eyes once more, no matter how much you denied wanting to sleep with Tom, you knew she was right he was like a virus.

"Ugh, even if i wanted to fuck him, which i don't FYI, it would ruin my writing, i would be too biased," You replied, looking at your flushed cheeks in the mirror. dammit.

"Arent you already biased?" She said through the phone, filling the room with silence as you didnt know how to respond.

"Anyway, i bet he's a killer in bed if you don't take the shot i will," She said, making you internally cringe but laugh. You let out a deep sigh, looking down at your fingernails, painted dark maroon.

"He does look like the type to totally dominate you in bed, true, but-" You were quickly cut off by a hand grasping the phone from behind you, making you scream before another hand wrapped up to your mouth, preventing you from doing so. Your eyes widened as they met Toms reflection in the mirror, and even though your eyes dropped in realization, your body was still tense.

Toms' hand relaxed against your hand, as he dropped the phone harshly on the marble counter and using his now free hands to coax up and down your sides. He was aware of the effect he had on you, as he could see the reaction clearly in the mirror, as well as feel the tense muscles underneath the palms of his hands.

"You'd be so lucky to find out daring," Tom whispered in your ear, pulling the loose hair away from your neck, exposing the fresh skin to his lips as he grazed against it. You breathing was harsh and foreign, and you almost fainted as his mouth began to harshly suck onto the skin, your eyes closing and head falling back onto his shoulder to allow him easy access.

"Tom," His name fell from your lips, causing his grip on your waist to tighten and his body to grind against your slowly. The both of you moaned in response, the light echo surrounding you in the room, making you aware of your situation, you were allowing him to do this to you, but it felt too good to stop.

"Tom I- i can't do this," You whispered, your head and heart fighting with each other, not wanting the moment to stop.

"Yes you can Y/N," Tom said, and the sound of Tom whispering your name so explicitly and sensually made your knees week and your heart flutter.

"My job,"

"Quit. Be with me, you can start your own fucking business, id do anything for you," Tom said, continuing his attack on your neck as your eyes widened. You shoved your bum back, pushing him backwards, allowing you to turn around to face him, pushing your hand out to his chest and shoving him further.

"I don't need you to sort my life out y'know," You spat, furious but still needy at the same time, your body craving the hot contact Tom once fed you.

"Of course not darling," Tom said, taking your attacking wrists in his hands and holding you against the bathroom counter to keep you from hitting and shoving him again.

"But i can offer you your own company, own newspaper, the fucking world if you where with me Y/N," Tom moved closer, his body against yours, causing a catastrophic reaction in your lower belly.

"I'll think about it," You hated giving him control, especially over your work, but having your own business meant running your own thing, and not being controlled by forced segments, deadlines or topics you didnt even want to write about, and you could always buy it off Tom whenever you wanted.

"Good with me, now, let me kiss you," Tom demanded, leaning in again to capture your lips together in a feverish kiss. Fireworks erupted in your stomach as you grew needy and desperate for his touch, and you moved harder against him. You knee raised against his side, his rough hand running against the underside of your thigh, the thigh split letting his touch erupt your bare skin, his lips ground against you, the friction giving you enough, but not enough, you needed more.

You pawed at his chest, tugging off his suit jacket and rushing to undo his buttons before his hands caught yours.

"Say it first," He said.

"I'll be with you," You sighed, knowing full well you just handed over life to him. But you didnt care, you knew that you had a strong feeling for him, vice versa, and you were willing to sacrifice things for him, as he would for you, and together, you would be so fucking powerful.

"What a fine Queen you will make Y/N,"

taglist

mob!tom: @sweetenedangeltears

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90simaginesandfanfics · 7 years ago

Text

Cradle Broken Glass - Chapter Seven Part Two

Layla bounded over to where Phil was standing next to a blonde woman. They were in conversation and he didn’t seem to notice her when she stepped to his side. The woman turned to her and looked her up and down in disapproval, making Layla feel more self conscious than she already did.

“I’ll see you later Phil.” She said, then started to walk away.

“See ya Samantha.” He responded. He turned around and glared at you.

“How long does it take to smoke a fucking cigarette, Layls? For fucks sake, the last thing I need is for you to die of hypothermia and me have to carry you to the fucking hospital.” He said loudly, drawing attention to the both of you. She thought it was funny though. If he had of given her his coat then she wouldn’t have died of fucking hypothermia.

“I’m sorry. I was daydreaming a little. Please Phil, I’m fine.” He nodded and then suddenly pulled her against him, forcing her to participate in a slobbery kiss that made her almost throw up in his mouth. He pulled away, and smacked her ass, then turned back towards the group of people next to them, and joined in the conversation. She blushed with mortification that everyone had witnessed their argument and their subsequent making up. She looked around the room, trying to look at anyone but the man holding her, when her eyes connected with baby blue ones from across the room, and a pair of brown ones next to that. Eddie was glaring towards where Phil had his hand around her waist, then met her eyes with a glowering look. Next to him, Stone looked at her in sympathy and pity, which she detested. She turned back around and refused to look back at them. No matter how hard she tried to deny it, she felt humiliated that Eddie had literally proved his own point by witnessing what had just happened. All she could hope was that he wouldn’t come over and introduce himself. If he did, Phil would probably forbid her from every seeing Eddie again, since he would feel jealous and paranoid. Not like he had anything to be paranoid about. Eddie would never go for someone like her, she told herself. She excused herself from Phil’s grasp to go to the bathroom. She walked to the back of the house and closed the door, sitting on the side of the bath and trying to collect her thoughts.

After several minutes, she opened the bathroom door, but as she was leaving, she bumped into someone. As she was about to apologise, she looked up and saw Stone.

“Sorry Stoney. Wasn’t looking where I was going.” She tried to get around him.

“Layla….”

“Come on, don’t want to miss out on the party,”

“Layla.” She faced him after hearing the sharp edge in his voice. He stared down at her, still with that lingering tone of pity.

“Layla, I love you, and I want you to be happy, cause I’m your friend. But back there, it didn’t seem like you were happy.” Her breath hitched.

“Stone, I cannot tell you enough how much I love you too, but I am happy,” lie “and I love Phil” another lie “it’s just relationships aren’t always completely smooth. He’s just had a lot to drink. You can’t tell me you handle your alcohol that well.” She looked up at her friend, begging him to believe her and just let it go. He slowly gave her a smile, that she knew wasn’t completely real, and drew her into a hug. They both walked back into the main party area.

*****

After another hour, Phil had decided that it was time to leave. Layla asked him if he could wait in the car while she said goodbye to Stone and Jeff. While he wasn’t happy about it, he agreed and left for the car. She said goodbye to as many people as possible, leaving Jeff and Stone till last, where they both gave her a massive bear hug. As she went to the door to go, a voice interrupted her.

“Bye.” She turned back towards Eddie, who stood there with his hands stuffed into his pockets, looking like a shy kid.

“Bye.” You said back, and looked at the floor as an awkward silence took over. He suddenly broke it.

“I know you lied to Stone.” she looked up. “You don’t have to lie. Some people want you to be happy, and it’s clear you’re not.” Her cheeks heated in embarrassment, but soon she felt anger seeping into her. How could he possibly assume she wasn’t happy? Without saying anything else, she turned around and headed out the door, feeling completely overwhelmed. She made her way down to the car, where Phil sat, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel impatiently. She got in, and he drove off. The car was silent as they made their way home.

“You never introduced me to the new guy. I didn’t even see him tonight.” He suddenly said, in a better mood than he was earlier.

“He was the one who was with Stone all night. In the corduroy jacket.” She replied robotically. His fingers suddenly stopped tapping along to the beat of the radio. He turned to her, before his eyes snapped back to the road.

“The one with long hair. He was wearing a tivoli t-shirt?” He asked, his voice raising a few pitches higher. She nodded absentmindedly, looking out the window and not really paying attention. Silence filled the car once again. As soon as they got home, Layla made her way into their bedroom and got changed, with him doing the same shortly after. They got into bed and started to go to sleep.

“You know, that new guy isn’t what I would have thought he would be.” Phil said out of the blue, just as Layla was drifting off to sleep.

“How do you mean?” She asked curious.

“He’s, just, uh, not really, I don’t know. He’s just not as attractive as I would have pictured him.” Layla rolled her eyes, making sure he wouldn’t see. Whenever Phil came across someone he perceived to be better looking, he would tell her how ugly they were. He did it with both Stone and Jeff, and even Andy. The fact that he was going it to Eddie was laughable, since he was probably the best looking person in Seattle.

“Sure.” She said in agreement, hoping he would let it go if she did agree. Soon she drifted off to sleep, still angry that a certain singer had managed to see through her falsity, and figure out that she wasn’t as happy as she portrayed.

*****

Hope you guys like the new chapter. What do you think about Phil’s reaction to Eddie? Just to let you know, the next chapter’s gonna make you hate Phil more than you already probably do. What do you think’s gonna happen?

#edved #eddie vedder fanfic #eddie vedder fanfiction #eddie vedder #pearl jam fanfic #pearl jam fanfiction #pearl jam #cradle broken glass #grunge fanfic #grunge fanfiction #grunge #imagines #imagine #oneshot #fanfiction #fanfic #alice in chains #nirvana #soundgarden

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medeadzugashvili · 6 years ago

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THE MIST

I sailed into the harbour of the Surreal City. This is what I called it forever, though it strikes me as funny, since there is nothing surreal to it. A tiny square, with heaps of useless trinkets which natives (I call them that because of the strange language they speak) use to trick the rich wannabes into dipping for their wallets. There are two churches, one straight ahead, and the other on the right. And that’s it. But, the mist is surreal. I’ve always feared it. And I know: the end of the world will not come in thunder and flames. It will draw near with one of these mists, and few of us will know instantly. I don’t know who the others are, but I know they exist. And we shall meet, when it is due…

However, in the Surreal City, there exist real needs, especially if you have spent past months churning in those blasted waters. For so long, it seems I have become virgin again. But I hate it when our captain says it, and to avoid his attempts at being funny, I usually leave the ship first, stepping onto the pier alone, without the hungry pack of sailors. No, don’t get me wrong, I am not in any way better than them. It is just that I like to do some things on my own. And then, stepping through the rubbish and fish scales, by the road known to myself only, and to the certain house. All of you, probably influenced by bad literature, imagine brothels at sea ports as loud places, reeking with rancid oil, cheap perfumes and sour wine, with obese Puffe-Mutter and warts on her nose welcoming you at the door. Well, it is exactly like it. I got waylaid by one of those at the door, asking:

‘’How much d’you 'ave?’’

‘’Two hundred,'' I said.

‘’Not enough, it’s gone up. How long have you gone without it, slugger?’’

I have this stupid habit of blushing, and I am endlessly ashamed of it. However, this time it paid off, ‘cause it stirred some of the maternal feelings with the old hag.

‘’Sweetheart, mamma’s got something for you, half price.’’

‘’Why so cheap? Diseased?’’

‘’No, just crazy.’’

‘’All right,’’ I said, already getting desperate, ‘’Hope she’s not violent’’, and handed her the money. She waved toward the guy who was silently playing the piano long out of tune. He got up, grabbing a bag.

‘’Take ‘im to thirty-four,’’ she ordered. I followed my guide up the stairs. He led me to the loft, knocked on the flaked door, and stepped aside, still holding the bag. I closed my eyes and entered.

‘’Open your eyes, I’m not that ugly,’’ I heard the silent, tense contralto. Ugly or not, I couldn’t tell, for the long dark hair was covering her face and chest. She was sitting on a ruffled bed, hugging her right knee, while her left leg was stretched sideways. The sheet she was draped in as in some kind of a toga, didn’t protect her from the cold pervading the room. Pervading the Surreal City.

‘’Should I take it off?’’ She asked, thinking ,probably, of sheet. I didn’t answer. I sat on the bed, my back to her, and placed her bare foot on my lap. In case you haven’t known, both looks and character can be determined according to the foot, not hands, opposite to the popular belief. For an example, mine is boorish, wide and flat, with potato-like toes and then it is easy to infer that my face, too, is common, uninteresting, with tousled blonde hair and grey eyes. Although, it passes quite well in southern harbours.

Her foot, on the other hand, was narrow, nicely arched, with long toes and sculptured ankle. I don’t know why, I took off my thick navy-blue coat and covered her.

‘’Take that thing off me, I hate blue.’’

I turned. Just as I thought - chiselled. Chiselled of white marble, without a tinge of rose. That kind of face painters in orthodox churches bestow upon the Leader of armies, as they call the Archangel Michael.

‘’I paid for you, I can do what I want,’’ I said insecurely, feeling my face growing hot instantly.

‘’Did you? And they didn’t inform you I was crazy?’’

She couldn’t have not noticed. It is impossible that the first person not to mock my beat-red cheeks was sea-port hooker. If she indeed was one.

‘’ Come on, do what you’ve come for, and go, I am tired,’’ she shattered my illusions with just one sentence uttered.

‘’Give me some time,’’ my voice was quivering uncontrollably. Something was wrong from the start.

‘’D'you need help? Pictures, or something?’’

‘’Why are you saying that? Why do you keep insulting me?’’ I almost cried.

‘’All right, all right, pull yourself together,’’ she felt pity, got up and stood by the window, wrapping herself tightly into her toga. She was staring outside.

‘’What’s your name?’’ I asked, lighting the cigarette.

‘’Whatever you want it to be.’’

‘’Still…’’

‘’I don’t have a name anymore.’’

I inhaled a smoke two or three times. She is really crazy, I thought.

‘’You think I am really crazy,’’ she said it listlessly, still intently watching the mist over the harbour. She was reading me like a book.

‘’No, you’re not crazy. Just… different. Tell me something about yourself.’’

'’ I have nothing to tell.’’

‘’Why do you do this?'' I couldn’t help it. I had no more desire, nor strength inside me. Just my damn curiosity.

‘’And why do you sail?'’ she said, her spirit elsewhere.

‘’I wanted to see it all - endless sea, old cities, golden domes of churches, the forests of poisonous flowers, black lakes, sparkling glaciers, cruel in their loneliness...'' I started confessing, forgetting that my question came first. She sat on the bed, crossing her legs and curling them underneath her body.

‘’I've already seen it all. Here, '’ she touched her forehead.

‘’Then why are you here?’’

‘’He left me.''

I howled with laughter. I was giggling so hard, it was getting rude, even in a place like this. I managed to stop only when the burning cigarette started scorching my fingers.

‘’Come on, sister, you’re smart enough, come up with a better excuse,’’ I barely mustered to squeeze out, while blowing into my hand. She lifted her gaze towards me. Faced with those two dark abysses, all sense of humour drained.

‘’Don’t you know the story….don't you know that once upon a time, every person had two heads, four arms and four legs? And they were so powerful that it frightened the gods, so they cut them in half? And now those two halves are in search of one another, all over the world, in order to become one again? You see, we were those two halves. And once he said he couldn't go on, that he was petrified by that amount of passion, that he had to be absolutely pure in order to create absolutely pure music... that was the moment I left.''

‘’Only because of that? He is not the only one in the world…’’

‘’I told you, we were those two halves.''

‘’There are so many others who were once left, and they got over it….that, and so much more,’’ I tried to be sensible.

‘’My dear, the log has more stamina that crystal. And then I came here and…’’

For a moment there I couldn’t keep up with her story. She was sitting there, in front of me, indifferently talking about her conscious fall, insulting me, albeit unintentionally, regardless of the fact that, for this one hour at least, she was my property....and I couldn't reach her. Nor could anyone else in this world.

‘’…and of course, he appeared one day, dragging a bag, begging me to return, pleading that he hadn’t created anything of any worth… I told him to get lost.’’

‘’Do you want… do you want me to find him for you, and bring him back here?’’ I asked quietly.

‘’But he is here!’’ she said, looking at me in wonder. ‘’It was him who brought you in here.''

No, she wasn't crazy. Something else, much more serious, was happening.

‘’Why did you punish him so harshly?

She waved her hand:

‘’I didn't do anything to him. He punished himself. When I threw him out, he went to the old hag and asked for a job.’’

I was silent for a second.

‘’Do you want me to take you away from here?’’

That was the first time I caught a glimpse of her smile, wonderful, radiant, glowing; but only for a moment. It died off immediately.

‘’Thank you. But, it is our destiny to be together, no matter where and how.’’

‘’I can't understand why do you have to torture both him and yourself.''

She propped herself on her hands and bent towards me in a long, cobra-like curve.

‘’Don’t you understand?’’ She hissed. ‘’How could you? If everyone is miserable, wasting their empty lives with strangers, and dying unfulfilled, and you are given the chance to unite, but you throw it away for few barren scribbles on the paper… that is almost like God has handed something priceless to him, and he pushed it away. And spat in his hand.’’

I wrapped myself into my coat, suddenly feeling the cold with every pore of my body. I felt the enormous wish to get away, knowing I was getting into something terrible; yet, I kept sitting there, motionless, completely aware that I wasn't there only by chance. She huddled again at the corner of the bed.

‘’You know, maybe all the parts could have joined back together,’’ and before I had the chance to ask what she had meant by that, se got up, and returned to the window.

‘’The mist again,’’ she whispered, but I heard her.

‘’Why did you say that?’’ I asked, frightened by the answer in advance.

‘’Because the end of the world will come with it.''

She uttered that like she was telling me the earth is round and the night comes after the day. I froze.

‘’Don’t be afraid,’’ she said, turning to face me. ‘’This is not terrible. The terrible thing is that one more possibility is lost. More lost time, more wasted lives… until two halves aren’t united again. And everything could have been… whole. Complete. Like then.’’

‘’When?’’

‘’Then before we were cut in half. Look, your hour is running out. We don’t have much more time left.’’

‘’Stop playing the petty whore at once!’’ I yelled. ‘’You know!’’

'’Yes,’’ she said. ‘’And don’t yell at me.’’

‘’Forgive me,’’ I dropped my gaze. We were silent for a while. Giggles, the smell of rancid oil and cheep perfumes were drifting in from downstairs, but there was no sound of the piano anymore. I knew, he was in front of the door.

‘’And now what?’’ I spoke first.

‘’Oh, God hears those like me. You know, this is a dangerous area, there are robbers, fires, and all these hovels are made of wood…’’ She was interrupted by the banging on the door: ‘’Kid, get out! Or pay for another hour!’’

She got up.

‘’Good bye,’’ she said, kissing my temple. Then she got back on the bed, and to the same position I found her in. I went out. Naturally, he was waiting for me in front.

‘’Did she kiss your temple?’’

This is the boat of fools, I thought. Something in his broken stare made me lie.

‘’She didn’t.’’

‘’She did, I can see her sign. Don’t go yet, let me give you something.’’ And with quivering fingers he fished roll of canvases out of the torn bag.

‘’These are her paintings. She touched you, they are yours now.''

I took them and went out. Sitting on the dock, I unrolled the canvases and before me, in wondrous colours, her visions glistened and glowed: endless sea, old cities and churches with golden domes, black lakes, the forests of strange, poisonous flowers with twisted shapes and colours, and glaciers, cruel in their loneliness… and everything enfolded in light, barely visible mist. I returned to the ship. I spent hours standing on the deck, leaning overboard, staring. And all through the Surreal City, people were on their ways, still working, shopping, talking, hurrying somewhere, or strolling languidly, not knowing there are two fallen angels living among them: One of them has fallen in the usual, angelic, way - for vanity. Grief broke the other one’s wings.

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itateverybody-blog · 7 years ago

Text

The Life-Changing Power of Subliminal Persuasion Video

We made a plan for ourselves to go somewhere outside of the city over the weekend. It was something we had neglected to do for most of the summer. Late May, June, and most of July had raced by, and slowly the existence of the world outside of the metropole creeped into our minds. The idea of taking a trip to the country manifested itself as a feeling strangely reminiscent of shame, or maybe embarrassment, as if the recognition of our isolation in the great grid of urban space made us feel cheap and inadequate.

Looking back on it all now, I am willing to concede that the acknowledgement of our failure to visit the world outside of our city lives and the peculiar shame it brought with it, also made us think of how much our day-to-day lives with one another was founded on the comfort of routine and habit. Chicago’s claustrophobic loneliness underscored the daily, weekly, monthly, and yearly schedules (both formal and informal) that comprised the bulk of our adulthood. Work, school, trains, buses, availabilities, timing, coordinations, events, and invitations; a never-ending logistical mapping that just led to the planning of future life-operations; a broad-spectrum self-administered micromanagement.

Sadly, our relationship with one another was not much different. We managed the breaks and flows of our intimacies basically the same way we did the rest of our lives. We coordinated time spent together, we maintained open lines of communication in regards to our competing responsibilities, and we provided regular feedback to one another regarding our satisfaction or dissatisfaction with the course of our romance. After several years, it was a functional relationship, and it was precisely that functionality that appeared ugly to us, that made us feel shame. The habits and routines of our love seemed to betray the passion implied by the term, “love,” as if our affections for one another were a struggle of rational planning and familiar procedures, not the ribald feelings of uncontrollable desire and delirium commonly associated with the term.

We decided we would take a trip outside of the city, to temporarily assuage the feelings of shame we felt towards ourselves for maintaining such a functional coexistence.

Sandy had always appeared pleasing to me. At first the attraction had been sexual, then sentimental, and now merely reassuring. It was as if I had come to treat her body with a degree of objectification far deeper than that of petty chauvinism. Beyond the realm of sexual objectification was the objectification that came with the quotidian familiarity of a long term romantic relationship. Her body to me held the same status as an old blanket or a favorite stuffed animal. Something that generated a placid sensation of calmness and security; an object that is so present in one’s life, that it is not even there, unnoticed because of its consistent use as a source for emotional relief.

As I looked at her then, when this all began, her features served to reinforce her invisibility. Her tall slender build, her short brown hair, her round face, he slightly accented cheeks, her elusive green eyes, her black, wire rim glasses, her pale complexion, her thighs, her armpits, the small of her back, the moles, the acne, the pimples, the rashes, the scars, the bare skin; she was an endless collage of normal things that gave substance to the phrase, “everyday life.” Sandy was everyday life. Her body was the lived experience of this notion that separated my existence as a private self from the public world of large populations and faceless institutions. My discreet, private love.

So we journeyed outside the city. Maybe I subconsciously suspected that looking at Sandy in an unknown context might change my own self, might make me feel differently in someway and even reduce some of the shame I felt for living so functionally.

We drove for an hour or two to a state park we had looked up online. The park was a series of trails spread through a large forest preserve. There was flora and there was fauna. There were a lot of people who seemed to have had the same idea that we did. Different families and couples and friends and even lone individuals, all drawn in someway to spend time in this serene space of pure nature preserved for the pleasure of human society. A place to go in order to forget the immense logistical project of living. I felt somewhat disappointed by the crowd, initially because I felt like it would undermine the tranquility of our idealized destination but later I understood that all my fellow day-trippers were revealing the underlying pathetic logic of our own micro-vacation; like a forest full of terrible mirrors, unrelenting in their savage reflections.

Sandy and I walked through the woods, mostly in silence. I felt the need to maintain a certain air of reverence, not because I felt any spiritual connection to my surroundings, but because I felt obligated to imitate an attitude I wish I was capable of maintaining. I had not felt much reverence for anything for many years. Sandy followed behind me, letting me guide our travels with my quiet, yet obscenely performative respect for the natural kingdom. We trudged our way down to a small creek at the base of a long hill. We sat by the water for a long time and Sandy laid her head in my lap as we both watched the sun drift through the foliage of the ancient trees and the dragon flies zip and zoom across the surface of the water. I felt hypnotized by the beauty around us, or at least, that’s how I would have characterized my feelings if someone had asked me how I was feeling.

In truth I don’t think I really felt that at all. I don’t think I really felt anything.

***

On the way back from our little weekend trip, we stopped at a thrift store we had never been to before and that we never returned to again. It was there that we found the first tape. It was stuck on the rack in the bottom right corner, between, Planet of the Apes, and, Honey I Shrunk the Kids. The cover of the case featured a hazy and worn image of a peaceful beach, with waves lapping the shore beneath a tranquil sunset. Overlaid across the image of the beach was the faint outlines of a sleeping body, its head tucked into its arms as if in the fetal position. At the very bottom read the title: The Life-Changing Power of Subliminal Persuasion Video.

Sandy and I bought the tape along with a new lamp shade and a couple of cheap framed pictures.

When we came home we were tired from the long drive, and soon settled in the bedroom, in front of the television and the old VHS player. We found ourselves playing the tape, anticipating a strange, mildly amusing collection of video sequences that would soon be forgotten.

The tape began with a calm and soothing voice providing an introduction over a series of calming nature stills. The voice introduced itself as Dr. Bill Convex, co-founder and chief hypnotherapist at Open Horizons, the company responsible for the production of The Life Changing Power of Subliminal Persuasion Video. Dr. Convex explained how the tape currently in our possession contained a scientifically developed mixture of audio and visual stimulation designed to enhance the critical and creative skills of the mind. While the video would only appear to be calming footage of placid natural environments, the footage also contained visual and auditory lines of communication perceivable only by the subconscious; secret sounds and pictures underneath the surface of what the conscious mind would see and hear. These secrets were tools for the scientific reinvigoration of the brain; a power to change lives. Sustained viewing of the tape’s contents over a prolonged period of time (along with other media products offered by Open Horizons) would cause the viewer to experience an increase in mental focus, streamlining the viewer’s cognitive abilities allowing him or her to maximize the full potential of their body and mind.

Over the next 45 minutes, Sandy and I watched with varying degrees of attentiveness as the tape played in its entirety. It didn’t seem terribly remarkable to me. There was a certain lightly pleasing cheesiness to the scenes of forests and beaches scored by the abstract non-linear tones of mid-80’s synthesizers. But beyond that limited scope, I didn’t feel as if the tape had anything much else to offer. After it had finished playing, I said as much to Sandy. She expressed no opinion, in fact she said very little at all after the video was over.

***

The next day was a Monday and I usually got home from work later than Sandy, who

Got off a few hours earlier but has to leave the house as I’m just waking up. At some point throughout the day I vaguely recalled waking up in a daze in the middle of the night and noticing that Sandy was not in the bed next to me, but the thought dissipated from my mind soon after it had first occurred to me.

When I did arrive home, I walked in to find Sandy watching The Life Changing Power of Subliminal Persuasion Video by herself in the poorly lit living room. We only had one VCR that we normally kept in our bedroom, which means she had brought the tape player out of the room and hooked it up out here. She was lying back on the gray couch casually smoking a cigarette. Other than wearing her socks, she was completely naked.

When I stepped into the apartment she stared at me blankly yet deeply, as if she were acknowledging the strangeness of what she was doing but was not going to attempt to justify her behavior. I decided to remain mute on the subject and instead reached out to her side and helped myself to one of her cigarettes. We both sat there smoking together in silence, as the dulcet tones of the tape’s soundtrack filled the room, accompanied only by the creaking of the ceiling fan whirring away above our heads. The tobacco smoke drifted out from our lungs and lilted in the air as the shifting colors of the tv screen shimmered across the haze we created. It was as if the smoke from our mouths and the light beams of the tv were the point where our bodies met and blended with the video content; the indeterminate porousness that exists between the viewers and the screen.

Over the course of the night, Sandy must of watched the tape dozens of times while I skulked around, unable to ask her what she was doing. Early in the morning, I went out to the living room and turned off the blank blue screen as she slept on the couch in a rather awkward position that I could only imagine was terribly uncomfortable. Although I turned off the television, I did not attempt to reposition her. I did not think of it this way at the time, but I think I was afraid of waking her.

***

The rest of the week transformed the first night into a routine. Sandy kept watching the tape and I quietly avoided her new fixation. I didn’t know how to interact with her unusual behavior. Perhaps I lacked the emotional depth.

***

Eventually, Sandy decided to find out more about Open Horizons and their other media products as well as hypnotherapy media prophet Dr. Bill Convex. The history was not hard to find, but the facts, once related, led to further questions.

Sandy calmly gave me the details she had uncovered one night as we ate dinner. Or, at least I was eating, Sandy mainly discussed the details of her findings and pushed her food around with her fork. She had recently started to eat less and lose weight.

Dr. Bill Convex had been a revolutionary clinical psychologist working in experimental new media therapy treatments in the late 1970’s. Dr. Convex claimed to have created a method of video and audio manipulation that unlocked the persuasive potential of video, allowing for a radical increase in the effectiveness of therapeutic treatment. Dr. Convex had apparently been shunned by the mainstream scientific community, but had overtime built a national community of committed followers through his popular self-help videotapes; like the one that was now sitting in our home tape-player.

By the early 1980’s, Dr. Convex had become partners with an eccentric hedge-fund manager that was enamored with Convex’s therapeutic program, stating on record that it was responsible for his skyrocketing business success. The two men constructed a pioneering medical clinic in a small suburban town on Lake Michigan. The clinic was envisioned as both a research laboratory and an active treatment center where Dr. Convex could pursue his future studies while still working directly with patients.

One day, soon after the clinic had been officially opened, a fire erupted on the grounds and Dr. Convex as well as a number of his most devoted followers died in the blaze. The fire was due to an electric malfunction. An electrical thing. A freak surge in the power system that overwhelmed the wiring and sparked a flame. Dr. Convex was killed, along with his groundbreaking approach to video hypnotherapy. Today, Dr. Convex’s work had drifted into relative obscurity, and the clinic where he was to further his radical approach to treatment had been abandoned and forgotten - apparently nothing more than a collection of ruins on an uninhabited island just off the coast of the Michigan suburb.

Sandy seemed overwhelmed with the gravity of this background once she had summarized it for me. I leaned forward in my chair and asked her if she was okay and she smiled softly assuring me that yes, she was fine. She asked me if I thought burning was a painful death and I said I didn’t know. I said that I was pretty sure most people who died in fires died of asphyxiation rather than the heat of the blaze and she nodded gently. I speculated that death by choking was probably just as unpleasant as death by burning. She sat there silently, mulling over this cruel but probably truthful observation. Then, she quietly closed her eyes and a thin smile spread across her face as we sat there at the table. Somehow, I knew that her self-induced state of tranquility was being brought on by thoughts of the video in her mind. She was mentally replaying the sights and the sounds of Dr. Convex’s persuasion video as we sat together at the table. She was focusing her mind in accordance with the stated influences of Dr. Convex’s audiovisual inventions. I sat there awkwardly, unsure how to proceed.

***

Sandy started to skip work. At first she used up all her sick days, and then she simply stopped going without bothering to excuse her absence. She said she had to keep working on her new project. She said it would be fine for her to dip a bit into her savings in order to contribute to rent and other expenses.

Her new project was locating copies of Open Horizon’s other media products. She continued to watch the one tape we had found, but she decided that she wanted to seek out more of Dr. Convex’s special treatments. She earnestly told me that the first tape was working, that she could feel her mind growing sharper, more focused and effective. But, she went on to say, she knew there was so much more room for improvement. The enhancement of her mind revealed to her just how much more she could be enhanced by Dr. Convex’s brilliance. Her words, not mine.

She began at home by surveying the internet for any available copies of his old video catalogue. Apparently Bill Convex had been a fairly prolific hypnotherapist. Open Horizons had released 96 different persuasion video titles, supposedly composed of unique audio and video content unrepeated in any of the other tapes. In other words, each one was special, and had its own specific effect on the mind of the viewer. Sandy’s internet exploring yielded her several copies which she had shipped to the house immediately, but it was by no means the entire catalogue.

Next, she moved onto the city thrift stores and retail shops. She systematically outlined a schedule for regularly visiting every second-hand shop she felt was a reliable source for rare Open Horizon titles like the one we had found. She was now kept busy biking across the city, popping in at one of the spots on her list and carefully searching through their collections of old VHS tapes.

By the end of the second week of her new project, Sandy was a proud owner of 34 of the 96 original titles and she planned to watch them all several times. I wondered if she would ever go back to work.

***

When she wasn’t searching for more tapes, Sandy was busy watching them. She would go for hour long periods lying nearly motionless on the couch or on the floor just staring at montages of nature scenes that endlessly flashed across the screen. I would sometimes watch them with her, maybe with a book by my side as I would regularly lose interest pretty quickly. I was still struggling to understand what she saw in these tapes, and her borderline obsession was starting to make me uncomfortable. Perhaps I secretly enjoyed her in a state of hypnosis. Our relationship slipped into a new routine that proceeded according to Sandy’s continual viewings of Open Horizon’s many media products. Maybe that meant that Dr. Convex’s secret mind-enhancing techniques were really working.

She repeatedly claimed that the tapes were having an effect on her. She insisted that her mind was sharper, more acute, more focused. I pointed out that all she was focused on now was the tapes, which was technically a kind of focusing, one that basically eliminated her awareness of any other problem in her life. She nodded in agreement, with a slightly confused look of obliviousness. Apparently Sandy had understood my criticism as just further validation of the treatment’s success and didn’t pick up on the point I was trying to make.

Sandy had grown thinner every day. She was paler now too, a result of her spending days at a time indoors in front of the television screen. Convex’s tapes were causing her body to disappear while they enhanced her mind. The tapes were helping Sandy fulfill the great philosophical endeavor: a life of the mind. Sandy was quickly becoming a disfigured monster of cartesian modernity; the thinking thing beyond the limitations of the body; a kind of sickening transformation from primitive embodiment into pure mental energy, eliminating the illusory significance of daily reality. Everything else was fake. Doubtable. The tapes were real. They brought on a purity of mind that was impossible to replicate with the forgery that was normality.

I imagined Sandy mutating into a balloon, her head growing large as it inflated with air, while her body became smaller and thinner until it was only the weakest of string hanging beneath her expanding mind. She floated away into the sky, drifting in the wind until she was nothing but a dot in the horizon - a floating head lost to the heavens.

Dr. Convex’s videos had her undivided attention. He was delivering what he promised. He was focusing her mind.

***

One day Sandy asked me to go with her to the ruins of Dr. Convex’s forgotten clinic. She argued very forcefully that we needed to go and walk in the shadows of Dr. Convex’s videographic-neurological revolution. Her words, not mine.

I objected. I listed several reasons why this was a bad idea, reasons which ranged from the practical (i.e. I would have to take off work, we would have to make travel arrangements, we didn’t know how to find the place) to the psychological (i.e. her unhealthy new fixation with Dr. Convex and his hypnotherapy video tapes).

None of my arguments swayed her. The tapes had worked as advertised. Her mind was now endowed with a laser focus, and it was focused on bringing herself as close as she could to the dead Convex and his lost treatments.

In the time that Sandy had been watching and re-watching Convex’s therapy tapes, I had come to grow more and more resentful of them, the tapes that is. I felt like I had been left out, somehow. Why did the tapes have no effect on me? It was like Sandy had been selected for this video-induced madness and I had not, like it was gym class and she had been picked for a team while I had been left standing in the crowd of unwanted nerds. What was so special about Sandy, I wondered, that the hypnotherapy should work on her but not on me? Why was it that my mind had been left unsharpened and dull. I had had time to reflect on these tapes, and the confused theory of video that they were based on. My feelings of being left out evolved into a more refined critique of Dr. Convex’s entire conceptual artifice. Convex had claimed to have discovered radical new techniques of video hypnosis but wasn’t video itself a radical technique of hypnosis? What was so radical about Convex’s treatments that wasn’t already an integral part of the medium of video already? What really dated Convex’s works was not their music or their production value, it was the premise on which they were based: the misguided assumption that Convex had unlocked the hypnotic power of video. That was a hypnotic power that was already there. Video was already life-changing and persuasive.

Regardless of its insightfulness, my critique of Convex had fallen on deaf ears. Sandy remained transfixed, which only served to annoy me further. It felt almost embarrassing that she would fall victim to something explicitly called hypnosis. It seemed so much more obvious than more insidious and subtle forms of hypnosis like politics or art. Getting driven to obsession by self-described hypnosis was like falling for a con artist who tells you they are conning you while they do it.

***

Of course, my critique and my resentments were only a cover for my jealousy at not being affected by the hypnotherapy like Sandy was. I can admit that now, but at the time I was too emotionally immature to realize this, invested as I was in holding Sandy’s attention. I never realized how much I had depended on Sandy’s regular attention, something that was now stolen from me by this dead hypnotist.

***

Anyways, Sandy insisted that we go to visit Convex’s burnt out old clinic. She insisted that we walk through the forgotten ruins of a once futuristic and hopeful program for the psycho-emotional improvement of the mind. Soon we were planning a trip out west, to see the decaying palaces built on the dollars of persuasive video.

The car ride there took us through the city into the suburbs and corporate campuses collected in business parks along the highway. We rode together in silence while the radio blared pop song after forgettable pop song. Over time the clean and sleek contours of the suburbs gave way to the emptiness of soy, grown over long stretches of lonely farm plots. The sun moved across the sky and we drove and drove. We slept overnight at a cheap motel, just about where we had assumed we would stop when we were planning this little excursion. In total, we probably spoke no more than ten to fifteen words to each other throughout the whole day. The loneliness I had been feeling in our home had followed me on our trip out into the country and it had brought a creeping sense of dread along with it.

The next day we continued on our journey, deeper and deeper into the rural heart of America, past billboards and exits leading into unknown towns. We travelled up into Michigan, driving through empty roadways crowded by forests casting dark shadows on the highway.

Sandy did all the driving, even though I offered to take her place. She seemed slightly suspicious that if she were to let me drive, I might turn back or go somewhere other than our stated destination. Thinking back on it now, I probably would have.

***

I was reminded of that trip we had taken a few months ago, the one motivated by our shame; the banal trip out into the country that had felt so cheap. Our trip now felt nothing like that. There was an authenticity to it that was downright evil. I felt a queasiness in my stomach that I hadn’t felt in years, a primordial reaction to lingering anxieties creeping from the forgotten depths of childhood terrors. During the long car ride through the soybean fields, I kept thinking to myself that I should not have been so disdainful towards our past life as a functional heterosexual couple. Now that I was confronting the real I couldn’t find in our old life, I regret abandoning the illusion of comfort that it offered. Our new trip was one driven by obsession, by unchecked psychosis, by a violently real force of desire. I missed the trip motivated by shame; it seemed so peaceful in retrospect.

***

When we finally arrived in the town that sat on the coast of Lake Michigan just outside the abandoned island clinic, it was around four in the afternoon. Without stopping at a motel to check into a room or asking me what I wanted to do, Sandy drove us straight to the docks on the lake so we could find a boat to take us to the island. She was uncompromising. She wanted to see the ruins immediately.

It took over an hour, but Sandy was able to secure a small motorized boat for the evening to take us to the island. The boat was owned by an old man who seemed to have lived in the town for quite some time. When Sandy explained to the boat’s owner where we wanted to take it, he was surprised but also somewhat indifferent. Sandy had offered him quite a bit of money that we couldn’t really afford to be spending and the sum had convinced the man that renting his boat to some strange out-of-towners was still worth it. He laughed at us and said we wouldn’t find anything except charred buildings crumbling underneath the weight of nature which was quickly taking back the island that that wacky doctor had tried to claim as his own. His words, not mine. Sandy ignored this comment as she piled into the boat with one of her bags. If I hadn’t hopped in when I did, she probably would have taken off without me.

The last word the boat owner said to us before we departed was, “Careful.”

***

The ruins of Dr. Convex’s clinic were both majestical and horrendous, like roaming through a beautiful nightmare. I was reminded of the eerie glow created by the television screen late at night when Sandy played the doctor’s tapes. It was a feeling of entrancement mixed with a feverish nervous energy that bubbled somewhere in the stomach. Although I continually searched her face, Sandy did not seem to be sharing any of my feelings of anxiety. Instead, she seemed completely lost in the corroded elegance of the forgotten buildings, as if she were walking through the awe-inspiring constructions of an ancient civilization. Sandy’s borderline spiritual reverence intensified my feelings of anxiety, as I was suddenly struck with the thought that her and I were completely alone on this abandoned island and that only the aging boat owner knew we were here. It was at this moment that I also realized that I had become truly scared of Sandy, as I had no idea what she had become capable of since her prolonged exposure to Convex’s video hypnotism.

When we landed on the island, we came across an old dilapidated dock that must have served as the clinic’s main access point. We skipped landing at the dock as it appeared unsafe. Sandy brought the boat directly onto shore and we proceeded on foot from there. The front building to the clinic was a large square structure with a massive, unintended opening at its center that must have been caused by the fire. There was a front desk area that was smashed to pieces and the plant life surrounding the building had grown through the massive hole caused by the fire, as if the opening were an invitation to the earth to enter the forgotten building. Sandy stepped into the rapidly reforesting entrance and flicked on a flashlight that illuminated the hallway at the center of the first building.

After that first building, the clinic was essentially a large hexagon, with different sized sections. There were examination rooms, dormitories, a modest cafeteria, large meeting rooms for group therapy, a library of tapes (both audio and cassette) and, of course, a central complex for viewing video therapy. The viewing center featured both a small theater with a projector as well as private individual viewing rooms. In total the clinic probably comprised about seventy thousand square feet of space, spread out into a disjointed formation reminiscent of a small academic campus.

The first room beyond the main entrance was the meeting room connected with the cafeteria. These sections had suffered some fire damage but not as severe as the rest of the facility. I was struck by the fact that folding chairs were still assembled against the wall gathering dust. The buildings contained almost no other furniture, nor papers or debris or other materials one would assume would be left in an abandoned medical clinic where no one had taken the time to remove leftover objects after the fire. Why had they left these folding chairs? Surely collapsible seating would be the easiest objects to remove, why had they been left when much larger objects had been taken?

Sandy stepped towards the chairs and kneeled in front of one. Her posture appeared as if she were praying.

I turned to the left and looked over at the wall. A single phrase had been spray-painted in black letters across it. The paint had dripped down the wall, making the letters look like violent cuts in human flesh; the left over blood smears of slices made to spell out a simple command that made my anxiety boil over into real fear.

“Go Away,” read the spray-paint.

I called out to Sandy, still kneeling before the forgotten folding chairs and asked her if we could leave, maybe come back tomorrow. She ignored me and proceeded into the next room. Still feeling the fear, I asked again but she kept walking. I had no choice but to follow.

In the next room were the lost offices of Dr. Convex as well as his private examination rooms for one-on-one therapeutic sessions. Sandy now seemed to be completely lost in the hypnotic allure of this place, like she was being transported back to the heyday of Dr. Convex’s video-work. The office was almost totally decimated by fire damage, something that seemed strange seeing as the fire had left the main meeting room untouched but had created such a gigantic opening in the main entrance. It was as if the fire had been selective in its destruction, targeting the areas it felt most deserving of its unrelenting consumption.

Sandy spent what felt like an eternity in the offices and examination rooms. It was only her desire to move further into the ruins that allowed us to leave. At this point I was twitching and shaking, reacting to every sound around me as if we could be confronted by the writer of the unnerving graffiti at any moment. We stepped into the dormitories and Sandy began rummaging through the raw debris contained in each room. The living quarters for the patients were connected by a long corridor with entrances and exits on either end, with doors leading into each room running along either side. The doors into the main hallway of the dorms were still standing on their hinges, and swung in and out when pushed. As Sandy continued her bizarre exploration of each room I stood still in the hallway, counting each second and gritting my teeth. For some reason I slowly turned around to look at the doors to the hallway that were now swinging shut. Scrawled in the same hasty letters of black spray-paint we saw earlier was a request even more ominous than the previous message.

“Leave Me Alone,” it read.

I called out to Sandy and found her in one of the rooms. She was pushing around piles of decomposing ceiling panelling, what she was trying to find I did not know. I yelled at her then, I admit it. I shouted in her face that we needed to leave, that there was someone else who had come to this place after the fire, someone that didn’t want us to be there. I was scared and my fear manifested itself as anger, a panicked anger that was driven by an animalistic feeling of alarm at a looming threat to my own mortality. I had gripped her arms and my hands and I was still shouting.

She struggled free of my violent grasp and began running into another building of the destroyed clinic, taking her flashlight with her. I immediately began running after her, continuing to yell as I did. All I could do was follow the beam of her flashlight, as I was being left in the darkness of this dead place. The thought of being left in the dark here terrified me and, I admit it, increased my feelings of anger at Sandy for seeking to abandon me. I continued to shout as she ran deeper into that terrible hexagon, taking the safety of the light with her.

Suddenly, Sandy threw a door open and slammed it shut, cutting me off completely from her light. For a moment I descended into pure darkness, surrounded by the nightmare world of Dr. Convex’s lost dreams. I reached the door and threw it open to find that Sandy had stopped running. She was standing totally still in the new room she had entered; it was the viewing center where Dr. Convex’s patients would consume his therapeutic video creations.

The room looked like the site of a recent demolition. It was filled with the bits and pieces of smashed and crushed equipment and videotape - a sprawling pile of annihilated audio-video devices that had once comprised the heart of Dr. Convex’s treatment center. It was a gigantic pit of wires, broken screens, jagged chips and thousands and thousands of miles of magnetic tape. Eviscerated televisions lay about the room, their electronic innards discarded on the ground like dead antelope felled by some unseen predator. I almost expected to see a group of hyenas feasting on the chunks of spilled television guts. The fire had reached in here, but so had something else; maybe someone else. The fire had not destroyed all this equipment or all of the videotapes. There was a mysterious source of violence that had left the signs of its presence lingering around the ruins of the clinic.

As the realization of this unknown force of destruction crossed my mind, Sandy began weeping. The sight of Convex’s work reduced to rubble was too much for her and she was lost in despair.

It took a moment for me to see it, but when I did, I knew I would never forget the simple, unmitigated feeling of pure fear that it struck in my heart. On the far back wall of the viewing center was another message written in black spray-paint. It was perhaps the most direct command yet, and, in a slightly off-putting way, expressed my most immediate desire in a short, little statement.

“Leave now,” it read.

***

I woke up in the middle of the night as Sandy was putting on her shoes by the doorway of our motel room.

We had finally made our way out of that horrible clinic, back to the boat, out onto the lake and back to the home of the old man who we had said almost nothing to as we returned the keys. We had driven around the small town until we found a cheap, dirty motel and checked into our room. We had laid down and I had drifted off to a sleep, aided by the immense feeling of relief I felt that we were able to get off that terrible island.

Now I was awake in the night and I knew before she said anything that Sandy was getting ready to go back there, alone.

I jumped up out of the bed, only in my underwear and I began shouting at her again. I was pathetic and stupid, it was the only way I knew how to express my fear. After I had shouted for awhile, I stood and looked at her with big, alarmed eyes of - blurred and puffy from interrupted sleep. She gave me a look that still frightens me to this day, a look that I still think about alone at night and feel a sensation of cold dread that paralyzes me every time. She smiled at me. She gave me this big bright beaming smile and laughed. She laughed and shook her head like I didn’t understand her, like I could never understand her. She smiled and laughed and shook her head and she said that she couldn’t sleep, that she was too excited and so she had to go back to the island right now.

I lost it. I did. I can’t deny that now. I was so angry, so upset that she had decided to do this, that she would put herself in so much danger as this. The sickness in her mind, brought on by Dr. Convex’s videos, it was pushing her into a darkness that seemed inescapable to me and this made me even angrier. I remember telling her to go, then. That if she wanted to take her own life into her hands, she was welcome to do so. That I couldn’t stand what she had become. That maybe she deserved to get lost in the ruins of that horrible island. That she should go if that’s what she really wanted. Of course, it was what she really wanted and she quickly disappeared out the door and I didn’t go after her, I didn’t try to stop her, I didn’t try to convince her to stay and wait till morning. I didn’t try to convince her to be with me for the night and try to remember the way she once felt before she was hypnotized by the dead doctor who had captured her mind from beyond the grave. I didn’t do any of that. I laid back down on the bed and fell back asleep.

***

That night in the motel room was the last time I saw Sandy.

She left in the night and never returned.

The next morning I rented a boat and traveled out to the Island and searched every inch of that decrepit graveyard and found nothing, no sign of her. No campsite or footsteps or fire to stay warm: nothing. Like she had never made it there or, if she had, she had left no trace.

I returned to the mainland and called the police. I filed a missing person’s report and explained to the local sheriff everything that had happened, why we had come there and why we had gone to the island. He seemed suspicious but he made the report. He suggested though that she may have left and gone home somehow, seeing as though we had had an argument. I told him that he was wrong, she would never leave the clinic.

Within the next day I had spoken to one of our neighbors who said he hadn’t seen any sign of Sandy at our apartment. He had knocked on the front door and received no answer. It was at that point that I alerted her family.

A few days later Sandra Clara Livingston had become a full-fledged missing person and the police were searching for her in earnest. The case was being covered by the media and her parents were pleading with cameras for their daughter to come home if she was out there. Search parties were formed with paid police from neighboring counties and willing volunteers from the town by the lake where we had been staying. A huge group of searchers were dispatched to the island and they had found just what I had: no sign of Sandy.

I told Sandy’s family everything that had happened, perhaps in too much detail. I remember at one point Sandy’s father had shouted in my face, much the same way I had done that night to Sandy. He screamed that I had killed their daughter, that I had doomed her to death because I had done nothing to help her with what was obviously some sort of mental illness, something that could have been treated. I briefly tried to argue that she had technically been undergoing a kind of mental health treatment, and that that was the problem. He did not find this argument convincing. I at least tried to tell him that it was not my fault, it was the videos that had done it to her, but I knew that he was probably right. I was responsible. I watched Sandy fall into the depths of madness and I had done nothing but enable her descent.

No matter what was done, Sandy was gone. Vanished without a trace. Gone. Lost somewhere in the ruins of Dr. Convex’s temple-turned-tomb of video hypnotherapy. No more to be seen and no more to watch the specially-crafted images of therapeutic mind-focusing technology Convex had given to the world.

***

Years later comedy would follow the tragedy.

Dr. Convex’s videos are becoming popular, more popular maybe then they had ever been. There is a growing cult following driven by internet exposure on Youtube and Vimeo. Popular Instagram accounts began converting screenshots from Convex’s hypnosis videos into popular memes. Decades after his research had began, Dr. Convex was finally gaining traction, but maybe not in the way he had necessarily intended.

Also propelling the videos into their rediscovery by a contemporary audience was the juicy novelty of the disappearances connected to them. That’s right, there were more people like Sandy, people who had also had their minds radically focused and were drawn to the ruins of Convex’s clinic like moths to the flame. Each one of them had left behind family and friends and entered into some invisible realm beyond life and death; the world of the unsolved disappearance; surrounded by mystery; locations unknown; possibly alive; probably dead. Each one of them featuring a collection of people like me who had watched their loved one slip through their fingers and failed to respond to their increasing hypnosis.

Eventually the hypnotherapy videos were all made available online. Full unlimited streaming on both Netflix and Hulu. Their new accessibility almost made me laugh thinking back at how desperately Sandy had searched for those tapes, and she had never located all of them. Now they were only a credit card and a click away. Available for the world to see in an instant.

And the ruins of the destroyed clinic had been woven into this new surge in popularity. It had turned into some sort of vacation spot for hipsters who wanted to explore the strange and ironically amusing world of the forgotten facility. The traveling fans sought out the clinic like Sandy and I had sought out the nature preserve so many years ago that day we went hiking and found the tape. Convex’s dead clinic was becoming the nature preserve of the future. It made me angry thinking of all these fools trudging around the island that Sandy had held in such reverence, it almost felt like they were desecrating something a loved one viewed as sacred. These feelings in turn would haunt me, as they only served to remind of Sandy, gone somewhere in the world, out there lost in the hypnosis of persuasive video.

Myself, I am still trying to find her. But I have given up finding her in the world of living. I know now that she will only be found in the world of video. The dead world of synchronized sound and imagery, the detached world of the recorded image. I know she is somewhere in that glow of the screen, having transcended her earthly form, she must now be some sort of pixelated angel. I spend hours, days even, watching and re-watching Dr. Convex’s Open Horizons videos, waiting for a glimpse of her sitting serenely on one of those beaches, or maybe casually dozing underneath a tree in one of the peaceful forests.

And most of all, I want to be hypnotized, like Sandy was. I’ll admit it. I want my mind focused on the videos. I want to lose myself in the power of persuasion video and finally discover what it was that Sandy discovered in those endless hours of dulcet synth tones and nature scenes. When will my life be truly changed by the hypnotherapy? When will I finally find Sandy and understand the power of persuasion video?

Any day now it will come. Any day now my mind will be changed. Soon I will finally understand. Soon.

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